Bad Habits

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/28303992.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of
Violence
Category: M/M
Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara
Chuuya/Shuuji Tsushima
Character: BSD Cast
Additional Tags: age gap, Father Dazai, college student chuuya, Sugar Daddy Dazai,
slowburn, Eventually Resolved Sexual Tension, realizing your boy toy is
a dick and dating his dad instead, unsafe driving practices, Emotional
Manipulation, themes similar to adultery, themes similar to sexual
assault, Protective Dazai, Demon Prodigy Dazai, I made Dazai taller
because I can, Father Rimbaud, Mild Violence and Gore, guard dogs,
Arahabaki as a Cat, mild panic attacks, Mafia Boss Kouyou, Bodyguard
Oda, Oda/Kouyou/Yosano, Food, alcohol consumption, Underage
Alcohol Consumption, Sex in a Variety of Ways, Daddy Kink, Romance,
Love Confessions, Loss of Virginity, First Kiss, Vacations, Sex Toys,
attempted vehicular manslaughter, Attempted Murder, Various
Depictions of Medical Scenes, Law Enforcement Ranpo, Sasaki is a Bad
Person, Various Depictions of Injuries, Graphic Descriptions of Seizures,
Animal Control - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, illness recovery,
Manipulation, Kidnapping, non-graphic depictions of torture, Non-
Graphic waterboarding, mention of violence, Various Weapons, Brief
Break-ups, Love Confessions but Angsty, Getting Back Together, Happy
Ending
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of BAD HABITS VERSE
Collections: readnow
Stats: Published: 2020-12-25 Updated: 2022-09-21 Words: 460,230 Chapters:
60/70
 Bad Habits
by bloodsvgarr

Summary

Nakahara Chuuya has just entered college, and he thinks he has it all -- a nice roommate, new
friends, and a cute boy named Shuuji Tsushima who likes him just as much. But the longer
the relationship goes on, the more he realizes:

Shuuji is not as nice as he seems. And his dad, Dazai Osamu? Twice as hot, twice as nice,
twice as mysterious. He's everything Chuuya wanted and more, but it takes him too long to
realize that Dazai is the one he wants, and not his son.

As Chuuya gets more involved with Dazai, he finds himself facing situations he never
expected to. Too late, he realizes that he, and the city of Yokohama, will never be the same.
Everyone has secrets -- even his family, even the people he loves.

Multiple translations in authors note.

Notes

hi! if you follow me on twitter, you'll recognize this AU. I'm glad to be finally posting it! <3

If you DON'T follow me on twitter, then welcome to my 'dazai steal his son's man because
his son is a douchebag and dazai treats chuuya WAY better' au. It's a ride. :) I would like to
make it known that no adultery actually happens, because Shuuji and Chuuya never officially
date.

If you are impatient to continue reading this AU, and are content to read the rough draft as it's
being written, then follow my twitter @H4NDKINK as I'm currently writing it there and we
are much farther along! Otherwise, follow my other twitter @bloodsvgarr for fic updates and
au ideas! <3 Happy reading.

[ Spanish Translation here]

[ Russian Translation by @frayclrc on twitter here]
[ Russian Translation by @true_kinnie on twitter here ]
[ Hungarian Translation by @KijaFromAngstia on twitter here and blog with photo
inspirations here ]

Translation into Magyar available: Bad Habits by TheKija

Translation into Русский available: [Restricted Work] by sunny_jay1
 Does your Dad know?

"—and don't start any fights, okay? You're not a kid anymore, colleges take that sort of thing
seriously."

Chuuya winces, wishing his father wasn't so loud. He really doesn’t want to be known as the
'kid who started fights', especially when he doesn’t know anyone at Keio University yet. He
doesn’t want to start with a bad reputation.

But, given that his father is on speaker phone (because Chuuya only has two hands, and
they're currently very busy holding one of his moving boxes), and there are two other people
in the hallway, now staring at him oddly—it might be too little too late.

Chuuya pushes the stairwell door open with his hip, rolling his eyes. "I won't, Dad."

For the record—Chuuya didn't start fights. He finished them. Everyone who ever got in a
fight with him deserved it or provoked him in some way.

His footsteps echo loudly in the stairwell, partially drowning out his father's voice as he
continues. "Make sure to study hard and often! Studies show that cramming never works, you
know. And do your assignments as soon as you get them, because it always seems like you
have all this time but before you know it, you've missed a few assignments and then they're
piling up—."

Sensing that Rimbaud is working himself into a tirade, Chuuya cuts in. "I will, Dad. I know
how to manage my time."

There's a long silence that says exactly what Rimbaud thinks of that statement, but thankfully
he lets it go.

Well, let's go in favor of a different lecture, at least. Chuuya is grateful that Rimbaud had
important meetings at work that he couldn't miss, and couldn't come with Chuuya on move-in
day. If he had, he'd probably be making a giant fuss and embarrassing him in front of
everyone. He'd forever be known as the guy whose dad had a tearful emotional breakdown in
front of the school, and Chuuya does not want that. He’d rather be known as the kid who got
into fights.

Not that he doesn't appreciate how much his Dad loves him and shows him so every day. It's
just...overbearing.

Mostly because he doesn't treat his older sisters with the same amount of hovering
protectiveness. Chuuya gets it—he's the baby, the only boy, and his childhood wasn't easy—
but it's still a bit annoying, and a little unfair.

"When you get to your dorm, make sure you unpack before your first day! And make friends
with your roommate, otherwise the year is going to suck—."

Chuuya interrupts him again, managing to open the door to his floor with both of his hands
occupied. His train had been delayed, so it's later in the afternoon than most of the other
students arrived. The stairwell is empty other than him. "I know, Dad. I can take care of
myself, you know?"

There's a muffled sound over the phone, and then his dad says in a very small, very thick
voice, "I know, Chuuya."

Damn, now he feels bad.

He sighs, checking the room numbers as he goes. He's in room A5158 this year, and he's been
lucky enough that his scholarship was enough to pay for a two-person dorm. Way better than
being in the three-person ones. "Stop worrying so much. I'll be fine, I promise. Kouyou and
Kyouka are fine, and you weren't so fussy with them."

Rimbaud huffs. "Kyouka went to Tsubaka so she's still home for the weekends, and Kouyou
doesn't let me hover."

That's true. Kouyou is a force of nature all her own, and if she thinks even for a second that
Dad is trying to boss her around or make her do something that she doesn’t want to, then she
will deliberately go out of her way to do whatever the hell she wants.

It's caused quite a few issues growing up. She's settled down since, now that she has a career,
but there's quite a few stories in their hometown that start with "that red headed girl—"

Which made it really awkward for Chuuya growing up, to be associated with those kinds of
stories. (Not that he proved them wrong with his own behavior, but semantics. Now, there’s a
few stories that start with ‘that red headed boy—.’)

Besides, Chuuya is the last child to leave the nest, so it's understandable that his dad is
experiencing some parental mourning and hovering to compensate.

It's just a little annoying.

He sighs, finally finding his assigned dorm. It's in the middle of the hall, and based on the
light streaming from underneath the door, someone is already inside. "I have to go now, Dad.
I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"...Okay. Be good and promise you'll call if you need to? Whenever you need to. Even if you
just miss me."

He stifles another sigh. Even if he's not a kid anymore, this is the first time he'll be away from
his family for any length of time, so he appreciates the reassurance, a little. "I will, Dad,
promise. Bye, love you."

Then he pins the box between him and the wall, freeing up a hand so he can end the call
before his dad can find anything else to prolong the conversation with. That man can talk. It’s
a wonder Chuuya learned to speak at all, with how much his family likes to hear themselves
talk.

He takes a deep breath, preparing himself to meet his new roommate. He's never been shy or
anxious, but there's quite a few people that don't like his loud, boisterous nature, and he
doesn't want to sour his relationship with his roommate right off the bat. Besides, he doesn't
know what kind of person he'll be meeting, so it's better to be prepared for anything.

He opens the door—

And promptly realizes that his 'loud, boisterous' nature is not going to be a problem, because
half of the dorm room looks like a damn clown threw up all over it. Literally. Red, blues,
greens, all colors of the rainbow smashed together on bed sheets, on book bags and knick-
knacks, literally everything his dorm mate owns is brightly colored. There's no sense of
rhyme or reason, only an abundance of color, like Chuuya is moving in with the circus. To his
horror, there's even the faint sound of what might be circus music, playing tinnily from his
roommate’s phone.

Just who is he going to be living with??

Said roommate is standing near the window on his tiptoes, pinning what looks to be a music
poster of some Russian band. His braid, long and white, sways behind him as he moves,
muttering to himself.

Chuuya clears his throat, shifting awkwardly in the doorway. "Uh, hi? I think I'm your dorm
mate."

The guy yelps, sounding a bit too surprised than Chuuya thinks is necessary for his quiet
greeting. He whips around, blue-grey eyes wide with shock. There's a vertical scar over his
left one, still noticeable even though it's faded enough to be an old injury.

There's a tense moment as they size each other up, both of them unsure and shocked to see
the other.

Wary, almost.

Then the guy's face splits into a slightly-manic grin as he bounces up on his toes, like an
excited child. "Hi! I'm Nikolai Gogol!"

Chuuya lets out a breath, unaware that he'd been holding it. He moves further into the room,
heading for the unoccupied bed. A few things have crossed the line into 'his' side of the room,
but he's not that worried about it for now. He's left a lot of his stuff at home, anyways. "Hey,
I'm Nakahara Chuuya. Just call me Chuuya."

"Okay! Did you need any help moving your stuff in? Do you have more boxes?"

That makes Chuuya feel a bit insecure, like he's some weirdo that doesn't own anything, but
he manages to shrug it off. "Nope, this is it."

One medium sized box, and a big backpack stuffed with most of his clothes. That's all he
brought with him, to live hours away from home. It’s all he had room to bring, because he
was taking the train by himself because his dad couldn’t drive him. Another reason he regrets
not learning to drive already.

Chuuya has never been quiet, but Nikolai seems to take on most of the conversation by
himself anyways, chattering loudly as Chuuya unpacks most of his stuff.

He plugs in his laptop, letting it charge so he can finish registering for his classes later this
afternoon. An email he received earlier told him he had to log into his university network
sometime before classes started.

"So, are you from here, or are you new to Yokohama?"

Chuuya shoves his clothes into the dresser on his side of the dorm, promising himself to hang
them up in the tiny closet later. "My parents live in Tsubaka. It's my first time living in
Yokohama."

Well, that's not strictly true, but he's only been here before with his father on business trips or
sightseeing, which doesn't come with knowledge that living here would bring. In a very real
sense, he knows almost nothing about Yokohama, besides the stories he's been told. He’s
basically a tourist.

"Oh! I've been here for a few weeks now. I got to move in early, since I came from Russia. I
could show you around, if you'd like!" Nikolai sounds excited by the prospect, grin widening.

A foreign international student offering to show him around the city. It feels a little
demeaning, and part of Chuuya's pride wants to say no, he'll figure it out himself—

Then he remembers that he's almost a foreign student himself, right now, and while his
eccentric roommate probably wouldn't have been his first choice in friends, it probably
wouldn't be a good idea to alienate him either and well—

Chuuya does need friends, because he doesn't have any here in Yokohama. All his friends
from high school either went to Tsubaka University, because it was closer, or they went to
Tokyo because it was more exciting. Some went to international colleges overseas.

He was the only one to choose Keio, and since his dad is so overprotective—

He doesn't know anyone in Yokohama. He's starting off a big piece of his life, something his
future will build off of and that he's been looking forward to and working toward for years,
and he's all alone.

It's exciting... and scary. Even Chuuya, who prides himself on being brave to the point of
recklessness, is having a bit of anxiety.
Only a little bit though.

He nods, taking out a picture frame and placing it on his new dresser. He doesn't look at it for
too long, because it makes him depressed but...

He likes seeing his mother, sometimes, as a reminder.

"Yeah, that would be cool, actually. I can read train maps, but it'd be easier if I knew where I
was going." Not that Chuuya really needs to go many places other than campus, but it'd be
nice. He hates getting lost.

Nikolai finally gets his poster tacked up with a triumphant noise. "Yeah! I'm actually going to
meet up with some friends for dinner. You can come with, if you’d like."

What, now? After a long day of saying goodbye to his father, being on a cramped train and
then lugging his bags all the way to campus? He's tired, dirty—

His stomach growls loudly at that exact moment, making Nikolai's lips twitch with
amusement.

—and hungry. He hasn't eaten since breakfast this morning, and even that was a rushed affair.

Registration for classes can wait. He'll just finish that up once he gets back, and maybe get a
head start on his readings for class. For now, dinner sounds perfect. "Great. Do I have time to
wash up first?"

Because he does feel dirty from the train, and if he's going to meet new people, he wants to
change into something better than a loose pair of jeans and his rattiest sneakers. First
impressions matter.

Nikolai nods. He doesn't even look at his watch or phone though, so either he's really
confident or he's not worried about showing up late.

Either way, Chuuya cleans up as quickly as he can. Luckily, there's signs which lead the way
to the showers shared by the entire floor. Gross, and he already misses the shower at home,
but it's better than some of the other dorms, which apparently share a shower among the
whole building.

He does make a note to purchase some shower shoes, though. You never know what kind of
nasty people he'll be sharing a shower with, and he’d rather not find out.

Leaving his hair to dry wild and curly, he pulls on dark jeans and a grey t-shirt. It's a little
plainer than he'd normally choose, but his father convinced him to leave most of his
"eccentric" clothes at home, because 'he wants to make a good impression, right?'.

The red jacket, though, is exactly on brand for him, bomber style with more than a few
unnecessary zippers and dangling chains. Subtle enough to look over, if you weren't looking
closely, but enough to make a statement.
By the time he arrives back at his room, Nikolai has changed into something brighter, his
shirt a rainbow splash of colors. Now, Chuuya might otherwise take this as a hint or some
other form of gay-communication, but combined with the balloon pants, one side striped and
the other side a blank white—

He's pretty sure Nikolai is just channeling "Russian clown" energy.

"Ready?" Nikolai bounces up when he sees him, an excited grin on his face.

Chuuya blinks in surprise, because he honestly wasn't expecting such enthusiasm, especially
from someone he just met. Usually he's the one with 'too much energy', so it's strange to be
on the receiving end of that, for once.

It’s nice, though, to be so immediately welcomed. It soothes some part of him that he didn’t
even realize was worried. “Yeah, I’m ready. Where are we going?”

Nikolai leads the way out of the door, barely giving Chuuya enough time to shove his wallet
into his pockets. Nikolai locks the door behind them, making a noise as he does. “Oh, here’s
your key.”

Chuuya takes the offered key from his fingertips, frowning. “I thought I had to see the office
to get my copy?”

Nikolai grins at him, proud. “Usually, yes, but I know the office aide, so he let me take the
extra, as long as I promised to give it to you later.”

Chuuya has no idea why he’d do that, but sure. At least he doesn’t have to make another trip
to the office, then. He pockets the key, following a step behind Nikolai as he strides down the
stairwell, completely skipping over the elevator.

They pass a pair of students on their way up, who Nikolai waves to enthusiastically, calling
out a greeting.

Chuuya isn't shy or easily intimidated by any means, but he's starting to think his dorm mate
knows everyone. He was semi-popular in high school himself, but not on this level.

Outside, the campus is rather empty, with only a handful of students making their way around
the grounds. Most of them are carrying books or heavy-looking backpacks, clearly ready for
classes to start.

He makes a mental note to purchase his books later.

Nikolai leads him to Tamachi train station, chattering the whole time. He barely lets Chuuya
get a word in, which is fine because he's a bit busy memorizing the path to the station to
make good conversation.

"I hope you like seafood, because that's what we'll be eating. I'd say we could change if you
didn't like it, but Shuuji and Yuan have wanted seafood for ages and if they don't get it today,
they'll be grumpy,” Nikolai says, trotting down the stairs into the station.

"No worries, I love seafood."

Nikolai beams, swiping his train card in the terminal. "Great! I already told them you were
coming, so they'll be expecting us. They said they'll get us a table."

Just how many people will he be meeting today? He said ‘friends’ plural, but no other
information, so he has no idea if he’s meeting two people or ten. Is it going to be a party?

The train is surprisingly crowded for this time of day, squishing them together near one of the
doors. Chuuya wedges himself near the wall, finding himself a space away from the crowd.
Nikolai, sticking out like a sore thumb at over 180cm, looks mildly uncomfortable from his
spot in the crowd. There's a much shorter girl hanging onto his elbow instead of the too-tall
handles above.

Chuuya gives a huffed breath, trying not to snicker. The benefits of being small are not many,
but sometimes, not that Chuuya will ever admit it out loud, it works out in his favor.

Nikolai motions for him to get off at the second stop, mouthing something that is too low for
Chuuya to hear past the bustle and roar of the train station.

The restaurant they're going to is only a few blocks away, and Chuuya spends that time
growing increasingly nervous.

Most of the people he's met so far in life have had something in common with him.
Schooling, through his Dad's friends, neighbors, friends of friends. There was always a
common thread, something to relate to and tie them together.

But the only thing he has in common with the people he’s about to meet, is Nikolai, who he
met a grand total of an hour ago. That’s the only thing he knows of, at least.

What if they don’t have anything in common? What if it’s awkward and he’s just the weird
third-wheel that Nikolai dragged along with him?

What if it’s weird?

“There it is!” Nikolai says excitedly, pointing to a medium-sized building with a neon sign
handing over declaring it as ‘HARU’s SEAFOOD AND SUSHI’.

Simple, straight to the point, cute.

There’s only a few people waiting outside, so thankfully they don’t get too many glares as
Nikolai skips the line and marches into the restaurant with Chuuya on his heels.

Inside, it’s warm and smells delicious. It’s packed enough that some people have been left
standing as they wait for their orders, talking with each other idly. The noise of a bustling
restaurant fills the space entirely.

Chuuya stumbles when Nikolai grabs him by the arm, dragging him to the far side of the
restaurant, to one of the tables near the back.

Three people are already seated: two boys and a girl. The girl is facing away from them, pink
hair bobbing as she talks animatedly to the boy in front of her, who looks like he’s about to
start arguing.

The other boy though...

He looks up as they approach, and Chuuya feels his brown-eyed gaze like a punch.

Chuuya has seen attractive people before, on TV and on social media. He’s known people
that he would objectively label as attractive—

But none of them had golden-brown eyes and a small, crooked smile, watching him with
interest as he comes closer.

Chuuya feels pinned, struggling to bring in breath under the weight of that gaze, stumbling
over his own feet.

God, he can even feel his cheeks starting to heat up, and he’s making a fool of himself
already. How is he supposed to stay cool for the entire dinner when it feels like brown eyes
are looking directly into his soul?

Luckily, Nikolai saves the day—again— by waving and calling out, “Hey guys!”

The girl finally turns around, a welcoming smile on her face. She has to blow her bangs out
of her eyes, revealing eyes that look more purple than blue. “If it isn’t our favorite clown.”

Nikolai beams, so clearly he doesn’t take that greeting as an insult, ushering Chuuya forward.

He slides into the booth in the middle, and yeah, he’d probably prefer being on the end, but
he feels too flustered to refuse and Nikolai squishes in after him before he can change his
mind.

“You must be Chuuya, right?” The girl says, dipping her head. “I’m Yuan.”

Chuuya tips his head with a small smile. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

“That’s Shirase,” Yuan says, pointing across the table at the silver-haired boy she’d been
speaking with earlier. He’s taken his phone out, and vaguely waves an acknowledgement at
Chuuya between typing frantically.

“And that—"

The other boy, the brown-eyed one Chuuya can practically sense breathing, interrupts her
with a good-natured glare. “I’m Shuuji.”

Shuuji. Even his name is cute.

Shuuji shakes his dark hair out of his face, offering Chuuya a blinding grin, all white teeth,
that knocks him off-kilter again, scrambling to pick up his self-control before he mutters
something stupid like ‘oh my god, you’re hot—'.

“Hey,” he says, trying to play it cool, even though he’s half-convinced the entire table can
hear his heart pounding, “I’m Chuuya.”

“Chuuya,” Shuuji repeats, slowly, like he’s tasting his name on his tongue, and Chuuya’s face
is on fire. “That’s a nice name. I like it.”

Chuuya has to forcibly look away from his lips. “Oh. Thanks. I— I like yours too.”

Stupid. Why is he turning into a stuttering, awkward mess now, when he needs to be smooth
and suave? Why is he so tongue-tied when Shuuji hasn’t done anything more than introduce
himself?

(Though he is still staring at Chuuya, gaze slowly sliding over his features and then further
down, over his shoulders. His gaze feels like a brand, heavy and burning.

He’s got a small smirk on his face.)

“We ordered for you guys, hope that’s okay,” Yuan says suddenly, nearly startling Chuuya out
of his seat.

Nikolai bobs his head, and Chuuya is starting to see why he chose the end seat, because he’s
constantly fidgeting. Leg bouncing, fingers tapping at his knee, shifting in his seat. The man
looks like sitting still is torture for him.

“We got a bit of everything, so you can just pick out whatever you want, Chuuya.”

Oh, sure, that sounds fine. He opens his mouth to respond, but Shuuji speaks up before he
can.

“You guys are going to have to eat the crab though. Dad eats it all the time, it’s actually kind
of gross. I’m getting sick of it.”

Shirase snorts, putting away his phone finally. He nudges Shuuji with his shoulder, teasing.
“Don’t start another complaining session about your Dad.”

Shuuji flushes, clearly embarrassed, and his responding nudge is a little rougher than it needs
to be. He does drop the subject though, turning back to Chuuya. “So— how did you meet
Nikolai?”

Chuuya pulls his hands under the table, fiddling with the edge of his jacket to dispel some
nervous energy. “We’re roommates, actually.”

Shuuji’s eyes light up. “Oh really? Guess I’ll be seeing a lot more of you then, huh?” He
says, leering at him with a suggestive smirk.

Chuuya doesn’t notice, too busy beating himself up mentally, because he’s not usually like
this. He’s not usually this shy, or anxious, or nervous. Yeah, it could be because he just
moved on his own for the first time ever, or the fact that a cute boy is staring him down—

But he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want to be some shy, nervous boy, acting like the timid
main character of a romance manga.

He’s always been headstrong and stubborn—Dad says it runs in the family, he got it from his
mother— so why does he suddenly feel like all his bravery has deserted him?

Fake it ‘til you make it, Chuuya reminds himself.

Shoving the nerves away so he can deal with them later, he straightens in his seat, trying to
replicate the feeling he gets when he’s so hyped up on adrenaline that it feels like nothing can
touch him.

It works only for a moment, but it’s enough for him to look Shuuji in his eyes and say,
“Maybe if you’re lucky.”

Golden-brown eyes flash, like Chuuya has become a lot more interesting than he was a
moment ago, sending another thrill of excitement into Chuuya’s stomach.

Beside him, Yuan makes a soft noise of disgust. "Not in front of my food, boys."

Shirase opens his mouth to tell her that she doesn't have her food yet—

Just as that moment, the server, a harried looking brunet, sets down a few plates of food in
front of them, as well as some extra plates. He lingers just long enough to pour water for the
new arrivals, and hurries off when they say they don't want anything else to drink or eat.

Yuan stares at Shirase with a raised brow, daring him to say something, and looks incredibly
smug when he shuts his mouth.

Nikolai digs right in, piling his plate with food and devouring it with a gusto that speaks of
days of hunger.

Chuuya waits for the others to pick their favorites before selecting a few of his own pieces.
He does take a few pieces of crab, since Shuuji said he didn’t want it. It's not his favorite—
and he probably doesn't like it as much as Shuuji's father apparently does—but he's not going
to complain about food, not when he's this hungry.

Yuan pops some rice into her mouth. "So—you go to Keio too?"
Chuuya nods, swallowing his mouthful. "Yep. Studying engineering, though Dad wants me to
be a doctor."

Raising a piece of shrimp in a makeshift toast, Yuan says, "Yeah, me too. Here's to
disappointing our parents once again."

Shirase raises his bowl in quick salute, though he doesn't stop devouring his food. Not to be
judgmental, but with the dyed-silver hair, and the multiple piercings in his ears, he would
probably be firmly placed in the "disappointment" category, at least as far as Chuuya's father
is concerned.

Chuuya tried to pierce his own ears, once, with a safety pin and a chunk of ice. Luckily, his
father walked in on him before he could actually do it—a blessing, because piercings like that
tend to reject harshly—and proceeded to have an entire hour-long breakdown about how
Chuuya was headed down the wrong path and one day he was gonna wake up to find his
son's face plastered over the morning news for robbing the local convenience store.

(For the record, Chuuya has never stolen anything and has never felt the desire to do so, not
that Rimbaud listened to that reasoning.)

Shuuji leans back in his seat, smug. He picks up a piece of fried mackerel, examining it
closely as he gloats, “I'm studying business. I'll be taking over my dad's business, one day.
Much better, and easier, than being a doctor."

Then he takes a bite out of the fish, chewing with a self-satisfied air.

Beside him, Nikolai sits back, rubbing his stomach absentmindedly. He's already polished off
one plate, and judging by the way he's eyeing the plates spread over the table, he's about to
make himself another one. "My parents are very proud of me, no matter what I study. They
are impressed I made it into Keio."

Well, ain't that peachy for him, Chuuya silently grumbles, stabbing his rice. He tries not to be
bitter about it, but sometimes it feels like all of his father’s hopes and dreams rest on his
shoulders.

As the youngest, he's supposed to somehow be better than his siblings—both of whom are
decently successful, with Kouyou running her own company and Kyouka well on her way to
a fashion degree with a foot in the door at a fast-growing clothing company.

But neither of those are what Rimbaud wanted for them, and while he's happy that they have
found a career that makes them happy—

He has...expectations. Expectations that are now piled on Chuuya's shoulders, because he's
the youngest, he's the last chance Rimbaud has to have a doctor or a lawyer in the family.

Don't get him wrong, his dad loves him and wants him to be happy—

But sometimes the shoes Chuuya is supposed to fill feel like they were made for giants.
He enrolled at Keio because of those expectations, working his ass off ever since he was little
to get every scholarship available to him—because as the third child of a single father that
was barely middle class means he cannot afford this university outright—and while he does
have ambition—

Sometimes, it makes him feel directionless and lost that he doesn’t really know where he’s
going in life, especially when compared to someone who apparently already has a company
ready to fall into their hands.

The next bite of rice tastes almost sour.

Yuan rolls her eyes, pointing her chopsticks at Shuuji almost threateningly. “Don’t rub it in.
Not all of us are lucky enough to be next in line for the throne or whatever.”

Shuuji, who has been taking small, delicate bites, puts his nose in the air. “It’s not luck,
sweetheart, it’s pure hard work. I’m not top of my class for nothing.”

“Yeah, at your prep school in Yokohama. Keio is competitive; how long can you keep that
up?” Shirase snorts

Shuuji sets his chopsticks down with a little more force than necessary, turning a fierce glare
on Shirase. The silver-haired teen doesn’t seem bothered in the least. “I don’t want to hear
that from someone who didn’t rank at all, and doesn’t go to Keio.”

Shirase shrugs again, and although his expression doesn’t change, his eyes seem very far
away. “Like Yuan said: not all of us are lucky.”

...there’s definitely a story behind that that Chuuya is interested in hearing about.

He tries to dispel the weird tension building in the group by asking a question of his own.
“So... did you all meet at Keio or?”

It’s Yuan who answers, after taking a long sip of her drink. “Oh no. I’ve been friends with
Shirase since.... well, since forever. They,” she gestures to Shirase and Shuuji, “went to the
same prep school, and have been friendly rivals ever since. And Nikolai met Shuuji—"

“At work! A few weeks ago, when I first moved here.” The white-haired boy says, cheerfully
interrupting.

Chuuya blinks. Nikolai having a job makes some sense, because he’s a foreign student, which
is never cheap, even if the exchange rate is good. Plus, Nikolai’s japanese is very good and
conversational, so obviously he had to pick that up in a non-schooling situation...

But Shuuji? Even Chuuya, who can be considered ‘uneducated’ on these things, can tell his
leather jacket and golden watch ooze money.

“It’s my favorite café. They have the most exquisite coffee. I would spend my entire fortune
there,” Shuuji sighs, sounding blissful.

Well. That explains that.

Still, though, it’s a little awkward to be the new friend in a group that obviously already has a
decent amount of history together. Especially when his only connection to them is that he
happens to be Nikolai’s roommate. It makes him feel like he’s out of the loop, on the outside
of all their inside jokes and shared stories.

He chews mechanically for the rest of the meal, and joins in on the conversation whenever he
sees an opening.

When everyone is done, they stack the plates back up in a half-hearted show of cleanliness
(though Shuuji does not clean up the rice he spilled on the table) before they head for the
checkout.

Shuuji is kind enough to pay for the meal, handing over a shiny platinum AMEX card
(something that Chuuya has only ever heard about in movies and books, and never thought
he’d see in real life, let alone know someone who had one).

The restaurant has only gotten more packed as they ate, which means that Chuuya is shoved
close to Shuuji’s back as he pushes his way through the crowd, fingers hooked in the back of
the jacket. (He’s not sure if Yuan’s teasing eyebrow wiggle before she pushed him behind
Shuuji makes him feel singled out or included.

He does his best to ignore how broad Shuuji’s shoulders seem to be and how warmth seems
to pour off him in waves. He doesn’t think he succeeds, because his face feels like it’s on fire
again.)

Outside, the temperature has dropped as the sun sets, making Chuuya shiver briefly. He wore
his jacket the whole time inside, so the crisp air feels like it’s cutting right through the thin
layer—

An arm drapes over his shoulders, pulling him into a blisteringly warm side. “Don’t worry,
I’ll keep you warm.”

Chuuya actually wasn’t worried at all, but it is nice to be pressed up against Shuuji like this,
practically curled up against his side.

Yuan wiggles her eyebrows at him again, and this time he can’t help but stick his tongue out
at her. She bursts into laughter, which makes Chuuya feel accomplished.

Maybe fitting in won’t be so hard after all.

“Thanks...Shuuji,” he mutters, tasting the name on his tongue. The dazzling grin he gets for
that is enough to send him stumbling blind, but he manages to keep it together.

Shuuji leads them all to a parking garage, strolling casually up to a sleek, low car, something
that reeks of luxury. He clicks the button of something in the pocket of his jacket, and the car
starts up remotely with a purr.

Chuuya tries not to gape too obviously at the car, but Jesus, he can already tell that thing
costs way more than his very expensive tuition.

With a sinking sense of shame and horror, he starts to realize that these people are way out of
his league.

He never went without as a child— but his father was a single dad of three, and even though
his salary wasn’t anything to scoff at, there was not a lot of extra money lying around. There
were always school fines or sports club fees or new shoes to buy.

Hell, the most expensive thing Chuuya has ever owned were his braces when he was twelve.

And now, looking at these people who obviously have top-of-the-line everything (even Yuan,
who is very nice and bubbly, has nails pristine enough that it doesn’t look like she’s so much
as scratched her own ass)—

He feels like utter shit in his thrifted red jacket and cheap shoes.

Nikolai and Shirase climb into the back of the car without hesitation. Chuuya hesitates
outside, fighting off the odd sense that his poorness might infect the seats or something. Like
he’s dirty.

There’s a brief altercation with Shuuji and Yuan, though Chuuya is not close enough to hear
anything besides a final hissed “Fine! I’ll get in the back, because I’m a good wingwoman!”.

Then Shuuji is turning to him, and Chuuya has no choice but to smile, hoping like hell he
doesn’t look as awkward as he feels.

“Front seat’s all yours, babe,” Shuuji says, winking at him as he opens the door.

Oh, great. At least he doesn’t have to be shoved in the small backseat between two of the
others.

He slides in carefully, and the black leather of the seats is sleek and smooth under his hands,
without so much as a speck of dirt. It's clearly been customized, because the middle of the
dashboard is taken up by a large touchscreen. It's awake, frozen on a screen that demands a
passcode.

The red interior lights are low, barely lighting up the inside of the car. He can barely feel the
purr of the car underneath him, and the only reason he knows it's on is because the engine
button is lit up.

This is probably the swankiest vehicle he's ever going to sit in, and he tries to drink in the
experience as much as possible (while avoiding touching things, because his nails are ragged
from moving, and it just looks wrong contrasted with the luxury).
The driver door opens and Shuuji climbs in with the confidence of someone much more used
to luxury.

(Really though, what kind of college student needs a car in Japan? Doesn't he live in the
dorms with everyone else? It's much more practical to take the train.)

For some reason, Shuuji doesn't touch the screen, choosing instead to start up some music on
his phone as he backs out of the parking spot.

He's a bad driver compared to Chuuya's dad, swerving in the lanes as he joins in on the
conversation or starts singing along with the song. Chuuya spends the entire drive plastered
to his door, clutching onto the handle for dear life, because he swears he sees his life flash
before his eyes at least twice.

Halfway through (by this time, he would've been back on campus if he'd taken the train,
Chuuya notes with slight hysteria), the music cuts out.

Shuuji's phone is ringing. The name on the phone: DAZAI OSAMU (dad).

The backseat breaks out in a loud "Ooooooohhh, you're in trouble~" in near synchronization.
Yuan cackles, leaning forward until her head is nearly in the front seat with them. "Does your
dad know you have this car?"

He stole this car? From his rich dad? Who may or may not call the police on them for said
stolen car?

For a brief, terrible moment, Chuuya envisions calling his dad from inside a jail cell and
explaining how he got arrested on literally his first day away from home. He groans
internally, running a hand through his hair. He's never going to be allowed outside without
supervision again.

Shuuji rolls his eyes. "Of course he does. He went out of the country for a few days, and he
said I could do whatever I wanted. He's probably just calling to let me know he got home
safely."

Chuuya highly doubts that, considering he calls again immediately after Shuuji sends the first
call to voicemail. That's basically code for an angry parental unit.

But Shuuji doesn't answer, and the cops don't appear out of nowhere to haul him away, so at
least Chuuya will somehow survive the evening.

The energy is somewhat dimmed though, with the mention of parents, so the rest of the ride
is filled with quiet phone-scrolling, or Nikolai filling the quiet with his seemingly-endless
stream of chatter.

When the university campus finally rolls into view, Chuuya breathes a sigh of relief. He
never thought he'd miss a bed he's never slept in, but here he is.
Shuuji parks (crookedly, with the rear end sticking out and begging to be hit by oncoming
traffic) and steps out to let the trio in the back climb out onto the sidewalk.

Meanwhile, Chuuya is tugging at the door handle with increasing desperation, because it
seems to be child-locked from the inside (for what fucking reason, he doesn't know) and he
can't seem to find the lock, and he's starting to look like an idiot, too poor to even know how
to open a damn car door by himself.

He's debating sliding across the seat to exit through the drivers door, because he's starting to
feel frustrated and trapped—

Before he can, Shuuji drops back inside, shutting the door with a resounding thud.

The inside of the car seems oppressively silent now, and Chuuya slowly stops pulling at the
handle. He doesn't want to seem like an idiot, not when Shuuji is staring at him, eyes nearly
black in the darkness.

Then he reaches out, putting a hand on Chuuya's thigh. Not low either. No, his fingertips are
inches away from his crotch, and Chuuya is caught between anxiety and excitement.

Yes, he might considered the idea of Shuuji touching him like this someday, and might even
enjoy it under other circumstances—

But not when he just met him, not when he has nowhere else to go, not when he feels pinned
between him and closed car door that he can't get open—

Shuuji smiles at him, like he has him right where he wants him. "Let me have your phone
number."

Oh.

Well, he wasn't expecting that, and certainly not for it to happen like this but he's not opposed
to it.

"Sure. Do you have a pen?" He asks, figuring he's going to write down his number on his
palm like every teen romance movie out there.

Instead, a phone, already opened to the contacts page, is shoved underneath his nose
insistently.

Chuuya takes it, entering in his phone number under the hawk-like gaze of Shuuji. He even
inputs his name, double-checking to make sure the number is correct before handing back the
phone.

"There," he says quietly, "now could you help me—"

Shuuji cuts him off. "I'm going to call you, make sure you didn't accidentally give me the
wrong number."

He says accidentally, but the way he's staring him down with hard eyes as he raises his phone
to his ear makes it seem like he doesn't believe it would be an accident.

Why wouldn't he give him the right number? Why does he feel so cornered by him?

When his phone doesn't immediately ring, Chuuya starts to panic, because he swears he gave
Shuuji the right number, and why is he starting to look so irritated?

It would just be a mistake, so why does it seem so personal?

...What would happen if Chuuya did give him the wrong number, by accident or otherwise?

Then, finally, miraculously, the call goes through and his phone rings.

Sighing in relief, he fishes it out of his pocket, and flashes the screen at Shuuji to prove that
he did, in fact, give him the right phone number.

The way his expression instantly clears back into friendly eagerness, like the last thirty
seconds never happened, makes Chuuya feel like he’s been knocked off-center. "Great! I'll be
texting you, darling."

Then he reaches over to press a button on his side of the car, which makes a clicking sound.

Chuuya pulls on the handle again, and this time the door opens without a single problem. He
stumbles out into the street, confused as hell, because what the fuck was that all about?

Did...did Shuuji lock him in the car? Did he want to get a few moments alone with him, or
did he just forget that it was locked? Assumingly, he wasn't very subtle about his insta-crush,
considering Yuan teased him silently about it earlier and Shuuji asked for his number so...

Why was he so convinced that he would've given him the wrong one?

The whole situation is baffling, and Chuuya doesn't know what to make of it, because that's
not how he heard how these situations were supposed to go but...

Besides his very brief explorations with a few girls that were friends of the family (which led
to the discovery that not only was Chuuya gay, he was also gay as hell), he's only ever
watched movies and read books on anything remotely approaching romance.

None of his close friends have partners, and he doesn't feel comfortable enough calling up his
older sister to ask how her boyfriend got her number so...

Maybe he's just inexperienced. Maybe he felt kind of uncomfortable because he's just never
been in that kind of situation before, with a cute boy he liked staring him down.

Maybe that's just the way things are supposed to go.

Maybe he's just being overdramatic, and needs to learn how to relax a little.

The night has gotten even colder, so he wraps his jacket tighter around himself, heading up
the sidewalk.

Yuan and Shirase have waited with Nikolai for him, but they quickly say their goodbyes and
head off together off campus. Apparently, they live in apartments nearby, and Chuuya is so
jealous he could cry.

Mercifully, Nikolai is quiet as they walk back to their dorm, preoccupied with some game on
his phone that plays soft Russian music.

Chuuya spends the entire night trying not to think and failing.
 Negotiation Tactics
Chapter Summary

God, Dazai just wants to sleep. It’s been so long since he had a long, peaceful rest.

Apparently, that's not happening today either, so he drags himself out of bed and
stumbles to the bathroom. He stares at himself blearily in the mirror, noting how pale he
looks under the lights. It looks like he's lost a bit of weight, which makes sense because
he hasn't had the time to hit the gym or even eat properly lately.

He needs a haircut. He needs a shave.

He needs a goddamn vacation.

Chapter Notes

This chapter you meet Dazai and Rokuzou, as well as some of Dazai and Shuuji's
relationship.

Like always, if you like my content, feel free to follow my twitter @bloodsvgarr and if
you want to read BH without waiting for it to be posted on ao3, the rough draft is being
written on my twitter account @H4NDKINK

Enjoy! <3 Happy new year.

Dazai wakes up in a haze of exhaustion, sleep sucking at him with the force of a rip current,
trying to pull him back under. Truth be told, with the jet lag, he doesn't know what time it is.
No light ever makes it through the blackout curtains, and he vaguely remembers it being
early afternoon when he collapsed into bed to pass out.

Though, he can hear the dogs panting from somewhere in the room, which leads to the
assumption that it's somewhere near school hours. They like to stalk Shuuji around the house
whenever he's home, and Shuuji usually spends most of his free hours in his room playing the
latest games to avoid them.
So. It's probably not too late, he can afford to sleep a little longer and while his body screams
for a few extra hours —

His brain is annoyingly awake, resistant to the idea of sleep. Already, his mind is conjuring
up a list of tasks he needs to do, sorting them by order of importance, and then re-sorting
them by urgency, running in endless circles.

God, Dazai just wants to sleep . It’s been so long since he had a long, peaceful rest.

Apparently, that's not happening today either, so he drags himself out of bed and stumbles to
the bathroom. He stares at himself blearily in the mirror, noting how pale he looks under the
lights. It looks like he's lost a bit of weight, which makes sense because he hasn't had the time
to hit the gym or even eat properly lately.

He needs a haircut. He needs a shave.

He needs a goddamn vacation.

But he's not going to get one, not anytime soon, so he pushes away from the mirror and turns
the shower on to the hottest temperature he can stand. The gray sweatpants he's wearing get
thrown in the vague direction of the hamper. He'll pick them up later. Maybe.

The hot water feels like heaven on his sore muscles, soothing away most of his sore muscles.

Bracing his hands on the tiles, he lets his head hang and enjoys the heat for a long moment.
Water drips down his hair and over his face, running off his chin. He closes his eyes with a
sigh, drifting somewhere between exhaustion and distant anxiety.

Despite how hard he's been working lately, trying to figure out why the Russian Rats are so
active in the city lately, he's barely closer to discovering their plans. Everytime he thinks he’s
getting closer, something else comes up, and he’s sent back to square one.
And in his job, if he doesn't have the correct information, or enough information, he can
quickly end on the chopping block of whoever wants him the most. It’s a long line of people,
admittedly.

So. More work ahead, and maybe , if he's lucky, a light somewhere at the end of the tunnel.

Sighing, he washes himself up quickly, soaping up his hair. The stubble, he leaves, because
he doesn't care enough to take the time to shave right now. He's not going to see anyone that
he needs to impress today, anyways. Today is all about touching base with his network and
for that, the rugged look might be more appropriate.

The scarier he looks, the more cooperative people tend to be.

Which is why he chooses to wear a dark leather jacket with sewn-in holsters for knives, with
a dark maroon shirt underneath and black jeans, paired with his heaviest pair of boots, laced
up to his knees.

Is he riding his motorcycle today? No. Will he be kicking somebody's ass today?

Considering the sour mood he's in, very possibly, if someone tests him.

He makes sure to grab his travel bag on the way down to the garage, because he needs to put
all the things he took with him to France back in their usual spots. Granted, his car is stocked
with all the weapons and tech he needs, but he likes having all his favorite toys within easy
reach.

Besides, he muses to himself as he opens the garage door, it's probably time he cleans out his
car—

His car.
Is gone.

The keys are missing off the rack too, which means—

"That little shit.”

Dazai would consider himself a laid back parent. It feels unfair to start suddenly enforcing
rules and expectations on a child who, for many reasons, he hasn’t had much contact with
before Shuuji became an adult.

He visited when he could, but between his job and Shuuji’s mother, that wasn’t very often.
Besides, Dazai had no idea what to do with a ten-year old going through his typical angsty
phase that he knew nothing about. It made visits...awkward, to say the least.

So, Dazai only has two rules:

1. Don’t get arrested. He dislikes police on a good day, and if he never saw a badge again,
it’d be too soon.

2. Don’t touch his stuff, especially the stuff he says not to touch, and especially the stuff
he uses for work.

Perhaps being lenient is his downfall as a parent. Because, somehow, that has led to his idiot

son, who took three tries to pass the driving test, driving his car which is literally stocked
with an arsenal of weapons, several of which are illegal to own in Japan.

And, knowing Shuuji, he’s probably with his other idiot friends, some of which couldn’t find
a brain cell between them. (Except for Yuan. He likes Yuan, but she's an enabler, so even she
has her flaws.)
Pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the growing headache, Dazai groans. Not only is
his work for the day derailed, but he'll be lucky if his son doesn't end up on the news for
weapons trafficking.

Dropping his bag heavily to the floor, he takes his phone from his pocket, unlocking it. It
only takes him a second to find Shuuji's contact, because he only uses this phone for his
personal life. The amount of contacts in it is depressingly small.

He brings his phone to his ear, waiting for the dial tone. Truthfully, he doesn't have much
hope that Shuuji will actually answer his call—he likes to avoid confrontation at any cost,
and he probably knows he's in trouble by now—but what else is he supposed to do? Wait for
him to come home in the living room with a lamp turned on, like those stereotypical parents
in those teen movies? Go hunt him down himself?

(He considers that one very carefully, because there is a tracking chip in the car, and it'd be
child’s play to access it.)

The phone clicks, sending his call to voicemail. He growls lowly, frustration boiling up inside
him. Shuuji is a college student, not a toddler. Dazai shouldn’t have to hide his keys from him
like he can’t be trusted not to hurt himself.

On second thought, maybe that’s exactly what this incident is proving.

He calls again, with the distant hope that he’ll pick up this time, but mostly so he’ll get the
silent message that Dazai knows and he’s pissed .

He doesn’t bother leaving voicemails. Shuuji never listens to them anyways.

Shutting off his phone, Dazai decides to give him until tonight to return with his car. If he’s
not back by the time Dazai returns from his errands, then he’s going to track him down and
drag him back by his hair .
In the meantime... Dazai’s eyes fall on his helmet. Guess he’s taking the motorcycle to work
today. A little inconvenient, considering he can’t carry nearly as much stuff as he could’ve
otherwise but...

Maybe the wind will help to clear his head.

It’s a good thing he decided to wear his boots today, he muses, before shoving his helmet
onto his head and grabbing his keys.

The bike starts with a low purr, vibrating powerfully underneath him. It’s been too long since
he last took it out for a spin. He revs the engine with a small grin, peeling out of the garage
wickedly fast.

The warehouse he’s looking for is on the outskirts of the industrial sector of the city. It was
abandoned after the company downsized and the building inspectors cited a few flaws in the
construction. Technically, it was supposed to be torn down a few years ago, but it keeps
getting pushed back.

Or, well—

Someone keeps pushing it back.

Dazai whistles lowly, checking for nearby people before he slips into the side door. His bike
is parked in a nearby alleyway, half-hidden by a dumpster. The alarm is primed, just in case
any greedy hands try to touch it.

The metal grating of the stairs rattles loudly under his feet, a cheap warning system, and he
doesn’t even try to bother to cover his footsteps. He’s sure the kid has a few cameras on the
outside of the building and already knows he’s coming. If he doesn’t—
Well. Then he’s getting rusty, and what better person to make him dust off his skills than
Dazai?

Sure enough though, as soon as he hits the bottom of the stairs and turns right, heading into
the darkened corner of the warehouse, a voice calls out from the gloom, “I told you last time
not to come back, old man.”

There’s a sectioned off room near the corner. The door is slightly open, and the blue-white
lights of computer screens spill through the gap.

Dazai gasps, clutching his chest dramatically as he keeps moving forward. “I did think about
staying away. I did! But then I got to thinking— you must miss me. So here I am, visiting.”

He shoves the door open the rest of the way, sauntering in easily.

Inside is a massive bank of computers, hemmed in by even bigger tanks of freshwater

aquariums, to help keep the temperature down.

In the middle, surrounded by screens and a rigged iPad that somehow connects and controls
all the machines in the room, glaring at him with that surly teenager look Dazai is getting
very used to (he sees it every day in his house, lately) is just the man Dazai is looking for.

“What do you want?”

“The same thing I always want, Rokozou,” Dazai sighs, collapsing onto the lone piece of
furniture in the room, a cramped couch. He stretches his legs out as far as they will go,
crossed at the ankle. He laces his fingers together behind his head, smiling with all his teeth.
“Information.”
Not many people know it, but Rokuzou Taguchi is the best hacker on this side of Japan.
Young, talented, and filled with that fearless recklessness all young people have in spades.

Word on the streets is that he can hack into anything below government level clearance.

Dazai has it on personal authority that he can crack the firewalls of any government the kid
puts his mind to.

He also has it on authority that Rokuzou will sell any data he can get his hands on—for the
right price, of course.

In another life, he could’ve made a killer government agent, maybe a spy or something in
cybersecurity. But in this one... he makes deals with shady characters and hunts relentlessly
for pieces of information even he can’t seem to find.

All the better for Dazai, unfortunately. Rokuzou reminds him of his younger self, to be
truthful, if he were born with a computer in his hand instead of a gun.

Rokuzou turns to him, interest gleaming in his eye. He taps a few times on his tablet before
turning completely to him, giving him his full attention. “What kind of information?

Here’s the trick with negotiation: never show your hand too quickly. Never let the other
person know how badly you need or want what they have.

Build the deal in your favor. Make it seem like you’re doing them a favor by agreeing to a
trade.

So instead of saying what he wants—

He starts with something Rokuzou wants, something irresistible.. “You know, when I was in
France earlier this week, I heard the Americans talking. Rumors mostly, but they said some
very interesting names, so I took the liberty of checking into it.”

He pauses there, letting the tension build for a moment. When Rokuzou’s eyes narrow,
clearly demanding he go on, he continues slowly, “and imagine my surprise when I
discovered that the Azure King and his Apostle recently signed a contract with an American
company.”

...That doesn’t mean Dazai doesn’t feel bad for using Rokuzou’s weaknesses against him,
because he does. The feverish manic focus that fills his eyes, and the way that revenge has
been his primary motivation for the last three years, ever since his father died when he was
sixteen, makes Dazai vaguely nauseous to look at.

There’s a part of him that wants to shake the kid, tell him to let go and move on because his
dad wouldn’t have wanted him to live like this , perpetually on the run and selling scraps of
info to murderers who would just as soon see him dead.

But he’s not Dazai’s responsibility. He’s a grown man now, able to make his own decisions,
and even if Dazai did try to step in—

Rokuzou wouldn’t listen. Worse, he might even cut off contact or go off the deep end
entirely.

The best thing Dazai can do for him is help him when he can, and hope that’ll be enough
someday.

He fishes a small USB out of his pocket, showing it to Rokuzou. “I am willing to give this to
you. Names, dates, companies, numbers, everything I could dig up, and probably more than a
few clues on where to keep digging.”

Hazel eyes lock onto the USB with all the intensity of a starving dog. “In exchange for
what?”
“All movement of the Rats in the House of the Dead for the past two weeks.”

Rokuzou’s eyebrows shoot up, incredulous. It’s a big request, Dazai knows, but he’s banking
on how much Rokuzou is willing to give up for the information on the Azure King.

His gaze shifts from the USB drive to Dazai and back again, quickly calculating. “Aren’t you
like... friends with their leader? Why don’t you ask him?”

Dazai grimaces. ‘Friends’ is a strong word. More like unlikely and unwilling acquaintances
that have been in the business so long that sometimes there’s no choice but to sit down and
share a few glasses of whiskey while reminiscing over all the times they tried to kill each
other. Such is his long, loving and intimate relationship with one Fyodor Dostoevsky. “Do
you really think he’s just going to tell me?”

Rokuzou shifts from foot to foot, and it’s clear that it just occurred to him how stupid the
question sounded. “...Have you tried asking nicely?”

Dazai stares him down, eyes sharp and piercing, until he can see the tension begin to build.
Then he smiles, slow and mean, all sharp teeth and sharper intentions. Leaning forward, he
props his elbows up on his knees, leaning his chin on his hands. “Tell you what, Rokuzou,”
he drawls, letting his voice drop into something deeper, more dangerous. “I think you should
take the deal— or I’ll start asking you nicely.”

And based on his posture, the subtle glint of knives under his leather jacket, the way his eyes
are focused laser-sharp, a predator on the hunt—

‘ Nicely’ would not be the correct term.

(Rokuzou gulps, taking back a step. Dazai’s never hurt him, or even tried to— not like some
of his other customers, who seem to think that they can get more information out of him with
their fists—
But Rokuzou knows Dazai’s reputation. Practically grew up on it, horror stories that his
parents told him to keep him away from dark alleyways and strangers on the street.

He even looked into the stories when he was older, and they’re all true.

The man sitting on his couch —ass on the pillow Rokuzou sleeps on, for fucks sake— might
not be the same man he heard stories about, but there’s the unspoken knowledge that if Dazai
wanted him to disappear?

There’s no one on this planet that would be able to find him again.)

“Fine,” he grumbles, bringing his tablet back up. “It’ll take a minute.”

A few minutes, actually, to compile all the data onto a disc, but Dazai’s never complained
about a wait before.

He doesn’t now, either. “Great!” He says, all that dangerous energy melting away like it never
existed. Leaning back again, he pulls out his phone, waking the device with a few touches.
“You eaten yet today?”

Rokuzou’s always been thin, but now his wrists and cheekbones stick out harshly enough that
Dazai’s stomach aches in sympathy.

Rokuzou throws him an incredulous look, wondering why the hell that matters.

Dazai takes that as a no, opening up his food delivery app. “Are you thinking ramen or
Tonkatsu? There’s a restaurant nearby."

Rolling his eyes, Rokuzou responds, “Neither, actually—”

“Ramen it is,” Dazai hums, placing a quick order. He doesn’t know what he likes anyways,
so he keeps it simple.

“You’re not my dad—"

The silence that falls between them after that is heavy and awkward. Clearly, Rokuzou
didn’t

mean to say that, because he’s biting his lip harshly and looking intensely at his tablet. His
face is drawn, expression painful.

He’s right though, Dazai isn’t. He doesn’t want to be, and he doesn’t want to fix him either.
No one can fix what happened.

He sighs, choosing instead to change the subject to something else. "Is that detective you
work with still hooked on finding me?"

Some of the computer screens change color, turning white as Rokuzou accesses his files. He
sounds distantly grateful as he says, "Kunikida? Oh yeah. The other day, he even offered me
a deal to turn you in."

Dazai sits up straighter, interested. Kunikida is a very good detective, he has to admit, but he
has one fatal flaw: he always plays by the rules. In a job where your goal is to catch the most
elusive, hardened criminals, that alone can be your downfall.

"Oh? What'd he offer you?"

Plugging in a USB into the port on one of his computers, Rokuzou snickers, "He offered to
wipe out my entire criminal record."

Arching an eyebrow, Dazai says, "All of it?"

There's a pause before the kid is throwing a smug smirk over his shoulder at him. "No, not all
of it. Only the things he knows about."

That makes Dazai laugh, inexplicably fond.

By the time Rokuzou is done downloading all the information, the food has arrived. Dazai
makes the trip outside to get it, passing the delivery driver a hefty tip and a stern look to keep
him from talking about the strange delivery to the outskirts of the warehouse district.

Rokuzou tosses him the drive when he comes back in, and only Dazai's quick reflexes keep it
from smashing on the ground. He pockets it, leaving the food and his USB on the small table.
"Eat," he says sternly, pointing at the kid to show how serious he is.

Rokuzou rolls his eyes again, starting up another program on his computers. "Or what, old
man?"

Dazai pretends to think about it, tapping his chin with a finger. He was going to use this as
another bargaining chip but—

He supposes this is good enough for him. "Or I won't tell you the encryption code on that
USB."

For a second, Dazai is convinced Rokuzou is about to throw his iPad at him with how quickly
he turns to glare at him. Raising his hands in the air peacefully, he grins and backs up to the
door. "It's programmed to wipe all data after three incorrect attempts~!"

"You FUCKER—.”

Dazai does have to dodge an empty coffee cup that's thrown at his head, but considering it's
made out of Styrofoam, it feels rather anticlimactic as it floats to the floor and lands with a
tiny sound.
Knowing Rokuzou won't chase him out of the warehouse in broad daylight—he was a stupid
kid, got himself on the news quite a few times, and erasing one's criminal record from the
national database is not as easy as it sounds, even for someone of his skill level—Dazai takes
his time ascending the stairs and making his way back to his bike.

He still has a few errands to run; mostly menial tasks, like getting himself a new burner
phone, transferring the contents of the USB Rokuzou gave him onto a new one (he likes the
kid, but he doesn't trust him not to add a tracking code or something), buying new bandages
and foundation because his supply is running low.

Then it's back home, to analyze the information and make a plan from there. And put Shuuji
back into his place, if he’s returned with his car. If not, then it’s time to hunt him down and
drag him back by force.

When he's getting a coffee, a brand new disposable phone shoved into one of his many
pockets, he receives a text on the old phone.

[UNKNOWN|: jpeg attached.

[UNKNOWN]: there u fckn go gimme the pass

It's a picture of a mostly empty ramen bowl, complete with a middle finger centered directly
in view.

Dazai smiles, sending him the code without further hesitation. A deal's a deal.

A few seconds later, another text comes in.

[UNKNOWN]: thx. i hate u

[DAZAI]: :( <3

Glancing around subtly to make sure no one is watching him too closely, Dazai removes the
SIM card and superstitiously slips it into his coffee cup after taking one last sip. The
remaining liquid will short out the card and hopefully make it impossible for it to be tracked.

He throws out the cup in a nearby trash can, tossing his old phone under the tires of a passing
car. He watches it crunch into a hundred shattered pieces with satisfaction.

Then there's nothing left to do but to go home, because he already stopped by the
supermarket for his other things. They're stuffed in the secret compartment underneath the
seat of his motorcycle, practically the only spot where he can store things on his bike.

It's late enough that the streets and sidewalks are packed with all the people just getting off
work. Traffic is at a near-standstill and he's sure the train stations are overflowing. There is
some good in his son stealing his car then, because the driving time is cut nearly in half as he
drives between the stopped cars, steadily making his way back home.

Of course, once he hits the residential area, the streets open up, and maybe he shouldn't gun
the engine, roaring through the normally quiet neighborhood insanely fast, but it's been a few
long weeks, and he needs stress relief.

The danger behind skidding around a corner, having to lean his entire body into it so he
doesn't lose control, adrenaline pumping through him like liquid energy—

It makes him feel alive again.

When he gets home—too quickly, his mind whispers, itching to keep going, to keep driving
—the garage door is already open.

His car is parked inside, which is great, except it's parked crookedly, close enough that he
barely has enough room to get his motorcycle in, and he left the garage door open , for god
knows how long.

It's like Shuuji's asking to get Dazai's stuff stolen, or for someone to notice that Dazai is not
like the other parents and businessmen that live in this area.

Granted, he hasn't told Shuuji about his 'job', for many reasons, but he's starting to think that's
a mistake, because his son is so absentminded and reckless that he swears it's going to get
him caught.

And if some stupid mistake like this gets him caught, when Dazai has been extra careful and
evading notice for over 30 years, he's going to—

Well, he doesn't know what he's going to do, but he's going to be pissed .

Heaving an irritated sigh, he parks the motorcycle outside, because he's going to have to fix
the parking of his car anyways before he can fit them both in the garage without damaging
them.

He expects the keys to be on the rack, where they usually are, Shuuji's way of pretending that
nothing happened, but they aren't.

Frustration spikes. Shuuji has only been living with him for the past four months, but
somehow he's already exhausted Dazai's admittedly deep well of patience. Every day he
promises himself to be more understanding and patient, but then Shuuji does things like this
and it just—

It just sends him through the roof , because god damn he doesn't have that many expectations
or rules, but Shuuji seems determined to ruin every carefully built and maintained aspect of
Dazai's life.

He throws open the garage door, stalking inside. The dogs don't greet him, which means that
Shuuji probably shoved them inside their kennels, which defeats the whole point of guard
dogs.

He takes the stairs two at a time, storming up quickly, and he hopes his heavy footsteps give
Shuuji a jolt of fear and anxiety.

Shuuji's door is closed, like it usually is. Normally, it doesn't bother Dazai, because he
understands the desire for privacy, but today it feels like he's hiding .

If it's locked, he swears he's going to kick the damn thing in.

It's not though, luckily for his son. The knob gives under his hand when he throws open the
door.

Shuuji is sitting at his desk, playing some inane video game. The voices of his teammates
echo faintly from his headphones. He flinches hard when the door is flung open, reaching up
to pull one side of his headphones off his ear, shooting Dazai an affronted look. “What the
hell, Dad? Haven’t you heard of knocking?”

He tries to keep most of the anger out of his voice, but he fails. “Did you take my car today?”

“What? No?”

If Dazai were his younger self, or if Shuuji were anyone else, he would’ve shot him for
daring to lie to his face like that. Especially when he didn’t even cover his tracks well. Does
he think Dazai is an idiot?

Clenching his teeth so hard his jaw aches, Dazai growls, “Don’t lie to me. I know you did.
Where are my keys?”

Shuuji honestly looks like he’s going to continue the lie for a moment, and Dazai is this close
to going over there and throttling him—
But then he shifts in his seat as something happens on screen, and his expression sours.
Sheepishly, he digs in his back pocket and pulls out Dazai’s keys.

He tosses them to Dazai in a gesture that is probably disrespectful, but Dazai is grateful for it,
because if he gets within arm reach of Shuuji right now, he’s going to teach him a lesson in
respect , mafia style—

He’s not that kind of person anymore, he reminds himself, hanging grimly onto the remaining
shreds of his self-control. It’s unfortunate that a decent amount of their interactions end up
like this, with Dazai gritting his teeth and Shuuji rolling his eyes. It makes bonding incredibly
difficult.

“Why did you take it? That is literally the only vehicle I said you couldn’t use.” Well, that
and his motorcycle, but the last one was specifically tailored for Dazai’s height, and since
Shuuji is over a head shorter than he is...

He probably can’t even get on the thing, to be truthful.

“You weren’t using it.”

Dazai grips the doorway so hard the wood groans under his fingers, threatening to break. He
speaks slowly, enunciating each word like that might make his outrage more clear. “I was out
of the country.”

Shuuji shrugs and Dazai is really starting to understand those parents who fly off the handle
and destroy their kids' electronics. This whole time, Shuuji hasn’t even looked at him, and
he’s still smashing buttons on his controller, like Dazai is interrupting him. “Besides, it’s the
only cool

car you have, so.”

(There’s a dark, violent part of Dazai, something he thought he buried long ago, that’s
whispering that if Shuuji won’t listen, then he can make him. He was feared for a very long
time, still is for the most part, and it would not take much to strike the fear of god into this
insolent child.)

He slaps his hand against the door, hard enough to make Shuuji yelp in surprise, finally
turning to look at him. Dazai smiles with no amusement, cold and lethal. “If you touch my
car again, there will be consequences.”

He leaves it at that, whirling around and stalking back down the hallway. Truth be told he’s
not sure what consequences there will be, because he’s still figuring out the amount of
discipline he’s allowed to dish out, but hopefully the threat is enough to deter Shuuji for a
while.

Because if he keeps testing Dazai’s patience, one day he’s going to snap . He was a terror in
his youth when he was angry, and even he’s slightly concerned about what he’d be like now ,
older, wiser, and much more skilled.

Heading back down to the garage, he decides to clean the car while he’s moving it around.
It’s been overdue for a while, and he’s sure Shuuji has dirtied it a bit anyways.

(He briefly imagines dragging Shuuji down here to clean it himself, but quickly decides
against it. He doesn’t want to be close to him and his whining right now. Plus, he’d probably
have to clean up after him anyways, because Shuuji’s cleaning sucks .

Dazai knows. He’s seen his room. He’s seen the same pair of dirty underwear wedged
underneath his bed for the past 6 weeks.)

So, after parking the car correctly , he goes about taking all the weapons out, placing them in
a half-circle carefully sorted by size.He runs his fingers over them, carefully assessing them.
They’re all clean, untouched, meticulously maintained by himself. Nothing worse than a
jammed gun in the middle of a firefight.
Then he moves onto the interior. It’s surprisingly clean, with only a few pieces of trash that
are easily thrown away. There’s a few crumbs that need to be vacuumed up and...

A wallet, wedged between the passenger seat and the door, halfway under the seat.

Dazai pulls it out, frowning. He doesn’t recognize the wallet at all.

Granted, he doesn’t know everybody Shuji hangs out with, but the wallet doesn’t belong to
any of the usual suspects. Yuan’s wallet is just as pink as her hair, and surprisingly thick
despite the fact that she never seems to carry anything she uses regularly.

He’s pretty sure Shirase doesn’t even own a wallet and instead just shoves everything in his
pockets and socks like the wild child he is.

Shuuji’s wallet is a lot newer and nicer than this one.

So...who?

He flips it open, and the first thing he sees on the inside flap is a student ID:

NAME: NAKAHARA CHUUYA.

STUDENT ID: 152221.

MAJOR: ENGINEERING.

The picture is... unflattering, as all school photos are. A thick head of bright red hair, all
pushed behind his ears to expose his forehead. He’s smiling, but it looks more like a forced
grimace. The red jacket makes his blue eyes pop, evening with the bad lighting.

All in all, he looks like he was forced to take this picture but...
Dazai runs a finger over his face. He’s cute, in a young, naïve sort of way. And the way he’s
almost-glaring at the camera is endearing.

On the other side, half-hidden in one of the pockets, is a faded Polaroid photograph. It’s a
picture of a family, clearly taken quite a few years ago.

In it, one of the chubbiest and grumpiest toddlers Dazai has ever seen is being held in the
arms of a man who is presumably his father. The toddler has a fistful of long dark hair,
pulling harshly. On either side are two girls, both looking completely unaware of the toddler
vs parent fight happening in the middle, grinning widely and showing off their Mickey
Mouse ears.

A baby picture of Chuuya then, because that red hair and baby blue eyes are unmistakable
even then, and his family.

Dazai’s lip twitches upward, amused. Cute little thing.

He folds up the wallet, shoving it into the pocket of his jacket. He’s always made a habit of
meeting as many of Shuuji’s friends as possible. His son is one bad influence away from
ending up in the local jail, so he tries to head off any degenerates before they sink their teeth
in.

As he finishes cleaning, he finds himself wondering:

What kind of person is Nakahara Chuuya? When will he meet him?

 Unsavory Characters
Chapter Summary

Dazai watches him, and at the last second, when Chuuya is reaching for his wallet, he
flicks it up, just out of his reach. "You should be careful with your things, doll. You
never know what kind of...unsavory characters might find them," he purrs, and this
close, his voice is all encompassing, vibrating down Chuuya's spine and settling
somewhere in his stomach.

If losing his wallet means he gets to see people like Dazai, he's going to attach a fishing
lure to it next time.

Chapter Notes

we finally meet dazai!! and the dogs as well <3 sorry for the wait, I hope you
understand!! I'll try to get the next chapters up quicker, but I'm moving hundreds of
miles soon, so we'll see :) as always, follow me on twitter @H4NDKINK and
@bloodsvgarr

The next afternoon, barely 2pm, sees Chuuya frantic.

He’s supposed to buy his textbooks today, because he has assignments due on the first day of
class (totally unfair, by the way, he can’t even enjoy the last few days of freedom). The good
thing though is that, because of his scholarship, he doesn’t have to pay for them himself.

All he needs is his school ID to prove that he’s, you know, himself, and boom, free books.

All he needs is his school ID. Which is in his wallet. The wallet that he cannot find.

He’s looked everywhere! In his jacket, his jeans, under his bed, in his backpack, even in the
fucking lost and found. It’s nowhere to be found. And unless a few thousand yen magically
appears in his back pocket—

He can’t get his books anytime soon. It takes at least 3 days to order a new school ID, and by
then, he’ll already be behind, and probably on his professors shit lists.

His phone dings. An incoming text.

Chuuya checks it out of habit, just to make sure it’s not his dad or his sisters (who like to text
in emergencies, which has never and will never make sense to him. A call is much more
urgent and easier to communicate.)

It’s Shuuji.

And then—

Then Chuuya realizes that there is one place he hasn’t managed to look.

Shuuji’s car. Or his dad’s car, whatever.

He scrambles to open the message, hope stirring in his chest. It has to be in the car. That’s the
only place it could be. (Or on the train, his anxiety reminds him. In which case, he’s probably
screwed.)

[ SHUUJI ]: wut r u wearing ? ;)

...What? It’s two in the afternoon, what does he think he’s wearing? A nightgown? A
helicopter hat?
[ CHUUYA ]: jeans.

[ CHUUYA ]: hey, did you find a wallet in your car yesterday? I can’t find mine :(

The two minutes he spends waiting for a response is pure torture.

[ SHUUJI ]: no I didn’t see 1

No, no, please no—

Another text.

[ SHUUJI ]: but I can help u look in da car ;)

Does... does that mean he didn’t actually look in the car for it? Is there still hope?

(There is no hope for Chuuya’s brain cells, because he can feel them dying a slow death
trying to read Shuuji’s chat speak. He thought texting with Kyouka was bad, but this is on
another level.)

[ CHUUYA ]: yes pls :( I really need it for school. I’d owe you a lot!! <3

[ SHUUJI ]: hehe ya. I’ll cum pick u up soon

Oh thank god, and every single of one of his ugly little angels.

[ CHUUYA ]: thank you! you’re the best

[ SHUUJI ]: ik

Because he has nothing to do except wait — he’s already done his registrations for class, and
checked out the local Kendo club— he shoves his shoes on his feet and goes to wait outside
on a nearby bench. Foot tapping anxiously, he starts up some stupid game on his phone and
waits for a text.

Twenty minutes later, his game is interrupted by an incoming notification.

[ SHUUJI ]: I here, where u

Chuuya looks around. He doesn’t see a car he recognizes, and he doesn’t see Shuuji
anywhere around.

[ CHUUYA ]: bench outside the dorms. Where are you?

[ SHUUJI ]: cum same place as last night

Okay, easy enough. That’s not far.

Chuuya jogs over, looking around for the car but—

He still doesn’t see it. He’s about to pull out his phone to text again or to call, when the
window rolls down on a nearby car. Shuuji leans out, grinning smugly. “Miss me that much,
darling?”

The car he’s driving today is still nice, shiny and relatively new, but it’s not nearly the same
quality as the car he was driving yesterday.
That one was sleek, unique, obviously customized with a lot of money.

This one looks like the car every moderately successful businessman in Japan owns.

But hey, who is Chuuya to judge? He certainly doesn’t have a car, and the family car back
home was bought secondhand and is a few years old now. He slides into the passenger seat,
breathless. “Thanks for coming. I’m sorry to bother you like this.”

Shuuji waves him off, cutting off another car as he swerves back into traffic. “You’ll make it
up to me, darling.”

That sounds slightly ominous, and the repeated nickname makes him feel a little weird, like
he’s less of a person and more of a thing but—

It’s probably just his residual anxiety and panic making things weird. This is normal, he’s just
being weird.

Chuuya changes the subject. “Do you live far?”

Shuuji throws him a sly side glance, arrogance radiating off him. “Not that far. Don’t be too
impatient, I’ll get you there as soon as I can.”

It’s not that Chuuya is impatient, he’s just worried. He only has until the end of the business
day to get his books, and if his wallet isn’t in Shuuji’s other car, then he has to submit his
application for a new ID as soon as possible. He only has three or four hours to figure the
whole situation out.

But he pushes that feeling down, smiling slightly. He doesn’t want to seem ungrateful or rude
or pushy. He just needs his wallet, and Shuuji said he’ll help him out as fast as possible, so he
just needs to calm down and wait.
“Did Nikolai or the others tell you anything about me? After I left?”

Chuuya frowns. “No? Yuan and Shirase left right after you did, and I just studied for the rest
of the night.”

The last part isn’t true, but how is Chuuya supposed to tell him that he spent the night
oscillating between a weird sense of violation and discomfort, and being embarrassed over
his own behavior?

Shuuji nods, and he takes a right turn at twice the speed he’s supposed to. “Okay, good.”

Chuuya grits his teeth, hanging onto the handle above the door with all his strength. He’s not
one for carsickness, but his stomach rolls at every rough movement. He hopes the ride is over
soon. He’s already dreading the return drive, mentally preparing himself for the anxiety.

Shuuji quickly climbs into the residential area, and once he’s on a mostly open road, he
seems to take the speed limits and the warnings as suggestions.

Speed itself is fine, but Shuuji is swerving onto both sides of the road, checking his phone,
barely breaking or moving over for a biker and Chuuya really does not want to die in a car
crash, or to kill anyone else.

“Can you—,” god, he feels so rude even saying this, “slow down, please?”

Shuuji laughs at him. “Aww, is the little baby scared?” He mocks, pressing harder on the gas.
The car lurches forward, making his stomach clench.

Yeah, he is. Terrified, and rightly so, he thinks.

Clearly, God is looking down on them, because they arrive at Shuuji’s house unscathed and in
one piece. Barely waiting for the car to stop fully, Chuuya stumbles out. It’s only been a
twenty minute ride, but he feels like he should be kissing the ground in gratefulness.

He catches his breath for a second, soothing his racing heart, before looking up—

Holy shit.

The house is huge. Beautiful, with two stories and a long balcony lined with glass railing. It’s
western style, painted a dark grey-black with a long-paved path leading to a large, single
door. The path even has tiny torches lining it.

Obviously, Chuuya knew Shuuji came from money, but seeing the evidence again, it really
hits him again that—

Shuuji is completely and utterly out of his league. It feels like a dream just to be standing
here, on imported fucking gravel, in front of a massive house. It even has a fenced yard in the
back, something that is incredibly rare so near the city.

Shuuji rounds the car, looking smug as he takes in Chuuya’s reaction. “Come on, darling. The
car is in the garage.”

He leads the way up the pathway, and Chuuya stumbles behind him, once again feeling dirty
in his thrifted shoes.

“Give me a second,” Shuuji says, reaching for the door handle, “The dogs are loose, and
they’re crazy. I’ll just put them away and then come back to get you—”

Then he opens the door, widely, not like someone who’s worried about his ‘crazy’ dogs, and
—
Out come bounding two giant fluff balls, fur standing on end. Shuuji backpedals rapidly,
stammering, “Hey! No! Bad dog!”

Chuuya is frozen in place, locked in a staring contest with the biggest dog Chuuya has ever
seen. Big, fluffy, with clearly defined muscles under its brown and white fur. A long tail
curling over its back, and a truly intimidating set of teeth.

Should he run? No, that sounds like he’ll get chased.

Should he move forward? No, that sounds aggressive.

His father told him to scare any dogs that tried to attack him off but this dog looks like it
could take down a bear. It’s half as tall as Chuuya is! Probably near his weight too, and not
something that looks easily frightened.

Not knowing what to do, Chuuya stands his ground shakily, meekly offering the back of his
hand for the dog to sniff—

The dog, hackles raised, stalks forward to smell him. Chuuya is mentally preparing himself
for a life without his fingers, or maybe his entire hand when—

The dog, satisfied, licks his hand. Warm fur is suddenly under his hand as the dog pushes
forward, seemingly impatient with Chuuya’s lack of petting.

His fingers flex automatically, scratching at the soft dark ears. The dog seems to enjoy that,
pressing against his legs for more, so heavily that Chuuya has to stumble back to keep his
balance.

The other dog, this one more of a sandy brown, comes up to see what all the commotion is
about. Chuuya is less hesitant with that one, calmly offering his hand—
And nearly gets bowled over when the dog enthusiastically jumps at him, demanding pets.

Chuuya ends up crouched, one hand on each dog, frantically trying to satisfy them as they
present him with more scratching spots. Their ears, their fluffy butts, and in the sandy one’s
case—their soft warm bellies.

“Aww,” Chuuya coos, squishing the face of the larger one, “you’re not crazy. You’re cute.”

The dog lets him, tongue lolling out of its mouth and looking absolutely blissful at all the
attention. There’s a dark leather collar around its neck, and Chuuya reaches for the charm
hanging from it.

‘KOZO’ it reads, in engraved letters.

“Nice to meet you, Kozo,” Chuuya murmurs, giving him a nice scratch on his ear. His tail
thumps loudly behind him.

“And you?” He reaches for the collar on the other dog, a pink studded one. The dog lets him,
lifting its legs so Chuuya can scratch at its chest.

‘YOKO’ is this one’s name.

“You’re very cute,” Chuuya informs her, scratching at just the right spot to make her back leg
kick wildly at the air.

He’s never been around a lot of animals, but they’ve always liked him. It makes pride and
happiness swell in his chest that the ‘crazy dogs’ like him enough to show him their bellies.
They’re so nice to pet, plush and soft like a living teddy bear and Chuuya wants to take them
home . Wants to keep them forever.
For a moment, he wonders what the hell Shuuji was talking about because the dogs are not
crazy. Overenthusiastic, maybe, and over-energetic.

But crazy? No.

Until—

Shuuji creeps closer again, and suddenly Yoko is flipping over onto her belly, her happy
panting devolving into a low, rumbling growl. It’s not aggressive per se, and she doesn’t
move to get up but it’s clearly a warning to stay away.

Shuuji snarls at them, kicking at the air. “Stupid fucking dogs.”

Chuuya opens his mouth to tell him that they’re not stupid, they’re just dogs —

But then a voice from the house, smooth and low and dripping like melted caramel over
every one of Chuuya’s senses, speaks up.

"They're not stupid," it says, with just a hint of a condescending undertone.

Chuuya looks up, curious at who else is here, because Shuuji hasn't mentioned anyone else—

And his world screeches to a halt.

All those oh moments you hear about? Over-exaggerated. Overstated. Pale imitations of the
real moment that Chuuya is experiencing right now:

Oh. My. God.

His first impression is tall, so fucking tall, he takes up the entire doorway, all broad shoulders
and deliciously thick thighs under a dark pair of jeans.

His second impression, and this is the one that will haunt him later, for all of his sleepless
nights to come, are his eyes .

Big, lined with thick lashes, and god the way the light hits them makes them look like liquid
sunlight, warm and honeyed—

And fixed on him, with the sort of steady relentless that makes Chuuya shiver. While he
couldn't seem to look at Shuuji earlier, when they first met, now he can't seem to look away.
He feels like he's being sucked in, magnetized, helpless to resist the leather jacket, the dark
hair, the small flash of white teeth.

Who is he? (And is he single, Chuuya's addled mind helpfully contributes.)

"Oh. I didn't know you were home, Dad."

Dad. Not 'brother', or 'uncle', or even 'stranger that broke into my home that I do not know'.
(Chuuya is a firm believer that some crimes can be forgiven, when the criminal looks like
that.)

But dad . As in father. As in...way older than Chuuya.

...Did Shuuji ever mention his mother? Chuuya doesn't remember.

Then he speaks again, and Chuuya feels like his heart is throbbing in time with his voice. "I
was just heading out. Who is this?"
Even though he's speaking to Shuuji, he doesn't look away from Chuuya for even a second,
closely examining the way his hands are still buried in the dog's fur and scratching them
absently.

Part of Chuuya feels pinned by that gaze, like prey within the pouncing range of a predator.
The other part of him is preening under it, tilting his chin to look at him better, knowing that
his eyes look extra blue from this angle.

"Dad, Nakahara Chuuya. Chuuya, Dazai Osamu."

The slow smile that grows on Dazai's face is like watching the sun rise over the mountains,
transforming the sharp lines of his face into something softer, sweeter, younger. He doesn't
look old, but his smile is boyish, mischievous, the sort of thing you see in your dreams or on
TV shows. Like he knows something you don't know, and Chuuya wants to know.

Wants to know everything.

"Ah. I was wondering when I'd meet you."

Chuuya grips Kozo's neck to keep himself from doing anything embarrassing, like swooning.
He was waiting? To meet him?

He should've brushed his teeth before he left the dorms. And his hair. Hell, he should've
thrown on makeup and a whole new outfit, because his clothes are not what he would've
wanted to be wearing to meet... him.

He clears his throat, fighting to keep his voice controlled. "Hello, it's nice to meet you. I'm
here because I—"

"Forgot something?" Dazai finishes, eyebrow arching. When he sees Chuuya's confused look,
he reaches for his back pocket.
His shirt, a dark blue, stretches across his chest as he does, briefly outlining what are
deliciously defined pectoral muscles and what might be a hint of abs. (That might be just
Chuuya's horny brain taking the information he's been given and running with it, because
there's nothing more than Chuuya wants than to meet those abs up close and personal —)

Dazai pulls out something small and black, waving it at him.

His wallet.

Relief fills him so quickly that he nearly staggers with it. All of his problems are solved. His
wallet has been hand delivered to him by the most gorgeous person he has ever seen.

Everything is right and perfect in the world.

"Thank you! That's mine," he says, standing up. Kozo noses at his hands for more pets, but
he pushes him away for now.

"I know it is," Dazai responds, sounding amused. He holds out the wallet, offering it to him.

Part of him is expecting Dazai to crowd him passive-aggressively, getting up in his space
with little regard to boundaries. Shuuji has been chasing Chuuya hard, almost like he's
hunting him, and it wouldn't be surprising if Dazai was like that too. Like father, like son,
right?

Not that Chuuya would mind having him in his personal space, but there's something
inherently intimidating and discomforting about being pushed around like that.

But he doesn't. No, he just stands there, offering the wallet silently.
Letting Chuuya come to him.

Something about that, the way he's not being pressured, makes Chuuya want to step out of
his comfort zone, walking up to Dazai like it's nothing.

Dazai watches him, and at the last second, when Chuuya is reaching for his wallet, he flicks
it up, just out of his reach. "You should be careful with your things, doll. You never know
what kind of...unsavory characters might find them," he purrs, and this close, his voice is all
encompassing, vibrating down Chuuya's spine and settling somewhere in his stomach.

If losing his wallet means he gets to see people like Dazai, he's going to attach a fishing lure
to it next time.

He doesn't say that, though, because he does have some self-control and decency. He nods,
doing his best to look sheepish. "Right. I will."

Dazai's eyes feel burning brands on his skin, touching on his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks,
which are starting to burn —

Is that the hint of a dimple in Dazai's growing smile? Not even two, but just one, on his left
side, adorably lopsided, uneven but so beautiful?

Seemingly satisfied, Dazai drops the wallet into his palm. Curling his fingers around it, he
uses the warm (warm from being in Dazai's back pocket , his mind is quick to remind him,
basically touching his ass) leather to ground himself. "Thank you," he murmurs again,
because he's not sure what else to say that wouldn’t embarrass the hell out of him.

Not for the first time, he wishes he was like those suave, charming characters that he reads
about. It makes him mad that he ends up like this, not knowing what to say and his tongue
thick in his mouth. He doesn't want to seem like some shy boy, or someone childish. Now,
more than ever, he wants to seem...
He doesn't even know. Cool? Charming? Funny? Cute?

Definitely something other than just Shuuji's friend he brought home.

"So polite," Dazai teases, fingers ghosting over Chuuya's wrist and drawing his attention. His
voice is approving, and filled with subtle pride.

That breaks through the knot of anxiety and self-consciousness beginning to curl in Chuuya's
chest, just for a moment. He can't help the big smile, because the idea that Dazai likes him,
even a little bit, makes him feel so fucking happy and warm.

His entire life has been filled with exceptionally high expectations, and as soon as he reaches
one , there's always another goal set in front of him. An endless parade of exhaustion, always
striving to reach higher and farther, until eventually he gets to a point he can't do it anymore,
and he inevitably fails, or cracks under the pressure.

There's always something more expected of him, something better.

But here, now?

All he had to do was say thank you, and Dazai is smiling at him like he just aced the quiz.

Maybe he's reading too much into it. He probably is, but he's had a confusing few days, and
he's going to soak up whatever happiness he can get, wherever he can get it.

Naturally, that's the moment when the moment is broken.

"Can you put the dogs up before you go? They're being jerks again."
Unwittingly, Chuuya sighs heavily at Shuuji's interruption. To be truthful, he'd mostly
forgotten he was there...

Watching Chuuya flirt with his...dad.

Embarrassment and a strange sense of guilt bursts over Chuuya, completely ruining whatever
good thing he had going. Shuuji is interested in him—he thinks, at least—and it only took
one look and conversation with his dad for Chuuya to get distracted.

He doesn't even know if he likes Shuuji, because he's overbearing but he is cute—or was,
until Chuuya met Dazai—but this feels like...

Betrayal. Or just plain weird because honestly who is attracted to dads? Granted, most dads
do not look like Dazai in Chuuya's experience, but the sentiment remains the same.

Now he feels gross.

Dazai frowns lightly, and he looks like he wants to say something, or maybe reach out for
Chuuya again. He doesn't though, finally shifting his gaze from Chuuya's face. "No. They
can't do their jobs when they're in their kennels. Don't mess with them, and they won't mess
with you."

Shuuji scowls, opening his mouth to say something in response, but Dazai cuts him off again.
"Besides, they seem to like Chuuya just fine."

He smiles lightly at that, patting his thigh to get the dogs attention. They come right away,
panting around his legs and rubbing against him.

(Is it Chuuya's imagination, or does Yoko put herself squarely between him and Shuuji and
stays there?)
Dazai watches her with an interested look in his eye, like he's witnessing something he hasn't
seen before. "I won't be gone long, anyways."

Shuuji doesn't have anything to say to that , choosing instead to push inside the house with
little regard to Dazai. His dad doesn't bat an eye, which makes Chuuya feel a little bit better,
in a weird way. At least Shuuji's attitude isn't because of Chuuya personally.

Then he's looking at Chuuya again, expression open. "I'm sorry; I'd give you the grand tour,
but I do have to go."

Chuuya waves him off. "Don't worry about it. You weren't expecting me, and I'm sure Shuuji
will show me around."

Something about that seems to make Dazai nervous, his eyes flicking over his face. He
frowns a little, looking hesitant and like he wants to say something. Eventually, he just sighs
again, pushing off the doorframe. He looks oddly serious as he says, "Be safe, okay?"

Chuuya nods, confused. He's in the rich neighborhood with a pair of supposedly vicious
guard dogs. What could happen?

Then Dazai is gone, disappearing somewhere in the house.

Chuuya ushers the dogs inside, pulling his fingers away from their playful bites. When he
closes the door, Kozo goes running off, presumably to go find a toy or something. Yoko
though, she stays right by his side, looking up at him with a look of canine adoration. She just
met him, and she already loves him, which is such a dog thing that it's honestly adorable. He
can barely walk a without tripping over her large paws, and her tail is wagging steadily.

The living room is open and spacious, and the hallway leads directly to the kitchen. He finds
Shuuji there, digging in the fridge for something.
Chuuya nearly trips when Yoko suddenly stops in place, almost bodily blocking him from
entering the kitchen. When he moves around her, she doesn't follow, watching with narrowed,
hawk-like eyes as he gets closer to Shuuji.

"You have a nice house," Chuuya starts, trying to break the slightly awkward tension.

Maybe he's the only one that's feeling it, because Shuuji looks up at him and speaks through a
mouthful of sandwich. "Thanks. Wanna see it?"

Before Chuuya can give an actual answer, he's grabbing him by the wrist, fingers carelessly
tight, and drags him out of the kitchen.

"That's the backyard. I have parties there sometimes, when my dad isn't home. You can come
to the next one," Shuuji winks at him, pointing to the big green yard outside a pair of glass
doors. "The living room you've already seen, and here's the library—"

Shuuji whisks him away before he can properly look, but the room looks massive , filled with
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and Chuuya is silently drooling over all the books that must be
in there.

"The stairs..."

The stairs are lined with a dark gray carpet, and luckily there's a railing, because Shuuji takes
them two at a time with his long legs, and Chuuya is struggling to keep up without falling.

"Dad's room," Shuuji says, pointing, and Chuuya is embarrassed at how fast his head whips
around to look.

The door is shut, but there's a faint red light seeping from under the door, and Chuuya wants
to see inside so badly. From the orientation of the house, he can guess that the huge balcony
he saw outside is accessible through Dazai's room, and there's nothing he wants more than to
explore —
Shuuji yanks him forward, pulling him into another room. "And this," he crows proudly, "is
my room."

Truth be told, Chuuya isn't listening. He's busy imagining what Dazai's room looks like. Is it
painted dark, or light? What color are his curtains? Are they regular curtains, or blackout
curtains? Considering that Chuuya saw the large bank of windows facing the sunrise, he must
have blackout curtains. Or maybe he's just a morning person?

What does his bed look like?

Which leads to imagining Dazai in said bed, and that makes a jolt of heat pass through him,
trying to reconstruct his abs from imagination alone—

In fact, he's so busy imagining that he's completely taken by surprise when Shuuji pushes him
backwards, and pins him against the wall.

Startled, he opens his mouth—

Before he can say anything, another mouth is covering his own. Shuuji's mouth is
disgustingly wet, and there's no sense of buildup. It just feels like he's trying to eat Chuuya.

It feels like fate that his first kiss with Shuuji happened when Chuuya was thinking about
Dazai.
 Secondhand ham breath
Chapter Summary

He looks at Chuuya again, looking oddly determined. “Alright. Get on.”

“What?”

Dazai pats the space behind him. His bike looks like one of those sleek, tiny street bikes
that Chuuya sees in movies, but the oversized version. The seat comes up to Chuuya’s
waist. “Get on,” he says again.

Chuuya’s eyes flick to him, down to the bike, then back up to him. “You… want me... to
get on that... with you?”

Dazai grins, teeth perfect and straight, making Chuuya’s heart jump in his chest. He’s so
charming. “Yep. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Chapter Notes

so with this chapter we have:

- Shuuji being a dick! Big surprise
- More Yoko/Kozo!
- Dazai giving Chuuya a ride home on his motorcycle. :)

Again, thank you all for your support and for reading! I'll try to get the next chapter up
soon <3 Find me on twitter @bloodsvgarr and @H4NDKINK <3 See ya

For a long moment, Chuuya just... stands there.

Truth be told, he’s not sure what to do . He’s kissed people before, but those were shy, quick,
closed-mouth kisses. Those were mostly girls (and one notable kiss during a game of truth or
dare with a boy that changed Chuuya’s entire outlook) and back then, he hadn’t had the
courage or experience to try what he called ‘adult kissing’.

(Yes, he knows it's cringe worthy, don’t judge him.)

This is not like those kisses at all .

This is wet, almost slobbery, and faintly tastes like ham. Shuuji is pressing him into the wall
hard, like he’s trying to push him through it. His nose is smashed against Shuuji’s cheek, so
he opens his mouth a little to take an unobstructed breath.

It’s a mistake, one that Shuuji quickly takes advantage of and now there’s a tongue in his
mouth, hot and slimy and wiggling like an octopus in its death throes. When Chuuya tries to
use his own tongue to push Shuuji out, because he cannot breathe, Shuuji makes a weird,
muffled noise and shudders against him.

In movies (and the few erotic novels Chuuya has read when his dad was away for business)
they describe kisses as something wonderful. Something good and pleasant that makes you
hungry for more.

The only thing he wants right now is for this to end. Either there’s something wrong with
Chuuya and he doesn’t like kissing as much as he expected he would—

Or Shuuji is a phenomenally bad kisser. Which doesn’t seem that likely, considering he’s not
shy or hesitant at all , so he must have a decent amount of experience. Surely, if he was bad ,
someone would have told him? It feels like he’s gotten a decent amount of practice in.

Either way, this is just not appealing.

Chuuya pushes against his shoulders, and it takes more force than he was expecting to break
the lip lock. “Shuuji—,” he starts.

“Yeah?” He pants, moist breath washing over Chuuya’s face. “Did you wanna move this to
the bed?”
Chuuya would rather die a virgin, thank you very much.

“No,” he says, “I, uh— I have to go.”

Shuuji frowns at him, a storm gathering in his expression, and Chuuya scrambles to find a
reasonable explanation without offending him. Then it comes to him. “My books,” he
breathes out in relief, “I have to go buy my books before the store closes. That’s what I
needed my wallet for.”

Shuuji squints at him suspiciously, for long enough that Chuuya starts to squirm
uncomfortably.

Then his expression is clearing, going oddly blank and pleasant. It leaves Chuuya feeling off-
balance, like he’d braced himself for the storm and only got a sprinkler.

“Oh, okay. No problem. That reminds me— I should probably do my homework too.”

Then he lets go of Chuuya completely, moving to his computer on the other side of the room.

Phew. Crisis averted. Chuuya takes a second to catch his breath, subtly wiping his mouth
clean from all the slobber.

But the longer he stands there, the more he realizes the crisis might not have been averted.

Because Shuuji isn’t even looking at him, and he’s already logging into his computer. Which
would be fine except—

He drove Chuuya here. And Chuuya doesn’t really know how to get back to campus himself.
Is he just supposed to stand here until he notices him again? By now, there’s probably less
than 2 hours until the store closes, and it took at least twenty minutes to get here. He doesn’t
want to take any chances of being late.

He clears his throat awkwardly, shifting his feet. “Will you drive me back, please?”

Turning in his chair, Shuuji gives him a big pair of innocent looking eyes. “I would, darling
— but I’m just so busy. You understand. You’ll have to take the train back, unfortunately.”

Chuuya’s stomach drops .

He’s fine with taking the train, of course he is, but this feels like a punishment . Like he did
something wrong, and now he has to deal with the consequences. Not to mention that he
doesn’t even know where the nearest train station is. He didn’t pay attention on the drive in,
and since this is the upscale residential area, it’s probably not anywhere nearby.

But it’s not like he can force Shuuji into giving him a ride. He didn’t mention anything
before, but maybe he really is busy, and Chuuya doesn’t have a lot of time to argue with him.

It’s fine. He’ll just walk. It’s fine. “Oh. Okay. Do you have a map or anything? I don’t know
where the station is.”

Shuuji waves a hand at him. “So sorry darling, I don’t. You can ask the neighbors, though. Or
Google it.”

Right. That makes sense.

He nods, not that Shuuji is paying attention to him anymore, and slinks out of the room,
feeling like a kicked puppy.
Outside, Yoko is laying down with her head on her paws, staring dejectedly at the door. She
perks up when she sees him though, and when she sees he’s alone, she rolls over on her and
gives him a pleading look, silently begging him to rub her belly.

He does, crouching with a sigh to give her attention. “You’re a good girl,” he murmurs,
smiling when her tail thumps loudly against the floor.

Then a thought occurs to him. “Is your dad home, girl?”

Asking Dazai for a ride will be awkward and probably overstepping some boundaries, but it’s
better than walking. He said he was leaving for work soon, so maybe he’ll be able to drop
Chuuya off near a station without too much hassle.

Has he left yet?

Yoko gets up to follow him as he walks to Dazai’s room. The door is still shut, so he leans his
head against the wood, trying to see if he can hear any movement inside.

Nothing, except for the sound of Yoko snuffling at his shoes.

“Yoko,” he says, trying to be firm so she listens, “where is Dazai?”

She tilts her head, ears twitching.

“Um— Dazai. Fetch.”

She tilts her head the other way, clearly confused but getting an A on listening skills.

Well, shit. Maybe he’s downstairs. Shuuji did mention a garage.

When he approaches the stairs, Yoko sits at the top. He motions for her to follow him, but she
just wags her tail at him in answer.

He doesn’t understand until he gets to the bottom of the stairs and suddenly Yoko is rushing
down after him. He’s heard of dogs that were trained like that, to wait at the top or the bottom
of the stairs until their owner gets to the other side. It’s mostly to avoid injuries or accidents,
and generally just a mark of good training.

It makes sense that Yoko and Kozo are trained like that— they are guard dogs, and big
enough that they could send Chuuya toppling down the stairs on accident— but the fact that
Yoko has already placed him in a role of leadership and respect makes him smile.

Kozo is in the kitchen, gnawing on a bone like it might be his last meal. He looks up, mouth
stretched comically wide around the bone, as they pass, but doesn’t get up to follow.

Dazai is not in the backyard or the living room, and when Chuuya finds a room he thinks

might be the garage—

It’s locked.

(He does also find a ridiculously nice bathroom while he’s looking, with a double wide bath
and a separate standing shower. He can already imagine himself floating in that tub sipping
champagne, like some rich, spoiled princess.)

Well, it looks like Dazai isn’t home. “Dammit,” he sighs.

No use putting it off anymore. The sun will start to set soon, and he has quite a distance to
walk.
He says goodbye to the dogs, pushing gently on Yoko’s nose when she tries to follow him
outside. Her soft whines make him sad to hear, but she can’t come. Though, the idea of
stealing Shuuji’s dog does give the petty, vengeful side of him a little thrill.

Outside, the neighborhood is just as quiet as it was when they arrived. Chuuya looks around,
standing on his tiptoes to see if he can see any landmarks above the houses.

...He’s too short too.

Grumbling to himself, he decides to head in the direction they came from and find his way
from there. He does wish he’d brought his headphones though, because listening to the slight
wind in the trees is soothing but it’s also boring and it’s easier to walk quicker when he has a
beat in his ears.

The workday hasn’t ended yet, so he only sees one car pass by as he walks down the block.
No one is outside, though there are a few dogs leashed in their yards. They look up as he
pass, and some of them bark, but none of them make a scene.

He’s only made it three blocks, starting the incline back down into the city, when he sees
something low, black and sleek crest over the hill in front of him. It looks like a motorcycle,
but it’s the stealthiest one he’s ever seen, because it’s barely over a block away and he still
doesn’t hear the roar of an engine.

...It’s also slowing down. Slowing down a lot .

Chuuya is debating the logistics of being kidnapped on a motorcycle— are they gonna throw
him over the handlebars, or tie him to the gas tank— and he is fully prepared to take off
running for his life as the motorcycle comes to a stop beside him—

“Chuuya?”

The kidnapper knows his name, oh god—

Then black gloved hands are coming up, pushing the visor up.

It’s Dazai, looking at him with a concerned frown.

The man owns a motorcycle , and is casually straddling it between strong thighs in broad
daylight. This is so not fair.

“What happened? Why are you walking?”

Chuuya scowls at him, irrationally angry that he’s so hot , and surprisingly nice, and rides a
sexy motorcycle—

And is completely unattainable.

“I thought you had to go to work or something.”

Dazai blows out a breath, leaning back a little. The bike shifts, but he doesn’t seem even a
little worried, knee-high black boots firm on the ground. “Yeah, I was, but the person I was
supposed to meet with had an... emergency.”

Chuuya kicks at the ground. “Oh. Are they okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Fedya is resilient, impossible to keep down for long. He’s like a rat.”

Something about that makes him snicker, and Chuuya just stands there awkwardly as he
laughs, feeling like he’s on the outside of an inside joke. He doesn’t get it. Why is that funny?
Eventually Dazai calms back down again, “You didn’t answer my question, though.”

Chuuya looks away, shoving his hands in his pockets. He’s not quite sure what kind of person
Dazai is, and not knowing how he’ll react— after knowing the emotional whiplash that is his
son—makes him nervous.

Is...is he going to be mad?

He doesn’t see why he would be, but he also doesn’t see why Shuuji couldn’t just drive him
home quickly, and ever since yesterday the whole situation has just been making Chuuya feel
like the ground is constantly moving underneath him and he doesn’t know what to expect.

He decides to go with a watered down version of the truth. “I had to go home, but Shuuji
was too busy right now. So I’m walking to the train station.”

Brown eyes stare at him for a moment, evaluating. Then Dazai is pinching the bridge of his
nose, sighing in aggravation. “I told that stupid kid—,” he mutters to himself. If he says
anything else, it’s too low to hear.

He looks at Chuuya again, looking oddly determined. “Alright. Get on.”

“What?”

Dazai pats the space behind him. His bike looks like one of those sleek, tiny street bikes that
Chuuya sees in movies, but the oversized version. The seat comes up to Chuuya’s waist. “Get
on,” he says again.

Chuuya’s eyes flick to him, down to the bike, then back up to him. “You… want me... to get
on that ... with you?”
Dazai grins, teeth perfect and straight, making Chuuya’s heart jump in his chest. He’s so
charming . “Yep. I’ll give you a ride home.”

Chuuya’s mind immediately flashes to the nauseating turns and swerves Shuuji takes while
driving. He’s not sure if bad driving is genetic , but he imagines that same technique but on a
motorcycle , with nothing protecting him, and feels terrified . “Uh... no thanks.”

Dazai tilts his head, reminding him of Yoko. “Why not?”

Chuuya doesn’t really know how to tell him that he doesn’t want to end up as a smear on the
ground, so he goes with something in a different direction. “I don’t want to inconvenience
you.”

That pulls a short laugh and an arched eyebrow from Dazai, like Chuuya said something
funny. “You’re not an inconvenience or a burden, doll.”

Those words hit Chuuya unexpectedly hard. He’s spent most of his life feeling like a burden
to his family, because he wasn’t wanted .

His father has never been unkind to him, but he never wanted three children. He only wanted
two, and was quite happy with Chuuya’s elder sisters. But his mother wanted another, a little
boy, and because Rimbaud loved her so much, he gave in—

Then Rimbaud was forced to raise him alone, and he did as best as he could with what he
had.

There were only a very few, rare times that Chuuya ever felt unloved. But there was always
this underlying knowledge that his father never wanted him—

He ended up with him.

Chuuya swallows hard, looking away again. Even if it’s not a bother, he’s still concerned.
“I’m not getting on that thing without a helmet.”

Safety first. Chuuya still has nightmares about the videos his father showed him to scare him
off wanting a motorcycle.

Dazai shrugs, reaching up. “No problem,” he says, pulling off his own helmet. He shakes his
head, dark curly hair flying. It looks so soft, and Chuuya’s fingers itch to bury themselves in
it—

“Come here,” Dazai says, lower. Before, his voice was casual, conversational. But now it’s
deeper, a little commanding, like he’s expecting Chuuya to listen .

He’s not wrong, because Chuuya is stepping forward before he even realizes it, drawn in.

He ends up standing near the handlebars, with Dazai’s thigh between his knees, and he can
feel the heat pouring off him, intoxicating. “What about you?” He asks, trying to distract
himself.

Smiling, Dazai reaches out with his hand. His fingertips just barely ghost over Chuuya’s skin
as he tucks his bangs behind his ear. The contact is so light, so fleeting, but it sends a cascade
of butterflies flying in Chuuya’s stomach. His knees feel weak, and his heart is stuttering in
his chest.

Again, he wants it again, wants those eyes and gentle smile on him forever —

“I only have the one,” Dazai responds, bringing the helmet up. “Your safety first.”

Then the helmet is slowly being pressed onto his head, and Chuuya is grateful because he
knows his cheeks are bright red.
The inside of the helmet is surprisingly comfortable, padded around his ears. It smells like
Dazai, warm and musky, with the hint of dark-forest smell of his cologne.

“It’s a little big for you,” Dazai murmurs, tilting his head back so his fingers can slide under
his chin to find the safety strap there, “but we’ll make it work.”

Chuuya holds still, breathing shallowly as Dazai works the strap tighter. Every moment,
every brush of his fingertips over his throat, feels like it lasts forever . God, he just wants to
melt into it, to lean forward until his entire being is supported by the thigh between his legs
and the hand around his throat—

“There you go,” Dazai breaks the moment, grinning at him. He raps at the helmet with his
knuckles. It sounds muffled and echoes strangely.

Shaking his head to gather his thoughts, Chuuya nearly sends himself stumbling. The helmet
is heavier than he expected, and now he feels top-heavy. “I feel like a bobble head,” he
mutters.

Dazai snorts. “Kinda look like one too.”

Instinctively, Chuuya kicks at his ankle for that one. The visor is lowered again, and it makes
the world slightly darker. It also hides his vicious scowl.

“Alright, alright,” Dazai snickers at him, shifting his weight so the bike is leaned further
towards him. “Hop on.”

Ignoring the fact that Dazai practically has to tip the bike on its side so he can get on is hard,
but he manages.

Throwing his leg over the back, Chuuya hops up. He’s expecting the bike to shift or dip
beneath his weight—
But with Dazai holding it, it doesn’t even move.

Holding onto the back of Dazai’s jacket keeps him centered as he straightens the bike back
out.

Chuuya’s legs dangle hilariously far from the ground. He kicks them forward, unsure what to
do with them. All the pictures he’s seen of motorcycle passengers show them with their feet
propped up somewhere, but he doesn’t know where. He doesn’t want to touch anything he’s
not supposed to.

Then, suddenly, Dazai is bending over and long, hot fingers are wrapping around Chuuya’s
calf and sliding down to his ankle.

“Feet here,” Dazai instructs, guiding his toes into the right spot. He probably doesn’t know
that his hand feels like a brand on Chuuya’s skin. Hopefully he doesn’t, because that would
be embarrassing, that such a simple movement can make his heart pound in his chest.

He repeats the gesture with his other foot, and Chuuya is on the verge of losing his mind .
Both of his legs are tingling and it feels like he’s swallowed a ball of fire .

Then the next problem arises.

“You’re going to have to hold onto me,” Dazai tells him, sounding faintly amused.

Chuuya grips his jacket loosely with both hands.

“No, not like that.”

Before he can say anything or stop him, Dazai is showing an incredible amount of flexibility
by reaching behind him and grabbing a wrist in each hand.

He guides his arms around his waist, tugging him forward until Chuuya is pressed up against
him from hip to chest, hugging him from behind.

“Tightly,” he says, wrapping Chuuya’s fingers around his own wrists. “Don’t let go.”

He won’t. He swears he won’t. He won’t ever let go, not ever.

Dazai is solid in front of him, big enough that Chuuya can barely wrap his arms around him,
and are those abs he feels? They have to be, they can’t be anything else.

“Ready?” Dazai asks, revving the engine.

Chuuya nods, arms tightening.

“I want you to say it for me, doll.”

The nicknames are definitely a family thing. Objectively 'doll' is a lot more objectifying than
'darling' is, but the difference is in how they say it.

Shuuji calls him 'darling' like he can't be bothered to remember or use his actual name. Come
to think of it, he's not sure he has even said his name beyond the time he introduced himself.

Dazai calls him 'doll' like it's a compliment. Like he's admiring him.

"Yes," Chuuya speaks up, nodding again.

Yelping when the bike suddenly moves forward, he squeezes his eyes shut and hangs on with
all his strength. He keeps waiting for the nausea to hit, for the swooping turns and the unsafe
swerving—

But it doesn't happen. The bike is steady, centered squarely on the correct side of the road,
and while he's not going fast , he's not going slow either.

He's driving like a completely sane person.

Hallelujah .

Chuuya finally relaxes and lets himself enjoy the ride. The bike is vibrating between his legs,
full of power, and the wind is rushing by him. It's totally different than riding in a car. It's
more free, more adrenaline-inducing.

He can already feel his heart rate speeding up, and instead of feeling scared—

He's feeling bold .

Besides, the view sucks from back here, because he can't see over Dazai's shoulder with how
tall he is, so he's regulated to watching the houses flash by. If he's not getting the view , then
he wants the speed .

Throwing caution to the wind, he leans up higher, trying to get close to Dazai's face. "Faster!"
He shouts to be heard over the wind.

(He can't see Dazai's smile, but it's there and it's wild.)
The engine revs again, and they're shooting forward, picking up speed rapidly. Dazai leans
forward more and Chuuya follows him down.

A loud laugh bursts out of him, uncontrollable. He feels like he's flying , soaring through the
air wildly. For a moment, he's left the ground behind, all his worries and anxieties fading
away.

It's just him, the wind, and the solidly warm body in his arms.

Then something is touching his intertwined wrists, and he's losing his breath for a whole new
reason.

A huge hand is wrapping over both of his wrists, fingers wrapping easily around the width.
One finger slides in the space between his arms, while the rest of his fingers wrap around his
left wrist, and his thumb over his right.

Then Dazai is tightening his grip, locking him in place, and he can feel the hidden strength
there, like he could crush his wrists in one hand effortlessly—

The bike leans to the side hard , and suddenly Chuuya knows why Dazai is holding onto him
so tightly.

They've hit a twisting road, and they're soaring around the corners. Each one is like a taste of
danger, because they lean so low sometimes, but Dazai is confident and unshakeable and the
bike does not waver an inch more than he's expecting it to.

He can feel the way Dazai's weight shifts in anticipation of the turn, muscles flexing, and it
feels so natural to fall into his rhythm, leaning with him.

Nothing about this feels forced, or unexpected or confusing .

This...

This feels exactly where he's meant to be. This feels like heaven.

Eventually the road straightens out, and they're driving into the more urban areas. The traffic
is heavier here, so Dazai is forced to slow.

(He also lets go of Chuuya's wrists, but he can still feel the lingering strength of his grip, like
a healing bruise.)

The speed evolves into quick dodges of cars as Dazai zigzags his way through the traffic.

Even now, Chuuya doesn't feel sick or afraid, because there's not a hint of hesitation on
Dazai's part. No sudden stomp of the brakes, no getting too close to other cars, no shoving
himself into too-tight spaces.

Where Shuuji drives like he's inexperienced—

Dazai drives like he was born with a motorcycle between his legs.

All in all, it takes barely fifteen minutes for them to arrive back on campus.

His arms feel almost numb from how hard he's been holding on, and it takes him a second to
unpeel his fingers from around his wrists.

Chuuya straightens up, stretching out his back and raising his arms overhead. That makes
him slide further into the seat and for the first time, he realizes how wide his thighs have to
spread to fit Dazai's hips between them and—
In the next second, he's scrambling off the bike, because that thought alone feels like it sparks
flames in his belly, sending pleasurable sparks down his thighs.

His legs feel a little unsteady, but he keeps himself upright out of sheer willpower. "That was
fun," he says breathlessly, and even if Dazai can't see the grin on his face, it's easily heard in
his voice.

"Yeah?" Dazai smiles back at him, lopsided dimple briefly reappearing, "I'm glad."

He really does look glad too, like all it takes for him to be happy is for Chuuya to be happy.

Dazai motions him closer again, and Chuuya is stumbling closer, because he can not resist
this man, not his tall, broad body, or beautiful dark eyes, or his huge hands, or his charming
attitude.

"Come here," he says again, reaching for the strap on the helmet. Chuuya lifts his chin for
him easily, letting him work the strap loose and then pull the helmet off his head.

Instantly, his hands are flying to his head, because he can feel the hat hair he has. Without a
mirror, he can't make it perfect, but he can try to make himself look decent and presentable.

"Thanks. For driving me home," Chuuya says, grateful. He still has a while before the
bookstore closes, and that ride is probably going into one of his top ten favorite memories.
Definitely worth the fiasco with Shuuji—

That reminds him. He wiped his face off after he left Shuuji's room, but he didn't rinse off his
mouth or brush his teeth.

Oh no. Does he have secondhand ham breath?? Is the helmet going to smell like ham breath
now? Dazai's putting it on, oh god—
Settling the helmet on his head, Dazai pops the visor so they can make eye contact as he
drawls, slowly, like he's savoring it, "It was my pleasure, doll."

Chuuya's cheeks turn pink again, and the curve of Dazai's lips is knowing, but he doesn't say
anything.

He just turns the bike and roars away without looking back.
 If you want it...
Chapter Summary

Which is why it’s surprising that, two days later, on a Sunday night, Dazai finds himself
staring at the wall and, admittedly, procrastinating.

Well, perhaps procrastinating isn’t the right idea. It’s more of a...

Mulling over a problem that isn’t really a problem, a problem that he tried not to think
about for the last two days, but now he’s here.

Stuck.

Thinking about Nakahara Chuuya.

Chapter Notes

hi again :) I'm gonna try to get out an update every saturday from now on, but we'll see
how it goes! As always, thanks for your patience and support <3

In this chapter, we have:

- more dazai POV
- Yuan/Nikolai/Chuuya bonding
- reckless driving
- denial of daddy issues

Anyways, if you like BH, feel free to follow me on twitter @bloodsvgarr and
@H4NDKINK <3 see you later!

Procrastination is not something that comes naturally to Dazai. He’s a restless kind of person,
always needing another task to do, and he prefers to get all his tasks done as quickly as
possible. There’s always more things to do, and if he runs behind on too many things, it
overruns him and leaves him floundering.

It would be too much to say that every aspect of his life is carefully regimented and organized
— but a decent part of it, and most of his work life, is. He can’t afford to fall behind, not even
for a day.
Which is why it’s surprising that, two days later, on a Sunday night, Dazai finds himself
staring at the wall and, admittedly, procrastinating .

Well, perhaps procrastinating isn’t the right idea. It’s more of a...

Mulling over a problem that isn’t really a problem, a problem that he tried not to think about
for the last two days, but now he’s here.

Stuck.

Thinking about Nakahara Chuuya.

There’s something intriguing about him. Dazai understands why Shuji likes him, because that
school ID he found did not do him justice at all.

Messy red hair that curls around his features, searing blue eyes that are so expressive and
surprising hard to look away from, a generous splash of freckles over his cute button nose, a
waist small enough that Dazai could wrap his hands around entirely—

He gets that. He even gets why he’s fascinated by him.

Even in the few minutes they’d interacted, Chuuya had been interesting. Obviously
inexperienced and therefore a little hesitant and shy, but underneath that was a layer of
confidence and daring.

Part of Dazai wants to strip back that layer of inexperience, to encourage that confidence to
grow and see what it shapes him into.

(Part of Dazai wants to push him till he breaks, to see what kind of person Chuuya really is.)
And yeah, Chuuya wasn’t very subtle about his fawning over him, which is flattering. His
expressive eyes were practically filled with stars whenever he looked at Dazai, and he’d like
to see them filled with tears as he—

He digresses.

Anyways, the point is, he understands all that.

But the dogs? He doesn’t understand that.

Yoko and Kozo are Akita’s, a breed which is well known to be standoffish and even
aggressive to people if not socialized properly. He paid good money to ensure that his dogs
were very well trained— but they’ve never been friendly. Not aggressive (at least, not
without a command or a reason to be), but definitely not a family dog, or one friendly to
strangers.

Especially not Yoko. She’s very picky about who she accepts into her inner circle. She
downright hates Shuji (it’s not like Kozo likes him either, but he’s mostly indifferent to his
presence. Except for that one-time Shuji tried to take a bone out of his mouth and nearly lost
a finger for it) and even some days she’s standoffish with Dazai, who she’s known since a
few days after she was born, more or less.

So, the fact that Dazai found her belly up demanding rubs from a complete stranger, instead
of trying to intimidate him or protect the house?

It’s weird. Weird enough that he’s still thinking about it, two days later.

With a sigh, he issues a command, voice sharp. He’s slacked on far too many training days,
so it makes him smile when he quickly hears paws pounding up the stairs in his direction.
The dogs come barreling into his office, Yoko in front as usual. She’s always been
outrageously competitive, and has to beat her brother in everything. They come to a halt in
front of him, sitting primly without being asked, eyes trained on him.

Giving them a small treat and some ear scratches as their reward, Dazai turns his attention to
Yoko.

“Why do you like him?” He asks, cupping her fluffy face in his palms. He strokes down her
cheek fur with his thumbs absently. “Why is he so special?”

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, like maybe if he stares into her eyes long enough that
she’ll speak up and be like ‘he’s just a really swell guy’, or maybe she’ll start doing sign
language.

He just wants answers. This situation is probably one that doesn’t have a clear cut answer
too, which makes him restless and irritable.

Whenever he sees a puzzle, he has to solve it. It’s almost a compulsion, a result of his mind
latching onto anything that needs to be fixed and focusing on it until it is.

Shamefully, he even debated looking up Chuuya in his network last night, just to get some
answers. It’s not like he dislikes the idea of researching someone, but he does understand
privacy and it’s not like he looks up everyone Shuuji brings up. Plus, Chuuya hasn’t done
anything worthy of suspicion.

Besides being immediately endearing to his dogs.

Which might actually be a point in his favor, actually? Dogs are always good judges of
character, so while it’s weird that Yoko already loves him—

It’s not suspicious.

Sighing, he pats Yoko one more time before giving them both a bone. They’re going
through them like crazy lately.

Before he can send the dogs away, the door to his office flies open.

The hand on Yoko’s face slides down to her collar, wrapping around the leather and holding
her tightly in place as Shuuji strolls in without knocking or even asking.

His office is supposed to be off limits, due to all the damning information stored in here, but
considering Shuuji’s track record with respecting his space, it’s not surprising that he’s
bursting in here like this.

Though, he is glad that he’s gotten into the habit of locking his doors and hiding his keys. It
does make him feel like he’s living with a toddler and not a college student, but whatever.

“Hey, Dad,” Shuuji starts, freezing in place when he sees Yoko between his thighs, staring
him down with an infrequent growl. “Are you busy?”

Should he be? Yes. Is he? No. Was he going to pretend he was if Shuuji had asked before
waltzing in here like he owned the place?

...Yes.

Sighing, he shakes his head, silently giving Kozo the signal to lay down. He does, happy to
chew on his bone in peace. “No, what’s up?”

“Can we get food from that one seafood place tonight?”

Considering that Shuuji hasn’t attempted to cook anything more complicated than toast the
entire time he’s been here, and Dazai usually ends up cooking himself small meals in the
middle of the night— takeout isn’t strange for them. “Sure. I’m not going to get it though.”

Shuuji shrugs, pulling out his phone. “That’s fine, I’ll just pick it up when I pick Chuuya up.”

Oh? That makes Dazai sit up straighter with interest. Completely ignoring the fact that Shuuji
didn’t ask him if that was okay, which is normal but irritating, he asks, “Is Chuuya coming to
dinner?”

Shuuji shrugs. “Well I haven’t asked him yet, but I’m sure dinner will be way more
interesting than whatever he has planned.”

The simple arrogance of that statement makes him grit his teeth, but he overlooks it for a
moment. “Are you actually going to give him a ride home this time, or are you going to be
rude to your friend again?”

Shuuji starts to back out of the room, afraid to turn his back to Yoko. She’s bit him on the ass
— literally— a few too many times, so now he’s careful. “He’s not my friend. I just want
him, that’s all.”

He leaves the door wide open when he goes.

See, that’s what Dazai is worried about.

Shuuji is not the type of person that would force himself on someone, but he’s...

Manipulative. Pushy. He knows what he wants, and he’ll charm and coerce and do whatever
he thinks necessary to get what he wants.
And, because of who Dazai is and how much money he is, he’s in a position of power over
almost every single person he meets. It’s a recipe for disaster for someone who isn’t on his
level.

Dazai has no doubt that Chuuya could physically fight him off— the little thing clung to him
tighter than a koala the other day— and he’s fairly certain Yoko would already defend him if
it came down to that, especially against Shuuji.

But that emotional manipulation, that coercion into agreeing because you know there would
be consequences if you said ‘no’? It’s just as damaging, just as dangerous.

And Dazai, like most things concerning his son that he barely knows—

Doesn’t know what to do about that.

On one hand, it’s wrong, and it does make Dazai’s teeth ache to give him a lesson.

On the other hand, Shuuji is stubborn and if Dazai interferes, he has little doubt that his
behavior is going to get worse, possibly more violent, and he’s going to hide it.

Which means that Dazai won’t be able to head off the worst of the situations, like giving
Chuuya a ride home when Shuuji refused to. Maybe he should read some parenting books or
something, but he doubts there’s many books on how to control your estranged adult child.

“What am I going to do?” He asks Yoko, releasing her collar.

Typically, she picks up her bone and leaves him to be alone with his thoughts.

Well, he muses, worse comes to worse—

He does have quite a few people that are dying to meet Shuuji and sink their teeth into him.

Maybe he’ll arrange a kidnapping or something, and then go rescue him after a few hours,
once they’ve had a little fun.

Is that technically child abuse?

His phone, the new disposable one, beeps with an incoming text, startling him out of his
thoughts. Grateful for the distraction, he checks it.

[UNKNOWN]: got smth for u – R

Dazai smiles. He never actually gives Rokuzou his new numbers, and it's sort of an unspoken
game between them to see how long it takes the kid to figure them out. It only took him three
days this time. He's getting better.

[DAZAI]: i knew u loved me <3

[UNKNOWN]: stfu. my place,in 3 days

[DAZAI]: kk

Why is a teenaged criminal much easier to deal with than his own son? His son who hasn't
done anything riskier than take his car without permission, as far as Dazai knows.

And Dazai—

Well, he's dealt with much scarier and powerful people, ever since he was a kid himself.
So why does he never feel like he knows how to handle Shuuji?

Granted, he is one of the few people that gives Dazai genuine attitude and doesn't respect him
at all , but should that really throw him off that much?

He's been a leader of teams before, so why is being a father, an actual father instead of a
sperm donor that provides for Shuuji and his mother and occasionally visits, feel so
impossible?

He groans, dropping his head into his hands. He's not used to feeling confused or lost.
Uncertainty was beaten out of him a long time ago, so now he doesn't even know how to
handle it.

It leaves him feeling restless and irritable.

"Well," he mutters to himself, slapping his hands on his thighs. If he's not going to get any
work done, he might as well do something productive.

Like take a run with the dogs. He didn't go yesterday, and he bets they're dying to spend all
their excess energy.

Because Chuuya is a good student, he finishes all his homework for the first day of class the
Sunday before the semester begins.

Then, somehow, finds himself hanging out with Yuan, of all people.
(Apparently it started with her getting coffee at Nikolai’s café and then accompanying him to
get some makeup pallets he’d borrowed from her, and then once she saw the TV Nikolai had
installed in their room the day before— he said it was a gift from a work friend, which
doesn’t make sense to Chuuya but who is he to complain about free Netflix access— she
promptly confiscated the remote.)

Which is how he, somehow, ends up watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta with Yuan
sprawled over his bed. She’s reclaimed all of his pillows for herself. It’s not a show Chuuya
would usually find himself watching, but he has to admit that the live commentary is funny.

“Can you believe people actually live like this?” Yuan asks, sneaking her hand into Chuuya’s
bag of chips. He asked if she wanted her own bag, but she said no. “It’s like going to the zoo
except the floors are marble and the water fountains are filled with Fiji water.”

Chuuya does not point out that that would probably make her a zoo animal too.

“I think I would be a housewife,” Nikolai says from his place laying on the floor, apropos to
nothing.

Who would want him as a housewife, Chuuya doesn’t know, considering he saw him have a
burping contest with one of the other boys on the floor literally yesterday.

(He did win though, so there’s that. What can Chuuya say, their dorm is clearly filled with
winners.)

“I don’t know,” Chuuya says, giving up on wrestling his chips back from Yuan. “Doesn’t it
seem kind of ...degrading to you?”

Yuan sighs dreamily. “For that chandelier, I would let a man degrade me anytime he wants.”

Chuuya is not touching that one.

“I mean,” he stresses, “it just seems like you wouldn’t... bring anything to the table, you
know? You’re basically just a decoration. Another trophy.”

“You’re looking at it all wrong, Chuuya,” Yuan says, sitting up. She passes the chips to
Nikolai, who takes them happily. Chuuya is forced to watch in dismay as his chips get
devoured. Why didn’t they just get their own if they were so hungry?

“You don’t have to bring ‘anything to the table’, and you are a trophy. You are something to
be fought for and celebrated, and fawned over for the rest of your life. People should look at
you and be jealous of whoever has you.”

That’s a little objectifying, but uplifting in a weird, roundabout way.

“Besides, doesn’t it sound nice to have all your needs and wants taken care of, while all you
have to do is be pretty and appealing?”

Well, yeah, sure, but Chuuya is pretty sure that isn’t an option for him. The idea that self-
value isn’t bought and bargained for with what he can do, instead of being something
intrinsic to him, is a little difficult to compute.

His father, probably because he has two siblings, was very adamant about the idea of being
part of a team. You must be hardworking and dedicated and smart and easy to get along with.
You have to bring something to the team— or no one would want to be on your team.

It’s a little sad, but it’s difficult to imagine that someone would want to be on his ‘team’ just
because it had him on it, instead of what he could offer them.

“How do you get someone to make you their housewife?” Comes from the floor.

Yuan leans over, fixing Nikolai with a knowing gaze. “Why, do you have someone in mind?”
Nikolai crunches thoughtfully on his stolen chips, “Yes, I think, but he does not seem the
housewife type.”

“He?”

On second thought, maybe that rainbow shirt on the first day was gay communication.

“I have said too much already,” Nikolai tries to backtrack, but it’s pretty clear he
underestimated Yuan’s determination. She narrows her eyes, about to interrogate him for
more information, when Chuuya’s phone beeps.

He checks it absently, expecting it to be a social media notification or the sibling group chat
he has. He mentioned that he met a cute boy once and Kouyou and Kyouka have been
relentless about it.

But it’s not.

It’s a text from Shuuji.

[SHUUJI]: dinner, my place? My treat 👅

Chuuya’s first thought probably shouldn’t be ‘is his dad going to be there’ especially when it
sounds like an invitation to date but—

Here he is.

Noticing his distraction, Yuan looks back over, and grins when she sees his pinking cheeks.
“You too, Chuuya? Who is it? A boy?”
He’s known Yuan for a total of three days and she already sounds like one of his sisters.

“It’s just Shuuji,” he grumbles, tucking his phone against his chest so she can’t peek at the
screen.

Her grin grows. “Just Shuuji, huh? What does he want?”

He does not like the feeling of being put on the spot, especially because she’s friends with
Shuuji. It feels like she’s digging for information, like a prying parent. But he can’t think of a
lie, not when she’s staring him down with those piercing eyes, waiting for an answer. “Just
dinner,” he grumbles.

That seems to make her pause, eyebrows shooting up. Even Nikolai stops crunching on
Chuuya’s chips, not so subtly listening in.

“Are you gonna go?”

Chuuya blows out a breath. He has class semi-early tomorrow, so logically he shouldn’t, and
he still has a bad taste in his mouth from the last time— that one is metaphorically, though.
He’s brushed his teeth several times since the whole ham thing.

But at the same time, a part of him is leaping for joy and drawing imaginary hearts at the idea
of possibly seeing Dazai again.

Plus, seeing Yoko again would be a treat.

“I don’t know if I should. It’s at his house and...” he shrugs, unsure of how to finish that
sentence.
Then, because he’s painfully obvious and he can’t help himself, he asks the question. “Have
you met his dad?”

“Oh, that sexy bastard? Yes ,” she sighs, dropping back to lay on the bed like a dramatic
heroine, “It’s too bad he’s so cold and intimidating, otherwise I’d have my hands all over that
merchandise.”

Chuuya focuses on the feeling of not being alone in his dad-lusting shame to ignore the
strange, vicious bolt of jealousy and possession that tears through his chest.

Then her words register with him fully, and he’s confused again.

Dazai? Cold and intimidating?

The intimidating thing, he can actually agree with, because he is intimidating, but mostly
because of how hot he is, the teasing curl of his lips, how confident and big his hands are—

(Chuuya will quite literally never forget how effortlessly he could take both of his wrists in
one hand, and he will never admit this to anyone, but he has actively tried to dream about
those hands, pinning him down easily, maybe against a wall or on his bed. He mourns that he
never learned what his room looked like, if only because it would make the dream more real.)

The only intimidating part about Dazai is how easily he makes Chuuya melt and how those
brown eyes make him feel he could do anything, he would do anything, just for a little taste,
a little more —

“Once, he caught me raiding his liquor cabinet, and all he did was cross his arms and silently
stared me down like some Yakuza boss until I put it back,” Yuan continues. “Hot, but
untouchable.”

Except Chuuya has touched him. Had his hips between his thighs, even if it wasn’t like that,
felt the weight of his gaze like a brand against his skin.
He frowns. “What does he do? For work, I mean.”

Nikolai squints at him oddly intensely while Yuan shrugs. “No one knows, really. Shuuji
says he owns some business— but he never says what , and whenever we bring it up, he
changes the subject. I’m starting to think he doesn’t know himself. I tried to look in his office
once, but the dogs chased me out.”

That’s interesting and mysterious.

Obviously, whatever Dazai does, he makes a lot of money. No one in Japan can afford a
house like that and vehicles like that without a generous salary. In Chuuya’s experience, most
successful business owners…

Brag. A lot.

So why doesn’t Dazai?

Honestly, the more Chuuya learns about him, the less he feels like he knows him.

“Whatever he does though, it must be important. I’ve seen Yoko— the smaller dog— take
down a man Dazai’s size without a single problem. Probably would’ve torn his arm off if it
weren’t for the training sleeve he was wearing. She means business.”

Chuuya doesn’t understand it, but he remembers the way she bared her teeth at Shuuji, and he
believes it.

“Do you think I should go to dinner?” He asks, taking a chance and trusting Yuan with a little
more than he might with someone else he just met. “I just feel like I don’t belong or
something.”
Nikolai nods with sympathy— understandable, since he works at a café, but he doesn’t seem
to have a problem fitting in— while Yuan reaches out to pat his knee. “Let me give you a
little tip. If you act like the rich people, they’ll treat you like one of them.”

“Fake it till you create it,” Nikolai adds sagely in. He’s a little off, but Chuuya knows what he
means.

Well—

That settles it. He’ll go.

“Okay,” he says, texting Shuuji back an affirmative, “I’ll go, then.”

Yuan wiggles happily, clapping her hands together. “Awesome! Please let me do your
makeup.”

It’s not like Chuuya hasn’t worn makeup before— he has two sisters, he’s been literally tied
to a chair more than once so they can play dress up with him— and he does enjoy the
confidence boost it gives him so—

“Nothing crazy,” he warns her, eyeing her.

Yuan beams at him.

Because she doesn’t carry a lot of her makeup with her, and Nikolai mostly has super-bright
face paints, Chuuya ends up getting lightly smudged eyeliner and a double coat of mascara.
His cheeks get brushed with highlighter.

It’s understated, subtle enough that it’s not immediately noticeable, though it does make his
eyes brighter and bluer.
He doesn’t really have a lot of ‘nice’ clothes ever since he moved, but he wears his nicest pair
of dark jeans and a shirt that is cropped just short enough to show off a small sliver of his
muscled stomach.

He’s making the best of what he has, and doing pretty damn well, he thinks.

Nikolai lends him a dark jacket, and even though it’s too big for him, somehow it brings the
whole look together. His shoes are still his ratty, thrifted sneakers though, and they’re as
comforting as they are embarrassing.

“How do I look?” He asks, giving them a twirl. Yuan pulled his hair up into a high ponytail,
with a few pieces left to flutter around his face.

“Good,” Nikolai assures him. Yuan whistles through her teeth and smacks his ass, which is a
good a compliment as any, he supposes.

His phone, stuffed in his pocket, sings with another text.

[SHUUJI]: here where r u

[CHUUYA]: coming, 1 sec

This time he shoves his wallet deep into his pocket so he doesn’t lose it again.

You never know what unsavory characters might find them, a low, purring voice whispers
from his memories. He shivers, a little thrill running up his spine.

Leaving Yuan and Nikolai to fight over the last remains of his chips while starting the next
episode, Chuuya makes his way outside.
Shuuji is where he was the last time, idling in the same car. It’s still not the sleek, luxurious
car from the first time, but it’s still nice.

Shuuji grins when he opens the door, twisting in his seat to watch him intently as he climbs
into the seat. “I’m glad you finally decided to dress up for me.”

That feels like somewhat of a backhanded compliment because it implies that Chuuya’s
regular clothes aren’t good enough but—

He’s not wrong, exactly. Chuuya did dress up a little, even if it was more for himself than for
Shuuji. Still, the fact that he noticed makes a tiny seed of warmth grow in his stomach.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, ducking his head.

“You look better than you usually do, that’s for sure.”

Chuuya’s smile falters, but before he can say anything to that, Shuuji is barreling on ahead.

“We have to stop at the restaurant for the food, and then we’ll go to my house.”

They’re getting takeout? It’s not like he doesn’t like ordering out, or that he’s ungrateful, it’s
just...

Well, when he imagined his first dinner date at a boy’s house, he imagined a home cooked
meal. Maybe some music and a few candles. He imagined something romantic , something
out of a movie.

Takeout from a restaurant doesn’t feel romantic, but maybe he’s just being overly critical and
demanding again.
“Okay, sounds good,” he says, clutching onto his seatbelt as Shuuji screeches around a turn.

“It’ll be quick. I ordered for you, so you just have to go in and get it.”

Why did he order for him when he doesn’t even know what he likes? Granted, he’s never
been overly picky with his food, but—

If he would’ve asked, Chuuya would’ve told him what he wanted.

He nods again, tongue feeling thick in his mouth. “At least we won’t have to wait long then.”

Shuuji leers at him, taking his eyes off the road for an unsettling amount of him. “I’ll have
you home in no time, darling.”

It’s nearly the same thing as he said the last time he picked Chuuya up, and a part of him
starts to wonder if it’s scripted.

As it turns out, the restaurant they’re ordering from is the same one they ate at when they
met, which makes Chuuya feel a little better. He liked their food then, so hopefully this time
he’ll like whatever Shuuji ordered for him.

Handing off his gold card to Chuuya, Shuuji sends him inside to pay for and pick up their
meals, which does feel a little awkward. It feels like he’s put on the spot, like he might hand
over the card only for the cashier to say ‘this isn’t yours ’ and refuse to give him his food. Or
something.

Nothing like that happens though, and the pure, unadulterated smile he gets when he climbs
back into the car with the food in hand—

It finally makes him feel like he’s done something right.

He places one bag between his feet on the floor and the other he holds on his lap securely. It
smells delicious, to be fair, warm and mouthwatering.

The roads are emptier than they were last time, considering that it’s dinner time and most
people are at home eating. It means that the drive up doesn’t take long, but it also means that
Shuuji spends the entire drive doing his best to break every driving law that Chuuya can think
of.

By now he recognizes some of the landmarks and he counts them with increasing desperation
and gratefulness, clutching him onto the bag on his lap like it’s going to help keep him in his
seat.

Is asking Dazai to pick him up next time out of the question? Not even so he can admire him
or get extra time with him, but simply because he can avoid this anxiety-induced carsickness.
Every second in this car feels like it lasts over an hour, heart beating in his throat. He’s glad
that Shuuji put on some music and is singing along with it loudly, because Chuuya’s not sure
he can say anything beyond begging him to slow down right now.

When the house rolls into view, Chuuya releases a shaky breath of relief.

Somehow it looks even more intimidating at night, with the walkway lit up and light spilling
out from beneath the curtains on the huge, floor-length windows.

It looks like someone is home, Chuuya thinks, heart skipping a beat.

The bags are a little heavier than what he’d expect for a two-person meal, but he manages to
carry them without dropping them. He has to kick the car door shut with his foot though, and
making his way up the path without being able to see his feet is a little difficult.

Shuuji opens the door for him, poking his head inside like he’s an intruder looking for anyone
inside before entering
Chuuya follows, kicking off his shoes haphazardly and then he hears—

Double sets of paws scrambling over the hardwood, headed straight for them. Normally,
that’s the opposite of a problem, but Yoko jumped on him last time and he’s still holding the
food —

He braces himself for impact, hoisting the bags higher in the hopes they’ll avoid destruction
—

Then, a sharp order rings out, in some guttural language that Chuuya doesn’t immediately
recognize, impossible to ignore simply because of how firm it is.

Two thumps follow immediately after, and the sound of paws disappears.

He twists his head to look, but he can’t see past Shuuji’s tall frame.

“Let me get those for you,” someone murmurs. Well, not someone, Chuuya would recognize
that voice anywhere , even though he’s only heard it a few times.

Then the bags are being plucked from his grip, and he can see again.

And what he sees is Dazai— tall, wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up—
shooting Shuuji an exasperated look before turning around and heading for the kitchen.

The dogs are sitting, eyes locked intently on Dazai. He waves a hand as he passes, some hand
signal that Chuuya doesn’t know the meaning of, accompanied by a, “You can say hello now,
Yoko.”

Shuuji dodges out of the way as the dogs jump forward, excited.
Chuuya ends up trapped in the entryway with Kozo sniffing intently at his shoes and feet
while Yoko jumps and wiggles and licks at his hands, so excited she doesn’t know what to do
with herself. Chuuya laughs, crouching down and trying to get a hand on her as she whips
around in a circle, fluffy tail smacking him in the face. “Easy there, I can’t pet you when
you’re being crazy.”

Kozo has moved onto sniffing his jacket. After another second, Yoko calms down a little
more and Chuuya can finally sink his hands into her fur and scratch at the spots he knows she
likes. “Yeah, I missed you too, pretty girl,” he murmurs, a big smile on his face. He does
notice something different about her though—

Today, she’s wearing a pink bandana around her neck, printed with little white bones on it.

“Aww,” he coos, squishing her face, “did you get dressed up for our date, pretty girl?”

She pants at him happily, tail whipping. Kozo, seemingly satisfied with his inspection,
promptly presents his butt for scratching, giving him a doggy grin over his shoulder when
Chuuya complies.

When Chuuya hears noises from the kitchen— what sounds like plates being taken out and
the clink of silverware— he finishes up saying hello, feeling a twinge of guilt.

Sure, he’s a guest, but his father always impressed on him the value of helping and being
polite. With the dogs on his heels, he enters the kitchen, to find Shuuji pouring a glass of
juice while Dazai plates the food.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” He asks. He’d set the table or something, but he doesn’t
know where any of the utensils are.

Dazai— and he should not look as hot as he does right now, muscles in his shoulders flexing
and bunching as he transfers food— nods toward two silver bowls sitting on the edge of the
counter. “You can give the dogs their dinner, if you’d like?”
He nods, skipping over with two eager guards on his heels. It makes it a bit difficult to walk
without tripping over them, but he manages.

“They’ll sit and wait while you set them up. When you’re ready, tell them to eat. They eat
outside,” Dazai nods again to the door that leads to the backyard.

Chuuya picks up the bowls, filled with food that honestly looks almost as gourmet as their
own food does. Rice, a whole egg with the shell, shredded pieces of some type of meat, and
what looks like part of a smashed banana.

God, even the dogs eat good here. It explains why their coats are so shiny and how they’re
rippling with muscles—but damn. Chuuya didn’t even know you could feed a dog bananas.

Careful not to step on paws, he maneuvers outside.

Dazai’s right— the dogs do sit as soon as they get outside, waiting patiently even though his
every movement is tracked by two pairs of eager eyes.

There’s not a designated spot that he can see, so he just picks two spots on the porch, setting
the bowls far enough apart that they won’t fight over the food. Even when he steps back, the
dogs don’t move, though Kozo makes a whining noise in the back of his throat.

“Eat,” Chuuya says, trying to be as firm as Dazai was with them earlier.

He doesn’t need to be though because as soon as the last syllable is out of his mouth, the dogs
are falling upon the bowls with savage hunger, teeth making wet snapping noises as they
gobble up the food. Kozo even snarls at his meal before sinking his teeth in, and even though
he’s usually a big, lazy oaf—

It's easy to see why anyone would be afraid of him.

Working dogs are hungry dogs, he supposes, and leaves them to their savagery.

When he returns to the kitchen, Dazai has disappeared somewhere. Shuuji is just leaving with
his hands full with a drink and his plate. He's heading back to the living room, Chuuya thinks.

Most people he knows eat in the dining room at a table, but so far, everything in this house is
weird.

There's two plates and a bottle of water left on the counter. He takes the bottle, and looks at
both the plates. He's not sure which is his, so he just takes the one that looks most appealing,
following Shuuji out to the living room.

He's sitting on the floor, knees under the low table, and digging in voraciously as he searches
for something to watch on the TV.

Chuuya can't help but feel disappointed. This feels more like dinner with his friends than
dinner with a guy he likes— might like, he’s still unsure how he feels—and nowhere near
what he was expecting for a date .

Is it always this anticlimactic? Where's the excitement, the butterflies, the romance?

Chuuya wouldn't exactly consider himself a romantic person, but...

He wants more than this.

Pushing down his disappointment, he settles on the floor near Shuuji, placing down his food.

When Shuuji notices what's on his plate, his eyes widen. He swallows quickly, though his
voice is still slightly muffled as he says, "That's not yours. You took the wrong one."
Well, how was he supposed to know?!

With a sigh, he starts to get back up so he can swap the plates out when—

"No, it's fine. If he wants it, it's his," comes from the back of the room.

He looks.

Dazai has returned from wherever he left, and it looks like he went to wash his hands and
maybe his face, because there's a drop of wetness sliding down his cheek and his bangs are
sticking damply to his forehead.

He looks so refreshingly, effortlessly good that it makes Chuuya's heart ache just from being
in close proximity with him.

Struggling to reorganize his thoughts, Chuuya starts, "I didn't mean to—"

Dazai turns his head, making devastating eye contact as his lips turn up into a smile. "I know
you didn't, sweetheart," he responds, and Chuuya can feel that soothing rumble in his
stomach , making the floor drop out beneath him pleasantly, like he's floating on air. "But like
I said—if you want it, it's yours."

Chuuya's traitor mind, fueled by his even more traitor body, immediately responds with a
silent: 'what if I want you?'.

And he does, he’s starting to realize that now, because what he feels for Shuuji, which was
pure aesthetic admiration—
Is nothing close to the pure attraction he feels for Dazai. Everything about him is appealing.
His voice—the way it drips over his senses like molten caramel, sliding down his spine and
curling hotly in his stomach—, his eyes—which make Chuuya feel pinned and admired at the
same time, like Chuuya is a one-man show just for him —, his hair—which is soft and curly,
and he wants his hands in it so bad, wants to grab him by the hair and pull —

And probably the most appealing thing about him is his attitude, the way he simultaneously
encourages Chuuya and lets him find his own limits, but there’s an undercurrent of
dominance there, how easily he controls and creates the situation.

It would be so easy to fall apart underneath him, wouldn’t it?

Chuuya ducks his head, flushing. “Thanks.”

But at the same time his body wants it, so desperately that not even the memory of ham-
kisses can douse the smoldering in his belly—

It feels wrong. Like he shouldn’t want it, like he’s betraying Shuuji somehow, even though
he’s not sure if this even counts as an actual date, and they’re definitely not dating. Chuuya is
nothing if not painfully loyal, even to people he shouldn’t be.

“You’re welcome,” Dazai says back, and even though Chuuya was just telling himself how it
was wrong, his stomach curls pleasantly at the approving tone.

God, what is wrong with him? Why can’t he just like Shuuji like a normal person his age?
Why does he have to thirst after his dad like some...

Like some weirdo with daddy issues?

(Which is not to say that he has anything against people with daddy issues. He doesn’t. It’s
just that he doesn’t have those issues. His dad was active and loving in his life. Very strict,
sure, but nothing that would make him like...that.)
He barely even tastes his food with how fast his thoughts are spinning.

He does like the crab though, and he understands why Dazai would eat it so often, even
though it’s usually not his preferred food.

Shuuji seems more intent on watching his show (which is violent enough that even Chuuya is
raising an eyebrow at it and turning away from the gory parts) than making any kind of small
talk, which Chuuya is fine with at the moment.

Dazai doesn’t come back out of the kitchen, so he’s probably eating in there or at the table.
Chuuya’s grateful for that , because he’s sure if he saw his forearms subtly flexing as he used
his chopsticks Chuuya’s mind was going to shut off again.

Shuji finishes a few moments before him, slumping heavily back against the couch. He
doesn’t get up to bring his plate back to the kitchen.

When Chuuya gets up to return his own plate, he silently brings Shuuji’s plate along with
him.

Remember Chuuya, no one likes people who are rude or messy .

 ... it's yours
Chapter Summary

Chuuya grips the counter behind him, trying to play it cool, even as he starts to feel
burned alive by the heat pouring off of Dazai's body. "Am I allowed to have one?"

The smile is slow, teasing, like Dazai knows something he doesn't know, like he just
figured something out. He steps forward, closer, until the tips of their toes are almost
touching. Chuuya's breath stalls in his chest, and his entire world hangs in the balance,
time slowing to a crawl as Dazai moves his arm, reaching out, eyes locked on his face as
he—

Pulls a wineglass off the rack above his head.

"Of course," Dazai purrs, smug as he brandishes the glass, "that is—as long as you
promise to behave."

Chapter Notes

hi again! today we have:

- sexual tension
- unfortunate wastes of good alcohol
- awkward baby chuuya
- mutual wet dreams

thanks for reading! as always, follow me on twitter @bloodsvgarr and @H4NDKINK

for more content! hopefully the next update will be next saturday as well <3

The kitchen is empty when he enters, but the back door is open, so he’s assuming that Dazai
is somewhere out there with the dogs. If he listens closely, he can hear the sounds of running
and what might be a ball hitting the back fence.
The last plate is missing, but it’s not in the sink either. Maybe Dazai took it out with him.

Chuuya sets the plates in the sink, getting ready to wash them when he sees it—

The wine rack.

It’s not that full, and to the truthful, it looks way more neglected than it should be—the
bottles of whiskey and rum nearby are spotless, while all the wine is covered with a light
layer of dust—but it’s beautiful.

The furniture is gorgeous too, but what Chuuya is talking about are the labels.

Château Pavie-Decesse. Château Lamartine. Gokan Heights Winery. Clos Fourtet.

All of them good brands, way better than any wine Chuuya has ever drink with his father, and
god, he just wants to pop one open and chug, screw propriety—

“Would you like a glass?"

Chuuya jumps, not expecting someone to speak behind him, and he whirls around.

It's Dazai, naturally, closer than Chuuya expects, close enough that their height difference is
glaringly obvious. Shuuji is tall, but Dazai is towering, so broad that he blocks out the rest of
the room. And if that weren't enough—

His presence seems to suck out all the air in the atmosphere.
Chuuya licks his lips, knees going weak when he sees brown eyes flicker to the motion
before dragging back up. The legal drinking age in Japan is 20 and he’s still two years away.
It's not like Dazai offered to get him wasted on shots of vodka but—

It still feels dangerous. The intoxicating, hair-raising, stomach-dropping, heart-racing feeling

of breaking the rules.

Chuuya grips the counter behind him, trying to play it cool, even as he starts to feel burned
alive by the heat pouring off of Dazai's body. "Am I allowed to have one?"

The smile is slow, teasing, like Dazai knows something he doesn't know, like he just figured
something out. He steps forward, closer, until the tips of their toes are almost touching.
Chuuya's breath stalls in his chest, and his entire world hangs in the balance, time slowing to
a crawl as Dazai moves his arm, reaching out, eyes locked on his face as he—

Pulls a wineglass off the rack above his head.

"Of course," Dazai purrs, smug as he brandishes the glass, "that is—as long as you promise
to behave ."

Fuck , that sentence shouldn't be as hot as it is, as controlling as it sounds—

His temperature is steadily rising, stoked higher with every move Dazai makes as he pulls out
a wine opener from the drawer beside Chuuya.

Before he can stop himself, he fires back, "And what if I don't?"

Dazai hums thoughtfully, pulling a bottle off the shelf. One of the better brands. With strong,
confident movements, he screws the wine opener into the cork. With one quick pull, bicep
flexing, he yanks the cork out.
God, he's so strong.

With steady hands, he pours him a generous glass. He swirls the wine inside, red liquid
sticking to the glass briefly before sliding back down.

It looks like blood. It looks like temptation, and with Dazai's long, elegant fingers presenting
him with the glass—

It looks like sin.

Fighting to keep his fingers steady, Chuuya reaches for the glass, deliberately brushing their
fingers together. Dazai's fingers are rough, obviously used to working.

For a second, Dazai doesn't release the glass, holding it there between them. He doesn't quite
whisper in Chuuya's ear, but he does lean down, closing the distance between them.

Chuuya is leaning up, and he is definitely willing to try that whole kissing thing, and at this
point, he doesn't even care if Dazai tastes like ham, all he wants is his tongue in his mouth,
he's willing to do anything to get it—

His next words fall into the hot, intimate space between them with devastating impact.
"Would you like to find out?"

Yes, yes, god yes, he wants to find out, so badly—

Then Dazai is leaning back again, straightening to his full height, and is Chuuya disappointed
that he's not within kissing distance anymore? Yes.

Is he disappointed that he's now eye-level with Dazai's chest, and at some point, another
button had come undone on his shirt, revealing a sharply defined collarbone and hinting at
powerful muscles further down?
Absolutely not.

Dazai reaches up again, and Chuuya watches with thinly veiled fascination as his shirt draws
taut with the movement, clinging tight to his body for a long, delicious moment.

Then he's pulling down a whiskey tumbler and pulling out a bottle of whiskey—Chuuya
doesn't recognize the brand, but he's sure it's just as expensive—to pour himself a glass.

He doesn't move away, not even an inch, and the way his eyes don't leave Chuuya's face even
as he pours is meltingly hot.

Chuuya swirls his wine, buying himself time. By all real standards, he should let it breathe a
little longer, but he needs something to occupy himself before he does something stupid, like
ask Dazai to kiss him. He takes a sip, making a delighted sound at the flavors that burst over
his tongue. It's deep, dark, hints of pomegranate and grape, and surprisingly sweet.

Dazai's grin widens at the noise, taking a long, slow sip of his own drink. Chuuya has had
whiskey before, and the taste is always too bitter and the heat it brings to his belly is too
strong, but watching the way Dazai doesn't even flinch at the state and even seems to savor
it?

Surprisingly hot.

"I knew you'd like it sweet," Dazai murmurs, smug arrogance in his voice.

That makes Chuuya curious. What else has he guessed about him?

Did he think about Chuuya?

...Did he think about Chuuya the way he thought about Dazai?

He opens his mouth—

"Hey! Where's my drink?"

And like a fucking glass of water from the Artic Ocean, Shuuji once again murders the
moment.

Is he imagining it, or is that disappointment on Dazai's face for a fraction of a second before
it smooths out once again?

To be honest, it's good that Shuuji can't see his face from this angle and that Dazai has finally
broken eye contact as he reaches for another glass, because he can't help the reflexive scowl.
He has to smother the irritation with another sip of wine.

To be truthful, it kind of bothers him that Shuuji caught Dazai crowding him against the
counter, less than a foot away from him, and it doesn't seem to phase him at all.

(He knows it's not exactly healthy, but fuck, he's always found the idea of his partner being
possessive, maybe even dangerously possessive hot.)

But Shuuji just takes the glass offered to him with an unbothered smile, and pours himself a
large glass of whiskey. A cup of whiskey in fact, even more than Dazai has.

He takes a sip, and his face immediately twists into a grimace. Then—and Chuuya can't
believe he's actually witnessing this—he spits the whiskey back into the cup.

It's funny. Glaringly unattractive, but funny, like watching a baby try his first drink of
alcohol.
Dazai stares at him, eyes and expression blank, like he's so absolutely done with life and is in
so much pain. Then, tipping his head back, he downs the rest of his glass in one swallow.

( Hot, Chuuya's mind whispers, but he does his best to ignore it.)

The next glass he pours is visibly larger than the last one.

"I'll be in my office if you need me," he mutters, taking the bottle of whiskey with him as he
leaves the kitchen.

Chuuya mourns that he's leaving, but the view as he walks away is great, so he supposes it's
not all bad.

Shuuji's whiskey gets poured down the sink and Chuuya doesn't even drink whiskey, but even
he knows that's a sin. He could smell how expensive it was. At the same time, he's glad
though, because Shuuji is (supposed) to be his ride home tonight, and he's a bad enough
driver without being drunk.

(If he had been drinking, maybe he could ask Dazai for a ride home instead.

Or spent the night. In his bed—.)

Because his glass of wine is nearly empty, Chuuya allows himself to pour another glass. He
hasn't had nearly enough to be tipsy, because the alcohol leaves a pleasant warmth in his
belly, beginning to buzz in his veins.

Shuuji slides closer, a sly grin on his face. "You like the taste of wine?"
Chuuya offers him a small smile. It's a stupidly obvious question, but he can be gracious.
"Yeah. It's my favorite alcohol."

With dread building in his veins, Chuuya watches him take the wine bottle in hand and raise
it to his lips. If he spits that out, Chuuya is actually going to cry. Maybe go join Dazai in his
office so they can drink together about wasted alcohol.

He takes a long drink straight from the bottle, like a teenaged heathen, and Chuuya feels like
he's watching a crime happen in real time.

With bated breath, he waits to see him spit out the wine, nerves on edge—

But instead, from an outside perspective, he does something worse.

Lurching forward, he grabs Chuuya's chin in a harsh grip and forcibly keeps him in place as
he crushes their lips together.

It's not so much a kiss as it is smashing their faces together almost-painfully. It's marginally
better than the first kiss, but only in that Shuuji tastes and smells like wine.

That's probably why Chuuya lets it go on as long as he does, mildly curious if it'll get better
or if it'll stoke the heat that Dazai stirred in him.

It doesn't. In fact, with how enthusiastically Shuuji is kissing him even though Chuuya is
barely responding, lips soaked with saliva—

It's a complete and utter turn off. So much so that he feels like he just took an ice bath.

With a silent sigh, Chuuya plants his hand against Shuuji's chest to push him off. Again, it
takes too much strength than he should have to use to get him off, but he manages.
Shuuji growls, "What now?"

That makes Chuuya frown. Why is he so irritated? It's not like Chuuya is saying to never kiss
him again, he's just not into it right now. Besides, it's getting late, and he has class tomorrow
morning. He wants to wake up early to make sure he's on time and ready for the first day.

They have time for kissing later, and Chuuya will try to like it again. But he can't afford to
fall behind in class, not even a little bit.

"I want to go home," he says.

Shuuji lets out a heavy sigh. "Already? But I wanted to spend time with you."

A frisson of guilt runs through him. He did agree to dinner with him, and he spent most of it
either in silence or having sexual tension with his dad. That wasn’t fair of him.

Keeping Shuuji in place, he brushes his lips over his, a tiny apology kiss that he doesn’t let
go any further.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, ignoring the unsettling feeling in his stomach at the
flash of Shuuji’s eyes, “We can go to dinner again soon.”

Shuuji smiles at him, irritation melting off his face. For a second, he looks boyishly cute,
with his hair falling in his eyes and a crooked smile.

He’s... not so bad, is he? Clumsy, and a bit rude, and obviously needs to be taught some
manners, but not so bad.

Right?
“Alright,” he agrees, “I’ll take you home.”

Chuuya smiles at him gratefully.

Just then, the dogs come scrabbling back inside, nipping at each other’s heels. Their game is
stopped short when Yoko notices Shuuji and Chuuya in the kitchen, apparently pressed too
close together for her liking.

Walking over with stiff legs and a still tail, she uses her nose to find a gap between them and
literally shoves her way between them, forcing Shuuji back a step.

(Chuuya will never admit it, but he’s a little grateful for that, because Shuuji was still leaning
heavily on his hand, and it was getting a bit tiring holding him back.)

Shuuji backs off with minimal grumbling, avoiding Kozo, who has settled on the floor, legs
spread out as he chews on a toy.

Crouching down to fix Yoko’s bandana, he pets her head gratefully. She sits nicely for him,
tail thumping against the cabinets and tongue lolling out. “Good girl,” he murmurs quietly,
then louder, “I’m going home now.”

She doesn’t understand, but she gives him a warm lick on his hand.

He downs the rest of his wine quickly, and when Yoko sniffs it with interest, he reaches in to
wet his fingers with the remaining wine in the glass.

Curious to see if she’ll drink it, he offers her his fingers. She tests it cautiously with a single
swipe—
And then proceeds to find every trace of wine on his skin and lick it off.

He giggles. “Just between you and me,” he whispers, “you’re definitely my favorite.”

Her tail thumps again, a secret shared and held between friends. He cleans up the kitchen
quickly, rinsing out his glass and washing at least his plate. The other two are left to soak.

Then, with a quick goodbye to Kozo, who is now rumbling sleepily on the kitchen floor, he
tells Shuuji he’s ready to leave.

He pauses when he’s about to put his shoes back on. “Should we tell your dad we’re
leaving?”

Shuuji shrugs. “I don’t think he cares, but sure, if you want.”

He doesn’t move off the couch himself, clearly leaving the task up to Chuuya.

He can’t say he’s complaining, to be honest. It’s only been a few minutes since he last saw
Dazai, but he’s already starving for another look.

Yoko follows him upstairs, waiting at the bottom step as he ascends and then barreling up
after him.

He’s not actually sure where Dazai’s ‘office’ is, but he checks the rooms Shuuji showed him
the first time he was here—

This time, the door is open. Just a crack, but open.

Chuuya hesitates outside. He did say he would be in his office if they needed him, which
implies that they’re allowed to interrupt him but—

"I don’t think he cares—”

He grits his teeth. Maybe he shouldn’t? It doesn’t really matter, he just wants to be polite
but...

What if he’s busy? Chuuya doesn’t want to interrupt anything, important or otherwise.

Yoko, apparently fed up with Chuuya hovering outside her dad’s door like a weirdo, takes the
exact moment when Chuuya is deciding to creep back downstairs unnoticed—

To trot happily into the room, shoving the door open, tail and head held high, like she’s
saying ‘Hey Dad! Look what I brought you!’.

A dark, whiskey-colored gaze instantly finds him in the doorway, pinning him in place,
taking all the air in the room and replacing it with liquid-fire adrenaline.

They stand there, for how long Chuuya doesn’t know, because his heart is beating so fast it
feels like it’s throbbing out of his chest —

Then Dazai’s lips quirk up, jaw moving and for the first time, Chuuya notices:

He has something in his mouth. From this far, he can’t tell what it is, but it’s small and black.
Maybe a pen? A bobby pin? A key to something?

He doesn’t know, and frankly he doesn’t care, because either way it’s distracting, wet with
saliva, drawing attention to the fullness of his bottom lip, and it’s clear Dazai is playing with
it with his tongue, moving it back and forth, and Chuuya cannot look away, can’t stop
thinking about how much he wants to bite that lip, wants to replace that makeshift chew toy,
wants to be in Dazai’s mouth—.

“Not that the staring isn’t flattering, but did you need something, doll?”

Fuck. The words break him out of his daze, but the voice just sends tingles down his spine,
the darkly amused tone setting gasoline on the fire that Chuuya has become.

Embarrassingly, so fucking embarrassingly, he stutters, “I—uh. I, uhm, was just letting you
know that I’m going home. Shuuji is— He’s gonna drive me home. Now.”

Shut up, he silently screams at himself, shut up, you look so stupid right now.

Oblivious to the tension, Yoko moves to sit between Dazai’s spread thighs, laying her head
on his thigh. Should the way his free hand drops to her hand and starts absentmindedly
rubbing her ears without breaking eye contact be so hot?

(Chuuya can imagine it, that same hand, that same motion, just a little higher, between his
legs as he watches Chuuya—

No , he cannot imagine, actually. In fact, he won’t.

Self-control, thy name is Nakahara Chuuya.)

“Alright,” Dazai responds, “thank you for letting me know, and thank you for coming to
dinner. You were a treat to have.”

That...
He has to be playing with him, right? He barely even saw the man, and they spoke for like,
five minutes max? He didn’t do anything to be called a treat.

But he’s not rude about it. “Thank you for having me,” he mumbles back, bowing his head
briefly.

Then, before he can say anything else embarrassing, he ducks out with, “See you.”

(It’s such a common goodbye, something that he says almost all the time that he doesn’t
realize the implication behind it:

That he’ll come back. That he’ll see Dazai again, that he wants to see Dazai again.

Dazai certainly doesn’t miss the context though, and his lips turn up in a different kind of
smile.

“We will, won’t we, girl?” He murmurs, petting Yoko comfortingly as she whines when he
doesn’t let her chase after Chuuya.

He chews thoughtfully on the toy in his mouth—it’s essentially just ice on a stick,
something he uses when he’s drinking whiskey. He hates watering down his drink, and it
keeps his mouth occupied— and wonders what, exactly, will come of next time.

And, for the first time in a long time, he’s excited to see what happens next.)

Generally, Dazai does not allow himself to drink that often or that heavily. A clouded mind,
in his business, often leads to the worst kind of deaths.
Today, though...

Today, he has to make an exception.

His self-control has always been exceptional, far above most people he knows. He’s honed it
for many years, until his body finally gave into the whims of his mind.

Dazai is controlled. Dazai is control.

So why can’t he get a pair of big, shiny blue eyes out of his head?

He feels haunted by them, like he can’t escape. Everywhere he turns, there they are, bright
and piercing and so receptive. Beautifully responsive. It’s practically a crime.

It makes it so hard, because the harder he pushes, the more he beckons, the more Chuuya
melts for him, rising up to meet him so perfectly that Dazai feels breathless with it.

He wants. Wants so much.

Wants to take that layer of inexperience that Chuuya is hidden behind and strip it from him
with his teeth, wants his fingerprints imprinted on pale, perfect skin, wants to show Chuuya
what it’d be like when Dazai is really looking at him.

Because that adorable little flush in the kitchen, then again in the hallway? So cute, it made
him want to pin him against the wall.

Or over the desk.

Or on the bed, he doesn’t care.

How far does that flush go, he wonders absently, nursing his... fourth? glass of whiskey.

It’s too many. He’s not drunk or even tipsy, but his mind is just barely clouded, knocked off
its axis and spinning wildly. After the last few days, his self-control is... not gone, but
definitely stretched to a breaking point, and Dazai is ready to snap.

And why shouldn’t he? Allow himself something? He’s been good, followed all his rules and
did all his work, even when it sucked.

Work without play is no fun, after all.

Besides, he’s home. Shuuji is in his room, the dogs are somewhere in the house and—

It’s 3am, the prime time of the night for making bad decisions and—

Dazai is hard.

Well, not all the way, not yet. But there's been a grain of heat growing in his stomach since
two days ago, when his thigh ended up between two gorgeous legs, and all Dazai wanted to
do was press up.

Then, in the kitchen, with Chuuya pinned between him and the counter and eager for it,
arching closer. His eyeliner made his eyes seem darker, deep enough to lose himself in and let
go .

(Could he take it? If Dazai really lost control?

...would he like it?)

Yeah, he wants.

His resolve to not do anything about that desire might be thinning during the day, but now?
Four drinks in and hazy with exhaustion? That resolve is gone.

His free hand creeps up his slacks, finding his crotch and palming the forming bulge there.
Head dropping back on a sigh, he takes a long moment to just enjoy the heat of himself,
teasingly tracing the outline with the tip of his finger.

It’s been a while since he took care of himself, and even longer since he went to the usual
club he goes to, so—

He wants to savor this. Draw it out, taffy sweet, until he can’t take it anymore and he breaks
under the strain. Besides, he muses as he takes another sip, if he’s only going to allow himself
this once, he might as well enjoy it as much as he can, right?

The rush of the whiskey is in him now, flooding him with intoxicating warmth, sending his
senses spinning.

On the next rub, he can’t help but roll his hips upward, meeting himself halfway. He hisses
softly as the increased friction, and he hardens that much further, beginning to pulse under his
grip.

Then—

His mind begins to wander.

He expected it to, so he doesn’t bother trying to fight it. Instead, he lets himself sink into his
imagination.
Earlier, he’d noticed how small Chuuya’s hands were. Nothing unexpected, considering he’s
small all over, but still exciting.

Dazai is bigger than most people his height and it’s both a blessing and a curse. Obviously,
who doesn’t like having a big cock—but he likes his partners small.

And some of them? Just can’t take it. Watching them struggle for it is hot, but for some—

It just can’t be done.

What kind of person is Chuuya, he wonders, pressing down harder on the next grind up. His
slacks are getting tighter, and the friction of the fabric rides the line of discomfort, but it feels
so good, building him up into something frantic.

Would he say it’s too much? Or would he work for it, trembling and gasping and crying until
he could take it all?

He’d look so pretty on him, around him, stretched to his limit and still asking for more.

He’d make him beg, Dazai decides on a shuddering exhale, finding the head of his cock
through his slacks and tracing the ridge of it. Beg until he was breathless, until he didn’t even
know what he was saying anymore, until he cried.

Then, and only then, would he give him both what they wanted.

His cock gives a pointed throb in his pants, and now the friction isn’t enough and he’s hungry
for more.

With a wolfish grin, Dazai finishes off his whiskey.

Guess it’s time for the main event then.

(The hands are back. One of them has both of Chuuya’s wrists in an easy grip, pinning them
above his head. The other is tracing lightly down his side, so lightly it barely feels there, but
it leaves fire in its wake, making him melt.

Arching his back, he tugs on his wrists. He doesn't want to be free, but feeling how securely
he's pinned is a temptation that Chuuya doesn't want to ignore.

The hand holds, and from above him, there's a dark, heady chuckle. "Be still, doll," the voice
purrs, impossible to disobey, "Don't you want to be good for me?"

Chuuya nods and nods and nods, because he does, he wants to be so good, he can be good,
as long as it gets him more.

Held more, touched more, fucked more, anything. He wants it all, and as long as he's good,
Dazai will give it to him.

Going limp and pliant, he's immediately rewarded when a hot, wet mouth descends on one of
his nipples, sucking strongly and tongue swirling to find all the best spots.

"There you go, doll," Dazai says, and when Chuuya opens his mouth to respond, it dissolves
into a broken cry when teeth sink into his flesh, painful pleasure spiraling through him. "So
beautiful."

Thrusting his chest into him, Chuuya silently begs for more, eyes wide and sightless. All he is
right now is pure sensation, electric heat sizzling down to his bones, the pit of growing
hunger in his stomach, a hot-wet tongue dancing over his chest and setting him ablaze.

He needs—
He needs—

"More," he gasps desperately, "please, Dazai, more.”

A grin, pressed to his chest, and the reassuring tightening of fingers around his wrists. A hot,
hard, perfect body sliding his thighs apart, going exactly where Chuuya wants him to.

"I've got you, baby." )

The water is searing hot on his skin, pouring down Dazai's back. He doesn’t even notice how
hot it is, too busy locked in the sensation of his hand moving steadily over his cock, wet.

In his imagination, he has his hand buried in a head of red curly hair, directing his
movements as Chuuya places kitten licks up and down his shaft, and his eyes are huge,
staring up at him steadily even though his face is red with embarrassment.

He’d take him in, nice and slow, lips stretched obscenely wide around him, and he’d make
this sound, a little one in the back of his throat, when he realizes that Dazai is bigger than he
anticipated and he has to struggle to open his jaw wide enough.

Ah, but he’d do it, beautifully well, and maybe he’d help him out by pushing his thumb in his
mouth, rubbing slickly over the back teeth. He’d push in, deeper, deeper, deeper, until he
hits the back of his throat.

His hand closes tightly around the tip of his cock, massaging the first few inches to simulate
the feeling of Chuuya’s throat clenching and fluttering around him. The soft groan he releases
echoes back at him, and suddenly the shower doesn’t feel so hot anymore.

Of course, it wouldn’t be right if he didn’t reward Chuuya for how hard he was trying. He’d
pick him up, slam him up against the wall and keep him pinned there as he takes a nipple in
his mouth and sucks on it greedily.
It wouldn’t matter how sensitive Chuuya is because Dazai would torment him, sucking and
swirling with his tongue and sinking his teeth in until Chuuya is squirming, crying out,
moaning so beautifully for him.

Then, just when he’d had enough—

Dazai would move to the other one, and the process would start all over again.

Judging by that brief spark of attitude in the kitchen, he'll be bratty once he finds his footing,
so there's fingers in Dazai's hair, demanding moans in his ears, a hot, lithe body bucking and
writhing in his grip as Dazai drives him wild.

The steam is thick, so he can't tell if his breath is speeding up because he can't breathe—

Or it's just because he's falling into a rhythm now, jerking himself messily.

(By the time Dazai relents, his chest is twin points of fire, sensitive to even the brush of air
against him. Tension is coiling in his gut, winding his muscles tight with desperation.

At some point, Dazai must've let him go, because he's got his hands full of dark, soft hair,
fingers clenching around the strands rhythmically as a hot mouth kisses and bites a trail
down his torso.

The closer he gets, the heavier the anticipation gets, the more Chuuya wants him closer.
Fruitlessly, he pushes on Dazai's head, trying to force him lower.

A hum gets pressed into the muscles of his abs, followed by a quick nip that makes Chuuya
gasp and shudder.
"Do you need something, doll?"

God, it's the same voice as earlier, except thick with promise, with lust, dripping with
anticipation.

Yes, he does need something, needs him. He's so hard, throbbing against his stomach with
neglect, already dripping pre-cum even though Dazai hasn't even brushed against him yet.

Nodding with a strangled whimper, he tries to push Dazai's head down again, lifting his hips
just in case his desperation wasn't clear enough.

Just as quickly, hard hands are pinning his hips down again, slamming him back down on the
black sheets—black sheets, not blue, not the color he has on his bed— and it’s not painful so
much as it is forceful. A warning and a command not to move.

To stay still and take whatever Dazai gives him.

A hot tongue finds the dip of his hip muscle, swirling teasingly over him. He traces the
muscle down, and he’s so close to where Chuuya needs him, he can feel the heat boiling off
him.

“Tell me what you need,” Dazai breathes over the spot he sucked on, hot air washing over
him. “Say it for me.”

The hesitation locking up his jaw suddenly dissolves, and the words pour out of him,
unrestrained. “Please, Dazai, please, touch me. I need it, want it so much, please— fuck!”

He chokes on a loud cry, hands clenching in dark hair as hot, wet warmth suddenly engulfs
the head of his cock, melting his mind.
His hips are still pinned, so all he can do is lay there and take it as Dazai slowly increases
the suction. His tongue is so good, swirling over the head before digging into the sensitive
tip.

Chuuya’s never been this sensitive before, and ecstasy is pumping through him, somehow
climbing higher with every suck, every bob of Dazai’s head, every squeeze of his fingers on
his hips.

Chuuya hopes he leaves bruises in the shapes of his fingers but—

It’s still not enough. He doesn’t know what else he needs, but like this, the tension only winds
tighter and tighter. His muscles are trembling, fighting for something more, something
different. He must be losing his mind, because even as it feels so good, he can barely even
process it, it doesn’t satisfy the all-encompassing need inside of him.

He’s going to break—

With a gasping sob, he gives in again, trusting Dazai to know what he wants, even when he
doesn’t. “Please... I need more Dazai, please, more...”

It’s not as energetic as the first plead, but it’s sweeter in that his voice is thick with
overstimulated tears and soft with submission.

With a final hum, Dazai pulls off with a wet pop, making Chuuya shudder again.

“I know what you need, sweetheart.” His voice fills Chuuya’s entire body, sending shivers
down his spine and something warm and affectionate in his belly. “Trust me.”

And Chuuya does.)

Fuck. It takes every ounce of Dazai's control to restrain himself.

He's getting closer, building steadily to the edge, and if he keeps up this pace, it's going to
come too soon. Even so, the loss of friction as he forces his hand to slow makes him growl in
frustration, other hand fisting on the shower wall—

His mind flashes to his fist inside Chuuya, and he turns his head to sink his teeth into his
bicep to muffle his loud groan.

The image is too sweet not to chase though, so he gives in.

He'd be on his back, piercing blue eyes looking up at him with so much trust and pleasure as
Dazai opens him up on his fingers.

He'd push back, try to get them deeper, bratty in his demand for even more, but Dazai could
pin him easily, take away all his leverage and leave him helpless.

He'd take the first three so beautifully, lithe body shuddering with the strain, hands clawing at
the sheets. The fourth though, that's when Dazai has to take his time, working him open
slowly with the extra fingertip, then sinking in, centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

By the time he got it all the way, Chuuya would be strung out, too out of his mind to do more
than shiver and shake in devastating pleasure.

Dazai would make a whole day of it, stretching him open meticulously. He'd be aching the
entire time, hurting with the need for relief himself—

But it'd be so worth it, to see Chuuya finally take his whole hand, up to the wrist, owned by
Dazai.

And, while he's there—

He'd kiss him, soft and sweet and reassuring, telling him how good he feels, how perfect he
feels, watching closely as he pushes Chuuya's body to the limits and then carefully, oh
so carefully, past it.

He'd—

Fuck. His impending orgasm starts to climb like a rising tsunami.

He doesn't know when his hand sped back up, but his forearm aches with the strain, thighs
trembling as he drives himself to the edge. He can't even bring himself to care anymore or to
stop, staring sightlessly at the shower wall as he imagines slowly pulling his hand out and
replacing it with the head of his cock, pressing inside.

Chuuya wouldn't need any more stretching, but he'd make this delicious whimpering sound at
the size of him, one that Dazai would swallow whole. He'd work himself inside in short, slow
thrusts, claiming his body and coaxing him to take just a little more, that's it, you can do it,
sweetheart, so fucking perfect for me—

The next breath stalls out in his chest, and one last squeeze over the head and the tension
snaps . Flash-fire ecstasy roars over him, centered in the base of his cock and radiating
outwards in sweet waves. He slumps against the shower wall, biting his lip hard to muffle his
loud groan.

The orgasm is long, drawn out every time he pulls on his cock. It feels good, not the best
orgasm he’s ever had, but definitely one of the better ones he’s given himself.

He tries not to think that’s because he imagined Chuuya the whole time.

It takes a few minutes before he comes down entirely, hand moving intermittently over
himself to keep the pleasure going until it turns into painful oversensitivity.
Then he leans his head back against the shower wall, breathing in deep and forcibly ignoring
the cum on the wall and the fact that he probably moaned Chuuya’s name during his orgasm.

He’s beginning to realize he’s screwed, completely undone by a sweet little thing that doesn’t
even know what he’s doing to Dazai.

Dammit.

(There are fingers inside him. Chuuya doesn’t know how many, all he knows is that it feels
good, feels full, feels like Dazai is forcing pleasure into him with every stroke and thrust of
his fingers deep inside him.

He’s left his cock alone for now, and thank god for that, because he knows that if Dazai even
looked too hard at his erection right now, Chuuya would burst.

Even now, he’s hanging onto the tension with every ounce of restraint inside him, because
yes, the stretch feels great, but Chuuya is greedy and he wants more.

Dazai seems to sense that too, pausing in where he’s sucking a series of hickies into the soft
flesh of his inner thighs. “Look at you,” he purrs, voice going straight to Chuuya’s cock.
“Trying so hard, aren’t you? You want my cock that badly?”

Chuuya nods, and somehow his hands are still in Dazai’s hair, clenching at the words. To
prove it, he opens up his legs, spreading his thighs as wide as they go, silently begging for
more. He revels in the soft hiss he gets in return. Finally, a sign that Dazai is just as affected
as he is.

The fingers slip out, and before he can even miss them, Dazai is sliding up, body solid and
scorching against him. He’s heavy with muscle, grounding and firm.

His thighs end up hooked around Dazai’s hips, and his heart trips when he feels the heavy,
hot, hard line of Dazai’s erection pressing against him, so close to where he wants it.
“Then take it,” Dazai murmurs, intoxicatingly, reaching down to line himself up.

At the same time, he leans down, bringing their faces close.

Their breaths mix in the space between them, hot and sweet, and all Chuuya can feel is the
burning weight of Dazai above him, the inescapable gaze of his eyes on him, so close—

He leans closer, closer, and Chuuya is rising up to meet him, grinding his hips up to feel that
first perfect stretch of him sliding inside.

Closer—

Closer—

Their lips brush, slick and sweet, and Chuuya pulls him down by the hair so they can kiss
properly for the first time, he’s wanted it for so long—

The dream dissolves.

Chuuya wakes with a pillow stuffed between his legs, and Dazai’s name sweet on his tongue.
He’s still hazy from his dream, sleepy and pliant, and his hips are still moving, grinding
messily against the pillow.

It’s not enough, it’s not what he wants, not what he almost had—

But with another few humps against the pillow, and a strangled, desperate, pleading whimper
of Dazai’s name, it’s enough to have him spilling over in his underwear, coming as quietly as
he can.
He lays there for a while, enjoying the warm limpness brought on by his orgasm and the
pleasant aftershocks for as long as he can.

Because once that starts to fade, the guilt and the dread begin to build.

He’s screwed. Not even in a fun way, too, but in a way he’s certain will just end in
heartbreak.

Dammit.)
 At least it's over
Chapter Summary

Chuuya snorts. “‘The Demon Prodigy’? What kind of nickname is that?”

Yuan laughs, shrugging a little. “Apparently he was some crazy yakuza person, raised a
lot of hell and killed a bunch of people. Guess he was in line to rule the city— but then
one day he just disappeared and no one’s heard anything since.”

Chuuya stares at her, expression deadpan. “Did you just tell me a ghost story?”

“Not a ghost story,” Yuan corrects, making a face at him, “I didn’t say he was dead.
Who knows, maybe he’s out there, watching. Waiting. Hunting.”

Her smile widens, and for a moment, it looks twisted and sharp, unhinged. “And who
knows, Chuuya? Maybe you’ll be next.”

Yeah, right.

“Sounds like some story to keep kids in line,” he brushes it off, “and besides; if he was
active twenty years ago, how old would he be now? Old as fuck? Grandpa demon
prodigy? I’m terrified.”

Chapter Notes

hey everyone! PLEASE read this before you read the chapter because there is a scene
near the end that could be triggering to those sensitive to sexual assualt:

- In the scene, Shuuji forcibly kisses Chuuya and pins him down with his weight.
Chuuya panics and throws him off. They have an argument about it.

If that is a scene you'd like to skip, please stop reading as soon as Chuuya puts the dogs
outside, and don't finish the chapter. The scene itself isn't immediately important to the
story.

Like always, if you like my content, feel free to follow me on twitter @H4NDKINK !
See you next week <3

“Aren’t you too old for things like this?” Yosano asks, weighing the hair clippers in her hand
with a disapproving expression. “Can’t you go to a salon like a normal person?”
Reclined in her chair, with a towel draped over his shoulders as a makeshift cape, Dazai
smirks at her. “Do you think I let just anyone get near this pretty face, love?”

He cups his hands under his chin, tilting his head and fluttering his lashes like a girl on
Instagram.

Yosano narrows her eyes at him, brandishing the clippers like a weapon. “I don’t think you
should let me near your face,” she says menacingly, a glint of sadism in her violet eyes, “it
might not be so pretty when I’m done with it.”

Dazai shrugs, catching her hand with his. “It’d be an honor to die by your hand, you know
that.”

With a wink, he kisses her knuckles, and laughs when she jerks her hand back, giving him a
light slap on the cheek.

Starting the clippers, she forcibly tilts his head to the side, exposing his grown out undercut.
She starts at the bottom, shaving off the longer hairs. “Is that the only reason you called me to
cut your hair? So you could flirt with me, asshole?”

Dazai makes an offended gasp, going to play it off—

Yosano pinches his ear harshly, pulling until he whines in protest.

“No,” he grumbles, deciding to go with the truth, “I just missed you.”

Then, because that’s a little too close to emotional vulnerability when both of them are far too
sober for that, he continues teasingly, “You’ve been very busy with Kouyou and Oda lately. If
I were more insecure, I’d think you were stealing my friends.”
Yosano rolls her eyes, folding his ear down—gently, this time— so she can get to the hair
hidden beneath. “Kouyou was never your friend,” she tuts, “and Oda would be your friend
even if you never talked to him again.”

He knows that, it’s just—

His life is lonely. He’s lonely. Usually it doesn’t bother him, and most of the time he barely
even registers it but—

Most of the time, he really only has the dogs, his idiot son, and the business acquaintances
that would only call him a friend under threat of torture.

So yeah, he’s lonely .

Yosano and him may not have always had the best relationship—they’re far too similar in
some aspects, and far too different in others— but they grew up together. It was terrible and
tragic, and he’d never go back, but for a very long time, they were the only ones they had. He
misses that kind of ride-or-die, us-against-the-world camaraderie.

Hell, he’s even starting to reminisce fondly on that one time she stabbed him in the leg for
annoying her for too long.

Yosano moves behind him, elegant fingers pushing his head forward so she can reach his
nape. He complies easily, shivering at the gentle brush of her fingers. The clippers don’t start
immediately, leaving them in silence for a moment—

He finds out why when long, slender arms wrap around him from behind, and a sharp chin
comes to rest on his shoulder.

“I miss you too, Osamu,” Yosano sighs, pressing their cheeks together gently.
For a moment, it’s good and warm and peaceful. It fills some hollow, torn part of him that
never seems to feel whole no matter what he does to fix it—

But for a moment, that fades into the background, and everything is okay again.

“You can come back, you know. If you want.”

...Only for a moment though.

Honestly, the fact that she’d suggest that, having seen what was done to him, what he almost
became, what they almost became—

Logically, he knows that she didn’t mean it that way, and it’s better now. They’re not
defenseless kids anymore but—

It burns.

It’s also just not true, because she’s technically not in the mafia anymore either, so she can’t
actually offer him a spot back. She might have some sway, considering how close she is with
the boss but—

Even if he wanted to go back— and he doesn’t, because that feels like a step backwards in
the worst way, like crawling out of hell just to jump back in as soon as it started calling his
name— it’s not as easy as it sounds.

It’s complicated .

He closes his eyes on a sigh. “No, I can’t,” he murmurs, “you know that, Akiko.”
She squeezes him tighter for a second, before leaning back, exhaling heavily. “Yeah, I know.
It’s just...”

Yeah, he knows too. He doesn’t blame her for finding solace in the improved version of their
childhood home.

To some people, home will always be home, no matter how much or little it changes.

Dazai isn’t one of those people. He’s been trying to find a new home, he just...

Doesn’t know where, yet.

The clippers start up again, and silence falls easily between them as Yosano concentrates on
making some sort of pattern with the hair on the back on his head. Usually it’s a makeshift
geometric pattern that gets shaved off anyways— but sometimes it looks decent, and he
keeps it.

It’s only when she’s moved onto the other side of his head, matching it with the first side she
shaved that she speaks up again. “What else do you want?”

Involuntarily, his lips twitch upward. She knows him too well. He plays it cool for a moment
longer though. “What makes you think I want something else?”

Yosano flicks her fingers against his head. “I know you, Osamu. Nothing is ever
straightforward with you. Spit it out.”

“I want a meeting.”

Unlike him, she doesn’t bother playing dumb, snorting, “With the boss? You know she
doesn’t like you, and meeting with you is a risk.”
He rolls his eyes. Sure, he’s technically a contender for the position, and maybe a few people
would prefer him over her but—

He gave up the chair years ago, and hasn’t shown any interest in it since he left when he was
seventeen.

There’s being cautious about competition and then there’s being paranoid .

“Besides, what reason do you have to meet with the boss?”

For that, Dazai levels her with a soft glare. “I have just as much reason to protect this city as
any one of you.”

Yosano raises an eyebrow, expression twisting slightly. “For what? That shitty son of yours?”

This is a conversation they’ve gone in circles around ever since Dazai got the news that he
was going to be a parent, and it just evolves into different arguments with new information.
They’ve never seen eye to eye on this, and chances are, they probably never will.

“You, of all people, know what it’s like to grow up without a father figure— or worse, an
awful one. He might not be a great kid, and I might not be a good father— but at least he has
one.”

Yosano shrugs, mouth opening to fire back, and he can already see where this is going, so he
interrupts her. “Besides, something is going on in the city. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed
how restless the streets are these days. Something has everyone spooked, and I can’t figure it
out yet. I’ve lost one informant, and another one had his network destroyed. The Rats are
moving like they’re up to something— and I don’t know what. I bet Kouyou doesn’t either.”
He can see the indecision beginning to grow on her expression, so he lays the next piece, “We
can help each other. She has resources; I have information. It just makes sense.”

Yosano looks him over, weighing his words versus his expression. He’s always been a good
liar— to other people. Her eyes are too sharp to be fooled by him usually. He looks entirely
truthful right now, expression open and eyes wide with innocence.

Sighing, she turns the hair clippers off. “You’re done,” she says, referring to his newly
refreshed undercut.

By the time she’s put away her tools he’s dusted off his cape and thrown his hair in the
garbage. He doesn’t break the silence, content to wait for an answer while she decides.

“Fine,” she snaps eventually, “I’ll see what I can do. No promises though.”

His grin is a privilege to see, because he doesn’t smile that often. It’s less rare these days, but
still a treat.

“Thanks, love,” he says, “I knew I could count on you.”

“Whatever, you jerk,” she says, hiding her smile behind a scoff, before she changes the
subject again, “I wanted to let you know— it’s one of the kids, Sakura’s, birthday next
weekend. We’re having a little party. I told Oda I’d invite you.”

His smile softens, growing smaller and more genuine. “I’ll see what I can do,” he responds,
mentally going over his schedule.

The best thing about being self-employed? There are only a few things that can’t afford to be
rescheduled. And for his extended family? He’ll make an exception any day.
He just wishes he knew that he would be basically losing them too when he gave up the
position of power, all those years ago.

If he had known, he would’ve savored them, for just a little longer.

God smiles upon Chuuya for one single, measly moment (that he totally deserves, after his
wet dream about Dazai) and puts Yuan in his calculus class. Honestly, he was expecting it to
be terrible, with her being distracting or not being able to keep with the rest of the class.

But she’s a surprisingly good student. Talks when the professor isn’t teaching, naturally, but
falls silent during the actual lesson. Her notes are pretty and organized by color, which
Chuuya is silently jealous of.

(His handwriting is crap, and he usually has to transcribe his own notes after class so he can
actually read them.)

And because this is Keio University, and the advanced math class—

They’re assigned thirty problems for homework, due next class.

“I’m going to kill myself,” Yuan promptly announces when they step out of the room
together.

Chuuya nods, agreeing, because he took a look at those problems, and half of them have
multiple parts. Which means they actually have closer to fifty problems, due in two days.

That’s only one class, mind you. On the first day.

“What do you have next?” He asks, mentally going over his own schedule.

“Chemistry, I think,” she sighs, side-stepping a pair of students nearly running down the
hallway. “Speaking of chemistry,” she continues, jostling him with her elbow, “how was
dinner?”

His face immediately turns red. He can’t even think about dinner without thinking about big,
brown, smoldering eyes which inevitably leads to the hazy dream memory of seeing them up
close and personal as Dazai fingered him, which leads to the memory of Chuuya grinding
against his pillow like a damn prepubescent teenager—

Which leads to the memory of Nikolai tossing and turning and waking up at the same time as
he was.

(No, he hasn’t talked to Nikolai at all today. He shoves the dirty pillowcase between the wall
and the bed, took what remained of his dignity, and fled for his damn life.

He doesn’t know if Nikolai heard. Or what he heard, if he did hear. He doesn’t even know
what he said, except for the stuff at the very end there.

How is he supposed to ask him, anyways? Go up to him like ‘Hey, did you hear my sex
dream? Oh, you didn’t? Cool, good talk.’?

‘Oh you did ? Mind not mentioning to our mutual friend that I was moaning his dad’s name
into my pillow like a pornstar? Thanks, you’re a good friend’?

It’s day one of college and he wants to die . )

“Fine,” he mutters, “nothing really happened.”

Yuan casts him a knowing look, lips curling into a smirk. “Oh? Did you at least kiss?”
Well. Technically, he was kissed. He didn’t kiss back , though, so he’s not exactly sure where
that lies on the scale.

“Yeah,” he ends up going with, shrugging his shoulders like it’s not a big deal. And it’s not—

So why is talking about it filling him with the slow, creeping filling of anxiety and something
that feels like shame? It has nothing to do with his complicated interest in Dazai. He just does
not want to discuss kissing Shuuji. It's not because he's shy, but more because he
feels...ashamed?

Confused?

He doesn't even know. He feels like he doesn't know anything these days.

Luckily, before he's forced to discuss the kissing any further, he lays eyes on something
interesting in the courtyard.

It's a faded statue, of a student with a book open in their hands and what looks like a bookbag
at their side. As he gets closer, he notices that the statue's eyes are closed. Odd, considering
that it's supposed to look like they're reading.

He stops to read the inscription, but it's been rubbed out by the sheer amount of people
running their fingers over it. "Do you know what this is for?" He asks, gesturing.

Yuan pauses, and she looks oddly solemn as she looks up at the statue. Her hand is tight on
her shoulder bag. "The rumor is, twenty years ago, the old dean of the college was in a war
with the Port Mafia. They're the most powerful Yakuza clan on this side of Japan, so
obviously they didn’t like that.”
It’s too early in the year for spooky stories, but Chuuya swears the temperature drops, the
windchill suddenly cutting through his jacket, straight to his bones.

“So, when they heard that the dean was going to the police with evidence against them... they
gathered up the dean and a handful of students, and executed them.”

So, it’s a memorial to the lost lives then? That doesn’t make sense to Chuuya, considering
that the yakuza wouldn’t want their carnage publicly displayed and remembered like this.

He frowns. “If it only happened twenty years ago, why is it only a rumor?”

Technology wasn’t that bad twenty years ago, and if they had enough evidence to make a
memorial, surely they had enough to confirm the story?

Yuan shrugs. “Well, if you look up the story, all you’ll find is a story of a fire in the original
building.”

His eyebrows shoot up. It sounds like some tragedy that was turned into a more anti-Yakuza
campaign, to him.

(Not that the yakuza don’t need a campaign against them, but there’s something terribly
disrespectful about spinning a tragedy into something that benefits the government.)

Yuan wiggles her fingers at him, like she’s demonstrating something scary. “Be careful you
don’t look too closely though; if you get too close to the truth, the Demon Prodigy will find
you first~.”

Chuuya snorts. “‘The Demon Prodigy’? What kind of nickname is that?”

Yuan laughs, shrugging a little. “Apparently he was some crazy yakuza person, raised a lot of
hell and killed a bunch of people. Guess he was in line to rule the city— but then one day he
just disappeared and no one’s heard anything since.”

Chuuya stares at her, expression deadpan. “Did yo u just tell me a ghost story?”

“Not a ghost story,” Yuan corrects, making a face at him, “I didn’t say he was dead. Who
knows, maybe he’s out there, watching. Waiting. Hunting.”

Her smile widens, and for a moment, it looks twisted and sharp, unhinged. “And who knows,
Chuuya? Maybe you’ll be next.”

Yeah, right.

“Sounds like some story to keep kids in line,” he brushes it off, “and besides; if he was active
twenty years ago, how old would he be now? Old as fuck? Grandpa demon prodigy? I’m
terrified.”

The first week goes by surprisingly quietly. He gets assigned a couple of hours of homework
for each class, which should be illegal considering he’s a full-time student and taking six
classes, but he makes it work.

The calculus gets knocked out pretty quickly with Yuan as a study partner. They make a good
team; usually, whatever she doesn’t understand he does and vice versa. It makes the work go
by quickly and less terribly than it would otherwise.

(He does end up looking into the memorial story, just for kicks. Like Yuan said, he only finds
the news articles of a fire. Assumingly started by underage smoking, and by the time it was
reported, the fire had grown out of control.

Tragically, there were seven deaths. No sign of Yakuza activity.

He does end up lingering on the page for a while, and clicking onto several articles just to
tempt his fate.

No antiquated demon prodigy jumps out at him, so he firmly slates the story as a spooky
story, and moves on with his life.)

Things with Shuuji are...surprisingly peaceful. They’re both busy and even though Shuuji
isn’t the best student, he does take his coursework mostly seriously.

Which means that beyond casual, daily texting and shared Snapchat streaks—they don’t
really see each other for the week. They managed to get a quick coffee together once, which
was cut short when Shuuji received a Snap notification and had to rush out.

Since they have different majors, and Shuuji chose to put off his math classes for another
year, studying together isn’t really useful for either of them.

Chuuya mourns that silently, because he always found the romantic study sessions in movies
kind of cute , but it’s fine. He has Yuan anyways, who he's starting to become close with,
which is pretty nice. He hasn't had a girl best friend in a while, and it's refreshing to
experience.

Along the way, Chuuya has been retrying the whole kissing thing. After a week of quick
fumbles in alleyways and being pressed up against walls, he's decided on a few things:

He doesn't mind—actually kind of likes —the quick pecks, the ones Shuuji gives him when
he's leaving or saying a quick hello. They're quick, with no expectations, and just a general
expression of affection, which makes him feel warm and giddy inside.

(He's always been a physically affectionate person. He hadn't realized how much he missed
the simple reassurance that contact brought him.)
It's when Shuuji gets... excited that Chuuya starts to feel a bit uncomfortable. Those have
expectations, and he kisses Chuuya like he's demanding more, like he's pressing the heavy
weight of his want onto Chuuya and expecting an equal response.

Truthfully, he still doesn't know how to respond to those kisses, especially the ones where
Shuuji pins him up against a hard surface or when he surprises Chuuya in the middle of his
sentence with a deep kiss.

He's trying though, and he thinks he's getting better at it. It takes him longer to get
uncomfortable now, and he even does his best to kiss him back. He's probably clumsy, but
sometimes he manages to pull a breathy noise from Shuuji's chest, which makes him thrill in
victory.

And the fact that he can enjoy kissing—even if it's hard, even if he still doesn't get the whole
'desperate for more, kissing for hours' concept that romance movies sell—makes him feel
normal . Like he can be normal.

Maybe not liking to kiss is normal, but when society places so much value on finding a
partner and doing things with them, the idea that he might not be like most of the population
—

It's scary. He wants to fit in. He wants to like Shuuji. He wants to like kissing him. He wants
to want to do something more with him, someday.

So, whenever that weird pit of anxiety and insecurity begins to bubble up inside him, he
breathes through it until it settles back down again.

He can do this, he just has to work for it.

So, when Shuuji invites him over to his house so they can watch movies together? He agrees,
feeling determined.
He's going to kiss Shuuji—or rather, let him kiss Chuuya, because almost all of the kisses are
initiated by Shuuji, mostly by surprise— and he's going to like it.

(Or at least not push him off after a few moments. He'll settle for tolerance, at this point in
time.

And he's not going to think about Dazai. Not once, not at all.)

Before he can go on Saturday, he has to finish most of his assigned work for the week, so he
spends the morning in the library with a big cup of coffee and his textbooks.

The lunch break he takes ends up taking longer than he expected, because his dad FaceTimes
him, with Kyouka squished up beside him. He missed talking to them, and they're
endearingly excited over the few stories he tells them about Yuan and Nikolai.

(Speaking of Nikolai, they haven't talked about ... it . The dream.

He's not sure if that's because there's nothing to talk about, or if they're both just avoiding the
subject, but either way, it's made the dorm a little tense and awkward to be in. At least for
him. Nikolai seems fine , so maybe he's just overthinking it.)

He doesn't tell them about Shuuji. He's not sure why not , really, only that he really doesn't
want to get into the way he's feeling about him and the struggle he has regarding that whole
situation.

Still, even with the distraction, he manages to finish most of his work— minus the case
readings for his prerequisite biology class—with a couple of hours to spare before Shuuji is
scheduled to pick him up.

They decided on watching a movie later in the evening, to give them both time to do their
work beforehand, and as a way to make up for the dinner that Chuuya messed up the last
time.
Two birds, one stone, as it were.

Nikolai is off at his job, so he has the entire dorm to get ready. He spends most of that time
doing his hair, wrapping strands around a curling iron to make them bouncier, loosely
pinning his bangs back to expose his face while still having wispy strands float around his
face.

He leaves off the makeup today, other than touching up his eyelashes with mascara— his
lashes are naturally a light orangey-red, so it's hard to see them without any mascara on them.

Twenty minutes before the meet-up time, he texts Shuuji to let him know that he's ready. His
dad always said that being early shows initiative and what better way to show enthusiasm
than being ready for their date almost half an hour early?

Shuuji doesn't text him back though, so he doesn't pull on his shoes and head downstairs until
five minutes before they're supposed to meet.

They have an unofficial meeting spot now, where Shuuji dropped him off the night they first
met, so he makes his way there, wallet shoved into the pocket of his jacket. He sits on the
bench, checking his phone for texts or calls. None.

He waits.

And waits.

Five minutes pass. Ten.

Fifteen.
Is he late? He's driving, so maybe he just hit some traffic and couldn't text to let him know?

(He ignores the fact that he’s seen Shuuji text while driving more than once.)

Something just ran late, Chuuya reassures himself, shooting off another text. He lost track of
time while doing homework or something.

Twenty minutes pass.

...Did he forget? Or did he not care?

Hurt and confusion and anger knot in Chuuya’s chest, tangling together so tightly together
he’s not sure if he wants to get mad at being left to wait, or if he wants to cry —

Clenching his teeth to fight back his reaction, he sends one more text. If he’s not here in five

more minutes, then he’ll go back inside.

[ CHUUYA ]: ??????? Where are you?? Are you not coming???

And just when Chuuya is about to take what remains of his pride and dignity back to the
dorm to cry about it—

The car pulls up in front of him, honking obnoxiously like Chuuya is the one that’s nearly 30
minutes late without communicating. He stomps over, ready to give Shuuji a piece of his
mind—

But when he yanks open the door, he’s greeted with a dazzling smile, brown eyes wide and
innocent and begging for forgiveness, and a messy head of hair that looks like fingers have
been running through it.
“Hey, darling,” he says sweetly, before Chuuya can yell, “Sorry I’m late— I lost track of
time. I would’ve texted you, but it was going to slow me down and I wanted to get here as
fast as possible.”

The car smells sweet, like candy and perfume.

“I brought you something, to make it up to you,” Shuuji continues, digging around in the
center console. After a moment, he produces a single piece of candy, offering it to him.

It’s a little crumpled but—

It’s Chuuya’s favorite.

He hesitates in the doorway, unsure of what he wants to do or what he’s feeling.

On one hand, the excuse is pitiful and the fact that he was so late makes anger and hurt well
up inside him.He should be more important than that, right? Losing track of time without a
single attempt of communication just sounds like he doesn’t want to be here, with Chuuya.
Like he doesn’t care.

On the other hand...he did come. And Chuuya only offhandedly mentioned his favorite candy
once, so it’s sweet that he remembered. Touching.

And more importantly...

He wants tonight to go well. Needs it to go well so he can try to put these feelings of
inadequacy and insecurity and confusion to rest.

Just for one night, he wants it to be easy.

So, he swallows hard and slides inside the car. He takes the candy, holding it in his palm like
a gift.

“Thanks,” he mutters, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice, “I wish you had texted
though.”

The car swerves into traffic, and Chuuya doesn’t like that he’s becoming so used to Shuuji’s
driving that he barely blinks when he cuts someone off with only inches to spare. “I know,
darling— but I just couldn’t.”

That explains literally nothing, but Chuuya decides to let it go. He unwraps the candy and
pops it in his mouth, sucking on it silently.

It doesn’t taste as good as it normally does.

Halfway through the drive, Shuuji gets a Snapchat notification that he doesn’t open right
now, but he does reach over to clear the notification from his screen.

Chuuya doesn’t notice, too busy staring broodily out the window and struggling to work
himself into a better mood. If he spends the whole date grumpy and bitter, it is going to ruin
the date. He won’t enjoy the movie, and if Shuuji kisses him now—

He’s more likely to bite him than to kiss him back.

And as they get closer to the house, the nerves begin to build, because there’s one thing he
forgot to consider:

What if Dazai is there?

To be truthful, he hasn't been able to get that dream out of his head. He's avoided thinking
about it too hard but—

There's times when he's zoning out and his mind wanders, bringing up the hazy memory of
brown eyes burning into him, their breaths mingling in the tiny space between them, a large
hand reaching between their pressed-together bodies, the feeling of desire so pressing and so
easy to give into, knowing that Dazai will take care of him, he'll make it good for him—

And the resulting bolt of heat that jolts through him feels as wrong as it feels good.

He shouldn't feel like this for Dazai. He should feel like this for Shuuji , right?

But whenever he thinks about Shuuji, all he feels is insecurity and the feeling of being on
edge, and when he thinks about Dazai—

All he feels is the desire to burn .

And Dazai seems to see much more than he lets on, and Chuuya has never been great at lying
so—

If he is there, if Chuuya even looks at him for a second, that dream is going to pop into his
head, and Dazai's going to know . Somehow.

He's going to know that Chuuya came while whimpering his name and then—

And then what?

That's the problem; he doesn't know . It's going to be weird, sure, but what else?
Will he be mad? Ban him from coming over to the house again? Stop Shuuji from seeing
him? Make sure he doesn't see Yoko again?

Will he not care?

(Would he like it?)

He's so caught up in his thoughts that the rest of the drive passes by without him noticing and
when he looks up at the house when they finally arrive—

Most of the lights are off, and the upstairs portion that Chuuya can see from here looks
unoccupied. Maybe Dazai's sleeping, but it doesn't look like anyone is home.

(He ignores the pang of disappointment that he feels.)

Shuuji takes up the entire driveway with his parking, and Chuuya exits the vehicle as fast as
humanly possible. The nausea isn't as bad today, because apparently he's getting used to the
driving, but that doesn't mean he wants to be in the car for any longer than necessary.

Shuuji goes to unlock the door, keys jingling. Chuuya is right behind, eagerly bouncing up on
his toes and waiting for Yoko to come bolting out of the door to greet him—

When the door opens, nothing happens.

No dogs come running out to greet him, no one with dark hair and criminally broad shoulders
looks at him.

It's just an empty house.

"Where are the dogs?" he dares to ask, kicking off his shoes alongside Shuuji. There's an
empty space in the line of shoes, like a pair has been taken.

Shuuji shrugs a shoulder. "I put them in their kennels before I left."

That seems like the opposite of what you should do with your guard dogs, but it's not
Chuuya's place to judge. "Where are they? I'd like to say hello."

Shuuji stares at him, like he's evaluating his words, like he doesn't trust him. Why is the idea
that he wants to say hi so weird to him? The dogs might not be very friendly with him , but
Yoko likes Chuuya just fine.

Eventually, he gestures to the long hallway to their left, haughtily, like he's doing Chuuya a
favor . "Down there, door on the right."

Honestly, maybe if Shuuji were nicer to the dogs, instead of treating them like pests and
something to be treated with force and disrespect, maybe they'd like him more.

Chuuya takes off down the hallway, finding the door Shuuji mentioned.

Inside the room, there's a few storage bins that look like they're filled with dog food, some
extra household items, and an entire bin filled with dog toys. Two kennels, filled with two
dogs that are very happy to see him.

"Hello Yoko, Kozo," he coos, reaching down to pet them through the bars of their jail cell.
Kozo presses his nose against the metal, squishing his own face, while Yoko spins in excited
circles, pausing intermittently to paw at the cage.

Clearly, they both want to be let out, and they aren't Chuuya's dogs but—

He bites his lip. The only reason Shuuji locks them up is because they don't like him, right?
So, if Chuuya makes sure they leave him alone, he won't care, right? He doesn't want to leave
them alone in here. They look so pitiful , eyes huge and pleading for him to let them out of
prison.

With steady fingers, he unlocks Yoko's cage first, then Kozo's.

Yoko tackles him to the ground, tail wagging so hard that her entire body moves with it,
pushing her face under his hands and basically petting herself. Kozo starts his customary
sniff-test, starting at Chuuya's feet and making his way up.

Chuuya squirms when he gets to his neck, because his nose is cold, and his breath tickles his
ear. Kozo follows him, intent on his job, before ending it with a long, wet lick over his face.

"Thanks," Chuuya mutters, wiping dog slobber off his cheek.

Not that he doesn’t appreciate the dog kisses, but he doesn’t want his face smelling like dog
breath. Not that Kozo seems to care, panting happily in his face and pushing his head into
Chuuya’s hand for scratches.

After he’s given Kozo his share of pets and Yoko her double share (unfortunately for Kozo,
Chuuya does play favorites) he lets them both out and walks back to the living room.

Shuuji has sprawled across the living room couch, remote in hand as he surfs the TV for a
movie to watch. He perks up when he hears Chuuya’s footsteps, only to scowl when he sees
the dogs trotting happily beside him. “Why’d you let them out? I didn’t say you could.”

That is true, and it makes Chuuya hesitate. He hates being rude but there’s just no reason to
have the dogs locked up where they can’t do their jobs.
That thought inspires him. “Well, I feel safer when they’re not locked up. Your dad’s job is
dangerous, right? What if something happens?”

He adds in his best puppy eyes, staring at Shuuji until he reluctantly backs down.

“Fine,” he agrees, “but put them outside. I’m more than capable of protecting you.”

That makes Chuuya bristle, because he is a Judo champion, thank you very much, and can
certainly protect himself, probably way better than Shuuji could. It also implies that Chuuya
is weak or maybe soft, and either way, it makes irritation buzz through him.

Whatever, though. Shuuji can tell himself whatever he wants, while Chuuya wins by having
the dogs out.

He does usher them outside though, pushing on Yoko’s nose when she tries to follow him
back in. “I’ll be back for you,” he whispers conspiratorially, giving her a quick kiss on the
forehead before shutting the door.

She looks at him through the glass like she’s never experienced such betrayal before.

He pads back to the living room, settling on the couch near Shuuji. After a moment's
hesitation, he scoots a little closer, trying to be a good date and show that he likes him.

The smile he gets in return soothes the strange tension in his stomach, a tension that usually
urges him to get some distance between them.

He doesn’t know what movie Shuuji chose—some scary movie, he guesses, based on all the
fake blood and props. It’s too early in the year for scary stories, though apparently this friend
group doesn’t seem to care that much. Maybe the story Yuan told him at the beginning of the
week was part of a plan?
Who knows.

The movie is cheesy, not scary at all unless you count the random jump scares sprinkled
throughout.

Shuuji even yelps at one of them, which makes Chuuya smile.

For a long while, everything is good. The movie isn’t scary, but it’s funny, and he’s sitting
near Shuuji and he’s finally feeling relaxed.

For a while, at least.

Halfway through, fingers find his knee. They tickle more than anything, sending sharp
shivers down his spine, and something about the way they slowly creep upward before
sweeping downward, only to slither back up again even higher—

It makes him nervous. Makes him shift in place and swallow hard to calm the ball of anxiety
in his stomach.

It’s not bad , he just—

Doesn’t think he wants it.

But Shuuji is staring at him, Chuuya can see it from the corner of his eye.

And he’s—

He doesn’t know what Shuuji will do if he says no again. The first time, he had to walk
home. The second time, he got irritated with him.
He doesn’t know what the third time will bring him, and isn’t he supposed to like this?

That’s what he said he’d do, and god, he just wants to have a normal, fun date that doesn’t
end with him feeling even worse than before.

So, he allows it, tells himself to stop being so dramatic about some fingers on his thigh. It’s
not a big deal. He’s just being a dramatic cry baby.

Then, eventually:

“Chuuya.”

Shuuji’s voice somehow makes him flinch harder than all the jump scares in the movie. He
laughs it off nervously, turning his head to look at him. “Yeah?”

And he should really be expecting it, it’s par for the course by now, and he feels pretty stupid
for not anticipating it—

Shuuji kisses him.

They’ve gotten better at it over the week, so it’s less harsh than the first kisses, more
welcoming. Chuuya forces himself to relax into it, because he knows this. This is familiar
ground. It may not be as good as everyone says it is, but it’s not awful , not anymore.

For a minute, it’s good. Their lips move together and Shuuji has been chewing gum, and it’s
just...

It’s alright. It doesn’t make him shiver, and the hand stops on his thigh, a little too high for
comfort, but at least it’s stopped moving.
Then, Shuuji gets excited , confident, sure of himself. He pushes forward for more, trying to
deepen the kiss by force.

Chuuya is automatically flinching back before he realizes it, but Shuuji chases after him,
breath sickeningly hot.

It goes like that, a dance of retreat and follow, until Chuuya realizes he’s made a grave error:

Instead of scooting back, he’d just leaned back, relying on his abs to keep him upright. But
he’s sitting on the couch, and he only has so far he can go until—

His back hits the cushions, and now he’s trapped .

Shuuji is leaning heavily on him, most of his weight centered over his hips, and he’s still
trying to kiss Chuuya, harder and deeper. His hands clench down, hard , on his shoulders, and
Chuuya’s mind—

It goes blank, flashing back to the times he had to shove Shuuji off him with most of his
strength and then—

Then it comes alive with panic and fear, because Shuuji is so heavy on top of him, and
Chuuya doesn’t have a lot of leverage and he’s trapped and he won’t stop , he’s still kissing
him, why hasn’t he stopped—

He’s fighting before he realizes it, most of his training fleeing his mind in panic, and he’s
planting his hands on Shuuji’s shoulders and shoving him back.

Get off, get off, please get off me—

“What the fuck , Chuuya?”

His voice is like cold water on his head, stalling his mind in its track and his breath in his
chest.

Shuuji sits up, wiping his mouth. “Will you stop acting like I’m a bad guy who’s going to
hurt you? I haven’t even done anything to you!”

Chuuya opens his mouth to snap back ‘you have done something to me, you make me feel
stupid and wrong and you don’t make me feel safe and I have no idea what to do about it and
you don’t help —’

But then he realizes...

That’s not exactly fair, is it? Yes, Shuuji is pushy and forceful but—

Chuuya hasn’t exactly told him a straightforward no, has he?

He’s been treating Shuuji like someone he has to handle and force himself to tolerate, when
he hasn’t even tried to communicate. He never told him he was uncomfortable. He never told
him he didn’t like what he was doing. How was he supposed to know? He can’t read
Chuuya’s mind.

Maybe if he had tried talking to him instead of avoiding it and trying to silently manipulate
the situation into something that was better for him—

Maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting here, feeling like pure,
utter shit, so guilty and still shaking from the brief panic.

God, why is he so fucking stupid? Why can’t he do anything right?

He closes his eyes, feeling the prick of tears. “I’m sorry, I just—I guess I just don’t like being
pinned. I didn’t mean to freak out like that.”

“That’s not what you were saying this whole week?! You liked me pushing you against the
wall just fine then, didn’t you?”

He didn’t actually, but it was better and easier to handle when he was standing. “I just wasn’t
expecting it, and it freaked me out a little. I don’t think you’re gonna hurt me, I just— I don’t
like being taken by surprise, that’s all.”

Shuuji stands up, and now he’s angry , voice rising and shaking with it. Again , that’s not
what you’ve been saying this whole time! I’ve been kissing you like that the entire time and
suddenly you have a problem with it? Make up your fucking mind, Chuuya.”

Chuuya curls up, fighting back tears. He doesn’t like that Shuuji is yelling at him about this.
It makes everything so much harder to deal with, the knot of emotion winding tighter in his
chest.

It’s getting hard to breathe.

He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling right now, only that there’s a lot of it, and it’s
making him feel sick. “I’m sorry —,” he tries again, desperate.

He just has to explain better. Maybe if he could fucking speak instead of crying like a baby
right now, he wouldn’t be yelling.

Shuuji scoffs, throwing up his hands. “Whatever, Chuuya. Make up your mind, and then
come talk to me. This whole hot-and-cold, teasing thing is not cute. Grow up.”
Then he leaves, which is a blessing and a curse, because Chuuya’s ears are ringing in the
sudden silence, and he’s breaking down but—

At least it’s over. At least it’s done.

When the scratch at the back door comes, Chuuya flinches hard. His heart is still beating
overtime and every nerve is on edge.

It’s only until another scratch comes that the sound registers.

The dogs.

Something about that, the dogs needing him, the dogs wanting him makes him choke up,
throat closing. He stumbles up, vision blurred, and staggers to the back door.

Yoko is waiting for him, and when she sees him, she knocks at the glass again. She looks so
soft, warm and welcoming and gentle—

Chuuya wants her so bad right now.

So, he opens the door to let them both in, falling to his knees to wrap his arms around Yoko’s
neck tightly. She sits still for him, her head hanging over his shoulder as he buries his face
into her soft neck fur.

Kozo comes to investigate, snuffling his hair, making a low whining noise in the back of his
throat.

Chuuya laughs wetly, reaching a hand out to pet him. “I’m okay, Kozo,” he murmurs, petting
him mindlessly.
Truthfully, he’s not. But now that it’s over, and he has someone warm and loving and gentle
in his arms, letting him cry over them—

He’s getting better. Slowly but surely.

He kneels there on the floor until his knees ache, hugging Yoko around the neck and stroking
Kozo’s head. Neither of them move, not even Kozo, who usually leaves Chuuya alone after a
long hello. Both of them seem to sense how much he needs them right now, because they sit
on the floor with him, and when he eventually moves back to the couch, they follow at his
heels.

He doesn’t know if they’re allowed on the couch, but he doesn’t care right now, squishing
himself tightly against the back and patting the empty space in front of him until Yoko climbs
up and cuddles up with him.

Kozo remains on the floor, and Chuuya dangles one hand over the edge so he can rest it on
his head.

He knows he should go home now, but he doesn’t want to see Shuuji right now. Doesn’t want
to argue again and doesn’t want to have to beg for a ride home. Also doesn’t want to see
Nikolai right now, and have to explain why he’s still silently crying.

It’s okay, he tells himself miserably, he’ll just wait until Dazai gets home, and he’ll ask him
for a ride.

Eventually, the movie they had playing on the TV ends, and the screen goes black. He
doesn’t start up another one, partly because that would mean getting up and moving, and
partly because the remote is complicated and he’s too stupid to figure it out right now.

As the sun goes down, the living room goes dark.

Eventually his tears stop, and even more eventually—

His hands still, and he falls asleep, curled up on the couch and waiting for Dazai to come
home.
 Dog Tricks
Chapter Summary

Worse than that, Dazai is staring straight at him, while Chuuya figuratively drools over
him, face on fire.

Dazai has a knowing smile, a sharp glint in his eyes, and he has to know. There's no way
he doesn't. The tension is so thick in the air that Chuuya feels like he's choking on it, and
he's hypnotized, drawn in, always desperate for more--

"I want to ask you something," Dazai says suddenly, jolting Chuuya in his seat.

Embarrassed, he looks down at his pancakes and painstakingly cuts himself a piece. It's
not like he can play it cool when he was just staring at Dazai like he was more
appetizing than the pancakes on his plate but he tries anyway. "What?"

Dazai stares at him for a while, quietly evaluating, like he's searching for something to
confirm thoughts he already has. Then he asks, carefully, like he's not sure of the
response, "Did something happen last night?"

Chapter Notes

Hello!!!
Today we have:
- protective dazai
- chuuya in dazai's clothes
- sexual tension in the kitchen ft. peak daddyzai
- dog training

Hope you enjoy!! See you guys next week <3 as always, if you want to see more
content, follow me on twitter @H4NDKINK and @bloodsvgarr <3

By the time Dazai gets home, he’s too exhausted to even get mad at the car parked lopsidedly
in the driveway.

Usually he feels some anger and irritation but it’s been a long day. Half of his information fell
through and the other half had to be beaten out of his informant, and now there’s blood on his
knuckles, which ruins the foundation covering his tattoos and it’s two in the morning, he’s
exhausted and barely got any progress done today, and there’s even more work tomorrow—

So yeah, when he sees that stupid car parked like Shuuji hasn’t even seen a parking lot?

He just doesn’t care anymore. Just one more thing on top of his bad day. He’s not even
surprised. Just a normal Saturday in his life! Welcome to paradise, he grumbles to himself,
before parking his motorcycle in the tiny space left to do so.

At least the car is locked. He’ll have to move it in the morning, but that is a problem for
future Dazai.

Present Dazai’s problem is one he isn’t expecting, though:

When he opens the door, stepping into the dark house and going to hang up his keys—

A loud growl rips through the silence, making him freeze in place.

It’s taken a long time for Dazai to get over his fear of dogs. It took handling Kozo and Yoko
since they were too young to even leave their mother, sleeping with them, carrying them with
him wherever he went as exposure therapy.

It took teaching them a command that told them to immediately back off and lay down,
whenever his fear started to act up. It took wrestling with them with the bite sleeve on, until
he was confident that they wouldn’t add to the myriad of bite scars already marked into his
skin.

It took a long time to get past all his bad memories but—

When that growl tears through the air, vicious and dangerous, a clear warning and prelude to
more—
For a moment, he’s fifteen again, locked in a corner as the dogs approach, snarling and
slavering over their jaws as they hunt him down. Knowing no one is going to come for him—

Because he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

First rule of the mafia, Dazai-kun: your subordinates must fear you more than they respect
you.

Stop.

He’s not fifteen anymore, he’s not in the mafia, and he’s not a helpless, scared child anymore.
He’s not under Mori’s power, beholden to the whims and kindness of a cruel man.

He’s a grown man, this is his house, and these are his dogs.

Who would not snarl at him without a reason.

The light from the lamps outside is just enough to reflect off their eyes, glinting at him from
two different spots of the room. They’re staring him down, locked on target, waiting for a
reason to lunge.

Warily, he flips the light switch, lighting up the living room.

And finds himself with a weird situation, one he’s not quite sure how to handle.

First off, Kozo is lying between the front door and the entrance of the stairs. He’s got his
head up and staring him down intently.
Usually, Kozo sleeps in the kitchen. Probably thinks that it’s going to get him fed earlier. And
he sleeps on his side, and his fur is long enough that he gets the doggy version of bed-head,
looking rumpled on whatever side he was sleeping on.

Now, his fur is sleek and neat, so obviously he wasn’t really sleeping. He was just... laying
between the stairs and the couch? Waiting?

And the second part, this is the weirdest one—

Yoko is on the couch.

Normally, he’d discipline her for that, because they’re not allowed on the couch (their claws
tear up the fabric so quickly and their fur gets everywhere ), but she’s perched with her front
legs on the back of the couch, her back legs still on the cushions, her head lowered and eyes
fixed on him—

And she’s the one growling at him, even now.

What the hell happened? He was only gone for a few hours, definitely not long enough for
his dogs to lose all sense of manners, and definitely not long enough for them to turn on him.

He leans over cautiously, looking over the side of the couch to see what she’s guarding so
fiercely—

Oh.

It’s... Chuuya? Curled up in a little ball on the couch, fast asleep.

He didn’t even know Chuuya was going to be here today. Clearly something happened to
have the dogs so anxious, but the house looks fine and the security system is untouched.
He looks at Chuuya, curled up as small as he can get, looks back at Yoko who is
basically standing on him as she guards him.

Honestly, he has no idea what’s going on, and he can’t exactly find out without waking up
Chuuya.

To do that , he has to get past Yoko. Since he doesn’t want his fingers bitten off just yet, he
leaves Yoko to her job for now.

Instead he goes to Kozo, crouching down beside him and offering his hand to sniff. He’s
much calmer, though he’s very interested in the blood on Dazai’s knuckles, spending a decent
amount of time snuffling at his hand.

When he doesn’t move, Dazai lays his other hand on his head, ruffling his ears fondly.
“What’s got you so worried, boy?” He murmurs, his gaze wandering to the stairs. He’s
starting to get some suspicions, based on the fact that Kozo is lying in front of the stairs and
blocking the entrance—

And he doesn’t like any of the thoughts that pop up in his head. Even the tamest one makes
his jaw clench and anger begin to swirl inside of him.

Once Kozo is settled, he moves onto the kitchen, leaving Yoko to calm down a bit more
before he dares to approach her.

He washes his hands, makes himself something quick and easy to eat and then—

Begins to look for evidence.

Clearly something happened. The dogs aren’t that easy to rile up, and the fact that they’re
guarding Chuuya after he’s been sleeping for a while, means that something put them on
edge.

But there’s nothing he can find. The doors are locked, the windows are intact and shut, the
security system is uncompromised. Even the kitchen is clean.

There’s no trace of anything .

The only people in the house who know what happened are Shuuji...

His eyes wander back to the living room.

And Chuuya.

When he steps back into the living room Yoko has left her perch and is now sitting on the
floor near Chuuya’s head, sitting alert and facing him. He doesn’t dare approach him without
getting her approval, so he walks up to her cautiously.

She lets him approach, but her tail does not wave and her eyes do not leave his face. She’s as
stiff as a board, tension vibrating through her.

It makes his head ache with memories, but he crouches down calmly next to her and lets her
take him in. Clearly, she needs to be reassured that he’s not an enemy she needs to defend her
friend against, and even though he hates these kind of stand-offs—

He does it for her. And for Chuuya.

Eventually she leans forward to sniff him, and he smiles, offering up his hand.
“You’re choosing him over me, huh?” He says softly, letting out an amused huff. “Who knew
you would turn traitor so easily?”

She sniffs his palm haughtily, eyeing him. Then she completely dismisses him, turning back
to push her head underneath Chuuya’s dangling hand.

Dazai hasn’t looked yet. Is a little afraid too, really, because his imagination is bad enough
and if he finds him hurt—

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to control himself. Not today, not with this.

Still, he can’t just not look so he prepares himself, clenching his jaw until it aches as he turns
his head—

Chuuya looks...

Exhausted, more than anything, deep circles under his eyes and his face pale and wan. His
hair is a mess and sticking up in odd places. It looks like it was curled once, but has been
flattened by the way he’s sleeping.

There’s traces of mascara on his cheeks, hastily wiped away. He’s been crying.

The jolt of fury is so visceral that Dazai has to close his fist around his leg, digging his nails
in to gain control of himself. His heart is suddenly roaring in his ears, and that dark,
traumatized, violent part of himself wants blood .

He forces himself to keep looking, checking him over for blood or injuries.

Chuuya looks otherwise okay, his clothes rumpled but intact, no trace of injuries, breathing
deep and even.
Just the crying then.

It feels wrong to be relieved by that, but for a second, with how heavily he was asleep, Dazai
thought—

He really thought—

Thought he was going to be looking at a victim instead of a boy exhausted by an emotional

breakdown. Which doesn’t make it okay , but it does make it the best possible outcome.

The question is, what does he do now?

He doesn’t want to wake him up. He looks so exhausted that the thought of shaking him
awake makes Dazai ache with sympathy. He needs sleep more than he needs Dazai
interrogating him on what happened.

He could go upstairs and drag Shuuji out of his bed and demand what happened but—

Without Chuuya awake to give his story, he won’t know if he’s lying.

(He wants to go up there. He does. He wants to go up there and demand why Chuuya cried
himself to sleep on his couch and what the fuck happened to cause it, and if Shuuji did
something or if he dares to lie to him again—

God, he’s so angry.)

But that won’t accomplish anything, not yet. He needs to wait. Needs to be patient .
Needs to plan.

But first—

He needs to get Chuuya to bed. The redhead looks comfortable on the couch, curled up and
snoring away, but there’s no pillows and no blankets. It’s warm enough to sleep without one,
but he looks so pitiful like this. He can’t just leave him here, like a homeless kitten curled up
in the only warmth it can find.

With a sigh, he stands up again, taking a step closer. Yoko backs off a little, finally accepting
that he’s not going to cause any harm.

He has to bend down quite a bit to slide his arms gently under his body, one under his legs
and the other supporting his back. He’s light enough that it’s barely a strain to stand back up
with him.

Dazai freezes when Chuuya stirs, wondering exactly how he’s going to explain why he’s
carrying him in his sleep—

But he doesn’t wake fully, only turning his head into Dazai’s chest with a sleepy sigh and an
incoherent mumble.

Dazai’s heart feels too big for his chest, suddenly. “Shh, sweetheart, go back to sleep,” he
murmurs quietly, shushing him, “I’ve got you.”

Both of the dogs wait at the bottom of the stairs as he makes his way up slowly, careful to
keep his steps quiet.

Once, he had a guest bedroom, but it’s been converted into Shuuji’s room, so there’s really
only one place to bring him—
With one hand, he unlocks the door to his room and pushes it open with his shoulder.

Everything in his office is as he left it, so he moves to the other door in the room, which leads
to his actual bedroom. The red lights under the bed frame are his only source of light as he
brings Chuuya over to the bed.

He sets him down as slowly and gently as he can, on the side Dazai doesn’t sleep on. He’s not
sure why it matters, considering he’s not going to sleep in his bed tonight, if he even sleeps at
all, but it just feels right.

Tucking a pillow under his head and pulling the thick comforter over his legs—sleeping in
jeans and a sweater probably isn’t comfortable, but Dazai doesn’t know him well enough to
strip or change him— he makes him as comfortable as possible.

He goes to pull away, only to find—

A tiny, stubborn hand fisted in his shirt, refusing to let him go.

Dazai’s lips twitch, fighting a smile. Cute .

It takes gentle uncurling and prying of his fingers to get him to let go. As soon as he does,
Chuuya is shoving his hand under the pillow, dragging it close with a sleepy-grumpy
expression.

Dazai steps back quietly, and all that anger he was feeling a moment ago? Gone, for the
moment.

Chuuya looks so small in his bed though, barely taking up even a sliver of it. Of course,
Dazai’s bed is custom made for his height, and therefore massive, but—

How does he look so tiny? It’s not fair.

Then, because Chuuya apparently had a bad day, he makes an exception .

He calls the dogs, and only has to wait a moment before they’re at his heels, waiting for
directions. Gesturing towards the bed, he says quietly, “Up.”

Yoko hops up immediately, curling up against Chuuya’s torso while resting her head on the

same pillow as him.

Kozo looks at him like he’s lost his mind, which, to be fair, Dazai feels like he has too. The
dogs have never been on his bed before, and Chuuya doesn’t even have to ask for Dazai to
break his rule for him.

When he gestures again, Kozo follows the order and leaps up. He stretches out full length
against Chuuya’s back, nearly as tall as he is.

Now he looks even smaller with the dogs pressed up against him, so tiny that Dazai just
wants to pick him up again and—

Spinning on his heel, he leaves, refusing to follow that line of thought.

Something makes him pause in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder.

His room has always been a source of contention for him. It’s simultaneously his safe place,
but also the place that causes him the most irritation and pain when his insomnia kicks in.

Sometimes the image of his bed makes him fuzzy and thick with sleep. Sometimes the image
makes him want to break things.
Now, though—

It makes something warm glow inside him, settling somewhere deep in his chest.

There’s just one thing missing:

He gives the command for ‘guard’ and something inside him slots perfectly in place when he
sees Kozo lift his head and place it over Chuuya’s back.

He leaves them all to rest, knowing that nothing will happen to Chuuya while he sleeps.

Not when the dogs are here.

Not when he’s here.

The first thing Chuuya registers is the feeling of warmth. Heavy, all-encompassing, drugging
warmth that leaves all his muscles limp and tempts him back to sleep.

For a long while, he just basks in it, in the feeling of complete relaxation and safety and
softness. Moving would mean giving up this heavenly warmth so he just doesn’t, luxuriating
as his mind slowly rises into wakefulness.

The second thing he notices is that two giant, heavy lumps of warmth are moving
rhythmically against him. There’s the sound of rushing air, deep but steady.

Confused, he blinks open his eyes—

Only to be met with Yoko’s sleeping face, a few inches of his own.

Oh.

Along his back, now that he’s more awake, is the distinct shape of another dog. Kozo is lying
full length against him, with his heavy head resting on Chuuya’s back. The fact that the dogs
stayed with him through the entire makes him feel giddy and warm inside, smothering his
grin into the blanket.

...The blanket. He didn’t fall asleep with a blanket.

It’s only then that he notices that he is not on the couch in the living room anymore. He’s also
not in Shuuji’s room, because his sheets are a pale blue, and the blanket covering him now is
a pure, pitch black.

He shifts more onto his back to look around, reaching behind him to pat Kozo in apology
when he gives a sleepy grumble at being disturbed.

The room is completely unfamiliar. To his left, there are floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains,
assumingly covering a large bank of windows. It feels early, but the only light in the room is
a red glow that comes from underneath the bed.

In front of him, there’s a door, just slightly ajar. He can just barely see a sliver of what looks
like marble and the glass of what might be a standing shower. The bathroom, then, and
because this room is much bigger than Shuuji’s and the only room Chuuya hasn’t seen yet—

It must be the master bathroom, in Dazai’s room.

How did he get here?

He doesn’t remember waking up at all— in fact, he slept so deeply that he doesn’t even
remember dreaming, only a thick, heavy wall of blackness dragging him into sleep. Not to
mention that he would have had to go through Dazai’s office to get into his room, and the
office is usually locked.

Shuuji never once came to check on him after their argument, so Chuuya would guess that he
wouldn’t bring him to bed, let alone Dazai’s bed, which means—

Dazai picked him up and carried him to his bed, where he slept peacefully all night.

Oh god .

There’s no one in the room besides him and the dogs, but he still yanks the comforter over his
face to hide the red flush that floods his face.

What Dazai did was sweet but—

He talks in his sleep. What if he said something? What if he said something weird?

Or worse, what if Chuuya said his name ?

(Despite his best efforts, he has not forgotten the wet dream. And even if PG-13 dreams often
have Dazai in them somewhere . His sleeping brain is obsessed.)

Lowering the blanket a little, he peeks over to the other side of the bed, allowing himself to
imagine, just for a moment, what it’d be like to wake up with Dazai next to him.

He’d be warm, and take up most of the bed probably, and he’d have adorable bed head.
Chuuya already wants to sink his fingers into the softness of it, pull on it.
It’d be nice, he thinks, and to be honest, he want s it.

Despite that though, he’s glad it didn’t happen tonight. After the emotional whiplash of last
night, the idea of waking up in a strange bed with someone who is still essentially a stranger
— a hot stranger, but a stranger nonetheless— would probably have made him nervous.

As it is, the sight of the untouched bed on the other side, comforter neat and ice-cold—

It makes him soft and warm, subtly and silently reassured.

By now he’s completely awake, and his jeans are starting to get uncomfortable. They’re one
of the tightest pairs he owns, and they dig painfully into the skin of his hips. He didn’t notice
while he was sleeping, of course, but now that he’s awake, it hurts.

There’s also crust on his cheeks and eyes from smeared mascara and leftover tears, and he
already knows his hair is sticking straight up in wild tangles.

In short, he feels crusty and dirty and probably looks worse.

Wiggling out from between the dogs is harder than it seems, but he manages it, carefully
extracting his legs. He has to crawl to the bottom of the bed to avoid climbing over Yoko, but
she looks dead asleep and he doesn’t want to disturb her.

Pushing open the door he’d noticed, he finds that not only is it a bathroom, but it is the most
luxurious bathroom he’s ever laid eyes on.

The entire thing is lined with black marble with golden streaks through it. The mirror takes
up an entire wall, and there’s a full size freestanding tub that Chuuya is dying to use. There’s
a shower too, with golden fixtures and a glass door leading inside.
Every time he forgets for a second that Dazai is absurdly rich— he sees something like this
and is hit with it with it all over again.

He crosses over to the sink to wash his face, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror just
yet. He already feels too poor to even be in here, he doesn’t need to remind himself that he
looks too bedraggled too.

When he turns on the water, it is immediately warm, something that Chuuya appreciates
greatly. The showers back at the dorm take at least five minutes to even be lukewarm, and
there’s only about fifteen minutes of hot water if he’s lucky.

He washes his hands first, then his face, carefully rubbing off the streaks of mascara and the
crust from his inner eyes.

Then he carefully combs through his hair with wet fingers, patting down the wild curls and
fixing his bangs. After a while though, he realizes it’s a lost cause and ties it all up in a bun
with the hair tie around his wrist.

Wishing he had a toothbrush, he rinses out his mouth real quick before leaving the bathroom.

The dogs are awake now, heads up and staring at him curiously as he crosses over to the other
door. It’s the only one he hasn’t opened yet, so he’s sure it leads to Dazai’s office.

Then he notices the chair by the door.

It’s big, thickly cushioned and a dark gray. It also has some folded clothes on it, placed
obviously enough that it would be hard for Chuuya not to notice it.

Curious, he picks them up. Once unfolded, he realizes it’s a pair of grey sweatpants and a
white button down that looks as soft as it feels.
There’s only one problem: when he holds the clothes up to his own body, they’re massivel y
big. The sweatpants alone end fifteen centimeters past his ankles, and he could wear the shirt
as a dress.

Biting his lip, he considers his options.

Either his day old jeans and pullover sweater that are probably soaked with the remnants of
emotional distress—

Or these comically oversized clothes that are soft and clean and haven’t been touched by
Shuuji.

All things considered, it’s an easy choice.

He has to roll the sweatpants up at the waist and the ankles to keep the fabric from dragging
on the ground, and he has to adjust the drawstring on them often. He doesn’t want to tie them
in too-tight of a knot, in case it doesn’t come free later.

The shirt ends up slipping over his shoulders whenever he moves too much, even when he
buttons it all the way up. He has to roll up the sleeves several times just to be able to use his
hands again.

All in all, he probably looks ridiculous, like a little kid wearing clothes way too big for him.

But they’re soft and clean and they have this delicious, warm, musky scent to them, and he
feels a lot better once he’s out of his clothes.

Then there’s nothing left to do but to go downstairs and face the music. He hasn’t heard any
noise from downstairs, and it still feels criminally early, but he doesn’t know what to expect.

Is Shuuji awake yet?

Is Dazai awake? Is he even still in the house? Did he leave again?

The dogs jump off the bed when he opens the door, making him wince with the extra noise.
He was hoping to creep out of here silently as he figured out what kind of situation he was
walking into.

Guess that’s not happening.

Dazai’s office is empty and silent, the laptop on his desk open but the screen off. Chuuya is
tempted to look around, because he still doesn’t know anything about Dazai’s ‘company’ and
he hasn’t seen anything that would give him clues elsewhere around the house.

That doesn’t seem right though, considering how kind—and teasing, but hey, Chuuya kinda
likes that too—Dazai has been to him. Invading his privacy would be wrong.

Besides, he’s never asked the man. Maybe he’ll tell him, if he asked directly.

So instead of rifling through the drawers, he moves to the door. Pausing just inside, he
presses his ear to the door and listens for movement, like some old-timey spy.

Silence.

When he hears nothing for a long while, he cracks open the door, peering out into the hallway
stealthily.

(He doesn’t know why he’s being so sneaky. It’s not like Shuuji is waiting in the hallway to
jump out at him, slinging accusations on why Chuuya was sleeping in his fathers bed.

And it’s not like Dazai is waiting for him to wake up, right?)
Either way, the hallway is empty and silent. He creeps out on his tiptoes, shutting the door
quietly behind the dogs.

He makes it to the stairs without incident, taking each step slowly and quietly.

He’s doing so well, until he gets to the bottom stair and—

The dogs come thundering down after him, nearly pushing each other down the stairs in their
efforts to be the first one down the stairs. Whirling around, he hisses, “You two are actually
killing me.”

Kozo ignores him, brushing past him on his way to the kitchen. Yoko sits at his feet, tail
wagging and giving him her best doggy smile.

Oh, fuck it then. It’s too late to do his walk of shame—without the shame part— in silence.

The living room seems exactly as it was last night, TV off and couch empty.

He turns the corner into the kitchen, Yoko on his heels—

And is greeted with the most heavenly sight he’s ever seen.

Oh my god.

It’s Dazai, leaning with his back against the counters, slumped over lazily. He’s got a cup of
what Chuuya thinks is coffee in his hands, holding it near his face as he breathes in the
aroma. He seems lost in thought, staring sightlessly in the direction of the living room.
His hair is messy, sticking up in random directions and exposing the fresh undercut
underneath. It looks like bedhead, but Chuuya’s brain is silently screaming about sex hair.

That’s not even the worst part. No, the worst part (the best part) is what he’s wearing:

Grey sweatpants that look coincidentally very similar to the ones Chuuya is wearing— and
not for the first time, Chuuya is cursing his height, because the counter is high enough and
he’s short enough that his vision cuts off at waist level— and...

A button down shirt that is completely unbuttoned, revealing a wide stripe of Dazai’s chest
and torso.

Chuuya swears he just died and is now staring at the pearly gates of heaven, and it has abs.
And perfectly sculpted pecs. And a deeply etched V-line, naturally leading his eyes down,
down, further —

Chuuya finally understands why it’s called a happy trail, because that dusting of hair leading
downwards makes Chuuya very happy indeed. Also makes him want to taste it, and all those
other muscles, feel the strength and effort Dazai has obviously put into his body—

He’s so fixated on staring at his abs, face slowly turning a bright, burning red, that he barely
registers the bandages covering his right shoulder and chest, and both of his forearms from
wrist to elbow.

Really, Shuuji could come pounding down the stairs right now and Chuuya would not even
notice, so busy is he drinking in the sight of Dazai warm, relaxed, and unaware.

(It’s a good thing that Dazai is very deep in thought, otherwise he would’ve noticed Chuuya a
long time ago.)

Eventually, his lungs begin to burn and Chuuya realizes he’s been holding his breath. His
quiet gasp breaks the silence, and the moment shatters.
Dazai blinks himself back into awareness and Chuuya is stuttering out a “good morning”
before he can realize that he’s just been standing here, staring at him.

Caramel eyes turn to him, a little hazy and unfocused. “Good morning.”

God, if the body is good, the voice is even better. Rough with sleep, low and rumbly. It curls
around Chuuya’s spine, strokes over his nerve endings, as intoxicating as any whiskey.

Luckily, Dazai takes that moment to tip his cup up and swallow the rest of his drink, sharp
Adam’s Apple bobbing in his throat.

Chuuya makes a strangled noise, fighting to keep his composure. How does he look so
effortlessly good, while Chuuya is standing here, swimming in—

In Dazai’s clothes, oh my god.

He blames how tired he was on why it took him so long to put that together. He’s wearing
Dazai’s clothes. That’s why they’re so big, and why they smell so good.

Dazai pushes off the counter, muscles rippling and moving under his skin.

Chuuya swears he’s going to pass out. He can’t take much more of this.

“Coffee?”

“God, yes,” Chuuya blurts out, barely aware of what Dazai asked him, only that there was a
question and there’s only one answer he can come up with right now.
Dazai doesn’t seem to notice any weirdness, reaching up to take another mug out of the
cupboard.

Chuuya takes this moment to mourn the fact that he’s not completely shirtless, because he
would kill to see his back muscles right now. He knows they’re sexy. He knows it.

After pouring coffee into each cop, Dazai replaces the pot. Turning around, he offers him the
cup. “There’s cream in the fridge and sugar in there—“ he gestures to a small container near
the coffee pot, “— if you want it.”

However, Dazai starts drinking his right away, which is simultaneously hot and makes
Chuuya grimace. He doesn’t like black coffee himself, but anyone who can drink the bitter
stuff and actually enjoys it?

Hot. A little crazy, but hot.

Shaking himself to get himself back under control, Chuuya heads for the fridge. The cream is
in the door, and he takes it to pour a splash of it into his own cup before putting it back.

When he brings the mug to his mouth, the aroma hits him. It smells good , expensive, rich
with caffeine. Chuuya isn’t a huge coffee drinker, so he’s not an expert—

But this is probably the most expensive coffee he’s ever smelled and now— he raises the cup
to his lips— tasted.

Notes of hazelnut and mocha burst over his tongue, sweetly hot. He sighs unwittingly,
welcoming the awareness that the coffee starts to bring him as he takes another long sip.

They enjoy their cups in silence for a moment, both of them too invested in their coffee to
make conversation.
Then Dazai sighs, looking over at him with a small, crooked smile. He seems so much more
approachable now, without that layer of teasing brought on by his silver tongue— and
somehow even hotter for it, because on top of being hot, he also seems friendly. “Are you
hungry?”

Now that he mentions it, Chuuya is hungry. Starving, actually.

He hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. He assumed he was going to have dinner with the
movie date, so he didn’t eat and then—

Well, then everything happened and he forgot he was hungry entirely. It’s probably been
almost eighteen hours since he last ate.

He bobs his head. “Yeah.”

“What do you want? I’ll make you something.”

No, he will not because if Dazai starts cooking right now, Chuuya will not be responsible for
what he does. A man who knows his way around the kitchen is outrageously attractive.

“That’s okay, I’ll just have cereal or whatever you have—“

Dazai stares him down. He does not offer him cereal, or let him off the cook. Apparently he’s
insistent on making Chuuya breakfast and won’t take no for an answer.

Naturally, Chuuyas loses the stare down. Mostly because he can’t actually make eye contact
or even look at him without his eyes sliding down to take in his still open shirt.

Dazai, he is learning, does not play fair.

“Fine,” he grumbles to himself, then louder, “I like pancakes? If you can make those? If not,
eggs are fine—“

“Pancakes it is,” Dazai interrupts him, spinning around to pull out pancake mix from the
pantry.

Noticing that Dazai’s mug, sitting on the counter, is already mostly empty, Chuuya takes this
moment to refill both of their cups.

That earns him a blinding, grateful smile, one that makes Chuuya’s knees weak and his chest
clench. He staggers off to sit at the dining room table before he does something stupid like
swoon.

“By the way,” Dazai says, gesturing with his chin at the counter, “I found your phone in the
couch.”

Oh. He hadn’t realized he was missing it.

He slinks over to grab it, retreating back to the table to check his messages from last night.

When he turns the screen on, he blinks in surprise. It’s barely 5am.

Personally, he’s a morning person, and he fell asleep earlier than usual, so it's no surprise that
he woke up so early.

Dazai though? He doesn't look like he slept at all , with dark circles under his eyes, and a
pale complexion.

Guilt trickles down his spine. Did he not sleep because Chuuya was in his bed? Or is it
because of something else?
Either way, he doesn't feel like he has the right to ask, so he just opens his phone silently,
checking his messages. He has a few twitter notifications, an unopened Snapchat, and a
message in the sibling chat he has.

Nothing important, and nothing he particularly wants to deal with this early.

Besides, he has a perfectly scrumptious view right now, of Dazai mixing a bowl of pancake
batter, corded forearms casually flexing with every rotation. He's got a pan already heating on
the stove, ready for the mix.

Yoko comes up to him, sniffing at his hands and whining softly. Confused, he pets her, unsure
of what she wants. Then he notices Kozo sitting at the back door, looking between him and
Dazai and the door.

Ah. They've been sleeping all night, they probably need to go outside. He gets up to open the
door for them, realizing too late that he forgot to ask if that was okay--

Dazai doesn't seem to notice or care, finally pouring the batter into the pan with a
concentrated look on his face. If he's bothered that Chuuya took initiative with the dogs, it
doesn't show.

Well, he's always been more understanding with the dogs than Shuuji ever was, so maybe he
shouldn't be surprised.

Using his spatula, Dazai flips the pancake easily and perfectly, not a smear of batter out of
place. He speaks over his shoulder at Chuuya, "Do you want syrup?"

Technically, Chuuya is supposed to be on a diet that restricts his sugar intact but—
He had a shitty day yesterday, and Dazai is turning to look at him with soft, syrup-colored
eyes, and yeah , he does want syrup. A lot of it.

A plate stacked high with pancakes— much more than he can eat himself and Chuuya is torn
between being offended that Dazai thinks he can eat so much and being grateful that he didn't
hand him a single pancake and expected him to be happy with it— is placed in front of him,
followed by an unopened bottle of syrup and a stick of butter.

He looks up, opening his mouth to thank Dazai when he realizes that he doesn't have a plate
in front of him, only his cup of coffee. "Are you going to eat?" he asks, gesturing to the food,
"I can't eat all of these."

Dazai smiles at him indulgently. Sometime when he was cooking, he'd run his hand through
his hair, so while it's still wild and curly, it's mostly swept back away from his face. "I don't
like western breakfasts."

Chuuya lowers his fork, frowning. "We could've had something else then—.”

Dazai leans back in his chair, setting his mug down. "I told you earlier, sweetheart," he says
slowly, his fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and slowly, oh so slowly, beginning to
button them up, "If you want it, it's yours."

Oh, there is certainly something Chuuya wants, his mouth going dry as he watches Dazai slip
the buttons in their holes, long fingers sure and confident. It's a shame that his abs are being
covered again, but something about watching him button up his shirt again is so erotic that
Chuuya can feel heat pooling in his stomach and thighs.

He can't look away, eyes fixed on the sure movements of his fingers, and god, is he imagining
that his fingers are brushing his chest more than strictly necessary, drawing attention to every
muscle as it's slowly, torturously, covered up?

Worse than that, Dazai is staring straight at him, while Chuuya figuratively drools over him,
face on fire.
Dazai has a knowing smile, a sharp glint in his eyes, and he has to know. There's no way he
doesn't. The tension is so thick in the air that Chuuya feels like he's choking on it, and he's
hypnotized, drawn in, always desperate for more--

"I want to ask you something," Dazai says suddenly, jolting Chuuya in his seat.

Embarrassed, he looks down at his pancakes and painstakingly cuts himself a piece. It's not
like he can play it cool when he was just staring at Dazai like he was more appetizing than
the pancakes on his plate but he tries anyway. "What?"

Dazai stares at him for a while, quietly evaluating, like he's searching for something to
confirm thoughts he already has. Then he asks, carefully, like he's not sure of the response,
"Did something happen last night?"

Chuuya doesn't freeze, but it's a close thing, fork noticeably slowing on it's way to his mouth.
Before he takes the bite, he asks cautiously, "What makes you ask?"

He can't think of any reason that Dazai would be suspicious. It wasn't a big deal, and it's not
like there was a crime scene or something.

Truthfully, he's not even sure why Dazai cares. Sure, he seems like a nice, caring guy, but he
doesn't owe Chuuya anything.

(Meanwhile, Dazai is struggling to find the exact words to use. He's well aware that he
doesn't know Chuuya as well as he might need to for this conversation.

He knows he's not exactly a trustworthy figure to him yet, so if something did happen, he
might not want to talk about it. And pushing him into a corner by saying that he knows
something happened because he was crying—
It might make him feel attacked more than reassured. He has to walk a careful line here,
offering Chuuya a choice and coaxing him in without scaring him off.

He decides to go with something in a little different direction.)

"When I got home, the dogs were...antsy. More than they should be or usually would be."

Chuuya chews slowly, contemplating. He's gotten along better with Dazai than with Shuuji
but—

Shuuji learned that behavior from somewhere , right? No one is just born like that.

While Chuuya certainly could have— and should have— communicated better, at the end of
the day, right now—

He's scared that 'like father, like son' thing might be a little more literal than usual. And the
idea that that perfect, charming face might twist with anger, that Dazai might raise his voice
and yell at him—

It makes him want to cry . He wants Dazai to be nice to him. He doesn't want him to be
angry, or upset.

Also, he just doesn't want to talk about it, mostly because he doesn't know how to explain.

'Shuuji did something I've been allowing him to do this whole time but this time I really
didn't like it so I freaked out'?

'I couldn't talk about my own feelings so it got me into a situation I didn't like'?
It just seems so stupid. So avoidable.

Swallowing, he avoids Dazai's eyes as he says, "Oh, it's nothing. We just watched a movie,
and it was scarier than I thought, so I just freaked out a little. That's all."

He hurriedly takes another bite to give himself time to avoid any follow up questions, if
Dazai has any.

(Dazai stares at him for a long while, mulling over his answer. It doesn't feel like the whole
truth, and it doesn't explain the dogs behavior. A scary movie with a few jumpscares wouldn't
set them off like that.

Part of him wants to push harder, to ask more questions, to get to the heart of it.

But he also realizes the importance of respecting Chuuya's boundaries, and not forcing him to
speak when he doesn't want to.

Besides, he has a better idea than questions.

He rises with his coffee, finishing the last swallow of his coffee in one gulp before setting the
cup in his sink.

Chuuya is sitting in his chair, tension vibrating through him, watching Dazai with a slightly
wary expression, which just makes Dazai sad.)

He touches the table as he passes by, somewhat close to Chuuya's elbow. "Come outside
when you're done, please. I want to show you something."

Then he's gone, disappearing out the back door and leaving Chuuya speechless after him.
Show him what, exactly?

It wasn't said with heavy demand or anything that implied a lot of expectation— so,
assumingly, he's free to go back upstairs or in the living room.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious, though.

His coffee is finished up with a few quick swallows, and he takes two more bites of his
pancakes to sate most of his hunger. He can eat again later— he wants to see what Dazai
wants.

Cleaning up quickly, he follows him outside.

Dazai is in the middle of the yard, bending over and cleaning up all the dog toys within a
space. The dogs are play wrestling with each other on the far side of the yard, chasing each
other for short distances.

A little hesitant, Chuuya makes his way down to him. The grass is cold but not wet under his
socks.

"What did you want to show me?" He asks.

Dazai turns to him, and Chuuya is reminded all over again how tall he is, towering over him.
Somehow, it's easy to forget, because Dazai doesn't enforce his height, he just simply is.

His shoulders are broad enough to block out the entire world, narrowing down Chuuya's
awareness to just the space between them. He's big enough to hide behind, to curl into, to be
pressed up against and have nothing else bother him.

Dazai tilts his head in the direction of the dogs. "I'm going to teach you how to command
them."
His eyebrows shoot up, baffled. "That doesn't seem smart? Why would you tell a stranger
how to command your guard dogs?"

Dazai huffs out a breath, looking amused. "You're not a stranger to them, not anymore. If
they're going to protect you, then it's dangerous for you and them if you don't know how to
handle them and the situation."

What is he talking about? Why would they be protecting him? Sure, they like him, but he's
probably not going to be around long enough or often enough for him to make use of
training. “I...don’t think they’d do that?”

“Trust me,” Dazai says, his smile strained, “they will protect you.”

Well—

Is Chuuya really going to say no to learning how to control highly-trained guard dogs?

No, he’s not. It’d be fun to know, and maybe Yoko has some cool tricks to show on his
Snapchat story later. “Okay,” he says, nodding his head determinedly, “teach me.”

Dazai’s smile grows, turning into something happy and a little bit proud. “Good,” he
murmurs, taking a step so he’s standing just behind and to the right of Chuuya. “I want you to
repeat after me.”

He bends down lower, probably so Chuuya can hear him better, but all he can think about is
the sudden rush of Dazai’s hot breath over his ear, his voice so close that his soul seems to
vibrate along with every word he says.

Then there’s silence, and Chuuya keeps waiting for the next word to come, eyes half-lidded
with the desire for more of that deep rumble—
Wait, that was it, wasn’t it? He wasn’t listening.

“Uh,” he hedges, glad he doesn’t have to look at Dazai directly as he says, “can you say it
again?”

There’s a second of pause—

Then another breath, this one cold on his ear, and harder than the rest. A quiet reprimand, like
blowing on a cat when it’s being naughty.

“Pay attention, brat.”

Brat.

He instinctively scowls, because he’s only been called a brat when he was acting up as a kid .
He might be young compared to Dazai, but he’s not a kid anymore. He doesn’t want Dazai to
think he is, either.

Then Dazai is speaking again, slowly, carefully enunciating every syllable of the command.

It sounds like it’s in a different language, harsh and guttural, the syllables strange on his
tongue. German, maybe?

Chuuya tries it himself, a little stumbling, but he’s always been good with languages so he
picks it up rather quickly.

The first time he says it right, he turns to Dazai with a proud grin, giddy at his success. Dazai
is already smiling back at him, charmingly perfect. “Good. Now say it like you mean it.”
He straightens his shoulders, taking a deep breath. The command is said from his chest this
time, sharp and harsh.

The results are instant, the dogs immediately pausing in their play and rushing over. They
stop at his feet, sitting down with their ears alert and their eyes fixed on him.

He has to admit that does make him feel powerful, dangerous. In control. Almost like
carrying a gun in his hand, except this weapon is 50kgs and has fangs.

Dazai teaches him a few more commands and hand gestures, guiding him through making the
dogs sit, lay down, stay, guard.

Basic commands, ones that Chuuya would expect from any decently trained dog. To be
honest, while it does feel good, it’s not very exciting.

When you think of guard dogs, you think of giving them a command to attack and watching
someone get tackled. You don’t really think of ‘sit, stay, release’.

But then—

Dazai teaches him something cool . He’s taken Kozo away for this, leashing him to a post on
the other side of the yard. That leaves Yoko at his feet, alert and ready.

“I want you to remember that these dogs are dangerous. Kozo alone will take down someone
my size. And Yoko—,” he pauses there, a smile growing sharp and fierce in his face, “I have
yet to find anything she can’t defeat, given the right motivation.”

Chuuya shifts on his feet, a little confused. He would’ve assumed that, because Kozo is
bigger, he’d be the more dangerous one. “Kozo is bigger though? Shouldn’t he be more
dangerous?”
“In terms of size, yes. But in motivation? Yoko’s your girl.”

The next command is longer, a little more complicated, but once he gets it right—

Yoko hugs close to his feet, her head lowered with intent and the hair along her spine rising
up. She’s always been intimidating but now she looks frightening.

Dazai starts to circle him, keeping a careful distance between them. His walk shifts into
something more of a prowl, hips swaying to keep his weight evenly centered over his feet, his
footsteps utterly silent. His eyes, burnt sugar and whiskey, never leave him, unwavering.

He looks dangerous, a stalking predator, with his prey run down and vulnerable, exactly
where Dazai wants him.

Yoko follows his progress, circling tightly around Chuuya’s feet.

Dazai is at his back now, his presence like a crackling thunderstorm, rolling over Chuuya’s
nerves with electricity and the smell of something wild . Normally, Chuuya would be turning
with him. His martial arts masters would be rolling in their graves if they saw that he had let
someone pace behind him without contesting it—

But he’s frozen now, a mouse underneath the cat’s paw, with nothing else to do but tremble in
place and hope.

“This is called a secure. Her job is to ensure that no one enters your space.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dazai lunge , and Chuuya is immediately sinking into a
defensive position, knees bent and braced for impact—
But Yoko is already there, rearing up on her hind legs and letting out the loudest and most
vicious snarl Chuuya has ever heard, teeth snapping shut inches away from Dazai’s
outstretched fingers.

Dazai backs off nimbly, and now it feels like a game, with his eyes lit up with energy, feet
light.

“Not me.”

Again, he lunges, his hand reaching for Chuuya’s face—

The snarl Yoko lets out sounds like she would tear a man in two, all of her teeth ready to sink
into Dazai’s arm.

He jumps backward, a wild grin on his face. He doesn’t even look part of this world
anymore, like he’s some fierce, untamed creature, come to play and tease and taunt.

“Not Shuuji.”

That makes Chuuya’s eyes narrow, wondering if he knows more than he lets on.

Dazai goes for the back of the knees this time, like he’s going to topple him over and get him
on his back. Just as quickly, he has to snatch his arm back when Yoko greets him with fangs
and claws and a vicious snarl.

“She won’t chase,” he says, and he’s right, because when he backs up, she doesn’t follow,
keeping to her right circle around his feet. “But if you approach me...”

Raising his hands, he beckons Chuuya forward, giving him a come-get-me-grin.

He’s stepping forward automatically, drawn in by the sight of him playing, inviting him in,
asking him to join his game.

Yoko moves with him easily enough, and when he gets close enough, she’s forcing Dazai to
back off with a series of loud barks and growls.

Dazai steps back, stride for stride, and now Chuuya is chasing him around the yard, like a
higher-stakes version of tag.

It feels good like this, in the center of Yoko’s circle, like there’s nowhere safer for him in the
entire world. Just like that, the remains of anxiety and leftover panic are starting to fade away,
soothed by the sight of Yoko so fierce in her defense.

Would he ever use her like this? Probably not.

But knowing that he could , and she would respond to his command—

It feels fucking powerful , better than any of the times he succeeded in his martial arts
classes.

Eventually he herds Dazai almost into a corner— it’s not quite, he could still escape— but
Dazai raises his hands with a slow, self-satisfied grin, giving him the metaphorical white flag.

Chuuya wins.

He takes a step back, drawing Yoko away. After a moment of searching his memory, he gives
her the release signal, and crouches down to reward her with lots of pets.

Dazai stands in his place, looking altogether smug as he watches them together.
(Chuuya doesn’t realize it, but the exercise wasn’t just about teaching Chuuya how to control
the dogs.

It was about teaching him that he wasn’t alone .

It was about teaching him that there was always someone—soon to be two someones—who
were willing to do whatever it took to keep him safe.)
 Sun Stars
Chapter Summary

Now, Dazai wouldn’t say he was a very romantic guy. He’s done his fair share of
wooing and seducing and what have you, but normally he just doesn’t think about it. It
takes someone special to put him in the mindset of romancing and gift giving.

Which is why it’s surprising— and also not surprising, given the events of the the last
two weeks— that when his eyes turn to the bouquet section and fall upon a bouquet
filled with orange and white roses, dotted with yellow sun stars—

His mind immediately flashes to Chuuya.

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone! Another Saturday, another chapter! Thank you all for tuning in and
enjoying! <3 Means a lot to me.

This chapter we have:

- sexual tension
- Dazai driving <3
- flowers
- a little bit of sskk >:)
- a manipulative conversation

As always, thanks for reading! You can catch me on twitter @bloodsvgarr and
@H4NDKINK ! See you next week <3

After breakfast and playtime, Chuuya realizes that there's two problems he hasn't solved yet.

First off, his socks are now grass stained and dirty, and he's a bit sweaty. He needs a shower,
badly.

Secondly, and this might be the more worrisome one— he doesn't know how he's going to get
home.
Shuuji hasn't come down from his room the entire morning, so either he's not going to come
down, he's not home, or he's passed out so deeply that even the noise of the dogs won't wake
him up.

If he's still asleep, Chuuya doesn't want to go in there and wake him up before he's ready, and
if he's busy , he doesn't want to disturb him.

And if he's not home—

Chuuya doesn't think about that, the idea that he walked past Chuuya curled up and miserably
asleep on the couch and did nothing about it. He didn't even have a pillow.

He puts it off as long as he can, playing with the dogs and having fun with Dazai in the
backyard but eventually, his phone dies and he can't avoid it any longer. Dazai loans him a
charger, clearing off a space for him in the kitchen to plug his phone in. It's almost 9am by
now, and if Chuuya is going to start searching for a ride — maybe an Uber or even walk to
the nearest station— he should start soon.

First though:

"May I use your shower, please?" Chuuya asks politely, looking up at Dazai with pleading
eyes.

He still doesn't know where he stands with Shuuji, and if he's not going to come back for a
while— or maybe not ever— then he wants to experience the sheer brilliance of that shower
while he has the chance.

"Of course," Dazai says easily, though his eyes have sharpened and zeroed in on the stretch
of Chuuya's collarbone, exposed by the too-big collar of Dazai's shirt. He looks hungry.
"Towels are in the linen closet."
Chuuya nods gratefully, not even noticing the way Dazai's eyes are locked on him as he turns
around and walks out of the kitchen.

He's a bit louder coming up the stairs this time, on the off chance that Shuuji will decide to
wake up in time. He was respectfully silent the first time coming down, but it's been hours ,
and the day has already started.

Dazai's room and office look more interesting in the brighter light. He can see the odd file
and paperwork strewn over the desk. On the wall, there's a beautiful hanging collection of
knives, gleaming. He'd say that they were purely for decoration, but he touches one out of
curiosity, and they're wickedly sharp.

They're so ridiculously easy to pull off the wall. Not exactly harmless decoration then, are
they?

When he makes his way into the bathroom, he beelines for the shower. The faucet is tricky
and a little complicated to work, but he gets it after a long moment of fiddling.

The door does have a lock, but he doesn't use it, choosing to leave the door just slightly ajar.
Yoko has followed him up and has taken to laying outside the door, and after this morning—

He's feeling bold.

(Currently, Dazai is downstairs and fighting with every bone in his body to stop imagining
Chuuya in his shower, wet and naked and so pretty with that big, happy grin of his.

He's been in silent torment the whole morning, forced to watch Chuuya laugh and smile
while wearing his clothes, adorably big on him. So big that the shirt always slipped off his
shoulders and had to be fixed, always drawing Dazai’s attention back to the exposed skin.

Dazai wants to taste that collarbone, but he can't. He knows there was progress today— the
adorable flush on Chuuya's face as he buttoned up his shirt is still on his mind, and there was
a point where Chuuya leaned up against him, giggling— but it's not enough.

Even if it was, he's still torn on if he should. He’s never been torn up on morals before, but
it’s somehow unsurprising that the little redheaded minx would make him waver between
what he thinks is right and what he wants.

Either way, the thought of Chuuya in his shower, the shower where Dazai jerked off to
thoughts about him literally a week ago—

It's driving him insane . Driving him to the brinks of his very thin, very tested self-control.)

The water is blissful, immediately hot and filling the room with steam. The water pressure is
fantastic , pounding down on him with the strength to soothe any sore muscles. It's heaven
compared to the weak trickle back at the dorm showers.

He spends a while messing with the remote on the wall— there's colored lights on the ceiling
which makes no logical sense to have, but he does feel very cool and sexy with gold-tinted
water pouring down on him from above— and then he spends just as much time going
through Dazai's shower stuff.

He opens every bottle and sniffs it generously. Just out of curiosity, of course, not because he
likes the way the man smells.

He does have a decent array of items, which includes a separate face wash, body wash and
hair shampoo and conditioner, which is a relief.

(Chuuya saw that 5-in-1 soap in the other shower, and he was worried about who it belonged
to.)

Eventually, he runs out of things to prolong his shower, so he finally gets to washing his hair
and body, luxuriating in the feel of Dazai's body wash. He still doesn't have a toothbrush, so
he makes do with scrubbing his finger over his teeth and tongue, rinsing out his mouth with
the water.

When he shuts off the water and steps out, the room is mostly filled with steam, though it's
quickly escaping out the cracked doorway.

The linen closet is heated which is such a simple luxury that Chuuya never knew he needed,
because the feeling of the hot towel against him is heaven.

Then he comes across the next problem:

What is he going to wear?

His jeans, because while Dazai's sweats were comfortable, it's very distinctly not public wear.
If he has to order an Uber or something, he doesn't want to do it in sweats that are very
obviously three times too big for him.

His underwear is also a no go, because it feels gross to be wearing it after he'd been sweating
and running around in it. Going commando for a few hours isn't that big of a deal to him.

The shirt, he hesitates on. He could put on his sweater from last night, and there's a large part
of him telling him he should. Dazai might have let him borrow his clothes for breakfast but
that didn't mean he could wear them longer than that.

But...

His sweater is a little tight on his arms, and it looks way better than it feels. By contrast,
Dazai's shirt is big, soft and wonderfully loose on him. It's comfortable.

Plus, the sweater is carrying the memories of his fight with Shuuji last night. It’s like he can
feel the lingering emotion on the fabric, and it makes his skin crawl.
Fuck it. He pulls the shirt back on, and takes the ends in his hands, tying them tightly
together around his waist. He leaves just the last button undone, exposing his collarbone and
the first few inches of his chest. Of course, he has to roll the sleeves up multiple times to
keep his hands free, but it works.

He can't do anything about how often the collar slides off his shoulders, but it's not
scandalous or anything, so he brushes it off.

So far, the worst crime Dazai has committed is that the man does not own a blow dryer or
anything Chuuya can use for his hair, so he has to settle for squeezing most of the moisture
out of it and leaving it to dry wild around his shoulders.

He takes his dirty socks, underwear and sweater with him when he leaves the bathroom,
hanging up his towel because he can’t find a laundry hamper. He smiles at himself in the
mirror as he leaves, because even though he doesn’t have any makeup, he looks a lot better
than he did this morning.

Pink with the heat, the circles under his eyes gone, eyes clearer. Even his freckles seem
rejuvenated by his stint in the sun, prominent over his nose.

He looks better than he did. He feels better, by a lot. Like what happened was a bad dream
that’s starting to fade away in the dawn.

Yoko is still sprawled across the bedroom floor, waiting patiently for him. He crouches down
to give her a scratch behind the ear before making his way back downstairs.

Shuuji is still nowhere to be seen, but Dazai is sitting at the dining room table, legs sprawled
out to take up as much room as possible as he scrolls on his phone. He looks up as Chuuya
enters, and for a second he just looks struck , eyes widening comically and hand freezing
mid-motion.
The room feels wired for a second, tension crackling in the air and surging quickly, building
to a breaking point—

(Then Dazai is wiping his hand down his face, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. “This is so not
fair,” he mutters to himself. He’s wearing his shirt. Styled too, because he chose it and put it
on and wanted to look cute in it.

He’s not even going to discuss the slightly see-through patches on his shoulders and chest
caused by his dripping wet hair.

Dazai is only a man, after all. He has his limits and Chuuya is quickly finding all of them.)

The redhead glances down at himself, frowning. He didn’t think wearing his shirt was a big
deal, but since Dazai is squeezing his eyes shut like he’s in pain and taking deep, even
breaths, maybe it is.

“Sorry,” he mutters, feeling sheepish, “I just didn’t want to wear my sweater, but I can go put
it on—“

That makes Dazai look up, and even though his expression is strained, his voice is genuine.
“No, no, sweetheart. You look—“ (edible) “—nice.”

Heat immediately blooms across Chuuya's cheeks, sending a sliver of embarrassment

shooting through him. It wasn't even a smooth compliment, and certainly not the most suave
thing Dazai has said to him, but something about the direct compliment makes his stomach
fill with butterflies.

“Oh,” he says lamely, wishing he could come up with something cool to say back, but all he
can think of is ‘your lap looks nice—‘ and he’s not saying that . “Thanks.”

He waves the bundle of clothes in his hand, smiling sheepishly. “Do you have a bag that I
could use for these?”
(Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Dazai curses how observant he is. Because
clearly, Chuuya tried to ball up his clothes as tightly as possible, but there’s a moment when
the sweater sleeve flies back and he catches a glimpse of a recognizable waistband—

And then Dazai knows .

He grips the edge of the table so hard the wood creaks, jaw aching with how hard he’s
gritting his teeth together to get himself back under control.

He is not going to do anything reckless with the little minx who is wearing his shirt, a pair of
sinfully tight jeans and just accidentally flashed that he’s not wearing any underwear.

He won’t.

God, he wants to, he’ll make it so good for him, for them both—

No. )

Mute, Dazai points at a cupboard underneath the sink, muscles in his jaw working frantically.
His eyes look like they’re on fire , alive with heat.

Chuuya crosses over, bending over innocently to reach into the cupboard—

Something snaps. The sound makes Chuuya jump, looking up in shock.

Dazai looks irritated and sheepish, one hand gripping onto the table like someone is trying to
steal it from him—
And shaking the other, the remains of what used to be his coffee cup on the table. There’s
coffee everywhere and Dazai’s hand is bleeding from the shards.

“Are you alright?” Chuuya asks, concerned. It doesn’t look like a lot of blood, but it’s already
starting to drip down his palm and over his wrist.

“Yeah,” Dazai grumbles, shoving back from his chair. “I’m fine. Forgot my own strength, I
guess.”

With his other hand, he picks up most of the ceramic shards, tossing them into the trash.
Chuuya goes to offer to help clean up the mess, or his hand, because it looks painful —

But Dazai barely even looks at him before he’s disappearing around the corner and up the
stairs, footsteps heavy.

...What was that about?

He stares after him for a second, before shaking himself and turning back to what he was
doing.

There are several bags under the counter, and he takes the smallest, most unnecessary looking
one, shoving his clothes into it haphazardly.

His phone is completely charged by now, so he unplugs it, taking the cord and leaving it in
clear view on the counter. He shoots off a few texts to his friends, asking if any of them have
a car or can pick him up at all. Out of curiosity, he checks the price for an Uber from this
address, and winces at the price.

Dazai is still upstairs, and the coffee is creeping across the table, and there’s nothing else to
do as he waits so—
He takes a rag he finds in the kitchen and cleans it up quickly, mopping up the mess and
tossing the remaining pieces. It only takes a minute, and it makes Chuuya feel like he’s repaid
how much fun he had this morning, and for lending him his clothes, and generally just
allowing him to look upon his hotness. At least a little bit.

Yoko asks to go outside again, so he lets her out to join Kozo in the backyard.

There’s the ding of a incoming text, so he trots back over to check hoping it’s a yes so he can
get out of here before it starts to get awkward—

[YUAN]: sorry I’m traveling today, I’m not in town :(

[KOUYOU]: Sorry Chuuya, I’ve got a ton of work today that I can’t miss.

Well, fuck.

He groans, slumping over the counter. He really doesn’t want to walk. An Uber will take up
most of his monthly allowance, and he doesn’t want to ask Dazai because he already made
him breakfast and spent all morning with him, surely he has more important things to do than
to take him home—

“What happened?”

Not realizing Dazai had returned, Chuuya flinches a little, head snapping up.

He had changed sometime when he was upstairs, and now he’s wearing a pair of dark jeans
and a dark grey t-shirt.

(Chuuya is not mourning the view of the button down and the gray sweatpants. He’s not,
even though he couldn’t help but notice that the bulge in the crotch was big , and he honestly
doesn’t know if that’s because Dazai is big or the sweats were just really loose.)
It takes him a second to remember that Dazai had asked him a question. “It’s nothing,” he
says, and then when Dazai arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him, he reluctantly
continues, “It’s just— Shuuji still isn’t awake and I don’t know anyone else who can give me
a ride. I don’t want to overstay my welcome or anything...”

Most likely, he already has . He hadn’t anticipated staying the night, and Dazai sounds like a
busy man.

Said busy man shrugs easily. “Alright. I’ll take you home.”

Chuuya gapes at him. Why is he being so nice? “You don’t have to do that—.”

Dazai cuts him off, striding back to the dining room table. “I don't have to— I want to.”

Then, before Chuuya can over-analyze that statement and the tone in his voice, he’s moving
on. “Did you clean the table? You didn’t have to do that.”

Seeing his opportunity and running with it, Chuuya leans his chin on his hands, giving Dazai
a slow, self-satisfied smile. “I didn’t have to— I wanted to.”

There’s a flash of teeth, an even brighter flash of eyes, and suddenly Dazai is in his space, on
the verge of crowding him but not quite.

After this morning, the act of Dazai approaching him doesn’t make him automatically jump
away, though his heart leaps into his mouth, suddenly pounding, and he realizes too late that
oh, the dogs are outside, he could actually touch me—

But he doesn’t, even though a small part of him aches for to be touched. He just leans across
the counter with a wicked smile as he murmurs, “ Thank you, doll— I like it when you’re
good for me. So considerate. ”
Shit . Chuuya has no idea what to say to that, and his only response is to gape at him, eyes
wide and a furious blush growing on his face as he tries not to show the heat and pure want
that is suddenly growing in his stomach, lower —

The curl of Dazai’s lips and the single dimple is making a reappearance, making Chuuya’s
heart stutter in his chest with a mixture of affection and desire. Brown eyes dare him to
respond, to further the game, call to response.

When it’s clear that Chuuya isn’t going to say anything— can’t say anything, actually,
because he’s pretty sure he’s biting back a moan — Dazai leans back again, smug as always
when he wins their little games. “So— that ride?”

Chuuya’s mind— obviously not in the right place after that statement— jumps immediately
to the image of him in Dazai’s lap, the wet dream reversed, heat and friction building sweet
and easy as deliciously strong arms hold him close, that sinful voice in his ear—

Oh god. His cock seems very interested in that imagery, stirring in his pants.

No, no, this cannot be happening, that’s so embarrassing. Granted, he is a horny teenager that
wakes up hard more often than he doesn’t but—

Dazai hasn’t even touched him. Barely touched him all day, and even those touches were
more cautious than seductive. Sure, his voice is like warm caramel over his senses, but still.

It shouldn’t take just a few words.

Biting the inside of his cheek until it hurts, Chuuya smiles at him, only slightly strained. “Are
you sure you’re not busy? It’s not a problem if you are.”
His fingers tap at the counter, and for the first time, Chuuya notices that his entire hand is
wrapped in bandages. Not just his palm, where the cut was, but all the way down his fingers
to the second knuckle, with only the joints exposed for movement.

And if he looks closely as his fingers flex—

Is that...

Is that ink?

He can’t make out any shapes and truthfully, he’s not even sure he’s not just imagining it but
—

If those are tattoos on his fingers, that changes a lot of things. In his generation, tattoos are
generally more accepted. But in Dazai’s?

The only people who had tattoos are Yakuza.

His mind flashes to the guard dogs, the cars, the knives on the wall—

...Surely someone in the mafia wouldn’t be so nice to him though? Aren’t they supposed to
be violent assholes who kill anyone who disagrees with them or gives them attitude?

(Despite his initial scoffing at the ‘demon prodigy’ story, he has not forgotten what Yuan told
him.)

He’s probably just imagining things. Or maybe it’s new ink,to celebrate the new cultural
norms. It wouldn’t be the first time—
“For you? Never too busy.”

That sounds like flirting!! Is he overthinking it or is Dazai flirting with him right now?

He narrows his eyes at him, but the only response he gets is a heart-achingly adorable boyish
grin. “Then yes, please,” he responds, “When is a good time?”

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart.”

He blows out a breath, considering. Now seems like too soon but he’s also had so much
happen for the last sixteen hours, and honestly he needs some space to digest all his feelings
without feeling those wicked eyes watching his every move and setting him on fire.

And as much as Chuuya might want to give into the swirling maelstrom of heat and want
inside him, there’s at least one reason he can’t:

Shuuji. He’s still upstairs, assumingly, and while things might be tense right now, that doesn’t
give him the right to just flirt with his dad right here in the kitchen of his own home.

Or, well—

Dazai’s home.

He gives Dazai a small, hesitant look. “Is now okay?”

Dazai nods, already moving away. “Sure. Let me get my keys.”

The ease of acceptance makes some tension dissolve in his chest, grateful that he doesn’t
have to worry about this anymore.
Shooting off texts to his sister and Yuan to let them know he found his own way home, he
shoves his feet in his shoes and gathers up all his stuff.

Down the hallway next to the stairs, there’s a door Chuuya has never seen opened. He
assumes it leads to the garage, because Dazai has disappeared into it after putting his own
shoes on.

He follows curiously, peeking around the door—

And is met with beauty.

There’s room for three cars, and it’s taken up by the car Shuuji usually drives, the beautiful
motorcycle he rode on the last time, and the first car he saw, the one Shuuji drove on the
night they met.

Somehow, Dazai looks so much more natural and confident as he clicks the button to open up
the garage door, unlocking the second, black car.

The first time Chuuya rode in it, he felt like he didn’t belong. Now, he doesn’t feel like he
belongs anywhere else as he watches Dazai slide into the seat and reach across the interior to
unlock the other door for him.

With all the vehicles in the garage, it’s a bit crowded. He opens the door carefully so he
doesn’t hit the wall, wedging himself through the small crack.

This time, the touchpad on the dash comes alive after Dazai enters in a quick password, too
quick for him to read. The screen clears and offers up a variety of apps, from music to
directions to the internet.
(Chuuya is suddenly glad that Shuji doesn’t know the password, because he’d probably be
cruising the web while nearly hitting pedestrians.)

Dazai waits until his seatbelt is on to put the car in gear, twisting in his seat to look behind
him as he smoothly reserves. A pause in the driveway as they wait for the door to close, and
then they’re taking off and—

Chuuya realizes he has another problem. He’s starting to realize he has a lot of those, but this
one...

Dazai is absurdly hot while driving. Ridiculously hot.

While Shuuji is pressed close to the steering wheel, like a little old lady who can’t see over
the dash, Dazai is relaxed and confident, his seat pushed back to utilize the full length of his
legs. He’s only got one hand on the wheel, palm braced, but somehow he has complete
control even with the sharper turns. His other hand, the bandaged one, is dangling over the
center console, close enough to touch.

(Close enough to hold —.)

Chuuya watches out of the corner of his eye as he drives, muscles in his thighs flexing visibly
as he presses on the gas, approaching the turns without even a hint of nerves. He leans with
the car, like he’s a part of it, accelerating through the turn and coming out smoothly on the
other side without even wavering—

Yeah, it’s hot. Like he’s some rebel, reckless race car driver in those drifting movies, like he
owns the road, completely confident in his abilities to act and react.

And that reaction time is quick, Chuuya tested it this morning, and he’s dying to see what it’d
look like if he was driving with real speed, eyes focused on the road and body moving
instinctively.
The side of Dazai’s mouth twitches and too late, Chuuya realizes he was staring . “Can I help
you, or do you just like to look?”

His forearm, still covered in bandages, flexes as he takes a sharper turn, finally falling into
the heavier city traffic. He’s even more focused now, squeezing the car into tight openings
and roaring through the intersection on the tail end of yellow lights.

Yeah, Chuya thinks breathlessly as he watches Dazai’s thigh bunch with muscle when he
steps on the brakes, he does like staring.

He doesn’t say that though. “Where did you learn to drive like this?”

Because confidence is one thing, but skill is another, and clearly, Dazai is much better than
what’s needed to pass the driving test. Chuuya’s dad is a decent driver, and he drives nothing
like this. He doesn’t know anyone that drives like this.

“That,” Dazai chuckles, giving him an amused look, “is a secret, doll.”

Instinctively, Chuuya sticks his tongue out at him, scowling a little.

It just makes Dazai laugh again, louder, and Chuuya’s heart feels way too big for his chest.

Eventually though, they approach the college. The traffic is slower here, so they spend longer
at a standstill, but still make their way steadily closer.

Chuuya finds himself oddly hesitant to leave. Yes, he specifically asked to go home now so
he could get his feelings together before class tomorrow, but now that he’s looking at the
campus—

He doesn’t want to go. He wants to tell Dazai to keep driving, to extend their time as long as
possible, just a little more please, I don’t want to go, please don’t leave, not yet—
When Dazai parks, it feels like the end.

The end of the ride, the end of the visit, maybe the end entirely—

He doesn’t know why, but the idea of getting out makes him sad. A little lonely.

Sniffing softly, he gathers his stuff quickly, not wanting to prolong this feeling. Just get it
over with, he says to himself. “Thank you again,” he mumbles, opening the door when he
sees the sidewalk is clear, “for everything.”

Why does it feel like goodbye?

Fingertips brush his arm, gaining his attention. He looks.

Thé look on Dazai’s face is open, without the teasing and tension and wickedness from
before. It’s like he’s trying to reassure Chuuya that there is no game to be played as he says,
“It was nothing. See you later.”

That’s enough for Chuuya to smile back, small, before getting out.

Well, he said ‘see you later’ right? Not goodbye . So there will be a next time, right?

(Dazai sits there and watches Chuuya walk away until he can no longer see him. Then a little
longer, just in case.)
Unfortunately, Dazai does have a little work to do later that day. It’s mostly menial stuff,
checking out a building that had been recently purchased by the Rats and stealing the
manifests for incoming shipments to the mafia.

Child’s play.

The building is interesting, mostly in it’s placement near the docks and warehouse district,
perfect for offloading and taking in incoming products. The Rats don’t have a lot of
shipments coming through the Yokohama ports so the fact that they chose this location—

It’s weird, speaks of preemptive planning.

Not to mention that the building was purchased only a few days ago, and is already crawling
with armed guards. Dazai can’t get close enough without tipping them off, so he makes a
mental reminder to come back with his rifle and scope, so he can look in from afar.

Then, with little else to do, he eventually winds up at the shopping district, killing time and
buying a few odds and ends while he waits for word from one of his informants when he sees
—

A flower shop.

Dazai actually likes flowers and plants, but he has an unfortunate black thumb and whatever
he brings home usually does within a few weeks. Or is eaten by Kozo, but semantics. He’s
barely managed to keep his lawn alive, and only that because he has a groundskeeper that
visits twice a month.

He wanders in, taking a deep breath of the fresh, fragrant air inside. It’s clearly a family
owned shop, a bit rundown but with love and hard work showing in every potted plant on the
shelves and every bouquet lining the walls.
Walking the aisles slowly, he takes the time to brush his fingers gently over the leaves of the
bigger plants, and even bends down to sniff some of the flowers.

It’s nice, peaceful, warm as only a greenhouse can be, and smells of growing, fragrant life.

Now, Dazai wouldn’t say he was a very romantic guy. He’s done his fair share of wooing and
seducing and what have you, but normally he just doesn’t think about it. It takes someone
special to put him in the mindset of romancing and gift giving.

Which is why it’s surprising— and also not surprising, given the events of the the last two
weeks— that when his eyes turn to the bouquet section and fall upon a bouquet filled with
orange and white roses, dotted with yellow sun stars—

His mind immediately flashes to Chuuya.

With a thoughtful him, he traces the shape of one orange rose, this one barely beginning to
bloom, it’s tiny petals still curled up and fragile.

He probably shouldn’t. Getting involved with Dazai is not as simple or safe as it sounds, and
that’s the exact reason he’s avoided any kind of relationship for this long. For a very long
time, he didn’t actually want any type of relationship.

(Up until now, he’s been using a BDSM club to sate his...other appetites. It’s worked out well
for him for the most part, but he hasn’t been for a while.)

Maybe the desire has been kickstarted by seeing his son parade around with his friends and...
conquests — Dazai has never heard him use the word boyfriend or girlfriend— but lately
he’s been...

Wanting more.
And while he’d like to say that his interest in Chuuya is purely sexual, he can’t deny that the
domestic scene in the kitchen this morning, making pancakes and coffee for him, watching
him eat them with a primal, providing satisfaction and then playing together with the dogs
outside for a while, felt so nice.

For a few hours, he didn’t have to be Dazai Osamu, former demon prodigy, feared throughout
the underground. For a few hours, he could just be Dazai.

And it was simple and easy, and god, he just wants to come home to something like that
every day.

It’s not fair to Chuuya though, because he’s young and inexperienced, and he doesn’t deserve
to be dragged into a life like his just because Dazai wants him. (And he does want him, so
much more than he should, and more than Dazai has wanted a lot of things in his life.)

So he shouldn’t. Actually, he should be shutting down their entire situation and making
himself completely unavailable but—

“Can I help you, sir?”

— he keeps getting sucked back in.

Dazai turns with a brilliant smile, greeting the small shopkeeper. It’s an older woman, with
greying hair and a soft, welcoming aura. “I was wondering; do you deliver?”

The shopkeeper nods clasping her hands together. “With an extra fee, of course, and nothing
farther than fifteen kilometers.”

That’s fine, the college campus isn’t that far away anyways.
He plucks the bouquet off the shelf. All the thorns have already been shaved off the roses
carefully. “I’ll take this one then.”

“Great! Would you like to take a look at vases as well, or just the bouquet itself?”

It’s probably a good assumption that Chuuya doesn’t have a vase in his dorm, and if Dazai is
going to do this, then he might as well go all out, right? Presentation means everything.

For the vase, he picks out something tall and light pink colored. It compliments the bright
colors of the bouquet, and he’s noticed that Chuuya usually likes bright colors.

(Also he did notice that he adored Yoko in her pink bandana, and he’s not above using that to
his advantage.)

The shopkeeper— a lady by the name of Chiyo— clips the stems of the bouquet before
rubber banding a packet of plant food around the stems. She dumps another packet into the
water she puts into the vase, before carefully setting the flowers in. “Where would you like
them delivered?”

Dazai rattles off the address for Chuuya’s dorm— yes , he eventually broke and cracked the
university network to get some information on him, he’s not perfect — then asks, “When will
they be delivered?”

Chiyo checks the watch on her wrist as she enters the address onto her computer. “Our
delivery boy arrives in one hour, so they should arrive within two hours.”

It’s a little earlier than he expected, but it works out for him. Chuuya has mentioned he
wasn’t busy today, so hopefully he’ll be in his dorm to receive them.

She finishes charging him and entering in all the necessary information, before turning to him
with the next question: “Would you like to include a note or a calling card?”
Dazai thinks it over. If he did indicate that they were from him, it probably wouldn’t be
received badly, it just—

Circles back to the whole ‘he’s too young and innocent to be involved with me’ argument.

At the end of the day, Chuuya did have an upsetting day yesterday— even if Dazai still
doesn’t know exactly what happened to cause that— and hopefully, this will help to finish
cheering him up.

Everyone likes getting flowers—

He fishes in his pocket, pulling out a completely black business card, one that doesn’t have
any text on it at all. “Yeah, could you include this, please?”

— he just doesn’t have to know they’re from him.

Thankfully, Nikolai is not in their dorm when he arrives home. Apparently, Sunday’s are one
of his usual working days, so he’ll probably be gone for most of the day.

The sticky note he left on Chuuya’s pillow, labeled with a simple ‘ at work ;) ‘ makes Chuuya
roll his eyes though.

At least he doesn’t have to explain why he’s wearing a different shirt than he left in and
carrying his clothes in a bag, he thinks to himself. He takes this moment to shuck off his dirty
jeans and slip into brand new underwear and a pair of loose shorts.

The shirt he leaves on. For now.

He’ll take it off soon, he swears, it’s just comfortable. Like a warm, familiar blanket.

Sliding under the covers of his bed, because he’s getting sleepy from the sugar crash, Chuuya
opens his phone so he can scroll his social media.

Yuan has tagged him in a few posts on twitter, and he takes the time to respond with the
proper ‘likes’ and incoherent keysmashing. Kyouka posted a new dress design on her
Instagram, so he likes and comments on that, of course.

From Shuuji.... nothing. No texts, no tags, nothing that indicates he was thinking of him at
all.

Chuuya bites his lip, fighting off the pang of hurt. Maybe he’s still sleeping. It’s not even
noon yet, and he has noticed from his Snapchat story that Shuuji likes to stay up very late. It’s
a miracle he gets up for class on time.

Speaking of...he opens his app, morbidly curious.

His story hasn’t been updated since last night, so that makes Chuuya feel a little better. He’s
probably just sleeping.

Opening their message threads, Chuuya debates on reaching out to him first. Maybe the
argument wasn’t strictly his fault but there are some things he feels he should apologize for.
Properly, this time, not when he’s reeling from panic.

Besides, Shuuji seemed a lot angrier than Chuuya was—is—, so maybe it would smooth
things over if he just bit the bullet and apologized to him.

He’s not sure what to say though. Everything he thinks of seems more stupid and confusing
than the last, and the more he thinks about it, the more his good mood starts to fade away.
Thinking about it makes anxiety and nerves curl in his stomach, hollowing out his chest,
making him feel both too empty and too full, a confusing mix of sensations.

Eventually he decides to let it go for a while, shutting his phone off. Maybe he’ll think of a
response if he gives himself a little more time to think.

This is a time he rejoices at the fact that they have a TV in their room because he turns it on
and starts playing a movie he’d been meaning to see for a few weeks now.

It’s a comedy, mindlessly amusing and taking Chuuya’s mind off his anxiety for a while.

Most of the way through, a knock comes at the door, jolting him back into awareness. He’s a
little confused, considering he’s not expecting anyone and Nikolai wouldn’t knock. Maybe
it’s a surprise room inspection, he reasons, sliding out of bed to open the door.

When he opens it, the first thing he sees are bursting blooms of orange and white flowers.

The second thing he sees is a boy with black hair and white tips staring at him blankly over
the flowers. He does not look happy to be here at all, and it’s such a startling contrast to the
beautiful flowers that Chuuya snorts on instinct. “Hi, can I help you?”

“Are you Nakahara Chuuya?” The boy cuts him off, voice blank and cutting. Like Chuuya is
a particularly rude customer.

“Yeah?”

The flowers get shoved at him, so harshly that Chuuya is automatically catching the vase, lest
they fall.

“These are for you.”

What? He didn’t order any flowers, and there isn’t a reason someone else would order him
any. “I didn’t order any flowers though?”

The boy— Atsushi, his name tag reads though the name doesn’t seem to fit him at all—
shrugs. “Okay. They’re already paid for though, and this is the address and you’re the person
they’re supposed to go to, so. They’re yours.”

He starts to back off then, retreating down the hallway.

Chuuya leans out after him. “Wait, Atsushi! Who paid for them?”

The boy looks over his shoulder at him, looking unreasonably grumpy. “I’m not Atsushi; my
name is Akutagawa—'' okay, how the hell was a Chuuya supposed to know that, considering
he’s wearing the wrong name tag, “— and the order didn’t say. There’s a card.”

Then he’s gone, thin coat flapping behind him as he speed-walks out of the hallway before
Chuuya can even say his name or a thank you.

“Jeez, what’s his problem?” He mutters to himself, retreating back into his room. He makes
sure to lock the door behind him.

Placing the flowers on the desk on his side of the room, he takes a second to admire them.

It’s a pretty young bouquet, with all the blooms either freshly opened or on their way there,
delicate petals soft and easy to bruise under his fingers. It’s mostly roses—orange and white
— but a few tiny, star-colored flowers stick up between them, stubborn even as they seem so
fragile.

He has to Google those to figure out what the are:

Sun Stars. Meaning purity and happiness, commonly used in weddings.

Also moderately poisonous, which seems like a weird thing to have in weddings and
romantic bouquets, but it’s not like he had plans to start chewing on them, so he supposes it
doesn’t matter.

There is a card, wedged near the bottom of the bouquet in the stems. He pulls it out carefully,
not wanting to bend the card or rip the flowers—

Turns out, that was completely unnecessary, because the card is completely blank. It’s a pitch
black—which seems strange— and there’s not a single piece of text or writing on it at all.

Who would send him a bouquet with no calling card? It seems a little ominous, actually, like
someone he doesn’t know knows where he lives. It’s almost anxiety inducing— even as
beautiful as the flowers are and how nice they smell— because he really doesn’t know why
he would receive something like this for no reason, but then:

Ding!

An incoming text.

With the card still clutched in his hand, Chuuya grabs for his phone, opening it one-handed.

[ SHUUJI ] : yo

That can’t be a coincidence, right? For the flowers to arrive and Shuuji to text him soon
after? Especially after being silent all morning?

It would make sense, considering their argument yesterday, but Chuuya hadn’t expected
something like this. It’s sweet though, straight out of a romance movie, and the thought that
Shuuji sent him flowers because he was mad at him—
Makes him feel giddy and light, enough that instead of texting back, he just presses the call
button.

The phone rings twice before Shuuji picks up, answering with a raspy, “Hello?”

The sound of his voice, thick with sleep, makes Chuuya smile as he gently teases open one of
the more stubborn buds. “Did you send me flowers?”

(On the phone, Chuuya can’t tell, but Shuuji is thinking frantically on the other side.) “Did
you get some?”

“Yeah, I got them,” Chuuya sighs pleasantly, “They’re beautiful.”

There’s a rustle on the other side of the line, sounds of Shuuji shifting around. “I’m glad you
like them, then.”

It’s not a direct claim, but it’s a close enough confirmation that Chuuya’s chest feels full with
something warm and happy.

And because this must be an apology for the argument last night—

The next thing he says is his own apology. “I’m sorry for freaking out on you last night. I
really should’ve told you that I don’t like to be pinned, and it wasn’t fair of me to make you
feel like you were a bad person or something.”

(Chuuya has never actually had a problem with being pinned before. It happens semi-often in
Judo, and while being half-crushed beneath his larger teammates is never comfortable, it
doesn’t make him want to cry. )
Shuuji sighs. “I just wish you had told me, instead of just expecting me to know. I can’t read
your mind Chuuya, and I don’t know why you didn’t just speak up earlier. I’ve never hurt
you, right?”

No, he hasn’t. He’s made him him uncomfortable sometimes, and pressures him, but he’s
never hurt him. "No," he mutters, feeling overdramatic.

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

Chuuya shifts in place, and that warm feeling in his chest is rapidly souring into something
sticky and suffocating. He doesn't feel good anymore, and he doesn't want to continue this
conversation, but avoiding it would just mean he hasn't learned his lesson. "You... make me
feel like saying no is wrong, sometimes."

The silence is heavy , filling Chuuya's head with the faint, distant sound of ringing.

"I always listen to you when you say no, so I don't understand why you would feel like that."

Chuuya doesn't know either. All he knows is that he just wants this conversation to be over.
He wants to enjoy the flowers— the first flowers he's ever gotten from a boy— and he wants
everything to be okay again.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and he must sound really pitiful, because Shuuji is making a soft,
comforting sound on the other side.

"I forgive you, darling. I just don't like feeling like you think I'm going to... assault you or
something. But it's okay, because I know you feel bad for it, and we can move on now, right?
We don't have to keep fighting about it, right?"

Yeah... yeah, that sounds good. Then it can be over, for real.
He nods, climbing back into his bed. "Yeah, let's move on. Thank you."

Curling up with his knees tucked up against his chest, he pulls his blanket over him
completely, blocking out the room entirely. He suddenly feels so tired, exhaustion weighing
heavy on his limbs and chest.

"You're welcome, darling. I have to go now, because I have to finish my homework, but we'll
talk soon, okay?"

Chuuya makes an assenting noise, smiling just a little. "Okay."

They say their goodbyes before hanging up.

Chuuya stares at his phone for a moment, wondering why he feels so wrung out and dried up
after just a 10 minute phone call.

It doesn't seem right.

After a while of hiding under his blankets and soaking up the warmth and comfort, he
wanders out to take pictures of the flowers. It takes a little maneuvering to find the perfect
spot for lighting, but he eventually manages to take a really good picture.

He posts it to his Instagram, with the only caption being '

to explain why he got flowers to his sisters.
🖤🖤 ' — because he doesn't want

Shuuji likes it near instantly, which makes him smile.

(Across the city, Dazai leans up against a wall, smiling gently when he sees Chuuya's new
post— okay, fine , he's a little bit obsessed, but he's not going to do anything with this
information, and the selfie Chuuya posted a few weeks ago with his blue eyes lit by the sun
and his hair a fiery mess behind him is too beautiful not to look at.

Job well done, he praises himself, then shuts off his phone.

Back to work.)
 Chocolate and Caramel
Chapter Summary

When he can't take it anymore, Chuuya swallows hard, mouth dry. "Thank you, for
dinner. I had a good time."

Dazai's smile is slow, self-satisfied. Smug and a little arrogant, but Chuuya will overlook
it because he looks so damn good. "Yeah?" he purrs, "I'm glad."

He really does look glad too, like he wanted nothing more than to make sure Chuuya
had a good time.

Chuuya stands there a little awkwardly, not sure what he's supposed to do or say—

Dazai tilts his head. He doesn't move, but his voice seems to reach across the distance
and grab Chuuya by the throat. "Can I kiss you?"

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone! Another Saturday, another chapter <3 Thanks for tuning in again, and for
all your support and love!

This chapter includes:

- premature ejaculations
- parties
- hurt feelings :(
- a DATE
- special guest yoko
- a cliffhanger >:)

As always, see you guys next week! <3 If you want more content, feel free to follow me
on twitter @H4NDKINK <3

Somehow, the second week of school is even harder than the first. Confident that their
students can handle the workload, all the professors pile on the homework without remorse.
Chuuya ends up spending almost all of the time he's not in class in the library, frantically
trying to keep up with the workload. He barely even feels like he's learning, he just feels like
he's memorizing information for his upcoming quizzes and then forgetting the information
just as quickly.

How Nikolai still seems so perky and manages to keep up with his classes when he works a
decent amount and is only taking one class less than Chuuya, he will never know. He feels
like he's wrung out and his head aches by the time the library closes every night. He barely
even has enough energy to eat dinner in the cafeteria before passing out in his bed.

He spends a decent amount of time building a Snapchat streak with Yuan between tackling
calculus problems in study sessions. Shuuji, he sees less, and it’s a bit tense and awkward at
first, but after the first meet up for coffee goes pretty well, things start to settle back into their
usual rhythm.

He does notice that Shuuji doesn’t pin him up against walls nearly as often, and most of the
time when he does, it seems more of an accident than on purpose. He’s taken to grabbing
Chuuya by his chin, which is less restraining and more comfortable than bodily being pinned.

However, it is a little annoying because now Chuuya has small bruises on his face from how
hard Shuuji is gripping him, and he’s getting tired of using up all his foundation to cover up
the dark spots so no one asks any weird questions.

Chuuya spends the entire week trying not to think about Dazai. His shirt gets stuffed
underneath his pillow— so he doesn’t have to explain to Nikolai where it came from— and
more often than not, his dreams usually feature some aspects of deep, bottomless caramel
eyes, gentle hands big enough to cradle his entire skull, a wicked playful grin that invites him
in and dares him to go further.

His unconscious brain is a lost cause, but he deliberately does not think about him during his
waking hours. Not once, not at all.

(It’s more like a whole fucking lot, which he does feel incredibly guilty for, because things
with Shuuji feel like they're finally going in a good direction. They're getting along, Chuuya
is liking the kissing more.
The word 'boyfriend' doesn't once come out of Shuuji's mouth, but Chuuya feels like they're
getting there, slowly but surely.

Maybe if Shuuji doesn't ask him to be his boyfriend first, he'll take the leap of faith and ask
him ?)

Shuuji suggests another dinner at his house the following weekend, but Chuuya winds up
having to re-do most of one his assignments for his physics class because of a
misunderstanding, so he ends up having to beg off so he can catch up on his work.

(And it does feel a little like begging, because Shuuji is pretty grumpy and upset about it.
Chuuya's apology ends up with him squashed against the door of his car, trying desperately to
keep up with the kiss Shuuji is giving him.)

The next weekend though.... he's free, and Shuuji is even more eager to have him over.

Chuuya agrees, naturally, because he wants to spend time with him, and it's always a treat to
see Yoko— he's been going over every single picture of her he has and honestly has
considering asking for Dazai's number just so he can get more pictures of her because Shuuji
refuses to take any for him— but he's starting to wonder about something.

Don't people who are dating go out on actual dates? Go out to dinner, or the movies, or the
mall? Go out in public together and have fun?

Shuuji's house is like a hotel in itself, but Chuuya would love to go out to a restaurant to eat,
and not just bring takeout to eat on the couch.

But he agrees, and Shuuji picks him up earlier on Sunday afternoon, since Chuuya worked
his ass off to finish all his work the day before. His mind still feels a little melty from the
information overload, but relaxing with Shuuji will probably fix that.
Yoko greets him at the door, prancing in place with her tail waving. He stops to say hello,
letting Kozo sniff him up and down as Yoko flops over onto her bag to beg for belly
scratches.

Shuuji, of course, edges out of the doorway carefully, which Chuuya shouldn't think is funny,
but the fact that he's so terrified of a dog who is currently upside down with her face in a
stupid and adorable doggy grin—

It's funny.

He also can't help but look around, because if the dogs are out—

That means Dazai is home, right? Shuuji usually locks them up when he's alone so...

"Is your dad home?" he asks, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. His heart rate has
picked up just from the idea of seeing him again,and the remnants of what he felt the last
time they were together begins to pool in his stomach.

Shuuji shrugs, kicking off his shoes. "Yeah, but he's busy with some business deal or
something. He's been locked in his office all day on a call with someone. He told me to order
dinner, so I'm guessing he'll be busy most of the day."

Damn. That does not send a pang of disappointment through Chuuya, not even a little one.

This time, instead of going into the living room, Shuuji leads the way up the stairs, heading
for his room.

Yoko and Kozo mind their manners on the stairs, as always, but they do give Chuuya twin
pitiful looks of betrayal when Shuuji ushers him into his room and promptly shuts the door
after them, locking them out.
For the first time, Chuuya is shut in Shuuji's room with him, completely alone.

The air feels thick, soupy with the sudden realization.

Nothing happens immediately though. Shuuji turns on his computer, sitting at his desk. He
fiddles with some wires, connecting his computer to the TV hanging above it.

There's nowhere else to sit, so Chuuya sits on the bed, pulling his legs up with him.

He watches with faint interest as Shuuji starts up some game on his computer, which gets
translated onto the bigger TV screen. He exits out of the loading screen too quickly for
Chuuya to catch the name, but it seems like some first-person shooter game.

Then he's flinching backwards, startled, as Shuuji throws himself on the bed next to Chuuya
with a controller in hand. He pats the space next to him, and Chuuya hesitantly scoots back,
because he's not really sure what's going on.

Is he going to just sit here and watch him play his game? He's not entirely opposed to it— he
watches game playthroughs on Youtube just like everyone else— but it's not his idea of a
'date'. It seems boring, and doesn't include him.

Shuuji pulls him against his shoulder, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and grabbing
the controller in front of him. "This is one of my favorite games," he says, smashing a few
buttons on his controller to start the game.

Chuuya's right; it is boring. Mostly because he doesn't really understand what's going on in
the game and Shuuji dies too often for him to really figure it out. He also curses a lot and his
yelling next to Chuuya's ear makes him grimace and makes a ball of anxiety start to tighten in
his stomach.

"Wanna play?" Shuuji asks, and then promptly places the controller in his hands without
waiting for a response.
He gives him a brief tutorial, which doesn't explain much as all, but it's enough to get him
started. The rest of the people in the game don't give him an ounce of mercy, targeting him
immediately because he’s an easy kill.

Shuuji's huff of amusement whenever Chuuya dies ignites the competitive streak in him, and
the game is on . If he wants to hold his shitty kill streaks over Chuuya's head when he's never
played this game before, and not many games at all—

Then he's going to make him work for it.

He survives the next round longer, and manages to take down three people before he gets
sniped from behind.

The round after, he's one of the last four people left alive.

Shuuji doesn't seem so smug now, Chuuya thinks to himself, pressing the button to start the
next round.

This one he wins , and he turns to Shuuji with a self-satisfied 'what now?' smile, waiting to
hear that little amused, condescending little huff again.

Shuuji scowls at him lightly, nose wrinkled with something that looks like distaste.
"Beginners luck," he scoffs, pulling the controller out of his hands and tossing it to the edge
of the bed.

Chuuya opens his mouth to fire back something about skill , when Shuuji is reeling him in
with a hand on his cheek, pulling him into a kiss.

It's a bit sudden, but nothing bad , considering that they're both still sitting upright.
Truthfully, it's more entertaining than watching Shuuji die repeatedly on TV— and the game
was boring, so he's already done with playing it— so he lets himself lean into it, resting his
weight over Shuuji.

Shuuji bends underneath it, falling backwards to lay down and dragging Chuuya with him.

He makes a startled noise, hands flying out to catch up as he somehow ends up half-laying on
Shuuji, one thigh wedged between Shuuji's and—

That's when it feels it.

Logically, he knew that they would progress to this someday, and it's not like Chuuya hasn't
fantasized about a hard dick pressed up against him (in Dazai's case, he's imagined it a lot )
but this somehow feels underwhelming and strange in equal parts, because they've only been
kissing for a minute max, and Chuuya is barely even feeling warm.

A tongue pushes roughly into his mouth, mapping the points of his teeth as one of Shuuji's
hands slides into his hair, holding him in place. His other hand finds his hip, pushing him
down hard as he grinds up and—

Oh. Well. Alright.

He's not nearly as into it as Shuuji is, based on the way he's panting into his mouth, and it
doesn't feel great because he's not even warmed up, but it's not—

It's not terrible . It could be good, even, once he gets a little more into it.

He kisses back, focusing on their mouths as Shuuji ruts against him, trying to lose himself
into the feeling of friction and movement.

Finally, when the kissing has devolved into something messy and sloppy, Chuuya finally
starts to feel a grain of heat curling through him, his dick finally starting to twitch in his pants
and god, he was really worried that he wasn't going to respond at all , but it's okay now, he's
getting into it—

Naturally, that's when it's all over.

Shuuji sinks his teeth hard into his lip, and Chuuya is letting out a pained noise, hips jerking
as he instinctively fights to free himself—

And Shuuji is letting out a loud, high-pitched noise against him in response, shuddering
underneath him in short, intense waves.

Is he—

Chuuya feels a burst of warmth against his crotch, growing damper the longer he's pressed
against it.

Oh god, he did.

Chuuya is barely even half-hard, and Shuuji just came in his pants, just from a little making
out and half-hearted grinding.

That's so embarrassing.

Shuuji doesn't seem to think so, because he's smiling dazedly up at him.

It's a good thing that Chuuya was just getting into it, because this is like a glass of cold water
over his head. He rolls over onto his back, wiping his hands down his face. Wow. That was...

Something. That was something.

He felt more sexual tension when Dazai was handing him a glass of wine, and he honestly
can't tell if that's because he's got some weird obsession with the man, or if he's actually
meant to be orgasming with ten minutes of messy grinding.

Ugh.

He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. "I'm gonna go clean up," he mutters,
standing up.

Not that he needs to. He wasn't hard enough to even start leaking, and his pants don't have
anything on them from Shuuji, but he feels like he just needs to...

Stare at himself in the mirror and think for a moment. Contemplate.

Shuuji doesn't stop him, and Chuuya has the decency to open the door as little as possible to
keep Shuuji from being seen as he slips out.

Yoko is waiting outside for him, head on her paws and eyes locked loyally on the door,
waiting for a hint of movement. When she sees him come out, she's immediately perking up,
tail thumping against the wall.

It’s the wall of Dazai's office, so he draws her away quietly, not wanting to disturb what is
apparently a very long and important business call.

Out of curiosity, he pauses outside the door, leaning his head in to see if he can hear anything
—

If he listens very, very hard, he can hear the harsh, slurred noises of a different language.
How many languages does that man speak?
It is kind of hot though, and his mind immediately flashes to a scene like the one in the
kitchen yesterday, with him smirking and shirt unbuttoned, except this time, he's speaking in
some other language, voice low and raspy as he murmurs to Chuuya.

Heat, much more potent and urgent than anything he has feeling in Shuuji's room, flashes

through him, like a bolt of lightning.

Why? Why can't he feel like this for Shuuji ? He'd probably come in ten minutes too if he felt
like this around him!

He heads downstairs to the spare bathroom, distantly mourning the fact that he doesn't get to
use Dazai's gorgeous bathroom again. The downstairs one is nice, but nothing compared to
the masterpiece that is Dazai's bathroom.

He even lets Yoko come in with him as he enters, locking the door behind him. She watches
him intently as he turns the faucet on and cups water in his palms, rinsing off his face.

After a few splashes, he braces his hands on the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. His
hair, which was nicely curled before, is now a bit of a mess. He wasn't wearing makeup
today, so he doesn't have to worry about smears over his face.

But...

With a sigh, he looks down his body, at the distinct lack of a tent in his pants. He doesn't even
feel any tension, just a complete lack of interest.

Why is this so hard for him? Isn't he supposed to be falling all over himself to get even a taste
of sexual relief with Shuuji?

Instead, all his dick seems to be interested in is his dad , who, mind you, hasn't done anything
to him beyond grabbing his ankle.
God, he's such a mess.

"What's wrong with me, Yoko?" he mutters.

The dog in question merely wags her tail, head tilting as if to say 'a lot of things. What would
you like to talk about first?'.

After that, he can't keep stalling, so he heads back upstairs, half-dreading and half-curious as
to what image he's going to be greeted with when he re-enters Shuuji's room.

Turns out, it's just Shuuji in a different pair of pants— Chuuya tries not to notice the dirty
pants very obviously in the hamper, but he swears to god that wet spot is staring at him— and
stretched out across his bed, lazily cruising through the TV channels as he searches for
something to watch.

When he notices Chuuya, he gestures with his arm, beckoning him over.

Yoko whines when he shuts her out again, but Shuuji has been very clear that the dogs are not
allowed in his room.

Chuuya slides onto the bed, yelping when Shuuji grabs him by the arm and reels him in. He
ends up squished against Shuuji's side, his head forcibly pulled down to rest on his shoulder.

Then, without an ounce of shame: "Was it good for you?"

Honestly, he's glad Shuuji can't see his face from this angle, because he can't help the
disbelieving expression he gets, staring at the wall like he's in unimaginable gony. How does
he even respond to that?
"Yeah. It was..." he trails off, trying to think of an adjective that isn't underwhelming or
awkward and weird. "...nice," he settles on lamely, hoping Shuuji doesn't question it.

He doesn't, because he's too busy starting the movie and looking pleased with himself.

The man doesn't even make it twenty minutes before he's asleep, snoring away loudly in
Chuuya's hair. Talk about underwhelming.

Eventually, he can't stand whatever stupid movie Shuuji put on. He wiggles out of his grip
slowly, freezing when his snores skip a beat before settling back into their rhythm. He turns
over in his sleep, facing the other direction.

Letting out a breath of relief, Chuuya slips out of the room again.

This time, Yoko isn't waiting for him in the hallway, which is so strange that he stands there
for a moment, wondering where the hell she is. She always waits for him, and even though
she isn't his dog, he's come to expect and anticipate a giant furry body getting underneath his
feet at all times of the day.

Dazai's office door is still closed when he passes, but when he leans in to listen again--

Silence.

Slowly, he makes his way downstairs, feeling on edge. He keeps waiting for the dogs to come
bursting out to greet him, or appear at the bottom of the stairs—

But they don't. They're not in the living room either, and Chuuya actually takes a detour to
the kennel room to see if they're in there—

Nope. Both the kennels are empty.

The garage door is locked when he tries it, and when he wanders out to the kitchen, no one is
in there. Honestly, it just looks like they disappeared—

But then he hears a heavy thump coming from the backyard, and the curtains over the door
aren't the way they were before—

Drawn like a moth to a flame, Chuuya approaches, holding his breath as the anticipation
builds, wondering what he's going to see out there—

When he peeks through the door, the first thing he sees is Dazai.

Standing tall in the middle of the yard, shirt sleeves once again rolled up to reveal his
forearms. He's cocking his arm back, shoulder rippling as he winds up and chucks a ball with
an impressive amount of force to the other side of the yard.

The dogs go streaking past as they chase after, coming back a moment later. Yoko has the ball
in her mouth while Kozo is nipping at her legs and mouth, trying to steal it from her.

She hands off the ball to Dazai, hopping excitedly at his feet as he winds up again. He throws
the ball, with so much force that Chuuya can see it rippling in his shoulders.

A heartbeat later the thump! comes again, and he realizes: Dazai is throwing the ball so hard
that it’s rattling the back fence when it hits.

Dear god. How much power does that man have ?

Mesmerized, he steps outside, drawn in by the force he exudes, the power radiating off him
effortlessly.
Another throw, the rattle of the fence again. The dogs racing past, the heavy pant of their
breaths.

A snarl from Dazai as he says something again in another language, speaking into the
Bluetooth hidden in his ear.

A pause as the person responds on the other line, then Dazai’s face twists with rage and
disbelief, teeth flashing, and his anger shouldn’t be so hot, it shouldn’t make Chuuya want to
bend over or give into him—

He takes another stumbling step, feet loud on the deck—

A burning gaze snaps to him, immediately pinning him in place.

The air grows thin between them, drawing tight with tension, superheating so quickly
Chuuya feels like he’s boiling , a flash fire sun between them and setting him ablaze.

The moment lasts forever, time stretching sweetly elastic between them, like taffy about to
break under its own weight—

Then Dazai is reaching up, eyes unwavering as he touches his ear. He murmurs something
too low to hear before pressing hard on the Bluetooth. Hanging up.

To Chuuya, louder, he says: “I didn’t know you were here.”

That seems pretty rude of Shuuji not to tell him, considering that they’ve had these plans for
a few days, definitely long enough for him to tell his dad, but honestly, Chuuya is still trying
to restart his brain, staring wide-eyed at him.

Dazai seems to take that as a sign of something else , because his mouth is turning down with
remorse, expression souring with regret. He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck
awkwardly. “Sorry you had to see that.”

See what? See him throwing the ball like a professional baseball player? See him snarling at
someone like some sort of wild, sexy beast? See him get—

Oh.

He didn’t want Chuuya to see him angry.

That’s...shockingly sweet and touching. It’s like he cares what Chuuya thinks about him,
cares about making him feel safe and secure.

(It’s sweet, but unnecessary, and it only makes Chuuya wonder how much Dazai is holding
back.

And what it’d take to make him lose that control.)

He shrugs, stepping forward and offering him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s nothing. It
seemed like you weren’t very happy with whoever you were speaking with.”

Dazai turns to look at him, expression melting into something softer and more grateful.
“It’s...” he trails off, and Chuuya finds himself breathless, waiting to see if Dazai will let him
in, give him an opening, finally offer something about himself.

He releases a heavy sigh, borrowing Chuuya’s line from earlier. “It’s nothing.”

God dammit . Why won’t he tell Chuuya anything? Shuuji talks so much Chuuya practically
knows what he had for breakfast last week, but Dazai?
Not at all. The man is surprisingly tight-lipped, and annoyingly mysterious. The most Chuuya
knows about him is what he’s heard from Chuuya, and the fact that he doesn’t like pancakes.

It’s attractive, in a mysterious, dangerous sort of way but—

Chuuya wants to know more. Wants to know what kind of food he likes. What he does in his
spare time. What he does for work. Where he grew up.

(What he kisses like.)

God, Chuuya just wants to know everything about him, with a desperate fascination. He just
—

He just wants to know him.

But every time he seems to be getting closer, or that Dazai is going to offer him something—

He backtracks. It’s so frustrating. It’s teasing , stirring Chuuya’s desire for more just to leave
him hanging.

“Are you alright?” He asks, blowing out a breath in frustration.

The smile he gets looks like it’s full of secrets. “Better now, doll.”

Sometime during the conversation, Chuuya had gotten closer, so close that now he’s staring
up at Dazai, miles of hard muscle and soft skin just inches away, brown eyes drawing him in,
urging him closer.
And that’s the best thing about Dazai, because he doesn’t push , he doesn’t pull , he lets him
set the boundaries and then he meets him halfway and escalates it.

It’s not pressure. It’s encouragement.

And the way he’s staring down at him now, a tiny, indulgent smile on his face as he reaches
out to brush a strand of hair from his forehead, tucking it behind his ear, rough fingertips
brushing gently over his jaw and the curve of his neck—

It’s encouragement.

The frustration Chuuya felt earlier, from the cut-off grinding, roars back full force, gathering
in his lungs until he can’t take a breath that doesn’t smell like smoke and Dazai, head
spinning with it.

He wants, he wants , and if he asks, maybe Dazai will give it to him, please, please just take
care of him—

“Do you have something to say?”

Yes, yes, he does, he’s opening his mouth, he’s going to ask him—

A phone rings, breaking the moment completely.

Dazai looks almost as disappointed as Chuuya suddenly feels, fishing his phone out of his
pocket.

He checks the screen and lets out an aggrieved sigh. “I’m sorry— I should probably take this.
Unless you needed something...?”
Well, yes , but now that the moment is shattered, he’s lost the courage to ask.

And he doesn’t particularly want to be kissed while his phone rings off the hook.

And it was a lapse of judgement. He shouldn’t kiss Dazai. It’s wrong. Even if Shuuji and him
aren’t boyfriends, he still owes him some loyalty, right? Chuuya would be incredibly hurt if
he found out Shuuji was sneaking around with someone else.

It was just a lapse in judgement. Nothing more.

“No,” he mutters, taking a step back so he can finally breathe some cooler air, “I don’t need
anything.”

Dazai stares at him for a long moment, like he doesn’t believe him and he’s giving him
another chance to change his mind. Then he huffs out a breath, “Well, if you change your
mind, you know where to find me.”

Chuuya watches him walk away with his phone pressed to his ear, feeling a profound sense
of loss.

He does know where to find him—

And maybe that’s the problem.

The week after is the lead up to midterms, and Chuuya is going insane . There’s so much he
needs to know, needs to finish and only so much time to do it in. Every time he finishes one
thing, another two assignments pop up, needing urgently to be finished.
He’s so busy that he doesn’t think of Dazai at all, because the rare times he’s not studying,
he’s sleeping.

(And god, his dreams have taken a hot turn, almost every single one of them featuring large
hands and a burning gaze, all heat and pressure, electricity in his veins.)

He rarely sees Shuuji, because he has midterms too, and their texts have fallen off a bit.
Chuuya would be disappointed in how much they’ve backslid from their progress—

But like he said: incredibly busy.

There are parties after midterms, to celebrate surviving (not passing because a decent amount
of people don’t pass) that part of the semester. It’s supposed to be a rager; everyone is invited
to at least one.

Shuuji said one of his other friends, someone that goes to Tokyo, has his parents house for
the weekend, and the party is going to be wild. Probably the most luxurious one Chuuya will
ever attend, because that friend is even better well-off than Shuuji is.

It’s also exciting because this is the first time he’s been invited out in public with Shuuji.

Maybe it’s not exactly a date, but it’s close, right? They’ll be together and people will know
they’re together, and they’ll have a good time!

He’s not ecstatic that their first actual date will be around a bunch of drunken teenagers, but
hey—

After this week, he’ll probably be one of those drunken teenagers, so he can’t complain that
much.
His last exam is finished with a mixture of relief that he’s finally done, and excitement
because there’s only a few hours until the party. Until he can see Shuuji again.

He showers thoroughly, taking a little bit of extra time to wash his hair and put product in it.
Staring at his meager makeup bag, he decides that if he’s going to go all out—

He might as well go all out.

Putting on his favorite playlist, Chuuya gives himself the sharpest cat eye he can manage. He
ends up having to re-do it twice because he’s too busy dancing along with the music to make
sure his lines are perfect.

A double coat of mascara, killer highlight on his cheekbones and red-tinted gloss on his lips,
and he looks good . Kissable, pretty enough to show off.

He takes more than a few selfies, sending a few to Yuan and the best one to Shuuji.

Then he addresses the next problem: clothing.

He still hasn’t had a lot of time to restock his wardrobe, so his choices—particularly for a
rich kid party— are rather slim. He doesn’t want to show up looking shabby or like a pity
date. He’ll never be the best-dressed person there, but he doesn’t want to embarrass himself,
or Shuuji.

Eventually he settles on a pair of pitch black jeans with fishnets underneath, the hem showing
over the waistband and through the hole on his thigh.

(Dazai’s shirt— which is still stuffed under his pillow by the way— would probably round
off the look nicely, but he doesn’t even allow himself to consider it.)
For the top, he goes with a light turtleneck long sleeve— because he’s not sure how long he’s
going to be out or how cold it will be— in a lovely dark blue that compliments his eyes and
hair. It’s just a tad too short, so when he raises his arms, the hem rides up his stomach.

It’s simple, chic, elegant. Perfect for what he needs.

Checking his phone for texts, he frowns when he sees that Shuuji has opened his snap but
never responded. Sure, he’s never been the best at fast responses and he’s probably busy
getting ready for the party too, but...

A least a texted heart emoji would’ve been nice.

Instead of lingering on that, he opens up the Uber app. Shuuji can’t pick him up and still get
them to the party in time, so he agreed to splurge on an Uber. It takes up most of his
allowance for the month, but he’s been pretty good at keeping his spending low, considering
that Shuuji usually buys him dinner when they’re together.

Yuan lent him cute ankle-length boots, so he slides them on as he shoots off another text to
Shuuji, letting him know that he’ll be leaving soon.

Nikolai is going to some other party that no one else in their group was invited to, so Chuuya
locks up as he leaves, shoving his keys into his pocket. His wallet, he leaves at home,
because he already lost it once, and he won’t need it since Shuuji will be giving him a ride
home.

The Uber arrives quickly, already paid for through the app. He slips into the backseat, smiling
at the woman driving politely. He’s grateful that she doesn’t try to make much conversation,
instead turning the radio up lightly.

As they ease into traffic, he frowns at his phone. Shuuji still hasn’t answered his text.

Granted, Yuan hasn’t answered either, but he’s not meeting her for a ride.
The longer he goes without a response, the more anxious he gets. He triple checks the time,
and their texts agreeing when and where to meet up, wondering if he got something wrong.

Why hasn’t he answered? Just even a ‘k’ would suffice. Anything to let him know that Shuuji
is there and listening to him.

By the time he arrives at the house, he’s a nervous wreck, fighting the urge to chew on his
fingers.

Did Shuuji forget? Did Chuuya get it wrong?

He smiles thinly at the driver, too harried to show how much he appreciates the ride, but not
rude enough to leave without saying somewhat of a goodbye.

The lights are on in the house, which instantly makes him feel a little better. He’s home, he
just didn’t text back for whatever reason. Everything’s going to be fine and they’re going to
have a good time. By now, he really needs a drink.

Except, when he walks up to the door and knocks—

It’s not Shuuji who answers after a brief pause.

It’s Dazai, with a confused expression on his face.

As always, he looks criminally good, even in his casual clothes, hair messy.

Chuuya tries to look past that, clearing his throat. “Hi, Dazai. Is Shuuji home?”
Dazai arches an eyebrow, confused. “No. He left,” he checks the watch on his wrist, heavy
and gold, “a few hours ago?”

Chuuya’s heart breaks.

Oh.

He...he left hours ago? Before Chuuya first texted him?

He opened his snap, but didn’t tell him that he wasn’t going to be there ? That their plans
were cancelled?

He would’ve understood, if Shuuji had told him earlier, but now he’s all dressed up on
Dazai’s porch, staring at him like an idiot while Dazai’s face slowly devolves into something
more and more concerned, and he should’ve just stayed home—

How is he going to get home? He left his wallet at home, like a trusting dumbass, and he used
up most of his money on the Uber here. He doesn’t even have his train card, so even if he
walked all the way there, he couldn’t even take the train.

Dazai will probably offer to drive him home, but Chuuya doesn’t even want him to look at
him right now because he feels so ugly and twisted with misery, and—

He’s had a very stressful two weeks, and he’s pretty sure he flunked at least one exam and
didn’t get as good a score he needed to on another. He’s low on sleep and has barely eaten,
and god, this is just the cherry on top of his shit cake.

He feels worthless. Ugly. A naïve fool, so easy for Shuuji to play with, and he falls for it
every single time.

It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.

Everything hurts.

“Did you two have something planned?” Dazai’s voice is gentle, cautious, but the sound
shatters the remains of Chuuya’s self-control.

“There,” he turns his head so Dazai won’t see as his eyes fill up with tears, because he’s had
enough embarrassment for one day, he doesn’t need to start sobbing in plain sight, “there was
a party. But I guess I’m not going now so I’ll just, uh... leave. I’ll just leave. Thanks.”

He sniffs wetly as he turns to walk away, subtly touching the corner of his eye to stop the tear
from falling and ruining his makeup.

(Dazai has been arguing himself this whole time, because clearly his son is an asshole, but he
shouldn’t do anything about it. He should take Chuuya home, let him process that Shuuji will
never be as emotionally invested as he is, and then hopefully he’ll never see Shuuji again.

Really, it’s the perfect opportunity for Chuuya to leave his life as quietly as he came in, no
fuss, no danger.

He shouldn’t try to fix this. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

Then Chuuya’s face crumples into agony, and he sniffs as he turns away, and Dazai’s
thoughts rapidly turn from ‘don’t touch what you can’t have’ to—

What are you waiting for, fix it, you can’t just let him cry.

So instead of the words ‘Let me drive you home’ coming out of his mouth it’s—)

“Wait.”
Dazai’s voice stops him in his tracks,and the fact that he still listens so easily—even though
Dazai hasn’t hurt Chuuya ever —shouldn’t make him more miserable, but it kind of does.

“Let me take you out instead.”

That makes the cycle of misery and self-deprecation break apart, his thoughts dissolving into
blankness, and the only thing he can think is ‘what?’.

He must’ve said that out loud, because Dazai is speaking up behind him again, this time a
little closer:

“Let me take you to+dinner. Please.”

Gentle fingers find his elbow, coaxing him to turn back around. It’s so easy to follow their
lead, spinning in place to face him again.

He doesn’t look up farther than Dazai’s chest though, because he’s pretty sure he still looks
like he’s having a breakdown. “What, like a date?”

He says it self-deprecatingly, like that option is so far fetched. He can’t even get a real date
with Shuuji, let alone his completely out of his league dad—

The next words knock all the breath out of him.

“If you’d like. If not,” there’s a knuckle under his chin, coaxing him to tip his head back, so
gentle he wouldn’t even have to try to resist it, but he doesn’t want to resist it, “think of it as a
way to make sure that your pretty makeup doesn’t go to waste.”
Dazai’s fingertip touches the corner of his eye, smoothing away the tear there without
smearing his eyeliner. His expression is torn between concern and sympathy, eyes flicking
over his face. His hold is so gentle that Chuuya could turn around and walk away right now,
and he doubts that Dazai would stop him but—

He finds himself staring up at him, wondering if he’s only asking out of pity. He knows he
looks pitiful right now, so it would make sense.

But Dazai doesn’t seem reluctant or put out. He’s just gently concerned, offering him a small,
genuine smile as he waits for his response.

Chuuya bites his lip. Really, what would it hurt?

After the last two weeks he deserves to have a nice time, and he is famished. He’s never been
out to dinner before, and he just wants one stupid romantic date to come out of this. Even if
it’s with Dazai.

( Especially if it’s with Dazai.)

“Are you sure you’re not busy?” He mumbles. Dazai is dressed like he might’ve been going
to bed soon, relaxing around the house.

There’s a shake of Dazai’s head, his thumb pressing into his check. “Not for you. Not for
this.”

Chuuya lets out a shuddering breath. Alright then.

“Okay,” he agrees, voice small. It’s just dinner, right?

The smile transforms Dazai’s face, radiating warmth and happiness, and he looks so damn
proud of himself, just because Chuuya said yes.
“Lovely,” he responds, stepping out of his way, “let me take care of a few things, and then we
can go, alright? Come inside, I know Yoko will be happy to see you.”

That does make him feel better, because Yoko is always happy to see him, and it’s such
uncomplicated, unconditional love that it makes the ugly knot of emotion in his chest start to
fade away.

When they go inside, Yoko is already waiting at the door, offering Chuuya a more sedate
greeting than her usual excitement and sitting still when he crouches down to hug her. She’s
surprisingly good at sensing his moods.

Dazai disappears upstairs, probably to change. He looks good in a loose pair of joggers, and
honestly, Chuuya’s standards are so low that he wouldn’t even be that mad if Dazai did take
him to dinner in sweats, but he’s definitely looking forward to whatever he chooses to wear.

(Upstairs, on the phone:

“ Seriously , Dazai, you’re going to use the favor that you’ve been holding over me for two
years to get a restaurant reservation ? What do you even need it for?”

“That’s the thing,” Dazai snaps as he yanks open his closet, “I don’t need an explanation for a
favor, Tanizaki. Get me the table or that new birth certificate you need is going to get lost in
the mail.”

“Jeez,” the man grumbles. There’s a faint sound of typing, a rustling of papers before he
continues, “The best I can do is a table in an hour.”

“Perfect,” Dazai says, surveying his options. “Oh, and make sure there are flowers on the
table. Orange ones.”
He hangs up, not waiting to hear a response. He already knows Tanizaki will follow his
directions— he owes him, and no one dares to fall through on the debts they owe him.)

Yoko proudly shows Chuuya one of her new toys, distracting him. He’s so tempted to pull out
his phone and check if Shuuji has updated any of his social media, just as a masochistic way
to prove himself right.

But he’s finally feeling better, and when he hears the sounds of Dazai getting ready upstairs
—he’s usually quiet when he’s around the house, so quiet that Chuuya almost never hears
him— it makes him smile, amused.

It also makes him nervous because, fuck, this is really happening, isn’t it? It’s not some
dream, not some misunderstanding.

Dazai said it could be a date, if he wanted it to be. Obviously, he does want it to be but—

Does that come with expectations? He’s never been on a real date before, so he doesn’t know
what to do.

Is he supposed to act differently? Be funnier, prettier, quieter? Is he supposed to kiss him,

even if he doesn’t want to?

(Not that that will be a problem, because he does want to, it’s just...

He’s nervous. What if he doesn’t like it? What if he kisses like Shuuji , all fumbling hands
and too-forceful and not good at all?

Just the thought of that makes Chuuya want to cry.)

Before he can get too nervous though, Dazai is pounding down the stairs again, looking like
he’s rushing.
And even though he was probably rushing that entire time— so he wouldn’t keep him
waiting, Chuuya realizes, heart warm— he looks sinfully good.

A grey turtleneck that hugs his torso beautifully, hinting at the strong muscles underneath.
Black jeans that emphasize how thick his thighs are, flexing powerfully underneath the fabric
as he steps down. Grey boots.

(Chuuya is suddenly reminded about what they say about men with big feet, and he’s curious.
)

He’s wearing a black trench-coat that flaps around his knees, covering most of his outfit up.

And on his hands....silver rings that match the chain around his neck. He looks good , but in a
subtle way, like he’s not trying to be noticed but he’ll give you a show if you do see him.
There’s money in his clothes, obviously, but not so much that Chuuya feels underdressed by
comparison.

And they match, he realizes, face turning red as he touches the collar to his own turtleneck. Is
that coincidence or purposeful?

“Are you ready?” Dazai asks, shoving his wallet and keys in his pocket. Despite the question,
and his own hurry, he doesn’t seem particularly worried either way, like Chuuya could say no
and he’d continue to wait patiently.

He is ready though. Giving Yoko one last pat, he stands up and nods in affirmation.

Dazai smiles at him, big, his hair falling charmingly over his forehead. The dimple flashes at
him, then melts away just as quickly as Dazai holds out an arm.

Confused, Chuuya steps closer.

A large hand finds the small of his back, warm and steering him gently through the hall
towards the garage.

Chuuya is glad he’s walking in front, because his face is on fire , and he’s barely watching
where he’s going, his entire awareness narrowing down to the heat of Dazai’s fingers over his
shirt. His thumb is just on the edge of the hem, and it would only take a shift in the right
direction to be pressed on the bare skin of his hip.

Dazai unlocks the garage door and urges him out. Yoko has to have Chuuya push her nose
back in gently before the door can be shut again.

“It’s a bit of a drive,” Dazai murmurs, following Chuuya to his side of the car. He opens the
door for him— a gentlemanly gesture that Chuuya has only seen in movies, one that makes
him blush— and leans his arms on the door as Chuuya slides in. “I hope you don’t mind.”

He absolutely does not mind getting to see him driving again, especially with the changed
atmosphere between them, one that might allow Chuuya to reach across them and hold his
free hand...

Or that hand on his thigh, wrapping nearly the width of it, casually possessive as Dazai keeps
his eyes on the road, but his thumb is stroking over his skin rhythmically...

He gets to watch Dazai cross the front of the car, opening the garage door and starting the car
in a series of smooth confident motions.

Then the door is opening, and Dazai is dropping in, and they're alone, locked in a car together
for 'a bit of a drive'. Anticipation rolls down his spine, curling hotly in his stomach.

"Where are we going?" He asks, purely for something to say. He likes that Dazai already has
a plan in mind, instead of looking to him to make all the decisions. It shows how capable he
is of taking control, of guiding the situation.
It shows that he wants this.

Dazai throws a look at him, reversing smoothly out of the garage. "I got us a table at
Azamino Ukai-tei. It's the best I could do on such short notice— but if you'd like to go
anywhere else, I'll be happy to take you there instead."

Chuuya's eyebrows shoot up. It's not the most expensive restaurant in the city, he's sure, but
he does remember seeing it as one of the top options when he was cruising the dining options
in Yokohama. It probably has a waiting list at least a week long.

And Dazai got them a table in less than twenty minutes? Money really does buy everything,
doesn't it?

"No," he smiles at Dazai, "that sounds perfect."

The look in Dazai's eye grows into something warmer, sweeter.

The drive is much like the other time Dazai took him home, except this time he's got a few
rings on his fingers, adding a point of interest that draws Chuuya's attention every time he
manages to look away. They're beautiful, heavy silver and glinting under the lights of the car.

A stray cat takes the exact wrong moment to dart across the road, headed straight for the tires
of the car, and Chuuya is leaning forward, eyes wide, mouth open to warn Dazai—

The car brakes hard, swerving to avoid the cat. A hard forearm is suddenly across his chest,
pinning him back against the seat as the rear end of the car wobbles, momentum carrying the
turn to a dangerous, screeching degree as the car threatens to tip over—

Just as quickly, Dazai is tapping the gas and twisting the wheel, easily bringing the car back
under control.
Chuuya looks out the side mirror, heart in his throat—

The cat crouches, terrified, in the middle of the street for a moment before slinking out of the
road, unharmed. Chuuya lets out a relieved breath, sinking back into his seat.

"That cat is going to get hurt someday," Dazai mutters, slowly pulling his arm back.

(Chuuya's heart is still pounding, but for a different reason.

Because one of Dazai's first thoughts was his safety. It was immediate, so reactionary , that
Chuuya barely jerked forward before his forearm was locking him in place.)

He hopes Dazai didn't feel his racing heart against his arm, because it feels like it's beating
out of his chest. Swallowing hard to gather a little bit of composure, he responds, "Does it
have a home or is it a stray?"

Dazai shrugs. "I've never seen it with a collar on, so I'm assuming a stray."

Poor kitty. All things considered, the rich neighborhood probably isn't the worst thing, but it
does get cold at night. The poor thing is probably sleeping under porches, or something else
equally pitiful.

Chuuya wants to take it home, heart panging in sympathy.

The rest of the drive is relatively uneventful, with the only exciting portion being a pedestrian
that runs across the crosswalk moments before the light turns green.

Dazai's arm has returned to resting on the center console, wrist hanging off the gearshift and
fingers dangling, so tempting, it's only a few inches away—
They talk casually, about the dogs or Chuuya's classes, or whatever comes to mind.

Shuuji's name does not come up once, and Chuuya is incredibly grateful for that, because he
doesn't want to be reminded of what happened earlier, and he doesn't particularly want to stop
contemplating the morals of going on a date with his dad. That might send him spiraling into
a pit of guilt and anxiety, and he really just wants to have a good time tonight.

He is having a good time too, so far, because Dazai is funny and he gets this glint in his eye
whenever he makes Chuuya laugh, like he's proud of himself. Like his only goal for the
evening is to make him feel good and safe and secure.

When they arrive at the restaurant, there are only a few parking spots. There is a valet option,
but Dazai skips that, choosing instead to find his own spot. Chuuya wonders why briefly,
then figures that he doesn’t trust anyone else to drive this ridiculously-expensive car.

When he finally parks, Chuuya gets out before Dazai can come around the car for him.

(Of course, Dazai doesn't say anything, but it takes quite a bit to keep the disappointed pout
off his face.)

The hand finds his lower back again as they walk towards the entrance, and Chuuya is
starting to think that Dazai is treating this like a real date, even without Chuuya saying
something, because this is as much as he's touched him, ever.

It's easily escaped, just one step up and the hand would slide off his back—

But Chuuya likes the sensation, the gentle guiding that Dazai gives him with easy pressure
from the tips of his fingers, drawing him closer or urging him in a different direction around a
poorly parked car.
He opens the door for them both, and the restaurant is pleasantly warm, the smell of delicious
food wafting out and making Chuuya's mouth water. He'd been so excited earlier today that
he forgot to eat much besides a few pieces of bread in anticipation of drinking.

Maybe not his best choice, but one he is appreciating now, because that means he can eat
more of the delicious food here. Dazai approaches the hostess without hesitation, murmuring
his name. She greets them both briefly before leading them to a back table that’s set a little
ways from the others, almost secluded.

Dazai pulls out his chair for him, clearly intending to give Chuuya the full date experience.

(It’s also because that leaves Dazai with the chair near the wall, so he can watch all the
entrances and keep an eye on anyone approaching. Not that he’ll tell Chuuya that.)

There’s candles on the table, burning low and atmospheric. And in the center—

Orange flowers, in a beautiful bouquet.

It's not the same kind as he received earlier— those ones lasted four days before they started
to wilt and he managed to save one orange rose by pressing it between the pages of a book—
but they're close enough that he's immediately struck by the similarity.

He touches the petals, gently, heart in his mouth. "Did you get these for me?"

Dazai sits in his chair, gesturing for the waiter to bring them a few menus. "Yes. I would've
gotten you something more meaningful, but I didn't have enough time."

His eyes are stuck on the flowers, and suddenly he realizes—

The first bouquet arrived only hours after Dazai dropped him off. Hours after the man spent
all morning trying to cheer him up, cracking jokes and bickering with him good-naturedly,
teaching him how to control the dogs.

And when he called Shuuji about it, he still sounded groggy, like he'd just woken up. He'd
also never claimed them directly, and if he did send them—

Why wouldn't he have left a card? Why the mysterious black business card?

Did...

Did Dazai send them?

His eyes wander up, taking him in, the way the candlelight dances over the features of his
face, sharpening his cheekbones. His eyes are dark enough that they reflect the flames, like a
demon out of hell, unreadable and mysterious and smiling wickedly at him.

He looks like something out of Chuuya's most delicious and secret dreams.

He has to ask. "Did... did you send me anything before? "

Before Dazai can answer, the waitress comes over with their menus, placing them on either
side of the table. She also pours two cups of water for them, leaving them in the middle of the
table.

Dazai flips open his wine menu, shooting him a small, secretive, teasing grin over the top,
before changing the subject. "I hear the Monte Bello wine is good; you should try it."

Chuuya narrows his eyes at him, wondering if he can pressure him into answering with sheer
presence, but he just continues scanning his menu with that infuriating little grin on his face.
Fine then.

He does drag his menu over, though mostly just to awe at the options. "I'm not twenty," he
mutters, reminding Dazai that he's still not of drinking age, even if it makes him feel
incredibly young.

"You're with me, sweetheart; no one will question you."

That's probably true, because Dazai exudes this powerful energy, like someone who should
not be questioned or defied. And if he insists—

Chuuya's not going to pass up the opportunity to have a glass of wine that literally costs over
fifteen-thousand yen. The price does make him ache a bit, but if Dazai is offering... he won't
say no. If he does, he might never get the chance again.

The waitress comes back after a few minutes, much more attentive than any server in every
other restaurant Chuuya's ever been in.

She takes their drink orders— top-shelf whiskey for Dazai and the wine for Chuuya—
without blinking, scribbling down their orders before hurrying away.

It's only wine— not like he's underage at a bar— but the feeling of breaking the rules, even a
little bit, sends a rush of adrenaline through him, making him grin. It's nothing he hasn't done
before— he's had wine several times— but it still makes him feel a little wild, a little
reckless, a little dangerous.

"What are you studying?" Dazai asks.

It's a general question, small talk, but it really highlights how little they know about each
other. Sometimes, with how easily Dazai seems to get him, it's easy to forget that they've only
spent a few hours together, over the course of a month.
It's hard to remember that they're basically strangers, when it feels like Dazai's known him
forever.

"Engineering," he responds.

Their drinks arrive then, placed on the table gently. Their food orders are taken next— the
Kaitei steak course for Dazai that pairs nicely with the whiskey, and the seafood course for
Chuuya— before she hurries away again.

"Your family must be proud," Dazai says, voice low. To be truthful—

He sounds a lot prouder than Chuuya's dad was, when he found out. Not that Rimbaud isn't
proud of him, he just wanted him to do something more... competitive . More distinguished,
something that he can brag about to all the other parents on the block.

He shrugs, taking a little sip of his wine. Flavor bursts over his tongue, deep and warm, so
rich that he's automatically letting out a little moan, taking a longer sip. Dark eyes sharpen on
him, growing darker, more intent.

Chuuya doesn't notice.

"Mm," he sighs, "they are, they just...wanted something more for me. Dad was dead set on
me being a lawyer, since I like to argue so much. He was a little upset when I told him my
major."

That makes Dazai tilt his head, eyebrows creasing. "You're at Keio, though, aren't you? It's a
very prestigious school; you must be incredibly smart to get in, no matter what you're
studying."
Chuuya squirms a little, uncomfortable. Most days he doesn't feel smart, because he's always
had to work harder, study harder and longer, than a decent part of his class. Some of his
fellow students just suck in the information like it's air, never struggling and barely having to
study.

Most of the time, he just feels like he's keeping up instead of excelling. He's never the best,
never the most wanted, never the top.

He just...works hard, that's it. That's all.

Thankfully, their food arrives then, giving him a moment longer to think as the plates are set
on the table accordingly.

(He tells himself that the grateful, polite smile Dazai gives the waitress and her responding
dazzled look doesn't make his stomach boil with resentment and jealousy.)

Taking the moment to change the subject, Chuuya asks, "What do you do? For work, I
mean."

Dazai takes his sweet time arranging his utensils to his liking, piling his plate with food
slowly. He has a thoughtful expression on his face, like he's deciding what exactly to tell
Chuuya.

Eventually he speaks up, lifting a bite of steak to his mouth, "I work in information, and
protection."

That's... not exactly the answer Chuuya was expecting. He was expecting more of a company
name, or an actual job title, not this vague non-answer.

He takes a bite of his crab— is it just him, or do Dazai's eyes follow his fork like a dog
begging for treats— and says, "Like security? Personal protection?"
Dazai grins at him like he just won the lottery. " Exactly like personal protection."

Well—

Still not a name, still not a company, but obviously he must be in high demand, considering
how wealthy he is, so maybe it's a safety precaution. Or a trust thing, Chuuya reminds
himself, because they are still just getting to know each other.

(The idea of that makes him both sad and even more determined to prove himself to Dazai.)

This time, when he raises another bite of crab to his lips, the way Dazai is staring is obvious.

Chuuya pauses, curious, wondering why the man didn’t just order crab if he wanted it so bad,
but it gives him a chance to turn the tables.

He waves the fork at him, teasing. “Do you want a bite?”

Dazai licks his bottom lip, slow, the pink of his tongue slick and tempting. He looks from the
fork up to Chuuya, eyes gleaming. “I would love one,” he purrs, and the sensual tone in his
voice makes Chuuya wonder if he’s talking about the crab—

Or if he wants a bite of Chuuya.

Breathless, he offers the fork up to him. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, for Dazai to take
the fork from his hands or pull the crab off with his own fork—

Whatever it is, it’s not for Dazai to lean across the table, smoldering eyes locked on him like
he’s daring Chuuya to look away, and taking the fork in his mouth.
With the handle still in his fingers, he can feel the movement of Dazai’s teeth and tongue,
pulling off the crab, achingly slowly.

Somehow, the room feels suddenly ten degrees hotter than before. His face feels like it’s on
fire, but he can’t look away for even a second as Dazai finally leans back in his seat, a
satisfied expression on his face.

“Thank you, doll; that was very sweet of you.”

God, when he says it like that , it makes it sound like he wants to give Chuuya a reward for
it.

He takes a sip of his wine to recover and cool off, which is a mistake. He’s not entirely sure if
it’s the wine or the way Dazai is smirking at him, but it feels like there’s a burning ball of
tension in his stomach, pumping slow, inescapable heat into his veins, until it feels like he’s
swallowed lava and it’s consuming him whole.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters, voice breathy.

That makes the smile widen, and Dazai smothers it in his drink, watching him closely over
the rim. His teeth flash sharply in the light, and Chuuya has the sudden thought that he
doesn’t think he’d mind being eaten alive.

This time, when the waitress comes, Dazai’s eyes don’t leave him for a second, watching him
closely.

"Would you like dessert?" The waitress asks. She doesn't look at Chuuya at all, which is
slightly irritating, but it's offset by the fact that Dazai isn't paying her any attention at all.

"Mm," Dazai hums, contemplating. "Yes. Something sweet. Fruity. Chocolate?"

The last part is directed at Chuuya, a question. He nods, pushing his plate away to make
room. He doesn't usually order desserts at restaurants, but it's like Dazai read his mind.

The waitress nods, taking a few of their empty plates away when she goes.

Chuuya doesn't know how long it takes for her to come back with a small cake in her hands.
He doesn't know what they talk about.

All he knows is that Dazai's eyes feel like molten caramel, deep enough to drown in and
Chuuya is sinking, melting, burning alive, desperate.

She sets the plate in front of Dazai, and Chuuya doesn't even care that she's ignoring him
anymore, because Dazai is taking a clean fork in hand, carefully spearing a chunk of
deliciously warm chocolate, fluffy cake and a pretty raspberry.

With an indulgent grin, he offers the bite to him across the table. " Want a bite?" he asks,
teasingly.

Yes. Of the cake and Dazai.

This time it's Chuuya's turn to lean across the table. He's not quite confident to take the bite
without looking, but as soon as he gets the fork in his mouth, flavor bursts across his tongue,
making his eyes fall shut on a soft moan.

The fork doesn't waver, but the tension builds.

Dazai feeds him another bite, this time with a blueberry, and that's when Chuuya notices he
hasn't moved to take a bite for himself.
"Are you going to have any?"

Dazai hums, and this time, the bite he offers has a load of melted chocolate on it. Chuuya
takes it easily, using his tongue to get most of the chocolate.

"I'm not much of a sweets person," Dazai says lowly, taking the fork back. "I'm picky with
my food."

Then, making deliberate, devastating eye contact, he lifts the fork to his mouth, and slowly,
oh so fucking slowly, licks off a smear of chocolate Chuuya had missed.

It feels like a crime to watch, because his tongue is wet and thorough , getting every trace of
the sweet off, curling at the edge with an ease that speaks of skill.

And Chuuya—

God, he doesn't even know what he's thinking, if he's thinking at all, because he feels hot and
cold, electric, melting like putty in Dazai's hands as he offers him another bite, and fuck , this
one tastes so much better after the fork had Dazai's mouth all over it.

He's going to die if Dazai keeps this up.

After a few more bites, Chuuya can't handle it anymore, slumping back in his chair. He needs
a bathroom break or a cold shower or something.

(He needs Dazai. )

How is he going to survive the ride home? The drive here was bad enough, but now he's half-
hard already— embarrassing, because Dazai literally has not touched him at all since they
first arrived— and he's so desperate he could beg for it.
Beg for what, exactly, he doesn't know, but he's pretty sure Dazai will.

He excuses himself to the restroom, taking a long minute to cool off and splash his face with
water. It's not fair the effect Dazai has on him, because he's pretty sure he doesn't have half
the effect or skill to play Dazai like he's playing him.

And this time, today, Chuuya doesn't lie to himself.

This is flirting. This is sexual tension. Dazai's been flirting with him all night, and he can't
help but wonder—

What is he going to do about it?

By the time he returns, Dazai has already paid for their meal and is finishing off his glass of
whiskey. Chuuya is glad he only had one glass, because even though Dazai is the best driver
he's ever seen, he's still traumatized by all those anti-drunk driving ads.

Dazai throws back the rest of his drink when he sees him coming back, Adam's Apple
bobbing. "Are you ready?" He asks.

(Ready for anything you'll give me, Chuuya thinks near-hysterically—.)

He nods.

Again , with the hand on his back and god, it feels so close to where Chuuya would like it to
be, only a few inches away from bare skin, and he's on the verge of tears with desperation.

Dazai opens his door for him again, and Chuuya slides into the car with a murmured thanks,
taking the moment to brace himself for the ride home—
And he's glad he did, because not only does Dazai look delicious as he slides into his seat, but
as soon as he's done reversing out of his spot, his free hand drifts over the space between
them, bridging the distance between them—

And settles on Chuuya's thigh, silver rings pressing into him.

Chuuya is gone . His heartbeat feels too big for his skin, and he's so hot he actually needs to
roll down the window so he can breathe again, and the feeling of Dazai's thumb stroking up
and down, never climbing higher than where he started but he wishes it was , is filling him
with so much tension he could snap.

He wishes he had worn shorts or something because please , he wants that on his bare skin,
wants it higher, harder.

God, please , he'll do anything—

He doesn't remember the ride back. Hopes Dazai hadn't said anything to him, because he's
not sure if he can communicate in anything other than ridiculously horny gurgles. Hopes he
hasn't made a fool out of himself, because he wants more, wants Dazai to give him more,
wants Dazai to want to want to give him more—

The car stops, and his vision clears, and Chuuya quickly comes to one, sudden, unfortunate
realization:

The date is over. He's home, and Dazai is walking across the front of the car to let him out,
and he doesn't want it to be over.

He wants to keep driving. Or go see a movie, or, or—

Or be taken to Dazai’s home, because he doesn't want this to end , he wants more time with
Dazai, more touches, more looks, anything.

The door opens, and he has no choice but to stumble out. The cold air clears his head a little
bit, calms him down. At least, he can think about something else rather than the ghost of
Dazai's hand on his thigh.

He turns around, expecting a goodbye or Dazai to already be walking away—

Except he's not. He's leaning up against the car with his legs spread wide, dropping him down
a few centimeters. His hands are in his pockets, and he's watching Chuuya with a steady,
intense gaze.

They stare at each other for a long, breathless moment.

When he can't take it anymore, Chuuya swallows hard, mouth dry. "Thank you, for dinner. I
had a good time."

Dazai's smile is slow, self-satisfied. Smug and a little arrogant, but Chuuya will overlook it
because he looks so damn good. "Yeah?" he purrs, "I'm glad."

He really does look glad too, like he wanted nothing more than to make sure Chuuya had a
good time.

Chuuya stands there a little awkwardly, not sure what he's supposed to do or say —

Dazai tilts his head. He doesn't move, but his voice seems to reach across the distance and
grab Chuuya by the throat. "Can I kiss you?"
 Contact Saved
Chapter Summary

Oh. Is it that easy? "Kiss me, please."

"That's all you had to say, doll." Fingers hook into his belt loops, tugging him close. It’s
as easy as breathing to follow the pull, stepping between Dazai’s legs.

When he’s close enough, one of the hands slides around his lower back, encouraging the
natural arch of his spine. The other brushes up his torso, sliding under his jaw to tip his
head back with a thumb.

Chuuya’s hands end up finding his shoulders, fingers flexing in the thick leather, pent
up.

He’s glad Dazai doesn’t tease him longer, or ask him to open his eyes, because if he has
to wait even a second longer he is going to lose his mind—

Dazai leans, and Chuuya bends to fit him, helpless to the pull like a flower to the sun—

Their lips meet and the world holds its breath.

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone! Another Saturday, another chapter. This one is kind of a big one, because
I couldn't find anywhere to break it off earlier, so enjoy! As always, thanks for all your
support and reading! Follow me on twitter @H4NDKINK if you don't already, for more
content! See you all next week <3

This chapter includes:

- a kiss
- a call
- a ride
- a date
- another kiss

Chuuya's world stops. His breath stalls in his chest, and his eyes are wide with shock and
surprise. Dazai's gaze is pinning him in place like pins through a butterfly’s wings, spreading
him open for his enjoyment.
He doesn't know what to say. Well, obviously, yes but—

He's a little confused, because no one's asked him before. "Why are you asking? Shouldn't
you just—,” he gestures vaguely, "do it?"

Asking is nice, but it puts him on the spot a little, embarrasses him, especially since Dazai
has not looked away, not even for a second.

His answer makes a scowl cross Dazai's expression, and for a second, Chuuya is worried that
he did something wrong—

Then it goes away, and instead Dazai is looking at him with faint concern.

(It hasn't gone away; it's just hidden , in how hard Dazai's jaw is clenched from the idea that
someone taught him that his consent was unnecessary or an afterthought.)

"Baby," he sighs gently, and Chuuya's heart is skipping a beat at the pet name, "people you
don't know should always ask you. Even people you are comfortable with should ask you."

Oh. Well, that seems weird to Chuuya, but he can see why that would be nice. “Isn’t that
weird though? To ask?”

Dazai arches an eyebrow at him. “Do you think it’s weird that I asked?”

No, not really. It’s just unexpected and makes a cascade of nervous butterflies appear in his
stomach. He’s not sure how to handle it and his heart is pounding , but he’s not
uncomfortable . He shakes his head slightly.

Then he has nothing left to stall with, and he does want it, badly, so: "Okay."
Dazai tsks at him, expression fond. "You know I like to hear you say it."

He does know that, it's just embarrassing , especially with Dazai staring him down like that.
But he wants it enough to work through it, and so he squeezes his eyes shut and mumbles
loud enough for Dazai to hear, "Kiss me."

Then, as an afterthought, because he knows Dazai likes it when he's polite , "Please."

Silence, fraught with tension stretching endlessly between them.

Chuuya is expecting—

Well, based on past experiences, to be pushed back or grabbed roughly, or otherwise pulled
into a kiss. He doesn't even mind the idea, because the thought of Dazai's hands on him again
is intoxicating enough—

Instead, fingers are gently wrapping around his wrist, coaxing him closer.

It's the easiest thing in the world to follow their lead, stumbling forward until he's caged
between the warmth of Dazai's legs, spread wide enough for him to settle between perfectly.
His hand is brought up, chest-level, higher, until Dazai is placing it on his own shoulder.

He grips the fabric of his jacket, thankful for something to hold onto as Dazai's fingers slide
down his other arm, ticklishly light, over his elbow and down to his wrist.

He repeats the process until Chuuya is standing there with both hands on his shoulders, hands
flexing as he waits, face turned up, trembling.

This is it. Dazai's going to kiss him, right here, right now.
A hand slides across his back, pulling him that much closer, and Chuuya is leaning in,
leaning up , closing the distance, so close and yet so far—

He can feel Dazai leaning in, hot breath washing over his face, sweet with chocolate and
whiskey, intoxicating.

"Open your eyes. I want to see you," Dazai murmurs into the space between them, impossible
to miss, impossible not to obey. "I want you to watch, the first time I kiss you."

Fuck.

Chuuya's eyes crack open immediately, and the first thing he sees is a dark gaze, inches from
his face, drugging him with how intense and burning they are.

And they're getting closer.

Closer—

Closer—

And finally, finally, their lips press together.

It's everything.

Soft, chaste, gentle. Easy.

Chuuya's eyes flutter shut naturally on a soft sigh, one that's swallowed by Dazai. His lips are
dry, but good , nothing like the forceful or too-abrupt kisses he's had before.

It's good, of course it's good and then—

Dazai's hand firms on his back, pulling him close to his chest and supporting the natural
curve of his back as he leans up to meet him. His head tilts slightly, lips sliding across his in a
motion Chuuya can't help but chase—

And then it's great.

He doesn't even feel nervous, because he's too busy following after Dazai's movements like a
man addicted, and Dazai is leading him beautifully. The kiss is slow at first, both of them just
enjoying the slide of their lips together, the way their breath mingles together, each breath
hotter than the last.

Then Dazai's mouth opens slightly and Chuuya is getting a taste of the wet hidden behind his
lips, and he's shuddering , pushing upwards as high as he can, hands fisting in Dazai's jacket
to drag him down, silently demanding he kiss him harder, deeper, more.

His enthusiasm seems to spur Dazai on, and at the same time his tongue swipes torturously
slow across his bottom lip, his fingers are sliding over his jaw, rough fingertips sparking
tingling sensation, sliding further into his hair and cupping his jaw to tilt his head back for a
better angle.

The double sensations make a soft noise rise in the back of Chuuya's throat, and that seems
like a breaking point for Dazai, because the next kiss is harder, more forceful, backed by
frantic energy and desire.

Chuuya's breath feels stolen straight from his lungs, replaced with fire and smoke, whiskey
and chocolate. One of his hands slides up, finding the short hairs at the back of Dazai's head,
making him shiver, then continuing up, up, until he can thread his fingers through Dazai's
hair— god, it's just as soft as it looks— and pulling —
The rumble Dazai lets out sounds more like a growl and he's shifting downwards, adjusting
the position of their mouths until he can suck Chuuya's bottom lip into his mouth on one,
long, perfect movement.

Shit.

Chuuya presses closer, eyes rolling back in his head, and Dazai's thigh ends up naturally
slotting between his own and—

Fuck!

Dazai sucks hard on his lip, tongue running over it, at the same time Chuuya's erection
presses against the hard muscle of his thigh, and he shouldn't be this hard already or this
needy already, but he is, he is.

Dazai sucks on his lip until the throbbing of his mouth matches the throbbing between his
legs, and he doesn't even seem to care or notice that Chuuya is subtly grinding against him,
because he's too busy sinking his teeth into his lip with just enough force that it almost hurts,
driving him crazy.

Chuuya's panting into his mouth, melted in his hands, mind blank with static and desire. The
only thing he can think of is yes , yeah, good, please—

He pulls back, making a shuddering, wanting noise when Dazai doesn't immediately let him
go, lip stretching until it stings. Dazai makes a soft, disappointed noise in the back of his
throat as Chuuya pulls away, like he's taking away his favorite toy, and that's so fucking cute
—

Then he lets go with a wet pop, and the next kiss Chuuya drags him into, he can actually feel
his pout. How is he simultaneously adorable and ridiculously hot? It's not fair.
The wind blows then, cutting right through the thin fabric of his shirt and making him shiver,
just a little bit. With how close they're pressed together, Dazai feels it.

He stands up straighter, pulling his hands away, and Chuuya is whimpering, clutching onto
him tightly, he doesn't want it to be over, not yet , just a little longer—

But Dazai isn't breaking the kiss, he's just pulling off his jacket. A complicated task because
he doesn't stop kissing him and Chuuya refuses to let him go too far, but he manages it after a
few moments of fumbling.

Warmth covers his back as Dazai drapes the jacket over his shoulders, pulling the lapels
tightly over his shoulders. Chuuya shivers, making a happy, content sigh that Dazai swallows
whole.

With the edges of his jacket in hand, Dazai brings him with as he leans back against the car,
pressing them as close together as they can.

Surrounded by Dazai's warmth, large hands on him and keeping him grounded even as he
feels like he's flying away, braced with his strong thighs beneath him, their mouths moving
together.

Chuuya feels invincible. Untouchable. Like the whole world could come crashing down
around them but as long as Dazai was here, was holding him, he knows he'll be alright.

Like nothing else matters. Just them, just Dazai, just kissing him until he's breathless.

The reminder of how late it is somehow makes the kiss slow down from something frantic
into something more languid and indulgent. Long, slow movements of their mouths, a teasing
nip at Chuuya's lip that he doesn't follow up on.

It's a natural, easy progression to slow and soft and easy, and even though there's still a
burning, fiery desperation within him, he doesn't feel neglected and he doesn't like it any less.
In fact, he likes this just as much, being so close to him and breathing in his air, just enjoying
him.

He doesn't know how long they stand there kissing. At some point, his hands have wound up
in Dazai's hair, alternating between tugging on the soft strands, and rubbing his fingers over
the soft undercut, smiling whenever he makes Dazai shiver and hum pleasantly against him.

Chuuya's phone beeps, an alarm for ten p.m. that he'd set up for midterms week so he could
go to bed on time, and he's reminded that, even though it feels like the whole world has
stopped, that doesn't mean it has .

He sighs, responsibilities tugging at the back of his mind. And even though he feels wired
right now, with Dazai's hands on him, he knows that he'll crash hard as soon as he takes a
moment to stop. Pulling back to get just enough space to whisper against Dazai's lips, he
says, "I should go."

"Mmm," Dazai hums gently, hands reeling him back in, "probably."

But the way he pulls Chuuya into another kiss, this one even more languid than the last, says
he's not ready to let him go just yet. Chuuya's not complaining, sinking against him and
letting him kiss him until he’s nearly mindless.

Eventually, the kiss slows to a stop, and they spend just a moment there, enjoying the catch of
their lips together and their shared breaths.

Then, with a sigh like Dazai is being tormented, he lets go of Chuuya entirely. "Alright," he
mutters, "I'll let you go now."

The tiny grumble in his voice, like letting him go is a terrible thing to do, makes Chuuya
smile. His lips are tingly.
He takes a step back, moving to take the jacket off so he can hand it back—

"Don't," Dazai says, stopping him in his tracks, hands reaching out to carefully adjust the
lapels over his shoulders. He brushes his hands down the length of it, subtly dipping his
fingers into one of the pockets without Chuuya noticing. “Keep it.”

Chuuya flushes, and he shouldn’t be so worked up about something so small after the make
out session they had, but he is. “Okay. Thanks.”

The smile he gets in return looks so much sweeter, now that he knows what it tastes like. “It
was my pleasure, believe me.”

Then there’s nothing left to say, nothing he can use to prolong their contact— besides ‘wanna
make out in your car until I lose my mind?’— so he ducks his head and murmurs, “Good
night.”

“Good night, sweetheart.”

The walk away is cold, and he feels like he’s leaving something behind. He looks back twice,
and each time Dazai is exactly where he left him, leaning against his car and watching him go
with steady eyes and a lopsided smile.

He’s the one who leaves sight first.

The dorms are quiet when he returns, everyone either passed out from midterms slump or not
home at all. He feels like he’s walking on air as he makes his way up to his room, nose buried
in the lapel of Dazai’s coat to breathe in the warm, sharp smell of him, like ice in whiskey,
frost on pine needles.

Nikolai isn't home, for which he’s glad because he immediately falls into bed when he comes
in, curling up in Dazai’s jacket with a giddy, ecstatic smile.
This was what he was looking for. The butterflies, the happiness, the warmth and light. The
romance.

All that time he was searching for it with Shuuji, pushing himself harder and harder, but the
one who gave it to him was Dazai.

And it was easy, beautifully easy. Simple, no pressure, no expectations, no reason to be

scared or uncomfortable.

It just... was.

When Chuuya moves, something crinkles in the jacket pocket.

Curious, he digs into the pocket— if Dazai didn’t want him to look or find something, he
wouldn’t have let him keep the jacket— and pulls out a crinkled piece of paper, folded up
haphazardly. He unfolds it, only to find a number printed on with Dazai’s name scrawled
messily underneath.

When did he have time to write this? When did he have time to slip it into the pocket? While
they were kissing?

Either way, he has his number now. And even that was easier than ever, because he didn’t
have to ask or was locked in a car until he shared his own. He didn’t share his own number,
which means—

The ball is in his court. He can text Dazai or not, and it’s completely up to him.

Whipping out his phone, he navigates to his contacts. He’s not going to call right now, but he
doesn’t want to risk losing this tiny, precious piece of paper.
Once he inputs the number, he comes across the next problem: contact name.

He can’t exactly put it as ‘Dazai Osamu’ because he doesn’t want anyone to accidentally find
out that he’s texting Dazai. He’s not hiding him, he’s just...

Waiting for a better time to tell everyone. Waiting to figure out if this date was a one-time
thing, or if they’ll be going on more together.

He doesn’t want to put a random name, because that’ll be confusing—

His eyes snag on the last contact dialed: ‘Dad’. And, well—

It’s simple, easy to explain and he’s seen it before on movies so—

Why the hell not?

[ CONTACT SAVED: Daddy <3 ]

His face is on fire, but it’s not like Dazai will ever see it, so it’s okay. He’s just being sneaky.

He throws the paper away, ripping it into pieces so it’s impossible to read.

Settling back into bed, he decides to check his social media before getting ready for sleep.

This is a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.

Because as he’s scrolling through Snapchat stories, clicking through the boring ones, he
stumbles upon Yuan’s story. She went to the party he was supposed to go to, so he checks it
out of morbid curiosity, wondering exactly what he missed.

No way would he ever wish that he went to the party instead of dinner with Dazai, but a
masochistic part of him wants to know .

Truthfully, it looks a little boring, with the typical crowd of teenagers yelling and drinking
together. Most of the fun there is in the alcohol, and Chuuya does like parties, but he’s glad
he didn’t go.

Then, he sees it, in the back, clearly not meant to be photographed:

Shuuji, in a back corner, with his hands in a girl's hair and their lips pressed together.

Oh.

Oddly enough, he doesn’t feel that broken up about it. Yeah, it kind of sucks that Shuuji stood
him up to make out with a girl, and there is a part of him that’s hurt by that but—

A larger part of him is still floating somewhere in the atmosphere, made light by the
remembrance of being with Dazai.

Yeah, It sucks, but you know what?

Chuuya thinks he came out on the better side of this deal. And at least he doesn’t have a
reason to feel bad for kissing his dad, right?

Now they’re even. Well, sort of—

Chuuya still wins.

And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have a reason to feel bad about going further with Dazai.

Because now that he’s got a taste?

He’s addicted .

The problem, Chuuya decides, is that he doesn't know what to say. If it were somebody his
age, he'd probably start with a simple emoji or a meme, or something else equally simple and
relatable.

But Dazai isn't his age, and somehow that makes the idea of sending the man a peach emoji
or a twitter link feels...wrong. Like he's breaking some sort of unspoken rule.

Of course, he could start off with a simple 'hey, it's Chuuya' which isn't bad , it's just
lackluster. He should probably mention the date, but how?

'Hey, it's Chuuya, I had a really good time at dinner and then grinding against your leg after,
wanna do it again sometime'?

'Hey, it's Chuuya, it was nice getting up close and personal with you tongue'?

('Hey, it's Chuuya, please kiss me again.')

Everything he comes up with is either too casual, too awkward, too immature, or only funny
to his half-hysterical mind.
He doesn't want to be awkward or immature. He wants to be what Dazai wants, and a messed
up text feels like the end of the world right now. Like he has to say the exact right thing or
he'll mess up his chance.

'Hi Dazai, I miss you’? Too forward.

‘Dear Dazai’. What is he writing, a letter in the 18th century? No.

‘Hi Daddy <3’. Absolutely fucking not.

It’s just so frustrating and hard, even though it feels like it shouldn’t be, and he went on a
date — did he really though? Dazai said it could be a date, not that it inherently was and
Chuuya never verbally expressed a preference either way— with the man, so why is just
texting him so hard?

(Don’t even get him started on the idea of calling him. Is the idea appealing? Yes. Does he
miss the sound of his voice? Sure. Is he dying to hear what Dazai sounds like on the phone?
Maybe a little bit.

Does he have any idea about what to say? No.

Will hé hang up out of sheer nerves before he can say anything and then never be able to call
him again? Very possibly.)

The point is, he goes round and round with worse and worse options, and he’s about to
scream because it’s the afternoon of the second day after and he’s losing his chance—

When it occurs to him.

He still has Dazai’s coat and his shirt. And he might not be good at talking right now— a first
— but he is good at looking pretty.

And who doesn’t like a good selfie? Dazai will need one for his contact picture anyways, he’s
just thinking ahead. Being proactive.

He takes over an hour to make sure his makeup is done well, and his hair looks manageable.
Then he goes about taking pictures, which includes shifting the lighting, trying out different
poses, jacket on, jacket off—

Eventually his eye makeup turns out to be irrelevant, because he settles on a picture that starts
just below his nose, highlighting his small smile, the way the shirt slips off his collarbone just
so, the sleeves of the jacket riding low on his arms, just high enough to be seen. He’s utilized
the sun, and the spill of sunlight turns his hair to fiery gold.

It’s subtle, a little teasing, not too much—

He sends it off, pairing it with a “your clothes are way too big for me, I’ll have to return them
soon”—

And immediately regrets it, throwing his phone to the end of the bed as hot embarrassment
fills him. He presses his face into the pillow, fighting off the urge to scream.

It was too much. It was way too much and he didn’t even say his name , he just sent him
some half-finished selfie like a weirdo . He should’ve done something else instead of letting
himself get carried away by the idea of looking good for him, this is all going so terribly
wrong—

His phone beeps.

He drags the pillow down from his face, peering down at his phone like it might bite him.
Okay, that’s probably him. Everyone else who would be texting him is studying or eating
right now.

If it is someone else, he’s going to kill them, because his heart is pounding in his throat and
he feels like he swallowed the sun, buzzing with heat and energy.

Fingers creeping down the bed, he decides just to check, flipping it over so he can see the
screen—

It’s him.

Oh god, okay, it’s happening, they’re talking, maybe this isn’t so hard.

He types the code in slowly, fighting to stay in bed when he feels like he needs to jump up,
go for a run, do anything to dispel all this energy inside him—

[ Daddy <3 ]: I think they look better on you, though.

!!!!!!!!

Chuuya is smiling so big his face hurts, and he’s once again glad that Nikolai is at work— he
works so much, it seems like he's barely even here, almost like Chuuya has the dorm to
himself— because he doesn't want to explain why he's blushing and smothering his giddy
grin into a too-big jacket.

[ Daddy <3 ]: Hello, by the way.

Ah, fuck it. Texting isn't fast enough, isn't good enough, isn't present enough—
With a bravery fuelled by the excitement of finally getting to talk to Dazai again, he presses
the call button.

The phone rings once, twice. Anticipation builds to the breaking point, pulling Chuuya's
chest tight.

Finally, midway through the third ring, the phone clicks. There's a brief sound of wind
rushing, like Dazai is outside, before the sound quiets down.

Then, a little rough and lower than normal on the phone, faintly amused: "Hello, Chuuya."

Maybe Chuuya’s breathy “Hi” is a little too obviously excited, but the warm chuckle he gets
in response makes every ounce of embarrassment worth it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”

Chuuya wrinkles his nose at the phone at the reminder. He mentioned it once, briefly, during
the first car ride, that he usually uses Sundays as a revision day to go over all the information
he needs to practice. He never expected Dazai to remember that tiny, useless detail, but the
fact that he did...

If he gets any warmer, he might just burst into flames entirely.

“I have been—,” It’s true, he’s been oscillating between panicking over what to say to Dazai
and frantically distracting himself with math all morning, “— I’m just taking a break right
now.”

Dazai hums, and behind that, Chuuya can hear the rustle of clothing and the vague click of
something metallic. “And your reward to yourself for being good was to call me?”
It’s not like Chuuya forgets Dazai’s affect on him, he just never gets used to it. Every time
they talk, it’s like Dazai gets better at playing him, like all the memories of feelings join what
he feels now , compounding into a swirling, heady mess that pushes him higher. Makes him
feel better, makes him crave more.

And when Dazai puts it that way, like Chuuya is being good so he deserves a reward—

He wants one. Badly.

He makes a vague assenting noise before the continued noises on the other side gather his
curiosity. “What are you doing?”

“I—,” Dazai grunts a little, clearly straining against something, “am doing research for a case
I’m working on.”

(It’s a vague truth, but still the truth. He’s actually been lying on his belly on top of a roof
with his eye to the scope of his rifle, watching crates get loaded into the Rat's new
warehouse. They’re unmarked and no one is stupid enough to open one outside, so he doesn’t
know what’s in them.

Yet.

But beyond setting up a few cameras and listening devices, there’s nothing more to be done
today.

And if Chuuya has been good, and he’s been good...

They deserve a reward, don’t they?

So, as he continues breaking down the rifle and stores it in the modified case for it, he asks: )
“Have you eaten yet?”

Chuuya has a choice here:

He can reveal that he stress-ate nearly half a dozen melon pan a little over an hour ago, and
he’s not hungry anymore.

Or, he can see where Dazai is going with this, where he hopes he’s going with this.

“Nope! I was just about to get lunch in a little bit. Why?”

“I’m getting hungry —“ The way Dazai says that particular word, voice dropping, makes
Chuuya shiver “— so would you like to go to lunch with me? My treat.”

Chuuya agrees so quickly he nearly cuts Dazai off before he’s speaking. His face is red again
—or maybe it never stopped being red— but he can’t tell if that’s because he’s embarrassed,
or because of the way Dazai is laughing again, husky and warm.

Even over the phone, it feels like music to his ears, electricity down his spine. He likes when
he laughs.

“Wonderful. I can be there in an hour?”

Chuuya nods, almost forgetting that Dazai can’t see him right now. That gives him enough
time to try on a few outfits before forcing himself to settle on one, experience a little pre-date
nerves and obsessively touch up his makeup. “That’s good for me.”

(That also gives Dazai enough time to take his guns home and swap outfits. And enough time
to decide if he wants to pick him up in his car— the dazed look he got on his face when he
had his hand on his thigh was deliciously adorable—

Or the bike, where he can feel every inch of them pressed together.

Of course, he’d have to stop to get him a helmet, and probably a leather jacket too. Safety
first, kids.

Maybe he could convince him to ride in front this time. He’s small enough and the bike is big
enough that Dazai could manage it.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t interested to see what his reaction would be when he felt
Dazai behind him, over him, all around him.

He’s so sweetly, eagerly responsive— Dazai did notice that cute little grinding against his
thigh after a tiny bit of kissing— and it really just makes him wonder what Chuuya will be
like once Dazai really gets his hands on him.

When he’s really touching him.

He’s glad he’s a patient man, otherwise it would be difficult to keep his hands to himself, to
build him up into it.)

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

The way Dazai hesitates for a moment before hanging up implies he doesn’t want to stop
talking yet, which sends another round of butterflies through Chuuya’s stomach.

It’s the little things that make Chuuya so wanted.

The phone goes dead though after he murmurs his own goodbye, and he holds it to his ear for
a long moment, just drinking in the silence and grinning like an idiot.

Then it’s time to get ready.

He does end up changing his outfit a few times before ending up on a pair of ripped skinny
jeans that show hints of skin at his thighs and shins. For shoes, he goes with the same boots
Yuan lent him— he hasn’t talked to Yuan or Shuuji since the party, and he doesn’t know if
that’s because they’re busy or if they know about what happened, but either way, he still has
the boots.

Cropped shirt to show a little skin (his goal here is to tempt Dazai as much as possible. He
wants to be kissed again. Wants to be kissed a lot. Maybe even more than kissed—) and his
red jacket, and the outfit is complete.

By the time he’s done fussing with his makeup— and it makes him feel so nice that Dazai
doesn’t even blink when he wears more obvious makeup. Shuuji looked at him a bit funny
the first time, and even though he never said anything, he always gave the impression that he
thought it was a bit strange. Like he didn’t understand it. — it’s almost been an hour.

He can’t sit in his dorm for the remaining fifteen minutes, so he heads downstairs to wait
where Dazai dropped him off the first time. He can sit on the bench and just wait until he
shows up, and it’s okay if he’s a little bit late, he doesn’t mind—

Except when he gets down there, Dazai is already there, waiting. He’s leaning against his
motorcycle, phone in one hand as he waits patiently. It looks like he was just going to wait
the fifteen minutes until the hour was up without a single complaint.

Hanging off one of the handlebars by the chinstrap is the helmet Chuuya wore the first time
he rode the bike with him.

In his other hand, propped against his hip is another helmet. This one is smaller, shiny with
how new it is and it’s not exactly the same as Dazai’s customized helmet, it is the same color
and the same shape.
Matching.

Dazai himself looks good, shoulders impossibly broad in a leather jacket. Black jeans that
hug his thighs and god , those knee high boots are back, ones that make Dazai look like he
could crack skulls in.

Even from here, Chuuya can see the glint of rings on his fingers.

He approaches, trying to be as casual as possible even though he can hardly breathe and he’s
almost certain he’s got hearts in his eyes.

“Hey,” he calls when he gets a little bit closer, heart tripping in his chest as the way Dazai
immediately looks up, eyes warm.

He shuts his phone on and slips it into his pocket, instantly giving Chuuya all of his attention.
“Hello, doll. You look beautiful today.”

He says it so easily, like it’s not even a compliment, it’s just the truth, and god, it fills Chuuya
with fire every time. It’s not fair , how easily he can send his heart racing.

Still, he can’t help the big smile, the way his head ducks a little, embarrassed. “Thank you,”
he mutters, then, “I like your jacket.”

That’s a lie. He loves the jacket. Wishes he could see him without the shirt and just the jacket.
Wishes he could get his hands on him in the jacket.

The smirk Dazai gives him is wicked . “Thank you.”

Swallowing hard, Chuuya changes the subject because he’s pretty sure they’re never going to
leave the parking lot if Dazai doesn’t stop staring at him like that. “So— the bike today?”

“Yup,” Dazai says, lifting the second helmet to show it to him, “got you something.”

Money isn’t a worry for Dazai but still just the idea that he went out and bought Chuuya his
own helmet makes him feel like he’s losing his mind in the best way. It implies that Dazai
wants more than just two dates out of him.

They haven’t talked about this thing between them and Chuuya is too nervous to bring it up
himself, but he likes the way things are going so far.

He reaches for the helmet, but Dazai holds it out of his reach teasingly.

With a grin that Chuuya can feel in his stomach, Dazai curls his finger at him, coaxing him
closer.

He takes one step. Two.

Three, and he’s standing firmly between Dazai’s legs, just like the other night, and he’s
staring up at him with huge eyes, heart racing and blood turning molten at just the reminder.

He wants to be kissed. Silently begs him, one hand falling to Dazai’s thigh.

Please kiss me, kiss me, ask me, please—

But Dazai just gently brushes his bangs out of his face, and carefully lowers the helmet onto
his head. The world goes oppressively silent for a second before the padding pops over his
ears and he can hear again.
Then he’s forced to stare at Dazai through the darkened screen of his visor as he adjusts all
the straps and carefully locks the helmet in place.

“Feels good?” He asks, rapping his knuckles lightly on the side. The sound is muffled by the
helmet, but only just.

He nods. This helmet isn’t as heavy, and it’s not loose. The strap digs lightly into his chin, but
that seems normal.

“No bobble head this time,” Dazai teases, taking his own helmet in hand. He’s not nearly as
careful when he shoves it onto his own head.

Chuuya’s glare is softened by the fact that Dazai probably can’t see it through the glass. His
affronted sniff is not muffled, and draws a short laugh from Dazai.

He goes to climb onto the back like last time, preparing to swing his leg over when Dazai
stops him with gentle fingers on his elbow.

“I want to try something,” he says slowly, like he’s unsure of how Chuuya will react. “Do
you trust me?”

And—

He does. Maybe he shouldn’t. He doesn’t know him well, and only for a few weeks, and
there’s so much they have yet to learn about each other.

Maybe Dazai is a criminal. Maybe he’s crazy. Maybe he’s dangerous.

But you know—

Chuuya does trust him. He nods carefully, unsure of what he wants, but willing to give it a
try.

Giving him a dazzling grin, Dazai moves sideways, giving him full access to the bike. “Do
you want to try riding in the front?”

Chuuya looks at the bike hesitantly. He’s never seen that before. He didn’t even know that
was an option. It’s probably dangerous, but he remembers how safe it felt with Dazai, even
going as fast as he was—

Yeah, he wants to try.

“How?” He says, loud enough to be heard through the visor.

Dazai winces. “You don’t have to shout,” he says, and his voice sounds closer than it should,
like it’s inside the helmet with him. “The helmets are Bluetooth.”

Oh. Well, that’s awkward. “Sorry.”

“No worries,” Dazai murmurs, pushing the kickstand back into place with his boot. “You
didn’t know. Now get on.”

Chuuya does, with only a little bit of struggling because Dazai has the bike braced sideways
on his thigh, lowering the seat so Chuuya can swing his leg over it.

It takes him a bit of wiggling to get settled, but he does it.

Dazai holds the bike up with one arm—because Chuuya is too short to do it himself, feet
dangling— and bends down to take his ankle in hand again.
It feels even better this time, more charged, because he knows what those fingers feel like on
his hair, along his spine, on his thigh. He knows how capable they are of making him melt,
playing along his nerves like a master.

Dazai guides his foot into a higher notch, knees closer to his chest than before. “Don’t
move,” he says, and it feels like he’s whispering directly into his ear, making him shiver.
“Not even a little bit. The gearshift is right behind your foot, understand?”

It’s a subtle order, but one he understands and he’ll follow it.

His other foot gets the same treatment once Dazai comes around the front of the bike.

“Ready?”

Chuuya nods, clutching the metal between the handlebars, digging his toes in for dear life.

Then, as Dazai swings his leg over and settles right behind him, Chuuya realizes:

He did not think this through at all . Not only does the bike wobble in place, making him grip
tight with his hands and calves—

But this wasn’t built to be a two-seater bike, so that means Dazai’s hips end up sliding close,
pressed right up against his ass, as close as they can get and—

Chuuya has seen the bulge, alright, he wasn’t going to miss his chance when Dazai was
walking around in grey sweatpants. He looked as often as he could without it being
considered sexual harassment, he’s admitting it.

But that’s quite different than feeling it pressed up against him.

God.

There’s a definite bulge there, even though Dazai isn’t even hard. Warm, with the sharpness
of his hips on either side that Chuuya is dying to get his hands on. It presses right up against
him, and Chuuya’s jeans are so tight he swear he can feel the outline of it.

Big, god it’s big. Bigger than himself— Chuuya is a bit above average, thank you very much
— maybe even too big to get his fingers around.

It makes sense, since Dazai is quite a bit taller than him, but it still feels like he ran into a
wall and now his brain is struggling to reboot.He’s biting his lip, hard, and holding his breath
because he is this close from letting out a whimper, or worse, a moan—

Suddenly, he’s hungry. Starving. And not for food.

Then it gets even worse.

Dazai leans forward a bit, hands finding the handlebars up front, arms caging him in, biceps
huge , forearms flexing as he grips the bars.

Then his foot is coming up, toes finding the gearshift, and that presses the front of his thigh
all along the back of Chuuya’s. He’s scorching hot, throbbing with life, almost as close as
Chuuya wants him to be—

With their position, Dazai still has to lean forward some, plastering himself to his back. His
chin comes to rest somewhere around Chuuya’s ear, and he can just hear the sound of Dazai’s
deep, rhythmic breathing.

This can’t be safe, Chuuya thinks woozily, because he’s going to faint. Or burst into flames.

Or maybe just straight up die.

Dazai envelops him effortlessly, and usually Chuuya doesn’t like feeling small, but holy fuck,
the idea that Dazai can wrap him up entirely in one arm, that he can pick him up and
manhandle him so easily—

“Ready?”

Chuuya squeaks in surprise, embarrassingly, and nods hastily, trying to cover it up.

And wouldn’t you know—

It gets worse.

The bike roars to life, and Dazai’s other leg comes up as they push off and now the bike is
vibrating beneath them, between his legs, adding an interesting mix of sensations and god,
everytime he squirms away from it, his hips are rubbing back against Dazai— who is
immovable, by the way— or forward against the vibrating gas tank, and he is losing his mind.

Caught between a hard place and a vibrator, he thinks hysterically, fighting to keep calm.

“Are you alright? We can stop, if you’d like.”

No, do not stop, keep going—

“I’m okay,” he clears his throat, playing it off, “just...a little strange to get used to.”

It is strange, because now he doesn’t have anything to hang onto besides the gas tank, which,
understandably, does not make a very good handle. He does want to touch the bars, just in
case.
It still feels secure because Dazai’s arms are on either side, keeping him firmly in place even
as they begin to lean with the turns, but it feels more... free.

Wilder.

Dazai steady behind him, the road in front of him, the wind rushing by his helmet. Heat and
flying and the rush of recklessness.

He feels like he’s free falling, the pit of his stomach dropping out every time they lean around
a turn, or when Dazai’s hips press against him harder.

(He doesn’t know it, but Dazai is grinning behind him, because the chibi is struggling so hard
and it’s adorably hilarious to watch.)

When he finally gets over the giddy feeling, he realizes he doesn’t recognize the streets
they’re on. “Where are we going?”

Dazai takes a turn faster than the others, bike leaning lower. Chuuya makes a high-pitched
sound of adrenaline and excitement, clutching the metal in front of him.

(Dazai notes with satisfaction that he doesn’t sound afraid, even though he’s clearly pushing
the limits of his comfort zone.)

When they straighten back out, speeding through a light fast enough that the other cars are
blurs, Dazai answers, “Arcade shopping street.”

Chuuya doesn’t even care that he sounds faintly amused, because excitement is pouring
through him at the idea of going to that street market. It’s too far to go to by train unless he
was willing to take the whole day, and probably too expensive for him, with all the food
vendors and shops lining the market.
It’s not what he imagined for lunch, but personally, he likes this idea even better than a
restaurant. He likes walking around and looking at things, likes exploring, likes street food.

Really, this is the perfect lunch date for him. He’s amazed Dazai thought of it, and the fact
that they’re apparently so compatible that he doesn’t even have to tell Dazai what he likes—

Makes him wonder how far that compatibility goes.

He’s immediately pushing that thought away before he gets too excited, because there’s
already heat pooling in his belly and it’s taking all his strength not to let it affect him, or to
ask for more.

Dazai hasn’t even kissed him again yet, and already Chuuya feels strung tight between his
capable fingers.

They end up having to park a couple blocks away at a parking garage, storing the helmets in
the storage space beneath the seat.

(Dazai opens it quickly and shuts it even faster, before Chuuya can see inside, not that he’s
looking too hard.)

By the time they get close to the market, Chuuya’s head is on a swivel, taking in all the
sights. He’s walking so fast he keeps up easily with Dazai’s longer stride, and the only thing
keeping him from bumping into all the other pedestrians on the street is Dazai’s hand on his
back, steering him with gentle pressure from his fingertips.

There are a lot of pedestrians, understandably. Arcade shopping street is popular among
tourists and locals alike, and the place is packed, constantly moving, a stream of people
moving in and out.
The only reason Chuuya doesn’t get crushed between all the people is because Dazai is so
damn tall and intimidating that people automatically avoid coming into his personal space.

Chuuya takes full advantage of that, huddling in the small circle of space so he doesn’t get
his toes stepped on.

When they finally walk inside, the air hits Chuuya like a wall. It smells delicious, all the
smells from the food stands mixing in the air and heating it up. It’s loud, too, the sound of
people talking and vendors shouting and money exchanging hands.

It’s bustling, filled with life, and Chuuya feels buoyed by it, bouncing up on the tips of his
toes to see farther into the crowd.

Dazai leans down to speak close to his ear. “What do you want first?”

That’s a hard choice. There’s just so much, he wouldn’t have time to do it all, not even if he
had all day. He doesn’t want to miss out on anything.

Eventually, he points at a Yakitori stand. The line isn’t as long as some others, but he can
smell the meat from here and it’s mouthwateringly good.

“Alright,” Dazai says, taking his hand away. He nods at a drinks stand, “Go get in line. I’ll
get us drinks real quick.”

Being separated from Dazai for even a second sounds like cruel and unusual punishment, but
after the ride and the heat of the market, Chuuya is already thirsty. He nods, traipsing over to
the stand. Dazai disappears on his mission.

Chuuya slots in behind a group of girls, trying to keep an appropriate distance without being
swept away by the crowd. It’s a constant struggle, with people pressing in behind him and
around him, jostling him in place.
Then someone keeps pushing. Hard, too, like they’re shoving Chuuya out of the way.

He grits his teeth, trying to keep his balance because he doesn’t want to knock into the girls
in front of him or stumble sideways into the crowd. Turning his head, he makes eye contact
with some guy standing behind him, apparently not even recognizing that there’s someone in
front of him.

“Watch it,” he snaps, because the guy is still pushing him, and he’s heavy enough that
Chuuya is losing his center of balance. There’s not even that many people behind the guy,
he’s just trying to physically steal Chuuya’s spot by force.

The guy pushes him again without answering, and that’s it.

Chuuya whips around, teeth bared, ready to give this fucker a piece of his mind for trying to
push him around—

But someone beats him to it.

A hand is fisting in the guy's jacket, forcibly yanking him backwards and forcing him on his
toes to compensate for the height difference. The guy flails, and Chuuya narrowly dodges an
accidental punch to the face.

“He said,” Dazai snarls at him, teeth sharp , “watch it.”

The guy whimpers, eyes wide with terror. “Jeez, okay, put me down. Don’t be an asshole—.”

That makes Chuuya snarl. “You were shoving me, asshole. What are you, five and in the line
for the slide? You’re lucky he got to you first!”
Dazai shoves the guy backward, hard, uncaring that he sends a few innocent bystanders
stumbling. The guy shakes himself off, scowling and has the nerve to make a rude gesture at
them before turning around.

Chuuya’s muscles tighten, coiling as he starts to throw himself after that jerk. He’s going to
teach him a lesson in respect—

An arm clamps down over his shoulders, keeping him in place. Chuuya ends up drawn up
close to Dazai’s side, his arm a heavy, grounding weight over his shoulders.

“Let me go,” he snaps, irritated.

“Baby,” Dazai sighs, though he looks terribly amused, “As lovely as it would be to watch you
teach him some manners, I don’t want to get kicked out for fighting.”

Oh. Well. Fine then. He crosses his arms across his chest, silently grumbling.

Dazai looks down at him, and are his eyes darker than usual? More focused? “Are you alright
though? He didn’t hurt you?”

The irritation starts to melt away under an incoming tide of affection. He leans heavily
against Dazai’s side, daring to wrap his arm around his waist, under the jacket. “No,” he says,
“I’m fine. It was just rude.”

Dazai snorts. “Yeah.”

They get their Yakitori without further incident, and the way Dazai already has his wallet out
and pulls out the correct amount from a thick stack of cash probably shouldn't be hot but—

Chuuya is starting to see the appeal in these casual displays of wealth. The confidence and
arrogance might be off-putting on someone else — it was on Shuuji, who acted like he could
just buy everyone and everything— but on Dazai?

It settles naturally into the width of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, and instead of being a
turn-off—

Well, it's a turn on . As most things about Dazai are.

After their food, they start to wander around the market, pausing by the stores for Chuuya to
fawn over the trinkets inside. Dazai doesn't seem much for shopping— he mostly watches
Chuuya with an amused, fond, thoughtful look in his eye— but he points out a few things for
him to look at, smiling at his reaction.

That attitude stays until they get about halfway through the market, and suddenly Dazai is
gesturing at an open door to a bigger store. "Let’s go in there?"

Chuuya nods, because that's the first store Dazai showed interest in, and this date was starting
to feel a bit one-sided. He's touched that Dazai thought to bring him here, but he wants him to
have fun too, not just watch him.

The first thing Chuuya sees when they enter is a rack of leather jackets, hanging up in neat
rows arranged by size. Dazai heads for them immediately, pulling out some of the smaller
ones.

Ones that definitely won't fit him.

Chuuya tilts his head, watching him curiously as he wrinkles his nose at a particular jacket
and puts it back. "What are you doing?"

"Well, sweetheart," Dazai says, holding a black jacket to Chuuya's torso to measure the
length, "it would be irresponsible of me to let you keep riding the bike without a jacket, so
we're getting you one."
Eyes flickering between him and the jacket, Chuuya wonders; did he plan this?

Did he come here with the intention of getting him a jacket, or did he think about it just now?
And, sure, money isn't an issue for Dazai, but the fact that he's bought him a helmet and now
a jacket—

He wants more. He wants to keep going out with Chuuya, the realization of which makes his
knees weak.

It feels so nice to be visibly wanted, even without the exact words saying that.

He struggles out of the jacket he's already waiting, a bit dazed, not realizing that Dazai's eyes
have fallen to the flash of stomach and hip exposed by his shirt riding up.

(Truthfully, Dazai has had to have a tight control over his emotions today, and he's glad he
went for a run earlier this morning.

First, the criminally tight jeans, the beautiful ass wiggling all over his crotch on the drive
over, then the man getting up close and personal with his date— even if in a rude way— and
then that flash of anger earlier, that snarling fierceness Dazai wants to taste and now this—

The stretch of his stomach muscles as raises his arms, the subtle flex and roll as he removes
one sleeve then the other, stripping for him—

Yeah, Dazai is under tight control. He wants to eat him alive. Wants him begging and looking
up at him with that sweet, pleading look from earlier when they first met up—

But more importantly, he doesn’t want to scare him, and he knows he can be a scary man,
even when he doesn’t necessarily want to be.
So he grits his teeth and offers out the jacket, and refuses to think about Chuuya wearing
things Dazai bought for him.)

Chuuya reaches for the jacket, but Dazai arches an eyebrow, holding it firm. He blows out a
breath, and then turns around, offering his back to Dazai.

He slides one arm in the sleeve then the other as Dazai holds the jacket for him.

The weight of the jacket is grounding, settling nicely across his shoulders. It's a little long in
the sleeves though, the ends falling over his wrists, and it tightens uncomfortably over his
back when he lifts his arms. "Too small," he mutters, shaking his head.

The next jacket Dazai offers him is an exquisite red, with the zipper centered on the left side.
It's also got two pockets, big enough for Chuuya to cram his hands in. It fits perfectly.

Chuuya spins for Dazai, showing off all the angles. "How do I look?"

"Perfect."

Something about the way he says that, like it's layered with hidden meaning, makes Chuuya
pause. He looks over his shoulder—

Dazai is much closer than before, suddenly close enough to touch, heat pouring off him.
Chuuya can only watch, breath stalling out in his chest, as Dazai reaches for him, and
Chuuya is ready to melt for him, already envisioning the way he would pull him in, hands
cupping his face—

Gentle fingers find his hair, carefully pulling trapped strands from underneath the jacket,
smoothing them over his collar. Chuuya can't look away, filled with something sweet and
heavy, even as he aches for more.
"Do you like it?" Dazai asks, leaning closer, and his eyes are huge from this angle, the only
thing Chuuya can see, the only thing he can focus on. His fingertips are still on his neck,
smoothing gently over his racing pulse.

"Yes," Chuuya mumbles, because he does like it. Likes the jacket, likes him—

Dazai leans even closer, and god, Chuuya doesn't even care about public displays of affection
right now, he's just desperate, ready and willing to be pushed against a rack of leather jackets
and kissed—

With a mischievous grin, Dazai leans back again, with the tag on Chuuya's jacket in hand.

Of course. Of course.

Is his plan to string him along until he gets desperate enough to ask on his own?? Because he
will. He'll grab Dazai by the collar of his stupidly good looking leather jacket and yank him
down—

"Be right back, doll. I need to find some things."

Then, just like that, Dazai is walking away. Chuuya glares at his back.

After a moment to calm himself, Chuuya decides to look around a bit. Truthfully, it's not his
kind of store, filled with leather jackets and riding pants, some sort of fluffy thing you can
push into your helmet as earmuffs, or something.

There is something though, that catches his eye.

In a glass cabinet, on the third shelf, there's a choker.

Sleek, obviously made of premium leather, with a shiny buckle. It's simple and yet somehow
classy, and Chuuya can already imagine it around his own neck.

(He'd asked his dad to buy him chokers when he started experimenting with fashion when he
was younger, and his father had shut that down by saying that Chuuya was not a dog to be
collared. Whenever he brought it up again, he started asking if he wanted to start drinking out
of a bowl too.)

Chuuya presses his fingers to the glass, watching the reflection of light moving over the oiled
leather, dreaming.

“— and the choker."

He jumps a little, startled when Dazai's voice suddenly comes from behind him, closer than
expected. Turning his head, he finds him at the register, with the tag for Chuuya's jacket, and
two pairs of leather gloves. He's not looking at Chuuya, but he's clearly talking about him,
because the man ringing him up is heading towards the glass cabinet. He carefully pulls out
the choker he was looking at and brings it back over, folding it into a bag after ringing it up.

Chuuya stands awkwardly, not sure what to do because it feels like taking advantage if Dazai
buys it for him—

But he does want it...

And if he's already buying him the jacket, then he doesn't mind, right?

He's not done making up his mind by the time Dazai is finished and taking the bag in hand.
By then, it's too late.

"You didn't have to do that," he mumbles, feeling the tiniest bit guilty. Spending money on
him for the date specifically is one thing, but this would be a gift for him, and it feels
different.
Dazai drapes his arm over his shoulders again, pulling him close to his side again. The look
he shoots him says more than enough.

You're right. I didn't have to. I wanted to.

They grab another bite to eat, this time of some candied fruit, before making their way out of
the market. It's been almost an hour and a half.

And in the garage, that's when Chuuya makes his move.

After stashing his older jacket beneath the seat, and before they put the helmets back on,
Chuuya steps close and gathers up all his courage to ask, "Why won't you kiss me?"

Dazai leans back against his bike,eyebrow arched. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

Chuuya huffs a little, equal parts embarrassed and irritated. "Yes. You know I do."

He has to know, Chuuya isn't subtle even when he tries to be.

"I did know, but I like to hear you ask."

Oh. Is it that easy? "Kiss me, please."

"That's all you had to say, doll." Fingers hook into his belt loops, tugging him close. It’s as
easy as breathing to follow the pull, stepping between Dazai’s legs.
When he’s close enough, one of the hands slides around his lower back, encouraging the
natural arch of his spine. The other brushes up his torso, sliding under his jaw to tip his head
back with a thumb.

Chuuya’s hands end up finding his shoulders, fingers flexing in the thick leather, pent up.

He’s glad Dazai doesn’t tease him longer, or ask him to open his eyes, because if he has to
wait even a second longer he is going to lose his mind—

Dazai leans, and Chuuya bends to fit him, helpless to the pull like a flower to the sun—

Their lips meet and the world holds its breath.

 The Lupin
Chapter Summary

As they leave, Osamu speaks up quietly, voice dead and all the sadder for it, "I'm not
going back, am I?"

Mori pats his head, making a sympathetic noise. Poor thing will have to grow out of this
soft, hesitant behavior. "There's nothing left for you to go back to."

A few hours later, on the morning news:

"Husband and wife found dead in their house. Cause of death were three gunshots to the
chest. Initial reports suspect this might be a Mafia killing, as both their jaws were
shattered before death. No robbery is suspected.

Their son is nowhere to be found. If you see this little boy, please call the number on the
screen.

He might be in danger."

Chapter Notes

Hi again! I wanted to take this time to warn you all that I will be moving very far from
my current living area sometime in May. No exact date yet, but with the process of
moving comes lack of internet, lack of time, lack of access to my computer, etc. So there
might be a skipped update or two. I will do my best to update regularly on my schedule,
and warn you of any skips, but no promises! Other than that, I will do my best to return
my schedule as quickly as possible! Please enjoy this chapter :)

This chapter includes:

- a kiss
- an old friend
- a tragic beginning

Just like the first time, it's incredibly soft at first, testing how much they both want it, how
much further they want to take this.
Then Chuuya's fingers tighten in Dazai's clothes, pulling him down at the same time he's
surging up, and a spark ignites between them.

The next kiss is harder, wetter, Dazai pressing down on him. Chuuya is hanging onto him
desperately, feeling like the only thing holding him up is Dazai's arm around his back—

Which is shifting, a little, pulling back some and angling downward, fingers sliding into his
back pocket.

Chuuya shudders, a whimper caught in his throat as Dazai's hand slowly — giving Chuuya
ample time to stop him if he wants— slides fully into his pocket, big enough that he can
nearly the entire cheek in one hand. He uses his grip on him to drag him even closer, large
hand firm on his ass, fingers squeezing ever so slightly—

Chuuya's next breath leaves him in a hot rush, swallowed up by Dazai and returned to him
even hotter. He takes advantage of Chuuya's open mouth, sliding his tongue inside in one
long, slick motion.

He tastes like the remnants of their candied cherries, sweetly addictive, and their tongues rub
together slowly, testing.

Chuuya feels taken over by Dazai, his tongue in his mouth, hand on his neck with the thumb
stroking maddeningly over the pulse point, the other arm crossed over his back and holding
him close with a hand on his ass , chests pressed together, heat and the subtle flex of muscle,
burning, tempting, sin and beauty and lust.

Dazai's tongue curls around his own, and he was right on the dinner date, when he thought
that Dazai was skilled with his tongue, because the way he languidly tastes his teeth, rubbing
against the roof of his mouth until a point of sensitivity develops, makes him shiver.

With their height difference, Dazai’s hips end up pressed against his stomach. The longer
they kiss, the harder Dazai squeezes him, the deeper his tongue slides like he’s trying to fuck
his throat, the warmer Dazai gets against him, the bulge grows against him, thickening,
turning hotter.
Naturally, Chuuya is gone compared to Dazai, but because of the way he’s standing, he
doesn’t get any sort of stimulation or friction. He’s reduced to tiny, instinctive grinds of his
hips, whining incoherently into Dazai’s mouth, filled with a maddening, frenetic need for
more.

But he’s not doing anything about it, besides tilting his head back to kiss him deeper. He’s not
even moving his own hips, content to let Chuuya squirm against him while he focuses on
kissing him breathless.

Irritation flashes through Chuuya, fueled by desperation and the growing pit of hunger in his
stomach, and he sinks his teeth into his tongue to hold him in place as he sucks , hollowing
out his cheeks with it.

That makes Dazai growl into his mouth, hand sliding further on his neck. His fingers settle
around his throat, and the light squeeze isn’t threatening , but it is surprising, enough that
Chuuya lets go with a short gasp.

There’s a second when Chuuya thinks it’s going to escalate, when Dazai nips at his bottom
lip just sharply enough to hurt, and he’s ready for it, willing—

Then Dazai is ripping himself away with a snarl, breathing heavily, body throbbing with
heat.

Chuuya leans after him, fingers like claws in his jacket, trying to pull him back down. “Wait
— keep going—.”

Dazai squeezes his eyes shut. His face is red, chest heaving and every movement he makes
involuntarily leads to his hips grinding against Chuuya’s stomach and he wants it, he doesn’t
even care that they’re still in public on their second date—

“If we keep going,” Dazai rasps, “I’m not going to stop.”

Fuck, yes, please, that’s exactly what he wants, what he needs.

Pressing himself harder against Dazai, like he might convince him through strength only,
Chuuya dares a, “But I want you.”

Dazai’s eyes open again, pupils huge as he looks down on him, expression ravenous. He
looks strained, moments away from giving in. “I know you do, baby,” he croons, bending
down again. Chuuya tilts his head up, eyes going shut again, preparing for the kiss—

But Dazai bypasses his mouth, pressing his lips to his cheek briefly as he goes to whisper in
his ear:

“But the first time I make you whimper my name isn’t going to be in a parking lot.”

Then he’s sucking Chuuya’s earlobe into his mouth, which isn’t fucking fair because his
mouth is hot and wet, and he can almost imagine the same suction lower, on the most
sensitive and aching part of his body.

He opens his mouth to argue, certain he can get Dazai to give in if he pushes just a little
harder—

His fingers tighten around his throat, just enough to make his breath catch. This time, his tone
is deeper, lower, more commanding. “Don’t argue with me, brat. I told you no.”

In this moment, Chuuya swears he hates him, frustration boiling over in hot waves.

Then it occurs to him—

If the problem is the location , why don’t they just go somewhere else?
“Then take me home?” Chuuya breathes out, sliding his fingers up into Dazai’s hair, nails
dragging over his scalp in the way that makes him shiver every time.

There’s a heavy, charged silence, air crackling between them as Dazai clearly considers it,
breath hot in Chuuya’s ear.

With a heavy, strained sigh, Dazai says, “Not today.”

When Chuuya instinctively digs his nails in, he continues, “I’m not prepared, and if—when
— I fuck you, I want it to be better than just some rushed fuck because we’re both desperate
for it.”

Then, like this entire conversation hasn’t knocked Chuuya completely off his axis (from the
‘when I fuck you’ to the curse sounding obscene on his tongue because Chuuya’s never heard
him curse before, to the admission that he’s desperate too) he continues, shrugging with one
shoulder like it’s not a big deal:

“More special, I guess.”

Chuuya feels like he got knocked over the head, mind reeling because he was not expecting
that, not at all. He figured it wouldn’t matter to someone like Dazai. Frankly, he didn’t think
it mattered that much to himself, because he was fully willing to be bent over Dazai’s bike in
full view of the public, he was that desperate.

But you know? That fact that he cares about it at all, makes giddy warmth bubble up in his
chest.

Dazai’s not so bad, is he? Definitely not someone that Chuuya would regret giving his
virginity too.
He sighs. Somehow, their embrace has shifted into something resembling a tight hug, with
Dazai’s chin hooked over his shoulder and Chuuya as high up on his toes as he can get. “I
never really got the whole ‘make sure your first time is special’ thing, but I understand what
you’re saying.”

Dazai stills. After a moment, he pulls back, just far enough that he can look down at him. The
look in his eye is something between shocked and concerned. “Your first time?”

Chuuya nods slowly. The way Dazai is staring at him, eyes growing wider, is starting to make
him feel awkward.

Or like he did something wrong, or said something bad.

“As in.... your first time? You haven’t—?”

He tries to play off the weird feeling in his chest by giving a shrug and a tiny, self-
deprecating laugh. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve never really had a boyfriend before, so it just...never
happened.”

Dazai stares at him like he just admitted to selling kidneys on the black market.

Then he’s pulling the hand away from his throat, wiping it down his face. “Jesus,” he mutters,
just loud enough for Chuuya to hear.

He shrinks. Dazai looks like he just gave him terrible news, like this changes everything, and
god, why did he tell him? He should’ve known better. A lot of people get weird over the
whole virgin thing.

Which is funny, because to his face, everyone spouts the same ‘It should be special! Take
your time! You should never rush into sex!’ speech but most of the time he gets weird,
pitying looks, like he’s missing out on some vital part of life, like he isn’t truly living.
Half the time it’s used as an insult for people who aren’t conventionally attractive or have a
bad personality. The other part of the time, people treat you like a weirdo, or like you’re
untouchable.

(Chuuya once told a guy that he was flirting with that he was a virgin, and he promptly got
ghosted.)

So yeah, everyone says that not having sex is your choice or powerful or inspiring or what-
the-fuck-ever, but that’s not how they act.

They act like it’s a shameful thing, something to hide lest it be used against you.

He didn’t think Dazai was one of those people, but based on the way he’s still holding his
face, expression twisted into something like pain and regret—

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything.

Slowly, he takes his hands back, letting them drop to his sides awkwardly. “Sorry,” he
mumbles, “I know it’s weird or whatever—.”

When he goes to pull away though, Dazai’s arm doesn’t move, keeping him locked in place.
His hand is still in his back pocket but it’s no longer squeezing.

Dazai uncovers his face. “It’s not weird,” he says, “It’s just— I didn’t know, and if I had
known, I would’ve—.”

(Dazai is berating himself silently, because he probably should’ve known. All the signs were
there— the eagerness, the sensitivity, the wide eyed look whenever Dazai gave him even a
little bit of attention.
He blamed it on Chuuya having bad experiences beforehand— the consent thing— but he
should’ve realized.

And he didn’t. It’s not like he mauled him and overall he was pretty careful with him, but if
he had known...)

“I would’ve done things differently. I would’ve been more careful with you. Slower.”

That relieves some of the tension in Chuuya’s chest, letting him take a fuller breath without
feeling like his lungs are going to be crushed under the weight. “If you were any slower with
me, I would’ve been half-dead from blue balls by now,” he mutters, knocking his head
against Dazai’s chest.

That startles a laugh out of him. “Poor baby,” he teases gently, his fingers once again finding
Chuuya’s jaw. His thumb strokes gently over his cheek.

“I’m glad you survived,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something low and sweet, like
melted sugar, "but you're gonna have to wait a bit longer, now that I know.I want to take my
time with you."

Chuuya thinks about it, ignoring the shiver that crawls up his spine at the insinuation. Then
he lets Dazai tip his head back, wrinkling his nose at him. "I'm actually going to die."

"Mm, I don't think so," Dazai hums, leaning down, tilting his chin to a better angle. "You
have so much to look forward to." He presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and Chuuya's
eyes are automatically going half-lidded, a soft smile growing in reaction.

"Besides," Dazai whispers, "I promise I can be very motivating, if you let me."

Chuuya would let him do anything.

The kiss Dazai captures him in is sweeter, not backed by heat or frantic desire—

But it somehow feels just as good.

One of the very few things that has never changed in Dazai's life is one tiny, hole-in-the-wall
bar hidden away in a small alleyway.

The Lupin.

Granted, the owner had remodeled it at some point, but it still retained that small, homey feel
and after a while, Dazai barely remembered what it looked like before. It still smelled like
whiskey and spirits, it still had a tall, quiet bartender manning it, the lights still flickered
wildly whenever it rained.

More importantly, it still had the same man in it, someone Dazai has been friends with and
drinking at this same bar, in this same exact spot, for as long as he cares to remember.

In fact, there's already a glass of whiskey waiting for him in his spot when he arrives, a
matched pair to the broad redhead sitting nearby and nursing his own drink.

"Long time no see," Dazai says when he gets closer, clapping a hand on Oda's shoulder. It's
only because he was loud coming down the stairs that Oda doesn't flinch.

Oda looks up, eyes fonder than his small smile. "You didn't answer my last call."

Sighing, Dazai sinks into his seat. It's true, he didn't, but in his defense, he's been pretty busy
lately. It's not that he didn't want to talk to Oda, it's just that their friendship has turned
complicated over recent years, due to circumstances not entirely in their control.
Technically, they're not supposed to be meeting up at all. Kouyou isn't supposed to encourage
it, but she also understands, so she usually ends up turning a blind eye and going to bed early.

"Yeah, I know. I'm busy these days— Yosano did mention Sakura's party though, next week.
I'll make some time to stop by, give her a present."

Oda raises his glass in a silent salute. The action lifts the tan jacket he's wearing, briefly
revealing the holsters under his arms. Technically, weapons aren't allowed in the bar, but
they've been coming here long enough that the bartender knows they won't cause trouble
themselves.

(But if trouble finds them, well...

They might not start fights, but they can finish them damn well.)

"Get her something from Pokémon. She's obsessed. She asked me for a cell phone
specifically so she could play Pokémon Go. Yosano got her a nightlight that puts Pokémon on
the ceiling. I'm sure she's gonna go nuts for it."

Smiling, Dazai takes a long sip of his drink. "You got it."

They sit there in silence for a moment, both of them taking slow drinks. It's a comfortable
quiet, as they both come down from their respective workdays, unwinding and relaxing in the
presence of an old, trusted friend.

Friendships like these were never encouraged in the Mafia, so the fact that they even
managed to start one in the first place is surprising, but managing to keep it after all these
years is remarkable.

Even if they don't get to see each other very often.

(Even if Dazai sometimes feels like he’s been replaced and he wouldn’t be missed if he
disappeared.

He doesn’t blame Oda, he knows it’s complicated and his relationship with Kouyou and
Yosano makes it even more complicated.

He’s just lonely, sometimes. He just misses him, sometimes, that’s all.)

Once he’s had a drink in him and a refill in his hands, Dazai finally starts to feel relaxed,
tension dissipating. He leans on one elbow, chin in hand, idly watching the ice in his drink
bob up and down. “I have a problem.”

Oda turns to face him more fully. His drink is only half-finished and he’s sipping it leisurely
more than actually drinking it. Either he’s driving himself home, or he has a different reason
to be sober after this. “You mean something other than your usual amount of problems?”

Dazai sticks his tongue out at him. He’s right but he didn’t have to say it. “It’s the Rat’s.
They’re moving in on the ports, opening up a shipping line.”

Oda nods, expression tightening. “Kouyou knows, she’s keeping an eye on it.”

Something about that, the way it’s phrased, like Dazai shouldn’t worry about it or be bothered
because it’s Mafia business makes irritation crawl up his spine. He arches an eyebrow,
gripping his glass tight as he says, “Oh? Does she also know that the documents for the new
warehouse they bought are signed by government officials?”

By the way Oda’s face carefully shifts into something neutral and blank, the answer is no.

Yeah, Dazai didn’t think so.

Pushing the irritation down, he tries a different angle. “Look, the Rat’s getting a foothold in
the city is bad news for everyone. More competition means more tension, which means more
infighting. I want them gone just as much as the Mafia does.”

Oda takes a long, slow sip of his whiskey, clearly a way to give himself more time to think.
His posture is growing tense, shoulders tightening.

“I am willing to offer my skills—,“ of which, Dazai has many, “— in exchange for a little
help, so we can both figure out what they want, and how to stop them. I’ve been trying to get
a meeting with her for weeks, but she hasn’t been answering my calls.”

Calls being sending Yosano in to bribe her for a meeting, but considering Yosano has been
avoiding his actual calls ever since—

It didn’t work. So he’s going for the big guns this time, Kouyou’s secret weakness:

Oda.

“You know she doesn’t like meeting with you. She thinks it breeds mutiny. Her position is
precarious enough as it is,” Oda says, telling him the same story he’s been told every time he
tries to interact with the Mafia in any way.

Beyond selling them information, that is. God forbid Dazai actually show his face, but his
information is certainly good enough for her, isn’t it?

He throws his hands up. “It’s been eighteen years since I gave up the position. I don’t want to
be the boss; I don’t even want to be in the Mafia. When is she going to realize that I’m not
after her job, I’m trying to help?!”

He doesn’t usually get this snappy in Oda’s presence, but he’s so tired of this game. He
understands why she’s wary— he is still the Demon Prodigy and Mori’s rightful heir, but he
gave up the seat to Yosano when he left eighteen years ago and he hasn’t looked back once.
Kouyou has only been the boss for four years, and there’s a decent amount of people who
don’t believe in her right to rule—

But that’s her problem. That has nothing to do with Dazai.

Dazai takes another gulp, hoping to calm his nerves. “And you know, maybe it looks worse
for her that she’s too afraid to meet with me, has she ever thought of that? You don’t rule
criminals by running away from people who threaten you.”

The sigh Oda gives is clearly exasperated, even his patience drawn thin. He’s been stuck
between them all for years now, as they all try to figure this complicated relationship out. “I
don’t know what you want me to do, Osamu. I’m just her bodyguard.”

He can’t help it; he laughs hard . “Don’t try to lie to me, Odasaku. We both know you’re a lot
more than that to her.”

Oda levels him with a wary glance, playing dumb. “What do you mean?”

Raising a hand, Dazai puts fingers up as he counts off, “First of all, you get this big, dopey,
lovesick look on your face whenever you mention her. Secondly, you wouldn’t rise up the
ranks for just anyone. She also includes you in everything.”

Oda is slowly turning pale, hand tight enough on his glass to break it. He needs a refill. The
bartender doesn’t approach.

“Last of all, and most damning—Yosano brags when she’s drunk. I cannot tell you how
many times I’ve heard the story of the time her and Kouyou bent you over the—.”

“Alright,” Oda interrupts, waving the bartender over, “I get it.”

Dazai slides his once-again empty cup over as well. He raises his hands at Oda, the classic
sign of non-aggression, but his smile is wicked. “There’s nothing wrong with getting pegged
‘til you cry, but you don’t have to lie about it. Not to me.”

The bartender sets fresh whiskey down in front of them, expression politely closed off. The
poor man has probably heard too many things in the course of his career.

“No one is supposed to know,” Oda says, picking up his glass, “you can’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Shooting him a knowing look, Oda says dryly, “No secrets are safe with you, Osamu.”

Dazai has to admit that hurt . It’s not uncalled for or coming from a wrong place— he is the
reigning king of the information network for a reason—but it still hurts.

He’s never done anything to hurt Oda, and never would. To think that he wouldn’t trust him,
even after all he’s done and how long they’ve known each other...

Makes his chest hurt, heart squeezing painfully in his chest. He frowns into his drink. “Your
secrets are. They always have been.”

Heavy silence falls between them for a second, crushing.

Then Oda is nodding, exhaling. “Yeah, I know.”

The look they share is inexplicably fond, and for a moment, Dazai is fifteen again, with Oda
busting into his room in a panic, convinced Mori was going to kill him because he didn’t
finish the assassination job.
He’d left a kid alive, because he couldn’t bring himself to kill a helpless child and now he
had to find a place for them to stay before they both got caught and killed.

It was stressful then, but the image of the Oda back then— with the leather jacket and the
brass knuckles always on his fingers, and the nose piercing, the ponytail, the way he always
wore those knee-high boots even when the job didn’t call for it— fussing over a kid makes
Dazai smile with lingering affection.

Oda was always too soft for the mafia, in a lot of ways. It’s a miracle he’s still alive, still the
kind man that takes in orphans and gives them a home.

“Okay,” Oda finally agrees, “I’ll do what I have to get her to agree to meeting with you.”

(Dazai does not think about ‘what he has to do’ but he’s pretty sure he’s going to hear about it
from Yosano later anyways. It’s not like he’s shy about sex or anything, he just wishes she
didn’t use so many details about his best friend.)

Dazai smiles at him gratefully, relieved that the hard part of the evening is over, and now they
can relax—

“Now tell me about your problem.”

That’s the thing about knowing someone for a very long time: it’s hard to lie to them, even by
omission.

“I just did,” Dazai says, looking away. He’s glad he’s three drinks already, blood beginning to
turn warm.

Oda rolls his eyes. “No, the Rat’s are an inconvenience, and so is the meeting with Kouyou.
Neither of those are problems— so tell me. Maybe I can help.”
Well—

He probably should talk about it.

Drumming his fingers on the bar, he admits, “I met someone.”

Oda raises an eyebrow at him, which is his equivalent of a scandalized gasp. “You... met
someone?”

Dazai gets why he’s surprised. He’s been notoriously anti-relationship since they’ve known
each other, and the closest thing he’s had has been brief flings at the club. He doesn’t mention
most of them beyond casual conversation, because, as Oda knows very well, their lives are
dangerous.

Anyone close to them is a potential target. More so for Dazai, because he’s a walking
goldmine of information and he doesn’t have a clan to back him up as protection.

When Dazai doesn’t immediately offer more information, Oda lets him simmer for a second
before asking, “How did you two meet?”

Suddenly, Dazai regrets bringing up the conversation. Yes, he was hoping for some solid,
outsider perspective and maybe some advice but—

How does he say ‘well it all started when my son brought home his newest conquest but I
decided I liked him more so I stole him ’ without sounding weird?

Or worse, like a predator?

So he goes in a little different direction. “I know I shouldn’t get involved with anyone
because it’s dangerous, and I tried, Oda, I really did but— I just couldn’t stay away. And the
more time I spend with him, the more time I want to spend with him, even though I know it’s
a bad idea.”

“I assume that he—,“ Oda shoots him a knowing look, “— is a regular citizen then?”

Dazai nods. He hasn’t researched Chuuya’s background too much—because the power
imbalance is already staggeringly high, with their age, height and experience difference, and
he’s not keen to make it even more imbalanced— but so far, he’s just a normal college kid.

“Can you protect him?"

Staring broodily into his drink, he shrugs a little. "I can try."

But that's all he can do. He can't guarantee his protection, and there's only one of him against
all of his enemies. There's no telling what might happen, and there is always the possibility
that someone, someday, might overpower or out-think Dazai—

And then Chuuya will be the one paying for his actions, in probably dozens of terrible,
agonizing ways.

"Does he know? About your past, and what you do?"

Dazai shakes his head. "No, I haven't told him yet. I'm sure Chuuya suspects something, but
he hasn't asked yet. If we keep going, I'll tell him eventually, but we're not there yet."

Oda frowns, looking thoughtful, like he's trying to remember something.

When he doesn't answer, Dazai eventually looks up. "What?"

"What did you say his name was?"

"Chuuya," Dazai answers slowly, instinctively not giving more information than needed.
"Why?"

Oda takes another sip, eyebrows furrowed. "I feel like I've heard that name before."

"Well, it is somewhat common, so...?"

That seems to satisfy him, because he nods slightly. He still has a distant look in his eye, like
he's trying to remember something. Or maybe he's just thinking hard about what to say,
because after a moment, he's saying, "I think that, if you want it and you think the
relationship is worth it, then you should tell him about your work. It wouldn't be fair for him
not to know."

Yeah, that makes sense. Though that's a difficult conversation, one filled with stories that
Dazai doesn't particularly want to get into, and he's pretty sure Chuuya won't want him
afterwards, once he knows what he does.

What he's done. How much blood and terror is on his hands.

"Alright, now stop avoiding the question and tell me how you met."

Ah. Oda knows him far too well to let him get away with anything, huh?

Closing his eyes, he takes a sip for courage. He has to play this carefully, because if Oda
thinks that he's being predatory, he's not afraid to kick his ass, right here in the bar. He's
always been protective of kids.

Taking a deep breath, he mumbles something into his glass. It's too low to hear.
"Come again?"

"I said, I met him when Shuuji brought him home."

Silence. Crystal clear, cutting silence, heavy with tension.

"Dazai, how old is he?" Even now, Oda's voice is carefully neutral.

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Eighteen… and a half."

On second thought, he doesn't think adding the half makes his case any better.

"And your son is...dating him?"

Dazai scratches the back of his head. "Well, he was... but he's not anymore...so..."

Actually, he doesn't know if that's strictly true. They haven't had that conversation yet, but
he's assuming he's stopped talking to Shuuji.

God, he hopes so. That would be really awkward, all things considered, and also Shuuji
clearly does not know what he's doing.

(Which is almost embarrassing, that his son is apparently such a bad boyfriend— if they were
ever actually dating— that it only took a few nice words and a decent kiss to steal Chuuya’s
attention.
On second thought, that's probably a good thing, because being a 'good boyfriend' is exactly
how Dazai wound up getting someone pregnant at sixteen.)

Oda stares at him for a moment, expression forcibly blank, and Dazai swears he's about to get
dragged out of his chair—

Instead, he starts laughing. Hard, loudly, like he's just thought of something hilarious.

Dazai doesn't know what to think. Has he snapped? Gone off the deep end? He's so mad he's
laughing?

Then, in between his laughter: "It's like stealing a boyfriend from a baby!"

Dazai glares at him, fighting the growing smile on his face. "It's not that funny."

Wiping his eyes, Oda cackles, "You stole your son's boyfriend and are now having an
existential crisis about dating him, it's pretty damn funny."

Okay, yeah, when you put it like that, it is pretty funny.

"Okay, you have to marry him, I can't wait to see the look on Shuuji's face when he sees his
new step-parent!"

That does Dazai in, and now he's joining, laughing from deep in his chest at the absurdity.
After weeks of tension and nerves, the release feels great, like a weight lifted off his chest.
For a moment, the rest of the world fades away.

There's no meeting with Kouyou, no stress about his relationship with Chuuya, no idiot son
Shuuji, no Rats, nothing.
Just him and Oda, laughing it up at the Lupin like old times.

Eventually they begin to wind down, when they can't breathe anymore. Oda is clutching his
stomach while Dazai has his head in both hands, wheezing.

Taking a deep breath that finally feels like it fills him completely, Dazai sighs. "So you don't
think it's weird or anything?"

Oda shifts on his seat, stretching his spine out and raising his arms overhead. "No, I do think
it's a little weird, but as long as he makes you happy, then I'm happy. I know you'll treat him
well, and he's in safe hands."

That... means a lot more to Dazai than Oda probably knows. There's a lot of people— and
even himself, most of the time— who believe that Dazai destroys and corrupts everything he
touches. He's a menace, he's bad news, he's something to run and hide from.

Chuuya being so eager for him is touching, and it does help in some aspects but—

He doesn't know, not yet, and Dazai doesn't know him well enough to guess his reaction yet.
He might never talk to Dazai again, might call him a monster.

But Oda does know him, and the fact that he would say that anything is safe with Dazai,
knowing his past...

It means a lot.

Before Dazai can figure out what to say, Oda is speaking again, voice soft. "I'm happy for
you Dazai. I was worried about you for a long time, but you look better now."

Gentle warmth fills him, like the rising dawn. He smiles genuinely. "I feel better, now."
 25 YEARS AGO

The problem with these cookie-cutter, residential suburban houses that look like different
colored versions of the house that came before and all the ones that come after it—

Is that all those security measures— the locks, the alarm systems, the stupid, yapping dogs—
are all easily bypassed. It's all just the same, almost too easy. A snip to the internet line on the
side of the house makes the alarm system a dud.

The locks on the door? Useless, because the hinge screws on the knob are only a few
centimeters long, and are easily taken care of by one solid kick near the knob.

Mori strolls into the newly-broken-into house, guards flanking him on either side. They
spread out into the entryway, clearing the room for him.

A dog, medium-sized and snarling, comes at them. It's too afraid to jump at them yet, but it's
annoying anyway. "Call off your dog, please," Mori calls out pleasantly into the house, like
he hasn't just broken in with a contingent of armed guards, "or I will put it down."

When an answer isn't immediately forthcoming, Mori motions for the nearest guard to draw
his gun—

And smiles when a frightened, feminine voice from the darkness calls out a name. The dog
goes scampering back into the darkness, tail tucked between its legs.

The house is nice, Mori muses, for a middle class family. Spacious enough for growth, with
just enough shiny appliances and decorations to hint at a better lifestyle. However, Mori
knows one secret about this family, something that has come back to haunt them:
Gen'emon Dazai cannot afford any of this, not even a single one of the atrociously gaudy
decorations.

"You owe me a great debt, Gen'emon," Mori calls out into the darkness. He's not surprised
that the man hasn't come out to face him; he's always been a cowardly man, quick to run from
anything approaching danger or responsibility.

Which is the exact reason Mori is paying a house call. It's not about the debt anymore; it's
about the principle of the thing.

The Port Mafia always hunts down it's stray dogs, eventually. You can never run for long.

"Please, I— I'll get you the money, I swear!"

Mori follows the voice further into the house, into the living room. In it, huddled in a corner
like that might save them, are Gen’emon and his young family.

“Even if I did believe you,” Mori sighs, hands in his pockets as he approaches. “It’s far too
late for that.”

He crouches down in front of them, his guards following silently behind him. To most, the
way Gen’emon clutches his wife and son to his chest might seem desperate, an act of love.

To Mori, it just looks cowardly, hiding behind a woman and a child.

Tane Dazai is pretty, even as she chokes back frightened sobs and tears pour down her face.
The child, however—

Stone silent, expression blankly curious as he stares up at Mori with big, dark eyes. His hair
looks mussed, like he just woke up.
Mori tilts his head, offering a sharp, heartless smile. “And you must be little Osamu, yes?”

The boy nods slightly.

“Tell me, Dazai Osamu— are you afraid?”

Mori knows he’s a frightening man. Between the lab coat, the armed guards, the calculating
gaze, most people, even grown adults, fear him unless he’s actively trying to appear friendly.

But this child, this tiny, too-skinny child, with eyes too big for his face, merely stares up at
Mori and asks, “Should I be?”

Oh, he definitely should. Mori has plans for him. He’s heard quite a lot about the boy from
the people he’s had researching Gen’emon, preparing a thick file for this exact moment.

Wickedly smart, so much so that he’s skipped several grades already, with a blank, morbidly
curious attitude that often lands him in trouble, and a surprising disinterest and inability to
connect with other kids his age.

Smart and isolated and unafraid. The perfect combination, really. It’d be a shame to let that
go to waste.

He turns his gaze to Gen’emon. “Did you really think I wouldn’t hunt you down like a stray
dog when you started avoiding our calls?

The man gulps, opening his mouth to give some excuse or another, always the lying sack of
shit.
Mori holds up his hand. He doesn’t want to hear it, and in this neighborhood, police response
time is quick. He doesn’t have time to argue.

“I’m going to give you two choices; you can either die, right here, right now. Or—“ Mori’s
gaze falls to the boy again, who is finally starting to look wary. “You can let someone else
pay your debt.”

It’s a sad fact that Gen’emon doesn’t even hesitate before nodding frantically. Truly, the most
spineless of cowards, the type of person Mori both despises and takes advantage of.

Fathers can rarely be trusted to be what their children need them to be, it seems.

“Right,” Mori mutters, holding out a hand to Osamu. “Come along then.”

Osamu stares at him for a while, unmoving. “I don’t think I want to,” he says eventually,
looking over his shoulder to Tane. “Mom, tell him I don’t want to.”

Tane clutches her son close, fingers like claws in his sleep shirt. She's hyperventilating by
now, so distressed that she can barely do anything except gasp out a useless "Please— no, not
him, please."

Gen'emon pries her hands off him, forcibly pushing the child out of the circle of his
restraining arms. "We'll get him back, Tane," he mutters, pushing Osamu forward. Then he
looks up at Mori, and finally that desperate, frantic look in his eye might not only be just for
himself. "We can get him back, right? When I pay the debt?"

He should know better than to trust Mori, but lies taste sweetest when they come from the
devil's tongue.

He smiles, letting his face soften. "Of course. You give me what is owed, and I'll return him
to you, without a scratch."
Osamu nearly stumbles as he's pushed, but Mori catches him easily with a hand on his elbow.
Dismissing the parents entirely, he turns to him. "You, little one, are coming with me. I'm
going to be watching over you while your parents go to work. Don't be afraid, I won't let
anything harm you."

Osamu doesn't look like he believes him and he looks over his shoulder at his sobbing mother
a few times as he's coaxed away. It looks for a second that he might fight, but when he
catches sight of the guns holstered on the thighs of all the guards, he settles into wide-eyed,
silent compliance.

Mori nods at his guards as he passes, violet eyes flashing cruelly in the low lighting.

It's been ten minutes since they arrived. A house across the street has its lights on, and Mori
can see a shadowy figure moving across the window.

In the distance, police sirens. Time's almost up.

He drags Osamu with him to the van waiting parked in the driveway. It's black, windowless,
no license plates with the windshield darkened too much to easily see inside. Another grunt is
sitting in the driver's seat, waiting.

Mori climbs with Osamu into the back, shutting the door behind him as he gives the signal to
move. The van reverses smoothly, pulling out into the street and making an easy getaway
through the side streets of the residential area.

As they leave, Osamu speaks up quietly, voice dead and all the sadder for it, "I'm not going
back, am I?"

Mori pats his head, making a sympathetic noise. Poor thing will have to grow out of this soft,
hesitant behavior. "There's nothing left for you to go back to."
A few hours later, on the morning news:

"Husband and wife found dead in their house. Cause of death were three gunshots to the
chest. Initial reports suspect this might be a Mafia killing, as both their jaws were shattered
before death. No robbery is suspected.

Their son is nowhere to be found. If you see this little boy, please call the number on the
screen.

He might be in danger."
 Dinner for Two
Chapter Summary

[ DADDY <3 ]: She's been staring at the front door a lot lately, I think she misses you.

Awwww. He loves Yoko, what a sweet girl. The best dog.

[ CHUUYA ]: tell her I miss her too :(

He has to wait for a few minutes for the next response, long enough that he almost falls
asleep to the background noise of the TV.

Then:

[ DADDY <3 ]: Well, if you miss her so much, why don't you come see her?

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone! Another longer chapter :) I'm gonna try to make the chapters I upload
until I move as long as possible, so no one is missing out :) As always, thanks for all
your support and comments on this fic, I really appreciate it! I'll see you next time <3

This chapter features:

- a picture
- a dog's love
- a meal
- a reward

Somehow, they end up falling into a routine. Chuuya doesn't know why he was ever worried
about making contact with Dazai, because now that they're talking, it's so hard to stop.

He texts Dazai during class, while he's doing his homework, hell, even during the shower. As
soon he gets that little ding! from his phone, it's like all he can think about is what'd he say,
what'd he say, I have to keep talking to him—.
Admittedly, he's a bit obsessed. It's probably a good thing that Dazai goes silent for odd hours
of the day, leaving him unanswered. That's probably the only reason he still manages to get
all his homework and studying done.

He can't pick up any sense of pattern to Dazai's day though, even after a week straight of
texting. Sometimes he'll be talkative during most of the day and silent at night. Sometimes
he'll answer Chuuya's text at 2a.m. and then be silent again until halfway through the day.

Whenever he asks what he's doing or where he went, the response is always the same—

"I was working."

What job starts at 3a.m. and then ends at 2p.m. one day, and then returns to normal business
hours the next day, he doesn't know. Dazai still hasn't offered him any information about his
job beyond 'personal protection'.

It does make him kind of worried, even though it might not be his place, because Dazai
doesn't seem to have any sort of regular sleeping schedule, like at all. He's not even sure
when he sleeps, and whenever he asks, Dazai brushes it off when a 'I sleep just fine, chibi, but
you're sweet to worry.'

It's frustrating, to be honest, because he's seen the dark circles under his eyes, and he doesn't
want Dazai to text him back too-early in the morning if that means he's losing sleep. Chuuya
can wait.

Today is one such day. It's later in the evening, and Chuuya is relaxing in bed after a long day
of studying and classes. They're starting to gear up for finals week, so his brain feels even
more stretched thin than usual. There's a show on the TV that he's supposed to be watching,
but he's ignoring it in favor of smiling stupidly at his conversation with Dazai.

[ CHUUYA ]: send yoko pics :( I want to see her!

[ DADDY <3 ]: I'm starting to suspect you only want me for one thing.

[ CHUUYA ]: no........

[ CHUUYA ]: two things! you forgot kozo :(

[ DADDY <3 ]: I'm hurt.

Before Chuuya can tease him any further, there's a picture coming in and—

Hello, Dazai.

He's not even sure if it's supposed to be a teasing picture, because Yoko clearly is the focus of
the picture, with her face in her signature doggy grin and ears pointed towards the camera.
She's even wearing her pink bandana again, which is so adorable that Chuuya might just die.

However , it's clear that she's nestled between Dazai's thighs, with his long fingers wrapped
around her collar to keep her positioned correctly. The black slacks are his trademark by now,
but above that, is just a teasing sliver of stomach.

Either he's not wearing a shirt, or it's rucked up, but either way, Chuuya gets a deliciously
teasing glimpse of a triangle of skin just above his waistband.

The lighting is low, but if Chuuya zooms in— and he's not ashamed to admit that he zooms in
as far as he can— he can just see the outline of Dazai's muscles and a dusting of hair leading
further down.

God.
With the scene from the kitchen engraved into his mind, Chuuya can easily picture what he
looks like shirtless, all smooth muscles on display, powerful even when he's relaxed in his
seat, the king on his throne, fearsome dog sitting politely between his legs.

Chuuya wants those fingers around his neck.

Before he can think of something smooth to say— like 'thanks, now show me her owner' —
another text is coming in.

[ DADDY <3 ]: She's been staring at the front door a lot lately, I think she misses you.

Awwww. He loves Yoko, what a sweet girl. The best dog.

[ CHUUYA ]: tell her I miss her too :(

He has to wait for a few minutes for the next response, long enough that he almost falls
asleep to the background noise of the TV.

Then:

[ DADDY <3 ]: Well, if you miss her so much, why don't you come see her?

Chuuya's heart stops. He's glad that Nikolai passed out on his bed when he arrived back to
the dorm two hours ago, because the choked, excited squeaking noise he makes is
embarrassing.

[ CHUUYA ]: now?
Oh god, he's not ready. He hasn't showered yet, and he's in his pajamas still, the ugliest ones
at that, because he hasn't had the mental strength to do laundry yet and—

[ DADDY <3 ]: No, not now. After class tomorrow. I'll pick you up.

God, that's a whole day of anticipatory torture . He's going to be thinking about it all day, he's
not going to survive.

But it does give him time to prepare, which he definitely needs. Yuan asked for her shoes
back earlier this week, so all he has are his ratty gym shoes and worn-out sneakers, not
something he particularly wants to wear on a date.

Things have been a little strained between them ever since the party, but he's pretty sure that's
just on his end. Yuan hasn't mentioned Shuuji standing him up once, and based on the rants
she's given him on that exact behavior earlier on, he's fairly certain she would have some
choice things to say if she knew.

Part of him wants to tell her, just to get some vindictive anger in his defense but...

He's convinced she'll bring Shuuji into the matter, which isn't exactly a problem, but Chuuya
feels like he needs to continue to be on somewhat decent terms with Shuuji to keep seeing
Dazai.

(It's a complicated mess, because when he's with Dazai, it feels like nothing could go wrong,
but when he's out of sight, Chuuya feels like he's standing on a house of cards, with a single
wrong move meaning he'll never see Dazai again.

And that thought hurts.)

So he keeps that information to himself, and while he's certainly not as friendly with Shuuji
as he was before, he's not rude or angry. He's polite, a little distant.
Ever since that day, whenever Shuuji flirts with him— badly, he must add— it makes him
feel gross and angry, but he tolerates it because he's not even going to risk losing what is
building between him and Dazai.

He can be angry and vengeful later.

(And because of that continued relationship, he also knows that Shuuji has plans all day
Friday and Saturday, so he and Dazai will be alone together.

Uninterrupted.

For over thirty-six hours, if the date lasts that long.

Chuuya is so nervous and excited he feels like he's vibrating himself apart with energy.)

He's lucky that his physics professor is actually a decent human being, because he lets them
have an open class for studying for finals. Attendance is optional, and Chuuya did plan on
going but—

He's got a good grade in physics, he's confident in his knowledge, and now that he has a date
—

He needs to go shopping.

The Uber drive from the night of the party has still set him back a lot, but he's been careful
ever since. This will set him back even more, but he refuses to see Dazai without at least
looking nice.
He might be lower middle class, but he doesn't want to look like it. Especially to someone he
likes.

Taking the train to a nearby shopping center, he starts the hunt for a better pair of shoes. He
only has a few hours before he has to get back to his other classes, so he has to be quick
about it.

He's not exactly sure what he's looking for, but with his budget, he knows he doesn't have too
many options. Anything with any sort of heel or brand is firmly out of his price range. Even
the higher-end sneakers are too much. He doesn't allow himself to even try on the prettier
shoes, because he's not going to give himself the temptation or the chance to feel sad when he
inevitably has to put it back.

It takes him a while— longer than he anticipated, but still within his limits— to settle on a
pair of nice white sneakers, with little rosy-gold accents. It's understated, casual but still nice
, better than his current options.

And as he's making his way to the cash registers, he sees them—

Earrings. Beautiful, tiny little earrings in the shape of the sun, with the same rosy-gold hues
and with something opal-colored in the middle.

He has to have them.

The price tag on them makes him wince but—

Fuck it. Kouyou is the executive accountant of Mori Financial Services, she can afford to
send him a few hundred yen for food if he begs nicely. He'll just make up some excuse about
being so wiped out from finals that he ended up ordering food for too many days in a row. It's
fine.

With his purchases in hand, he makes his way back to campus.

Dazai said he was going to pick him up from class, which means he has to get ready before
class. It makes him feel a little awkward and overdressed, considering most everyone—
including him— have been showing up in sweats or casual clothing ever since they all got
reamed by midterms, but hey, he's not complaining about the excuse to dress up. He's just
glad that Yuan isn't in that class with him, because he does not have a reasonable explanation.

He doesn't have enough time to wash his hair in the shower, so he ends up doing a braid on
the side and pulling it up into a high ponytail, showing off his neck. He leaves a few strands
out to frame his face, elegantly wispy.

Because he's going to class, and he doesn't want to call attention to himself as being the guy
who wears makeup— yes, it's 2020 but some people are still assholes, and he doesn't want to
ruin his day by having to deal with some stupid jerk— he ends up just highlighting his
natural features. Highlighter, some blush, a little mascara. Nothing fancy, but still makes him
feel pretty. The earrings are pushed into his jeans pocket for later, so he can put them on as
he's leaving.

And because Chuuya is pulling out all the stops today, he wears Dazai's shirt again. He ends
up tying the excess in the back with a hair tie, tucking the knot under to create a loose,
flowing outline that both hides his figure and accentuates how small his waist is. He rolls the
sleeves up to his elbows.

Maybe it's unfair, but Chuuya is going to make the whole 'going slow' thing as difficult as
possible for Dazai, because it's only fair that both of them are dying from sexual tension.

He slips on his new shoes, and the outfit is complete. Just in time, too, because class starts in
ten minutes and the building is a five minute brisk walk away.

As expected, the hour and a half of class is agony. He ends up texting Dazai what building
he's in and what time he gets out, vibrating with excitement and anticipation. Truthfully, he
barely hears a word the professor says, and he's glad he got into the habit of recording his
lectures, because he's going to have to listen to it later.

Then, the class ends.

Despite how painful the wait is, he stays in his seat as most of the class files out, taking the
moment to slip the earrings into his ears and check with his phone camera that he still looks
good.

Then he walks out as confidently as he can, dodging around a group of frantically-whispering

girls as he looks around—

There.

Leaning against the opposite building with one foot propped up against the wall behind him,
is Dazai. He's got his hair slicked back today, exposing his forehead. His eyes are hidden
behind a pair of dark sunglasses.

The black trench coat he's wearing is remarkably similar to the one Chuuya still has in his
closet, but it just makes the dark jeans and loose t-shirt look even better. For once, he's
without his signature boots, instead wearing a black pair of sneakers.

There's a single cup of coffee in his hand, balanced on his raised knee.

When he sees Chuuya, he pushes off the wall, coming over.

(Chuuya tells himself he does not feel a sense of swelling, preening pride when the girl's
heads follow his progress like a flock of birds watching something shiny, but it's a lie.)

He beams up at Dazai when he gets closer. "Hi," he says, breathlessly.

The smile Dazai graces him with is so soft and fond that Chuuya aches with it. "Hello,
Chuuya."
Chuuya likes the nicknames, but the unfortunate result is that Dazai says his name so rarely
that he feels bowled over and breathless whenever he does say it.

Long fingers present him with the coffee cup. "For you."

When Chuuya raises an eyebrow at him, Dazai shrugs lightly. "You said you were tired
earlier. I already finished my own coffee."

How long was he waiting out here, then?

Chuuya takes his cup with a grateful smile, bringing it up to his lips to take a sip—

And nearly chokes on it when Dazai leans down and drops a kiss on his forehead, quick and
gentle as a whisper. He can just barely feel the lingering ghost of his smile as Dazai
straightens again, hands shoved in his pocket.

He looks distinctly smug at the way he's made Chuuya blush, but he can forgive him for that,
simply because of the way the whispering from the girls has gone dead silent.

"Are you ready?"

Chuuya nods, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "Maybe I should drop my books off first,
though?"

"I brought the car today, so there's room, if that's what you're worried about," Dazai says,
following a step behind him as Chuuya makes his way to the parking lots.

In that case, there's no way Chuuya is going to leave his side for even a second, not now that
they're finally together again.
Thankfully, Dazai parked nearby, because his physics professors insists on all his students
bringing both of the textbooks to class everyday, so his bag is a bit heavier than usual.

Ever the gentleman, Dazai unlocks the car and opens the door for him first. When Chuuya
goes to sling his bag over his shoulder to sit at his feet, Dazai catches it with one hand. When
he looks over his shoulder at him, Dazai just gives him a smile and a murmured, "Let me."

It doesn't matter that much, so Chuuya lets the bag go and slides into the car. The inside of
the car is warm, a pleasant contrast to the slightly-cool air outside.

He watches Dazai cross the front of the car, opening his own door and stuffing Chuuya's bag
into the back seat behind him before getting in himself.

Chuuya doesn't really understand how watching him back out of the spot then ease onto the
road, one palm braced against the steering wheel confidently, is such an erotic experience, but
every time they drive, he can feel himself slowly heating up from the sight alone.

How is everything he does ridiculously hot and rife with tension? It's like he built with the
sole intention of driving Chuuya out of his mind.

"I was thinking," Dazai starts, his free hand palm-up on the center console and so close, so
tempting, "that I take you home, and I make you dinner. Sounds good?"

Sounds perfect. Chuuya nods, excitement filling him. The pancakes Dazai made him were
delicious, and the confident way the man moves in the kitchen is an experience in and of
itself, so he's definitely not complaining.

Especially when he gets to spend a whole evening with the dogs and Dazai.

The drive is quicker this time, mostly because Dazai seems to realize that Chuuya isn't afraid
of his driving anymore, and so the speed has increased. The smug curl of Dazai's lips
whenever they come out of quick turn, accelerating quickly, is so fucking cute.
Chuuya wants to kiss it off him, and the idea that he's allowed to do that now makes him
giddy, light as air.

For once, Dazai doesn't pull into the garage. He parks the car in the driveway, locking it once
they both climb out. Chuuya's bag gets left in the car, for the return drive.

Dazai waves him back as they approach the front door, warning him away as he unlocks it.
"Brace yourself," he tells him, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Before Chuuya can ask why, he's throwing open the door and calling out, "Yoko! Look what I
brought you!"

Yoko comes barreling out like her fur is on fire, making a high-pitched yelping noise of
excitement. Chuuya does brace himself, because she's headed straight for his legs and she's
big enough to bowl him over easily—

At the last second, she swerves into the grass, and she's going so fast that she actually slips on
the grass, going tumbling head over heels in the yard.

"Oh my god, Yoko, are you okay—?"

Just as fast, she's flipping back onto her feet, and she's so excited that she runs circles around
him, looking like a hyper puppy with how she's jumping and yelping.

"Alright," Chuuya laughs, crouching down so he can get down on her level. "I can't pet you
when you're running around like that, slow down."

Yoko nearly ends up bowling him over anyways, because she's pushing into his space, tail
wagging so hard her entire body is moving with it. He has to steady himself by grabbing onto
her collar, laughing as he tries to dodge the licks she's trying to give his cheek. As sweet as it
is, he doesn't want his face to taste like dog slobber or his makeup to be licked off.

"Yeah, I missed you too, pretty girl," he tells her fondly, scratching her as fast as his hands
will go. Her only response is to flop on her back, tongue lolling out of her mouth as she
demands belly pets.

When Chuuya looks up, Dazai is leaning with his shoulder against the doorway, an achingly
soft look in his eyes and a tiny crooked smile on his face, like he's not even aware of it.

Kozo is sitting beside him, looking down on his sister with an expression that says 'come on,
you're embarrassing me', but Chuuya doesn't miss the wave of his tail behind him when he
notices Chuuya looking at him.

Chuuya knows what home feels like. That warm, safe feeling when you finally come back,
the place where all the things you love and cherish are. Of knowing that you always have
somewhere to return to, at the end of every long day.

Chuuya has never had someone look at him like their home might be living and breathing
and calls itself by his name.

"Are you coming inside?" Dazai asks, tilting his head towards the open door. His smile grows
with a small snort. "Or are you going to stay out here all night, now that you've gotten what
you've came for?"

With a conspiratorial scratch to Yoko's belly, he pretends to think about it, internally laughing
at the way Dazai's expression begins to melt into something mock-offended. It's so fun to
play with him.

"Well," he says eventually, "I guess I can grace you with my presence for a while longer."
Watching him as he stands up and brushes the dog fur off his pants, Dazai says with a hint of
amusement, "I'm honored, truly."

Kozo greets him with a sniff when he gets close enough, doing his customary head-to-toe
inspection. He's not nearly as excitable as Yoko is, but he does offer him a few licks on his
hands, and his tail sways steadily behind him.

When he's satisfied, Kozo turns around and leads the way back inside. Yoko starts to follow
before stopping abruptly, watching Chuuya closely, like he might leave without saying
goodbye when she's not watching.

Dazai lets him enter first, and the presence of him at his back is like a physical thing, warm
and heavy and charged. Almost like they're on the bike again, except this time, they know
each other better, slowly growing more intertwined with each meeting.

Of course, now all that heat is backed by the knowledge that Dazai self-admitted he was
desperate for Chuuya, the knowledge of what he feels like and the desire to know more—

And the frustration that comes with knowing Dazai will probably deny his attempts to go
further, because he wants to go slowly with him.

Even if they’re alone, in Dazai’s house, on a date.

They kick their shoes off, padding into the living room. The dogs follow diligently on their
heels.

“Are you hungry now? It’ll take about half an hour to make.”

Considering that Chuuya hasn’t eaten anything all day because he was too excited, yes, he is
hungry now. Besides, the faster they eat, then the more time they have to spend together,
right?
He nods. Dazai leads the way to the kitchen, and Chuuya follows closely after.

The way he immediately pulls out ingredients from the fridge with confidence shouldn’t be
as appealing as it is.

“Wine?” He offers, reaching up to pull down a glass.

Chuuya’s mouth waters. Dazai has been spoiling him with rich, expensive wines and he is not
complaining. He can barely even remember what those cheap convenience store wines tasted
like. “Yes, please.”

The glass is set in front of him, and the wine Dazai opens and pours for him is dark, a lustful
red, and smells like heaven on his tongue.

When Dazai doesn’t get his own glass out, Chuuya raises an eyebrow at him, swirling his
glass absently. “Are you going to drink anything?”

He’s noticed Dazai isn’t really a fan of wine—which begs the question on why his house is
stocked with it— but he loves his whiskey.

Dazai hums. “No; I want to be clear headed for this.”

For what?

When Chuuya asks that exact question, all he gets is a cryptic smile and the flash of a knife
as Dazai pulls it out of the block.

He’s making beef stir fry with soba noodles, and his confidence with a knife is criminal.
Smooth, sharp, short slices, all looking effortless, like he was born with a knife in hand. He
doesn’t waver once, and all his cuts look nearly the exact same size and shape.

It’s almost like the knife is an extension of his body, as natural to him as his own hand.

Like most things about Dazai, it’s surprisingly attractive. (At this point, maybe not so
surprising.)

When his wine has had enough time to breathe, he takes a long, slow sip, savoring the taste
of heat and decadence on his tongue. It settles slowly in his belly, and he can’t tell if the
growing heat there is from him steadily draining his first glass of wine—

Or watching the way Dazai scrapes his knife against the lip of the pan, cleaning it.

“When do your finals start?” Dazai asks, casually curious as he starts to mix the sauce
together.

Leaning his cheek on his hand, Chuuya watches him. “Mm, not next week,but the week
after.”

Most of his classes only meet twice more before the day of the final. His professors have
offered as much guidance as they can, but it’s all coming to a head soon. Sink or swim, as
they say.

Pass or fail.

And for him? Failing might mean losing his scholarships or his spot at Keio entirely.

“You must be stressed,” Dazai murmurs, shooting him a slightly sympathetic glance. The pot
of noodles he has is starting to boil, steam filling the air.
Yeah, he’s stressed. He’s done everything he can, and kept his grades up but—

The tests are never easy, and if he tanks them too hard, well—

Like he said, pass or fail.

He finishes off his first glass of wine with a long swallow. Maybe he should wait to pour
himself another one, but he doesn’t feel anything besides a glowing sense of warmth, so it’s
probably fine.

Besides, that gives him a great excuse to walk around the counter to Dazai’s side of the
kitchen. “Yeah, it’s pretty stressful.”

Thankfully, Dazai left the bottle open on the counter, so it’s easy to pour himself another
glass, just as full as the first. “I think you can help me out with that though.”

All the necessary vegetables are cut, so Dazai takes a moment to rinse off his knife quickly
and wash his hands from any juices. “Oh? How can I help you?”

Stepping closer, Chuuya stares up at him. Dazai doesn’t retreat, taking a clean rag to dry his
hands with. His eyes are dark, welcoming, watching silently as Chuuya comes closer.

He’s practiced saying this many times, so often that the words started to lose meaning, until
he started saying them in his dreams. Still, they come out slightly breathy and hesitant as he
says, “Kiss me?”

Tension crackles between them as they stare each other down, waiting for the other to give in
first. The time it takes for Dazai to finish drying his hands feels like it takes forever.

Chuuya’s half convinced he draws it out on purpose, but it’s all worth it when the towel is
tossed onto the counter, and Dazai is reaching out for him with a murmured, “Come here
then, beautiful.”

Surrendering to Dazai feels like fate, like inevitability, and the sensation of rough fingertips
brushing over his jaw, sliding downwards to cup his cheeks with both hands, tilting his head
up as he leans downward—

It feels like the very air in his lungs, sweet relief.

The kiss Dazai captures him in is slow, languid. It’s enjoyment of the simplest kind, the slide
of their lips together, the way that Dazai’s breath washes warm over his tongue.

At some point, Chuuya’s hands wander up to wind up in his hair, running his nails lightly
over the growing undercut, feeling a spark when Dazai’s breath hitches audibly with a shiver.

Large thumbs stroke over his cheekbones, roughly the same rhythm he’s kissing Chuuya
with. His fingers are long enough that they reach Chuuya’s neck easily. He shudders when
Dazai lightly flicks one of his earrings, tickling him.

“I like these,” Dazai hums, pulling back just far enough that he can speak into Chuuya’s
mouth, “very pretty.”

Then he’s shifting down, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth on one slow suck, the suction
of his mouth so tempting it’s nearly unbearable.

For a long time, he holds Chuuya there, running his tongue over his captured lip or nibbling
on it lightly, until Chuuya feels like he’s stretching thin under the sensations, the throb of his
lip matching the rushing of the heat in his veins.

Teeth sink into his lip, almost roughly enough to hurt as Dazai pulls back, taking his lip with
him until the stretch is almost painful, drawing out a small, hitched noise.
When Dazai lets him go his lip returns to its place with a wet pop. With half-lidded eyes,
Chuuya glares up at him half-heartedly, wondering why exactly he stopped kissing him.

“Don’t want to burn our food, do we?”

He pouts, but moves out of his way so Dazai can take the noodles out of their pot and
replaces the beef in the pan with the vegetables. The meat gets set aside on a plate to wait.

Chuuya’s wine glass, forgotten on the counter, returns to his hand as he takes another
swallow. It tastes almost sour now, in comparison to the taste of Dazai on his tongue.

It’s starting to get hot in here, heat swirling thickly in the air.

He’s nice enough to wait until Dazai looks like he’s finished with the next step to aim his
most pleading look at him with another, “Kiss me, please.”

Dazai’s expression is knowing and a little smug, but he gives in again, always weak when
Chuuya uses his manners.

This time, the kiss doesn’t last as long before Dazai is leaning lower, bending down. His
fingers find the back of Chuuya’s thighs and he hesitates for just a moment, giving him the
opportunity to protest, before he’s pulling up, lifting him.

With a startled noise, Chuuya grips his shoulders tightly, thighs clamping around his hips.
Dazai is deliciously solid under him, his arms not so much as trembling as he supports his
weight easily.

They don’t stay there for long though, because Dazai is turning in one smooth motion and
depositing him on the empty counter a little ways from the stove.
Chuuya has been between Dazai’s thighs before,and he liked how secure that felt, how safe it
felt to be cradled between them, how small. But he’s just now realizing—

He likes Dazai between his legs more. They’re nearly the same height like this, and Dazai’s
waist slots naturally between his knees, his middle thick with muscle. Just underneath,
Chuuya can feel the swell of his hips and his knees hook over them easily, naturally.

The kiss still manages to be slow, even as it deepens, so slow that Chuuya feels drugged by it,
his entire existence hanging onto every slide of Dazai’s lips, the brush of his tongue, the
teasing edge of his teeth.

It doesn’t feel urgent, like the kiss at the market. It feels all-encompassing, world changing.

When Dazai pulls away this time, Chuuya makes a soft, disappointed noise, trying to hook
his ankles behind Dazai’s thighs to keep him in place.

The way Dazai pushes his knee open further, spreading his thighs wider to give himself room
to pull away, unexpectedly sends a flash of heat pouring down his spine.

“Quiet, troublemaker. I know you’re trying to distract me, and it’s not going to work.”

Thé pout is instinctive, his lower lip jutting out childishly. It’s not fair. Chuuya is more than
happy to skip dinner in favor of being kissed silly on the counter.

Dazai snorts fondly, stirring the vegetables in the pot. They smell delicious, even better once
he re-adds the meat and pours the sauce in to simmer. “Put that away, before I bite it again.”

The lip juts out further, and now Chuuya’s just being a brat.

After a moment though, he gives in, raising his wineglass to his lips for another drink. The
alcohol hits his stomach with intoxicating warmth, and his heart feels almost sluggish in his
chest, like it’s struggling to pump molten lava through his veins instead of blood. It’s so hot
in here, the combination of the wine, Dazai, and the cooking food nearby setting him on fire.

Reaching up, he undoes a single button on his shirt to give himself a little more breathing
room. He misses the way the action makes Dazai tense, hands tightening and jaw clenching.

Of course, the unintended result of the alcohol— he’s pouring his third glass now, and
although he doesn’t feel tipsy, he’s definitely warm and a little bit lightheaded— is that it
makes him bold. “And what if I want you to bite me?”

Dazai hums, looking thoughtful as he gives the pan a final stir, dumping the contents into a
large bowl afterwards. “Then I suppose you’ll have to be good for me.”

Batting his eyelashes, Chuuya agrees, “I can do that. I can be good. I can be very good for
you.”

(Dazai is glad he decided not to drink, because the little troublemaker perched on his counter
looking delightfully flushed and eager, so pretty while wearing his shirt, promising to be
good for him with those big, shiny blue eyes—

Never makes it easy for him. His patience and self-control are stretching dangerously thin.)

“Is that so?”

Chuuya nods empathetically, his feet swinging a little in the air. Anticipation is pooling inside
him, like liquid energy, making him hyper aware of Dazai’s every movement, the subtle flex
and roll of his muscles underneath his shirt.

He lets his eyes drop, checking out Dazai in a move that’s a little too obvious, not that he
notices. He’s too busy wondering how good he has to be to get that, eyes wandering over his
crotch.
“Prove it, then,” Dazai says, and before Chuuya can say that he’ll do anything he wants to
prove it—

There’s a bowl being dropped into his hand, chopsticks buried beneath the deliciously
fragrant food.

“Eat,” Dazai says, voice hardening a little. An order, even if a subtle one.

Chuuya doesn’t argue, because his stomach is growling, reminding him how hungry he is.
After another sip of his wine, he digs in. When the flavors burst over his tongue, hot and
savory, he gives an unconscious, happy little wiggle, making a satisfied noise. It’s so good.

(Dazai watches him eat, feeling a swelling surge of pride and self-satisfaction, because he
clearly likes it. He looks like he was pretty hungry, taking big bites and closing his eyes in
pleasure as he chews.)

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sounds of eating in the kitchen, the click of chopsticks
against ceramic.

Chuuya makes it about halfway through his bowl before he starts to slow down, his belly
turning comfortably full. He takes another swallow of wine to top it off, sighing at how good
it tastes, how good it feels.

Now that he’s had one hunger satiated, he feels a warm, heavy, almost-sleepy desire for more,
centering in his middle and radiating outward in thick waves.

He goes back to eyeing Dazai, watching the elegant way he lifts bites to his mouth. He’s a
slower eater than Chuuya is, but he swears he’s drawing it out on purpose because he can feel
Chuuya watching him.
At one point, he even tilts his head back, offering Chuuya a view of his throat bobbing as he
swallows, something so unexpectedly attractive that Chuuya squirms with it.

Despite everything, he manages to stay quiet and patient as Dazai polishes off his entire
bowl. He takes sips from his wine— the third glass is nearly gone by now, and he’s weighing
the desire for more versus the knowledge that if he gets anything remotely close to drunk,
Dazai probably won’t touch him— and the occasional bite from the remaining stir fry in his
own bowl.

“Are you done?”

Chuuya nods, going to hop off the counter so he can wash their bowls. Cleaning is the least
he can do, after that delicious meal of food and watching Dazai cook for him.

But fingers touch his knee, gaining his attention.

“Stay,” Dazai murmurs, plucking the bowl out of his hands easily. With quick movements,
he’s dumping the rest of Chuuya’s bowl in the trash and putting them both in the sink to soak
while he takes the rest of the food and packs it away.

“But I wanted to help,” Chuuya mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. It feels wrong to
be sitting here while Dazai does all the work.

“You are helping, beautiful,” Dazai tells him, shooting him a cheesy grin as he empties the
pan. “You’re being very motivating right now.”

Oh. He can’t help the heat that crawls into his face, and the sip of wine he takes to cover it up
only seems to make it worse.

Waiting for Dazai to finish is like torture, watching him work while he’s not more than a few
feet away and not being able to touch him.
By the time he closes the fridge with the leftovers safely locked inside, Chuuya is aching for
him, for just a little bit of his attention.

His third glass of wine is finished, but he doesn’t reach for a refill. Instead, he pushes the
glass away and fixes Dazai with his poutiest look. “I told you I could be good.”

Dazai washes his hands quickly again— something that Chuuya is grateful for, because he
definitely does not want stir fry sauce on any part of him— before coming back over to him.

He places his hands on either side of Chuuya, caging him in. His eyes are dark, intense,
staring straight into his soul and setting it on fire as he says, low, “You certainly did, didn’t
you?”

The air feels thin between them, like the atmosphere on top of a mountain, drawing Chuuya’s
lungs tight with anticipation. Every second that they spend staring at each other just makes
the tension tighter, hotter.

Caramel eyes drop to his lips, flashing brightly before Dazai is whispering across the
distance:

“Can I kiss you?”

The first time he asked made Chuuya feel put on the spot, but this time, it’s like gasoline onto
a flame, igniting something within him.

He nods, hands reaching—

Dazai meets him halfway.

It seems he's decided to take a little mercy on Chuuya, because he doesn't make him say it out
loud, or tease him with tiny butterfly kisses before kissing him properly.

No, one of his hands is finding the back of his neck, encouraging him to tip his head back so
Dazai can deepen the kiss instantly, the tip of his tongue sliding over his lower lip in a silent
request for access. His other hand finds Chuuya's thigh, sliding up slowly in a brush of
teasing friction, hot tingly sensation.

It makes Chuuya gasp, winding his arms around Dazai's neck to hold on tightly, dragging him
closer.

The hand stops about halfway up, not venturing higher, but just the weight and presence of it
has Chuuya hyperaware, every brush of his fingers and slick slide of his tongue electric. He
arches against him, instinctively wanting to get closer, as close as he can get.

Dazai seems to be along the same mindset, because he's letting go of his neck to grab his
other leg, fingers under his knee to tug him closer, until their chests are pressed together.

Then, with a whispered "Hold on" against his mouth, Dazai's lifting him up again, legs
wrapped around his waist.

The pressure it puts against his hips makes Chuuya shudder, urgency stirring, his hands
fisting in Dazai's hair. He's been picked up before, not very often because he's heavier than he
looks with all the muscle— Shuuji tried once and almost dropped him on his head— and he
doesn't usually like it, but the effortless, confident way Dazai hoists him up and keeps him
aloft without so much as a stumble, making his way out of the kitchen without the kiss
pausing once...

It makes the blood in his veins turn hotter, thicker, rushing through his veins.

He's not even sure where they're going— though some distant part of him is hopefully
chanting about Dazai's bedroom— because he's too busy filling his hands with dark hair,
scraping his teeth over his tongue until Dazai releases a low rumble that Chuuya feels in his
stomach.
Turning around, Dazai lowers them both, and Chuuya hangs on for dear life, instinctively
trusting that he won't let him fall, as long as he doesn't let go.

Instead, they tumble backwards onto the couch, and now Chuuya is straddling Dazai's lap and
discovering that this is a very different way of kissing.

For one, he's never been taller than Dazai, so feeling the strain in his neck as he tips his head
back to meet him, jaw working in rhythmic waves, is surprisingly hot. Chuuya bears down
over him, and now he's in charge of how hard the kiss is, crushing their lips together in his
ever-searching need for more.

Secondly, now his weight is centered over him, pressing them closer than ever before. So
close he can feel the rise and fall of Dazai's chest as their breathing starts to speed up, the
shift of his muscles beneath him as he adjusts their positions slightly.

Of course, the unintended— or perhaps intended— consequence is that Chuuya is sitting

directly on Dazai's bulge, and he can feel the heat and firmness growing there even through
his pants, making him pant.

And best of all—

It frees up Dazai's hands to wander.

They find his thighs first, fingers long enough to wrap nearly halfway around. Chuuya tenses
instinctively, the hitch of his breath obvious as his focus zeroes in on the way Dazai subtly
squeezes and massages the muscle there in small waves, the same rhythm he's still kissing
him with.

Eventually his hands slide up, and god, Chuuya feels like his entire world stalls as fingers get
closer, closer, closer to his crotch—
The urgency had built so slowly, so subtly, that he's just now realizing that he is completely
hard in his pants, aching, strung tight after weeks of teasing from Dazai's skillful hands.

He swears, if Dazai stops them now, he's actually going to break down in frustrated tears.

Dazai's hands bypass touching him directly, though Chuuya would be surprised if he can't
feel him throbbing against his stomach. His hands coast over his hips instead, around his
sides, fingertips sliding against the sensitive, exposed skin of his lower back.

Dazai's mouth slides away, and Chuuya is whining immediately, not wanting him to go, but
he's just kissing a line over his cheek, down his jaw, finding the beginnings of his neck.

Chuuya never realized how sensitive his neck was before, but every touch of Dazai's lips over
his skin feels like it goes directly to his cock, joining the swirling, molten tension in his
stomach.

"I have to say," Dazai hums against his skin, the vibrations and the husky, rough tone of his
voice making Chuuya's mind go blank. "I do like seeing you in my shirts."

His fingertips creep up, palms sliding over his lower back, warm and pulling him somehow
even closer.

Chuuya squirms, overwhelmed and starving for more in equal measures, unsure if he wants
more of Dazai against his front, or along his back, or his mouth on his neck or kissing him
again—

"So pretty, so tempting," Dazai murmurs, almost to himself, before scraping his teeth over his
pulse point, and the combination of the vibration, the words, the hands sliding even further
under his shirt—

Chuuya can't help it; he moans, soft and hesitant, rolling his hips forward in an instinctive bid
for friction. He doesn't even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed about it, because
holy shit, the double friction of him grinding against Dazai's stomach and then back against
the bulge beneath him, feeling the thick outline of Dazai's erection against his ass is so good,
he can't help but do it again, a little harder.

"Yeah?" Dazai breathes hotly against his neck, coasting down a little lower, finding a spot
that makes Chuuya's toes curl and his eyes roll back in his head and sucking on it. "Do you
like it when I talk to you?"

This time, when Chuuya grinds forward, his hands press down at the same time, increasing
the pressure.

"What about if I told you how good you're being right now? How hot it is that you're grinding
against me like this, so desperate?"

His face is so hot it must be on fire, and no matter how hard he pants, he can never seem to
get enough air. His thoughts have devolved into static, a background noise that means
nothing compared to the hunger growing in him, the desire for more, harder, better.

"The things I could do to you," Dazai muses, nibbling on his collarbone. The other spots he's
visited on his neck throb in time, adding to the growing symphony of sensations in Chuuya's
body.

(Should Dazai be leaving him a virtual choker of red marks on Chuuya's neck without
asking? Probably not.

But he is just a man, and he's struggling to keep it together, and as long as it doesn't escalate
past this— letting Chuuya grind against him with increasingly loud, desperate noises of
pleasure— he will consider it a win.

He knows Chuuya would probably let him turn him over and take him apart with his teeth,
coax all sorts of pretty noises from him as he shows him what it’s like to really feel good—
But as much as he wants that— needs it, almost, the pressure of his zipper against his
erection growing painful— he knows the right thing to do is to build Chuuya up, slowly, and
not overwhelm him all at once.

It’s a good thing Dazai moved onto marking up his collarbone, because hearing his sweet
moans is hard enough, but tasting them would be altogether too much.)

“I could make it so good for you, baby,” he murmurs, sinking his teeth into his collarbone
with almost painful intensity, but at this point, he could probably draw blood and Chuuya
would still moan for him.

Nodding frantically, Chuuya digs his nails into his scalp, holding him as close as he can as he
gives another stuttered thrust, pressure building almost too fast for him to keep up with.

He’s not even aware of the words that start to pour out of his mouth, too mindless, too far
gone—

(And they are almost Dazai’s undoing.)

“Please, Dazai, fuck— so good, please touch me, I want more, need more, need you, please, I
promise I’ll be so good for you—.”

With a frustrated, wanting snarl, teeth sink into him so harshly that Chuuya is automatically
crying out in loud reaction, jerking. There’s nowhere to go though, because the arms around
him are tightening, nails digging in sharply, pinning him in place and dragging him down as
Dazai’s hips roll up, a slow, skilled movement that just illustrates how much control he has
over his body—

“Fuck,” Dazai mutters against his skin, his strained tone and the curse making Chuuya
shudder again, legs tightening around his hips.
Frantically, he nods again, meeting the next grind of Dazai’s hips with a messy,
uncoordinated thrust of his own. “Yes, please.”

With a strength of will that Chuuya can practically feel, Dazai forces himself to still, letting
go of his bite with a low groan.

“No,” he mutters, and Chuuya is so frustrated he actually snarls, so tempted to bite Dazai in
sheer irritation.

Dazai laughs fondly, albeit strained, against his chest, hands sliding back down to find his
hips. “You’ll get it, baby, I promise,” he croons, helping Chuuya find a faster, harder rhythm.
“Soon. But for now— I want you to cum for me, just like this.”

God, okay, yes, yes.

All things considered, Chuuya thinks he’s done pretty well keeping himself controlled, with
the way Dazai has been whispering to him and urging him on.

But he can’t deny that the tension has been slowly building, winding tighter, threatening to
snap with every burst of pleasure on the grind forwards, the shape of Dazai beneath him on
the grind back, intoxicatingly good.

The pleasure is good, it’s great—

But the end is steadily drawing near. And the fact that Dazai is actively helping him now—
hands on his hips to drag him harder into each grind, the encouraging murmurs on his neck
and in his ear, the knowledge that Dazai wants him to be just like this, rocking desperately in
his lap— only makes it better. The pleasure builds, searing, scorching, electric, making him
tremble and whimper as he fights for more, harder, a little faster, so close, almost there—

Dazai drags him forward one last time, hips pressing up just slightly—
And the pressure is enough to tip him over the edge.

The orgasm roars over him, way more intense than any he’s ever given himself. He’s
mindless with it, helpless to do anything but ride it out with a series of shudders, arching and
jerking in place. He’s pretty sure he’s crying out Dazai’s name, eyes squeezed shut as he
fights to survive the intensity.

By the time he’s done working himself through it, he feels limp and exhausted, panting
heavily. He sags in Dazai’s arms, shivering with the comedown—

And Dazai is right there, arms enclosing around his back as he nuzzles the side of his face,
whispering soft kisses over his flushed cheek. “ There you are, pretty baby. You did so well
for me.”

Chuuya shivers, leaning into his hold. He’s still getting his breath back, and all his muscles
feel melted. It’s not bad, of course, but somehow the intensity has left him cracked open like
an egg, with all his vulnerable insides exposed.

The arms around him help keep him together though, and the kisses pressed along his cheek
makes him feel warm, and the teasing way Dazai gently tugs on his earring with his teeth
makes him smile gently.

It feels nice. He’d probably be fine if Dazai pushed him off, now that it’s over, but he can’t
deny that sitting here and soaking up the affection feels fantastic.

Especially as Dazai tells him how good he was, how beautiful he is, perfect , his hands like
warm weights under his shirt.

It’s not until he shifts his weight, knees beginning to ache, that he realizes—
Dazai is still hard.

It makes sense, because he’s older, more experienced, and therefore much less likely to come
in his pants like an inexperienced teenager—the thought of which is starting to make him
embarrassed now, even though Dazai explicitly asked him to and then helped him along—but
it’s still awkward.

His sex education is limited admittedly—his dad gingerly taught him how to put a condom on
a banana and then promptly said that if Chuuya ever had sex at all, including watching any
pornographic material, he’d be grounded for the rest of forever— but he’s not so uneducated
that he doesn’t know that both people are supposed to orgasm.

And that one person orgasming while the other doesn’t means you failed.

Feeling guilty, he swallows hard. “Do you want me to, ah...” he trails off, unsure of what he’s
supposed to offer and eventually lands on a lame, “help you?”

He wiggles his hips for emphasis, and he does not miss the sharp inhale against his cheek,
something that makes warmth stir in his stomach, despite the fact that he just came.

Large hands bracket his waist, and Chuuya does not often feel delicate or small, but it’s so
easy for him to feel held entirely by Dazai, his very soul cradled in long, capable fingers.

“No,” Dazai murmurs, pulling back and for the first time since they started kissing, Chuuya
gets a good look at his face. He’s flushed red with excitement, his once-slicked-back hair
wild from where Chuuya had his fingers in it, his pupils huge and dark and focused. His lips
are slightly swollen, dark red from abuse.

Chuuya wants to kiss him again.

Dazai seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he’s smiling softly as him, lopsided,
“But I do want you to kiss me again.”
Chuuya blinks. “But you didn’t...”

Another stroke of his fingers along his spine soothes the mild anxiety strumming along his
nerves. “I know,” Dazai hums, brushing his noses lightly over his cheek, “but this was all
about you. I wanted you to feel good. I can wait.”

Chuuya is torn about that because on one hand he doesn’t want to leave Dazai hanging, but
on the other hand, he is admittedly nervous about doing something about it. It’s not that he
doesn’t want to, it’s just—

What if he’s bad? Dazai probably doesn’t have high standards, now that he knows he’s a
virgin, but what if he fails even those?

(Chuuya is not unaware of the time Shuuji came in his pants after ten minutes of grinding,
and while this situation might be different—

He can’t help but draw similarities between them, and he remembers how disappointing that
felt.)

“Don’t worry though,” Dazai says, leaning forward to press a wicked smile against his cheek,
not kissing him because Chuuya hasn’t agreed to his most recent ask, “I’ll let you get your
hands all over me, next time.”

Just the promise of next time makes relief bubble up in his chest, coaxing his muscles back
into relaxation. Dazai has never lied to him before, that he knows of, and he’s always made
good on every single promise that he’s made.

If Dazai says there will be a next time, there’ll be a next time.

(Of course, part of Chuuya wants to say ‘give me fifteen minutes and next time can be
upstairs tonight—‘ but he ignores it, for the most part.)

He does, however, turn his head to capture Dazai in a kiss, internally preening at the way his
smile widens, softens, before dissolving into a gentle kiss.

This kiss is probably the softest one yet today, besides the one on his forehead earlier, and
somehow it’s even better, filling Chuuya up with a glowing sense of warmth and satisfaction.

They sit there for long enough that Dazai’s erection begins to die and eventually the cooling
mess in his underwear makes him squirm uncomfortably.

When he notices, Dazai is pulling away from the kiss. Slowly, diving back in for another few
long moments, before letting them separate.

“Come on,” he mutters, hands once again finding Chuuya’s thighs, “let’s get you cleaned up,
shall we?”

Yeah, that sounds good. He nods, expecting to be let go or pushed off so he can awkwardly
hobble his way to the bathroom, but that's not what happens.

Instead, he feels the roll of Dazai's abs as he sits up, holding them both steady as he leans
forward and stands up in one smooth, powerful motion. His hands support his weight with a
firm hold on his legs, and Chuuya helps him out instinctively by tightening his thighs and
wrapping his arms around his neck tightly.

"You don't have to carry me," he grumbles, even though being carried is nice admittedly,
makes him feel small and light and treasured, “I can walk."

"I'm sure you can," Dazai agrees easily, though he continues making his way towards the
stairs without making a single move to put him down.
Chuuya's knees feel too wobbly to actually argue too much, so he just lets out a little huff—
more for show than anything else— as he hooks his chin over Dazai's shoulder.

The stairs make him a little nervous but they make it up without incident, and Dazai manages
to open his office and bedroom door without jostling him too much. He heads to his
bathroom, pushing the door open with his hip.

With a surprising amount of gentleness, Dazai is setting him down on the sink counter,
making sure he's stable before he pulls back entirely. He steps back out of the circle of
Chuuya's legs, and he barely manages to stifle the disappointed noise when the heat of him
moves away.

"I'll get you some new pants," Dazai says before disappearing through the doorway again.
He's gone for only a few moments when he's coming back in with a pair of folded sweatpants
in his hand.

He sets it on the counter next to him, shrugging. "Sorry, I don't think I have any underwear
that fits you, but I can put your clothes in the wash for you."

That's probably a good idea, Chuuya muses, because his underwear is probably ruined and he
came so much that even his jeans are wet with it. Embarrassing, but he's working through it.

He just hopes he didn't ruin his pants entirely, because he only has three pairs, and he can't
afford a replacement after he bought these earrings. It was a good investment though,
internally preening at the way Dazai called them pretty, called him pretty, how much he liked
his outfit today.

He hesitates before stripping his pants, inexplicably nervous. When he was turned on, he was
all about Dazai getting his hands on him, and he didn't feel a speck of nervousness or anxiety
regarding his body.
But now he's thinking, maybe the first time Dazai sees him in any sort of undress shouldn’t
be when he’s soft and messy? Shouldn’t it be in the heat of the moment or something?
Sensual and sexy?

(Dazai would actually love that, would love to see the mess he made out of Chuuya, but he
sees the way he’s hesitating and so he gives him an easy out.)

“I’ll go get some water,” Dazai tells him before disappearing again.

Chuuya takes the time he’s away to struggle out of his jeans, making a face at the way the
wet spot slides over his skin. His underwear is even worse, but he manages it without making
the mess worse.

Wads of toilet paper clean him up well enough. He would probably benefit from a shower,
with how sweaty he got, but after that... workout and the stress of school, and the fact that he
barely slept at all last night due to excitement, he’s crashing hard.

The sweatpants feel like heaven on his legs, soft and comforting. Again, he has to roll the
legs up, but it’s practically routine at this point. He takes a moment to loosen the shirt too,
because the tie in the back was digging into his back awkwardly.

When he walks out of the bathroom, leaving his dirty clothes in the sink— he did take a
moment to wash off the worst stains— his legs are still trembling.

Dazai is nowhere to be seen though, and Chuuya should go looking for him, but he’s so tired
and the bed looks so inviting...

He did say he would be back, so it’s probably best if Chuuya waits up here, right? And while
he waits, he can just relax on that huge, criminally soft bed, one that’s so much warmer and
more comfortable than his bed at the dorms. He remembers waking up in it the first time, and
it felt so nice, like sleeping on a cloud.
Yeah, that sounds good.

He lets himself crawl onto the bed, flopping down in the middle—not on a pillow or under
the blanket, because he’s not going to sleep, he’s just resting.

The comforter smells like Dazai, something warm and musky, comfortingly alive. Body heat
and clean sheets, and the smell of someone you like very much. Turning his head with a small
smile, he presses his face into the blankets and lets himself close his eyes.

Just for a moment. Just until Dazai gets back.

(Naturally, Dazai returns twenty minutes later—he took his time, in case the chibi wanted the
privacy to shower— to find...

Chuuya curled up in the middle of his bed, passed out.

He hesitates, a little unsure of what to do. Neither of them planned for him to stay the night,
or even discussed it, so he should probably wake him up so he can take Chuuya home.

Part of him is a little disappointed, because he did want to spend more time with him but—

He noticed the dark circles under his eyes earlier, the subtle yawns he tried to hide behind his
hand. Dazai himself never went to college but he knows people who did and he remembers
how much finals took out of them. They looked dead on their feet by the time it was over.

Besides—

He doesn’t have clean clothes anymore, does he? Not that Dazai minds letting him keep his
sweats, but he probably wouldn’t enjoy doing the walk of shame back to his dorm in too-big
clothing. So he can afford to let the little angel sleep for an hour or two while his clothes
wash. He doesn’t have the heart to disturb that peaceful expression on his face.
He does, however, move him to a comfortable position on the bed. It takes some time and
maneuvering to get him up with his head on a pillow and actually covered under the blankets,
but it’s worth it to see the way he curls up with a content sigh, hand pushing under the
pillow.

Taking the dirty clothes from the bathroom, he puts them in the wash before he feeds the
dogs their dinner. Yoko, for once, is actually first to finish eating and chases after him back
upstairs. She follows him back into the bedroom to check on Chuuya, sitting at the edge of
the bed and looking expectantly from him to the bed, tail swishing.

Dazai is discovering that he is very weak.

“Fine, you little opportunist,” he mutters lowly, unwilling to wake him up, “Get up there
then.”

With all the smug satisfaction of someone getting exactly what they wanted, she does. She
curls up in front of Chuuya, their heads nearly level.

Another quick trip downstairs to check if his jeans need to be washed again—they do, he was
wearing black underwear, so the white stains are pretty noticeable.

And then Dazai realizes he has nothing left to occupy his time with, besides something inane
like watching a movie or a show. And, well—

He’s tired too. His insomnia has been acting up all week, and while he could take a nap on
the couch while he waits, Chuuya looked so warm and inviting, curled up in his bed.

And now they’re... involved, so it wouldn’t be crossing the line, provided Dazai keeps his
hands to himself.
Besides, it’s his bed, his dog, his—

...Chuuya. His Chuuya?

His what, exactly, Dazai doesn’t know yet, but that’s all the logic he needs to convince
himself that a little nap would be fine.

He slips into sweatpants too, because he hates outside clothing in his bed, and slowly, ever-
so-carefully, lifts up the comforter and slides inside. It’s warm underneath, blissfully
comforting and it’s like a drug, filling him with an immediate sense of warm, heavy
sleepiness.

He barely even thinks before reaching out, sliding his arm around Chuuya’s waist and
carefully pulling him back, fitting his body around the curve of Chuuya’s, basking in the
heat.

It’s the easiest Dazai has ever fallen asleep before, not having to struggle or fight for it at all.

So easy, in fact, that he forgets to set an alarm.)

 Mealtime
Chapter Summary

Eventually Chuuya pulls back, his lips both tingly and half-numb. He takes a moment to
suck indulgently on Dazai’s bottom lip, exactly the way he does to him, before
whispering, “I have to go soon.”

He opens his eyes, and it’s a mistake for his resolve, because Dazai looks so good it’s
unfair.

Eyes closed, expression relaxed with just a slight tip of a smile. His lashes are long
enough that Chuuya can see them against his cheek, and his mouth is wet and shiny with
the lingering kisses.

He never realized how strained Dazai usually looked until all that tension had melted
away, leaving him looking like some sleeping angel.

Or maybe the devil, with the tousled hair hiding a pair of wicked horns, because he’s
drawing him back down, whispering in a voice that feels sinfully sweet on his tongue,
“Okay. Just one more, then.”

(It’s not one more. Or two more, or three, or even four.

Chuuya doesn't know how many more. Counting means that there will be an end, and he
doesn’t want to jinx himself. He’s holding on as long as possible, as long as Dazai will
let him.)

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone :) Shorter chapter today. I've narrowed down my moving down to March
28, so that weekend there will be no update, and possibly the weekend after. I will keep
you all updated!

Also, now that we've crossed 100k, I want to thank everyone for tuning in! I'm honored
so many people are reading my story, and I hope to keep you entertained for a while yet!
The good part of the story is just beginning >:) See you next week, hopefully. I'll also be
updating the tags, so check them out for any new ones!

This chapter includes:

- a morning
- a study week
- a phone call ;)
The first thing that registers is an all-encompassing warmth, heavy and drugging. It's all
around him, dragged in with every breath, making its way through his body sluggishly,
rendering him limp and content. It's like a warm weighted blanket, so comfortable that it's
dragging him back into sleep.

When he tries to move, stretching out his legs, he discovers that that description is a little
more accurate than he initially thought.

There's a solid wall along his back, immovable with sleep. He can't tell exactly what it is,
because it's resting over the blankets while he's underneath. Probably a dog, he realizes
groggily, because of the loud, heavy breathing near his ear.

And all over his front, draped over his side, is a warm, breathing wall of heat. There are arms
around him, one under his head and the other locked over his shoulders, keeping him in
place. A moving chest pressed against his cheek. A leg thrown over his thigh, heavy and
drawing his top leg forward into the embrace.

Dazai. Not only sleeping with him, but also cuddling the shit out of him, intertwined so
tightly that Chuuya can't tell where he ends and Dazai begins.

One of his arms is trapped between their bodies, but the other is slung over Dazai's waist. It's
somehow ended up beneath his shirt, and the slow rise and fall of his breathing makes the
muscles in his back press lightly against his palm.

There's steady breathing overhead, ruffling his hair.

And as comfortable and warm as it is, as much as he wants to stay and to fall back asleep—

His arm is numb. Like completely numb, actually dead.

He wiggles slowly, trying to get enough space so he can extract his arm without disturbing
either the dog behind him— Yoko, he's assuming— or Dazai in front of him. But as soon as
he moves a little too quickly, there's a grumpy, sleepy noise above him, and the arms tighten
back again, squishing him against Dazai's chest.

He smothers a smile there. Aw, he's grumpy in the mornings. Surprisingly cute.

Though the weight of him is grounding and comforting, Chuuya is on the verge of being
crushed beneath him. Not that he has an exact problem with that, but his arm is so dead it
aches, and it's starting to get painful.

He wiggles again, harder, pulling on his arm at the same time.

The reaction, this time, is Dazai shifting further on top of him with a croaked, "Noooo.... stop
moving so much."

His voice is husky and rough with sleep, deeper than usual. It's almost felt more than heard, a
vibrating rumble against Chuuya's chest. It goes straight to his stomach, filling him with a
growing sense of warmth and excitement.

He smiles again, because the grumpiness is cute. "My arm is asleep."

"Mm..me too."

The next snore is just a little too exaggerated to be entirely real though.

"My arm is going to fall off."

"Sounds like a personal problem."

"Oh my god," Chuuya laughs, banging his forehead lightly against his chest, "Get off me
before I start biting you."

There's a long, heavy silence as Dazai contemplates if it's worth it—

Then, with a sigh that sounds like he's being subjected to the most cruel and unusual
punishments, he's letting him go and rolling over onto his back. "Chibi is so mean to me," he
mutters, though there's a smile in his voice.

Chuuya gapes at him. "I'm mean to you? Look what you did!" His arm is so dead that he
actually has to grab it by the wrist with his other hand so he can shake his limp hand at him.
"You were the one cuddling me like I was trying to run away!"

Dazai gives a mock-offended gasp. "I'll have you know that you were cuddling me."

(That's not strictly true, because Dazai did reach out first. However, he does remember
blearily waking up in the middle of the night with a tiny bed-hog squirming and pulling on
him, making incoherent whining noises until Dazai practically draped himself over top of
him.

Not that he'll admit to cuddling him first, because Chuuya's scandalized gasp is hilarious.
He's probably blushing too, though Dazai still hasn't opened his eyes to check.)

"I did not!"

"No?" Dazai rolls over again, on his side. His eyes are finally opening, revealing brown eyes
that are still soft and hazy with sleep. They're welcoming, drawing him in, alight with
amusement. The sleep lines still on his face just make it better, leaving him with the image of
soft, welcoming sleepiness.

Perhaps the most charming part about him, though, is the bed-head. It's absolutely crazy,
strands sticking up wildly in every direction. Whatever product was in it earlier seems to
have given up, because the curls have returned.

He looks soft, touchable, sleepy. Chuuya wants to kiss him again.

"My mistake then," Dazai continues, that adorable dimple making an appearance with his
growing smile.

Then it occurs to Chuuya: it has to be morning. No light makes it through the blackout
curtains, but he feels so rested that it can't be anything but morning. The dark bags under
Dazai's eyes have finally eased, which makes him feel satisfied in a warm, instinctive way.
Like he's taking care of him.

"What time is it?" He mumbles. He doesn't have class today, but he didn't plan to stay the
night, and he does have a study session with Yuan planned at noon. Sure, he could cancel, but
then he'd have to come up with a believable excuse, which is not as easy as it sounds with
someone as nosy as Yuan.

He also doesn't know exactly when Shuuji will be returning, and he is not chancing him
coming home to find him literally in bed with his dad.

Twisting, Dazai slaps blindly at the bedside table, looking for his phone. When he finds it, he
brings it back over, waking the screen. When he sees the time, he groans, wiping a hand
down his face. "I didn't mean to sleep this long," he mutters to himself.

Panic briefly surges through Chuuya. It doesn't feel late, and his phone isn't blowing up with
calls wondering where he is, so he assumed that it was still pretty early in the morning, but
Dazai's reaction has him suddenly reconsidering. "What time is it?"

With a sigh, Dazai shuts his phone back off and goes about stretching out his arms and legs,
arching his spine. "8 a.m."
Chuuya stares at him. What kind of monster thinks eight in the morning is late? No wonder
he looks so sleepless all the damn time. He doesn't know how to sleep in! "You think eight is
late?"

Dazai hums, shrugging a little. "I have to get up early for work, most days."

That makes some sort of sense, even though he said early that his work usually runs late. So
either Dazai is a workaholic, or his work is so busy the man never seems to stop.

"Oh. Do you have to work now?" Chuuya asks, frowning. His arm is back to fully-
functioning, though he squeezes his hand a few times to work out the lingering ache.

"No," Dazai murmurs, reaching over to brush a wisp of hair from Chuuya's face. His ponytail
is probably a mess from their session earlier and then sleeping on it. It’s impossible to be
embarrassed with the way Dazai is looking at him though, all hazy longing and sleepy
warmth.

"All I have to do right now, is kiss you," he continues.

Chuuya barely lets him get the 'ki—’ syllable out before he's crawling over, closing the
distance between them.

Finally, his hands find that fluffy, wild head of hair and sink in, his world reduced to the big
brown eyes that sparkle for him before they close on a kiss.

It’s the softest one yet, slow, unhurried. The goal isn’t to deepen it, and it’s not a prelude to
other, more interesting things. It just is , so good Chuuya’s chest aches with it, happiness full
to bursting.

Maybe Dazai feels the same way, because he’s drawing him closer, gentle fingertips on his
arm, until Chuuya is stretched out on top of him. His elbows on either side of Dazai’s head
keeps him up, and lets him play with his hair absently, delighting in the way he shivers
beneath him.

Neither of them know how long they stay like that.

Eventually Chuuya pulls back, his lips both tingly and half-numb. He takes a moment to suck
indulgently on Dazai’s bottom lip, exactly the way he does to him, before whispering, “I have
to go soon.”

He opens his eyes, and it’s a mistake for his resolve, because Dazai looks so good it’s unfair.

Eyes closed, expression relaxed with just a slight tip of a smile. His lashes are long enough
that Chuuya can see them against his cheek, and his mouth is wet and shiny with the
lingering kisses.

He never realized how strained Dazai usually looked until all that tension had melted away,
leaving him looking like some sleeping angel.

Or maybe the devil, with the tousled hair hiding a pair of wicked horns, because he’s drawing
him back down, whispering in a voice that feels sinfully sweet on his tongue, “Okay. Just one
more, then.”

(It’s not one more. Or two more, or three, or even four.

Chuuya doesn't know how many more. Counting means that there will be an end, and he
doesn’t want to jinx himself. He’s holding on as long as possible, as long as Dazai will let
him.)

There are... benefits to the relationship he has with Dazai.

(He still hasn’t asked him what kind of relationship it is. Boyfriend feels too strong, since
Dazai hasn’t actually asked him. Being his boy toy feels a bit degrading and a little weak,
considering they’ve been texting for almost two weeks straight.

‘Dating’ is probably closest, but also inherently disappointing because it implies lack of
commitment. The thought of Dazai dating other people makes him want to do something
insane, like sink his teeth into him and never let go.

He wants to ask but everytime he thinks about it, he feels young and inexperienced. Like he’s
supposed to just know what it is between them, and supposed to be confident in his role.

He’s not, but he is good at pretending. So.)

Obviously Dazai is a benefit in and of himself, but Chuuya is not ashamed to admit that some
parts of him are more beneficial than others, especially during finals week.

The initial conversation goes like this:

[ CHUUYA ]: i've studied ALL day i'm so exhausted

[ CHUUYA ]: I haven’t even eaten yet and all I want is that seafood platter from the first
dinner we went to ;-; I would die for that dessert right now...

Not only does Dazai not respond, he leaves him on read.

Chuuya waits patiently for about half an hour before he starts getting mad — the stress from
finals week has really heightened his temper, and he is quick to fly off the handle these days
— when he gets a single, incoming text.
[ DADDY <3 ]: 20 mins

Twenty minutes until what , asshole? Even if the conversation was boring, it’s rude to leave
someone on read! Especially the person you are kinda-sorta-not-really-but-maybe-someday
dating!

Luckily for Dazai, Chuuya still has five homework exercises left to do before he can call it a
night, so he decides to take a breather and do those instead of indulging in his temper.

Twenty minutes pass before he knows It and—

A knock.

Immediately, his heart is jumping in his chest. Panicking, the only thing he can do is stare
wide-eyes at the door for a long moment.

Is...is that him? Is he here?

Oh god, Chuuya hasn’t showered in over thirty-six hours, and his hair is a mess, he is not
ready to see him—

Another knock, this one louder. It sends Chuuya scrambling.

Oh fuck, okay, it’s fine, he can’t just leave him out there. He’ll just...

Open the door as little as possible so Dazai doesn’t have to see his ketchup-stained shirt, and
send him away. Easy peasy.
He cracks open the door, poking his head out with a sheepish smile. The excuse is already on
his tongue, ready to roll off—

It’s not Dazai. In fact, it’s no one Chuuya has seen before, plastic bags in hand.

“Are you Nakahara Chuuya?” The person asks, looking down at the receipt they have in their
hand before glancing up at him.

“Yes...?” He agrees hesitantly.

The bag is held out to him. “Delivery for you.”

Taking the bag, he eyes the contents. It’s hard to see through the plastic, but it looks like the
logo of the restaurant they went to. Did Dazai send him food? Without telling him? Without
him really even asking?

(Beyond the complaining, but he was just venting he swears.)

The delivery person doesn’t wait for a signature or form of payment, taking off down the
hallway with a murmured goodnight.

Chuuya takes the bag back into his room, locking the door. Most of his desk is taken up by
books and clutter, so he —dutifully— relocates all that shit to the floor for future-him to deal
with, and sets the bag down.

As soon as he unties the top, he knows. It is the food from the restaurant, his same exact
order. Minus the wine, which is understandable considering it was delivered.

It smells even better than the first time he had it, even though the presentation has been
destroyed in the car ride over. He’s not ashamed to say he digs out a piece of shrimp with his
bare fingers to soothe his starving stomach, chewing quickly as he fishes his phone out.
There’s a text:

[ DADDY <3 ]: Are you still mad at me for leaving you on read now?

Chuuya flushes, biting down a little too viciously on his shrimp. The fact that Dazai knew he
was grumpy without him saying anything makes him both pleased and embarrassed.

[ CHUUYA ]: I wasn’t mad......

Dazai’s gotten a lot better at texting over the past couple weeks. He understands most of the
lingo and the meanings behind emojis now. He was always a good texter but now it feels like
they’re speaking the same language.

There is, however, an adorable little quirk that Chuuya will never let him change. Instead of
sending emojis, he sends selfies.

The picture he gets for that comment is one with an incredibly dry expression, eyebrow
lifted. It clearly says ‘Do you really think you can lie to me? We both know the truth’.

And well, yeah. That’s fair.

Digging out a pair of chopsticks from the bag, he sets aside the dessert to eat later. The
seafood, however, gets pushed into his mouth as quickly as he can chew.

[ CHUUYA ]: thank you though. you really didn't have to, i promise i was just venting. i
didn't expect anything

It's taking him a while to get used to the vast financial difference between them, and he still
feels a little guilty whenever Dazai spends money on him. It's not like he can ever pay it
back.

It feels unbalanced, in a bad way.

[ DADDY <3 ]: It wouldn't be very nice of me to watch you wither away in starvation when I
can fix the problem, no?

That makes Chuuya smile, mouth full. To be fair, it really did feel like he was about to wither
away. He's already a quarter of the way through the main course, and he's barely slowing
down.

[ DADDY <3 ]: Don't worry so much, chibi. The tests will be easy for you. You're incredibly
smart and hard-working, so just let me help where I can.

God, that's so sweet. And the way he said the tests will be easy for him, instead of just easy in
general, somehow validates all the effort Chuuya has been putting in and makes him feel a
little more at ease. Like the tests might be hard for someone else, but not for Chuuya, not
after all the work he's done.

Plus, the 'smart' thing makes him feel such an intense rush of giddiness that he actually has to
set his phone down for a minute and stare at the wall while trying to control his wild blush.

He's never really been called smart before, not by himself. Usually, it's just attached to the
idea that he studies so much that there was no other option but to be smart. Like he deserves
the title, but only because he worked himself to the bone to earn it. Like it could be taken
away, if he falls behind or slips up.

He likes when Dazai calls him smart. It makes him feel worthy.

[ CHUUYA ]: okay <33 thank you so much

The heart emoji he gets back feels it's directly attached to the heart throbbing in his chest.

From there, that sets up a precedent. Chuuya expected it to be a one-time thing, and that's all
he really needed. He didn't mention being hungry or tired again, because it feels ungrateful
and like he's whining.

However, right around dinnertime like clockwork, there's another delivery person knocking
on his door, armed with another bag of food. It's always from a different restaurant, always
some dish that Chuuya had offhandedly mentioned he liked, and always paid for by the time
it arrives.

They don't really talk about it. Whenever Chuuya tries, he gets a 'I like helping you,
sweetheart' and then another heart emoji when Chuuya finally gives in and says thank you.

He is enjoying it, because it's way better than whatever he'd be eating on his own, and it
definitely takes a load off his mind in terms of stress and obligation. Dazai even sends him
coffee, which is so beautiful that Chuuya actually tears up a little bit when he takes the first
sip.

On the weekend before, less than thirty-sex hours away from his first exam, Chuuya is laid
out in bed with the phone pressed to his ear. His brain is both half-dead and hyperactive,
stuffed full with all the knowledge he can soak up.

"I think I'm gonna die," he whines into the receiver, half-dramatic and half-serious. It's only
his first college finals season, so he's sure it's going to get worse as the years go on, which
frankly terrifies him.

Dazai laughs at him, and even though it's as his expense, it still makes him smile. "I hope you
don't," he teases, "I happen to like you alive and breathing."

Chuuya sighs heavily. "Nikolai was supposed to study with me today, but I guess he picked
up an extra shift at work. I haven't seen him all day."
Which sucks, because they promised to quiz each other with flashcards, which is a lot more
fun and effective, but it's not that big of a problem.

He is a little worried about Nikolai's tests, because the man barely seems to study and when
he does, he spends half the time distracted. Yes, he's naturally pretty smart, but that's not
everything.

Chuuya likes his roommate and he really doesn't want to get another one, not halfway
through the semester. If Nikolai flunks out, he’ll get kicked out of the dorms.

Dazai makes a sympathetic noise. "Does he work a lot?"

Chuuya rolls over, curling up deeper in bed. It's late, and he's had a long day of studying.
"Lately? All the time."

"And you said he's working now?"

"I assume so," Chuuya blows out a breath,"he didn't really say anything besides that he
couldn't make it to studying."

He got the text only an hour before their session, which was a little frustrating, but it's not
like it was a date or anything. He managed to make do by himself.

"So you're alone?"

Something about the way Dazai says that, a little too innocently, like he's trying to cover up
his intentions, makes Chuuya squint suspiciously. "Yes...?"

"In that case," Dazai murmurs, and now the innocent tone has given way to something
deeper, darker, more intoxicating, "I think I might have something that will give you
some...incentive."
Chuuya's heart rate picks up, heat gathering. "Like what?" He asks, and he shouldn't sound so
breathless already, but it only takes a few words from Dazai to make him feel like he's about
to snap.

"Do you trust me?"

He only ever has one answer. "Yes."

"Then I want you to do something for me."

Chuuya nods, a little too eagerly. He doesn't know where this is going, but he'll do almost
anything if Dazai asks him like that. "Okay."

"I want you to touch yourself for me."

His mind screeches to a halt, heart stuttering in his chest. He wants him to what?

He must’ve said that out loud, because there’s another short laugh on the phone, followed by
Dazai’s unfairly amused voice, “I want you to touch yourself, doll.”

Embarrassment and arousal mix inside him, turning his face red. Losing his mind while
Dazai was holding him was one thing, but doing it to himself with him listening suddenly
feels daunting. “Now? On thé phone?”

“Yes. Unless you’re shy...?”

He’s not shy, he’s just not confident yet. He’s never done this before, jerked off for an
audience, with somebody listening . “What if Nikolai comes back?” He mumbles.
The next breath over the phone sounds a little heavier than the last, a little faster. “Then I
suppose you better be quick, hm?”

That’s not a problem. Chuuya was a teenage boy in a house with two sisters and a strict dad.
He’s mastered the art of jerking off in ten minutes flat, as fast as humanly possible
sometimes.

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry,” Dazai murmurs, followed by the distinct clink of a belt coming undone, “I’ll
be right here with you, sweetheart.”

God. Just the sounds of this now are enough to have heat pooling in Chuuya’s stomach, his
every nerve growing taut and hyper aware. He swears he can almost feel Dazai’s voice on his
skin, like the whisper of too-light fingertips.

But if Dazai wants him too, right now, then why not just—

“Come pick me up?”

There’s a long, thoughtful silence on the other side. Chuuya holds his breath, hoping, waiting
—

“I’ll make you a deal, doll. I will come pick you up”— yes! — “ after you take all your
finals. As a reward.”

He pouts. That’s not fair, not when he has time right now and Dazai has time right now, and
they both want each other. They’re less than thirty minutes apart!
“As for now,” Dazai hums, voice dropping deeper. If Chuuya listens closely there’s the
faintest sound of something slick and wet, “you can either join me— or you can leave me to
my own devices.”

Then something occurs to Dazai, something that makes tension crackle through the air,
temperature ramping up as he speaks again, “Or you could listen? I will be thinking about
you— it’s only fair that you hear when I say your name.”

Fuck .

“Yes,” he whimpers, unaware of what exactly he wants, but needing more of it anyways.
More of whatever Dazai will give him, more tension, more pleasure, more attention.

“Yes what, doll?” Dazai purrs, followed the devastating sound of something slick and
Chuuya realizes, lightheaded—

Dazai is jerking off. Right now. On call with him. He can hear it in his voice, the strained
breathing and the low notes, hear the sound of his slick hand moving over himself—

Oh god.

“You want to listen? Or you want to help me out? I need you to tell me what you want,
sweetheart.”

Chuuya wants it all, his body melting into a pulsating mass of need. “You— I want you.
Please, I—I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” Dazai repeats, his chuckle a little foreboding in how dark it is. “Baby, you
shouldn’t give me so much power. Who knows what I’ll do to you.”
Chuuya doesn’t know, but he aches to find out, imagines it as best he can with his limited
knowledge. He hopes Dazai has plans.

Because he’s never done anything like this before, and he highly doubts that jerking himself
off in ten minutes, quick and messy, is the exact idea that Dazai is going for, he asks
breathlessly, “What do you want me to do?”

Frankly, he’s too turned on to be embarrassed right now, the growing tent in his sweats
overriding any sort of nerves or anxiety.

Luckily, Dazai slides right into the commanding role without a moment of hesitation. “Turn
your phone on speaker and place it by your head. Then take your clothes off.”

Chuuya removes his sweats so quickly he almost knees himself in the face, kicking the fabric
off his ankles frantically. He leaves the shirt on, but he does ruck it up all the way to his
armpits to give himself access. He’s not chancing being completely naked if Nikolai comes
back.

It takes him a few tries to put the phone on speaker because his hands are trembling so hard.
He’s not helped along by Dazai’s whispered “So eager, baby.”

Then he’s lying there, head on his pillow, mostly naked. “Okay,” he says breathlessly, waiting
for the next instruction.

“Good boy,” Dazai praises, voice curling down his spine. “I want you to start with your chest.
Play with your nipples.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, he lowers his hands to his chest. He never really spends a lot of
time here, because he's usually in a hurry and he was never that sensitive to begin with, so he
didn't think it was worth it.
Now, with his fingers rolling his warming flesh and Dazai's voice in his ear, he's starting to
see the appeal.

"You know," Dazai draws out, like they're having a completely casual conversation instead of
working themselves over, breathing starting to strain, "I haven't played with your chest yet,
but I can't help but wonder what you'll sound like when I've got my teeth on you. Would you
moan for me?"

Back arching instinctively, Chuuya pinches, simulating the feeling of teeth. Something about
this situation has him louder than he usually is, a soft noise already escaping the back of his
throat. "Yes," he gasps out, because it’s the truth, he would .

"Mm, I know you would. I don't think I'd stop until you did," Dazai says, breath hitching
audibly. There's a ghost of a groan coming from the other side of the call, and Chuuya wants
to hear it more than anything.

He bites his lip, not doing much to silence his panting. If Dazai can't see him, then he should
hear him, right?

And if he's in any way as affected as Chuuya is by the noises, the soft barely-there groan and
the slick noises that are beginning to speed up—

Then he'll ignore every shred of embarrassment and hesitance he might've had, because he
wants this to be good for Dazai more than anything.

The next question has him pause for a moment though.

"Do you have lube?"

He doesn't, mostly because he hasn't had a ton of time or extra money to go to the store to get
some, and the idea of the cashier staring at him while ringing up his purchase makes him
want to hide. Besides, he's never really needed anything like that before, because most of
his...personal time happens in the shower and he didn't need it then. The rare times it wasn't,
he just used lotion. "No," he mumbles, squirming a little bit.

He's regretting that now though, because now he's wondering what Dazai would've asked him
to do if he did have lube.

There's a beat of silence, where the embarrassment builds and Chuuya is half-expecting him
to be like 'what kind of eighteen-year-old college boy doesn't have lube—’ but no, that's not
what happens.

Instead: "I want you to suck on your fingers then. Get them nice and wet."

He barely even thinks before he's doing as told, opening his mouth wide to rub his fingers
against his tongue. The noise is embarrassingly loud, but it mixes with the slick, rhythmic
sounds from Dazai’s side, and if Chuuya thinks, hard he can almost imagine it—

The size of Dazai’s cock, the weight of it in his hands, the taste of it on his tongue, hot and
hard and so fucking big, almost too much to handle, too much to take—

"Have you ever fingered yourself before?" Dazai's voice is like seduction itself, low and
throbbing, sliding into the deepest, darkest parts of Chuuya's mind and claiming it for his
own.

He speaks around his fingers, "Not...really?"

He tried, once, in the shower too, but it was only the tip of his index finger and it felt weird
more than anything. There weren't any sparks, no mind-blowing pleasure, just the feeling of
intrusion. He ended up pulling it out and jerking off like usual, and didn't try again.

Now though, with hunger an empty pit in his stomach, filling him with the aching desire for
more—
He'd try again, if Dazai asked him to. "Do you want me to—?”

This time, there's a slight growl to his voice as Dazai responds, "No, not where I can't watch
you fuck yourself for the first time."

God, every time Dazai curses it makes electricity jolt up his spine. It's so rare, and only in
situations like this.

"For now," Dazai murmurs, taking a second to catch his breath, because he's on the verge of
panting already, "I want you to reach down, and take yourself in hand. Are you hard?"

Shamefully so, considering that he's only had Dazai's voice and his hands on his chest for
stimulation. He aches, rock-hard against his stomach, throbbing with neglect.

Instead of answering, he reaches down and wraps his fingers around his erection, letting out a
startled moan at how good the friction feels, hot and wet with his own saliva.

"Fuck," Dazai hisses in response, the wet sounds of him jerking off increasing, "that's it,
baby. Make yourself feel good, I wanna hear."

Choking out another moan, Chuuya gives himself a slow stroke, starting at the base and
working up. Pleasure pulses through him, heightened by the twist of his wrist over the head.
Pre-cum wells up at the tip, and is spread with the next stroke.

It’s all too easy to fall into a rhythm, spurred on by the heat gathering in his veins, the dark
whisper of Dazai’s voice by his ear.

“Imagine it, baby,” Dazai groans, actually groans and Chuuya has never heard him sound so
affected or out of control, and that alone is enough to have his hips twitching, hand speeding
up, “Imagine what I could do to you. How good I could make you feel. I know how bad you
want it, and I could give it to you.”

The room is getting hotter, air scorching against his skin. His skin feels too tight, not big
enough to hold the ecstasy building inside him, not big enough to contain the swirling mess
of desire and lust.

Dazai hasn’t even touched him today and it’s almost too much already.

“Dazai,” he whimpers, the saliva on his hand almost dried out, adding a delicious twinge of
rough friction that just sends him climbing higher, “I need— please.”

“I know what you need,” Dazai cuts him off, and the sheer confidence in his voice is enough
to have Chuuya’s head spinning. “Just a little more, right? You’re so close, aren’t you?”

Yes, yes, yes, he is, his hand can’t move fast enough. His forearm aches with the strain, but
god, he can’t stop, not when every stroke feels even better than the last, the pleasure
mounting, winding him tighter, tighter—

“Dazai,” he whines again, mind melting. He doesn’t know any other words right now, only
his name. Just Dazai and all-encompassing pleasure, all around him, pulling him under.

And then—

"Chuuya," Dazai moans back at him, voice guttural and soaked in pleasure, and fuck, that's
his name, it sounds so good when he says it like that.

The tension starts to fray, the heat too much to handle. It's so much, so good that it's starting
to take over, beginning to break under his own momentum.

"Gonna— Gonna—!"
One stroke, two. Down, up, twist over the head, back down, squeeze—

"Cum for me, baby."

The statement— a command, really— is enough to break the tension. With a loud, strangled
cry, he does.

Rapture washes over him in fiery waves, making him shudder. Each one feels better than the
last, drawn out by his still-moving hand. His thighs twitch hard, fighting both for and against
the sensations.

The world around him is drowned out by the roaring of his pulse in his ears, the throbbing of
his heart and cock in time, the swell and crash of pleasure that knocks him breathless. He's
probably whining incoherently, whimpering out desperate noises and 'oh fuck's’ as he works
himself through it, but he can’t hear anything past the roaring in his ears.

It feels like it lasts forever, so intense that he's panting with it.

By the time the waves finally clear and oversensitivity begins to develop, he's treated to the
glorious sound of Dazai's drawn-out groan, whispered 'fuck's and another call of his name as
he obviously works himself through his own orgasm.

The sounds make another shiver of arousal pulse through him, even though he just came, his
belly and hand still smeared with cum. Truthfully, he doesn't think he'll be satisfied until he
hears those noises in person, right next to his ear as Dazai—

Well, as Dazai does whatever he wants with him. He'll let him do it all.

Dazai collects himself faster than Chuuya did, his harsh breathing evening out rather quickly.
(His composure has always been impressive, but everyday it gets closer to cracking, and
Chuuya is looking forward to the day he loses that self-control.)

"Feel better?" Dazai asks after a moment, voice once again returning to his normal, caramel-
sweet tones. It's a shame to lose that rough growling, but that just makes it better when
Chuuya does hear it.

He hums, reaching over to his table to snatch up a tissue for clean-up. "Yeah," he says, failing
to stifle a huge yawn.

He was running on only a few hours of sleep, and after the exertion, he's limp with
exhaustion. He doesn't even have the energy to pull his clothes back on, choosing instead to
crawl under the covers and have faith that he won’t be flashing the goods to Nikolai when he
returns.

“Sleepy baby,” Dazai teases, but it’s so soft it just makes Chuuya feel warm. “Go to sleep. I’ll
talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” he yawns again, but he doesn’t move to hang up the phone.

Neither does Dazai, not right away. He remains quiet, choosing instead just to listen to the
sounds of shuffling and quiet murmurs as Chuuya settles down.

He falls asleep like that, with the comforting sound of Dazai’s breathing near his ear.

Dazai doesn’t hang up for a very long time.

(Of course, all good things must come to an end. Chuuya has never had an easy time for long,
so it’s only natural that things take a turn for the worse from then on.

But it’s not his fault this time.

No, this time, it all starts with Nikolai.)
 Kinetic Friction
Chapter Summary

They move back to the bedroom. Chuuya heads for the bed while Dazai opens the door,
freezing in the doorway—

"Chuuya, you have a visitor."

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone :) Big chapter today. Not much in terms of news this week. Everyone's
comments and enjoyment is keeping me going through the stress of moving lol! Hope
you like today's chapter, and I will see you next week :)

This chapter includes:

- a warning
- brief mentions of violence, minor character death -- feel free to skip the flashback in
the middle if you are particularly sensitive to that content. It will not derail from the
chapter entirely.
- a date
- a teaching moment ;)
- a cliffhanger lol

The morning before Chuuya's calculus and physics exams, a delivery driver drops off what is
probably the largest cup of coffee Chuuya has ever seen. It smells heavenly, and tastes even
better— hints of hazelnut and mocha, just sweet enough to savor.

More than just the coffee arrives though. Stapled to the little bag that holds a blueberry
muffin is a pitch black, blank business card.

Seeing it makes his heart trip, because he has a twin of this exact card still stuffed in his desk
drawer, from when he received the flowers. It still doesn't have any text, but the message is
pretty clear, because only one person would send him coffee or a card like that.
Dazai.

He did send him the flowers then, and that—

That jerk claimed they were from him so that Chuuya would stop being upset over their fight
when Shuuji pinned him down. The anger— the anger he should've felt then but didn't
because he felt too guilty, too dramatic— boils up from inside him.

Shuuji never actually apologized for that. Sure, maybe he had a point that Chuuya could've
communicated his feelings better, but the one time he did communciate— even if panicked
and in tears— he was yelled at and made to feel small. Like he was being stupid, or childish.

Back then, he'd taken the flowers as some silent apology, and he'd moved past it.

But this, right here, proves that not only did Shuuji not care about his feelings— not a
surprise, really, but still hurtful— but also that...

Dazai has cared a lot longer than even Chuuya thought he did. He thought that the first dinner
was a turning point for them, like that was the first time Dazai had ever seen him in a
different light. But the flowers were a week before that, and if he cared enough to cheer him
up without telling him they were from him, even though he wasn't at fault—

God, he's so sweet.

As he sits there, struggling between anger and injustice from Shuuji, and an overflowing
sense of affection and gratefulness for Dazai—

"Where did you get this?"

The black card is plucked from his fingertips, and Chuuya is whirling around, mouth open
and already ready to tear into whoever is touching his gift—
It's Nikolai, with a deep-set frown as he looks from the card to Chuuya.

Chuuya has a choice here:

As far as Nikolai knows, Shuuji and him are still... involved. Still talking. Obviously, he isn’t
around that much, but he’s under the impression that Chuuya still has a crush on Shuuji. So
he could reveal that all the meals that have been delivered were actually from Dazai, and that
Chuuya doesn’t actually like Shuuji anymore because he’s a jerk that stood him up, and then
explain how he want on a date with Dazai instead and now they’re kinda-not-really-but-sorta
dating secretly—

Or he could lie.

"I found it on the ground outside the door."

Okay, he could've lied better than that, but it's too late to take it back.

"You found this black business card outside our dorm?" Nikolai looks disbelieving and a little
concerned.

Forcing a smile, Chuuya says, "Yep. On the floor."

Nikolai stares at him. Stares at the card. Stares back at him, his eyes squinting suspiciously.

Chuuya is fully expecting to be called out as a cheater or a dad-fucker or anything at this

point, awkward tension building—

"Have you ever heard of the Demon Prodigy?"

What.

Chuuya frowns at him, confused. “You mean that ghost story about the campus fire almost
twenty years ago? Yeah, Yuan told me.”

Nikolai pushes his hair behind his ears. He’s wearing his hair down today, all loose white
waves that make his blue-grey eyes seem more intense. “It’s not a ghost story, Chuuya, he
was a real person. And it’s said that he used to leave black business cards—“ he shows him
the card again, like it counts as evidence, “— where his future victims would find them, as a
threat and a warning.”

Chuuya stares at him. “So... you’re telling me that the business card is some sort of
threatening calling card and now I’m.... going to be hunted down by some terrifying ‘Demon
Prodigy’?”

Nikolai looks grim.

After a moment, it’s too much. Chuuya bursts into laughter. “That sounds ridiculous. Nice try
trying to scare me though.”

He reaches for the card, because Nikolai actually looks like he might rip it in half.

Using his height to his advantage, he holds it out of his reach. “I’m not trying to scare you—
look, you’ve heard of the Port Mafia, right?”

Who hasn’t? They’re blamed for almost every crime that happens in the city, from drug
trafficking to domestic violence. They’re the most powerful crime organization on this side of
Japan, and they rule the city with an iron hand.
They’re the feral dogs stalking the night. They’re the reason respectable citizens avoid dark
alleyways and stay home after dark. They’re the scary stories told to children to keep them in
line.

Yakuza. Fearless, heartless criminals. The boogeymen told in children’s stories, and a threat
to keep students in line.

“A while ago, there was a lot more crime in the city. The Port Mafia wasn’t as powerful as it
is today, so there was a lot more infighting. The gangs fought over territory and resources,
and a lot of innocent people were harmed.”

Chuuya takes a sip of his coffee, wondering where the hell he’s going with this. He only has
an hour before his exam, and he should be spending it doing some last minute cramming, but
apparently Nikolai has other plans.

“It was like that for a while, but then the Demon Prodigy showed up. He was ruthless, and
the streets ran red with the blood he spilled. Between him and his partner, the Mafia quickly
became the most feared and powerful Yakuza clan in the city. That’s why they still have so
much power to this day.”

Narrowing his eyes, Chuuya considers. That story felt more like informational than anything
else, with a few too many details to be coincidence. “How do you know all that?”

His expression shutters, growing distant and a little pale. “My brother used to be involved
with the Russian syndicate, back in Moscow.”

Chuuya arches a brow. “You’ve never mentioned a brother before?”

“That’s because,” Nikolai pauses, seeming to search for the right words to say, “he is no
longer with us.”
It takes Chuuya an embarrassingly long moment to realize what he means, and then he
winces.

He’s dead. Probably because of gang activity, based on this story. He feels bad now, guilt at
the careful distance on Nikolai’s face. “I’m sorry, that must be hard.”

With a nonchalance that Chuuya could never imagine having if Kouyou or Kyouka ever got
hurt, Nikolai waves off his concern. “Thank you. It was a long time ago now. I am okay.”

Then he offers the black card back to Chuuya, holding it with the tips of his fingers like it
might burn him. “My point is, you should be careful. Nothing good happens to the people
who receive these.”

Chuuya takes it, stuffing it into his pocket carelessly. “It’s just a black card, Nikolai. It
doesn’t even have a message on it. As far as threatening call signs go, it’s pretty lame.
Besides, any criminal with internet access knows not to leave a calling card behind, that’s
exactly how they find the killers on Criminal Minds.”

“Oh for the love of—,” Nikolai starts, pausing to wipe a hand over his face. This is probably
the most irritated Chuuya has ever seen him. “Just— be careful, okay? Because if he’s found
you, or if he wants you for whatever reason, his enemies aren’t far behind. I don’t want you
to get hurt.”

Checking his watch, Chuuya realizes he’s only got forty-five minutes before his class. The
nerves are beginning to build, fueled by coffee. Did he study that one equation enough? He’s
always been prone to acting on instinct when under pressure, which is not the way to tackle
his complicated calculus test. He can’t afford to fail. He can’t even afford to get less than a
seventy-five without dropping his ranking.

“I will, Nikolai, but I don’t understand why you’re so scared. Even if the stories are true, he’s
probably fifty by now, and I’m just a regular college student. Nothing happens to me. There’s
no reason for him to ‘want me’. It was just a coincidence or a mistake. Maybe some guy just
ordered business cards and they came out wrong.”
(Later, he will regret not connecting the dots. Regret not asking questions, and regret not
taking his warning seriously.

But by then, it’ll be far too late.

Right now— he has an exam.)

19 YEARS AGO

Osamu hates when they scream. The noise gets into his head, makes his ears ring, opens
something dark and abyssal inside him that's hungry and full of teeth.

More importantly, it's fucking annoying. And loud.

"Stop stalling," Yosano says from her seat on the concrete stairs. She's cleaning her nails with
a wickedly sharp knife, casually threatening. Her boots are tall, with thick soles.

Good for stomping. That’s why she wears them.

"I'm not stalling," Osamu denies automatically, clenching his fingers around the gun in his
hand.

It's a lie. But it's not because he's playing with his food, or anything sadistic like Yosano
likely thinks. He doesn't enjoy the screams, the way the traitor girl is currently clawing onto
his pants and begging for her life.

It's a lost cause. Her life was forfeit as soon as she crossed the Mafia. Both of them knew
that, her and her mediocre boyfriend.
And it's not because he's particularly opposed to killing someone. He's killed people before,
by the people under his command or with his own hand. He's a very good weapon. He's been
handling a gun since he was nine years old, after all. Killing is practically in his blood, born
and bred and beaten into his veins.

No, neither of those are the reason he's not yet forcing the girl and her boyfriend teeth-first
against the curb.

It's because whenever he looks down at her, all long brown hair and big brown filled with
tears and desperation, he feels a pit drop out of his stomach. Nausea climbs up his throat.

"Please— no, not him, please ."

"You know you have to do it," Yosano continues, slipping her knife back into her boot. She
stands up with a lazy yawn, stretching her hands overhead. Her shirt, cropped short, rides up
to show her stomach and the red-black tattoos swirling over her hips. "You know what Mori
will do if you don't."

Yeah, he knows. Nothing immediate, nothing physical.

But he'll be on edge for weeks, waiting for the bit of incorrect information that will land him
in a sticky situation. Waiting for that snickered "Oh, Osamu-kun, you should really check
your sources before acting!" when he inevitably drags himself back home to lick his newly-
acquired wounds.

"Please— you don't have to do this! You're just a kid! You don't have to do this to us, please."

Dazai crouches down beside the girl— he knows her name, but he refuses to think of it in
times like these— and pries her hands off his slacks mercilessly.

That's where she's wrong. He's not a child, not anymore. When you throw a child to the
wolves, the thing that returns is more beast than child, more instinct than thought.
More demon than man.

He smiles, no amusement, eyes dead in his face. "No, I'm not."

Yosano takes up the silent cue, and grabs the girl by her shoulders. She drags her back,
forcibly flipping her over. It's a struggle to get her lined up properly with how hard she's
fighting, but Yosano is stronger than she looks.

She has to be, to be his partner. They're called ‘double black’ for a reason.

Because Dazai is still hearing that cursed voice in his head, the swimming after-image of
someone who used to love him very much—

He takes mercy on the traitor,and shoots her thrice in the chest before he shatters her jaw with
a quick stomp of his boot.

It is not satisfying, or painful to watch.

It's empty, hollow. It simply is, nothing more and nothing less.

Dazai lets Yosano have the man, because she's vindictive when it comes to anything male-
related. He holds him down for her, watching her boot come down with a detached
casualness.

It doesn't matter. Just another kill— his first traditional mafia execution, though.

Maybe that's why it was so hard to do it. Maybe that's why he kept thinking of his—
He stands up, brushing his hands over his coat to get rid of the imaginary dust and blood. The
cleaner crew will be on their way soon, so their job is done.

Mission complete.

Somehow, he always ends up feeling worse after missions, like he's been turned inside out
and scraped clean of everything inside him. None of the satisfaction of a job well done, and
all the flat mournfulness of nothing left to do. Turning to Yosano, he asks, "Wanna fuck?"

He's found there's only two things that help when he's feeling like this, one infinitely more
enjoyable than the other. Pleasure or pain. Either works, but he does have a preference
sometimes.

He probably shouldn't be sleeping with Yosano, considering she's his rival for the boss
position. She's liable to stab him in the back to drag herself farther up the ladder of power.

Eh. He doesn't care. Dying by her hand would be an honor.

Yosano snorts, delicately stepping over a growing puddle of blood. "I know better than to fall
into bed with you when you're fresh off a kill. You turn into a beast."

A flash of teeth, dark eyes glinting with amusement. She's not wrong.

"Go find that Sasaki girl. She seemed like she was into that shit."

Dazai sighs, pulling out his phone. Sasaki is a bit annoying, too clingy for his tastes but—

The sex is good. She got onto birth control recently, so she said the next time he wouldn't
have to use a condom so that's enough for him to put up with any 'please be my boyfriend
Dazai-kun' behavior.
Why she wants him as a boyfriend, he doesn't know. Guess the sex is /that/ good.

He selects a contact, bringing the phone up to his ear while he waits for it to ring.

Just another day.

Finishing his last final is like feeling the culmination of all the emotions he's felt over the past
month at the same time. Exhaustion, from having studied so hard, to the point where he
almost quit more than a few times.

Triumph, for having actually made it through finals and he feels pretty good about his scores.
His English courses were a little iffy, but he's never spent too much time on the language, so
he's going to call it a success.

Freedom, because he might have failed, he might be stupid, and he might be off to pack up
his bags as soon as the scores come back in, but at least it's over.

And excitement, too, because Dazai said he's taking him to dinner afterwards to celebrate,
and he's so excited he could almost vibrate out of his seat.

Luckily, he has just enough time to take a quick shower and change into some better clothes
than the sweats he took his tests in.

Nikolai is, once again, nowhere to be found. Chuuya would be concerned, because he hasn't
seen him since finals started, but he's been responding to texts, so. He's probably fine, just
busy.
Because he's so tired, he actually skips on most of his makeup, besides covering up his dark
circles and some highlight.

He has a feeling he'll either be passing out in Dazai's bed as soon as they get home— if Dazai
takes him home— or he'll be passing out as soon as he arrives back at the dorm. The less
makeup he has to take off, the better. Work smarter, not harder.

As always, Dazai is exactly on time, leaning against his car on the passenger side as he waits
patiently.

Thankfully, the parking lot is mostly empty, so no one really sees when Chuuya rushes up to
him and flings his arms around his neck for a kiss.

“Hello to you too,” Dazai laughs against his lips, hands sliding around his back to pull him
closer. Then, lower, in a rumbling purr, “Did you miss me?”

Chuuya makes an assenting noise, unable to keep himself from smiling into the kiss as he
presses as close as he can. They stand there for a long moment, savoring the feel of each
other. It's not rushed, or backed by desperate energy. It's just simply—

Hello again. I missed you.

After the stress of finals, the feeling of Dazai's arms around him, supporting him, makes
relief thrum through him. Here, the rest of the world fades away, turning into background
noise. Here, the only thing that matters is big brown eyes, soft hair, and the taste of a smile
against his own.

"We're gonna be late," Dazai murmurs, though his hand is sliding further up his back to
encourage the arch of his spine. Their chests are pressed together, warm through their shirts.

"I don't care," Chuuya mumbles back. His calves ache from having to stand on his tip-toes
this whole time, but the muscle pain means nothing to him right now.
With a final, lingering kiss Dazai pulls away. When Chuuya pouts up at him, he breaks it by
pushing his thumb over his bottom lip. "Stop pouting, baby. We have to eat."

He bends down again, and Chuuya's eyes are falling naturally closed, hoping for another kiss.
He arches up impossibly higher, hands on his shoulders.

But he bypasses his lips, pressing a quick kiss over his cheek before leaning even farther
forward to whisper in his ear. "If you behave, I'll give you a reward after."

(Never mind that Dazai planned on 'rewarding' him either way, and that he thinks this bratty
behavior is adorable. Chuuya doesn't need to know that.)

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Chuuya drops back onto his heels. "Alright, let's go then," he says,
stepping out of Dazai's embrace with a barely concealed pout.

The door is opened for him, and he slides in easily. He's been pretty cold lately, so the heated
seats are a blessing. He curls up in his seat, facing the driver's seat and resting his head
against the back.

Once Dazai climbs in, they take off. The drive is further than usual, but when Chuuya asks
where they're going, he only gets a secretive smile and a "It's a surprise~."

Fine. Chuuya isn't too worried about it, because so far, Dazai has been exceptionally good at
picking things that Chuuya enjoys. The flowers, the first dinner, all the meals over this week.

The fact that he has his tastes figured out so easily is kind of shocking, considering Chuuya
thinks of himself as a picky eater, but it means he trusts him enough to not demand an
answer.
His trust is rewarded when they pull up to the restaurant. Another four-star one, this one
marginally more expensive and popular and famous for its wine tasting menu. “Don’t drink
too much,” Dazai says casually as they walk up to the front entrance. He opens the door and
lets Chuuya go in first, continuing, “I want you sober for later.”

Oh. Chuuya’s cheeks flush, because as far as innuendos go, it’s not exactly subtle.

Every time they’ve gotten together, things have escalated. Each sexual encounter is hotter
than the last, pushing Chuuya’s limits a little further each time.

First the dry grinding. Then the phone sex.

He remembers the way Dazai had asked if he’d ever fingered himself, voice thick with
longing and curiosity.

Dazai picks up his menu, long fingers curling around the edges, and Chuuya wonders—

Is that what he has planned tonight? He’s only said he wants them sober when he has
something sexual in mind, so is that it?

But he also said last time that he’d let Chuuya get his hands on him next time. Admittedly, he
is dying to actually see his cock, because just the memory of feeling it pressed up against him
is enough to send shivers of delight up his spine.

Suddenly, he’s a /lot/ more eager for this dinner to end.

There are flowers on the table, orange ones. Just like every other date they’ve been on, and
seeing them makes Chuuya smile.

It also reminds him. “What’s up with the blank black business card thing?”
Dazai flips the menu page, a thoughtful expression on his face. This place has more of the
smaller, snack-sized meals and he’s not sure what to get. Not sure if anything they offer will
actually be able to satisfy his appetite. “I got cards printed for my company, but the first batch
came out wrong. I’ve just been using them for reminders, basically.”

Chuuya nods. “That’s exactly what I thought too, but Nikolai thought it was weird.”

The plates and glasses for their appetizers get placed down between them. Their waiter—a
bored looking college age man, Chuuya is happy to see—takes their orders before leaving
again, quiet and polite.

“Why did he think it was weird?”

“He gave me this whole story about some ‘demon prodigy’.”

“He what?”

Their drinks—wine for Chuuya, whiskey for Dazai— appear quickly. Chuuya takes an
indulgent sip, savoring the taste with a sigh. “Yeah. I told him that I wasn’t scared of some
‘demon prodigy’ that's old enough to be my grandfather.”

Dazai chokes on his whiskey. He has to pound on his chest, coughing, several times before he
stops choking.

“Are you okay?” Chuuya asks, starting to get up so he can help. Slap his back or something.
Perform a Heimlich maneuver if he has to, because there’s no way Dazai is about to choke
himself to death on their date.

Dazai waves him off, face pale. After a second, he faintly wheezes, “Your grandfather?”
“Probably.”

(Dazai is lucky their appetizers arrive then, because he feels like he’s been slapped in the
face.)

There’s quiet for a moment as they load up their plates, Dazai with mostly meat and
vegetables, Chuuya with more fruits and cheeses.

Then, almost too nonchalantly, Dazai asks, “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Chuuya says, popping a piece of cheese in his mouth, “apparently he terrorized the
city twenty years ago, so he has to be old.”

“I heard he was young back then, actually. Handsome. Charming, one might say. The type of
person who aged like fine wine. No, better than that—“

Chuuya snorts, raising an eyebrow at Dazai. “You trying to tell me some pimply-faced
teenager that probably didn’t know how to dress ran the underground?”

(For the record, Dazai had a normal amount of pimples. The dressing thing was true though.
He only ever wore ill-fitted suits back then, and that atrocious coat. And the bandages. Those
have always been a staple.)

“You know,” Chuuya continues, unknowingly stomping on every ounce of ego Dazai has left
to him,”maybe the kid idea is right. That would explain the stupid black cards.”

Dazai signals for another whiskey. He didn’t plan on drinking tonight but he’s going to need
one when he hears this reasoning. “Stupid?”

“Yeah, I mean— black cards? Where’s the pizzazz? The drama? The flair? Why send
ominous black cards when you could do something cooler? Like— a severed head or
something? That’d be a lot scarier!”

Despite himself, Dazai laughs into his drink. “I think the idea would be discretion, doll.”

Rolling his eyes a little, Chuuya finishes off his glass of wine. It was only a tester, so it didn’t
have as much liquid in it as his usual glasses, and he’s barely even feeling warm from it. For
his next glass, he orders a white wine, this one sweeter. “I think you mean boring . Plus, the
idea that he would still use them to this day is just as stupid. It’s like he’s asking to get
caught.”

Spearing a piece of steak, Dazai puts it in his mouth and chews on it thoughtfully. “Or it
could be used as a fear tactic. People already know what it means, and fear it.”

Chuuya thinks about that for a moment, popping another piece of cheese in his mouth. He’s
almost out by now, but the main courses should be arriving soon. “I guess,” he agrees
grudgingly. It makes sense, but it still sounds pretty stupid and short-sighted to him.

The waiter comes around the corner with their plates in hand. Dazai clears off a space for
them in the middle, smiling gratefully at the server.

“Either way,” Dazai says, picking up a fork, “you don’t have to worry about him. He won’t
hurt you.”

The pasta Chuuya choses pairs heavenly with the white wine, and he savors the first bite on
his tongue. As he's swirling his own fork to pick up another bite, he asks, "How do you know
that?"

Then, seeing his opportunity to finally get some information on Dazai's 'company' he
continues, "Because you're in security? You're going to protect me or whatever?"

Brown eyes flash at him with far too much amusement as Dazai raises another bite to his
mouth. "Exactly."
He doesn't continue though, and it's so frustrating that all of Chuuya's hints go unanswered.
He knows Dazai isn't stupid, and that he's picking up on his subtle questions for more. He's
just ignoring them.

It's not like Chuuya wouldn't understand if he couldn't know because it was dangerous, or
classified information or whatever. It'd probably make him even /more/ curious, but he could
deal with that.

It's the complete and utter lack of communication that's irritating. At least tell him no instead
of just side-stepping the conversation.

(At the same time though, he does start to feel a little guilty whenever he feels like that,
because not only does Dazai not owe him anything— they're not even officially dating , he
doesn't have the right to demand any information from him— but it's also the same thing he
did to Shuuji, right?

Sidestepping the issue instead of addressing it. Maybe this is just his karma, something he
deserves.)

To cover up the flash of guilty irritation, Chuuya takes another sip of wine. "I wasn't too
worried anyways. He's either old as hell—” Dazai winces “— or stupid, and either way I
could probably kick his ass if I needed to."

That makes Dazai smile, slow and big, like he knows something Chuuya doesn't know. Like
he's got a secret. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. I mean," he shrugs, trying not to brag too much, "I was top of my Judo class. I could
probably even take you."

Granted, he doesn't know what kind of training Dazai actually has, but based on that morning
with the dog training, he's obviously skilled. He's also taller, bigger, very likely stronger—
But Chuuya has trained to use his size and other peoples underestimations as an advantage.

Dazai raises his whiskey, holding eye contact. "I'd love to see you take me."

He says it, so confidently, without even a shred of shame even though the waiter is
approaching, possibly close enough to hear. And all he does is watch, with that smug smirk
on his grin as Chuuya processes the innuendo, cheeks slowly turning red.

Somehow, the act of them being in public, where anyone can hear Dazai's subtly filthy words,
makes it hotter. More dangerous, more thrilling.

Dazai presses the glass to his lips, and the slide of his tongue against the rim has to be a tease.
It's too drawn out to be anything else.

But because of how long it takes, Chuuya finally catches a glimpse of something shiny in his
mouth. Something he'd never seen before. "What's that?" At Dazai's raised eyebrow, Chuuya
explains further, "In your mouth."

There's a tense silence for a moment as Dazai swallows his mouthful of whiskey. With a
sharp, teasing glint in his eyes, he opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out.

There's a shiny, metal ball in the middle. A tongue piercing.

Chuuya can't look away, suddenly transfixed on the way the metal moves as his tongue
flexes. "How long have you had that?"

Dazai hums, taking his tongue back. Chuuya can see the subtle flex of his jaw as he rolls the
piercing in his mouth. "About five years? Close to that."
"And you haven't been wearing it because...?"

He shrugs a little, looking slightly embarrassed. "When I was cleaning the jewelry a few
weeks ago, I lost the ball for it. Couldn't put it back in, and the only other jewelry I had
are...inappropriate for public use. I only had time to get more jewelry recently."

All very important, very valid reasons. But Chuuya is hung up on one particular detail of that
statement. "Inappropriate how?"

"The vibrating tongue rings. They make talking a bit difficult, with how big they are."

(The point of them, actually, is that Dazai isn't supposed to talk. He's supposed to make his
partner talk, while he listens to how good of a job he's doing.)

Chuuya feels lightheaded. "They...have vibrating tongue piercings?"

Dazai shrugs like he's not completely altering Chuuya's world in a few sentences. "Yep. Not
as strong as real vibrators, but enjoyable all the same."

A vibrator attached to his tongue . Dazai watches him, amusement growing on his face. His
eyes are darker, scorching hot and focused. "If it helps," he says casually, knowing damn well
what he’s saying isn’t helpful , "I've gotten very good reviews when I wear them."

Chuuya isn't even upset about the mention of other people, because all he can think about is
oh god, he can vibrating-tongue me good.

His mouth is dry, and he very carefully puts his wine down and picks up his glass of water
instead. The room is already too hot, with the way Dazai is staring at him, like a wolf that just
caught the sheep.
God, he can't even imagine what Dazai could do with that. Where'd he use his tongue on him.
What it'd feel like, hot and wet and flexible and vibrating.

Unconsciously, he tugs on the choker around his neck because his lungs feel suddenly too
small to take a proper breath.

Dazai's eyes fall to the motion, zeroing in on the leather around his throat with predatory
intent. The air feels thin now, crackling with electricity. "I like the way you look with the coll
— choker I bought you."

Chuuya flushes a little, squirming. He's been wearing it more recently as of late, because the
weight of it is grounding, somehow. It's not as good as the memory of Dazai's hands on his
neck, but he likes the way it constricts his neck slightly when he swallows. "Thank you," he
mumbles, tugging on the leather again.

By now, Dazai has finished most of his meal. Chuuya's has been untouched for a while,
because all the hunger in his stomach has been replaced with a different kind of hunger.

He's full anyway, his stomach shrunken after two weeks of eating once or twice a day max.

"Are you ready?"

Yes, Chuuya is ready for anything Dazai wants to do with him. He nods, knocking back the
rest of his wine in a few swallows. His father would be scandalized if he saw that behavior,
but Chuuya is not going to let any wine go to waste. He's not anything remotely close to
tipsy, anyways.

Dazai pays for their meals at the front register, the flash of his black card subtle in the light.
Chuuya buries his nose in the flowers to hide the red on his cheeks.

On their way out, Dazai's hand finds its way to his lower back. It's large, heavy with
suggestion and intent. Even through his clothes, it burns with heat.
The car ride home is equally torturous, because his hand settles on Chuuya's thigh and stays
there. Occasionally, his fingers will move, stroking a teasing line over the sensitive inside of
his thigh.

Chuuya can't help the wiggle of his hips, silently demanding he go further up, encourage the
building heat in his crotch by pressing his palm over it. He's almost half-hard already, and
Dazai has barely even touched him.

The fingers stray a little further up in response, finding the inside seam of his jeans, but it's
still so frustratingly far away from where he wants it.

Judging by the pleased smirk on Dazai's face and the way he keeps drawing Chuuya into
casual conversation about useless stuff— like his classes— he knows exactly what Chuuya
wants, he's just getting satisfaction out of denying him.

The thought of that sends a pointed throb of heat through him. He loves when he gets what he
wants, of course, but he loves when Dazai plays with him too.

When they finally arrive back home, Chuuya is a mess of anticipation and desire, practically
panting in his seat.

Naturally, Dazai takes his sweet time parking the car in the garage. Every second feels like
torture.

Eventually, he shuts the engine off and Chuuya is climbing out of the car as soon as it's
stopped, nearly trembling with desperation. His mind is a blurred echo chamber, full of want
and more and Dazai.

He only has to wait a moment before Dazai is crossing over to him, bearing down on him
with an intense expression.
Hands find the back of his thighs, and he yelps, flinging his arms around Dazai’s neck as he
picks him up in one smooth motion. His legs wrap naturally around his hips, hitching over
the swell of his hips. He’s a little taller than him like this, and he has to say that he likes this
view the best.

Dazai’s jaw looks sharper when he looks up, his eyes a little brighter. It only takes a single
brush of Chuuya’s fingers for his hair to lie back, exposing his forehead. It only takes a loose
grip on his hair to keep him in place, looking up at him with that melting, soft look in his
eyes.

Dazai shifts him a little, frowning. “You’ve lost weight.”

Smiling, Chuuya kisses thé worry off his face. From this angle, he can better feel the way
Dazai pushes up to meet him, jaw working. With his hands in his hair, he can control the
angle and the force. He's too eager to wait for the kiss to deepen naturally, swiping his tongue
over his bottom lip to ask for entry.

It's one of the fewer times Chuuya gets his tongue in Dazai's mouth, because the man likes to
dominate their kisses and drive Chuuya crazy by fucking his mouth with his tongue.

Then the tongue piercing comes into play, and Chuuya realizes that it adds a delicious
element to the kiss. It's hard, almost-rough compared to the softness of his tongue, but it's still
slick and moves easily against his own tongue. He can feel the drag of it, the way it moves
when Dazai's tongue flexes.

He wants it in his mouth, on his skin, on his body.

Dazai shifts him in his arms, taking one hand away so he can fumble one-handed to open the
door leading inside. Chuuya hangs on, tightening his legs around his waist.

When the door eventually opens— Dazai is struggling to multitask, something that makes
Chuuya hum with satisfaction— there's a shuffle from just inside. From the panting, it's the
dogs, and usually Chuuya would be greeting Yoko with just as much enthusiasm—
But that would mean breaking the kiss and letting go of Dazai when he finally has him where
he wants him, between his legs with their bodies pressed together. He can say hello later,
once the building heat in his stomach is satisfied.

Dazai pulls back a little, just enough to mutter a "move, dogs" before he's diving back in,
hands tightening on the back of his thighs.

By the scrambling, the dogs are moving out of way and Dazai is free to stumble his way
forwards, blindly making his way upstairs.

Chuuya is too busy sucking on his tongue, shivering when the metal ball drags against the
roof of his mouth and clicking almost-painfully against the back of his teeth, to even feel
worried about the threat of falling.

He runs his nails over the short hairs at the back of Dazai's neck, relishing in the short,
rumbling noise it earns him.

Another shift as Dazai opens up his office door, stepping inside before kicking it shut behind
them. Excitement builds, because Dazai is taking him to his room, to his bed , kissing him
like Chuuya is the very air he needs. Like he has no intention of stopping.

He's been in his room before, but it feels different now. The red lighting is darker, more
inviting, the air hotter, the silence deafening beyond the wet sound of their kissing.

All Chuuya can taste is Dazai, sour whiskey on his tongue, all he can smell is the expensive
cologne he wears, storm clouds on an icy sea, all he can feel is Dazai underneath him, pressed
against him, too much and not enough.

The support drops out underneath him, and for a moment, he's freefalling backwards, heart
jumping in his chest.
Just as quickly, his back is sinking into the mattress. He bounces up slightly from the
momentum, eyes wide.

Dazai follows him down, hands braced on either side of his head. One knee sinks into the
mattress between Chuuya's thighs, his body hovering an inch above him. Sometimes, it's easy
to forget just how broad Dazai is. He rarely has to impress or intimidate with his height, and
while he is dominating, that comes more from his aura. From his attitude, his presence , and
not from the forceful reminder how much bigger he is.

Now though, it's impossible to miss the size difference. He covers Chuuya completely, heavy
and impossible to escape even though he's still hovering over him.

He blocks out the rest of the world. The only thing he can see is the gleam of red in dark
eyes, sweet hellfire, the way his features look even sharper in the low lighting. His once-crisp
shirt is now rumpled and half-pulled out of his slacks, his hair wild and standing on end.

"Hi," Chuuya says breathlessly, smile too big to contain. Fisting his hands in Dazai's shirt, he
pulls him down again.

"Hello," he murmurs back, sinking into the kiss easily.

It's hotter with Dazai pressing him into the mattress, infinitely more exciting as he captures
Chuuya's bottom lip and gives it a slow, indulgent suck.

His breathing shudders, a choked noise trapped in his throat. He squirms, filled with the
burning, aching desire for something more. The knee is still between his thighs, just barely
brushing over his crotch.

It's not even a real taste of friction, but it already has Chuuya arching up, chasing the
sensation with his hips.
Dazai drops to one elbow, freeing his other hand to wander down. Long fingers find his hip,
wrapping around the width of it. His thumb, scorching hot, presses against the sensitive skin
just above his waistband, where his shirt has ridden up.

Teeth sink into his lip, pulling a sharp noise from him as his hips buck instinctively. The hand
on his hip slides inward, fingertips toying with the hem.

His lip gets stretched to a sting as Dazai pulls back, letting him escape slowly. When it pops
free, he asks breathlessly in the space between them, "Can I?"

He doesn't know exactly what Dazai is asking about, but the answer is always the same:

Yes, yes, please yes.

His hand slides under his shirt, palm scraping over his belly in a way that has him shivering.
Every inch of skin feels hypersensitive, attuned to Dazai's every touch as he slowly explores
the muscles of his abdomen. His fingertips graze the outline of his abs, finding the vee of his
hips and following it down, down, down—

A finger dips under the waistband of his jeans, the flat nail swiping over the skin just
underneath, teasing at the trail of hair leading downwards.

Chuuya makes a desperate noise, hips arching up as his head falls back. Dazai's right there,
so close he can almost taste it, the ghost of his touch over him, just a little more—

The finger moves upward again, leaving him hard and wanting.

His frustrated snarl is met with an amused smile, Dazai brushing a kiss over his lips. "Don't
be so impatient , baby. I'll take care of you."
His shirt is pushed up as far as it will go, but Dazai seems unwilling to lift up long enough for
him to actually slide it off. "I know exactly what you need," Dazai murmurs, trailing kisses
over his jaw and down onto his neck. His teeth scrape over his pulse point, sending
shockwaves of sensation down his spine.

"What you want," he continues, opening his mouth to suck, his metal ball of his tongue
piercing swirling over his skin. At the same time, his knee slides a little further forward,
finally pressing against Chuuya's erection.

He gasps at the attention, arching his back and grinding his hips up. The friction bursts over
him hotly, pleasure crawling through his veins.

"I know exactly how to give it to you," Dazai breathes over the spot he just marked, the hot-
cold sensation of breath over drying saliva maddening.

He moves down, finding the line of his collarbone and tracing it downwards until his path is
obstructed by the shirt. Then he's moving downward, taking the time to tug the cloth even
farther up with his teeth.

His breath washes hot over his chest, weight shifting backwards. Chuuya's hands naturally
find his shoulders, clenching there as he twitches beneath him.

"Please," he mutters, "Dazai. I want—”

He cuts himself off there, because he doesn't know what he wants, doesn't have enough
experience to translate the aching emptiness growing in his bones into words. Everything
Dazai does seems to just ignite him further, satisfying one hunger just to spark another,
deeper one. It never feels like enough, his body so greedy for more that he feels strung out
with it.

"I know, Chuuya," Dazai shushes him, moving over. His next breath washes over his left
nipple. "I'm gonna give it to you, so just trust me, hm?"
Chuuya never really thought of his chest as sensitive, especially nothing close to what was
described in novels or online, but now he's starting to realize that anticipation and the novel
feeling of someone else touching him, does wonders for that.

He's built up for a long few moments, the scrape of his teeth near his nipple, the teasing swirl
of his tongue a few centimeters away.

He's practically vibrating with anticipation and hyper-sensitivity by the time Dazai takes
mercy on him and swipes his tongue over him in one broad stroke.

The piercing adds a distinct sensation in the middle, hard metal that rolls over him
mercilessly. It's different from the soft-warm feeling of his tongue, the suction that makes
Chuuya feel like Dazai is pulling directly on his soul.

"Oh," he sighs, shivering a little. He likes this, more than he ever thought he would. His hips
have picked up an unconscious rhythm, grinding lightly against what he can reach of Dazai's
thigh.

Dazai hums in reaction, his hand reaching around the other side to slide underneath his back.
He pulls up on his next suck, encouraging the arch of his spine.

The slight vibration has him gasping on a breath, one hand sliding down in the gap between
the collar of Dazai's shirt and his body. He digs his nails in, blocked from skin by a layer of
something made with rough fabric. It feels almost like the same material as the bandages
around his wrists and forearms.

(Later, he'll wonder why Dazai wears them, but for now, his mind is preoccupied by melting
under the thought of how the vibrating piercing would feel against his nipple.)

With the way he's laying, he can't reach under Dazai to unbutton his shirt, but he's desperate
for more skin. He has to settle for pulling on the back of it, tugging it completely free from
his slacks. Hooking one leg around Dazai's hip, he tries to use his knee to force the shirt
farther up.
He gets distracted halfway through when the increased angle makes his erection press harder
against Dazai's thigh. He grinds there, little circular motions that make stars burst in his
vision.

"Do you want something, beautiful?"

It's not fair how good Dazai sounds like this, a little breathless from exertion and voice
rasping from his throat. There's a hint of smug arrogance in his tone, but Chuuya will forgive
him this time, because he's swirling his tongue over him again.

Naturally, as soon as he opens his mouth to respond, Dazai is biting down on his nipple. He
cries out, twitching hard at the sharp sting, nails sinking into his back.

The slight pain is soothed away by how hot Dazai's mouth is, and the way he flexes his
tongue to make the metal ball of his piercing flick over the sensitized tip. The longer he
spends on his chest, the tighter his stomach gets, the better it feels.

"Off," he manages to pant after a long moment, tugging at Dazai's shirt again. "I want to feel
you."

There's a sharp, rumbling noise muffled against his chest. The hand holding him up tightens
briefly, fingertips digging in. The knee presses down harder, and with the way one of his
thighs is hooked over Dazai's hip—

The tent in Dazai's slacks presses against the back of his thigh, teasing him with friction and
how hard it is, almost as excited as he is.

Then the hand is sliding from underneath his back, fingertips grazing over his side in a way
that makes tingles run down his spine.
It's probably not a coincidence, the way the back of Dazai's fingers brush over his chest as he
unbuttons his own shirt. Every button is an inch lower than the last, and Chuuya's breathing is
speeding him. His entire awareness is focused on the way his fingers trail downwards
steadily, brushing over his chest, then his sternum.

His abs. His lower belly, so close, and he's breathless and tense with anticipation, hips
arching up as high as they will go so that Dazai brush over his trapped erection—

Instead, Dazai pulls his shirt up more, pulling the last bit free from his belt before
unbuttoning the last three buttons. His fingers graze teasingly over the waistband of Chuuya's
jeans, but no further.

If they were kissing right now, Chuuya probably would've bitten him out of sheer frustration.
Instead, he throws his head back onto the mattress, digging his heel into Dazai's ass with as
much force as he can muster.

There's another laugh muffled against his skin as Dazai switches sides, transferring his
attention to the other nipple. The other one is left to cool in the air, throbbing lightly with the
way Dazai had been sucking on it.

"So impatient," he teases, nipping at his sensitive flesh, "Don't you want to savor it?"

Logically, he does want to spend eternity here, strung out and gasping between Dazai's very
capable hands. His body, however, demands more action, over-riding his thoughts with the
deepening desire for more, racing to the edge as fast as possible.

This time, when Dazai leans down, their bare chests press together tightly, hot-warm skin
making him shudder. There's a section of Dazai's chest covered up by fabric— more
bandages, Chuuya can guess by the flash of white he can see peeking out from underneath the
back of his shirt— but the sensation change from soft-hot skin to rough-flimsy fabric just
means that Chuuya never gets used to either of the sensations.

"Stop teasing me," he manages to grumble, wiggling his hips demandingly.

A sharp bite is his punishment, a merciless grind of Dazai's thigh against his neglected
erection. "I like teasing you, sweetheart. I'm sure you like it too, based on how hard you are
for me right now."

It's true, but it's also so frustrating. He's torn between opposing desires, stretching thin
beneath the strain.

"But I suppose," Dazai continues on a sigh, shifting his body so he reach down and wrap his
hand around the back of his thigh and guide it to hook around his other hip. "If you really
can't wait, then I should take mercy on you, hm?"

They're back in their original position from before— Chuuya with his legs wrapped around
Dazai's waist— but now Dazai is over him, on top of him, pressing him down with delicious
weight—

And the bulge in his pants is pressed against his ass, so tempting that Chuuya isn't even
intimidated by it. He rocks down, pleasure flashing through him and enhanced by the way
Dazai sucks in a sharp breath.

Suddenly, Dazai is shifting upwards, leaving his chest as twin points of over-sensitization.
His lips brush over his collarbone, over the straining tendons in his neck, the pounding pulse.

It's only when his mouth is level with Chuuya's ear that he stops, breathing hot enough to
make him shiver. "If you want me," he murmurs, voice dripping with temptation and
punctuating his words with a subtle rock of his hips, "then touch me."

Turning his head, Chuuya catches him in a kiss. It's instantly deeper, harder than the last,
dominating in the way Dazai is sliding his tongue into his mouth and demanding a response
from him.

His hands slide over his shoulders, finally able to get to the skin underneath. The muscles of
his arms are still covered up though, so Chuuya tugs on the fabric in silent request.
The kiss is broken for a moment as Dazai leans up, shrugging out of his shirt in record time.
His muscles flex under the skin, highlighted by the red light in the room and he looks like the
devil himself, beautifully dangerous.

After a second of just admiring him, nearly struck dumb by the sheer beauty of the man on
top of him, Chuuya realizes this is probably a good time to take off his own shirt.

It's a little difficult to get off with the limited space, but he manages it with a series of
strategic wiggles. As the fabric slides over his face, his vision is blocked for a moment,
leaving him in darkness.

When it comes over his head, he barely gets a glimpse of Dazai before he's descending on
him with a hot, open-mouthed kiss—

And from there, it devolves.

Chuuya's hands are filled with scorching skin and rippling muscles. Every grind of his body
up is met with a pointed thrust down , pleasure and heat and tension building between them.

At one point, Chuuya's fingers brush over the bandages wrapped around Dazai's chest and
forearms. Dazai pulls back a fraction, murmuring a response to his silent question. "They stay
on."

In the back of his mind, Chuuya is curious, because he's seen Dazai wear bandages often and
he's not sure why. He's never given any indication that he was injured, and it's only over a
few particular spots— his forearms up to the elbow and his chest and a few times, his neck.

It never seems to bother him when Chuuya grabs him there, and when he's not wearing them,
his skin is a smooth, almost too-even color that speaks of correctional make-up.
But at this moment, he doesn't care what is underneath them. He only cares about dragging
his nails over his skin to hear that rumble in Dazai's chest, breaking the kiss to trail a series of
feverish kisses over Dazai's jaw and down his neck, the way that every harsh breath between
them sparks electricity along every one of his nerves.

Dazai shifts up, offering his neck to him. He's probably not as skilled as he is, but he makes
up for it in sheer enthusiasm, biting and sucking like he might never get the chance again.

When he sinks his teeth into the pounding pulse beneath the skin, Dazai releases a low groan.
The sound itself is like a bolt of lightning, but it's paired with a stronger, slower roll of his
hips, so Chuuya can feel every centimeter of friction between them and—

He moans in response, a choked noise from the back of his throat that's muffled against his
neck.

"Fuck," Dazai breathes out, thrusting down again to pull another sound from Chuuya.

God, it feels so good, he doesn't even care that they don't even have their pants unbuttoned.
Their bare chests slide together, and the pressure of their grinding is enough, making Chuuya
mindless.

Suddenly, Dazai is pulling away completely, making Chuuya whine in protest as he tries to
hang on. Where is he going? Why is he stopping? Chuuya is halfway to orgasm already,
Dazai can't stop now.

"Wait—” he gasps as Dazai slides out from underneath his grip. "Don't stop. Where are you
—"

"Easy, baby," Dazai cuts him off, bending down at the side of the bed. "I'm not going
anywhere. I'm just getting something."
Confused, Chuuya props himself up on his elbows, watching as Dazai pulls out a drawer
from underneath his bed. He didn't even know there were drawers underneath the bed, he just
thought it was wood paneling.

From this angle, he can't see much, but what he does see—

"Are those sex toys?!"

Dazai smiles without looking at him, rifling through the drawer for something specific. "No.
This is lube. The toys are in the other drawers."

An entire drawer full of lube only? Is that normal? "How many drawers do you have?"

"Under the bed? Six. Three on each side. There's more in the closet."

The man has more than six drawers full of toys, and Chuuya has been sleeping above them,
completely unaware. He can't even imagine what that many toys looks like. He doesn't even
have lube. "How many do you have?"

Dazai plucks something out of the drawer before shutting it. Chuuya can't see what he has in
hand but he can see the amused smirk on his lips as he crawls back onto the bed. "Mm, I'm
not sure. Maybe you can help me count them, someday. For now," he pauses, slipping his
fingertip underneath the waistband of his jeans, "can I?"

With the pause, Chuuya's desperation has died down a little bit. Not enough to make him say
no— he doesn't think he'd ever say no, truthfully— but enough that saying yes makes his
stomach clench with nerves.

Perhaps Dazai senses that, because he's leaning back down over him as soon as Chuuya
nods.
Kissing is familiar territory by now, and so is the feeling of Dazai settling between his legs. It
starts off reassuring, or maybe gentle, but quickly escalates as soon as Dazai sucks his lower
lip into his mouth at the same time he rolls his hips forward again.

A hand finds Chuuya's hip, encouraging him to find and match the rhythm he's setting up.

Before long, he's grinding back with desperation, moaning into Dazai's mouth every time
their hips meet. He's tightening his legs to increase the pressure, because every rock is
winding the tension tighter and he's addicted to the searing pleasure that pulses through him
each time.

Then the hand is sliding inwards, slowly enough that Chuuya could protest if he wanted to.

But the only thing he can do is shudder on a broken whine as Dazai's hand finally touches his
erection. It's over his pants still, but fuck, the direct pressure is so much better than grinding.
He palms him, smirking as Chuuya's mouth goes slack on a drawn-out moan.

"There you go," Dazai murmurs, almost to himself. With the next rub of his hand, he breaks
the kiss in favor of finding the line of his jaw and littering it with bites.

One of his hands sinks into Dazai's hair and the other finds his shoulder, hanging on tightly as
the pleasure mounts with every stroke of Dazai's hand.

Then slim, capable fingers find the button of his jeans and pop it open one-handed. The
release of pressure itself— he was so preoccupied that he didn't even realize how painful the
restriction was starting to become— makes him shudder with relief, but the heat of Dazai's
fingers, sliding beneath his jeans, makes him moan.

There's a damp spot from where he's been leaking pre-cum, and Dazai finds it embarrassingly
quick. The way he swirls his finger over the head of his cock hidden underneath, tapping
lightly just to see him shudder and twitch, drives Chuuya insane.
"Look how eager you are for me," Dazai muses, sucking on a spot just below the hinge of his
jaw that makes his eyes roll back in his head. "I've barely even done anything to you."

Something about that, the gentle teasing, sparks something defiant in Chuuya. Yes, he's eager
and desperate, but it's not like Dazai is unaffected either. He can feel the erection pressing
against his ass, the way he's grinding forward even now.

With the surge of reckless bravery that fills him, Chuuya lets go of his shoulder and slides his
hand down his body. His fingers brush over Dazai's, and his hand stops. Probably assuming
that he's reaching down to stop him—

But no. That's not what he's doing.

Instead, he's wiggling his hand between them and covering the bulge in Dazai's pants with it.
He almost gets distracted when he realizes that his palm barely covers the whole thing, but
the sharp inhale and the impulsive thrust against him reminds him.

Filling his voice with as much arrogance as he can manage, he responds, "I'm not the only
eager one, am I?"

There's a silent pause as Dazai takes a moment to process his words, distracted by the way
Chuuya squeezes him. Then he's laughing softly, giving him another kiss.

"You're right," he agrees, "I am eager. How could I not be when I have such a pretty little
thing like you underneath me? Especially knowing what I'm about to do to you?"

Somehow, Chuuya's plans always backfire.

His mind goes blank at the words, erection throbbing hard against Dazai’s hand. He can
almost feel the way another drop of pre-cum wells up, only to be rubbed into the fabric of his
underwear.
That makes Dazai give another short laugh, this one infinitely more smug. He grinds his hips
forward into Chuuya’s hand, increasing the pressure between them.

“Well, sweetheart? I did say you could get your hands on me. Now's your chance,” Dazai
offers directly into his ear. His fingers are moving up, dipping into the waistband of his
underwear and beginning to tug them down, centimeter by centimeter.

And with that tempting voice in his ear, the feel of him in his palm, the desperation that
builds with every inch of his heated skin that’s exposed to the cooler air—

How could Chuuya not give in?

He fumbles more at the button than Dazai did, but it’s hard to focus when Dazai is biting his
neck like that and with the way his fingers are so close to where Chuuya wants them to be.

Eventually he gets it undone, and he’s marginally more careful with the zipper because it
feels like Dazai fills his slacks entirely, and he doesn’t want to hurt him.

He’s glad he did, because instead of being greeted with another layer of fabric, instead he’s
met with hot, hard, pulsating flesh as soon as he pulls the zipper down.

He’s not wearing underwear.

“Oh,” he gasps out, a unintentional sound of surprise. He can feel Dazai’s amused smile
against his neck from the outburst.

“Let me see your hand,” he says, lifting up a little bit on his knees.
Chuuya is distracted, staring at the line of neatly-trimmed hair that continues down, down,
down—

Dazai is still tucked into the fabric of his slacks, but Chuuya can see the base of his cock,
flushed red and thick.

“Hand, chibi.”

Blinking back to himself, he offers out his hand, palm up.

Dazai picks up the discarded lube bottle and opens the cap. The little pop sends a shiver of
anticipation through him, curling pleasantly down his spine.

A decent amount of lube is poured into his palm, cold and wet and sticky. He unintentionally
makes a little face, tipping his hand to watch the little pool slide slowly over his palm.

“Rub your fingers together. It’s the warming kind.”

Chuuya looks up at him, slightly confused but already rubbing his fingers through the lube.
It’s wet, a little sticky. Feels exactly like regular lube would, he guesses, not whatever
‘warming’ type Dazai said. “What do you mean?”

The smile he gets is wolffish, amused. “Trust me, you’ll like it. Can I take these off?”

He tugs at the waistbands of his pants and underwear. They’re barely on at this point, hanging
off his hips and barely covering up his erection.

Chuuya has never been particularly shy about his body, so it only takes him a moment to
give a breathless nod. He's too excited to think about anything else other than what happens
next. He doesn't know what Dazai is going to do to him, but the prospect of finding out has
never been more appealing.
His shoes— he didn't have time to kick them off earlier, but he's not even stepped a single
foot into the house himself, so he doesn't feel too bad about it— get yanked off with an
eagerness that is almost funny to witness, tossed to the floor without a second thought.

His jeans and underwear are next. These are taken off slowly, like Dazai is savoring every
inch of skin that's revealed. Chuuya lifts his hips to make it easier for him, wiggling a little
because these are one of his tightest pairs of jeans.

When they finally come off, he's expecting for Dazai to dive back in. Pin him down again,
maybe show him what he has planned for the lube in his hand—

But no. Instead, he just takes in the view. Chuuya, spread out naked on his bed for him , cock
hard and leaking against his stomach, strong thighs trembling slightly.

This whole time, Dazai has been rather restrained. Obviously enjoying himself, but in
control.

Now though, the longer he stares at Chuuya, eyes darkening, the hungrier his expression
gets, the sharper his smile, the thinner his resolve.

Chuuya's mouth feels dry, his lungs robbed of their air. His own desperation fades into the
background, replaced by the knowledge that all prey experiences at some point in their life—

He's about to get devoured.

"Beautiful," Dazai rumbles, one of his hands finding Chuuya's inner thigh. He doesn't push,
but his legs are spreading instinctively at the slightest pressure. A silent bid for him to touch
him there, please.
He doesn't move to take off his own pants, which Chuuya honestly isn't that worried about,
because the half-dressed wild look is doing wonders for him. And before he can even regain
his breath, Dazai is crawling back onto the bed, crawling over him with low, rolling
movements.

"Come here, lovely," he murmurs, reaching out to grab him by the hips. With one strong pull,
he has Chuuya's hips propped up on his thighs, knees hooked over his hips again.

They're pressed together again, and this time it's even better , because Chuuya is naked.The
fabric of his slacks against the back of his thighs is slightly rough, adding a too-rough feeling
to the sensations building inside him. The skin over his hips is soft and warm, giving
whenever Chuuya squeezes him with his legs.

And at some point during his movement, his cock had been pulled out of his slacks, so when
they come together—

Their erections rub together messily, and Chuuya is too far gone to be embarrassed about the
choked noise he makes, because holy shit.

Beyond just being scorchingly hot and rock-hard against him, Dazai is long, definitely longer
than he is, and thick. If Chuuya weren't out of his mind with desperation and lust, he'd
probably be intimidated, but as it stands, the only thought in his head is fuck yes.

Even that thought is wiped away when Dazai leans down to kiss him, his tongue slipping into
his mouth like it belongs there. Like Chuuya was born to be kissed by him, kissed like this,
like life and breath don’t matter anymore, not in the face of their kiss.

In his distraction, his lubed hand has fallen still. The lube is warm now, at least as much as
his body temperature has heated it up. If this is the 'warming' feature, he doesn't see the big
deal about it. It just feels normal-wet instead of cold-wet.

Sneaky fingers brush over his elbow, coasting up his forearm so gently that it makes him
squirm, ticklish. Chuuya's lips twitch, fighting back a smile at the sensation.
It's an opportunity Dazai takes advantage of, sinking his teeth into Chuuya's bottom lip to
keep him still. At the same time, his hand slides over Chuuya's, lube smearing between their
palms.

Interlacing their fingers together lightly, Dazai pulls his hand away from the bed. He brings
their hands down, between them—

Chuuya quickly realizes that all those other times he jerked off were lame . Stale, even. The
pleasure from then is nothing compared to the feeling of Dazai guiding their palms around
them both. It's hot and wet and just the idea that Dazai is touching him is enough to have him
shuddering and whining.

They're still kissing— well, Chuuya is more panting into Dazai's mouth— so when Dazai
tightens his hand around Chuuya's and gives them both one long, slow stroke, base to tip,
Dazai swallows his moan easily.

He grinds up, chasing the pleasure instinctively, and his cock slides against Dazai's and then
up into the tight circle of their hands. The ridge of the head catches on Dazai's fingers on the
way back down, making stars burst across his vision.

"I—.” he gasps out, hand aching to move faster but Dazai's fingers are firm around his,
keeping them at a steady pace. "Fuck, Dazai."

Dazai releases a sharp breath into his mouth, breaking the kiss to scrape his teeth over his
cheek. "I like when you say my name like that," he rasps.

The next stroke is harder, a little faster. Dazai moves his hips into it, cock sliding slick over
Chuuya's.

Crying out softly, Chuuya tightens his legs to increase the pressure. Dazai is bigger than he is,
so every time their hands move up, their fingers slip over the head of his cock.
Pleasure arches through him, radiating through him in hot, inescapable waves. He's already
mindless, panting and whining incoherently— it's his first time being touched by anyone else
ever, and god, Dazai is so good, rubbing his thumb over the prominent vein on the side,
taking the time to squeeze just under the head— but then it gets better.

It was already hot with their body heat, but now the lube is heating up with the friction, so
slowly that Chuuya didn't even realize until it's searing hot, so good he can't control himself.

"Oh my god," he whimpers, digging his free hand into Dazai's shoulder. With the way his
weight has settled on top of him, he can't move his hips that much so he has to settle for
quick, desperate jerks up. Every move of their hands spreads hot lube down his length,
sparking rapture down his legs and up his spine.

"I know, sweetheart," Dazai whispers soothingly against his cheek. Despite his soft tone, his
hand is merciless, speeding up slowly. He's thrusting too, lightly, and the sensation of that
makes Chuuya's imagination go wild.

If it's this good already, what is it gonna be like when they go further? How good is it gonna
be if Dazai gives him a blowjob? Or fingers him?

Or fucks him?

Anticipation mixes with desperation, creating a coil that tightens at the base of his spine. It
tightens with every stroke of their hands, every time Dazai's hips meet his own.

"Faster," he whines, legs tightening as hard as they can. He just needs a little more , a little
faster. The edge is drawing steadily nearer, and god, he wants nothing more than to fall off
the cliff.

There's a muffled growl against his cheek at the request. After a moment, Dazai leans up to
get some space between them, just enough to watch Chuuya's expression tense with pleasure
as his hand speeds up.
His vision is unfocused, but he can see the sweat dotting Dazai's temples and the way his
eyes are locked on him, so full of hunger that Chuuya aches with it.

The feeling of being watched as Dazai drives him to the edge, his every reaction catalogued
and used against him, just adds another layer of tension. He's beginning to break underneath
it, muscles trembling as he fights for a little more pleasure, a little more sensation.

Dazai is throbbing against him, his cock twitching as he strokes them both. The air is searing
hot, filled with electricity and the humidity of their breathing.

It's too much, not enough, so close, almost there, just a little more, please, he needs it—

"Come on, lovely."

The whisper breaks through his frantic thoughts, cutting a path through the pleasure. Chuuya
cracks his eyes open, getting a glimpse of Dazai staring down at him.

He looks starving, eyes huge and focused. His forearm flexes with the movement of his arm,
abs tight with tension.

Chuuya's gaze falls naturally down,and he finally gets a glimpse of what they look like
pressed together. Their cocks are shiny with lube, flushed red. Chuuya isn't small himself, but
he certainly looks it when compared to Dazai.

That's going to be inside me some day, Chuuya thinks dazedly. Want burns through him like a
wildfire.

"I want to see you cum for me," Dazai says. No, orders , voice heavy with the expectation of
being obeyed, like he knows Chuuya will do as he says. And he's right too, because the next
downward stroke is paired with a near-vicious squeeze around the head of his cock and—
Combined with the way Dazai is staring at him, the way Chuuya's mind is going wild with
the idea of Dazai fucking him, imagination on fire—

It's enough to trip him over the edge.

His world dissolves into white-noise, vision blurry with stars as he cries out. Ecstasy pulses
through him in white-hot waves, centering from the base of his cock and radiating outward.
His stomach clenches, and he's frozen with his back arched, too far gone to even keep
grinding.

Luckily, Dazai never stops, hand tight as he continues to stroke them both. Somehow it gets
even messier and hotter, because some of his cum gets caught by Dazai's fingers and then is
smeared on the downstroke.

His heart is racing so hard it feels hard to breathe. His vision blurs even further, and now he
feels dizzy, the awareness of the rest of his body fading away.

The only thing he can feel , the only thing he's aware of with burning, inescapable intensity, is
the feeling of Dazai above him, over him, all around him, bending down to kiss him again.

This kiss is gentler, probably because Chuuya is shuddering too hard to really participate. His
free hand comes up though, loosely knotting in Dazai’s hair.

“There you go,” Dazai purrs against him, “so beautiful, so good for me. It feels so good,
doesn’t it?”

It does , god it does, way better than any rushed orgasm he’s ever given himself. Better than
coming in his pants two weeks ago, and better than the phone sex last week. Better than
anything he’s ever felt before.
Even now, Dazai’s hand has slowed but not stopped. The pleasure is beginning to mix with
the discomfort of over-sensitivity. Electricity crackles up his nerve endings, so good that it’s
starting to hurt.

Dazai is still achingly hard though, grinding against his softening cock. He doesn’t want to
stop him, because just that feeling is good too but it burns, his nerves confused. It feels like
he’s building up again, almost, except this time his body is twitching hard to escape the
discomfort.

He whines against Dazai’s lips, hand clenching in his hair. “I— It’s too much, I can’t—.”

Can’t what, he’s not exactly sure, but Dazai seems to know. His hand slows entirely, and he
carefully let's their fingers slide apart.

(Later, Chuuya will realize that the first time he held hands with Dazai was when they were
jacking off together. Dazai never lets him live it down.)

Chuuya is still propped up on his thighs, legs trembling around his hips. He's trying to catch
his breath, but Dazai seems determined to steal it away with heavy, drugging kisses. He
breaks away every few seconds to whisper something sweet against his lips. It's too low and
muffled for Chuuya to make out the exact words, but the tone— soothing, dripping with
something sweet and proud— is enough to have him settling back down.

One of Dazai's hands— the one messy with lube and cum— has moved onto tracing soft
circles on Chuuya's belly. It's kind of gross, if he really thinks about it, but it's so mindlessly
comforting that he decides just to relax into it.

And as he comes back fully into his body, mind finally working again, he realizes—

Dazai is still hard. Fully hard, throbbing against him lightly, and even though he's not
moving, Chuuya can still feel the need radiating off him. He's determined to do something
about it this time.
Thankful that the satisfaction pulsing through him doesn't allow him to feel nervous, he
wiggles his hips a bit and says, "Your turn."

Dazai nips at the corner of his mouth, a smile in his voice. "Yeah? How do you want to do
this, sweetheart?"

Unsure of what to offer, — god, he really should've watched more porn before this, so at least
he wouldn't look so inexperienced— Chuuya hesitates.

Dazai takes mercy on him after a second, continuing on like he never asked Chuuya. "I could
grind against you, just like this."

He pauses to illustrate, hips rocking forward. His cock slides against his own, sparking
oversensitive shivers. It's hot though, even so shortly after he orgasmed, sparking exhausted
shivers of arousal.

"You wouldn't even have to do anything. Just lay here and be pretty," he finishes, breath hot
on his face. A rhythm is starting to build, driven by instinct and pleasure.

That feels like cheating. Dazai said he was going to go slower with him— and he has, to the
point where Chuuya is almost getting frustrated with it— so if he doesn't take this chance to
push the limits of what Dazai has done with him, who knows when he'll get another chance?

(His mind might be a little hesitant, but his body is very clear about what it wants. He's not
scared, not anxious about it being bad or wrong, he just wants it. Wants Dazai in every way
he can have him.)

"Or," Dazai pauses to reach out for Chuuya's lubed hand. It's fallen limp to the bed near his
side, but he guides it back between their bodies.

This time, when Chuuya's hand wraps around his cock, he does it alone. Dazai's fingers are
loose around his wrist, helping him to start up a rhythm but not pressuring him.
Without the distraction of his own arousal, he can finally focus on what Dazai feels like in his
hands. Searing hot, the veins along the underside pulsing lightly against his thumb. When he
tightens his grip experimentally, the hitch in Dazai's breath is audible.

"You could jerk me off," he offers breathlessly, twitching in his hand. His other hand— the
clean one, thankfully- makes a firm sweep from his thigh over his hip and up to the muscles
over his ribs.

He does like that idea. Likes the feel of Dazai in his hand, too thick to wrap his fingers
around entirely. Likes the way he jerks lightly against him when Chuuya's palm slides over
the head, when he uses his thumb to smear the drop of pre-cum over the tip.

It's intuitive, not that different from jerking himself off. A little more satisfying somehow,
even though he's not getting any direct pleasure out of this.

Instead he gets to pull reactions from another person, relishing in every twitch and tremble
and soft groan he gets.

It feels powerful. Boosts his confidence. Makes him feel sexy and wanted and good .

"Or," Dazai says again, and Chuuya is hanging onto his every word, because what could he
offer next? What's next in the natural progression of sex?

"If you're feeling particularly brave— you could try blowing me?"

That makes Chuuya pause, uncertain. It's one thing to jerk him off— which is something he
has experience in, even if it was just on himself— and another to dive into a whole new
aspect with little warning.
He just doesn't want it to be bad for Dazai. He's heard horror stories of people that ruined a
blowjob. Not to mention that he'd have his teeth right next to his dick, something that makes
him wary if it were to happen to him.

But at the same time—

He can't deny that he wants to try. Dazai is heavy and firm in his palm, so he can't help but
wonder what that'd feel like in his mouth. On his tongue, in his throat.

"I've never done that before," he feels compelled to point out. The strokes of his hands have
slowed to absentminded pulls.

Leaning forward, Dazai nuzzles his nose against his cheek. "I know," he mumbles, brushing
the lightest of kisses over his jaw, "I can teach you, but only if you want. I like this just as
much."

Considering that he's still twitching and leaking pre-cum even though Chuuya hasn't put that
much effort into his strokes— he believes that.

And the lack of pressure somehow makes the choice easier to make. He could refuse without
consequences—

But when has he ever backed out of a dare before?

He takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves. "Okay. I want to try."

Dazai rewards his bravery with another kiss, this one over his mouth, tongue piercing sliding
teasingly over his lip. It's deep and demanding enough that Chuuya momentarily loses his
thoughts and melts into it eagerly.
When he's taken Chuuya's breath away, Dazai leans back again, looking smug. Chuuya
chases after him automatically, eyes half-lidded.

When he hears Dazai's fond huff of laughter, he cracks open his eyes to glare at him. It
doesn't last long, not with how openly affectionate he looks, his thumb stroking over
Chuuya's ribs.

"How do I..." Chuuya asks, frowning. It's not like they're in the position for him to get his
mouth on his dick. Maybe Dazai could just crawl upwards, but Chuuya doesn't particularly
like the idea of being pinned to the bed with no escape for his first attempt at a blowjob.

Sitting up straight, Dazai takes his legs in hand and unwraps them from around his waist. "It's
easier if I'm sitting on the edge of the bed. You'll have to kneel on the floor."

That doesn't sound too bad, but he hopes it doesn't last terribly long, because the floors in
here are hardwood and will be hell on his knees.

He slides down, the cool air of the bedroom hitting him a little hard. The lube is drying now,
sticky, but without the furnace of Dazai hovering above him, it's suddenly a lot colder than it
was. He arranges himself comfortably on his knees, tucking his feet under his butt.

Dazai sits up entirely, his legs coming down on either side of Chuuya. Between his thighs, it's
a little warmer—

And more intimidating, because Chuuya is now face-to-face with the biggest dick he's ever
seen.

Not that he's seen a lot, but he looks even bigger than he felt. It's shiny-wet with lube, the tip
flushed red. The hair around the base is neatly trimmed, something that Chuuya appreciates
more than he thought he would.
"Hands on my thighs," Dazai instructs, reaching out to run his clean hand through Chuuya's
hair. He meticulously brushes his bangs out of the way and holds them there, exposing his
forehead.

Shuffling a little bit closer, Chuuya places his hands on his thighs. He doesn't seem to mind
the fact that one of his legs is getting smeared with lube and cum. Payback for the mess on
Chuuya's stomach.

"We won't do anything crazy, but if you ever want to stop or pause for any reason, any reason
at all, tap twice on my thigh. Got it?"

Assumingly, Chuuya could just say something if he felt uncomfortable, but the idea of having
a back up signal in case he can't get the words out fast enough makes him feel warm and
secure. Like he's being taken care of.

Nodding, he demonstrates his understanding by tapping twice with his left hand. Dazai
smiles at him.

"Good," he murmurs, voice slipping into something darker and more intoxicating. "I want
you to keep one hand there, and I want you to use the other to grab the base."

This is familiar ground still, so he doesn't hesitate before lifting his other hand and wrapping
it around Dazai's erection. He tilts it toward his face, for easier access.

Dazai's thumb rubs soothingly across his hairline, a counterpoint to the how tense his thigh is
beneath his hand. He's not applying pressure per se, but there's a sense of being guided, if he
listens to the silent signals being given to him.

"When you're ready, I want you to kiss it."

Not looking up at his face— because the idea of that seems embarrassing right now—
Chuuya slowly leans forward and hesitantly brushes his lips over the tip. Because of how
much lube they used, there's not even a hint of friction. His mouth slides over it easily, and
comes away wet.

"Yeah," Dazai sighs, "just like that, doll."

He does it again, opening his mouth a little so he can really feel the shape of him. As
expected, he's hot but beyond that, there's the silicon taste of lube. It's not pleasant, per se,
but it's not awful enough to stop.

The warming agent leaves his lips tingly.

Growing a little more bold, spurred on by the little sighs and pleased exhales Dazai is
making, Chuuya gives him a tentative lick. It's more of a taste-test than anything, quick and
fleeting. The lube coats his tongue with a thick layer of rubbery taste, but the reward is that
Dazai's thighs twitch and tense noticeably.

"You learn so quick, baby," Dazai praises him, voice rumbly with bitten-off groans, "Do that
again."

He does, and again and again, until he's treating the head to a series of long, broad strokes of
his tongue. He tries mixing it up a little, flexing his tongue on one stroke and then letting it
relax on the next, adding a little flick at the end with the very tip of his tongue.

Eventually, the rubber taste fades away and the only thing he can taste is Dazai. All he can
hear is the harsh breaths above him, the feeling of his hand tightening in his hair.

"Down the sides now."

It's easy to follow Dazai's directions, kissing and licking a sloppy trail down the side. When
he feels a vein pulsing under his lips, he closes his mouth around it and gives a light,
experimental suck. Dazai groans at that, hissing out a soft curse.
The sound sends a shock bolt of excitement through Chuuya, and suddenly it's his only goal
in life to pull that sound from Dazai, again and again, forever .

He has to shift hands so he can kiss back up the other side, taking the time to seal his mouth
over a different vein and sucking, tracing the delicate shape of it with his tongue.

"Fuck, you're so good," Dazai groans out, and he /might/ be lying just to boost his
confidence, but Chuuya doesn't care if he is. His praise makes his chest feel warm and oddly
light, like his existence is being buoyed by the words.

"Now open your mouth for me, as wide as you can. Cover your teeth with your lips."

It's strange to open his mouth that wide while simultaneously rolling his lips inward to cover
his teeth, but he manages it after a second.

Dazai's other hand joins his at the base, fingers overlapping to hold him steady. At the same
time, he's tugging Chuuya gently forward by his hair, lining him up.

"Take it," Dazai mutters, almost to himself, as Chuuya's mouth descends on him.

By now, he's gotten used to the taste—

But not the feel of Dazai pushing inside his mouth, hot and hard and heavy on his tongue. He
fills his mouth up entirely, making his jaw strain. His tongue is pressed to the bottom of his
mouth, with not enough room to do more than wiggle and flex uselessly.

Dazai seems to like that a lot, groaning again. "Suck it, baby," he pants. It's clear he's still
trying to restrain himself, hanging grimly onto the last remains of his self control.
Closing his lips carefully around him, Chuuya does as he’s told. His cheeks hollow out with
suction, tongue curling around the underside.

The hand in his hair pulls him back gently, guiding his head into a slow, shallow bob. The
suction increases as Dazai’s cock slowly slides out of his mouth. When he slides back in,
Chuuya has to hollow out his cheeks again.

The rhythm they build is a slow, steady one that allows Chuuya to explore what gets the best
reactions from Dazai. Flattening his tongue. Tensing it, rubbing upwards in short strokes.
Pushing the head of his cock upwards until it slides against the roof of his mouth.

And then Chuuya thinks—

He’s only got the head of his cock and a little extra in his mouth. That doesn’t seem very
mind-blowing, even if Dazai is groaning and growling above him.

He can take more, can’t he? His gag reflex has never been particularly sensitive, so he can at
least try, right? Just a little more.

He takes a deeper breath through his nose, letting his jaw drop even further as he angles his
head, pressing down on Dazai’s cock. Deeper, deeper—

The hand in his hair isn’t stopping or pushing him, and the sound from above has stopped
entirely, replaced with tense anticipation.

He slides a little further down, and he’s thinking he’s really going to do it, he’s really going to
deepthroat Dazai, it’s easier than he thought it would be—

Which is the precise moment when he chokes. His throat spasms hard, protesting the
intrusion so strongly that Chuuya has to pull off entirely. He coughs for an embarrassingly
long time, fighting to get his breath back.
“Baby,” he hears, a gentle fingertip wiping away the tears he hadn’t realized had welled up in
his eyes and spilled over. “Take it easy. I can teach you how it’s swallow me down later, if
that’s what you want. You’re already doing so good for me. Feels so good when you have
your mouth on me.”

His vision is blurry with tears when he blinks his eyes open again. It’s too dark to see most of
Dazai’s face from this angle, but the way his fingers are brushing through his air
comfortingly is enough.

Taking a deep breath, he nods and dives back in. This time, he’s careful to keep himself from
going too far down, sticking to the first few inches and making up for the lack of depth with
suction and using his tongue.

(Dazai, meanwhile, is losing his fucking mind .

It’s not the best blowjob he’s ever received, but what Chuuya lacks in experience—

He makes up for it with sheer enthusiasm and attention to detail. If Dazai so much as twitches
when he does something that feels good, he does it over and over again, until Dazai feels like
his mind is melting.

Then he’ll move onto the next thing, trying out something different with his tongue or his lips
until he finds something else that makes Dazai groan.

And god, the noises he makes. The wet sounds of a blowjob, obviously, but beneath that—

Little punched out gasps, curious hums, the occasional slurp and choke of him readjusting his
technique.
He’s trying so hard to make this easy for Chuuya, jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ache.
His abs are tense, fighting off the mounting need to thrust. He knows how important it is for
Chuuya to build confidence and have a good experience for his first time giving a blowjob—

But he can not wait for the day he can grab him by the head and fuck that pretty little mouth.
It’s all he can think about, even though he shouldn’t be, because his self-restraint is growing
dangerously thin as the pleasure begins to mount.

As it is, he can’t help but lightly guide Chuuya’s head with his hand. His original intention
was to be a gentleman and hold his hair back but—

Now he’s gently guiding his head in a steadily increasing pace, set ablaze by the way Chuuya
gives into the lightest pressure. He even lets him push a little further down, even though he
already figured out what happens when he lets Dazai’s cock get too deep.

Which was adorable, by the way. He feels a little bad about finding it cute, but he was so
eager, and the way his eyes looked filled with tears and frustration—

Cute.

It will be even cuter when Dazai trains the gag reflex out of him, and when he sees the shape
of his cock buried in his throat but still.

For now, he has a dilemma. His orgasm is fast approaching, after waiting for weeks, and then
all day knowing what he had planned for tonight and then watching Chuuya come apart
beneath him so beautifully.

He could come in his mouth. It’s very tempting.

Or he could—)
“Off.”

The words are accompanied by a tug on his hair, but Chuuya resists the pull. He’s having fun
and Dazai isn’t done yet so he’s not—

“Let. Go.”

For the first time ever, Dazai gets a little rough with him. His hands tighten almost-painfully
in his hair and drags him off. More than anything, it’s the surprise that makes his mouth fall
open. Dazai’s cock slides out of his mouth, heavy taste on his tongue.

He’s not allowed to go far though, head forcibly tilted up only a few inches away from
Dazai’s groin.

Cracking his eyes open to glare at him balefully— because neither of them were done, and
it's not nice to pull his hair, even if he did like it— Chuuya finally catches a glimpse of
Dazai's face.

He's hunched over a bit now, the dim red lighting revealing how tense his expression has
become. His eyebrows are furrowed together, mouth twisted into a pleasured snarl. His
breathing is harsh, broken up by guttural groans as his hand moves quickly over his cock.

"Close your eyes," he manages to grunt out.

Chuuya has an idea of what is about to happen, so he lets his eyes fall mostly shut. Mostly,
because he still hasn't seen what Dazai looks like mid-orgasm and the hunger to see it is like
an empty pit in his stomach.

With a few more strokes, Dazai lets out a growled, mangled "Chuuya".

The way Chuuya's stomach jumps matches the way Dazai's cock twitches hard.
He saw it coming but the first spurt of cum that lands on his cheek makes him flinch a little in
surprise. Because of that, the next one stripes across his lips. It's hot, wet, a little bitter when
he flicks his tongue out to taste.

Dazai's eyes drop to the motion, zeroing in with laser intensity. His hand slows to a steady
pull on his cock, milking out a final wave of cum that lands somewhere between Chuuya's
other cheek and his mouth. It drips down his face slowly, smearing thickly over his skin.

Without looking away, eyes burning, Dazai lets go of his hair. With his thumb, he smears one
of the stripes over his cheek.

Then he's lowering his hand, pushing his thumb into his mouth. Chuuya's mouth is falling
open easily under the pressure, allowing him to rub the pad of his finger over his tongue,
forcing him to taste.

Teasingly, Chuuya sucks on his finger, rolling his tongue over it like he did when he had his
dick in his mouth. Somehow, it feels even dirtier than before, because now he's got cum all
over his face and is sucking it off his finger.

The taste coats his tongue entirely, bitter and a tad salty. It's not his favorite flavor, but it's
worth it to watch the way Dazai's pupils blow and his expression darkens with hunger.

It's amazing, the way he still seems starving for him, even though he literally just finished on
his face. He doesn’t know if he should curse his refractory period or thank it, because if
Dazai keeps looking at him like this, he’s going to get hard again. Maybe his eagerness
should be embarrassing, but he feels starving whenever he’s around Dazai, filled with the
endless need for more. He doesn’t know if that’s just because he’s young and inexperienced,
or something unique to Dazai—

All he knows is that heat is starting to pool in his stomach again.

Faster than Chuuya can comprehend, Dazai is reaching down and hooking his hands
underneath his arms. He pulls him up, dragging him into his lap. Chuuya is basically dead
weight because his feet have fallen asleep while he was kneeling. Dazai doesn’t even seem to
notice.

He barely gets to take a startled inhale before Dazai is devouring him with a kiss, tongue
collecting the remains of the cum on his lips and pushing it into his mouth.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to melt into him, wrapping his arms around his neck and
letting himself be kissed however Dazai wants. With the way he’s sitting, haphazardly
kneeling over Dazai’s lap with his feet hanging off the bed, the only thing keeping him from
falling backwards is Dazai’s arm wrapped around his waist.

Holding him over the metaphorical cliff, but never letting him fall.

Eventually, Chuuya shivers. He’s still naked, and the drying wet spots on his skin are making
him cold. Dazai is a furnace beneath him, but it’s not enough to stop him from shivering
lightly.

“You okay?” Dazai asks quietly, slowing the kiss to something almost non-existent. So soft it
almost tickles.

“Yeah,” Chuuya responds. Croaks, really, because his throat is a little more sore than he
anticipated. “Just a little cold. And sticky.”

Honestly, Chuuya is a mess right now and it was hot while it was happening, but now it’s
starting to get gross.

Leaning back, Dazai wedges his fingers underneath his thighs. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He’s starting to think that Dazai likes carrying him, because he’s once again picked up and
taken to the bathroom. He doesn’t feel bad about hugging himself close to his chest, because
it’s his fault he’s messy, and it’s even colder in here.

The marble is cold under his ass when he’s set down, making him flinch and grumble in
displeasure. Dazai smiles fondly and turns the hot water in the sink on.

He bends down to pull a washcloth out of a drawer. The brighter lighting in the bathroom
enables Chuuya to see a smear of pearlescent shine on his cheek. His own cum, probably
from where he kissed Chuuya too eagerly.

The sight of it makes Chuuya squirm, suddenly realizing how dirty that is. God, he’s
practically got a face mask of cum on his skin right now.

When he thought about sex, he never really thought about the clean-up. Most of his own
experiences were quick and easy—down the drain or wiped with a quick tissue— but he
never considered what to do with someone else’s cum.

He’s glad he can’t see himself in the mirror, because he’s sure he’d die of embrasement. His
face feels like it’s on fire.

Wetting the cloth under the hot water, Dazai encourages him to tip his face up with a finger
under his chin. With careful movements, he begins to gently wipe away the drying mess.

“Do you want to take a shower?” He asks, running over a thick stripe near his mouth.

A shower does sound nice. It will warm him up completely and he’ll be able to scrub off all
the sticky stuff more thoroughly than he could with a towel.

But he doesn’t want to get in alone . Dazai’s dirty too, and Chuuya might have gotten an
eyeful of his chest, but he’s still wearing his slacks, even now. They’re unbuttoned and
unzipped, hanging loose on his hips, but they’ve managed to stay on.
“Come in with me?” Chuuya offers, giving him his best puppy dog eyes.

The half-smile Dazai is wearing tips into something more somber, almost sad. Did he say
something wrong? He didn’t want to make him sad, he just—

“Can’t, chibi,” Dazai says. When Chuuya’s expression grows confused, he lifts up his other
arm, presenting his bandaged forearm.

Oh. Well, he did say that they stayed on—and they have, even though they’re a little messed
up and dirty now— and he respects that Dazai obviously doesn’t want to take them off—

He just doesn’t understand why. “I’ve seen your arms before, though,” he points out
cautiously.

Dazai moves onto his other cheek, using a clean section of the towel. “I was wearing cover-
up, then. I’m not now.”

So, whatever he doesn’t want Chuuya to see, it can be covered. That narrows his ideas down
considerably.

But he doesn’t want Dazai to feel like he has to hide . He wants to know what’s underneath
the bandages— not necessarily to satisfy his own curiosity, but because he wants to know
everything about this man.

“I dont...” he almost says he doesn’t care , but then he realizes that might not be the message
he wants to give, “It won’t bother me to see it.”

Dazai takes his time to clean his lips, his expression distant as he carefully wipes the corner
of his mouth. Looking at him, Chuuya can’t help but feel like he did something wrong. Like
he overstepped, crossed some invisible boundary he didn’t realize was there.
He wants to go back and tell himself to shut up before he even made the offer.

“You’re very sweet,” Dazai eventually responds, “but it’s easy to say that when you haven’t
seen it.”

That’s true, but it aches, a little bit. They haven’t known each other long enough to trust each
other with everything but it still hurts a little to know that Dazai thinks he might be rejected.
Still, he won’t argue the issue even further, because he doesn’t want push him.

“Okay,” he gives in, not missing the way Dazai’s shoulders lose a fraction of tension.

His face is clean now, and Dazai is starting in on his jaw and neck, drawing the towel down
his skin in long, thorough strokes. It’s almost like taking a sponge bath.

“Can I ask?” He blurts out, when the silence goes on too long. Dazai doesn’t react, so he
continues, “What’s underneath them? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, though.”

There’s another long moment of tense silence as Dazai reaches over to rinse the towel out. He
squeezes the excess water out again, lowering the cloth to his belly this time.

“Bad memories,” he eventually offers, voice quiet but steady.

That... that makes Chuuya pause.

Ever since he’s known Dazai, he’s only seen the put-together, teasing side of him. He’s only
seen him angry once, and even that was brief. He seemed so calm and steady, like the rock
that the storm breaks on.

It’s sobering to realize that beneath that, something so terrible happened that Dazai hides his
body, even from himself. Something he won’t— or can’t — speak of. Something that
obviously affects him deeply, even though he’s probably one of the steadiest people Chuuya
has ever met.

Just how deep do the cracks go beneath the surface?

Taking a slow breath, Chuuya catches the unoccupied arm. Slowly, giving Dazai ample time
to pull away, he brings it to his face. The bandages feel rough when he presses his lips to his
wrist.

He doesn’t do anything else, just sits there feeling the way the tendons move as Dazai’s
fingers curl to cup his cheek. He leans his head into his palm, letting his lips whisper up his
wrist and over the base of his palm. His fingers are loose around his forearm, just in case it
hurts— whether that be physically, or emotionally.

By now, his stomach and thighs have been cleaned pretty well, enough that he doesn’t think
of protesting when Dazai’s hand slows to a stop.

When Dazai shifts upward, bringing their faces level again, Chuuya’s world becomes big,
brown eyes that are rapidly softening. His thumb strokes over his cheek, achingly gentle, like
Chuuya is something that could break.

“Like I said,” Dazai sighs, closing the distance to brush the softest of kisses over his lips.
“Sweet.”

He doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he lets his body do the talking— arching up into
him, letting out a breathy sigh as he accepts the kiss and silently asks for more.

“So— shower?” Dazai asks again, voice hushed in the small space between them.

Chuuya shakes his head lightly, making a disapproving noise. “No, this is fine.”
He can always take a shower later. For now, he’s mostly clean and he has a more pressing
need than to scrub his body down—

Making sure that clouded, distant, despairing look in Dazai’s eyes goes away.

“I’m still cold though,” he whispers, which is true. The steam from the hot water in the sink
is barely enough to warm the side of his thigh, and the marble is freezing under his ass. There
are goosebumps on his thighs.

“Mm, I think I’ve got an idea,” Dazai says, leaning back a little. He goes to toss the towel
into the laundry basket—

Only for small fingers to take it from him at the last moment.

Wrapping his other hand around Dazai’s chin, he gently tips his head to the side. Frowning in
concentration, he takes the cloth and gently wipes at the spot he noticed on Dazai’s face.

His gaze is heavy on his face as Chuuya works, but he tries to ignore it as best he can. His
cheeks are burning again.

(Dazai is not used to being treated gently. He's not even used to people taking care of him,
because he's usually the one in charge and the one responsible.

He likes it that way, doesn't mind being the one responsible for himself and others. It feels
nice to be the one in control, even if it can be a little taxing sometimes.

But you know—

The small concentrated frown on Chuuya's face as he gently, so much more gently than Dazai
deserves, wipes his face clean, feels pretty nice too. Makes something warm and tender
blossom in his chest, setting roots around his heart and lungs.
Maybe being taken care of isn't so bad either.)

When he's satisfied with his cleaning job, Chuuya lets his chin go. Impulsively, he leans
forward and presses a kiss to the place he was just cleaning, smiling softly against Dazai's
skin. "All clean," he says with another quick peck, like he's celebrating a job well done.

Shifting his face to press their cheeks together, Dazai tells him, "Thank you, baby."

The smile is thick in his voice, and Chuuya can feel it in his cheeks. All that sad energy from
before is gone, replaced by something soft and warm.

Not warm enough though because Chuuya shivers again. This time, he can't stop Dazai when
he pulls away completely.

Dazai exits the bathroom for a moment, leaving him alone for a quick moment before he's
returning again. In his hands are the same pair of sweats and button-down shirt he's worn the
other times he was here.

(Chuuya doesn't know this, but Dazai put them in a specific spot in his drawer because they
might as well be his now, as far as Dazai is concerned.)

Dazai is a lot rougher and more perfunctory with his own clean-up, quickly scrubbing his
lower belly clean. He also changes into a pair of gray sweats, and Chuuya gets a mouth-
watering view of his muscled thighs, lean calves and ass as he changes that is taken away
from him far too quickly.

They finish nearly at the same time. Dazai is still missing a shirt, but Chuuya is not going to
remind him that he should probably put one on.
They move back to the bedroom. Chuuya heads for the bed while Dazai opens the door,
freezing in the doorway—

"Chuuya, you have a visitor."

 Top Ten
Chapter Summary

She's quiet for so long that he actually pulls his phone away from his ear to check if she
had hung up on him. Then, in such a pitiful voice that it causes him a twinge of guilt,
she asks, "Is there someone else?"

As in, is he dating someone else.

And here, Dazai comes across a conundrum. Because his first instinct is to say yes, I'm
in a relationship with a bite-sized chibi, thank you, goodbye, but once he takes a second
to think about it...

He's not actually sure if that's true?

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone!!! Relatively short chapter today, but an important one >:) We'll be
heading into the smut-heavy parts of the story, to make up for the long time ;) I hope you
enjoy this chapter and the next arc of the story!!!

I want to remind everyone that I will NOT be updating next week. I will be moving next
week, and thus will be driving/moving/etc. I hope to be at my regular update schedule
for this and all my fics starting June 1. Thank you all for your patience and I'll see you
when I return <3

This chapter includes:

- a balcony
- a groupchat
- a lie
- a phone call

For a second, Chuuya goes blank with panic, eyes wide.

The only ‘visitor’ he can think of is Shuuji , and that’s about the worst possible outcome he’s
thought of. Shuuji mentioned that he was ‘hanging out’ with a girl after finals—with a weird
insistence that made Chuuya feel like he was expected to be jealous— but that didn’t mean
he couldn’t have come back early. Didn’t mean he couldn’t have arrived home and heard
Chuuya choking on his dad’s dick.

And if he did, god, he’s probably going to tell everyone. Keio is a university where your
reputation matters just as much as your grades, and if his professors hear that he slept with
Shuuji’s dad behind his back—or whatever story Shuuji would come up with— he can kiss
all those recommendation letters and unique opportunities goodbye.

His career might be over before it’s even begun.

But then Dazai moves over, and a large, furry body comes barrelling in—

Chuuya realizes he was freaking out over nothing. It's just Yoko, happy to see him. Even if
she's a little sad that it took so long for him to greet her, her tail more sedate than it usually
would be.

"Hi, pretty girl," he tells her, crouching down to her level. She pushes her nose in his face,
like she's reassuring herself that it is still him and he still likes her.

Dazai, she ignores entirely.

Which is fine by him, because he's moving back to the other side of the room and moving the
black-out curtains to reveal a large wall of windows that Chuuya hadn't even realized was
there. There's a door there too, and it's dark enough that he can just barely make out the
shapes outside.

It must be the balcony, one of the few places he hasn't been in the house yet. He's seen it from
the outside, but considering it's on the second story, he really didn't see much of anything.

Dazai knows the layout well, because he doesn't move to turn on any lights as he maneuvers
around the furniture. From the looks of it, there's a table and a few chairs, maybe a couch or
perhaps a bar? It's hard to tell without light.
And in the middle of it all—

There's a spark of light as Dazai fiddles with something that quickly grows into a small fire.
He adds something to it— probably charcoal— and soon it's a lively, crackling flame.

Following him outside with Yoko on his heels, Chuuya takes it in. There are a few chairs and
that is definitely a small bar and not a couch. The fire in the middle sits in what looks like a
traditional irori table, just elevated for easier access.

Without looking at him, Dazai moves over to a storage closet built into the wall of the house.
From this angle, Chuuya can't see what he's doing but it only takes a few moments before
he's shutting the door again, something big and awkwardly shaped in his hands.

"Come here," he says lightly, but Chuuya doesn't have to move a single step because Dazai is
already making his way over. The thing in his hands unfolds easily when he shakes it out and
Chuuya realizes—

It's a blanket. Dazai built a fire and got him a blanket simply because he said he was cold,
even though it'd be arguably way easier just to cuddle up in bed.

That would've put him straight to sleep though, so he's grateful that Dazai thought of
something else. He doesn't mind sleeping— hopes they do, later, actually— but he doesn't
want to waste a single second with Dazai.

It never feels like they get enough time. There’s always school for him, work for Dazai.
Shuuji is an obstacle they always have to silently work around, and it just never feels like
enough. Time always goes by too fast, and Chuuya can feel it slipping through his fingers
like water, too slippery to hold onto.

The blanket gets carefully draped over his shoulders, wrapped around his back. It hangs to
his calves in the back, just long enough that Chuuya can grab it with one hand in the front to
keep it in place.
It’s so soft and clean, surprisingly clean. It instantly creates a layer of cocooning warmth that
melts away the last of the cold like it never existed.

Then, almost unsurprisingly--

Dazai picks him up, arms tight around his lower back.

"Why do you pick me up so much?" Chuuya grumbles, even as he's clinging to his shoulders.

Dazai pretends to think about it, taking him over to one of the chairs near the fire. He settles
them both in it, leaning against the back with Chuuya in his lap. "Don't you want to pick up
tiny things and hold them?"

Wow. He really went there. His struggling is thwarted by the gentle, thorough way Dazai is
tucking the blanket around his legs. It's too comfortable to protest too much, though he does
give a small huff of indignation.

Yoko sits at their side, looking up at Chuuya with a pair of big, pleading eyes. Her fur is
fascinating in the firelight, alternating light and dark in the flickering light.

Dazai opens his mouth, probably to say 'no', but Chuuya easily ignores that, patting the
empty space beside him with an indulgent smile. Yoko doesn't need another invitation,
jumping up and claiming the spot for her own. Her massive paws step on Dazai quite a bit as
she finds the best way to lay down.

"Back off, mutt," Dazai grunts playfully, arms tightening around Chuuya protectively.
"Mine."

That makes Chuuya laugh, reaching out to ruffle Yoko's ears. "Don't be mean to her. She just
wants to cuddle."
Dazai huffs into his hair. "I'll have you know that she had never been on any furniture before
you came around. You're teaching her bad habits."

"What kind of monster doesn't let their pets on furniture?"

"The kind that doesn't like to pick off dog hair off my black furniture."

Yoko finds a semi-comfortable spot, sprawled across Dazai's lower leg with her head resting
on Chuuya's lap. She looks utterly blissful, tail thumping against the chair steadily and her
eyes closed.

"Then get furniture that's not black? The monochrome black thing is giving me depressed
teenager vibes anyways."

The mock-offended gasp that Dazai sucks in makes him smile, grateful he's facing away so
Dazai can't see his expression melt with affection.

"But Chuuya," he teases, burying his nose into his neck gently enough to tickle, "this is the
real me."

With his hands, he pushes Yoko's ears together on top of her head. It makes her face look
funny, almost stretched out. "He's going to need some work," he whispers conspiratorially to
her. Her tail thumps in agreement.

"Don't take sides against me with the dog. I might start to think you like her better."

The silence after that is long and pointed, like Chuuya is considering it. Chuuya keeps his
face turned away deliberately, hiding the smile he can't contain.
The next sniff Dazai is hurt. "I see how it is."

He's still holding Chuuya so close though, arms wrapped around his waist so tightly it's
almost uncomfortable, his chin propped up on his shoulder. Yoko's bony leg must be digging
painfully into his skin, but he doesn't mention it or try to move.

It's warm and perfect and peaceful. Yoko is heavy on his lap and Dazai is solid beneath him.
Like this, sitting on a balcony with a man and a dog, with the fire dying slowly and the
blanket delightfully warm—

Chuuya has never felt so treasured before.

(So loved.)

[ GROUPCHAT: Stray dogs ]:

[ SHUUJI ]: yo wut u guys get on ur finals

[ YUAN ]: best i got was a 83 in calc 2 :(( got b's for the rest

[ YUAN ]: still got an A in psychology tho >:p sigmund freud who

[ NIKOLAI ]: I did pretty well!! I should have studied more but I'm not mad!!

[ CHUUYA ]: >:) >:) >:) >:) >:)

[ YUAN ]: what’d you get

[ CHUUYA ]: straight A’s BITCHES. I’m top 10 in our year now :P

[ NIKOLAI ]: All that hard work and studying paid off then!

[ SHUUJI ]: more like all that cheating lol

[ CHUUYA ]: what??? I studied for like 3 weeks straight for my tests wtf???

[ SHUUJI ]: yeah but acing ALL ur exams? idk sounds fake

[ YUAN ]: stfu shuuji ur just bitter you barely passed your statistics final >.> maybe if you
had actually studied at all

[ SHUUJI ]: I passed my exam without studying at all so that just shows how smart I am lol
besides idc about rankings, that shit is for high schoolers.

[ CHUUYA ]: no?? It looks super good on a resume for jobs?? It’s pretty important

[ SHUUJI ]: for u maybe lol

[ YUAN ]: ANYWAYS

[ YUAN ]: we should go out and celebrate!! We have 2 months until 2nd semester and I
know we’re all gonna be busy, so let’s go do something while we can!!
[ NIKOLAI ]: I’m in! Maybe dinner or something?

[ CHUUYA ]: when?

[ SHUUJI ]: I can’t, me n dad are gonna go visit my mom

[ CHUUYA ]: what

[ YUAN ]: aren’t they like divorced?

[ SHUUJI ]: they never married so not technically

[ YUAN ]: technically whatever. I thought they were separated. Like for good?

[ SHUUJI ]: eh. Ima get them back together lol just watch

[ SHUUJI ]: mom is a lot cooler to be around so ima convince dad to let her move in

[ CHUUYA ]: isn’t he like... involved with.... someone?

[ SHUUJI ]: LMFAO no

[ YUAN ]: why do u want them back together so bad?

[ SHUUJI ]: having to take a plane to see mom once a semester is exhausting and my dads a
dick by himself so
[ SHUUJI ]: maybe he’ll settle down once he's finally getting some XP

[ YUAN ]: <.<

[ SHUUJI ]: shut up slut u already tried to get at him and he rejected u lol

[ SHUUJI ]: also if u sleep with my dad i will actually kill u

[ YUAN ]: a girl wants what a girl wants :\

[ SHUUJI ]: gross

[ YUAN ]: stfu

[ YUAN ]: anyways when do u leave

[ SHUUJI ]: mom said she's calling dad today, so prolly sometime tomorrow

[ YUAN ]: ur dad can get 2 months off work with barely even a 24 hour notice?

[ SHUUJI ]: perks of being a business owner :p :p

[ YUAN ]: ugh whatever

[ YUAN ]: anyways chuuya, nikolai you up for dinner? maybe the weekend tho cuz shirase
and i got plans tonight

[ NIKOLAI ]: Yeah, that sounds good for me. I have Saturday off work!!

[ YUAN ]: omg first time in forever

[ YUAN ]: wbu chuuya

[ YUAN ]: ....chuuya? where'd u go?

Dazai's other phone doesn't ring that often. Only a handful of people have that number,
because anyone who is connected at all to his underground life has the number to his
disposable phones.

This phone is under a different name, paid through a series of untraceable feeder bank
accounts that are also not in his name. The phone used to be used so rarely that it functioned
more as an expensive paperweight—

But that's changing, as of recently. The only people who have this number are Shuuji,
Chuuya, and...

Sasaki.

Who is calling him right now.

It's strange, because she rarely calls him directly. Usually she just sends messages through
Shuuji, which is a weird, unreliable method of communication. Or it's texts, which is fine,
except that she rarely actually finishes a conversation before she disappears. As soon as she
gets what she came for, that's enough for her.

He accepts the call, bringing the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

As usual, Sasaki's voice is syrupy sweet and filled with warm welcome. "Hello, darling. It's
been a while since we talked; how are you?"

Dazai leans back in his chair. He's at home today, mostly going over information for the call
he's scheduled with Fyodor later today. It's sure to be filled with subtle insults, and running
circles around each other while trying to get the upper hand.

He already has a headache. "Fine," he responds, because he's not going into all of that with
her, "You?"

She sighs, heavy and distraught. "I wish I could say I was doing good as well, but the truth is,
I'm very concerned and worried."

Dazai arches an eyebrow, wondering why she called him to complain. "About?"

"Shuuji told you about his grades, didn't he? They're abysmally low, not up to expectations at
all."

Dazai does know about that, mostly because Shuuji recently went on a rant about how his
professors suck and didn't grade him fairly. Personally, Dazai thought his scores were because
he spent too little time studying and too much time staying up until the small hours of the
night playing video games but hey—

What does he know? He didn't even go to college.

(Chuuya did call him when he got his scores, shouting excitedly into the speaker about his
updated class rankings. And should Dazai be proud that Chuuya utterly destroyed his son?

Probably not, but the chibi earned it. He ran himself ragged preparing for finals, so yeah,
Dazai is proud of him.)

"I'm aware," he says, "but I'm not sure what you want me to do about it."

"That's exactly the kind of attitude that allowed him to get those grades," Sasaki huffs into the
speaker. There's a bit of background noise behind her, something that sounds like people
talking and a busy street. "He needs a firm hand to guide him, so he can do his work at the
level we both know he can achieve."

Shuuji is smart, he won't deny that. The problem is that instead of developing that
intelligence, it's made him lazy . He doesn't study, doesn't work to develop himself or his
skills, nothing. He's been coasting through life, resting on the knowledge that he'll be able to
achieve anything he wants with only the skills he was born with and the resources that are
handed to him—

And frankly, Dazai doesn't particularly care to break him of the habit. Sometimes, the best
lessons are the ones you learn the hard way.

"He is an adult, Sasaki. He's perfectly aware of what he needs to do to get good grades, and
there's plenty of resources he can use if he needs them. I shouldn't need to hold his hand to
make sure he does what he needs to do."

"It's not holding his hand , Osamu," Sasaki hisses, and something about the way she says his
given name always rubs him the wrong way. Like the fact that she uses it makes them more
familiar with each other, more intimate. "It's doing your job as a parent."

Admittedly, that hurts just as much as it was probably meant to.

A lot of things come naturally to Dazai, but parenting has never been one of them. He never
felt that all-encompassing love and affection that all the books described. He never felt
particularly drawn to him either, even when he was smaller.

Most of what he feels, actually, is gut-wrenching terror .

Dazai knows what it's like to grow up with an absent father. His own father never really took
an interest in him as a child. He was always busy with something else, or so irritated that his
mother gently guided him away to play elsewhere.

And back then, it didn't matter that much. Yes, he wanted his fathers attention, but his mother
was very loving and there was always tomorrow right?

Tomorrow, Father wouldn't be busy. Tomorrow, Father wouldn't be angry. Tomorrow, father
would look at the model city Dazai made for school— and got the highest score in the whole
class— and he would smile.

And then, in the span of fifteen minutes, there were no more tomorrows.

Then, Dazai learned what it was like to be raised with someone cruel. Someone that taught
him, with unwavering accuracy, that no one was to be trusted. Everyone else could hurt him
or would hurt him, on purpose or seemingly by accident.

The only one Dazai could rely on was himself. The only one who wouldn’t hurt him was
himself.

(Which is ironic, considering that a lot of his pain was self-inflicted, back then.)

It’s something he still struggles with to this day, the lessons Mori taught him with a disarming
smile. The urge to be in control at all times is one he can never escape, and the thought of
letting someone discover his vulnerabilities makes him want to bite.
And because he knows what both ends of the bad father spectrum are like—

He’s terrified to figure out where he lies on that scale. He never wanted children to begin
with, but neither does he want to inflict the pain he felt onto someone else. Kindness is not
something that comes naturally to him, but neither is he cruel by nature.

So he’s trapped in this endless cycle, because if he gets too involved, the anger that Shuuji
naturally incites in him might take over, and he might do something hurtful—

And if he’s too distant, it’s like he doesn’t care at all, like Shuuji never had a father to begin
with.

He’s trying to figure out a good balance, but it’s hard.

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Dazai eventually sighs, pinching the bridge of his
nose. His headache has worsened.

“You’re lucky you have me then, don’t you?” Sasaki sniffs, sounding far too proud. “He
should come visit me. He’s worked hard this semester, and he deserves a little rest and
recharge so he can be prepared for the next semester.”

Weren’t they just arguing about how he didn’t work hard enough? Or was it only Dazai who
didn’t try enough?

“Sure, whatever. I’ll book a flight. He has two months off anyways.” Maybe it’ll be good to
get some distance between them for a little while too. They’ve only been living together for a
little over eight months, so maybe it’ll give Dazai some time to figure out a game plan
regarding their relationship.
"You know," Sasaki continues, her voice dropping into something cajoling. "You should
really consider coming with him. It'd be good for us all, to have some bonding time. I can
teach you how to handle him better, how to be a better father to him."

Eyebrows shooting up, Dazai gives an incredulous laugh. "Not only do I not need parenting
advice from you, thank you, but I also cannot take two months off work on a whim."

(Which isn't strictly true, not that she knows that. He could do it if he really wanted to. He
could manage his network through phone calls, if he was motivated.

But he's not.

Plus, he's planning on doing something for Chuuya over break to celebrate his scores. He's
not sure what yet— he's torn between taking him for a weekend trip to Tokyo, or maybe
Osaka, or paying for an extended trip back to his family home.

He'd mentioned his father and his sister once, which is enough for Dazai to add that idea to
his potential plans.

Maybe he’ll do both? A top ten spot certainly deserves those and much more, but he’s
learned to be careful with spending money on Chuuya where he can see it. He gets skittish
whenever Dazai spoils him— something he’ll grow out of, hopefully— although Dazai has
enough money to spare for several lifetimes.

Truthfully, he’d find a way even if he was poor, but he doesn’t mention that to Chuuya.

The point is—

Even if he did want to visit Sasaki— which he doesn’t— he already has plans. He’s just
waiting to tell Chuuya when he has a more solid plan.)
This time Sasaki sounds positively sulking as she mutters, “Shuuji told me he’d talked to you
already, and that you were prepared.”

He’s barely even talked to the kid for the past two weeks, because he’s been shut up in his
room nearly the entire time, so how the hell would they have talked about that?

“Well, he was misinformed.”

Sasaki says something, but it sounds like it’s directed to someone else, because her voice is
suddenly muffled and far away, like she’s covering the receiver with her hand. There’s faint
sounds from the other end, like plates being cleared away. She must be at a restaurant or a
cafe.

After a moment, her voice comes back clear again. “I suppose I can’t fault you for being so
dedicated to your work. That sets a good example for Shuuji.”

Dazai can’t help but snort. Him, a good example. Laughable.

“In that case, I will have to make my own arrangements then. I’m sure everything will be
easier if I move up there to Yokohama with you.”

That makes Dazai stall out in surprise. The main reason Shuuji moved in with him is because
Sasaki didn't want to give up her home in Kyoto. Which is understandable, but she was so
worried about him moving into the dorms by himself— "He's not ready, Osamu." —that his
only option was, apparently, to move in with Dazai.

Which was a big adjustment and commitment that he didn't think he was ready for, but he
wasn't about to say no when Shuuji asked. They made it work, somehow.

What Sasaki is saying—

It sounds like she wants to move in with them. Which is not only presumptuous, considering
that they haven't had much of a relationship for over a decade, but it also doesn't work for
practical reasons. "If you want to move to Yokohama for Shuuji, that's great, but you can't
stay here. I don't have any more bedrooms."

There's a soft little huff on the other side of the line and the faint sounds of sipping. "Oh,
that's not a problem, Osamu," she breezes, "We've shared a bed before, it's not something
new. It would probably be enjoyable."

As come-on's go, that's not very subtle. Nor is it particularly tempting. He hasn't been
intimate with Sasaki since he took that trip to visit her and Shuuji nearly eight years ago, and
he's not interested in breaking the dry spell.

"Nice try, but that was a long time ago. No one sleeps in my bed besides me." And Chuuya,
his mind adds silently.

This time Sasaki sounds almost upset. "Come on, Osamu, how are we supposed to bond as a
family when you're being so stubborn? I'll sleep on the couch if I must, but I need
somewhere to stay until I get my own place."

If she gets her own place.

The sheer audacity of this whole conversation has him snorting. To be honest, before, he
might've given in, simply because he was so lonely. Might've given their relationship another
shot, just because it was better than the endless monotony of fuck-and-leave situations at the
club.

But now his mind flashes to red hair and smiling bright blue eyes and—

Feels nothing but derision.

"There are hotels," he reminds her, gleefully petty.

The offended gasp she lets out is honestly hilarious, like the idea of sleeping in a hotel, even
a nice one, is hideous to her. "Osamu," she starts, but he quickly cuts her off.

"Is there anything else you needed?"

There's a heavy silence on the other end, punctuated with a slight sniffle. Is she going to cry?

"I don't know why you're being so cold to me," she sniffs, voice distraught, "I just want us to
be a family again."

They were never a family. She made sure of that when she left the city when she found out
she was pregnant with Shuuji, retreating to her family's home in Kyoto.

When he offered to follow, to come with, to help, she told him he wasn't allowed to be near
her child until he could guarantee they wouldn't be hurt because of him.

Which is never a guarantee, simply because of who Dazai is, so he stayed away.

(He won't lie and say he wasn't relieved, because the idea of being with a pregnant woman
and then some day an infant child was terrifying. He was only sixteen, and one of the
bloodiest people in Yokohama to this day.

Maybe it was unfair to leave Sasaki to raise Shuuji with no help except for her parents but—

He offered. She refused. He didn’t insist. They're both at fault for how things turned out.)

"Sasaki," he sighs, wondering how to explain that he doesn't view her as family and he's not
interested in changing that. "I don't think that's a good idea. I'll keep supporting you and
Shuuji, but I think we should just let the past stay in the past."
She's quiet for so long that he actually pulls his phone away from his ear to check if she had
hung up on him. Then, in such a pitiful voice that it causes him a twinge of guilt, she asks, "Is
there someone else?"

As in, is he dating someone else.

And here, Dazai comes across a conundrum. Because his first instinct is to say yes, I'm in a
relationship with a bite-sized chibi, thank you, goodbye, but once he takes a second to think
about it...

He's not actually sure if that's true?

Obviously, there are some sort of feelings between them, but they've never discussed them in
any capacity. The assumption of them is there, because while Dazai is intimately familiar
with the idea of fucking without feelings—

He doesn't think Chuuya is that type of person, especially as inexperienced as he is.

However, even if Chuuya does have feelings for him, that doesn't mean he wants to pursue
them in any meaningful way. Dazai is literally old enough to be his father, and while that
might be sexy now—

He is also aware of the fact that Chuuya is alone and self-managed for the first time in his
life, out from underneath the thumb of an apparently very strict father, and is most likely
going through a rebellious phase.

Dazai might just be his rebellious phase that one day he'll grow out of, once the novelty
wears off.
Which is fine, Dazai would never try to push him into something he didn't want. It's just he,
personally, does want something more. He likes Chuuya. Likes the way he looks in his bed,
likes the way he submits so easily to him, likes his fiery attitude when he's being bratty, likes
the way the dogs like him, likes the way he looks in his kitchen and his car and his life.

The idea of giving him up someday is painful, and the idea that Chuuya might not feel the
same way about him is scary.

They need to talk about it, but Dazai's never been in a real relationship before, and he doesn't
know how to start. Plus, combine that with the emotional vulnerability that requires and—

It becomes a conversation that Dazai wants to avoid at any cost, even though he knows he
shouldn’t.

"That's none of your business," he settles on eventually, "and it wouldn't matter if I was."

He is also not unaware of the relationship Shuuji has with his mother. If she knows he's
interested in someone, it's likely that she'll tell Shuuji, who will probably start hounding him
for information and snooping around to figure out who—

And, considering that Chuuya was, at one point, the person Shuuji was interested in, that
situation might turn bad quickly.

No, the first one to know if they are in a relationship or not will be Chuuya.

"Oh, so you're just being stubborn then."

Sure, whatever. He doesn't care enough to argue about it, especially not right now. "I will
book a flight for Shuuji this weekend. Is there a particular date you want him on?"
Sasaki makes a thoughtful noise, the faint noise of utensils scraping over a plate coming from
the background. Somehow the idea of her tearing up at a public restaurant makes this whole
conversation even more ridiculous. "No, any day is fine with me. My schedule is pretty free
after Ida and I—”

She cuts herself off there, suddenly realizing she's said a little too much.

So that's why she was so adamant about seducing him again. "You know, Sasaki, it's not very
polite to mention another man to the man you're trying to convince to sleep with you."

Silence. Sweet, awkward, blessed silence, as she tries to figure out what to say to that.

He doesn't allow her the chance. "I'll send you the details when I have them. Goodbye,
Sasaki."

"Osamu, wait—.”

He hangs up, feeling a strong sense of victory even though he didn't really win anything. He's
sure he'll hear about it later— either from Shuuji complaining on his mother's behalf, or
another call— but for now, it's over and peace settles over him again.

He still has a few hours until his conference with Fyodor— which will, in all likelihood, be
pushed back another hour or two because Fyodor is petty— so he drags out his laptop and
starts looking at flights.

The earliest flight from here to Kyoto is two days from now, on a Monday. It's a red-eye
flight that leaves at five in the morning. It gives Dazai great petty pleasure to book it,
knowing that Shuuji will have to wake up at three or even earlier to make the flight.

And while he's there...

He can't help but look up flights to Osaka. There's a first class flight that leaves next
Saturday, at eleven in the morning. He’s taken a few flights to Osaka, so he knows that the
view from above is beautiful and he wouldn’t want Chuuya to miss it.

The recommended return flight is five days later, at the same time. Almost a week.

And there’s an ad for a nearby hotel, which conveniently has a terrace suite that is available
for reservation on those same five days.

(It’s the ads, that’s how they get you, every time.)

Dazai remembers the way Chuuya literally would not let them leave his balcony until he
actually fell asleep in his arms and had to be carried back to bed, the last time he was here. It
wouldn’t be the same, particularly because the suite doesn’t come with one furry menace that
answered to the name Yoko, but Dazai thinks he’d like the view. The city lights of Osaka at
night are incredible.

He hovers over the ‘book reservation’ button for a long time, wondering how exactly he
should go about doing this. They aren’t quite at the point where Dazai can just whisk Chuuya
away for a few days without a single problem or any hesitation.

He does want it to be a surprise though, because he adores that look of wide-eyed wonder
and surprise he gets whenever Dazai takes him somewhere new.

Hm. He'll have to play it by ear, but he will have to ask.

He picks up his phone again, scrolling to Chuuya's contact. Maybe it's a bit early, but he has
it saved under 'baby'. He's constantly torn on the profile picture— he loves the first picture
Chuuya ever sent him, the teasingly seductive one where he's wearing his shirt.

But the secret one Dazai took while he was sleeping, hair spread out over Dazai's pillow and
his face soft and lax with sleep is so good. Yoko is in that one too, barely, the tips of her ears
poking up from behind his head from where she's lying behind him.

Maybe he'll make one his background picture, since he can't seem to decide.

He presses the call button, headache already starting to fade away.

 The Dragon Chair
Chapter Summary

He will regret being so harsh, in a few months. If he had been thinking instead of
reacting, he could’ve secured an alliance of sorts between him and Kouyou.

And if he had done that, he could’ve prevented Chuuya getting—

Well. He could’ve prevented a lot of things.

But he didn’t, and it doesn’t occur to him now what mistake he’s made.

For now, he paces. He does not sleep.

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone!! I'm back >:D Moving went pretty okay, all things considered! Still a lot of
things I'm figuring out, but I got enough free time in my motel to update lol. Thanks for
all your patience!! I am going to try to do a double update today, to make up for the
missed update last week, but no promises! <3 We should be back on my regular update
schedule from now on!

This chapter includes:

- a phone call
- an invitation
- a story
- a mistake

He won't admit this to anyone else, but Chuuya is sulking . Hiding underneath his blanket,
grumpily staring at his phone, refusing to answer his friends texts.The whole she-bang.

He's not proud of it, but fuck, his feelings are hurt. Maybe they shouldn't be— it's not like
Dazai has an obligation to him and it’s not like he has any right to demand that he doesn’t see
his family— but he should've at least said something.
Chuuya is on break for a little under two months, and he's essentially stranded here at campus
because he doesn't have enough money to take the trip back home. He hasn't asked his dad or
Kouyou for extra money yet, because he assumed that Dazai would want to do something
with him over break.

An assumption that was embarrassingly wrong, apparently, because Dazai is going to visit
his baby mama with his son for an unknown amount of time. Maybe all of his break! Shuuji
certainly made it sound like it was all of break.

And really, they've been texting nearly non-stop and called a few times, and had that date last
week, so there was plenty of opportunity for Dazai to tell him he was leaving for two months!

He's in his notes app, writing a strongly worded letter to Dazai that will never see the light of
day. It's mostly just cursing and calling him a small-dicked motherfucker— that part is erased
with a particularly fierce scowl because that's simply not true, and Chuuya knows it— and it's
just an anger management tool so he doesn't do anything rash.

Like calling Dazai and asking why he didn't tell him. He's not breaking the silence on that
subject first, even if it leaves him huffing irritably underneath his blankets—

[ INCOMING CALL: Daddy <3 ]

[ ACCEPT OR DECLINE ]

He lets it ring once, twice, torn about what to do.

The petty part of him wants to ignore it and send it to voicemail. Let him experience how
frustrating it is to deal with someone who just won’t communicate.

The angry part of him wants to answer it and demand answers. The lovesick part of him is
going 'Dazai!!!' complete with sparkles and heart eyes.
And well—

Not answering probably won't make his mood better.

Answering might make it worse, but he's getting tired of ranting to his lifeless app. It makes
him feel pathetic, anger twisting uselessly in his gut until he feels sick.

He clicks accept with a haughty sniff, not even greeting Dazai with a hello.

Dazai doesn't seem to notice though, because as soon as he hears Chuuya's breathing on the
other line, he's saying with a low, empathetic voice, like he's so happy he answered, "Good
evening, lovely."

Chuuya's traitor stomach flips with happiness at the quality of his voice. At the smile he can
hear. "Hi," he manages to grumble, trying to keep most of the anger out of his voice. He
doesn't want to tip Dazai off that he's irritated too early.

"Did I wake you up?" Dazai asks, sounding a little too amused for his current tastes.

And well, that is a good reason for how irritable he sounds right now. "Yes," he sniffs, "I'm
grumpy."

The little 'awwww' Dazai lets out sounds like he thinks that's adorable instead of frightening
or something to be wary of. Jerk.

"Well, I have something that might fix that."

...Let it be known that Chuuya's good moods can be bought. At least his interest can be
bought. "Like what?"
Dazai's voice is distantly curious, like the answer he might get doesn't matter too much. "Do
you have plans for next weekend and the week following?"

Yes, actually, a strict schedule of seething, wallowing and throwing himself a pity party. He
simply cannot miss it, it’s far too important to reschedule. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

"What do you think about going on a little trip together?"

Chuuya blinks in surprise, mind stalling out. He wasn't sure what he was expecting but it
wasn't that. Not only is he kind of surprised that Dazai wants to do something as involved as
'taking a trip together', but he also thought—

"Aren't you busy? I thought you were leaving Yokohama for break?"

The silence he receives from that is so filled with confusion that Chuuya is starting to rethink
this whole situation.

"Chuuya…," Whenever Dazai says his name instead of one of the many nicknames he has for
him, it always makes Chuuya think he's about to be told something serious. Or that he's in
trouble. "What made you think I was leaving?"

Swallowing hard, Chuuya mutters something into the phone that's too low to hear.

"What?"

"I said," he repeats, taking a deep breath because now he's starting to feel stupid. "That
Shuuji told me."
Another silence, this one longer and more painful simply because Chuuya feels like he
messed up. That he over-reacted or was being stupid, naively believing everything that he’s
told without even checking for facts.

"First off, Shuuji does not speak for me. If he tells you something and you don't know if it's
true or not— please talk to me first before believing him." Dazai's voice is firm but not angry
or loud. Not yelling but definitely not gentle either.

Chuuya shrinks a little. He should've known better. He shouldn't have just blindly believed
Shuuji, especially because he lied to him before.

Stupid, stupid, too trusting, naïve, stupid.

"I'm assuming he told you before the last hour, in which case— I wasn't even talked to about
visiting his mother with him when he told you that. And when I was asked, I told them no.
Do you know why?"

Curled up beneath his blankets feeling like the year's biggest idiot, Chuuya mutters in his
smallest voice, "No. Why?"

"Because I wanted to make plans with you, baby."

Oh. He...said no to spending time with his family in order to spend time with him? So they
could take a trip together?

God, that's—

So sweet, and much more than he ever expected. He doesn't know what to say or even what
to think, because his chest feels overfull with this warm, bubbly feeling, so much he can
barely breathe without tasting liquid happiness.
All that anger from before is gone, replaced by a giant smile. He's hiding his face in his
pillow, even though it's not like anyone is around to see and Dazai can't hear the furious
blush on his face.

One of the best things about Dazai is he never makes Chuuya feel like he should be ashamed
about his inexperience. Whenever he does or thinks something wrong, he just gently corrects
him into the right way, and that's so much better than being yelled at, or lectured, or made to
feel guilty.

It eases some tension he didn't even know he was feeling. Relationships are hard, and the
confusing, scary mess he had with Shuuji ruined what little confidence he had. Even Dazai
can be frightening at times, because of how much older and more experienced he is. He’s
bound to make mistakes, but the feeling of being allowed to make mistakes without serious
repercussions is so reassuring .

The man has gone out of his way multiple times to make sure that Chuuya feels safe and
secure with him, and that fear of failure is beginning to fade away. He's even beginning to
feel confident again, which sometimes can lead to stupid, thoughtless mistakes like these.

But it's okay, because when Chuuya gives a small, "Oh. Okay," in a tiny, elated voice, it earns
him an amused, fond huff of breath from the other side of the phone.

"Okay what, lovely? Okay you understand, or okay you want to go on a trip with me?"

"Both," Chuuya says, before he actually thinks about it. Then he’s reminded of something
very important, and he winces, wishing he didn’t have to take his words back. “Actually I
can’t go on the trip.”

He can practically hear Dazai pouting on the other end as he asks, “Why not?”

Chuuya rolls over, wondering how to put this lightly . He knows he shouldn’t be ashamed of
his financial situation— he’s only a young adult himself and his father is a single dad to three
kids— but he can’t help feeling like he should be. “I spent too much money on those earrings
for dinner at your house, and I’m broke for a while still.”
(Admittedly, Dazai has never really experienced poverty in any aspect.

When he was young, his family was well-off, even if it was borrowed and stolen from others.
It was money, even if it wasn’t rightfully theirs.

When he was with Mori, all his needs were taken care of—by force, if necessary— so Dazai
never needed to worry about needing to afford something he wanted or needed. In fact, he
took it as a challenge multiple times to spend as much money as possible on the worst things
he could imagine, just to piss Mori off.

Then, as he grew a little older and realized that Mori’s benevolence towards him was not
guaranteed nor permanent—

He started siphoning off cash from the Mafia accounts and creating his own stash. He was
careful and smart about it, never drawing too much attention by draining an account too
much or using any accounts with his name on it.

By the time he left, he’d amassed quite a little treasure store. It kept him afloat when he was
having his little mental breakdown/quarter life crisis when he was in hiding that he prefers
not to even think about, and if he didn’t spend money, it was a choice.

It was never because he didn’t have money to spend.

So the fact that the beautiful little angel of his does have to worry about that, things like
earrings and outfits and maybe even food, breaks his heart.

It also warms his chest because he spent money he didn’t really have so he could look pretty
for Dazai, and he did. God, he did. So goddamn pretty.
It’s at this moment when Dazai swears he’s going to spoil the hell out of the chibi. It’s final.
The decision has been made, and Chuuya can’t make him change his mind.)

It’s quiet for so long that Chuuya shifts awkwardly in bed, wishing they weren’t ruminating
on the revelation that he is, in fact, not well-off.

He wouldn’t say poor, because he has seen what actual poverty looks like, and he’s actually
pretty privileged himself. He’s at one of the top universities of the country, for fucks sake.

He just can’t afford to go on a ‘little trip’ for a week whenever he feels like it. He has to
budget and watch his spending, and if he’s careless with his money then he has to wait until
he gets next month’s allowance.

“Chuuya, I wouldn’t invite you if I wasn't going to pay for it all. You don't have to worry
about that, not ever," Dazai says, voice filled with something fervent, like he needs Chuuya
to believe him.

And well—

Chuuya is getting better at the whole accepting gifts thing. It used to make him feel really
guilty, because his only frame of reference with relationships were with people near his own
financial status. Maybe a little better off, maybe a little worse—

But still, not many of his friends from before could often afford to drop money on whatever
they wanted. They had allowances, and budgets.

Shuuji obviously didn't have such restrictions, but somehow whatever money and effort he
spent felt like it cost Chuuya emotionally. Like he was counting every penny, and would
demand something in repayment later.

The thought was exhausting and anxiety-inducing.

But he remembers the way Dazai's face lit up when he accepted the leather jacket, and when
he saw him wearing the choker the other day…

He looked so pleased with himself that it’s hard not to believe that he genuinely enjoys
spending money on him and buying him gifts.

And you know? A trip does sound fun, and he certainly deserves it after all his hard work this
semester, and how much of an emotional rollercoaster it was. "Then yes, I'd love to. Where
are we going?"

He can hear the happiness in Dazai's voice this time. "Osaka. The rest is a surprise."

A surprise? Chuuya loves surprises, especially ones that involve travel.

"What should I bring?"

There's a thoughtful hum from the other end of the line, punctuated by a few clicks of what
sound like keys on a computer.

Then a pleased sigh, "Nothing, baby. Just bring your beautiful self, and I'll take care of the
rest."

Oda has brewed her tea.

Which isn't unusual, he's a very thoughtful man. Kouyou rarely has to do more than frown at
her paperwork before a cup of lavender or chamomile is appearing at her elbow.
He says it's because he's her bodyguard and so he is obligated to taste-test all her food and
drink before it gets into her hands, and making it himself is easier than testing whatever
someone else makes her.

Really, Kouyou doesn't understand why the man tries to hide that he loves to cook for her, but
she supposes it's just her duty to play along with the charade.

This time would be no different, except for a few key things:

One, it's been an easy day. Mostly ensuring that the next shipment of product is coming in on
time, and her people are ready to receive and distribute it. Paperwork that’s easily filled out
and filed.

There was even a lovely walk along the pier involved, something that happens all too rarely
these days. She's usually stuck in her office all day, signing off on paperwork and corralling
her executives like a bunch of unruly children.

(To be honest, she prefers actual children more. Sakura is a darling and at least she isn’t quite
so stubborn.)

Two, this tea is not chamomile or lavender, or even a more expensive and time-consuming
oolong tea. No, this tea is Gyokuro, one of the most expensive green teas she has in her
collection. It's brewed just the way she likes it, just a hair underneath the recommended
temperature, so she can appreciate the full flavor of the tea.

In simpler words—

It is a bribe. The question is, what for?

Oda hasn't done anything to get himself in trouble for quite a while— unless he has and she
doesn't know about it, and this is just a pre-emptive way to head off her anger— and most of
the things he would need from her are either bedroom related or something to do with the
business.

The first one,he doesn't need to bribe her, he merely needs to ask. And the second, well.

There's no telling what that could be. Not yet, anyways.

She allows herself a small sip of the tea, breathing in the aroma indulgently. It's crisp, clean,
smelling like plants and sunlight. "Sakunosuke," she murmurs after a moment, catching her
guard's attention.

Oda is sitting in a chair three spots down on the long conference table. He's been keeping
himself busy by methodically going through all his weapons, dismantling them and cleaning
them meticulously before carefully putting them back together.

It's a fascinating process to watch, the quiet concentration on his face as his hands move over
the weapons without hesitation. It looks almost like he's meditating, approaching peace, even
though the tools in his hands are lethal.

It's the same strange dichotomy that Sakunosuke always has, at home in the most dangerous
places in Yokohama, peaceful in the middle of a battlefield, kind where he should be cruel.

Oda hums in question, holding up one of his pistols to check the sight on it. It's half-
assembled, shiny with whatever cleaning agent Oda had been using on it.

(Kouyou does have to admit that Oda in just his white button down and the gun holsters
hanging over his shoulders and underneath each arm as he works is a pleasant sight,
especially with the rolled up sleeves and the way the muscles flex in his forearms with every
sure movement of his fingers. He’s always been beautiful.)

"What do you want?"

That gets Oda's full attention, turning his head to look at her. The gun is placed on the table
and is replaced for the next part needed for assembly. Taking a dirty rag, the same one he'd
used for most of the other pieces, he starts to give the metal a thorough wipedown. "What
makes you think I want something, love?"

Kouyou takes a loud, pointed sip of her tea, eyes unwavering on his face.

Oda's mouth tips up into a lopsided, sheepish smile. The face of a man who's been caught.

He is, at least, smart enough not to beat around the bush. Being direct has always been his
most favorable trait. "Dazai wants a meeting."

That makes her scowl. Truly, she has little reason to loathe the man as much as she does,
considering she's never actually met him. She's heard plenty about him though, from Oda and
Yosano— who mean well, of course, and Kouyou never begrudges them talking about their
childhood friend— and from a few of her executives who think that Dazai is the rightful heir
to the Mafia.

To them, she's just a glorified seat warmer until the real king comes home and claims his
throne.

It boils her blood like no other, especially because she has scraped and clawed her way to the
top since she was sixteen . She's earned her position, with bloody hands and quick thinking.
She will not let it be taken from her from her, especially by someone who gave up their
power.

She's heard all the stories about Dazai, practically grew up on them. Yosano and Oda have
given her a more in-depth look at who he is with insider details, but they all boil down to the
same concepts:

Dazai is a ruthless, cunning, savage of a man, and if he truly wanted her seat? If he was
determined to take back his bloody crown?
Nothing could stop him. Not Oda, not Yosano, not herself.

Granted, she is aware that it has been over a decade since he left the mafia, and he has shown
no interest in returning. Their interactions are brief, information for information, or buying
him off when he makes noises about selling their information to some other clan.

Dazai Osamu exists in a grey area. He is technically not an ally to the mafia, nor is he
necessarily an enemy. Just like he is not technically an ally to Kouyou, but neither is he
exactly her enemy.

It's a cowards choice, she knows, to ignore him in the hopes that he'll eventually get the hint
and stop asking to meet with her—

But there's something about looking in the face of a predator that could and might pin and kill
you at any given moment, that makes her want to hide. In some senses, ignorance really is
bliss.

“You know I don't like discussing him, Sakunosuke," she sniffs, taking another sip of tea to
calm her rising irritation. "It gives the executives the wrong idea."

Oda sighs, exchanging his cloth for a smaller wire-brush tool. "We're the only ones here," he
reminds her, "and I don't think that refusing to acknowledge him makes your position any
stronger. It makes you look like you're scared of him."

"I do not fear him," she snaps, irritated. This is not technically a lie. She does not fear Dazai
himself, but rather what he could do, if he had a reason or motivation .

Oda looks at her with something like understanding, but she cuts him off before he can say
anything more. "What does he want?"
"He said he wants to discuss what the Rats are up to. Said he has some information the Mafia
probably doesn't have access to."

That is not very surprising. The Rats have been an increasingly annoying presence as of
late.Always on the port, making their presence known in the shipping yard. There's been a
few times her subordinates have caught them on their territory. They haven't caused any
problems yet, always being very respectful and melting away as soon as they notice the
Mafia.

But their numbers are growing, and tensions are rising. Something will have to break, and
soon.

Still, awfully convenient that Dazai is offering help now, when he's been offering her
cutthroat deals for the last two years, deals that cost her almost as much as they helped her. "I
find it hard to believe that his intentions are honorable or to be helpful to the Mafia."

This makes Oda sigh, adding the newly cleaned piece to his half-assembled gun with a
metallic click. His expression doesn't visibly change, but his emotions have always been
more detectable in his voice. His tone now is almost somber as he says, "You judge him too
harshly, sometimes. He didn't choose this life. He's making the best of what he has, and he's
not... he's not an evil man."

The green tea is not as relaxing as it usually is. In fact, it's starting to sour on her tongue. "No
one chooses to join the Mafia."

Oda looks up at her then, and his eyes are always so piercing. They seem to see straight into
her soul, straight into the heart of the matter. It's hard to hide anything from him, because he
always sees through everything.

"You did."

She falls silent. That is true, mostly. She did choose to join the mafia, but in her defense—
It didn’t feel like a choice, back then. It felt like the only thing that made sense in the huge
world she was in.

She was only sixteen, so lost and confused. She didn’t know who she was, who she wanted to
be, how to do most of the things that the other girls in her classes knew how to do.

And she was so angry. All the time. Filled with roiling, frothing rage that she didn’t know
how to contain or how to handle it.

At school, there were girls who snickered at her when she confessed that she didn’t know
how to do a braid in her hair. And at home—

There was a snot-nosed, needy, annoying little brother that killed her mother.

(She regrets thinking that now, later on in life, but when she was younger, she didn’t know
what else to think. All she knew is that her pregnant mother went to the hospital and the only
one to return was her brother.)

And he was so sick all the time back then, the consequences of being born too early. Their
father was always fussing over him, fretting over if he was too hot or too cold, or if he’d
eaten not enough or too much, if that single cough was a sign of him falling sick again.

Kouyou is the eldest, and a lot of the responsibilities fell to her. It was unfair, and her father
did the best he could—

But there were three of them, to only one parent. A parent that worked nearly every day, and
then stayed up most of the night making sure her sick little brother didn’t choke in his sleep.

She cooked. She cleaned. Made sure Kyouka did her homework, and Chuuya got his daily
medicines even though he always bit her fingers like a spoiled brat. Cleaned again, because
Chuuya was messy.
Sometimes he did it for attention too, because Kouyou hated him and refused to spend more
time than necessary with him, so when he was being needy again, he’d knock over all the
toys in the living room. They’d clean them up together, Kouyou silently fuming while
Chuuya continually got distracted by the toys he was supposed to be putting away.

Back then, she’d thought of it as him being spoiled . He didn’t get enough attention from
father, so he needed to get more from her as well, like a little brat that was never happy
unless he was the center of everything all the time.

(Meanwhile, Chuuya was always so lost and confused on why no one wanted to play with
him. Dad said he was sick a lot and couldn’t do what the other kids did. Maybe that made
him bad at playing?

But even when he swore he was feeling good and took all his medicines and promised to
learn the games so he could play them, and he wouldn’t cheat, not once—

His sisters still didn’t play with him. Kyouka was always reading or coloring or playing on
the computer with the pet bunny that was somehow stuck in the screen. She let him join her
without complaint, always sharing her crayons, but it got boring after a while. She never
wanted to do anything else .

And Kouyou was so cool. She was big and tall and she knew everything, so she had to know
really cool games!

But she never let him play with her and she always told him to go to bed. She never let him
watch movies on her phone with her, or built pillow forts or played tag or anything.

And so Chuuya came up with his own game. It was a bad game, and he wasn’t good at it and
Kouyou hated it, but she always played.

‘How fast can you pick up all the toys?’)

With every meal Kouyou cooked and homework assignment she helped with, every late
bedtime and dropped grade because she didn’t have time to finish her own homework, she
got angrier.

Because it wasn’t fair.

She never wanted a brother. She didn’t need a stupid little brother—

She needed a mother. She needed someone to teach her how to braid her hair and how to put
on makeup and how to walk in tall shoes. She needed someone to tell her why her chest
started to hurt all the time, and to tell her it was okay and no, she wasn’t dying when she bled
between the legs for the first time.

Of the three of them, her father always said that Chuuya inherited their mother’s strength and
bravery, and Kyouka got her intelligence.

Kouyou got her temper.

And it must be true, because she remembers long nights sobbing silently in bed, praying for
any god to hear her and give her mother back. She’d give anything, do anything. She’d ace
her next quiz, do all the chores without complaint. She’d give up her favorite stuffed animal,
and her phone and her brother, whatever it took .

Please, I just want my mommy!

There was a time when Chuuya was seven, and his winter cold had turned into a nasty case of
pneumonia. She remembers standing over him, sleeping and pale on the hospital bed while
hooked up to various tubes and wires, and thinking with such visceral hatred that it surprised
even her—
I hope you die. All you do is cause trouble and pain, and I hope you die.

And then, like she called it into existence—

He almost did.

Apparently his lungs were filled up with so much fluid that his oxygen levels dropped
severely. He wasn’t responding quickly to antibiotics and he kept dropping weight. He looked
like a skeleton. At one point, he even had a seizure.

And that’s when she realized that this was serious. It wasn’t like all those other times where it
looked bad but he came back eventually. He could actually die here, and she had wished for it
to happen.

It was terrifying.

As she stared at her brother wasting away on the hospital bed with nurses hovering over him,
a mask over his face and an IV in his hand, she realized—

She didn’t hate him. He was annoying and what happened to them was unfair but—

She, at least, had a mother. Even if she lost her too soon, she still has pictures of them
together and videos. She can still remember her voice, singing her lullabies to help her sleep.
She remembers taking a long hike with her, and being piggy-backed the entire time while
Kouyou fawned over the plants and trees.

She had a mother.

But Chuuya?
He never had one. He’d never been rocked to sleep by her, or took pictures with her, or
played in the sprinkler in the yard with her. He’d never known her. All he’s ever known is a
fretting father and a spiteful sister.

All that time she was thinking about how unfair it was to her, and never once considered how
unfair she was being to him.

That night, she went from wishing Chuuya would disappear or die—

To begging him to be okay, promising to play with him and teach him how to play cards, and
promising to be a good big sister to him, always. Her life wouldn’t be the same without the
shrieking laughter he makes as he chases the cat around the house playfully, or the messy kiss
on her cheek as he goes to bed.

Love you, ane-san.

He did get better again, and she felt so relieved.

Of course, it’s not all rainbows and roses after that. Chuuya is a menace and always got into
her stuff and ate the food she was saving for herself and played a little too rough.

But what else are little brothers for?

Though, that didn’t solve the right ball of anger-injustice-confusion in her chest, and it didn’t
make it any easier to handle.

By the time she was fifteen, in high school in the lowest classes— not because she isn’t
smart, but because she doesn’t always have the time to take care of her siblings and herself—
she had made some... shady friends.
They showed her the secret alleyways in Tsubaka, showed her underground clubs that she’s
too young to legally get into. They meet even shadier people with sleeves of tattoos and
cutthroat attitudes and sharp, welcoming smiles.

One thing led to another led to another and well—

Here she is, a little over eight years later, sitting on the dragon chair.

She wasn’t born into the Yakuza, wasn’t bred for it, wasn’t kidnapped or forced into it. She
was asked one day, and she was angry enough, rebellious enough against her strict
upbringing that she barely even hesitated before saying yes.

So yes, it was a choice. But it was a choice she never would’ve made, if she’d had her mother
to guide her. That, she’s sure of.

She doesn’t regret her life, but she would not have chosen this path for herself under different
circumstances. Maybe she'd be like Chuuya instead. Going to college, getting a normal
boyfriend, living a normal life.

She closes her eyes, suddenly weighed down by exhaustion. She's only twenty-four, but
sometimes she feels thrice that. "I know, Sakunosuke."

Maybe he has a point, though. Hiding like a little girl under her blankets from an old legend
doesn’t secure her position. Dazai had already been long gone when she had joined the
Mafia, and Oda and Yosano have only spoken fondly of him.

As fondly as Yakuza members get, anyways.

Dazai is terrifying in theory, and she won't forget the things he's reportedly done but--
Perhaps she has fallen into old habits, and treated him unfairly. The man has had plenty of
opportunity to take the Mafia from her, and he hasn't.

Perhaps it is time to trust in Sakunosuke's word.

"Alright," she sighs, waving her hand. "Call him."

(For the record, this is the absolute worst time to call Dazai. He just got off the phone with
Fyodor, and conversing with the Russian always leaves him with something dark slithering
up his spine.

It's like playing chess, except the person you're playing with is the darker, mirror version of
yourself. What you could've been, if you were just a little...

Off.

The man in the mirror has your smile and your eyes— but it is not you.

Every word has double, triple meanings, subtle references and insults and hints scattered
throughout. Nothing said is what it means and what is meant is never said, and it's—

It's like dealing with Mori again, almost. All mind-games and tricks. It's like dealing with
himself when he was the Demon Prodigy, all razor-sharp smiles and twisted corners like a
lethal maze.

It's like stepping into a tar pit, and the abyss is hungry.

It always leaves him feeling drained. Strung out, somehow, his head too full and aching. It
feels like he's just gotten out of an ice bath, and every sensation is so raw it burns.
So when he sees Odasaku's name on his phone, he almost smiles. Almost rejects the call too,
because he does not want to talk right now.

He wants to go to sleep. Or maybe for a run, to clear up this jittery energy. Maybe call and
talk to the chibi again, just to listen to him ramble.

But it's late, and Chuuya is asleep so--

He answers.

This is a mistake.)

The phone rings twice before it's answered with a cheery, "Hi, Odasaku~!"

There's a note in it that feels forced, like Dazai isn't as happy as it sounds, but that's none of
her business. Oda looks at Kouyou, raising his brow in silent question. Should he speak first,
or should she?

She clears her throat, aiming for the firm, unquestionable tone she takes with her executives.
"Hello, Dazai."

There's a moment of silence from the other end of the line, something that feels tense and
predatory.

"Oh," Dazai drawls, condescending. "Is that the princess I hear? Finally come down from her
tower to face the dragon?"

Her spine stiffens with offense, and even Oda looks a bit nervous. Dazai has always been
infamous for his sharp tongue, but she expected a little respect. Apparently, that expectation
was too high. "I am no princess, and you are no dragon.”
She can almost see the sneer that rises on his face.

“So you say,” Dazai says, and continues in an abrupt tone, “What can I help you with?”

She does not like the way he’s speaking to her, her hackles rising. They’ve talked directly
only a handful of times and each of those times, he was respectful. A bit condescending,
which seemed par for the course, but nothing so cold and arrogant as this.

“I was told you requested a meeting. I can meet with you on the sixteenth.”

Dazai laughs, sharp and short. “How generous of you. Unfortunately, I will be out of town on
personal business. It will have to be another day.”

For someone who has been hounding her for months about meeting with her, he sure isn’t
jumping at the chance she offers. “Personal business? Surely, it can be rescheduled—.”

He cuts her off, and this is when the situation takes a turn for the worse. “Do you really
expect me to rearrange my schedule when you have been blowing me off for weeks?”

Oda’s mouth opens, probably to say something in her defense. He’s silenced by a sharp glare.
Kouyou can handle herself. She’s not weak enough to have her guard handle a situation she
got herself into. “You wanted to meet with me, as I recall.”

The noise Dazai makes is too sharp to be laughter, abrupt and angry. “You’re right. I wanted
to meet with you. Now, I’ve decided I don’t care. If you want to sit up in your tower and
ignore what goes on around you so you can hold onto the illusion that you will never be
threatened or questioned— be my guest.”

The anger she used to feel, the one that feels like dragon fire licking at her bones, begins to
stir in her chest. “I am not hiding. You do not know what it takes to control the mafia. How to
handle the city.”

This time it is a laugh that rips from Dazai’s chest, but it’s cold and cutting and
condescending. “I built that throne that you sit on. These streets ran red with the blood that I
spilled for the mafia, long before you even knew about the Yakuza. There is only one person
here who doesn’t understand how to rule the city, and it isn’t me. You are so afraid of me
coming to take your chair that you refuse to see the people who are taking the city right from
underneath your nose—.”

“Dazai,” Oda snaps, cutting him off, voice full of reprimand. Dazai falls silent with another
short, frustrated noise.

Kouyou sits on the other side of the table, silently fuming. This is the problem with Dazai
Osamu. It isn’t necessarily that he is technically the rightful heir—

It’s that he always makes her feel so stupid and young. Even in the stories Oda and Yosano
tell, the fond recollections of 'do you remember when Osamu did this totally stupid thing that
was actually wickedly smart and ended up working out for everyone?' —

Even in the stories, Kouyou can never measure up to him. It makes her feel so worthless,
because she clawed her way up to the top with years of hard work and ruthlessness--

And she still pales in comparison to a child that ran the mafia over a decade ago.

The tense silence is broken with a sigh from the phone. Dazai sounds less angry this time and
more... just done, with everything. "You should know something, Kouyou. Information sells
well to either side, and twice as well in a war. You should secure your allies while you still
can. If you decide you want to know what information I have, and how I can help, you know
how to contact me. I am willing to meet on my own time.”

Then he hangs up without another word, leaving Oda and Kouyou hanging in the silence that
follows.
Eventually, Oda speaks up, voice quiet like he’s trying to avoid setting off a bomb. “He’s not
usually like that—.”

Kouyou silences him with a withering glare. She doesn’t care for excuses, or reasons. “Don’t
ask me to meet with him again.”

Oda nods lightly, looking chastised.

(Admittedly, Dazai does feel bad about saying all that. While it might be true, there was no
need for him to say it.

But right now he doesn’t feel like Dazai. He feels like the Demon Prodigy, sharp eyes and
sharper tongue. He can almost feel Mori’s breath on the back of his neck, and his home office
in the dark almost looks like Mori’s office.

And the Demon Prodigy only knew one way to deal with the frothing wrath and agony and
confusion inside him—

To sink his teeth in and bite, making sure everyone else around him was bleeding too. At
least he wouldn’t be alone then.

He will regret being so harsh, in a few months. If he had been thinking instead of reacting, he
could’ve secured an alliance of sorts between him and Kouyou.

And if he had done that, he could’ve prevented Chuuya getting—

Well. He could’ve prevented a lot of things.

But he didn’t, and it doesn’t occur to him now what mistake he’s made.
For now, he paces. He does not sleep.)
 Have you ever heard of the Mile High Club?
Chapter Summary

Dazai sits beside him, having to adjust himself a little awkwardly in his seat because his
legs are so ridiculously long. Chuuya can't imagine him in economy class, where the
seats are far closer together. His knees would be pressed to his chest.

The image is so hilarious that he almost doesn't hear Dazai when he speaks up again.

"Have you ever heard of the mile high club?"

Chuuya frowns, trying to think. "No? Is that when you ride on a plane for the first
time?"

Dazai's secretive, smug smile makes him feel like he's missing something. “That’s one
way of putting it, yes.”

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone! Here's that extra chapter I promised you for the missed one last week <3
After this, we will be returning to my normal schedule of 1 chapter per Saturday, barring
any complications. I'll keep everyone updated, and I hope everyone enjoys this chapter!!
See you all next week <3

This chapter includes:

- a wait
- a plane ride
- brief mentions of a past suicide attempt and the resulting scars
- a hotel

The idea of going somewhere, anywhere, without packing is just...

Strange.

Dazai said ‘bring nothing’ but does that not include his clothes? A phone charger?
Toothbrush? Underwear?
Is he really supposed to bring nothing or was that some sort of code for like...bring only the
essentials? Bring only what he wanted to bring? Don't bring a lot of stuff but bring some
stuff?

Honestly, Chuuya gets so tired running in circles around the damn question that he ends up
emptying his backpack in a fit of frustration. He shoves an extra change of clothes in there, as
well as his phone charger, his toiletries, his make-up, and the book he's currently reading.

It still feels like so little, and his father's advice about not packing well enough is ringing in
his ears but—

He did say nothing. Chuuya will look stupid if he shows up with an entire suitcase— not that
he actually owns a suitcase— when Dazai isn't expecting it.

(He'll also look stupid if he shows up with nothing and that's not what Dazai meant, so he
thinks the backpack is a nice compromise. Just enough stuff to tide him over in case of
emergencies, but following directions.)

Then there's nothing left to do but wait. Which is a lot of waiting, because he really doesn't
have much to do now that he's on break. He signed up for his classes next semester— another
six classes, because he apparently hates himself and loathes free time or any sort of peace—
and does some preliminary studying to be prepared, but there's really nothing else to keep
him occupied in the week before the vacation.

He hangs out with Yuan and Nikolai a few times— Shuuji has already left for Kyoto, with a
series of tongue emoji's and sunglasses faces in the chat— but Nikolai is usually busy with
work and Yuan is spending more time with her family, so. He’s usually by himself, killing
time on his phone, with every minute stretching out for what seems like hours.

Waiting is agony. The anticipation and excitement builds with every minute, until he can
hardly sit still anymore.
He's never been to Osaka before. It was too far for his father's tastes, when they did manage
to take a vacation once a year or two. Usually they went to the smaller, mountainous cities, or
Tokyo, and once to Yokohama.

He's never been so far from home, and never with someone he was romantically involved
with.

Not knowing the game plan— Dazai has been surprisingly secretive with whatever plans he's
made and most of Chuuya's questions are answered with ‘I’ll tell you if you really want, but
don’t you want to keep it as a surprise?’— makes his anticipation build.

His imagination is running wild. What are they going to do in Osaka? How are they going to
get there? Where are they going to stay? Are they going to see something cool like—

Like—

Chuuya doesn’t even know, but he is extremely excited. He even spends most of a day going
through the internet about the most popular spots in Osaka. Checking out all the tourist traps
and oohing and aahing over the photos people had posted.

By the time the day arrives—

He’s so excited he barely even slept. Dazai said he was picking him up around seven in the
morning, which seems pretty early but Dazai said it was so they could get to Osaka around
eleven.

He’s awake by five, practically bouncing on his bed like a kid as he waits for the minutes to
pass by agonizingly slowly. By 6:30 he’s checked his phone like a hundred times, waiting for
an incoming text. Every notification makes his heart leap in his chest and then sink again
when it’s not a text.
When Dazai’s icon— that picture of him and Yoko with the unbuttoned slacks—flickers to
life, Chuuya is leaping up and throwing his shoes on as quickly as possible.

[ DADDY <3 ]: I’m outside. Are you awake?

He barely remembers to lock up behind him— Nikolai said he wouldn’t be home until later
tonight— before he’s bolting down the hallway.

He’s lucky that most of the other students have gone home for the summer break, because he
probably would’ve woken up quite a few people with the ruckus he makes as he jumps down
the stairs and slams into the downstairs door.

He can’t help it; he’s so excited he barely even knows what to do with himself. It’s like he’s a
little kid again, going on his first vacation.

The air outside is chilly, but he barely even feels it. The warmth on his cheeks and the crazy
grin on his face are plenty enough to keep him warm.

Dazai is parked in the same spot he always uses, his car rumbling softly in the quiet air. He’s
leaning against the passenger door, a cup of something in each hand.Steam rises from the
cups, and Chuuya is drawn in like a moth to flame, as easy and simple as nature.

When Dazai sees him, the neutral expression melts off his face, replaced by a big, shiny grin.
His teeth are white and straight, and that single dimple is just deep enough to be visible from
where Chuuya is walking—jogging, really— over and it’s—

It’s like dawn breaking over the clouds. The frost is melting away and the birds are singing,
and the air might be cold but here/=, here it is light and warm and beautiful.

When Chuuya is close enough, Dazai greets him with, “Good morning, lov— oof.”
Did Chuuya have to basically throw himself into his arms, making them collide together with
enough speed to knock the breath from them both? No.

Did he enjoy doing it? Yes.

Dazai is still holding his cups, so he can’t hug him back when Chuuya wraps his arms around
his waist and squeezes him as tight as he possibly can, burying his face into his chest.

It’s been a little over two weeks since they last saw each other. They’ve called and texted
nearly constantly, but it’s not the same. Chuuya feels like something inside him is slowly
dying of dehydration whenever he’s away from Dazai, and it’s only until he sees that soft
smile that he’s finally able to bloom again.

“Hi,” he mutters into his chest, squeezing him again.

He’s close enough that he can hear the rumble as Dazai gives a short, fond laugh. “Hello,
Chuuya. Did you miss me?”

There’s only one answer to that question:

Leaning back a little, he slides his hands around to his front and then up, up, up—

Until his fingers are curling around the back of Dazai’s neck and tugging him down. Dazai
bends for him easily, and Chuuya gets as high up on his toes as he can, bridging the distance
between them.

“Yes,” he breathes in the space between them, and then chases after the sound until he can
taste Dazai’s smile.

The kiss is slow, lazy, like the feeling of coming home again after a long day of work. Dazai
tastes faintly of coffee, but mostly like warmth and sweetness.
Because Dazai’s hands are still full, that means Chuuya is in charge of how long the kiss goes
on for. He drags it out for a long while, until he’s almost dizzy with the feeling of their
mouths sliding together, the entire world hovering between the touch of their lips.

“You’re going to make us late,” Dazai murmurs against his lips, warm breath washing over
his face. He doesn’t try to pull away though, and he’s smiling again.

Chuuya hums, not really caring. Screw the trip. He’s just fine where he is. Osaka doesn’t
have Dazai, and he’s discovering that’s all he needs.

Another long, indulgent kiss later, and Chuuya finally gets his fill. For now, anyway. He
swears he’s an addict, he’s never happy unless he’s got the taste of Dazai on his tongue,
always searching for his next taste.

“Good morning,” he says, beaming up at him.

Dazai’s eyes are caramel-sweet and as warm as the coffee Chuuya can smell, so soft and deep
that he feels like he could trip into them and keep falling forever. “Good morning, Chuuya.”

Pulling back, he offers him one of the cups in his hands. “Payment for making you wake
up.... ah, what was it you said that one time? ‘Monstrously early’?”

He did say that, on a late night call, where he was half-delirious from exhaustion. It’s
adorable that Dazai remembered.

He takes his cup, smiling gratefully up at him. Takes a long sip, discovers that it’s his favorite
drink from one of his favorite cafés.

“Are you ready?”

Chuuya nods, pulling on the shoulder strap to his backpack. It still feels far too light, but it
doesn’t look like Dazai brought anything, so. It looks like he made the right decision.

Sliding over, Dazai opens the passenger door and holds it open for him. Chuuya ducks
underneath his arm, climbing into his seat.

The backpack goes in the back seat— there’s another backpack there, a little bigger than his
own— and it’s only a matter of moments before Dazai is sliding into the driver's seat.

Once again thanking the manufacturing gods for heated seats, Chuuya pulls his legs up into
the seat with him. “Are we driving there?”

Dazai puts the car into drive, pulling smoothly out of the parking lot. “No. We’re flying.”

Chuuya blinks. He’s never been on a plane before. His dad insisted that they were death
contraptions, and that stepping on one was basically signing away your life. Whenever they
took a trip somewhere, they always took a train or drove.

Which was fun, sometimes, but being locked in a car with two sisters and your dad in city
traffic, sometimes for hours, got old pretty quick. Travelling was never as fun as the
destination was.

It’s a good thing he brought his wallet with his ID in it, then. “I’ve never been on a plane
before,” he confesses.

Dazai gives him a slightly-concerned look. “Because you haven’t had the chance, or because
you don’t like them? If you want, we can—.”

“No, I think it’s fine,” Chuuya cuts him off, shrugging lightly. “Is it scary?”
The corner of Dazai’s mouth tips upward, and his free hand reaches across the middle
console. His fingers find Chuuya’s palm, pushing his fingers apart until Dazai’s can fit in
between.

He gives his hand a squeeze, quietly reassuring. “No, it’s not. And I’ll be there with you.”

(Chuuya doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it being scary would probably be a perk— he
loves roller coasters and wants to go skydiving someday because there’s something addictive
about adrenaline and fear—so he just squeezes his hand back with a small, heartfelt smile.)

The traffic gets a little heavier as they approach the airport, which is probably one of the
reasons Dazai insisted on picking him up so early. Sometimes the traffic is quick, and
sometimes it’s at a standstill for close to an hour. All depends on the day and how many
tourists are arriving and leaving.

There is a tall parking garage on the airport grounds that Dazai pulls into. He drives almost
all the way to the top, getting a ticket from the valet person sitting near the entrance.

“Aren’t you worried about leaving your car here?” Chuuya asks, because it is a beautiful and
expensive car, one that would be a prime target for stealing. He wouldn’t leave this car alone
for a week.

Dazai shrugs. “Not really. Airports have surprisingly good security, and the car itself has a
good anti-theft system. It would take someone very talented to be able to steal it.”

Well, he sounds pretty confident, so Chuuya decides to just accept that answer.

They find a parking spot near the top of the building, tucked away near the wall. The ticket
the valet gave them is placed on the dashboard in clear sight, so the vehicle isn’t towed away
while they’re gone.
As they get out, Dazai reaches in the back and grabs both of their bags before Chuuya can
even move his seat forward. He reaches for his own bag so he can carry it—

Only for Dazai to shrug it onto his shoulder, freeing up his hand so he can hold Chuuya’s.

He flushes, ducking his head a little. It’s mind-boggling how easily Dazai is affectionate with
him in public. He’s affectionate in private, yes, and when they first see each other—

But somehow Chuuya expected that behavior to be selective only at certain times. So far it’s
proving not to be, which feels Chuuya with such warmth and giddiness and something like
pride.

Because Dazai might not be in his league or on his level— which is pretty obvious, just based
on the way Chuuya is dressed compared to him and his years-old backpack hanging over his
shoulder right next to a sleek, expensive looking one— but he’s not ashamed of Chuuya.

It’s not a secret that Chuuya is with him. He’s not hiding it, or keeping it hidden away where
no one knows and can judge him for it. The man is openly holding his hand, with a watch
that probably costs a semester of tuition on his wrist while Chuuya is wearing a thrifted
jacket, where everyone can see. And he doesn’t look the least bit bothered or embarrassed by
it.

As they approach the elevator down to the ground floor, Dazai glances over at him. “Are you
excited?”

There’s a trash can near the door that Chuuya throws his empty coffee cup into. “Very.”

Dazai presses the button for the elevator. As they wait, he reaches out and brushes his
fingertips over his cheek. His skin feels thin and burning under his touch, and he can’t do
anything except stare up at him in awe as Dazai tucks his bangs behind his ear.

“I’m glad.”
God, how is he so perfect, it's not fair .

The elevator arriving then spares Chuuya from having to come up with a response. The ride
down is quick, the floor dropping out smoothly beneath their feet.

From there, it's only a short trip through a tunnel connecting the garage to the main airport.
The walls have paintings on them, of scenes from far away lands. The noise of the airport
grows louder as they get closer. Machines beeping, a monotone voice over the loudspeaker
announcing flights, the rolling wheels of baggage over tile.

When they walk through the automatic doors on the other side, Dazai gives his hand a
squeeze. "I'll check us in."

He untangles their hands, leaving Chuuya to stand awkwardly in the middle of what almost
looks like a lobby as he goes to talk to the receptionist at the desks. He looks around, taking
in the sights.

It's all clean and rather sterile, almost like a hotel or a hospital. There's tons of people coming
and going, none of them dressed the same. Some of them are obviously businessmen, dressed
in neatly ironed suits with their phones pressed to their ears. Others are tourists, staring
around in wide-eyed wonder with their passports clutched to their chest.

Honestly, Chuuya relates to the tourists more, because this place doesn't even feel real. It
feels like a place between worlds, a place you pass through but never stay for long. Time
seems to stand still here, every minute fading away before it can be counted.

Dazai returns then, two pieces of paper in his hand. The beige turtleneck sweater he's wearing
makes him look softer in the airport lighting.

"For you," he says, offering Chuuya one of the papers.

He takes it, looking down at it. It's a ticket, with his name, the date and times of his leaving
and return flight and--

It says first class on it, in big iridescent letters.

His first flight is going to be in first class . Wow.

With a hand on his back, Dazai ushers him towards the security checkpoints. He still has both
their bags over his shoulder, and they get sent through a conveyor belt to get searched.

After confirming their identities with their ID's, each of them gets a small handheld metal
detector waved over their bodies. Chuuya doesn't have a single problem, because he doesn't
even have any earrings in but Dazai--

The metal detector beeps faintly when it's passed over his face. His eyes find Chuuya,
burning with suggestion as he opens his mouth and rolls out his tongue to show off the
piercing.

Chuuya flushes, body instantly flashing with the remembered sensations of what that piercing
felt like on his body, on his skin, in his mouth . And he's wondered, since then, what it would
feel like on other parts of his body, how easily Dazai could take him apart and how good it
would feel.

Judging by the tiny smirk Dazai has, he knows what Chuuya is+thinking about, and he likes
it.

The rest of their security check goes rather quickly, all things considered. Because they're
first class, they got to skip most of the line. Eyeing the long crowd of people waiting to get
checked, Chuuya is grateful they didn't have to wait.

When they walk away, this time Dazai pulls him close to his side, arm draped over his
shoulders. His hand ends up over Chuuya's chest, wrist relaxed.
It's an absentminded rhythm he starts, his thumb brushing lightly over his shirt in rhythmic
strokes. Each one drags the fabric up, and then smooths it back down on the next pass. It's so
light he can barely feel the heat of his skin through his shirt, but that just strings Chuuya's
nerves tighter. Like he might be able to feel it better, if he was more tense, more aware, more
focused on the sensations.

Up, down, up, down , feeling like his heart is beating in time and god, he just wants Dazai to
actually touch him—

Suddenly, there's a small door in front of him and Dazai is reaching with his other hand to
push it open. Thank god, because Chuuya was so distracted that he might have just ran into
the damn thing face first, and wouldn't that be embarrassing.

Outside, there's a small set of stairs leading down to the tar-mac, and there's a plane waiting a
couple dozen feet away, with its door open and stairs leading inside.

Chuuya is slightly confused because all the movies he's seen feature a big, industrial sized
plane, and a long wait in the lobby. No one goes outside to board the plane, and the people
always have to wait until their ticket number is called to line up.

Must be a first-class thing?

There is a stewardess that greets them when they climb in though, who checks their tickets
and ID's one last time. She's polite and respectfully distant, but her eyes linger on the watch
on Dazai's wrist and the way his pullover stretches across his chest when he hands her his
ticket. She doesn't have to say anything for the interest in her eyes to be abundantly clear, and
her smile to widen into something more beguiling.

On one hand, Chuuya understands because he, too, is so attracted to Dazai that it's hard to
keep a hold of himself most times—
But there's also a small, jealous piece of himself that is aching to sink it's teeth in or to wrap
himself around Dazai in a clear territorial display because--

Mine. He’s mine.

He's a little abrupt with handing her his own ticket, and his smile is politely smug. Getting
Dazai’s attention wasn't a competition, but if it had been—

He would've won, and that knowledge itself is enough to make him smug and satisfied.

Inside the plane— it's smaller than Chuuya expected it would be— there's a handful of seats.
One of them is already taken by a man in a suit, ignoring them as he types frantically into his
laptop and speaks into the Bluetooth in his ear.

It seems some people's work never ends.

Dazai has already picked out a pair of seats near a window, and is stashing their bags in the
overhead compartment. Chuuya joins him, and quickly steals the window seat while Dazai is
distracted.

(Dazai was actually planning on giving Chuuya the window seat, which is why he took so
long putting their bags up. But he's not going to tell him that, because the victorious and
mischievous look on his face is very cute.)

Dazai sits beside him, having to adjust himself a little awkwardly in his seat because his legs
are so ridiculously long. Chuuya can't imagine him in economy class, where the seats are far
closer together. His knees would be pressed to his chest.

The image is so hilarious that he almost doesn't hear Dazai when he speaks up again.

"Have you ever heard of the mile high club?"

Chuuya frowns, trying to think. "No? Is that when you ride on a plane for the first time?"

Dazai's secretive, smug smile makes him feel like he's missing something. “That’s one way
of putting it, yes.”

At Chuuya’s confused frown, he explains a little further. “It’s an exclusive group that only a
few, lucky people get to be in.”

So.... it’s a rich person thing? Makes sense why Chuuya wouldn’t know it was then. He’s
never been on a plane, so it’s understandable why he wouldn’t know plane elitism politics.
“How do you join?”

The smirk widens, and Chuuya is getting the distinct feeling that he’s missing something
important. Dazai looks like the cat who got the bird, like Chuuya is exactly where he wants
him. “You have to complete a task that’s very exciting—but also dangerous, If you get
caught.”

There’s only so many ‘dangerous’ things Chuuya is willing to do while they’re literally a
kilometer high in the air— oh, that must be where the name comes from, because they’re a
‘mile high’—, but he’s always up for a dare. “What kind of task?”

Task makes it sound like some kind of video game quest. Like ‘you must return with these
three items before you can speak to me further, player.’ Honestly, what can you even do on a
plane? Steal something from the stewardess? Sit in the wrong seat? What kind of ‘dangerous
task’ could it possibly be?

Dazai stares at him, eyes half-lidded and clearly contemplating something.

Chuuya thinks he’s about to give in and tell him whatever he has to do so he can join the mile
high club, and he does want to be a part of such an ‘exclusive’ club, if only so he has
bragging rights, so he’ll probably end up doing it either way—
“I’ll tell you later.”

What the hell? Chuuya wants to join the club, just tell him what he has to do—

“Don’t pout at me, baby.”

Chuuya glares at him harder, sulking.

Taking pity on him, Dazai reaches over to pat his knee. “I promise I’ll get you in, baby. I’ve
been a member for years.”

Okay, so get him in now . He wants to be in the club with Dazai. He can just use his magical
powers of economic status to get him in, right?

“But not this time. I want you to enjoy your first flight without any distractions. Next time, if
you’re good,” Dazai says, pulling out a magazine from the drawer of the nightstand-looking
thing in front of him.

Chuuya is miffed. “What’s stopping me from googling it and doing it on my own?”

Dazai doesn’t look at him. “Well, you are going to need my help to get in, it’s not something
you can do yourself.. And if you look it up, I won’t be happy, and I won’t help you.”

It’s blackmail. Chuuya knows it’s blackmail, but he can’t help the fact that his stomach twists
unpleasantly when he thinks about Dazai being unhappy with him. “You promise to get me in
the club next time?”

He doesn’t like feeling excluded , even if it's something as stupidly small as some aviation
club for plane enthusiasts or whatever.
(Chuuya doesn’t know, but Dazai is rapidly adjusting his plans for their vacation. He’s not
going to deny Chuuya, if that’s what he really wants— even if he doesn’t really know what
he wants— but it’s going to take a bit of work to getChuuya ready for a quickie in the plane
bathroom on their flight back.

He can probably do it, but suddenly this trip has become a lot more interesting. He only has
five days to get him prepared.)

“I’ll do my best, sweetheart.”

Chuuya squints at him for another moment before deciding to take him at his word and trust
him. He goes back to looking out the window. The view is boring still, just the runway, but
excitement is beginning to thrum through him.

A few more people come on board, but most of them just silently head to their seats with an
air of relief. One gets a suggestive smirk when he spots Chuuya, but that gets quickly shut
down with a sharp glare from Dazai, not that Chuuya notices.

A few minutes before their departure time, Dazai clears his throat to get his attention.
“Buckle up, we’re going to leave soon.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes. He appreciates the safety first idea, but he’s not a child that needs to be
told when and how to be safe. The plane isn’t even moving yet.

Still, because he’s in a good mood, he does as Dazai asks. The buckle is a little awkward to
do up, simply because it’s just different than most seatbelts he’s ever used before. “Okay,
dad.”

He means it as some snarky comeback, obviously.

(But because he’s not looking, he doesn’t see the way Dazai’s pupils dilate near-immediately
at the thought of what he almost just said to him. If he had said it, he would’ve joined the
club a lot quicker than he does. Because Dazai is struggling.

He knows, from tone alone, that Chuuya did not mean it the way Dazai is taking it. God, he
might be so inexperienced and sheltered that he might not even know that’s a kink.

So he’s torn between letting it go and revisiting this when they’re a bit further into their
sexual relationship and more comfortable with each other—

Or grabbing him by the throat and asking— no, ordering — him to say it again, just a little
different this time baby, you were /so/ close.

Okay, Dadd—

Don’t even imagine it, he schools himself, deliberately not looking at him.

Because if he even so much as glances at that beautiful face, he’s going to remember what he
looks like with his cum smeared all over his freckled cheeks, or what he looks like when he’s
tearing up and choking on his cock—

Somehow, Chuuya always manages to find the very limits of Dazai’s control and pushes it.)

Right at that moment, the stewardess closes the door to the plane and locks it with the giant
red handle on it.

There’s a speech about how to use the seatbelt, and what to do if them plane goes down in
water— which doesn’t make a lot of sense, considering they’ll be flying over land, but it’s
somewhat useful to know, just in case— before she comes down the aisles to check if all their
seatbelts are correct.
Dazai shifts a little uncomfortably when she reaches into his lap, staring dead ahead, but she
just hooks her fingers around the belt and tugs on it to make sure it’s secure. Chuuya just gets
an assessing glance before she moves onto the next aisle.

She makes her way back up after and then—

Then they’re moving.

It’s... slow.

Chuuya didn’t know what he expected, exactly, but it wasn’t a series of agonizingly slow
turns and crawling their way to the beginning of the runway.

It’s slower than a car. He could probably walk faster.

And then, when they find the end of the runway, the plane just sits there for a long moment,
engine revving and growing louder. Chuuya is about to ask Dazai why it’s taking so long,
when the plane pulls away again.

This time it’s faster, picking up speed, engine roaring in his ears. It feels like he’s left his
stomach somewhere behind him, and he’s pressed back hard against the seat. Outside the
world is flashing by, almost too fast for him to keep up with and then—

The nose of the plane tips up, and the world drops away, and Chuuya feels weightless, like a
bird coming home to the sky. He’s grinning, his legs tingling with excitement. He likes this.
It’s better than the car or the motorcycle.

It’s like flying, in a very literal and personal sense.

“This is cool,” he gasps, watching as the city grows smaller and smaller beneath them. He
turns to look over his shoulder—
“Are you filming me?!”

Dazai grins at him from behind his phone. “Yes. I want to remember this.”

“Stop it,” Chuuya laughs, reaching out to snatch his phone from him. He probably looked
like a little kid in that video, bouncing in his seat!

Dazai leans back, holding his phone out of reach but still firmly pointed towards his face.
“Nope, not happening.”

Chuuya mock-glares at him, too happy to be actually mad. “You’re lucky I’m strapped to this
chair.”

Dazai’s eyes soften, lowering his phone a little to look at him, expression open. “I’m lucky
for a lot of reasons, chibi.”

Chuuya has to look away from that, because Dazai's eyes are so full of an unreadable
emotion that he feels he might drown in it.

Eventually, as they climb higher and level out, the seatbelt light shuts off. Chuuya doesn't
notice, too busy staring out the window.

The view is beautiful. The clouds are soft and fluffy today, rolling gently through the sky.
The sun shines through them, some of the rays filtering through visibly, like light shining
down from heaven. In the background, he can see the ocean, a long solid mass of shiny
white-blue.

He points out the better sights to Dazai, who is shifting over in his seat so he can lean close
enough to see whatever cloud or forest— the trees look so small from up here, just tiny
specks of green— Chuuya is pointing out.
Sometimes Dazai presses their cheeks together, and Chuuya knows he can feel the warmth of
his smile, but god, he can't stop.

And then once, Dazai points out a cat-shaped cloud and while Chuuya is distracted, following
where he's pointing with his finger—

Dazai pulls back and presses the softest, warmest of kisses over the apple of his cheek, quick
and fleeting, gone before he can even lean into it. Reverential and full of emotion.

"How long is the flight?" Chuuya asks, glancing over his shoulder about fifteen minutes into
the flight.

Dazai has a magazine open on his lap, but he seems to be spending more time looking at
Chuuya than the pages. "A little over an hour."

That doesn't seem like enough time. He doesn't think he wants to ever come down.

But they do eventually, and the seatbelt lights come back on with a quiet ding. Chuuya hasn't
touched his, but Dazai has to rebuckle his own. The stewardess doesn't come back to check
again, for which Chuuya’s jealous nature is grateful.

The descent is even more thrilling than the ascent, because they'll be smoothly coasting
downwards and then suddenly they'll drop a little bit, which makes Chuuya's stomach feel
empty and weightless.

Below them, Osaka grows back into normal proportions. The skyscrapers slowly grow closer,
and the buildings become more recognizable. The cars, which look like tiny moving specks,
regain color and shape.
Landing on the runway is exhilarating, the sudden jostle of the wheels hitting the ground
making his breath catch. He's pulled forward away from his seat as the brakes kick in. He
braces himself with his feet, pushing back hard like he might be able to stop the plane
himself.

Coming to a slow stop is like coming to the end of his favorite ride. He likes flying, and
suddenly he's almost as excited for the return flight as he is for the vacation itself.

He doesn't ever want to come down.

Dazai stands up first when the plane stops completely, reaching up to stretch his back out.
The action makes his pullover rise up, exposing a small line of his hips above the waistband
of his jeans. The lines bracketing his hips and leading down and inwards only look more
tantalizing now that Chuuya knows where they lead to.

By the time Dazai has pulled down their bags from the overhead compartment, Chuuya has
unbuckled his seatbelt and joined him in the aisle.

He has to stretch too, even though they've only been sitting for an hour. Something about the
altitude changes makes his spine feel compressed and his muscles stiff.

The people closer to the front of the plane file off first. The stewardess stands at the door and
gives everyone a polite goodbye as they descend the stairs. Dazai lets him go first, following
behind him closely.

The stewardess gives Chuuya the same goodbye but to Dazai she tacks on a, "Let me know if
there's anything I can do to make your stay in Osaka better."

Dazai doesn't seem to notice or care about the blatant flirting, which makes Chuuya feel
better in a vindictive way. As they step off the plane, Chuuya asks, "So now what do we do?"
Dazai pulls his phone out of his pocket, waking the device with a few presses of the buttons.
He starts doing something on the screen that Chuuya can't see from this angle. "First, we go
to the hotel I reserved for us."

Okay, that makes sense. Dazai probably doesn't want to carry their bags everywhere else they
go today. "And then after?"

Dazai shoots him a sly look. "After? Osaka Station City."

Chuuya narrows his eyes. That's one of the bigger and more known of Osaka's shopping
malls. And he's starting to feel a little slow on the uptake but in his defense he was distracted
by the idea of the trip entirely—

"Did you tell me not to bring anything so that you could buy me new stuff?"

Dazai taps something on his phone. "Oh, absolutely."

That trickster. “You tricked me?”

Dazai looks momentarily chastised before he shrugs it off. “Tricked is a strong word, I think.
I just...created the situation I needed so I could spoil you. You always say no to me because
you don’t need it— now you do need it.”

That sounds exactly like tricking him. He slaps lightly at Dazai’s side, not nearly hard enough
to actually hurt. “That wasn’t nice of you.”

Catching his wrist, Dazai brings it to his face and drops a kiss onto the sensitive underside.
“You won’t let me be nice to you,” he whines, “I just want you to be happy.”

Dazai never plays fair. Here Chuuya was, rightfully indignant about being manipulated—
And now he’s fighting off a blush and butterflies are rioting in his stomach.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a demon?” He grumbles, looking away.

That makes Dazai blink in surprise for a second. Then he’s throwing his head back on a loud
laugh, his smile huge. Chuuya doesn’t see what’s so funny about that. It was supposed to be
mean.

“More often than you might think,” Dazai chuckles. “Though this is the first time I liked it.”

“It wasn’t a compliment!”

“It is if I decide to take it as one~.”

The Osaka airport is even bigger than the one in Yokohama, and a lot busier. As soon as they
step into the main building, there’s a dull roar of noise.

Chuuya normally dislikes crowded places because he tends to get pushed around and crushed
within the crowd. Being on the smaller side does come with its own perks, but in these types
of situations, it usually just means he gets stepped on.

Dazai, though, is a lot taller and broader than most of the crowd. People automatically shift
out of his way as he approaches, silently respecting his larger circle of personal space.

It’s totally unfair, but Chuuya does take advantage of the bubble of space around him,
following in his shadow as he leads the way out of the airport.

Outside, the air is a wall of heat. It's mid-August, the middle of the hot season, and it's always
warmer in the southern parts of Japan. Chuuya is glad he wore his lighter jacket with a decent
shirt underneath, because he has a feeling he'll be taking it off sooner rather than later. He
doesn't understand how Dazai looks so comfortable in his sweater, especially because he can
see the hints of the bandages around his neck.

The ones around his forearms are gone, because he has the sleeves pushed up but--

Chuuya looks covertly, because he doesn't want to be caught staring, but he sees no reason for
Dazai to be so nervous about him seeing his forearms? He did mention cover-up and now that
Chuuya is paying attention his skin does look a bit too uniform in color, a bit too perfect.

As they board the shuttle bus that will bring them to the train station that snakes through
Osaka, Chuuya catches a glimpse of a long, old but deeply gouged scar on one of his wrists,
horizontal from palm to forearm. It's deep enough that Chuuya can actually see the scarred
points of where staples were used to hold the skin together.

Chuuya's heart plummets. He knows what that scar is, what it means. It's shaky, like it was
done by himself, not by a surgeon. And Chuuya aches, because Dazai seems to be overall
happy and steady—

But clearly he wasn't always that way. Clearly, he used to be in terrible, awful pain— maybe
he still is , Chuuya doesn't know— and he tried to—

Well. He tried to get rid of the pain in the most permanent way he knew how.

it's so hard to connect the hurt he must've felt back then with the soft, contagious smile
Chuuya has been seeing all day.

A smile he might've never gotten to see. It was always beautiful, but even more so now,
because now he knows he almost lost it before he even had it. He almost never got to see it or
taste it.
Pain is never beautiful. Recovery is, especially recovery that has been hard-fought and hard-
won.

Chuuya reaches out to squeeze Dazai's hand tightly. It earns him a slightly-confused look, but
Dazai squeezes him back easily.

Still, besides the big scar— and a few, smaller, normal-looking ones— he doesn't see a reason
why he needs to hide his forearms. Or what he could hide so easily, with just some cover-up
foundation.

He wants to ask again, but he doesn't want to break this content air that's settled between
them. He doesn't want to bring back the haunted look in Dazai's eyes.

Chuuya can be patient. He doesn't intend on going anywhere, for as long as Dazai will keep
him. He'll learn the answer, someday, and he’s willing to wait to prove himself trustworthy.
Prove that he cares by sticking around as long as he can.

Today though, he's hanging onto Dazai as they board their train. It's not completely packed,
there are a few of the lower handles available for Chuuya to grab onto—

But he much prefers wrapping his arms around Dazai's waist and holding on. The man is
immovable, hardly even shifting as the train hurtles around a corner. He's so solid and warm,
packed with muscle. A rock, unflinching underneath the weight of the world.

"Where are we going?" Chuuya asks, rocking up on his heels so he can be heard better.

The corner of Dazai's mouth tips up slightly, but he doesn't look down. "We're getting off in
two more stops."

That doesn't answer the question at all, and Chuuya is discovering a vaguely annoying habit
of Dazai's:
The man is incredibly secretive when he wants to be and he takes too much satisfaction in
surprising Chuuya with his plans. Don't get him wrong, he likes surprises, it's just a little
frustrating to be kept in the dark for so long. At least give him some hints or something, so he
can at least know what to expect.

They do get off two stops later, at a station that makes all the stops in Yokohama look small
by comparison.

It isn't that Yokohama is small— it's not, it's actually bigger than Osaka in terms of
population— but Osaka is larger by size, and so everything is bigger. The buildings are taller,
there are more stores, everything is busier, moving at a faster pace.

Dazai leads him a few streets down, patiently waiting as Chuuya looks around, eyes huge.
Osaka is definitely more of a merchant and tourist city, and it shows in just the sheer amount
of stores lining every street. Everywhere he looks, there's more to look at. He almost feels
like a tourist himself, even though he's only a few hours away from home.

The building Dazai guides him into is tall and modern. The sign over the front door says
CONRAD OSAKA in English, with the kanji for it written on the large glass doors.

The air inside is much cooler than outside, and the lobby looks like something off a damn
Pinterest board. Shiny marble flooring, with a large receptionist desk that takes up the
entirety of the back wall. It's sparsely decorated, with just enough paintings on the walls and
large ceramic vases on the floor to hint at luxury.

There's a huge white spiral staircase off to the side, which leads up to the third floor. The
chandeliers hanging from the ceiling light up the space, softening the atmosphere the dark
flooring creates.

It's expensive, in a very western way.

Dazai goes to check in, leaving Chuuya to stare around himself in awe. He's gotten somewhat
used to seeing Dazai's money, but the sleek appliances and luxury vehicles he has seem a lot
more normal and ordinary compared to this hotel.

At least the man doesn't have chandeliers hanging from his ceiling that serve essentially no
purpose other than to look pretty. His house looks normal. This feels like some hotel where
celebrities get to stay.

“Come on, doll,” Dazai gets his attention, beckoning to him. He’s standing near the elevators,
the call button already lit up.

The faint music playing through the lobby masks the sound of his quiet footsteps as he makes
his way over. Dazai holds the door open for him, and god, even the elevator is made of
marble and spotless glass. Every inch of this place reeks of money.

“What floor?” He asks, his finger hovering over the buttons. All of them are labeled by
number, but some of them have little names written underneath as well.

Conference room. Spa floor. Pool room. A few others.

“Top floor,” Dazai says casually.

“You mean... the 40th floor?” Chuuya hesitates because he was expecting something near the
top, but not the top floor—

“Yeah. It’s a good thing you’re not afraid of heights,” Dazai says, looking thoughtful. “I
probably should have asked that before I made the reservation.”

Even if Chuuya was afraid of heights— he’s not, he loves the empty-exhilaration feeling he
gets in his stomach whenever he’s up high— there’s no way he couldn’t appreciate the view
on the top floor of a luxury hotel.
He presses the button, wondering what the room will look like. The lobby was swanky
enough, but as far as he knows, the best rooms are at the top. The most expensive ones too.

The elevator ride is both too short and too long. Every time the number counter clicks over,
the anticipation builds a little further.

By the time they make it to the top, Chuuya is practically vibrating with excitement. Dazai
looks amused beside him, but otherwise unaffected, which is probably just another marker
for how ridiculously rich he is. He doesn’t even blink at the idea of staying on the top floor of
the Conrad Osaka. Like this is a regular occurrence to him.

Then the doors are opening, revealing a long hallway. It’s darkly colored, with only a few
lamps scattered throughout to light the way.

There’s only two doors, arranged close together on either side of the hallway. Two rooms to a
whole floor.

With the keycard given to him by the receptionists, Dazai opens the door on the left,
revealing—

What looks like a fully stocked luxury house.

It’s western style, like the rest of the hotel, with a foyer that leads into a large dining room.
The table looks big enough to seat six people, and there’s a huge vase centered in the middle.
The flowers in it aren’t orange, which probably means that Dazai didn’t pick them out
himself, but just seeing them makes Chuuya smile.

There’s a fully equipped kitchen, with a fridge big enough that Chuuya could fit inside
entirely. Two steps down leading into a living room, with a huge grey-leather couch that
looks big enough that Dazai could stretch out on it. The TV looks almost as big, mounted on
the opposite wall.
The remote is sitting on the table in the middle, along with a little ‘thank you’ note from the
hotel and a list of numbers for services for things like room service, and the maid service.

Dazai heads into the hallway leading to the back, assumingly where the bedroom—
bedrooms? — is, but Chuuya’s attention is caught by the huge wall of windows. Outside is a
balcony , big enough that it looks like a room in itself.

Drawn, Chuuya opens the door that leads outside.

There’s an entire array of outdoor furniture—complete with a jacuzzi — that is sheltered by a

small overhang. It keeps the outside from getting too hot by being baked in the sun, but
Chuuya is more interested in the view.

The railing encasing the balcony is made of glass and metal, which gives the illusion of
almost hanging off the edge as Chuuya steps up to it.

The ground is dizzyingly far below, so far that he can barely make out the street. The sun
shines blindingly bright off the glass of the buildings that surround them. He’s so far up that
he feels like he can see to the edge of the city, like he’s standing among the clouds instead of
on the Earth.

Like he could step off the ledge and go soaring.

“Do you like it?” Dazai’s voice comes from behind him.

Of course he likes it. He loves it. And if the view is this good during the day, then he can’t
even begin to imagine what it looks like at night, when the city is lit up in neon lights.

He turns around—
And finds Dazai closer than he was expecting, almost directly behind him. He has to look up
to see him, and if the view off the balcony is good—

Then this one, the sight of Dazai in full sunlight, eyes turned honey-golden in the light and
wild hair waving gently in the wind, lips full and shiny and tempting, cheeks ever so slightly
red from being in the sun—

This view is his favorite.

“I love it,” Chuuya breathes, unable to look away. His hands clutch the railing behind him.
“The view is amazing.”

Dazai takes another step forward, cornering Chuuya against the railing. His hands come to
either side of him, boxing him in by grabbing the railing on either side. He’s not touching
him directly, but the heat coming off him feels boiling , way hotter than the sun itself.

“I have to agree,” Dazai says lowly, like he’s confessing to a secret. His eyes are firmly fixed
on his face though, and he doesn’t look up to take in the view of the buildings, not even for a
second.

The words drop so easily from his lips, so naturally that Chuuya barely even registers that
he’s speaking before he hears his own voice. “Kiss me.”

Dazai’s eyes flick downward, taking in the slight pout of his lips. His gaze feels scorching,
almost intense enough that he feels he's being kissed already. He licks his bottom lip
unconsciously, thrilling at the way Dazai's eyes follow the motion, heating up to molten
pools.

(There's a part of Dazai that wants to make him wait, at least until he asks nicely. The chibi
has gotten so demanding lately, which is adorable and flattering—

But there's a lot to be said about a soft-spoken 'please'.

Then again, it would be a crime not to kiss him right now. The sun has turned his blue eyes
into a searingly bright blue, and the red of his hair has golden highlights that shimmer and
shine. With the image of the clouds behind him, he looks like an angel. Grounded only for the
time it takes him to find his wings again.

Really, it would be a shame not to kiss him.)

Dazai leans down at the same time Chuuya rises up on his toes. They meet somewhere in the
middle, lips brushing together on the edge of the world.

It’s just as soft as this morning, but every time they kiss, it just feels fuller than the last. Filled
with more emotion, more understanding, more depth. Like every time they get closer, and
every kiss ties them tighter together.

One of Dazai’s hands leaves the railing, moving to cup his cheek. His thumb brushes gently
over his cheekbone, encouraging him to tilt so their mouths can fit together better. His fingers
are long enough that the tips are tangled in his hair, another point of connection.

Unconsciously, Chuuya’s hand finds his shoulder. He grips hard, sweater bunching in his
fingers as he pulls him down a little further, a little harder.

Teeth nip at his lip in response, playful and teasing.

Chuuya pushes up a little higher, biting him back, enjoying the way Dazai’s hand firms on his
cheek and he presses even closer, pinning Chuuya against the railing.

He has a lot of things he likes about Dazai, but he thinks that the way he kisses him might be
his favorite.
Between the sun at his back and the heat of Dazai in front of him, Chuuya feels like he’s
melting, mind going summer-sweet hazy. His body is heating up, kindling to the fire that
Dazai lights within him.

He never wants to stop.

And as always, it's over too soon . Dazai pulls away— slowly, because Chuuya chases after
him with a disappointed noise and he always gets another kiss in reply— his thumb brushing
over his cheekbone.

"Why are you stopping?" Chuuya grumbles, using the grip on his sweater to drag him back
down. He feels a little bad about stretching out the fabric, but he wouldn't have to if Dazai
would stop trying to pull away!

"Because, chibi," Dazai sighs against his mouth, and that nickname never tasted as sweet as it
does right now, "If I don't stop, we will spend all day in the bedroom—”, that sounds like the
opposite of a problem to Chuuya, really, “—and we won't go get you the stuff you need."

That's fine, he doesn't really need it anyways, not right now at least, and if he takes his
clothes off, he won't need any more for a while, it's fine—

Dazai's hand firms on his face, holding him in place this time as he pulls away. The look on
his face is smug— and why shouldn't he be smug, because all it takes is a few minutes of
kissing to have Chuuya trembling and needy— and Chuuya tells himself that the only reason
he isn't irritated by it is because he's distracted and not because smug and confident looks
damn good on him.

"Be patient , brat. I didn't bring you to Osaka just to fuck you."

God, the heat that instantly drenches Chuuya from head to toe from hearing Dazai curse and
the instant imagery that the words bring up-
It should be illegal.

"But—,” he starts, hushed when Dazai's hand slides inward and covers his mouth.

"No buts. Shopping first, then I'll have some fun with you. If you're good."

Chuuya has been hearing that a lot lately, and he can't deny the squirming feeling he gets in
his belly whenever he hears it again. He likes being good. Dazai makes it so easy too, most of
the time, and whenever he succeeds, he experiences this high. Like he's aced all his exams,
like he just won the game he's playing, like someone looked at all his hard work and went
'good job'.

And when it's not easy, when he has to struggle for it, god, it's even better. He loves winning,
loves meeting expectations.

The expectations for this are easy, though. All he has to do is go shopping, pick out a few
things he likes, and then they'll be back at the hotel in a couple hours, right?

Then they'll 'have some fun'. It'll be quick and easy, and then Chuuya gets the double reward
of sex— Dazai implied he would fuck him, which sets off molten butterflies made of lava and
electricity in his stomach— and he gets to succeed.

It'll be easy, right?

Wrong.
 Mirror, Mirror, on the -- ceiling?
Chapter Summary

He's drunk on it, on the anticipation, on the wine, on Dazai, on the feeling of his skirt
slowly edging up his legs. Every inch of him feels hypersensitive, turning every touch
into something molten, anticipation drawing him tight.

Another inch higher, fingers cresting where his underwear would be, and now his
excitement is starting to show—

The fingers stop, only an inch or two from where he wants them to be, where he's aching
—

"Chuuya?"

Turning his head, he meets dark, burning eyes, focused on him with searing intensity.
His mouth parts instinctively, a heated breath leaving him. "Dazai," he whispers,
response to call, like music.

"Come here."

Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! I am in my brand-new apartment as I type this, sitting on the floor cuz
it's empty LMAOO. But, with my life getting back together, we should be full steam
ahead with regular updates! The next few chapters should be pretty long, as we are in
the smut-heavy section of the story! As always, I hope you all enjoy reading and I will
see you next week! <3 Thank you all for 20k hits on BH <3

Lots of things in particular with this chapter:

- Spanish translation now available! It was translated by a lovely @CH4INBASTARD
on twitter, so please show her work some love and support! Link is in the main
description <3
- Updated tags. I tried to make them look all nice and neat but it... didn't exactly work.
I'll try editing them again later, but those are the updated ones SO FAR. Will add more
tags in the future as we get closer to those scenes!
- Updated chapter count. This isn't necessarily accurate, but I wanted to give you all an
idea of how much the story has left in it :) The exact count is likely to grow, so stay
tuned!

This chapter includes:

- a mall
- a girl
 - an order
- a cliffhanger ;)

Dazai seems to take pushing him to his limits as a challenge , and the entire trip from the
hotel room to the shopping mall is spent with his clever fingers flitting all over him.

One moment brushing over his arm, and then fixing his hair, and then curling around his
waist to tug him closer, and then grabbing his hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the
suddenly-sensitive skin on the back of his hand.

Chuuya feels weak for it all, wound up from all the hinting. From all the teasing and the
touching and the flirting .

Naturally, Dazai takes him to the biggest department store in all of Osaka— a medium-length
train ride away, one that Chuuya spends plastered to Dazai's side with sneaky fingertips
curled around his hip and dipping underneath the waistband of his jeans to rub infuriatingly
slowly over his hipbone— which has so many stores Chuuya doesn't even recognize most of
them.

He looks for one he recognizes, maybe one on the lower end of the price range so he can get
this trip over with quickly and get to the good stuff—

Nope. Dazai pulls him into the nearest store before Chuuya can even catch the name, but he
doesn’t need the name to recognize how upscale the store is.

When he opens his mouth to protest, Dazai squeezes his hip and sends him a warning look.
"You said you wouldn't argue with me."

He actually didn't say that at all ever, but Chuuya gets the message and closes his mouth.
This store has mostly clothes in it, with just a few small shelves dedicated to accessories, and
tiny shoe selection in the back.

It's kind of funny, considering when Dazai first took him shopping— on the market date,
even though the only thing they got was the leather jacket and the choker that Chuuya is
wearing once again— he was more...

Passive. He liked the things Chuuya pointed out, and showed interest, but he let him explore
mostly on his own.

This time, Dazai heads straight to a rack full of jeans and starts rifling through them with a
concentrated frown on his face. The man doesn't even know his pants size— aside from
looking at the tag when he had to wash Chuuya's clothes for him and maybe being able to
guess his size from when he had him naked and in his lap— and he already looks so focused,
like this is the most important task he's had today.

It's endearing. A little overboard, considering they're just clothes, but it's cute that he cares so
much.

Chuuya moves to a different rack, this one filled with shirts. A lot of them are medium-
sleeved and boring, but there's a few that catch his eye. He pulls those out and hangs them
over his arm to try on later.

"Baby," Dazai says suddenly, loudly enough to catch his attention.

Chuuya turns around, to see him holding up a pair of black jeans with a big rip in the thigh
and the biggest, most enticing pair of puppy eyes Chuuya has ever seen.

"Will you try these on for me?"

He eyes the jeans. They're a little more risque than Chuuya normally wears— partly because
he grew up with his father insisting that anything above the knee and his upper arm was
scandalous and partly because he just doesn't own anything like that— with the giant tear
over the upper thigh, and the matching one lower down on the other leg.

But it's not like he can deny Dazai when he looks like he'll do anything for Chuuya to say
yes.

Stepping over, he takes the jeans in hand. They're only a size bigger than what he normally
wears, though they do look a little too long. It's worth giving them a shot, even if only to
make Dazai happy.

He adds them to the growing pile over his arm, and his reward is a bright, beaming smile
from Dazai, complete with dimple. He adds another shirt to the pile— this one at Dazai's
insistence, a red cropped one with a yellow sunflower in the middle— and another pair of
jeans before he heads over to the fitting rooms.

They need to be unlocked with a key, so Dazai goes to find an employee to help them. He
returns a few moments later, trailed by a younger girl who is even smaller than Chuuya, who
looks honestly starstruck.

Chuuya is starting to sense a pattern here, and he doesn't know how to feel about it. He knows
Dazai is appealing, obviously, but sometimes it's hard to tell if that's because he's rich—
which is enough to make even the nastiest of people bearable-- or if it's because he's hot.

Probably both.

Don't get him wrong, he likes having the attention of someone who is so attractive— makes
him feel like he's winning, somehow— but it also brings to heart a feeling of invasive,
lurking insecurity.

Because—
Why him? Really, Chuuya isn't anything special, he realizes that. He might look ‘exotic’ — a
term he doesn’t like but is used often enough to describe him— with his red hair and blue
eyes, but beyond that...

He doesn't know why Dazai likes him. He's not rich, or very smart, or has some cool talent,
like being an artist. He's not even experienced, so it's not like he's rocking Dazai's world or
anything like that.

He's pretty sure Dazai actually likes him, because why else would he go through all this
effort? If he just wanted sex, then he would've taken him home after their first dinner date.
Chuuya certainly wouldn't have complained— he wanted it too, and he would’ve jumped on
the chance.

There's no need to do all this. No need to buy him a week's worth of food during finals, or
take him to Osaka. No need to work him up to sex as slowly and carefully as he has.

And while he's never made Chuuya feel like he wasn't special—

Dazai also has never given any indication that this behavior was out of the norm for him.
Maybe he takes all his flings on mini-vacations and buys them things. Maybe this is just what
he does, wines and dines and romances all the people he's attracted to, before he eventually
moves onto the next person. He can certainly afford it.

Maybe Chuuya is just reading too much into it, seeing things that aren’t there because he
wants them to be there.

And Chuuya already must seem so young to him, all the time, and he doesn't want to add the
stereotypical card of 'caught feelings even though the possibility of a relationship was never
discussed or even on the table' to his bingo sheet.

Even though he does have feelings for Dazai now. With how sweet, thoughtful, and sexy he
is, it'd be impossible not to, and Chuuya feels like he's choking on his heart half the time he
talks to him.
But that doesn't mean that he feels the same way and really, what is stopping him— Chuuya
watches as the girl unlocks the fitting room door for him, a friendly smile as she makes light
conversation with Dazai— from moving onto someone better than him, when he gets bored
of Chuuya?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Dazai can have anyone he wants, whenever he wants them.

"Chuuya?"

With a start, he looks up, broken from his thoughts. The girl is gone now, and Dazai is
standing outside the open door to the fitting room, staring at him with a crease in his
eyebrows. "Are you okay?"

Chuuya hikes the clothes up higher in his arms, offering a smile. "Yeah, I just got distracted."

Before he can embarrass himself further— or ask Dazai if he wants to come in and help him
change—, Chuuya heads inside the room. The door closes behind him with finality. He tries
to leave his previous line of thinking outside the door as he strips his clothes off. Thinking
like that just stresses him out and makes him feel bad.

He tries on the pair of jeans he picked out first. They're looser than he expected, baggy on
thighs. They're also way too long, so long that he has to roll them up just to walk properly,
and it's unflattering.

He throws those in the reject pile, and tries on the jeans Dazai picked out for him next.

Those are shorter, and while the waist is a little big, the fit is perfect around his ass and
thighs. The large hole in them exposes most of his left thigh, but it looks nice, and he can see
the way his muscles flex as he takes a step forward. Somehow, it’s a fascinating vision even
with how mundane it is.
He tries on the red sunflower shirt Dazai offered him, and that one is cute. Makes his eyes
stand out, vividly blue.

He almost takes them both off again without showing Dazai before he realizes that would
probably be rude. He is buying them, and he did pick these out specifically, so he should see
them so he can make an opinion on them.

It feels a little nerve-wracking though. He wants to impress him but he’s not sure if he
measures up.

Taking a deep breath for courage, he opens the door again and steps out.

Dazai is leaning against the opposite wall, waiting patiently with his arms crossed loosely
over his chest. His eyes light up when he sees Chuuya, focusing.

Unsure of what to do with himself, Chuuya gives a little spin so he can see the outfit from
every angle. He feels inexplicably nervous, even though it’s just an outfit. He’s never tried on
clothes for someone he was attracted to before.

Dazai’s gaze is like a living thing, heavy with weight and heat. It touches over his face, slides
over his collarbones, trails downward, and every place it falls on feels like it’s been set on
fire. Chuuya feels drawn taut between nerves and conflicting arousal, spread out underneath
his eyes and feeling like he should offer more of himself, give himself up to that irresistible
gaze—

His eyes find his thighs, and Chuuya doesn’t know if Dazai meant to slowly lick his bottom
lip at that exact moment or if it just happened but either way—

He wants this shopping trip to be over now , so he can finally get his hands on Dazai for the
first time in weeks, he’s so desperate he could beg—

“How do you feel about skirts?”

Chuuya hesitates a little. Admittedly, he's never been the most masculine man, especially
growing up as he did with two sisters that liked to play dress-up with him, but—

"Don't I have to be...girlier for those?"

(Dazai is very careful to keep his expression from changing visibly.

This, like many other things, is not a conversation they have had quite yet. The poor thing
must be so confused, Dazai really needs to start talking to him. He technically has the most
experience in their relationship, and while Chuuya follows his lead beautifully, they have to
start talking about these sorts of things.

Because he'd...

Well, based on the way Chuuya dressed and acted, he'd assumed that he enjoyed traditionally
feminine things, but he doesn't know if it goes beyond that. If it hinted at something deeper
underneath, something they haven't talked about.

This was partly a test, to subtly let Chuuya know that it was okay if he likes feminine things
but—

Now he's thinking he read too far into it? Or maybe he didn’t and he has to be careful about
what he says to make sure he doesn’t accidentally invalidate him?)

"No, not if you don't want to be."

Something about that, the simple confidence behind the statement, makes Chuuya pause.
He's spent so long defending himself that liking makeup and fashion doesn't make him any
less of a man, that he never actually considered if he wanted to be anything different than
that. He knew it was an option, he just didn't really compute that it was an option for him.

Frankly, the idea of that makes him feel...

Weird.

He doesn't know if it's bad-weird, or good-weird or just new-weird, but he puts those
thoughts out of his mind and focuses on what he doe s know, things he doesn't have to think
about:

He likes feeling pretty. Likes to look pretty, and dressed up, and like he's put effort into what
he looks like. Especially likes the idea of looking good for Dazai, in clothes he bought and
picked out for him. And if he brought it up first, then that must mean Dazai likes the idea of
it, right?

As always, with that pair of brown eyes on him, the tiny, daring tilt to Dazai's mouth—

Chuuya feels bold, invincible. "I'm okay with them— but I don't know how to pick them
out."

The smile he gets for that is sweet, simmering with heat. "I can help with that. You have
gorgeous legs. It'd be a shame not to show them off."

How Dazai manages to say things like that without even a shred of shame or hesitation,
Chuuya will never know. He ducks back into the fitting room so he can hide the rising blush
on his cheeks.

He tries on two more shirts, but both of those look bad on him so he doesn't even bother
showing Dazai. He throws them straight into the reject pile before he eventually changes
back into his own clothes. When he opens the door again, he's expecting Dazai to be waiting
outside, and he is, except—

He'd left at some point, and came back with three different skirts draped over his arm.

How did he find those so quickly? Did he already have them picked out, and was just waiting
to see what he said to get them off the rack? Did he just grab the first ones he saw?

(It does make him feel better, that Dazai picked them out before he even had to look at them,
because if he had to look at all the different options and styles, he might've realized that he
has no idea what he’s doing or what looks good on him, and he might chicken out.)

The first one is a high waisted red one with a tie so he can adjust the waist size. It looks
flowy, like those skirts that twirl when you spin.

The next one is clearly a tight mini-skirt, and it's in a beige-plaid pattern that almost looks
like the tighter, shorter version of a school uniform.

The last one is pitch black, and laces up the side. Chuuya can already tell that he’d have to
wear tiny underwear or none at all with that one.

Dazai holds them out to him, looking as innocent as the cat who found the cream.

When Chuuya moves to take them, he holds onto them for a moment longer, making him
pause. “You don’t have to show me what they look like,” he says slowly, expression open and
genuine.

Eyebrows drawing together in confusion, Chuuya replies, “Don’t you want to see me in them
though? Isn’t that why you suggested them?”
Dazai takes his hands back and pushes them into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back
slightly on his heels. “I do— but only if you’re comfortable with that. Only if you want me to
see them. No pressure.”

Well...alright then. That does soothe some strange, small part of Chuuya that was worried
he’d look bad or that Dazai might be upset if he didn’t get to see him in them.

This time, Dazai lets him take the clothes and move back into the fitting room.

He puts the red-sunflower shirt back on, because it's prettier than his neutral-gray shirt he’s
wearing, and it’ll look nicer.

He tries the plaid one on first, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. It feels nice, soft and
stretchy. It’s tighter and looser in different ways than any pair of jeans he’s ever worn and
even though it hugs his hips and thighs, it still feels... risky, almost? Like he might take a step
too long or bend over too far and he might flash the entire street. Like he has to constantly be
aware of how the skirt is sitting to make sure he’s completely covered.

Is this what people go through when they wear skirts? Always wondering if the fabric is
going to ride up, always having to adjust their walking or posture to make sure it stays
perfectly in place?

Though...

When he gathers the courage to look in the mirror, he does have to admit that the view does
make it worth the trouble, at least a little bit.

His legs look longer now, calling attention to the way his thighs flex and ripple with every
movement. It emphasizes the curve of his hips and the cut of his waist. And based on how
tight it is around his thighs—

It makes his ass look fantastic.

Okay, there are definitely perks to wearing these, though he should prepare more before the
next time he wears a skirt. The blonde-red hair on his legs has never been too noticeable
because of its light color, but now the light reflecting off the strands makes him look and feel
a little inelegant.

Like he's not doing his skirt— and outfit— justice.

Not to mention that he is still wearing his boxer-briefs— which are rather short and tight
compared to most boxers— but it utterly ruins the line of the skirt. He can see the waistband
and where the fabric bunches up underneath clearly.

Suddenly, the idea of thongs makes so much more sense. He never really saw the appeal or
the reason for them before now.

He doesn't try on the black laced skirt. Hecan tell its size-adjustable based on the lacing, and
he wants to do it justice the first time he tries it on. He's also not going to try on a skirt
without underwear without buying and washing it first.

The red one though...

That one makes him feel cute. It flows around his legs, and flares out when he does a spin.
It's not as revealing as the other two, because it drapes down to the middle of his thighs
instead of hugging his figure, but the little bow on the waist is cute. The shirt isn't the exact
same shade of red, but it's close enough.

It makes him feel like one of those love interests in a movie or a book. Like he's special and
pretty and someone people pay attention to.

Why doesn't everyone wear skirts, they're so fun. And much less restrictive than jeans!
He was too shy to show Dazai the plaid one, but he wants to show him this one.The door is
unlocked and swinging open before he can even begin to second guess himself.

Dazai is still leaning against the wall in the same spot. This time, he has his phone in hand
and scrolls absently as he waits. He looks up, pretty obviously not expecting Chuuya to step
out wearing the skirt because for a moment, his expression just looks—

Starstruck. Stunned, in a good way, like he can't believe what he's seeing is real.

Chuuya spins for him again, smiling at the way the skirt flares out wide before swishing
around his legs. "I like this one," he declares, chin held high like he's daring Dazai to
disagree.

He doesn't, of course. Instead, his expression softens into something that makes Chuuya's
heart throb in his chest, feeling too big to be contained.

The phone disappears into his pocket as he pushes off the wall, approaching. His eyes take
him in from his socks to the top of his head, somehow softer and warmer all at once. It
doesn't feel evaluating or judging—

It feels like he's trying to commit the sight of him to memory.

"I knew you'd look beautiful in red," he murmurs, reaching out to pull his hair from over his
shoulder. He touches him like something precious and gentle, winding one of curls around his
finger and rubbing his thumb over it with a fond smile.

Mouth parted, Chuuya stares up at him, aching with a feeling too big for words, on the verge
of some internal revelation, like he's standing at a ledge and ready to freefall, uncaring about
the consequences—

He never realized how expressive brown eyes could be until Dazai was looking at him like
this, like he’s his entire world, soft and all-encompassing and adoring—
Which, naturally, is exactly when the employee girl from earlier returns.

"Do you guys need any help back here—,” she starts, tone friendly and upbeat before she
seems to notice what Chuuya is wearing. "Oh."

She pauses, expression twisting into something like restrained disgust, and Chuuya feels
small.

"I don't..." she continues again, obviously struggling with what she wants to say. Her
expression says it all though, and she doesn’t need words to get her disapproval across.

Dazai takes a step in her direction, shoulders squaring. It's easy to forget how broad the man
is until he's practically looming over the girl, shielding Chuuya from view. " I don't recall
asking for assistance, so while I'm sure you have an... interesting opinion, I can assure you
that it is unnecessary and unwanted."

Chuuya has never heard Dazai sound like that, cold and cutting, whip-thin. He's glad he's
never spoken to him that way, because he’s sure it would leave scars.

(It will, but that… that, Chuuya will not learn for a few months yet.)

The girl's eyes narrow. "He can't—.”

Dazai cuts her off again, and while his smile is distantly polite, his eyes flash with cold anger.
"I'm sure your manager has told you that customers can do whatever they want as long as
their money is good, no?"

She looks thrown off guard for a second, opening her mouth to protest. No words come out.
"I would be terribly disappointed if we had to go elsewhere for our shopping. So
disappointed, in fact, that it would only be fair to call your manager and let them know that
even though I adore this store, I was forced to shop somewhere else due to the behavior of
—,” his eyes drop to the nametag on her shirt, “—Yui. I'm sure they'll be delighted to hear
my opinion on the matter."

By the slight paling of her face and the way her expression struggles between anger and
disbelief, she doesn't feel the same way. She looks pretty young, so getting a decent job in the
best mall in Osaka must've been difficult, and keeping it probably relies on her attracting new
customers and keeping them. She probably can’t afford to make too much of a ruckus without
potentially facing consequences.

With a final sniff like she's doing them a favor, she retreats.

(Dazai watches her go with a sense of burning satisfaction, but he also knows that their time
in this store is up, and they need to leave before another scene occurs.

Not that he is opposed to scenes, and not because he can't handle it—

But because he doesn't want to see that hurt, insecure, appalled look on Chuuya's face ever
again.)

Dazai turns back to him, expression drawn with concern.

Chuuya is still reeling from the emotional whiplash of feeling so good and then being
plunged into the crawling sense of doing something wrong and then watching Dazai easily
and effortlessly defend him from something he could’ve defended himself from but he didn’t
have time to think of a response before Dazai was there first—

So all he can do is stare up at him wordlessly, as Dazai’s posture melts from something angry
into something protective.
Chuuya has had people comment on his makeup and the way he dresses before, but those
were mostly men or older people, and therefore they were easier to shrug off. He’s never had
a girl his age be so rude about it, and it stings.

“Do you like this one?” Dazai asks, reaching over to smooth down a wrinkle that had formed
over his hip.

The casual question jumpstarts Chuuya’s brain, making him think again instead of just
feeling emotions. “Yeah,” he mutters, “well, all of them, actually.”

“All of them?” Dazai repeats, pride filtering through his voice. He looks so pleased with
himself, lips turning up.

Huffing, Chuuya slaps at his arm lightly. “Don’t look so smug , it’s just clothes.”

“It’s much more than that to me, doll.”

What does that mean?

Before Chuuya can figure it out— or ask—, Dazai is nodding towards the fitting room
again.“Go get dressed,” he says, that casual tone of command easily slipping into his voice.
“We’ll get you whatever you’ve picked out, and then we’ll go somewhere else.”

There’s something about the way he takes charge so easily, without hesitation and without
force, that makes it so easily to listen to him. Chuuya doesn’t have to do what he says, but it
feels so natural when he does.

Changing back into his street clothes takes only a few minutes, and he has to admit—

He does miss the soft fabrics of the clothes he tried on. He never realized how rough his own
clothes were until the comparison.
They go up to the front afterwards, and luckily the employee at the cash register is someone
different than the rude girl. This one is a boy, and he looks incredibly and politely bored, like
he’s seen it all and he doesn't care anymore.

Chuuya hasn’t had a job yet— his father didn’t allow him to get one because he needed to be
focusing on his schoolwork— but he understands the sentiment, and he prefers boredom to
being rude.

The rest of the shopping trip goes pretty similarly. They visit half a dozen stores, each one
different than the last.

Some of them have more shoes than clothing, and Chuuya finally gets to be a little closer to
Dazai’s height when he finds a pair of heels. He’s just tall enough for Dazai to rest his chin
on his head, which he does when Chuuya insists on taking pictures in the mirror.

(And because he’s petty , he crops the picture so you can just barely see Dazai’s smile on top
of his head, and makes sure there’s no other distinguishing features before posting it on his
Snapchat story.

Shuuji has been sending him snaps of picturesque views to him all morning, with the captions
being variations of ‘dont u wish u were here lol’ and then posting things like his ridiculously
luxurious breakfast to his story so—

Chuuya gets a little smug satisfaction at making him look at a picture of him being happy
with his dad, even if he won’t know it.

Okay, so maybe he’s a little bitter about how elegant and beautiful Shuuji’s mother looks in
some of his stories but—

Dazai’s in Osaka with him, buying him clothes, so that means he’s winning.)
They don’t go overboard , but Dazai does end up buying him one or two things from each
store. Some of the stores have a delivery service, and he arranges for the items to be sent
back to their hotel room. Others don’t, and he ends up carrying the bags on his wrist.

(There is a lingerie store hidden deeper in the mall, and Dazai lingers around the doorway
deliberately, waiting to see if Chuuya will say anything or move to go inside. He doesn’t
want to push him, but there’s a lovely blue babydoll displayed in the window and he wants to
see Chuuya in it so bad.

But Chuuya moves onto the next store without saying anything so...

Next time, Dazai pouts himself silently, and follows.)

If he had to say, the jewelry store is probably one of Chuuya’s favorites. Clothes and shoes
are nice, obviously, but he loves to accessorize. Nothing brings an outfit together like a pair
of earrings or a bracelet or—

He startles a little when something passes in front of his face. He looks up, finding the mirror
—

Only to see Dazai holding a golden necklace loosely around his neck.

From it, hangs a tiny, golden D , written in cursive. It makes sense why something like that is
here, because the mall is a popular tourist trap, and all the American tourists must go wild
over seeing their English initials on Japanese merchandise.

It's a little surprising that Dazai picked it out though, something so simple and subtle
compared to the other expensive-looking jewels in the store. Chuuya wouldn't know how to
feel if he offered up one of the large necklaces that dripped with fat diamonds, and he would
probably feel obligated to say no .
He doesn't miss that it has his initial on it, and that, the idea of wearing the clothes he bought
for him and a necklace with his initial on it—

Makes him feel owned, in a good way. Claimed. Possessed.

(Little does he know, Dazai is envisioning a slightly-similar situation. Except in his

imagination, Chuuya is wearing a slightly thicker version of the choker the's wearing now,
one that takes up his entire neck, so no one misses how beautiful it is—

Or the ownership of the gesture.

That one would have a metal loop on it, or maybe an O-ring, somewhere where Dazai could
attach leashes, jewelry, tags.

Maybe a little tag that says baby, or Dazai, or—

Daddy.

He likes that image, so much that he pins the idea in his mind to save for later. He'll work him
up to it, because Chuuya has been beautifully responsive to every new step in their
relationship.

But for now, this is enough for him.)

The chain is thin and made of gold. It's a little tighter than he expected, leaving the charm
dangling just underneath the base of his throat.

"What do you think?" Dazai says above him, voice dark and heady. It drips over him, wraps
around him, making the rest of the world slip away.
"It's pretty," he breathes, eyes caught by the sight of them in the mirror. He's all fiery reds and
blues himself, like the burning sun, and Dazai is the shadow that follows in his path. They
make a beautiful pair, opposite but melded together, never one without the other.

"You are," Dazai agrees easily, eyes sparkling.

He always takes every opportunity to compliment Chuuya, like he's made it his personal
mission to banish every insecurity with endless sweet words and flattery.

And you know? It works. Chuuya has never felt so beautiful or wanted until he had Dazai's
attention on him. Until he had this— whatever this is between them, the thing that grows by
the day— something that feels so natural and easy to fall into.

"Can I have it?" He asks, unable to look away from Dazai in the mirror. He already knows
the answer, because Dazai has never denied him, not when he's said he wants something and
definitely never when he's asked for it.

True to form, Dazai gently clasps it around his neck. He peels off the tag hanging off it using
his nails. "If you want it, it's yours," he repeats, a throwback to the tims he said it earlier,
before Chuuya realized how far that idea went. .

It has more meaning now, because Chuuya wants him, and they both know it, and Dazai is all
too eager to give in to him.

The necklace is bought, along with a pair of shiny earrings in the shape of dangling
butterflies. Dazai snorts a little bit when he sees the design of it, like he's remembering
something funny, but Chuuya doesn't get the joke.

That's the last store they visit. They could shop more, considering the mall is open for a few
hours longer but—
The only thing Chuuya has eaten today was a snack from the food court in the mall, and that
was light. He was too excited for breakfast when he woke up, so he hasn't eaten much all day.
It's getting close to dinner time, and the sun is starting to go down.

It wouldn't bother him, really, and he wouldn't have even said anything, except that his
stomach growls embarrassingly loud. Loudly enough that it catches Dazai's attention during a
lull in conversation.

"Hungry?"

It's not like he can deny it, so he nods sheepishly.

Dazai smiles at him again, offering his free hand. "Let's go back then. Do you want room
service or to go to a restaurant?"

"Room service," Chuuya answers immediately. He hasn't had the chance to try out luxury
room service before, and it always looked ridiculously delicious in the movies. Besides, if he
has to wait even longer to be alone with Dazai, he swears he's going to go insane. The last
restaurant date had enough sexual tension to last him a lifetime, and he doesn’t need a repeat
at this exact moment.

There's a knowing glint in Dazai's eyes as he steers Chuuya out of the mall, but he doesn't say
anything about it. He just nods.

The train ride back in somehow even longer and more agonizing than the first. Dazai won't
let him hold a single shopping bag for himself, so he's stuck holding onto a nearby railing and
just...

Waiting for the ride to end. Waiting to get back to the hotel so they can finally get to the good
part, the part that he's been waiting for for weeks . His entire life, it feels like.
The sidewalks are packed now, which slows their journey once they get off at their station.
Chuuya feels an insane urge to start shouting at people to get out of his way, he has
somewhere important to be, move . He even has an embarrassing mental vision of shoving
someone who is walking particularly slow out of his way.

Eventually the hotel comes back into view, and Chuuya practically skips ahead, drawing
ahead of Dazai even though the older man has a longer stride and a faster pace, normally.

He doesn't even care that he's so visibly excited, because he can barely contain himself. He's
hungry all sorts of ways. For food, for Dazai, for the intoxicating way he makes him feel, the
heights he brings him to.

He holds the door open for him, ignoring the smirk and the smug air radiating off Dazai. This
time, he has the right to be self-satisfied, even if Chuuya would never actually admit to it.

The elevator ride up is somehow longer and shorter than the first time, and he swears Dazai
takes his sweet time stepping off when they arrive at the top floor.

Chuuya is half-hoping that he’ll be turned around and pinned against the door as soon as he
steps inside, and he wants it so bad he’s already imagining the weight of hands on his
shoulders, Dazai’s leg between his thigh—

“Do you want to take a shower while we wait? I’ll order room service now, but I’m sure it’ll
take a little.”

That’s... a good idea, considering he didn’t shower this morning and he's been walking
around in the heat all day. He wouldn’t say he’s gross , but cleaning up would be nice.
Especially if he plans on getting intimate with Dazai. He wants his mouth all over Dazai and
his mouth all over him. Worrying about what he smells and tastes like will only make him
anxious.

“Come in with me?” He asks, blinking up at him with the biggest, most pleading eyes he can
make. He knows Dazai said no last time, but that was last time. Maybe things have changed
since then? Maybe he’s proved himself trustworthy?
He can only hope, because the idea of Dazai’s wet, naked body pressed up behind him, is
tantalizing. He wants it badly.

With a hum, Dazai sets their bags down in the hallway. He turns around then, stalking closer.

Chuuya backs up instinctively, matching Dazai’s pace until the door meets his back and he
realizes that he’s trapped . It feels dangerous, not in a way that makes him scared but in a
way that makes him breathless.

Dazai steps closer, closest, the heat of his body pouring off him.

With just the tip of his finger, he tips Chuuya’s chin up, guiding him to look at him directly.
With him so close like this, he looms over him, blocking out the entire world, until the only
thing Chuuya can see are his eyes and his kissable lips, growing closer, closer.

“Tempting, little siren,” Dazai pauses just above his mouth to murmur, lips curving with
satisfaction when Chuuya rises up on his toes.

His reward is a kiss, long and lingering. It feels like a prelude to more, a taste-test. The
beginning.

Chuuya surges upward, as high as he can, slinging his arms around his neck to keep him in
place. He kisses Dazai a little deeper, with more desperation as the waiting heat in his belly
starts to ignite—

“But no,” Dazai continues, breaking away. “I still have to order, and someone has to open the
door for the food.”

It’s practical but it still makes Chuuya sag with disappointment.

Dazai whirls them around, placing him firmly in the hallway and pushing him in the direction
of the back hallway he has yet to explore.

“Go shower. I’ll be waiting.”

With a humph, Chuuya turns around to leave—

A hand smacks his ass, not hard enough to hurt but definitely enough to be felt and to make
his eyes widen with shock. When he whips his head around, Dazai is already turned around
and heading into the living room, posture loose like he’s innocent.

Did... did he just spank him? Just like that? No warning, nothing?

That’s not fair , because even the light impact feels like it lingers. Like the heat after getting a
good smack in Kendo class, warm sensation that sinks into the skin and adds to the growing
heat coursing through his veins.

He kind of wants it again . Harder, this time, hard enough that he can feel it in his whole
body. He’s glad Dazai is looking at the menu offered for room service in the other room,
because he can already tell his face is flaming red.

There’s two bedrooms in the hallway— one smaller, obviously meant to be a ‘guest’ room—
and it’s nice, decked out in solid greys and blues. It has a small window, but it doesn’t offer
much of a view.

Since he doesn’t see either of their bags in that one, Chuuya moves onto the next—

The ‘master’ bedroom is much bigger than the first one, big enough that one of Chuuya’s
classrooms could probably fit into it. There’s a large dresser along the wall, and an entire
couch and TV set up on the far side of the room, alongside an entire bank of windows. The
view isn’t as good as the balcony, but it’s still pretty damn nice.
And the bed...

The bed is a feature in and of itself . Huge, with a handful of soft-looking pillows. The duvet
on top is pitch-black, and spotless. However, the most notable feature is...

A mirror situated on the ceiling above the bed, just big enough that he can see most of the
mattress in it.

What is that for? It’s not like he can watch himself sleeping, and the idea of that is kind of
weird, so..? What else could it possibly be used for?

Then the bathroom entrance tucked into the corner catches his attention. He moves on easily,
putting those thoughts out of his head.

The bathroom looks just as luxurious as the one Dazai has at home, which is nice. From what
he can see, it doesn’t have the lights and speaker system Dazai has in his, so that’s a definite
con to this hotel.

Still a massive upgrade from the showers in the dorms though.

The water is instantly hot, and the water pressure is fantastic, and all the supplied soaps smell
a little basic and generic. He really should have brought his own shampoo and conditioner, he
muses, because he’s sure this generic brand is going to dry out his curls horrifically.

Knowing Dazai, he’ll just have to make a single mention of it and his preferred brand will
magically appear for his next shower.

The thought makes him smile.

He brushes his teeth when he gets out, even though he’s going to be eating in a little bit. You
can never be too careful.

Once he returns to the room, he finds that Dazai has brought his new clothes in here at some
point during his shower. They’re all hung up neatly in the massive walk-in closet, on the
opposite side of all the things Dazai bought for himself today.

Something about that, seeing their belongings easily intermingled, makes him feel warm and
bubbly. The sectioned closet, their toothbrushes sitting next to each other in the provided cup
in the bathroom, their respective backpacks settled on each side of the bed—the side closest
to the door for Dazai, the more protected side for Chuuya— just makes him feel...

Domestic, almost. Like he’s settling in, melding together.

And that light, giddy feeling in his stomach makes it surprisingly easy to pick out his outfit
for dinner:

A simple cropped black tank top, loose enough that the strap falls over his shoulder, and—

The same red skirt he tried on for Dazai earlier, the one that feels as light and flowy as he
does right now. It fits, it feels right.

Unfortunately, he still doesn't have the underwear necessary for the skirt, but since he has
plans for after dinner anyways, he doesn't think it's too bold of him to—

Just go without.

The idea of going commando is thrilling , and imagining Dazai's reaction when he finds out
is exciting enough that he quickly has to yank his thoughts away from that direction before it
starts to show.
He adds some mascara and a little wing of eyeliner, to make his outfit blend together a little
better. His hair is still drying, but he's sure it will look wild and not in a good way, so he takes
the time to separate it into two braids. He pulls out a few pieces to frame his face loosely, but
otherwise leaves his hair to tomorrow's Chuuya.

On impulse, he skips putting the choker back on and instead clasps the golden 'D' necklace
around his neck. It ties everything together nicely, completing the entire look. Everything
he’s wearing was bought for him today by Dazai, so it just feels right to wear the necklace
that makes him feel owned.

Then he smells something delicious coming from the living room, so he slips on a pair of
socks quickly before padding out.

He doesn't find anything in the kitchen or living room, but the balcony door has been left
open. Outside, he can see movement, indistinct.

Following his nose— and his heart, as cliche as it sounds— out to the balcony, he finds a
scene out of a romance novel.

The table is set with plates of food and two glasses filled with wine. The bottle is in the
middle of the table, joined by a trio of lit candles.

And he was right, about the view.

Not only of the city— which is beautiful, by the way, with a myriad of flashing neon lights,
the headlights of cars driving far below, moving billboards, something fascinating to look at
in every direction— but also Dazai.

He changed at some point, into a silk button down shirt. The sleeves have been rolled up to
expose his forearms. The bandages are still missing, but his forearms still look clean and
ordinary.
It can't be a coincidence, the way that the shirt has two buttons left undone, exposing part of
his chest. There are bandages there, but Chuuya is most interested in the way the flickering
light highlights the dips of his chest muscles.

A glass appears in front of him, half-full of rich red wine. He takes it automatically, eyes
following the elegant fingers up to the wrist and elbow, trailing over muscle and skin until he
gets to the welcoming smile.

"For you," Dazai mutters, taking a sip of his own wine. He doesn't look like he enjoys it
nearly as much as he enjoys his whiskey, but at least he doesn't spit it back into the cup or
something equally as embarrassing. Clearly, Shuuji learned his bad manners elsewhere.

Curious, Chuuya tastes the wine. This one is darker than the other ones he's had, a rich,
earthy flavor that settles low in his stomach and spreads slowly through his veins. It
heightens his senses, strings his awareness taut between every nerve ending.

The heat of the night is starting to feel incomparable to the heat he can feel in Dazai's eyes.

The chairs around the table have been rearranged so they face outwards to get the full extent
of the view. That's great and all, except Chuuya is more focused on the fact that they'll be
sitting right next to each other, close enough to touch.

He takes his seat first, sweeping his hands underneath his legs to make sure his skirt doesn’t
get caught on the chair.

Dazai settles beside him, and the way he sprawls out shouldn’t be so attractive. The way his
legs spread emphasize how long they are and how thick his thighs are.

Chuuya wants to take a bite of them, wants them around his ears and between his legs.

The room service meals were picked out to pair with the wine— another steak and vegetable
plate and a pasta with beef in it.
Chuuya has to admit that he likes Japanese food better most of the time—except for
breakfast, he loves western breakfasts, especially their pancakes— but the first bite is pretty
damn good, melting in his mouth.

It’ll never be as good as home-cooked meals, but it definitely lives up to his movie-
standards.

“Did you have fun today?” Dazai asks, cutting his steak into smaller pieces. It bleeds onto the
plate, medium-rare.

Nodding, Chuuya twirls his fork in the pasta. “I did, thank you.”

It wasn’t something he thought he would enjoy— shopping before always had this
undercurrent of stress, because they didn’t have a lot of money to spend and so he always had
to be conscientious with his purchases. Functionality over aesthetic, and price had to be as
low as he could find.

It wasn’t fun back then. It was stressful.

But it was fun today, and he has Dazai to thank for that. He has Dazai to thank for a lot of
things.

“I’m glad,” Dazai murmurs, voice low and thick with temptation. He reaches out and lays his
palm on his thigh. His hand is so big, fingers curling around the sides, able to grab enough
skin that he could just take a hold of him.

But he doesn’t. Instead he lets his fingers skate teasingly light over the fabric of his skirt,
moving in slow, unpredictable circles.
It keeps Chuuya on edge, nerves crackling with anticipation and want. Every time his fingers
slide over a particularly sensitive stretch of skin, it makes his breath hitch.

He’s probably not subtle about the way he spreads his thighs a little wider, inviting Dazai’s
hand upwards and inwards. Now that he has one hunger satiated—a quarter of his pasta is
already gone, and his stomach feels better— the other one is coming back in full force, fueled
by the heady wine he’s been sipping.

Dazai’s smile is wolfish, predatory and smothered into his drink.

His hand trails downwards instead of upwards, making Chuuya twitch with impatience.

“I was right,” Dazai says, breaking the concentration Chuuya had on his moving hand. “You
do look amazing in a skirt.”

Flushing, Chuuya looks away slightly. He’s always been bad at taking compliments,
especially when it comes to something like this. The warm, overflowing feeling in his chest
is almost too much to handle.

“So small and strong,” Dazai muses to himself, the tip of his finger tracing the shape of his
muscle beneath the skin. His leg is tensing almost involuntarily.

Chuuya takes another bite to give himself time to answer. He can’t think past the drag of
silky fabric over his skin, the way Dazai’s hand is slowly descending toward the hem, eyes
burning in the darkness.

“I think I’ll take you to the aquarium tomorrow,” Dazai says, abruptly changing the subject.
His hand is still moving though, inching ever closer to the hem, so it takes an embarrassingly
long moment for Chuuya to catch up with the new topic.

“I like aquariums,” he mutters, fighting to keep his voice even when all he can think about is
the way his finger dips underneath the edge of his skirt and begins the agonizingly slow
climb back upwards. On his bare skin, his hand feels almost rough, adding the slight drag of
friction to the swirling sensations building inside his stomach. "I went to the one in Tsubaka
several times."

"Oh?" Dazai says, sounding very interested in conversation even as his hand drags over the
sensitive skin over his inner thigh. He's given up eating, and has settled for sipping
occasionally as his glass of wine. "You'll like this one then. I hear it's... bigger than most
people expect."

Just like something else is bigger than expected—

He takes a desperate gulp of wine, hoping to gather some self-control in the split second of
silence. Any moment now, Dazai will discover that he's not wearing underneath his skirt,
because his hand is coasting up his inner thigh now, sparking sensitive lines of fire and
electricity up his spine and down his legs.

He's drunk on it, on the anticipation, on the wine, on Dazai, on the feeling of his skirt slowly
edging up his legs. Every inch of him feels hypersensitive, turning every touch into
something molten, anticipation drawing him tight.

Another inch higher, fingers cresting where his underwear would be, and now his excitement
is starting to show—

The fingers stop, only an inch or two from where he wants them to be, where he's aching—

"Chuuya?"

Turning his head, he meets dark, burning eyes, focused on him with searing intensity. His
mouth parts instinctively, a heated breath leaving him. "Dazai," he whispers, response to call,
like music.

"Come here."
 Dreams of Wine
Chapter Summary

(Dazai is doing his best to commit this sight to memory. Chuuya, rumpled and clearly so
desperate for him, going commando like he knew Dazai would be touching him.

He's either going to be seeing this sight for the rest of his life—

Or he's going to remember it, in as much vivid detail as physically possible, because he
already knows he's going to end up jerking off to it for a while.)

"This was bold," he muses, running one finger teasingly up the length of his thigh. He
avoids his erection, though he skates so close Chuuya automatically holds his breath in
reaction. "Do you want me that badly? You had to make it easy for me?"

Chapter Notes

Hello everyone! Another Saturday, another chapter :) First off I want to wish a very
happy birthday to Dadd-- I mean Dazai ;) I didn't plan this chapter to come out on his
birthday, but I love the coincidence LMAO. In other news, I'm working a lot these days
but I finally have internet so I can get back to my normal creating schedule -.- Looking
forward to it! Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this chapter and I'll see you next week ;)

This chapter includes:

- exhibitionism
- "Please, Daddy?"
- the taste of strawberries on fingers
- handprints
- grinding
- a hint of wine
- a cuddle session

The words, the command in them, jumpstarts his body before his mind can even register their
meaning. He sets his glass down after a final swallow, and turns to Dazai.

He’s not sure exactly what he wants, but the spread of his thighs is inviting. He’s only a step
away, fingers leaving his thigh only to skate up his body and gently hook in the chain around
his neck.

Dazai pulls gently, more of a suggestion than anything else, but Chuuya follows the tug like
he has no other choice, rising to his feet.

Climbing into his lap feels like coming home, his legs firm and steady beneath him. His
hands find the back of Dazai’s neck, running his nails over the fuzzy undercut at the back.

For a moment, they just stare at each other, the moment growing thick and taffy-sweet
between them. Chuuya can’t tell if the heat he’s feeling is because of the wine, or the air, or
Dazai beneath him, or Dazai staring at him, hand slowly encircling his throat, and god, his
hand is so big, he can almost wrap his fingers around entirely.

His pulse throbs in Dazai’s palm, his body silently begging for attention.

“Kiss me, little siren,” Dazai murmurs, eyes reflecting candlelight flame in the darkness. He
looks like sin personified, too tempting to resist even if he wanted to. “You’ve earned your
reward.”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement, leaning forward eagerly. The hand on his throat
follows him easily, never putting too much pressure but always present. A reminder of how
much control Dazai has over him, even if he’s not exerting it at that moment.

The first press of their lips together tastes like wine and relief. It’s chaste, unhurried for a
moment—

But then something darker and hungrier stirs between them, igniting the heat between them
like flames to gasoline.

Teeth sink into his lip with more force than they have ever before, making Chuuya gasp and
jerk in place. It doesn't hurt so much as it focuses sensation in one spot. The sharp, indulgent
suck Dazai gives him feels like it echoes through his entire body. It builds, growing heavier
as Dazai takes advantage of his gasp and slides his tongue into his mouth.

A pleased hum rolls out from the back of his throat, a sound that is eagerly swallowed by
Dazai. Chuuya wiggles closer, every centimeter of contact between them making him even
more ravenous for more, an empty pit of need hollowing out his stomach.

It’s never enough. Even when the contact is too much and Chuuya feels on the verge of tears
with it, it’s never enough. He always needs more.

His rapidly hardening cock brushes against Dazai’s stomach, the fabric of his skirt dragging
across the sensitive head and making his breath catch in his throat.

It feels so good, and every time they do this, it just feels better, like each brush of pleasure is
a stored symphony along his nerves and woken each time Dazai touches him again.

“You,” Dazai mutters against him, the hand that’s not on his throat making a curving sweep
over his body. Down his chest, into the tuck of his waist, over his hip—here, Chuuya shivers
hard, hoping that Dazai will touch him where he wants it most— then dragging down the
outside of his thigh. “Drive me crazy, you know that?”

Chuuya can’t help but preen a little under the revelation. He drives Dazai crazy, someone
much more experienced and controlled than him, and he wasn’t even trying that hard. It’s the
ultimate high, physical pleasure pairing with the emotional.

A thumb tips his head back further, taking away what little control he has over the kiss. He
has no choice but to take what Dazai gives him, devouring him in a deep, relentless kiss.

The hand on his thigh dips under the skirt, roaming upward. It’s still firmly on the outside,
but it’s searingly direct contact. It sends fire licking up his thighs, his legs spreading wider in
response.
“You make it so hard,” Dazai practically growls this time, voice so thick that Chuuya feels he
might choke on it. “To control myself.”

Before he can respond, or even have a coherent thought, Dazai is kissing him deeper. The
metal ball of his tongue piercing rubs ruthlessly against the roof of his mouth, creating a
point of over-sensitivity that he capitalizes on, until Chuuya is trembling.

He’s grateful that Dazai is kissing him like he’s trying to climb inside him, because even
though they are outside on the balcony of the top floor—

They’re still outside, with people only a story below them. Some of them might have their
windows open; some of them might hear him.

The fingers on his thigh sweep even further up, tracing the line of his straining hip before
curving around--

And for the first time ever, Chuuya has a hand on his bare ass. A hand that is so big it can
grab a cheek almost entirely, fingers that grip hard and pull him even closer.

"I'm starting to think," Dazai continues, and Chuuya doesn't even care what he's talking about
because—

He can feel his voice rumbling with how close their chests are pressed together, can feel it on
his lips and in his mouth, filling his lungs like heady smoke. Keep talking, he thinks to
himself desperately, like if he thinks it hard enough, Dazai might hear him.

Keep talking. Tell me I'm pretty or I'm good, or I drive you crazy. It doesn't matter, just please
don't stop because it makes me feel so good.

Like an answer to his prayers, Dazai continues, "That you like pushing me to my limits."
The hand on his ass tightens, drags him even closer. He's pressed tightly against him now,
sitting directly on his lap, and he can feel the hardening bulge beneath him, growing larger
with every word and movement.

He would think that his need for it would lessen once he got his hands — and mouth — on
his dick, but now he knows how hot it feels in his palm, the satisfying stretch of it in his
mouth, and he wants it everywhere.

He doesn't have the experience to really imagine it, but he can almost picture his cock
stretching him open, pressing inside—

The hand tightens on his throat, just enough that he can feel his pulse struggling to beat past
the pressure. He goes limp under the hold, mind turning hazy with desire.

"Answer me, baby."

He scrambles to think when Dazai asked a question, but it's so hard to gather his thoughts
when Dazai is encouraging his hips to move, building a grinding rhythm in his lap. "I—," he
gasps, choking on a moan when the fabric of his skirt drags against him just right. "Yes?"

He sounds unsure, a little confused, but the sentiment is there, and thankfully Dazai accepts
his answer.

"Bratty," Dazai sighs, not sounding disappointed in the least. He's moved on to smearing
kisses over his cheeks, finding the line of Chuuya's jaw and biting down on it intermittently.
"What should I do with you?"

Maybe this one isn't a question, but Chuuya has already been prompted to answer once, so his
mouth moves before he can even register what he's going to say—

"Fuck me."
There's a sharp inhale against his cheek, the slight sting of teeth sinking into his jaw. The
sensation makes him keen quietly, digging his nails into the back of Dazai's neck to ground
himself.

Even though he's quickly losing his mind, he's clinging onto what little restraint he has to
keep himself quiet. He doesn’t want to be heard by anyone else, he doesn’t want to get caught
and most importantly, he doesn’t want to be interrupted.

"So eager," Dazai rasps against his jaw, moving steadily downwards. Somehow, he manages
to find every sensitive spot on his neck and lingers there, sucking and biting down until every
centimeter of his neck feels like it throbs in time with his heart.

He has to move his hand to give himself access, and it makes its way to Chuuya’s other thigh.
This one though, doesn’t just duck underneath his skirt; it pushes it up, revealing his
trembling thighs until the fabric is bunched over his hips.

Chuuya arches, waiting for the fabric to pulled over his erection, hoping Dazai will finally
put hands on him—

The next sucking kiss pulls his necklace into Dazai’s mouth, and the feeling of the chain
moving over his skin just adds another layer of sensation.

He can barely breathe, heart speeding up, lungs aching and too small to keep up with his
arousal—

“Do you trust me?” Dazai asks, voice low.

Like every other time he’s asked before (and like every time Dazai will ask in the future,
again and again, until their bond is so secure that they don’t need to speak, they can see the
love and trust as clear as day in each others eyes), Chuuya only has one answer:
“Yes.”

Dazai surges upward, making Chuuya yelp in surprise as his arms and legs tighten
instinctively.

For a second, he thinks he’s about to be carried off into the bedroom, where Dazai will ravish
him and the only thought in his head is—

Finally, fucking finally.

But that’s not what happens. Instead, he’s being dumped onto one of the longer couches
closer to the edge of the balcony. Dazai follows him down before he can complain, one knee
sinking into the cushion between his legs and encouraging his thighs to spread to
accommodate.

The next kiss is deeper than the last, backed by the grounding weight of Dazai hovering over
him.

With hands in his dark hair, Chuuya pulls him in even harder. Wiggling, he adjusts his
position until he can wrap one leg around his hip and then the other.

He tightens his legs, yanking him down at the same time he tilts his hips up—

For the first time that night, their hips come together perfectly, erections grinding together.
Dazai is still tucked behind his slacks, and Chuuya's skirt is half-ridden up, but it's scorching
hot regardless.

Dazai swears into his mouth, heated, one hand gripping the back of the chair to keep his
weight from crushing Chuuya. The other is between their bodies, doing something that
Chuuya can't see, shoulder rolling with the movement.
There's a small click and then the scent of artificial fruit slowly fills the air.

Chuuya squirms, the smell breaking through the haze of pleasure in his mind. It's so strong,
and yet it doesn't belong at all. "Are—Is that strawberries?"

There's a huff of laughter against the corner of his mouth, punctuated by another roll of
Dazai's hips. He rises up a little, and the way his shoulder strains as he shifts his weight is
hot.

"Yes. It's flavored lube," Dazai reveals, showing the red-pink bottle to him. He must've been
hiding it in the pocket of his slacks.

He tips the bottle upside down, pressing his index finger over the small spout and squeezing
the bottle with the rest of his fingers.

It takes a lot of grip strength to be able to do that, Chuuya thinks to himself hazily, biting his
lip as he imagines those hands on him like that. Not as careful as they usually are — Chuuya
likes the care, he does, but he's finding that he has an increasing desire to be pinned down
beneath Dazai and forced to take it as he breaks him open in the best, most pleasing of ways
— but harder. Firmer.

Enough to leave bruises on him. Dazai can do it, Chuuya knows he's strong enough for it, he
just doesn't know how to communicate his want—

"Here," Dazai says, letting the bottle drop to the side. He brings his finger up, rubbing it over
his bottom lip. It looks sinfully wet and shiny in the low light, so tempting. "Have a taste."

He's diving down again, pressing their lips together roughly. This time, the taste of wine is
overpowered greatly by the sweet taste of strawberries.

It's a bit strange, clearly artificial, and the lube itself is oddly thick on his mouth, coating his
tongue. It's much better than the warming lube though — even though he thinks he likes the
taste of Dazai's cock the best — so he chases after the flavor. He pulls his lip into his mouth,
running his tongue across it over and over again, until all he can taste is strawberry and
Dazai.

He sucks, thrilling at the way he can almost direct Dazai's actions with it.

A hard suck earns him a long, languid roll of his hips. A bite gets him a muffled growl and a
grind so hard it almost hurts. His tongue swiping over his lip gets a hand landing on his thigh,
running up—

Finally, his skirt is pushed up entirely, bunched up around his waist.

Chuuya tries to keep Dazai from pulling away, tightening his hands and sinking his teeth in,
but it doesn't work. With another harsh rock of his hips, grinding the rough material of his
jeans against Chuuya's erection, he takes advantage of the whimpered gasp to pull away.

He sits up straighter, and Chuuya is left sprawled out underneath him. Thighs hooked over
his hips, clothes shoved out of the way, face flushed with arousal, bitten-red lips open and
panting, eyes huge.

(Dazai is doing his best to commit this sight to memory. Chuuya, rumpled and clearly so
desperate for him, going commando like he knew Dazai would be touching him.

He's either going to be seeing this sight for the rest of his life—

Or he's going to remember it, in as much vivid detail as physically possible, because he
already knows he's going to end up jerking off to it for a while.)

"This was bold," he muses, running one finger teasingly up the length of his thigh. He avoids
his erection, though he skates so close Chuuya automatically holds his breath in reaction. "Do
you want me that badly? You had to make it easy for me?"
The bottle of lube is grabbed again, and this time, the pop of the lid is accented by the sharp,
wolfish smile on Dazai's face.

That's not why Chuuya did it—

But Dazai doesn't need to know that, right?

"Yes," he mutters, cheeks heating up with embarrassment. There's something deliciously

filthy about talking during sex, like verbal acknowledgment of his lust is somehow more
shameful than being rock-hard in a skirt and on his back for Dazai.

Dazai takes his hand back and pours a generous amount of lube on it. Some of it drips off his
palm to land in cold droplets on Chuuya's skin, making him jerk in place.

"Lucky for you, I'm feeling nice today," Dazai tells him, moments before his slick hand
wraps around his cock.

It's still cold, enough to make him flinch away instinctively and gasp. The heat of his hand is
distantly behind, and the friction burns deliciously through him, a confusing mix of
sensations that makes him bite his lip to keep from crying out.

"But how could I not be," Dazai continues, hand moving tightly over him. All the caution
from last time is nowhere to be found, leaving just this burning confidence, like Dazai knows
exactly how to make him feel good.

And he does, because every movement of his hand feels electric, golden with pleasure. Did it
feel this good last time? God, he can’t remember. Every time Dazai touches him, it feels like
the first time, so overwhelming he feels like he might shatter under the pleasure—

“When you look so pretty underneath me?” Dazai finishes, voice dripping with satisfaction.
Shuddering, Chuuya arches up, pushing his hips into the next stroke. He’s biting his lip so
hard it should be hurting or even bleeding—

But all he can taste is strawberry, coating his tongue.

“Yeah?” Dazai hums, expression focused and intense. “Do you like being told how pretty you
are? How good you look, all dressed up?”

Chuuya nods frantically, letting out a stuttered breath. It’s true, he does, he likes being pretty,
he likes being the best, he likes being the center of attention, likes excelling. It satisfies some
needy, insecure part of himself, the part that always makes him doubt himself.

The part that whispers that he’s not as smart as he thinks, and not as hard-working as he
should be, not as good as everyone else—

And it all just goes silent when Dazai talks to him like this.

Dazai’s smile is sharply indulgent, the kind of look someone gives you when telling you to
do something wild and reckless despite the dangers. “So quiet today,” he muses, hand
slowing. “Don’t tell me you’re getting shy on me?”

There’s lube dripping down his cock, over his balls, smearing messily over his thighs. He
can’t even be embarrassed at the mess Dazai makes of him, too busy trying to smother the
rising moans.

He shakes his head, frustration scratching at him. It was so good before, why is Dazai
slowing down?

“Talk to me, beautiful,” Dazai murmurs, leaning over him. His mouth finds the hinge of
Chuuya’s jaw, mouthing at the sensitive skin. “Tell me how good I make you feel. Moan for
me. I want to hear you.”

The last part is whispered directly into his ear, paired with an agonizingly slow stroke over
his cock and—

Chuuya cracks a little under the strain, letting out a tiny keening moan.

Dazai’s hand tightens on him, strokes him harder, faster. “There you are,” he says lowly,
scraping his teeth over Chuuya’s cheek. “Again.”

Wrapping his arms around him, Chuuya shudders. Digging his nails in, he gasps out a
breathless, “But I— what if someone hears us?”

(Poor thing. He doesn’t even realize how cliché what he just said was, straight out of a cheap
porn film. Dazai does though, and it’s hard work to smother his smile against his cheek.)

“You’re right,” Dazai sighs, but he doesn’t sound like he agrees, and his hand is moving
faster, making Chuuya twitch and tremble beneath him, breath speeding up—

“It probably wouldn’t be fair for someone to hear how lovely you sound without being able
to see how pretty you are too.”

Oh, oh—

"But that sight is only for me, isn't it?" Dazai continues, the edge of a growl in his voice. He's
so heavy above him, impossible to escape, pinning him open. "Only I get to see you like this,
aren't I? The only one, ever."

Gulping, Chuuya nods again. He tightens his legs again, dragging himself as close as
physically possible to Dazai's immovable form. His hand is still between them, still stroking
flashfire-pleasure into him, but there's an aching pit growing in his stomach, one that is only
satisfied when he feels Dazai's erection pressed against his ass.

It's like hunger, only more invasive, filling every inch of his body until the only thought in his
head is—

More, more, please more, I'll do anything, just fill me up—

"I know what you want," Dazai says, hand stopping entirely. The lube is warm by now, but
not as hot as the warming lube was. He's almost disappointed by that, not realizing how much
sensation that added until he's experiencing pleasure without it.

"And I know how to give it to you," he continues, fingers wandering down. "All you have to
do is ask."

In that moment, Chuuya decides, once and for all, that he doesn't care who hears him,
because the thought of someone hearing how good Dazai makes him feel, how good Dazai is
and Chuuya is getting all that experience to himself—

It's hot. Even if it feels a little wrong , but maybe that’s part of the appeal.

His next moan is much louder than the first.

"Please, Dazai, just — please," he pants, unsure of exactly what he wants, what will satisfy
the pit of hunger in his stomach. Dazai will know though. He'll help him, Chuuya just has to
ask him and he'll take care of everything.

The answer to his pleas is Dazai's clean hand hooking under one of his knees and pushing up.
Not for the first time, Chuuya is grateful that he's so flexible, otherwise having his leg pinned
to his side with his ankle propped up on Dazai's shoulder might hurt. As it is, it just sends the
satisfying burn of a good stretch through him.
His hand wanders even farther down, pressing briefly into the space just under his balls
before sliding down into the crack of his ass.

Chuuya's eyes widen, finally catching up with what Dazai has planned. He's not scared, he's
just nervous. No one has ever touched him there, he's barely touched himself there, and now
Dazai — someone Chuuya wants desperately to please and to impress — is going to put his
hands there, probably more—

When he tenses instinctively, the hand stops. It doesn't withdraw, it just hovers there, waiting
for a signal to stop or to keep going.

"You said you trusted me, sweetheart," Dazai reminds him, moving over to give him a
sweetly lingering kiss, one that coaxes the tension out of him. "Are you changing your
mind?"

The way he says it, carefully neutral, makes it seem like Dazai doesn't mind if he says no,
like he's more concerned with making sure Chuuya is comfortable more than anything else.

That assurance, even if silent, is enough to have Chuuya taking a deeper breath and forcing
himself to relax back into Dazai's grip. He kisses him back, letting all his nerves be soothed
by the swipe of Dazai's tongue over his lip.

"Don't stop," he whispers, voice breathy in the meager space between them.

That earns him a slightly deeper kiss, an indulgent nibble on his lower lip, a pleased hum
rumbling in Dazai's chest. "Don't worry," Dazai mumbles back, "I'll take care of you."

Before Chuuya can gather his thoughts, his tongue is sliding into his mouth. Dazai kisses him
exactly how he likes — deep, piercing flicking over the roof of his mouth, tongues sliding
together sensually.
it's easy to fall back into the rhythm of things. The aching need never went away, and now it's
being built up again, fanned into a forest fire with the expert way he kisses Chuuya. Again
and again, stealing the breath from him, until he's dizzy, mind spinning with the need for
more contact, more pleasure, more anything.

Dazai takes the oxygen from him and gives him pure liquid lust in return.

When his hips rock up instinctively, aching for friction, the hand between his legs moves
again. Slower, this time, more cautious, fingertips almost tickling with how lightly they trace
over his skin.

Chuuya shivers, turning what remains of his nervous energy into a frantic kiss, sucking on
Dazai's tongue until there's a low, guttural groan rumbling from above him.

With one leg pinned to his side and the other draped across Dazai's thigh, he's spread wide
open. In the perfect position for Dazai's fingers to wander lower, lower, there—

The first brush of his fingers against Chuuya's entrance is...

A little weird, to be honest. It feels strange to be wet there, and for Dazai to be rubbing
wetness into him with long strokes of his fingers. It doesn't feel bad though, and there's a
certain point it feels good. Not as good as his tongue in his mouth, or his hand directly on his
cock, but the sensation makes anticipation stir in his stomach, his body working up to
something.

Dazai pulls back just far enough to sink his teeth into his lower lip, hard enough to make
Chuuya whimper and shudder in reaction. At the same, his finger swirls over his rim and then
pushes in. There's enough lube that there's no friction, but there is a sense of burning
pressure.

He's felt it before, when he tried to finger himself. Not quite on this scale, because Dazai's
hands are massive, but he forces himself to relax into the pressure with a shuddering breath.
It takes a few thrusts, Dazai pulling out just to press his finger deeper on the next thrust in,
pausing quite a few times to let his body adjust while he kisses him stupid and whispers
soothing words against his mouth whenever Chuuya tenses up again.

"Doing so well," Dazai purrs, once he has his finger buried all the way inside him. "Feels
good?"

Chuuya squirms a little bit. It doesn't feel bad, but it doesn't feel great either. It mostly just
feels intrusive, and puts pressure against his insides. It doesn't move with him when he shifts
either, which is a strange concept.

"Feels..." He considers lying and telling Dazai that it feels great, but he’s pulled back a little
to stare down at him, and he can’t lie when those eyes are locked on his expression. “..a little
strange?”

“Does it hurt?”

Chuuya shakes his head, because it doesn’t hurt. It feels like the stretch of his muscles, just in
a different, more sensitive part of his body. He can’t say that the stretch isn’t satisfying in its
own way, but he’s not feeling any mind-melting pleasure or anything like that.

“Good,” Dazai says, dipping back down to find his neck with his mouth, treating him to
another series of slow, sucking kisses. Those feel good, and the head of Chuuya’s cock is just
barely brushing the silk of Dazai’s shirt, tantalizing.

Then Dazai’s finger is pulling out, driving back in, and this time his finger curls up,
massaging his inner muscles at the same he finds a sensitive spot on his neck, filling him with
the twin sensations of good and full and—

“Oh,” Chuuya gasps, arching underneath him. He’s starting to see why people do this now,
why people get addicted to it, because it’s satisfying in such a primal, instinctive way that it
feels better than anything he’s ever felt before.
Better than Dazai jerking him off, or masturbating, or when he got the Keio acceptance letter.
Nothing feels better than this, he thinks to himself, driving his hips upward on the next slide
in to increase the force. Nothing.

He can feel Dazai’s smile against his skin, probably smug at the way he has Chuuya panting
beneath him, but Chuuya doesn’t even care anymore, he can be smug all he wants, just keep
going—

The second finger pressing against his rim doesn’t frighten him nearly as much as the first
one, mostly because he’s half out of his mind with need and he already knows what to
expect.

After the first couple thrusts of the first finger, the burning stretch had gone away. Now it
returns, slightly more than before, growing deeper as his fingers press further in.

The whole experience is overwhelming — Dazai, hot and heavy above him, pinning him
down. His fingers, long and thick, inside of him, curling upwards. The bulge of Dazai's
erection, still hidden in his pants, pressed against the crease of Chuuya's thigh, tantalizingly
close and

yet so far—

Oh my god.

Chuuya jolts in place, a strangled keen escaping his throat as Dazai's fingers curl inside him
at just the right angle, sending a shockwave of fire-tinged ecstasy rippling through him.

"I—" he gasps, bucking underneath him. At some point, one of his hands has found its way
into Dazai's hair. It tightens, strong enough that Dazai lets out a sharp noise, sinking his teeth
into him as retaliation and giving him a deeper, harder thrust—

Which just makes the problem worse.

"Again. Do that again," Chuuya demands breathlessly, instinctively spreading his thighs
wider, so Dazai can get deeper—

Dazai does the opposite though, stilling with his fingers buried deep inside him. He's changed
to a massaging motion against whatever amazing spot he'd found, a movement that nearly
makes Chuuya cross-eyed with pleasure, but also somehow isn't enough.

It feels good, it feels great, but without the force of the thrust behind it, it feels like he's being
built up slowly. Like if he were to just use fingertips on his dick while masturbating, instead
of his whole hand.

"Is that how you ask for the things you want?" Dazai says, tone playfully disapproving. His
fingers haven't stopped, but his other hand has dropped down to pin Chuuya's hips in place,
and he's leaning back to sit up straight again.

It's pretty clear that he might not stop, but he's definitely not going to give him more until he
asks nicely—

"Please?" He asks, letting his voice drop into something pleading. It's not hard; he's already
so desperate he might just beg entirely.

The fingers pull back an inch, slam back inside with the most force yet, and Chuuya gets a
taste of what it might be like if Dazai gets rough with him, if he loses control, and god, it's so
good, he wants more, needs it, arching up—

There's a low, foreboding chuckle above him. The sound drapes over Chuuya, smothering
him in the feeling of complete and utter domination.

"Is that the best you can do? One pretty please? You can do better than that, can't you,
beautiful?"

Yes, yes, he can, he can do it, he swears—

He opens his mouth, and what comes out is...

Not exactly what he intended to say.

(In retrospect, he'll realize exactly how he ended up here. He's been staring at Dazai's contact
name for weeks now, and the effortless air Dazai gives off, like he can handle anything that
ever happens, makes it so easy to give into something he didn't even know he wanted.)

A teasing roll of Dazai's hips against him is his only warning for the next thrust, driving into
him mercilessly and then staying there, pressing against him brutally good—

If he wants Chuuya to beg, then he will.

"I— please, daddy, I'll do anything!"

Everything stops. Dazai's hand, his hips, he's probably not even breathing right now.

Chuuya lets out a choked sob, writhing. It wasn't good enough, he can do it better, he opens
his mouth to ask again—

"What did you just say?"

Dazai's voice cuts through the haze. Chuuya blinks up at him, coherence returning and—

If he thought Dazai looked affected before, that’s nothing compared to now.

His eyes are huge in his face, completely pitch black, unblinking. His posture has gone rigid,
the muscles in his shoulders standing out starkly. There’s a dangerous tilt to his mouth, the
flash of his teeth beyond his lips, and even in the low lighting, Chuuya can see how hard his
jaw is clenched.

He looks like a predator that just found prey to pounce on, waiting for the exact right moment
to strike—

Then what he said finally catches up to him.

Oh. Oh god, why would he even say that. He wasn’t thinking, it just—

It just came out, like it was natural and normal.

“Um,” Chuuya stalls, suddenly feeling overexposed. He’s only grateful that his body has
been so hot for the last few minutes that Dazai won’t be able to tell exertion from
embarrassment. “I, uh—.”

He looks away—

Or tries to, actually, because as soon as his eyes slide away and his head tilts, there’s a large
hand shooting out, grabbing him by the chin.

It’s firm, the way Dazai holds onto him and guides him back into place. Not hard enough to
leave marks, but forceful enough that Chuuya, shivering, melts into it.

“Don’t be shy, baby. I want you to tell me what you said.”

Before, it was easy, natural. Now, Dazai’s staring down at him like he’s looking at his last
meal, and it’s embarrassing.
His tongue feels thick, and he’s caught somewhere between shameful embarrassment and
fever-hot lust.

“You said you’d do anything, Chuuya. And I want you to say it again, loud and clear for me.
You can do it; it felt good, didn’t it?”

It did, god, it did, like some shared dirty secret between them.

Half of his embarrassment came from the idea that maybe Dazai didn't like it, or he thought it
was weird. But with the way he's staring at him and demanding that he say it again—

It's clear that he liked it too.

Which makes it infinitely easier to ignore the embarrassment and put the lingering shame
aside to open his mouth and let a whispered "Please, daddy," roll off his tongue.

There's a heartbeat of silence, of stillness, as Dazai's eyes grow even darker, and his smile
tips up into something sinfully sharp and delicious—

And then he's being devoured. That's the only way he can describe it.

Dazai's fingers twist inside him, wringing hot pleasure from him until he gasps and shudders
in reaction. At the same time, Dazai is leaning down, covering his mouth with his own,
drinking the pleasure off his lips and demanding more. His tongue fills his mouth, rubbing
against his in slow strokes, a counter rhythm to the way his fingers are pulling out and
hammering back in—

Chuuya feels drunk on it, stretched between Dazai's talented hands like melted candy, sugar-
sweet and aching for more.
"Again," Dazai demands, the control in his tone almost impossible to disobey, especially
when it's pressed directly into his mouth. "Say it again for me."

For someone who wants to hear him say it, he makes it as difficult as possible. Whenever
Chuuya opens his mouth again, he drives his fingers forward, or rocks his hips into him, or
sucks on his lip until Chuuya feels like he’s being swept away into a storm of sensation,
willingly drowning.

He lets out a choked groan, digging his nails into the back of Dazai’s neck. His leg tightens,
pulling him into each thrust of his fingers, and it mimics the sensation of being fucked. The
sensation somehow manages to send him spiralling even higher.

Dazai moves to the side, scraping his teeth over his cheeks in sharp demand. Chuuya can
finally take a clear breath, air burning hot in his lungs and the aftertaste of Dazai on his
tongue.

“I— fuck, Dazai,” he pants, trying to get some awareness and control back into himself—

Which is promptly whisked away when Dazai bites him, teeth punishingly sharp. It stings a
little, making him cry out.

The pain is soothed with a kiss, but Dazai’s voice is a low, displeased rumble. “No,” he says,
“that’s not what I asked for. That’s not what you called me.”

His hand is slowing again, pleasure beginning to fade and god, okay, okay, he’ll do it, he’ll
do whatever Dazai wants, just don’t stop—

“Daddy,” he moans, shuddering when his instant reward is another twist of his fingers.

“Beautiful,” Dazai whispers softly, voice thick. He presses a kiss to his cheek, so soft
compared to the way his hand is practically forcing pleasure into him with the will of a
conqueror—
“Again.”

From there, Chuuya discovers that it's actually pretty easy.

All he has to do is let his mind go numb and say whatever comes to his tongue first— usually
a mix of ‘daddy’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘please’, depending on what Dazai is doing to him— and
just...

Enjoy what he’s being given. Enjoy the pleasure, the feeling of Dazai over him, all around
him.

There's a mouth working over his face and neck, smearing words there, an indulgent response
to Chuuya's every moan and tremble.

"Beautiful."

"Perfect for me."

"Doing so good, take it so well. Say it again, lovely."

Every word out of Dazai's mouth, every thrust of his fingers or his hips, feels like it drops
directly into Chuuya's chest, burrowing into his heart and making it throb in time.

The pulse roaring in his ears is punctuated by a harsh, "So fucking pretty."

The tension building in his stomach and thighs is urged tighter with every grind of his fingers
inside him, the roll of Dazai's hips in time.
His cock hurts from neglect, but it still feels so good the only thing he can do is buck
underneath him, raking his nails up his back.

"I need," Chuuya chokes out, thigh trembling around Dazai's hip. His own hip is starting to
strain with how far it's pushed up, but the achy-pain just adds to the building storm.

"Hm?" Dazai hums, moving onto a different spot on his neck. With how hard it's throbbing,
he's probably left marks. "Tell Daddy what you need."

Hearing Dazai refer to himself like that snaps what little restraint Chuuya has left, setting him
ablaze. He doesn't even feel like a person anymore, just a writhing column of fire, expertly
shaped by Dazai's hands and fanned hotter with his breath.

He doesn't feel shame or embarrassment, or anything else, just a deepening pit of pleasure
and desire.

On the next thrust in, he claws at Dazai's back, relishing at the growl it earns him. He hooks
his leg tighter around him, pulling him in—

"Fuck me? Please, Daddy."

(Dazai is quickly discovering that being a good man is not only overrated but it also fucking
sucks.

Because here he is, knuckle deep in one of most beautiful people he's ever met, one that's
gasping and pleading for him and calling him Daddy — which that in itself feels like feels
like a fever dream he manifested into reality during his daydreaming on the plane — and
there's nothing stopping him from giving into his plea.

Nothing, this is, except his own — often skewed, but always correct when it comes to
Chuuya — moral compass.
By his own admittance, this is the first time he's had something inside him. Chuuya's voice
from that phone call a while ago floats through his mind.

“ Not really”.

Dazai can feel it too. It takes him a while to relax, even as eager as he is, and his inner
muscles cling to his fingers like they can't decide if they want to push him out or pull him
deeper. He also has a tendency to tense up when something unexpected happens, which is
fine and completely normal—

But that might spell disaster for their first time, if he's not properly prepared.

Does Dazai want to fuck him? Absolutely.

Does Dazai want to hear his broken, choked moan when he's being filled for the first time,
the harsh breathing that Dazai will kiss away? Yes.

Does Dazai want to have their first time on a balcony, rushed and not thought through? Not
particularly.

Does Dazai want Chuuya's first time to be anything less than mind-blowingly amazing?
Absolutely not.

Not that he doubts his skills or anything, because he has Chuuya almost crying on two fingers
alone, but he's skating on the razor-thin edge of his control.

He wouldn't hurt Chuuya on purpose — well, not unless he liked that, in which case he's all
for it — but he doesn't want to end up losing control with Chuuya unknowing and unprepared
for what's to come.
Because as much as he might beg for Dazai's cock, he doesn't know what that means, what it
feels like —

God, being a good man is the worst thing that's happened to him, he mourns silently. His
erection, trapped behind his zipper, is so hard it hurts and Chuuya rocking up against him
isn't helping his self-control.)

For a moment, Chuuya thrills in the feeling of victory. Because he did it, he asked nicely, just
the way Dazai wanted him to, and he knows Dazai will give him anything he asks for—

"No," Dazai says against his neck, low. "I want to see if you cum for me like this. Just like
this."

To prove his point, he spreads his fingers inside him. The stretch and the slide of his
fingertips over his most sensitive spot makes his eyes cross, head tilting back to give him
even better access.

Still, the pleasure doesn't quite drown out the disappointment because—

"But I need—," he protests, voice catching when Dazai slides his fingers out, keeping them
spread, stretching his muscles with an intoxicating friction-burn. "I need more."

"More," Dazai repeats, stilling a little. He's got a tone, like he just thought of something
wicked. "I can help with that.”

Before Chuuya can even blink, Dazai is pulling back entirely. Fingers sliding out completely,
moving away from his neck to sit up completely.

Instantly bereft, Chuuya whimpers and reaches out for him. This isn’t more, this is the
opposite of more, this is nothing, and his body feels cold and empty and tingly without it—
Firm hands grip his hips and flip him over. Yelping, he catches himself on the arm of the
couch with his hands to keep himself from head butting it.

There’s a whispered kiss between his shoulder blades, a silent apology.

(You see, Dazai thought he was being smart. Looking at Chuuya’s face was too tempting,
with his flushed cheeks and pretty red lips and dazed eyes. If Chuuya kept asking and looking
at him like that, like Dazai is his entire world, so trusting and willing beneath him, the kind of
look that Dazai has rarely gotten before and never so quickly or easily, he might just snap —

So he thought:

I just won’t look at his face. Everything will be perfect then. No more temptation, no more
thoughts of giving in.

He is quickly realizing that his idea is not as smart as he thought it was because—

Now he has the view of twin red braids brushing over Chuuya’s shoulders, long enough to
pull, highlighting the freckles on his shoulders — which are adorable, by the way, Dazai
wants to bite them.

His spine, flexible and moving sensually, making the muscles on either side flex and
contract.

Then lower, his skirt — the one Dazai bought him, and the necklace too and god, the thought
of buying him pretty things just to take him apart in them is almost too good to resist — is
bunched up around his hips.

And his ass, perfectly round and just big enough to be a handful. Dazai can’t wait to get his
teeth on it, his tongue—
And because of the low lighting, there’s the faintest sheen of light reflecting off the lube that
trailed down his cheeks and between, where Dazai has been fingering him open for the last
fifteen minutes and—

Dazai is suddenly and viscerally reminded that he loves the taste of strawberries.)

It’s different like this, Chuuya decides, but good.

When they first switched positions, there was a moment of intense silence from behind him
that starts to bring Chuuya out of his pleasure-induced haze—

But then it’s over, and Dazai is draping himself over his back, covering him completely.

His lips land on Chuuya’s shoulder, mouthing at the sensitive skin. At the same time, he tilts
his hips downward with one hand, encouraging his back to arch, and with the other—

After a quick slide over the extra lube on his ass, two fingers slide back inside him. Somehow
they feel bigger at this angle, impossible to think past.

Not being able to see Dazai heightens everything, because he can’t anticipate. The only
warning he gets is a split-second shift of his body, and by the time Chuuya puts together
what’s going to happen, it already is happening.

It also leaves him with a surprising lack of control. He can rock backwards into Dazai’s hand,
but that’s about it. Even that's wholly insufficient, because Dazai likes to pull back at the
same time, reducing the strength of the thrust to almost nothing.

With his hands clawing at the arm of the couch, and his erection hanging neglected between
his thighs, Chuuya feels like he's going to lose his mind.
His thighs tremble, weakened by pleasure and the weight of Dazai leaning on top of him.
He's half-afraid that his body is going to give out beneath him.

"Better?" Dazai asks, a little mockingly, just enough to have Chuuya lifting his head from
where it's hanging between his shoulders, opening his mouth to tell him that no, it's not better,
you said you'd give me more—

But then Dazai's fingers hook up, finding the spot that sends pleasure pulsing through him
with unerring accuracy and staying there.

The way his fingers massage into him is maddening, sparking pleasure that builds in his
veins. It’s too good, building him up higher and higher but not never pushing him over the
edge.

Instead of words, the only thing that escapes his mouth is a loud, keening moan, coming from
deep in his chest.

A smug smile is pressed against his shoulder blade. “That’s what I thought.”

Frustration crackles through Chuuya. It feels good, but it also feels like a tease, because he’s
no closer to his orgasm than before and he wants it so bad.

So when he opens his mouth next, he’s not thinking. He’s only reacting, feeling strung out
and teased and neglected. “Fuck you. Stop teasing me, you—”

Crack.

Chuuya jolts forward, more surprised than hurt at the stinging smack Dazai had given his ass.

“What am I going to do with you?” Dazai sighs, his disapproving tone at odds with the way
his fingers are grinding hard into him, trying to get even deeper. “Here I am, being so nice to
you— and then you have to go and be bratty.”

His voice drops suddenly lower, seeping into the air like smoke, drugging and hazy. “And
then,” he continues, his other hand gripping his smarting asscheek. His palm presses the heat
of impact into his skin, soothing and burning in equal measures. “You liked it when I spanked
you, didn’t you?”

Chuuya shakes his head, denying it out of instinct.

It's a lie. He did like it. The tinge of pain adds an edge to the pleasure, a sharp point that feels
like it carves into him, hollows him out and molds him into a new shape around the
sensations. It makes him feel more, deeper, better. The same way that warmth feels incredible
after a short while of being cold.

The hand on his ass leaves, and Chuuya has to bite his lip to keep himself from making a
disappointed noise.

One of his braids gets a tug, just hard enough to get his attention and pull his face up.

"Don't lie to me," Dazai says reproachfully, pulling out his fingers a little just to drive them
back in, "I felt you tighten up around my fingers."

Chuuya says absolutely nothing, arching his back to push his hips further into Dazai's hold.
It's a silent plea, because he doesn't want to verbally admit that he was into it, his reaction
was already enough. If Dazai can already tell, why does he need to say it? He’s already
embarrassed himself once during this scene, isn’t that enough?

"No? If you didn't like it then, I suppose that I won't do it again..."

The taunt is clear, but Chuuya falls for it anyway. "Wait, please—."
The hand returns to his ass, squeezing the cheek and spreading it, fingers firm. It's
embarrassing, being so exposed like that, but it's overshadowed by the sheer need pulsing
through him.

"You don't have to ask, baby — you just have to tell me if you liked it or not."

His body is screaming yes, but his mind is begging him to keep one last shred of his dignity
intact. The conflicting needs cause tension to rise, building in his throat—

The choice is taken from him when Dazai taps at his ass, so lightly he can barely even feel it,
more a pat than anything else. And with that, the subtle reminder of sensation, the thought of
what it could feel like—

Chuuya breaks.

His forehead presses against the arm of the couch, eyes unfocused as he pants for breath. "I
liked it," he mumbles.

"Louder. I can't hear you."

God, Dazai revels in getting Chuuya to embarrass himself, doesn't he? First the Daddy thing
and now this. He never makes it easy on him. He likes to overwhelm him with pleasure, tease
him with what he wants, and then watches him struggle for it.

Is that what sadism looks like? Because this is just mean.

(Chuuya will learn, later, exactly what sadism is, and how easily Dazai can fill that role—

But not now.)

"I liked it," he repeats, louder. His voice is a mix of sulkiness and breathy need, heard only
because the only sounds out here are from them.

"Good boy," Chuuya hears from behind him, and the sheer satisfaction that rips through him
with that phrase is shocking in itself—

And it's accented by another smack, this one a little harder than the last, more centered over
the cheek, palm cupped so it makes a nice crack.

Heat floods through him, pushed higher by the way Dazai grabs him, hand pressing impact-
heat deeply into his skin. He can feel himself warming up, a pleasant tingling-numbness
growing over where he was smacked.

"Again," he demands breathlessly, arching his back as far as it will go. "Please," he adds as
an afterthought.

Smack.

"Such attitude," Dazai muses, and his voice is chillingly smooth in the face of impact. "What
am I going to do with you?"

It sounds like a rhetorical question, but Chuuya has practically been trained to answer all
questions loudly and clearly, so he tries again, hoping this will be the time Dazai gives into
him—

"Fuck me?"

Another spank, this one leaving him panting and clinging onto the edge of the couch, a haze
building in his mind. He feels strung tight, almost ready to break, but also melted at the same
time, his body giving into Dazai's whims without worry of reaching the peak.
"Oh, baby. You haven't done what I asked for yet."

Chuuya casts back frantically, wondering what instruction he had missed.

"I want to see if you can cum for me like this."

And god, it seems impossible, because he's never come without friction on his cock, and even
though Dazai finger-fucking him is good, obviously, it's—

Is it enough?

He doesn't know and he wants to try, but he doesn't want to fail either, he wants to be good.

But it seems impossible, and it's frustrating to be built up, higher and higher, with only the
possibility of the end in sight—

Dazai pulls his fingers out, slow, and Chuuya's face burns at the slick, wet noises the motion
makes. It's horribly loud in the sudden silence, and surprisingly embarrassing.

Then there's three fingers pressing into him, and if he thought the stretch was far before—

It's nothing compared to now.

Dazai's fingers are bunched together, thick, each ridge of the joints grinding against his rim.
They're long too, impossibly long, and now that Chuuya isn't being kissed by him or looking
at him, he's able to feel every centimeter of his fingers sliding slowly into him and ache for
more.
Chuuya's always liked to push his limits. Finds satisfaction and pleasure in the ache of
overused muscles, and the burning soreness that comes the day after.

This is like blending the sensations together, a burning-pain that adds a deeper, more
intoxicating depth to the pleasure. It draws him in, throws him higher, makes him hotter.

By the time Dazai's knuckles press against him, Chuuya is nearly mindless with sensation,
eyes rolling back in his head.

God, this is way better than he ever thought. Better than any half-assed fantasy or even that
one wet dream from so long ago.

Dazai's fingers crook upward, zeroing in on the spot that makes rapture pulse through him.
Instead of thrusting, he just grinds his fingers in, a constant rotating pressure that sends him
soaring higher and higher, moaning louder, louder, louder .

Crack!

Another spank, this one the hardest yet, sending sparks down his thighs and up his spine, and
Chuuya is gone.

The tension snaps, letting him drop from the ledge he'd been built to. It's more intense than
any orgasm he's had before. The others were good, but restricted to a skin-deep layer, leaving
him breathless and vulnerable in the wake.

This one feels soul-deep, rocking the very foundations of his body. An earthquake that leaves
him cracked open, filled with so much heat and pleasure and desire that he hardly feels
himself anymore.

Dazai's fingers are still working inside him, pressing white-hot ecstasy into him with no
mercy. He's drawn closer, blanketing himself over Chuuya's back and pressing open-mouthed
kisses over his shoulder blade. His other hand has come around, palm on his chest.
The way his thumb strokes rhythmically over his skin is soothing, a grounding motion when
Chuuya feels like he might lose himself in the pleasure.

Every time he starts to wind down, Dazai just moves his fingers again, building him back up.
Chuuya doesn't know if it feels good or if it hurts, all he knows is that he's on fire and Dazai
is helping him burn.

He's barely aware of the noises he's making, loud cries and desperate sobs, chest heaving as
he tries to catch his breath only for Dazai to punch it right out of him again.

(Dazai is listening very intensely, fascinated. He predicted that Chuuya would be loud, but he
didn't anticipate just how shameless he would be in the moment.

Because he's almost screaming, so loud the downstairs neighbors can definitely hear him, and
in between the incoherent cries is a garbled mess of "daddy" and "fuck yes" and "oh my god".

That, combined with the way Chuuya is melting into him, blindly accepting the way Dazai
keeps pushing him higher even though he's probably riding the line between pleasure and
overstimulated pain, is doing wonders for Dazai.

Chuuya is clenching around his fingers in waves, so tight he can barely move, and he can't
help but imagine that tight wetness would feel around his cock, squeezing him so hard he
might see stars from it.

He's grinding against the back of Chuuya's thigh, blindly chasing every ounce of pleasure he
can get. Should he be embarrassed that he's quickly climbing to the peak, even with no direct
stimulation other than his imagination and Chuuya moaning for him?

Probably. Does he care? Not particularly, because he's finding that Chuuya pushes him to
new heights even when he's not trying.
Hoping Chuuya can hold himself up by himself, Dazai takes away the hand on his chest. He
reaches down, shoving down his pants as quickly and safely as possible.

The first touch of his hand on his erection makes him hiss. The friction feels amazing after so
long of being neglected, and it's the easiest thing in the world to fall into a rhythm, focusing
on the head.

It's a little too dry for his tastes, but the tip smears across the wet trails over Chuuya's ass, and
that's enough for him.

He spreads his fingers wide, listening for the shocked cry and shudder it draws from Chuuya
and—

He could do it. He could fuck him. Right now.

He wants it, Chuuya wants it. After his orgasm, he’s so beautifully pliant, his muscles melting
around his fingers.

Being as big as he is, and as small as Chuuya is, Dazai should probably give him four fingers
before daring to go further but—

But it won’t take long.

Dazai is already halfway there, like some teenage boy, but it’s not like Chuuya knows any
better.

It’s so hard to think, with his body screaming at him with need, and Chuuya’s broken moans
in his ears and hot skin underneath him, so willing, so tempting.

God.
It’s a rare thing, for Dazai to lose control during sex. Sex is usually the opposite for him— an
outlet where he is in complete and utter control, something to settle into and distract himself
with when his life feels like a series of decisions that keep spiraling and dragging him
deeper.

He likes control. He thrives in control, feels best when he knows exactly what is happening
and what comes next.

But Chuuya digs beneath that, crawling underneath his careful restraint to tease the beast that
is trapped beneath. The savage thing in his soul, the one that revels in sex and blood and the
taking of things, seeking pleasure and domination in anything it can.

It’s dangerous.

Not because Dazai would hurt Chuuya in a way he didn’t like, but because he’s still so new to
sex, and theyre still so new to each other—

It only takes one time to damage the trust and confidence Chuuya is building. It only takes
giving him more than he can handle once, to set him back for days or even weeks.

Dazai would rather chew off his own arm than make the little thing in his arms feel anything
other than cherished and safe—

And he’s starting to think that might be necessary, because he’s holding onto the shreds on his
restraint with his teeth.

God dammit.

Just a little more, he tells himself grimly, letting his fingers slide out of him, a little more.)
Chuuya shudders when the fingers leave him, feeling oddly empty and cold.

Dazai still isn’t finished though — he can feel his hand moving and his erection bumping
against him — so he opens his mouth to offer to jerk him off or give him another blowjob or
something, when—

Dazai moves, lining their hips together and this time, his cock slides between his cheeks, over
his entrance, burning a hot, thick line against him.

Oh god, okay, it’s happening.

It’s a little intimidating, to be honest, because Dazai feels a lot bigger like this, a lot thicker.
For a moment, Chuuya has this wild thought that he’s going to have Dazai’s cock in his lungs
with how big it is—

He pushes back against him anyways, because his body wants it, and his mind might be wary
but he also knows Dazai won’t hurt him. At this moment, he’s sure he can handle anything
that’s given to him.

But as soon as he moves, hard hands clamp around his hips, so forceful that he’s sucking in a
sharp breath.

“Do not move,” Dazai snarls, sounding rougher and more feral than Chuuya has ever heard
him.

It’s not a conscious decision, the way Chuuya melts into his grip and lets himself be handled
into the exact position Dazai wants him in. Which is—

Hips high, spine arched as far as it will go, forehead resting on the arm of the couch.
He holds position, shivering every time Dazai’s cock slides against his ass. There’s a
moment, when the head catches against his rim, where he thinks Dazai is finally going to
press inside—

But he doesn’t, keeping instead to a hard, desperate grind against him.

(Meanwhile, Dazai is resolutely staring at the back of Chuuya’s head, where the braids shift
on his shoulders with every rock of his hips.

If he looks down he’ll see the red imprint of his hand on Chuuya’s ass, a matching color to
his flushed cock and he’s going to lose it.

Similarly, if he looks at Chuuya’s face and sees that soft, open-mouthed, hazy-eyed, pleading
expression, what remains of his self-control will quickly dissolve.

He’s getting close himself, fighting for his orgasm. It’s creeping closer, tightening at the base
of his spine, drawn tighter with every lube-slick thrust between Chuuya’s asscheeks.

The little noises Chuuya is making too, god. Soft, quiet, punched out breaths, tinged with a
hint of a moan underneath, like it feels good just to be used like this, for Dazai’s pleasure—

The thought is too much.)

Groans are muffled against Chuuya’s shoulder, muffled words that he can only pick out parts
of.

It all feels very nice though, and Chuuya melts into the feeling.

The warm, satiated pliancy of a good orgasm, the heat of Dazai over him, the slight lingering
veil over his thoughts from the wine he drank.
There’s some frustration too, because Dazai is still grinding against him even though Chuuya
is being perfectly still for him. Each time his hips move forward, he thinks now, now, it’s
happening now.

But it never happens. The collision of their hips makes little puffs of breath escape him, and
he’s torn between holding himself in place and just letting himself collapse because fuck, his
thighs are tired from holding up his and Dazai’s weight—

Then Dazai’s erection is twitching hard against him, and there’s a louder, hissed compliment
smothered against his shoulder, something about how perfect he is.

Warm wetness streaks over his ass, adding to the heat gathered there. The hot imprints of
Dazai’s hand throbs pleasantly, the lube is warm with friction, and now there’s cum layered
over it, dripping slowly down.

This is nice, Chuuya thinks hazily, feels warm, feels easy. He doesn’t even feel that frustrated
that Dazai didn’t actually fuck him, not at this moment. Right now, he feels wonderful and
satisfied.

He slumps forward more, letting his chest rest against the couch arm and take his weight.
Dazai follows him, and even though it’s a bit suffocating to be crushed underneath him, it’s
also grounding and comforting.

Soft lips trail their way over his shoulder blade, pausing to explore the collection of freckles
where his arm meets his back, before making their way up, up. Grazing over his shoulder,
whispering over a spot that throbs lightly. Probably another bite. Chuuya’s practically
covered in them by now, not that he’s complaining.

By the time Dazai is nuzzling into his neck, Chuuya is letting out a long content sigh.

“You okay?” Dazai asks softly, and his voice is just the perfect blend of rough and soothing
that doesn't break the moment.
Humming, Chuuya takes stock of himself. His ass was the biggest victim — besides his pride
— but it doesn’t hurt so much as it feels hot. Dazai’s weight on it actually makes it feel better.
He doesn’t think he’ll even have bruises.

There’s a few scattered bites over him, and a spot on his neck that pulses lightly. Probably a
mark that will need to be covered up tomorrow.

Other than that, he’s perfect.

“‘m sticky,” he sighs. Then something occurs to him. “I can’t believe you ruined my skirt.
I’ve had it for literally less than three hours.”

A smile is smothered against his neck, sealed there with another kiss. “I’ll buy you new ones.
As many as you want.”

Well, that’s only fair, Chuuya reasons with himself, telling himself he’s not excited at the idea
of going shopping with Dazai’s money.

With a heaved breath, Dazai draws himself up. Chuuya makes a disappointed, grumpy noise
when he starts to move away. He liked cuddling, where is he going?

“Hush, baby, I’m just going to clean us up.”

Ugh, fine. Being sticky was hot in the moment, but now it’s making him feel dirty, so fine.

He doesn’t know where Dazai goes, because he doesn’t bother to get up or turn around to
look. Instead, he just waits patiently and waits for his thighs to stop trembling.
It’s only a few moments later that fingers brush over his calf, a warning before a damp towel
is being wiped over him. Dazai is exceedingly gentle, lightening his touch over the
handprints and making sure to get every wet spot.

“Does it hurt?" He murmurs, tracing a light fingertip over his burning ass cheek.

Chuuya wiggles. "Not really. Feels hot, mostly."

"Good," Dazai says, "It doesn't look like it'll bruise either."

How is he able to tell that just from looking at it for a few moments? Is he psychic or does he
just have that much experience?

"Come on," Dazai encourages, pulling him back by the hips.

Chuuya's knees ache a little with the adjustment, but he moves back into a kneeling position,
preparing to shuffle off the couch awkwardly—

Dazai sweeps him up before he can even get his feet underneath him, cradling him in his
arms. Chuuya throws his arms around his neck, holding onto him but grateful he doesn't have
to stand just yet.

He looks down, expecting to see the front of his skirt wet and stained from his orgasm—

Only to see that most of the cum had missed his skirt entirely and instead had landed on the
couch cushion.

"Oh, god," he groans, closing his eyes, "the poor housekeepers are going to have to clean that
up."
Dazai snickers, lowering them both into a chair by the abandoned table. The remains of their
food have been left discarded, cooling in the night air. "I'm sure they've seen worse from
other people.”

Chuuya takes the towel from him and cleans up his inner thighs and lower belly, scowling.
"It's not a competition.”

"Well," Dazai starts, a suggestive edge in his tone, "it could be. If you wanted it to be."

Chuuya smacks his chest with the back of his hand, tossing the towel onto the wet spot on the
couch. It already needs to be cleaned, so he doesn't feel too bad, and his legs are still too
unsteady to walk inside.

With a content sigh, he snuggles up to Dazai.

He's small enough to be completely held in his lap, cheek resting against his shoulder and
legs folded to the side. It's not exactly cold outside, but after all the heat and fire from earlier,
it feels a little shocking.

Dazai's arms, one hand resting on his knee and the other wrapped around his back, keep the
world away. It's easy to drift then, enjoy the afterglow while watching the lights of the city
twinkle and shine below them.

After a while, the hand leaves his knee, making him frown in disappointment. Dazai sits up a
little to reach for Chuuya's wine glass on the table. It's still half-full.

"Drink?" Dazai offers, his other hand reaching up to stroke at his cheek, fingertips light and
ticklish.

Chuuya nods, reaching for the glass. The wine really was delicious, but he didn't have much
time to savor it before. He was too busy trying to savor Dazai to think about it.
Clicking his tongue, Dazai moves the glass out of his reach. The arm wrapped around his
back moves higher, allowing his hand to wrap lightly around his throat and tip his chin up
with a gentle thumb.

Breathless, Chuuya follows the silent instructions, letting his head tilt back.

Dazai holds him there easily, bringing the wineglass to his lips and carefully pouring wine
into his mouth.

Something about that feels... darkly indulgent and sensual. Like he’s a princess from some
fantasy story, being fed pieces of exotic food by the hand of someone tall, dark and
dangerous.

Even though Dazai doesn’t do anything further, the hand on his neck is so casually possessive
that Chuuya feels owned and vulnerable by it, offering his neck to the predator and hoping it
won’t bite.

It takes a few times for Chuuya to empty the glass completely, in which they make casual,
quiet conversation. It’s late enough that some of the city lights are shutting off, leaving the
others to shine brilliantly in their wake.

The wine is Chuuya’s undoing. He was tired before — it was a long day, filled with
excitement and activity — but now he’s warm and pleasantly faded at the edges.

“Bed,” he mutters, nuzzling into Dazai’s neck. There’s a spot just above the bandages where
he can feel his heart beating, where he’s warmest and smells the best. He presses his nose
there, humming contentedly.

Dazai lets out a small huff. “Yes, brat,” he teases.

Rearranging his arms to better support him, Dazai rises easily from the chair. Chuuya hangs
on tightly out of instinct rather than need.

Dazai has never dropped him.

Dazai’s walk is rhythmic and has a pleasant sway to it, one that coaxes Chuuya further into
exhaustion.

A few moments later, Dazai is leaning over and setting him on the bed. Chuuya doesn’t want
to let go, wants to drag the older man down and into bed with him for a nice, long cuddle
session before falling asleep—

Large hands find his fingers clasped behind Dazai’s neck, and gently pries them away.

Chuuya makes a grumpy noise, cracking his eyes open to glare at him, but Dazai is
immovable and far too patient, and he is not strong enough to hold on.

Once Chuuya is forced into letting go, his skirt and shirt are pulled off him. It leaves him
completely naked, save for the golden necklace around his throat.

He stretches, relishing how soft and squishy the bed is. It’s the perfect ratio of firm mattress
to a mound of warm, fluffy blankets.

(He doesn’t see the way Dazai is looking at him, achingly soft, eyes overflowing with
warmth, expression near reverent, because he’s too busy burrowing beneath the blankets.)

Once he finds the best spot on the bed — in the middle, with two pillows under his head and
the blanket pulled up to his chin — he pats the spot in front of him insistently.

A soft snort of amusement above him. Fingers brushing escaped hair from his braid behind
his ear.
“I’m going to clean up. I’ll be back soon. Sleep, baby.”

And he does.
 Dawn
Chapter Summary

Groggily, he blinks open his eyes and shifts his legs, trying to find out why he’s cold on
one side—

Only to find that Chuuya had stolen most of the bed and the entire blanket. Of course, he
looks snug as can be, only his hair visible with how the blanket is bunched up around his
shoulders.

Meanwhile, Dazai is centimeters away from being pushed off the bed and his feet are
frozen.

“You are tiny,” he tells the sleeping beauty in his arms, “You don’t need that much of the
bed. You’re not even using it.”

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone! Not much to say this chapter, I don't think. Life is moving on, I'm working
a lot, blah blah blah. Same old same old lol. I think this chapter or the next one will have
BH on the first page of highest word count BSD fics, which is exciting :o Thank you all
for tuning in once again, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! I'll see you next week <3

This chapter includes:

- a brat
- a blowjob
- a denial
- a mistake

Dazai wakes up slowly, sleep tugging at him. Heavy, drugging warmth encases him, like a
blanket he can sink into.

Sleep is usually an all or nothing for him; he’s either asleep or viscerally awake, and almost
nothing in between. Waking up is normally disorientating and unpleasant, because he quickly
goes from a light, dreamless sleep to awake , mind jumping to keep up with his
surroundings.
He doesn’t usually like waking up, but this — feeling warm and heavy and groggy, full of
sensation instead of thought, the body finally outweighing his mind — is nice, he decides
hazily.

It would be easy to fall back asleep and catch a few more hours of rest. It’d be easy, with how
tired his body is and how sleep-warm and comforting the tiny, breathing body in his arms is.
He cuddles closer, burying his face into soft, wild hair. The strands tickle his face, but he
doesn’t care.

He’s so sleepy...

There’s only one problem:

In front of him is a wall of soft warmth, Chuuya a tiny furnace of heat pressed against his
chest. Beyond him is the blanket, capturing all that warmth and radiating it back until it’s a
cave of cozy comfort that Dazai wants nothing more than to sink into.

Behind him, along his back and legs is cold.

What the hell?

Groggily, he blinks open his eyes and shifts his legs, trying to find out why he’s cold on one
side—

Only to find that Chuuya had stolen most of the bed and the entire blanket. Of course, he
looks snug as can be, only his hair visible with how the blanket is bunched up around his
shoulders.

Meanwhile, Dazai is centimeters away from being pushed off the bed and his feet are frozen.
“You are tiny,” he tells the sleeping beauty in his arms, “You don’t need that much of the bed.
You’re not even using it.”

Most of the bed is empty, with Chuuya crowding Dazai close to the edge.

His only response is a sleepy sigh, a face nuzzling deeper into his chest and an arm tightening
around his waist.

He could understand, maybe, if Chuuya stretched out in his sleep, but no. Dazai fell asleep in
the middle of the bed with a chibi in his arms, and he woke up on the very edge with a chibi
in his arms.

He even vaguely remembers waking up in the middle of the night, going to turn over onto his
back—

Only for Chuuya to follow him, flinging his arms and legs over him with a mostly-asleep
grumble. It was cute then, and of course Dazai pulled him closer, but if he’s going to cuddle
Dazai anyways, then at least give him a decent portion of the bed.

It takes a fair bit of work to push Chuuya to the middle of the bed without waking him up or
making him growl in his sleep. Dazai has to wiggle one hand between them and push him
backwards at the same time he scoots forward, because Chuuya refuses to let him go.

By the time Dazai wrestles part of the blanket back from him and is no longer in threat of
falling off, he's completely awake.

He can't be upset at losing out on extra hours, because by the light filtering through the
windows, dawn is well on its way. He knows Chuuya is somewhat of an early riser, and
probably won't be asleep for much longer.

And now that he's awake and Chuuya's asleep, Dazai gets the chance to admire him. He's not
particularly subtle about the way he stares when they're both awake, but Chuuya is adorably
shy sometimes, and whenever he notices Dazai looking too much, he gets all blushy and
stops doing what he's doing.

Which is cute, yes, but it takes away the chance to just...

Appreciate the natural, effortless beauty that Chuuya has, one that makes Dazai's heart ache
with longing. A beauty that isn't just skin-deep, one that shines through his brilliant eyes and
hides in the fierceness of his spirit.

Dazai has never been overly fond of beautiful things. There was a time, when he was
younger, when he actively went out of his way to destroy anything soft and pretty, because it
didn't feel fair that something — anything — got to be gentle when he felt like he was made
of broken glass and razor wire.

Even now, he typically prefers practicality over aesthetics but—

He should change that, because this is beauty worth admiring.

Chuuya's head has fallen back against his bicep, revealing his peacefully sleeping face.

He looks so young like this, expression soft and open. His eyelashes, a subtle red that's easy
to miss if you're not looking closely enough lay against his cheek, absurdly long and thick for
a boy.

His cheeks are slightly red, radiating warm and there's an indent crease on one side, from
where he was laying on Dazai. His freckles are more prominent now, scattered brightly over
his cheeks and nose without any makeup to cover them.

With the lightest of fingertips, Dazai traces the bridge of his nose. It has a slight, haughty
upturn at the end, now that he's looking closely. Cute.
His lips are soft, open, easily moved when Dazai presses his thumb to them. His breath is
steady and even, the faintest of snores echoing from the back of his throat.

Dazai traces his way down, the pad of his finger gliding over his jawline, then down his
throat and over to his collarbone.

Before Dazai came to bed, he'd washed up and replaced the cover-up on his arms and hands
with bandages. They'd come loose in the night, gaps of inked skin showing between.

He doesn't like the way the ink looks when pressed against Chuuya's skin. He doesn't like the
ink at all , actually, beyond its usefulness as a reminder, but the blood-red half-colored
dragon taking up his forearm looks even more sinister when compared to the pale smoothness
of Chuuya's skin.

The dragon is a writhing mass of black and red. The outline was done in one session, when
he was fourteen, and the color was done—

Well, Mori colored in a scale for each mission he completed successfully. Every scarlet scale
is a representation of blood and death and violence, permanently etched into his skin so he
can never forget.

All that history feels wrong touching Chuuya, but the color contrast is somewhat appealing,
he supposes.

It almost matches the red of the marks Dazai had left on him last night. He swirls his finger
over a particularly dark one, set in the curve where his neck meets his shoulder. He almost
feels bad for it, because it’s going to be a pain to cover up.

But he can’t deny that a possessive, jealous hunger in him is greatly satisfied by the sight. His
teeth ache to add more marks, until his body is a canvas of Dazai’s making.
He pushes the blanket down, giving himself access to Chuuya’s chest. He’s soft under his
hands, but well-muscled. Toned and obviously strong, but his skin is unmarred and silky
smooth.

There’s a light, long scar over his sternum. It looks old and faded, and like it would’ve hurt
when it happened.

He follows the outline of it with his finger, wondering where it came from. Wondering what
kind of stories this boy holds, and if there’s a way to get him to tell him all of them.

He keeps his touch exceedingly light, even as hunger begins to stir in his belly. He doesn’t
want to wake Chuuya up yet. Because of how shy— which comes from inexperience, he
knows, and he can’t wait to see the confidence begin to develop— he is, he hasn’t taken
much time to actually explore his body. When he’s gotten him naked, it’s usually when
Chuuya is half out of his mind with desperation, and Dazai is aching himself.

He hasn’t had a chance to appreciate how petite and well-formed Chuuya is. Shoulders
dusted with freckles, muscled arms. His waist dips in nicely, just to curve into the swell of his
hips. His stomach is flat, lined with muscle that leads Dazai down .

There’s a few scattered freckles over the sides of his hips, and Dazai wonders if there’s any
on his butt. Cute .

Unfortunately, Dazai’s exploration — which had just gotten to the trail of red hair dusting
over Chuuya’s lower stomach — is cut short by the sunlight creeping onto the bed.

It’s full dawn by now, and the blinds over the window let in a ray of sunshine that slowly
makes its way up through the room. In a few minutes, it will land on Chuuya’s face and
probably wake him up.

Since Dazai is on the other side, between Chuuya and the door — a newfound protective
instinct demanding he place himself between Chuuya and any entrances into the room — he
can’t block it besides making a stack of pillows in its path.
He doesn’t even consider getting up to close it fully.

Or he could...

Drawing the blanket over his head, Dazai rolls over on top of him. He keeps his weight
solidly on his elbows to keep him crushing him, hovering.

The space beneath the blanket is heated up quickly, turning incredibly cozy. It smells like the
lingering scent of Chuuya’s shampoo, a hint of Dazai’s cologne.

Staring down at him, inches away from Chuuya’s sleeping face that has a small, unconscious
smile on it — Dazai can’t not kiss him.

He leans down, pressing his lips to his cheek. He’s almost feverishly warm, breath even and
steady.

Dazai presses kisses all over that cheek, over the bridge of his nose to the other one, down to
the corner of his mouth, back up again to his temple. Anywhere he feels needs one, and two
for every freckle.

This close, he can feel the exact moment Chuuya wakes up. His eyelashes flutter first,
tickling Dazai’s cheek.

Then his head leans into Dazai, increasing the pressure of the kiss on his temple. His hands
finally move, fingers curling loosely around Dazai’s forearm. There’s a heavy sigh breathed
between them, one that washes over Dazai's cheek.

"Good morning," he murmurs, tracing his way back down to Chuuya's mouth.
The loud, grumpy grumble Chuuya gives says he disagrees, but the way his foot hooks
around the back of Dazai's thigh and pulls him in, says he could be convinced .

Dazai kisses the first words off his lips. Makes sure the first thing he sees is not the sunlight,
or the ceiling, or the bedroom. Makes sure that the only thing that exists to him right now, in
their cozy blanket cave, is them .

Chuuya's mouth is slow, uncoordinated, clearly still waking up. Mostly, he lets himself be
kissed, exactly how Dazai wants to kiss him, and makes happy little noises in the back of his
throat.

Dazai is happy to do all the work because Chuuya is easily and sweetly overwhelmed like
this. He breathes out sharply whenever Dazai's tongue slides against the length of his, shivers
when his fingers find the nape of his neck to tip his head backwards for better access, gasps
when the metal ball of his tongue piercing flicks over his top lip.

Truthfully, Dazai isn't much for mornings. They always represented failure to him, another
day to live, another day of work in a life he didn't choose.

But mornings like these? He could do these forever .

He pulls back when Chuuya is breathless and responding to him eagerly, arching underneath
him.

"Good morning," he tries again, trying to keep the smugness out of his voice.

"Good morning," Chuuya says roughly, one eye opening to reveal vibrant blue that's
sparkling with mischief, "Daddy."

It really shouldn't be so easy to make Dazai's heart jump in his chest and his cock twitch with
interest, but trust Chuuya to zero in on his weakness and use it against him.
"Being bratty already," Dazai sighs, stroking his cheek with his fingers, "and so early, too."

Chuuya pouts at him, mock-glares. It's at odds with the way one hand has found the back of
his head and is slowly winding his fingers through Dazai's bedhead. "I'm not being bratty.
You like it."

Dazai drops a kiss on his collarbone. "Yes, and you know it. That's the problem."

"Problem?" Chuuya repeats, arching his back until something pops in his spine. "I don't think
it's a problem."

"Of course you don't," he mutters, blowing a raspberry against his skin just to hear him snort
with laughter.

"Mm," Chuuya sighs, tugging lightly on his hair. "What time is it?"

Dazai doesn't know exactly. He's hardly checked his phone all weekend, a rarity for him
considering his job relies on staying connected and accessible. When he was convincing
Chuuya to come with him, he sold it as a vacation, but he's starting to realize it is . A
vacation, for them both.

Dazai has never had a vacation before.

"Don't know," he responds, shrugging. "Early."

"So we have time before we're supposed to go anywhere?"

Needy little thing, Dazai thinks to himself fondly. You would think that Dazai filled his
appetite for a while with last night, but apparently not. He can hear the suggestive, hopeful
note in his voice and the hardness that is starting to press against his stomach.

Ah, but who is he to tell his baby no ?

"Oh," he plays it off, hiding a smile in a kiss on Chuuya's shoulder. "Maybe. Did you have
something in mind?"

It's part teasing, part honest. So far, Dazai has taken complete control during their sexual
interactions. Which is fine — more than fine, actually, he loves it — but he hasn't given much
of a chance for Chuuya to express what he wants.

They're incredibly compatible so far, but Dazai wants to know what dirty thoughts are in that

pretty little head.

Chuuya opens his mouth, looking a bit too eager for Dazai's peace of mind—

"And don't ask me to fuck you. You'll be too sore to move afterwards and I do want to take
you somewhere today."

That eagerness quickly turns into a pout. "But we could stay in bed all day, and go
somewhere tomorrow ."

"We could," Dazai agrees, placing another kiss slightly lower on his chest, "but we're not
going to. Pick something else."

Chuuya huffs and wiggles in protest underneath him. It's all too easy to pin and subdue him
with a sharp scrape of his teeth.

There's a long moment of silence as Chuuya obviously struggles with finding something to
say. Dazai doesn't make it easy for him, making his way down his chest to take a nipple into
his mouth and flicking his tongue over it.

The hand in his hair tightens, adding weight to keep him in place. Like Dazai would rather be
anywhere other than this.

"I don't know," Chuuya mutters, sounding embarrassed. "I liked what you did last night."

Oh, did he now?

It's fine that he doesn't know exactly what he wants. Dazai has enough plans for the both of
them.

The question is what , though.

Nothing too intensive, because he's probably sore from last night, even if he hasn't said
anything. He could get out the vibrator he brought with him, or the plug, or the vibrating
tongue jewelry.

There's so many options . There are any number of ways Dazai could crack Chuuya open—

But for this morning, he eventually decides to go with something classic . One that keeps to
his idea of building him up in steps.

He swirls his tongue over his nipple, keeping him distracted as Dazai reaches for the bedside
table. He had a stroke of foresight last night, something that he’s grateful for right now—

Without being able to see, it takes him a few moments of fumbling before his fingers brush
against his target. From the drawer, he extracts a bottle of lube and a long, silken tie.
The lube, he tosses on the bed near Chuuya’s hip, for later. As for the tie—

He leans up a little, getting his knees underneath him so he can sit up without the use of his
hands.

“Give me your wrists,” he says, tapping at Chuuya’s forearm. He doesn’t reach for his wrists
himself or otherwise move him himself.

He leaves the choice up to Chuuya.

And as always, his baby offers his trust and body up absolutely, bringing his hands together
in front of his body without hesitation.

Dazai graces the slender bones of his wrist with a proud, grateful kiss.

Carefully, he winds the tie around his wrists. He doesn’t do it tightly — not as tightly as he
prefers — and he doesn’t use an actual knot, relying instead on the wraps around to keep it in
place and tight.

Tucking the ends into the space between his wrists, he slips one finger underneath the tie to
make sure it’s loose enough to allow blood flow but tight enough to keep him restrained.
“Feels okay?”

It’s a check in for two things: that Chuuya is okay with being tied, and that the restriction
itself feels okay.

“Y-yes,” Chuuya gulps out, voice cracking.

Dazai looks up at him, a little concerned that he’s lying —

Only to find that his pupils have blown wide, and there’s a red flush already beginning to
blossom over his cheeks. He’s staring at Dazai with wide-eyes, looking like the ground is
falling out beneath him.

Dazai can’t help the sharp, honed edge to his smile. Oh, he likes that, doesn’t he? Likes being
bound and helpless under Dazai’s mercy?

Good. Dazai likes that too , wants beautiful red marks imprinted into his skin.

“Say red if you want me to stop, or let you go,” Dazai tells him, tugging at his bound wrists.
He’ll need to teach Chuuya more about safewords later, considering that their sex is quickly
developing into realms past plain vanilla, which is exciting.

Eyes so black he can barely even see the blue in them blink up at him, already beginning to
cloud over. "Don't stop," Chuuya whimpers, a blood-deep desperation dripping into his voice.
"Please don't stop."

Dazai drops back down on top of him, letting his weight settle over his hips and thighs and
pin him down. "I won't," he promises, burying his face into the crook of his neck. The next
words are murmured directly into his skin, an unwritten contract. "Not until you can't
remember your own name."

Chuuya shudders, arching against him. If he's as trained in martial arts as he claims to be, he
could easily throw Dazai off him with a twist of his hips.

He doesn't though, he just presses up against him like he's savoring the feeling of Dazai's
grounding weight.

The necklace Dazai bought him is still on, and the chain is warm and amusing to play with
when he settles on a spot on his neck. He sucks deliberately hard, intent on leaving a dark
mark behind.
Without breaking the seal his lips make, Dazai shows off his talented tongue by hooking his
tongue piercing underneath the chain and tugging on it until it's tight around Chuuya's neck.

Not tight enough to even put real pressure on him, but Dazai has quietly observed how much
Chuuya enjoys having things wrapped around his throat.

Necklaces, chokers, hands .

Dazai wants to get him a collar, attach a leash to it, and yank him around. If Chuuya responds
so eagerly to even the light restraints around his wrists, he'll lose his mind over having one of
his most vulnerable and sensitive areas under Dazai's control.

A thought for another day. He shelves the idea for later.

Dazai moves downwards, tracing a path down his collarbone again. He's always had a thing
for collarbones, the sharp elegance of them. Chuuya's are particularly tempting, hidden under
thin freckled skin.

There's even a bigger freckle that looks like a wonky, misshapen heart, which is so cute Dazai
can't help but brush a lingering kiss over it.

He moves steadily downward, relishing in the way Chuuya's body heats up beneath him. The
blanket is mostly pushed to the side by now, bunched up around their sides and over Dazai's
hips. It blocks most of the sunlight, but not all of it, leaving thin rays to streak across
Chuuya's body.

He traces one down his ribs, pausing on his nipple. He lavishes it with attention, sucking and
licking and tugging on it with his teeth until he can feel Chuuya trembling underneath him.
There's an almost-pained, overstimulated edge to his voice, and when Dazai slides
downward, his nipple is red with abuse.
Chuuya never says a word of protest though, and lower down, his erection is pulsing steadily
against Dazai's stomach, twitching hard when his teeth tug on him a little roughly.

Dazai isn't surprised per se, based on their previous interactions, but Chuuya liking
overstimulation and being a slight masochist just makes them that more compatible.

The feeling of his stomach rising and falling raggedly under his lips is immensely satisfying.
Every time he falls a little lower, following the subtle lines of his toned abdomen, Chuuya's
breath hitches. Every time Dazai scrapes his teeth over him or sucks in another mark —
Chuuya will be covered in them by the time he's done with him, the thought of which makes
Dazai's soul roar with possessive satisfaction — his breathing speeds up. His legs squirm, and
Dazai pins them down again with a low, disapproving growl.

Sliding his hand over, he casts around for the bottle of lube, distracting him by sinking his
teeth into a spot just shy of his hip bone. When Chuuya twitches, his erection brushes against
Dazai's cheek, which makes his breath halt and his thighs tense in rapid waves.

Using one hand, he pops the lid and brings it between Chuuya's thighs. It takes a little effort
and core strength to pour some onto his other hand without lifting himself up, but he manages
it.

It's completely worth it too, when he brings his newly-slick hand up and wraps it around
Chuuya's erection and earns himself a loud, shocked cry.

He really is so loud , which Dazai adores . He loves hearing how good he makes others feel,
loves for other people to hear how good he is. In a way, he's just as susceptible to praise as
Chuuya is, just in a slightly different way.

Chuuya's cock is pulsing in his hand. It's cute , if Dazai's being honest. Smaller than his own
— Dazai would be surprised if it wasn't — but not small in general. Pleasantly thick, leaning
slightly to the left, and pretty pink at the tip.

The type of cock Dazai would love to get his mouth on, one he could swallow down without
a problem.
Not yet, he tells himself, sliding his mouth down to the spot where Chuuya's thigh meets his
hip, spreading his leg open wide and pinning it there.

Fingers slide into his hair, tangling in the strands with desperation and tugging on him. It
seems more instinctive than anything else, but Dazai deliberately does not give into the push
of his hands against his head.

His baby might be bratty and Dazai might enjoy that, but if he wants something, he'll have to
ask .

He gives him a slow stroke, from base to tip, hand tight.

Chuuya is so sensitive too, thighs already trembling and his hands flexing in his hair. Dazai
can't tell if that's simply because he hasn't been touched before, or if Dazai is just that good,
or if he's just like that—

Either way, it fills Dazai with a deep, devouring hunger, one that makes him want to push
Chuuya harder , further, testing the limits of what he can take.

Like this, he builds a steady rhythm. He litters Chuuya's thighs with love bites and red marks,
jerking him off in time with his bites.

Chuuya is quick to beg. "I— fuck, Dazai, please . Feels so good. Faster."

Usually, Dazai likes the sound of his name on Chuuya's tongue. He says it like he savors it,
like it's the name of his favorite meal, a smile in voice. He's one of the few ones that doesn't
say his name like it's a curse.

But like this, he likes a title better.

He sighs in more disappointment than he actually feels, deliberately slowing his pace and
loosening his grip on Chuuya. "Baby," he starts, scraping his teeth over Chuuya's hipbone,
"You know how I want you to ask me."

He knows , yes, but clearly he still needs some training . That's okay, Dazai can be patient,
especially when the rewards are so sweet.

Lightening his grip even further, until it's just a tease , he waits.

It doesn't take long, all things considered. He barely gets another half-dozen light strokes in
before Chuuya is squirming in protest and he cracks.

"Please, Daddy, please, I want it so bad. Feels good," he pants, rocking his hips as best he
can. In stark contrast to his pleading words, his hands are tight in Dazai's hair, fruitlessly
trying to get his head where he wants it to go.

Like Dazai said, bratty . In normal circumstances, he would punish Chuuya for that, but they
haven't discussed anything like that yet — though, Dazai has figured out that spanking is on
the table — so he puts it out of his mind.

And he did ask nicely, and Dazai is not in the habit of ignoring good behavior, even if it's
combined with bad behavior.

Pressing one final kiss to the inside of his thigh, Dazai shifts upward. He settles himself on
his knees, hooking his clean hand around his thigh to drag Chuuya closer.

When Chuuya is propped up on his thighs, legs bracketing Dazai's hips, then he switches
hands.

His dry hand wraps around his erection, hot friction building with firm strokes. Chuuya sighs
pleasantly, heels digging into his lower back.
His other hand is still wet enough for his plans, so he slides it down, down , pressing his
fingers over his balls to make him shudder, and then a little further .

The pained hiss he gets when his fingers slide over Chuuya's rim makes him wince in
sympathy. He knew he was sore, the stubborn little brat.

"Shh," he soothes him, offering him a faster stroke to counteract the pain of friction. "I've got
you."

Chuuya bites his lip, nods frantically. His hands have relocated to one of Dazai's knees,
where he digs his nails in and clenches rhythmically.

It takes a few minutes for Dazai to wiggle the tip of his finger inside. Long moments of
rubbing lube over him until there's not a hint of friction, quickening his pace on his cock to
override any irritation with pleasure, carefully watching Chuuya's face and body for signs
he's moving too quickly or it hurts too much.

The chibi seems overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations, gasping up at him with his
mouth open. There's moments where he'll roll his hips down into his hand, only to shudder
and go still at the increased pressure. Tears are gathering in his eyes, and his face is so red
Dazai can almost see the heat pouring off him.

He never says stop though. Never says ‘red’, never even asks him to slow down or says he
can’t handle it. He just takes what’s being given to him, graces it with a chorus of incoherent
begging.

All yes’s and Daddy’s and please’s, cries for more or faster or harder , the best symphony
Dazai has ever heard.

By the time he’s knuckle-deep inside him, finger crooked upwards to rub relentlessly against
his prostate, Chuuya is a mess . Teary-eyed, red-faced, wrists red from his mindless
struggling, erection wet with lube and dripping with pre-cum.
"Beautiful," he murmurs without thinking about it, a sharp smile curling the corner of his
mouth when he feels Chuuya twitch hard in his grip. He's so receptive to praise, so eager to
be told how good and pretty he is.

Dazai sets a steady, slightly fast rhythm, driving him mercilessly quick to the edge. It's the
most careless he's been with him, the haze of arousal clouding his sleep-thick mind. His own
erection is neglected in the grey sweats he's wearing, pressed against the back of Chuuya's
thigh and aching for friction.

Dazai has plans though, plans that are only beginning when Chuuya cums for him, so he puts
his own need out of his mind to focus on the beauty underneath him.

Before long, Chuuya is rocking in his lap, frantically driving his hips up to get more friction
on his cock and then down onto his finger, chasing every inch of pleasure that Dazai is
wringing out of him. His hands are indecisive, flitting between clutching at Dazai's knee, to
gripping his own thigh, to clawing at the blanket with a high-pitched keening noise.

Beautiful, wild thing.

"Fuck!" Chuuya practically screams , muscles in his stomach and thighs clenching in waves.
His eyes are squeezing shut, denying Dazai the view of his unfocused, dazed eyes.

Eager to watch him fall apart, Dazai picks up the pace a little bit, pressing his finger into him
in tight circles and twisting his palm over the head of his erection, thumbing at the sensitive
vein—

And there he goes.

There might have been a warning somewhere in the mess of incoherent moaning, but it
mostly comes as a surprise to Dazai.
He keeps his eyes on his stomach, watching his abs flex and shudder with his breath, white
cum spilling over Dazai's hand to smear over his navel. His cock twitches hard, in rhythm
with his orgasm, throbbing so hard he can almost feel his heartbeat in his palm.

Inside, his muscles are rippling in waves, so tight that Dazai is almost pushed out of him.

God, he cannot wait until he can feel that tight, burning wetness around his own erection.

Giving him a moment of response, Dazai stops moving when it looks like he's completely
through it. Leaning forward, he kisses along his collarbone, up to his neck and jaw. He lets
him come down easily, kissing the breath back into him easily.

He's warm and soft and so trusting beneath him, relaxing into the kiss with a soft whimper.
Dazai can't wait to break him with that trust, push him farther than he ever thought he could

go.

Slowly, he lets go of his softening cock, relocating to draw sticky swirls in the mess of cum
and lube on his lower stomach. Dazai likes it when he's messy, likes to see physical evidence
of what he does to Chuuya.

"Feel good?" He presses the question against the corner of Chuuya's mouth, as tender as the
moment calls for.

Chuuya sighs, shudders as his body keeps coming down. "Yeah," he says, nuzzling his cheek
into Dazai. His content smile is evident.

"Good," Dazai murmurs, letting satisfaction seep into his tone. "I want you to do it again."

Before Chuuya can ask him what he means , he pulls his finger back and slides it in again.
After his orgasm, and with the lube, any hint of friction has melted away.
"Oh," Chuuya hisses, bucking hard. It seems instinctive, the blind reaction to overstimulation.
"Do what ?"

Dazai smiles, making his way down his neck again, breathing hotly over his skin. "I want you
to cum for me again."

Looking strained and confused, Chuuya opens his mouth to protest and interrupts himself
with a strangled whine when Dazai's finger drives into him again.

Actually, Dazai is being very nice to him. He's avoiding his prostate, he's not touching his
cock — yet — and he's nicely kissing a path down his body again. He's being considerate .

"I can't —" Chuuya chokes out, his knee digging into Dazai's side as he struggles to keep
calm under the pleasure-pain.

"You can," Dazai reassures him, radiating confidence. Sliding down, he takes his nipple into
his mouth, sucking on it in rhythm with his hand working below. Chuuya's chest was already
made sensitive before, so it's not long before his breathing is breaking on dry, heaving sobs
that verge on painful.

After a long , ruthless minute, Dazai lets him go. "And you will," he continues, moving
steadily downwards.

Hands find his hair again, painfully tight, but Dazai ignores it completely this time. Chuuya
needs something to ground himself in the onslaught.

He's built up a steady, deep rhythm with his hand, driving Chuuya up again. His lips are
brushing down his abdomen, heading unerringly for his target.

Pressing a kiss to his navel, he pauses there and looks up until he catches his eyes. "Red if
you
want me to stop," he tells him again, figuring he needs a reminder after how thoroughly
Dazai has wrecked him already.

Swirling his tongue over his tongue, picking up the taste of strawberry-bitter that makes a
satisfied groan rumble in his throat, he waits to hear the cue to stop.

There's a hitched breath, fingers tightening in his hair—

Otherwise, beautiful silence.

What a good baby , Dazai purrs to himself, licking a long stripe over his stomach. The taste
of lube and cum is heavy and sticky on his tongue, his favorite meal.

He moves even farther down, breath washing hot over Chuuya's cock. It's still soft, but
fighting to rise again, twitching with Dazai's every movement, thickening slowly but surely.

Pausing there, he lets his eyes wander up, taking in the view. Stomach half-cleaned, nipples
red and puffy, the sharp line of his Adam's Apple and his jaw because his head is so thrown
so far back, the wild strands of his hair that's escaped his braid to stick up in random points
around his head.

"Baaabyyy," Dazai calls, infusing his voice with as much temptation as he can manage.
"Look at me."

There's a moment of silence, even Chuuya's breath pausing as he processes the request. His
hands tighten, nails digging into Dazai's head.

Then he's shifting, lowering his chin so he can look down —

Finally , Dazai gets a glimpse of blue-black eyes, huge and dark and so beautiful with how
unfocused they are, how dazed.
"I want you to watch," he murmurs, voice filling the space between them like hot silk.

Chuuya blinks at him, clearly struggling to keep up.

Smiling, Dazai rolls his tongue out and licks one broad, slow, wet stripe up his cock. Chuuya
lets out a strangled, shocked noise, mouth falling open. His eyebrows draw together, and he
looks like he just got shoved off a cliff into a new world, drowning in sensation.

Dipping the metal ball of his piercing into the slit at the top, Dazai diligently licks any and all
traces of lube off of him. The taste is sweet, cloying strawberry that fills his nose and coats
his taste buds, but sweeter still is the look on Chuuya's face, open and stunned.

Without breaking eye contact, Dazai tilts his head, opens his mouth a little more and sucks
him in.

Dazai likes the feeling of a soft cock in his mouth. It's warmer, more intimate, and he gets to
feel every twitch and pulse as it grows against his tongue, growing hotter and harder with
every suckle and stroke of his tongue. He can suck the whole thing inside his mouth, and just
sit at the base and drive him insane.

The fingers in his hair tighten, pulling on him even as Chuuya's hips stutter upwards. He's
breathing hard, every exhale tinged with a rising moan. Even though his eyes look a moment
away from rolling back in his head, it's clear he's trying his hardest to keep his gaze focused
on Dazai.

Good baby.

When his cock is half-hard again, and the overstimulation is clearly starting to swing back
into pure pleasure, Dazai pulls off him with a lewd pop.
"Look up, baby."

Dazai chose this room for a reason , and it was entirely because of the balcony on the side
and the mirrors on the ceiling.

(Confused, Chuuya lets his head fall back onto the pillow. It takes a moment for his vision to
clear — the afterimage of Dazai smiling around his cock is imprinted on his eyes like the
sweetest dream, one he wants to see forever — but when it finally does, he catches sight of
the mirrors on the ceiling.

Oh . That's what they're for.

Chuuya feels naïve for thinking they were for watching yourself sleep or for pictures,
because clearly they were meant to give him a birds-eye view of this .

He can see his own body, stretched out along the dark sheets. He's embarrassingly red-faced,
all the way up to his ears , so dark it almost matches the dark marks that Dazai had left
littered along his neck and collarbone.

He likes the sight of them. It fills him with a strange sort of satisfaction, like he's been
claimed for everyone to see and him to know. It felt great getting them, but it feels thrilling to
see the evidence.

His nipples are throbbing with abuse, and he can see how red they are. His stomach is
heaving, the lines of his abs contracting in time. The red-silk tie is starkly colored against his
pale wrists, a contrast that makes his heart burn with desire.

And below all of that—

Dazai.
Chuuya can't see his face from here, but he can see the wild head of dark hair, made even
more crazy with the way he's running his fingers through it. Below that , he can see the
muscles of Dazai's back and shoulders working, flexing in rhythm with the bobs of his head
and the thrust of his finger inside him.

Fuck , how is he so hot ?

Even better than the pleasure is the fact that he’s so damn attractive . From his messy hair to
the tongue piercing he can feel doing figure-eights against the underside of his cock, from the
defined muscles in his shoulders to the dimples on either side of the base of his spine, just
above his hips. He’s wearing grey sweats, ones that hug his ass perfectly , giving Chuuya an
excellent view.

He can also see the scratches he left on him last night, red lines criss-crossing over his
shoulder blades.

Chuuya wants to sink his teeth into him. Wants to add to those scratches, a new set for every
day.

Even if Dazai wasn’t good — and god, he is , so fucking good Chuuya can barely stand it,
and it only gets better each time they come together — just the sight alone would elevate the
experience into something amazing.

He’s hard again, too soon. He’s never pushed himself this far before — didn’t even know he
could get hard again so quickly — and the pleasure is a burning, sharp thing. It moves
through him like a living thing, carving him open and breaking him open to fill him up with
searing ecstasy.

His body won’t calm down, fighting both for and against the sensations, and it just makes it
worse. Every time his hips buck upwards, his erection slides deeper into Dazai’s mouth. The
man doesn’t seem to have any gag reflex at all whatsoever, and the feeling of his throat
rippling around the head of his cock makes Chuuya sob.
When his hips cringe away from the overload, it just drives him harder onto the finger inside
of him. Dazai has located that spot inside him again,and every touch of his finger there makes
electricity sear through him with the strength of a lightning bolt.

He’s not going to survive this. Dazai is going to suck the life out of his dick, and he is going
to die .)

It’s fun watching the chibi lose his mind. His body is trying to fight him off, but his hands are
knotted in his hair and dragging him closer, and his thigh is wrapped around his shoulder,
heel digging hard into his spine.

He’s also pleasantly hard in his mouth, pulsing in his throat. Every swallow makes him jerk,
every flick of his tongue piercing against the base makes him shudder, every hard suck makes
him cry.

Maybe Dazai should have a little mercy on him because he’s clearly struggling but—

Dazai’s having fun . He likes driving Chuuya mad. Likes to watch him lose his mind to
sensation, pleasure that only Dazai has brought him. Likes to know that he’s the only one to
see him like this.

He can’t even tell what Chuuya is saying, only that it sounds like demands for more mixed in
with his name and Daddy and sobbing moans.

He doesn’t hear anything remotely close to red so...

He ramps it up a little bit. Pinning Chuuya’s thigh with his elbow to keep him in place, he
forces him to take what’s being given to him. Sucks him down even deeper, until his nose is
buried in the short red hairs — okay, yes, Dazai is showing off a bit, but who can blame him
— and alternating the rhythm of his finger inside him so he can never get used to it.
He slides his other hand underneath him, grabbing his ass and squeezing, digging his nails
into flesh he knows is still sensitive even if it’s not bruised—

And that, the combination of pain-tipped pleasure and the reminder of how thoroughly Dazai
wrecked him last night, seems to be enough.

There’s a strangled cry from above, and Dazai looks up , mouth full—

Chuuya is already looking, eyes huge and eyebrows scrunched, his gaze unfocused but
trained on Dazai's face as his thigh tightens around his shoulders, fighting for the last inch of
pleasure he needs—

Hollowing out his cheeks, he sucks , making direct and intense eye contact—

This time, he gets the privilege of seeing the orgasm cross his expression before his cock
even twitches in his throat.

His mouth goes slack, a soft moan escaping and building higher , louder. The blue of his eyes
are nearly eclipsed by how dark and huge his pupils are, and it's clear that he's looking but
he's not seeing, pleasure foggy in his gaze. His lashes flutter, but he fights to keep them open
and locked on Dazai's face.

Then his hips are straining against the hold Dazai has on them, instinctually trying to thrust
as his cock twitches once, twice in his throat.

Cum has always been a satisfying taste, not because of the flavor itself, but of the pleasure
behind it. It means Dazai won , means he used his skills to push his partner to the edge and
beyond.

It means success , and Dazai thrives on being the best .

This is the sweetest victory yet, and he drinks it down greedily, pressing his finger against his
prostate to coax out another few dribbles and a cracking moan.

Chuuya shoots quickly into painful oversensitivity this time. He's barely come down and
beginning to soften when the hands in Dazai's hair go from pulling to pushing .

"I— too much ," he chokes out, half-sobbing.

It's not red , it's not even a clear 'stop' but Dazai would be a stubborn idiot if he couldn't read
between the lines and pick up the obvious signs. With one last swallow, he pulls off, and
eases his finger out of him at the same time.

Chuuya collapses onto the bed, chest heaving as he starts to calm down. They're hopelessly
intertwined, with a thigh thrown over Dazai's shoulder, Chuuya's other ankle hooked over his
hip, hands in his hair.

Dazai has one hand underneath him, and the other has moved to drawing soft, soothing
circles against the back of his thigh. He's moved on to pressing gentle kisses along his hips
and down to his other thigh, lingering over the marks his teeth had left. The tie on his wrist
gets tugged off gently, his wrists thankfully unaffected by how hard he was fighting the
restraints.

The trembling starts not long after that. Dazai would be concerned, but he's figured out that
Chuuya gets pretty cold after sex, and a little vulnerable.

They'll have to talk about the best way to ease Chuuya out of his drops later, but for now,
Dazai has figured out a pretty decent plan for helping him.

Easing his leg off his shoulder, he moves up slowly. He takes his time, pressing tiny kisses
over any spot that looks too red and every part that catches his interest even briefly. He
murmurs compliments into his skin, a promise sealed with sweat and pleasure.
Each one makes Chuuya's breath hitch, incredibly soft, his body warm and melted under
Dazai's hands, a gift he intends to treasure.

By the time Dazai is pressing kisses up his collarbone, Chuuya's trembling is offset with a
low, contented humming. He's moving underneath him, fluid, arching up into his every touch
and silently begging for more . More touch, more attention.

He's so sweet , Dazai wonders himself, feeling like his chest is too full for words. No one has
ever been as sweet or as vulnerable around him, nor so easily . Even Odasaku, who Dazai
would consider his dearest and closest friend, is guarded around him. He keeps secrets, hides
his vulnerabilities behind layers of subterfuge and lies .

Dazai understands why on a logical level, but it still hurts for everyone he loves to expect a
knife in his hands. He's worked incredibly hard to let go of that vicious, wounded child inside
of him, and grow into someone worthy of life.

It was never easy. It was awful, and it was lonely, and it was the hardest thing he's ever done.

The idea that most people will never see him as anything more than the abused, angry child
he was...

Hurts.

Chuuya has never treated him like that. Never looked at him with anything other than
unwavering trust and affection, and even now he's twisting to nuzzle into Dazai's neck like he
knows Dazai will protect him from the world, keep him safe and sheltered and secure.

And he will, Dazai promises himself, wrapping his arms around his baby and dragging him
closer, until they're so intertwined he can barely tell where he stops and Chuuya begins. He
will protect him.
He's a treasured weight in his arms, sweetly demanding in the way he nuzzles into Dazai's
neck until Dazai lifts his chin to give him more room, pushing his leg between Dazai's and
intertwining their legs.

Dragging his fingers up and down his spine soothingly, he waits for him to calm down.

Dazai doesn't want to lose this. He knows Chuuya is so trusting because he doesn't actually
know Dazai, and part of him feels guilty for that.

The other, much larger part of him wants to hold onto this blind affection and hold onto it as
long as he can, to let it fill the gaping holes inside him until he feels warm and whole again.

Even though he hasn’t gotten off, and he’s still mostly-hard in his sweats, this is enough for
him. Just the feeling of being appreciated and...

Loved, even in such a small and new way.

Eventually Chuuya presses his lips to his neck and makes his way upward. He lingers over
the spot where his jaw meets his neck, setting his teeth into him with an adorable hesitancy.
When it’s happening , Chuuya is shameless and needy, but when the sex is over, he’s more
shy and uncertain of himself and what he’s allowed to do.

Threading his fingers through his hair — it’s come mostly undone by now, his braid almost
non-existent — Dazai tugs his head back and until he can kiss him again.

This one is slower, sweeter, and Dazai swears he could spend hours doing this, wrapped up in
bed with Chuuya and feeling so warm.

Maybe Chuuya was onto something when he said they could spend all day in bed. He can’t
say it’s not appealing , but he’s torn between staying cuddled up together forever or showing
him off to the world.
A satisfied hum breaks their kiss, and Chuuya pulls back a little. “Your turn,” he murmurs
against the corner of his mouth, his hand sliding slowly down his chest and heading for the
waistband of his sweats.

And as tempted as Dazai is—

Bratty behavior doesn’t get rewards .

He catches Chuuya by the wrist, bringing his hand back up. Pressing a kiss to the center of
the palm, he says, “Nope. Brats don’t get my cock.”

Chuuya gapes at him, looking so damn stunned at the consequences of his own behavior that
Dazai has to hold back a laugh. “I wasn’t being a brat!”

“No?” Dazai laughs, “I’m surprised I have any hair left after the way you were yanking on it.
I don’t think being bald is a good look on me, thank you.”

Scowling, Chuuya wiggles unhappily. Honestly, Dazai should’ve kept his wrists tied, because
he’s trying to be sneaky and sliding his other hand between them.

Brat.

“Be good for your punishment and I’ll think about a reward for later,” Dazai continues,
rolling out of Chuuya’s reach. Now that he’s steady, it’s time for them to start getting ready
for the day. After last night and this morning, he needs a shower.

Sniffing, Chuuya turns his nose up at him. “Getting two free orgasms without having to
reciprocate isn’t a punishment , that’s — it’s basically a reward!”
“You think so?” Dazai hums, turning to face the bed as he hooks his thumbs into the
waistband of his sweats. He lets them drop, reveling in the swift intake of Chuuya’s breath at
the sight.

He lets desire and wicked heat fill his eyes, raking his gaze over Chuuya’s naked body as he
reaches down , taking himself in hand. He gives himself a languid stroke, two, mentally
picturing all the things he could do to Chuuya and letting the chibi use his own imagination
to picture what would happen if Dazai got back into bed—

“If you say so,” Dazai shrugs, spinning on his heel to head into the bathroom. He’s smiling,
smug and amused and victorious .

From behind him, a strangled whimper: “That’s not fair .”

Pausing in the doorway, he looks over his shoulder. “Baby,” he sighs, tone disbelieving,
“when did I ever say I’d play fair ?”

Teasingly, he sticks out his hips and shakes his ass a little, just to watch blue eyes drop to the
temptation—

Scowling, Chuuya throws a pillow at him. It hits him in the butt.

“Go take your shower,” Chuuya sniffs, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice sounds
grudging, but he’s fighting a smile.

Dazai steps in, just barely hearing the muttered “you fucking jerk,” behind him. His laugh
echoes off the tile, and it feels so damn good.

He doesn't take long in the shower. It's just a tiny, momentary separation, but something in
him aches at not being in Chuuya's vicinity. Aches enough that he considers inviting him, and
coming up with some excuse for the tattoos on his skin.
It's like he's addicted, mind running in circles around the need to see him again, when they're
going to be together again.

Dazai has done a lot of drugs in his life, but he has to say that infatuation might be the one
that hits him the hardest.

Luckily, he did most of his personal grooming before they came to Osaka, so all he has to do
is trim up the happy trail crawling down his stomach to keep it neat, and shave the beginnings
of stubble off his cheeks.

His scalp is actually sore from being yanked on, and shampooing makes him wince. Little
brat is stronger than he looks. Payback for the spanking, he supposes, and it’s not like he’s
going to complain .

Putting cover-up on his fingers to cover the ink is a tiring but familiar task. He's feeling a bit
lazy today, so he just covers his forearms with a double layer of bandages.

He chooses something simple and easy for his clothes; a dark grey button-down, sleeves
rolled up to the elbow, and black jeans that hug his thighs. Silver rings on his fingers, and a
chain around his neck that doesn't match Chuuya's necklace, but he'll pretend.

He brushes his hair forward today, letting it hang wild and reckless over his forehead. He'll
need another haircut soon; the undercut in the back has started to grow back thickly. The
pattern that had been shaved into it is surely unrecognizable by now.

Dressed, he steps out of the bathroom. Chuuya is still stretched out in the bed, looking like
he's alternating between dozing and scrolling through his phone. He looks lazy , tempting, a
siren laying among the rocks to coax him into coming into the water.

"Go shower," Dazai tells him.

Chuuya rolls over to face him, smiling mischievously. His eyes scan Dazai from head to toe,
taking in every inch of him and lingering on the places he likes the most. His thighs, his hips,
his forearms, the exposed parts of his chest.

Dazai stares back at him, eyebrow raised, outwardly unaffected by the blatant way he's
checking him out.

"Do I have to?" Chuuya pouts, stretching. The arch of his back makes the lines of his
stomach very tempting. Dazai just had his hands on him, and he's already looking forward to
the next time, like some sex-addicted teenager.

"Yes," Dazai says, grabbing the blanket and yanking it off of Chuuya completely, exposing
him to the slightly-colder air. "Go, baby."

Sulking, Chuuya goes. The pouting is, admittedly, adorable, so Dazai reels him in for a quick
kiss on the forehead and then smacks him on the ass to get him moving faster.

He can feel the disgruntled glare on the back of his head for that one.

While Chuuya showers and gets dressed, Dazai orders breakfast from room service. Nothing
fancy, just more pancakes for Chuuya and a pot of coffee for himself. He's not one for
breakfasts, especially sweet foods or western dishes.

It arrives before Chuuya returns, so Dazai checks his phone while he waits for him to come
out, sipping his coffee.

There's a call from Fyodor. A bit strange, because usually it's Dazai calling him , but nothing
that immediately sets his alarm bells ringing. No voicemail, obviously.

He hovers his thumb over his contact, contemplating if he should call him back. It's never
good to leave him waiting for long, especially if Fyodor needs something from him. He's the
petty type, and he has no issue making Dazai's work a living hell for the next few weeks in
response.

But...

He's on vacation. A real vacation, with his baby, and it feels wrong to let his work intrude on
that. It feels wrong to let his real life touch the bubble of soft, warm, fun space being built by
them.

Chuuya comes out then, the golden necklace around his neck and the pair of sun earrings
dangling from his ears. His hair is in a high, messy ponytail that makes Dazai's palm itch
with the desire to pull .

He's wearing the black jeans Dazai bought him yesterday, and a yellow short-sleeved shirt
that makes the gold in his hair shine.

He looks gorgeous , and Dazai makes the decision easily. He can call Fyodor back later.

After their aquarium date, or maybe once they get back to Yokohama and Dazai is ready to
work again. It's not like he has a schedule to keep.

After so long of never taking anything for himself, it's all too easy to convince himself.

(He should've answered.)

 Leather Dragons
Chapter Summary

A shadow moving in the hallway catches her eye. It's only because she's so familiar with
the outline that she recognizes it as Oda. Plus, the myriad of guards would make it
extremely difficult for anyone else to get this far into the building.

He's back then.

At least this is a conversation she can explain away.

When Oda pushes through the door to the conference room she's in, she gives him a
greeting smile as she says, "I know but.. try to convince him that he's just having fun
doing things in college. You know how boys are. Always being stupid. He's probably off
doing some idiotic adventures with his new friends, or maybe he's got a new crush or
something. He'll be fine. He's a responsible adult. What's the worst that could happen?"

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone! Bit of a short chapter this week, but it can't be helped <3 It's important
for plot hehe. I'll be posting something else today to make up for it, and next chapter
should be longer <3 As always, I hope you enjoy and I will see you next week! I'm
really honored you guys are enjoying my story <3

This chapter includes:

- a wolf
- a lamb
- a dragon

Relatively speaking, Dazai Osamu is an easy man to contact, if you have access to the right
connections. Especially so for someone like Fyodor, who lies at the top of his food chain, and
thus has to deal with people like Dazai, who are both the banes of his existence and an
extraordinary resource. There’s a reason why good information sells for more money than
most people see in their lives, and doubly so when you play both sides of the field.

Informants lie somewhere between ally and enemy, a grey area that swings from one side to
the other depending on the day.
Depending on what information each side has, and Fyodor has just stumbled upon a gold
mine.

He knows well enough by now to know that Dazai doesn’t have a decent sleeping schedule or
anything else to explain why his call has gone unanswered for the past seven hours. There’s
only one explanation:

Fyodor is being ignored .

Something that Dazai will pay dearly for, because Fyodor was going to be nice and let him
offer the Rats something valuable , so that Fyodor will keep this interesting little secret of
his.

A vacation in Osaka. Nothing too terribly exciting, except —

There were two tickets bought. Two people that boarded the plane together, and based on the
video footage, they’re close .

Nishimoto Norio (one of Dazai’s more established aliases) and...

Nakahara Chuuya.

Fyodor lights the cigar in his hand, contemplating. The flame makes his eyes look violet-red,
steeped in hellfire.

Outsmarting someone like Dazai is a tricky thing. The Demon is smart, wickedly so,
someone that even Fyodor would deem a worthy opponent.

Therein lies his weakness.

Dazai is like...

A lone wolf. Vicious, unpredictable, and a successful predator. He owns no territory, moving
like a ghost in the night, all sharp fangs and surprise attacks. He owes loyalty to no one but
himself, comes home to no one but himself.

It’s smart . By keeping himself isolated, Fyodor has nothing to sink his teeth into, nothing he
can tear into to expose his vulnerabilities. It’s what kept him alive and gave him so much
power, despite the fact that he is only one man.

But now...

Fyodor stares at a picture on the monitor. In it, Dazai stares down at a small redhead, arm
draped over his shoulder. His eyes are incredibly soft, warmer and more alive than Fyodor
has ever seen them.

He might as well have put a collar on himself and handed the leash to Fyodor.

Not that he knows that, of course. It’s taken great care on Fyodor’s part to keep the fact that
he knows about that alias a secret. He’s been keeping it under wraps, silently gathering all the
information like a gold mine.

He was planning on using it as leverage in a deal later, but this —

This is even better .

On his second monitor, he has every scrap of information he could find on Nakahara Chuuya
in such a short time. He’ll have his underlings do more research on him, but he’s already
interesting.
Mostly because his file has been wiped . No family. No home address. No hospital records.
As far as his record goes, Nakahara has barely existed outside of this year.

It’s clean. Too clean, a rush job that’s just as telling.

Someone is protecting him.

Obviously, the first thought is Dazai himself, but his rival wouldn't be so glaringly obvious.
Fyodor hasn't personally met that hacker kid of his, but Rokuzou wouldn't be so clumsy.

Besides, Fyodor is sure that the information he fed Dazai, the bit around the Azure King
signing with an American business, is probably keeping Rokuzou very busy. Which is the
exact reason Fyodor arranged that deal in the first place. Rokuzou is far too talented for his
own good, and far too loyal to Dazai, so he needed to be...

Distracted. Fyodor can't afford to have him discovering his plans before he's ready for it, so
he had to throw him a bone to keep him out of the picture.

The wipe must be from someone else then.

Humming in contemplation, he zooms in on the airport picture he has of Nakahara. He's

pretty, Fyodor can see the appeal. Petite, flaming red hair, freckles, nicely shaped. The smile
on his face is contagious and overall much too sweet for someone like Dazai.

Wolves always chase after the lambs, don't they? Fyodor himself has fallen into that habit
more than a few times, getting tangled up with someone much too innocent for someone like
him.

The difference between them is that Fyodor doesn't go on vacations with his flavor of the
month. He savors the taste of blood in his mouth, soft skin under his teeth, a slender body
under his —
Then lets them go. Not because he cares about them necessarily, but because every
connection he has is a weakness his enemies can exploit.

He’d carve himself into pieces before he lets his plans fail or go unfinished.

There’s a bottle of Absolut sitting on his desk, glacier cold. He pours himself a shot, throwing
it back and swallowing it easily. The vodka hits his stomach and spreads warmth through
him, familiar.

There’s something familiar about Nakahara Chuuya. Not his face, because his features are
pretty recognizable and Fyodor would remember those blue eyes anywhere.

His name though, it itches at the back of his mind. He has a great memory, but it’s been a
long day, and he’s been too busy doing more enjoyable things rather than sleeping lately so
—

It takes him a minute, before it clicks.

Oh. That is quite the coincidence, isn’t it?

His lips curl into a smile, wicked. In that case —

At least it’ll be easy to keep an eye on him.

“Boss?”

Looking up, he catches sight of one of his newer recruits hanging nervously in the doorway.
Poor thing, always looks like Fyodor is going to devour her.
He might, if she asks nicely enough.

“Yes, my dear?” He responds, leaning back further in his chair. He knows he looks
intimidating; he keeps it dark in his office to help with his migraines, so most of what his
visitors see is what the flame of his cigar reveals as he pulls on it.

Dark, unruly hair, usually pulled up into a messy bun. Violet eyes that reflect the firelight. A
devilish smirk, the sharp cut of his collarbones.

Yes, he knows he looks good. He uses that to his advantage more often than not. Most people
don’t expect fangs behind a pretty smile.

“The American man, Fitzgerald? He’s on the phone waiting for you. Would you like me to
take a message?”

He sighs, his patience stringing as thin as spider silk. Truthfully, he loathes the American.
He’s very loud, calls him too-familiar names, talks too much. It’s annoying having to deal
with him. Always takes up too much time and effort.

Ah, but everyone loves American money, even Fyodor. And, like all American businessmen,
Fitzgerald always believed he was the smartest, and most powerful man in the room.

It was far too easy to manipulate him.

Sighing again, he leans back further in his chair, tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling as
he takes another drag. “No, transfer him to me. Thanks, dear.”

The girl ducks out with a nod, red-faced. She’s little more than a secretary, another part of the
disguise of a legal company.
Seeming morally correct and above ground makes things easier and smoother.

A moment later, his phone rings. He presses accept.

“Good morning, old sport! I was just checking in on the progress of that little project we’re
working on together—.”

Dazai has never been to the Osaka Aquarium Kaiyukan, and for that, he's grateful. If he were
by himself, his mind would've reminded him that he'd seen all these animals before on
wildlife documentaries or other aquariums, and that there was nothing to be impressed about.

Chuuya, though, loves it. He stares at everything with a healthy mix of youthful wonder and
sheltered inexperience, and everything is so exciting to him.

He has an excited grin when a seal gracefully twists and turns near the glass walls, clearly
showing off. A gasp when he reaches into the manta ray tank and feels the rough-slick skin of
a shark under his hands. Pointing out all the tiny fish hiding in the coral reefs, a small game
of 'I Spy'. Standing in the tunnel and looking so small and in awe of all the fish swimming
around and above him.

There's a time when a pufferfish, obviously startled by something , swims by the glass slowly
with it's tiny little body puffed up to the max, spines sticking out, and Chuuya—

He scrunches his eyebrows in and puffs his cheeks up with air to mimic it, and god , it's so
adorable and funny that Dazai has to cover his mouth with his hand so he doesn't ruin the
video he's taking with his laughing.

They kiss in the jellyfish room, where the blue-white light makes Chuuya's eyes shine
brilliantly. People stare and some people mutter grudgingly, but Dazai silently glares at them
until they leave the exhibit with a huff. No one is about to ruin the aquarium for his baby.
They spend most of the day there, wandering around and looking at all the fish until Chuuya
finally has his fill.

There's a decently sized souvenir shop near the front door. Dazai buys Chuuya a silver
bracelet with a little shark charm hanging from it. It has space for other charms to be added
later.

And while they’re in this part of town, Dazai has another stop to make:

HANA’s ADULT ENTERTAINMENT STORE. MUST SHOW ID TO ENTER.

Now, is taking Chuuya to a sex shop a little mean? Perhaps. But Dazai’s gone through the
entirety of the stores in Yokohama, and he prefers to look at his toys before he buys them and
—

What better way to show Chuuya all the fun and interesting things Dazai could use on him?

The poor thing looks like he got slapped in the face when he walks in and is confronted by an
entire wall of dildos. Dazai can’t wait to break him out of the embarrassment he has towards
sex. It’s cute, but he likes the shameless, exhibitionist version of Chuuya a bit better—

And if they’re going to do more daring things in public — Dazai is very much an
exhibitionist and he suspects Chuuya might be too — then he’s got to get used to it.

“This is a sex store,” Chuuya hisses, following on his heels as Dazai moves to the back, to the
restraints section.

Dazai snorts. “Yes. Was it the dildos or the vibrators that tipped you off?”
“Fuck off,” Chuuya says, looking very startled by a pair of handcuffs hanging on the wall. “I
didn’t even know they had stores like these.”

Oh, he really was sheltered, wasn’t he? Dazai’s corrupting him.

Maybe that thought shouldn’t be as appealing as it is.

“They do. Lots. My favorite one is in Tokyo, but it hasn’t gotten new stuff in a while.”

Chuuya makes a noise of shock, attention caught by a package sitting on the shelf. He
reaches up, pulling it off the shelf. It’s a dildo, one of the larger ones, flesh-colored. Dazai
likes the colored ones a lot better, personally. They’re cuter .

“People actually use this stuff?” Chuuya asks, astonished. He holds the package to his belly,
illustrating the fact that it’s almost as long as his torso. “This would kill me!”

Hanging nearby, there are packages of finger-vibrators, designed to slip onto the tips of your
fingers. Dazai pulls one down, inspecting it. He doesn’t have one yet but he thinks it would
make a nice pairing with his tongue-vibrator. “No, it wouldn’t,” he snorts, “Not with time and
preparation.”

Chuuya shakes the package at him, like he’s not seeing it correctly. “There is no way
something like this would fit inside me.”

“Sweetheart,” Dazai sighs, tossing one of the purple finger-vibrators in the basket. Chuuya
hasn’t felt a vibrator before and he wants to feel his reaction in his hands for the first time.
“That’s not that much bigger than I am.”

Chuuya looks at him. Looks at the dildo. Back at him, eyes squinting suspiciously. “You’re
lying.”
(Chuuya is frantically dragging up the memories of when Dazai’s erection against him
because—

It can’t be that big.

Right?)

Dazai continues deeper into the store. When he was briefly looking online, he saw that this
store had remote-controlled vibrators that synced to a smartphone, but he can’t seem to find
them. He hopes they’re not out of stock. “It’s a lot more intimidating when you’re not
excited.”

(Well, that’s certainly true. When Chuuya was half-delirious with lust and getting his hands
and mouth on Dazai, his reaction wasn’t...

‘Oh fuck, it’s big.’

But more of a...

‘Oh fuck , it’s big .’)

Chuuya trails after him, fingers so tight around the package that Dazai is starting to suspect
that this might be a cover-up for him being interested in it. “I don’t believe you.”

Dazai turns his head, offering a self-satisfied smirk. “No? Should we take it home and
compare sizes then?”

Chuuya looks briefly intimidated. Then curious. Then intimidated again.

Dazai really isn't lying. At 10.5 inches, the dildo isn't that much longer than he is, though he
does have to admit it is quite a bit thicker than him. Not that he's lacking in girth , but —

Those things are built to be unrealistic. A fantasy cock.

"I think I'm better off not knowing the details," Chuuya says, putting the toy back. He looks a
bit paler than before.

Dazai agrees, at least for now. Seeing it in person can be intimidating, but that's easily
countered by getting him excited . Knowing the exact numbers might be too much.

From there, Chuuya wanders on his own for a while. The store is decently big —
understandable, considering it's near the Osaka shopping district — and the elevator music
playing through the speakers somehow makes the store seem less...

Obscene .

Dazai leaves him to it, making his way to the back. There's an entire wall of ropes in different
colors, shapes and sizes. Admittedly, his knowledge of shibari is limited — easily rectified by
a few days of research — but the idea of Chuuya being wrapped up in rope and knots,
completely at his mercy...

Delicious. He got the idea this morning, when Chuuya responded so eagerly to his tie around
his wrists.

Occasionally, Chuuya will find him, each time with a different object in his hand. "What is
this?"

"Edible wax. You light the candle, pour it on someone, then you can eat it off."

"Doesn't that hurt ?"

"The candles melt at a lower temperature than regular candles, so not as much as you think,
but yes, a little."

"And people are into that?"

"Weren't you the one who came when I spanked you?"

"Don't say that out loud !"

Huffy, he leaves again and comes back a flogger dangling from his fingertips. "Is this a whip
?"

Dazai snorts. "Not quite. Same concept though. Hurts less, spreads out any bruising."

He can't tell if the rising blush on Chuuya's cheeks is because of general embarrassment or if
he's thinking about something specific.

When he leaves again, Dazai picks up a skein of red rope. It's longer than what he's used to,
and softer, clearly more orientated towards longer and more involved play. He spreads it out
over his fingers, wondering how it'd look knotted over Chuuya's bare skin.

This time, when he comes back, it's with something Dazai hadn't even considered yet.

"Plug," he answers before Chuuya even has time to voice his question.

"But it has a..." Chuuya trails off, gesturing to it. He's holding the package by the very tips of
his fingers, like it's already dirty.
"A tail?"

Personally, Dazai was never really into pet play. He thought the nicknames were cute — he's
particularly partial to kitten — but he's never explored it or felt the need to find someone who
wanted to be his kitty.

Now that he's thinking about it, though, Chuuya would look pretty cute with a tail Dazai
could pull on, a cute pair of ears, a collar with a bell and a leash —

Chuuya looks aghast and intrigued, staring at the grey fox-tail like it might answer some of
his questions.

"Haven't you heard of the term sex kitten?" Dazai teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
"Mrow."

That makes Chuuya laugh, bright and clear. Dazai swears he could live off the sound alone ,
spend all of his days making him laugh just like that and be perfectly content.

"Come here," he croons, crooking his finger at him in invitation, smiling sweetly. The way
Chuuya immediately moves forward, without question or hesitation, makes Dazai feel on top
of the world.

He lays the rope over his shoulder when he's close enough, taking a moment to rub his thumb
over his pulse point and relishing in the way his heart jumps underneath his touch. He's so
responsive .

"Do you want to tie me up?" Chuuya asks, a breathy edge to his voice. His posture has grown
stiff, and Dazai wants to wrap his fingers around that tension and pull , mold it into the
perfect shape.

"I think the better question—,” Dazai responds, letting his voice drop into something low and
intimate , a subtle reminder of what he sounds like when Chuuya is under him. By the blush
growing on his cheeks and the way he sways forward, caught in Dazai's orbit, it works.

He spreads the rope a little more over his shoulder, comparing the contrast between his skin.
The rope is more of a bright red, which looks good — his blue eyes turn searingly bright
when paired with anything red — but Dazai thinks that a darker red, more of a blood color
with hints of

Black, would be exquisite . He can see the pattern now, swirling over his hands and up his
forearms, down his thighs in an elegant pattern.

“—is if you want me to tie you up," Dazai continues, and he's not looking at Chuuya,
pretending to be more interested in the rope, but he can feel the burning gaze on his cheek,
and it makes hunger spiral through him.

"I don't know," Chuuya mutters, shuffling on his feet. The parts of his shoulders exposed by
his shirt are covered in goosebumps. "I want to try, though."

Humming, Dazai lets his hand drift to the center, fingertips brushing over his neck. Slowly,
he lets his fingers wrap around his throat, not tight but still commanding in how soft and
assured his grip is.

He tips his chin up, forcing him to look up at him, blue eyes wide and dilated. Dazai can see
himself reflected there and he likes that, the idea that the only thing he can see is him , that
his entire world begins and ends with Dazai.

He's always been possessive , wants to take and take and take until he's the only person left ,
the only thing that ever matters to the people closest to him. It's a bad habit, something he
works to overcome—

But he can't help it sometimes.

"Then we'll try it," he promises, leaning down to press a single kiss to his lips, setting off a
slow, devouring hunger.
If Chuuya wants it, Dazai will give him anything he asks for.

Kyouka picks up on the third ring, grunting out an irritated "Hello?"

Kouyou spins in her chair, holding her phone to her ear. Usually, she takes her calls on
speaker on the office phone, but this one is different. "Do you remember that one time you
got caught sneaking out and I covered for you to Dad?

There's a long pause on the other end as Kyouka decides if she's being serious . "You mean
when I was fifteen ? Almost seven years ago? That time?"

"Yeah. I'm calling in that favor you owe me for that."

"You can't be serious," Kyouka says, tone exasperated. There's the sound of music in the
background, the usual instrumentals she listens to when working on another project.

Good. Kouyou has caught her at a good moment then, when the creative juices are flowing,
or whatever it is that artists say. "Deadly," she says, watching the door carefully. Oda said he
was going to get them both food, which Kouyou took as the perfect opportunity to call her
sister in secret, but he could return at any moment. "I need you to make something for me."

"Send me an email like everyone else then?"

Normally, Kouyou does respect that Kyouka essentially runs her own business and files her
requests like everyone else. But she knows for a fact that her little sister is always busy, and
it’s already almost August.
If she’s going to get Oda’s birthday present on time , she’s got to bend the rules a little bit.

“I’m your sister ,” she sniffs, “and you owe me for putting up with you our entire lives.”

Kyouka heaves a sigh. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Oda needs new shoulder holsters. His are old , and if I have to watch him put on that
cracked

leather one more time, I'm going to go out and kill a cow my damn self."

They're horrendous , old and worn and frayed through in some parts. Which isn't to say that
Oda doesn't take care of his belongings — he does , spends hours a week making sure all his
equipment and weapons are in top condition, cleaned and functioning perfectly. But
sometimes being a bodyguard means getting blood and worse on yourself, and sometimes it
takes a few hours or days before you can clean it off completely.

Oda's been making noises about being fitted for new holsters — he's been bulking up lately,
especially in the chest and arms area, something that Kouyou is not complaining about — but
the man is so wary about spending more than few hours away from her that he hasn't actually
gone about doing it.

Which is where Kyouka comes in. Beyond her actual schooling and part-time internship at
some fashion company, she also designs exclusive clothing for the people of the underground
sort.

Need hidden knife sheaths in your dress? Holsters fitted to your size? Secret pockets sewn
into the lining of your clothing that won't be detected with a pat-down? Need anything
specific for your clothes that takes skill, creativity and the ability to keep a secret?

Kyouka's your girl. She's practically got half the underground coming to her with custom
orders. She's built quite a name for herself as someone talented and patient, but not someone
to be messed with lightly.
And she did it all by herself, because Kouyou has had all of her family's records secretly
wiped, to keep from any connections being drawn between her and her family.

It makes her glow with pride, to see how far she's come and how much better she's done than
Kouyou. How much more independent and free she is, despite everything.

"He liked that one design he saw when we last came over for dinner," Kouyou offers,
checking the clock. They've been on the phone for almost ten minutes now. Oda will
probably be back soon. They need to hurry this up, so it will be a surprise.

"The ones with the snakes on them?"

From what Kouyou had seen, the plans for them had been black leather with red snakes
tooled into them, or something like that. The blueprints were hard to read for her but the idea
seemed pretty cool, and Oda liked them a lot. "Yeah, those ones."

Kyouka sighs. Her voice is farther away now, like she's set her phone down somewhere
nearby. "Fine. I assume it's for his birthday?"

Kouyou nods, forgetting that she can't be seen. "Yes," she adds.

"I'll see what I can do. You'll have to send me his measurements though. I assume they've
changed since the last time I measured him."

Oh, definitely . He's been on a kick lately, upping his work-out routine and bulking up. It's
pretty sexy, to be honest, so she's not complaining.

It's fine either way, because she took his measurements only a couple weeks ago so she could
order that one lingerie set that would look exquisite with his red hair. She'll just add a few
centimeters for wiggle room, and it should turn out fine. "I'll send those over to you by the
end of the day."

Probably by the end of the hour, to be truthful, she wants to get this project started as soon as
possible—

"Cool. By the way, have you heard from Chuuya letely?"

That makes her pause, frowning. "No, why?"

There's a rattle on the other line, the phone being picked up again. Kyouka's voice is
suddenly much clearer, and tinted with exasperated concern. "He hasn't been answering Dad's
calls and... well, you know how Dad gets."

Yeah, she does. Still the worrier and overthinker, always looking for the spider underneath the
rock.

Truthfully, Chuuya hasn't been talking to her much lately either, but he gets like this. When
he's in a new situation — going to college, for instance — he tends to cling onto the familiar
until he's comfortable.

Then he's off like the social butterfly he is, leaving them to their own devices as he explores.
He's never totally silent, but there's a definite shift in priorities. Calls get put off, he doesn’t
reach out as often, he’s more active on social media than anywhere else.

"Last time we spoke was about..." She has to think about it, tapping her red nails on the desk.
"Two weeks ago? He seemed fine then."

More than fine, really, he sounded happy . Genuinely, overwhelmingly happy. So much so
that it shocked her a little bit, in a good way. He's always been more passionate and irritable
than outright happy.
Kyouka sighs. "I'll tell Dad that, but he's not going to let it go until he calls."

A shadow moving in the hallway catches her eye. It's only because she's so familiar with the
outline that she recognizes it as Oda. Plus, the myriad of guards would make it extremely
difficult for anyone else to get this far into the building.

He's back then.

At least this is a conversation she can explain away.

When Oda pushes through the door to the conference room she's in, she gives him a greeting
smile as she says, "I know but.. try to convince him that he's just having fun doing things in
college. You know how boys are. Always being stupid. He's probably off doing some idiotic
adventures with his new friends, or maybe he's got a new crush or something. He'll be fine.
He's a responsible adult. What's the worst that could happen?"
 Omen
Chapter Summary

These days, Dazai is more...

The crow that follows the wolf pack. A bad omen, and a bearer of bad news, but rarely
is the source of the problem himself. And since Kunikida is so focused on the shadow
cast by his wings, he often misses the true predator hunting underneath.

But it's not Ranpo's job to keep Kunikida on track. If he wants to obsess over the guy, go
ahead. He's the one missing out on all the other cases.

Ranpo couldn't care less, to be honest. He became a detective because it was interesting
and to make sure the people close to him weren't taken advantage of, not because he's
sitting on some moral high ground.

If he sees a case, or a particularly difficult one comes to the Agency, he'll solve it, but
other than that, he doesn't care.

He'd much rather spend his days eating candy.

(He won’t have that option for long, so he better savor it for as long as he can.)

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone!! Welcome to this weeks BH chapter: a little bit of smut and a little bit of
foreshadowing! Truly, a full course meal >:D Thank you all for your support as always,
and I look forward to seeing your reactions to this chapter!!! See you all next week <3

This chapter includes:

- a meal
- a bag of candy

In all of his eighteen years of existence, agreeing to be tied up was the best idea Chuuya’s
ever had.

" Fuck !" He pants, tears of overstimulation beginning to pool at the corner of his eyes.
"More, please, more, more ."
With his position — spread out underneath Dazai with his thighs pinned to the bed and his
wrists tied to the bed frame — he can't take what he needs. He's stuck with mindless, frantic
begging, hoping that Dazai will take any kind of mercy on him.

Chuuya does know how to undo the knot holding his hands hostage. Dazai showed him in the
beginning. The wrapping around his wrists is a bit more complicated, but the tie holding him
to the bed frame is just a simple slip knot. It'll hold him firm when he pulls and tugs on it, but
it only takes one, simple tug on the release rope hanging right next to his hands for him to
free himself. One pull.

He knows how to undo the knot but he almost wishes he didn't , because, fuck , there's such
an erotic, filthy heat in the idea of being bound and completely helpless as Dazai makes his
mind melt with pleasure.

And god , if his mind isn’t melting. He’s all sensation, instinctively trying to thrust upward to
get more , willingly drowning in pleasure.

Dazai had decided to show him what the vibrating tongue ring felt like, and the sensation of it
buzzing lightly against the base of his cock is like fiery heaven. It’s hot and wet and perfect
in Dazai’s mouth, being swallowed down with such ease that he’d be jealous of his skills if
he weren’t benefitting from it.

Fuck , having a mouth on his dick is so good. The tightness of his lips, the hot dripping
saliva, the slip and slide of his tongue. He doesn’t even have words , all he knows is that he
wants this to last forever, it feels so good he doesn’t even want to cum. He just wants to be
buried in his throat forever , his newest addiction.

As if sensing Chuuya is focusing too much on one aspect of what’s being done to him,
Dazai’s fingers spread inside him, stretching him so far that he jerks, keening.

It’s the best kind of pleasure-pain, the most satisfying kind, pushing his body to the limits and
knowing he can take it. And if that weren’t enough on its own—
The little rubber contraption on Dazai’s finger — which looked weird and entirely
unappealing in itself, a dull purple color and covered with ridges — is also buzzing, pressed
against his most sensitive spots.

He quickly changed his mind on it being unappealing as soon as he felt the vibrations inside
him.

It feels like being struck by lightning, sending bolts of electricity shattering down his nerves
and sparking flames inside him. Each time Dazai’s finger slides even near his spot — he’s a
fucking tease and barely lets him enjoy the flood of pleasure before he’s moving his fingers
away again — it feels like molten lava is being poured straight into his veins.

It rockets him close to the edge in record time, and he would be embarrassed except he can’t
think, can’t feel past the driving need for more .

He’s reduced to frantic grinding of his hips, trying to get his cock deeper , those fingers
curled harder inside him. It doesn’t matter, he just needs it harder .

And as good as it feels, he wants—

He needs —

“Fuck me,” he demands, voice breathy and broken with pleasure.

Agonizingly slowly, Dazai pulls off of him. His tongue slides over him, buzzing against the
throbbing vein along the underside and earning himself a sob of pleasure.

The touch of cold air is nearly unbearable, but it’s offset by the heat boiling in his veins.

With one last, indulgent swipe of his tongue over the very tip — which makes Chuuya’s eyes
cross and his mouth drop open on a loud moan — Dazai pulls off with a lewd pop.
The grin on his face is wicked, especially with how red and wet his lips are. “Baby,” he
croons, and the thought of how adorable he sounds with the slight slur as a result of the
tongue jewelry makes a rush of affection bloom somewhere in his chest. “You’re going to
need more than three fingers for that . Can you take it?”

Yes, yes, he can take anything Dazai gives him, he can take it all and ask for more —

He nods and nods, spreading his thighs as much as he can to show how eager he is. With
Dazai’s other hand pinning his hips in place, he can’t move much but—

It earns him a wider smile, a hint of pride hidden in the corners.

“Good boy,” Dazai murmurs, dropping a kiss onto the straining tendon near the crease of his
thigh. The buzzing tickles, enough to make Chuuya squirm. He can’t imagine what the
vibrator must feel like on his tongue . It probably tickles like hell.

The fingers inside him flex, drawing out slowly. Chuuya holds his breath until he’s dizzy with
it, stomach tightening as the fingers return again, this time with four clustered together.

God, it’s so much. He never realized how empty he felt until he was filled up, overflowing.
Can he even take that many? It doesn’t hurt, it’s just so much .

(Dazai has... concerns.

Because although Chuuya is taking his fingers well, better than he expected—

He doesn’t relax into it. He fights for his pleasure, chasing and struggling for it instead of
letting it happen to him. Every movement inside him is a struggle because he’s tense, and his
muscles don’t give in the way they should be.
He has no doubt that Chuuya is enjoying himself — the way his erection is leaking pre-cum
against his stomach is evidence enough — but it could be better .)

“Breathe, baby,” Dazai says, voice hypnotic. It seeps into his bloodstream, wraps him up in a
blanket of security. He takes a shuddering inhale on reflex, and another one when his lungs
scream in relief.

“Relax,” Dazai continues, pressing wet, sucking kisses on the insides of his thighs and the
base of his cock, making his way upwards until he can stick his tongue out and lightly press
the vibrator just under the head of his erection. Chuuya’s eyes roll back in his head at the
spike of pleasure, hips twitching up—

Dazai pulls back, blowing a breath of cool air over the tip of his cock. It’s cold , bringing him
back to his senses a little bit.

“Relax,” Dazai tells him again, a little firmer. While his fingers haven’t stopped, they’re not
pushing in anymore, instead thrusting slowly and shallowly.

Shivering, Chuuya forces his body to relax. It takes a little concentration to focus enough to
make his thighs stop tensing up and his hips stop moving, but when he does—

“There you are,” Dazai purrs, licking a long, searing stripe up his cock. He swallows the
head, and fuck , the way his eyes stay focused on Chuuya’s face, even with his mouth
dropped open and his chin wet with saliva, is ridiculously hot.

It somehow heightens the sensations because Dazai knows he feels good and now he can see
it written all over his face and he’s drinking in the sight.

Dazai presses the vibrator to the very tip of his cock, buzzing against the sensitive slit. At the
same time, his fingers slide that much deeper, vibrator glancing off the edge of his prostate
—
And he’s gone. Fuck being relaxed, fuck being patient, he’s so close, just a little more—

Since Dazai only has one hand available to keep him pinned in place, that means his other leg
is free to wrap around Dazai’s upper back and use it as leverage to rock between his fingers
and his mouth.

Up into the hot, boiling pleasure of his mouth, wet constriction around the sensitive head that
feels like heaven. Down onto his fingers, feeling satisfyingly full and at his limit, his hunger
finally being sated, not feeling empty but feeling broken open, carved out with pleasure.

Dazai looks vaguely impressed at his daring, but doesn’t try to stop him from taking what he
needs.

(Because he’s already planning his.... punishment for being such a brat and derailing Dazai’s
plans.

He’s a firm believer in letting brats do what they want, and then punishing them after. The
look on their face when they realize they didn’t get away with it is amusing and satisfying.)

Like this, it takes all too quickly for the pleasure to overwhelm Chuuya. There’s a part of him
that wants to slow down and savor it, but there’s a larger part that wants it to feel better , just
a little more, he can slow down in a few moments, but it feels so good now —

By the time he realizes his orgasm is too close to stop, it’s already breaking over him like
storm waves. He barely manages to get out a mangled version of Dazai’s name as a warning
before he’s arching underneath him and shuddering with his orgasm.

His cock jerks in his mouth and it gets so much hotter and wetter inside, and he can’t help but
grind upwards, prolonging the ecstasy as long as he can, panting as he rides the waves out.

Dazai pulls off before he’s completely done, and lets his fingers slide out too. The complete
lack of stimulation after so long of being overwhelmed is almost painful, cold and cutting. He
squirms, trying to get any friction at all because he wasn’t done , and now he’s rapidly
cooling down and coming back to himself instead of floating in the afterglow pleasantly.

Without looking at him, Dazai peels off the purple toy stuck on his finger. He throws it to the
end of the bed, uncaring.

Chuuya opens his mouth to ask him why he stopped but then Dazai is crawling up his body,
feline and predatory. His eyes are dark, dangerous in a way that doesn’t make Chuuya scared
but—

Excited , even though he just came.

Still, the energy pouring off him is foreboding and he almost looks mad, so Chuuya squirms
again. “Sorry,” he mutters, figuring that Dazai didn’t want him to finish in his mouth or
something—

A hand catches him by the jaw, with his mouth still open. Dazai holds him there mercilessly,
turning his chin so he’s looking up at him as he looms over him, powerful and dominating.

With a devilish glint in his eye, he opens his own mouth and Chuuya realizes very quickly—

He didn’t swallow.

Eyes widening, Chuuya tries to twist away with a desperate, pleading noise. He doesn’t mind
the thought of Dazai’s cum in his mouth, but his own ? It seems wrong .

Dazai is immovable though, one of his shins pinning his thigh to the bed and his fingers
bruisingly tight on his face. It makes the insides of his cheeks grind almost painfully against
his teeth.
Held firm, all he can do is watch as a thick glob of cum slowly slides out of Dazai’s mouth
and drops into his own.

His aim is surprisingly accurate, and most of it lands on his tongue. The taste is bitter, musky,
filling his entire mouth with the taste of himself. He can see Dazai move his tongue around in
his mouth, collecting all the remaining cum into one pool. This one makes a wet noise when
it falls into Chuuya’s mouth, making him grimace.

It feels dirty . Like one of those things you see on cheap porn sites — not that he’s been on a
lot — and not something that happens in real life. The taste isn’t something he likes, and the
texture is thick but—

Dazai’s eyes burning down at him, all-encompassing and dark, and the way his hand shifts to
cover his mouth with his palm, sealing his mouth closed, is hot .

“You will be,” Dazai promises sweetly, his smile growing more wicked. “Swallow.”

Chuuya doesn’t, staring up at him with wide eyes. He’s seeing a whole new side of Dazai,
one that revels in filth and sin. One that seems like the devil himself, come to wrap his forked
tail and silver tongue around Chuuya until he can’t remember who he was before Dazai got
his hands on him.

Dazai arches an eyebrow. “Don’t make me cover your nose until you do as you’re told. You
have to breathe sometime, baby. I can wait you out.”

Chuuya doesn’t know if he gulps out of fear, excitement or obedience .

“Good boy,” Dazai purrs, satisfaction dripping from his voice. He moves his hand and
replaces it with his mouth.

The way their lips slide against each other, made slick by saliva and cum and the lube Dazai
had accidentally smeared over his face with his hands—
It’s filthy .

“Come here,” Dazai murmurs into his mouth, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and pulling
until the stinging stretch makes Chuuya whimper.

Where , Chuuya wants to ask but before he can—

The knot tying him to the headboard is undone with one sharp yank , and then Dazai’s fingers
are hooking in the loops around his wrist.

He leans back, pulling him up at the same time until Chuuya is sitting up completely.

Then Dazai is sliding off the bed and dragging him with. It's awkward to shuffle around with
just his knees and little else to balance with, and he's confused because he can see the tent in
Dazai's jeans, and he doesn't know where they're going —

With a few quick movements, Dazai pushes him onto his back, head dangling over the edge
of the bed.

"What are you—" Chuuya asks, huffing a little when Dazai tugs him even farther forward by
the wrists, until the edge of the bed is just below the base of his neck. "I thought you were
going to fuck me?"

Upside down like this, Dazai looks even taller and more intimidating, looming over him with
a confident smirk. The rest of the world is blocked out, overshadowed by dark, tousled hair,
the flash of white teeth and—

The bulge in his jeans, which is just slightly above eye level now.
"Did I say that?"

Well, not exactly , but he implied it so Chuuya has the right to be disappointed if that's not
happening anymore.

"But I do remember saying that brats don't get my cock."

Chuuya's response is cut off by the way Dazai reaches up to his own mouth, sticking his
tongue out just slightly. The tongue jewelry — a pill-shaped object that takes up a fair
amount of his tongue and probably his mouth — gets removed with a few twists of his hands.
It gets discarded carelessly onto the nearby nightstand, to be taken care of later.

Dazai scrapes his fingers over his tongue — (the tongue ring is so ticklish, Dazai can barely
stand it and taking it off is always a relief) — before lowering his hand to Chuuya's mouth.

"Here's what we're going to do, baby," he says, pressing his fingers to his lips and smearing
bitter saliva over them. “You’re going to open your mouth for me, and I’m going to fuck your
pretty little face.”

Chuuya’s heart leaps in his chest, heat flooding his face so quickly he feels dizzy with it. Oh
god, okay.

Without conscious thought, his mouth opens. Dazai hooks his thumb in his mouth, rubbing
the pad over his bottom teeth indulgently. His skin tastes like a mix of bitter cum and thick
artificial strawberry lube.

One-handed, Dazai unzips his jeans and pushes them a little farther down his hips. Chuuya
gets an up-close view of the cut of his hips and the happy trail radiating outwards into a
neatly-trimmed bed of hair.

Then there’s a dick in his face, close enough that it’s all he can see, radiating heat. Dazai
slides closer, thighs on either side of his head and boxing him in.
Reaching down, Dazai slides his thumb in between the loose wrappings around his wrist.
Chuuya’s fingers wrap naturally around his forearm, thrilling at the hard muscle there.

“Remember what I told you the first time we did this?” Dazai asks, voice hypnotically dark.
“Two taps if you need me to stop.”

He remembers, squeezing Dazai’s wrist to show he understands.

Dazai takes the fingers out of his mouth, trusting him to keep his jaw open wide as he wraps
his hand around the base of his cock to guide himself in.

Despite himself, Chuuya tenses up a little bit when he feels the head of his cock slide over his
bottom lip. He’s only done this once , on his own terms, and while this is exciting , the
complete lack of control is also a little frightening. What if he’s bad? What if Dazai doesn’t
like it? What if he chokes again?

“Relax, baby,” Dazai says, stroking the head over his tongue. “I won’t hurt you. All you have
to do is lay there, and let me do all the work.”

Chuuya takes a deeper breath, willing his body to relax. The only point of tension he keeps is
his fingers wrapped tightly around Dazai’s wrist, a grounding point. How firm and steady he
is under his hand is reassuring.

“There you are,” Dazai croons at him, pushing a little deeper. “So perfect and pretty for me.”

Heat burns in Chuuya’s face. He closes his eyes, glad Dazai can’t see his expression
anymore, and sinks into the feeling.

Each time Dazai pushes in, he slides a little deeper. Slowly making his way into the back of
his throat, pausing there and murmuring to him soothingly when Chuuya tenses up
instinctively. His free hand comes to his throat, gentle fingertips swirling soothing patterns
over his skin.

Chuuya shivers, goes limp. Dazai is so hot, a furnace of warmth in front of his face and
pulsing in his mouth, so effortlessly controlling that it just feels natural to give into him. To
give him everything of himself.

“You like my hands on your neck, don’t you?” Dazai asks. His voice is like cotton-edged silk,
wrapping Chuuya up in hazy softness. He feels like he’s spiraling, almost, falling deeper into
a feeling that’s too thick to name. Dazai’s voice is the only thing that tethers him to reality.

His fingers twitch around his wrist, his only sign of confirmation, curling a little tighter. It’s a
little harder to breathe, not only because Dazai is rocking against the back of his tongue, but
also because the air in the room feels soupy and thick.

(It takes a little work to get his fingers in the right places with how they’re positioned, but
Dazai manages it eventually. His fingers press over the pulse points on either side of his neck,
applying pressure until he can feel the blood struggling to pump past the compression.)

Chuuya does like his hands on his neck. It feels warm, feels safe , feels like being caught and
held, his entire being held securely in the palm of Dazai’s hand. Feels like he doesn’t need to
think anymore, he just needs to do what Dazai says.

Impossibly, he relaxes even more, the last of the tension disappearing from his neck and
spine. His head sinks into the mattress further, hanging limp off the edge.

His head is beginning to spin pleasantly, stuffed full with cotton. Dazai pulls back regularly
to let him breathe and his lungs feel full, but lightheadedness is beginning to swallow him
whole.

“Yeah, I know you do,” Dazai muses, pressing forward until the head of his cock is almost
touching the back of his throat. His fingers lighten on his throat for a few moments before
pressing down again. “Swallow for me, baby.”
Obeying is instinctive at this point, his body reacting before Chuuya even has a chance to
think about it.

Dazai slides down his throat. Not that far, but enough that there’s pressure, and barely-there
panic begins to swirl when his airway is cut off. His gag reflex is there, but it feels very far
away and is easily suppressed as Chuuya focused on trying to draw breath in through his
nose.

“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” Dazai says, husky voice adding to the spinning of his
head. “Doing so well for me, making me feel so good.”

Chuuya likes that, likes that he’s being good, likes making him feel good. Pride swirls in his
belly, adding to the overload of sensations. Everything feels centered in his head, like the rest
of his body is so far away, thick and fuzzy.

Just when his head feels like it’s about to explode, pressure building and building between the
cock in his throat and the hand around his throat, Dazai pulls back.

The rush of air back into his lungs feels like fire, spark to gasoline.

Steadily Dazai builds a rhythm. He rocks slowly into his mouth, pressing deeper and deeper
as Chuuya shows no resistance. The fingers over his pulse are tight, only letting up when his
cock is deep in his throat.

Between the two sensations, Chuuya feels like he’s floating away. Everything feels so
visceral and yet overwhelmingly close, filling his head until it’s almost spinning too fast to
keep up with.

Mindlessly, he rubs his fingertips over Dazai’s wrist, feeling soothed and grounded by the
sensation of hard muscle under his fingers.
Above him, he can hear Dazai saying something but his ears feel stuffed with cotton. There’s
a rushing noise that drowns out everything, turns it all to mush and white noise.

Even though he’s not directly getting any pleasure out of this, and logically it should feel a
little uncomfortable—

He feels high on it, lost in a sea of sensation with only Dazai as his grounding point in the
storm.

Dazai’s hand tightens on his throat, palm coming down to cover almost his entire neck. He’s
not choking him, he’s just massaging over the length of it, applying light pressure over the
bulge of his cock in his throat.

Dazai’s belly is almost touching his chin, nearly the entirety of his cock in his mouth and
Chuuya feels on top of the world . He’s the one getting used, but it feels fantastic to be able
to give Dazai what he needs, what he wants , to be good and to feel good.

It feels good to be wanted. That’s all Chuuya’s ever wanted.

He swallows roughly, feeling Dazai twitch in his throat. He feels impossibly hard, pulsing, so
hot he feels searing on his tongue.

There’s a bunch of noise above him, something that might be a groan of Chuuya’s name,
rough compliments, a warning —

Dazai buries himself deeper, so far that Chuuya, even so far from his body, involuntarily
tenses up. His throat clenches, instinctively fighting against the pressure—

Dazai comes directly down his throat. He can feel him twitching in waves, and Chuuya
swallows as best he can, lungs beginning to ache for air. His entire body is tingling.
By the time Dazai is softening and beginning to slide out, Chuuya feels like he might pass
out. His head feels so full, and sensation bombards him in pulses, turning sharp for a moment
before fading away again, only to return a moment later.

Saliva pools in his mouth, drips down his face slowly. The lube smeared over his cheeks from
earlier is drying wet and cold. His head and neck feel warm, but the lower half of his body is
beginning to cool down. His chest screams for air, and his heart is throbbing so hard it almost
hurts.

When Dazai pulls out, it’s a slow process. First his hips, moving back to give him breathing
room. Then his hand, relaxing on his neck and turning back into the soothing strokes from
earlier. He lets Chuuya adjust slowly to the lack of pressure and sensation, instead of
depriving him altogether.

When his softening cock slips out of his mouth completely, Chuuya almost feels empty . His
jaw aches from being open so wide for so long, but without Dazai pressing down on him, into
him, all heat and fire and hardness—

It makes him feel disconnected, almost in a bad way. Not quite, and he knows he’ll adjust in a
few moments but—

Before, he felt like he was floating. Now it feels like the strings connecting him to earth are
being slowly cut, and he might get lost in the wind.

A hand slides under the back of his head, lifting him up. His hands are dropped onto his
chest, and he’s completely pliant as Dazai pushes him into a sitting position.

He keeps his eyes shut, focusing on the way his body is slowly coming back into feeling.

“Chuuya?”
He tries to make a noise to show he’s heard, but his voice is rough and nearly gone from his
throat being fucked.

Gentle fingertips grab his chin, tilting his head up. His lashes flutter, feeling heavy and
uncoordinated, but he wants to look. Wants to see Dazai.

His vision is slightly blurry, but Dazai is right there, not even a meter away. The expression
on his face might’ve been concern, but it clears up when he sees the hazy, unfocused look in
his eyes and the dazed expression on his face.

“Oh,” Dazai says, like something just occurred to him, “Alright. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Chuuya smiles at him, leaning into his touch. He feels so good, so warm and solid and caring.

Dazai crawls onto the bed, sitting down next to him and pulling him into his lap. Chuuya
doesn’t fight, but he doesn’t exactly help either, because his limbs feel like jello.

Like always, Dazai radiates warmth and Chuuya settles into it with a content sigh. His nose
ends up tucked into the crook of Dazai’s neck, feeling sheltered underneath the strong line of
his chin. Feeling safe .

His wrists get untied slowly. Dazai takes the time to rub over the indented skin that’s
revealed, encouraging the return of blood flow. The tie was never very tight to begin with, but
he was struggling quite a bit in the beginning, and at the end he wasn’t thinking about
anything else other than the overwhelming fuzziness he felt.

When he’s done, Dazai tosses the rope to join the discarded toy at the end of the bed.
Interlacing their fingers, he brings his wrist to his mouth and starts to press soft kisses over
the fragile bone. He’s heartbreakingly gentle, murmuring compliments into his skin as he
inspects the marks left on him.

“Beautiful.”
“Such a good boy.”

“So perfect.”

Each murmured word is like a layer of warmth and comfort, wrapping around Chuuya until
he feels swaddled in protection.

When Dazai presses a kiss to his palm, he curls his fingers to stroke them along his cheeks,
quietly reverent. He can feel the responding smile, the way Dazai nuzzles his cheek into his
hand.

After how intense the sex felt, this quiet moment of comfort, recovery and affection is the
perfect way to come back down.

Chuuya makes a disgruntled noise when Dazai shifts him, clinging weakly. Smiling, Dazai
kisses his temple and keeps moving him until he’s straddling his lap and facing him, legs
thrown over each side of his hips.

Chuuya tries to snuggle back up but Dazai pushes him gently but firmly away, getting
enough space between them so he can look at him properly. Irritable and needy, Chuuya
glowers at him weakly.

“Does your throat hurt?” Dazai asks softly, gentle fingertips tipping his chin up and to the
side so he can inspect his neck.

The spots where his fingers were digging in are a little sore, and his throat does ache, but not
in a painful , sharp way. More like waking up in the morning with a sore throat from not
drinking water all day yesterday. “Not really,” he croaks, wincing a little at how broken his
voice sounds.
Dazai looks contemplative. “You’ll probably bruise a little, but I think you’ll be fine. Let me
know if it starts to hurt, or if you have trouble swallowing.”

Chuuya nods absently, distracted by how pleasing the idea of fingerprint bruises on his throat
is.

“Time to clean you up,” Dazai announces, tipping him backwards until his back hits the
mattress. He slides out from underneath him, heading to the bathroom.

Rolling over, Chuuya pouts into the blanket. Stupid Dazai, always thinking about being clean
when he should be thinking about cuddling him until he falls asleep. He’s cold and he wants
to be held.

Clean-up is quick and gentle, a warm washcloth rubbed over him until all the sticky lube and
fluids are wiped away. The toys are tossed into the bathroom sink to be cleaned later.

While Dazai strips out of his jeans, Chuuya crawls underneath the blankets and pats the spot
next to him insistently. He uses his most convincing pout to coax him into hurrying up.

Dazai just smiles at him.

By the time he’s turned off all the lights and got changed, Chuuya is almost grumpy, covering
his frown with the blanket as he glares at Dazai.

That doesn’t stop him from sinking into Dazai’s arms when he slides into bed, sighing
pleasantly. Dazai’s chest is warm and comfortable underneath his head, and his legs part for
him when Chuuya pushes his thigh between them, curling up as close as he can.

It’s been a long, eventful, exciting day, from the aquarium visit to getting his world rocked
just a few minutes ago.
Sleep is too tempting to ignore, especially when Dazai presses a kiss to the top of his head
and then tucks him under his chin.

Safe and warm and held, Chuuya is asleep within minutes.

There’s too much candy in the bag. Way too much.

When Ranpo ordered it, the girl manning the register gave him an unsubtle wink, and poured
much more than he asked for into the bag. She was probably trying to flirt with him — he
realized that ten minutes after he’d already left the store — and he appreciates free candy
but...

Now there’s too much and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He always orders a kilogram
of Puchao gummy candies. It lasts him exactly a week, and he always buys more on
Tuesdays.

But now there’s too much. This will last him at least nine days. Then he’ll either be out of
one of his favorite candies for almost a week, or he’ll have to go on a different day.

He hates that idea. Tuesday is candy day. That’s the day the shop is the least busy, and they
just restocked the candy he buys. And if he changes up the day, then he has to keep going on
that day, because that’s when he’ll run out.

He could buy more on Tuesday like he always does, but that doesn’t solve the problem of
what to do with all this extra candy.

She should’ve just given him the candy he ordered. He hates his routine and schedule being
thrown off.
“Why are you glaring at your candy?”

Ranpo sighs, pushing around one of the strawberry flavored pieces around on his desk.
There’s a small pile of them, all the extras he was given. “The cashier girl gave me too
much.”

Kunikida sounds exasperated. “Isn’t that a good thing? Free candy. God knows you already
spend most of your salary on it, maybe this will keep you out of the poor house.”

For someone who loathes having his schedule thrown off, Kunikida is never very
sympathetic when Ranpo’s gets derailed.

He glowers at him. “No.”

Lately, Kunikida has been in such a foul mood that even Ranpo has noticed. He’s constantly
glaring at things, using his office supplies with too much force, snapping at their coworkers.

Ranpo doesn’t know what his problem is and doesn’t much care, but he better not take his
anger out on him, or Ranpo will remind him just who the better martial artist is.

Stapling a few pieces of paper together by slamming his fist down on his stapler, Kunikida
says, “Why don’t you throw away the extras then?”

Ranpo gathers his candy back into a pile, letting his silence speak for him. What kind of
imbecile throws away candy ?

"Well," Kunikida grumbles, putting the stapled group of papers into a file, "when you've
figured out your candy problem, I could use your opinion on something."

Lovely. Ranpo has lots of opinions on all sorts of things, and he could use a distraction.
"What do you need?"
The case gets put into Kunikida's extensive files, his alphabetized and chronologically
ordered record of almost every case he's ever been on. Ranpo thinks it's excessive; why
doesn't he just remember the details?

"The crime rates have gone up in the last couple weeks. There's been more calls than ever—
but a lot of the victims involved aren't talking. It makes it such a pain to solve the crime
itself. I was wondering what you thought of it."

Oh, well, that's easy. Gang rivalry. No one wants to get on the bad side of the local gangs,
especially when said gangs are fighting for dominance. Even calling the police, or a detective
agency, can land you permanently on the shit list of the mafia, if not earn yourself more
permanent consequences.

In fact, most of this new spike in crimes is either due to the gangs themselves, or because
they're too busy infighting that they aren't policing themselves anymore.

Ranpo pops a candy in his mouth, sucking on it contemplatively. Sometimes it's difficult to
work with Kunikida because of things like this. He's very much of the ideal that all crimes are
bad and therefore all criminals need to be punished.

Personally, Ranpo thinks of it in a more personal way. He lived on the streets for almost three
years after his parents died, and he's seen firsthand how the justice system can utterly fail
people. He's seen kids go to the police for help, only to be arrested themselves or treated like
liars. He's seen innocent people treated like criminals themselves, just for being down on
their luck and in bad situations.

His time on the streets taught him a few things. The police might claim that they uphold law
and order, and it's because of them that society doesn't collapse into lawless ruthlessness—

But the truth is, generally, it's the criminals that keep each other in check. It's the top mafia
dogs that uphold a certain code of honor, that keep the smaller, lesser known people in line.
Some people are outright vicious, but a decent amount of criminals just happened to fall into
the lifestyle.

"Have you tried talking to that hacker kid of yours?" Ranpo hedges, leaning back in his chair.

Kunikida makes a face. "Yes, but he's been distracted lately,off his game. Rokuzou said he'd
look into it, but we all know that's code for he's not going to do it."

Yeah, that's fair. Even Ranpo's been feeling antsy with all the tension on the streets lately, and
he's not even plugged into the information flow or particularly affected by whatever fighting
is on the streets. He knows it has something to do with the Russians, but that's about it.

For someone like Rokuzou, who's life and business relies on being valuable to all sides of the
war, it's probably hard to decide what information is safe to give someone like Kunikida,
who's job is to literally put people like him behind bars.

"Probably has something to do with that Dazai asshole," Kunikida mutters, slamming his
desk drawer shut. "He's always causing trouble."

Ranpo snickers, kicking his feet up. Kunikida's irritation with Dazai is hilarious to him. The
man is obsessed with putting Dazai behind bars, and somehow everything that happens in the
underground world is always connected back to Dazai for him.

Ranpo isn't unaware of Dazai's sordid past — the streets are rampant with rumors about the
Demon Prodigy — but it's in the past , and all of those things happened when Dazai was little
more than a child himself. Kids made to fight for their lives will spill blood without
hesitation.

These days, Dazai is more...

The crow that follows the wolf pack. A bad omen, and a bearer of bad news, but rarely is the
source of the problem himself. And since Kunikida is so focused on the shadow cast by his
wings, he often misses the true predator hunting underneath.

But it's not Ranpo's job to keep Kunikida on track. If he wants to obsess over the guy, go
ahead. He's the one missing out on all the other cases.

Ranpo couldn't care less, to be honest. He became a detective because it was interesting and
to make sure the people close to him weren't taken advantage of, not because he's sitting on
some moral high ground.

If he sees a case, or a particularly difficult one comes to the Agency, he'll solve it, but other
than that, he doesn't care.

He'd much rather spend his days eating candy.

(He won’t have that option for long, so he better savor it for as long as he can.)
 3AM
Chapter Summary

"Ah, ah," Dazai tsks, and though his voice sounds disapproving, he's letting go of his
cock and reaching down to turn the vibrations on the toy. "Don't try to escape me, baby."

Chuuya shakes his head, because that's not what he was trying to do, it was just too
much.

Dazai pushes him further onto the bed, following him up, kneeling between his legs. He
leans over him, and hooks his fingers behind his bottom teeth to turn his head to the
side. His breath is searing hot in his ear, the tinge of a groan there intoxicating. "Because
you're mine, now," he murmurs, scraping his teeth over the sensitive lobe until Chuuya
is shivering, "and you're not going anywhere, are you?"

Chapter Notes

GOOD MORNING BH READERS!!!! A little bit of spice to freshen up your day <3
This one is longer to make up for the last two shorter chapters <3 The Osaka arc will be
wrapping up soon, with a bang (hehe ;)) and the next chapter is Spicy, but after that we
will move on

Chuuya has come to the conclusion that he hates Dazai.

It all started with a perfectly innocent conversation this morning when they woke up. A
conversation he now regrets , knowing what he does now, but he was innocent back then. He
didn't know the trap he was walking into.

He was sitting on the bathroom counter, carefully applying some eyeliner and eyeshadow as
Dazai washed his hair in the sink. Apparently, he's very insistent about not taking a shower
where Chuuya can see.

A little hurtful, but Chuuya is trying to be understanding about it.

"You know," Chuuya started, closing one eye to make sure his wing is perfect, "It's so unfair
that you last longer in bed than I do. Makes me feel like there's something wrong with me."

Dazai shut off the faucet, leaning his elbows on the counter. He lifted his face to grin at
Chuuya through the mirror, and god , the sight of his dark, curly hair hanging over his eyes
and dripping water down his face made Chuuya's heart throb in his chest.

"Baby, that just comes from experience."

Chuuya makes a face in the mirror. He knows , but it's still embarrassing for him to be going
off like a rocket after being touched for like...ten minutes. He knows he's still a virgin —
despite his best efforts — but it still sucks being reminded of it, especially when Dazai is so
'experienced' in comparison.

"But," Dazai continued, grabbing a towel to roughly rub the excess moisture out of his hair.
He had yet to put on a shirt, and the sight of his biceps and chest flexing with each movement
is criminally distracting. "I have a way to help you with that, if you want."

Chuuya squinted at him, a little suspicious, but—

Dazai's never done anything he didn't like before, and he's always made sure to give him an
out if he didn't like what Dazai was doing to him, so....

He decided to trust him. "Sure."

Dazai smiles at him secretively, and leaves the bathroom.

Chuuya watched him go in slight confusion, but chose to finish doing his makeup before
following him.
Which is good, because as soon as he leaves , he was snatched up, dumped on the bed and
had the life sucked out of his cock as Dazai fucked him with two fingers. It's rougher than
Dazai's been with him so far, quicker, and going from no sensation to being overloaded made
him approach the edge far quicker than he'd like—

And for a moment, for a long, blissful moment, Chuuya thought that Dazai's solution is just
more sex. More experience to solve his problem, he's just going to make him come over and
over again until he lasts longer.

But no.

Just when Chuuya was shuddering underneath him, groaning out a mangled version of his
name and reaching for the edge—

Dazai pulled off completely and Chuuya nearly cried .

"Wait, please," he whined, "I wanna—"

"I know you want to, baby," Dazai told him, reaching into the drawer of the nightstand to pull
out something, "But you're not going to come until I say you can."

Heat pulses through Chuuya at the words, and he squirmed, one hand sliding down his body
to take himself in hand—

With one quick movement, his hand was pinned to his side and Chuuya was forced to wait as
his body cooled down without stimulation.

He glared at Dazai, but all he got was a sweetly smug smile in return.

Fine, he can handle this. Pleasure is still pleasure anyways, and while it's frustrating that he
doesn't get to orgasm, that's fine . He doesn't need it.
(He does need it. He needs it so fucking bad.)

Giving him one last smile, Dazai flips him over onto his stomach. The friction of the blankets
against his cock made him groan, but a hard hand on his hip kept him from grinding forward.

Something slim and distinctly cool gets pressed into him, and he squirmed away from it
instinctively. It doesn't feel bad , but it feels weird considering he's only had Dazai's fingers
inside him, and this , whatever it is, is definitely not fingers.

It's only a little thicker than his fingers, so it's not much of a stretch to take it. But it is oddly
shaped, thicker on the part that's buried inside him, and thinner near his entrance. There's also
a little tab-feeling thing that presses against his perineum. It's also pressed right against his
prostate — Dazai kindly informed him the term for the spot that drives him wild — with a
constant, unrelenting pressure that made him squirm.

Dazai let him go with a mild smack on his ass. "Come on, get up. We're going to breakfast."

Chuuya fisted the blankets in his hands, pressing his forehead to the bed. "Now? Like this?
With it inside me?"

Even just saying that makes him blush.

Dazai smiled at him again, sharp and wicked, the devil come to take his dues. "Yep."

And that's how they ended up here, seated in the outdoor section of a restaurant, with Chuuya
swearing he's about to die while Dazai innocently asks the waitress about the ingredients to a
dish while he discretely plays with the vibration settings for the toy with the app he has on his
phone.
Chuuya is trying to be nice, patient and subtle . He stares blindly into traffic, jaw clenched
around a moan as the vibrations amp up , sending white-hot slivers of pleasure splintering
through him.

He's trying to be, but eventually he can't take the frustration anymore. "It's fucking french
toast, why do you need the ingredients?! It's bread, syrup and strawberries??"

The pair grow silent. The poor waitress girl looks shocked, but Dazai just looks like he hit
the jackpot.

Right on cue, the toy inside him spikes , so strongly that Chuuya inadvertently lets out a
choked gasp, gripping the edge of the table so he doesn't fall over completely. It feels like a
firework is lodged against his most sensitive spots, filling him with fire and heat and ecstasy,
so much that he's fast approaching his limit—

His neglected erection pressing against his zipper adds just enough pain that the pleasure
feels better in comparison, and fuck , he's really about to full-on moan in a restaurant or
maybe worse, like orgasm —

The vibrations cut off completely, so suddenly Chuuya feels dizzy from it.

"I'm sorry," Dazai sighs, sounding like an exhausted parent dealing with a kid throwing a
temper tantrum. "We'll have two orders of pancakes, and a pot of coffee, please."

That fucker spent five minutes discussing the pros and cons of different bread for french toast
and he didn't even order it ?!

In other circumstances, Chuuya might be angry that Dazai ordered for him, but he's too busy
trying not to be turned on by the casual dominance of it, and trying to control his anger over
the fact that he didn't even order the damn french toast.

The waitress nods, eyes only for Dazai, taking their orders back to the kitchen.
"You know," Dazai says, folding his hands on the table and resting his chin on them, flashing
him a smug smile. "You should really behave if you don't want to get punished."

Chuuya glares at him from underneath his bangs, struggling to control his breathing. "I'm
already being punished, asshole."

What else would you call being publicly tormented where everyone can see, getting pushed
so close to the edge only to be dropped back down as soon as it starts to feel fantastic?

Dazai's smile widens, and his eyes feel like they're piercing straight into his soul , spearing
through him. "Sweetheart," he says, voice dripping with something Chuuya can't name, all he
knows is that it settles deep in his stomach, " when I punish you, you'll know. I'll make you
count ."

Count what , Chuuya doesn't get to ask, because at that moment the waitress comes back with
their food.

And it's irrational — for fucks sake, Chuuya's got a vibrator inside him that Dazai is playing
with — but the sweet, innocent smile Dazai graces her with, especially when he's being mean
to him, makes irritation boil in his chest.

He doesn't want Dazai to smile for anyone else. He wants that smile for him and he wants to
be taken home and he wants to be fucked and he wants to come. He's so frustrated he could
cry and he has a sinking feeling that Dazai is not nearly done with him.

He ends up being correct because Dazai just leans back in his chair and watches him try to
eat his pancakes, hiding a smirk in his coffee cup.

Half the time when Chuuya brings a bite to his mouth, the vibration increases in intensity
until he’s jerking in place and losing focus. It’s never a set pattern or rhythm he can get used
to or anticipate. Sometimes Dazai lets him get a few peaceful bites in with the toy still inside
him.
Sometimes Dazai turns it on to a low but noticeable setting and leaves it there until Chuuya is
subtly squirming, torn between wanting it to stop and needing it to keep going, faster .

Sometimes Dazai will wait until his fork is almost to his mouth before ramping up the
settings hard , and Chuuya has to quickly put the food down before he drops it all over
himself or the table.

And while Chuuya is pretty sure he looks a mess, flushed, subtly panting, shaking like a leaf
even though he’s trying his best to keep himself composed in public, Dazai looks calm and
collected, if a bit sadistic with that smug, possessive look in his eye.

Chuuya barely manages to eat half a pancake, an accomplishment for him because he’s not
hungry.

Not for food anyways.

“Are you done torturing me?” Chuuya hisses, fingers clenched on the edge of the table as the
waitress clears their plates away.

Sipping his second cup of coffee, Dazai hums contemplatively. He’s barely touched his own
food, and Chuuya vaguely remembers him saying a while ago that he didn’t really like
western breakfasts and especially not pancakes.

“I was considering it,” Dazai says, tone making Chuuya’s stomach drop in dread, “and then
you had to call me an asshole .”

Wait, he didn’t mean it, he was just frustrated—

“And now I’m thinking that there’s quite a few places in Osaka that you haven’t seen yet, and
it’s such a lovely day for sight-seeing, don’t you think?”
Chuuya nearly sobs with frustration. He hates him. He hates him so much.

Dazai tortures him for the entire day. He drags him along on train rides to all the tourist
attractions, showing off all the greatest sights of the city.

Chuuya wishes he could enjoy sight-seeing. There’s a point where he’s staring up at Osaka-
jou, and wishing he could actually admire the architecture of what was once the largest castle
in all of Japan instead of having his vision so blurry he can barely see, entirely focused on the
irregular pattern of the toy inside him. His hard on is so persistent and obvious that he
actually has to tie his sweater around his waist so he doesn’t offend anyone.

He nearly has a mental breakdown on their third train trip of the day, after his fourth denied
orgasm. That ends up with Dazai whisking them both into a secluded hallway and letting him
smother his frustrated tears and angry bites into his chest as his body cools down once again.

Brushing his thumb gently over his cheek to collect his tears, Dazai gently reminds him once
again that he only has to say the word to get him to stop. Or, in this case, taken to the nearest
private area so Chuuya can have his orgasm as quickly as possible.

He won’t lie, the thought is tempting . He’s never been denied like this before and Dazai is
not going easy on him. The tension from all his almost-orgasms is building steadily, winding
tightly around his spine until he might snap from the overload. And he’s not sure if it’ll break
in a good way or in a bad one, this time, teetering between agonized frustration and sublime
pleasure.

At the same time though, there’s something depressing about the thought of giving in before
Dazai’s done with him. Chuuya thrives on meeting expectations, on excelling. He’s not a
quitter, and he hates the idea of giving up when he hasn’t yet hit his absolute physical limits
yet.

He wants to be good. He wants to be a good boy, even if it feels like he might be actually
dying from it. He shakes his head mutely, shivering in Dazai’s arms. He can keep going, at
least for a little longer.
(He doesn’t see the concerned look on Dazai’s face. Dazai’s been pushing him hard with the
intent of getting him to give in and submit to him, but they’ve clearly hit some sort of limit
for him and he’s not safe-wording out. He’s being stubborn .

At this point in time, Dazai does not know that Chuuya often treats his limits as suggestions ,
and he has to keep a more careful watch on him to ensure he’s not pushing himself too hard.)

The rest of the day Dazai takes it relatively easy on him, at least in comparison to earlier. He
doesn’t stop teasing him, but instead of relentlessly driving him to the brink and back, it’s
more of a constant stream of pleasure that can be ignored if he focuses enough.

Dazai is also a lot more touchy with him, always has a hand on his waist or an arm over his
shoulder, or is pressed up against the length of his back. That helps, both as a grounding
measure that Chuuya can lean on whenever his legs feel too wobbly, and also because he can
grab onto his wrist and squeeze whenever he’s trying to choke back a moan.

There’s also a point where Dazai keeps the vibrations too high for too long and Chuuya
brings his forearm to his mouth and bites to keep himself from moaning loudly. That earns
him a low hiss, and a sharp spike in intensity that almost ends it all, right here in line for the
Tempozan Ferris Wheel, before it stops suddenly.

Forcibly pulling his arm away, Dazai grips his jaw with hard fingers and tips his head back
painfully far so he can press a bruising kiss to his lips.

Part of Chuuya wants to keep pushing Dazai until he snaps and stops playing this game and
devours him. The other part wants to just melt into a puddle and mindlessly beg until Dazai
takes mercy on him and makes him come.

Which side is currently winning just depends on how close he is at any given moment.

Dazai puts him through at least four different tourist attractions and hours of pleasurable
torment before he finally suggests going back to the hotel for a late lunch. The train ride back
is filled with low-grade buzzing and sharp-edged anticipation that makes every moment
stretch out taffy-thick and heady.

As soon as the door shuts behind them, Chuuya is jumping on Dazai with every ounce of
desperation vibrating in his teased body.

"Please, please, please," he mutters nonsensically, pressing frantic kisses to his jaw, the only
place he can reach, like if he just proves how desperate he is, Dazai will take mercy on him.
"Please, I was good, I was a good boy, please , I wanna cum."

One of Dazai's hands finds his lower back, fingers spreading wide and palm supporting the
natural arch of his spine and pulling him even closer. Dazai leans down, giving him easier
access to rain kisses all over his cheeks.

Dazai doesn't kiss him though,turning his face whenever Chuuya gets too close, and he's so
frustrated he might bite him or maybe just straight up cry .

"You were a good boy," Dazai rumbles, his voice filling the space between them until Chuuya
feels encompassed in it entirely, drowning, "I'll make you a deal."

His other hand finds the back of Chuuya's thigh, encouraging him to lift and hop up until his
legs are wrapped around his waist and his back is being pressed against the wall. Sighing
pleasantly from the direct friction against his crotch, Chuuya buries his fingers in Dazai's
hair. His hips rock subtly, an instinctive reaction.

"I can make you come now," Dazai offers, rolling his hips forward in one powerful, smooth
movement that makes his eyes roll back in his head and his ankles tighten around his lower
back.

Yes, yes, that's what he wants, he wants to come, it's been so hard and he's been so good —
"Or," Dazai continues, stilling completely and waiting until his eyes refocus back on him,
"You can wait a little longer and I'll make you come as many times as you want tonight."

Oh, that's not fucking fair . Chuuya's only orgasmed multiple times in a short span once , at
Dazai's fingertips, and it felt so good, so mind-bendingly pleasurable that he wasn't sure he
would even survive. It somehow deepened his capacity for pleasure, and now he craves that
sort of sensory overload.

One is good, obviously, but is it enough , especially after being teased and built up for hours
? Will he be satisfied by one , or will he be left to wallow in the hopeless desire for more ?

"...How mean are you going to be to me? Chuuya asks, tugging on Dazai's hair lightly.

Leaning forward, Dazai presses his lips to his cheek. The kiss and the smile Chuuya can feel
against his skin have no right to feel as soft and sweet as they do. "Mm," Dazai hums,
contemplative. "I'll let you have a break during lunch, and then I'll be kind of mean to you
later tonight. You have to earn your reward."

Lips twisting in an indignant snarl, Chuuya goes to tell him that's he's already earned it, he's
already been good —

"But baby," Dazai continues, slowly making his way down his cheek and pressing his wicked
smile against the corner of his mouth, "I'll make it so good for you, I promise. You won't
even remember your own name. All you'll know how to do is beg ."

The idea of that probably shouldn't be as hot as it is, considering Dazai almost always has
him near to mindless every time he touches him, but the sheer confidence in that statement is
enough to have Chuuya shivering in reaction.

This really isn't fucking fair. Dazai is so mean to him.

It takes him a long moment to decide, moments where Dazai rains heart-achingly soft kisses
all over his cheeks and jaw. They're not sexual — yet, and Chuuya is sure that can change in
a heartbeat — but the casual affection does help a little. The deprivation feels like it's
hollowed out a space inside him, and the warmth of being pampered helps to fill it a little.

Probably not as much as an orgasm might, but still . He loves feeling treasured.

"Tonight then," Chuuya mutters, nuzzling his cheek into Dazai with a pleased sigh, "but you
better be so nice to me during lunch."

The smile against his cheek makes Chuuya feel like he won .

Dazai moves downward, capturing his lips in a languid, soft kiss. One of his hands comes up,
cupping his face and his thumb strokes gently over his cheekbone, silently reverent. "I will,"
he promises.

And he is. They order room service again,and when the food arrives, Dazai pulls him into his
lap.

They spend the entire lunch like that, Chuuya lounging in his lap as Dazai feeds him bites of
fish and crab cakes, tilting his head back to have white wine poured carefully into his mouth.

He's so affectionate too, murmuring quiet words to him or kissing over his cheeks or wiping a
crumb delicately from the corner of his mouth, pampering him with touch and attention.

The toy is still inside him — getting used to the intrusion of it was a struggle at first, but by
now, the pressure of it inside him is easy to overlook — but it's turned completely off, and the
only stimulation he gets is when he moves in Dazai's lap and the toy shifts inside him.

For almost two hours, Dazai lets him soak up attention and affection like a needy kitten,
practically purring and melting in his lap, filled with happy-light warmth and satisfaction.
Eventually though, Dazai urges him up. "Go get ready," he tells him, voice amused and
affectionate when Chuuya tries to cling onto him, "Wear something... sexy."

His eyebrows shoot up. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing now?"

He's wearing a nice pair of jeans, a cropped shirt and a loose sweater that's since been
discarded over the back of a chair. It's comfortable, casual, but still cute.

"Nothing, sweetheart. It's just not appropriate for where we're going."

"And where are we going?"

Dazai smiles at him secretively, cleaning up their mess from lunch and stacking all the dirty
plates. "You'll find out when we get there."

Chuuya narrows his eyes at him suspiciously. He still doesn't answer. Fine then, Chuuya
grumbles to himself as he makes his way back to the bedroom, he can keep his secrets.

It's surprisingly hard to dress when you don't know where you're going and when you have a
vibrating toy still inside you. It limits his options greatly, and he has no frame of reference for
what’s appropriate or not.

He ends up fixing his makeup first, cleaning up the smudged parts of eyeliner and adding a
darker, smokier eyeshadow just in case. He skips lip color, but sharpens his cheekbones.

Then there's nothing left to do except get dressed and—

Here's where Chuuya gets a little petty . Dazai has been too controlled for his tastes, and
clearly isn't being tempted enough. Besides, he did say dress sexy so—
Why not turn up the heat ?

For his shirt, he chooses a crimson tank top that ties in the back and leaves most of his back
exposed. His front is completely covered, but his shoulders and spine are bare.

And his skirt is the black one Dazai bought for him the first day they were in Osaka. The one
that laces up on either side on the front, showing teasing hints of skin on his thighs and hips.
He laces it tighter around his waist to keep it firmly in place, but just loose enough around his
hips that it can be pushed up or a hand can slide underneath.

And because of how the skirt is designed, it's very obvious that he's not wearing any
underwear beneath.

It's bold, braver than he usually would go for, especially for something he's going to be seen
publicly in — assumingly, at least, because he still doesn't know where they're going — and
the mental image of his father fainting in sheer shock is almost enough to get him to change
into something else but—

Fuck it, right? He's needy, he's on edge, and he wants Dazai to regret denying him. If he's
going to be suffering with unsatisfied lust, then he's not going to be the only one.

Is he going to regret this decision as soon as strangers are looking at him? Possibly.

Is the look on Dazai's face when he prances out of the bedroom making it worth every second
of potential embarrassment? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Preening under the look, Chuuya does a spin for him, showing off the back of the outfit. He
cocks his hip to the side, flashing a smug smirk as he rests a hand on his hip. "Too much?"
He asks, even though he knows , from the sight of Dazai's dilated pupils to the hunger
growing steadily on his face, that he looks good.
"No," Dazai murmurs, eyes glinting, "you're perfect."

He doesn't look half-bad either. They've inadvertently matched, because Dazai's red silk shirt,
half-buttoned to reveal the toned planes of his chest, is almost the same red as Chuuya's shirt.
He's wearing black slacks that hug his hips deliciously. His hair is artfully tousled, with a few
strands curling lightly over his forehead.

He looks fucking delicious and Chuuya would much rather just stay here and mess up that
careful hairstyle—

"Ready?" Dazai asks, picking up his phone and unlocking it.

Chuuya walks over, giving his own wallet to Dazai so he can carry it for him. He doesn't
have pockets in this outfit. "Yeah."

As if in acknowledgment to his answer, the toy inside him buzzes back to life. Dazai flashes
him a grin when Chuuya swallows hard, mentally preparing himself.

And the game begins again.

This time, Dazai calls a taxi for them, which is both a blessing and a curse. It's terribly
awkward to sit with the toy inside him, and the driver makes way too much small talk for
Chuuya's tastes, but at least it's not as horribly public and exposed as being on the train was.

It takes about fifteen minutes to get to their destination, and the streets they take aren't any
that they've taken before, so they must be in a completely different part of the city. It gets
more crowded with people as they go along, the sidewalks filling up with people dressed in
smart, chic clothing—

And Chuuya understands why as soon as they pull up to the building.

A nightclub , practically throbbing with music and packed full of people waiting.

Chuuya slides out of the car after Dazai, adjusting his skirt. He's glad he went daring with his
outfit because he fits right in. "A club? I didn't know you were into clubbing."

Dazai shrugs, ushering him towards the front of the line. It feels weird to skip in front of an
entire crowd of people, but Chuuya supposes that’s part of the perks that come with being
rich and attractive. “I’m not, usually. Typically, I prefer my clubs to be more of a... refined
taste.”

The way he says it makes Chuuya think that’s not exactly what he means, but he doesn’t
elaborate.

“But I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you haven’t been to one,” Dazai says. When
the bouncer sees the expensive Rolex on Dazai’s wrist, he waves them both in.

Chuuya scowls lightly, stepping up beside him. He’s not wrong , exactly — he’s still
underage and so legally he’s not allowed to enter a club, and the only time he got a group up
to sneak into one, Lucy’s parents caught them before they could even leave the driveway —
but it still irritates him that Dazai can just tell he hasn’t done it.

“And,” Dazai continues, hand finding his lower back and pushing him forward so he’s the
first one to step into the club. He leans down, breath washing hot over his ear and teeth
lightly scraping, ”I like being your first.”

Chuuya is saved from answering — and he's pretty sure his answer would be something
around 'take me back to the hotel right the fuck now' — by the sounds of the club swallowing
him whole.

It's loud, and even though the speakers are vibrating with how loud the song that's playing is,
he can't actually make out any of the lyrics. It's overshadowed by sheer bass , throbbing
through the air and settling into Chuuya's body like a heartbeat too big for his skin.
The space near the entrance is relatively clear, but only a few meters away, Chuuya can see
the mass of bodies writhing on the dancefloor, highlighted by flashing colored lights.

It's a bit more crowded than he was expecting, literally so packed full that he has to fall in
step behind Dazai and let him lead the way through the crowd to a set of stairs spiralling up
to a second floor.

There's a security guard at the top, guarding a rope that sections off the second floor, but
Dazai only has to flash something from his wallet and the guard is unhooking the rope and
letting them pass.

"I thought you said you didn't go to clubs?" Chuuya asks, having to nearly shout to be heard
over the music.

Dazai shoots a smile at him over his shoulder, heading towards an empty table near the back
corner. It's far less crowded up here, and half of the people here seem more interested in
shouted conversations over drinks.

They're all dressed in clothing that screams luxury and wealth, and Chuuya suddenly feels a
bit awkward. These are Dazai's kind of people. His kind of people are down there on the first
floor, and the only reason he can get up here in the first place is because of Dazai.

"I never said I didn't come to clubs, just that it wasn't my usual scene. Wait here, I'll go get us
drinks," Dazai says, pressing a quick kiss to the back of his hand before dropping it and
walking away.

Chuuya stands by the empty table, feeling more and more awkward the longer he's standing
there by himself. Is he supposed to be doing something, like dancing or—

Feeling watched, Chuuya lifts his head and looks over the smaller crowd on the dance floor
up here. There's probably close to two dozen people dancing together in time with the
thudding music.
In the middle of the group is a medium-height man with light hair that gleams under the
lights. He's staring straight at Chuuya, and when he notices him looking back, he flashes
something that is supposed to be an inviting grin and gestures him over.

Snorting to himself, Chuuya shakes his head in answer and looks away. Sorry, buddy, you
might've been appealing if Chuuya hadn't come with the hottest person he's ever seen, in
person or on TV.

Speaking of Dazai, he's heading back through the crowd, two glasses in his hand. A cup of
whiskey for himself and some clear liquid shot for Chuuya.

Raising an eyebrow, he asks, "Is that it? I was expecting more."

Letting the shot glass dangle from the tip of his fingers, Dazai offers it to him. "If you want
more, I'll get you more — but you should keep in mind that I'm not going to do anything to
you if you're drunk."

Pouting, Chuuya takes the drink. "But what about our deal?"

"Our deal stands only if you're sober enough to consent to it."

Ugh, fine, whatever. It's not like Chuuya had plans to get wasted anyways, he just doesn't like
rules .

Because Chuuya doesn't have a lot of experience drinking hard liquor — he's stuck to mostly
wine or the occasional stolen sip of vodka from his friend's parents' liquor cabinets — he
makes the mistake of sniffing at his glass first.

Wrinkling his nose at the burning smell, he pulls the glass away as Dazai snickers at him.

"Don't be a baby , drink it."

Scowling, Chuuya takes a second to mentally prepare himself before plugging his nose and
throwing the shot back in one quick movement. It burns like chemical hellfire on his tongue,
a line of fire sliding down his throat. It hits his stomach like a ball of warmth, spreading heat
through his veins.

Suddenly he's very glad Dazai insisted on him eating a full meal before they came, because
otherwise the alcohol might just knock him on his ass, as strong as it is. Premium vodka, the
kind Chuuya's only seen in commercials .

Dazai sits down on the booth seat, and the way his legs spread to take up more than he needs
is just too tempting for Chuuya to ignore.

He crawls into his lap, throwing one leg over him and then the other, straddling him.

His skirt rides up higher on his thighs, and Dazai capitalizes on the newly exposed skin,
laying his hand high on his thigh. His thumb brushes rhythmically over the sensitive skin of
his inner thigh, teasingly light.

Dazai's eyes are dark enough that they reflect the flashing lights, blues and purples and reds
and greens, a personal firework show just for him.

"Hello," Chuuya says breathlessly, hands finding his shoulders.

"Hi," Dazai responds, smiling into his whiskey. He tips his head back to take a long sip,
shadows collecting underneath his jaw and shifting with the movement of his throat.
Chuuya's eyes fall there naturally, and he can almost taste him under his lips—

"Go dance," Dazai tells him, tapping his hand on his thigh lightly. When he hesitates,
unwilling to go by himself , he smiles at him. "I'll join you in a moment, I just want to finish
my drink. I'll be watching."
Well... okay. Chuuya likes dancing anyways, he doesn't mind doing it by himself for a little
while if Dazai is watching him.

He should've realized it's a fucking trap, because as soon as Chuuya starts sliding into a

rhythm, joining a little group of girls that fawn over his skirt, beginning to dance —

The vibrator springs back to violently pleasurable life.

Chuuya stumbles, nearly falling on his face in front of everyone. The girls, probably thinking
he's drunk a little too much, grab him by the arms and shoulders to keep him upright. He
leans into them for a moment, getting his bearings because holy shit , Dazai really went from
0 to 100 real fucking quick.

Panting, he lifts his head to glare at him over the crowd. The light of his phone throws
Dazai's features into sharp relief, highlighting his devilish smirk.

Swirling his drink in hand, Dazai arches an eyebrow at him and deliberately places his finger
on the screen and drags it up, up, up .

Fucking hell. This is almost like the restaurant all over again, except worse , because Dazai
isn't stopping , and now Chuuya's wearing a fake-leather skirt that rubs mercilessly against
his bare cock.

Knowing Dazai is doing this on purpose , he tries to dance as long as he can but he's pretty
sure he only lasts about ten minutes before he's stumbling back to the table on wobbly legs.

"Stop being so fucking mean to me," Chuuya tries to snarl, but it comes out more as a
breathless plea. His dick is so hard it hurts and whatever peace his body got during the lunch
break is quickly burning away.

Dazai smiles at him, too cute to be as sadistic as he is. "No."

"Then take me back to the hotel? Please?"

Dazai double-taps on his screen, changing the vibration settings from a constant buzzing to a
rhythm of even high vibrations interspersed with lower, pulsing ones. "Tempting, but also no.
I did say you had to earn it."

Earn it by sporting a fucking hard on in front of everyone in the club, clearly visible with his
skirt, and trying to hold it together and not fall apart into pieces.

God.

Chuuya closes his eyes, gripping the edge of the table. "I'm going to need another drink."

Dazai hums, sliding out of the booth. His own glass is nearly empty. "Sure, baby. I'll be right
back."

Thankfully, he lowers the settings since he won't be in sight of Chuuya, and while it's not
perfect , it does allow him a moment to focus past the buzzing pleasure and bring himself
back under control.

Or well, it would —

If he weren't interrupted by a slightly nasal voice, inches away from his ear and making him
flinch with surprise.

"Hey, baby, you look great — come dance with me."

Okay, Chuuya might like being called baby by Dazai , because when he calls him that it's
backed by emotion and affection .
When this asshole — the light-haired one from earlier — calls him baby, it feels demeaning .

Chuuya turns his head, glaring slightly. He's not trying to be rude, but he's on the razor thin
edge of patience. "No, I'm with somebody else."

The guy grabs Chuuya's wrist, tugging on it insistently as he leers at him. "He shouldn't have
left you alone then."

What is Chuuya, a damn dog that needs a leash and an owner? Something that needs to be
watched, lest someone else take advantage of him?

He yanks his arm out of his grip, scowling at him. "I said no."

The guy changes tactics, crowding into his space with a condescending sneer. While he isn't
terribly tall, and not nearly as tall as Dazai is, he is still bigger than Chuuya is and manages to
box him in against the edge of the table. "Come on, sweetheart, don't be such a bitch . It's just
a dance."

And, well—

Chuuya has never had a lot of patience, and his temper has always been easily tripped. He's
had a long fucking day, he's frustrated and his skin is hypersensitive after all the teasing he's
been through today, and this guy needs to be taught a lesson .

Smiling sweetly, Chuuya turns to face him more fully. He lifts his hands up, moving like he's
come to his senses and he's going to join him for a dance, sliding over his shoulders.

The guy smiles victoriously, leaning forward—

Only for Chuuya's hand to hook around the nape of his neck and yank his head forward,
slamming his face into the table with as much force as he can gather from this close.

His nose hits the metal with a sharp crack , punctuated by a sharp yelp of pain.

Keeping him in place by knotting his fingers painfully in his hair and pressing his weight
over his shoulders and neck, Chuuya leans in to snarl, "Do you know what the word no
means? It means leave me the fuck alone, asshole. Do I need to spell it out for you? I'll do it
with the blood from your broken nose the next time you fucking touch me without
permission."

Chuuya pulls him up forcibly, shoving him backwards with enough strength that he goes
stumbling a few steps.

The guy touches his face in disbelief, and although his nose isn't broken yet, it is bleeding. He
looks at the red on his fingers, then looks up at Chuuya with a furious scowl.

"You fucking—"

Whatever insult he was about to say is cut off by a cool voice coming from the direction of
the crowd. "I think," Dazai says, and his voice is surprisingly calm for how cutting it is,
slicing easily through the music and leaving the air frozen in its wake, "the man said no. I
suggest you listen to the first lesson he gave you, because if I have to teach you one,
especially so soon after the first..."

Dazai steps forward, placing their drinks on the table, smoothly inserting himself between the
two of them. His head turns to keep the asshole in view, eyes locked on target. "It won't be
blood you'll be cleaning up."

A flash of teeth, unamused, a threat . "It will be your teeth ."

The guy, clearly reconsidering his options when he realizes how tall and broad Dazai is, and
how he's clearly not kidding when he threatens to introduce his teeth to the floor, backpedals
with a final snarl.

Chuuya watches him go with a sense of raw, animal victory. Sure, maybe Dazai is more
intimidating than he is, but Chuuya is the reason he's bleeding and in pain.

Maybe he'll think twice about being an asshole now. One can only hope.

"You alright?" Dazai asks, reaching out to lightly grab the wrist the guy had been tugging on.
It doesn't hurt or anything. At most, it'll bruise for a day or so.

"Yeah," Chuuya huffs, "Told you I could take care of myself."

The smile Dazai gives him is fond, if slightly strained. "You sure did, baby."

He offers him the drink he brought him, and this time Chuuya is so keyed up that he takes it
in one easy swallow.

Dazai watches him with a strange look in his eye, like a predator watching a fledgling hunter
make its first kill. Something like interest and hunger and calculation.

Fighting has always done wonders for Chuuya's confidence, taking all that awkward
insecurity that he usually feels and turning it into the soaring feeling of victory . Maybe it's
not healthy, but Chuuya feels his best when he's fresh off of kicking someone's ass.

He grabs Dazai by the wrist, dragging him forward.

"Come on, let's dance," he says, not taking no for an answer.

Dazai finishes his glass of whiskey in one swallow before letting himself be led out onto the
floor.

The crowd parts for them easily, and they find a spot near the middle.

Chuuya lets go, moving to turn around so he can face Dazai—

Only to get dragged back with a hand on his shoulder, pulling him into the strong, firm body
behind him. The hand slides forward, finding the base of his neck and wrapping lightly
around his throat.

Dazai leans forward, and he's so broad , his body covers his entirely, a solid wall of heat. His
voice is a rumble in his ear. " Where do you think you're going?"

Chuuya shivers. He wasn't planning on going anywhere , and especially isn't now.
"Nowhere."

Lips brush over the shell of his ear, scorching hot. "That's right," he murmurs, voice pleased,
body rolling forward in a movement that matches the beat of the music, easy to follow,
"You're not going anywhere ."

He murmurs the next part so low he might not even be speaking to Chuuya at all, teeth
finding the spot just below his ear. " Mine ."

Chuuya shivers, arching against him in silent agreement, pushing back against him easily.

Maybe he shouldn't be surprised, but Dazai is an excellent dancer. His body moves elegantly,
smoothly. Always on the beat, strong hip rolls that make Chuuya's breath hitch, feet moving
in graceful patterns, subtly leading Chuuya.
It feels natural to fall into him, to follow his lead, and it barely even feels like they're
dancing. It feels like sex , moving together instinctively, pressed up against each other as
close as they can get while the music drives their heartbeats.

Then the song changes, and Dazai lets out a huff of amusement. How he can recognize the
song past the pounding bass, Chuuya doesn't know, but he easily matches their rhythm to the
beat of the song.

Lips whispering over the exposed skin of his shoulder, Dazai murmurs a lyric, "Rhythm make
you move slow."

Dazai shifts, moving the hand that had found his waist and reaching behind him.When he
brings his hand forward again, his phone is sitting on the palm of his hand.

A threat, and a promise.

"Nothing ever good happens after 3am," Dazai continues, unlocking his phone one-handed.
Chuuya is too busy trying to rein in the spiking anticipation to pay attention to whatever his
password is.

When the lock screen fades, the app connected to the toy still inside him is the first thing that
comes up. It's cutely colored in pinks and purples, with a few scattered flowers in the
background.

Good marketing strategy, making your torture device look cute.

"Touching in the darkness, let the people watch us," Dazai hums, clicking on a button on the
top left. Each tap makes the toy buzz inside him in a different way.

There's one particular setting that makes Chuuya's knees nearly buckle.Two sharp, strong
vibrations that are broken up by a tiny pause, then followed by a low buzz. A repeating
pattern that is just unpredictable enough that it feels impossible to get used to.
"That one?" Dazai chuckles, scraping his teeth over the curve of his neck.

Chuuya gulps, feeling like he just exposed his weakness for him to sink his teeth into.

In what seems to be slow motion, Dazai moves his thumb to the middle of the screen and
presses on it. With him draped over his back, pressed together and breathing hot over his
throat, Dazai moves his finger up .

The vibrations increase rapidly, relentlessly good, making Chuuya shudder. He grips Dazai's
forearm, fighting for composure as the pleasure builds and builds. He's helpless to resist, too
strung out to fight , hanging limp in his grip as he pants and struggles to hang on.

Lips moving farther up, Dazai grips his throat and encourages his chin to tilt back further. His
breath, hot and exciting, blows in his ear. "Moan for me."

Fuck.

“I—,” Chuuya starts, biting his lip harshly as Dazai rolls his hips forward sensually. The club
is dark, and the music is loud, but there’s people literally only a few feet away.

They could hear him. They can probably already see that he’s turned on, even if the dark
color of his skirt adds some protection.

Embarrassment and shame fills him, made even worse by the fact that a large part of him
likes being so exposed. Likes the thrill of it, the rush of danger and filth, the potential of
being caught.

He’s torn between conflicting desires, struggling on the knife's edge—

And Dazai tips the scales for him.

The hand on his throat encourages his head to tilt back further, until it meets his shoulder.
“Don’t think about them,” he murmurs into his ear, finger spiking the toy controls, “just think
about me. Only me.”

Chuuya’s lips part, eyes going half-lidded. They’re not so much dancing as grinding against
each other now. Dazai’s thigh has found its way between his legs, pressing forward in
rhythmic waves that make the toy press harder against him, deeper .

“How good I make you feel,” he whispers, finding the hinge of Chuuya’s jaw and sinking his
teeth in. He’s hard against his back, growing harder with each roll of their hips together. His
voice is all Chuuya can hear, dripping like sin and caramel over every one of his senses,
slowly burning away the last shreds of his self-restraint.

The lights throb above him, making his world spin.

“How good it will feel when you finally get to fall apart.” Dazai’s hand tightens on his throat.
Not enough to choke him, or even cut off his air, but as a reminder of what they did
yesterday.

Chuuya takes a shuddering breath, his exhale escaping him on a low moan, just loud enough
for Dazai to hear.

There’s a victorious smile against his jaw. “How good it will feel when I make you come for
me, over and over again until you can’t anymore.”

Dazai grinds forward at the same time his thigh lifts upwards, making his skirt slide another
inch higher and tightening around his erection—

The toy vibrates twice, criminally strong, followed by a low, constant buzz.
Chuuya can’t help the high-pitched keen, clawing at Dazai’s forearm as his body jerks under
the sensations. It’s too much , too good, heightened by the people around them and the
feeling of Dazai’s bulge pressed up against him, it’s not stopping , he’s going to—

Squeezing his eyes shut, Chuuya manages to get out a choked, “I’m gonna—“ in warning—

Everything stops . The vibrations, the grinding, the thigh between his legs, everything .

The sudden stop feels like being dunked in cold water in the worst way, being built up to the
edge and throbbing with anticipation just for it all to fade away as soon as it starts to feel
great and—

God, the deprivation actually hurts this time, and he can't stop the tears from springing up in
his eyes as he digs his nails into Dazai's arm to keep himself from doing something dramatic,
like throwing himself to the floor to have a temper tantrum.

Of course, Dazai is still being sweet to him even as he's torturing him, murmuring quiet
compliments and soothing words against his jawline, fingertips stroking gently along his
skin.

The contrast is so hard to come to terms with, because how can someone who is literally
edging him to an inch of his life also be so nice to him, it just doesn't make sense .

When Chuuya gets his breath back,he swallows hard. He's sure that the other people around
them are staring, but he doesn't care anymore. "I wanna go back to the hotel."

Another kiss on his cheek.

"Just a little longer—."

Chuuya cuts him off, voice thick with frustration and tears. "No, I wanna go back now ."

(Normally, Dazai might deny his request on principle alone. He likes his subs to have
manners and he's pretty consistent on teaching brats to behave by ignoring them when they're
being rude but—

Chuuya isn't his sub. Yes, they might be edging into the kinkier aspects of play, but there has
yet to be a conversation on it. He doesn't have the right to tell him no yet.

Besides, this is the first time Chuuya has actually called a limit. He didn't call it correctly ,
but this is the first time he's put his foot down and said no , he can't handle it.

And if Dazai ignored that, or worse punished him for it, not only would he be a bad
dominant, but he'd also be a bad person.)

"Okay," Dazai tells him, turning the toy to its lowest, most easily-ignored setting. Chuuya is
grateful because after hours of stimulation, a complete lack of it now might just make him
break . "I got you, baby. We're going back."

Dazai keeps his phone in clear view as he pulls up the Uber app and requests a ride, showing
him the ten minutes wait time estimation.

Chuuya nods, shivering. Now that the end is in sight, he's starting to feel a bit better, but he
still feels raw and oversensitive in a way that isn't strictly pleasant.

Dazai coaxes him off the dancefloor to wait at their table, pulling him into his lap. Chuuya
huddles up, fighting the urge to just grind against him until he orgasms. He's so close and he
did so good, he just needs to wait a tiny bit longer so they can have some privacy.

The drive back passes by in a haze. If the driver talks to him, he doesn't hear it, too busy
clinging onto Dazai like he might escape if he lets go.
He doesn't even walk into the hotel himself. Dazai guides him into wrapping his legs around
his waist and carries him up, something that Chuuya didn't need him to do, but he appreciates
it anyway because his legs are so wobbly.

It's only when the door shuts behind them, Dazai supporting him with one hand as he locks it,
that Chuuya comes back to life.

Humming, he presses his cheek against Dazai's neck, mouthing at the material of his shirt. He
feels a little mindless, pure instinct wrapped in need and frustration and desperation, melting
in Dazai's hands like candle wax. "Are you gonna...?"

He trails off there, because he finds an old scar on his skin, and he decides to taste it with his
tongue and teeth, sucking on it until he can feel Dazai's breath hitch against him.

He wants to find every scar on his body and lavish it with attention.

"Yes, chibi," Dazai says quietly, heading to the bedroom, "I'm gonna take care of you."

Maybe it's the drinks he had, or the way he's been pushed to the edge so many times today,
but his head is already starting to feel a little fuzzy. He can still think, and he's still lucid, he's
just—

Knocked off his axis a little bit, spinning lopsidedly, the sensations of his body overtaking his
thoughts.

His back hits the mattress lightly, and he stretches with a soft sigh. Anticipation is thrumming
through him again, because he did it, he was good all day and now he's going to get his
reward.
Dazai stands at the edge of the bed, with his legs still hooked around his hips, staring down at
him with a dark, heady look in his eye as he slowly rolls both of his sleeves up to his elbows.
His forearms are bare again, and Chuuya thinks he sees smudges of red and black patterns,
but he's too busy thinking about the way the muscles flex and roll with every movement.

His own fingers fumble at the ties of his skirt, clumsily trying to undo the knots. He doesn't
want to ruin this skirt too, because he likes this one. Plus, as the ties begin to come undone,
the pressure against his erection is eased, letting him take a breath in relief.

Eventually, Dazai gets impatient with his fumbling and knocks his hands out of the way so he
can tug his skirt off himself.

The fresh air against his upper thighs is both cooling and incinerating, because now he's
mostly naked underneath Dazai, vibrating with tension and anticipation. His cock is hard,
lying against his belly, practically throbbing underneath Dazai's dark gaze.

Reaching behind him, Dazai pulls his phone out of his pocket. The time it takes for him to
unlock it is filled with suspense, Chuuya's thighs rubbing together unconsciously.

With a devilish smirk, Dazai brings the toy back to buzzing life.

Ecstasy bursts through Chuuya like fireworks, searing hot and so good it nearly hurts, driving
back to the brink so quickly he feels dizzy with it.

Keening, he thrashes, instinctively trying to escape the white-hot pleasure, but Dazai catches
one of his legs by the ankle and keeps him in place.

"Ah! Fuck, fuck, it's— I'm— shit ," Chuuya groans, body bucking as the tension builds and
builds and builds, flinging him into a sea of rapture without any way to return. He's almost
there, and he's reaching for it frantically, aching for the orgasm. The tension wraps around
him, squeezing so tight he can barely breathe around the desire for more —
Sticking out his tongue slowly, Dazai licks the tip of his finger to get it wet. Then he reaches
down, smearing saliva over the top of his cock, pressing into the sensitive tip just slightly—

And that's all he needs.

With a shuddering, keening cry, the orgasm takes him. It's earth-shattering, life-changing, so
hot and heavy and good that all he can do is try to survive as it rocks him all the way to his
soul .

It doesn't feel good , it feels like life , like heaven, like everything good and pleasurable is
centered in his nerve endings and drowning him in pleasure.

(Because Dazai knows what to look for and he knows to expect it now—

He sees the exact moment Chuuya drops into his headspace.

The way his eyes widen and go unfocused, a haze creeping across them. His body tenses for a
moment before going completely limp, sluggish and uncoordinated. Each one of his breaths
is tinged with a moan, and if Dazai so much as runs his nails over his skin, he shivers and
arches into his touch, eager.

The toy is still buzzing inside him, ruthlessly driving him through his orgasm and past it,
making his legs twitch and tremble in response. He doesn't fight it though, keening softly
from the overstimulation even as he relaxes into it.

Good. He'll need to be very relaxed if Dazai is going to get him as many orgasms as he
promised.

"There you are," he muses, brushing fingertips up his sensitive thigh. His belly is messy with
cum, and he'll make use of that later, but for now he just appreciates the way his muscles
twitch and tremble underneath his touch. "Feels good?"
It takes him a moment to process, but Chuuya nods, arching up into him.

Personally, Dazai doesn't often enter anything close to dom space. Some of his friends at the
club experience it more often than not when they scene, but he doesn't. It doesn't matter, he's
still in control of himself and the scene, he just doesn't usually experience the 'extra' that can
sometimes come with it.

He probably shouldn't be surprised that they're compatible enough that Chuuya manages to
pull it out of him.

The room fades away as his focus sharpens, zeroing in on the man spread out below him. The
needs of his own body — the burning, relentless lust that had been slowly growing inside
him all day — takes a backseat to the needs of Chuuya.

For Dazai, the only thing that exists right now in this moment—

Is the little redhead shivering and squirming beneath him, staring up at him with beautifully
dazed eyes, too gone to beg for more.

That’s okay. Dazai doesn’t need him to beg. He already knows.)

The vibrations don’t stop . Not for a single second. They don’t climb either though, sticking
to a constant, relentless buzz that drives him insane.

The pleasure is on the edge of things. Like sticking your hand under very hot water, and at
first it feels cold , but then the heat registers and it burns —

It’s like that, except the sensations straddle the line between pleasure and pain. So good it
almost hurts, but also hurts in a way that feels good , and you would think that eventually it
would fall one way or the other—
But it doesn’t , it just stays there as Chuuya melts into the bed, until he feels like nothing
except overwhelming pleasure-pain, his body so far away.

A hand grips his hip, the sensation shockingly firm compared to everything else. Chuuya
relaxes into it, letting his hips be tilted up into a better angle.

A different hand swipes over the cum on his stomach, collecting the mess on a few fingers.
Every brush of skin against Chuuya’s cock — half-soft and fighting to rise again — makes a
sharp sensation rocket down his spine.

The fingers leave, only to come back a moment later, pressed against his lips.

“Baby,” Dazai tells him, and if Chuuya didn’t know it was him, he might not even recognize
him with how controlling his tone has become, like he could command the very air itself,
“you’re so messy . Clean it up.”

The words feel thick and heavy in his ears, a puzzle he should know the meaning to but he
can’t figure it out. However, the fingers pressing against his lips are easy to read, leading him
to open his mouth.

The taste is bitter on his tongue, but Dazai’s fingers are so satisfying to suck on. Thick and
warm and long , pressing against the back of his tongue, filling his mouth to the brim and
taking away every last, empty space inside him.

He makes a content humming noise around his fingers, rubbing his tongue against the
knuckles. He likes this, let’s him focus on this while his body falls to pieces.

As if on cue, Dazai's other hand swipes through the wet remains on his stomach, smearing it
all over his palm. Then his hand is closing around his cock in a tight grip, scorching hot with
Chuuya's own cum, and merciless as he begins to stroke him slowly but steadily.
It's too much, too much , too good, yes, yes, right there, a little more —

If his first orgasm felt like burning , the second one feels like melting. His limbs are hazy,
indistinct feelings, while he gasps and moans incoherently around the fingers still in his
mouth.

He shudders through it, the pleasure too big for his skin, feeling almost crushed by it and
forced to just ride it out as it hits him in electrostatic waves. It lasts forever or seems like it
does, wave after wave after wave until he can barely get a breath in.

The end isn't marked by a slow come down or a settling into an afterglow. No, it suddenly
swings into painful overstimulation, electrifying his nerve ending mercilessly.

One moment he's shivering and moaning, and the next he's frantically trying to squirm away,
his cry muffled by Dazai's fingers. His legs instinctively try to close, but they're blocked by a
body coming to rest between them.

"Ah, ah," Dazai tsks, and though his voice sounds disapproving, he's letting go of his cock
and reaching down to turn the vibrations on the toy. "Don't try to escape me, baby."

Chuuya shakes his head, because that's not what he was trying to do , it was just too much .

Dazai pushes him further onto the bed, following him up, kneeling between his legs. He leans
over him, and hooks his fingers behind his bottom teeth to turn his head to the side. His
breath is searing hot in his ear, the tinge of a groan there intoxicating . "Because you're mine,
now," he murmurs, scraping his teeth over the sensitive lobe until Chuuya is shivering, "and
you're not going anywhere, are you?"

Chuuya sucks on his fingers in response, making the tremendous effort to wrap his legs
tighter around his hips and pull him in .
The action makes the toy shift inside him, but it’s good , the subtle grind against his prostate
sparking pleasure across his nerves, but not overwhelming.

“So good for me,” Dazai sighs, nuzzling into his cheek. The hand not currently in Chuuya’s
mouth makes its way between their bodies, pausing to shove his shirt up so he can pinch at
his nipples until Chuuya’s squirming again, before finally finding his way to the buckle of his
belt.

The clink of it coming undone makes heat unfurl inside him, seemingly impossible because
of how drained and carved out — in a good way — he already feels.

When the zipper slides down and his pants get pushed down just far enough, Dazai’s cock
slips free, hot and hard and pulsing against his own. Every little touch against his own cock
makes sharp slivers of pleasure-pain knife through him, collecting into a ball of warmth in his
stomach.

Dazai leans back a little, keeping his fingers in his mouth to keep him occupied as his other
hand finds the crook of his knee and lifts it over his shoulder. His torso is long enough that it
ends up being Chuuya’s calf resting on his shoulder as he guides the other leg into the same
position.

Then he’s free to thrust into the tight space made by his thighs, impossibly slick with lube
that Chuuya never noticed him get. It’s good , almost too much because each thrust of his
hips grinds the toy inside him deeper, and every slide of his burning hot erection against his
own feels like molten lava and all Chuuya can do is—

Lie there and take it, like a good boy, hands clenched in the sheets.

Something about that — about being used for someone else’s pleasure, after he’s gotten his
own — makes the same thing happen as the other day. He floats away, kind of, becoming full
of fuzz and light and warmth and giddiness.

Dazai wraps his forearm over the top of his thighs, gripping his opposite leg to hold him
firmly in place as he speeds up.
He’s saying something again and Chuuya would try harder to comprehend it through the thick
layer of cotton in his ears, but it’s in the same rough, broken, complimenting tone as before,
so he figures it’s probably just the same sort of words.

He doesn’t know how long Dazai keeps up like that. He thinks he comes again with a weak
cry, but at this point, his entire body feels suffused with so much pleasure that it’s hard to tell
orgasm from build-up from comedown.

There is a point where Dazai gets brusingly rough with him, sinking his teeth into his calf and
keeping him pinned with a snarl. Chuuya’s breaths get knocked out of him with each slam of
his hips and—

In the hazy contentment, Chuuya finds himself aching for a little more. To be actually fucked
instead of his thighs but he can’t articulate that right now, can’t only moan softly and shiver
for more and hope that Dazai gets the message—

But when he stills with a long, drawn-out groan of his name, and néw warmth spills around
his lower stomach, he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed or upset.

Dazai leans over him, panting, pressing sloppy kisses over his face with fond affection. He
lowers his legs back down slowly, massaging the parts of his thighs that Chuuya can already
tell are going to bruise.

The toy is coaxed out of him gently, and Chuuya shudders when it slides out of him
completely. He feels empty now, almost, but the suffusing feeling of warmth still draped over
him makes it better.

Dazai makes a humming noise, pressing their cheeks together. Uncoordinated, Chuuya wraps
his arms around his neck and clings onto him with all the strength he has left.

Time passes, soupy and indistinct. Every moment feels like it lasts forever, heartbeat slow in
his chest, but also passes by too quick. The hazy feeling fades but with the way Dazai is
laying over top of him and half-crushing him underneath his weight, it doesn’t leave entirely.

At least, until Dazai starts to stir. “Baby,” he mumbles in his ear, quiet but sweet, “you have
to come back now.”

Chuuya doesn’t know where he ‘went’ to in the first place, but he tucks his nose into his neck

and grumbles in protest.

He can hear the smile in Dazai’s voice as he says, “Aww, poor thing. I’m so mean to you,
aren’t I? How terrible I must be to want to get you clean and warm.”

Humming, he cuddles a little closer. “Mhm,” he agrees, voice hoarse, “terrible.”

Dazai’s laugh is quiet and sweet, blending seamlessly into the atmosphere. The sound makes
a bubble of happiness swell up in Chuuya’s chest, popping pleasantly and showering him
with warmth.

“Come on,” he urges again, pulling away and resisting Chuuya’s attempts to pull him back in,
“You need to eat something, and drink something besides alcohol. We’re not going straight to
bed this time, sleepy brat.”

Chuuya pouts. Pouts harder when he sees Dazai looking at him, like if he just looks pitiful
enough he’ll let them cuddle to sleep.

It doesn’t work.

Sighing, Chuuya gives in. Now that he’s talking and moving more, the fuzz is fading away.
He still feels warm and pleasantly limp, but not in an overwhelming way. He can think again,
even if he’d rather just return to mindlessness.
Maybe if he’s good, Dazai will help him get there again. He looks up at him with his softest
puppy eyes, silently pleading. “Carry me?”

Dazai doesn’t even hesitate, swooping down to catch him in his arms with one smooth
motion. He hauls him up, knees hooked around his hips and arms dangling over his
shoulders.

Because of how close they are, Chuuya’s chin propped up on his shoulder with his cheek
pressed to his jaw, he hears his next words as a rumble.

“I’ve got you, Chuuya.”

 Trust Fall
Chapter Summary

(Dazai, for his part, immediately shoves his phone underneath the pillow and wraps his
arm around his cuddly little chibi to adjust him into a more comfortable position.

He falls back asleep in only a few minutes, a record.

Chuuya, on the other hand, lies awake on his chest for hours, feeling vaguely sick at the
idea of Dazai going home to someone else.)

Chapter Notes

*slaps this fat chapter down on the counter* And now for the moment we've all been
waiting for.... >:D I don't really have an excuse for why this is late other than I was tired
and it took a long time to edit so. Hopefully it's worth it though hehe >:D The next
chapter will be the end of Osaka arc, so I hope you all enjoyed it as much as possible!
Big things on the horizon :) As always, thank you for your support and for reading! See
you next week!

This chapter includes:

- a phone call
- a scene
- a revelation

For all the times Osamu claims to be a changed man, he really is the same depressed boy
she’s known since they were kids. Not even his style has changed.

Really. Almost all of his furniture is black. A bad choice, considering his... mutts and if he
ever let any sun in here (what is he, a vampire? What’s with the blackout curtains?) then
everything would be bleached in just a few weeks!
Sighing, Sasaki pulls her phone out and dials one of the first options on the contact list. It is
technically early— a little after 6am, she’s a sucker for early morning flights because she
likes to see the sun rise in the clouds— but she also knows Osamu has nothing close to a
sleeping schedule, so the typical etiquette doesn’t really matter.

Surprisingly though, it rings twice before being sent to voicemail.

Shocked, she pulls her phone away to stare at the screen in disbelief. Did he just decline her
call? What if she was having an emergency? What if Shuuji was hurt? What if she was hurt?

Granted, he doesn’t know—yet— that she came back with their son to Yokohama, but still.

She presses the call button again, tapping her foot on the tiles impatiently. It rings twice, and
she almost thinks that it’s about to go to voicemail again when—

The line clicks and Osamu’s voice comes through, deliciously warm and raspy with sleep. “It
is 6am, Sasaki, why are you calling?”

He sounds like he’s trying to be quiet, on the verge of whispering.

(He’s trying not to wake up Chuuya, who’s buried face-first in his chest and snoring
peacefully.)

“Good morning to you too,” Sasaki sniffs, a little irritated by how abrupt he sounds. But
when his voice sounds like that, she can’t stay mad for long because of the tingles running
down her spine. “I’m calling you to tell you that Shuuji and I made it back to Yokohama
safely. If you cared, that is.”

“Great,” Osamu grumbles, “I’m glad you two didn’t die in a freak accident. Is that all?”
Far from it actually. She wishes she didn’t have to do this over the phone, but it cannot wait
until he returns from whatever city he’d flounced off to. “No. You also have a few...pests at
your house that we need to talk about.”

“Pests?” Osamu repeats, and he sounds more awake. The delightful rough edge to his voice is
still there though, and she wishes she could hear it in person , grating in her ear. He grew up
so well. “Do... you mean my dogs?”

Then, “Are you at my house?“

(He’s still getting used to this whole sleeping deeply for hours thing, and his mind is
struggling to catch up. He was having a fantastic dream of him and Chuuya on the beach
somewhere. He was feeding him mangoes and was just about to lean in to kiss him.)

“Yes, I’m at your house. I decided to move to Yokohama like you suggested—“ (he did not
suggest that, actually) “— and I was dropping Shuuji off. I was also hoping you would let me
stay for a few days while my new house is getting ready.”

The contractor said it’d actually be a few weeks, but Osamu doesn’t need to know that right
now. She has to start small with him, otherwise he might get spooked.

“No. Get a hotel.”

She wrinkles her nose. Those rooms are always so ugly and nasty . She saw that one TV
show, the one that went around to all the hotels and revealed just how stained, and infested
and disgusting they were. She’s been traumatized ever since, really. “I checked all the hotels
in the area,” she pouts, “they’re packed full.”

They’re not, but all the luxury rooms are taken, and she’d rather die than sleep on mid-level
sheets that are prolly so stained with fluids they can never come clean.
Osamu snorts softly, and damn, if that tiny little sound, so different from how cold he’s been
with her lately, makes her heart beat harder in her chest. “I’m sure I can arrange something.
Give me a few hours.”

God , the way he throws around his power and money like that, like rules don’t apply to him,
is sexy , even when it’s being used against her.

“We can talk about it,” she sighs, deciding not to push it. The trick with Osamu is to know
when to stand your ground, and when to shelve your argument to bring it up later, when he’s
in a different mood. “But the real problem is your... dogs. They’re so aggressive . I can’t
believe you would let these wild beasts near our son. What if they hurt him? What if they
hurt me?”

(Dazai doesn’t like the way she says our son. Like there’s commitment there, like he
promised her a part of his life, like there’s an emotional connection that he’s ignoring.)

“Really, I would feel much safer if you got rid of them. There are some long-term boarding
places nearby, and there’s a wonderful shelter a few streets down.”

(The absurdity of that statement gives Dazai a pause, and he actually stares up at the ceiling
for a long moment, wondering if he’s having some strange lucid dream.)

“Are you seriously suggesting I give my dogs up for adoption for doing their jobs?” Osamu
asks, and he really shouldn't sound as disbelieving as he does. He’s been the one raising these
feral beasts, he should’ve known she wouldn’t stand for this. They nearly bit Shuuji’s fingers
off when he was pushing them in their kennels!

Aggressive animals should be put down. Keeps the bloodline pure.

“Are their jobs to hurt your family, Osamu?” She asks, appalled. As if understanding her, the
sandy-haired dog in the kennel she’s staring at bares its teeth with a rumbling snarl. Daring
her to open the cage again.
“When you’re in my house uninvited and I’m not there to tell them otherwise? Yes.”

She does note that he doesn’t object to her calling him family. It’s progress to repairing their
relationship, even if it is small. Baby steps, as it were. “Well,” she sighs, “I’m just worried. I
mean, what if they get loose and go on a rampage? Yuki looks like she wants to eat me.”

“Yoko,” Osamu stresses, like she’s supposed to care about the name of a mean, flea-bitten
mutt, “is incredibly well trained. Both of them are. They aren’t ‘going on a rampage’.
They’re protecting my house, like they’re supposed to.”

She makes a face at the bitch in question. Yuki snaps at the cage.

(Dazai has noticed that Yoko has gotten a lot more protective, ever since that... incident
happened while he was gone, the one where he found Chuuya asleep and tear-stained on the
couch. She’s always been defensive, but now it’s almost on another level. Like instead of
being given a target to defend, she’s chosen a target for herself, and will now defend it with
her life.

He can’t lie, the fact that Yoko loves Chuuya so unconditionally and is often his first
protector makes him feel warm and fuzzy.)

“I just want you to be careful, because if i were anyone else, animal control would’ve

been called, and then who knows what would’ve happened? They’d probably be put down,
since they’re so aggressive.”

“Let me be clear,” Osamu says, voice dropping into something hard and cutting, “those dogs
won’t hurt anyone that doesn’t deserve it— and if you so much as touch them, I will show
you the meaning of anger.”

Fine. Like she said, the trick is to know when you let your battles drop. They can talk about
this again later.
She smiles pleasantly at Yuki. There’s only room for one woman in Osamu’s bed and that’s
her . She’ll get her way eventually. “Fine, we can talk about it later.”

(They will absolutely not be talking about it later, if Dazai has anything to say about it.)

“But there’s another thing.”

“What now?”

“There’s a cat outside. Ugly thing, covered in dirt and grease. I tried to get it to go away but it
won’t.”

(It’s the same stray cat Chuuya had seen on the car ride to their first date. As soon as the
weather had started to cool off a little bit, the little gremlin had threatened to stop kissing
Dazai and wouldn’t stop sending him sad faces until he agreed to start putting out food for it.

Dazai isn’t a cat person, really. They’re too moody for him, and he prefers animals that can
be trained.

But there is a lot to be said for how endearing it is to watch the distrustful look in those green
eyes slowly start to fade away, and know that you’re earning the love and trust of an animal
that clearly doesn’t see a lot in humans.

Sure, the poor thing is covered in dirt and grease. But he also has vivid green eyes, and he
likes the spot under his chin scratched, and Chuuya always gets so happy when Dazai sends
him news or pictures.)

“I’ve been feeding him. Leave him alone, he won’t do anything,” Osamu sighs. He sounds so
exasperated.
Sasaki wrinkles her nose again. Why is he defending some flea-bitten, half-starved cat? He’s
going to get grease all over their stairs outside, and then she’ll have to clean it up. And who
knows what she’ll do if the thing brings pests into their home. Don’t cats carry influenza or
something? “Well, he already hissed at me, first off. Secondly, this neighborhood is much too
nice for something like him. He ruins the whole image. He needs to go.”

“He’s a stray cat, Sasaki, I don’t think he cares about ‘image’. I feed him, so he sticks
around.”

She opens her mouth—

“And I’m going to keep feeding him, so don’t even try to tell me to stop. Just look at him,
you know he needs some love and affection. Maybe he’ll let you pet him, if you offer him
some treats. There’s some in the storage room, since you’re already there.”

He sounds more resigned than anything, but at least he’s not getting angry or yelling at her to
leave. She can work with resigned, she can work with tired. That’s enough progress for today,
so she’ll let the subject drop for now..

“Okay, darling,” she sighs, standing up to leave the room. The dogs in the kennel growl at
her, but she ignores them. “When are you coming home?”

(The way she says that, like she’s really asking when he’s coming back to her, makes Dazai
feel uncomfortable. But they’ve been on the phone for ten minutes now, and although he’s
tried to keep quiet, Chuuya is starting to stir on his chest. He doesn’t seem awake yet, but
Dazai really doesn’t want to bring up his ex he had a kid with when he was too young on
their last full day of vacation.

Besides, he doesn’t want to keep talking about putting down his animals at six in the
morning. He just wants to go back to bed.)

“I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”

Good, that gives her enough time to make some plans about what to say. And gives her
enough time for Shuuji to show her around the city. “We’ll talk then?”

“Yeah,” Osamu sighs, “We’ll talk then, I guess. I’m hanging up now.”

He does so without another word, and usually the dial tone would have her upset, but today...

Today, it feels like victory, so she lets it settle as she leaves the kennel room.

She makes sure to lock the door behind her, because you can really never be too safe,
especially with rabid mutts in your home. She’ll have Shuuji bring them water sometime
later, if she remembers to tell him.

(Dazai, for his part, immediately shoves his phone underneath the pillow and wraps his arm
around his cuddly little chibi to adjust him into a more comfortable position.

He falls back asleep in only a few minutes, a record.

Chuuya, on the other hand, lies awake on his chest for hours, feeling vaguely sick at the idea
of Dazai going home to someone else.)

The restaurant is nice. Classy, atmospheric, with actual live music played by a trio of stringed
musicians near the middle of the lobby. There’s candles everywhere, hanging chandeliers in
orange and white, shivering daintily in the air.

This is probably one of the first times that Chuuya feels like he belongs in a place like this .
His outfit is expensive, revealing but in a classy way, matching the other people in the
restaurant. His makeup is flawless, and he’s sipping red wine like a diva. He fits finally, like a
rock being polished until it’s finally pretty enough to be shown alongside the other gems in
the collection.

For his part, Dazai is wearing most of a suit, minus the jacket. He looks perfectly done up,
straight off a fashion magazine, a wet dream come to life.

Chuuya wishes he could enjoy it. Any of it.

But whenever he tries, he remembers the end of the phone call Dazai had this morning—

I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. Yeah, we’ll talk then, I guess.

Granted, he didn’t hear the conversation before, but it’s pretty clear Dazai was trying to hide
it from him. As soon as Chuuya started to wake up, he cut off the call. He’s not saying he’s
entitled to hear all of Dazai’s conversations, so he can’t complain, it’s just—

He thought he was more than just a dirty little secret. Maybe he shouldn’t have, because they
still haven’t had a real conversation about their relationship but—

You know, he really thought this was an actual, real vacation and not some runaway trip to
hide from the person Dazai’s going home too. Chuuya assumes it’s Shuuji’s mother, based on
context and the feminine voice he vaguely heard, but again, he’s not sure.

He’s not sure about anything anymore.

“Are you going to tell me why you’re mad at me, or should I start guessing?”

Chuuya starts a little, looking away from the patch of wall he was zoning out on, and
glancing at Dazai.
He looks grim, almost, or maybe just tired, and Chuuya hates that he’s adding to it in any
way. “What?”

Dazai sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, that sounded accusatory. What I
meant was— you seem upset. You’ve barely talked to me all day, you’ve been zoning out,
and you’ve hardly touched your food or your wine. If there’s something bothering you, I’d
like to know so that I can help with whatever it is.”

That’s fair. It also makes Chuuya feel even worse because he tried to be subtle about the way
he was feeling, but he can’t even do that right.

He runs his finger along the edge of his wine glass, circling it over and over, the same way he
feels twisted up and knotted together on the inside. “I had a good time on vacation,” he starts,
unsure of what exactly to say.

What does he start with? How does he take these feelings and untangle them in a way that
they can be understood by him or someone else?

“I did too,” Dazai says, though his reassuring smile falls flat. “It’s not over yet though. We
still have all morning tomorrow.”

“It is over though, isn’t it? You’re going back home to Shuuji’s mother, and I’m going back
to college,” Chuuya mutters, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice and failing. When
he sees Dazai’s confused look, he elaborates, “I heard your phone call this morning.”

“Ah,” Dazai says, confusion clearing up and turning into something like bemusement and
regret, “How much of it, exactly, did you hear?”

Chuuya shrugs. “The last minute or so. Does it matter? I heard you say you were going home
to her. Which is fine, by the way, I just—“
Dazai interrupts him. “It does matter. Do you know what we were arguing about before I said
that?”

Arguing about?

“She hated that cat of yours. The stray, the one you coerced me into feeding? Said he was
ugly and needed to leave. Do you know what I said?”

They were arguing about the cat? She really said he was ugly? Why would that be an
argument?

“I told her to leave my cat alone. Not because he’s mine and I’m attached— because he’s
yours . You wanted me to take care of him, and I said I would.”

Oh. That’s so sweet, and Chuuya simultaneously feels so relieved and also stupid because—

He really heard a few sentences and just ran with it, didn’t he? He didn’t even /ask, he just
assumed that—

Assumed a lot of things, really.

“And before that, she wanted me to give the dogs up for adoption. And before that , she
showed up at my house without my knowledge, and the first time I heard about it was with a
phone call at six in the morning. I was tired and you were asleep, and I didn’t want to talk
about putting my animals to sleep anymore, so yes, I told her that I would be home tomorrow
and we could talk then.”

On second thought, maybe it’s a good thing they aren’t in a relationship, because Chuuya just
keeps fucking it up, doesn’t he? He always believes the things he hears instead of believing
Dazai, and he just makes it worse.
They could’ve had this whole day to be happy, but Chuuya ruined it by jumping to
conclusions. Again.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, looking away and burning with shame and embarrassment, “I just—“

“Don’t be sorry,” Dazai cuts him off again, and why does he sound so sympathetic when it
was Chuuya who messed up, once again? “I could’ve mentioned it earlier, but I didn’t. But
baby, you have to tell me these things. You have to talk to me if something upsets you.”

The idea of that is somewhat of a new concept to Chuuya. If he ever told his family about
something that upset him, it usually ended up in over reactions or him getting a lecture
because of something he did that he shouldn’t have done. In his family, it was just easier to
solve his problems alone. Sharing them with someone to split the burden is harder than it
seems, after years of handling it alone.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says again, feeling so little and stupid and small. Like he’s a kid
again, in the worst way. “I just didn’t know how to say anything and I didn’t want you to feel
obligated to me or anything.”

“Obligated?” Dazai repeats, sounding almost offended. His hand has tightened on his own
wine glass, like he’s fighting the urge to be upset.

When Chuuya doesn’t continue, tongue-tied with the fear that he’s going to make things
worse again by saying the wrong thing, Dazai heaves a small sigh and stands up.

Wait, is he leaving? Not like this, please just—

He comes around the table, crouching down beside his chair. Reaching out with one hand, he
circles his wrist with his fingers and tugs his hand.

“Look at me, Chuuya.”

He does, for a moment, out of the corner of his eye, feeling too much embarrassment to look
for long. When his gaze flits away, Dazai gives a small snort of amusement.

“If you don’t look at me, I’m going to pretend I’m proposing and make a scene—“

That gets Chuuya’s attention because he does not want everyone’s eyes on him right now. He
feels raw and vulnerable enough even with just Dazai looking at him, he doesn’t need the
whole restaurant to be fawning over him too. His eyes snap down, meeting Dazai’s warm,
bottomless gaze, and stay there.

“There you are,” Dazai murmurs, “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to listen
to me very carefully, okay?”

Chuuya nods, nervous.

“Baby, I adore you.”

Chuuya’s eyes go wide. He felt that way when he was with Dazai but—

Hearing it, in such plain words that even the ugly little voices in the back of his head can’t
tear it apart or distort the meaning—

It feels so good.

Smiling softly at him, that lopsided dimple coming back into play, Dazai continues, “And I
know these things can seem scary and hard, but I promise you it’s not, because I’m here with
you. I’ve got you, chibi, so just trust that and work with me.”
He raises the hand still in his grasp, flipping it over so he can press a kiss to the center of his
palm. Chuuya’s fingers curl naturally around his cheek, cupping his face.

It makes his heart clench in his chest when Dazai leans into it, nuzzling his cheek into his
hand.

“I have a past with Sasaki, and it’s never going to go away. She’s never going to go away, and
I think you can understand that.”

He does, in a way, even if it fills him with a seething jealousy that someone else knew Dazai
so intimately and gave him something he could never give him. Even if his relationship with
Shuuji is complicated, that’s still his son.

That’s still part of him.

“But she’s my past, baby, and you? You could be my future, if you wanted. You could be my
person, and you wouldn’t have to worry about anyone else, because I’d be yours too.”

Feeling dumbstruck, embarrassingly close to tears—good ones this time— Chuuya uses the
hand on his cheek to pull him up.

Dazai is big enough and tall enough that Chuuya wouldn’t be able to move him if he didn’t
want to be moved. But he always gives so easily underneath his fingertips, and there’s never
been a time Chuuya has felt overpowered in a bad wayor threatened by the size of him.

This kiss is initiated by Chuuya, no need to ask for consent, because it’s freely given by his
hand on his cheek and the small smile on Dazai’s face.

It’s soft, slow, explorative. They’ve kissed dozens of times before, maybe even hundreds, but
now there’s a new layer to it, a new level of emotion. Because now they’re starting to
understand each other, coming together a bit more and fitting their rough edges together more
securely. Because now they’re—
“So is that a yes? To be mine?” Dazai eventually mumbles against his lips, not pulling away
even though he’s in an awkward, half-crouched position that must be starting to hurt.

And Chuuya—

This is his first time being asked, so he wants to hear it, breathless with excitement. “Your
what?”

“Boyfriend. Or partner, if you like that better,” Dazai says, easily, like he’s not rocking
Chuuya’s world. “Or I guess we could probably go for straight up sugar baby, at this point
—.”

Chuuya cuts him off with another kiss, because god, he can be so ridiculous sometimes and
he doesn’t want the reverent moment to fade into silliness. Not yet. “Yes,” he mutters,
follows it up with another kiss.

“Yes,” chased by another kiss. A thousand tiny little yes’s, for this life and every other one,
murmured into the quiet space between their lips, sealed with a thousand more kisses.

By the time they start to separate, they have made somewhat of a scene. The other guests in
the restaurant are staring, whispering among themselves. Some of them look genuinely nice,
unsure if they should be more loudly happy about whatever happened between them. Others
look cross, frowning because of the age difference or maybe because they’re both men, or
maybe just because they’ve interrupted the flow of dinner.

It doesn’t matter. He has Dazai, warm and solid and good in his arms, staring up at him with
eyes that practically glow, warm pools of honey that reflect light back at him.

(He doesn’t know this yet, but Dazai has rarely put himself or his feelings on the line like this
for anyone, and it’s only Chuuya who gets to see him so soft and lovesick.
Chuuya is the only one he ever looks at like this.)

“If I let you go, are you actually going to eat anything?”

Chuuya could lie and say that he will, but truthfully, he’s so full of emotion, he doesn’t know
how he’s supposed to get anything inside him. Doesn’t know how he’s supposed to have air
in his lungs or food in his stomach, when his heart feels full to bursting.

Smiling, Chuuya shakes his head. He’s not hungry anymore, hasn’t been for most of the day.

Dazai sighs heavily, but his smile never wavers and his voice is endlessly affectionate. “What
am I going to do with you?”

He’s heard that question before, in a different context, and his answer is the same, if slightly
more censored because they’re in public and everybody is staring at them too closely for
comfort. “Take me back to the room.”

He can tell Dazai gets it by the way his eyes widen and his nostrils flare, expression sliding
into that ever-growing hunger, the sense of power and control crackling slightly in the air
around him. “Get moving, then.”

It takes Chuuya only a few moments to down the rest of his wine— he might not be hungry,
but he’d never let a good wine to waste— and then sneakily swallow most of Dazai’s cup too
while Dazai heads to the front to pay. The man barely drinks wine anyways, Chuuya was just
doing him a favor.

Once again, Dazai calls them an Uber instead of making them ride the train, which he’s
thankful for, because if he had to spend another thirty minutes pressed up against his
boyfriend in

public with other people watching, he’s going to go insane.

Boyfriend. The title itself makes him feel giddy, and rolling the word around on his tongue
until he feels drunk on it, saying it again and again in his head until every syllable feels
paired with some part of Dazai, his eyes, his lips, his shoulders, his hands, until the word
doesn’t have meaning unless it means Dazai.

The ride feels like forever, but too short at the same time.

And when they finally get to their room, and Chuuya ends up pressed against the wall with
his legs wrapped around his waist and his hands in his hair—

It’s different. Not only because of the emotional attachment has been acknowledged and
reciprocated but also because there’s a sense of permanence now.

Before, it was almost frantic, driven by the desperate need to feel as much as possible, as
quickly as possible, because neither of them knew when it would end. Didn't know if this
time would be the last time, or the one after that, didn’t know when they’d wake up and
everything would be over.

But now they know they are going to come back to each other, they are going to find
eachother again and again—

It makes it easy to take their time.

Chuuya doesn’t know how long they spend in the entrance way, being kissed with long,
heavy, drugging kisses that taste like happiness itself. It feels like there’s a seed inside him,
full of life and heat, and each kiss waters it, makes it grow. Roots twining around his ribs and
down into his stomach, until he feels irrevocably changed by it, a flowering bloom cultivated
and kept by Dazai.

He tugs on his hair, tilting his head a little to get a better angle. Dazai’s tongue slides over his
bottom lip, familiar.
With a pleased sigh, Chuuya opens up for him, inviting him inside. Their tongues tangle
together, rub against each other wetly. The roof of his mouth gets the metal ball of his
piercing dragged over it again and again until he’s gasping lightly at the sensation.

It’s not frantic but it’s hot , and Chuuya doesn’t realize how affected he was until Dazai
slowly sucks his bottom lip into his mouth to nibble on it indulgently, and something shifts.

The other times? Those were forest fires. Hot and quick and burning everything in their path,
wild and uncontrolled.

This? This is tectonic plates, the shifting of the earth itself, miles of molten magma churning
and changing the planet in its entirety, changing Chuuya, foundations melting beneath him.
He gasps when Dazai sinks his teeth in, arching into him. Each touch feels like it’s slowly
peeling away at a layer of composure, making him mindless and needy.

“Bed,” he demands breathlessly, tightening his legs and rocking his hips to accentuate his
request. When his erection, neglected but surprisingly hard, meets Dazai’s stomach, it sends
shockwaves against him.

Dazai presses him harder against the wall in response, rolling his own hips upward, the bulge
in his pants sliding teasingly over the swell of his ass, so hot Chuuya feels scorched by it.

He wants it. Wants it so fucking bad, he’ll do anything to get it and now it feels like he finally
might get it, like Dazai might finally take mercy on him and fuck him.

Effortlessly, he lifts him away from the wall and heads to the bedroom, a casual show of
strength that is ridiculously attractive. He never stops kissing him either, deeper and deeper,
breathing hotly into his mouth, pure liquid lust being poured down his throat with each slide
of his tongue piercing.

Dazai lowers him down, bearing down after him and pressing him into the mattress with his
body. He takes up the entire world, and nothing else exists besides him over him, on top of
him, settling between his thighs like he belongs there.
There's a second when he leans away to grab a bottle of lube from the drawer, and the sight of
that is so exciting that Chuuya is grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him
back down into a hard, rough kiss.

Usually their sex life is led by Dazai, who initiates and orchestrates most of what happens
between them. Chuuya is usually too overwhelmed by pleasure and need that he can only lie
there and take it while trying to survive the onslaught. Half the time Dazai barely even gets
undressed himself.

But not this time. He's still lucid, still in control of himself, and he needs more skin contact,
more heat, more friction, and he's not going to wait until Dazai decides to do it himself.

He dips one hand underneath the collar of his shirt, raking his nails down his back until Dazai
is growling against him in approval, surging forward to kiss him harder. His other hand
comes between them, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt.

He's clumsy, and it's hard to do one-handed without looking and having his soul kissed out of
his body, but he manages to undo the top three buttons and finally gets his hand on Dazai's
chest.

His left shoulder and upper chest are swathed in bandages, adding a spot of rough friction
that Chuuya ignores as he maps out the terrain of his skin.

One of Dazai's hands finds his hip, sliding up over his stomach and making him shudder. His
hand is so big, palm covering nearly the entirety of his stomach, and unlike Chuuya, he's
completely confident and smooth as he shoves his shirt up.

"Cuffs," Dazai mutters, pushing one of his wrists under his hands so Chuuya can undo the
buttons at his wrist. The other hand is next, and then Chuuya gets the glorious vision of
Dazai rising up on his knees, strong body effortlessly keeping it's balance as he reaches
behind his head.
It's a dress shirt. It's not supposed to be removed by yanking it over his head, but fuck, the
sight of Dazai so impatient that he can't even wait to undo the last few buttons is so hot.

And because Chuuya is feeling bold, instead of removing his own shirt or starting on his
jeans—

He reaches out and runs his hand over Dazai’s upper thigh and into the middle, rubbing the
palm of his hand over his trapped erection. Dazai stills, dark eyes growing hot and focused as
he traces over the outline of it, mouth dry with want.

It's big, of course it is, that's never going to be different—

But it's also thick, pulsing lightly in his grip, hot. It twitches when he rubs the heel of his
palm over the head, twitches again when Dazai reaches down and wraps his fingers around
his wrist to show him how he likes to be touched, a little firmer than he was doing, and
focusing around the base.

Chuuya wants it in his mouth again. Wants the taste of him filling his senses, filling him up
until nothing else matters. Just the smell of him, the taste of him, the slide of their skin
together.

"Hurry up," Chuuya demands breathlessly, shaking off Dazai’s hand so he can unzip his
slacks and drag the waistband down.

With a gleam in his eye, Dazai lets him take his cock out, and as soon as it springs free, he’s
grabbing Chuuya’s wrists and pinning them one-handed over his head. He leans down, and
his voice feels like it falls directly on his nerve endings as he rumbles, “No, I think I’ll take
my time with you.”

Tugging on his wrists, Chuuya struggles lightly. Dazai’s grip is firm though, unrelenting, and
although Chuuya knows he could get him to let go with a word—
It’s exciting to be pinned like this, held so effortlessly and securely. It makes his blood turn
hot in his veins, thick with lust, more potent than any drug that exists. “If you don’t hurry up,
I’ll cry,” he threatens breathlessly.

The threat falls flat because it just makes Dazai nuzzle into his cheek with a humming noise,
casual and smug.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs and Chuuya can already tell he’s about to say something that’s
going to set him on fire—

“You look so pretty when you cry.”

Fucking hell, that’s not fair.

Chuuya hooks his knee higher, driving up with his hips to grind against him. He’s still
trapped in his pants, but Dazai isn’t, and the man hisses at the rough friction.

“Please,” he mumbles, digging his heels into his back, unashamed to be begging so early.
Teeth sink into his neck, making him cry out in shock. “Please, I want it.”

“I know you want it,” Dazai breathes into his skin, hot, meeting Chuuya’s next grind up with
a sinful roll of his hips. “And I’m gonna give it to you. You just have to be patient.”

Fuck being patient, he’s been patient for months and been denied for this entire week, and if
it happens again, he’s actually going to punch Dazai about it.

Before he can speak his mind, Dazai is sliding down and taking a nipple into his mouth. His
tongue runs over the nub, flattening it and swirling his piercing over it in maddening circles.

Each touch, each scrape of his teeth over him makes hunger tighten in his stomach, stringing
him between the opposing points of good and not enough. His hips rock insistently, and every
time Dazai’s cock slides against the front of his pants, teasing him with friction, he just grows
harder.

Eventually, when his nipple is throbbing and oversensitive and each gasping breath is tinged
with a desperate moan—

Dazai switches to the other side to give that one attention and leaves the other to cool wetly
in the air. The coldness of it is a sensation all on its own, a paradox to how hot Dazai’s tongue
feels on him.

Dazai’s free hand slides down his stomach, finding the button on his pants and popping it
open one-handed. Sighing in relief, Chuuya wiggles up, silently encouraging him to pull
down his zipper agonizingly slowly, and then tug his waistband down so he can slip his hand
into his underwear—

The first touch of his hand is almost-rough without any lube, dry with friction, but he’s so
desperate for any contact that his hips are stuttering up into his fist as he gives the head a few
short, slow strokes. Each one pulls a pleased sigh from him and even though there’s a sense
of burning desperation—

He also knows he’s going to be taken care of.

After teasing him long enough that his cock starts to leak pre-cum and gets his palm slick,
Dazai leans back a little farther. His pants get dragged off him quickly, and Chuuya kicks
them off his ankles when they get to the end.

With his heels, he pushes at the waistband of Dazai's pants, pushing them down because his
wrists are still pinned above his head. He doesn't want to be free, he just wants him to keep
going.

Dazai has to let go of him to get his slacks off, shuffling on the bed a little awkwardly, which
makes Chuuya smile. At least he's not always elegant and dominating.
Sometimes, he's just a man too, and that thought completely eradicates whatever nerves
Chuuya might have been feeling.

Leaning up, he hooks his hands around his boyfriend's— god, his boyfriend, they're
boyfriends— neck, he pulls him down into another kiss, this one even more rough and needy
than before.

When his lips are tingling, he's the first one to break the kiss this time, marking a trail of
sucking bites down Dazai's jawline up to the spot behind his ear. He can hear him breathing,
how heavy it is compared to how calm it usually is, and excitement pulses through him.

Taking a page out of Dazai's book, he scrapes his teeth over his ear, sucking the lobe into his
mouth to nibble on it. When he can feel Dazai vibrating with tension, hips subtly grinding
forward, naked body radiating warmth—

He presses a smirk to his ear. "Fuck me, Daddy," he whispers.

Dazai jolts against him, his hands— which have been sweeping over his body and finding
every sensitive spot to tease and tickle until his whole body feels like one raw, electrified
nerve— turning briefly bruising on his waist.

For a second, Chuuya feels victory, feels on top—

Naturally, that's when Dazai turns the tables on him, easily taking control of the situation.

His knee gets pushed up and pinned to the side, leaving him nice and exposed as Dazai leans
back up. One-handed, he pops the cap on the lube, drizzling a generous pool of it over his
cock and thighs, uncaring that it's cold and makes him hiss in protest.

He's always enjoyed getting Chuuya as messy as possible, smearing cum and lube and saliva
over him like he's marking his territory.
"Sweetheart," Dazai hums, tossing the bottle to the side. His newly free hand swipes through
the mess, collecting it up on his fingers. "What did I say about being patient? "

"But I don’t want to wait anymore—” Chuuya starts, cutting himself off with a shocked hiss
when his hand closes around his erection, giving him a few ruthless pumps. The pace is
almost brutally fast, compared to the slow teasing from earlier.

In no time, Chuuya is writhing underneath him, hands grabbing at his thighs, the only place
on Dazai he can reach and—

While the vibrator from the other day was absolute torture, he can't say it wasn't effective.
Because getting jerked off feels good, yes, has him panting and moaning—

But after being pushed to the very brink so many times, he finds he needs a little more
sensation than this to orgasm anymore.

"I know, that's the problem," Dazai sighs, letting go of his cock without any warning and
leaving

him bereft. His fingers trail wetly downwards, swirling teasing circles over his inner thighs.

Each time his fingers come close to where Chuuya wants them, he holds his breath in
anticipation. Fruitlessly, he tries to open his legs wider, until his tendons are straining with
the effort.

He wants it, he wants it so fucking bad, is filled to the brim with a hunger that only Dazai can
sate—

"Because you’re going to have to."

Dazai makes searing eye contact, gaze dark and burning as his fingers finally find Chuuya's
entrance. He rubs lube over him, just roughly enough that Chuuya's breath is catching.

He likes being treated roughly. Likes the care too, but fuck, if the idea of Dazai losing control
with him isn't something he dreams about.

"Please," he whimpers, taking his silent cue again. If Dazai wants him to beg, he'll beg, cry
for him, whatever he wants. He'll do it all, without complaint, as long as Dazai fucks him.

For his reward, the first finger sinks inside him steadily, the slide made slick with lube. His
mouth opens on a hitched sigh, head tilting back.

Each time Dazai's inside him, it feels brand new. His body adjusts quicker the longer they do
this, so it feels better faster and it only takes a few minutes for his finger to be pumping into
him steadily.

Chuuya rocks his hips down as Dazai grinds in, increasing the force and pace.

(All the work Dazai has done over the past week, getting Chuuya used to something inside
him, either something big or for longer periods of time, is starting to pay off. His muscles
melt around him easily, letting Dazai in deeper and deeper. When he does something he likes,
his insides pulse and ripple around him in waves that make Dazai's mouth water, envisioning
it around his cock—

But he doesn't clench up anymore, doesn't fight it, and two fingers sink inside him like it's
nothing.)

The second finger comes with that aching stretch that Chuuya loves, and relaxing into it is the
easiest thing he's ever done. The pleasure builds and builds, spiking sharply whenever his
fingers slide over his prostate, and growing deeper when Dazai presses as far inside him as
he can, knuckles grinding against his rim.
Throwing his free leg around his waist, Chuuya pulls him into the next thrust, and the next,
until their hips are moving together in waves that match the movements of his hand. It's good
, has him whimpering and Dazai breathing out heavily.

The tension builds, an inferno, fed by the pleasure pumping through his veins, by the way
Dazai's erection slides against his own.

Reaching up, he pulls him down again, far enough that he can scatter kisses and sucking bites
over Dazai's neck and collarbone. "More," he mumbles, rocking his hips demandingly at the
same time that he bites down on his collarbone.

By the sharp growl and the slam of his fingers inside him, he found a sensitive spot. He sucks
on it, hard, wanting to leave his own marks on Dazai.

Wants everyone to know that Dazai is his and no one else's.

The third finger is a little more of a challenge to take in, but he manages it. It never hurts, it's
just so much pressure and fullness and heat and pleasure.

To distract himself and to return some of the mind-bending ecstasy that's currently being
showered on him, he wiggles one hand between them to wrap his fingers around Dazai's
erection.

That's almost a bad idea, because as soon as he has his hand on it, he remembers how good it
felt in his mouth, in his throat . It pulses in his grip, hot hard flesh, so tempting that Chuuya
almost forgets the game plan entirely and just jerks him off right then and there—

Of course, the way Dazai immediately zeroes in on his prostate with searing intensity that
makes tears of overstimulation prick the corners of his eyes, reminds him pretty quickly. He
focuses on the base, where Dazai likes it, short pulls that bring out muffled grunts and
breathy groans, and harder thrusts inside him.
Dazai ups the ante by wiggling in the tip of his pinkie too, and this is the farthest Chuuya’s
ever been stretched open. His thighs tremble with the strain, and a long, keening moan
escapes his throat.

Pleasure pulses through him, orchestrated by Dazai’s clever fingers, growing hotter and
higher with every moment, until Chuuya feels like he might be drowning in magma.

He’s mindless with it, rocking unconsciously onto his fingers in a desperate bid for more.
He’s more full than he’s ever been, but still, he’s starving for more, needs it in such a primal,
instinctive way that he almost feels like a feral beast.

More often than not, his hand is still on Dazai— because every time he starts to stroke him,
he curls his fingers inside him and attacks his prostate until he feels like he’s about to cry—
but Dazai’s hips are still rocking subtly into his grip.

“More,” he demands again, but it comes out breathless and needy. Dazai might as well have
his hand around his heart with how easily he makes his body sing. “Please, please, more.”

(It’s not his best begging. Dazai could make him do better but—

He’s impatient too, cock aching with need, and Chuuya is prepped. He’s been waiting for
weeks and he finds that he is just as needy as the chibi is.)

The fingers stretch out inside him one more time, prompting a choked cry at the pleasure-
ache. Then they’re sliding out, leaving him empty and unfulfilled—

But Dazai is reaching for the lube bottle again, opening it and pouring an obscene amount
into his palm. He spreads it over his cock in three quick strokes, gently nudging Chuuya’s
hand out of the way.

Then he’s shuffling down—

And he’s there, cock sliding against his entrance slickly.

Chuuya holds his breath, waiting for the first press in, waiting for it, needing it, dying for it—

It doesn’t come. Not right away, at least.

Instead, Dazai’s dry hand finds one of his and grabs him by the wrist. He pulls his hand up,
angling into a better position so his fingers can slide up, over his palm, and intertwine tightly
with his own.

He squeezes his hand, guiding it to lay on the mattress near his hand. Bracing his weight with
it, palms pressed tightly together, Dazai leans down one last time. His lips brush over his,
achingly gentle after all the rushed pleasure.

If there was a world outside of here and now, a large body pressing him into the mattress,
dark eyes setting him on fire, a cock sliding over and over against Chuuya in the most
deliciously teasing way—

He wouldn’t know it.

Dazai’s voice makes everything else fade away, dropping like a physical weight in the space
between them.

“Ask me again, baby.”

Fuck

Chuuya’s heart trips so hard it hurts, squeezing in his chest, and for a moment, his only
response is to lean his head up and capture him in an all-encompassing kiss, pouring every
emotion he’s feeling into it. It makes him breathless.

“Please,” he mumbles again, dropping his head back to the mattress when the need starts to
overpower his heart again. His eyes squeeze shut, his lungs holding onto his air.

A moment passes. Another.

Dazai’s nose brushes over his cheek, a kiss whispered over his jawline. “Open your eyes. I
want to see you,” he murmurs, the significance of those words even greater now, because he’s
heard them before—

When he first asked if he could kiss him, so long ago. The fact that they’ve come so far felt
impossible then, but inevitable now, like they were always meant to end up here, twined
together.

Like this was fate.

“I want you to watch, the first time I fuck you.”

His eyes crack open. The first moment is all dark eyes and a mop of dark hair, tousled in a
way that makes his heart clench with affection, with desire—

The second moment is pressure.

Not painful, but burning, aching, steady and relentless. His cock pushes inside him slowly,
stretching his body to what feels like it’s absolute limit, sliding inside him for the first time.

Chuuya’s eyes go half-lidded and he’s panting, every breath tinged with a moan and he’s
fighting the urge to let his eyes close, because he said he’d look, Dazai wanted him to look,
and he’s still looking at him, brown eyes locked on him with focused intensity, the only thing
he can see—
The head pops through the first ring of muscle, making him shudder with a choked noise.
He’s squeezing Dazai’s hand with all his might, it must be hurting, and his other hand is
clawing at his shoulder, leaving red marks in his wake.

Finally breaking eye contact, Dazai leans down to smear kisses all over his forehead, his
temples, anywhere he can reach. “Doing so well,” he murmurs, mixed with other soft
encouragement that Chuuya can barely hear over the roaring in his ears.

He’s given a long moment to adjust to that intrusion, and when his body starts to relax around
it, Dazai pulls back a centimeter and begins to push even deeper inside.

“God,” Chuuya chokes out, driving one heel against Dazai’s back. He’s not trying to fight
him, but it’s so much that his body is struggling to adjust, twitching and trembling and
thrashing.

With how much lube Dazai used, there’s no dry friction at all whatsoever. It’s just the
burning, aching stretch as he splits him open in the best way, slowly burying himself deeper
one centimeter at a time.

Not for the first time, he’s grateful for Dazai’s self-control. He can hear the rough breathing
above him, the low, rumbling groan in his chest, the way his cock practically throbbing with
need inside him,and he knows there’s probably nothing more he wants than to just thrust
inside—

But he remains achingly slow, rocking forward in tiny movements, waiting for his body to
adjust before continuing the relentless press inward.

Shuddering, Chuuya squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck, there’s so much, it’s so big—

There’s a smile pressed against his forehead, an amused huff. “I know it’s big, sweetheart,”
Dazai says, and too late, Chuuya realizes he must’ve said that out loud, “but you can do it.
You can take it.”
There’s a moment where he doesn’t think he actually can, when his cock is maybe halfway
inside him and his body is clenching down around him in powerful waves, unsure if it wants
to pull him deeper or push him out—

“Relax, baby,” gets murmured against his cheek, Dazai bending even farther down to brush
their lips together in an achingly soft kiss. “Just breathe. I got you.”

He does, he does, he always does, and that thought lets him relax that much further, accepting
what’s being given to him.

Eventually, Dazai’s hips come to meet his ass and he bottoms out inside him. He’s still
holding his hand and breathing compliments into his skin between soft kisses.

Chuuya, meanwhile, is spinning somewhere between searing pressure and pleasure as Dazai
throbs inside him—

And a soaring sense of victory.

Because he did it, he fucking did it, he took all of Dazai and now he can practically feel his
cock in his fucking lungs, but he did it.

He’s the one that makes Dazai’s breath hitch whenever his body clenches up instinctively,
fighting the overload of pleasure. He’s the one making his erection twitch inside him, he’s his
boyfriend.

And some day, maybe not today because he’s already struggling to hold it together when the
stretch is hitting all his weak spots, the edge of pain, of too much , just making his erection
throb harder against their stomachs, some day—

He’s gonna be the best sex Dazai has ever had, or he’s going to die trying.
Rocking his hips slightly, he tests the glide and cries out softly at the way it shifts inside him,
sliding out a few centimeters and coming back inside on a new, different angle that feels so
good, he likes that—

(Dazai has had small partners before. Prefers them, really, because he likes to press

down over them, likes to cover them entirely until their entire world is him. Only him.

But Chuuya is probably one of his smallest ones, not only in height, but also in stature. Dazai
can practically encircle his waist entirely with his hands, and yes, that is exciting, but it’s also
leading to one very persistent problem—

Dazai is going to lose his fucking mind.

Chuuya is like a vice around him, squeezing him so tight that pleasure is raking down his
thighs, and he’s not even moving . He’s searing hot too, wet, so fucking good that he must
have been made perfectly for him.There’s no other option.

The animalistic part of his brain is roaring at him, demanding he pull out and slam back in,
chasing the pleasure with one-track mindlessness, until his entire being feels wreathed in
flames he willingly burns in.

Logic says he needs to wait , because Chuuya is still relaxing around him, muscles pulsing in
shorter and shorter waves as he adjusts, and although the little siren is starting to wiggle his
hips testingly— making Dazai’s jaw clenched as he fights for self-control— he’s not ready .

Drawn thin by the opposing needs, Dazai rests his forehead on the bed near Chuuya’s head.
He’s careful not to grip his hand too tightly, but his other hand is fisted in the sheets, nails
digging in until he’s half-certain the fabric is being shredded under his grip.

His mind has gone blank, spinning wildly between fuck him, fuck him, I have to fuck him,
need to, feels so good and—
Don’t you dare fucking move. Not yet.

It’s all made worse by the way Chuuya has started to bite and suck over his collarbone,
finding every little sensitive spot and marking it up while making content little hums, and
thank god that the distraction is letting him loosen up more, just enough for Dazai to—)

“Ready?” Dazai’s voice is a heady thing, dark and rumbling, and the hoarse edge of it goes
straight to Chuuya’s cock.

He considers it for a moment, because he’s not actually sure— Dazai still feels massive inside
him, filling him all the way up to the brim and then some, but that might also just be normal,
considering how big he is? Besides, while the ache is still there the burn has faded away
almost entirely. When he moves his own hips, it feels a little shocking, but not bad, so—

He can always tell Dazai no if he realizes he’s not ready, and once again, that subtle
reassurance that he could back out at any moment without any repercussions and Dazai
would listen to him, it makes him bold, makes him take the plunge off the edge and free fall,
pushing his own limits.

“Yes,” he says, scraping his teeth over the sharp edge of his collarbone.

Dazai’s chest expands on a bigger breath—

The first thrust is life-changing.

Calling it a thrust might be overselling it a little, because Dazai’s hips just roll forward, in a
slow, shallow grind forward that somehow gets him even deeper inside—

But still, Chuuya experiences for the first time, something hot and hard moving inside him,
dragging along every one of his nerve endings, hears the hitched, pleased breath Dazai gives
at the friction, and—

Oh, it’s good. So good.

Nothing less than he expected, because Dazai has blown his mind every time he got his hands
on him, but expecting and feeling it are two very different things.

Finally, when Dazai’s hips are pressed against him as hard as they can, that sense of
devouring hunger in the pit of Chuuya’s stomach feels sated.

His moan is more of a breathy exhale, eyes fluttering shut. Arching up, he meets the next
grind forward, increasing the force.

When Dazai straightens up, taking his weight off him, Chuuya makes a disgruntled noise in
disappointment. He likes being squished beneath him, liked being pinned with his body
weight and feeling him move and breathe against him.

“Shush, baby,” Dazai says, low, “I’m not going anywhere. I just want to see you.”

Fire bursts into Chuuya’s stomach, fueled by the idea of being watched . Of being pretty.

He nods, tightening his leg around his hip on the next rock in, throwing his head back as the
head of his cock grinds against his prostate unrelentingly. And really, he’s so big that having
his prostate abused is unavoidable.

When he looks back down, eyes half-lidded, does have to admit that the visual is almost as
good as the physical sensations itself because—

Dazai’s hair, sticking up wildly from the way he was running his fingers through it. Eyes
intent, focused, half-lidded with pleasure and a smoldering gaze like a physical brand on
Chuuya's skin. Face flushed, cheeks pink, lips bitten red and swollen. Abs working in
rhythmic waves, glistening with sweat.

Yeah, the sight is just as good as the sensations. It heightens everything, because not only can
he feel the way Dazai is moving against him, he can see it, can see the effects of it.

Then he pulls out a little, farther than before and thrusts back in faster, harder. It knocks the
breath out of him on a choked moan, eyes widening as the pleasure suddenly spikes, swirling
tightly through him. Oh god, he liked that, wants more of that.

"Good?" Dazai growls, eyes pools of darkness in the low lighting. He returns to the shallow
grinding from before. His free hand— the one not holding Chuuya's — has found his hip and
is tilting him upward for a better angle. It makes the head of his cock lodge against his
prostate and stay there, practically milking him as he grinds forward in small circles, until
Chuuya is

seeing stars.

"Yeah," he moans in response, gripping onto Dazai's hand with all his strength.The small
squeeze he gets in return is heart-warming, shouldn't be because he's currently getting fucked
into oblivion but—

Here he is, torn between affection and desire.

"Again," he asks, breathlessly, hooking his leg higher around his waist because it furthers the
stretch, letting Dazai get even deeper inside him, until there's no part of him that doesn't feel
owned by him. "More, please— I need it."

Eyes flashing, Dazai gives him a wicked grin. "I know what you need," he purrs, pulling out
farther than before, hovering at the end of his thrust until Chuuya opens his mouth to
complain about feeling empty—

Which was his plan, apparently, because as soon as he starts to say anything, he drives back
in with near- ruthless intensity, hips slapping lightly against his ass. His words turn into loud,
desperate moaning, shuddering at the pleasure.

It's not the hardest Dazai can go— Chuuya can feel the restraint in his body, the bruising grip
on his hip a sign of his self-control— but the steady, deep pace he sets up easily is enough to
drive him insane.

There's something much more viscerally satisfying about being fucked . Not only because it's
so much better than anything else he's ever felt— a ball of heat like the sun centering in his
stomach and growing bigger with every thrust inside him— but also because he can feel how
affected Dazai is by it too. He's groaning deep in his chest, head tilting back like he's getting
lost in Chuuya, cock throbbing and growing impossibly harder inside him.

He wants to see him lose it. Wants to see him wild.

He starts rocking his hips down into his thrusts, eyes rolling back at the mind-bending
pleasure. It's building like symphonies inside him, building to a crescendo, faster and harder
and louder .

Thought dissolves, leaving him a mindless inferno of need, writhing so desperately

underneath him that Dazai has to pin him again with a noise that borders on a snarl.

He picks up speed, pulling out a little more just to slam back in, earth-shattering thrusts that
break Chuuya open, filling him to the brim with wild-fire ecstasy that is too much to bear but
—

He has to take it. Is pinned beneath Dazai as he pushes him higher, fucks him harder , driving
him to the edge with a relentless, animalistic ferocity. He cries for it, head tilted back so far
that it almost hurts, meeting his thrusts as best he can with how spread open he is.

"God, you're so fucking good," Dazai groans out, the hand on his hip sliding up to find one of
his nipples and twisting it, a point of pleasure-pain that makes him shudder, mouth opening.
"Take it like you were made for me," he continues, and if the pleasure weren't enough to have
him losing his mind— and it is, god, it is— his voice would do it, deep and rough and soaked
with possession. " Mine to fuck, mine to fill, mine, mine, mine."

Yes, yes, he's right, Chuuya is his, he belongs to him, wants nothing more, yes, yes, good, so
fucking good—

The next thrust is nearly brutal, ramming so hard into his prostate that it makes him choke
with shock. His leg squeezes his waist weakly,and when Dazai does it again, aiming for that
spot with single-minded determination—

He's not going to last. It's too much, and even if Dazai hasn't touched his erection once since
the beginning, this is good enough on it's own. The intermittent brushes against their
stomachs is more than enough, flinging him higher and higher until the air feels too thin to
breathe.

"I'm—” he starts, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, like that might help him gather any
thoughts past the rapture roaring through his veins, "I'm gonna—”

He gets cut off by another choked moan as Dazai slams in and stays there, forcing his body to
accept all of him. As always, his aim is criminally on point,and his prostate gets abused

"You're what, Chuuya?"

Fuck , the pet names were bad enough, but his name, his fucking name , rolling off his tongue
like sin and wine, sends a thrill flashing down his spine. So hot he doesn't even think before
opening his mouth again—

"Gonna come," he pants, squirming. Pleasure like this is good, in a deeper way, crawling into
his very heart.
Dazai's smile is feral, pleased, full of sharp teeth and possession. "Yeah," he agrees, voice
like warm silk, "You are. But first, I want you to do something."

Hesitating is not something that even occurs to him, nodding and nodding. He'll do anything,
he swears, anything for the jackhammer-pleasure being shoved into him just a little longer.

Squeezing his hand, Dazai leans down, until his breath washes hot over his ear. Chuuya
arches up to meet him, shivering at the press of their skin together. The places where their
bodies meet is messy with sweat and lube, but each slick slide feels so good.

Pulling out slowly and hovering there, teasing, Dazai murmurs, "Say my name."

Without a second thought, a whispered “Dazai” is escaping his lips, voice made rough and
hazy from his moaning. He squeezes his hand at the same time, an acknowledgment of their
connection, and his heel is planted in Dazai’s back, trying to get him to move.

He feels empty without him buried to the hilt inside him, is starting to slowly cool down now
that the march of relentless pleasure has paused. It’s frustrating, makes him needy, makes him
want to cry—

“No,” Dazai mutters into his ear, hips flexing to give him an inch and then back out again, a
tease, a temptation. “That’s not what I want. My name , Chuuya. You know what it is.”

He does, he just hasn’t said it before and it’s surprisingly hard to gather the syllables in his
mouth, tasting the weight and the meaning of them in his mouth—

“I want to hear you say it.”

It feels right to say it for the first time when they’re as close as they can get, when Chuuya is
strung out on the emotional high and physical pleasure. Feels right when Dazai hasn’t let go
of his hand this entire time.
“Osamu,” he whimpers, tightening his leg around him, trying to drag him in—

He doesn’t need to, because as soon as Dazai registers the sound, as soon as he understands,
breath hitching—

His hips are snapping forward again, filling him so quickly Chuuya can only go wide-eyed in
shock. Pulling out just to slam back in again, setting a pace that is fast and hard and pointed,
dragging him out to sea to drown in ecstasy.

With their height difference, they can’t really kiss like this, especially for long, but Dazai
sneaks one in. It’s quick, filled with desperation and the sound of moans.

“Say it again.”

“Osamu.” Tilting his hips up to get that much better of an angle, crying out when the head of
Dazai’s cock slams into his prostate on every thrust in, drags over it on the slide out, a
constant stream of sensation that’s breaking him apart.

“Again.”

“Osamu—,” Building up , reaching the peak where everything blurs together into searing,
white-hot ecstasy, melting him down into base need, a raw animal, strung thin and drawing
tight under the tension, so close—

“Again.”

“Osamu—!”
When the tension snaps, it’s like a breaking of a dam. For a second, it’s just silence,
everything going still—

And then comes the flood, pouring over him from head to toe. Drenching him in sparkling,
liquid-fire pleasure until even his toes are tingling, so good he can barely breathe around the
weight of it. All he can do is ride it out, jerking under Dazai with each wave, clinging onto
him with what little strength he has as Dazai pushes him higher, hips moving without pause.

“Should I come inside you or on you, mark you up until everyone knows you’re mine?”

It doesn’t sound like a question, growled into his ear, but it’s phrased like one, and Chuuya
only has one answer—

Wrapping his leg tighter, squeezing his hand, raking the nails of his other hand over his back
and shoulder as Dazai speeds up—

“Inside me, please— want it.”

The next thrust is brutal, making Chuuya cry out a strangled version of his name as pleasure
turns into over-sensitivity, turns into burning, electric sensation.

Saying his name just makes him slam into him harder , and for the next minute, all Chuuya
can do is hold on for dear life with choked, high-pitched keens, nails digging into his
shoulder as Dazai fucks him like he’s trying to break him—

Teeth find his shoulder, sinking in near-painfully. “Chuuya,” gets smothered into his skin, a
rough groan that makes his body clench in reaction—

With one last pump of his hips, he buries himself as deeply as he can get, staying there.
There’s another groan, this one mangled and incomprehensible as Dazai’s orgasm hits him.
Making Dazai come in any sense is satisfying, but this is Chuuya’s favorite way yet. He can
feel twitching, the wet burst of warmth as he spills inside him, hot and sticky. It’s much better
than him cumming on his face or his ass like he did before, because this fills him with a raw,
primal satisfaction, like he won.

He did it. He did it.

He also wants to do it again . Like right now.

Maybe all night, even. Their flight isn’t until early afternoon tomorrow, that’s at least twelve
hours that they can get in as many orgasms as physically possible—

His world spins abruptly, Dazai quickly reversing their positions so that Chuuya is

sprawled over his chest instead of crushed under him. The movement makes his softening
cock slip out of him, and the resulting spill of warm cum sliding down his inner thighs is
weird but also...

Kind of soothing? Satisfying, but now that his body is starting to cool down entirely, the ache
is beginning to set in. Nothing too terrible yet, but his thighs feel overworked and weak from
the strain. His ass is beginning to burn, and there's a deep-set ache building at the base of his
spine and in his lower back.

On second thought— if he's already starting to get sore, only a handful of minutes after it
ended— nothing else is happening tonight. He smothers a pout into Dazai's chest, stretching
out until he finds the most comfortable position.

Fingers— from Dazai's clean hand, thankfully— stroke through his hair, pulling it out of his
face. "How do you feel?"

Chuuya considers that for a moment. Nothing bad, nothing urgent or debilitating— but now
he's slightly worried about their flight in the morning because—
How is he supposed to sit down? Even laying down like this, just breathing makes quiet
pangs of pain arch through him.

Suddenly, he's grateful that Dazai has been working him up to this for weeks, because if he
had gone from a complete virgin to taking that massive dick, he might not have survived.

Worth it, though.

"Good," he murmurs, tucking his nose into Dazai's neck. It's true, he does feel good, the
pleasant limpness that accompanies a really good orgasm coursing through him. "I'm gonna
be sore as hell though."

(Dazai really tries not to feel too smug about that, but—

He's just a man, you know, and he likes seeing the after-effects of sex on his partners. Like
bruises and bitemarks and soreness, especially when he wasn't even going that hard to begin
with.

Makes some primal, instinctual part of him preen with satisfaction that Chuuya will feel him
for hours.)

"I'm sorry," he says, his other hand finding Chuuya's lower back. Slick fingers dig into his
muscles, massaging away some of the growing aches with firm strokes.

Sighing, Chuuya relaxes into it. "You don't sound sorry," he grumbles teasingly. Dazai
sounded like he was trying to cover up pride, like trying to hide a smile but not quite
managing it.

"Well..." he draws out, snickering when Chuuya smacks at his ribs with a mock-offended
growl.
They spend a few minutes like that, sprawled against each other and soaking up skin contact
with lazy indulgence.

Eventually, the sweat and other fluid drying on their skin starts to get gross and
uncomfortable. It makes their bodies stick together in odd places.

"We should shower," Dazai sighs again, digging his fingers into a spot just above Chuuya's
tailbone that makes him melt into the pressure.

"Okay," he agrees easily, sliding his hands over Dazai's shoulders. "Come in with me?"

It's a pointed question and maybe he's playing dirty by using their newfound relationship and
his muscle aches to his advantage—

But he's not sure he can actually stand by himself right now, and now that they're boyfriends,
and had just had sex—

Maybe Dazai's whole 'you can't see me naked' thing doesn't count anymore. Technically, he's
already naked, save for the bandages— which are loose now— around his chest.

There's something incredibly tempting about the thought of showering with his boyfriend,
and he wants it, so bad.

He doesn't know what Dazai is so wary of because the man is absurdly attractive, from the tip
of his wild hair to his well-cut abs to his dick to his thick thighs. The only thing Chuuya can
think of that he'd be nervous over would be the scars on his wrist.

That's nothing to be embarrassed over. It's sad, but that doesn't mean he has to hide. Chuuya
wishes he had the right words to say to reassure him that he doesn't have to keep himself
covered up because Chuuya won't judge him or make him feel bad, or anything.
But he's always been bad at words,so all he can do is keep asking, with that gentle, pleading
tone in his voice and hope that one day, Dazai trusts him enough.

It's silent for long enough that Chuuya is beginning to silently resign himself to a sponge
bath. Even his fingers have stilled, tangled in his hair and spread out over his lower back.

"Okay," Dazai finally agrees, his voice oddly quiet and subdued. "But you can't ask
questions."

Chuuya can do that. If that's what makes him comfortable, he'll keep his mouth shut and not
ask a single question about...

Whatever Dazai is nervous about him seeing.

He can be quiet.

Nodding, he confirms without hesitating, hoping his quick response will help to put him at
ease. "I won't."

Some part of Dazai, one he hadn't even realized had begun to tense, relaxes. He turns his
head, pressing a kiss onto the top of his head. Chuuya pushes into him with a small smile,
accepting the affection easily.

Moving to the bathroom is a slow process. Dazai does end up carrying him, but the hard
counter under Chuuya's ass makes him hiss in discomfort, shifting awkwardly.

Dazai turns away to turn on the shower, but Chuuya can see the smug little smirk he has on
his face.

(Is Dazai stalling by making sure the shower is turned to the exact right temperature, pointed
in the right direction and that all the soaps are within easy reach? Yes.
Would he ever admit to it? No.

But fuck, this is harder than he thought it would be, especially now that he's gotten attached .
Maybe he should've told him earlier, or maybe they should be having an actual conversation
instead of a silent reveal of his years-old tattoos but—

How are you supposed to have that conversation?

'Hey, I used to kill people as much job, and torture them for a sick thrill! Hope that's okay
with you.'?

'When I was your age, I was already on Japan's most wanted list.'?

How?

And Chuuya deserves to know, and Dazai does want to tell him, some day, if their
relationship is still going—

But for once in his life, his tongue is thick and his mouth, and his stomach is turning at the
thought of the trusting, soft look in those baby blue eyes he adores turning into hatred or
disgust—

Or even worse, fear.

He would be right to feel that way, and Dazai wouldn't ever blame him for it, but that doesn't
mean the thought doesn't make him feel vaguely sick.

He has to brace himself to start unwrapping the bandages around his chest.)
Watching Dazai undo the bandages around his chest is... an interesting thing.

From a purely aesthetic standpoint, watching the muscles in his back and shoulders flex as he
unwinds the fabric is attractive, and it's made even better by the fact that his ass is right there,
round and biteable.

But it also feels like a sacred moment, like something Chuuya isn't supposed to be watching?
Something that's meant to be private, but he's intruding on it.

After a moment, he ends up looking away to give him some privacy, finger-combing through
his hair to get rid of the worst tangles. He should wash it, but he's getting tired and he'll have
to shower after their flight tomorrow anyways, so he'll just do it then. Using the hair tie on his
wrist, he secures it in a bun on the top of his head to keep it out of the water.

Steam is filling the room, suffusing the space with warmth. Assumingly the hotel doesn't
have limited hot water, but he's cold, so he wants to get in as soon as possible. He moves to
hop down, bracing himself to land—

Then Dazai is turning around and finally Chuuya sees why he wanted to hide.

Oh.

There,on the left side of his chest and following the curve of his shoulder up and down part
of his arm are—

Tattoos.

Koi fish, most notably, swirling around each other and tangled up with strands of cherry
blossom branches. The entire piece is done in reds and blues, and it was probably once vivid
and brilliant at one point—
It still looks good, but it's faded now, like he's had it for years.

The sight of it gives Chuuya a bit of a pause. Because tattoos are becoming more accepted in
this day and age, especially with the influx of tourism and globalism, but that's typically in
Chuuya's generation. Not Dazai's.

In that generation, typically the only people who had tattoos were—

Yakuza.

Vaguely, he remembers that koi fish were typical symbols in Yakuza imagery. Same thing
with cherry blossoms. They meant preserving through hard times and the fleetingness of life,
or something like that. He remembers the blue koi fish meant something special, but he
doesn't remember what.

Now he wishes he had spent more time paying attention during that history lesson because...

Is he part of the Yakuza? Or was, at some point?

There are some parts of his life that don't add up, admittedly. The security company Chuuya
still doesn't know the name of, the fact that he hasn't actually seen him do any work or any
mention of it. The highly trained guard dogs.

But—

Why would a Yakuza member want to be involved with him? He's just an ordinary college
student. He's not even that smart, for fucks sake.
And sure, there are moments when Dazai is scary but anyone can be scary if they really want
to be, especially when you're as tall as Dazai is.

Besides, would a ruthless criminal spend weeks building him up to sex? Would a criminal be
so nice to him? Make him feel safe and secure? Agree to be the boyfriend of an ordinary
college student?

Why would he do any of that, if he was dangerous? It doesn't make sense. Chuuya's pretty
sure that the M.O of the Yakuza is to leave people worse off than when you found them.

And Chuuya can say, without a single doubt, that his life is better with Dazai in it.

So... maybe there's a different explanation. He shouldn't just jump to conclusions— because
he's already shown he has a bad record of assuming things that turned out to be wrong— and
he should actually ask Dazai about it before he starts freaking out or anything like that.

Not today though. He can see the way Dazai's chest is tense with worry, and he already
agreed not to ask questions today. Waiting a few extra days or even weeks, won't hurt, right?

(It will. It definitely will, but neither of them know that yet.)

So instead of letting the questions on the tip of his tongue escape, he just smiles at him and
silently raises his arms so he can be brought into the shower.

Dazai's slight smile, lopsided and with just a hint of the dimple Chuuya adores, makes it
worth the wait.

His knees are still weak, so he spends most of the shower leaning up against Dazai and
soaking up the heat on his sore muscles. Dazai washes him from head to toe with a quiet,
dedicated care that makes Chuuya feel cherished. Makes his heart feel three sizes too big for
his chest, and his cheeks hurt from smiling.
And when he steals the washcloth from him and in turn, washes Dazai's forearms and chest,
and the other tattoos that were previously hidden under a thick layer of foundation come into
view...

He doesn't ask questions about those either. He brushes his fingers over the empty eyes of the
red and black dragon inked on his forearm, but he doesn't ask.

"They're beautiful," he says instead, quiet under the roar of the shower. They are, they're
elegant and graceful and ripple with the movements of his forearms—

But they also look sad almost. Especially the dragon, which looks half-finished with it's
empty eyes and only half-colored in.

(Dazai wishes that comment didn't mean so much to him because—

They aren't beautiful. They are marks of pain and blood and terror. Physical remnants of the
worst years of Dazai's life, ones he can't scrub away or escape.

He doesn't deserve to escape them.

Part of him wants to peel away whatever thoughts Chuuya has come to on them and show
him what they really mean, who Dazai really is but—

He just wants to savor this, for a little longer. He wants to feel beautiful and accepted, just for
a little longer.)

When they're washed off and clean, Dazai drags him into his arms and presses him against
the shower wall and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, until Chuuya's entire world is
the water raining down on them and the taste of Dazai on his tongue.
 What Goes Up Must Come Down
Chapter Summary

This time, they're one of the last ones on the plane, and Dazai barely gets their bags in
the overhead compartment before the steward is calling their attention to the front for a
safety briefing.

"So," Dazai asks, sitting in the aisle seat. Even with the extra room, his long legs still
look cramped. "Still interested in joining the mile high club?"

Chuuya blinks, a little startled. He'd nearly forgotten about that entirely. "Sure," he says,
unsure of what to expect but not backing out.

Dazai's smile is secretive. "Alright. Then, when the seatbelt sign goes off, go into the
bathroom and wait for me. I'll knock five times."

Chapter Notes

I won't lie, the second part of the chapter is real mean to you guys, especially after the
first part but :/ Life comes at you fast. Good luck. As always, thank you all for tuning in
today!!! I hope you enjoy the chapter, and just know there's a big soft one coming up
next <3 BH still has a bit to go, and we'll see Yoko again soon!! <3 See you next week
<3

This chapter includes:

- knocking
- a cage
- a contact photo

Chuuya was right. He is sore in the morning. Nothing debilitating and he can walk, but it's
just pressing enough that there's a constant, slightly uncomfortable ache that twinges every
time he takes a step.

It eases once he's able to do some stretches and eases even more when he gets moving, but
he's once again struck with gratefulness that Dazai worked him up to sex instead of just
fucking him the first time he asked because he probably would've needed a damn wheelchair
after that.
As it is, he has a constant slight limp that makes him grumpy and irritable when people shoot
concerned looks at him. It also makes him a little grumpy with Dazai for looking so damn
smug about it—

So he makes him carry all of his stuff in petty revenge. Not that Dazai ever complains or
even blinks when Chuuya asks but—

He's limping because of him, so it's only fair.

This time, they're one of the last ones on the plane, and Dazai barely gets their bags in the
overhead compartment before the steward is calling their attention to the front for a safety
briefing.

"So," Dazai asks, sitting in the aisle seat. Even with the extra room, his long legs still look
cramped. "Still interested in joining the mile high club?"

Chuuya blinks, a little startled. He'd nearly forgotten about that entirely. "Sure," he says,
unsure of what to expect but not backing out.

Dazai's smile is secretive. "Alright. Then, when the seatbelt sign goes off, go into the
bathroom and wait for me. I'll knock five times."

Why do they have to go into the bathroom? Aren't those gross? Why can't they just do it out
here, whatever it is?

He shoots him a confused look, silently begging him to explain, but Dazai just opens up a
magazine and browses it idly, ignoring him. Jerk.

Takeoff is less exciting than the first time, and the added pressure on his body makes him
wiggle uncomfortably in his seat.
Once they climb to cruising height, the seatbelt light is turned off with a quiet ding!. Chuuya
hesitates, wondering if he should wait for a moment before going but Dazai waves him on
with his magazine, moving his legs to give him space.

And, well—

Chuuya is not a coward, so he goes.

The bathroom is at the front of the plane, near the little room the plane stewards get, and the
cockpit with the pilots. He slides in, locking the door after him.

It's roomier than he expected, and it's spotlessly clean, so at least there's that. One of his
friends from high school had told him horror stories about plane bathrooms, but it seems that
doesn't apply to the first class section of the plane. Even the mirror is spotless. It even smells
like faint lemon cleaner—

Five quiet knocks on the door, one right after the other.

Heartrate spiking and excitement beginning to pulse through him— because this feels
dangerous, like they're doing something they're not supposed to— he unlocks the door and
pushes it open an inch.

He's not sure what he's expecting, maybe for Dazai to pull him out or give him some sort o
instructions but—

He's not expecting Dazai to push open the door, sliding inside and locking the door in one
smooth movement and then—

And then he's on him, hands cupping his face and dragging him up into a brutal, frenetic kiss,
all tongue and teeth and lips sliding over his with a desperate, frantic sort of energy that
Chuuya hasn't felt before.

All things considered, Dazai has always been rather careful with him, especially as they
warm up together, so the feeling of being kissed like they don't have time , like the only thing
Dazai can think of is kissing him harder, faster, deeper as he turns them around to pin him up
against the door—

It has him breathless , flinging his arms around his neck to hold onto him tightly, kissing him
back as best he can, trying to keep up—

It's only when Dazai's hands slide down, hooking in the waistband of his jeans and tugging on
them as he pops the button, that Chuuya begins to understand.

"It's sex?" He hisses, unreasonably offended, "The mile high club is sex in an airplane?!"

"Yeah," Dazai says breathlessly against his lips, a smile in his voice, roguishly charming.
"You in?"

And—

If Dazai had told him even minutes ago, before he had come in here or before he had kissed
him—

The answer would have been a firm no. No hesitation. Just no. Absolutely not.

But now? After being kissed like that, with Dazai's boyish, mischievous smile pressed
against his lips, with long fingers yanking his waistband down and brushing over his rapidly-
hardening cock?

How is he supposed to tell that face no? Especially knowing how good it feels?
"Hurry up, baby," Dazai says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, travel-sized
bottle of lube and shaking it at him teasingly, "We're running on limited time here."

God, okay, this has got to be the craziest thing Chuuya has ever done, but—

"Hurry up then," he hisses, shoving his hand into Dazai's pants to wrap about his cock in a
petty act of getting even. If he's going to be driven crazy, then he's not going to be the only
one.

Of course, the upper hand he has on the situation lasts about thirsty seconds.

Flashing him a cocky grin, Dazai spins him around. His pants get yanked down, just far
enough for Dazai to have access to his ass and then lube-slick fingers are pressing against his
entrance.

Hissing lightly at the friction, Chuuya leans his forehead against the door and focuses on his
breathing. It doesn't hurt too much, and the pleasurable friction of his jeans against his
erection is helping, but he's not even sure if he can do this—

Teeth find the curve of his shoulder, biting into one of his favorite spots at the same time the
top of Dazai's finger slips inside him and it's good.

The stretch burns more than it has ever before, but not painful. The ache is offset by the way
Dazai is marking up his neck and shoulders over his shirt with single-minded ferocity,
sinking his teeth in and sucking until he's shuddering in reaction. His other hand is sliding
around to his front, dipping into his waistband to find his erection.

The way his hand wraps around it, focusing on the tip, makes it clear he's trying to get
Chuuya to come as quickly as possible.
Then his fingers— two now— find his prostate and zero in on it, massaging it until a choked
moan is falling from his lips.

Dazai slides up, pressing his cheek against Chuuya's jaw. He's hot and heavy and hard behind
him, covering him completely, pressing him up against the door and enveloping him.

"Shh," he whispers into his ear, breath hot, "You have to be quiet, or everyone's going to
know."

How the hell is he supposed to be quiet when Dazai is jacking him off in short, messy strokes
over the head and his fingers are knuckle deep inside him and milking his prostate until
mind-numbing pleasure is overcoming the burning ache?

Blinking open his eyes— when did he close them? — he goes to tell him that he's trying—

But then his eyes snag on the sight of them in the mirror, and his mind spins away from him.

Dazai is enveloping him completely, huge and dark behind him. He can see his wrist working
and feel the way his fingers are pumping into him. In front of him, nearly covered by the
baggy shirt Chuuya is wearing, he can catch glimpses of his fist working over him, pushing
liquid pleasure into his veins.

From this angle, he can't see Dazai's face, but he can see his own and—

He looks slutty. Eyes half-lidded, dark in his face. There's a rising blush on his cheeks, sliding
down his face. His lips are bitten red and half-open with gasps, tiny moans pushed out of him
with the sharp movements of Dazai's wrists.

Letting himself get fingered in an airplane bathroom, not even a whole day after losing his
virginity. It’s dirty , ratcheting up the stakes even higher.
The burning pleasure-pain is overwhelming. Every time Dazai pushes his fingers deeper or
stretches him farther it hurts, but the twin sensations of his prostate being assaulted and his
erection being ruthlessly stroked is overriding it, mixing into this intoxicating feeling that
fills him up completely, until he can't do anything else except go limp against the door and
take it.

They should stop. He knows that but the thing that comes out of his mouth is—

"More."

(Dazai had reasonably decent intentions, he swears.

Was it a bit of a mean trick not to tell Chuuya what the mile high club was? Yeah, probably,
but he never claimed to be a nice man.

And he intended to get Chuuya to come as quickly as possible with just his fingers and hands,
because they only have about twenty minutes max, and Dazai likes to spend at least that
amount of time on foreplay. They're both used to that, and it's probably the main reason
Chuuya can take him as well as he can, because he's half out of his mind with lust and need
by the time Dazai even pulls his cock out of his pants.

But how is he supposed to tell him no? How is he supposed to deny him when he's all pink-
faced and hard for him, desperately rocking back onto his fingers and clenching up around
him in deliciously tempting waves, when he's being so pretty and good and quiet for him?

How is he supposed to tell that face no?)

"Fuck," Dazai hisses into his ear, making him shudder. He sounds undone, even though he
hasn't gotten any direct attention since Chuuya stuck his hands down his pants earlier.

Still, his crotch is grinding against Chuuya's ass, and he can feel how hard he is, practically
throbbing even through the material of his jeans and he wants it.
Might die without it, actually, wants nothing more than to be impaled on Dazai's cock all the
time, drenched in pleasure and sin and decadence. Really, now that Chuuya's been fucked
once, he could totally see himself getting addicted to it. Sign him up for one of those sex
addicts anonymous meetings.

"Okay, okay," Dazai mutters, taking the hand off his erection and sliding it between them
instead.

Chuuya practically purrs when he feels his belt buckle being undone, rocking back on the
three fingers inside him with a sense of satisfying urgency. How Dazai manages to do
everything one-handed while still fingering him with near-expert accuracy until Chuuya feels
strung thin and needy, he’ll never know but he does appreciate it.

When the head of Dazai's cock slides slickly over his ass, he shudders, arching back into him.
Yes, yes, he wants it, needs it—

Dazai switches hands, using his lube-covered hand to guide himself into position. His
mostly-clean one comes up, fingers finding the line of his jaw.

His palm covers his mouth entirely, locking his jaw shut with strong fingers. His hand is big
enough to cover nearly the entire lower half of his face, working well as a make-shift gag to
keep him quiet as he begins the long, agonizingly slow push in.

Chuuya claws at his forearm, overstimulated tears welling up and spilling down his face
because it's so much. Big and wide, splitting him open in a way that borders between pain
and pleasure. The anticipation is racking up, building like a storm in his chest because he
knows how good it feels to be fucked, hard and fast, and he wants it so bad, and the edge of
overworked pain just makes it easier to fall into the oncoming storm.

Dazai works himself inside with a series of short, shallow thrusts, pushing in centimeters at a
time and then pulling out before his body can protest too much. It gives him a taste of what's
to come, and lets the sore ache slowly fade into background noise.
Dazai hisses when his body clenches down on a particularly hard wave, fingers tightening on
his face. "Take it," he mutters, low and forceful, seeping into his bloodstream like a drug,
"You can do it, sweetheart. You did it before."

He can do it, the ache is fading away with every thrust, and as soon as Dazai finds his
prostate, he's grinding against it in quick, focused rocks of his hips, driving him up the wall
so quickly it's almost shocking.

Something about the frantic pace of this, of the desperation and the knowledge that there's
other people just a few meters away, unknowingly going about their day as they fuck,
dangerous and fast, only behind a slim door away—

It makes it better, makes it harder to resist as Dazai starts to set up a quick, shallow pace that
focuses on his prostate. The door is lightly rattling from the force, and Chuuya's hands are
clawing down it, desperate to hold on as he climbs higher and higher—

Knock, knock!

Dazai yanks him away from the door, pulling him back to lean against his chest instead of the
door—

But the action makes his cock sink deeper inside him, glancing hard off his prostate and
feeling so deep he might as well be in his fucking lungs, and Chuuya can't help the strangled
whine that escapes him.

The hand on his face tightens, muffling his voice. Dazai uses his grip to tilt his head to the
side, and hot breath washes over his ear and down his neck.

"Be quiet," Dazai tells him— no, orders, the command in his voice all-encompassing and
impossible not to obey, infinitely exciting in how easily he slips into dominance, like it's a
second skin for him.
Teeth catch at his ear, scraping harshly, and he can feel the way his lips are curving into a
sadistic smirk. "Unless you want them to know you're being fucked like a needy slut in
here?"

Fuck, fuck—

Before Chuuya can even shake his head in denial, Dazai is raising his voice and answering
the person on the other side. "It's occupied."

The way he can sound so unaffected, even when he's still rocking into him and his cock is
throbbing inside him is so unfair—

And also ridiculously attractive.

"Are you alright, sir? You've been in there for quite a while."

Chuuya's eyes widen. He recognizes that voice; it's one of the plane stewardesses, one that
gave Dazai a flirty smile when they boarded the plane. And if she works for the airlines, that
must mean—

She probably has a key to unlock the bathroom. Oh, god.

She could do it, open the door right now and reveal them both. Dazai is hidden behind him,
but Chuuya is perfectly exposed, his pants trapped around his thighs and his dick bobbing in
the air.

(If he was thinking logically, he would realize that her opening the door with someone
already admitting to being in here would cause more problems than it's worth but—

He's not thinking logically. He's spinning between panic that they're about to be caught and
he's about to get a label on his permanent record as a sex offender—
And shame, because Dazai isn't stopping and it feels so fucking good, and he's still climbing
to the peak of ecstasy with an innocent person literally a meter away.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—.)

"Oh, I'm perfect," Dazai sighs, sounding perfectly composed even as he's nudging Chuuya
into propping up his foot against the sink to give him a better angle. "Flights are just so hard
for me, you know?" Literally, he's rock fucking hard inside him— "I just get so nervous. I get
nauseous."

There's a long silence on the other side of the door, one that Dazai takes advantage of by
widening his stance so he can fuck deeper inside him. Chuuya is frantically trying to control
his breathing so he doesn't give them away, but it's so hard when his orgasm is creeping up
on him, coiling tightly in his stomach.

This time, when she speaks, there's a hint of cajoling underneath her professional tone. "Can I
bring you anything to help? We have ginger ale for your stomach."

No, no, please no—

"No, that's okay," Dazai says leaning down until he's speaking next to his ear again. His next
words are spoken loudly enough for the stewardess to hear, but they're clearly meant for him:

"I have everything I need right here."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he starts rocking back against him, bettering the angle until each
thrust feels like it breathes fire into him. He's close. Based on the way Dazai is twitching
inside him, and his rhythm is starting to fall apart, he probably is too.
"Alright. If you change your mind, let me know. We'll start descending soon, so you'll get
some relief soon."

Dazai laughs, low and sweet and rumbling. "Yeah, I will."

The innuendo makes Chuuya's face burn,but he's reaching for the edge, so close he can
almost taste it.

Outside, there's the slight rustle and the quiet click of the stewardess moving away.
Hopefully she's going away, to the back of the plane and out of hearing range.

As soon as she seems to be out of range, Dazai is picking up speed, essentially bouncing him
on his cock using the strength of his arms alone. Chuuya didn't think being manhandled was a
turn on of his, but the feeling of being moved up and down with one arm as he slams up into
him is hot.

Or maybe that's just because he's getting dizzy with the lack of air. With the way Dazai is
covering his mouth, it makes it hard to draw in enough air through his nose, and he's starting
to feel lightheaded. Not in a way that makes him feel like he needs to tell Dazai to stop but
—

One that makes his orgasm approach in leaps and bounds, overwhelming him with the
growing tension.

"You should hurry up," Dazai tells him, placing a gentle kiss onto his cheek in aching
opposition to the way his hips are moving in short, hard bursts, "You're running out of time,
and if you don't come before I do— you won't come at all."

His responding keen is muffled, and he's trying to be pliant and limp for him, but his foot
keeps kicking out, trying in vain to brace himself as the tension nears the breaking point.
(It's an empty threat, Dazai wouldn't leave him hanging after a scene like this, but the way he
gets so desperate, wiggling harder in his arms and arching himself to the best angle for the
most pleasure—

It's cute.

Sometimes the best rules are imaginary ones.)

The plane jolts a little, dropping down a few feet more before levelling out. The added
pressure makes Chuuya sink that much farther onto Dazai's cock, and the swooping feeling in
his stomach combined with the way his neglected erection bobs in the air, brushing against
his shirt—

It's enough.

With a muffled cry, he cums in short, messy spurts. It's quick and ruthless, ravaging him in
powerful waves that leave him hanging limp in Dazai's arms as he tries to breathe through it.

It's not as powerful as the orgasm last night, but the dirtiness of it all, the way that they're
committing a crime right now, makes it almost as satisfying.

"Good boy," Dazai purrs against him, biting his shoulder again. He hasn't stopped moving,
and every savage thrust he gives him makes pricks of overstimulation spear through him
near-painfully.

It's good, it's good, why is he so fucking good, he's not going to survive—

By the time Dazai is muffling his own groan into his neck, Chuuya feels mindless. Part of
him is hanging onto his logic and composure as tightly as possible, because he knows that
they're still in public and they still need to be careful—
But another, much more tempting part of him is reveling in the feeling of Dazai jerking
against him and the spill of warmth inside him. He's pleasantly limp from his orgasm, his
muscles tingling and overworked—

Oh fuck, he's about to be so sore, holy shit.

...Worth it, though.

The way Dazai reaches over and rips off a dozen sheets of toilet paper to catch the spill of
cum when he pulls out isn't sexy, but it is caring. He always takes care of him.

Clean-up is quick and half-assed, considering where they are, but they manage to get most of
the evidence wiped away. Their pants get righted, and their hands washed, and the stripes of
cum over the sink (Chuuya's doing) get wiped up quickly.

All in all, the entire encounter took maybe twenty minutes. Their fastest sex yet.

With a hand on the nape of his neck, Dazai pulls him in for a kiss on his forehead. "Welcome
to the mile high club," he murmurs, slightly smug but Chuuya can't complain too much, sated
and sore as he is.

In hindsight, Dazai should've realized that his streak of good things happening to him
would've run dry eventually.

He knew he was running away. He knew the vacation in Osaka, on his part, was little more
than avoiding his responsibilities. He knew that if he dropped everything for a week, that
there would be consequences.
The call with Fyodor. Sasaki and Shuuji in his home. The botched meeting with Kouyou,
which he regrets now that he isn't angry and feeling petty. Meetings with Rokuzou.

He knew he was coming back to a mess, which is probably why he hid so effectively beneath
the covers in Osaka. He just wanted—

A week. A week of peace, and calm, and savoring his little chibi before he had to go back to
being crushed under the strain of his work.

And he was expecting quite a few things when he got home—

But not this.

When he finally gets home— over an hour since they landed, because he had to take Chuuya
back to the dorms and watching him limp away with all the pride and dignity his tiny body
had to offer was too funny not to watch— there's two vehicles outside his house.

TOKYO ANIMAL CONTROL.

What the fuck?

And if that had been it, that would've been fine. He's a professional, he knows how to talk to
government employees, he knows how to diffuse a situation.

But when he slides into his parking spot and hops out before the car has even stopped
running, he finds—

Two men in government uniforms, holding a strong pole between them, pulling on it with all
their strength as they—
Drag Yoko out of the house by her fucking neck, the self-tightening noose at the end of the
pole wrapped around her throat like a choke collar.

For a second, there's just shock and a disturbing sense of pride— that's my girl, needs two
grown men to take her down— and then that all clears away as soon as he hears her.

She's fighting it, of course she is, back legs braced against the concrete steps as she whips
her head back and forth as she tries in vain to get the noose off. Every step she's dragged
forward is hard-fought, resisted with all her strength.

She's snarling too, snapping, sounds that sound scary, and are probably just more reason for
animal control to yank on her—

But Dazai can hear the fear and confusion behind it, because she's never been treated this
way. She's never been so much as pulled around on a leash , so being dragged out of her own
home by strangers with a painful, merciless collar—

God, she must be terrified.

Dazai rounds the corner of his car with an enraged snarl. How dare they treat his dog like
that? Dragging her out of her own home like she's some rabid mutt?

"What the hell is going on here?" He snaps and—

Poor Yoko, as soon as she hears his voice, she's letting out a terrified yelp and bolting in his
direction, tail tucked between her legs. Luckily, there's still enough slack that she can dive
between his legs and huddle there, making soft whimpering noises as she searches for
protection underneath him.

His heart breaks for her.

But none of that guilt and regret— he should've been here, he should've been here— come
through in his voice when he turns his head to pin the two men with a fierce glare. "Pull on
my dog again," he warns them, flashing his teeth in a threatening smile, "and I'm going to get
angry."

He doesn't threaten him. He's not stupid enough for that, even as angry as he is right now.

"That's your dog?" One of them asks, lowering the dog pole. He seems to be the leader of the
two, and he's the bigger one. The nametag on his uniform says Sato.

"Yes, she's my dog. I just got back from vacation an hour ago. Why are you here?" Dazai
already has a sinking, curdling feeling of who called them and why, but he wants to hear it
before he makes any rash decisions.

"Sorry sir, we didn't know who or if the dog belonged to anyone—”

Dazai scowls, because she's shiny, healthy and has a collar on, of course she belongs to
someone.

"— we just got a call about an aggressive dog in the house. She bit the lady who lives here,
and the dog needed to be removed so she could go to the hospital for stitches."

The lady who lives here?

Dazai turns his head, seething, and there she is.

Sasaki, standing in the doorway with makeup running down her face with tears. It looks like
she actually was bitten because there's a kitchen towel wrapped around her arm with red
spots drenched in the fabric.

Good dog, Dazai thinks to himself.

"She bit me!" Sasaki wails, choking back a pained sob. "She bit me and she wouldn't let go
and she wouldn't leave so I had to call! I have to go to the hospital, oh god, it's going to scar
—.”

She breaks down again, in such loud, agonized cries that even Dazai would feel sympathy for
her—

If his dog weren't trembling and still crying softly between his legs.

Clenching his jaw, he speaks through his teeth to Sato and his partner. "Did that lady tell you
that she doesn't actually live here? This is my house, and my dog, and she's trespassing? Yoko
is a guard dog, and that lady was uninvited in my home. She was doing her job."

Based on the awkward shuffling and the silent stares at each other, Sato and his partner didn't
know that. Of course they didn't, because then they might not have come as quickly. Or
might've laughed her off and told her that if she didn't want to be bitten, she shouldn't be
trespassing. Or maybe just called the police— which would've been a mess in itself for Dazai,
but he would've preferred that.

"She told us she was married to the guy who lives here," Sato mumbles, just loud enough for
Dazai to hear. "Is that true?"

Sasaki said what now? They haven't spoken in any regularity for over five years, she comes
into his house uninvited, gets his dog arrested and claims to be his wife?

Admittedly, he hasn't been as firm with Sasaki as he could've been. Should've been,
apparently. He let them drift apart and didn't exactly deny her advances. Didn't give into them
either, but obviously he should've told her that there was no way in hell they were getting
back together. He was willing to work with her because she's the mother of his child, and he
was willing to be civil and friendly with her—

But this is out of line.

"I haven't spoken to her in five years," he hisses, uncaring that it's a bit of a lie, "and she was
not invited into my home. Yoko was just doing what she was trained to do."

Awkward, tense silence falls between the group. Sasaki is trying to muffle her tears, but she's
still hanging around in the doorway waiting to see what happens.

Sato's partner— Yamamoto, his name tag reads— shifts awkwardly in place. "Look," he
starts, clearly trying to sound neutral, "there's obviously other things happening in this
situation that we were not aware of. We'd be happy to call the police for you, if that's what
you'd like— but the situation between you and Sasaki is not our jurisdiction. We're here for
the dog, because there's a process for aggressive animals, even if there was a reason behind
the aggression."

It has not escaped Dazai's notice that neither of the animal control workers have said Yoko's
name once, like refusing to acknowledge that she's a well-trained and well-loved dog might
make it easier on them to drag her into the street.

"We do, unfortunately, still have to impound her. It's nothing personal, and I'm sure she's a
good dog, but it is the policy with these things."

Dazai closes his eyes. They're going to take her, and there's nothing he can do. He can't save
her from this.

"What are you going to do with her?" He asks, hoping that knowing what's going to happen
might make it easier to let her go.

It's Sato who speaks up this time. The dog-pole is still hanging loosely from his fingers, and
Dazai wants to break it over his head. "If this is her first offense, then we'll just hold her for
twenty-four hours and take down all her information. Make sure she has her shots, and there's
nothing wrong with her that a vet or a hospital would need to know about."

That doesn't sound too bad—

"The first offense is easy. It's the third one you have to worry about."

Dazai almost doesn't want to know what that means, but he has to. "What happens at three?"

"... At three counts of aggression, animals are put down."

Well. That settles the matter, doesn't it? He's never letting Sasaki near his dogs ever again.

He clears his throat, fighting to keep his voice even. "And I can pick her up tomorrow
afternoon, at this time?"

"Yeah, as long as nothing else changes between now and then."

Yoko is completely updated on her shots, and she's a good dog, so nothing should happen but
—

God, Dazai is so scared for her. He doesn't want to let her go or give her up, or make her
spend a day in a tiny, cold cage feeling lost and confused and abandoned .

But he has to. If he resists, the police will probably be called, and he'll probably end up being
arrested. Which is not too terrible, considering he's buried his past as deeply as it can go and
he has favors owed to him from people in powerful places but—

Yoko is not his only dog. And if he gets arrested, he'll be leaving Kozo alone with Sasaki and
Shuuji. As much as it hurts—

He can't do that to Kozo either.

Taking a small step back, he crouches down in front of Yoko. She's immediately pushing into
his arms, frantically licking at his face in tiny, wet apologies. Like she did something wrong
and she's trying to apologize so she doesn't get in trouble.

Normally Dazai doesn't let the dogs lick him much, and especially not his face, but this time
he cups her face with his hands and lets her comfort herself. He rubs at her ears, below her
jaw where she likes it best.

"Good girl," he tells her slowly, feeling his heart sink a little further when her tail beats
against the ground hesitantly. "You're such a good girl."

He slides one hand down, dipping his fingers underneath the noose-leash and loosening it
enough that he can slip it over her head. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sato frown
and Yamomoto take a step forward, but he holds a hand up to stop them.

"You have to go with them, pretty girl," he tells her, wishing she could understand him, so
the confused, pleading look in her eyes would go away. So that she would know, even if it's
scary and confusing right now, it's not forever. He'll come back for her, he promises. "I know
you don't want to, but you have to so just— be a good girl, okay? I'll see you tomorrow, I
promise. "

Gathering her up in his arms to pick her up feels like betrayal. Feels like he's sending her
away, even if he doesn't have a choice.

She doesn't understand that. All she knows is that two scary men dragged her out of her
home, and now her dad, the one person she trusts above all else, the one who is supposed to
protect her and keep her safe—

Is pushing her gently into a cage on the side of the animal control vehicle.

And god, she's so trusting that she doesn't even fight him as he places her inside, and that just
makes his heart break more. She trusts him so much, and he feels like he's betraying her.
When he shuts the cage door on her, her ears droop and she looks so sad that tears are
automatically springing up in his eyes. His poor baby girl.
"Tomorrow," he promises again, sticking his fingers through the grate to give her nose one
last stroke before he steps away completely.

He's not normally an angry person, but he has to shove his fists into his pockets to let animal
control drive away with his dog without making a scene. He watches as long as he can,
standing in the middle of the road, until the van disappears from sight.

And he's left alone with Sasaki— who is still crying to herself on the steps, not that Dazai
cares right now— Shuuji, and Kozo—

Where is Kozo? He hasn't seen him at all, and he's incredibly protective over Yoko so—

What did Sasaki do to him?

His first words to Sasaki aren't 'why' or 'what were you thinking' or 'stop crying, she wouldn't
have bitten you without a reason', it's—

"Where is my dog?"

Sniffing, Sasaki looks up at him. She looks pitiful, drawn with pain and makeup running
down her face in wet trails, but Dazai cannot find an ounce of sympathy for her right now.
Not when the image of Yoko, looking heartbroken behind a locked cage, is still flashing
behind his eyelids.

Sasaki looks confused and hurt, almost like she's offended that he hasn't asked if she's okay
yet.

"Where. Is. My. Dog." he asks again, speaking through his teeth. He doesn't want to talk to
her, he doesn't want to see her, he just wants to make sure his other dog is okay.
If he can protect one of his animals, maybe this feeling of guilt and anger boiling in his
stomach will be easier to handle. Maybe he'll stop feeling like a terrible dog owner, for just a
second.

"In its kennel," Sasaki sniffs, propping her arm up on her knees so she can adjust the towel
wrapped around her wrist.

Normally the 'it' would piss him off, but he doesn't care. He's bounding up the stairs in a
single step, brushing past her without caring if he jostles her, and heading straight for the
room with the dog's kennels in it.

The room, when he throws open the door, reeks of dog piss. There's a discarded water bowl
spilled on the floor, and their food bowls are nowhere to be seen.

Kozo, when he sees him, hides his face under his blanket in embarrassment. It smells like
they've been locked in here for the whole fucking time, and there's a wet spot near the back of
his kennel. The dogs know that they're supposed to keep their kennels clean, and they'll hold
in their urges for hours if necessary, so for Kozo to pee in his own kennel—

Dazai's hands are shaking when he unlocks the kennel. "You're okay," he tells Kozo, trying to
keep the wrath out of his voice, "Good boy. You're not in trouble. Go outside."

As soon as the door opens, Kozo is bolting outside,tail between his legs. Dazai follows him
to the back door, opening it for him so he can go to the bathroom.

Poor thing barely makes it off the porch before he's crouching down.

It takes Dazai several minutes to calm himself down so he doesn't start smashing the potted
plants on the porch. He wouldn't even mind, really, he can always buy new plants, but Kozo
is already nervous about being in trouble and he doesn't want to make it worse.

He makes a list of the immediate things he needs to do to keep himself busy.

1.Feed Kozo. He's sure he hasn't eaten, and he's too angry to ask. He'd rather him eat twice
than not at all.

2: Give water to Kozo.

3. Kick Sasaki the fuck out of his house before he breaks his years old rule and makes her
disappear forever.

He heads inside, and if he adds twice as much of Kozo's favorite raw meat to his meal, then
he deserves it. Seeing Yoko's bowl and not making two bowls is physically painful.

His heart hurts. They better feed her.

Sasaki comes wandering in as he's mixing the eggs into the bowl, which makes his jaw
clench. He ignores her pointedly, making sure Kozo's food is made properly.

She unwraps the towel from around her arm, and—

Needing stitches is a bit of an exaggeration. He can see the cut where Yoko's teeth dug into
her arm, and there is a decent slice, but skin glue would be just fine to close it up. It's much
better than he expected, considering that Yoko is trained to take down men Dazai's size and
keep them down by tearing up their arm. He’s almost disappointed it’s not worse .

"I don't understand why you're so upset," Sasaki says, voice thick with tears, "I told you they
were aggressive. I didn't even do anything and she nearly took a chunk out of my arm!"

It's a bad idea for her to approach him when he's like this. One of the first and longest-lasting
lessons of the Mafia is how to make a weapon out of anything.
Even the wooden spatula he uses to stir dog food with.

"If you had just listened to me—.”

His fist slams into the counter without his permission, loud and sudden. It cuts her off mid-
sentence, startles her and makes her blink at him in shock.

"How long were they in their kennels?"

Sasaki hesitates, long enough that Dazai's lips are peeling away from his teeth in an enraged
snarl. "Answer me."

He's not looking at her directly— can't, he's on the edge of his control, about to lose it— but
he sees the way she ducks her head in shame.

"Since yesterday."

All the utensils and knick-knacks on the island go clattering to the floor with one sharp,
furious sweep of his arm. The sound makes her jump.

Good. She should be scared of him. Dazai has been nothing but nice and understanding with
her, ever since he was a kid. Offered to help raise Shuuji, even though he never wanted
children to begin with, and he was terrified of the prospect. Gave her a big allowance to work
with every month, because if he wasn't going to be there physically, then the least he could do
was support her.

Let her put a wedge between him and his son, even when he started to express interest in
getting to know him, because agreeing was better than arguing.

Let her coax him back into her bed, again and again, whenever she got bored of whatever
man she was playing with and wanted attention.
Let her use his money and connections to secure Shuuji a spot in Keio University, even
though he didn't earn one.

Admittedly, it's not like Dazai tried very hard to break the connection between them, but fuck.
He shouldn't have to choose between being lonely, or having his dogs and his self-respect
abused.

And there is one thing about Sasaki—

She has yet to see him angry. Irritated, yes, but truly angry? When the hard-won self-control
slips into the background, and the demon prodigy comes out to play?

No, she hasn't seen that. Because if she had, she would be afraid right now.

He sets down the spatula gently, rolling his shoulders. It's been so long , but it feels so easy,
slipping into the mindset he needs for this.

Sasaki watches him warily as he stalks around the island towards her, but she doesn't move
away. He pins her against the counter with one arm on either side of her, locking her place as
he looms over her, smiling pleasantly. "And what did you do," he murmurs quietly, smile
widening when he sees the way her eyes dilate in response, "to get yourself bitten?"

She gulps, and the feeling of her uninjured hand clinging onto his shirt is unwelcome,
especially after having Chuuya all over him not even two full hours ago—

But he endures.

"I reached into her kennel to give her water, and she bit me." Her voice is breathy, and not in
the way it should be.
Does he believe her? Doesn't matter, he supposes, because something like that would get her
bitten, but either way—

The result is the same.

He leans down, until his breath is washing over her ear. She shivers against him, leaning up.

"You should know better than to enter the home of something that bites." His teeth come
together with a click near her ear.

With the hand on his shirt, she tries to drag him closer. It's too easy to resist her.

"Why are you here?" He asks instead, because he's curious. Nothing much has changed since
five years ago, except for the fact that Shuuji has left her home—

"I was lonely," she admits, "and I missed you. I missed Shuuji, I missed being a parent."

And something about that, the note of deep-set longing, something that's too deep for missing
her kid makes him pause. The thought nearly makes him laugh in her face, because it's just so
absurd but—

"Don't tell me you wanted me to marry you?”

Her silence, awkward and ashamed, is answer enough.

It takes everything in him not to burst out laughing because—

Who does that? In what self-centered, delusional world does wanting another child make the
manipulation, the disrespect and the blatant crossing of boundaries okay? Did she really think
that would work?

Well—

Come to think of it, if he hadn't met his fiery little redhead, it might have just worked,
actually. He was lonely enough back then that he might've just fallen for the excuse, might've
wound up with her in his bed again just to get rid of the crushing sense of isolation. Just to
feel another warm, living body next to him, and damn the consequences.

He hadn't realized how bad it had gotten, but now that he knows what it's like to be bathed in
Chuuya's warmth, his acceptance and just how easy it is to be around him.

But now, with dark brown eyes staring at him, he's starting to realize...

He much prefers blue.

With a sigh, he reaches up and grips her wrist. He's not gentle , but he's not cruel either as he
pries her hand off him and pins her arm to her side. "I'm going to make a prediction, and I
want you to tell me if it's true."

She nods, a little hesitantly. Seems like she's finally starting to grasp the situation she's in.

"You slept in my bed, didn't you?"

She looks away, swallowing hard as she nods slightly. He figured, but somehow the
confirmation makes him feel...

Violated, in a way. Like his sacred, most private places have been torn open and scoured with
dirty hands. "Thank you, for answering," he says, watching her hopes start to rise, thinking
she's about to get away with it all—
He smiles at her, benevolent. "Now get the fuck out of my house."

Sasaki isn't expecting that, so she stalls out a bit, blinking up at him in confusion. He pushes
away from her, clearing the path to the front door. Which is still hanging open, by the way,
like she's not civilized enough to close the damn door.

There's a second where Sasaki just stares at him, waiting for him to take back what he said—

And when he doesn't, her face melts into stubbornness. "And what if I don't? Are you going
to call the cops on me? After your dog mauled me? My son lives here, you can't just kick me
out."

His smile grows. "No, I won't call the cops on you."

Victory fills her face—

"I'm going to call Kozo on you."

The instant fear that fills her face is satisfying . There's only a handful of people that can
claim kindness from him, and she's not one of them.

"I should warn you though; Kozo is a bit harder to handle. Once he gets the taste of blood he
just... goes insane . It'll be quite a bit harder to drag him off you. I'm not sure I'm feeling up to
it."

Lies. Kozo is much more receptive to commands during attacks, and he has sensitive ears. If
someone pulls on them hard enough, he'll let go.

But she doesn't know that.

The staredown continues long enough that he starts to open his mouth—

"Fine! Fine, I'll go. But I'm taking Shuuji with me, and you're going to regret being so harsh
to me," Sasaki snarls, stomping over to her purse that's been left on the couch.

Dazai highly doubts that.

As if sensing he was being called, Shuuji comes trotting down the stairs. He looks wary, like
he doesn't want to get in between their argument.

"Come on, darling, we're leaving," Sasaki orders, marching towards the door.

Shuuji hesitates, looking between them awkwardly. He finishes coming down slowly. "But
mom—.”

"No buts, Shuuji, get in the car now."

Dazai feels a little bad, watching Shuuji get dragged out of the house like a child being
fought over in a divorce—

But it's nothing compared to the relief he feels when the door shuts behind them, and he's left
alone in his house.

Alone, that is, with his dog and a mess to clean up.

Without the anger to spur him on, he feels so heavy. Heartsick, almost, weighed down by
what happened until his feet feel stuck to the floor.
He wants his dog back. He wants Chuuya, wants to collapse into him and just...

Just breathe, without feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The sounds of Kozo snuffling outside jolt him into action. He still has to take care of him,
even if he's starting to feel like shit over Yoko.

He takes the bowl of food outside, watching as Kozo falls on it with more enthusiasm than
he's seen for a long time.

Kozo automatically keeps clear of the space beside him, respecting his sister's space even
when she's not there. The sight makes his stomach turn.

And then...

"Mrow?"

Dazai gets a scruffy, irritable little visitor. For a cat that's dusty brown and black with street
dust and car oil, the little feline does step with such important air and self-satisfied grace as
he approaches.

By now, Kozo and the stray have come to terms with each other and they may not like each
other just yet, but they've come to this silent 'you ignore me and I ignore you' agreement.

"Hello there, little opportunist," Dazai murmurs, crouching down and offering his fingers for
the stray to sniff. "Did you miss us while we were gone?"

The neighbor girl that Dazai pays to take care of the dogs whenever he's gone is scared of
cats, so he didn't ask her to do anything special for the stray.
It seems that the stray has taken that personally , because he's sniffing Dazai's fingers with a
sense of disdain, alternating between glaring at him and glaring into the house.

"Don't worry," he tells the little cat, finding the spot under his chin that makes little rumbling
purrs vibrate through his tiny body, "she's gone now."

He ends up feeding the stray some cat kibble he'd bought for him, and pieces of raw chicken
to make up for the neglect over the past week. It's only then that the little cat becomes truly
friendly, arching his back temptingly and staring up at Dazai with liquid green eyes as he
silently begs for food.

After a while, he ends up taking a picture of the cat and Kozo, when Kozo comes over to
investigate why the cat is getting more chicken than he is. The expression on his doggy face
is hilarious, part curiosity and part wariness.

He stares at the picture for a long while. It feels incomplete without Yoko in the background.
Like there's an essential part missing.

Eventually, he sends it off to Chuuya with the caption of 'we miss you already'. It's probably
pathetic, the way he feels like he needs to speak to Chuuya, barely even two hours after they
spent a week together.

The thing with Yoko is...upsetting, understandably, but it's not permanent. He should be
stronger than this but—

For a long time, the dogs felt like the only beings in the world that loved him,
unconditionally. He watched them grow up, and they taught him that not all dogs are
something to be feared.

[ BABY ]: awww I miss you guys too!! Give yoko a kiss for me <3

Fuck.
He slides down, back against the wall of the house, staring at the contact picture he has for
Chuuya. He changed it recently, to a candid shot taken of Chuuya laughing and twisting his
face up and away as Yoko tries to lick at his cheeks.

"I wish I could, chibi," he mutters, brushing over the picture of his dog obviously happy and
infatuated with the little chibi.

The stray cat primly hops up on his thigh, settling there with his paws tucked underneath him
and soaking up his warmth.

Dazai allows himself the next twenty minutes to just...

Pet his animals, and get what comfort he can out of them, even though there is something
missing. Someone missing, because there's a chibi-shaped space in his lap and a Yoko-shaped
space to his left.

After those twenty minutes are up, he gets to cleaning.

Changing out the blankets in the dog kennels, picking up all the kitchen utensils off the floor,
stripping the blankets off his bed, turning the mattress over in sheer pettiness , taking the
woman's underwear out of his clothes drawer (he's too exhausted to be angry at the audacity),
packing up everything that isn't his and setting it near the door for easy access later.

He doesn't sleep. He doesn't text Chuuya back.

He just cleans and...

Waits until he can bring Yoko back home again.

 Picture Perfect
Chapter Summary

He picks up one of the photos, one that showcases Dazai from the front. Nakahara is
small enough that he doesn’t cover Dazai’s frame at all.

“You look tired, old friend,” Fyodor murmurs, brushing his thumb over the picture. The
dark bags under his eyes have never been more pronounced, and his face is pale and
drawn. Exhaustion is an old enemy for both of them, but it seems that Dazai is finally
beginning to crack under the strain. “I think it’s time for you to retire.”

Dazai from even a year ago was more observant and cautious than this. He never
would’ve been caught off guard in public, and especially not with someone he was
attached to.

It seems that old dogs do forget old tricks, and Fyodor is happy to remind him.

Love makes you stupid, and sometimes it’s not you who pays the price for your
mistakes.

Chapter Notes

Wake up babes its BH saturday!!!!! Not much to report this week, but work is killer
these days :p Anyways, I bring you some fluff to tide you over until next week, and I
hope you enjoy it!! I'll see you next week :D

This chapter includes:

- a cry for help
- a kiss
- a photograph

[ DADDY <3 ]: I need your help.

Chuuya frowns at his phone screen. Dazai has been surprisingly silent the whole day, ever
since that text last night. For a while now, he'd been struggling between thinking he did
something wrong and arguing with himself that they just spent a week together and they don't
need to text all day again. He can wait.

[ CHUUYA ]: sure, what's up?

[ DADDY <3 ]: Are you busy tonight?

He was but something about how vague he's being makes Chuuya feel like this is important.
The extra studying he was planning on getting in can wait.

[ CHUUYA ]: nope, i'm free all night and tomorrow morning.

The response doesn't come for another fifteen minutes, in which time he almost texts Dazai
again to ask what happened, or what he needs but then—

[ DADDY <3 ]: I'm outside.

He stares at his phone screen, confused and concerned because—

Something about this seems serious? His gut is slowly sinking into dread, like he's about to
get bad news. He probably has put his shoes on and exited the dorms quicker a few times
before but—

Today the entire journey passes by in an anxiety-driven blur. There's something wrong, he
can tell, and he can't think of what Dazai needs help with.

Is it the dogs? The cat? Shuuji?

...Is he breaking up with him?

Dazai is waiting in his usual spot in the parking lot, and outwardly, nothing new has
happened but his stance is different. He's slumped against the passenger side of the car, hands
shoved into his pockets. He's staring blankly ahead, and when he notices Chuuya coming, he
greets him with a tiny, lopsided smile that looks incredibly hard for him to muster up.

As he gets closer, he notices that Dazai looks... rumpled, almost. Usually, unless they've slept
together or for some other reason, Dazai is usually pretty well put together. If any part of him
looks messy, it's done in an artful, purposeful way.

Now though? Now his hair looks like he's been running his hands through it, and the black
trench coat he's wearing just looks like he's trying to cover up his wrinkled outfit with it. He
doesn't look like he's slept at all.

Chuuya's stomach sinks. They were so happy yesterday, and now Dazai looks like he's about
to break under the strain. How could it go so wrong so quickly?

He stops right in front of him, staring up at him with the softest, most sympathetic look he
can wear, eyes flickering over the pale, drawn lines of Dazai's face. He looks so tired, in a
soul-deep way that makes Chuuya's heart ache with sympathy.

"What happened?" He asks softly, unsure if he wants to know but—

Dazai said he needed him. And if he needs him, then he'll do whatever he needs to.

For a second, he just stares down at him, lopsided smile growing more and more morose, and
Chuuya is actually afraid he might start crying and he doesn't know what to do—

A large hand reaches out, snags him by the lapel of the jacket he's wearing, and drags him
into a tight hug.
Because of their height difference,Chuuya often feels enveloped and smothered by Dazai.
This hug is different, because now he feels like he's holding him up, being the supporting
beam as Dazai drapes himself on top of him. He stands firm, letting Dazai lean his weight on
him. His chin gets propped up on his head, and his arms are tight, heavy bands around his
shoulders.

They just stand like that for a while, with Chuuya's hands rubbing rhythmically over his back
in an effort to comfort him. Dazai is strangely tense, but also limp in a way that speaks of
exhaustion and stress.

With a sigh, Dazai pulls him closer and buries his nose in his hair. Then, in a hoarse but
forced-steady voice, like he's trying not to let it bother him:

"It's Yoko."

No, no, no.

Panic and anxiety are instantly welling up inside him, and he almost jerks out of Dazai's hold
to demand he tell him what happened. It's a struggle to keep calm as he asks, "What about
Yoko?"

"She..." Dazai starts, trailing off. He turns his head to press his cheek to the top of his head.
Normally, Chuuya might be annoyed by the subtle way he messes up his hair by rubbing his
cheek against him, but not right now. "...She was impounded by animal control yesterday.
She's home now, but..."

That doesn't make sense . Obviously, Yoko is a trained dog, but she's sweet. She likes belly
rubs, and her paws tickled, and she thinks the stray cat is her best friend. Why would anyone
call animal control on her? Why would they impound her?

"Why did they take her?"

"She bit Shuuji's mother, Sasaki. She called them."

Admittedly, Chuuya has never met the lady, and he hasn't heard that much about her, but—

If he didn't have a reason to hate her before, he sure as hell does now.

"Anyways, she's home now, but she won't come out from under the couch and— I don't know
what to do," Dazai's voice cracks on the last word, and Chuuya finally gets a hint of what
emotional turmoil he must be in right now.

“Okay,” he says into his chest, squeezing him tighter. Trying to reassure him that he’s here,
he’s going to help him, and they’re going to help her together. “Other than that, she’s okay
though?”

He’s heard some horror stories of bad animal shelters and with the way Dazai is acting—

What if it’s worse than what he’s saying?

“Yeah, she’s physically fine.”

Alright. They can handle that. Chuuya can deal with anxiety, and can help calm her down.
But his next concern is—

“Are you okay?”

Dazai doesn’t let him pull away, crushing him to his chest until it almost hurts. It’s hard to
judge what he’s feeling without looking at his face, but he just hugs him back as tightly as
possible.
“She adores you so I was hoping you might be able to get her to come out without making it
worse.”

He shifts, nudging his head against Dazai’s cheek. “That’s not what I asked, Osamu.”

Maybe it’s the name or the insistence on asking twice, or being pressed so tightly together,
but the next breath Dazai takes is a long, shuddering one.

“I put her in the truck, Chuuya.”

Oh, no . He must be feeling so guilty.

“She was looking at me, and begging me not to let her go, and I let them take her. I let her
go.”

He can hear it, the sound of guilt and remorse in his voice. Can feel the weight of it pressing
along his frame, dragging him down.

“No, you didn’t,” Chuuya tells him, forcibly leaning back. Dazai tries to follow him, but he
pushes him upright so he can get a good look at his face and the sincerity shining there. “You
didn’t let her go. She was taken and you brought her home. She’s safe now, and she’s home,
and you are doing the best you can, okay?”

He lets go of his waist with one hand, bringing it up to cup his face and brush his thumb
along his cheekbone. He can tell, by the way Dazai doesn’t answer and the way he leans his
cheek into his palm and closes his eyes, that he doesn’t really believe him.

That’s okay. He always knew Dazai was stubborn. He’ll just need some convincing, right
now. It’s going to be okay, he tries to tell him silently, with touch and affection.

Chuuya’s here now.

“Take me home,” he says, soft and quiet. The significance of his words won’t hit him until
later, because right now, he has caramel-sweet eyes cracking open to look at him, and even
though they are sad and melancholy—

They’re also one of the most beautiful things Chuuya has ever seen.

The ride back is quiet, mostly filled with the background noise of the radio playing on low
volume. Chuuya spends the entire ride holding one of Dazai’s hands. Interlacing their fingers,
pressing it to his cheek, scattering a few kisses over his knuckles in silent comfort.

It helps, a little.

And when they get to his house, entering through the front door quietly, one of the first things
Chuuya sees is a furry dog butt sticking out halfway from underneath the couch, tail tucked
tightly to her side.

She’s silent, but the sight makes his heart ache. Poor Yoko.

“I’ll go make dinner,” Dazai mutters, moving to go into the kitchen—

Chuuya catches him by the wrist, tugs him back. “No, you’re going to order us something
instead.”

There’s a moment where Dazai just looks at him, one eyebrow arched. Then his expression
dissolves into amusement, and finally, he’s smiling for real. “Is that how it’s going to be now?
You’re gonna boss me around?”

Chuuya sticks his tongue out at him. “You boss me around, so it’s only fair.”
“Yes, but,” Dazai leans in, eyes crinkled with a smile, “you like it when I boss you around.”

“Are you saying you don’t like it when I boss you around?”

Dazai considers that, reaching out to brush part of his bangs out of his face. His fingers are
achingly gentle. “I wouldn’t say that,” he murmurs eventually, “It’s kind of cute.”

Embarrassingly enough, even though they’ve done so much together, and Dazai has been so
deep inside him he might as well have been in his soul—

That little comment, combined with the openly adoring look on Dazai’s face, is enough to
have Chuuya blushing and looking away.

His laugh is even worse, soft and fond, Chuuya’s favorite sound in the whole world.

“See?” Dazai teases gently, tugging on a strand of his hair, “Cute.”

Before Chuuya can do anything more than swallow hard, Dazai is spinning around and
heading into the kitchen. There’s a stack of takeout menus hidden in one of the drawers.

Some of them are new additions. Chuuya’s favorites.

“Order me—,” he starts.

Dazai waves him off, shuffling through the stack. “Yes, yes, I know what you like.”

He does, doesn’t he? Something about that, the sheer domesticity of Dazai knowing what his
favorite foods are from several restaurants, knowing what to order him without having to ask,
having his own place in the shoe rack—
It fills him with wonder and awe. Is this what relationships are like? Knowing something and
being known in return? Having a spot in Dazai’s home, in his life, in his heart, that’s
specifically for Chuuya? Knowing that, no matter what, he always has a home to come back
to?

He watches Dazai for a moment, unsure of what to do with the strong emotion bubbling up in
his chest except just—

Stare, because he really did get lucky, didn’t he? He never would’ve thought his life
would’ve wound up here, and if you had told him even a few months ago that he’d be this
happy?

He wouldn’t have believed you.

Sure, it’s unconventional and lots of people his age might find it weird , or think that his time
would be better off spent sleeping around or partying while he’s young but—

Home is home, and that won’t ever change. Sometimes home is your boyfriend, the stray cat
that comes by every so often and...

His dogs.

His gaze breaks away from Dazai and lands on Yoko. She hasn’t moved at all. Not even her
tail has twitched from its position tucked against her side.

He moves over quietly but smoothly, not trying to sneak up on her or startle her with too
much noise.

A few books have been shoved underneath one of the legs of the couch, lifting it up enough
so that Yoko isn’t being squished underneath the wooden frame.
“Yokooooo,” he croons invitingly, crouching down beside her.

Her tail thumps once against the ground, hesitantly. Despite everything, that pulls a smile
from Chuuya.

“Yeah, you know me, pretty girl,” he says to her, reaching out to tug on the end of her tail in
the way that usually has her rolling on her back and flashing her teeth playfully. ”Are you
going to come out and say hello?”

Another two thumps, and he can sense how interested she is.

But even though he can see her shifting underneath the couch, and her tail is starting up a
slow, hesitant rhythm the more he pets her—

She doesn't move to come out. And sometimes, when someone you love can't come out
themselves—

"You're just as stubborn as your dad," he mutters, ignoring Dazai's soft 'Hey!' from the
kitchen as he lays down on the floor and begins the process of wiggling under the couch with
her.

— sometimes, you have to go in after them.

It's surprisingly roomy down here, and mostly clean. There's a few pieces of change scattered
over the floor, and some lint hanging from the couch fabric. There's what looks like an empty
candy wrapper near Yoko's paw, but overall pretty clean and much better than the couch back
at Chuuya's family home.

"Cozy down here," he says conversationally, wiggling up until he's lying on his back with his
head level with Yoko's. She's staring resolutely ahead, like she's determined not to show that
she's starting to cheer up, but her ears are pointed back towards him and her tail is picking up
speed.

It is cozy down here, though. Warm, but not hot. The couch overhead creates this sense of
safety and security, boxing them in and hiding them from view. There's enough room that he
can lift his head a little bit, enough to look down at his feet.

It's like a den, almost. He can see why she dived under here and won't come out. No one can
get them down here.

"I heard you had a hard day," he says, turning his head to look at her. With the limited room,
it's a bit difficult to get his hand on top of her head, but he manages it. He can only do short,
awkward strokes between her ears, but she seems to appreciate it anyway. "That must've been
scary."

Dazai didn't really give him explicit details, but just knowing that she was dragged out and
impounded for doing her job as a good guard dog is all he needs to feel sympathy for her.
She's obviously still upset too, and anxious.

She whines, softly, like she's agreeing. Her nose is wet when she pushes it into his palm.

"You know, when I was little, my dad and I got robbed once," he muses, unsure why he's
telling her this story. It's not like she can understand it, but talking to her seems to help. "I
was too little to understand what was going on, really, but I do remember that there were
scary men that yelled at my Dad and made him cry. I cried too, even though I tried to be
brave."

Yoko shifts more onto her side, cuddling up into the curve of his body. Her head ends up
being tucked underneath his arm.

"And I remember being scared for a few days after, because what if they came back and
made us cry again? I didn't want that to happen."
It's a vague memory by now, blurred by time and youth. Most of his recollection of it is in
big, formless shapes, and the stories he'd been told of it.

"Eventually, Dad sat me down and told me that it was okay to be afraid but I couldn't let that
fear tell me what to do. I couldn't hide under my bed or under the couch. Life was outside,
and there were good things and bad things in it."

He can hear Dazai moving around in the kitchen, making small noises as he moves about.
Chuuya didn't catch the phone call he made for food, but he can't hear him talking now.

"Anyways, I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's okay to be afraid, but you can't hide
under the couch forever. Your dad is worried about you, and he needs you. Your ball—” it's
encouraging, that her ears perk up at the mention, "— is outside, and so is Kozo. Your little
cat friend probably misses you too. So you have to come out."

Footsteps approach, just loud enough for him to hear. He lifts his head, just in time to see
Dazai's black socks come into view and stop right in front of him.

Then, large hands are wrapping around his calves and pulling him out from under the couch,
easily.

His view goes from the grey-white underside of the couch to honey-gold eyes and a head full
of dark hair, and a charmingly white smile.

"You guys are talking an awful lot down there," Dazai teases, crouching down to bridge the
distance between them. One of his hands braces his weight near Chuuya's head. "What are
you saying?"

"Secrets," Chuuya tells him, smiling so big it hurts.

"It's not nice to keep secrets," he pouts, reaching out to brush his thumb gently over his
freckled cheek, pausing to admire the rising heat there.
"Call her," Dazai continues before he can respond, voice lowering. "She'll come out for you."

He can't look away, his vision caught by the man hovering above him with a heart-melting
smile. "Yoko," he calls, filling his voice with as much temptation as he possibly can.

There's a moment, when she doesn't immediately move, that he thinks she still won't come
out. That she still needs a little more time, but then—

With a sudden thrash, she's wiggling out from underneath the couch, butt-first. Her fur is
standing on end and wild when her head pops out, and she sits up to look around.

She sees them, inches away, and her tail begins to slap against the ground and her face melts
into her signature doggy-smile, tongue lolling.

"There you are," Dazai breathes, relieved, reaching out with his other hand. She sniffs his
fingers curiously, letting him get a few pets over her head before she gets distracted by some
smell on the ground and begins to follow it.

She's still nervous, going stiff whenever there's a noise she didn't expect, but now that she's
exploring her home again, nose to the ground, Chuuya can safely say that she's going to be
just fine.

"Told you she'd be okay," he says, gloating just a little. He likes that Yoko cheered up so
quickly for him, it makes him feel special. She's Dazai's dog, obviously, but they have a
special connection.

The corner of Dazai's mouth tips up, into something amused. "You did," he admits, and he's
looking back down on him now, leaning close, closer, closest—
"Thank you," gets murmured into the corner of his mouth, seconds before Dazai captures him
in a deep, slow kiss that makes Chuuya's heart stutter in his chest before picking up double-
time.

It's not fast, or frantic, or hard, or like any of their kisses before. This one feels full of
affection and adoration, like Dazai swallowed the sun itself and is feeding it to him in small,
kiss-shaped bites, ones that make his chest ache and his stomach feel like it's free-falling, and
his head light as air.

It feels like being caught, like being held with gentle-soft hands, like a door opening to let
you inside, like all the things you dream of when you imagine the feeling of being loved.

Dazai's hair is soft. Always is, and his fingers tangle in the strands naturally, clinging close.
He never wants to let go.

He could do this forever. It'd be easy, the easiest thing he's ever done.

There's a short series of knocks on the door, startling them apart.

Dazai pulls away slowly, brushing a few lingering kisses over his bottom lip. Chuuya arches
up into him, silently hoping he'll just ignore it and go back to kissing him, please, he wants it,
he loves it.

No dice.

With a muttered, "Food's here," Dazai is pulling away entirely and forcing him to let go. He
stands, arching his back to stretch out the strain caused by the weird angle.

From the floor, Chuuya pouts up at him. This is so unfair. Maybe he should've let Dazai cook.
At least then they wouldn't get interrupted.
When Chuuya leans up on his elbows, the first thing he sees is Yoko, stiff-necked and hackles
raised as she glares at the door. Considering the last time there was a knock on the door she
was then summarily dragged out and taken to the animal version of prison, it’s
understandable for her to be wary.

Dazai opens the door, just wide enough for him to get his things, but keeping Chuuya and
Yoko out of sight.

There’s something about that, the casual defensiveness and protection about it that makes
butterflies flutter in his stomach.

There’s a quiet exchange of food and money, and Chuuya is pretty sure the delivery wasn’t
worth that much cash but—

That’s none of his business, is it?

When Dazai shuts the door again, plastic bags are hanging from his wrist.

Dinner is quiet and a casual thing. Usually they eat inside at the table, but today they eat on
the porch to watch the sunset. It also lets them watch over Yoko as she reasserts her
dominance over Kozo by wrestling with him in the grass.

It’s hard to tell if she wins because she’s fiercer and more determined, or just because Kozo is
too interested in his bone to keep fighting over nothing.

Halfway through, there’s a disgruntled meow from underneath the porch and the stray cat
comes trotting up like he’s irritated he didn’t get an invitation to dinner. Once he sees Chuuya
though, he perks right up, tail waving fondly in the air as he rubs against his ankles with
rumbling purrs.

Normally, he’s a bit more strict about animals during dinner, because he doesn’t like little wet
noses sniffing at his food, but today he lets it go. They all had a hard day yesterday, and he
can’t say that a little love and affection between them all is starting to soothe away the aches.

Besides, a purring cat on his lap is doing wonders for the lingering ache in his thighs.

The soreness was at its worst this morning, and when he first woke up, he was convinced he
wasn’t going to be able to walk at all today. He had to lie miserably in his bed for an hour as
his body slowly warmed up and the aches began to fade away.

Once he was able to take a shower, it got better. He’s glad that summer break is still ongoing
and the dorms are mostly empty for another week or so, otherwise someone might have seen
him mournfully leaning against the wall underneath the weak water pressure and reminiscing
about having a bath as he fumbled to clean himself.

It’s not a surprise to him that he actually likes the ache, once it’s manageable. He likes the
constant, subtle reminder of what Dazai did to him, and he likes the pain. The bruises on his
neck and thighs are fading quickly too, which he’s silently mourning.

To him, bruises and soreness means he worked hard at something, means he did well—

And to have the reminder of how good Dazai was to him, to press on and massage until it’s
aching—

Yeah, that’s good. He wants more already, is contemplating how to get himself underneath
Dazai’s teeth again, now that the pain is fading pleasantly into the background.

Maybe not today though, he silently sighs to himself, because even though Dazai is clearly
on the upswing and he’s talking and smiling again—

He did have a rather emotional day, and he’s soaking up whatever comfort Chuuya is giving
him. His eyes are still guarded, looking haunted whenever they linger on Yoko for too long.
And it feels kind of...insensitive? To be like ‘hey you’re starting to feel better, let’s fuck about
it.’ It feels like he’s putting his physical needs over Dazai’s emotional ones and that’s not
what he wants to do, he’s just—

Needy, and quickly finding himself getting addicted to just how good sex can be.

When you’re a virgin, you don’t /need/ sex. It’s tempting, yes, but you don’t need it. You
think you can live without it, and not many things casually remind you of it.

He used to think that he didn’t need sex. That it was overrated and overselled, and the pitying
looks he got when he said he never had it before, were dramatic.

That all changed as soon as Dazai got his hands on him, and now Chuuya is watching the
skilled, effortless way he handles his chopsticks, the way his hand settles casually on his
thigh and nearly wraps around the entire width—

And he’s thinking to himself, I need it, I need it I need it so fucking bad, how did I go
eighteen years without having it, I’m going to die without it.

Admittedly, he’s being dramatic but that doesn’t stop him from occasionally stabbing his
crab-cakes too hard when Dazai’s fingers squeeze his thigh.

When they finish, Dazai ends up cleaning up after both of them, because the cat is still in his
lap and whenever Chuuya goes to move him, he digs his claws in with a low growl. Spoiled
thing, but fine. He can afford to pamper the stray with a little more attention. He’s probably
been missing it.

He does feel bad when he eventually has to go inside, because the cat blindly tries to follow
him and—

He's not Dazai's cat, and this isn't Chuuya's home. (Yet.) He might've been able to coax Dazai
into giving the cat some blankets in a little, warm nook outside and some food to make sure
he doesn't go hungry, but he can't just invite the cat in, no matter how pitifully the poor thing
is looking at him. Dazai hasn't mentioned adopting the cat, and as far as Chuuya knows, he
doesn't even like cats.

He's still good to the animal, but that doesn't mean he wants to keep him. He didn't even think
about feeding him until he practically blackmailed him into doing it.

But Chuuya wants to keep him. Wants to keep him so bad. He's never had a cat before— his
father is allergic— and underneath all the dust, the cat is so soft. Fluffy, too, and warm in
such a holdable way, like a soft, squishy, warm little pillow you can carry around with you
and hold for hours.

"Soon," he promises the little kitty, shutting the sliding door slowly. Big green eyes stare at
him from the other side, betrayed.

Inside, Dazai is cleaning up the mess in the kitchen and putting away the extra food for later.
He looks so effortlessly at home, confident and sure in his own domain.

To keep himself from getting caught staring, Chuuya takes out the bag of dog treats from one
of the cupboards and spends some time making Yoko and Kozo do cute little tricks for them.
If they both get more treats than they usually do, well—

That's between him and them.

When Dazai is done, he comes over to drape himself over Chuuya's back again, chin propped
up on his head and arms heavy and tight around his shoulders. He rocks them both, back and
forth, just a little bit.

"It's late," he sighs, turning his head to nuzzle his cheek into his hair. It's not late, barely past
dinner time, but with how exhausted he looks, Chuuya is surprised he's lasted this long. "And
I'm tired. I can take you home now, or you can—.”
He cuts himself off there, like he's not sure how to finish that sentence or he's not sure how to
ask.

That's something he's noticed about Dazai, more and more these days. He has an almost
creepy talent for snuffing out what Chuuya needs— whether that be physically, or
emotionally— and giving it to him, most of the time before he can even ask for it. And when
he does ask for it, it's given to him quickly and easily.

But the man also never asks for anything himself. He's shut up tight, and it's so hard to guess
what he's feeling. If he needs something, he usually ends up taking it, but that's usually
physical needs and sometimes--

Sometimes you need more than that. And it's hard to ask, Chuuya understands that, but he
also wants to be the person Dazai feels safe and comfortable enough to come to when he
needs something.

Tossing the dog treats onto the counter out of reach, Chuuya turns in his arms. Dazai lets him,
giving him the room to wrap his arms around his waist and look up at him.

The bags under his eyes makes sympathy pang through him. "I can what?" He asks gently,
smiling encouragingly up at him. He's pretty sure he knows what he's going to ask, but the act
of asking is important in itself.

One of Dazai's hands slides up, finding the curve of his jaw and cupping it. His thumb
brushes over his lips. The very tips of his fingers tangle in his hair, rubbing over the wild
strands, quietly reverent. Silent, steady, every day worship.

Chuuya leans his cheek into his hold, silently waiting for the question, unhurried.

"You could stay, if you wanted."

Chuuya smiles up at him. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

He doesn’t want to go back to the too-hard twin bed in his dorm anyways. After a week of
sleeping in a luxurious king that was the perfect amount of supportive and soft, going back to
his dorm bed was like going to sleep on a rock. His back popped like eight times when he
woke up, it was horrible.

With a small, lopsided smile, Dazai leans down to give him a single, grateful kiss. It’s long,
lingering, Dazai’s top lip slotting naturally between his.

The dogs watch as they go about making sure all the doors are locked and the windows are
closed and all the electronics are off. It’s a little pathetic, the way he feels like swooning
when Dazai asks him to turn off the porch light but—

It’s domestic. It’s what he did when he was living at home, and to do it here, in his b
oyfriend’s house, makes their relationship feel real and solid.

It was easy to believe they were dating in Osaka. That felt like a dream, like something he
would wake up from eventually. It’d be a good dream and he’d roll over and try to continue it
but—

Just a dream.

But this? Borrowing one of Dazai’s button down shirts to sleep in and crawling into bed with
him?

Real.

The way they settle in the middle, and Yoko comes leaping up to lay along the length of
Chuuya’s back, warm and solid and heavy?

Real.
The way he’s the one drawing Dazai in this time, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and
holding him instead of the other way around, the way it usually is?

Real.

The way long, strong arms are sliding around his waist to drag him closer, a heavy head on
his chest with Dazai’s nose tucked into his neck. Soft hair tickling his nose, the grounding
weight of Dazai stretched out on top of him, stomach pressing down on his hips.

Real, real, real , and if this is a dream—

He doesn’t ever want to wake up. Let him sleep, forever if necessary, because his future is
here. With brown eyes, brown hair, and sugar-sharp smiles.

And if the devil came up and offered to buy his soul, Chuuya would say he already found
heaven.

There’s a knock on the door. Late, by seven minutes. Nothing severe, but enough to set
Fyodor’s teeth on edge. He hates when people are late, especially his direct subordinates.

This is still a business, even if it deals in blood and violence and substances. Fyodor would
even go as far to say that underground organizations are a purer form of businesses.

Aboveground, they deal in money. Easily corruptible, easily taken advantage of, and despite
everything, the same concept of what goes on far below the reach of the justice system.
Sell parts of your life to the people above you. Fight tooth and nail to survive. Complete
projects you will never reap the benefits of. Live and die by the command of others.

It’s just business. Eternal cogs in the machine.

“Come in,” he calls, taking a long drag of his cigar. It’s been a long day. Productive, but very
long, and there’s a slight headache pulsing at his temples.

Alexei better have good news for him right now, or he might just end up on the wrong side of
his dagger, with the way he’s feeling now.

The door to his office and Alexei slides in. He’s a slim, short thing, unremarkable in voice or
posture or build. He blends in perfectly to almost any situation he’s put into, with a skill
that’s been painstakingly trained into him.

People like Alexei are incredibly valuable to organizations like Fyodor’s. Because you never
notice people like him in a crowd.

“Boss,” the man says gruffly, accent slipping through slightly. “Got those pictures you
wanted.”

Fyodor’s smile widens. The job was low-hanging fruit then, apparently, because Alexei had
only been assigned two days ago. Usually it takes him a week or more, and Fyodor was
prepared to wait, as long as he needed to—

But sometimes, jobs are easy.

He holds his hand out for the little envelope Alexei has in his hands. After a few quick steps,
it dropped into his palm.
It’s heavy, thick. Assumingly worth every penny Fyodor has paid Alexei for— the man never
under-delivers or disappoints, which is part of why he’s survived in this business for so long.

The trick is to make yourself invaluable.

“Leave,” Fyodor tells him without looking at him, “I’ll speak to you later.”

Alexei ducks his head a little, retreating without another word. His black hair covers his eyes
easily, and while his gaze is strong and sure, it’s also deferential.

Fyodor likes him. He speaks only as much as necessary, and shows respect first and foremost.
It’s the old Russian blood. Priceless stuff, that, these days.

Carefully, he rips open the top of the envelope and lets the stack of photos slide out. And as
always—

They’re good work.

Different still frames of a tiny redhead in different scenes. Exiting an airport. Laughing at a
cafe. Walking across the college campus. A few blurry ones through the window of his dorm.
One of him disappearing into the men’s shower room.

Different angles of his face and body, so he can be recognized from any angle in most
lighting.

And the prize?

A tall, dark figure leaning against a car, draped over said tiny redhead with a pliancy that can
only speak of relief. Large hands on a small face, tilting his head up for a kiss.
If it were plain fascination, Fyodor would understand. Hell, he might not even look at it too
closely, if it were just that.

Nakahara Chuuya is appealing in a new, exotic sort of way. He’s Japanese—as far as he can
find, at least— but the red hair and the blue eyes are uncommon. The liberal spray of freckles
over his cheeks are adorable.

Quite simply, Nakahara is someone you sleep with because it feels like an accomplishment to
do so. He’s pretty, he’s young, he’s innocent, he’s naïve, he doesn’t look like a lot of ordinary
people.

All those added together would make it tempting for a man like Dazai. Someone who revels
in sexual deviation, in dominance , in finding sweet, unsuspecting men and women and
dragging them with him in his constant search for pleasure.

Fyodor gets it. He’d fuck Nakahara too. Might still, just to prove a point, if the occasion
arises.

But this is not fascination. This is affection. This is taking your lover on a week-long
vacation to Osaka. This is showing up, looking spent and exhausted, and taking comfort in
him.

This is love, sick and potent and corrupting.

Fyodor’’s under no illusions—

Love can be a powerful thing. A bridge between two people, tying them together and forming
new alliances. Marriage is a powerful tool, when used in the right hands.

But love, between a washed-up ex-mafia brat and a college student? It’s laughable. Pitiful,
too, that just a pair of baby-blue eyes were enough to drag the demon back to earth.
And in this scenario, love is a vulnerability.

Fyodor knows about Dazai’s son. Doesn’t know anything about him, because he’s been
irritatingly stringent on making sure the kid’s entire record is so buried and sealed that not
even he can find it.

But now he has something better, gift-wrapped to him directly.

He might not know much about Nakahara’s records— his hackers have yet to dig up anything
interesting, which is interesting in itself— but he doesn’t need to know those things now.

He doesn’t need to know who his family is, or where he went to school, or his potential
criminal record. He has something better than all of that combined.

He has a dorm room number, and a man on the inside. It’s practically fate.

He picks up one of the photos, one that showcases Dazai from the front. Nakahara is small
enough that he doesn’t cover Dazai’s frame at all.

“You look tired, old friend,” Fyodor murmurs, brushing his thumb over the picture. The dark
bags under his eyes have never been more pronounced, and his face is pale and drawn.
Exhaustion is an old enemy for both of them, but it seems that Dazai is finally beginning to
crack under the strain. “I think it’s time for you to retire.”

Dazai from even a year ago was more observant and cautious than this. He never would’ve
been caught off guard in public, and especially not with someone he was attached to.

It seems that old dogs do forget old tricks, and Fyodor is happy to remind him.
Love makes you stupid, and sometimes it’s not you who pays the price for your mistakes.
 Morning Wet Dreams
Chapter Summary

Chuuya wakes up heavy. The feeling of his body limp and unresponsive with sleep,
grounded and warm. He can feel his limbs somewhere, but mostly he just feels like he’s
swimming through warmth as he slowly comes back to the waking world.

Or maybe all that heavy warmth is coming from the fact that Dazai is still draped over
top of him, forehead nestled in the crook of his shoulder and neck. His arms are tight
around him, hugging him close in his sleep like a teddy bear.

Yoko has found Chuuya’s right leg, the one that managed to escape Dazai’s octopus
hold, and has claimed it for herself. She’s using his foot as a headrest and the weight of
her chest on his calf is making his foot go numb.

How is Chuuya the smallest person in this bed, and yet has become the community body
pillow? Not that he minds, he likes the grounding weight on top of him but—

His feet are numb. Dead numb.

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone!!!! Another chapter for you all today. It's spicy to make up for everything
that happens next >:) Thank you all for tuning in again, I'm really honored you all seem
to be enjoying my story!! I'm really touched it's almost at 40k hits <3 I hope you enjoy
the rest of it too!! That's all for today, and I will see you next week with another chapter
:)

This chapter includes:

- a good morning
- a text

Chuuya wakes up heavy. The feeling of his body limp and unresponsive with sleep, grounded
and warm. He can feel his limbs somewhere, but mostly he just feels like he’s swimming
through warmth as he slowly comes back to the waking world.
Or maybe all that heavy warmth is coming from the fact that Dazai is still draped over top of
him, forehead nestled in the crook of his shoulder and neck. His arms are tight around him,
hugging him close in his sleep like a teddy bear.

Yoko has found Chuuya’s right leg, the one that managed to escape Dazai’s octopus hold, and
has claimed it for herself. She’s using his foot as a headrest and the weight of her chest on his
calf is making his foot go numb.

How is Chuuya the smallest person in this bed, and yet has become the community body
pillow? Not that he minds, he likes the grounding weight on top of him but—

His feet are numb. Dead numb.

And he’s the only one awake, because Yoko is making little doggy-dreaming sounds, and
Dazai’s breaths are deep and rhythmic, washing over his collarbone in warm, steady waves.

He doesn’t know what time it is.

it doesn’t really matter anyways, because he doesn’t have anything to do until later this
evening. Dazai didn’t mention anything either, so they’re free to sleep in. Chuuya would go
back to sleep too, but there’s only one problem—

Dazai is heavy on top of him, and he didn't notice when he was falling asleep and obviously
not when he was sleeping but—

It’s work to breathe while being crushed underneath him. He can feel the muscles in his chest
and ribs straining to lift the weight, and he can already tell that he’s going to be sore later.

In other news, the ache that had taken up residence in his thighs, hips and lower back seems
to have faded away almost completely. He can barely even feel a twinge when he raises his
arms above his head and arches his back for a nice stretch.
Sensing his movement, Dazai burrows in closer, lips moving over his skin in a sleepy
mumble that’s too low to hear. Before they started sleeping together— actually sleeping
together— he never would’ve thought that Dazai would be a grumpy morning person—

But he is, he absolutely is, and that grumpy, quiet grumble he always gives is so endearing.

His hands wind up in Dazai’s hair, tugging on the strands lightly as he runs his fingers
through it. It’s wild, and it’s starting to grow out again. The strands stick up for a moment
when he brushes them out before falling under their own weight. The undercut at the back is
more of a fuzzy shave now, and could use a trim.

Or maybe he’s growing it out? Chuuya tries to imagine what that’d look like, Dazai’s face
with his hair curving around his cheeks or brushing against his shoulders or tied up in a
messy bun on top of his head.

He wants to see what that looks like. He likes the idea of being with Dazai long enough to
watch his hair grow out.

It’s the simple changes that make his heart feel the warmest.

“Dazai,” he murmurs, tugging a little harder.

“No,” Dazai grumbles, nuzzling closer like he can avoid being woken up if he just refuses to
let go or move. He mumbles something else, too low to hear except for the last bit: “‘m
sleepy.”

Smiling fondly, Chuuya tugs on his hair again, trying to get his nose away from his neck.
“You don’t have to get up, you just have to get off me.”

“Comfy,” he whines in return.

“I know you’re comfy, but you’re hurting me.”

It’s only a little bit of a lie. It’s more of an ache, and something Chuuya could deal with if he
needed to.

Apparently that’s all he needed to say, because the next thing he knows, Dazai is rolling over
onto his back and dragging him with.

Yoko makes a startled noise, sitting up to look around in confusion as to why her pillow was
stolen out from underneath her. The fur on one side of her face is flattened, while the other
side is rumpled and sticking out in odd places. She looks like she has bedhead, funnily
enough, nearly a match to the look Dazai has on.

When she sees it’s just them, she yawns with a high-pitched sound of irritation. She stands up
to stretch, first pressing her chest to the bed then her back legs one at a time. She jumps off
the bed then, and trots out of the room. Chuuya can hear Kozo getting up to follow her— he’s
strangely resistant to sleeping on the bed and prefers to sleep in front of the door— and a few
moments later, the sound of their feet on the stairs echoes from outside the room.

Without the weight on his legs, feeling is quickly returning to his feet. He flexes his ankles
absently, rubbing his toes against Dazai’s shins.

With his face turned into the pillow and once again breathing peacefully, Dazai doesn’t stir.
He looks asleep again, not that Chuuya can blame him. By the time they’d fallen into bed, the
poor man looked like he passed out instead of going to sleep.

Of course, that means Chuuya is finally free to admire him without him interfering. When
he’s awake he’s annoyingly teasing, and if he sees Chuuya looking at him, he will tease him
until he’s blushing and looking away.

Or tease him until he’s practically crying with the need to orgasm, but that’s almost as bad.
Just more enjoyable.
Now that he’s asleep though...

Chuuya can just drink him in.

Slowly, he pulls himself into a sitting position with his legs tucked under him, balanced over
Dazai's hips.

Dazai fell asleep without a shirt on, and with a little coaxing, Chuuya had managed to
persuade him to take off the bandages, leaving him completely bare to his gaze.

His belly, strong and cut with muscle, rises and falls with his every rhythmic breath. Above
that, the gradual swell of pectoral muscles that lead nicely into mouth-wateringly defined
shoulders and biceps.

On one side, the red and blue koi fish chase each other endlessly over the planes of his chest,
sakura petals falling like a river down the curve of his shoulder and arm. It's graceful, and
with the slow, subtle movement of his body, it almost looks like a flowing river.

Now that he can take a moment to look closer without making Dazai edgy or nervous, he can
find a few stretch marks and places where the ink looks oddly thin. Like it was done when he
was young, and he's grown into it.

"Taking advantage of me when I'm sleeping and unaware, are you?"

Startled, Chuuya flinches a little. His eyes dart up, catching on the small smirk curving
Dazai's lips. His eyes are still closed though, and the rest of his face is impassive. If Chuuya
hadn't heard him speak, then he would've assumed he was still sleeping.

Scowling, he flicks at his stomach. "I'm just looking at you, don't make it weird."
That earns him a huff of amusement. His eyebrow arches, and his smirk widens but his eyes
still don't open. "And do you like what you see?"

Yes, in every aspect, from the well-cut build of his body to the snarky, charming personality
hidden away in the teasing curl of his lips.

Licking his lips, Chuuya places a hand on his stomach. He pushes up, letting his fingers
follow every dip and bump of his body, tracing his way up. The way he tenses up slightly, abs
flexing, makes satisfaction curl through his stomach.

"Yes," he admits, voice low. His hand slides over his ribs, following the line of muscle over
his side. It expands under his touch with another breath, intoxicating.

Finally, Dazai's head turns and his eyes crack open slightly, revealing those caramel-brown
eyes Chuuya finds himself so fixated by. They're dark now, like coffee, drawing him in
closer so he can pick out the flecks of green and gold inside them.

"And what are you going to do about it, doll?"

Incensed by the teasing, inviting tone and the nickname he hasn't heard in so long, Chuuya
lurches forward to kiss him.

The first press of their lips together is rough, hard enough that Chuuya's teeth press painfully
into his lips—

But then he adjusts, planting a hand near Dazai's side to take his weight, and tips his head to
better the angle.

The next kiss is much better, and maybe it's because of the lingering emotional release from
the day before, or simply just how warm and heavy and indulgent everything feels right now,
but this kiss isn't as rushed as it usually tends to be.
It's deep, yes, with Dazai's tongue sliding into his mouth to scrape the metal ball of his
piercing along the insides of his teeth. Chuuya takes his turn to pull Dazai's lower lip into his
mouth until he can feel the rush of air escaping him in a breathy hush, tinged with the faintest
of groans.

Underneath him, Dazai's hips press upward. Not a thrust, but a mindless, instinctive need to
seek out pressure on his growing erection. The heat of him pressed against the curve of his
ass, separated only by the thin barriers of Dazai's sweats and Chuuya's underwear, is too
tempting to ignore.

He slides to the slide, kissing the corner of his mouth and making his way down to his sharp
jaw. Dazai lets him, tipping his head back to give him better access to his neck.

There's a spot, just under the hinge of his jaw, that pulls out a low groan when Chuuya's teeth
sink into it. The sound makes excitement thrill through him, so he sucks on that spot hard,
until he can feel his pulse throbbing underneath his tongue.

Hands find his knees, creeping upwards in a slow sweep of appreciation. Fingertips linger
over the rising goosebumps, finding every sensitive spot and teasing it lightly with the barest
brush of nails. Every inch gained feels like it leaves flames behind, drawing his skin tight
with sensitivity.

He moves down, biting marks over Dazai's Adam's apple and around the base of his neck. He
finally understands why Dazai has always spent so much time marking him up with his
mouth, because the satisfaction that wells up inside him when he pulls back to see the red,
wet mark blooming on Dazai's skin—

It's raw , primal. Fills him with the hunger for more . More marks, more skin, more touch,
more pleasure, more, more, more.

Dazai's hands coast over his hips, fingers curling around the width of them and digging in. He
drags him down, encouraging a slow, forceful rock of his hips that drags his ass along the
length of the growing erection beneath him.
Chuuya's next breath is hitched, eyelids fluttering. The friction is good, but the promise
behind it is what really sets him off.

He knows what it feels like inside him, turning his brain to mush and overloading his system
with pleasure, and he wants it again.

Just a little different this time, because—

Dazai is warm and solid beneath him, Chuuya is on fire with need and anticipation, and he's
finally got the upper hand.

"Lube," he mutters into Dazai's collarbone, biting down hard until he gets a sharp hiss in
return.

In retaliation, his hips buck underneath him, nearly unseating him. It also makes his own
erection, trapped still by his underwear, drag against Dazai's lower belly.

"Impatient," he hears from above him, which is directly contrasted by the way one of Dazai's
hands lets go of his hip to dig through the small nightstand to his left.

At least he doesn't have to go searching through the drawers underneath the bed, because
Chuuya wouldn't give up his spot for the world. There's something satisfying about having
someone so big and dominating underneath you, like turning the tables on them and taking
control instead.

Naturally, he likes being under Dazai too, but he's enjoying the privilege of taking his time,
and moving at his own pace.

Usually, he's frantic with lust, vibrating with the need for Dazai to touch him harder, faster,
more, and he rarely gets to appreciate the beautiful stretch of skin underneath him like this,
rarely gets to mark him up with his teeth and tongue, rarely gets to grind against exactly how
he wants.

Maybe he's high on the power of it, because when Dazai's hand comes back with a lube
bottle, he's snatching it out of his palm before he can even crack the top of it.

He's never done this to himself but he's had Dazai's fingers inside him enough times that he's
confident he'll be able to figure it out.

"You really are impatient," Dazai teases, hands pushing up the hem of his shirt. It's one of
Dazai's, much too big for him. Neither of them want to take that particular piece of clothing
off, but Chuuya's underwear has to go.

"I just want to help," he croons temptingly, dipping his fingers into the waistband and starting
to drag it down. "Don't you want me to do it?"

Chuuya almost gives in, especially when his hands slide over his ass and squeeze , long
fingers nearly able to grab an entire cheek with each hand—

"No," he mutters crossly, biting his chest again because he knows what Dazai is doing. Trying
to distract him and take charge again. "I'm taking care of you this time."

(That makes Dazai pause for a moment, a little confused because—

For a second, he thinks he means he wants to fuck him, which, don't get him wrong, he's
bottomed before and liked it, it's just not really his thing and he's not feeling up for teaching a
virgin how to fuck him this morning, especially when he's still so tired—

But then Chuuya squirts lube onto his fingers and brings them around to his own ass, and it
starts to click.
He wants to be in charge. He wants to do the work himself, while Dazai just lays here and
enjoys it.

Cute.

Surprisingly sweet too, because even though Dazai absolutely would not mind flipping them
over and pressing him down into the mattress, there is still a lingering exhaustion in his mind
and his body, like a phantom ache.

He could ignore it if he wanted but—

The view is nice, though, as Chuuya sits back a little to work his fingers into himself so—

Why not enjoy it?)

Chuuya is quickly realizing that being fingered is a much different experience than doing it to
himself.

First off, the angle is awkward enough that it puts strain on his wrist and limits his
movements. If he's not careful, he could give himself a cramp. That would be embarrassing,
because he thinks he's pulling off the whole smooth, suave, seductive thing very well right
now, and he doesn't want to ruin that.

His fingers are quite a bit shorter and thinner than Dazai's, which creates frustration inside
him because he's gotten used to the stretch and the feeling of Dazai attacking his prostate
until he's mindless from it, and he can't do that to himself. His fingers just aren't long enough
and he doesn't know where that spot is.

It does, however, allow him to open himself much quicker than Dazai usually takes. Dazai
likes to take his time and tease him until the next addition barely even causes a stretch, and
Chuuya likes that but—
Now he's on top, sitting on his bulge and wanting it so bad he doesn't want to wait. Doesn't
want to draw out the process for as long as possible, he wants to be fucked and he wants it
now .

It doesn't take long for him to work his way up from one finger to two to three. At that point,
the most he can do is awkward flexes of his wrist and fumblingly trying to spread his fingers
inside him, because he knows that if he doesn't open himself up properly and it looks like he
might be hurting himself, then Dazai will put a stop to it.

Of course, Dazai isn't helping him at all. His hands are coasting over him in long sweeps,
finding every sensitive spot and brushing lightly over it with teasing fingers, building his
anticipation up, up, up.

There's a point, too, when Dazai is unbuttoning his shirt— not brushing it off, but just
opening it so he can explore his chest and play with his nipples until Chuuya is panting and
arching into the tight pleasure— that Dazai murmurs, "Come on, baby, you're going to need
more than three to take me."

And that, the reminder of how big he is, how completely he fills him up, how Chuuya feels
like he's overflowing and bursting with pleasure and heat and ecstasy whenever Dazai is
with him, over him, in him—

His body clenches down at the reminder, contracting hard.

Licking his lips again, he leans back farther, reaching back with his free hand to brace
himself on Dazai's thigh. That settles his weight deeper in his lap, and the heated outline of
his erection presses against him hard. He rocks against it absently, twisting his wrist to add
his pinkie finger.

It also gives Dazai access to his entire front, which he eagerly takes advantage of. One hand
palms his chest, tweaking his nipple until it almost hurts, pleasure tight and coiling in his
belly. The other drifts over his stomach, admiring the flexing muscles, as he works his way
down—
His underwear is still trapped around his upper thighs, both of them too impatient to properly
pull them off before getting started.

That doesn't stop Dazai's hand from dipping inside and wrapping around his erection to pull it
out. The friction is mostly dry, and the slow stroke Dazai gives him is rough, but the attention
is so good, finally a taste of what he needs, and it just builds the desperation higher, hotter.

“I’m ready,” Chuuya pants, spreading his fingers inside himself one last time. His body is so
eager for touch that his muscles melt into the pressure.

Pulling his fingers out, he shuffles to get his underwear off completely. He goes to shrug off
the shirt, only to have Dazai’s fingers tighten around his hips.

“Leave it on,” he murmurs, tugging it back into place. It’s massive on him, the hem falling
below mid-thigh, but it’s not restrictive or limits his movements, so—

He leaves it on. Partly because of the way he feels in it, cute and small and sexy. Partly
because Dazai looks like he might devour him in it.

Dazai steals the lube back from him while he’s distracted, and pours a decent amount into his
own palm. He slicks himself up with quick motions, sighing pleasantly from the friction and
the quick dose of pleasure.

Impatience rises quickly, and as soon as Chuuya sees that he’s wet enough, he’s knocking his
hand out of the way and climbing back into place.

Dazai raises an eyebrow at his audacity, but he doesn’t say anything.

(Not yet, at least. As always, Chuuya will pay for being a brat later, but he hasn’t internalized
that lesson yet.
For now he’s just—.)

Impossibly, Dazai’s cock feels bigger from this angle. The head slides wetly between his
asscheeks, sliding over his entrance but not pressing in.

Arching his back to reach under him to line Dazai up is hard, and he’s hoping Dazai will take
some mercy on him and help but—

He doesn’t. He just watches, mouth curled into a smug look and his clean hand tucked
beneath his head in the very picture of self-satisfaction. His expression says ‘you said you
wanted to be the one to do it— so do it.’

After a few tries that end up with Dazai’s cock glancing off his hole and sliding between his
ass, Chuuya finally finds the right angle and begins to sink down.

And—

He made miscalculations.

For one, his fingers aren’t nearly the same width or stretch as Dazai’s, so even though he
used four, all the way to the knuckles, there’s still a burning, aching stretch that makes him
have to fight for every inch he sinks down.

For another, he can actually see Dazai's expression clearly from this angle, and god , it looks
so good he wants to stare at it forever. Eyes dilating, going half-lidded, devilish pools of
black tar that drink in the sight of him as he lowers himself agonizingly slowly.

Lips parted on a soft groan, shiny and wet, the hint of teeth behind them. A slight flush
growing on his cheeks, dusting his cheekbones and nose with shades of pink, his nostrils
flaring. Jaw clenched as he fights the urge to thrust up, letting Chuuya take his time to work
himself down in short strokes.

And fuck, he's so big. Big enough that it feels like it's carving out space in his insides, big
enough that he swears he can taste him in the back of his throat, big enough that every
sensitive spot gets pressed against mercilessly, driving him wild.

His head falls back on a moan, swallowing hard as he fights the urge to chase that sensation
recklessly, to drop down the rest of the way down in one quick slide, wondering deliriously
—

Is it always going to feel this big? Feel this good? Is he always going to feel like his mind is
melting under the pressure? He swears he can feel every bump and ridge of his cock as he
settles downward, feel it throbbing inside him.

By the time his ass comes to rest against Dazai's hips, taking a deep breath feels impossible.
Oxygen is like fire to his blood, molten lava in his veins and pumping through his pounding
heart.

"God," he chokes out, shuddering when every shift of his body makes Dazai's cock move
slightly inside him. Electricity crackles along his nerves, flaring higher with each tiny
movement.

"Mm," Dazai hums, and he can already tell he's about to say something stupid—

"I prefer Daddy, but you can call me that if you want."

Yep, there it is.

He's glad his face is tipped towards the ceiling, because he can't help the small smile in
response but he doesn't want Dazai to know he found that even a little bit funny.
Leaning back, he braces himself again on Dazai's thigh. His leg is strong and solid beneath
him, packed with muscle, and providing an excellent base for him to work off of. The angle
tips his hips backwards, and now the ridge on the underside of his cock is pressing
relentlessly against his prostate.

"Fuck you," Chuuya responds, not even a little bit ashamed of how breathy his voice is, or
the tinge of amusement in it.

Dazai's hips flex, burying himself a centimeter deeper in a quick, sudden movement that has
his breath stalling out in his chest. "Baby, I think it's the other way around."

Well—

He has a point there.

Deciding he's had quite enough of conversation, Chuuya rocks his hips, testing the slide.
There's enough lube between them that everything is slick and wet, satisfying a primal,
animal part of him.

Dazai slides out an inch, presses back in on the rock down, his cock hitting his every
sensitive spot. Heat rockets through Chuuya, intoxicating and addicting, prompting him to
rock his hips again.

Pleasure builds slowly, coiling around the base of his spine and tightening with every rock of
his hips. It satisfies his desire, only to relight a deeper, more irresistible desire for more.

It never feels like he's going to get enough. He could do this forever, and yet as soon as his
hunger is sated, it starts to grow again. He’ll never be satisfied, he’ll always need more. More
of Dazai, more of him on him, over him, under him, in him, needs him with the fierce
burning of a thousand suns.
Taking a deeper breath, he rises up on his knees, pulling up until Dazai’s about halfway
inside him—

Then he’s sinking down again, eyes rolling back at the sensation of being filled again. With
the angle, the head of his cock drags over his prostate, such intense, merciless sensation that
his thighs are beginning to tremble.

Coming back to rest against his hips is like satisfaction itself, the width of his cock stretching
his rim to its limits. He grinds there, trying to get him deeper, circling his hips slowly.

"Fuck," Dazai hisses, rough voice sending a pulse of excitement down Chuuya's spine. The
arm folded behind his head is tensing, bicep flexing. His other hand finds Chuuya's thigh,
tracing the straining tendons and muscles in his thighs, leaving wet trails of lube behind.

Chuuya doesn't care about that, doesn't care about the mess , only cares about getting more
touch, more pleasure, more everything. He rocks his hips forward as he leans farther back,
offering Dazai more access, hoping he'll touch his cock again.

"Ride me, baby," Dazai murmurs, hand sliding up over his hip, thumb sweeping tempting
close to where his erection is aching for attention. His eyes are like brands on Chuuya's skin,
a physical burning weight that leaves him melting in its wake. "I want to watch."

Involuntarily, his body clenches up at the thought. There's something so intoxicating, so

addicting, about the idea of being the center of Dazai's attention. Like the rest of the world
doesn't matter, the rest of his problems are melting away, all his insecurities and
vulnerabilities fading away.

All there is is here and now, filled to the brim with pleasure and the need to perform.

The next time he drags his hips up is a little faster than the last time, a little more confident.
He circles his hips on the way back down, a moan escaping him at the different angles.
Dropping back down his relief on his thighs, but it's not as hard as he wants it to be. Even
with the weight of his body behind it, it's not nearly as hard as it was when Dazai was fucking
him, and he's craving it.

"Beautiful," Dazai breathes, hot-wet hand coasting over his working abs. "Don't stop."

He won't, he won't, he won't ever stop.

Building a rhythm is surprisingly easy. All he has to do is follow the raging instincts of his
body, the hunger in his stomach that is demanding more, and faster and harder.

Every bounce up is accented by the delicious drag of Dazai's cock against every one of his
nerve endings. Every drop down feels like being remade again, every empty spot inside him
getting filled again, until he feels like he might burst from the overload.

The tension is building, coiling in his belly and growing tighter with every slam down. Dazai
feels so big in this position, so big he can't escape it, all he can do is hang on and survive .

His thighs are aching with the work, trembling with exertion. He's strung thin between the
desire to stop and rest, and the need to keep climbing up to the peak, chasing pleasure like a
drug on his addicts tongue.

For the most part, Dazai is unmoving underneath him. His hand is still wandering over his
body, pausing to pinch and pull at his nipples until Chuuya is shuddering, sliding over his
abs, thumb swirling over the pre-cum welling up at the tip of his cock.

With a wicked look in his eye, he brings his thumb to his mouth. His tongue is wet and
tempting, the metal ball of his piercing flashing in the light of the room as he slowly licks his
thumb clean.

Chuuya is caught by the sight, eyes intently following every talented curl and swipe of his
tongue and vividly remembering what it felt like on his dick, how wet and hot and perfect his
mouth felt, the second best thing he's ever experienced.

The first being, obviously, his cock inside him, but it's a hard thing to choose between.

If he focuses enough, he can almost imagine the sensation of it. There's lube on his erection
now, hot from the leftover warmth of Dazai's hand and if he thinks hard enough, he can just
imagine what it feels like to be swallowed down again, hot-wet suction around him—

His hips stutter, his rhythm beginning to fall apart as the tension continues to build, starting to
reach a breaking point. It's good, it's so good, somehow even better with how hard he has to
work for it. The aching need in the base of his erection is rivalled by the ache of exertion in
his thighs.

Dazai's hips shift underneath him, bucking up once with force that Chuuya is lurching
forward to catch himself with a hand on his chest, nearly unsettled from his seat entirely.

"I didn't say you could stop," Dazai muses, hand coasting back up his chest, over his
collarbones, to wrap loosely around his throat. "You can do better than that, can't you? Don't
tell me you're giving up already?"

He's not, he just needs a break. His thighs are burning and his abs are aching, and even
though it's so good, it's still somehow not enough, he needs more and it's so hard--

He goes limp in Dazai's grip, hips grinding forward absently to get more friction against his
erection from Dazai's stomach.

"No," he gasps out, lungs burning, "I just—”

He cuts himself off with a low keen, unable to continue that sentence. Unable to even think of
what he was going to say, mind melting and thoughts blurring together.
"I know," Dazai croons, voice reverberating in the small space between them and dripping
like wax down Chuuya's spine, "You're close, aren't you? Just need a little more?"

Maybe the intent is to be mocking, but all he can think about is how good he sounds like that,
how easy it is to slip into his control.

He nods, shifting his rhythm to small, short bounces on his cock. The angle means that his
prostate is practically being milked, fiery waves of pleasure building and building and
building.

"I can tell," he continues, dragging him down to give him a sweet, lingering kiss. "I can feel it
when you get close."

Finally, finally , his other hand is moving and he's touching him with both hands. This one
finds the curve of his hip, tightening around it ruthlessly and dragging him back into every
thrust, increasing the pressure.

Breaking the kiss, Dazai slides to the side to smear loud, wet kisses over his cheeks. His
breathing is rough, the only thing Chuuya can hear besides the wet sounds of their bodies
coming together.

"You get tighter , baby," he says, and something about having his /own body described to him
in that voice makes Chuuya spiral even higher. "Feels so good around me."

Yes, yes, he likes that, likes that he makes Dazai feel good, likes that he's doing good.

"I should keep you here forever," gets smeared into his cheek, like a thought Dazai hadn't
meant to voice but ended up revealing by accident. "Strung out and just waiting for me to
give you what you need."

The last word is punctuated by the hand leaving his hip and moving inwards, finally
wrapping around his erection. His thumb sliding over the pre-cum welling up and spreading
the moisture around the head feels like beautiful hellfire.

"Maybe tomorrow," Dazai sighs, giving his cheek one last kiss before pushing him back a
little. "Today I want to watch you cum."

This close, his eyes are all encompassing, vast pools of brown that are so easy to fall into.
Easier than falling, easier than coming home, easier than breathing.

Spurred on by the words, Chuuya manages to pick up the pace a little bit. Dazai matches his
rhythm, but in opposite, hand sliding up as Chuuys comes crashing down, rewarding him for
another bounce up with another tight, wet stroke down to the base.

Pleasure is pulsing through him in hot waves, building and building, tidal pools into waves
into tsunamis. He can feel it creeping up his spine, turning every inch of his skin
hypersensitive.

It builds momentum as it goes, growing faster, hotter, better with each stroke of his cock.
Every time his body clenches down, fighting for even more pleasure, he's reminded of how
unrelentingly hard Dazai is inside of him, throbbing with heat.

He's a mess of moans and choked whines, eyes beginning to haze over with his impending
orgasm. He can't look away from Dazai though, partly because his gaze is searing hot and
irresistible and mostly because whenever his eyes begin to flutter shut, Dazai stops.

"Don't stop, don't stop, please, I'm— I'm—,” Chuuya pants out, cutting himself off with
another cry as Dazai tightens his grip on his throat. It's not enough to choke him, but it's just
tight enough that it's a slight struggle to breathe past, making him dizzy and lightheaded. It
just makes it that much easier for the pleasure to overwhelm him, sending him spiraling with
no sense of return.

He's close, so close, the edge is drawing near. He's hanging over the cliff, pushed closer with
every stroke of Dazai's hand, with every bounce on his cock.
Dazai leans in, gaze unwavering and so close it's the only thing Chuuya can see as he finds
his bottom lip and slowly sucks it into his mouth. He sets his teeth into it and pulls back,
stretching the sensitive flesh until it starts to sting—

On the upstroke, Dazai squeezes the head of his erection mercilessly, thumb sliding up to dig
his nail into the sensitive slit with almost enough pressure to hurt—

And he's gone.

The orgasm crashes over him like an ocean storm, huge and filled with electricity, drowning
him in sensation. Rapture rips through him from head to toe, with such intensity that it leaves
his whole body shivering in the aftermath, filled with white-hot tingles.

Dazai's hand around his cock gets hotter and wetter, cum filling the spaces between his
fingers and getting spread on the next stroke down.

He ekes out a few more bounces on his cock, overwhelmed by the sensation of his erection
twitching in Dazai's grip, in the feeling of his prostate getting firm, relentless pressure
applied, sending shards of white-hot pleasure down his thighs.

He can't get in enough air, his lungs burning as the waves start to die down into weakening
pulses—

Which is, of course, when Dazai stops having mercy on him.

Vaguely, he can feel him shifting underneath him, legs drawing up and forcing Chuuya's
thighs to open that much further as Dazai braces his feet—

The first slam of his hips up startles a shocked cry from Chuuya, jolting in place. He doesn't
have anywhere to go though, his neck still caught with Dazai's fingers around it, and his
thighs spread obscenely wide to fit his hips between.
The second slam pulls out a oversensitive yelp because—

He's not exactly aiming for his prostate, he's more just setting up a brutal pace, but fuck, the
ridge of his cock drags against on every pull out, slides against it hard on the thrust in and—

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Keening, Chuuya digs his nails into his chest, clawing at him as he tries to survive the fast
pace Dazai starts.

The pain just makes Dazai hiss, just makes him fuck him harder , makes the hand around his
throat tighten and—

And—

Chuuya is going to cry, holy shit.

He's been fucked through his orgasms before but that was with that strange, wonderful hazy
feeling he gets sometimes during sex. With that feeling filling up his head, it made it easy to
relax into the oversensitivity, dulled the burning edge until it was easy to bear.

Now though?

Now he's brutally awake, aware of every sensation coursing through him. It's so much,
confusing in its intensity, and he doesn't know if it feels like ecstasy or agony, all he knows is
that he has no chance but to hang in Dazai's grip and take it.

"Hhhngh," he chokes out, eyes rolling back in his head. "Fuck, Dazai, it— God, fucking
please, it hurts—.”
The laugh Dazai lets out against his mouth is sinister, sadistic. "Does it?" He asks, voice
dripping with intent, with /temptation/, with power and domination "Or do you like it?"

That's the problem , he doesn't know, it's so fucking much, and he's not even given a second
to breathe, he's just being fucked out of his mind, beyond reason, he can't handle it—

"I think you do," Dazai continues, his free hand finding Chuuya's hip and yanking him down
into the next thrust, increasing the force. "Because, baby—,” he slides to the side, scraping
his teeth over his cheek, and the feeling of how harsh his breath is is exciting on it's own, "—
you haven't told me to stop."

That's true, he hasn't, he doesn't know if he does want him to stop, and he knows he could
make him stop, the word 'red' is there on the back of his tongue but—

His body is struggling but his mind doesn't want to stop. He wants to prove himself, wants to
be good. He wants to take everything Dazai can give him.

Eyes squeezing shut, he digs his nails into Dazai's chest, fighting to ground himself as the
sensations wildly spin between searing-hot pleasure and electrified pain, fighting to hold on
—

"That's my baby," Dazai purrs, and the kisses he places on his cheek are achingly gentle
compared to the savage rhythm of his hips. "So good for me, even when it's hard."

The possession in his voice, the casual ownership of it, makes Chuuya shiver again, going
limp in his grip. The fingers around his throat are tight, not because Dazai is choking him, but
because he's supporting most of the weight of his upper body.

Chuuya spreads his thighs a little more, uncaring that the stretch is too much now, giving
Dazai more room to work with. The pleased growl against his cheek, and the feeling of
Dazai's body working harder underneath him, makes pride and self-satisfaction surge in his
chest.
"We should get you a collar, someday. As much as I love my hands on you, I could put a
leash on you, and you'll have to just take whatever I give you, however I give it to you, like a
good boy."

Yes, yes, whatever he wants, Chuuya will do anything, be anything, everything.

(Is it unfair to be bringing up that topic for the first time while Chuuya is half out of his mind
and Dazai is licking away his overstimulated tears? Probably.

Is Dazai in any state of mind to be thinking about fairness and the right thing right now?

Absolutely not.

Because he woke up with a little chibi sitting on his hips, watched him ride him like the only
thing he wanted in the world was Dazai balls-deep inside him, and now—

Now he's tight and hot and wet , and even though he can feel his body instinctively trying to
squirm away from the overload, he can also sense the way Chuuya is actively trying to relax
into it and—

Fuck, he's such a good boy, how can Dazai ever resist him?)

"Yes, Dazai," Chuuya croaks, feeling a compulsion to answer even if it was probably just a
rhetorical question, "Yes."

Another slam of hips, more harsh breathing on his face. Dazai's rhythm is falling apart, jack-
rabbit quick thrusts starting to slur into deep, frantic grinds. He's close.
Still, somehow his voice manages to stay mostly composed as he scrapes his teeth over his
cheek. "That's not what you call me. That's not my name."

And, well—

Now that's he's gotten a little used to the sensation overload, he can think around it, just a
little, enough that an idea occurs to him, one that will either get him in trouble or send Dazai
over the edge—

"Yes," his lips curl, mischievous, "Daddy."

There's a second where he can feel the breath in Dazai's lungs still, where he can feel him
twitch and throb inside him, and his hips press up, burying himself as deep as he can go—

Then Chuuya's world is spinning and he's going from being on top to being pinned to the
mattress with near-vicious intensity. Dazai is bearing down on top of him, one hand planting
by Chuuya's side to hold his weight while the other finds the bend of his knee and pushes it
up, until it's pressed to his chest.

When Dazai slams back in, it's with the force of his entire body behind it, burying himself as
far as he can go in one savage thrust.

There's not even a second to adjust, because he's pulling back out just as quickly, pounding
back in, setting up a rhythm that has Chuuya choking on his own breath. He's arching beneath
him, but there's nowhere to go , he's trapped, he's pinned, he's spread open wide for Dazai to
fuck as hard and fast as he wants—

Somehow, Dazai manages to shuffle his knees to take more of his weight so he's balanced
better. Then his hand is coming up, grabbing Chuuya by the jaw. His fingers squish his
cheeks, grinding the insides against his teeth until it stings.
"You," Dazai practically snarls into his mouth, dropping down to give him a searing kiss that
steals what remaining breath he has.

Another slam of his hips, and Chuuya is hanging on with everything he has, but he swears
he's not going to survive this for much longer—

"Are so," gets smothered into his mouth, like the words have more meaning if they're spoken
directly onto his tongue.

His prostate gets hammered on the next thrust, a direct blow that has Chuuya nearly
screaming in response, acid-burning shards of pleasure-pain melting through his spine.

Pushing his knee up higher, Dazai slams in and stares there, grinding wetly into him, as deep
as he can go. His voice is broken, cracked with rumbling groans, drenched in pleasure that it's
making Chuuya's breath catch in response. "Fucking perfect."

That— the idea of being perfect for him, being irresistable, being exactly what Dazai needs
and wants— has Chuuya's body clenching down in instinctive arousal, hips rocking against
him as much as he can move with how hard he's being pinned.

One, two, three short, hard thrusts inside him that makes him feel like Dazai is trying to
climb inside him entirely, so deep Chuuya will never get him out, will never be able escape
the feeling of him in his throat, in his lungs, in his heart—

Dazai goes still with a drawn out groan, hips twitching forward in intermittent thrusts as he
orgasms. Chuuya's name is on his lips, muttered mindlessly and muffled into his mouth.

A new burst of warmth floods through him. He can feel Dazai's erection twitching inside him
in heavy waves that match the spurts of wet warmth beginning to fill him up. His hips are
still rocking slightly, pulling out a little just to fuck back in, pushing his cum as far inside
Chuuya as he can get.
Everything is hot and wet, satisfying some raw primal part of him. It's pleasant, and leaves
Chuuya feeling buzzed and limp in the aftermath. Even as the ache in his thighs begins to
reassert itself, and his chest is heaving as he tries to catch his breath under the constriction of
Dazai pinning his knee to his chest—

The only thing he can really focus on is the raw satisfaction of feeling cum beginning to leak
down his ass in sticky trails as Dazai starts to soften inside him. God, he's a mess, smeared
with lube, his own release and now Dazai's.

He likes it. No, loves it.

With a heaving breath of exertion, Dazai pushes himself up and off him, settling back onto
his knees. The motion means he slides out completely, cum spilling out after him. Brown
eyes follow the trail, dilating at the sight.

With a wince, Chuuya lets his leg drop back to the mattress. His hip is aching and the muscle
shakes are already beginning to set in. He points his toes to stretch his legs out, groaning
lightly.

Dazai presses a hand to his thigh, frowning when he feels how badly he’s trembling. “Are
you okay?”

Besides feeling like he pushed himself way too hard at the gym and he might not be able to
walk for a few hours, and the strangely empty feeling from lack of stimulation as his body
starts to come down completely—

Yes, he’s fine.

Sighing, he relaxes into Dazai’s grip as he begins a light massage, pressing into the muscles
and soothing them. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
He hisses when Dazai presses in with his thumb on the inside of his thigh. “Though I’m
starting to wonder if you’re trying to kill me with sex.”

That earns him a smile and a huff of amusement. His thumb presses in harder as he leans
forward and presses a kiss to his stomach. “Baby,” he sighs, licking a broad stripe over the
mess on his skin, “That was me going easy on you.”

If that’s going easy, then Chuuya might not survive Dazai being rough with him. He admits
he’s not that educated about sex, but he’s learning quickly and he can’t imagine more than
what Dazai’s already done with him? He’s been tied up, publicly tormented, fucked until he’s
crying from oversensitivity—

What more is there? How many possible ways can there be to have sex? What else can Dazai
do to him?

It’s half anticipation, half- almost-fear that fills him at the thought.

The feeling of Dazai’s tongue swirling over his skin, finding every smear of cum and
strawberry-flavored lube and lapping it up is partly soothing and partly electrifying. Chuuya
doesn’t know why he finds the idea of Dazai licking him clean hot but—

Here he is, one hand buried in Dazai’s hair as he squirms at the sensations, breath quickening.
Every breath he takes is tinged with soreness from his overworked abs.

His softened cock only gets one, long, rough-wet swipe of his tongue before Chuuya is
dragging him away by his hair with a pained hiss.

He’s almost expecting Dazai to resist, maybe to swallow him down in direct opposition, and
Chuuya is bracing himself because it’s too much after everything, but he also can’t find it in
himself to tell him no—
But Dazai moves with the pull this time, sliding up his body easily, until he’s hovering over
his face. His free hand comes up, grabbing Chuuya by his jaw and pulling his mouth open so
he can claim him in a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

His tongue slides inside, rubbing the taste of himself over the roof of his mouth.

Last time, Chuuya thought this was gross. Now, it’s bitter, but actually pretty hot.

Now, his hands are in his hair, pulling him close. His legs are trembling too much to wrap
them around his waist, but he keeps him as close for as long as possible using just his hands.

Their kiss is broken when Chuuya’s phone beeps from somewhere further up the bed. He
tries to hold on but—

Dazai breaks the kiss with a final peck, offering him a sweet smile. He pulls away
completely, rising up on his knees.

“You should answer that,” he says, shuffling off the bed, “I’ll get something to clean you up
with.”

Chuuya pouts, but he can’t stop him from heading into the bathroom.

With a heavy sigh, he searches over the bed with his hand, looking for his phone. It was
under the pillow last night, but this morning finds it buried halfway beneath the blankets.

He pulls it out, unlocking it with easy movements.

He’s expecting a text from his dad, or his sisters, or maybe a social media tag—
Not expecting a text from Shuuji.

[ SHUUJI ]: can we talk? :(

Chuuya has...a lot of complicated feelings regarding Shuuji. The beginning of their...
relationship was rocky, and he's only just now realizing how manipulative and messed up he
was to Chuuya, now that he has Dazai to show him what a boyfriend is supposed to act like,
and supposed to make him feel.

But he can't say that meeting Shuuji was a bad thing, or that he'd ever change the way things
turned out because...

His eyes wander over to the open bathroom door, where he can hear the sink being turned on
and water starting to rush.

If he hadn't met Shuuji, hadn't dealt with everything Shuuji put him through, he wouldn't
have met Dazai. Wouldn't have had a reason to spend so much time with him, wouldn't have
had a reason for that first date, so long ago.

Shuuji might've tried his best to destroy what little confidence Chuuya had at the time, but it
didn't work , and now he has Dazai.

All things considered, he'd say he came out with the better end of the deal.

Chuuya hovers over the keyboard, wondering what to say. They haven't talked directly ever
since Shuuji blew him off to go to that party. They're still in a group chat together and they're
civil (as civil as Shuuji can be, at least) to each other there, but neither of them have been
willing to break the silence first.

Until now, that is.

Does he answer? What does he say?

The wording of the text is suspicious too. 'Can we talk', no explanation, no warning. It's
anxiety inducing, especially as a thought occurs to Chuuya:

Does he know about him and Dazai?

They haven't talked about telling anyone else yet, and Chuuya doesn't know how he feels
about that yet.

He's not ashamed of Dazai, it's just...

Having a negative reputation, especially one spread and collaborated by a young, rich
businessman (Shuuji, in this case) can completely ruin his career before it begins. While the
naïve, romantic side of him wants to believe that he'll be with Dazai for a long time and he'll
be able to protect him from that, it's not a guarantee.

And based on that one text Shuuji sent in the group chat to Yuan about killing her for
sleeping with his dad? He won't be happy they're dating.

He has to answer. If only to keep the peace.

[ Chuuya ]: Sure, what's up?

In the time it takes for the answer to come in, Dazai returns back to the bedroom. There's a
wet washcloth in his hands, which he uses to gently clean the mess of lube and cum lingering
on his skin. He's achingly gentle, and the towel is warm.

Such a simple, small detail that would've been easily overlooked—

But Dazai didn't overlook it. Somehow, he always manages to think of everything.

[ SHUUJI ]: I wanted to say im sorry

It feels strange to be hiding his phone from Dazai, carefully tipping the screen away from him
in a move that feels natural to keep him from seeing. It feels like he's cheating on him, but
he's not, he would never—

He just doesn't know how Dazai would feel about him talking to his son, considering their
relationship is filled with animosity. Besides, he's pretty sure the etiquette of sex says that
texting with your boyfriend's son only a few minutes after getting your soul fucked out of you
is bad manners.

He's not hiding, he's just...

Seeing what Shuuji wants and then waiting for the best time to tell Dazai about whatever it is.

(The best time would've been now. After this, after the next conversation and the next and the
next—

It snowballs.

Too bad you rarely see the snowstorm for all the snow.)

[ CHUUYA ]: sorry for what?

Dazai flips him onto his stomach so he can get the spots on the back of his thighs. The
rhythm he's using is relaxing, almost meditative.
[ SHUUJI ]: i was a real dick to you after the whole dinner thing. i was just having a really
bad time with my whole family situation and when u didn't seem upset it made me think u
didn't care :\

He's... saying he was an asshole to Chuuya because he wasn’t upset enough about being stood
up? His head hurts trying to wrap around that.

[ SHUUJI ]: and my life kinda sucks rn so when u stopped talking to me, it felt really bad and
i didn't want to talk to you either

He stopped talking to Chuuya, actually.

[ SHUUJI ]: and now im realizing that u were a good friend to me and i want you back :(

The problem with that specific statement is that they weren't friends in most senses of the
word. Sure, they were in the same friend group, and still are, but there was always an implicit
understanding that there was something more there, a romantic interest.

And 'I want you back'? What is this, a romance movie?

Chuuya can't find it in himself to be too mad right now, considering that Dazai has procured a
bottle of massage oil from somewhere, and is now massaging away all the aches in his thighs
and lower back. God, his hands are lovely, they're magic. He knew that already, but when
they find a knot at the base of his spine and press it away? Heaven.

[ CHUUYA ]: thanks for apologizing

Kouyou taught him to accept apologies instead of saying something else like 'it's okay'.
Because it's not okay, and he doesn't have to forgive someone the moment they apologize.
[ SHUUJI ]: so can we be friends again? :( my parents are fighting rn and yuan and nikolai
are annoying rn. they don't understand what it's like to not have 2 parents :\

[ SHUUJI ]: well i have 2 parents and u don't but u know what i mean lol

In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have told Shuuji that his mother died because—

Wow. Alright then.

[ CHUUYA ]: fine but we are ONLY friends. no kissing, no dates, nothing like that. only
friends.

[ SHUUJI ]: okay darling <3

Somehow, Chuuya doesn't think he gets the message, but he can beat it into his head another
time.

Right now, he feels half-melted into the bed and Dazai is sliding up his body and leading the
way with a trail of soft, sweet kisses up his spine and over his shoulder.

"Anything important?" He asks, chest rumbling against Chuuya's back.

With a content sigh, Chuuya turns his phone screen off and pushes his phone to the side. It's
not important, not nearly as important as twisting around to draw Dazai into a kiss. "No," he
murmurs, "just a friend."

(There will be a time, not too long from now, when he's staring down a barreling car, hands
wrapped around his throat and fighting for his life—
That he wishes he said something now.)
 Birthday Cakes
Chapter Summary

He can't help but think about it though, when he's drifting off to sleep or when Dazai is
on a call with him while he's taking a study break, when he receives yet another order of
food that Dazai sent to him without asking or telling him.

He thinks about it, over and over and over again.

What if I brought him home? What if I kept him? What if he was mine forever?

Those thoughts never go away. They lurk beneath the surface, growing roots, spiraling
out endlessly into the unknown reaches, leading Chuuya naturally into hopes of forever.

Of always. Of home, no matter where he goes.

Chapter Notes

Hi I don't have a reason for why this is late other than the fact that I discovered TGCF
this weekend and promptly forgot I had to do things like eat, sleep, update and work in
favor of watching the anime, reading the danmei and reading all five novels. In other
news, you can now expect some content from me for that fandom because I'm
HOOKEEDDDD.

Anyways, this chapter is a wild ride, I hope u enjoy it. :) I'll be back on time next
weekend, as we slowly descend into the Plot. >:)

This chapter includes:

- a text
- a fight
- a pick-up line

Signing up for classes for his second semester of college is much easier than the first time.
He knows his way around the website by now, knows some of the professors and has heard
rumors of most of the others, knows not to sign up for any more morning classes, and knows
which buildings contain which classes, so he doesn't end up scheduling himself for back-to-
back classes in buildings that are on opposite sides of campus.
At the same time though, it has the similar feeling of loss to it because returning to school
means he's giving up time with Dazai.

It's like moving away from home again, losing his family in small ways. He's still there, he's
not gone, but Chuuya will soon be swamped in coursework and classes and he won't have
time for boyfriend-things anymore.

No more time for trips to Osaka, no more lazy days in bed, no more days at the park playing
with the dogs.

No more sex.

Well, that last one Chuuya will work around, because he'd rather die than go longer than a
week without getting pounded into Dazai's bed, but now there's restrictions.

Because not only does he have classes, the return of the semester means that Shuuji is home
on a permanent basis. And, by some stroke of bad luck that Chuuya is genuinely suspicious
of, somehow he ends up in the same statistics class as Chuuya.

He didn't realize how tiresome it was to work around Shuuji until he's sitting there
contemplating how to climb onto the balcony into Dazai's room without him noticing.

As for the conversation about whether or not they should tell Shuuji they're dating...

Chuuya keeps putting it off. Dazai starts to bring it up once, but he quickly changes the
subject because—

He hasn't decided how he feels about it. On one hand, he wants to tell Shuuji just so they can
stop sneaking around like new parents with an inquisitive toddler.
On the other hand, it feels like there's a whole host of potential issues that Chuuya is not
prepared for the fallout for. Second semester will probably be even harder than the first one in
a lot of ways, and he doesn't need more on his plate. He has a feeling Shuuji might start
rumors , like Yuan said he used to do in high school.

On a different, slightly related look at the issue—

Dazai is his first boyfriend. There's a part of him, maybe young and naïve and stupid—

That wants to tell his family first.

In his imagination, that's always who he's told first. Not his friends, but his sisters and his
dad. They've always been his biggest supporters, even when it's been difficult. He loves them,
and he wants to share this part of his life with them.

Wants to share Dazai with them.

He's just not sure how to bring that up. By now, they've been dating for a little over two
weeks, and it feels way too soon to even bring up the possibility of bringing Dazai home, but
he also wants it. Really badly.

How is he supposed to bring that conversation up though?

'Hey, wanna meet my real daddy'? 'How do you feel about bonding with your boyfriend's dad
who is closer to your age’'?

Every casual slide into that conversation seems even more ridiculous than the last. Besides,
he hasn't even mentioned Dazai to his family yet beyond vague mentions of meeting
someone, so he supposes it's still a moot point for now.
He can't help but think about it though, when he's drifting off to sleep or when Dazai is on a
call with him while he's taking a study break, when he receives yet another order of food that
Dazai sent to him without asking or telling him.

He thinks about it, over and over and over again.

What if I brought him home? What if I kept him? What if he was mine forever?

Those thoughts never go away. They lurk beneath the surface, growing roots, spiraling out
endlessly into the unknown reaches, leading Chuuya naturally into hopes of forever.

Of always. Of home, no matter where he goes.

A ding! breaks him from his thoughts, making him look over at his phone at the incoming
text.

[ SHUUJI ]: hey wanna study tonight, my house?

His immediate reaction is no because he 'studied' with Shuuji once and that turned into being
pinned against the wall and forcibly kissed until he was crawling with discomfort.

His second reaction, when he takes a few seconds to think about it, is yes because—

Dazai is home today. He mentioned that earlier, said he was glad to enjoy some downtime
with Yoko.

If he says yes, he gets to see Dazai. It's been almost ten days since they last saw each other,
and while that doesn't sound like a lot, Chuuya is dying to see him.
So..he says yes.

[ SHUUJI ]: ok cool I will pick u up in 1 hr

That gives Chuuya just enough time to change out of his lazy day sweats and into something
cute. Possibly something that Dazai bought him in Osaka (his closet is practically
overflowing now, and he actually can’t have all his clothes clean at the same time because he
doesn’t have enough room for them all now. He’s resorted to shoving clothes under his bed to
make room.)

[ CHUUYA ]: ok cool see you then.

He exits out of his message threads with Shuuji and opens up his conversation with Dazai.
Their last messages were about the stray cat. Chuuya’s been trying to convince him to give
the poor thing a bath so he’s clean again, but Dazai is insistent on not getting himself
“scratched to death.”

It’s a work in progress.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard. Should he tell him that he’s coming over? Or should he
leave it as a pleasant surprise?

He wants to surprise him because Dazai’s surprised him with things he liked, and he wants it
to be fair—

But it also feels wrong to show up with his son without even a warning, so he starts to type
out a message.

Halfway through, before he can send it, his phone starts to ring with an incoming call.

Kouyou.
It’s strange for her to call instead of text, so he immediately accepts the call and brings the
phone to his ear. “Hello?”

For someone who hasn’t spoken to him beyond texting and social media tags, Kouyou sounds
very exasperated as she says, “So did you plan on telling me what you did or was I supposed
to just find out myself?”

Chuuya’s blood goes cold. If she’s angry enough to skip a greeting, and gets straight to the
point then—

She knows.

But if Chuuya has learned anything from being a little sibling, it’s to never admit to your
crimes unless you have no other option. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you don’t know? You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You think I wouldn’t notice? Don’t
play stupid.”

Chuuya doesn’t have a response to that because the anxiety is spiking.

The silent tension builds for a long moment, with Kouyou clearly waiting for a guilty
confession and Chuuya is so close to admitting it, for ‘yes, yes, it’s true, I am a dirty dad
fucker’ to come spilling out of his mouth—

When Kouyou bursts into laughter.

“I really got you, didn’t I?” She cackles, sounding way too pleased with herself, “I bet you
were really about to confess to something!”
Chuuya’s jaw drops. “You asshole! Did you call me just to fuck with me?!”

That just makes her laugh harder.

He hates having siblings. He should’ve been born an only child.

“No, no,” she wheezes, finally starting to calm down after laughing at his pain for nearly an
entire minute. “I’m calling to tell you to stop ignoring Dad’s calls. Every time you don’t
answer him, he calls me and if I have to spend one more of my lunches reassuring him that
you’re not dead in a ditch and you’re just being a little prick, then I am going to come down
to Keio and embarrass you in front of all your friends by telling them you ate the birthday
candles on your cake every year until you were fifteen.”

“Because you told me I was supposed to?!” Chuuya shoots back, outraged. “I was young and
vulnerable and you took advantage of me!”

“Whatever you say, wax-eater.”

“I am not A WAX EATER!”

From the other side, he can hear shuffling as she leans back in her chair with a satisfied hum.
“I havé picture proof, baby brother. Either call Dad back or I start printing out the family
photo albums.”

See, this is why Chuuya is gay. Women are evil, conniving little assholes.

He chooses to let it go though, because they’ve had this conversation dozens of times before
and they’ll just end up arguing circles with Kouyou being smug that she ‘introduced him to a
new food group’ and ‘when you go grocery shopping, do you go to the supermarket or to
Bed, Bath and Beyond?’ and Chuuya getting increasingly mad at the fact that he only ate
birthday candles because she told him to for years.
Instead, he blows out a heaving sigh, turning his phone on speaker. Nikolai is in the room—
he seems to be taking a more laid back approach to this semester, and has been spending less
time working and more time studying in their room. Chuuya’s glad about it, because he
seems more rested and Chuuya missed him— but he has a big pair of headphones on as he
scribbles on his notebook so he’s probably not listening.

He lays the phone on the floor, bending down to get a folded pair of jeans out from under his
bed. “Âne-san, he calls me almost every day. I can’t talk to him every day, that’s ridiculous.”

“Sure you can,” Kouyou huffs, an audible eye roll in her voice, “Have him tell you a bedtime
story every night or something, I don’t care. Just talk to him; he’s lonely and he’s worried
about you.”

“It’s not fair,” Chuuya mutters, knowing he sounds like a child but unable to help it, “he
wasn’t like this when you or Kyouka went to college.”

By now, he’s gotten comfortable enough with Nikolai that he doesn’t think twice about
stripping his sweats off.

“Yes, but Kyouka and I didn’t spend most of our childhoods in a hospital and flu season
doesn’t kick our ass every year like it does to you.”

Ugh, it always comes back to that. Yes, he was born a couple weeks early and that caused a
cascade of health issues that he struggled with as a child but he’s outgrown that.

He’s fine now. Beyond some lingering mild symptoms— like needing much longer to recover
from colds than most people his age and the continual struggle to gain and hold weight—
he’s fine.

Compared to how sick he used to get— like that time his regular cold turned into pneumonia
that almost killed him— he’s practically the picture of health. So what if he needs to take a
little extra care during flu season? That’s nothing compared to what used to happen, and not a
reason to be treating him like an invalid.

“Besides,” Kouyou continues, “you’re the baby, so of course he’s more attached to you.
We’ve been his whole life for so long, and now that you’ve left... he must be lonely.”

Well, now he feels bad. He cares about his dad, obviously, it’s just hard to feel like an
independent adult when his dad is practically calling him to remind him to eat lunch every
day.

“Fine,” he grumbles, yanking the jeans over his legs. They’re the same ripped pair he wore in
Osaka, black with the hole in the thigh and opposite knee. “I’ll call him tomorrow sometime.
I’m busy tonight.”

The faint typing on the other end stops abruptly, and he can practically sense the way her
attention is caught.

“Oh? Got a hot date?” Her voice is coy, teasing for information.

‘Hot date’ isn’t exactly how he’d describe this situation but he’s not about to get into the
whole mess, especially with Nikolai in the room. “Yeah, something like that.”

“So you were hiding something from me,” she gloats, victorious from finally being proven
right, “You met a boy.”

Boy is not the right word for Dazai, not even close. “Yeah,” he hedges, unwilling to lie and
wanting her to know, but knowing exactly what happens when she finds out he has a crush.

Right on cue: “So... what’s his name? Tell me everything.”

Chuuya yanks the shirt over his head. “I’m not telling you his name. Remember what
happened last time?”

There’s a small whining sound from the other side. Sometimes it’s just like the old days,
before they grew up. Like they’re still kids, playing and messing with each other. “Listen, it’s
not my fault your last crush was so stupid—.”

“We were seventeen and you Facebook-stalked him and cyber bullied him until he cried and
blocked the entire family.”

At the time he’d been pissed. Now it’s kind of funny, admittedly, but he’s learned his lesson.
Never give his sister any information to work with.

“Well, he was an asshole, anyways. Heard he dropped out of college ready,” she grumbles,
blowing a breath into the receiver just to annoy him.

He pauses. “Are you still Facebook stalking him?!”

There’s a beat of silence. “Anyways, tell me about your new boy toy. If you won’t tell me his
name, then at least tell me what he looks like. How tall is he? How old is he? Is he cute?”

He pulls on a long sleeve navy shirt, cute but comfortable for the cooling weather. His
makeup bag— new, bought for him by Dazai— is sitting by the floor-length mirror in their
dorm and he goes to sit on the floor next to it.

He’s pretty sure Nikolai is listening to music right now, and the other boy hasn’t even looked
at him, but he’s sure to keep his details vague enough that they could describe Shuuji too.
“He’s very tall, very cute. Only a little bit older than me.”

‘Little bit’ meaning sixteen years, but semantics. It’s not like she can judge; Oda is nearly
eleven years older than her.
Rimbaud nearly had a heart attack when he first found out, but he’s come around by now. He
likes Oda. They play golf together, sometimes.

“Is he rich?”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, carefully applying a light line of bronzer over his cheeks. “What is
this, Gossip Girls?”

When she doesn’t respond, waiting for an answer, he heaves a sigh, “Yes. He owns a
business.”

The noise she makes is appropriately awed and interested. “I knew I raised you right. Get
yourself a rich businessman. I’m proud of you.”

He snorts. “Yeah, okay,” he says, tapping on the screen to see what time it is. There’s less
than half an hour until Shuuji gets here, and he still has to pack all his books for statistics. “I
have to go now, ane-san. I’ll talk to you later and I promise I’ll call Dad sometime
tomorrow.”

There’s a pause, like she doesn’t want to end the conversation just yet. He does feel kind of
guilty, because he’s sort of dropped off the network ever since he met Dazai.

After he stopped getting sick, they got really close for a while. Even when she went off to
college first, or was spending most of her free time in extracurriculars after school—

There was always time for them to hang out together. She always made time.

Now? Not so much.

Part of the consequences of growing up is sometimes growing apart and even though it’s
normal, it’s still sad. He makes a note to talk to his family more often, even if it’s more of a
hassle.

“I should go too. I’ll talk to you later, Chuuya. Be good,” Kouyou says.

“Love you, ane-san,” he tells her, waiting for her matching response before hanging up the
phone.

A text had come in while he was on the phone, another one from Shuuji.

[ SHUUJI ]: can u bring the stats homework the teach assigned I wasn’t able to do it
yesterday cuz of family shit :/

...What ‘family shit’?

He was talking to Dazai nearly all day yesterday and he never mentioned anything weird
happening, and he didn’t seem off, so...?

Maybe it has something to do with Sasaki, not that he’s heard much about her ever since the
incident with Yoko.

Good. He’s never met her, but he already loathes her. Might even do something as reckless as
slap her if he saw her, for what she put Yoko and Dazai through.

Last he heard, she was still staying in a hotel, so maybe it has something to do with that.

Still, if Shuuji thinks he’s going to copy off him, he’s got another thing coming.
[ CHUUYA ]: I didn’t do it either lol but we can figure it out together.

A lie. He already completed and turned it in already, days before it was due. He’s an
overachiever like that.

[ SHUUJI ]: oh ok

Closing his makeup bag, he gets up to pack his bag quickly. Even if this is all just a sneaky
way to see Dazai again, he should probably do some studying while he's there. There's a quiz
coming up next week sometime, and he needs to be prepared.

He'll study and then he'll get play time with his boyfriend. The reward system always works.

Reaching up, Nikolai tugs the headphones off his ears. They're pink, with light-up cat ears
along the top. A little ridiculous in Chuuya's opinion, but they suit him.

"Are you going somewhere?" Nikolai asks, looking up at him.

"Yeah, I'm going to study with Shuuji. I’ll probably be back later tonight or maybe tomorrow
morning.”

Hopefully tomorrow morning, because Chuuya is already planning a midnight visit to Dazai’s
bed. Which sounds even more exciting than usual because this time they’ll have to be /quiet/.

Nikolai looks like he's going to say something else, but then Chuuya's phone beeps again,
with another text from Shuuji saying that he's here.

Chuuya waves at Nikolai on his way out the door, leaving him to lock it behind him. His keys
are buried deep in his backpack.
(Nikolai watches him go with a strange, calculating look in his eye, before pulling out his
own phone and shooting off a text.)

Shuuji's driving is, unfortunately, a lesson in the idea that you can get used to anything with
enough time, no matter how horrible it is. Chuuya barely even gets carsick anymore, even
when Shuuji goes fishtailing around a corner with enough speed that he swears he can feel
two of the wheels lift off the ground.

They've barely seen each other since the party incident, so the atmosphere is a bit tense in the
car. Chuuya tries to keep it lighthearted by telling a few stories about his vacation over the
break (carefully scrubbed of details, of course) but he's mostly focused on keeping him and
his backpack in his seat, and fighting down a rising level of excitement.

He's going to see Dazai soon.

Luckily, Shuuji seems too preoccupied by telling stories of his own vacation— in the
Caribbean, of all places, which explains why he looks so pink and sunburned— to really pick
up on Chuuya's behavior.

By the time they arrive, Chuuya is practically vibrating in his seat. He barely even waits for
the car to turn off before he's getting out. Up here, it's even cooler, so he's glad he wore a long
sleeve.

It's also the long-sleeve he wore on his very first date with Dazai, so he hopes he picks up on
that. The 'D' necklace is around his neck, tucked into the turtleneck for now to keep Shuuji
from asking questions about it.

He likes it that way, actually. Likes the subtle reminder just for him and no one else. Ever
since the 'collar' comment Dazai made, he's been exploring the internet a little bit and—

He actually likes the idea and look of those? Some of them, anyways. Some are way too
outlandish and extreme for him, but the subtle ones? The ones that look like chokers, maybe
with the little metal ring in the center or the ones that have a place for a tag to hang from
them?
He likes those.

He can't even think about the 'leash' comment without getting flashes of star-fire heat,
remembering how deeply Dazai was fucking him then but—

He likes the collars. He wants one, and he thinks he's probably going to tell that to Dazai
today.

Shuuji enters the house first, with Chuuya right on his heels. The dogs are immediately there
to greet them, Yoko in front. (She's better now. After some training and reassurance that she's
not going to be assaulted every time someone opens the door, she's gotten her confidence
back.)

"I'll go get my stuff from my room," Shuuji mutters, heading upstairs. He seems to be taking
the 'friends' deal pretty easily, and beyond a few darling comments, he's actually been rather
respectful of Chuuya's new boundaries.

It feels strange, considering that he was fully prepared to tear him a new one if he put his
hand on his thigh like he usually does when he's driving—

But he didn't, which is a relief.

While Shuuji stomps about upstairs, Chuuya goes looking for Dazai. He wants to say hello at
least, because after the call with his sister, he totally forgot to warn him that he was coming.
Hopefully he's not angry or anything.

Dazai is in the kitchen when he enters, frowning down at his phone and eating what looks
like a piece of peanut butter toast. He doesn't see Chuuya right away.
"Hi," Chuuya says breathlessly, getting his attention. He practically skips up to him, beaming,
expecting a kiss hello—

Dazai stiffens, head shooting up. His eyes find Chuuya quickly.

The frown on his face does not fade.

He stares at him like he's not sure why he's here. "What are you doing here?"

Chuuya's smile dims. The excitement in his stomach begins to sour. Dazai doesn’t look happy
to see him at all.

Clutching the straps of his backpack, Chuuya looks away. He can’t stand to look at Dazai
when he looks like that. “I came to study with Shuuji. He gave me a ride here. I wanted to
see you.”

His voice is small, quiet, unsure, his newfound confidence neatly sliced in two.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dazai’s expression clear. Not in a good way either. In a
bad way, like he’s forcing himself to not show any emotion, like he’s closing himself off,
shutting down.

“You came to study with Shuuji,” he repeats, making sure he heard Chuuya correctly.

Chuuya shrinks in on himself. “Yeah,” he mutters, feeling bad, so bad, he fucked up, didn’t
he, oh god, “We’re, uh— we’re friends now.”

He never really went into what happened with Shuuji. He’s sure Dazai knows some of what
their relationship was like, and he obviously knew Shuuji was interested in him, but they’ve
avoided talking about it in depth. They’ve avoided talking about it because it’s probably
weird .
Mistake, mistake, he fucked up—

Dazai’s eyebrow arches, slow and disbelieving. He shuts his phone off, giving Chuuya his
full attention and crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re friends with Shuuji.”

God, the way he’s just repeating what Chuuya is saying makes him feel worse and worse,
like what he’s saying is so stupid Dazai can’t believe it. He nods, heart lurching in his chest
sickeningly.

“Just friends?”

Chuuya’s stomach drops , mouth opening in surprise. “Yes, of course, I would never—.”

Dazai cuts him off, voice cold and cutting. “Does he know that?”

“Yes, I told him. You can even ask him if you want—.”

How did it all go wrong so quickly? He should’ve said something, but now it’s too late—

“I’m not asking him; I’m asking you. If he knows that you two are just friends, then he
knows about us, right? That we’re dating?” The tone in his voice is self-prophetic, like he’s
just waiting for his suspicions to be proven right.

There are some points in your life, in the aftermath of things, where you can look back and
pinpoint the beginning of the fall. That one decision that led you here, to this awful moment,
and all you can think is—

How could I be so fucking stupid? Why didn’t I think?

Hunching his shoulders and wishing the ground would swallow him whole, Chuuya mutters,
“No.”

Dazai’s smile is mean, almost. Like he’s punishing them both. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Finally, some spark of anger flares up in Chuuya’s stomach. Yes, he made a mistake, he can
see that now and he’ll apologize, but why is Dazai being so mean?

“Well how was I supposed to know you didn’t want me to be friends with him? If you don’t
want me to, then fine, I won’t, but I don’t know why you’re acting like I’m cheating on you
or something,” he snaps, throwing his hands in the air.

Dazai’s hand comes down onto the table, cutting him off with a harsh crack!. “Stop. I didn’t
accuse you of anything and I’m not going to, so stop with that. You want to be friends with
him? Fine. You want to keep our relationship a secret? Fine. It’s not those I have a problem
with, it’s the fact that you are incapable of communicating about it. You are making these
decisions without even talking to me about it, and getting pissed when I’m upset about it!”

Chuuya’s mouth falls shut, clenching because—

He’s right. It hurts, but he’s right.

(For his part, Dazai is trying to keep it together, but he’s having a bad fucking day.

Rokuzou has been off the grid for almost an entire week now, Sasaki is spamming him with
calls, Shuuji is always complaining about the classes he signed up for—

And it’s the anniversary of his parents death in three days.

He always gets moody around this time of year, and he fucking hates it because even sixteen
years after he slit Mori’s throat in his own office, it still feels like he’s got his hands wrapped
around his throat.

He can deal with it, he just gets angrier more quickly than usual.

And if he had a choice, he would’ve waited to see Chuuya for a few more days, because he
doesn’t want to be angry at him. He doesn’t want to yell.

But fuck, why can’t he just talk to him? If he didn’t want to tell Shuuji, Dazai is okay with
that, he just didn’t want the news to be sprung on him when Chuuya is literally walking into
his house for a study session.

He deserves a say in this relationship too.)

Chuuya opens his mouth to respond, but Dazai cuts him off again. All the anger has drained
out of his voice, leaving just a frigid, freezing chill that leaves him shivering in its wake.

“How many times do I have to ask you to talk to me? When will you realize that I have
thoughts and feelings in this relationship too?”

Before Chuuya can even begin to respond to that—

There’s a knock on the front door.

One of Dazai’s most underestimated talents is the ability to switch gears in seconds.
Because one moment, he’s filled with anger and struggling with the feeling that Chuuya isn’t
in the relationship for him, he’s just in it for the sex, and knowing that he shouldn’t be feeling
that way and it’s unfair to Chuuya but fuck—

And the next there’s a knock on the door, and suddenly he doesn’t have relationship problems
at this exact moment anymore. Now, he has a house with his boyfriend in it, and someone
unexpected at the door.

Part of the reason he chose this area to live in is that it’s quiet. Everyone minds their business,
there’s no monthly meetings of the neighborhood, there’s not many kids under school age.

In the seven years he’s lived in this house, there’s only been a handful of visitors he wasn’t
aware of before they were coming.

He wasn’t expecting anyone today.

“Call Yoko,” he tells Chuuya, straightening. When he sees the confusion on his face and the
argument beginning to form, he holds up a hand. “Please don’t argue. We can talk later, but I
need you to call Yoko now.”

There’s a gun in a holster bolted to the underside of the dining table.He goes for it while
Chuuya calls for Yoko, palming it and smoothly tucking it into the waistband of his jeans so
Chuuya doesn’t see it.

When Yoko is sitting at Chuuya’s feet,he says, “Tell her to guard you.”

He issues the command that Dazai taught him in the backyard a few months ago, and Yoko
instantly gets up and turns so her body is pressed against his calf. Chuuya looks up at Dazai,
obviously confused and startled by the abrupt change from their argument. “What’s going
on? Who’s at the door?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, stalking out of the kitchen. “That’s the problem.”
Kozo, who had followed Yoko when she was called, joins him at his side when Dazai
gestures for him, head hanging low and focused. His tail is completely still, stiff. He’s on
guard.

With silent footsteps, Dazai approaches the door, one hand hovering near his gun as he leans
in to look through the peephole—

And nearly groans out loud when he sees who is on his doorstep, rocking back and forth on
their heels cheerfully.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Dazai mutters to himself, resting his forehead against
the door. He really cannot get a single break today, can he?

Being who he is, Dazai knows of or knows personally every single person of importance in
Yokohama, and most in Japan. He’s dealt with most criminals, most government and business
officials in some form or another, and a decent amount of the police force.

This person he’s been avoiding for months now, and the feeling was mutual between them—

Until now, apparently, when he shows up at Dazai’s door unannounced.

Today sucks.

“If you don’t let me in, I’m going to cause you a whole lot of problems,” comes from the
other side of the door, slightly muffled.

Yeah, Dazai knows. He’s just gathering up his will to live right now.
Painting on a fake smile and gesturing for Kozo to wait out of sight of the door as he opens it,
he greets him with a, “Hi, can I help you—.”

The smaller man pushes past him without letting him finish, green eyes looking around with
interest. “Cut the crap Dazai, we both know that you know who I am.”

Sighing, Dazai folds his arms over his chest. Through his teeth, he grits out, “Hi, Ranpo. Is
there something you need from me?”

Green eyes zero in on Chuuya, who is standing defensively in the kitchen still, lighting up
with interest. “Who’s that?”

Stepping to the side so his body is blocking Ranpo’s view of him, Dazai opens his mouth to
tell him that it’s none of his business and to stay focused when—

With all the confidence and thoughtlessness of someone who was never taught not to share
your name with anyone who asks for it, Chuuya cocks his hip to the side and says, snidely,
“I’m Nakahara Chuuya. Who are you?”

Dazai’s gaze wanders up to the ceiling. God help him from stupid little idiots, because if
Chuuya wasn’t on the Agency’s radar he sure as fuck is now.

Ranpo looks between the two of them, squinting like he doesn’t believe it. To Dazai, he says
while pointing at Chuuya, “That’s Nakahara Chuuya?”

Expression unmoving, Dazai neither confirms or denies anything.

There’s a second where they just stare at each other, both of them waiting for the other to
crack while Chuuya makes disgruntled noises in the back.

And then—
Ranpo bursts into laughter. Stomach- holding, knee-slapping, wheezing laughter that goes on
and on and on until there are tears streaming from his eyes.

“Why is he laughing?” Chuuya asks, sounding very peeved.

“Because he’s an asshole,” Dazai sighs, exhausted, “and probably because he knows
something we don’t know.”

That just makes Ranpo laugh harder , and at this point Dazai is sure he’s about to start rolling
on the floor.

“You don’t know,” he cackles, holding his stomach, “oh, that’s so good. I can’t believe this.
You don’t know.”

Dazai hates him. He’s the only one in the city who can consistently and continuously beat
him at his own game. “I’d know if you told me.”

“Oh no, no, no, I’m not going to tell you. This is too good to just tell you. But I do hope I’m
there when you meet her because—.” Ranpo dissolves into laughter again, and the only thing
Dazai can pick out in the mess of giggles and wheezing is—

A garbled ‘family reunion’.

Now he would latch onto that tidbit and try to figure out what that means but—

“Hey Dad, who’s this?”

Oh my god.
He’s understandably distracted when Shuuji comes trotting down the stairs and makes the
whole situation ten times worse.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the building headache, Dazai reasons with
himself.

Prison is actually pretty nice this time of year, he hears. It’s election season and officials up
for re-election are trying to prove that they’re semi-decent people by loosening up strict rules
for prisoners. If he gets arrested now, he might actually get a bonafide prison peanut butter
and jelly sandwich and a blanket before they take it away again and drop him into a
maximum security cell for solitary confinement.

He even has friends in prison. It’d be a vacation compared to this.

With a rustle of clothing, Ranpo straightens. His laughter has stopped, and is now replaced
with a salacious tone as he introduces himself. “Edogawa Ranpo, the greatest detective. At
your service.”

Anndddd.... now he’s flirting.

Yeah, that’s fine. That’s normal. That’s great. That’s perfect , actually.

With increasing hysteria, Dazai debates the pros and cons of turning himself in.

“My name is Shuuji, but you can call me anytime.”

Oh, come on.

Dazai’s eyes snap back open and he makes a what the fuck gesture at Shuuji. If he’s going to
flirt with Dazai’s technical arch-nemesis (Shuuji’s too, because he is technically the rightful
heir to the Port Mafia) then at least flirt well. Use some original pick up lines or something ,
for gods sake, he’s making Dazai look bad.

Not that Ranpo seems to actually care, because he’s apparently that looks are more important
than speaking skills. If he checks Shuuji out any harder, he might as well be undressing him.

This is a nightmare. Dazai hates it here. Well and truly hates it.

Without looking away from Shuuji, a seductive smirk curving his lips, Ranpo says, “I hope
you’re not busy, Dazai.”

“By all means,” Dazai shoots back, throwing his hands up, “take your time. I don’t have
anything to do today, so go ahead. Flirt all you like.”

“Great,” Ranpo responds, taking a step closer to Shuuji. He’s a few inches shorter than him,
but he doesn’t look intimidated in the least. He also looks like he’s about to take Dazai’s
sarcasm at face-value and continue to flirt with his son right in front of him.

Asshole.

“What do you want, Ranpo?” Dazai sighs, thoroughly exhausted already. They haven’t even
gotten to whatever reason he’s actually here for, and Dazai feels like he’s going to turn to
dust.

“I’m here on business.”

Oh, good. Lovely. That’s exactly what Dazai wanted to hear. That the agency whose second-
in-command is hellbent on putting Dazai behind bars, wants to do business with him.
There’s a reason Dazai doesn’t do business with the ADA. Kunikida is annoying and also
pretty good at his job, enough that he’s almost caught Dazai twice now. Ranpo could catch
him whenever he wanted, as evidenced by the way he showed up to his house that isn’t on
any official records.

Also, crime tends to get a little messy when you’re dealing with detectives and policemen.
He’d rather not deal with it at all.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then,” Ranpo says, shooting him a grin over his shoulder, “I’m going to tell every one of
your dirty little secrets to Kunikida. I’m sure he’d love to know.”

Checkmate. He has no doubt that Ranpo knows a decent amount of his aliases, if not most or
even all of them. If Kunikida gets his hands on those names, he’ll be able to track Dazai
anywhere.

Aliases, especially good ones, are a pain to build. They require years of background
information, hacking into government records to plant records, people to collaborate your
story, photos, dozens of things that require money and time and effort.

Like he said, they’re a pain. He can’t afford to lose a good chunk of the ones he has in one
go.

“Fine,” he gives in, “We can talk in my office. Kids,” he looks at Shuuji and Chuuya,
ignoring the way Chuuya’s expression falls into outraged offense, “get to your studying.”

He’s never spoken to Chuuya like that, highlighting how young he is mockingly, and he
doesn’t even like doing so now, but he’s hoping that if he isn’t obvious about how head-over-
heels he is for Chuuya, Ranpo might overlook him a little bit.
Probably a false hope, but he’s also still angry and petty enough about their argument that it
gives him spiteful pleasure to treat Chuuya like one of Shuuji’s friends instead of his
boyfriend.

That’s what you wanted, right? You didn’t want anyone to know you were mine, right?

He will feel bad about it, and he’ll apologize for it later—

But right now, he has business.

 It's Cuffing Season
Chapter Summary

Dazai breaks first, because he can't stand the look on his face right now. Reaching out,
he cups the back of Chuuya's neck and brings him in to give him a firm, lingering kiss
on his forehead. The way Chuuya clings to him, fingers tight on his biceps, shows that
he's clearly not the only one who needed a little reassurance.

"I'll be back," he mutters against his forehead, filling his voice with reassurance.
"Promise."

After another moment, he turns to leave and doesn't look back.

(Chuuya is left there staring after him and—

Have you ever come back to a place that used to be home and isn't anymore? Doesn't it
feel cold and lonely, and strange?

Like you're not supposed to be there anymore?)

Chapter Notes

Every week I almost forget that it's saturday and thus time to update, but at least this one
is on time LMAOO. We're only 1-2 chapters away now, so I hope everyone is prepared
and has read the tags >:) I'll be doing another tag/chapter update next week, as BH has
continued to grow and will be more than 50 chapters now >:( Keep an eye out for that!
Anyways, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter and I'll see you next week with another
one! <3

This chapter includes:

- business as usual
- an old trick
- a new trick
- a talk

Ranpo gives Shuuji an appraising look as he comes down the stairs fully, sizing up how tall
he actually is. Shuuji did take after Dazai in that regard, and he’s taller than most of the
Japanese population, and quite a bit taller than Ranpo.
Apparently, tall is his type, because Ranpo gives him an exaggerated wink and a smirk full of
sharp white teeth before he bounds up the stairs.

Dazai feels the weight of Chuuya’s (rightly) infuriated glare on his back the entire way up.

Because he intended to work from home today, his office has been left open. Ranpo has
already found it and is poking around inside. As usual, the man has no respect for privacy
and opens whatever drawer or folder he finds interesting, taking down one of his knives to
test the blade on it with his thumb.

“Sharp,” he notes, rubbing the resulting smear of blood between his thumb and index finger.
At least he’s respectful enough to clean the blade with a napkin he pulls out of one of his
pockets before flipping the knife around in one quick, skilled motion before hanging it back
on the wall.

“Of course,” Dazai grumbles, heading for the whiskey tumblers he keeps in this room for
these exact types of days, “I wouldn’t keep dull weapons around.”

The gun still tucked in his waistband gets taken out and placed gently onto the desk. He
won’t need it, and even if he did, Ranpo could probably disarm him before he could even
start to aim.

He pours himself a generous glass, throwing it back in one smooth swallow and savoring the
burn of it. Warmth curls in his belly, comforting and familiar. He pours himself another glass,
one to sip on this time. Holding up the whiskey bottle, he silently asks if Ranpo wants a glass
for himself.

Dropping heavily into the chair next to his desk, Ranpo wrinkled his nose in disapproval.
“Do you have peach-flavored vodka? Or Schnapps?”

Dazai stares at him for a long moment, waiting for him to start laughing or take back the joke
because—
Who just drinks peach-flavored alcohol just because? Not as a mixer and not because it’s the
only alcohol available, but because he actually enjoys it? Dazai once chugged half a bottle of
vanilla vodka when he was down really bad, and he’s never recovered. He can’t even smell
vodka without his stomach churning. “No.”

Sighing heavily, like Dazai offended him by not having disgusting liquor in his house, Ranpo
shakes his head. “Keep your gross whiskey.”

Alright, fine, more for him. Ranpo is probably a pain to deal with when he’s drunk anyways.

“So,” Dazai starts, settling into his own chair and relaxing into it. He really wishes he had a
cigar right now. “What can I do for the Agency?”

“You can get the city back under control and get those rampaging gang members off my
streets,” Ranpo says, his gaze turning abruptly cutting. He’s still relaxed, one foot kicked up
on the desk disrespectfully, but his tone is pure business.

Dazai arches an eyebrow. Admittedly, he has been aware of the escalating violence as
tensions between the Mafia and Fyodor’s Bratva grew, but he’s not sure what that has to do
with him. He’s not a part of either group, and he’s not encouraging any infighting. “I’m not
sure why you think I can stop that. I’m not a part of the Mafia, and I don’t have any power
over them.”

There’s a pad of post-it notes on his desk, and Ranpo reaches over to drag it closer. He rips
off the top sheet and begins to fold it carefully. “We both know that the man with the
information is the most powerful man in the room. You’re the king of this city; act like it and
get your people under control before they start pissing me off.”

“Do I look like a king to you, Ranpo-san?” Dazai snorts, taking another sip of his drink.

Another fold of the paper, precise and perfect. “Yes, you do. Everything that happens in the
city, you know about it. You answer to no one, not even tradition. You have the leaders of the
clans under your control, your influence. You decide what they know, how they act. You own
them, because you have what they want, what they need."

The most infuriating thing about that whole speech is that when he says it like that , it's true.
When he makes information peddling into a king's role instead of a duty given to the lower
ranking members—

That would make Dazai the king.

He curls his lip at Ranpo, irritated. "I left the Mafia life years ago, you know that."

Another couple of folds, and the shape of what Ranpo is making begins to reveal itself. A
fortune teller, one of those mini ones that go on the tip of your fingers and you can write short
notes on the inside flaps.

"You know, I might’ve believe you," Ranpo says, not looking at him as he places the origami
on his fingertips and begins to play with it, "except when you came back, you made sure that
you had so much power and influence that you didn't have to answer to anyone, didn't you?"

It wasn't like that. It wasn't out of a desire for power or position, it was about survival. If he
wanted power, he could've gone back to the Mafia. He still could, technically, if he didn’t
mind starting another bloodbath.

He just wanted to survive . "I didn't have a choice, Ranpo. This was the only thing I could do
to keep me and my own safe."

Ranpo points the tips of the origami fortune teller at him. "That's where you're wrong. You
could've gone to Fukuzawa for protection. He would've pardoned you, given you a job. We
could've been coworkers."

Coworkers with this menace. The city would probably not survive them.
"That wouldn't have worked for long," Dazai mutters, getting up to pour himself another
drink. His stomach is warm now, but something in his chest feels empty.

"You don't know that. And if you had been with us, we would fight for you."

Back turned to Ranpo, Dazai pauses.

Loyalty is not something that is encouraged in the Mafia, not under Mori's reign. In the old
boss's opinion, having loyalty to anything other than him or the Mafia as a whole was a
danger. If he suspected that you loved someone, or you needed something, then he would
systematically destroy it and make you watch.

The only reason Yosano and Odasaku survived the Mafia for as long as they did with him,
was because they were all too valuable to kill, and they were careful to act like rivals
whenever someone from the mafia was watching.

Either way, Mori made certain that Dazai was isolated and trapped beneath his influence. His
manipulations work best when his victim is alone and vulnerable. They’re lessons that Dazai
has internalized to the best of his ability, and has never forgotten.

Dazai hasn't had anyone fight for him. Even now, with Mori dead and gone, he can barely get
Oda and Yosano to answer his calls on a consistent, regular basis.

Feels pretty shitty that just Ranpo's words about it have a pang of loneliness and disbelief
shooting through his chest. There’s a part of him that wonders, wistfully—

What if things had been different? What if he had asked for help instead of resigned himself
to suffer endlessly alone?
"Anyways," he says after a bit, not wanting to talk about what could have been anymore, "I
still don't know what you want me to do about the fighting."

The glass he pours is a little bigger than the second one, but he feels like he deserves it after
the absurd day he's had. It's not even near over yet, because now that he's not angry, he's
starting to feel guilty about the way he treated the situation with Chuuya. He could've
handled it better.

"It's easy," Ranpo shrugs, stealing a pen from his desk and opening his origami to write
something in the middle, "Pick one to side with, and starve the other out. Deprive them of
information, of work, of everything that you have at your disposal. Choose who your loyalty
belongs to."

His loyalty doesn't extend to anyone beyond a select group of people (one of which is still in
this house), but he understands what he means. "Fine. I'll see what I can do. Now, tell me
what's in it for you."

The curl of Ranpo's lips is pleased, like Dazai is fulfilling his expectations wonderfully.
"Naturally, I can't be helping you for free . That's just bad business, you know how it is."

Considering Ranpo has done nothing but give him a headache today, and won't do anything
in the future about 'their' problem, Dazai doesn't know ‘how it is’. But he also understands
that Ranpo is a petty little thing, and he'll milk this excuse to get whatever he wants out of
Dazai.

"So, in return for not telling Kunikida all of your dirty little secrets and letting him know
where you live so he can show up with handcuffs," Ranpo wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Dazai stares at him, deadpan, forcibly fighting back a smile. "You're going to give me
whatever information I ask for, whenever I ask for it. It probably won't be often, because your
network is slow and stupid most of the time, but who knows. I might need something
someday."

Surprisingly, that's not a terrible deal, nothing he wasn't expecting—

"And I also want your son."

Ah, he spoke too soon, apparently. There's the catch. "Like as a hostage?"

"What? No, not as a hostage, you idiot," Ranpo replies, looking at him like he's lost his mind.
"I just want to play with him."

Dazai is fairly certain Ranpo 'plays' in the same clubs he does, so he can pick up what he
means. "...Are you sure you don't want him as a hostage?"

"I'm not taking your son as a hostage, not even if you beg me."

Damn.

"I'm just saying it's an option—,” Dazai says, cutting himself off under Ranpo's withering
glare. He has no idea how this conversation turned into some sort of negotiation for his first
born child, but it’s not the weirdest thing he’s ever experienced. "Fine, I guess, but he doesn't
know anything about me or my work that you don't already know. He's useless if you're
looking to squeeze him for information."

Ranpo's eyes glint, expression dissolving into something like smug self-satisfaction. "No, I'm
looking to squeeze him in other ways—.”

"Nope," Dazai interrupts, taking a large gulp of whiskey, "You're not finishing that
sentence."

Ranpo sticks his tongue out at him, teasing.

He's sure he might regret this at some point, because if Ranpo is going to be ...involved with
his son, then they'll probably be seeing a lot more of each other, but fine. "Just don't do
anything crazy with him, like get him arrested or anything. It'd be a pain to bail him out, and
I'm pretty sure he'd cry."

White teeth flash in a grin, and Ranpo's boot finally slides off his desk back to the floor. "He's
safe in my hands, don't you worry."

Personally, that sounds like the opposite idea of 'safe' to Dazai, but hey. Shuuji's an adult. He
can make his own decisions. If he wants to put himself between Ranpo's teeth and expect to
come out the same cocky, arrogant person he was before, then a lesson must be learned.
Frankly, it’s none of Dazai’s business. "So we have a deal? I will do my best to fix the
problems in the streets, you won't tell Kunikida about me. I give you information when you
need it, you get to chase after my son to your heart's content."

Ranpo seems to think about it, clearly considering if he should add more terms to the roster.
After a moment, he shrugs. "Yeah, we have a deal. Pleasure doing business with you, as
always."

They've never done business before, but he appreciates the sentiment, he supposes.
"Likewise."

Brushing off his sleeves, Ranpo stands up with a yawning stretch. His little origami fortune
teller is left discarded on Dazai's desk. "I'll be going now. The train I need leaves soon, I
think."

"Sure," he responds, swirling his drink and feeling off-center because this is the strangest deal
he's ever participated in. "I'll talk to you later, I'm guessing."

Ranpo winks at him, shoving his hands into pockets and strolling out.

Dazai is left there, drinking as he thinks—

God, what a crazy fucking day. He doesn't even know how to feel about it, all he knows is
that he's confused and angry and hurt and on his way to tipsy and—

He needs a run to clear his head. Clear his head so he can think for a moment and not just
react, put everything that happened into neat little boxes he knows how to handle.

He changes into his workout clothes quickly, fueled by an increasing need to just run. Get
away from it all. Head into the sunset and never look back, because it's so hard being here, all
the time, and the work never ends, there's always more. There’s always something falling
apart, and holding the splinters gets harder every day.

By the time he gets downstairs, Ranpo and Shuuji have already left. Chuuya is lingering
awkwardly in the kitchen, looking uncertain and sad.

Dazai hates that, hates that he caused that.

When he approaches, Chuuya doesn't even move, big blue eyes staring up at him like he's
expecting him to yell at him. Like he's expecting a fight that ends in tears and sadness.

Oh, poor baby, he really did scare him, didn't he?

Dazai takes a deep breath, rocking back on his heels a little bit. "I," he starts, "am very upset
right now, for a lot of reasons. If we talk right now, I'm going to get angry again, and I don't
want to be angry with you. So I'm going to go for a run, and we can talk when I get back,
okay?"

Chuuya searches his face, looking for a clue of what he's thinking. When he speaks, his voice
is quiet and heart-breakingly soft, like he's afraid to speak up too loudly. "Okay."

They stand there for a while, staring at each other and waiting for the other to make a move
—
Dazai breaks first, because he can't stand the look on his face right now. Reaching out, he
cups the back of Chuuya's neck and brings him in to give him a firm, lingering kiss on his
forehead. The way Chuuya clings to him, fingers tight on his biceps, shows that he's clearly
not the only one who needed a little reassurance.

"I'll be back," he mutters against his forehead, filling his voice with reassurance. "Promise."

After another moment, he turns to leave and doesn't look back.

(Chuuya is left there staring after him and—

Have you ever come back to a place that used to be home and isn't anymore? Doesn't it feel
cold and lonely, and strange?

Like you're not supposed to be there anymore?)

TEN MINUTES EARLIER

Shuuji has decided that Chuuya is fucking shit at explaining statistics. Either he doesn't know
what he's talking about, or he just can't explain it in a way that sticks.

Or maybe it's because Shuuji's mind is running circles around the green-eyed detective
speaking with his dad upstairs, and he couldn't give a fuck about what Chuuya is saying right
now.

He wouldn't say that he has a type. Usually, he just chases after whoever gets his attention
until he gets bored of them and finds someone new.

Chuuya was like that. He's not attractive himself, per se, but he's cute because he doesn't
really look like anyone else Shuuji has met. The red hair is sexy, but Chuuya himself?

Too hard working, too bland. Boring. Not even a challenge, either. All Shuuji has to do is
send him some pleading eyes, and he gives him whatever he wants. Which is fun, in the short
term, but it doesn't keep his interest.

Case in point, he really wishes Chuuya would go home already, because he really wants to
get to know that detective better. He looked like a challenge, with those sharp, piercing green
eyes and the cocky grin.

He looks like he might be fun to play with.

"Are you even listening?" Chuuya asks, exasperated. He's been alternating between looking
so livid he might catch on fire, and screwing up his face like he's fighting off the urge to cry.

Shuuji might've cared earlier, but he's preoccupied now. "Not really."

Before Chuuya can respond to that— it'd be a tirade, Shuuji can already sense it by the look
of his face— Ranpo comes bouncing down the stairs again. He looks pleased with himself,
like the ‘business’ deal went well—

And he’s also staring at Shuuji, who is sitting leisurely on the floor, one elbow braced on the
living room table.

Suddenly, homework doesn’t matter anymore. He’s only gotten through one problem today,
and the homework is due tomorrow morning—
But fuck that, he doesn’t care about that anymore, the only thing he cares about is Ranpo
staring him down as he casually skirts around the couch and comes closer.

He’s heard some of the girls gossiping about what it felt like to have a crush. To have a heart-
pounding, butterfly-inducing, adrenaline-filled obsession with someone, and how much better
it felt if your infatuation was returned.

Personally, Shuuji thought they were just being dramatic or maybe emotional, because he’s
never felt that way, not for a significant amount of time. Sure, finding someone he liked and
was attracted to was exciting. Chasing them was fun, but as soon as he got their attention and
was holding it—

There must be something wrong with him, because as soon as he had them, all those feelings
went away. And he hated it, because he wanted to feel special to someone, he wanted to feel
loved and cherished, he wanted what all those other couples had.

Instead, all he had was a hollow ache of loneliness inside of him, and the increasingly
desperate desire to fill that hole with something, anything.

He went through guys and girls as quickly as he needed to, hoping that this one, that one, the
next one would finally be able to make him feel something real and solid. Would prove to
him that life wasn’t meant to be an endless, wandering trail of loneliness and pain.

And when it didn’t work— it never worked, it never fucking worked— he got mad at his
partners about it. Getting angry with them and pushing them away was much easier than
admitting the fault lay within himself.

Because if he admitted there was something wrong with him then—

Then he would be a freak, right? And if he was a freak then...

Then it would make sense why his father never wanted him, and his mother barely even
looked at him as he was growing up. Then it would be reasonable. Then he couldn’t be mad
about it, because that’s what he deserved.

And if that’s what he deserved, then—

“Oh, stop crying, Shuji. Mommy’s busy, you don’t need to be such a dramatic little
crybaby about it.“

Then his mother was right, and he was just being dramatic. He was just looking for attention,
because nothing he had was ever good enough for him.

And well, if his parents weren’t going to pay attention to him of their own volitions, and if
people were going to hate him anyways because he was a freak then—

Might as well give them a reason then, right? Might as well become the biggest asshole he
could, because if they hated him because he was being a dick?

That was fine.

If they hated him simply because of who he was? He couldn’t handle that.

There’s always been a writhing ball of anger and pain and hatred inside of him, and he
doesn’t know what to do with it besides ignore it. Hope that it goes away someday.

It feels gone now, because right now he’s being pinned by a pair of icy-sharp green eyes that
cut through him like a knife and seem to see all the way through him. And he’s expecting a
frown, a snarl, something visceral to show displeasure because—

He must know, right, he must see it, he must see that there’s something wrong with him, he
has to see it—
But instead, Ranpo smiles. Sharp and white and arrogant and enthralling. “I’m going home,”
he says, placing his hands on his hips, and leaning in a little until Shuuji feels like his whole
world is green and white and self-assurance. “You’re going to give me a ride.”

It’s not a question, but even if it was—

There’s only one answer. “Yeah,” he breathes, feeling like all the air in the room has been
sucked out.

His reward is a bigger smile and a conspiratorial wink.

“Sorry, Chuuya,” the detective says in a voice that doesn’t sound very remorseful, “I’m
taking your study date. I’m sure you can find something to do in the meantime, though.”

(The innuendo in his voice is strong enough to have Chuuya flushing and ducking his head
awkwardly and—

If Shuuji had been paying attention at all, he would’ve figured it out by now. Despite all
evidence to the contrary, he’s not stupid. Unmotivated, yes, and lazy, but not stupid.

That would’ve been a kinder fate.

But he’s not paying attention. None of them are.

The clock is ticking and no one is listening.

Not even Ranpo could’ve predicted what comes ahead, for all of them.
But the lesson remains the same:

Ignore the countdown of a bomb long enough, and eventually the consequences will be fatal
for everyone.)

Shuuji doesn’t even remember to say goodbye before pocketing his keys and following
Ranpo outside to the car.

Anxiety isn’t really something he feels often, but he’s feeling it now.

He has to impress Ranpo. He doesn’t know why he feels like he needs to, like he won’t
survive if Ranpo doesn’t think highly of him. He’s nervous and when he’s nervous—

“Your driving sucks,” Ranpo says, straight faced and calm as he leans hard in his seat.

Admittedly, Shuuji did take that turn too quickly, but he feels like he’s all heartbeat right
now, pulse pounding in his fingertips and his toes and in his ears. How is he supposed to
listen to speed limits right now??

“I’ve never been in an accident that was my fault,” Shuuji grumbles, slowing down a little to
be considerate.

“Do you think that makes you a good driver?”

“Obviously? If I was a bad driver, then I’d have been in accidents. Logic,” Shuuji fires back.
For some reason Ranpo’s comments feel like teasing.

“No, a bad driver would be going twenty over the speed limit, ignored a stop sign and ran a
yellow light with a detective in the car.”
Oh, well. Maybe he has a point there.

Shuuji shrugs, stopping for a stop sign and waiting there for a deliberately obnoxious amount
of time. How’s that for ignoring stop signs? “What are you going to do about it? Arrest me?”

Ranpo shrugs, a gleam in his eye. He has one foot lifted up and braced against the dash.
Normally Shuuji would be pissed off about shoes on his car, but from here he can see the hilt
of a knife stuffed into his boot, and that is a sight , so he allows it. “I could, actually. Reckless
endangerment. Slap you with a big fine.”

Fines mean nothing to him, not with how much his dad makes. Fines are child’s play.
“Wouldn’t you have to arrest me for that? I don’t see any cuffs on you.”

They’re nearing the address that Ranpo had plugged into Shuuji’s phone when they got into
the car. It’s an apartment complex in one of the poorer sides of town, where the buildings are
run down and the streets are ruled by orphan kids.

Shuuji doesn’t know why Ranpo lives there or why he wants to be dropped off there, because
he’s assuming detectives make decent salaries. At least enough for a better apartment in a
better part of town.

Ranpo’s outfit is made out of decent material, and from what Shuuji can see of his boot-knife,
it looks custom made. It has a special seal on the hilt, one he’s never seen before.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ranpo’s face tilt towards him. His smile is amused this
time. “You think I don’t have handcuffs on me?”

Ranpo’s belt, where cuffs are usually hung, is empty. “I don’t see any.”

“Cute,” he snorts, “I always have cuffs on me. You never know when you might need to
restrain someone.”
The curl of his lips dissolves into something suggestive. Shuuji’s glad he’s looking back at
the road now, because the side of his face feels like it’s burning from the weight of his gaze,
and if he stared at him for much longer, he might drive them into a wall.

“Where are they then?”

“Keep acting up, maybe you’ll find out.”

Oh. Oh.

Hands tightening on the wheel, Shuuji stares straight ahead, eyes wide. Usually it’s him
chasing his partner, being aggressively flirty, and not the other way around. Surprisingly, it
feels a lot different to be on the other side of things. Embarrassingly, he can feel his cheeks
start to heat up and he’s left scrambling for a response.

Before he can though, Ranpo is pointing at a small cafe on the first floor of a rundown
building. “Drop me off there.”

He doesn’t give any explanation even though they are still technically five minutes away
from the address he plugged in.

Superstitiously, Shuuji clicks the child lock button on his door. He’s not stupid enough to
actually lock Ranpo in, but he just needs a few seconds longer, and this trick always works.

There’s a little parking area half a block away from the building, and Shuuji maneuvers the
car over there slowly. “So..” he starts, deciding to just go with the straightforward question,
“Can I have your number?”

Ranpo barks out a laugh, his foot sliding down back to the floor. “No. If you have an
emergency, you can call 119.”
“Not for emergencies , but to talk to you,” Shuuji says, rolling his eyes. There’s another car in
the parking spot, so he has to drive in slowly so he can give Ranpo enough room to get out
without hitting the car or the wall.

“Oh, in that case..,” Ranpo responds, pulling Shuuji’s phone off the car holder holding it to
the dash. He opens up the contact app and starts punching in some numbers.

Victory. Hell yeah. Shuuji loves winning and getting what he wants.

When he’s done parking the car and it’s idling, he holds out his hand for his phone. When
Ranpo is finished, he puts it into his palm and stares at him with a big, self-satisfied smile.

Normally Shuuji reserves this move for the more shy people he asks out, or the ones that look
like liars. He wasn’t going to do it to Ranpo but—

He looks like he’s hiding something, like he pulled the wool over Shuuji’s eyes. “Let me call
it, make sure you didn’t accidentally give me the wrong number.”

The smile widens, and Ranpo says absolutely nothing as he watches Shuuji click on his
contact and brings the phone to his ear.

It rings once, twice, three times. Ranpo’s phone, if he has one on him, never rings.

Instead, after another ring, the line clicks and a recording starts to play:

“Hey! If someone gave you this number, it’s because you’re a fucking creep who can’t take
no for an answer! You should be ashamed of yourself!”
It’s obviously a pre-recorded voicemail, but it’s offensive and Shuuji opens his mouth to ask
why the fuck Ranpo didn’t just tell him no instead of embarrassing him like this, when—

With quick movements that Shuuji can’t even follow, his left wrist gets handcuffed tightly to
the steering wheel.

“What the fuck?” He hisses, yanking on the cuffs. They’re firm, locked right. Where did they
even come from?

Ranpo leans in, close, closer—

His breath washes hotly over his ear, making Shuuji stiffen in place.

“That’s for trying to lock me in,” he murmurs. Shuuji can feel his smile against his ear, self-
satisfied and victorious.

God, fuck—

Then he reaches across his body and hits the child lock button again, unlocking the doors.

“See ya!” Ranpo says cheerfully, not sounding at all like the man who was just whispering
sinfully into his ear as he slides out of the car.

Panic hits Shuuji abruptly, disorientating after the pulse of excitement that he was just
feeling. “Wait! You can’t just leave me like this! How am I supposed to drive like this?”

Ranpo spins around, looking back at him as he walks backwards. He shrugs at him. “Sounds
like a you problem. I’m sure it won’t be much different than your regular, terrible driving.”
Shuuji yanks on the cuffs. They’re real cuffs, not the play ones that have a hinge for the
restrained person to get out of them with. They need keys, keys that Shuuji doesn’t have.

“How am I supposed to get out of these?!” He shouts at Ranpo’s retreating figure.

Another shrug, a wave of Ranpo’s hand. “Ask your dad to teach you how to break out of
cuffs. It’s about time you learned.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing into the sunset and into his little cafe out of sight. Shuuji is left
there, staring after him, filled with opposing emotions because on one hand—

Fuck Ranpo. He can’t believe the little shit actually handcuffed him to his own car and left
him. The audacity of the little fucker, and he didn’t even seem like he felt bad about it! He
was smug, even, about humiliating him!

And on the other hand—

Oh my god, I think I’m in love.

Because Chuuya is glumly throwing the ball for the dogs outside and wondering if he should
just call a cab and go home, he doesn’t actually hear when Dazai comes back. The first thing
he hears that’s out of the ordinary is uproariously loud laughter coming from outside the front
door and when he goes to investigate—

He finds Dazai nearly on the floor with laughter, tears gathering in his eyes as he laughs and
laughs and laughs at Shuuji—

Who is handcuffed to his car and yelling at Dazai that it’s not funny, looking nearly in tears
himself.
And it is pretty funny actually, and Chuuya ends up laughing too. Shuuji won’t say why he’s
cuffed, but considering he left with Ranpo, there’s only so many things that could’ve
happened.

That leads to a very interesting lesson on how to pop the lock on a pair of handcuffs with a
bobby pin. It’s more of a “learn it yourself” lesson because Dazai just gives the basic
explanations and then laughs at Shuuji as he struggles one-handedly to get the cuff off.

Chuuya spends half of the time snickering at Shuuji’s mutterings to himself and the other
half trying not to stare at Dazai.

There’s still awkward tension between them, and Dazai is careful not to touch him when he
shows Chuuya— this time much more thorough— how to break the lock when Shuuji finally
frees himself.

It doesn’t feel malicious, just...cautious? Respectful, maybe, because Shuuji is still around
and they haven’t talked yet.

He doesn’t know where they stand. Part of him was reassured by the kiss Dazai dropped on
his forehead, but the other part...

Is worried that this fight is the end.

He can see where Dazai is coming from, why he’s upset. He’s told Chuuya at least three
times that he needs to get better at communicating, and every time he promises—

And then doesn’t follow through. He can see why that would be frustrating and insensitive—

Even worthy of breaking up with him.

He can see that, and that scares him because he doesn’t know what to expect right now. Dazai
doesn’t seem mad right now, but he doesn’t seem happy with him either. He doesn’t seem
like anything right now, just calm.

Teaching them how to break out of handcuffs turns into ordering in dinner.

Dazai goes to take a shower while they wait for it to arrive, and the talk is put off for longer.

Then when the food does arrive, Shuuji wants to watch a movie while they eat, and Dazai
says he has a call he has to make and retreats to his office.

Chuuya sits there, staring blankly at the TV screen, not watching the movie at all as a sick,
curdling feeling in his stomach starts to grow. He can’t eat because of how bad he feels,
stomach-turning fear and adrenaline making him nauseous.

It’s like being stuck in Purgatory, waiting to be struck down in either way and rotting with
anticipation. Nervousness like festering ants in his veins, building up sickly, agonizing homes
in his stomach and chest.

Part of him wants to delay the conversation forever, even though this is the worst feeling
ever, because he doesn’t want to know if it’s over.

If they’re over.

He wants to go back, back to when things were happy and good and easy between them.
Back to Osaka, back to this fucking morning so he could make better decisions that didn’t
lead him here.

The other part of him just wants to get it over with, because—

At least it will be done, then. At least it’ll be over. At least the waiting will stop.
Eventually, Shuuji heads up to his bedroom. He doesn’t offer Chuuya a blanket or a pillow or
a ride home, he just says goodnight and leaves. The darkness, lit for a long moment by the
TV before it eventually goes to sleep and turns itself off, makes it worse.

There’s no distractions, then. There’s only thinking and thinking and thinking, wobbling
between what to say when he apologizes to Dazai and thinking up arguments to use against
him, and spinning himself into tiny, tangled up knots of anger and misery and pain.

Eventually, Chuuya gathers up his courage and his irritation and goes to find Dazai himself.
He hasn’t come down from his office since he went up there for dinner, and he’s half-
convinced he’s avoiding the conversation.

Also half-convinced that the door will be locked when he tries it—

But it’s not. The knob twists easily under his hand and the door swings open.

It’s dark inside, lit up only by the ever-present red lights from Dazai’s room.

He ventures in, holding his breath to be as quiet as possible. It’s hard to see, but he can’t
make out Dazai’s figure anywhere in the office.He goes further, pushing open the bedroom
door farther open lightly, poking his head inside—

A hand wraps around his arm and yanks.

His first instinct is to scream and he very nearly does—

But then there’s another hand under his chin, tilting his face up so a mouth can cover his own.
It takes him barely a second to recognize the feel of the body pressed against his own, the
shape of the mouth moving over his, tasting heavily of whiskey.

And—

They should talk. He knows that. Dazai said they’d talk, and Chuuya wants to talk and they
need to talk—

But giving in feels so good, makes all the ugly butterflies made of rot and ruin disappear
from his stomach. Makes the anxiety go away and replaces it with pleasure. Makes the
nausea and the fear fade away.

Maybe it’s not healthy, but being pressed up against the wall with his legs around Dazai’s
waist and his hands in his hair while a different set of hands fumbles at the button of his
jeans feels good.

And after hours of feeling sick and twisted up inside, he just wants to feel good right now.
Just wants to forget the ‘what if’s’ and live in the moment.

They can talk after, he promises himself, wiggling his hips to help get his jeans off. They’ll
talk after.

It’s rushed, frantic, desperate. Chuuya only gets his jeans off and Dazai doesn’t even pull his
own pants off, he just unzips them and tugs them down just far enough.

It feels like Dazai dumps half an entire bottle of lube into his palm before pushing his fingers
inside him, muffling his shocked keen by drawing him into a deeper, harder kiss.

It’s the roughest Dazai has ever been with him, and Chuuya loves it. He’s half-drunk on the
taste of whiskey on his tongue, shuddering whenever Dazai pushes him a little too far too
quickly.
He needs it, needs the reassurance of how much Dazai wants him, so much he can barely
wait, so much they don’t even make it to the bed before he’s pulling back his three fingers
and replacing them with his cock.

It’s deep like this, like Dazai is fucking his soul , and Chuuya can’t tell if the tears on his face
are from the emotional release, the pleasure, the need, the tinge of pain, or the overwhelming
combination of it all.

He’s clinging to Dazai, as hard as he can, digging his nails into his back to scratch him up, to
leave his mark on him, to leave something of himself on his body, a reminder.

Don’t leave, don’t leave me, don’t leave me behind, please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I need
you—.

He’s glad Dazai won’t stop kissing him, because it soothes the ache and because he’s not sure
what he’d say right now if he could speak. Apologies or insults or gibberish nonsense as
Dazai drives him towards the peak so quickly he feels dizzy with it.

It’s also the first time Dazai comes before him, and the satisfaction of feeling him twitch and
spill inside him as he muffles groans against his mouth is contrasted sharply by the
rampaging need still inside him because he’s not done.

He rocks his hips frantically, grinding forward against Dazai’s stomach and back on his
softening erection, desperate for just a little more friction, a little longer, a little more, please
—

It’s easier once a hand closes around his cock and jerks him sloppily, rhythm nonexistent.
Dazai’s hips are still rolling forward to meet him halfway, fucking his cum back inside him.

The desperation of it all, the quick frantic rush and release, is enough to have him releasing a
muffled cry as he orgasms, just barely remembering to be quiet to avoid waking Shuuji up.
For a moment, all there is is white-hot pleasure and electricity. He revels in it, breathes in
rapture like oxygen, always searching for more, to feel better.

It fades all too quickly, and the emptiness that comes after feels colder than usual.

Before he can come down too much, Dazai is taking his weight again and staggering over to
the bed. When they collapse onto it, it’s soft and warm and comforting. Dazai is heavy on top
of him, forehead pressed to his shoulder and—

Chuuya could sleep. He could just fall asleep right here, like this, without a problem.

He could just fall, and dream that nothing ever happened and that they’re okay, and
everything is perfect and fine.

He could do it. It’s tempting, more tempting than a lot of things he’s felt recently.

He could sleep, like this.

But then Dazai shifts on top of him, stretching out a little more, and Chuuya realizes that he
can’t leave things like this between them. He has to fix it.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, burying his fingers in his hair and tugging to make sure he’s
listening. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that not telling you would hurt you, but I should have
known. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want to talk about it because—”

He blows out a breath, trying to think of what exactly to say. This is harder than he thought it
would be. He’s glad Dazai’s not looking at him, even though he can tell he’s listening by the
way his thumb is stroking over his ribs. It’s silently encouraging, enough that Chuuya forges
on ahead.
“Because I wasn’t sure what Shuuji was going to do. I was afraid that if he told our
professors that they would think bad of me and it would hurt my scholarships. And...” he
trails off here for a second, swallowing hard. The strokes of his fingers through Dazai’s hair
are comforting, a grounding rhythm. “I wanted to tell my family first, but you’re right. I
should’ve talked to you first, and I should’ve told him. I will tell him.”

There’s silence for a long moment, long enough that he’s half-afraid Dazai fell asleep on him
—

Then Dazai is rolling off him, settling on his side right beside him instead. He props up his
head with one of his hands, elbow on the bed. His eyes are huge and dark, fixed on his face
with unwavering intensity. “If you want to tell your family first, then you should absolutely
tell them first. I meant what I said earlier; I don’t mind keeping us a secret if that’s what you
think is better for you. I’m not happy about it, but I want you to be comfortable and happy
more than anything else.”

His free hand comes up, skirting over the cooling mess on his stomach and curving over his
side affectionately. He’s warm, familiar. “And I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier. I was
having a bad day and was upset for other reasons that didn’t have anything to do with you. I
shouldn’t have taken that out on you, and I should’ve been more reasonable when it
happened.”

Chuuya’s smile feels wobbly, a little wet. This is hard, but it’s also so easy when he gets it
right. “You didn’t yell.”

It’s true, Dazai never raised his voice. If anything, his voice had dropped , turned into
something seething and low.

“I know,” Dazai murmurs, petting over his side, “but I hurt you, and I didn’t want to. I’m
sorry for that.”

The knot in Chuuya’s chest finally loosens, and he can take an unobstructed breath. He rolls
over, turning into Dazai’s chest and wrapping his arms around his waist. He clings on,
pushing his leg between Dazai’s thighs to make sure they’re as intertwined as they could
possibly be.
The hand on his side curves around to his back, a large palm pressing beneath his shoulder
blades and pulling him closer.

“I’ll be better now, I promise,” he mutters into his chest, muffled, “At talking, I mean. I
didn’t really understand before, but I do now, and I’m going to try my best.”

Dazai’s chest rumbles under his ear as he speaks again. “I believe you, doll.”

He hasn’t heard that pet name in a while, and his cheeks start to heat up at the nickname.

Now that all the anxiety is starting to fade and most of the emotions have been burnt out by
sex, Chuuya is starting to feel exhausted. He’s warm and comfortable.

There’s just one more thing.

“I’ll tell him, though. I’ll tell him, and then my family. We can go from there. But I want him
to know because I don’t want to act like I’m not—,“ his first instinct is to say ‘not in love
with you’ and that thought is so startling that he almost loses his train of thought entirely
because—

No, no, it’s too soon, he doesn’t actually feel like that, he’s just pent up and relieved. It’s not
true.

“Okay,” Dazai agrees, falling backwards onto his back and dragging Chuuya with him.
They’re still messy, but apparently this is the first time Dazai will allow it to stay that way.

Chuuya doesn’t like the sticky mess, but the thought of getting up right now or letting go of
Dazai is blasphemous. “But we’re good now, right? Is there anything else we need to talk
about or are we okay now?”
Dazai drags him a little higher, so his head is tucked under his chin comfortably. “Yes, we’re
good now. Go to sleep, chibi, I know you’re tired. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The last of the tangled up emotions loosens up, leaving him exhausted and pleasantly empty
in their wake.

Reassured now, he cuddles closer and lets his eyelids fall shut.

He spends his last moments before sleeping planning out a good time to tell Shuuji. Monday,
he thinks, maybe after class.

(He will never get the chance.)

He sleeps.
 Three Missed Calls
Chapter Summary

(Inside, on the counter:

INCOMING CALL: YUAN

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

1 MISSED CALL.

INCOMING CALL: YUAN

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

2 MISSED CALLS.

3 MISSED CALLS.

4 MISSED CA—.)

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone >:) First off, thanks for your patience with this chapter, I got some pretty
bad news this week and it really unmotivated me! But we're back with another chapter
AND tag updates/chapter number updates. Please feel free to check those out :) This
chapter is a prelude to next week, so I hope you all prepare yourselves for the
Showdown :/ Steady downhill from here into angsty territory, but no worries, it's a
happy ending :) Thank you, and I'll see you net week! <3

This chapter includes:

- a bowl
- a video
- a missed call

It’s not an alarm or the sun rising that wakes Chuuya up the next morning. It’s actually his
stomach, growling and clenching painfully with emptiness, and it’s obscenely early. Dawn is
just beginning to turn the sky grey, pale light filtering underneath the curtains over the
balcony windows.
For a moment, he considers trying to go back to sleep. He’s warm and comfortable, sprawled
out over Dazai’s chest. There’s a steady heartbeat under his ear, and an arm thrown over his
back, a firm thigh between his legs.

His stomach twists again. He’s so hungry, hasn’t eaten anything since early yesterday
afternoon. He couldn’t take more than a bite or two of his dinner last night, and the
consequences of that are hitting him now.

Ugh. He grumbles to himself, slowly wiggling out of Dazai’s hold. He’ll just get a quick
bowl of cereal or something so his stomach will stop trying to eat itself and then he’ll come
back and cuddle up again.

Dazai shifts when he’s almost free, and Chuuya freezes, thinking he woke him up. It’s too
early for him, and even though he wasn’t drunk last night, he still needs more sleep to recover
from what he did drink.

But Dazai just turns over, sleepily searching with his hand until he finds a pillow and drags it
closer. He curls around it, hugging it close to his chest with a sleepy, content noise.

Cute.

Chuuya leaves him to his pillow, creeping down the stairs as quietly as he can. Yoko and
Kozo are sprawled out in the hallway, snoring. They startle awake as he passes, scrambling to
their feet with small grunts. When they see it’s just him, they settle back down again and let
out a couple of yawns.

Chuuya winces. It’s so quiet in here that they’re loud by comparison. “Come on,” he mutters,
ushering them down the stairs. “Time for you to go outside.”

Naturally, they bound down the stairs with a ruckus. He freezes at the top, listening hard to
see if he woke anybody up.
When nothing moves for a while, he continues his journey down the stairs.

The dogs are waiting for him by the back door, prancing over themselves in their excitement.
He lets them out as quietly as he can, shutting the door behind them to keep the noise down.

He pads over to the fridge, pulling it open and taking out one of the water bottles stashed
inside. Cracking it open, he chugs nearly the whole thing in one drink. He's so thirsty.

There's quite a few meals he could make from the food that's in the fridge, but that requires
cooking and cleaning, and overall way too much effort. He just wants something easy, like a
bowl of cereal.

There's only one problem.

The box of cereal is in the pantry, easily accessible. There's milk in the fridge, clean spoons
in the drawer. But the bowls...

Are stored on the very top shelf of the cabinet, far out of reach.

Chuuya stares at them, hating his existence.

It's not like Dazai owns a step-stool either, because he's tall and can reach the bowls. And it's
not like Chuuya can just stick his hand into the cereal box and eat it by the handful because
that would be unsanitary and also uncivilized. He has to climb up there to get them, but it's so
early and the counters are already at hip-height.

God fucking dammit, he grumbles to himself, hooking his fingers underneath the lip of the
cabinet so he can start to pull himself up—
Only for a body to press up behind him, an arm reaching up and effortlessly bringing down a
bowl for him.

He scowls at the cabinet. That's so not fair. He practically has to become a goddamn spider
monkey to get through life, but Dazai just gets to reach up there without a problem.

"If you needed help, you could've just asked," Dazai rumbles, voice tinged with amusement
as he sets down the bowl in easy reach.

"Yeah, yeah," Chuuya mutters under his breath, unwilling to point out that he didn't need
help, he just needed to climb to do it himself, "whatever, daddy long legs."

There's a second where they both process what he just said. Chuuya with embarrassment,
staring at the cabinet as his cheeks begin to burn. He didn't plan on saying that, it just came
out, fueled by lingering exhaustion and irritation. He wasn't even thinking.

With hands on his shoulders, Dazai spins him around and now he's looming over him and his
smile is big and blatantly amused, clearly fighting back the urge to grin. "What did you call
me?"

More embarrassment floods through Chuuya, tinged with irritation. He turns his head,
refusing to look at him directly, putting his nose in the air. "I didn't call you anything."

Dazai snorts and now Chuuya is struggling to suppress a smile because he sounds so damn
amused and it's contagious.

Hands find his waist, lifting him up and backwards onto the counter. Chuuya hangs onto his
shoulders, but doesn't fight him for even a second.

There was still this lingering fear somewhere inside him. Even though they both agreed that
they were good and the fight was over, he was still worried that things were going to be
awkward between them. That the fight would cause tension and uncertainty between them,
and it'd take them a while to get back into their old rhythm.

That's how it was with his sisters. Even when they made up after a fight, there was still this
subtle, passive-aggressive anger and irritation towards each other that tainted all their
interactions. Eventually, it'd go away and they'd actually be good again, but it always took
them a while after they made up to actually be normal with each other.

He was half-expecting it to be like that now between them, but evidently he was wrong,
based on the way Dazai is now pressing his smile against his cheek.

"No, you definitely called me something. I heard it," he says, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I think you're hearing things," Chuuya sniffs, turning his nose up even higher. He's acting
bratty and irritable, but he can't fight the growing smile. With how close Dazai is, there's no
way he can't feel it, can’t taste it. “But if I did say something, it’d probably be about how I
could’ve gotten the bowl myself and I didn’t need help.”

“Aww,” Dazai croons, layering his cheek with more kisses. “Are you mad at me?”

The way he says it makes it clear he finds that idea adorable. Like there’s nothing cuter than
Chuuya being irritable with him over a bowl.

“Yeah,” he confirms, even as he’s hooking his knees around Dazai’s hips and drawing him in
closer, as close as he can, until their chests are pressed together. “Super mad.”

Their hips connect,and Chuuya can feel interest stirring there, growing hotter with the weight
of their bodies.

Chuuya’s still not wearing underwear from last night, and he had shrugged on one of Dazai’s
discarded shirts when he left the bed. Dazai changed into sweatpants at some point, hanging
low on his hips. He’s sleep-warm, voice rough and his hair wild and how is Chuuya ever
supposed to resist him? How is he supposed to do anything besides give into him when
they’re pressed this close together, and he feels so good?

Dazai presses a sucking kiss over his cheekbone, scraping his teeth over the sensitive flesh.
When Chuuya’s breath hitches, he lets him go again, moving onto the next spot.

“Oh, you’re so cute,” he murmurs, like he didn’t even mean to say it, it just came out, an
unexpected confession.

Heart skipping a beat, Chuuya turns his head to catch him in a kiss.

Last night, that was frantic and hasty and rough. It wasn’t about enjoyment then, it was about
the need , about proving to themselves that there was still something there between them,
about forgetting the emotional turmoil by indulging in physical pleasure.

This...

This feels like reassurance, like affection, like coming home . Like savoring your favorite
meal after not having it for a while, bite after bite after delicious anticipated bite, feeling how
easily the hunger is sated. Like coming home after a long time away, and being greeted at the
door.

Every time Dazai’s mouth moves over his, coaxing his mouth open wider so he can kiss him
deeper, one of his hands cupping the back of his neck and tipping his chin back, Chuuya feels
like he’s reeling. Being drowned in the sensation of being caught and held and savored.

He’s tipped backwards slightly as Dazai presses into him. His legs are hitched around Dazai’s
waist, and he’s on the very edge of the counter. If Dazai pressed either way, forwards or back,
Chuuya would probably end up falling.

But there’s safety in the hand around the back of his neck, effortlessly holding him upright.
Reassurance in the way Dazai is solid and steady between his thighs, something for Chuuya
to cling onto. There’s need in the way his free hand has found one of Chuuya’s legs and is
drawing a swirling pattern up, slowly inching his way up his thigh.

Honestly, Chuuya should have predicted this. He’s learned that Dazai has an affinity for sex
in unusual places, and mostly places that are risky.

The risk here is inherent; Shuuji could walk in on them at any time. While it is still early and
dawn is just beginning to break, and Shuuji is self-admitted to not being a morning person—

He could walk in at any moment.

That would be an interesting way to discover they’re dating, Chuuya thinks to himself with
amusement, gasping as Dazai nips at his bottom lip and sucks it into his mouth.

If they make too much noise, or take too long, or even just sheer bad luck—

They could get caught.

That doesn’t seem to bother Dazai though, because his thumb has found the crease of
Chuuya’s hip and is rubbing over it in slow, teasing-tempting circles. Dazai's shirt is huge on
him, but it's been pushed up over his thighs to give Dazai room to work with.

Dazai Osamu is a bad influence. Before him, Chuuya had never even considered doing risky
things like this. He broke rules in other ways, but sex? No.

He always thought he'd be on the normal side of sex. That he'd like things predictable and
easy. A bed, a few positions, and that was basically it. Whenever he thought about people
doing weird things during sex, he always found it strange and a turn-off.

But now he's rapidly discovering that the 'weird' stuff is actually pretty fucking hot,
especially when he's doing it with someone like Dazai .
Case in point, he's already half-hard and getting harder fast, half-drunk on the idea of being
caught at all . Dazai's hardly done anything to him besides kiss him stupid and stroke
fingertips over his thighs, and yet here he is, breathless and needy for more.

"More," he mumbles against Dazai's mouth, tightening his legs around his hips to grind his
erection against the heat of his abs, gasping at the friction.

The smile that gets pressed against his mouth is teasing, self-satisfied. He's certain that Dazai
is going to string him out until he's desperate, tease him with taste and touch and words until
he can barely think but—

"I got you, baby," gets murmured back to him, soft and so assured it feels as easy as breathing
to fall into him.

Apparently either Dazai brought lube with him— arrogant bastard, but it works out in
Chuuya's favor so he's not too angry— or he keeps a spare bottle in the kitchen for these
kinds of mornings. All Chuuya knows for sure is that his hand leaves his hip for a few
moments and then comes back wet, sliding between his thighs.

Chuuya has to scoot forward a little bit, rounding his back to give him better access. It leaves
him hanging in his grip, supported by his legs and the hand behind his neck. It doesn’t even
occur to him to be anxious about being dropped.

Prep is easy and quick, considering they fucked only a few hours before. It's not long before
Dazai is pumping two fingers into him and then three, stretching him open steadily but not
rushing it.

Still, every movement of his fingers and every accidental brush against his prostate has him
gasping out soft moans.

Usually Chuuya is loud— something that embarrasses him sometimes, but he can't help it and
he's certain Dazai tries to get him to moan as loud as possible as a silent challenge to himself
— but something about this interaction feels hushed.

Feels quiet and reverential, has him gasping out soft moans and hitched breaths that get
swallowed by Dazai.

He hasn't stopped kissing him once, not even as he pulls his fingers out and slides inside him.
Chuuya feels drugged by it, dizzy, brought to searing life and held there by teeth and tongue
and breath.

His body is still waking up from sleep, and that makes it so easy to feel overwhelmed by how
deep Dazai feels inside him, buried all the way inside and rocking in short, pointed slides
against his prostate. Every touch feels like fire itself, every breath feels like living and dying
in the same moment.

It's slow too, his best spots being milked until he can hardly breathe through the pleasure as it
grows and grows, heightening with every moment.

There's a point, when both of Dazai's hands are cupping his face and holding him in place as
he kisses him and kisses him and breathes little groans into his mouth and whispers his name,
and all Chuuya can do is hold on , hands wrapped around his wrists and whimpering back to
him as they spiral higher and higher.

His orgasm feels like it shakes him to his very core, leaving him trembling and shivering as
he rides out the heat-drenched pleasure.

Dazai isn't far after him, and the noise he makes as he buries himself as deeply as he can
makes an exhausted ripple of arousal creep up Chuuya's spine.

For a while they just breathe together, slowly recovering as their heartbeats slow down.
Dazai's forehead, pressed to his, is damp with sweat. His sweats, pushed down just far
enough to pull out his cock, are rough against the back of his thighs.
It's peaceful, relaxing.

At least it is until—

Noise, upstairs.

Shuuji's waking up and coming downstairs, fuck!

Chuuya shoves Dazai away because he doesn't actually want to tell Shuuji about their
relationship while wearing only his shirt and his cum is dripping out of him. He has dignity ,
and if he's going to be telling Shuuji that he's in a relationship with his father , then he at least
wants to be wearing underwear. Preferably pants too.

Preferably a whole rocking outfit, actually, as a confidence boost and also because he's petty
and he wants to look his best when he's telling Shuuji he'll never get to touch this.

Dazai stumbles away, looking vaguely offended.

Chuuya hops down after him, wincing when he feels how wet the counter is behind him.
"Please don't be mad," he hisses to Dazai, waving him away, "I want to wait to tell him until
I'm at least wearing pants, please . Please understand that."

Dazai blows out a breath, and the irritation that was beginning to grow on his face slides
away. He nods, pulling his sweats up and going to start a pot of coffee.

With shaky hands, feeling his heartbeat in his throat, Chuuya pours himself a bowl of cereal.
He totally forgot he was hungry and now he feels too on-edge to actually eat.

Shuuji comes bounding in, fully dressed and with his backpack slung over his shoulder. He
looks too awake to have woken up anytime recently and Chuuya is briefly paralyzed by the
thought that he heard and he's come to confront them—
"Hey Dad, I'm busy today, can you give Chuuya a ride home?"

But apparently not.

Relieved, he takes a bite of cereal.

Dazai turns around, leaning back against the counter with a mug of freshly brewed black
coffee in his hands. There's a wet spot on his sweats from lube, and he's not even trying to
hide it, or the fact that he's sweaty.

God, this is a nightmare, but if Shuuji asks, Chuuya won't say no.

It's just mortifying to bring up 'hey, I'm like technically your step-dad right now and might
actually be your legal step-dad someday so surprise! Hope you're not too mad! We'll invite
you to the wedding if it happens' while there's literally cum dripping down his thigh, hot and
sticky.

Dazai smirks into his coffee. "Yeah, I'll give him a ride."

The innuendo is thick, so blatant that Chuuya is shooting him a look. They're already in a
sticky situation— literally—, he doesn't have to rub it in.

Shuuji doesn't notice, snagging a banana from the island counter and turning away again.
"Okay, cool, thanks, bye!"

Then he's racing out the door, apparently very intent on whatever mission he has planned for
today. What it is, considering it's a little past 6 in the morning, Chuuya has no fucking idea,
but he doesn't care.
"You ass," he hisses at Dazai, throwing a dry piece of cereal at him, "You weren't subtle or
helpful at all!"

Dazai downs the rest of his coffee in one gulp, grinning. He sets the mug down in the sink,
stalking closer until Chuuya is once again pinned between him and the counter.

"What do you want me to say, baby? That you're not dripping my cum down those pretty legs
of yours? That my cock isn't still wet from being inside you?" His voice is lilting with smug
pleasure, curling around his nerve endings enticingly.

Chuuya takes another bite to save himself from answering, but there's a different hunger
growing in his stomach. It's a good thing he found Dazai, because the man is apparently just
as insatiable as he is.

It'd be ridiculous if he wasn't so into it.

Dazai leans closer, until his cheek is sliding past his and his mouth is next to his ear. One of
his hands finds the back of his thigh, smearing over the sticky cum there without hesitation.

"Or I could've said," he whispers, breath hot and audible in his ear, sending shivers down his
spine, "that I want to do it again?"

Oh, fuck eating right now. The bowl of cereal gets placed on the counter, forgotten, as he
hops up into Dazai's arms with a grin.

Dazai supports him with hands on his thighs, tilting his head back for a kiss. "I have a
grooming appointment for the dogs in four hours. Until then, you're mine."

Chuuya would argue that he's his /forever/, but he's too busy kissing him to actually say
anything.
(Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.)

Yuan lives two separate lives. Sometimes she likes to think that she's her own doppelganger,
both the evil and the good twin. It's more fun that way, to think of it as some party trick or a
magic show rather than the depressing reality that it is.

Because out there she's the supposedly privileged, popular, pretty young college girl that gets
whatever she wants. She's friends with most of the younger rich kids. She goes to all their
parties, goes invited to a good many of their vacations, gets gifts and handouts.

Because they think she's one of them. They think she's the estranged but still cared for
daughter of a rich businessman, that she goes home to a big beautiful house in the suburbs
and she's on the fast track to being rich and successful.

When the truth is—

"Yuan, will you come help me with the vegetables, please?"

When the truth is that she's the second daughter of a single mother, and the only 'privilege'
she has is the one she's taken for herself with lying and manipulation.

Their apartment is small, with only one bedroom. Her mother has given it up to her and her
sister, making her 'bedroom' in a small corner of the living room by sectioning off a space
with hanging curtains.

Yuan's sister, Elise, went off to live in the college dorms as soon as she could but...

Yuan couldn't leave their mom all alone. She gave everything for them, worked two,
sometimes three jobs in order to get them into good schools. Even now, after she's gotten a
promotion as a secretary, she still works brutally long hours.

It makes Yuan sad, to think of her mom working all day and half the night, only to come
home to an empty and cold house. She did have opportunities at the dorms at Keio but she's
just fine with her tiny room with her mother.

"How was work today?" She asks her mother, joining her in the kitchen. It smells like she's
cooking ramen. They're in for a treat then, because Yuan loves her ramen. Almost as good as
some restaurants.

There's garlic and green onions and a few other vegetables waiting on the counter to be
chopped. Yuan pulls out their cutting board and gets to work.

"It was okay," Kasumi sighs, stirring the pot. "Ango is very tense lately, though. It makes my
job hard to do when he is very grumpy."

Personally, Yuan thinks Ango is a prick even when he's being 'nice', always sending her
mother out on unnecessary errands or calling her late at night. There was a time where she
thought he was interested in her mother, but after a while, she's come to the conclusion that
he's just a prick who doesn't think other people's lives matter as much as his does.

"Why is he so worried?" Yuan asks, slicing the green onion into thin pieces.

Dropping noodles into a pot of boiling water, her mother shrugs, "He says that the crime rates
are escalating very quickly, and making his job difficult. He says something needs to change
soon, or people even more important than him will step in."

Yuan frowns, gathering up the sliced pieces and dumping them into a bowl. That sounds
pretty serious, actually.

What her mother's company— the Special Divisions Unit, or something like that— does has
always been a bit of a mystery to Yuan, so she doesn't understand why a higher crime rate
would affect them, but she hopes it stops soon. Her mother is much too overworked.

"Enough about me. How was class today, sweetie?"

Yuan hums, cleaning off her knife and board. She finished early, and it will probably still be
another twenty minutes before the ramen is finished. "It was boring, actually. We didn't learn
much. But Shirase said he wanted to talk to me later, can I go see what he wants?"

Smiling, her mother shoos her off. "Go, then. Tell the boy I miss him, and he should visit
sometimes."

She nods, leaving her mother to finish cooking as she heads back to her room. She pulls out
her phone, checking her recent texts.

There's an older text from Shuuji, two from Elise, some social media updates, and a newer
text from Shirase.

Throwing herself back on her bed, she pulls up their conversations. Their last texts make her
snort in amusement.

[ DUMDUM ]: what's the difference between a neko and a catgirl

[ YUAN ]: neko is a derogatory term coined by spanish invaders in the 1800's

[ DUMDUM ]: really?????

[ YUAN ]: god did you even go to school? no i was fucking with you

[ DUMDUM ]: i'm never trusting you again

[ YUAN ]: <3

The most recent text, however, is the most concerning one.

[ DUMDUM ]: yo have you seen this???

He sent a recording of the public Snapchat hotspot for Keio. She doesn't usually look at it,
because it's usually filled with boring videos, but this time, it's something... interesting, to say
the least.

It was posted about eleven this morning, nearly two hours ago. It's a shaky video of a dog
grooming store, which would normally be something to skip past but—

It's Chuuya in the video, dressed up in clothes she's never seen before and—

Kissing who is obviously Dazai Osamu. Shuuji's dad.

And not like, awkward or accidental or any kind of kissing that might be able to be explained
away somehow. Full on, public, hands around Dazai's neck, smiling in the kiss, almost a
makeout session.

Her first thought is fuck, that is very much not good.

Her second thought is, why does he get to makeout with Dazai in public when she can barely
get the man to say her name after trying to come onto him for months. Chuuya's been here for
like two weeks! He has to be cheating somehow, using some sort of love potion or
something.

Her third thought, and this is the most pressing one—

Has Shuuji seen this yet?

She replays the video, hoping she was somehow mistaken--

But she's not, and this time she notices the damning information in the caption:

"YOOOO NAKAHARA STRUCK IT RICH HUH :P :P”

Oh this is not good. So not good. Shuuji's going to be livid . Half the school has probably
seen this already, and while Chuuya was never his official boyfriend, they were seen together
often enough. People know.

Everybody's going to be laughing at him, and he's going to be /pissed/.

[ DUMDUM ]: what do we do?????? shuuji's gonna go off the deep end

Is there anything they can do? It's a public snapchat spot, and she doesn't recognize the user
of the person who posted it, so she can't ask them to take it down. It's been up for almost two
hours already. And if Shirase already has a video saved of it, then there will be other videos
already saved.

Gossip spreads like the wind at Keio.

This is so not good. The situation is already spiraling out of control.

[ YUAN ]: fuck idk?? are you with shuuji today?? steal his phone so he can't see it
[ DUMDUM ]: im not with him are you????

Fuck, so there's no damage control then. Okay, okay, she can figure out who posted it and
then make them take it down before he sees it—

Another text, not from Shirase. This one is coming from the group chat. Shuuji insisted on
making a new group chat without Chuuya a few weeks before. She's been ignoring it, mostly,
because she feels like that's mean to Chuuya—

But she can't ignore this text.

[ SHUUJI ]: i'm going to kill that gold digging slut like he's a stupid fucking dog

Shit.

[ YUAN ]: woah woah let's not do anything too hasty

[ SHUUJI ]: shut the fuck up

[ YUAN ]: i get that ur mad but don't do anything crazy okay, just take a second and think
about what will happen to you

Seconds turn into agonizingly slow minutes, panic beginning to set in because—

If Shuuji gets angry enough, he will follow through. He doesn't care about consequences or
what happens because of his actions.

He'll do it. He'll fucking do it.

Shuuji doesn't respond again.

Her next course of option— her only course of option— is to call Chuuya and hope he picks
up so at least she can warn him.

(Tick. Tock. Tick—

Oh, would you look at that?

Time's up, Chuuya.)

[ SHUUJI ]: hey can we talk? :)

Chuuya shuffles his phone a little, contemplating. He was intending to wait until Monday to
say anything— not for any particular reason, just because it gave him enough time to come
up with a good speech— but come to think of it, this seems like the perfect time. It gets the
conversation over with quickly, and then he can stop pretending he doesn't care about Dazai.

Besides, it's not like he has anything else to do right now. Dazai went to pick up the dogs
from their appointment, and when Chuuya offered to come with, he said he had an errand to
run and he didn’t want to bore Chuuya with it. He already did his homework, and now he's
just sitting on his phone playing games. So why not just get it over with?

Just rip the band-aid off so they can all just move on.

[ CHUUYA ]: yeah I have something to tell you too

[ CHUUYA ]: im still at ur house btw we can talk here

Barely even a second passes before gets a response.

[ SHUUJI ]: be there soon!

Shuuji is usually a pretty slow texter with him, so it’s pretty surprising that he answered so
quickly. Maybe he has something important to tell him too.

Before he can ask—

His phone dies. He forgot to charge it the night before, and between getting fucked into
Dazai’s bed like the man was trying to snap his spine in half, and then going to drop off the
dogs, and getting a quick lunch before coming home—

He hasn’t had the chance to charge it.

Ugh.

Luckily though, there’s a few spare chargers stashed in one of the kitchen drawers, so he gets
up to plug it in.

He hesitates there. It feels weird to be waiting for Shuuji in his own house to have The Talk.
What is he supposed to do, watch TV? Sit by the door reading a magazine like one of those
parents in movies?

Come to think of it, he actually doesn’t have the password to the Netflix, so he can’t actually
watch TV anyways.
So his options are to sit in awkward silence and stare at the wall until either Shuuji or Dazai
gets back—

Or he can wait outside and soak up some sun while he waits. It’s been a while since he was
able to just enjoy the warmth and pleasure of the sun. He’s been locked up in classes or
studying, or sprawled on his back in Dazai’s bed.

Plus, without his phone, he won’t be able to get any updates on when they’re coming back,
so. He’ll be able to see them quicker if he’s waiting outside.

(Like most bad ideas, it seems terribly reasonable when you first think of it.)

It’s a warmer day than most of last week was, but it’s still a bit chilly. The sidewalk, however,
has soaked up all the sun and is warm against his ass as he sits near the driveway to wait.

(Inside, on the counter:

INCOMING CALL: YUAN

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

1 MISSED CALL.

INCOMING CALL: YUAN

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

2 MISSED CALLS.
3 MISSED CALLS.

4 MISSED CA—.)
 Rollercoaster
Chapter Summary

Before Chuuya can even move a muscle, Dazai is making his way back over. Hands
finding the back of his thighs, he sweeps him up into his arms.

Chuuya could protest or struggle, but after everything that's happened in the last hour, he
just wants to be held. Dazai is warm and solid and comforting beneath him, the perfect
thing for Chuuya to curl himself around and just...

Try to forget what seeing his life flash before his eyes was like. Try to forget what being
on the verge of death felt like.

Chapter Notes

HELLOO EVERYONE. The much-awaited chapter is here >:) This one mostly hurt, but
the /next/ one mostly comfort, so don't be too worried!! With this, we are Officially out
of arc 1 of BH and moving onto the next arc, which has Much Higher Stakes :) Good
luck everyone, I will be supervising your ride down >:D Thank you all for your
continued support of BH, and I'll see you next week!!!! <3 Be careful with this chapter
as it contains graphic violence, though no one is permanently hurt in the process :)

This chapter includes:

- a car
- a knife
- a couch

He sees Shuuji’s car first, speeding down the road to the house. He’s driving faster than
normal.

(Have you ever been on a roller coaster?

You know that feeling when you get to the top, and you're hovering there, overlooking the
drop and thinking--
I'm going to die. This will kill me. If I fall right now, I will die.

And you're reasoning with yourself: Rollercoasters have safety precautions. They have
seatbelts and rails and people who make sure that the tracks are clear and safe, and mechanics
to make sure everything is running perfectly.

Rollercoasters are safe, predictable.

Well, what if the person securing your seatbelt was having a really bad day? What if there
was an electrical fault somewhere down the line? A track broke? A branch was lying in just
the wrong place to send the rollercoaster flying off?

Have you ever thought--

What if the person driving the rollercoaster wanted to see you dead?)

Chuuya watches and watches and watches and--

Shuuji's always been a bad driver, but when is he going to slow down? Is he planning to just
zoom past?

Closer, closer.

Why isn't he stopping?

Closer.
Oh, okay, he's starting to slow down now. Chuuya can see the brake lights faintly now.

But wait, it's not enough, it's still too fast—

Heart pounding in his chest, his whole body feeling numb and tingly and frozen with fear,
Chuuya realizes with startling calm:

He's going to hit him. He is going to get run over, right here in the driveway.

For a second, he just stares , waiting for the realization to connect with his body as Shuuji
hurtles closer and closer and CLOSER—

Then it's like all of his survival instincts roar to life at the same time, sending a shock-jolt of
adrenaline through him that sends him scrambling to the side, heart in his throat.

Move, move, move, I have to move, get out of the way—

There's a screech as Shuuji slams on the brakes. The sudden friction of the tires locking
causes the back end to fishtail in Chuuya's direction, oh my god—

He rolls over onto the lawn, feeling a gut-wrenching sense of panic as he puts a little more
distance between them. He rolls again, scrambling onto his hands and knees, craning his head
to look—

There's a curb protecting him now, but with how fast Shuuji was going, he ends sliding over
the driveway, tires screeching, and halfway onto the lawn before the car finally comes to a
stop.

It's only a handful of meters away from him, right on track to crush him underneath the tires.
Chuuya stares at the front of the vehicle, eyes wide and pulse pounding too fast for him to
keep up with.
There's the smell of burnt rubber in his nose, clouding his senses.

Oh my god, that really just—

That really almost happened.

He almost got ran the fuck over.

Relief doesn't last long. As soon as the car is stopped completely, Shuuji is slamming out of
the car—

And that's when the anger sets in.

"What the FUCK?" He shouts, rising up on his knees and throwing his hands up in the air. If
he had something small nearby, he'd chuck it at Shuuji's head.

His entire body is shaking, but the fight isn't over yet. Stomach-turning adrenaline is still
racing through him like liquid electricity, forcing his heart to speed up until it hurts. "What
the fuck is wrong with you, Shuuji?" He shouts again, fighting the urge to throw up.

He's off-center, still reeling from the close call. His ghost feels like it's been flattened in the
driveway, filling him with phantom aches of what almost happened.

So when Shuuji stalks over and reaches down for him, grabbing his bicep in a painful grip
and yanks him up with it, he's too startled to fight it. He stumbles to his feet, fighting to get
his breath back for another shout. His chest feels too small for the lingering terror.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" Shuuji hisses, fury laced through his voice as he shoves
Chuuya forward, closer to the house. "What the fuck is wrong with you? What, is my dick
not wrinkly enough for you, you sick freak? Need some money to get turned on like a
common fucking whore? How long have you been fucking my dad? "

And god, everything is happening so fast that he's reeling, trying to keep up with what's
happening and his first thought is—

Oh, he knows.

His second?

But Dazai doesn't have a wrinkly dick? It's pretty cute, actually.

That thought feels so absurd in this situation that he almost bursts out laughing,fueled by
manic fear and adrenaline. God, what the fuck is happening.

He pulls on his arm, bracing his feet to get a better stance.

But he's made a fatal mistake: Shuuji is taller than him, and he's just about as strong. With the
way he's holding Chuuya's arm up as he drags him along ,it's really hard to fight that pull or
get his arm back under control.

"Fuck you, asshole," Chuuya snarls, kicking at his ankle. He can't think of anything smart to
say right now, just mangled versions of insults.

Using the grip on his arm, Shuuji forcibly yanks him around. His foot catches on the step
leading to the door, sending him stumbling with the momentum.

His back slams against the corner of the door, the knob stabbing into his lower back harshly.
The move knocks the breath out of him, making him arch away from the door with wide,
pained eyes.
And just when he feels like his chest might expand again—

Hands encircle his throat tightly.

Chuuya has had hands around his neck often enough— Dazai's hands, specifically— that his
first reaction isn't to panic or start struggling. That's the only reason Shuuji manages to get
both his hands around his throat and starts squeezing.

It's different from being choked by Dazai. When Dazai chokes him, the pressure is mostly on
the sides, and it's a steady, constant pressure that doesn't waver even if he struggles a bit. This
is Shuuji putting direct force onto his windpipe, like he's trying to crush it, and it's sharp-
stinging- painful. He can't breathe past it.

"Fucking my dad wasn't enough for you, huh? Gotta embarrass me in front of the whole
fucking school? Now everyone knows I was with a freak who had daddy issues!" Shuuji
seethes, tightening his grip until it feels like his neck is going to be crushed.

And then—

Chuuya has had enough.

He's only ever been nice and respectful to Shuuji, even when the fucker didn't deserve it.
Sure, going behind his back to date his dad was kind of a dick move, but he doesn't deserve
to be choked out and nearly fucking ran over because of it.

Then he gets mad. If Shuuji wants to fight, then fine, they'll fucking fight.

Thinking past the raw animal panic beginning to course through his veins, Chuuya brings his
hands down and then up between Shuuji's arms. With all the strength he can muster, he
shoves his elbows outward, breaking the leverage he has to keep him pinned.
It brings Shuuji's face closer, just close enough for him to—

Slamming his head forward to smash his forehead against Shuuji's nose is agony on his neck,
but it manages to break the hold he has on him.

Yelping in pain, Shuuji stumbles back a step, bringing a hand to his nose. It's not broken, but
it is bleeding.

"You wanna fucking fight, asshole? Fine, let's fight," Chuuya snaps at him, reaching behind
him to open the door. It's unlocked, and having his back against a wall without room to
maneuver is a bad idea. "Yeah, I fucked your dad, and he was a lot better than you were. At
least I was hard before he came, which is more than I can say for you."

He takes a step back, raising his hands in challenge and offering Shuuji his sharpest, most
daring grin. If he wants to be embarrassed, he'll embarrass the fuck out of him.

"It's so unfortunate that the genetics skipped you, because while most of your dick is in your
personality, Dazai's..." he says, smug, measuring out a length with his hands that's probably
only a little exaggerated. He watches as Shuuji’s face turns satisfyingly red, mouth twisting
into an ugly snarl.

Good. The angrier he is, the worse he’ll fight.

Keeping his distance warily, backing up in equal rhythm as Shuuji stalks forward, he watches
as Shuuji reaches into his pocket—

And pulls a knife.

Okay, okay, that’s fine, Chuuya can handle that. He’s trained with knives before. Those were
training knives, made of thick rubber, and far more forgiving, and it’s been a while—
But it’s fine. He just has to keep his distance unless he can disarm him. At least it’s not a
gun.

Planting a hand on the back of the couch, he vaults over it, landing on the other side with his
knees bent. It creates more distance between them, puts an obstacle in Shuuji’s path.

“Are you afraid to fight me yourself, coward?” Chuuya asks, roiling with anger. “First your
car, now a knife. Can’t do it yourself?”

“I wouldn’t want to get the blood of some thing as cheap and disgusting as you on my
hands,” Shuuji seethes. He’s at the edge of the couch now, and instead of choosing a path to
go around— which Chuuya can counter by going the opposite way— he bends down and
grabs the lip of the couch in his hands—

And flips the whole fucking thing over, throwing it to the side.

Well, shit.

Now the stairs are blocked off, and most of the living room is opened up. Chuuya can still
jump over the upturned couch, but he has to turn his back to Shuuji to do it. Which would be
a very bad idea.

Shuuji’s blocking thé exit to the front door. The back door is locked, as it usually is.

“I’m going to ruin you,” Shuuji snarls, brandishing the knife. He’s stalking forward, forcing
Chuuya to skirt around the island to keep something between them. “I’m going to tell
everyone that you’re a money hungry, desperate little whore that will spread his legs for
anyone that looks at him long enough.”
See, that’s what Chuuya was afraid of in the beginning. But now he’s too angry so he opens
his mouth to tell him to go the fuck ahead—

Shuuji takes a running step, jumping up and sliding over the top of the island. Everything on
top of it gets thrown to the floor with loud crashes.

Chuuya darts out of thé way, heading back into the living room. The floor is covered in debris
now though, making his steps rocky. He has to be careful where he steps so he doesn’t lose
his balance and fall.

“I bet Dad didn’t even have to work hard, did he? What’d he do, take you on a little vacation,
impress you a little, and you got on your knees?”

That one stings a little, because it’s partly true. He covers it up with another sneer.

Chuuya has many flaws, but one of his biggest ones is that when he’s mad , he’ll find the
weak points of the person he’s mad at and sink his teeth in as hard as he can. He’s got a few
anger i ssues which mostly means that he will always escalate the situation.

Even when he’s staring down a knife wielded by someone who will probably use it on him.

Sneering, he flips Shuuji off. “He didn’t even have to do that. Remember that time you
ditched our study session? I celebrated by fucking Dazai in your bed.”

It’s a lie. The time he’s talking about happened before he even got together with Dazai. He
hasn’t actually fucked Dazai in his bed at all, but the idea is tempting , now that he sees just
how pissed off it makes Shuuji.

With an enraged shout, he lunges at Chuuya. It’s just the opening he needs.
He jumps out of the way, managing to hook his foot underneath Shuuji’s shin as he goes past,
tripping him up.

He goes down hard, knife outstretched in front of him. Chuuya lunges for it, intending to get
it out of his hands to make it a fair fight—

Shuuji’s free hand wraps behind Chuuya’s knee, yanking hard, pulling him off balance so
quickly he can’t compensate for it, leg crumbling underneath him—

He falls backward with a yelp, arms flailing. With a sharp crack , the back of his head hits the
table.

A flash of painful-tingling numbness courses down his spine, all the way down to his fingers
and toes. White stars burst through his vision for a moment, leaving him breathless and dizzy.
His hands go limp and fuzzy, unresponsive, fingers twitching—

And with the pain comes the unadulterated terror. Because—

He didn’t hit his head that hard. He didn’t pass out and he’s not going to, it’s just a shock .
The tingling and numbness is already beginning to fade away and his vision is clearing, he
just needs a few more seconds to recover—

But he doesn’t have a few seconds. Shuuji is already moving, crawling over him.

Raising his leg, Chuuya kicks at him, trying to give himself more time to recover. His arms
feel weak but strength is coming back quickly, he just needs a little more time—

Snarling, Shuuji shoves his leg back to the floor, uncaring that the force makes it pop
painfully. He pins his thigh by kneeling on it, taking away the leverage he needs to throw him
off. Chuuya’s hands find his shoulders, pushing him back as hard as he can. He’s heavy on
top of him, leaning all of his weight onto his hands as he bends down.
The hand with the knife comes to rest by Chuuya’s neck.

“Get off me,” Chuuya grunts, frantic, shoving him back as hard as he can but he’s so heavy,
and his arms are trembling and his fucking head hurts, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hot breath washes over his face, once again smelling faintly of ham in the most bizarre sense
of déjà vu. “Why should I?” Shuuji sneers, shifting his weight so he can bring the knife up. “I
thought you liked having someone on top of you, easy slut. You like it, don’t you?”

People always call out for someone when things start to get really bad. When they’re out of
options, when their back is against the wall and they’re staring imminent death in the face,
people always call for someone to help them.

Usually it’s parents. (“Mom!”)

But today Chuuya desperately thinks of the one person he knows can save him right now. Not
his dad, or his mom or even his sisters, but—

Fuck, Dazai, please come home right now, I’m scared and I don’t want to die, please—

And like he called it into existence, there’s a canine snarl from a few feet away.

Yoko.

Relief blooms because yes, Dazai’s here, Yoko’s here, it’s all going to be okay now, it’s over
—

And then dies just as quickly, because the knife , Shuuji still has the knife, he’s gonna hurt
Yoko—
He struggles harder, fighting to throw him the opposite way as Shuuji turns to look at her—

A large hand clamps down on Shuuji’s shoulder, yanking him back with enough strength that
he goes tumbling.

“I’d ask what the fuck you were doing, but I don’t think I’d like the answer. Get the fuck off
him.”

Dazai , oh fuck, thank god , it’s Dazai.

With the weight off him, with the weight of terror slowly leaving his body, he feels like he
can finally breathe again. Holy shit, that was scary. It still feels like his heart is beating triple
time, felt all the way down to his toes.

“Chuuya, are you okay?” Dazai asks. His voice is low, steady. Familiar and comforting. He’s
standing between them, an immovable wall dressed in all black.

Laying there catching his breath, Chuuya considers that.

His head is aching and there’s some faint ringing in his ears, but he doesn’t feel any blood.
Doesn’t feel dizzy or nauseous either, and his vision is fine, so probably no concussion. His
throat is aching too, and every breath stings but he can swallow and breathe without any
physical difficulty. It’s definitely going to bruise though, and the thought of that makes his
stomach clench unpleasantly.

There’s a line of pain running down his spine, centered on the left side of his lower back from
where he was thrown into the door. That will probably bruise too. His knee aches, but it’s not
popped out of place or anything.

All in all—
He’s bumped, bruised, and scratched up, but nothing that a hot bath and some time won’t fix.
Nothing he needs to go to the hospital for. It could’ve been a lot worse, actually. He’s lucky
Dazai came when he did.

“Talk to me, baby, I need to know if you’re hurt.”

Groaning, Chuuya sits up. Kozo comes to check him out, sniffing over him anxiously. “I’m
fine, I guess,” he grumbles, and then gets inspired by a spark of evil pettiness, “but he pulled
a knife on me, so.”

Dazai is standing squarely in front of him, blocking his view of Shuuji. Yoko is pacing just in
front of him, snarls ripping out of her muzzle every so often. “Did he now?”

He’s never heard Dazai’s voice so cold, so threatening, dipped in lethal-cold mercury. It’s not
even aimed at him, but it still makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

(Chuuya can’t see Dazai’s smile from here but Shuuji can, and it’s cutting, full of teeth and
menace and—

If demons had human faces, their smiles would probably look like this.)

“Drop it,” Dazai orders.

Shuuji, probably realizing how badly he fucked up, just stares at him and blinks. His hand
doesn’t let go of the knife hilt, clutching onto it as the temperature in the room starts to
plummet.

Dazai’s smile grows. “Wrong answer,” he says, smooth as razor metal, tilting his head.
“Yoko, fetch.”
With another vicious snarl ripping out of her, Yoko descends on him and sinks her teeth into
Shuuji’s arm.

He screams.

His other hand starts to come up, probably to get Yoko off him by hitting her or yanking on
her ears—

A black boot comes down with crushing force, grinding the bones of his wrist together
underneath the full weight of Dazai’s body.

“Don’t touch my dog,” he says, sounding so conversational even as he’s literally stepping on
his own son while his dog tears at his arm.

Watching it is...

Shocking, to say the least.

Seeing Shuuji so effortlessly béaten down and in pain fills Chuuya with a vicious satisfaction,
and the only thing he would change is that he wishes he was the one crushing Shuji
underneath his boots right now.

But Dazai is concerning.

Chuuya expected anger. Yelling, throwing things, maybe even more fighting. That seemed
reasonable to him, even if a bit inappropriate because Shunji is his son. Shuuji might be an
adult, and therefore beholden to the consequences of his own actions, but it’s still wrong to
hit your own kid.

But he doesn’t seem to care at all? He sounds almost normal, completely detached, like they
could be having a conversation about the weather instead of watching Yoko rip at his arm.
(Dazai feels nothing but cold, yawning emptiness. He will not have anything taken from him
anymore.)

Dazai crouches down, getting closer to Shuuji. “You have one option,” he tells him, “you can
drop the knife, or we can see how long it takes Yoko to chew through your arm.”

Tears streaming down his face, Shuuji drops the knife. There’s blood dripping down his arm
in slow trails. Reaching over, Dazai plucks it off the ground and flips it into his grip with a
skilled flick of his wrist.

“Thank you,” he says, standing up again and moving back. “Off, Yoko.”

With a final jerk of her head, she lets go. Her teeth are stained lightly with blood.

Shuuji brings his arm to chest, curling around it. The bite is deep enough to almost need
stitches, the shape of Yoko’s teeth neatly torn into his skin.

Yoko goes back to pacing, this time closer to Chuuya. Her growls have quieted, but are still
very much present.

“Explain yourself,” Dazai barks, spinning the knife through his fingers and over his knuckles,
casually skilled as he begins to pace lightly.

Chuuya's beginning to feel nervous because this...

This doesn't feel normal. This doesn't seem right. Even though Shuuji was out of line, this
doesn't feel like normal discipline. Calling the cops would've been normal. Grounding him,
kicking him out, having a screaming match with him, that seemed normal.
This feels like something out of a Yakuza movie, punishment of an illegal sort.

"That little slut jumped me--," Shuuji starts, managing to sound irritated.

The knife flies, burying itself a few centimeters deep only a handbreadth away from Shuuji's
crotch. Paling, he goes completely still, gulping down a panicked breath.

The air seems frigid with tension.

"Watch your mouth," Dazai warns, pointing a finger at him. "The next one won't miss. And
don't try to lie to me. He has bruises on his neck, and you were holding a knife to his throat. I
don't believe that he 'jumped you' so the next words out of your mouth better be why I found
you pinning my—” he stumbles here, the first time all afternoon that something human has
peeked out of this cold, cruel display, "— pinning Chuuya to the ground, or I am going to get
angry."

So this isn't angry? What is this, then?

"He knows," Chuuya mutters, carefully probing at his neck. It stings under his touch, but it
doesn't feel swollen or anything. He's not an expert, though he has spent an unreasonable
amount of time getting to know his body when it's injured.

He doesn't know how he knows, but considering he mentioned something about embarrassing
him in front of everyone, then there was probably a video? Or maybe one of their mutual
friends saw him and Dazai and told Dazai?

Frankly, he doesn't care right now, he just wants this to be over . Just wants to go take a
shower and clean off the grass stains from rolling around earlier. It feels like it’s been hours
since this started.

This morning was so good , too. How can it all go wrong so quickly?
"Oh, so that's why," Dazai drawls, his voice shifting into something like predatory
satisfaction, an animal on a hunt that finally found the trail of blood. "You got upset when he
told you we were dating, and you threw a fit. Got your ego hurt, so you decided to trash my
house and take it out on someone smaller than you, hm? Took him down when he was alone
and unarmed?”

With every sentence he gains momentum, anger growing. He’s pacing faster, like he’s
fighting the urge to go at Shuuji.

One, two, three steps. Turn. One, two, three steps. Turn.

“What were you going to do now that you had him pinned? Cut him up? Kill him? Assault
him?”

Goosebumps flare up on Chuuya’s arms. He hadn’t considered that option before, but that bit
at the end about liking it...

He shivers.

“I was just trying to scare him, I wasn’t going to do anything,” Shuuji denies.

“I’m fucking sure,” Chuuya mutters to himself, heaving himself to his feet. His knee cracks
again when he sets weight on it, making pain flare up briefly before it settles again. He tests
his weight on it and finds it stable.

“Besides, I have a right to be angry. He was mine , and he cheated on me because you stole
him! Honestly, Dad, you should be fucking ashamed of yourself. I can’t believe you would
do that to me, and with someone so young. Are people your own age too hard to get with
anymore, so you gotta go for low-hanging fruit?”
Dazai’s head swings towards him, locking onto him with focused intensity. “Are you
implying I’m preying on him?”

Shuuji shrugs a little, inspecting his arm. Tears are still falling down his face, an instinctive
reaction to pain. “I didn’t say that, but it’s pretty damn shitty of you to go for Chuuya as soon
as I had my back turned when you know I was interested in him.”

Dazai’s smile—god, why is he smiling at a time like this, why isn’t he frowning or scowling
— is sharp. “You have a strange way of showing interest. Ignoring him, being rude, standing
him up to go to a party instead. You didn’t want him at all, did you, you just wanted to fuck
him.”

He stops pacing then, and somehow that’s even worse, because now tension is coiling in his
posture, fists clenching at his sides. A predator preparing to pounce. “I’m starting to think
that this isn’t the first time you pinned him, either. This isn’t the first time you’ve taken
advantage of him, is it? Because someone taught him that his consent wasn’t necessary, and
now I’m thinking it was you. What did you do? Did you—.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya says, cutting him off. He hadn’t told him about that time on the couch, and
he never intended to because it doesn’t matter anymore, and it wasn’t that bad. He’s over
whatever lingering wariness he got because of it, and that has nothing to do with what
happened today.

Dazai’s head snaps toward him, and for the first time since he arrived, he’s looking directly at
Chuuya.

He has to fight the urge to step back because—

He’s never seen eyes that empty before.

Pitch black and unresponsive, like Dazai isn’t there anymore. None of the usual life in them
is there anymore, just an emotionless black void, soul-sucking.
There’s something wrong here. Chuuya’s nerves are crawling with it because this doesn’t
look like Dazai.

“I’m okay,” he mutters, voice slightly rough from the bruising on his throat. He’s not sure
what else to do besides stare at him, hoping to get the message across that he's fine. It was
scary and it sucked, but he made it through relatively unscathed. At this point, Shuuji is
probably more injured than he is.

The longer Dazai stares at him, the more he takes him in, the more the void in his eyes seems
to ease. The more his posture relaxes, inch by painful inch. The more the coiled tension in the
air fades away.

Without looking away from him, Dazai speaks again. “Get out.”

Honestly, how Shuuji has the nerve to look appalled and hurt, Chuuya doesn’t know.

“I get that I probably went too far but I was so angry. You should’ve heard the things he was
saying to me! He was deliberately pissing me off! Besides, I didn’t actually hurt him, and I’m
fucking bleeding. I’ll apologize but you both owe me one too for going behind my back like
that.”

Chuuya’s eyebrows shoot up. That’s bold of him to demand right now, even if he does have
somewhat of a point.

He hadn't planned for him to find out like this, where the situation was out of his control.
Maybe if they'd been able to have a conversation instead of a fight, Chuuya would've actually
apologized. He can understand why Shuuji would be upset. If one of his friends or romantic
interests started dating his dad secretly, he'd be pretty upset too.

Of course, he wouldn't treat his interests the way Shuuji treated him, but semantics.
Right now though, Chuuya is too damn pissed off at the memory of being nearly run over in
the street like a goddamn dog to feel any pity for Shuuji whatsoever.

Speaking of...

His eyes slide to Dazai, who looks like he's finally showing some real, bonafide anger instead
of that creepy cold cruelty. Does he know about the running over part?

He guesses not, because he hasn't mentioned it at all, and that seems like something he'd be
pretty pissed about.

Does he tell him? Should he tell him?

He feels like he should— he's taking this whole communication thing to heart, and nearly
being run over on purpose feels too big to hide from him— but at the same time, this
situation feels perilously close to getting out of control.

Shuuji doesn't even look that sorry yet, though it looks like he's starting to get there, and
Dazai has already thrown a knife at him— which Chuuya didn't even know he could do—
and set Yoko on him.

Dazai whirls on Shuuji, taking a step so he's looming over him. "You didn't hurt him? He can
barely talk after you strangled him!"

That's a little dramatic, he can speak just fine, his voice is just a little raspy.

With a hissed sound of pain, Shuuji rises to his feet. He keeps his arm close to his chest, but
he doesn't back down at all, glaring up at Dazai with a twisted scowl.

Chuuya will give him one thing, and it's that the man does not back down, even when he
probably should.
"Well, I'd consider us even now. I'm bleeding because of your dog, he's a little bruised. I don't
want to talk about this anymore. I need to see a doctor, so why don't we all apologize so we
can move on with our lives?"

Chuuya must be more concussed than he thought he was, because is Shuuji really just trying
to move on? Is he trying to act like he's the reasonable adult in this situation?

Fuck trying to keep the situation controlled, Chuuya doesn't care anymore. "Move on?" He
cries, throwing his hands up. "You tried to run me over with your car less than fucking twenty
minutes ago? You really expect me to just 'move on' after that? What the fuck is wrong with
you? Go to therapy instead of trying to kill me when you're mad at me?!"

Dazai lunges , so quickly that even Chuuya is letting out a noise of shock. He's expecting him
to throw a punch or something like that—

Not to backhand Shuuji so hard that he goes tumbling back to the floor with a pained shout.

"I have been much too kind to you," Dazai snarls, reaching down to pick Shuuji up by the
front of his shirt and drag him back up. "You are rude and inconsiderate, and a bully. You are
exactly like your mother."

"Maybe if you had actually given a fuck about me before I became an adult and actually
raised me, then I'd be a better person! This is your fault for teaching me that not even my own
Dad wanted anything to do with me!"

"That's not my fault!" Dazai roars back, shaking him like a ragdoll. "I TRIED . I wanted to,
and she said I couldn't!"

Chuuya stares at the wall feeling like he shouldn't be hearing all of this, an outsider listening
in on a conversation clearly very personal that he wasn’t meant to witness, but he can't say he
isn't soaking up all the gossip, because wow. This family is pretty fucked up.
Dazai never talks about, but obviously the air needs to be cleared.

"LIAR!" Shuuji shouts, hands like claws in his shirt, "She told me your secret! She told me
you've hated me since I was born , so stop acting like you've ever wanted to even look at me!
Just admit you hate me!"

"I—" Dazai hesitates, some of the anger draining out of him. "She told you that?"

"Yes," Shuuji snarls, leaning closer, like he can prove how angry and hurt he is by shoving it
into Dazai's face, "I've known this whole time."

"Shuuji, I've never hated you. That's never been true."

There's an awkward silence that has Chuuya edging out of sight, towards the stairs. He
doesn't want to remind them that this whole situation started with him getting almost-
murdered, because clearly there are some deep-seated family issues here, and obviously they
need to talk about it.

This is… progress, of a sort, for both of them.

"I don't believe you," Shuuji mutters, and some of the anger is starting to fade away now.
Now he just sounds confused and lost. "Why would she lie to me?"

For a second, Chuuya really does feel for him. He never had a mother, and there was a while
where his siblings didn't really care for him either—

But he always had his Dad. And Dad always told him how much he loved him and that his
sisters did like him, they were just struggling, and that his mother would've loved him.
To have one parent forcibly absent by the actions of the other one, while the present one is
actively destroying any relationship Shuuji might have had with Dazai? He can't imagine
what that'd feel like, to feel so viscerally and consistently...

Unloved. Unwanted.

Still doesn't excuse the fact that he pulled a knife on him, but it's clear now that he's hurting.
Been hurting, for a long time, and no one cared to notice.

"I don't know, but she did," Dazai mutters, sounding much more tired than before. He hasn't
let go of Shuuji yet, but he's not shaking him anymore.

"If it was a lie, then why have you been acting like you hated me this entire time? And when
mom moved here, why didn't you try to fix things between you guys? We could be a family ,
but you're with him instead!"

Chuuya pauses. Sasaki moved to Yokohama?

"Is that what this is about? You think Chuuya is ruining our 'family' or something? You think
I like him better than I like you?"

Shuuji doesn't respond, which is answer enough.

Dazai heaves a sigh. "Look, it sounds like we need to have a talk, because obviously Sasaki
has left quite a few things out when she was telling you things. We will talk about it. But not
right now. Right now, you need to leave."

Shuuji gapes at him. "Leave? You just said you didn't hate me?!"

"The person who tried to run over my boyfriend doesn't get to sleep in the same house as
him," Dazai grunts, dragging Shuuji over to the front door.
Shuuji struggles the entire way, scowling. "But Dad, I don't have anywhere else to go."

His voice cracks near the end of the sentence, making Chuuya's heart squeeze in sympathy.
Being kicked out of your house suddenly would be terrible. If his head wasn’t still throbbing,
maybe he would have spoken up for him.

"Should've thought of that before you tried to kill him," Dazai says, shoving his hands in his
pockets and pulling out the car keys. "Call someone. Ranpo. Your mom. It doesn't matter, but
you're not welcome here anymore and you're not driving my car."

"You're really going to choose that gold-digging whore over your own son?!"

"Yeah," Dazai mutters, shoving him out of the door, "I am."

Chuuya recoils, hurt filling him. Why would Dazai say that? Why would he agree with that?

...He doesn't actually believe that, right?

Right?

The door shuts, and Dazai leans his forehead against it for a long moment, just breathing.
Chuuya stares at him for a second, wondering if he's going to say that he didn't mean it, or to
ask if he's okay again, or anything—

And when he doesn't move, eventually Chuuya turns away, eyeing up the couch situation. He
really wants a shower, but his back has stiffened up a little bit ever since he stopped moving,
and he's not sure if he can lift the couch back into place right now. He'll have to climb over it,
but it feels rude to put his shoes on the couch.
"Where do you think you're going?"

Dazai's voice startles him, making him flinch a little. "Um," he says, looking between him
and the couch, "To take a shower?"

Dazai pushes off the door, walking over to him quickly. "Not until I've had a look at you."

Chuuya almost goes to say that he's fine again, but then he sees how drawn Dazai's face is,
and how pale he looks. It wouldn't hurt to let him fuss and worry over him, see for himself
that Chuuya isn't injured. He closes his mouth again, bobbing his head slightly. Nodding
hurts too much right now.

With a little grunt, Dazai bends down to grab the arm of the couch and lifts it. He drags it
away from the stairs, righting it but not bothering to actually put it back in its place.

Before Chuuya can even move a muscle, Dazai is making his way back over. Hands finding
the back of his thighs, he sweeps him up into his arms.

Chuuya could protest or struggle, but after everything that's happened in the last hour, he just
wants to be held . Dazai is warm and solid and comforting beneath him, the perfect thing for
Chuuya to curl himself around and just...

Try to forget what seeing his life flash before his eyes was like. Try to forget what being on
the verge of death felt like.
 Choosing Sides
Chapter Summary

"I'm okay," Chuuya insists, leaning into him and wrapping his arms around his waist.
One of his ankles hooks behind Dazai's knee, like he's trying to keep him close.

Like Dazai would rather be anywhere rather than here.

Then Chuuya counters with a question he wasn't expecting, not in this context and not
like this. "Are you okay?"

He doesn't move when he asks, granting Dazai the reprieve of being able to hide his
expression as he thinks because—

No, he's not alright.

Chapter Notes

Hello everyone :D As promised, a bit of a fluffy chapter this week to make up for last
week. Nothing to report this week, but I hope you all enjoy this chapter!! I'm honored
that so many people have read BH and seem to be enjoying it <3 See you next week
with a little.... >:) Beware in this chapter for mentioned possible past violence, past
violence, and injury recovery!

This chapter includes:

- a shower
- a text
- a decision

Dazai's hands are shaking. Subtle, probably subtle enough that Chuuya doesn't even notice,
but he knows. His heart is still pounding too, sickening thumps in his chest that feel too slow
and too fast at the same time, pumping acid-burning anxiety through his veins like poison.

His hands never shake. It's been trained out of him, ever since he was old enough to reliably
hold a gun. Steady hands, steady grip, steady aim. To show nerves is to fail.
He sets Chuuya down on the counter in his bathroom as gently as he can. There's a first aid
kit in here, freshly-stocked.

Peeling his hands away from his legs feels like physical pain. Every fiber of Dazai's being is
screaming at him to hold him close, to curl himself around Chuuya as tightly as possible, to
keep him warm and secure in the safety of his arms.

He could've lost him. At least twice.

He has to drop a kiss on his forehead just to convince himself to let go for long enough to dig
underneath the cabinet and pull out the first aid kit.

Setting it on the counter next to them, he pops the lock on it and opens it. He's not sure what
he needs— he hasn't seen any blood, but Chuuya is wearing dark clothing and has red hair—
so he's glad that he restocked it recently.

Using the hand sanitizer shoved in the box, he cleans his hands quickly before shoving his
sleeves up and out of the way.

"Alright," he murmurs, trying to keep his voice steady. Chuuya just got attacked, he doesn't
need to handle his emotional breakdown on top of it too. "Let me see, sweetheart."

The injury he's most concerned about is his throat. It looked concerning downstairs, but in the
new light of the bathroom, it looks downright ugly. It's already starting to bruise, greyish-
purple splotches starting to appear in the form of fingers. There's two rings of them, stacked
tightly on top of each other.

With a gentle fingertip, he guides Chuuya's chin upward, mindful of the way his mouth twists
downward in discomfort when the skin stretches. With his other hand, he probes lightly at his
throat as softly as he can, checking for structural damage.
"Can you swallow for me?" He murmurs, laying his palm over his throat to feel it move.
"Can you breathe okay? Speak?"

Chuuya swallows first, and then rasps out a "Yes."

Dazai frowns at his voice. It's rough, a bit too rough for his tastes. "I should take you to the
hospital," he mutters to himself, sliding his hand around to the back of his head. He'd noticed
Chuuya was touching it and wincing, so he's guessing he hit his head at some point.

"I don't want to go," Chuuya grumbles, wincing when his fingers brush over a certain spot in
the middle. "I'm fine and they're just going to make us wait forever just to tell us the same
thing. Besides, they'll call my dad and then I'll have to stay up all night talking to him to
reassure him that I'm okay. Doctors probably won't even do anything besides send me home
with a pain prescription anyways."

Sure, but the difference is that they have a medical degree, and Chuuya habitually pushes
himself past his own limits. Dazai would feel much more comfortable if Chuuya's head got x-
rayed, and his throat checked.

"You're so goddamn stubborn," he sighs heavily, tracing the outline of the bump on the back
of his head. It's small, somewhat hard under his fingers and hot, but there's no blood.

"Don't yell at me right now," Chuuya grumbles, his forehead thumping into his chest lightly.
"I don't like hospitals."

(Really, that's an understatement. Ever since his stint with pneumonia, he's hated them. They
smell like sanitized death, and half the time he feels like he's dying whenever he's in one.

It's probably not helped by the fact that every time since the pneumonia, he's stubbornly
refused to go until he was literally being carried or wheeled into the hospital, but
technicalities.)
"I just want to make sure you're okay, baby," Dazai says, moving his hand down so he's
cupping the back of his neck and pulling him close. He tips his face down, pressing his lips to
the top of his head and just breathing him in.

His shampoo smells like honey and vanilla. Dazai's chest is starting to loosen, the sick
pounding of his heart beginning to settle down.

"I'm okay," Chuuya insists, leaning into him and wrapping his arms around his waist. One of
his ankles hooks behind Dazai's knee, like he's trying to keep him close.

Like Dazai would rather be anywhere rather than here.

Then Chuuya counters with a question he wasn't expecting, not in this context and not like
this. "Are you okay?"

He doesn't move when he asks, granting Dazai the reprieve of being able to hide his
expression as he thinks because—

No, he's not alright.

After the entire shitshow yesterday— the thing with Ranpo still has him knocked on his ass,
because he never thought of it that way, the fact that he came back to Yokohama just to put
himself back into the underground power structure even further up the hierarchy. He told
himself that it was different, because he was different, and he wasn't directing the clans
himself but—

A demon by any other name is still a demon, is it not? Mori intended to put him on the
throne, and Dazai killed him to escape, only to choose a better one for himself.

Maybe he didn't change that much after all.

Plus the argument with Chuuya— which seems like a prophecy now, because if he had
insisted that they should tell Shuuji yesterday instead of waiting, this wouldn't have
happened. If he'd been thinking instead of just reacting, he could've prevented this.

This is his fault. Even if not for preventing the situation in the first place, then for not
regulating Shuuji's behavior hard enough before. By not trying to bond with his son, by not
pushing hard enough, by letting him push him away.

He'd been antsy about leaving Chuuya alone at home too, and his gut had said that something
was wrong, that he shouldn't leave him by himself. He'd pushed the feeling away, thinking it
was some separation anxiety that he didn't want to encourage by giving into it.

He can't say that he knew this would happen, because he didn't, he didn't even predict it,
because Chuuya said he wanted to tell Shuuji later—

But no matter how he looks at the situation, no matter how he twists it around to look at it in
different ways, there's always some part of this that is his fault. He could've prevented it,
could've thought ahead more, could've insisted he was here.

But he didn't, and Chuuya paid the price for it. Almost paid with his life.

Maybe Chuuya feels the way his heart squeezes painfully in his chest, pulse tripping up,
because he's squeezing him tighter, burying his face in his chest with a content hum.

God, he's so sweet, Dazai doesn't deserve him.

And he doesn't deserve the inherent danger that comes with being associated with Dazai. He
doesn't deserve a life of danger and always looking over his shoulder, waiting for the other
shoe to drop. That's the only life Dazai can reasonably provide for him.

But—
Leaning back and smiling slightly at the grumbled noise Chuuya makes as he dislodges him,
he cups his face and gently, oh so gently, guides him backwards so he can lean down and
kiss him.

How is he ever supposed to let this go? How is he supposed to be okay with not having this,
Chuuya sweet and pliant underneath him? How is he supposed to know what this feels like,
waking up next to someone, cooking for someone, getting selfies from Chuuya when he's in
break during class with the only caption being "I miss you <3", getting to share himself on a
level he's never done before—

How is he supposed to let that go?

How is he supposed to not hang onto that with everything he has, even if it means cheating
and stealing and doing whatever it takes. Including lying. Because at this point, he's sure that
not telling Chuuya about his work and about his past counts as lying. Lies of omission, but
still lying.

It makes him a hypocrite, he knows that, considering he literally just tore into Chuuya
yesterday about not communicating but—

How does he relate his deepest, darkest, most agonizing and painful parts of his life that he
still participates in and is affected by, while knowing that it will probably make Chuuya
leave? How is he supposed to talk about the things that ruined his life, when he knows it will
probably take away the most important thing to him, the person Dazai just found?

Chuuya's hands slide up into his hair, brushing over the undercut gently before tangling into
the longer strands. It breaks him from his thoughts neatly, interrupting the ever-downward
spiral.

Dazai smiles into the kiss. He's noticed that Chuuya likes to run his fingers over his undercut,
likes to play with the short strands until it makes him shiver. He'll have to cut it again soon,
since he likes it so much. It's been weeks, and now it's more of a short hairstyle than a shave.
He presses a little further into the kiss, pouring all his emotion into the slide of his lips, the
affectionate swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip.

He can't say what he needs to say, can't put this feeling in his chest into words, so he has to
resort to kissing him until his lips are buzzing and Chuuya's eyes are half-lidded and dazed.

"I'm fine, sweet chibi," he murmurs, brushing another kiss onto his lips, unwilling to add onto
the struggles Chuuya already suffered through today. He's starting to feel better, now that he
has his baby wrapped up in his arms. Spoiling him will help them both. Lets his bruises and
scrapes heal up without a problem, while Dazai recovers from the emotional atom bomb
Shuuji dropped on him earlier.

Speaking of...

"Why did you tell him when I wasn't here?" He asks, reaching down to help Chuuya out of
his shirt.

With a light grimace, he raises his arms so the fabric can slide easily over his head. "I didn't
tell him," he admits, twisting his head to look over his shoulder at the forming bruise. "He
knew, somehow. I think someone told him, or maybe someone took a video of us and posted
it somewhere. I don't know. I was going to tell him, but he already knew."

Dazai goes still, heart rate spiking.

Fuck. That's bad , so fucking bad.

Videos are evidence, and if Shuuji figured out they were dating from a video, then it must be
pretty incriminating. If it was posted publicly , that means anyone could see it, including
every single one of Dazai's enemies. If they catch even a hint of how much Dazai cares for
Chuuya, that immediately puts him on all of their radars.
If Ranpo knowing about him wasn't bad enough, now there's a huge possibility that the entire
underground knows about Chuuya.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's a target now.

And the worst part is that neither of them have enough information that Dazai can do damage
control. He can't limit who sees it,or delete the footage, because he doesn't know anything
about who took it, where it was posted, or even if it was posted.

He can't do anything .

Now they're sitting in the middle of a situation Dazai can't control and—

If Chuuya thought attempted vehicular manslaughter was bad, he won't even be able to
comprehend the levels of depravity and pain his enemies will go to if they think it'll give
them an edge over Dazai. But Dazai can.

Once, when he was sixteen, he was captured by one of the Port Mafia's enemy organizations.
The Yamaguchi-gumi was an old organization, steeped in tradition and the respect and
arrogance that came with age.

It was exactly those characteristics that Dazai used against them to grind their clan into the
dirt.

And at the end, when it was clear that the clan wasn't going to survive—

Their boss, Shinbou Tsukasa, had gotten bold . He'd turned all his resources into capturing
Dazai. His plan was to go out in a blaze of glory, with his enemy being gutted in front of him
before he took his own life.

"But first..."
Dazai can still hear that raspy, hissing voice in his dreams sometimes, curling down his spine
like rotting blood.

"I want to see if you're really a demon under that human skin."

He'd planned to strip the skin from his back, using a wickedly sharp knife to slice the skin
away to reveal muscle and bone and blood.

Back then, Dazai had only been mildly curious to see how long it would take for him to start
screaming. He was too traumatized to feel real fear back then, too distant to feel much of
anything.

But he feels it now, imagining Chuuya under the knife of someone who wants to hurt him. In
the hands of anyone Dazai didn't explicitly trust.

That can't happen. He's already been hanging onto the shreds of his self-control for the past
few days. Finding Shuuji pinning Chuuya to the floor with his baby struggling as hard as he
could nearly shoved him off the edge. There had been a few moments there when all his
thoughts had dissolved in a whirlwind of rage and fear.

Where he hadn't been Dazai, but the demon. Thoughts running on hyperdrive, but also
uncontrollable, leaving him down dark, horrific paths that would drive any normal person
insane.

It's shocking that he's gotten so protective of Chuuya so quickly— or maybe not shocking,
considering everything, but he's never gotten attached to someone so quickly . It took him
months of forced interactions with Yosano and Oda before he got attached to them, and he
has yet to feel any strong attachment to his son— but that's quickly leading to a problem.

Because he's selfish . Even knowing all this, knowing what could happen, knowing that
logically, it would be better for Chuuya if Dazai broke it off and protected him from afar—
He doesn't want to let go. He wants to be wrapped around Chuuya so thoroughly that the little
chibi can't even take a breath without feeling Dazai in his lungs. He wants his entire world to
be him. Him and nothing and no one else.

Is that healthy? No, probably not, but he's never been healthy before, so why start now?

It'll be fine, he reasons with himself as he reaches out to help Chuuya with his jeans, he'll
just...

Take care of it. Quietly, quickly. Chuuya never has to know.

He can protect him, it's just taxing because he's the only one he trusts with his safety. There
are other people he could call, but the only person he knows will put Chuuya's safety over
anything else is him.

He can do this. He has to do this.

There's a bruise on Chuuya's thigh that has him frowning in sympathy, examining it. It's
circular, in the shape of Shuuji's knee. Probably a bit uncomfortable, but nothing compared to
the bruising on his throat or on his back.

"Alright," Dazai mutters, too exhausted to argue, "I can't make you go to the hospital, but if
you so much as cough or wheeze once then I'm calling an ambulance, and then it will be
really embarrassing."

Chuuya's not showing any signs of concussion— no slurring of words, no dizziness or loss of
consciousness, no throwing up. Pupils are responsive to light and equal to each other, and he
holds a conversation well.
Overall Dazai is iffy about letting him stay home without a doctor's note, but there's no way
he's sleeping tonight, so he'll just keep an eye on him and make sure nothing changes. Wake
him up a few times in the middle of the night.

"Fine," Chuuya huffs, reaching over to turn on the shower. He likes his showers boiling hot,
Dazai has noticed, which would personally be unbearable for him, but it does turn Chuuya an
adorable shade of pink all over.

It's when his back is turned, adjusting all the lights and water of the shower when he asks:
"Did you mean it? What you said?"

Dazai pauses in removing his own shirt, casting back to figure out what exactly Chuuya's
talking about. He said a lot of things today, from sweet little whispers in Chuuya's ear while
he fucked him until he cried to harsh things downstairs that he probably should not have been
witness to.

He meant most of it, anyways, he's just not sure what specifically he's talking about. Tossing
his shirt in the hamper, he starts in on his jeans. He's less careful with his own pants than he
was with Chuuya's, unbuttoning them quickly and shoving them down to his thighs before
reaching down to pull them off. "Mean what?"

"When you basically called me a gold-digging whore."

Dazai stills, his pants halfway off his ankle. "I...didn't call you that?"

He would never say anything like that, because it's not true. Chuuya barely lets him buy him
anything at all.

Even if it was true, it's not like he cares. If Chuuya wants his money, he can have it. He can
have it all, as far as Dazai is concerned.
"No, but Shuuji said it and you agreed with him," Chuuya says, his back still turned to him as
he steps underneath the spray of the water, "I realize I might be thinking too much into it,
because you didn't say it, but you said I needed to communicate more, so... so I'm telling you
now that even though you didn't say it explicitly, it still hurt and I want to know if you meant
it."

When Dazai looks over at him, he's tipping his head back underneath the spray of water, eyes
tightly shut. He looks halfway between embarrassed and frustrated, like he can't believe he's
actually asking it. Like he thinks he's being dramatic and he shouldn't have said anything.

Admittedly, that does make guilt twist through Dazai, because he's hiding something that is
much bigger than just some miscommunication and hurt feelings—

But he's also proud, and nearly bowled over by the affection that fills him up. His baby is
trying so hard, isn't he?

This is Dazai's first real relationship— or what he'd consider a real romantic relationship, at
least— and even though he's sure he often comes off as experienced and knowledgeable—
the truth is, he's read a lot of those self-help books in order to help himself with his issues,
because therapy isn't much of an option for him— he's often amazed at how quickly Chuuya
learns and how hard he works.

Sure, there's mistakes— but he's so young, it would be unfair of Dazai to think he'd be
perfect.

He is, though. Perfect, that is. Perfect, just for him .

Silently, he tugs off his underwear. The tension winds tighter the longer he goes without
answering, but he wants to give him a more personal answer than a muttered 'no' from across
the room.

When he joins him in the shower, Chuuya's eyes crack open. His eyes are so dark like this,
almost-black and bottomless, framed by wet curls of dark-red hair. His cheeks are red, from
embarrassment or the heat of the shower, he doesn't know. Either way, it covers his freckles.
His cute little button nose is shiny with water.

He's so cute Dazai's heart hurts with it.

"No," he murmurs, filling his voice with as much sincerity and emotion as he can manage,
making eye contact and refusing to look away for even a second, "I don't. Not even a little
bit, I promise."

Chuuya stares up at him, blinking through the water running down his face and examining his
expression. Eventually he lets out a small breath, offering him a tiny smile. "Okay," he
murmurs, "Thank you."

Usually, this is the point where Dazai would pick him up and pin him against the wall—

The bruising stops him this time, so he offers something else instead. "Let me wash your
hair?"

"Hell no," Chuuya scoffs, holding his hand up like he's afraid Dazai will get too close.

"But I promise I'll be gentle, chibi," he whines, giving him his best puppy eyes.

Without looking away, Chuuya reaches into the little nook and pulls out a bottle of shampoo.
It's the one Dazai had bought for him during their trip in Osaka, halfway through when he'd
complained about the hotel shampoo drying out his curls. It's tiny, travel-size, but the sight of
his shampoo and conditioner next to his in his shower feels—

Feels—

God, he doesn't even know, it just feels good, like a piece of him has settled into place. Like
his home feels more complete with Chuuya's stuff stacked right next to his.
"That's a lie," Chuuya says, squirting a little dollop of shampoo in his palm. "I've seen the
way you wash your hair."

Okay, that's fair, but just because Dazai scrubs his scalp like he's washing a stubborn dish
doesn't mean he'd wash Chuuya's hair like that. He's watched him wash his hair often enough,
he knows how his routine works.

He'd be gentle.

He pouts harder, but Chuuya is merciless and doesn't give him an ounce of pity. The
shampoo gets rubbed into his scalp, with extra care taken around the spot where he'd hit his
head.

When Dazai steals the loofah and brandishes it at him with a victorious smirk, Chuuya rolls
his eyes with a fond smile. He doesn't protest that one, letting Dazai wash every inch of his
body.

He's extra careful of the spots he's bruised, wiping the suds away after to check the
skin.They're bruising nicely, and the sight of them makes Dazai irritated. If Chuuya is going
to have bruises, they better come from him .

He works his way up steadily, and by the time he's gotten through with his entire body,
Chuuya has already combed the conditioner through his hair and is watching him with half-
lidded eyes.

Gently, watching his reaction, Dazai brushes his fingertips over his throat. He's not sure how
he'll react, now that there's trauma associated with hands around his neck.

Which is very upsetting, because Dazai loves to hold his throat in his palm, loves to have the
most vulnerable parts of Chuuya cradled in his hand, full of life and vitality.
He understands, and he won't push it if Chuuya doesn't want that anymore—

But he will miss it.

"No one should have hands on your throat," he sighs, fighting back the swell of anger and
guilt that starts to build inside him again—

"Except for you," Chuuya interrupts, eyes drawing him in. He leans forward, one of his hands
finding Dazai's forearm and holding his arm still.

His fingers slip around his throat neatly, covering the forming bruises with his much larger
hands. Chuuya doesn't even flinch, staring up at him unwaveringly.

"Except for me," Dazai agrees, awed by the amount of trust his baby has in him. He’s sure he
frightened him downstairs, at least a little. He’s never seen that part of Dazai, the cold and
angry part. It’d be shocking if he wasn’t wary at all, actually.

But here he is, leaning his throat into his hand with a content, half-lidded look, like this is the
only place in the world he can imagine being.

“Kiss me?” He murmurs, and how is Dazai ever supposed to tell him no?

He sweeps in, ducking his head underneath the spray of water. Their lips come together
easily, taste and feel familiar. With the way the water pours down on them and the way
Chuuya’s arm loops over his neck to drag him closer, and the beating heart in his palm—

It feels like the entire world doesn’t exist anymore. It fades away, leaving only them and here
and now.

Naturally, with Chuuya wet and naked and pressed up against him as they kiss over and over
again, heavy drugging kisses that fog up Dazai’s mind, his body starts to respond, hardening
against Chuuya’s stomach.

Chuuya smirks when he feels it, bratty and smug at how easily he can get Dazai going, and
that’s when Dazai leans back and breaks the kiss.

“I’m not fucking when you might have a concussion,” Dazai says, raising his eyebrow when
Chuuya opens his mouth to argue. He doesn’t tighten his fingers around his neck, keeping his
grip light and reassuring. “Don’t argue, brat.”

Lower lip jutting out, Chuuya pouts at him, eyes huge and pleading.

If Dazai were a lesser man, he would’ve given in to him.

“I’m not being a brat,” Chuuya argues, turning up his nose in a very haughty and bratty way,
“I’m just saying that an orgasm would cure my headache.”

“Is that your professional medical opinion?”

Chuuya can’t nod much, but he bobs his head a little, stepping closer. He sounds very sure of
himself, very convincing as he responds, “Yes, it is.”

Huffing in amusement, Dazai drops a kiss on his forehead. Cute little brat. “I’ll need to see a
doctor's note for that prescription, then.”

The hot water is still running, but the bathroom is full of steam now, swirling thick in the air.
Dazai doesn’t mind staying in here longer, but it’s getting harder to breathe and he doesn’t
want to put any extra strain on Chuuya’s body by making him breathe it in.

Besides, he wants to get him off his feet and into bed, curled up with a heating pad for his
back and an ice pack for his head. It’s too soon for the soreness to set in, but Dazai wants to
head off as much of it as possible.
“Time to get out,” he announces, dropping his hands to Chuuya’s shoulders and steering him
out of the shower. Before he can protest, Dazai shuts the water off completely.

“I wasn’t done!”

Smiling, Dazai hands him a towel for his hair. “Yes you were, you just wanted to boil for a
little longer.”

Chuuya flicks him with the towel, which is answer enough that he doesn’t bother responding.
He goes about squeezing most of the moisture out of his hair.

Dazai dries him off quickly before wrapping him in his biggest, fluffiest towel. It’s huge on
him, nearly coming to his calves.

Dazai wraps a different towel around his own waist, uncaring that water is dripping down his
chest. It makes the tattoos wet and shiny, and even though Chuuya’s eyes sometimes longer,
he respects the rule Dazai made a while ago, and doesn’t ask questions.

It feels strange to be completely naked in front of someone without having to worry about it.
He knows he’s attractive, physically, but there’s always been huge parts of himself that he’s
hidden away from anyone who got too close.

Chuuya gets closer to seeing the whole picture every day, a thought that fills Dazai with a
mix of gut-clenching anticipation and the near-overwhelming need to hide.

When the people closest to you have named you something inhuman, over and over again, it
starts to make the idea of opening up to someone new petrifying.

Sighing, he opens the medicine cabinet. There’s nothing stronger than extra-strength
ibuprofen in here. He doesn’t allow himself anything stronger, because sometimes the
temptation is too strong on dark, lonely nights. If he’s ever needed anything more for pain, he
finds Yosano to give it to him or resigns himself to suffer until he recovers.

Still, he shakes two pills out into his palm and holds them out to Chuuya. It’s a good thing
they both ate only an hour or so ago.

Chuuya takes them without complaint, though he does make a face at the glass of sink water
Dazai gives him.

While he swallows them, Dazai pads out of the room and heads to his dresser. He keeps most
of his sleeping clothes in here, and lately there's been a little section of shirts and sweats that
Chuuya has been steadily stealing from him to sleep in, tucked into the right side of the
drawer.

Chuuya's side.

He pulls out clothes for Chuuya and himself. By the time he's dressed and heading back into
the bathroom, Chuuya is scrunching up his hair with his hand, encouraging the curls to form.
There's a line of wetness trailing down his back, caught by the towel.

"Come on, let's get you into bed," Dazai says, shaking out the shirt so he can pull it over
Chuuya's head.

Logically, he understands he's being a little overbearing by hardly letting Chuuya even walk
by himself, and the chibi is shooting him occasional looks because of it, but he can't help it.
Taking care of everything Chuuya needs right now is the only thing that makes the twisting
and roiling anxiety in his gut settle down.

But Chuuya doesn't argue with him either, lifting his arms a little so Dazai can pull the
sleeves over his hands. Though he does grumble out, "It's barely four in the afternoon, I'm not
going to sleep."
His lips twitch into a smile at how adorably grumpy he sounds. "Good. You shouldn't be
sleeping anyways right now. If I catch you sleeping I'm going to wake you up again."

Maybe a little overkill considering he's shown no other signs of concussion, but it will make
Dazai feel better. If Chuuya wants to be stubborn and not go to the hospital, then he's going to
have to deal with his overprotective brand of care.

Once he's dressed, he steers Chuuya out of the bathroom by his shoulders. He'd pick him up,
but the only way to carry him without putting pressure on his back would be to have his legs
wrapped around his waist and—

While Dazai's mind is firmly against any sex at the moment, his body is taking a while to get
the message. If he has his baby in his arms, soft and sweet and heavy, with their hips pressed
together and in the perfect position to—

He'd probably get excited again, and he's only a man.

Instead he ushers Chuuya into his bed, pulling back the blankets and practically pushing him
in. There’s an outlet behind the nightstand on his side of the bed and he plugs the heating pad
in before giving it to Chuuya.

Chuuya allows this all with the exasperated attitude of someone who knows he won’t win the
argument if he tries. “Fine, but if I’m going to be forcibly regulated to bed rest, can I at least
have my phone? It’s charging downstairs, in the kitchen. I need to read something for class
and text my study group.”

That’s perfect. Dazai has to go grab ice for his head anyways. “Yeah, I’ll go grab it for you.”

Kozo and Yoko are patiently waiting outside his bedroom door when he opens it, staring up
at him with twin expectant looks.
At this point, Dazai is resigned to the idea that some parts of their training— training he paid
thousands of dollars for and reinforced for years— have been found cruel and unusual by a
certain someone, so he just opens the door farther with a sigh.

“Be gentle with him,” he grumbles, watching them leap onto the bed without hesitation. Five
years. He kept the dogs off his furniture for five years and it only took a few loving
receptions and kissy faces from the chibi to bypass that all.

He’s not mad about it, because Chuuya always looks ridiculously happy when he’s being
crushed by them, but he does like to grumble about it.

When he makes his way downstairs, he finds Chuuya’s phone exactly where he said it was.
As he takes it off the charger, the screen comes to life.

Seven missed calls. A few social media notifications, and even more texts.

Here’s where Dazai hesitates. He understands privacy, and he would normally never go
through Chuuya’s phone, especially when he’s not looking.

Normally.

This is not a normal situation.

Somehow, Shuuji found out about them. Chuuya mentioned a video or a witness, but he
didn’t know for sure.

But all these calls—from Yuan— are from about forty-five minutes ago, clustered together
like she was calling repeatedly. Dazai got home about twenty-five minutes ago, which would
put these calls right around the time Shuuji got home and started attacking Chuuya.

Was she trying to warn him?

If she was trying to warn him, then surely that would mean she knew that Shuuji knew, which
leads to the assumption that she also found out about them the same way.

Which supports the idea that it was a video, possibly public, because if Yuan and Shuuji were
together, then she would’ve found a way to stop him. She’s resourceful, sneaky.

His thumb hovers over the passcode prompt. He knows what it is. He saw Chuuya enter it
once, and unless it’s changed recently, then he can unlock it easily.

The boyfriend part of Dazai is arguing that checking out his texts and calls is a breach of their
trust. It’s dishonest and sneaky and if he really wanted to see what Yuan said, then he could
go upstairs and ask Chuuya to show him. He’d probably agree.

However, the mafia part of Dazai is reminding him that he doesn’t have a reason to give to
Chuuya for why he wants to see the video that doesn’t delve into his past. He needs to see the
whole thing, and will probably need to do some digging to see where the video came from.

Besides, he already has to install a tracking program on Chuuya’s phone. It’s for safety, so if
anything happens to him then Dazai can find him quickly.

It’s for safety.

That’s the thought that drives him to unlock his phone and pull up the messaging app. He
doesn’t touch the voicemails, not yet. They’re too loud, and might get Chuuya’s attention if
he hears them.

[ 10 MISSED TEXTS: YUAN, PINK BITCH <3 ]

He snorts at the contact name, opening the thread.

[ YUAN, PINK BITCH ]: BRO SOMEONE CAUGHT YOU AND DAZAI ON VIDEO
AND POSTED IT ON THE SCHOOL SNAP STORY

- SHUUJI SAW IT AND HE’S PISSSEEEDDDDD HES ON HIS WAY. RUN BRO IM NOT
EVEN JOKING HES CRAZY

- also 👀👀👀👀 you got with his DAD? Damn bro what’s the 🍆 like asking for ME
- I realize this is a serious moment and I HOPE UR OKAY PLS TEXT ME BACK IM
WORRIED I JUST COPE WITH HUMOR

- 1 video sent: 20 secs long

- look at you GO get that tongue 😩

- okay Shuuji’s location is at his house are you okay???? text me BACK MF

- CHUUYA???

🍆
- bitch if he didn’t kill you then IM gonna kill u for not texting me back???? HELLO??? 😭
😭😭 😭😭😭

- the 🍆 was a typo I swear CHUUYA PLS

The last text was fifteen minutes ago. He hopes Chuuya doesn’t have read receipts on,
otherwise he’s probably going to get another influx of texts about why he’s not responding.

(He is tempted to text back about the eggplant, if you know what he means, but that will give
away that he went through his phone.
Maybe he’ll look later, see what Chuuya said about him.)

He clicks on the video, muting the sound. He doesn’t need to hear it.

It’s a video of him and Chuuya outside the dog groomers, kissing. It’s shaky, clearly taken by
an amateur and the caption, if the video wasn’t damning enough, explicitly states Chuuya’s
family name.

Shit. A visual is bad, but a name? He might as well be serving Chuuya up on a silver platter,
at this rate.

The user name, in the top corner is:

@.daovercoat

He memorizes it. He’s not sure what exactly a username will get him in this situation,
considering the video has been up for probably a few hours by now, and by the time he can
trace the user to a person it will probably have already timed out.

The video looks like it was intended to be taken in good fun, not necessarily harmful or
targeting. It just looks like Chuuya was the butt of a joke by one of his classmates, which
unfortunately went too public and caused problems.

He clicks on the video to send it to himself and—

The top five contacts that come up as suggestions are dad xP, ane-san 1 >.>, ane-san 2 <.<,
yuan pink bitch <3 and—

Daddy <3
There’s only one person that could be. Just in case, he exits that screen and navigates to the
conversation with that contact—

Yep, it’s him.

The contact picture is one of the ones Dazai had sent him very early on, with Yoko nestled
between his thighs and looking up at the camera. Though, the picture is conveniently focused
on the little strip of skin showing, just above his hips.

(That had been on purpose. Once he decided that he was going to be involved with Chuuya,
he wasn’t going to make resisting him easy .

If that required popping the button on his slacks to send a photo that was so subtle it could
barely even be considered teasing while still getting the point across, then so be it.)

Curious, he scrolls up to see if he can see when Chuuya changed his contact name. They
don’t text too much— Dazai prefers calls whenever possible— and it only takes a few scrolls
to get him to before their trip to Osaka.

The new IOS update included a change that noted in the conversation whenever contact
names changed so—

When he doesn’t find one, even all the way back that means that he either missed it—

Or it never changed.

Has he been Daddy this entire time? Ever since their first date? Did Dazai miss out on weeks
of being called Daddy?? Has Chuuya been keeping this a secret to himself this whole time?
Cheeky little brat. He's going to have to find some way to 'find out' about this later, so he can
tease him about it.

Quickly, he sends the video to himself and opens up his own phone to download it to his
photo gallery. To cover his tracks, he deletes the messages in their thread and marks all of
Yuan's messages as unread. Hopefully Chuuya won't notice, but he can always come up with
an excuse if he needs to.

He's good at that, thinking on the spot.

There's a few ice packs stored in the freezer. He never used to keep them on hand— in fact,
never used to have a first aid kit on hand for much of his criminal life— but now he's come
to

see how useful it is to keep them nearby.

Especially because ever since he hit his thirties, his back has started to hurt. He'll wake up in
the morning sometimes and it's like his entire body aches for no reason. It's gotten worse
since he started dating Chuuya, but at least he can blame that on the fact that he has to bend
down so far just to kiss him.

He had to set a chiropractor appointment for last week, and while it did feel good, he's still
bitter that he needed one at all.

Faced with Chuuya's youth, he's starting to realize that, at some point in time, he'd gotten old
.

It's a strange feeling to realize that, too many emotions for him to untangle easily. Regret and
fear and pride, and so many more things when he realizes that he did survive his life and
continues to live, even when he never meant to.

Deciding to ignore that knot of emotions for another day, Dazai heads back upstairs with the
phone and one of the more flexible ice packs in his hands.
When he comes back to the bedroom, he finds Kozo stretched full length in the middle of the
bed, already snoring. Yoko has decided to reassure herself that Chuuya is okay by draping
herself over his middle and forcibly making him stay still by laying on him.

For someone who is being squashed under a dog that's nearly his own weight, Chuuya looks
pretty damn content, one hand petting over Yoko's head.

"Here," Dazai says, getting his attention. He drops his phone into his palm, and slides the ice
pack under his head. "You know the drill. Ten minutes on, ten minutes off. If you get even a
little bit dizzy, you have to tell me."

"Yes, Daddy," Chuuya sighs, ever the brat. The way he's looking at him is begging him to do
something about it, put him back in his place.

Which, naturally, gives Dazai great pleasure to tell him, "I'll be downstairs cleaning. I'll come
check on you every so often. No sleeping or I'll wake you up."

He gets a small scowl in response, and a little huff, but no actual complaint. He leaves
Chuuya with his phone, going back downstairs to clean up the mess Shuuji made.

It's not terribly dirty, and it should only take an hour or two to clean because it's mostly the
big stuff that needs to be fixed, like the couch and all the things that had been knocked off the
kitchen island. There's some broken glass that needs to be swept up, and he'll have to replace
some of the glass containers.

First though, he takes out his phone and rewatches the video, imprinting the details of it into
his mind. He'll think on it, see if he can remember seeing anything suspicious he saw when it
was happening.

Then he sends the video off to Rokuzou, wishing he didn't have to show Chuuya's face to a
criminal hacking mastermind, but knowing it's unavoidable.
[ DAZAI ]: i need to know everything about the user that posted this.

As he's staring, waiting for a response, Ranpo's words come back to him.

"You need to pick a side, and starve the other one out."

Well, Ranpo predicted it well. Dazai has chosen a side.

It's just not either side Ranpo told him to choose. It's not the Mafia or the Bratva.

It's Chuuya.

He picks Chuuya, and he'll bring the entire city to its knees if he has to. He'll do whatever it
takes to keep him safe. If anyone wants to touch him, they'll have to go through Dazai first.
 Bathing
Chapter Summary

"I know," he sighs again, moving his feet so the water moves over them in small waves,
"I just don't want you to worry so much."

With how his cheek is pressed against his temple, he can feel the growing smile. "Silly
chibi," Dazai teases gently, pulling him back into his body with the hand on his front,
guiding him to float between his legs, back to his chest. "I'm always going to worry."

That makes Chuuya smile because—

Always implies a long time, doesn't it? Which means Dazai wants to be with him for a
long time, and he's anticipating doing so. He's thought about it, and now he's saying it.
Maybe not explicitly, but enough that Chuuya can get the hint.

Always.

Chapter Notes

Hi everyone! :) Hope you're all having a good week :D I wanted to say thank you all for
1.5k kudos and for almost 50k hits! It means a lot to me, and I'm honored so many
people are reading/enjoying my story! I hope you all like this chapter as well. :)

This chapter includes:

- a bath
- a massage :P

Chuuya is… miffed, for lack of a better word.

His entire childhood was spent being worried over, to an obnoxious degree. Even the slightest
scrape was treated like a major wound, and he was almost never allowed to play with the
other kids in his neighborhood, because ‘Chuuya, love, they play too rough, what if you get
hurt?’.
It got to the point where he had to talk his dad out of calling an ambulance for things that
didn’t need an ambulance quite a few times. He had to start hiding whenever he was bruised
from playing or sports, just so he could get some peace and quiet.

He was allowed to be sore or bruised without a trip to the hospital being threatened. He was a
kid in martial arts, of course he was bruised some days. He’s always been rambunctious, and
being virtually locked up for a decent part of his childhood only made it worse.

He doesn’t blame his dad for being that way, because he knows that he was a pretty sick child
and there was a time where his dad could do nothing but worry and fret over him. But it was
frustrating. Once it was clear he grew out of his issues, he didn’t want to be treated like that
anymore. He wanted to be normal, like the rest of the kids in his neighborhood.

He didn’t want to be taken home and regulated to ‘safe games’— basically video games and
nothing else— in his room whenever he fell on the playground. The other kids got a kiss to
make it feel better, a band aid if the situation called for it, and then sent back off to play some
more.

It wasn’t fair. There were plenty of people that, for many reasons, couldn’t live a ‘normal’,
healthy life, but he wasn’t one of them. Beyond his persistent weak immune system, he was
perfectly healthy. He didn’t need or want special treatment.

When he went off to college, he finally thought he was out from underneath that
overbearing, overprotective care. But he’s quickly coming to a conclusion:

Dazai is a worrier.

Case in point, Chuuya had winced once while stretching this morning and Dazai had
promptly shoved two pain pills into his hand, followed by a breakfast of soup— because
anything solid ‘might be too hard to swallow’— and then a few hours later, he’s wound up
here.

In a hot, steamy bath filled to the brim with epsom salts and other things Dazai claimed
would help with soreness.
Normally Chuuya loves baths. They’re relaxing, and he’s willingly soaked for hours. Put on
some music, maybe read a book, drink some wine.

Except when he asked, Dazai said no, he can’t have a glass of wine, he needs to stay sober so
he can monitor him.

So he’s sulking in response. Well, as much as he can sulk while he's floating in a bath of
blissfully hot water and leaning back against Dazai's chest. The tub is long enough that he
can stretch out completely and his toes don't even touch the other side.

"As nice as this is," he starts, sighing pleasantly when Dazai pours a handful of warm,
lavender-scented water over his chest. His hair is tied up in a high bun on top of his head to
save it from the water. He doesn't want to have to wash it again so soon. "I really wish you'd
believe me when I say I'm fine. I've had a concussion before, and I promise this is nothing
like that."

Dazai's cheek, pressed against his temple, moves when he speaks. "I'll believe you when
you're completely healed, or when you show me a doctor's note. You look like you got
mauled."

Chuuya sighs again, a little heavier and more exasperated. "Bruises always look worse the
second day, you know that."

The bruise on his thigh, from where Shuuji pinned his leg, has already turned an ugly yellow-
green color. It doesn't hurt at all, already well into the healing process. The ones on his back
are much the same, except for a lingering ache near the center. He's not even properly sore
now that he's warmed up and not stiff from waking up. He doesn’t even notice it.

The bruising on his throat is the worst. They've turned an ugly black-green color, blooming
larger so the initial fingerprints are hard to make out. The edges have faded out a bit. There's
little pain, and only when he's directly touching it.
"Besides, you've given me bruises before," Chuuya feels the need to point out. It's true. He
had to cover up a bite mark on his throat more than a few times when they were in Osaka.
There was even, after the night of the balcony, the ghost of a handprint on his ass.

"Not like this," Dazai says, fingers running lightly over his stomach. He doesn't stiffen or
move, but there's a note of sadness in his voice in response to the comparison. "Never like
this."

That's true. Chuuya liked those bruises, and they were very satisfying to feel and see. These
ones, not so much.

"I know," he sighs again, moving his feet so the water moves over them in small waves, "I
just don't want you to worry so much."

With how his cheek is pressed against his temple, he can feel the growing smile. "Silly
chibi," Dazai teases gently, pulling him back into his body with the hand on his front, guiding
him to float between his legs, back to his chest. "I'm always going to worry."

That makes Chuuya smile because—

Always implies a long time, doesn't it? Which means Dazai wants to be with him for a long
time, and he's anticipating doing so. He's thought about it, and now he's saying it. Maybe not
explicitly, but enough that Chuuya can get the hint.

Always.

Chuuya settles between his legs easily, coming to rest against him. His knees are drawn up on
either side of him, bracketing him easily. With his fingertips, he traces the ridges of his knee,
the slight bulge of the strong muscles in his thighs. "Is there anything I can do to make it
better?"
He doesn't want to worry Dazai, not more than he has to. If he feels anything like how he felt
the day when he needed his help with Yoko, he wants to take that away.

Dazai hums, pulling him up until his chin is hooking over his shoulder. The lip of the tub
presses against the back of Chuuya's skull, bracing his head easily.

"I like this," Dazai offers, palm pressing against his chest. His hand is warm and huge, fingers
long and nimble. "Very relaxing."

Relaxing isn't exactly the word Chuuya would use. The word he'd use, actually, would be
more along that lines of 'exciting'. Or frustrating.

Because he's naked, Dazai's naked, they're both wet and pressed up against each other, skin
sliding deliciously over skin. Dazai's touching him, mostly innocently, and he's been
breathing in his ear for minutes and it's not fair.

He wants him. Wants him so bad it almost aches and it's not fair because Dazai isn't going to
give him anything.

Maybe he shouldn't want him that badly right now, considering he was recently injured but
what else is he supposed to feel when they're naked together? Especially after Dazai's been
doting on him for the past day, taking care of his every need and want? All his aches and
pains fade to nothing under his attention.

And there's a new aspect to the need, because now Shuuji knows . He's not in the house, this
is not something they need to hide anymore. Chuuya doesn't need to be quiet, they don't need
to rush, he doesn't have anything left to worry about.

(He does, but by the time he realizes, he'll be six feet underground, and it will be far too late
for him.)
The idea of being caught was exciting, and he likes that rush of danger and excitement. But
he never realized how stressful it was to have to be constantly worried about appearances and
his behavior in his own home until that stress disappeared.

Well. Not his own home. That's a little too early to say, but he can't say that there's something
very homey and comforting about Dazai's house. His boyfriend lives here, and his dogs live
here, and there's a wine rack slowly filling up with bottles even though Dazai doesn't really
drink wine, and especially doesn't when he's by himself.

This feels like home to him. The dorm room just feels like somewhere he sleeps, even though
a good amount of his belongings are still there. It feels like a hotel, honestly, somewhere
temporary and transient.

His childhood home feels exactly like that. Somewhere his family lives, and that he can
return to, but not his. He's welcome there, but it's his fathers home, at the heart.

This feels like it could be his home. His and Dazai's, someday.

Dazai pulls back a fraction, tracing his lips over Chuuya's shoulder. His mouth is soft, so soft
it almost tickles as he marks a path over the top of his shoulder. His hand pulls him farther
back, fingertips rubbing slow circles over his chest.

Chuuya sighs pleasantly again, arching into his touch. It feels good, like everything else
Dazai does to him, soft pleasure swirling in his veins with gentle insistence. Still, below that,
is frustration.

"Don't tease me if you're not going to do anything about it," he grumbles, tipping his head
back further and pushing his throat into Dazai's palm when his other hand coasts up to find
his neck. Like this, he's so effortlessly held and caught, with Dazai a warm, living wall
behind him, and his legs bracketing him easily, and his hands big and inescapable.

Not that Chuuya ever wants to escape.

"But you like it when I tease you," Dazai huffs against his neck, his voice amused. He's
moving upward, finding the bruises on the side and painting over them with a series of
gentle, barely-there kisses.

It just makes Chuuya breathless, hyper focused, practically vibrating with anticipation for the
next kiss, the next touch, hoping this one will be harder, better, will finally start to satisfy the
growing pit of want and need inside him.

With the hand on Dazai’s thigh, he pushes himself backwards, arching his back temptingly.
He can feel Dazai’s cock stirring against his lower back, slowly starting to thicken. It makes
hunger and hope start to flare up, but he also knows it means nothing. Dazai has denied him
when he’s hard before, and he probably will again.

Just because he’s horny doesn’t mean Chuuya will actually get anything out of it, which is so
frustrating, because he can never predict when Dazai will give in to him. All he can do is give
himself up to his hands and mouth and hope that Dazai will take mercy on him.

“I like it better when you’re nice to me.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds breathless
and dripping with need.

He lets out a gasp when Dazai’s teeth find his skin, scraping over the skin in a move that’s
just shy of painful. It causes tingles of aching-pain to spark, little fireflies of sensation.

“Are you saying I’m not nice to you?” Dazai rumbles, soothing the small pain away by
briefly sealing his mouth over the bite and sucking, tongue piercing swirling over his skin
wetly. “I think I’m very nice to you.”

Chuuya wiggles, rubbing the swell of his ass over Dazai’s crotch until he earns a hissed out
breath in response. “That’s a lie. You’re mean to me all the time.”

Frustratingly, the hand on his chest hasn't moved. It's still and unmoving, beyond the
fingertips which are rubbing slow circles just a hairsbreadth away from his nipple.
"Oh? When have I ever been mean to you, baby?"

When Chuuya opens his mouth to respond, Dazai uses the hand on his neck to tilt his head to
the side, giving him access to the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. Teeth sink into him
lightly, a tease that makes Chuuya jolt and whimper in response.

He's starting to think he has a thing for being bitten, because there's not many things more
satisfying than being between his teeth. Dazai could hurt him, but never does. Never more
than he wants to be hurt, anyways.

"You're being mean now," Chuuya asserts, trying to keep his voice from wobbling even when
he's pushing himself into Dazai's grip as much as possible, a willing sacrifice to an earthen
god. "And in Osaka, when you made me wear the vibrator for hours and you didn't even fuck
me afterward. That was mean."

There's a rumble in Dazai's chest behind him, suppressed laughter. "Mean is a strong word,
baby, because as I recall— you liked it when I did that to you. You certainly didn’t have any
complaints then."

Yes, but that's besides the point. Chuuya can like it when mean things are done to him, but it's
still mean.

"Just like you like this, right?"

Chuuya keeps his mouth shut for that one, choosing instead to reach back with one hand and
find Dazai's hair to pull on it in wordless demand. He does like this, but he's not willing to
admit it just yet. He doesn’t know how to play this situation to get what he wants, not yet.

What if admitting it makes Dazai stop? How does he get him to keep going?

He's half-hard already and growing ever harder, the heat of the bath falling away in the face
of how hot his body feels. He wants, he wants, he wants, and with the pain pills Dazai pushed
on him, he doesn't even feel an ounce of pain.

How does he convince Dazai, how does he get what he's aching for, he'll do anything, just—

Dazai moves from behind him, pushing him forward until he's sitting up under his own
power. "Time to get out, chibi."

What? No, that's so not fucking fair. He's just going to build him up like this and do nothing
about it? "You're not gonna—?"

Planting his hands on the sides of the tub, Dazai heaves himself to a standing position. The
water runs off him in waves. He steps out gracefully, body wet and glistening under the lights
of the bathroom. God, he looks like he just stepped out of a magazine, all wet and rippling
with muscle and delicious, it's not fair.

"I might," Dazai says, shooting a teasing, cocky look at him over his shoulder as he wraps a
towel around his waist. "Depends on how quickly you move, doll."

He disappears into the other room then, leaving Chuuya to scramble after him.

Anticipation spikes sharply, driving him to dry off as quickly as physically possible before
tossing the towel into the hamper and practically running after him.

When he gets into the bedroom, he finds Dazai next to the nightstand on his side, arms raised
up and hovering near his face as he fiddles with something.

Chuuya starts to go to him—

"Get on the bed. On your stomach."

He falters a little, surprised by the sudden change in plans. He wants to touch and be touched
but—

Listening to Dazai always turns out fantastic for him, so he listens eagerly.

Crawling onto the bed, he flops onto his stomach and stretches out with a small groan. He's
pleasantly limp from his bath, all his muscles melting easily into the bed. The only stiff part
of him is his half-hard cock, rubbing against the sheets. It's rough, but it's the most
stimulation he's gotten so far, so he rocks his hips into it mindlessly, sighing.

A hand comes down on his ass, smacking the cheek with just enough force that it makes him
flinch. It's surprisingly loud, but Dazai knows how to make it loud without making it hurt.

"Stop that, or I won't touch you at all." Dazai's voice has that tone to it, the one that drips
power and domination. It enters Chuuya's bloodstream like a drug, taking over his body so
thoroughly it almost feels like his heart wouldn't beat unless Dazai commanded it to.

With a hitched sigh, Chuuya goes from grinding against the sheets to pressing back against
him, enjoying the tingling sensation the smack had given him. It adds to the heat building in
his system, a burning maelstrom building in intensity with every touch and movement.

"I want your hands by your head. I don't care what you do with them, but I don't want them to
move. Understand?"

Yes. Chuuya nods, pressing his face into the sheets to hide the growing blush on his face.
Excitement is thrumming through him. He fists his hands in the sheets near his head to show
he understands.

"Good boy," Dazai croons in response, climbing onto the bed. The mattress sinks under his
weight, making his body dip as Dazai settles between his thighs.
His legs have to spread ridiculously wide to fit him between, a thought that's exciting. Being
reminded of how much bigger and taller Dazai is, is exciting . It feels dangerous, because
Dazai could hurt him. Easily, even, or by mistake simply because of how big he is—

But he never does, and that complete control over himself— and over Chuuya— is sexy.

A large hand finds his shoulder blade, fingers digging pleasantly into his muscles and
dragging down. There was a knot just along his spine, but it’s easily dissolved with a few
pushes of Dazai's fingers. In fact, all the remaining tension in his back is easily coaxed away
by the long, indulgent kneading of his hands down the length of his spine.

The weight on the bed shifts as Dazai leans forward, and the next thing Chuuya knows is the
sensation of lips trailing over his spine. They're soft, leaving tingles and whispers of heat
behind.

Chuuya arches his back, pushing into him, shivering when he feels how immovable he is on
top of him. He hooks his ankle behind Dazai's thigh, pressing his heel into his leg with
growing urgency. Maybe if he just/shows how much he wants this, Dazai will take mercy on
him and get to whatever he has planned quicker.

"Eager, aren't you?"

The question pressed against his spine makes him shiver, and the following lick— oh, he
must have changed his tongue piercing, Chuuya thinks he recognizes it— makes him choke
on a breath.

He doesn't know how Dazai does it, but somehow he manages to make even the most
innocent of places, places on his body Chuuya didn't even know were sensitive,
hypersensitive. It's like he could touch him anywhere and have him melted into a puddle
within moments.

He doesn't bother responding to the question. He doesn't need to, not with the way he's
pressing into Dazai eagerly, chasing after every contact with single-minded desperation.
Wanting more, needing more, and knowing Dazai will give it to him this time. He just doesn't
know how because—

Shouldn't he be on his back for this? Or shouldn't Dazai be lubing up his fingers? How are
they going to progress from Dazai licking and biting his way down his spine, to sex?

Sometimes Chuuya's lack of knowledge feels embarrassing, but sometimes it's exciting.
Because Dazai is teaching him all sorts of things, things he loves and enjoys, and every day
it's something new.

Dazai finds the dimples on his lower back, sealing his mouth over one and scraping his teeth
over it until he's shuddering from it.

This time, when he pushes his hips back, Dazai's hands come down and pin him back to the
bed effortlessly, forcibly keeping him still.

"Don't move," Dazai murmurs against his skin, following it up with a bite over the soft,
squishy part of his lower back. "Or I'll stop."

The idea of that makes Chuuya let out a frustrated keen, pushing his head into the blankets.
He doesn't know what to do with himself when he's practically vibrating with need and
desperation. His body wants to squirm and struggle for more, and controlling that energy
while he's near-mindless with anticipation is hard.

He kneads the sheets between his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists as he forces his
body to go still and limp. This would be easier if Dazai pushed him into that hazy state he
gets sometimes, but he's not even close to it.

The hands on his hips tilt him upwards, giving Dazai better access to his ass. His mouth trails
downward, swirling his tongue over the sensitive, still-tingling skin. He never follows a
pattern, never gives Chuuya anything he can get used to, always changing it up and stringing
him taut between the sensations.
"Dazai," he mutters into the blanket, unable to stop himself from jerking forward when teeth
nip at him sharply. "Dazai, please, I want it, I've been good. Please."

There's a muffled pop as Dazai sucks a bite-sized piece of skin into his mouth before letting
it go. "You've been good?" He asks, amused disbelief in his voice, "Weren't you just saying
that I was being mean to you, brat?"

Chuuya makes a frustrated noise, because he doesn't want to get punished for that, he was
just trying to convince Dazai to make him feel good. He switches tactics, aiming for Dazai’s
weak spot. He fills his voice with as much pleading desperation as he can, dropping his tone
until it's soft and sweet. “Please, Daddy?”

(He can’t see or feel it, but Dazai’s cock fills out, getting harder so quickly he almost feels
dizzy with it.

Cheeky little brat, always desperate to get what he wants instead of what Dazai wants to give
him.

That’s fine, though. Dazai’s already committed himself to spoiling his baby rotten today, and
if he’s asking so nicely?

Dazai will give him exactly what he wants. Even if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking
for.)

“I got you, baby. Just relax for me,” gets breathed over the swell of his asscheek, moments
before Dazai’s thumb digs into him and spreads him open.

Chuuya fights the urge to squirm, because it feels embarrassing to have his face so close to
there but—

They’re one step closer now. Any second now, there’s going to be wet fingers filling him up,
breaking him open in preparation for Dazai’s cock.
But that’s not what happens.

Instead, Dazai’s face slips lower, lower, hot breath washing over his most sensitive spots.
Chuuya’s eyes are widening, his hands clenching in the sheets. He only gets halfway through
his thought of ‘Wait, what is he doing?’ before he’s licking a broad, wet stripe over his
entrance.

Chuuya jerks in place with a whine, fighting between his mind being instantly mortified and
his body thrilling as the feeling of hot, wet slickness sliding over him. He opens his mouth to
protest—

Dazai licks over him again, dragging the flat of his tongue over his hole so firmly that he can
feel the shape of his tongue jewelry sliding over him— and oh, god , he recognizes the shape
of that one, the memory of it buzzing against the base of his cock is seared into his memory
— followed by the very tip of his tongue tracing over his rim.

His hips squirm, unsure if he wants to escape or if he wants more , torn between the desire to
hide and how good it feels.

With a displeased rumble, Dazai uses the hand on his hip to pin him again. The action
spreads him wider, allowing Dazai to slide his face that much deeper.

“Dazai,” he pants out, eyes squeezing shut as Dazai spreads him a little further with the hand
on his asscheek, “thats—!”

He cuts himself off with a high-pitched moan because apparently Dazai is the kind of person
that can roll their tongue, and the feeling of it undulating against him, folding it on itself and
pressing so firmly that his muscles start to give way beneath the pressure.

And just when Chuuya is thinking 'oh god,he's going to do it, he's gonna put his tongue inside
him, oh god' —
Dazai pulls back, just a fraction. "Yeah? That good?" He says, prideful teasing in his voice as
his hand leaves his hip. There's a second of silence, and then a tiny click.

The next time Dazai speaks, his voice is slightly garbled, shaking oddly. "Keep talking to me,
doll. I wanna know how you feel about this."

The next time his tongue returns—

It's vibrating.

"Oh god," Chuuya practically wails, all other thoughts whisked away by the sensation of
Dazai licking over him again, slowly enough that he feels every inch of vibration.

It's not as powerful as the vibrating toy Dazai used on him in Osaka, but that wasn't wet and
hot and flexible. That wasn't swirling over him without pattern or rhythm, that wasn't
pressing into him insistently until the tip is sliding inside him.

The tiny vibrator presses against the outside of his rim, shifting with the movements as Dazai
drags the tip of his tongue along the inside.

It's hot, it's wet, it's so intimate with how close Dazai is to him, fucking his tongue deeper
inside him in a series of short, swirling thrusts. The bath has loosened up every one of his
muscles and relaxed his mind, making it so easy for the pleasure to swamp him in heavy
waves.

Dazai curls his tongue down then, coaxing his entrance open with steady pressure. With a
wet, squelching noise his tongue slides deeper, the raised shape of the vibrator pressing
unrelentingly against the inside of his rim.
"God," Chuuya whimpers again, his thoughts blurring into white noise. All embarrassment
and shame has faded away, replaced by pulsating excitement as Dazai tilts his hips, dragging
him into the next thrust of his tongue.

There's no friction, not with how hot and slippery his tongue is. His tongue flexes in odd
ways, so different from the way his fingers move that they can't even be compared.

His fingers are long, dexterous, stroking against his inner muscles to coax him into warming
up and relaxing. They can bend and flex, but the main aspect of pleasure they give him is
how deep they can get inside him, how far they can stretch him open. The anticipation that
comes with the knowledge that he's probably going to be fucked afterwards.

The best part about his tongue is how flexible it is, curling one moment and flattening the
next. Moving in ways his fingers just can't, swirling and rolling and dragging the small
vibrator against his inner walls.

Unlike his fingers, which Chuuya can clench down on to feel more of, he can't do that with
his tongue. If he tries to grind back or clench down, or in any way tries to get more of the
sensation, just makes Dazai's tongue slide out of him.

All he can do is arch his back and just take it , spreading his thighs until the stretch hurts,
offering himself up as much as he physically can.

His breath against the sheets bounces back at him, covering his face with heat and making his
head spin.

His erection is achingly hard now, the tip dragging intermittently against the sheets beneath
him. Each flex of Dazai's tongue inside him prompts a throbbing response in his cock, need
and pleasure growing like mountains in his stomach.

Dazai's hand digs into him harder, pulling his ass apart so he can slide his tongue that much
deeper, jaw widening as he points his tongue, making it as long as he can—
The very tip of it brushes against the outside edge of his prostate, making Chuuya jolt in
place and bite down on a high-pitched keen.

God, it's not enough, he can feel the vibrator buzzing mere centimeters away from where he
wants it most. The pleasure and the desperation mix, the headiest of drugs. It makes his heart
pound in his chest, so hard that he can barely hear anything past the throbbing need roaring in
his ears, in his veins. He can't hear, he can't think, all he knows is—

"Dazai, Dazai, Dazai," he chants into the sheets, mindlessly rocking back into his mouth and
down into the bed to get friction on his aching cock.

Mercifully, Dazai lets him grind into him. His tongue retreats as Chuuya moves forward,
flattening and filling him up. When Chuuya rocks back again, his tongue stiffens and plunges
in deeply, and if Chuuya spreads his legs wide enough and tilts his hips at just the right
angle, he can almost get direct stimulation on his prostate and it's so good.

Mind-meltingly good, actually, it's almost unfair. Better than his fingers, and almost better
than his cock entirely. The pleasure builds slowly, inescapably, like an earthquake gaining
power as it goes on, shaking the very foundations of his being.

The only thing he's missing is the ability to kiss Dazai. This feels fantastic, but there's
something so intimate and loving about being able to feel Dazai's breath against his mouth,
taste his pleasure on his tongue.

But this— Dazai's thumb hooking into his rim and stretching the muscle open until Chuuya is
shuddering with it, allowing him to fuck his tongue a little deeper— is almost as good.

On the next grind back, Chuuya arches his back until his spine aches with the strain and
holds the position as Dazai's tongue thrusts—

"There!" Chuuya practically shouts, fighting against the urge to shudder because the vibrator
is just on the edge of his prostate, spiking pleasure in his body. If either of them move, he's
going to lose that sensation and the thought of that might make him cry.
There's a muffled noise against him, like Dazai might be laughing at him. His tongue rolls
teasingly, making as if he's going to pull back before pushing forward again.

The sensation is hot, nearly electric. The tension building along his spine is exacerbated by
how still he's forcing himself to be, all of his muscles clenching tight until he's trembling
from the strain. His breath speeds up, warmth collecting the space between his face and the
blankets, until he can't tell if he's breathing air or fire.

A hand closes around his hip and helps him hold position, supporting him as the pleasure
builds and builds and builds. It feels suffocating, like a blanket being drawn over his head
and drowning him from head to toe—

But it's not enough. Dazai's tongue isn't quite long enough and the vibrator is buzzing on the
edge of his prostate. It's good, sweet electricity, but it's not as good as it could be, as he needs
it to be. All the sensation does is build him up and up and up, until he feels like he might
shatter underneath the strain.

The edge is so close and yet so far, hovering so close Chuuya can almost taste it, like a ghost
on his tongue.

Then the hand holding him up leaves and he nearly wobbles out of place, catching himself at
the last second. He's not sure how much longer he can hold this position, because his lower
back is already starting to ache with how far it's arched.

Then—

A thumb presses against his perineum, rubbing in the wetness left from his saliva. The
pressure there is surprisingly good, ratcheting up the pleasure a little farther, a little hotter.
With the pressure on the outside combined with the swirling vibrations inside him, it builds
him higher.
His hands are like claws in the sheets, kneading the blanket with all the pent-up tension. His
lungs are stuttering in his chest, heaving in sharp breaths and letting out in increasingly high
moans. He's dizzy with it, pushed full with so much pleasure that he can barely tell where his
body is anymore. "Dazai, please, just a little more, right there. So close, please, please.”

He's surprised that Dazai can even understand what he's saying when his face is pushed into
the bed, but somehow he does.

There's a muffled growl against him, additional vibration that makes Chuuya shudder and
gasp, before he's being yanked up farther. Dazai pulls his hips as high as they can go, until his
chest is pressed against the bed and his spine feels like it might break from how far it's bent.

The thumb hooked in his rim is swapped out with a long, brutally pleasurable finger that
sinks into him to the last knuckle in one, relentless move. It's dry, with no lube besides his
saliva. The friction makes him shudder, keening, adds a rough, burning edge to the swell of
pleasure inside him.

His finger dives beneath his wiggling tongue, reaching past to zero in on his prostate with
unrelenting pressure.

The dual sensations— no, triple sensations— of his tongue swirling hot and flexible inside
him as he tongue-fucks him with searing intensity, his finger massaging his prostate
relentlessly and his thumb rubbing his perineum over and over and over again until Chuuya
feels like he's going to lose his mind—

It's enough to have him squirming, arching, crying as the pleasure builds and builds. It feels
so good, liquid-fire pulsing through his veins, drenching him in tingling electricity. He can
feel it building, gathering momentum as his body writhes under the strain, struggling to hold
it as his orgasm creeps up on him—

The thumb rubbing just under his entrance leaves, and for a moment, Chuuya mourns the
extra loss of sensation because it lessens the intensity of the pleasure—
Then his hand comes crashing back down, delivering one hard, wet-fingered spank onto his
ass. His palm stays there, pressing the heat of impact into his skin with a solid squeeze.

The shock of pain makes him cry out. "Fuck!"

His body jerks once, is dragged back in by the inescapable grip Dazai has on him. His tongue
presses deeply, his finger jabs at his prostate.

The combination of sweet-edged pain and searing pleasure is enough to have him shatter. His
orgasm roars over him like a tsunami, blinding him with pleasure and muffling his senses.

For a long, wonderful movement all he can do is just ride it out, body bucking and thrashing
in Dazai's grip. His hands on him tighten to keep him in place, fingers digging into him until
they might bruise.

It lasts forever , waves of electricity making his heart pound so hard in his chest he can hardly
breath around it. Every time the pleasure starts to die down, his finger moves inside him or
his tongue curls to drag the vibrator against his inner walls, and it causes another cascade of
fiery sparks down every one of his nerve endings.

By the time Dazai lets him rest, he feels like he might pass out entirely from lack of oxygen.
When his grip loosens, he slumps into the mattress, quivering with aftershocks. Every single
one of his muscles feels weak and lax with pleasure.

He's not on his stomach for long. Dazai flips him over quickly, thankfully rolling him out of
the mess he made of the sheets. Unfortunately, there's still cum smeared on his stomach and
his ass feels obscenely wet with saliva. He feels like a mess and he just got out of the bath. If
he didn't feel so good, every inch of him thrumming with pleasure, he'd feel kind of gross.

When nothing happens for a second, and the wet sounds of sex are replaced by Dazai's
labored breathing, Chuuya cracks his eyes open and looks down his body—
Oh. Dazai is jerking off, quick and short strokes, hungry eyes roaming over Chuuya's
pleasantly wrecked body. His expression is tight with lust and pleasure, breath speeding up
by the second.

Wiggling slightly, Chuuya reaches down to help him out—

Large, criminally long and skilled fingers wrap around his wrist and pin it by his side. His
grip is tight and inescapable.

“No,” Dazai mutters, voice hoarse and breaking on a groan, “I just want to look at you.”

Dazai has never made Chuuya feel anything less than heartbreakingly beautiful, but there’s
something different about this. Being told he’s pretty while he’s fully dolled up, that feels like
aesthetic beauty. That feels like all the work he puts into looking good is noticed and
appreciated.

This—looking so good when he’s naked and messy, so good that Dazai doesn’t even need to
touch him or be touched by him to have him leaking precum over his own fingers— feels like
he doesn’t need to do anything to be beautiful. Like he , himself, is beautiful, all the way to
the core.

Dazai’s gaze on him is heavy, burning with weight. It makes him bold, makes him reach
down with his free hand and swipe a finger through the mess on his stomach.

Not looking away, he brings his finger to his mouth and licks off the pearlescent liquid. It's
bitter and sticky tasting, but the taste is worth it to see how Dazai's pupils dilate, filling with
ravaging hunger.

In the next moment, Dazai is falling on him, over him, capturing him in a deep, feral kiss. His
tongue thrusts inside his mouth, eagerly chasing the taste of himself on his tongue.
Chuuya is once again torn between mortification— because his tongue was just inside him,
isn't that gross? — and desire, because Dazai's kissing him like he might devour him, like he
might eat him alive. He can also feel the quick, frantic movements of Dazai's wrist between
his thighs.

As he gets closer to orgasm, muffling groans against his lips, his hand speeds up.

"Fuck, Chuuya," he groans, guttural.

The sound of his name like that sends a thrill of heat through Chuuya, prompting him to dig
his ankle into Dazai's calf to urge him on. With the way Dazai is kneeling over him, he can't
move much, but he wants Dazai to come.

Then, in the next moment, the kiss is breaking as Dazai slides up, crawling up his body
quickly.

He ends up kneeling over his chest, Chuuya's arms trapped between his knees as Dazai
continues to jerk off inches from his face.

Ah. He's doing that again.

With a murmured sigh, Chuuya lets his eyes fall mostly shut. He still wants to watch , is
mesmerized by the sight of Dazai's cock leaking pre-cum over his fingers, but he doesn't want
to get any in his eyes. His lips part, tongue slipping over his bottom lip in anticipation.

The sight seems to be enough for Dazai, because in the next moment he's squeezing just
under the head and angling it down—

The first spurt of frothy-white cum lands on his cheek, hot and wet. The next waves aren't far
behind, falling on his cheeks and chin. It’s sticky and cools rapidly, but Chuuya preens
underneath it all. It’s surprisingly hot to be marked like this, like Dazai is marking his
territory or something equally as possessive and feral.
It makes Chuuya feel owned, desirable, possessed.

It takes Dazai a second to calm down, settling back on his heels while making sure he’s not
crushing Chuuya beneath his weight. Panting, he looks down at him—

And smiles. Big, bright, sharp with satisfaction.

“You look pretty with my cum all over your face,” he tells him, practically purring as he
reaches down and thumbs one of the stripes on his cheek. “I should just keep you like this.
No class, no homework, no worries— just laid out on my bed, all pretty and perfect, waiting
to be fucked as hard and often as you want. A good little cumslut, hm?”

Thé thought—and how filthy Dazai’s tone is— makes Chuuya’s face burn, but he doesn’t
resist when Dazai rubs his thumb over his mouth. It paints his lips with cum, and Chuuya
can’t help but follow the motion with his tongue, cleaning himself up teasingly.

Normally, Chuuya considers himself an independent person. He wants to do well in school so

he can get a good job and support himself as quickly as possible. Whenever he’s envisioned
relationships, it’s only been with him and his partners as equals in every right.

But when Dazai talks to him like this, all sugary-sweet temptation and liquid-hot desire, the
devil on his way down to hell and coaxing him into falling—

He'd do anything.

He sucks Dazai's thumb into his mouth, letting it press down on his tongue. It earns him a
flash of Dazai's eyes, one that makes Chuuya internally preen with pride. He swirls his
tongue over the pad of his thumb, almost the same way he'd do if there was a cock in his
mouth instead.
"I love your mouth," Dazai hums, pushing his thumb deeper until Chuuya has to consciously
control his gag reflex, "I can't wait to fuck it again. Feels so good around me."

Dazai is normally so well-spoken and civilized, so when he's like this, foul-mouthed and
curses dripping from his tongue like sin, it sets Chuuya on fire like nothing else.

He can feel his cock twitching down below, valiantly trying to harden again even though he
came only a few minutes ago.

"Not now though," Dazai sighs, taking his thumb back. Chuuya almost mourns the loss of
something to suck on, even if the taste isn't exactly his favorite. He prefers sweet, but the
taste of Dazai is satisfyingly bitter.

"Now, it's time to clean you up, and get you more pain meds. How's your head feeling?"

Ugh. Now the mood is gone , and Daddy Dazai has been replaced by worrier Dazai.

Still, Chuuya can't be too mad, not when he's still limp and pleasantly tingly from his orgasm.
None of his aches have lingered, his head fuzzy with pleasure. With his arms pinned to his
side by Dazai's knees, he can't reach up to pull him down into a kiss so he has to resort to
lifting his chin and pouting his lips while making puppy eyes at him to get his point across.

With an amused huff and a fond smile, Dazai shuffles backward so he can bend down to give
him a quick kiss.

"I feel good," Chuuya reassures him, and if he rubs his cheek against Dazai's to get him
sticky too—

Well, he never said he wasn't petty.

 New Dogs, New Tricks
Chapter Summary

This bar in particular, Rai's Bar, is known for serving the... less civilized beings of
Yokohama. Which includes people like Ranpo, who are banned in nearly any other
establishment—

And people like Shuuji, who are still too young to legally drink.

In the end, it's a coincidence that Ranpo finds him here. Some might even go as far as to say
it's fate but—

He doesn't believe in fate. He believes in facts. Data. Numbers and clues and statistics. Even
coincidences are, in the end, just statistical anomalies. And statistically speaking, it's not that
great of a coincidence for them to end up at the same bar together accidentally.

Now, Ranpo is a law-abiding man and in general, a mostly-upstanding citizen (at least as far
as everyone else knows, anyways). But he's also banned from like... most of the bars in the
immediate area around Yokohama. Bars in the upper class areas, in the lower class ones, in
the red light district.

You name it, Ranpo has probably been banned from it.

He's a man that believes in fun. In eating whatever he wants, doing whatever task or hobby
that intrigues him.

And sometimes fun means starting fights just to sit back and watch a gang of drunken idiots
smash themselves and the bar to pieces. It's funny, how it sometimes only takes a few words
to send someone into a rage. It's like pushing the buttons on an arcade machine to watch the
lights flash. Say the right thing at the right time, and watch a person lose all their self-control.
This bar in particular, Rai's Bar, is known for serving the... less civilized beings of
Yokohama. Which includes people like Ranpo, who are banned in nearly any other
establishment—

And people like Shuuji, who are still too young to legally drink.

Ranpo orders a drink from the opposite side of the bar, killing time. Truthfully, he's not sure
if he wants to talk to the kid, because he came here with the intention to relax and not play
with some stupid puppy with anger and manipulation issues. He came here for a few drinks, a
quiet evening before going home to sleep. He hasn't been sleeping well lately, and it's made
him grumpy. Irritable.

But then Shuuji slaps his hand down on the bar loudly, demanding another drink with enough
volume that several other people flinch and look over at him and—

Ranpo decides that he does have time for a little game. Just a little, before he sends him back
home to sleep off what is likely to be a ravaging hangover.

He takes his drink with him— a Lemon Drop cocktail, just sour enough that it makes the
sweetness of the drink really pop, with a sugar-dusted rim— as he slides over, settling into
the seat next to Shuuji. He leans his elbows back against the bar, watching the crowd. "Hello
again."

Shuuji flinches hard, like he wasn't paying attention. A stupid thing to do in a place like this.
Should always keep his wits about him, otherwise he might find his wallet has been stolen
out of his back pocket. Hell, Ranpo might even steal the damn thing himself just to teach him
a lesson.

"Did you come here to laugh at me?" Shuuji snarls, unreasonably angry. Clearly, he's already
a few drinks in and is wobbling on his bar stool.

"Yeah, pretty much," Ranpo responds, finding the straw in his drink and sucking on it as he
muses on why Shuuji is in such a bad mood. There's bandages wrapped around one of his
forearms, tightly wrapped. There's a spot of dried blood in the middle. They need to be
changed.

Ranpo snorts, because the image Shuuji makes is almost exactly like the rumors of what he
heard Dazai was like.

Tall, dark-haired, covered in black clothes and bloody bandages. Foul-tempered— though, in
opposite directions, because Dazai's temper always ran cold and lethal, while Shuuji's runs
hotly— and drinking himself stupid in a bar.

Maybe the injury is the reason for his foul mood. Or—

Ranpo does remember seeing a certain video on the public Snap story of Keio University. He
likes to keep himself up to date on the public stories the college kids put up. You'd be
surprised how many illegal activities are recorded and posted publicly for the world to see.
Kids these days, they only think about likes instead of realizing they probably shouldn't be
posting about underage drinking and drug activity.

Not that Ranpo does anything about it, he just likes to snicker at the stupidity and store all the
information for later, if necessary.

Anyways, point is—

Ranpo saw the video, and he's pretty sure quite a few other people did too— some of which
will inevitably cause problems with this new information— and it's safe to assume that
Shuuji saw it too.

Maybe that's why he's so pissy. Ranpo takes a stab at it. "Daddy issues acting up lately?"

Shuuji snarls wordlessly, swinging around to look at him. He wobbles hard on his stool,
catches himself with a hand on the bar. "Don't— Stop fucking laughing at me, you prick. I've
had enough of people laughing at me and making a fool out of me behind my back!"
Ah. He hit a nerve. "Have you tried opening your eyes? Not being so stupid anymore? I hear
it works wonders."

Shuuji's face turns red so quickly Ranpo is half-convinced he might pass out entirely. "I'm not
stupid!"

"You're right. You're not," Ranpo agrees, spinning on his own stool. He knows Dazai, and he
knows of Sasaki. From what he hears, Sasaki is manipulative to the core, which requires a
high level of intelligence to do competently.

Dazai, of course, is wickedly cunning. Someone that even Ranpo dare not underestimate. It's
true that he's kept himself on top of their silently tense arrangement, but not because it's been
easy. Dazai's one of the few people in this city who can actually keep up with Ranpo at all.
There's no way Shuuji didn't get any of that.

"You're not stupid, are you? You are, however, so used to effortlessly getting your way that
you've never had to try. Am I right?"

Based on the incoherent snarl Shuuji gives him, and the drunken swipe at him, he's pretty
close to the mark. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Ranpo will give him that. He has quite a few guesses, and he likes to keep up on all the
drama that happens in the city, but he's not omnipotent. He knows a lot, but not everything.
"Tell me, then."

He's not sure why he cares, really. Sure, Shuuji is entertaining in his reactions, and he's fun to
play with, but that doesn't mean Ranpo has to know his internal struggles.

But there's also something about how lonely he seems, in a crowded bar sitting alone. There's
something familiar about the defensive pain in his eyes, like a wounded animal that doesn't
know anything but the instinct to fight.
Ranpo was like that too, for a while. After his parents died, he hardly cared about anyone at
all.

The bartender places a shot glass in front of Shuuji, filled to the brim with clear liquid.
Vodka, probably. Shuuji seems like a vodka kind of guy.

He takes the shot in one swallow, his face screwing up comically at the sour taste.
Swallowing seems hard for him.

Slamming the shot glass back on the bar, Shuuji says with only a hint of a slur in his voice,
"My dad hates me, has always hated me and to prove it, he stole that little slut I was involved
with. And it was posted on Snapchat, so now everyone knows that he cheated on me with my
dad, and everyone's laughing at me, I know it!"

That's a lot to unpack there. Ranpo could get into the whole ‘your dad doesn't hate you, he's
just incredibly traumatized and also a criminal who essentially rules the city, but he cares
enough that people don't know anything about you’ conversation, or he could—

"So you didn't know they were fucking?"

"You knew?"

Ranpo takes another sip of his drink. There's a cherry at the bottom, soaked in alcohol and
sugar and he wants it. "It was pretty obvious, I have to say."

It was, at least to him. The way Dazai immediately moved to shield Chuuya from Ranpo—
god, he will never get over the fact that Dazai is fucking Kouyou's little brother, his arch-
nemesis if he ever had one, and doesn't even know about it— was pretty telling.
Plus, Dazai didn't try to protect Shuuji at all. Possibly because he knows hiding anything
from Ranpo is next to impossible, and showing defensiveness is just likely to make Ranpo
more interested.

Shuuji goes back to grumbling incoherently, but he doesn’t try to smack Ranpo again. Good,
so he can learn.

“I’m gonna ask you something, and you’re gonna answer it honestly,” Ranpo announces,
turning to face him fully for the first time, and getting a good look at his face.

He looks terrible. Sleepless red eyes glaring back at him, hair mussed and the bags
underneath his eyes are especially pronounced today. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“You didn’t really want to be with Chuuya, did you? You just wanted to have sex with him.
You didn’t actually want to be in a relationship with him.”

Shuuji’s mouth curls, but he doesn’t answer.

That’s answer enough for Ranpo to continue, arching a brow at him. “So why does it matter?
Why are you so upset about it if you didn’t have feelings for him?”

Slumping forward, Shuuji rests his forehead on his crossed arms. The answer he gives is
mumbled into the air, too low to hear past the din of the bar.

Ranpo raps his knuckles on the wood. “Speak up.”

Sighing, Shuuji tilts his head to the side, so Ranpo can get a look at the way his eyes are
starting to fill with tears. "I just want someone to pick me for once."

Oh, he's hitting the emotional drunk part of the night. It's too early for this. Ranpo waves over
the bartender, silently gesturing to his cocktail for a refill. When the bartender— a tall girl,
with long black hair— goes to fill another shot for Shuuji, Ranpo shakes his head in a
negative.

He doesn't need to be drinking any more. He’s plenty drunk enough.

Fishing the cherry out of the bottom of his drink, Ranpo says, "Then stop making it so easy
for people to leave."

"I don't make it easy!"

"You do, though, don't you?" Another cocktail gets placed in front of Ranpo, and he swaps
out his empty glass for the new one. He takes a second to lick over the sugared rim, tasting
the slight hint of lemon in it. "You act like an asshole to push everyone away. You test
everyone, pushing them away to see if they'll leave once you give them a reason; and when
they do leave, eventually, you're hurt and think you've been proven right again. Everyone
always leaves, so why try with the next person?"

Making a frustrated noise, Shuuji makes as if he's going to get up and leave.

Ranpo forces him to sit down again by placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing down.
He's weak, made dizzy by the amount of drinks he had and he crumbles easily beneath the
force.

Ranpo's not done speaking to him yet. He's on a roll now, and while this isn't what he had in
mind for his evening, there's something very satisfying about tearing down this rich, spoiled
boy's worldview. Shuuji's only five years younger than him, but the age difference seems
massive right now, especially when it's backed by the difference in their life experience.

"You're a self-fulfilling prophecy, Tsushima Shuuji. You set yourself up for failure, and then
wonder why you always end up so low. You've been given everything you could ask for, and
it's not enough for you. What more do you want?”
“Parents that love me. A boyfriend that doesn’t cheat on me, or a girlfriend.”

Ranpo slurps on his drink. It’s already half-empty and he’s beginning to feel the tiniest buzz
from it. Normally he’d be drinking more—it’s always fun to watch Kunikida lose his mind
whenever Ranpo is late because of a hangover— but if he’s going to be hanging out with
Shuuji, then one of them needs to be sober. “Who cares if your parents didn’t love you?
Doesn’t mean nobody else will and it doesn’t mean you can go around acting like an asshole
to everyone and cry about the consequences.”

Shuuji pushes himself up, sitting straight again. His face is getting a little green, so he’ll
probably need to puke soon. It’s a shame he’s wearing all black. The stains will show forever
if he gets any on himself. “You don’t know anything about me,” he repeats, drunkenly
confident, “I’m a very nice guy.”

Ranpo doesn’t bother to address that idiocy with a comment, choosing instead to raise an
eyebrow and stare at him disbelievingly until he’s wincing and looking away again.

With a sigh, Ranpo decides to take a little mercy on him and change the subject. “How’d you
get that?” He asks, nodding towards the dingy bandages wrapped around his arm. They need
to be changed. His fingers itch at the sight of them, feeling the need to replace them with
clean ones.

The question makes Shuuji laugh. Loud, wheezing, uproarious laughter that catches the
attention of some of the other people in the bar. “I,” he wheezes, slapping the bar top like
Ranpo just told him a funny joke, “I tried to run Chuuya over. With my car.” He puts his
hands up, mimicking driving a car. “And then I tried to stab him. He was being an asshole
and I wanted to make him shut up.”

Ranpo stares at him, eyes wide because—

Shuuji really is fucking stupid, isn’t he? Not only did he try to kill Dazai’s boy toy, but he just
admitted it to a cop . "I'm going to pretend that you didn't just admit to two felonies," Ranpo
mutters, rumbling his temple with his free hand, "because I don't feel like doing paperwork
right now. Stop telling me that you are committing or trying to commit crimes."
Shuuji rolls his eyes. "If anyone committed a crime, it's my dad. He set Yoko on me. She bit
me! Really hard!"

He waves his bandaged arm at him for emphasis and might have actually started to unwrap it
if Ranpo didn't stop him.

"That's not a crime, that's karma," Ranpo snickers, keeping his fingers wrapped loosely
around his wrist to keep Shuuji from doing anything stupid. Well, anything more stupid than
he's already done. Trying to kill the person Dazai is emotionally attached to is pretty high on
the list of 'stupid things you shouldn't do', in Ranpo's opinion.

"You're lucky to be alive," he mutters. He's sure that the only reason Shuuji is still breathing
is because of who he is. If it were anyone else—

Well, then Ranpo wouldn't be amused at how clueless Shuuji is about how close he came to
death, and would instead be hearing about his mysterious disappearance.

"Lucky is a strong word," Shuuji huffs, shaking his head until his bangs fall over his eyes. He
doesn't try to get out of Ranpo's grip, instead leaning slightly into him. "Now I'm homeless
and broke and my arm hurts."

Much of Ranpo's sympathy is nixed by the fact that Shuuji is an adult, even if a young one.
He's not a child, he's not helpless, and his actions brought him here. He did this to himself by
being cruel.

But—

Ranpo remembers what being homeless felt like. What being poor felt like, and even if
Shuuji's situation isn't nearly the same...

He still feels a little sympathy. A little.

Just enough for Ranpo to wave down the bartender, intending to get Shuuji a glass of water.
His hangover will be hell if he doesn't drink some soon. He looks like he's about to pass out
at any moment. "What are you going to do about it?"

Shuuji blinks at him. He looks confused for a second, like he's never considered the idea of
being able to change his situation. Like he's just been going along and doing what he has to
with the life he's been handed, but never making his own . Always doing what he's been told
to do, and what he's expected to do.

"What do you mean?" He asks, making a face at the glass of water that's put in front of him.
He only drinks it when Ranpo stares at him hard enough.

Ranpo agrees; bar tap water isn't that good. He probably wouldn't drink it either, but he, at
least, has the sense not to get horribly drunk in public. Or at least not anywhere without
bottled water. "Well, you made a fool out of yourself and got kicked out. Are you going to
spend your time getting drunk in bars or are you going to do something about it?"

Shuuji looks like he's considering the question too hard, drawing Ranpo's patience thin. "I
was hoping I could just drink about it?"

Ranpo snorts. Typical bratty college teenager. "Not happening, kid. It's time for you to make
some changes. Stop being an ass, and get your life together. I don't want to handcuff you
again."

Shuuji swings around, eyes huge. "You would do that? I learned how to break out of them, by
the way. Easy, once you get the hang of it."

Ranpo wouldn't cuff Shuuji the way he's thinking of, but it's cute that he’s proud of being
able to break out of simple cuffs. Ranpo learned that when he was twelve, but he can’t expect
everyone to keep up with his skill level and expertise. It’d just be unfair.
“I think you’re right, though,” Shuuji continues, standing up from his seat. He sways hard,
nearly stumbling into the person behind him. Luckily, it’s a smaller guy, who just moves out
of the way instead of causing a problem.

Not that Ranpo dislikes causing problems, but he feels responsible for Shuuji right now, and
he doesn’t feel like wading into a bar fight to defend the dumb puppy. If he gets banned from
this bar too, he might end up just losing his mind.

“I’m tired of feeling like shit,” Shuuji declares, slapping his hand on the bar top
authoritatively. “And I’m tired of making other people feel like shit too. New week, new me,
right?”

That’s... not exactly how things are supposed to go, but the enthusiasm is endearing.
“Alright.”

Shuuji looks at him then, eyes huge and flashing with the bar lights. They’re pretty. Dark.
Naïve. “Okay, so what do I do?”

Throwing back the rest of his drink, Ranpo snorts. "How should I know? Do I look like a
therapist to you?"

It's getting late, and the night crowd is starting to shuffle in. These people are louder, rowdier.
Some of them are already tipsy from their drinks at a different bar, and they slam up against
the bar without consideration to the people already standing there. Half of them are already
completely drunk, so Ranpo's standoffish glare loses a lot of it's intimidation. He hates when
strangers touch him, especially drunk strangers.

"No, but you're really smart, aren't you?" Shuuji asks.

Ranpo stands up, brushing off his vest. It's been a long day, and it's time he starts to head
home. He doesn't feel like dealing with any more drunk people.
Though, he does have to admit that drunk Shuuji is pretty cute. Like a lost puppy, looking for
someone to hold his leash. "Yes, but that doesn't mean I'm equipped to handle...whatever you
got going on up there. If you really want your life to change, you need professional help.
Therapists work wonders. I've had mine for a few years now."

Shuuji follows him towards the front of the bar, walking close on his heels. He's much taller
than Ranpo, towering over him by nearly an entire head, so seeing how eagerly he follows
him is amusing.

"You're in therapy?" He repeats, but before Ranpo can get irritable at that invasive question,
he continues, "Do I need a doctor's note or something?"

Ranpo pauses, glad he's facing away because his lips twitch in amusement at that. "No. You
just have to call and make an appointment."

Honestly, he's starting to believe that Shuuji really was sheltered. Probably can't even cook
for himself. He's had his whole life handed to him, treated like an incompetent child, and now
that he's an adult , he doesn't know how to deal with himself.

It makes sense. Children are cruel, after all, to themselves and to others.

"Oh. Okay," Shuuji says, nearly bumping into Ranpo's back. He steadies himself with a hand
on his shoulder. His grip is too hard, nearly pulling Ranpo off balance.

They're near the door now, and just as they reach it, it opens. A stream of people stumble
inside, laughing too-loud and their grins drunkenly lopsided. The group is all hanging onto
each other, with some of the girls— college age, young— clutching onto the arms of the boys
in the group. They don't seem to see them or care, too busy calling out to each other and
giggling.

Ranpo doesn't move, planting his feet. Shuuji herds close to his back, sheltering behind him
as the crowd breaks into two around him.
"Where are we going?" Shuuji asks loudly, bending down to nearly shout in Ranpo's ear.
With all the new people in the bar, filling up the dingy space with their loud voices and
drunken bodies as they demand more drinks, it's getting too loud.

"I—," Ranpo announces, pushing out of the bar on the tail end of the group. His phone is
stuffed in his vest pocket, and he reaches in to grab it. "— am going home."

Outside, it's already close to full dark. He'll have to call a cab. As much as he'd love to bother
Kunikida, it's past his mandated bedtime, which means his phone will be on 'do not disturb'.
He could call Fukuzawa and he knows he'd answer the call, but the idea of waking the boss
up and making him come all the way down here, green eyes so understanding and yet
exhausted, is not what he wants to deal with right now. The thought makes his stomach
clench unpleasantly.

Ranpo has a limited tolerance when it comes to handling other people's emotions and needs
on top of handling his own, and he doesn't want to put either of them in a position like that.

So, a cab.

"Oh," Shuuji mutters, faltering so hard that Ranpo can feel it behind him. His voice has
dropped into something sad and somber, nothing like the drunkenly-upbeat tone he's been
using the entire conversation.

The emotional whiplash is hard to keep up with, but Ranpo remembers:

"Now I'm broke and homeless and my arm hurts."

Knowing Shuuji, if he left him here, he'd only get himself into more trouble. Get even more
drunk, maybe get into a fight. The bandages would never get changed. All that energy for a
'fresh start' or whatever he was talking about would be gone.
Very possibly the next time they'd see each other is with Ranpo handcuffing him again, but in
a decidedly less fun way.

Besides-

When Ranpo was low and on his last legs, feeling trapped and helpless, someone offered him
a helping hand. It feels disrespectful to Fukuzawa— and, distantly, to the memory of his
parents— not to offer the same help to someone else when they so clearly need it.

"And you're coming with me," Ranpo says, swinging around to pin Shuuji with a firm stare
that shows he means business. No arguing, no weaseling out of it. Not that he expects Shuuji
to actually argue.

"Oh," Shuuji blinks, and even though he's a head taller than Ranpo at least, the height
difference doesn't seem so daunting when he's hunched over and looking confused.

Then the confusion melts into a suggestive smirk and—

"Oh . Taking me home, huh?"

Yeah, there it is.

Ranpo arches an eyebrow at him. "Yes, to keep you out of trouble. And if you don't behave,
I'll make you sleep outside. My neighbors have a doghouse. I'm sure you can fit, with enough
incentive."

Shuuji tries to strike a pose, which just ends with him having to pinwheel his arms to keep his
balance when he tips himself over too far.

The reminder of how tipsy he is, probably even outright drunk even though he's handling his
liquor well, all things considered, seems to be enough of a reminder that his flirty energy dies
out again. "No," he mutters, adjusting his coat from where it's slipped over his shoulders. "I'll
behave, I just— I'm just tired, you know? I didn't sleep last night."

He's lucky he wasn't put to sleep like a dog with his thoughtless actions, but the downcast tilt
to his eyes and his voice makes Ranpo's chest pang in sympathy.

"Yeah, I bet," he murmurs. He doesn't know exactly where Shuuji spent the night, but based
on the smell of his clothes, it was probably a bar or in an alley nearby. Maybe this bar and
alleyway. "But don't worry, I got an extra futon you can use."

"Not your bed?" Shuuji looks so damn hopeful, it's almost amusing to shoot him down.

"No, you're dirty. You smell like vodka," Ranpo helpfully informs him, checking on the status
of the Uber he ordered. It's a little over a block away. He's lucky it's late, otherwise getting
around the city by car would take forever. "I don't let dirty things into my bed."

"Sounds like a boring sex life," he hears from behind him, like Shuuji didn't mean for him to
hear it. Ranpo snorts, not bothering to justify that with a comment.

Aw, he thinks Ranpo is vanilla. That couldn’t be farther from the truth, not that Shuuji would
know that.

Might never get the privilege of finding out, either, if he doesn't learn to hold his tongue. Ah,
but Ranpo hasn't had a real, bonafide brat to tame in a while. He loves a challenge and while
his other partners have been fun, they give in too easily.

He takes Shuuji in, looking him up and down out of the corner of his eye. He's tall, lithe, with
a young face and unruly hair that practically begs to be yanked on. His legs are long, waist
slim, arms toned.

And he does learn. Eventually. Ranpo's seen it for himself.

Plus, the added thought of fucking the son of one of the most dangerous men in town—
truthfully, he would go for Dazai himself, but their tastes run a little too similarly, and while
Ranpo does enjoy a little battle for domination every once in a while, he prefers the
satisfaction of willingly given submission— is enough to make the thought interesting.

Hm. Maybe. Maybe, maybe. Not tonight, or anytime soon, but maybe .

The Uber pulls up then. The guy who leans to look out the window looks American, but his
Japanese is fluent when he calls out to them. "Are you Ranpo-san?"

Grabbing Shuuji by the sleeve of his coat, Ranpo pushes him forward first. He goes easily,
stumbling slightly under the force but not protesting. He has to nearly fold himself in half to
get into the tiny car, grumbling to himself and nearly hitting his head on the door frame.

Waiting until he slides over to give Ranpo enough room, he follows him in and shuts the door
behind them.

“I hope you don’t mind American music?” The driver asks, pulling away from the curb
without hesitating. The interior of the car is clean and smells nice.

Shuuji looks like he might throw up soon. Ranpo gestures for him to roll down the window at
least. He’s not paying if Shuuji pukes in the car.

“No, I don’t mind,” he says, buckling in. Shuuji waves a hand, which is probably as good an
answer as the driver is going to get when the kid is pushing his forehead against the cool
window and taking in deep, rhythmic breaths.

“Great!” The American says, reaching over to fiddle with the center console. They don’t
really get too many American music stations here in Japan, but the man has his phone
connected so he’s able to choose a song.
And when it starts to play, Ranpo can’t up his amused grin when he recognizes the opening
riff. Karma or coincidence, this is just outright funny .

Leaning over to nudge Shuuji with his shoulder, he asks with a sly grin, “Do you know
English?”

He would assume he does, given that he probably has gone to the best schools ever since he
was a child, and the Japanese school system is very insistent on teaching English as a second
language. But it just depends on how well he’s kept up with it.

“Not while I’m drunk,” Shuuji admits, pressing his cheek to the glass. He looks marginally
better, but he squeezes his eyes shut when the driver takes a turn too-quickly.

That’s a shame because—

“Stacy’s mom has got it going on.”

— the song that’s playing is hilarious.

And Shuuji doesn’t seem to recognize it at all, too busy taming the nausea. Ranpo hums
along with the beat, grinning.

Thankfully, Ranpo doesn’t live too far away. It’s only two stops away by station and the
traffic gods seem to be smiling upon them, because it only takes the length of half-a-dozen
songs before they’re pulling up to his apartment complex.

The second one Ranpo doesn’t recognize, but the third one? ‘Guys My Age’ by Hey Violet.

Which is such a genre change that Ranpo would normally be off put by it— he doesn’t
usually enjoy American music anyways— but the message of it has him snickering under his
breath nearly the entire car ride.
The driver looks at him like he’s crazy, and Shuuji makes confused noises under his breath,
but Ranpo ignores them both.

Life really is funny, sometimes. Especially when it’s at other people’s expense.

By the time Ranpo and Shuuji get dumped out of the car outside Ranpo’s complex, Ranpo is
in a good mood.

Is this what he had planned for the evening? No. Is this better and more entertaining than his
original idea of getting tipsy and going home alone? Oh yeah.

“Aren’t you a detective? Why do you live in such a shitty place?” Shuuji mutters, staring
blearily up at his complex.

Ranpo isn’t offended by that, because he’s right. It is a shitty place, all things considered.

It’s a tall, rundown complex in the poor district. The walls are crumbling in some places, and
the fence surrounding the place is rusty and old. Some of the windows are boarded up, and
others have been thrice-replaced. The locks are the only thing that are new and modern,
because Ranpo replaces them whenever there’s a break in. There’s trash littering the floor,
and the stray dogs and cats like to eat out of the nearby dumpster.

In all senses of the word, this place is shitty.

But when Ranpo was fresh off the streets, it seemed like the height of luxury. And now that’s
he’s better, in a better place with actual money and friends and a career and a life—

He can’t make himself let go of this last remaining shred of home.

His first home, since his parents died.

“You know what they say,” Ranpo says, whimsical, leading the way up the dirty concrete
steps. “Home is where the heart is.”

Shuuji shrugs, taking that as his answer gracefully.

The outer door is opened easily with a key Ranpo keeps in one of his pockets. Shuuji
stumbles in, bracing himself on the concrete wall.

The interior is mostly clean, if usually devoid of life. Not many people linger in the hallways
outside, too wary to take a chance.

Ranpo lives on the third floor, in the middle, and he ends up pushing and prodding Shuuji up
the steps in front of him. The stairs are uneven and dangerous even when sober, and he
doesn’t want Shuuji to fall backwards.

By the time they make it to his door, Shuuji is muttering incoherently under his breath
grumpily. Hopefully he’s not being loud enough to wake all his neighbors. Everyone around
here are light sleepers, and Ranpo hasn’t brought anyone home ever, for that exact reason.

In this instance, Shuuji is his first. One of the very few people Ranpo has let know where he
lives, and one of the only ones that will see the inside of his tiny one-bedroom apartment. He
wouldn’t say he’s nervous, but he does fumble with his keys once.

When the door opens for them, Shuuji follows him inside easily enough. He’s trying to be
quiet, he can tell, but his shoulder bumps noisily against the door frame and he nearly takes
out the small desk standing just around the corner on the inside.

Ranpo grabs him by the back of the coat, forcibly steadying him. He just cleaned his house,
and he’s not about to clean it again because Shuuji knocked over everything.
Inside, it’s cramped. Every inch of space is covered with something , and there’s so many
colors and shades it’s hard to get a grasp on what everything is at first glance. Ranpo likes to
collect things that interest him, and once he brings it home it’s hard to convince himself to
throw it away. He likes to collect pretty and interesting things, whatever catches his attention.

"Bathroom," he says, pushing Shuuji in that direction. It's the only other room in the house.
His bedroom is more of a closet that fits only his bed and a tiny nightstand in it.

The lighting in here is dim, but it's just enough to get by.

"Sit," Ranpo orders, pushing Shuuji in the direction of the stool in the corner. There's a first
aid kit under the sink, just stocked enough for Ranpo to care for most of his injuries at home.

He hates hospitals. A leftover relic from his past life.

Besides, he's not about to let Shuuji get dried and gross blood over his futon. Blood takes
forever to wash out. "Unwrap the bandages."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shuuji jolt into action at the command. He's fumbling
and not kind to his injury, ripping off the bandages harshly whenever it sticks to the skin.
Idiot is probably going to make himself bleed again.

He tosses the dirty bandages in the trash. They fall a little short, and Shuuji has to lean
forward and shove them fully into the bin while making a face at having to touch them again.

The injury underneath isn't as bad as it could be. He's seen dogs take chunks out of people's
arms, but this one looks bad mostly because it's been neglected. It doesn't even look like it
was properly cleaned. Like Shuuji just wrapped his arms in bandages to stop the bleeding,
and called it a day.
It's like he's asking to get an infection.

"This is gonna hurt," Ranpo mutters, taking one of his bath towels and getting it wet with
lukewarm water.

With firm fingers to keep Shuuji from jerking away, he tilts his arm so it's facing the light.
He's marginally more gentle when he wipes away the dried blood and scabs.

There's four punctures, two on the top of his forearm and a matched pair along the bottom.
Fang imprints. They're not deep enough to need stitches, but they do need to be cleaned
properly, or he'll wind up with an infection.

Ranpo does take a sadistic pleasure in doing that for him, dumping hydrogen peroxide on
them to clean any bacteria from the bite and holding Shuuji still as he whines and wiggles
and tries to tug his arm away.

"Don't be a baby," he tells him, taking some antibiotic cream and smearing it over the deepest
parts.

"You're torturing me! That hurts worse than the bite itself," Shuuji wails dramatically,
slumped against the wall and looking at him pitifully. His eyes are shiny, wet with reflexive
tears.

"Healing always hurts, dumbass," he responds, making sure he's satisfied with the injury
before slapping on some Band-Aids over it.

He doesn't cover it with gauze. He likes Shuuji better when he doesn't look like a
reincarnated version of his father. All young and bruised and destined for greatness.

Or destined for death.

In the mafia, sometimes those meant the same thing.

"You're done," Ranpo announces, turning around to clean up all the items he'd pulled out of
his pack. Because of how cramped his bathroom is, that leaves his back pressed right up
against Shuuji. He can see him in the mirror, a dark spot in the otherwise dingy white of his
bathroom.

"Are you gonna at least kiss it better?" Shuuji grumbles, giving him a hopeful look. He's
taken his jacket off, and it's draped across his lap. His undershirt is a dark red, clinging to his
chest.

Ranpo snorts, shoving his first aid kit back underneath the sink. "No," he says, "I don't kiss
drunk injured boys in my bathroom. Try again later."

Shuuji looks sad for a moment, and then he perks back up. "So I can try again later?"

Ah, so hopeful.

Ranpo doesn't answer that, choosing instead to pad out of the bathroom with a sly smile.

There's a small storage closet near his 'bedroom', and that's where he keeps all his stuff he
doesn't need or use on a regular basis. Coats, extra blankets, and his spare futon.

It's a little dusty when he unrolls it, but it'll be fine for the night. He'll just cover it up with a
blanket, and it'll be as good as new. "You can sleep here tonight."

Shuuji looks at the threadbare futon with a hint of disgust, but doesn't say anything. His shoes
get kicked off and placed near the door. His jacket gets shoved under a nearby desk.

It's only when he's popped the button on his jeans and has his thumbs hooked into his
waistband that he seems to realize that Ranpo hasn't actually left.
"Are you just gonna stand there and watch?" He asks, offering him a cheeky grin. Teasingly,
he snaps his waistband against his hips.

With the way his shirt is pulled up, Ranpo can see the outline of his hips. He's skinny more
than toned, but there is a dusting of dark hair leading down that catches his attention. He
arches an eyebrow at him, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "Why, do you have
something to hide?"

"No," Shuuji says, not looking away as he shimmies his jeans a little further down his hips.
"But I usually sleep naked, and I don't think you have any clothes that would fit me."

That's a bold assumption. Ranpo actually has a pair of oversized sweats and sweater for when
he's feeling under the weather but—

Shuuji doesn't need to know that, does he?

"You're probably right," Ranpo concedes, letting his mouth curl into a sharp, teasing grin.

He doesn't move to leave. He's giving him a challenge.

After a moment, Shuuji shrugs and keeps undressing. He leaves the underwear— tight-cut
briefs in navy blue that leave very little to the imagination and outlines his butt cutely— on
for now, pushing down his jeans until he can reach down and pull them off by his ankles. He
leaves his socks on.

His thighs are toned, slim. Ranpo can see the slight ripple of muscle there when he
straightens back up, hands going to the buttons on his shirt.

He'd look cute in thigh highs, Ranpo muses, or maybe a garter belt. Something cute, to
embarrass him. Ranpo would love to see him in pink. He'd probably hate it, be all squirmy
and blushy and maybe try to cover himself up—

But he'd do it. Ranpo would bet on it.

Shuuji's fingers fumble a few times on the buttons, and he has to break eye contact so he can
look down and see what he's doing.

Ranpo's lips twitch. Poor baby can't hold his drink.

Cute.

Eventually the shirt gets completely discarded, but whatever suave, sensual energy Shuuji
was going for is obliterated when the sleeve gets caught on his hand and he has to flap his
arm around a few times to get it off.

Then he's mostly naked, with only the black boxer briefs to cover him and Ranpo allows
himself the opportunity to look.

He was right-- Shuuji is skinny, but not unattractively so. He's got a dusting of dark hair on
his chest and between his hips. He's pale, and could use a few hours in the sun somewhere.
His collarbones are sharp, regal. Elegant, almost.

He's not bad, but he could use some work. A little bit of feeding, an improved workout
routine so he can finally fill out his body instead of looking like a gangly teenager—

But it's like Ranpo said— he doesn't kiss drunk boys, and especially not for the first time. Not
when they aren't in the right mind to consent.

And not before Ranpo has given them a chance to work for it.
Giving Shuuji one last hot glance over, smirking slyly at the way he practically preens under
the attention, Ranpo turns around and heads into his room. "Good night."

There's a strangled noise from behind him that sounds like frustration, but he soundly ignores
it. He shuts the door on Shuuji, using his makeshift lock on the door to ensure that the little
brat doesn't do anything sneaky, like try to crawl into his bed while he's sleeping.

It's not quite the doghouse (Ranpo lied about that, actually, none of his neighbors have a
doghouse) but he knows that the futon has to be too short for Shuuji, because it's the perfect
size for himself.

Also, the blankets he gave him suck. They're scratchy and itchy compared to the luxuriously
soft and fluffy ones Ranpo keeps in his bed.

Payback, for being a brat. Puppies sleep on the floor when they're naughty.

Still, this sleep is probably the best Ranpo's gotten in a while. He tells himself it's not because
there's someone else in his home with him.

He just never got used to sleeping alone, that's all.

 Lace
Chapter Summary

They’re gross and sweaty, and sticky. Chuuya’s pretty sure both of their clothes are
ruined by cum and lube. But it’s also warm. Not just in a physical way, but in an internal
way. One that fills up his chest with sun glow and firelight, making him feel light as air.

One that makes it impossible to fight back a fond smile as Dazai eventually urges him
up and cleans him off. One that takes note of the achingly gentle way Dazai peels the
lingerie off him, and the careful way he unclips the leash. One that feels like it soars
when Dazai brings him lunch on the balcony and the book he needs to read for class, so
he can study and eat while soaking up the sun.

Chapter Notes

Hey everyone :) Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter! I appreciate it a
lot :) My grandmother, whom I was fairly close with, died recently and it has affected
me quite a bit. I have been dealing with several family issues, increased work load and
responsibilities, as well as celebrating my first birthday away from home and family. It's
been hard, so I hope you can understand why I've been struggling with writer's block
and lack of motivation. However! I will do my best to get another chapter out before
Saturday, as well as the regular Saturday chapter, so we will be all back up to speed. I'm
starting to feel better now, and I'm ready to get back into the swing of things :) I hope to
see you all soon! :)

This chapter DOES include the usage of a safeword. It's not a rough/violent use, but it is
there, in case you would like to skip this chapter.

Sometimes, it amazes Chuuya to recognize how far he's come and how much he's matured in
the last few weeks.

For instance, if he had been staring at the logo of this store a few weeks back, he'd be red
with embarrassment and walking quickly away. The idea of going in would've never occurred
to him.
Now, he's just arching a brow at Dazai in silent question, wondering why they're here in
person instead of browsing the online store. From what he says, the online portion had way
more options, and customizable ones too.

Dazai curls his fingers at him, beckoning him closer. For once, they've managed to park near
the store itself, and it's barely a block of walking to get here.

Because it's impossible not to come when Dazai calls, Chuuya steps forward. He fits himself
into Dazai's side naturally, shoulders sliding under his arm.

"Why didn't we just shop online?" He grumbles quietly, allowing Dazai to pull him closer
towards the store.

It's been four days since the incident— which is how Chuuya is referring to it now, because
'the day I nearly got ran over and knifed' feels too visceral— and they had the collar
conversation last night.

Well, maybe calling it a conversation is a bit generous. Chuuya barely got through ‘I was
thinking about what you said about getting me a collar, and I think I'd really like one—’
before Dazai was rolling over him like a storm, pinning him to the mattress and kissing him
breathless and making him cry .

In a good way. In a I'm-going-to-be-very-sore-tomorrow kind of way. And he is sore, in a

very good way, that makes satisfaction thrum through his bones.

Then Dazai barely let him sleep in— sue him, Chuuya is using all his sick days for class and
soaking up the luxury of being able to sleep in until noon-- because the store he wanted to go
to opens at 10a.m.

It's not like Chuuya can protest, because he has to go back to class tomorrow, and he'd never
give up an opportunity to spend more time with Dazai. Even if that means suffering a little
embarrassment, because this is another adult store. It’s even bigger than the first one Dazai
took him to.
He doesn't even know the name, because the building is unmarked and unassuming. He
wouldn't even know there was a store here if it weren't for Dazai.

"Online is fun," Dazai concedes, fingers playing with the end of Chuuya's braid. He tugs on it
occasionally, prompting Chuuya to pinch at his side in retaliation. "But I prefer to look at
things like this in person. Check the quality of it. Besides, it's much quicker if I have to make
a return.”

Chuuya can't argue with that logic, pausing with Dazai as the man reaches to open the door
for them both. But it does bring up another question, one that makes slight insecurity coil in
his stomach. "Have you bought collars for other people before?"

It's not like Chuuya can fault him if he did— though Dazai has never mentioned anyone
special or any previous relationships, beyond Sasaki— but he can't help feeling a bit insecure.
He knows Dazai likes him but...

There's better people out there. Older, more experienced, smarter, more beautiful. Someone
who deserves to be spoiled the way Dazai spoils him, and didn't stumble into it the way he
did.

He doesn't try to indulge those thoughts, because the more he thinks about it, the harder they
are to ignore, and the guiltier Chuuya feels because it feels like he's dismissing Dazai's
feelings whenever he doubts himself.

It's hard sometimes, being in a relationship. It's worth it, obviously, but it doesn't cure the
problems Chuuya has with himself. It doesn’t fix the fact that he’s always felt like he lags
behind everyone else his age, like he should be better than he is.

As always, Dazai pushes into the building first, holding the door open for Chuuya to follow
behind. He's always been strangely insistent that he needs to be the one to enter a building
first. Chuuya hardly notices it now though, automatically waiting until Dazai tilts his head to
usher him in.
"Mm," Dazai hums, seeming to think about it for a moment. "Nope. You're my first, little
siren."

That makes Chuuya's heart skip a beat, heat rising in his face. Dazai's been so many of his
firsts, and the idea of being one of his firsts too makes him ridiculously giddy.

(It's not technically the truth, because Dazai has bought collars for general use, but this is the
first time he's bought a personalized one for someone. The first time he's bought something
so... meaningful for someone he's in a relationship with.

He's terribly excited. His mind has been spinning with ideas and options ever since Chuuya
admitted he wanted one, and he knows Chuuya is supposed to pick it out himself, and
obviously his opinion matters but—

God, there's so many Dazai wants to see him in. Pretty, subtle ones, ones with attachments for
leashes, one with a tag on it, colored ones, one that says Daddy and slut—

If he's not careful, and if Chuuya is willing, they'll probably end up with a whole collection.)

Inside the store is...

Well, it's classier than the last adult store, but not by much. The front part is arranged with
shoes and knick-knacks, but behind that, Chuuya can see a big array of toys. He even
recognizes most of them, this time.

To their left is the reason why they came to this store specifically, nearly an hour away from
Dazai's house:

Collars. Whole shelves of them, displayed in shelves and on hooks, on the walls. Dozens of
them, in different colors and shapes and sizes.
It's a bit daunting, if he's honest, because how is he supposed to choose? Is it like fashion,
and he just picks the one that is most practical and appeals to him the most? One that's more
subtle, so he can wear it more often?

More bold?

If there's a rulebook for picking which one he wants to wear, Dazai didn't give him one. He's
not sure there even is one, and the idea of floundering without any idea of what he’s supposed
to be doing makes anxiety curl low in his stomach.

Dazai makes nice with the shop owner for a bit, making conversation that's familiar enough
that it hints that he's a repeat customer. Makes sense, considering he's got a collection of toys,
and this store is even bigger and better stocked than the one in Osaka. Dazai probably funds
the store by himself, with the rate he spends money and buys things.

By himself, Chuuya wanders over to the collars section and just...

Takes it all in. Takes in the different styles and colors, and pauses at whichever ones catch his
attention.

Some of them are way too bold for him right now, with big metal rings attached and chains
dangling from them, or with big metal letters along the front. They're appealing in a way , but
Chuuya thinks he wants something subtle for his first collar. More akin to a choker, which is
something he wears semi-often anyways.

He's not ready for something so obvious and eccentric, and he does want to be able to wear
his new collar in public if he wants to, without feeling like he’s putting his entire sex life on
display. He needs to work up to something like that.

Along the back left, is where the more subtle pieces are. There's not as many, but enough for
him to have a choice of options.
There is one that immediately catches his eye. It's a light pink, light enough that it could be
white in certain lighting, and it's made of simple leather. The only decoration on it is a small
heart in the middle, made of metal. It has an adjustable latch on it, with a few holes so he can
choose the size he wants.

It's cute, subtle and could be passed off as a choker. It's also small enough that it could be
tucked under the collar of his shirt without anyone noticing. Small enough that he could sleep
with it on, and not be bothered.

(He will sleep in it. Will wear it everywhere and would even shower with it on if he could.

In fact, there's only one instance where he takes it off with no intention of putting it back on
and—

That's a much sadder story than the one of him getting the collar. It will be the worst day of
his life.

But that's the thing about broken clocks and burnt-out timers:

Most of the time, they can always be fixed. Restarted.

Tik, tok, Dazai. You're running out of time.)

He takes it off the shelf, weighing it in his hand. It feels nice, pleasantly heavy and smooth in
his grip. A weight he could get used to, but one he can feel .

"That one?"

Dazai's voice comes from behind him, startling him. He whirls around, clutching his hand to
his chest as his heart leaps in fear-response.
Dazai's standing just behind him, hands hidden behind his back. He's got a sneaky smile on,
but before Chuuya can even narrow his eyes in suspicion, he's gesturing with his chin at the
leather still in his hand.

"I like it," Chuuya says, feeling oddly defensive as he presses the collar to his chest. "It's
cute."

Dazai nods, offering him a bright smile. "It is cute," he agrees. "Do you want to try it on?"

Oh, yeah, he should probably do that, right?

There's a mirror floating around head-level on a shelf a few feet away. He moves over there,
reaching behind to flip his braid upwards so he can slide the collar around his neck.

It cinches in the back, so it's a bit difficult to buckle up with only one person. He has to turn
the entire thing around so he can see the buckle in the mirror, and then slide it back around
once it's tightened.

Dazai follows him over to the mirror, but doesn't offer to help. He's rocking back and forth on
his heels and watching avidly, but his hands remain firmly behind his back.

Chuuya has to adjust the collar a few times before the little metal heart is resting comfortably
over his Adam's Apple. It's loose enough that he can breathe comfortably, and just tight
enough that he can feel it's presence around his neck whenever he moves.

It's like a choker, but with more meaning . It's like having Dazai's hand wrapped lovingly
around his neck, all the time. A reminder and a promise, even when they're not physically
together.
It's also subtle enough and so lightly pink that he can match it to almost every outfit he can
think of.It's perfect. He likes it a lot.

He meets Dazai's eyes in the mirror, opening his mouth to tell him that this is the one he
wants—

When he notices that Dazai's hands are still behind his back. He narrows his eyes, squinting
at him suspiciously. "What's behind your back?"

Dazai shifts in place a little, intentionally widening his eyes to make himself cuter and harder
to resist. "Just... hear me out, okay?"

Chuuya doesn't agree to anything , watching him in the mirror as he takes his hands out from
behind his back and presents to him—

A hanger, with sheer, lacy white lingerie hanging from it. It's strappy, ethereal. Sexy.

Dazai holds the hanger just underneath his chin, giving him his best puppy eyes.

It's hard to resist when he looks like that. Chuuya can already feel himself beginning to
crumble, even though he had never considered wearing lingerie.

"Please?" Dazai asks, voice sweet and pleading. Then, as if the idea will help to convince
him, he points out, "It matches the collar."

It doesn't exactly, considering the collar is pink and the lingerie is white, but he can respect
how hard Dazai is trying to convince him.

Stepping forward, he takes one of the straps in hand. It's cute, he has to admit. Just strappy
enough that it doesn’t seem too feminine and instead more sexy . There’s straps that would
hug his hips and thighs and waist, all places that Dazai likes to hold.
However there is a bra section, and while Chuuya isn’t necessarily opposed to wearing
something like that on his chest but he doesn’t have breasts. His pecs are defined, but not that
much. Wouldn’t it look weird with the loose fabric?

“Do you think it’ll fit?” He asks, tugging on the trap that would hug his waist. He’s not
exactly proportionated like a woman, even though he is still pretty small.

“It’s the smallest they have,” Dazai responds, moving to show him a buckle on one of the
straps. “And it’s adjustable. It’ll fit.”

Dazai does know his size pretty well, so he’s probably right. It looks about his size anyways,
but it’ll probably need to be adjusted around his hips and thighs especially.

“You want me to wear this?” He asks, just to make sure. It’s obvious but—

He never thought about wearing something like this, especially for someone else, and it’s a
little hard to reconcile with. Whenever he saw lingerie before, it was on women, and while
some pieces were aesthetically pleasing, he was never attracted to the image itself.

Though, he’s not sure he has the body type to pull something so revealing off, but Dazai
looks like he might drop to his knees and beg him to put it on.

“Yes,” Dazai responds immediately, voice hopeful.

“For you?”

Dazai nods, looking very close to an excited puppy. Minus the ears and tail.
“I don’t know,” Chuuya hedges, playing into his instincts to tease and play. He’s interested
but he still needs to be convinced. “What’s in it for me?”

It’s almost shocking how fast Dazai can go from his boyfriend—silly, playful, sweet, a little
stupid— to the man who dominates him on a regular basis.

“Oh, baby,” he practically purrs, reaching out with one hand to hook a finger underneath the
leather of his collar. He tugs, pulling him closer and forcing Chuuya to tilt his chin back and
rise up on his toes.

Forcing him to meet a gaze that is suddenly molten, nearly glowing with heat. So hot it feels
too warm to breathe, suddenly.

“I’ll fuck you so good you won’t even remember your name by the time I’m done with you.”

Chuuya shivers, lips parting. An electric thrill shoots down his spine, pooling in his stomach.
He is not immune to the idea of sexual favors.

Besides, Dazai has proven that almost everything he suggests turns out good for him. Mind-
bendingly good.

He’ll take a chance with this too, even if he does feel a little daunted by the idea of wearing
something... so overtly sexual.

“I’m not trying it on here though,” he mutters, swaying forward a little farther. He aches for a
kiss, even just a little one.

Dazai’s finger flips around, stroking the pad of his finger over his rabbiting pulse for a
second before sliding out. “That’s fine. I just want to get a few more things, and then we can
go.”
A ‘few more things’ being an obscenely huge bottle of something called ‘cum lube’—the
bottle is mostly covered by the label, but he can see some liquid that looks thicker and whiter
than regular lube—, a pack of batteries, what looks like some sort of toy he can put on his
tongue, and—

A leash . Made of silver chain, with a white leather strap on the end. It has a hole that Dazai
can slip his wrist into or wrap his fingers around.

Chuuya can barely even look at the cashier, even though he knows this is just a regular

day for her. She barely even looks twice at them, beyond taking down Dazai’s membership
information.

The man has a membership to a sex store . Chuuya hopes he gets discounts or something.
Maybe there’s a points system. ‘Buy 10,000yen worth of toys, get a vibrator free’ or
something.

The bag the cashier uses to put all their stuff in is discrete, a plain brown without any labels.
Chuuya is grateful, even though he’s pretty Dazai wouldn’t bat an eye at carrying a bag from
an adult store down the street in plain view.

If there’s anything Chuuya has learned, it’s that Dazai is shameless , at all times and hours of
the day. At least Chuuya acts decently in public.

Well, most of the time, anyway. The public play with Dazai notwithstanding, because he was
clearly coerced into doing that. Bribed.

Then Dazai is ushering him out the door, and for once, he seems just as eager to get home as
Chuuya is. Usually he likes to make him wait , to show off his skills of self-control and
patience by drawing out the anticipation as long as physically possible—

But now he's almost rushing, like he's so eager to see Chuuya dress up for him that he's
almost pushing him into the car to get him going faster.
It's amusing , to be on the other side, for once. Yes, he wants to try on the lingerie— wants to
get fucked, he's needy and addicted— but clearly not as much as Dazai wants to see him in it.

Chuuya eyes him as he's driving them home— five over the speed limit, which is a bit faster
than usual, but nothing that should get them pulled over— wondering...

He already said please once so—

Is this Chuuya's chance to make him beg? It's always been him begging so far, and don't get
him wrong, he likes that. He likes their power dynamic, likes how easy and effortless it is to
give into Dazai and let him take complete control—

But what would it be like on the other side? To have Dazai on his knees?

The mental image of that sends a thrill of excitement through him, making him take a sip of
the coffee they stopped to get to cover up his rising blush.

He wants it. He just doesn't know how to get it.

He's a lot more confident than he was in the beginning, and he recognizes that. However,
they've fallen into a natural order of things, where Dazai takes control and Chuuya submits,
and he doesn't know how to flip that without messing it up or making it awkward or killing
the mood.

The best course of action is probably just to talk about it. To tell Dazai that he doesn't mind
having some control sometimes, and that he wants to have power over him too, sometimes.

He makes a mental note to bring it up sometime. Not now, because this is the first time he's
doing something like this and he's already nervous. He wants the first time to go easy and
good, which means letting Dazai take control and show him what to do.
Next time, though. When he's a little more confident, and can work the situation to his
advantage.

When they finally arrive home— just under an hour later, because Dazai was speeding the
entire time--, Yoko and Kozo greet them at the door.

Chuuya feels bad that they didn't get them anything on their shopping trip, so he takes a
moment to feed them both a handful of treats to make up for it. Dazai gives their ears a quick
stroke before disappearing upstairs.

Anticipation swirls heavily in the air, gathering like sun rays swallowed easily down.
Sticking to his throat and lungs, pushing his blood to pump a little faster, a little heavier. He's
hyper aware of himself in a way he rarely is, cognizant of the sway of his hips and the way
his chest expands on a breath.

Part of him wants to draw it out, as revenge for all the times Dazai made him wait but—

He's addicted himself, and now that he knows what's waiting for him upstairs— "Oh, baby,
I'll fuck you so good you won't even remember your name." — how is he supposed to wait?

Patience has never been a virtue of his, despite his father's best efforts. If he wants something,
he wants it now, immediately. Self-denial is not one of his skills.

When he joins Dazai upstairs, the man is nowhere to be found. However, the door to the
bathroom has been left open. The light is on, the spill of warmth and brightness beckoning
Chuuya in.

There, spread out on the counter and waiting for him, are three things:
The choker, which he had to take off to buy and Dazai didn't let him put back on in the car.
The

leash, which is coiled up in a perfect circle, like that's supposed to make it any less dirty. And
the lingerie, taken off the hook and straightened until it's pristine and perfect against the black
marble.

Well. That's a pretty obvious sign, isn't it?

He shuts the door, making sure to lock it so that Dazai can't get a sneak peek before Chuuya's
ready.

Stripping his clothes off is easy, routine. He shaved and trimmed everything a few days ago,
before the incident , so he doesn't need to do that—

Though, now that he's considering it, wouldn't the lingerie look better if he had shaved legs?
It's not his legs are obnoxiously hairy, because he doesn't grow a lot of hair anyways, and
what hair he does grow on his body is a light orangey-blond, almost too faint to see but—

When he envisions wearing something like this , he imagines silky smooth skin. Sleek and
shiny and perfect.

Fuck it. Why not? It gives him extra time to prepare, and lets Dazai simmer in the meantime.

Shaving his legs is harder than he thought it'd be, actually. He has to hike his leg up onto the
counter with his knee pressed to his chest. He steals some of Dazai's shaving cream, because
he took a shower this morning and he doesn't want to take another one.

He ends up nicking himself three times, when he's trying to shave his knee— an awkward,
nearly impossible task— and near his ankle when he goes too fast. He's pretty sure he missed
a stripe of hair along his calf, and he doesn't know if he's supposed to shave behind his knee
or not, so he just doesn't.
It's fine. It doesn't have to be perfect. He just has to be presentable .

Dazai has some fancy lotion that Chuuya's pretty sure is imported from France or something,
and he slathers his legs up until he's slippery and shiny.

Then comes the real trial:

Putting on the lingerie.

Without it being on the hanger, it's hard to figure out exactly where everything goes. The
straps are confusing, and pulling it on is awkward because he has to adjust each part.

The built-in collar, he actually takes off entirely. There's a little hook that connects it to the
straps that run lengthwise down his body, and he hooks that to his brand-new collar instead.

Eventually, he gets it right, snapping all the pieces in place. Taking a breath, he looks at
himself in the mirror and—

Okay, yeah, he can definitely see the appeal to this.

The white color makes his hair and eyes pop even more. The straps over his hips and thighs
are just a little too tight, making the skin on either side bulge out a little in compensation. The
lace itself feels pretty nice against his skin, and once he's tugged the top down a little farther
than it's meant to go, his chest fills it up pretty nicely.

The underwear, on the other hand, is a bit uncomfortable. Clearly, this wasn't exactly built
with his bits in mind, so finding out the exact way to stretch the lace around his dick is hard.
Plus, it's a thong in the back, which admittedly does make his butt look very nice but it's a
little uncomfortable to get used to? Like having a wedgie, but smaller and constantly.
Still, though, the visual makes up for every ounce of awkward fumbling. He's hot . Pretty.
Ethereal. Like something out of a magazine.

And this is all before Dazai has seen him. He's probably going to lose his mind and rock his
world as soon as he does. He promised, after all, and Dazai always keeps his promises.

It's that thought that gives him the bravery to take the leash— untouched so far— and unroll
it. It takes him a second to clip it onto the metal heart ring at the front of his collar.

Then—

There's nothing left to do but to go out into the room. He's shaved and lotioned, and touched
up his makeup. He's dressed, collared, leashed.

Time to shine.

Taking a deep breath, he throws open the door.

The light in the bedroom is comparatively darker than in the bathroom, so he has to blink a
few times until his vision adjusts.

The first thing he sees is Dazai, sitting in the armchair by the bed. He's leaning forward
slightly, phone forgotten in his hand as he devours him with his gaze. With how dark it is, his
eyes look pitch black, endless pools of darkness that entice him further in.

Chuuya strikes a pose in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame and cocking his
hip to the side. His fingers find the end of the leash, swinging the leather at the end in slow,
cocky circles. "Like what you see?" He purrs, fluttering his lashes and letting his lips curl
into a self-confident smile.
How could he be anything less than confident when Dazai's staring at him like that? Like he
might eat him alive, like nothing is more important to him at this moment than Chuuya. Like
he's been knocked off-center, and his self-control is fraying at the edges.

"Yes," he responds, voice dark and throbbing, curling out of the darkness, "I do. You're
beautiful, doll."

Chuuya preens under the attention, arching his back and tilting his hips forward.

Dazai raises a hand, beckoning with long, elegant fingers. "Come here, lovely."

Eager, Chuuya goes to take a step forward—

"No," Dazai interrupts, voice darkening. "I want you to crawl for me."

Chuuya falters, hesitating. That's not what he was expecting at all. It makes him pause—

But something about how self-assured and sinful Dazai's voice is, like sweet red wine and
dark chocolate, makes his knees start to buckle in response. Whiskey-brown eyes flash at him
in the darkness, approving as his knees hit the floor. His hands follow next, cold wood
against his palms.

"There you are," Dazai says, low. "Come here."

He settles back in his chair with that, spreading his thighs in invitation. He's changed into
slacks that seem too formal for home wear but are perfect for this exact moment.

He's even wearing shoes, shiny and clean.

The first reach forward with his hand feels less like a conscious decision and more giving
into instincts. Accepting all the heat that Dazai ignites within him, all the desires, all the filth
and sin and debauchery at the talented hands of one man.

His knee follows naturally, spine rolling sensually. The chain of his leash drags along the
floor loudly, nearly getting caught up beneath his legs. Making sure he doesn't kneel on it
when he's trying to sink into the mood of what's happening is annoying.

He could hold the chain in one hand to make sure it stays out of his way, or he could—

Pausing for a moment, he looks up at Dazai through his lashes. The man is staring him
down,

like an arrogant king watching him approach, all sharp eyes and sharp smile, teeth glinting
like treasure in the low light.

Without breaking eye contact, Chuuya finds the end of the chain where it connects into the
strip of white leather—

And brings it to his mouth. The chain is cold in his mouth, hard against his teeth.

It has nothing on the way the sight of Dazai's hands tightening on the arms of the chair,
digging his nails in like he's fighting against the urge to reach out and drag him closer, jaw
clenching around the things he wants to say—

The next step, back rounding and then arching in a sensual roll of movement, is even easier
than the first. He's only a few feet away now, every step bringing him closer, dragged into the
orbit of a dying star and set afire to burn alongside.

Another step. Another.

Coincidentally, or perhaps on purpose, Dazai's knees are spread just wide enough for him to
settle between. Room enough for him, and nothing else.

He comes to his knees there, wrapping one hand around Dazai's ankle. The other slides up his
thigh, silently fawning over the bunched muscle. He presses his cheek against the inside of
his knee. The material of his slacks is pleasantly rough against his skin, sweet friction after so
long of aching to be touched.

Dazai's hand comes down and Chuuya feels almost like a cat , pushing into the fingers that
stroke over his cheek with almost loving gentleness.

“Look at you,” Dazai murmurs, almost to himself. “So beautiful. Pretty and perfect and
eager.”

He is eager. He’s already starting to harden in the panties, just from the attention and the
sheer dominance Dazai radiates like an oncoming storm. The lace is rough, slightly grating
against sensitive skin and the sensation makes him squirm in place.

Fingers wrap around the chain hanging from his mouth, gently tugging it free. Chuuya lets it
go without complaint, mouth opening for Dazai at the slightest pressure.

Dazai’s hands look like they were made to hold a leash, elegantly wrapping the chain over his
knuckles and threading it through his fingers until the leash is taut.

His mouth gets coaxed open a little farther, just far enough that Dazai can push his thumb in.
The pad of his finger presses down on his tongue, silencing him and encouraging him to suck
in the same movement.

“The things I’m going to do to you,” Dazai muses to himself, eyes black. The chain wrapped
around his fingers presses against Chuuya’s cheek, slowly warming to skin temperature.
With a thumb in his mouth, Chuuya can’t say anything, but he doesn’t need words to express
how eager he is. He looks up at Dazai through his lashes, deliberately widening his eyes into
a pleading pout at the same time he hollows his cheeks and sucks.

Dazai's eyes seem to get redder as he gets excited, the bulge in his slacks slowly growing and
turning Chuuya into a heated mess. Being able to affect him, even when he's acting controlled
and dominating, is like a drug Chuuya can't get enough of.

Thumb hooking behind his teeth, Dazai tugs him upwards.

It's slightly awkward to shuffle upwards when he doesn't have that much leverage or room to
maneuver, but Chuuya manages it. He ends up with a knee on either side of Dazai's thighs,
suspended over his lap.

"Good boy," Dazai mutters, and uses the leash to tug him into a first, searing kiss.

This kiss is different from all the others before. For one, Dazai is teasing, slotting his upper
lip between Chuuya's, and nibbling lightly on his pouting bottom lip. He seems more intent
on driving him crazy than giving him what he wants.

Secondly—

Whenever Chuuya gets too into it, whenever he presses forward too hard or tries to catch
Dazai in a bite, hands pulling demandingly at his hair—

Dazai tugs on the leash until he's forced to submit to the pull, reluctantly going lax in his lap
and letting himself be kissed exactly how Dazai wants to kiss him.

Which is long, lingering, a reverent offering to the heat slowly coming to boil inside them.
It's only when Chuuya's lips are tingling and half-numb that his tongue comes into play, the
tip of it sliding over sensitive flesh and making him gasp.
Then his tongue is in his mouth, and his fingers are threaded through the leash, and his other
hand is smoothing up his thigh. He's burning hot underneath him and coaxing him into
mindless desire.

Every tug on the leash is arousing, a physical reminder of the control Dazai has over him. He
doesn't need the leash to order him around, because he likes being good, but there's
something so visceral about being physically pushed and pulled around.

Like he's helpless, unable to do anything except take what's given to him and moan for more.

Dazai's thumb slides under one of the straps on his thigh, stroking over the soft skin of his
inner thigh. His hands are rough with use, calloused from work, and talented. His fingers are
long enough that they wrap nearly the width of his thigh, squeezing and kneading at his flesh
until his breath is catching in his throat.

His leash gets pulled, forcibly tugging him backwards until the kiss is broken. Chuuya leans
backward to compensate for the pull, reaching one hand back to brace himself on Dazai's
knee.

"I like when you're all dressed up for me," he murmurs, hand running up his thigh and over
the curve of his hip. It lingers in spots, tugging at the straps over his hips and waist, fingers
rubbing over the lace until Chuuya is nearly squirming from the sensation and beginning to
pant. "Do you like it?"

He does, actually, partly because he feels so... sexy in it. Irresistible, like a wet dream come to
life. Partly because he'd like almost anything if it made Dazai like this , all purring
dominance and sensual control, petting pleasure into him with every stroke of his fingers and
brush of his palm.

When Dazai makes a tsk'ing noise and tugs on him, Chuuya nods. He opens his mouth to
give a verbal answer, but he cuts himself off with a choked groan when his palm settles over
his straining erection.
He's still trapped in the panties, lace rough against his skin. Beyond it, the heat of Dazai's
palm is nearly scorching. The friction is rough, but Chuuya arches into the attention, rolling
his hips forward and letting his head tip back.

"I thought so," Dazai muses, tracing the outline of his cock with a teasing fingertip. When he
finds the slightly-wet spot where Chuuya is starting to leak pre-cum, he rubs the wet lace
over the sensitive slit mercilessly. “But now that you’re in it, how am I supposed to take it off
you, hm? How am I supposed to get you all messy when you look so pretty?”

As nice as being admired feels, makes heat swirl in his stomach, he needs more. Dazai
promised him.

He wiggles forward more, until he’s sitting directly over the bulge beneath Dazai’s zipper.
Dazai lets him, watching him with amused, heated eyes as Chuuya gets comfortable and finds
his balance. He rocks downward, grinding against Dazai's clothed erection until he's pulling
out a long, low hiss from the man.

He doesn't say please, though he will if Dazai wants him too. Instead he just lets him feel
him, the heat of his body behind the lace, the way his muscles move under the skin, the way
he seems made to fit in Dazai's arms, a perfect match.

Dazai's erection thickens underneath him, growing hotter, harder. Chuuya wants it so bad it
aches.

"I guess you're right," Dazai says, even though Chuuya didn't say anything. His hand, now
roaming over his chest and pinching at his nipples through the fabric, leaves for a moment,
reaching for the nearby table. "If we get this set dirty—"

By the curl of his mouth, the heat swirling in his eyes, and the bottle of lube he's pulling out
of the drawer, the erection he's currently grinding against—

Dazai plans on getting him very dirty, just the way Chuuya loves to be.
“—we'll just have to get you new ones, right?"

Surprisingly, Dazai hands him the bottle. It's the new bottle he just bought, the 'cum lube'.

He finds out why it's called that when he pops the cap on it and pours a generous amount into
Dazai's waiting palm. It's thick and milky-white. It smells artificial, like latex and rubber, but
it looks almost exactly like cum. When Dazai spreads it over his fingers, it looks almost
exactly the same way it does when Chuuya comes in his hand.

Except more. A lot more.

Still, the visual is shockingly hot. Lube itself doesn't do anything for Chuuya— it's just part
of the process. He likes it when it's flavored or smells nice, but he's never liked lube for itself.
It's always been about how good Dazai makes him feel with it, the knowledge that something
more is coming.

Now though—

Now it doesn't look like lube that Dazai spreads across his thighs as he reaches between his
legs. It looks like cum, his cum,marking him up in the most primitive way there is. Like the
way he likes to cum on Chuuya's face, the way he likes to come inside him, fill him up until
he can't take anymore.

It's easy to pretend, and it makes Chuuya's stomach clench when his fingers brush against the
underside of his ass. In this position, he has to lift one of his legs to give Dazai enough room
to worth with, but it also means he gets to feel his wrist work and flex underneath him as he
hooks one finger in his underwear and tugs it to the side.

Chuuya isn't exactly surprised, because he expected to be fingered open or maybe even
fucked while wearing the lingerie—
But it still feels filthy to be fucked in clothes, any clothes. Like they can't get enough of each
other, like they're so frantic with want that they can't even take the time to get their clothes
off before devouring each other.

And like this— Chuuya dressed up in pretty lace and straps, collared and leashed in Dazai's
lap, who is fully dressed in slacks and a silk button down with the sleeves rolled up—

They must make a sinful picture. Chuuya almost wishes he had a mirror, or a camera, just so
he could imprint this image in his mind forever. So he could revisit it again and again, admire
them both from all angles.

Dazai's fingers, wet with lube, slide over his entrance. They fuck so often that it feels
achingly familiar to have him rubbing lube over him in long, indulgent strokes. Like
something inside him was missing, and Dazai is offering him back that missing piece.

The leash gets tugged again, shocking Chuuya out of his breathless reverie. He's trembling,

hips rocking down into Dazai's every push. He denies him every time though, retreating
every time he gets close to pushing inside.

"Kiss me, puppy," he murmurs, tugging him forward again. His eyes are devastatingly dark,
lips wet and shiny in the low lighting. He looks almost like a shadow come to life, his darkest
and sweetest dreams come to drag him into the darkness.

The pet name has Chuuya blushing instinctively, but the command has him lurching forward
near-immediately. The bottle of lube gets discarded, forgotten in the space between their

bodies and the arm of the chair, in favor of filling his hands with dark, wavy hair.

Pulling on the strands isn't as satisfying as pulling on a leash would be, but he does it anyway.
In one motion, he's forcibly tilting Dazai's head back for a better angle, and the next, he's

surging forward and claiming him in a kiss.

Hot, deep, filled with frenetic energy and tingling-electricity. His tongue plunging into
Dazai's mouth, using his higher position and leverage to control the pace and depth of the
kiss—

Then Dazai smirks, and in the next second, he's driving his finger inside him on one brutal
slide. He gets to the second knuckle before Chuuya's body catches up with the sensation and
instinctively clenches down in reaction.

He almost breaks the kiss with a choked moan, but Dazai's pulling the leash tight, dragging
him close and not letting him move even so much as a centimeter away. His groan gets
muffled into his mouth, swallowed up.

"Shh," Dazai murmurs back, pausing to suck on his bottom lip in the same rhythm that his
finger is working deeper inside him. "Take it. You can do it; you always do it."

He can do it, of course, but Dazai is usually more gentle with him, at least in the beginning.
Like he's testing Chuuya's limits each time, and only when he finds them does he begin to
push past them slightly.

Now, it seems like he doesn't care for limits at all. Like he knows exactly how much he can
take, knows exactly where his limits lie and pulling out his finger and replacing it with two,
sinking into him with slow, relentless ferocity isn't pushing him, it's just giving him what he
needs. What he wants.

With the way they're sitting and the angle of his wrist, almost every brutal thrust of his
fingers grinds mercilessly against his prostate.

The near-constant stimulation, combined with the stretch and his erection rubbing against the
lace of his panties, and the way Dazai is still kissing him, swallowing his noises and pushing
his tongue inside his mouth on a sensual slide, a counterpoint to where his fingers are fucking
him—

It's all making him climb to the edge, so quickly that he's dizzy with it. He's clinging onto
Dazai's hair, fighting to ground himself in the overload of sensations. He's panting into his
mouth more than kissing him back, but it's hard to breathe when Dazai's fingers feel like
they're forcing the air out of him and replacing it with searing-electric pleasure.

Of course, it doesn't help that Dazai is still tugging on his leash every once in a while and
tightening the collar around his throat. Not enough to choke him, but enough that his breath
stalls out for a moment. Enough to remind him how much power and control Dazai has over
him, both physical and mental.

He owns him, in a way that Chuuya revels in. He knows exactly where to touch him, how to
kiss him, what to say to him to get the reaction he wants. Knows what he wants without him
having to say it.

Logically, Chuuya knows that they still have a lot to learn about each other—

But in moments like these, where he's full with his fingers, a wicked tongue in his mouth,
unable and unwilling to move, strung out on Dazai's lap like he was born to be here—

It's like none of that matters . The rest of the world fades away. It's just him and Dazai and
his

heart that's pounding so fast it feels like it might burst in his chest.

Dazai's ring finger curls, rubbing against his slick and stretched rim. He doesn't push in yet,
just teases at hyper-sensitive nerves as his fingers still inside him, splayed open and forcing
his inner muscles to stretch to accommodate.

Finally, Dazai allows him to break the kiss. Chuuya can't go anywhere with how hard his
thighs are trembling and how hungry the pit in his stomach feels. He ends up slumping
forward even more, chin hooking over Dazai's shoulder.

The position forces him to arch his back, pushing back into Dazai's hand. Knuckles catch on
his rim, just on the verge of too rough. Just enough that he clenches up in response, a bitten-
off moan escaping him.
"Yeah?" Dazai breathes in response, teasing. His cheek is pressed against his temple, the
perfect position for his breath to curl around Chuuya's ear. His breath is hot, humid. "You like
that, don't you?"

It's not so much a question as it is teasing, because obviously Chuuya likes it. Loves it, even.
There's still only two fingers inside him, with a third teasing at his rim, and he's still achingly
hard. Trapped in the lace underwear, which is starting to grow painfully tight, and pressing
intermittently against Dazai's clothed stomach, jostled forward every time his fingers thrust
inside him.

"I—," he starts, choking himself with a sharp inhale when the fingers inside him curl
inwards, finding his prostate and pressing in, applying constant and direct pressure. It's
enough to have his breath catching in his lungs and the trembling in his thighs increasingly
sharply. "I—."

He can't seem to get anything out because as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, Dazai is
moving again. Grinding his fingers in or spreading them wide, or pulling them back just to
slam forward again, over and over and over again in a rotating, senseless pattern until
Chuuya

feel like he's going to shake apart in his arms.

"What's wrong, baby? Don't you want to talk to me?" Dazai murmurs, blowing a breath
directly into his ear. His voice is teasing, smug and satisfying. He knows exactly what he's
doing to him and he's reveling in it.

Frustrated, and strung out with the teasing, Chuuya moves his head down and sinks his teeth
into his shoulder. It's not hard, considering he's biting through the shirt and he doesn't want to
make Dazai mad, he just—

He wants more, and Dazai is being mean to him. He's making it hard for him, on purpose.
He's enjoying stringing Chuuya along, like he always does, but now it's worse.
There's a sharp hiss of breath near his ear, then the leash is tightening so quickly that he
nearly chokes at the pressure of the collar around his throat. He's physically dragged off him,
pulled backwards until his hand flies backward on instinct to brace himself on Dazai's knee to
make sure he doesn't fall off his lap entirely.

"Is that any way to ask for what you want?" Dazai reprimands, fingers stilling inside him as a
form of punishment.

Chuuya opens his eyes, frustration and want boiling inside him in equal measures. He's so
close to what he wants, it's maddening. A third finger teasing at dipping inside him, the bulge
of Dazai's erection underneath him.

He's been good, he's been pretty and pliant, and he got all dressed up. He wants his reward.
Wants to be fucked into oblivion like Dazai promised.

He opens his mouth, but Dazai tugs on the leash again, unbalancing him enough that he lets
out a startled yelp. His other hand flies back, grabbing Dazai's other knee just in case. It's not
like he believes Dazai would let him fall, but he can't help the way his instincts flare and his
stomach drops when he wobbles.

"I think I changed my mind," Dazai muses. He's leaned back in the chair, relaxed, looking for
all the world like a king on his throne. Like he's unaffected by this whole thing, like having
Chuuya dressed up in lingerie and being knuckle deep inside him is just where he's meant to
be. Like this is just what he's owed.

Of course, the casual smirk on his face and relaxed posture is contradicted by the feel of how
hard he is, practically throbbing against his zipper. But if Chuuya weren’t pressed against the
physical evidence of his desire, he might not even know how much Dazai wants him.

"I think I want you to be quiet right now, baby. You aren't being very nice , and I want to give
you what you want. And you want it so bad, don't you?"

In the next moment, his fingers are retreating. They return quickly, this time all three
clustered together and pushing inside.
A heated, burnt-caramel gaze watches his expression carefully as his fingers sink into him
slowly and relentlessly. Every gasp, every flutter of his eyelashes, every twitch and tremble
gets carefully observed. His face feels on fire, and Chuuya can't tell if that's from the
stimulation or from the way Dazai is looking at him, like a delicious meal being prepared
right in front of him, like he's starving and about to devour him.

His fingers press in to the knuckle on one, deliciously long slide. It's slow enough that his
body has time to adjust, but he doesn't stop. Not until he's buried in as deeply as his fingers
will go.

The heel of his palm presses against his balls, almost-painfully. It makes his trapped erection
jerk, releasing another drop of pre-cum into the lace. A wet spot is rapidly forming,
something that should be embarrassing, but Chuuya isn't even thinking about that.

He's only thinking about how it feels to finally have three long, thick fingers buried inside
him. What it feels like as they flex and curl inside him, finding his most sensitive spots and
pressing against them relentlessly.

What it feels like to be one step closer to having what he really wants inside him. His body is
eager for it, muscles practically melting around Dazai's every push, bending so easily to his
will. Taking what's given to him easily and silently begging for more.

"You take me so well," Dazai murmurs, fingers flexing. His grip on the leash loosens, giving
himself enough room to drop down to his chest. His fingers find his nipple through the lace,
pinching it with almost cruel intensity. His nail digs in, until Chuuya is wavering somewhere
between pleasure and pain. The texture of the lace just adds more sensation on top of that.
"It's like you were made for me, little doll."

With the way he's purring those words, Chuuya can't help but agree. There's a pull between
them, like they're meant for each other. Like he was born to be here, shaped perfectly to take
everything of Dazai, like he was meant to be in his lap and in his arms.

He arches, grinding down onto his hand and into the fingers pinching at his nipple. "Yes," he
gasps, agreement or beg for more, he doesn't know.
It doesn't seem to matter anyways, because his voice is earning him another twist of his
nipple and the fingers inside him spreading wide. His fingertips slide over his prostate,
bracketing the very edges of it and teasing him with direct stimulation.

"Oh? You think you were made for me?" Dazai asks. His voice has slipped into something
low and hypnotic, throbbing. It wraps around him, playing over his nerves like clever fingers.

When Chuuya nods breathlessly, the loose chain slides over his chest. It's still slightly cool,
barely starting to warm up to skin temperature. The coolness in contradiction to how hot his
body feels makes him shiver in response.

"Made for my hands? My fingers?"

At the same time his fingers twist again inside him, the hand on his chest slides to the other
side. Fingers tug the lingerie down just enough to expose his nipple.

When he rolls it between two fingers, it's without the lace barrier. It's pure, electric sensation,
pushed into him with sharp nails and rough fingertips. It's carelessly good, like Dazai doesn't
care if he's being rough with him.

"Made for my cock?"

God , whenever Dazai curses, filthy words dripping from his lips like divine sin, it's almost as
good as being touched. Like the rumbling of his voice is translated directly into subtle
vibrations along every one of his nerve endings.

He keens, his only answer as Dazai's fingers begin to slide out slowly. He keeps them
splayed, stretching his rim to its limits and sparking painful-pleasurable zings of electricity
up his spine and down his thighs.
"I think so too, lovely," Dazai agrees, once again tightening his grip on the leash so Chuuya
doesn't jerk or move as his fingers slide out to the last knuckle. "Let's prove it, shall we?"

How? How is Chuuya supposed to do that? He can't think, can barely breathe past the feeling
of Dazai all over him, under him, in him—

With one last tug, his fingers are slipping out of him entirely, leaving him devastatingly
empty. Dazai's voie doesn't have the right to sound as sweet as it does as he says, "On the
floor, baby. Hands and knees."

Slightly confused, Chuuya blinks at him. That's not what he was expecting at all. He was
expecting to be dragged closer, to ride him in the chair. Being told to get off him makes his
foggy brain stall out.

When he doesn't move immediately, Dazai is flipping around his hand, making the leather
strip at the end slap his thigh. It makes a sharp noise, more loud than painful. The sound itself
is enough to startle Chuuya into action.

He's given enough slack to slide off his lap and onto the floor. His knees hit the floor first,
harder than he intended. There's not enough room at first, so he slides back slightly.

When his hands come down, he makes sure to arch his back temptingly, letting his ass sway
in the air. The lube smeared over his ass and starting to drip down his thighs is cold when
exposed to the air of the room.

"Good boy," Dazai says, rolling to his feet. He's huge from this angle, towering over him like
a giant. Chuuya is level with his knees, the toes of his shoes stepping perilously close to his
fingers. "But I think I want you lower, sweetheart. You'd look beautiful with your face on the
floor."

Chuuya hesitates again, this time a moment too long.

When Dazai's foot comes up, he's instinctively leaning backwards to avoid it. The leash
tightens immediately, taking away his escape route.

All he can do is watch— and safeword, if he wants, he knows that's an option, but he doesn't
want to— as the toe of his shoe finds his shoulder and begins to press down .

"Down, boy," Dazai commands, searing. The inherent degradation of being talked to like
that, like he's some sort of trained beast, like he exists to take orders—

It has his face flushing in embarrassment and shame. His arms buckle underneath the weight,
his face turning so his cheek presses against the cool wood of the floor.

Once he's in position, the shoe lifts off him. The leash loosens again, and Dazai moves
around the side of him. Like he's taking a stroll and admiring the view.

And Chuuya does have to admit to himself—

This does feel raw. Animalistic. Face down and ass-up on the floor, like he doesn't even get a
bed. He's collared and leashed, being talked to like a dumb, cute animal, being told he's a
good boy—

The feralness of it all, like their human civility has been stripped away and all that's left is
pure animal instinct, the throbbing need to fight and breed and bite, has Chuuya's head
turning foggy. His back falls even lower on instinct, presenting his ass even better , in the
hopes that Dazai will hurry.

He wants it. He needs it. He's ready for it.

There's a rustle of clothing as Dazai kneels behind him. He's warm, radiating heat even
though he hasn't undressed at all. A hand finds his ass, palming over soft skin and lacy
underwear. He squeezes one cheek, hand large enough that he can take nearly the entire thing
in his hand.
With his movement, the back of his underwear had slid back into place. Chuuya shudders
when a finger hooks around the strap and moves it aside again, just enough to give Dazai
access.

Behind him, there's another rustle, the achingly familiar sound of a zipper slowly being
tugged down.

"Made to take my cock, hm?" Dazai says, almost to himself. Another shuffle, and his cock
presses against Chuuya's ass. It's hot, hard, huge, and Chuuya is nearly drooling for it. It's so
close to where he wants it, only a few inches away.

"Let's find out."

Then the head of Dazai's cock is pressing against his entrance, pushing inside.

Three fingers is not exactly enough. Really, he needs four and without that—

The stretch is obscene. Dazai must've slicked up his cock at some point, because there's
absolutely no friction. Just a relentless, deep pleasant burning sensation as Dazai buries
himself deeper, centimeter by centimeter.

It's not like Chuuya can forget, but it's times and positions like this that remind him how big
Dazai is. Every inch of him feels alive, pulsing with heat and carving out a space for himself
in Chuuya's body. He's half-convinced he can't even take it, because it feels like he can't even
take a breath without feeling Dazai burning a hot line of satisfaction into his body—

But he can take it. He was made to take it, like Dazai said.

By the time Dazai's hips meet his ass, cock buried to the base inside him, Chuuya feels
mindless with it. There's incredible pressure, everywhere. The floor is hard beneath him, cool
against his cheek, and he swears he can feel Dazai in his throat . He swears he can feel him
pulsing inside him, sliding against his prostate on his way in.

One of Dazai's hands, the one with the leash still wrapped around it, comes to brace himself
on Chuuya's shoulder. The weight makes him crumble underneath him further, thighs
spreading and spine falling.

There's not an ounce of resistance left inside him. No more bratty attitude, no rebellion, no
frustration, nothing. Just pure, pleasurable acceptance, giving everything he is up to Dazai.

He doesn't need to think, he just needs to feel. And all he can feel is pressure and pleasure
and heat and electricity and—

"You're right, baby," Dazai groans, hips rocking forward like he's trying to get even deeper
inside him. "You were made for me. Feel so good around me, hot and wet and perfect for
me."

The words make Chuuya shiver, breath catching in his throat. Praise from Dazai feels like it
settles in his chest, a warm glow like sunlight filling every empty spot inside him. Like every
speck of anxiety or insecurity is being replaced, slowly but surely.

His body contracts on the resulting rush of pleasure, tightening up until he's pulling another
pleased hiss from Dazai.

He's barely given a few moments to adjust before Dazai is pulling out and starting up a
rhythm. It's slow at first, rocks of his hips that send shards of pleasure spiraling through him.

Each thrust pulls back a little farther, slams back in a little harder. Chuuya's fingers claw at
the floor, fighting to ground himself, fighting for anything to hang on to as Dazai fucks him
harder, faster, better—
He can hear Dazai groaning and muttering to himself above him, like he's so far gone he can't
control himself or what he says anymore. The rough, low growls send another round of
arousal thrilling up Chuuya's spine, spilling into his lungs like smoke and making him dizzy
with it.

It's good, so good Chuuya feels like he's free-falling, spiraling endlessly deeper into a liquid-
burning pool of pleasure. Every slam of Dazai's hips against him makes him hammer into his
prostate mercilessly before sliding past, burying himself to the base. The burning stretch has
faded away, leaving only a pleasant fullness that he can't escape from.

There's only one problem:

As ecstatic as being fucked like this is, face down on the floor like an animal—

It's starting to hurt.

The floor is unforgiving on his knees, digging into the joint painfully. With how ruthlessly
Dazai is fucking him, his knees slip forward and back a few centimeters on every thrust,
giving him the beginnings of friction burn.

To keep him from moving too much, Dazai is pinning him roughly by bracing his weight
over his shoulders, dragging him back into every slam of his hips. The man is heavy , pushing
on Chuuya's shoulders and neck until it's forced to bend almost too far.

He tries to relax into it, letting the pleasure override the discomfort. Tries adjusting his
position slightly, shuffling his knees forward. He pushes up with his arms, taking the weight
off his back but he can't hold it for long enough, and he keeps losing his balance.

It hurts and not in a good way. In a way that's slowly starting to ruin the pleasure, in a way
that he has to endure. He doesn't want to stop but—
He can't continue like this. They need to change positions, or Dazai needs to stop crushing
him, or something.

It takes some concentration to gather enough breath, trying to stifle his moans long enough to
speak. He licks his lips, gasping out, "Red."

It's the first time he's ever stopped their sex for any reason, and there is a slight sense of
shame and embarrassment in that, like he's wimping out—

But the way Dazai stops near-instantly, stilling completely and drawing back, soothes that
sense of inadequacy. Plus, the way his weight leaves him and the pressure disappears to allow
him to take an easy, unobstructed breath, is nothing short of relieving.

"What happened?" Dazai asks, the breathlessness of exertion still in his tone, accentuated by
concern. "Are you alright?"

Chuuya groans softly, rising to his elbows and stretching out his neck. It's only a little sore,
nothing that will linger. "I'm fine," he mutters, "but you were crushing me. And my knees
hurt."

It feels kind of ridiculous to be complaining of joint pain to someone who is almost twice his
age, but here he is. His knees have always been a bit achy compared to most people his age.

"Oh," Dazai says, sounding immensely relieved. He begins the process of pulling out slowly,
hands relocating to his hips to keep him in place. It also takes some weight off his knees. "Is
that it?"

"Yeah," Chuuya responds, shivering when Dazai slides out of him completely. It leaves him
feeling empty and hollowed out. The rampaging arousal inside of him has lessened but it's
not satisfied.
There's a rustling behind him as Dazai climbs to his feet— accentuated by the crack and pop
of his own knees, which makes Chuuya huff in amusement— and then arms are wrapping
around his waist and picking him up effortlessly. "Let's move this to the bed then."

It's only a few steps to the bed, where Dazai sets him on his back. His hands are gentle as
they

sweep down his hips and thighs. He supports the weight of his leg as Chuuya stretches out his
lower legs, flexing his knees and ankles until all the lingering pain has vanished.

It wasn't so much the position that made it hurt, but the fact that he was kneeling on
something

hard and unforgiving. He can keep going, if Dazai wants to keep fucking him doggy-style.

"Better?" Dazai murmurs, and the image he makes— fully dressed but with all his clothes
askew, cock out and still rock hard and glistening with lube, hair wild— is so contrasted with
how

concerned and caring he sounds that it almost makes Chuuya laugh.

He nods, taking advantage of their positioning to hook his ankle behind Dazai's thigh and tug
him closer. The move makes Dazai stumble closer, arms flying out to either side to catch his
weight.

"Do you need a break?" He asks, a small smirk curving his lips. He's leaning over him,
blocking out the light. Blocking out the rest of the world. "Or do you want to keep going?"

Instead of responding verbally, Chuuya flashes him a teasing grin and flips over onto his
belly. He wiggles up onto his knees, smiling to himself when Dazai automatically moves to
give him enough room.

The softness of the bed is perfect , cradling his knees and head as he stretches out, face down
and ass up, perfect for the taking.
There's a sharp inhale behind him. A hand finds his ass, palming one cheek, long fingers
digging in to give an indulgent squeeze.

Chuuya holds his breath, anticipation boiling up inside him as he waits for Dazai to fuck back
inside him—

"I have a different idea," Dazai says suddenly, the hand on his ass giving him a light spank.

"Move up."

Chuuya crawls forward, moving to the middle of the bed. There's a dip in the mattress behind
him as Dazai climbs onto the bed after him.

Instead of following Chuuya or moving him at all, Dazai stretches out lengthwise along the
bed. His back gets propped up against the headrest, cushioned by a few pillows. With swift
fingers, he unbuttons his shirt to expose the length of his torso, and shoves his pants down a
little farther.

Chuuya watches him over his shoulder, wondering what the hell he's planning.

When he's ready, Dazai reaches out and wraps his fingers around his ankle, tugging gently.
"Come here, sweetheart. You're gonna ride me."

Oh. Yes, Chuuya likes that idea. That's probably one of his favorite positions so far. Granted,
that might be because he's only ridden him once and that time was beyond good.

Eager, he crawls over and goes to throw his leg over Dazai's hips—

A hand on his knee stops him. He looks up, confused.

Dazai has an impish grin on his face. "Not like that," he says, gently guiding Chuuya into the
position he wants. "Like this."

Chuuya goes easily, following the subtle pushes of his hands as he guides him into turning
around and then throwing his leg over him. When Chuuya settles down, thighs spread wide to
fit Dazai in between, he's straddling him—

But backwards, facing his feet. Chuuya didn't even know it was possible to ride someone like
this, and the idea of it is a little daunting.

Plus, the idea of his ass in Dazai's face as he rides him feels exposed. He doesn't know why.
Dazai has seen his ass in plenty of positions, and he's always liked the sight of it.

Luckily, Dazai seems to sense his hesitation, and smoothly takes control of the situation. "Sit
up, baby. I want to watch."

A hand under his ass encourages him to lift up, giving Dazai enough room to reach
underneath him and grip the base of his cock. He lines himself up, pressing the head against
his rim and holding it steady.

"Down, baby," he says, a gentler, more sensual version of the command from earlier. His
thumb is hooked in the back of his underwear, holding it out of the way.

Shuddering, Chuuya begins the slow sink downward. He feels massive in this position, but
with all the prep and how he was already being fucked, it's a long, smooth slide all the way
down to the base, letting out a shuddering exhale of satisfaction when his ass comes to rest
against his hips.

He stays there for a moment, reveling in the feeling of being full , so full he feels complete,
overflowing. The insides of his knees rub against Dazai's slacks, the fabric slightly abrading
against his skin.
One of Dazai's hand coasts over his hips and lower back, thumbing at sensitive skin and
snapping the straps over his hips with his fingertips.

The sting makes Chuuya hiss, but the slap of the leather strip on the end of the leash slapping
his ass makes him yelp.

"Move," Dazai says. No, orders , and when Chuuya doesn't immediately start riding him, he
spanks him with the leash leather again. It doesn't hurt, not as much as his hand does—
probably because he's using less force— but it does leave stinging tingles behind, heat
rushing to the surface.

He likes it. Almost wants to just sit here and make Dazai spank him until he's satisfied, until
his ass is a series of stinging-hot marks, pretty and red, physical marks that Dazai has left on
him.

But he also wants the pleasure of being fucked. Being full is nice, but it just teases the
bottomless well of unsatisfied arousal inside him. His cock has come back to full, aching life,
still trapped in the lacey underwear.

Taking a deep breath, he rises up a little and sinks back down. Riding like this is more
difficult than the other way around, because the solidness of Dazai's lower stomach against
his ass makes it easy to lose his momentum.

It takes a few tries for him to start to fall into a rhythm. He tries bracing himself on Dazai's
thighs, but that angle misses his prostate. Straight up and down is good, but it's hell on his
thighs, and it's not something he can keep up for long.

When he sinks back down and the head of his cock just barely misses his prostate, Chuuya
can't help but make a frustrated noise. He's so close to rapture he can almost taste it, and he
just feels like he's teasing himself now.

His only warning is a metallic rustle of the chain before his leash tightens hard. He gets
yanked backwards with a yelp, hands flying back to catch himself.
"Struggling, baby?" Dazai asks, sounding so damn smug it almost makes Chuuya mad.

Almost. Because he's discovering that this angle, slightly leaned back and braced on Dazai's
chest, is the right angle he needs. It makes Dazai's cock slide deliciously good inside him,
adding pressure to his prostate. If he circles his hips just right, he can practically milk the
pleasure out of himself.

"Let me help you with that," Dazai offers, a purr in his voice. His free hand finds his opposite
hip, wrapping around it firmly.

His hips jerk up suddenly, bouncing Chuuya up. His hand pushes him at the same time,
helping him to use the momentum to carry himself up to the top. He hovers there for a
moment, the ridge of his cock holding him inside—

Then he's yanking him back down again, using the leash as leverage to make him crash back
down. It has the full weight of his body behind it, and it pulls out a shocked noise out of him,
mouth dropping open.

Before he can adjust to the searing pleasure of that, Dazai is urging him back up again.

Thighs trembling, he chases the rhythm. Every bounce up is thick with anticipation, every
drop down feels like heaven. The exertion in his thighs is nothing compared to the tension as
it finally begins to tighten in his stomach, spurred on by every ounce of pleasure beginning to
pump through his veins.

Every so often, Dazai will yank on the leash on the downstroke, making him crash back
down hard. And when he smacks the leather against his ass hard enough to pull out a sharp
smack and a resulting load moan—

He starts to mix them up, alternating between pulling on his leash like he's being bad and
spanking him with it until Chuuya can feel the marks start to form on delicate skin.
It's hot, so hot, pleasure and stinging pain melting together, pushing him to the boiling point.
Sweat drips down his face, makes his body even more slick. He picks up the pace somehow,
the coil in his stomach urging him on faster, harder, more.

He bounces frantically, switching to short, desperate thrusts on the first few inches of Dazai's
cock. It applies direct, constant pressure on his prostate, sending white-hot pulses of ecstasy
racing through him.

"Fuck," he whimpers on a particularly hard smack on his ass. The sting makes him lose his
rhythm, stuttering to a halt. His thighs burn with exertion, and his every muscle aches.

There's a low noise behind him, something that borders on a snarl—

A hand wraps around his throat from behind, pulling him back until his arm is buckling under
the pressure and he's crashing back against Dazai's chest with a yelp.

Before he can catch his breath or do anything more than blink in surprise, Dazai's legs come
up. His feet brace on the bed, knees bent and forcing Chuuya's thighs to spread wider.

The hand on his throat tips his chin back, the back of his head finding Dazai's shoulder. Even
laying down, the height difference is so big that Dazai still has to bend his head forwards to
reach him.

His teeth scrape over his ear first, followed by the hot rush of his breath. The briefest, teasing
touch of his tongue that makes Chuuya's breath stall in his chest—

"Since you asked so nicely," Dazai whispers directly into his ear, a pleased smirk in his voice.
His hand tightens on his neck, tipping his head back so his mouth is as close to Dazai's ear as
it can get—
In the next instant, Dazai is fucking him. Hard, short, jackhammer slams of his hips that bury
his cock deeply. He draws back just as fast, only to slam back in with all of his strength, over
and over and over again.

It's fast, hard, brutally and relentlessly good. It makes Chuuya choke on a wail, moans
spilling out of him with increasing volume.

The louder he gets, the more riled up Dazai seems to get. His hand is unwavering on his
throat, pressing the metal heart into his skin until he's sure there's going to be an imprint left
behind. His other hand is sliding downwards, finding the back of his knee and pulling his leg
upwards. He's lucky he's so flexible, otherwise it might hurt as Dazai pulls his knee all the
way to his chest.

It opens him up wider, lets Dazai get in deeper, fuck him better, harder , pounding into his
prostate with every savage thrust.

Chuuya bucks, unable to handle it, driven out of his mind with sheer ecstatic electricity,

turned thoughtless. Pure sensation rockets through him, growing quickly ,pressure coiling
tightly in his stomach, so tight he can barely breathe around the soaring need. He's so close,
getting closer with every thrust, clenching down instinctively as his orgasm begins to rise.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck , oh god," he whines, eyes rolling back in his head. He's hanging onto
Dazai's forearm with all his strength, digging his nails in as he fights to ground himself as he
feels like he's being fucked out of his body entirely, and into a whole new realm of pleasure.

"So eloquent," Dazai teases in his ear, breath coming hotter and faster. He's groaning into his
ear, and every noise he utters is delicious. "Come on, Chuuya, sing for me."

And he does, letting the pitch and volume of his moans bounce with each thrust.

The texture of the lace against his cock is maddening. He's twitching in his underwear,
leaking with every brutal thrust. It's just enough to add an edge to the pleasure, slightly
rough, one that makes him climb impossibly higher. "God, please," he whimpers, "I—
close."

One of his hands is dropping down instinctually, finding the bulge of his erection trapped in
his underwear and pressing his palm over it. For once, Dazai allows him without muttering
even a word of protest. In fact, he's—

"Touch yourself, lovely," he rumbles in his ear, his hips somehow speeding up and changing
into short, pointed thrusts aimed directly at the places that make Chuuya moan the loudest. "I
want to see you cum for me."

The tension winds tighter and tighter, nearing its breaking point. Nearing his breaking point.

"Wanna see you get those pretty, pretty underwear all dirty." His tongue slips out on the last
syllable, tracing the shell of his ear. The metal ball of his piercing slides wetly over his skin,
ticklish. "Wanna see you ruin them."

Chuuya almost doesn't want to, because he likes the lingerie. Likes the way he feels in them,
likes the way he looks in them, likes the way Dazai seems to be wild with him when he's
wearing them—

A hard jerk of Dazai's hips upwards makes his palm press hard against his erection, hard
enough that his vision goes white. One more thrust, cockhead pounding into his prostate
relentlessly and Chuuya is gone.

His orgasm overtakes him like a thundering wave, drenching him in sheer sensation. Pleasure
pulses through him, pushed higher and higher with every thrust of Dazai's still-moving hips.
It's so good, it feels like his body can't even handle it.

With the way he's being held— hand around his throat locking his head into place, knee to
his chest— means he can't even move. He's forced to just lie there, shuddering, as Dazai
drives him farther and farther. Tears are gathering at the corner of his eyes, spilling down his
temples.
The lace underwear is hot and wet now, filled with sticky cum. The feeling makes him pant,
eyes squeezing shut.

"Fuck, Chuuya," Dazai groans into his ear. He's resorted to short grinds inside him, unable to
move properly with how hard Chuuya is clenching down and rippling around him. He's
throbbing inside him, practically pulsing, clearly on the edge of orgasm himself—

Breathless, Chuuya grinds down to meet him, deliberately tightening as hard as he can,
needing Dazai to come with him. Wanting the primal satisfaction of being full while he's still
coming down.

With a guttural noise, Dazai presses up as far as he can and comes.

For a few long moments, there's just the ragged sound of their breathing. Dazai moves
intermittently, milking himself through his orgasm. His cum is searing hot and wet, slowly
beginning to drip out of him every time he pulls back.

Eventually Dazai stills, buried inside him as he slowly begins to soften. The hand holding his
knee lets go, finally letting his leg drop into a more comfortable position. The hand on his
throat lightens it’s grip, changing from a commanding, inescapable hold to light fingers
stroking over the length of his neck.

After a moment, Dazai turns his head and presses a kiss to his cheek, long and lingering. His
breath is still coming fast, washing coolly over the sweat on his face.

Chuuya leans into him, accepting the comfort eagerly. He can already feel the trembles
beginning to start in his limbs, the after effect of overstimulation. He feels wrung out, but in a
good way, every ounce of pleasure pulled out of him and leaving him limp and satiated in the
aftermath.

“Pretty boy,” Dazai croons to him, achingly gentle and sweet. The contrast between the
dominating Dazai and the sweet Dazai is profound. It’s like he’s almost an entirely different
person. “You did so well, so pretty and perfect.”

Shivering pleasantly, Chuuya curls closer. Dazai lets him tuck his head under his chin, nose
finding his neck.

They’re gross and sweaty, and sticky. Chuuya’s pretty sure both of their clothes are ruined by
cum and lube. But it’s also warm. Not just in a physical way, but in an internal way. One that
fills up his chest with sun glow and firelight, making him feel light as air.

One that makes it impossible to fight back a fond smile as Dazai eventually urges him up and
cleans him off. One that takes note of the achingly gentle way Dazai peels the lingerie off
him, and the careful way he unclips the leash. One that feels like it soars when Dazai brings
him lunch on the balcony and the book he needs to read for class, so he can study and eat
while soaking up the sun.

A warmth and gentle affection that feels like it found a matched pair in the softness hidden in
Dazai’s touch and his expression.

(Love is a slow-growing thing. Like a flower, watered with trust and desire, bathed in
attention like sunlight. If you let it grow, it will grow fierce and wild—

But if one person cuts it short?

One person will always be left with the rotting remains. It’s a wound that will fester for
weeks, if allowed.

Chuuya would let it fester for years, if needed, because he’s never willing to let go.

Even if Dazai lets him go first.)

 Accidental Fiance Acquisition
Chapter Summary

Admittedly, Chuuya has a few flaws. He’s messy, too loud. Sometimes he forgets to turn
all the lights off before going to sleep, because the light doesn’t bother him. He curses a
lot, he’s too loyal, he angers too easily.

But the one other people will say is his worst flaw is that he absolutely refuses to ask for
help, even when he needs it.

Chapter Notes

I'm back baby *sunglasses emoji* Thanks for your patience, as always, as I get back
into the swing of updating :)

PLEASE NOTE that this chapter specifically has semi-graphic depictions of a seizure,
and semi-graphic depictions of medical practices. Take care for this chapter, and the next
two as well. :)

Admittedly, Chuuya has a few flaws. He’s messy, too loud. Sometimes he forgets to turn all
the lights off before going to sleep, because the light doesn’t bother him. He curses a lot, he’s
too loyal, he angers too easily.

But the one other people will say is his worst flaw is that he absolutely refuses to ask for
help, even when he needs it.

Especially when he’s feeling under the weather. He’s gotten so used to hiding every ache and
sore spot from his hypochondriac father that even mentioning that he’s starting to feel bad
feels out of the question. It doesn’t even cross his mind.

So when he wakes up with a sore throat two days after he returns to his dorm, he figures he’ll
just drink some tea and some extra water today, and he’ll be fine.
It’s mid-September now, and the weather is starting to turn cold. He’s feeling the chill extra
today, so he pulls on a thin jacket over his clothes and makes sure he has a hot cup of coffee
in his hands at all times.

It’s been a little over a week since the Shuuji incident , as he likes to refer to it. He’s fallen
only a little bit behind in his work, and missed only two classes. Dazai drove him to the
campus and back for his classes for the rest of the week, which was nice, but it was a burden.
He could tell Dazai was getting busy with work again, and he didn’t want to add onto it.

Not that the man wanted to let him go, and the look he gave Chuuya when he mentioned
going back to the dorm was that of a kicked puppy.

But Chuuya has lots of work to catch up on. Midterms are coming up quickly, and if he’s
going to stay on top of his class ranking then he needs to study, and study hard . There’s
study groups at odd hours in the library, and tutoring sessions, and extra classes provided by
his professors. Unfortunately it’s just more convenient to stay at the dorm, even if the bed is
hard and cold compared to the one at Dazai’s house.

He forgets to eat that day. He doesn’t have an appetite to remind him, and he’s too busy
catching up on all his work to remember. He just chugs coffee and water the entire day.

The next day when he wakes up, he feels even worse. Irritable, slightly sore all over, and
there’s a headache slowly growing at his temples. His throat is even worse today, scraped raw
and stinging with every swallow.

Quite frankly, he feels like shit.

Worse than that is when he forces himself to eat a small muffin for breakfast, he throws it
back up less than twenty minutes later. His stomach feels hollow with hunger, but the thought
of eating or drinking anything makes him feel nauseous.

It’s fine, he tells himself, pushing through the exhaustion. It’s Thursday today, which means
he has an easy day, and then a full day of classes tomorrow. He just needs to push through
until the weekend, and then he can rest. He can’t afford to miss more classes so early in the
semester, and there’s a quiz in his last class tomorrow.

Thursday passes in a hazy blur, like he’s walking through fog. He barely remembers the
lectures, but at least he remembers to record the lesson.

The times that he isn’t in class or forcing himself to study, he spends sleeping.

It never feels like enough. Somehow he manages to wake up feeling more exhausted than he
fell asleep.

He tries intermittently to eat something, but the nausea is relentless. Eventually he gives it up
and tries to rest. He wakes up twice in the middle of the night to throw up until he’s dry-
heaving, stomach completely empty.

Nikolai isn’t around for some reason. Dazai has been texting him, but Chuuya is too tired to
answer him.

Friday dawns cold and awful.

He feels like he got ran over by a truck , like he’s flattened underneath the misery of existing.
He barely feels like he got any sleep, and even the smell of food is enough to have him
retching.

Worse still is the dizziness. Every time he stands up or moves, it feels like his body is
disconnected from his mind. Like his head is three times too heavy, and he keeps wobbling
and swaying.

By now, it’s been nearly forty-eight hours since he last ate anything of substance, not that
he’s keeping track.
Stubborn, he pushes through his first two classes. Those ones are easy, mostly reviewing
material before the midterm. He must look miserable enough that his professors shoot him
concerned looks and let him half-doze slumped over his desk while his phone records
everything they say.

Then the last class of the day comes. This one is important, because he has a test. He tries to
rouse some clarity in himself by pressing his hot forehead to the cool desk and taking deep
breaths.

It’s no use though. When he gets the packet, the words keep blurring in front of his eyes. The
questions just don’t compute with him, and he spends half the time scribbling down his best
guess and the other half frantically trying to remember anything from his studies.

It’s like his head is full of cotton and fluff, making him feel exhausted and woozy and
incoherent.

By the time he gets out he’s so goddamn frustrated and miserable that he’s immediately
dialing Dazai’s number.

He is the type of person to get emotional over his classwork, but not like this. Usually he just
gets angry at himself, and more motivated. Pushing himself to study harder, do more
extra credit work, do whatever it takes to get better grades.

It usually doesn’t have him damn near sobbing and fighting back the urge to hyperventilate—
it’s so hard to breathe , it feels like his chest is full of gunk, blocking his airways, and the air
never seems to be enough to make the dizziness go away— as he waits for Dazai to pick up.

He wants his boyfriend so bad . He’s miserable and by now he’s certain he’s sick, and he just
wants his boyfriend.

Apparently he picked a good time to call because it only takes two rings before the line
clicks. " Hello , baby,” Dazai greets, voice warm and overflowing with affection, enough to
make Chuuya tear up in emotional reaction. “How are you?”
Staggering out of the building, Chuuya presses a hand to his eye. The light outside hurts,
makes the migraine feel like it’s shredding pieces of his brain. “I—,” he sniffs, feeling so
ridiculous but also like he’s breaking apart underneath all the misery of the past three days.
“I’m pretty sure I just failed my test.”

Something in Dazai’s voice changes immediately when he hears Chuuya’s tone. “Oh no,
baby, that sounds terrible— but I’m sure it’s not that bad. You always study so hard and
you’re so smart. I’m sure you did better than you think you did.”

All the other students are giving him concerned looks, but Chuuya doesn’t see them. His
vision is locked on his feet because his vision is swimming. He doesn’t know if it’s because
of the tears or the dizziness, but he’s fighting to keep himself upright and steady. “You don’t
understand,” he mumbles, voice thick and breaking a few times, “I knew nothing on that
test.”

Not because he wasn’t prepared, because he was, he was ready for the test, but because his
stupid brain wouldn’t function when he needed it to.

“It’ll be alright, Chuuya. Maybe you can talk to your professor about it and they’ll let you
take a retake. You’re a good student, baby.”

There is a retake system, but he doesn’t want to waste the one retake chance he gets on a test
he should’ve aced. He lets a single, miserable sniff be his answer.

It’s getting harder to breathe. Honestly, it feels more like he’s running more than just
stumbling across campus. He’s burning up with heat. Even the tears on his face feel more like
boiling water, hot enough to feel scorching on his skin.

“Where are you? Are you okay? You sound...off.” Dazai’s wording is delicate but his tone is
filled with concern. There’s some shuffling on the other side, like he’s getting up and getting
ready.
And that, that question—

It’s enough to have Chuuya breaking.

Because no, he’s not alright, not even a little bit. He feels like he’s on the verge of death, he
feels like a failure as a student, he’s emotional and needy and he wants to go home . Not to
the dorm. To Dazai’s home, which honestly has started to feel more like his real home than
anything else.

“No, I’m not okay, I’m—,” he starts, before making the mistake of taking a too-big inhale.
That starts off a round of coughing, and each one makes the pressure in his head increase.
Each sway of his body makes the dizziness worse, and when he finally stops coughing, he’s
—

“Chuuya?”

He realizes it with a distant clarity. He’s going to faint. He can’t stop it.

“Chuuya?!”

His vision goes black. His phone clatters to the floor, followed shortly by his unconscious
body.

Dazai is not used to feeling fear. He’s used to inspiring fear in others. There was a time, when
he was younger, when he watched grown men snivel and beg for mercy—

And he only thought it was all very pathetic.

He thinks he understands them now, because the way his stomach lurches and his heart
freezes in his chest when he hears Chuuya’s phone call to the floor, followed shortly by a
heavy thump that sounds like a body —

God, it’s terrifying . More frightening than having a gun held to his face, scarier than the
phone call he got from Sasaki telling him she was pregnant. Worse than being seven and
sixteen and twenty, when his fragile life felt like it was shaking apart.

He understands kneeling and begging now, because the only coherent thought he has is—

He’s hurt. Chuuya’s hurt, and I’m not there.

The reality that anything could happen when he’s not there to make sure he's safe is gut-
wrenching. He always knew that it was logically possible—

But seeing it? Hearing it, while being kilometers away and helpless to stop it?

It’s like every beat of his heart is a sickening, awful percussion in his chest, hollowing him
out. Anxiety and fear race through his veins like poison.

He doesn’t remember throwing on his shoes or locking the door in his rush to get out of the
house. All he knows is a frantic, panicked need to get there now .

It's probably the fastest he's ever driven to the college campus. He doesn't follow a single
speed limit, and he puts his skills to the test as he drifts around corners and roars through the
red lights. He's not stopping for anything.

It's a dozen agonizingly long minutes before the college campus comes into view. He picks
the closest parking lot there is to Chuuya's dorm, parking the car on the damn sidewalk .
He unlocks his phone as he throws himself out of the car. There's a tracking app he installed
on it recently, which he's thankful for, because it points exactly where Chuuya's phone is
located.

Hopefully Chuuya is still there. Hopefully it's not serious.

He takes off at a dead run, carelessly pushing past students in his way. Every so often he
checks the green tracking dot on his phone and adjusts his direction. His breath comes in
harsh, agonized pants.

Please be okay. Please be there. Please don't be hurt.

As he gets closer, he notices a crowd gathered in a rough circle. It's in the same direction as
Chuuya's phone, so he pockets his own phone and bolts over there. There's a few offended
gasps and shocked cries as he shoves his way through, but he doesn't care for that. All he
cares about is him , where is he, where is he, where is he—

There.

In the middle, with a pair of students crouched beside him, is Chuuya. They seem to be
urging him to stay down, while Chuuya is arguing faintly with them. His phone is in one of
their hands, held securely.

"Chuuya?!" He calls, rushing over and dropping to his knees beside him. The two students
edge out of his way as he leans over to look Chuuya over.

The first thing he notices, with relief, is that there's no blood.

The second thing he notices is how terrible Chuuya looks. Frightfully pale, his face drawn
and thin. His hair is a mess, pulled up in a tangled bun. He's wearing a jacket and shivering
visibly, even though it's not cold outside.
When he leans over, Chuuya's eyes focus on him. Well, focus might be too generous
considering his eyes look bleary and unfocused, but at least he’s looking in his direction.

"Oh, you're here, Dazai," he mutters, voice wobbling slightly but clear.

All in all, he seems mostly okay— or at least it's not as terrible as his imagination was
picturing. He was preparing himself for a gunshot wound or a stabbing, or something equally
as life-threatening. A fever is almost a blessing.

"Of course I'm here," he mutters back, reaching forward to lay the back of his hand over
Chuuya's forehead. He hisses when he feels how hot his skin is, almost boiling in its
intensity.

He's sick then. Raging with fever and collapsed. That explains the coughing.

Reaching to cup the back of his head, he gently pulls him up into a sitting position. Chuuya
lets him, heavy-limp in his grip, though he does squeeze his eyes shut in response. He looks
pained, and the way he grips at Dazai's forearm is weak.

"How do you feel? Does your head hurt?" He asks, holding him upright to make sure he
doesn't fall over as he grabs his bag with his other hand.

He's definitely/taking him to hospital this time. No matter how much Chuuya protests or tries
to say he's okay. He's not getting out of it.

"I don't feel so good," Chuuya mutters, swaying forward slightly. His expression is rapidly
turning green, like he's going to vomit.

Dazai swipes Chuuya's phone from the student with a muttered "Thanks, I'll handle this,"
before shoving it in his pocket. Carefully, he slips both arms underneath Chuuya's body,
careful to keep as much of him supported as possible as he picks him up. He's awfully light,
much lighter than the last time Dazai picked him up.

The worry ratchets higher, beginning to crest again. He must be really sick.

Chuuya's head finds his shoulder, searing hot forehead pressing against the side of his neck.
His breath is sickeningly hot and humid, puffed out in uneven breaths.

"Let's go," Dazai tells him, carefully keeping him steady as he turns around and starts to head
back to the car. The students move out of his way easily, murmuring to each other. Some of
them sound scandalized, like they might recognize him from the infernal Snapchat that was
going around almost two weeks ago.

He doesn't care, not right now. All his focus is on the too-light, too-warm body in his arms
and getting him to a hospital as quickly as possible.

"'azai," Chuuya mutters into his neck, wincing when Dazai has to twist him sideways to
lower him into the car. His hand draped over his shoulder seems to want to hold on, keep him
close, but he's not strong enough to keep him there.

Dazai crouches beside him, reaching around to buckle him in. "Hi, sweetheart," he answers,
stroking his fingers over his cheek to let him know he's here.Chuuya's eyes are squeezed shut,
and he's tucking his head to avoid the sunlight spilling through the windshield. "What do you
need?"

"Cold," he mumbles, curling himself into a tighter ball after the seatbelt clicks into place.
Dazai flips the visor down, trying to angle it to shield him from the sun.

"Alright. I got you," he reassures him. He's not wearing a jacket that he can drape over him,
but he can turn on the seat warmers and the heater for him. He shoves his bag in the back seat
before easing the door shut.
He's not as careful with his own door, yanking it open so he can slide in. With one hand he
starts the door and puts it in drive, and with the other he turns on the seat warmers and the
heaters, pushing all the vents so they're directed at Chuuya.

He's much more careful pulling out than he was driving in, because he doesn't want to bother
Chuuya's nausea, or make him uncomfortable. The redhead looks so tiny curled up in the
seat, but he's finally starting to relax. The shivering is still present, but slowing down.

There's a hospital only a few minutes from campus. He's sure that was built into the city
planning, because college kids are accident-prone. He's driven past it enough that he doesn't
need directions.

"Are you taking me home?"

Dazai ignores the warm, squirming feeling he gets in his chest at the sound of Chuuya calling
his house home. He would've never thought something so simple would make him so happy,
but here he is, giddiness bubbling up beneath the lingering anxiety. He's only willingly
opened his home for a few people, so to see Chuuya settling in so nicely, to see him
comfortable and happy and safe there—

Well, he can think about that and the resulting rush of feelings later.

"No, I'm taking you to the hospital," Dazai answers, preparing himself for an argument.
Chuuya is probably one of the few people who is even more stubborn than he is,and he's
historically been against going to see a doctor even when he should have. Dazai's not letting
him get out of it this time, though.

"Oh," Chuuya says, sounding small and shocked. "Okay."

He falls silent then, bringing his knees to his chest and curling up against the door miserably.

If Dazai thought hearing him rasp out words and be in clear misery was bad--
It has nothing on the terror inspired by the too-easy acceptance, by the silence and the way he
goes completely and utterly still. Like he's dead. The raspy sounds of his quiet breath are the
only sign of life.

His foot presses harder on the gas, accelerating.

It's Friday afternoon, so the traffic is congested and makes everything slow. He takes every
shortcut he can and breaks a few laws to get to the hospital quicker, but it's still over twenty
minutes before the building is looming up in front of him.

He parks in the first spot he sees, uncaring if it's meant for patients or not. Any fines or
tickets or even having his car towed can be easily paid off.

When he opens Chuuya's door again, his baby reaches up for him, looking for all the world
like he just wants to be held . Like he's miserable and he wants to be comforted and taken
care of. His eyes are watery, like he's on the verge of tears.

Dazai makes a soothing noise at him, carefully picking him up. This time he lets his legs
hook on either side of his hips, with his hands supporting his thighs. Chuuya tucks his
forehead into the crook of his neck to shield himself from the light, arms slung limply over
his shoulders.

The only thing of Chuuya's he takes with him is his wallet. The hospital will probably need to
see some ID at some point. His bag, he leaves in the car.

Thankfully, it's only a short walk into the waiting room. Dazai's long legs eat up the distance
quickly.

When he enters, the first thing Dazai registers is the lingering smell of antiseptic. His nostrils
flare, fighting back the instinctive panic reaction.
Mori's office always smelled like this. Like bleach and scrubbed-away blood, the lingering
ghost of pain. The insides of his wrists itch, suddenly, a buzzing that wants to overtake his
mind.

Pushing it away, Dazai heads into the waiting room. It's still the afternoon and the lounge is
nearly empty, so it looks like they've beaten the evening rush of injuries.

Good. The faster Chuuya gets checked out, the better.

There's a soft cushioned chair placed by a wall. Dazai sets him down there, guiding him to
lean up against the wall so he doesn't have to hold up his own weight.

"I'll be right back," he tells him, taking the time to drop a reassuring kiss on his forehead.
"I'm going to check you in."

There's a noise that might be acknowledgement or might be just a sniff of misery, but Chuuya
doesn't protest as Dazai pulls away.

The floor is made of cheap carpet, muffling his footsteps as he makes his way over to the
reception desk. There's music playing faintly in the background. Dazai hates it. This is an
emergency room, why are they playing Mozart? It feels wrong.

"Hello," he says to the girl at the reception desk. He doesn't have the willpower to smile at
her right now, not when he feels strained and pulled into a dozen different directions. "I need
to check someone in."

The girl, hair dyed blonde and eyes lined thickly with mascara, looks him up and down.
"Relationship to the patient?" She asks him, sounding very impatient with her job.

Dazai hesitates here. Technically, he doesn't need to be related or legally attached to Chuuya
to check him in or even stay in the room with him but—
Sensitive information won't be disclosed to him, and if it's something serious, there's every
chance he'll be kicked out in favor of calling someone from Chuuya's family. The thought of
that fills him with anxiety.

He flashes a strained smile. "Fiancé."

It's a lie, but a benign one. He's sure Chuuya won't be angry at him for it. He might even
think it's funny.

The girl— her name tag says her name is Hara— eyes him up for another moment before
shrugging. Reaching down onto the desk, she pulls out a packet of paper and a clipboard with
an attached pen. "Fill this out. Bring it back when you're done."

Dazai takes it without another word, spinning around to head back to Chuuya. Every second
he's out of his sight fills him with itching, crawling paranoia. Like if he takes his eyes off him
for even a second, he might get hurt.

Chuuya is exactly where he left him, slumped up against the wall. His eyes are shut,
breathing slightly shaky. He looks like he might be asleep, and judging by the bags under his
eyes, he needs as much rest as he can get.

Dazai sits down next to him, trying not to jostle him.

Blue eyes crack open blearily at the movement, and when Chuuya sees that it's him, he's
moving. Instead of leaning against the wall, he's now slumped against Dazai, cheek pressed
against his arm. His grip, when he finds Dazai's hand and interlaces their fingers together, is
weak and trembling.

But Dazai doesn't let go, gently squeezing his hand and letting him use him as a body rest. He
starts to fill out the paperwork with his other hand, as quickly as possible.
Most of the information is basic. Name, date of birth, sex, weight, height. Dazai does his
best, casting through his memory for all the information he'd dug up on Chuuya early on in
their relationship.

For the address he puts his own home address, and he puts his own insurance information
down. From what he's been told, Chuuya's family is not wealthy. He's making the assumption
that their insurance isn't that great because of it, and Dazai wants no expense spared.

It's easy enough to hack into the insurance database and add Chuuya's information there, if
needed. Rokuzou is a surprisingly good teacher and Dazai has picked up a few tricks from
him.

When he gets to the family history and the symptoms section, he fills it out as best as he can
before he has to jostle Chuuya into alertness. "Are you nauseous, dizzy, lightheaded,
confused?"

"Um," Chuuya says, clearly struggling to think it over. "Yes."

The worry spikes a little harder, and the pen nearly shreds the paper with how hard he's
pressing. "Any bleeding, or sleeping issues?"

"No bleeding but I'm exhausted."

Poor thing, he sounds exhausted.

"Does your family have any medical history? Illnesses, diseases? Do you have any illnesses
or medical history?

Chuuya slumps against him further, like the conversation is tiring him out even faster.
"Family doesn't. I was born too early though, so I've been sick a lot."
'Born premature' isn't an option that Dazai sees, but he scribbles in the “other” box, just in
case. He’s not sure it matters, considering Chuuya is now a fully grown adult, but every bit of
information helps.

In the box asking for other injuries he writes out RECENT HEAD TRAUMA.

That’s the most terrifying thing about the whole situation because—

What if he’s not sick? What if it’s a brain injury? Dazai knows some injuries don’t present
right away. What if it’s one of those times? What if Chuuya had a— a brain bleed or
something similar, that has been growing and getting worse this entire time?

And Dazai has been fucking him and pulling him around by his leash and—

What if he made it worse? What if this is his fault, because he was stupid and careless and
didn’t care of Chuuya the way he needed?

God, he hopes it’s just the flu. It is flu season after all, and he did hear one or two other
students coughing on the campus. It’s just terrifying because most of the symptoms of the flu,
and the ones Chuuya is experiencing— headache, nausea, dizziness— are also symptoms of
concussions.

When he’s filled out the forms, he nudges Chuuya back into leaning against the wall. “Be
right back,” he mutters, and then goes to turn in the forms.

Hara doesn’t look particularly impressed with him when he hands over the clipboard, but she
silently glances over the paperwork and nods.

With nothing left to do, goes back to Chuuya. This time, when he sits next to him, he pulls
him into his lap to hold him.
Beyond the driving need to make sure Chuuya is okay, there’s also a deeper, desperate need
to comfort himself. He wants, no, needs, to hold him and reassure himself that he’s still okay.
Still breathing, still alive . Safe and secure in his arms while they wait for the doctor to call
them back.

Honestly, Dazai was prepared to wait an hour or even longer to get called back. Yokohama
General Hospital isn’t known for it’s speedy work, but it’s the closest hospital. They see
thousands of patients a day, probably.

Which is why it’s surprising that they only wait twenty minutes before a door leading to the
rest of the hospital is opening up. “Nakahara Chuuya?”

Dazai nudges Chuuya with his shoulder, urging him up. “Come on, you gotta walk now.”

Chuuya grumbles incoherently, but manages to get his feet under himself.

Dazai follows closely behind as he staggers over to the nurse holding the door open for them.
He’s probably hovering, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Chuuya collapse again.
Not when he can be there to catch him.

The nurse eyes him as he walks past. She’s not unkind as she asks, “Would you like a
wheelchair?”

Chuuya grunts as he passes by, trudging in the quieter, colder hallways in the back. “No, I got
it.”

Fucking stubborn. Dazai swears there is nothing so frustrating as seeing someone close to
you stubbornly and ardently refuse help for no reason, especially when they clearly need it.
He could tear his own hair out.

“Alright, then,” the nurse says, carefully neutral as she leads them into a nearby room.
It’s climate controlled back here, carefully maintained so it’s neither cold nor hot— but Dazai
can already see the shivers starting to start back up in Chuuya’s frame.

The room they’re shown into looks like a typical doctor's office. There’s an examination bed,
and a pair of chairs. A computer and a series of tools hanging up on the wall near the
examination bed. The room is cleanly cold. Sterile.

Chuuya drops down on the examination bed like he’s too exhausted to do it elegantly. He
braces himself with one hand on the bed behind him as the nurse starts to take his vitals.

As she’s wrapping the pressure cuff around his bicep, she asks, “What brings you in today?”

It’s casual conversation, but it makes Dazai’s teeth clench together. They already filled out
the forms, why do they have to go through this again, but verbally?

“Think I’m sick,” Chuuya sighs, offering up his finger when she brings out the little clip that
records temperature through fingertips. “I fainted.”

Dazai says nothing, sitting in the chair along the wall with his arms crossed over his chest,
watching like a hawk as she records all his vitals into the computer.

“Alright,” she says when she’s done, “The neurologist will be with you soon.”

Dazai’s stomach plummets. The neurologist?

Chuuya watches her go, letting himself fall backwards and lay down when she’s gone. “That
doesn’t sound good.”

No. No it does not.

“Isn’t that a brain doctor or something?” Chuuya asks. He’s curling up now, facing Dazai.
One of his hands is cupped over the side of his face, shielding his eyes from the harsh glow
of the fluorescent lights. “Why are they calling a brain doctor if I’m just sick?”

Because what if he’s not ‘ just sick’?

Dazai exhales slowly, unable to find the exact words underneath the mess of anxiety and fear
coating his tongue. “We’ll find out soon.”

He doesn’t want to say the words ‘what if’ out loud. Doesn’t want to put a name to all the
things that could be going wrong, doesn’t want to put a possibility to all serious
complications, doesn’t want to jinx himself or Chuuya.

Doesn’t want to say any of it out loud, because that means making it real. Taking it from
nightmare thoughts to hellish reality.

And it is ‘soon’. It’s only a little over ten, cold, quiet minutes before there’s a knock on the
door.

It opens before either of them can call out. A tall, silver-haired man steps through, a chart in
hand. He’s wearing slacks and a dress shirt, but the sleeves of his lab coat and shirt are rolled
up to reveal corded forearms.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Gide, one of the neurologists at Yokohama General. Which one of you is
Nakahara Chuuya?” He greets, laying his clipboard on the counter. His voice is smooth and
low, lightly accented.

Chuuya pulls himself into a sitting position. His eyes are squinted against the light, and he’s
starting to look green again. “That’s me.”
Gide looks over at Dazai. “That must make you the fiancé, Dazai?”

Chuuya throws him a look. Subtly, Dazai gives him a signal that urges him to go with it.
“Yes, that’s me.”

“Lovely,” Gide says, approaching Chuuya. Taking the pressure cuff off the wall, he wraps it
around Chuuya’s arm again. “Heard you hit your head the other day. Can you tell me what
happened?”

It’s a gentle, probing question. Not demanding or frightening, but clearly prompts Chuuya to
explain.

“I was... play-fighting with a friend,” he starts, wobbling a bit on the explanation. He’s
probably not trying to get Shuuji in trouble, because if he just comes out and says Shuuji tried
to kill him, it would open up a police investigation. “I tripped and fell backwards, and hit my
head on the table. It wasn’t that bad though. Just had a headache for a few hours. Didn’t have
a concussion or anything.”

Gide pulls out a penlight from his coat pocket, flashing the light in each of Chuuya’s eyes to
test light reactivity. “When was this?”

Chuuya seems to think about it hard, eyebrows drawing together. He winced at the light but
doesn’t move away or close his eyes. “Eight days ago?”

“No,” Dazai interrupts, concern spiking. That’s not right. “It was ten days ago.”

Gide looks over his shoulder at him. He’s very professional, expression calm and neutral.
“You’re sure?”

Dazai nods. He wouldn’t forget that day, ever . He’s not sure why Chuuya got the days
wrong. It’s still fresh and new, so why didn’t he remember?
“Did you see a doctor for that? Follow my finger please,” Gide continues, turning back to
Chuuya. He holds his index finger up, moving it back and forth in front of his vision.

“No, but it really wasn’t that bad, I swear. I’ve had a concussion before and it was nowhere
near that.”

When he’s satisfied with that exercise, Gide pulls his hand back. “When did your symptoms
start, Nakahara?”

“Um...two days ago, but it only got really bad today. I woke up with a sore throat on
Wednesday,” he answers, watching the doctor as he moves back to his computer and starts to
enter in all the new information.

Then, Dazai can’t hold himself back anymore. He’s been patient and quiet, but with each test
the neurologist has done, he’s gotten more and more anxious. He has to know. “Do you think
it’s something serious with his head?”

Gide hums, not looking away from the computer. “In all likelihood, he’s probably just sick.
It’s long enough after the trauma that I’m not terribly concerned. However, because his
symptoms do line up with those of neurological trauma, I’d like to keep him to do some tests.
I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Dazai lets out a breath, trying to ignore his pounding heart. If the neurologist isn’t concerned,
then he shouldn’t be either, right?

(On the examination bed, Chuuya winces and puts his hands on his temples. His head is
pounding. He can feel the throb of his pulse with every heartbeat and the lights are
agonizingly bright.)

“What kind of tests?” Not that Dazai will protest or actually even know what Gide is talking
about, but he feels so helpless. This is a problem he can’t even begin to solve, and the idea of
that is making him very frustrated. He feels worthless, almost. A bystander, regulated to
watching and waiting.

“I’d like to order a CT scan, just to make sure there’s nothing going wrong up there. Possibly
an x-ray as well. I’ll keep you updated on the plan once we get him admitted.”

Alright, that doesn’t sound too bad. “Okay. Oh, I wanted to mention— he’s lost a lot of
weight. I can’t give you a number, but it’s a noticeable difference between three days ago.”

Gide nods, finishing up his notes. “Alright, I’ll put that in the chart. Is there anything else
you’d like to tell me before I go?”

“My head hurts,” Chuuya whimpers. He’s hunched over his lap, hands pressed to the sides of
his head. His voice is thick with tears.

Gide frowns. His eyes, reddish in the light, have sharpened. “Alright. I’ll let the nurse know
so she can prescribe you some pain medication—.”

“No, it’s— my head hurts,” Chuuya repeats, sounding like he’s desperate for them to believe
them. “Feels like it’s gonna explode . It’s—.”

He pauses there, but not because he’s done speaking.

It’s because he’s going rigid, the breath leaving him on a pained exhale. His eyes are rolling
back in his head, and his jaw clamps shut with an audible click. He jerks once, twice, three
times—

And for the first time in his life, Dazai freezes. All he can do is watch, blood like ice water in
his veins, as Gide jumps over to catch Chuuya before he falls as—

As he has a seizure.
There is something so... viscerally terrifying and gut-wrenching about watching someone
have a seizure. The movies and the medical dramas don’t do it any justice. It fills the air with
a sense of wrongness , of pure, instinctual terror because—

Chuuya should not be moving like that, like someone or something has grabbed him by the
spine and is yanking on him. It’s uncoordinated, unnatural, limbs flailing and jerking in odd
rhythms, completely uncoordinated.

It’s like watching the death throes of an animal. Like watching someone get possessed, if you
believe in God. In this moment, in this exact moment, frozen like a rabbit under an incoming
car tire, helpless and hopeless, Dazai decides—

He does not believe.

Because what kind of God would allow something like this?

“Dazai, I need you to hit the red button on the wall behind you,” Gide tells him, and he has
no fucking right to sound so damn calm right now. He even looks calm, hands holding
Chuuya’s shoulders. He’s not pinning him so much as he’s making sure that Chuuya doesn’t
fall off the bed as he jerks and writhes like an air-stricken fish.

Dazai can’t look away. The hair on the back of his neck is standing straight up. It’s awful, like
he’s watching an incoming funeral. How is anyone supposed to survive this?

“Dazai! The button!” Gide snaps, irritation seeping into his tone. His voice is sharp, like
a cutting knife.

It’s enough to have Dazai startling back to life, panic receding for a moment.
Turning, he smashes the button with his fist, uncaring that he damn near breaks the electronic
box. The side of his hand stings from the force, but it barely registers.

There’s nothing worse than feeling completely and utterly helpless. Dazai can handle
gunshots. Stan wounds. Broken bones, burns, blood loss. He’s not helpless.

But he is, in the face of this.

All he can do is drown in his own horror as the seizure slowly stutters out and slows
down. It’s his torso that stops jerking first, and then there's a sharp, wet inhale that’s tinged
with a sob.

Could he even breathe when he’s like that?

Then most of Chuuya goes limp. His hands and feet twitch intermittently, but nothing like the
seizure.

“Hey, Chuuya— can I call you Chuuya?” Gide says soothingly, the calm in the storm. He
keeps one hand on his shoulder grounding him. “Can you hear me?”

There’s a second of tension before Gide is breaking it again with, “That’s okay. You don’t
need to speak. I just need to know if you can hear me.”

There’s a low, pained noise, like a muffled sob. Like he can’t speak.

“That’s good, Chuuya. I’m glad you can hear me. That must’ve been very scary, but I want
you to try to keep calm, okay? I’m gonna help you. I’m going to figure out what’s wrong, and
try to fix it, alright?”

The door opens then, and a pair of nurses falls inside, looking alert. Outside, there’s a patient
bed, pushed up against the wall and waiting to be used.
Gide backs off then, looking at one of the nurses. “I need an emergency CT scan on him. Put
my name on it, and tell Tachihara to bump it up, or he’s gonna answer to me.”

So it’s serious , then. Serious enough to have the neurologist using his privileges.

Chuuya’s head tilts then. It looks more like he’s too exhausted to keep his head upright
anymore than actively moving but—

His eyes find Dazai. His eyes look simultaneously filled with agony and terror, and also—

Gone. Like Chuuya isn’t really there anymore, it’s just his body. Like the seizure put him
through so much pain that he’s not there anymore.

Dazai’s heart breaks for him.

Too late, he realizes he didn’t wipe the horror off his expression.

Chuuya’s eyes fill with tears. Either reaction to him, or reaction to the situation, or just pure
reflex. Dazai doesn’t know.

He’s moving before he realizes it, crossing over to the examination bed. His hands are
trembling, but the stroke he gives to Chuuya’s cheek is achingly gentle.

“Shh, baby, you’re gonna be alright,” Dazai reassured him mindlessly, unsure of what to say
to make this okay. To make any of this look less petrifying and horrifying than it is. “I’m
right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chuuya makes a noise, hand twitching like he wants to grab Dazai by the wrist, wants to
keep him close. Like he’s terrified to let go.
“Alright, Chuuya, we’re going to move you now,” Gide announces, moving back to the bed.
He moves like he’s going to pick Chuuya up—

And then seems to change his mind, looking at Dazai instead and arching his eyebrow in
question. An invitation to do it himself.

Dazai takes it gratefully, sliding his hands carefully underneath Chuuya’s body. It’s harder
than it usually is, because Chuuya is completely limp and he wants to be sure he supports his
head—

But he manages it.

Every step he takes is so careful, trying his hardest not to jostle Chuuya in the slightest.

He feels fragile in his arms.Too light, too fever-hot, too hurt. Like he might break. Setting
him down on the stretcher feels like giving a part of himself away. Like he’s leaving the most
vulnerable and most precious part of himself in the care of someone else and hoping it comes
back whole and healed.

Hoping Chuuya comes back whole and healed.

He holds onto his leg for as long as possible, before letting his fingers slip away.

The nurses aren't nearly as careful with him, jogging lightly down the hallway and pushing
the stretcher in front of them. Dazai watches them go, heart in his throat.

Gide steps up beside him. His hands are busy pulling his long, shining silver hair into a
messy ponytail. His expression is stern.
"What do you think is wrong with him?" Dazai asks. His lips feel strangely numb. His body
feels simultaneously electrified and so distant. Like this is a dream.

Gide turns to him, and all of that soft, steady concern that he showed Chuuya is gone . Now
he's just stern, like a soldier. "It's too early to tell. Could be a subdural bleed that's been
building, could be a clot that was knocked loose from the fall today. Could be undiagnosed
epilepsy."

Logically, Dazai knows that the situation just started, and it's unreasonable to expect an
answer right away but—

It's frustrating for a medical professional to say he doesn't know . It's frustrating to be told he
has to wait.

"The point is," Gide continues, folding his arms over his chest. His forearms are thick, dusted
with silver-gray hair. Flat-footed, he can look Dazai in the eye, which is something not a lot
of men can claim. "I won't know what's going on until I get up there and take a look at his
brain. And while I do that, I need you to get your shit together."

Dazai blinks, a bit shocked at the sight of a professional cursing at him in a hospital hallway.

"I recognize that this is scary for you to witness, and it's hard to watch— but that is nothing
compared to the terror and pain Chuuya is feeling right now. He needs you to be strong right
now."

It's harsh, probably too harsh, but it's the truth. There was a long moment in there when Dazai
just froze . He wasn't expecting it, and it was understandable. But showing how affected he
was to Chuuya was a mistake. It was cruel, even.

For Chuuya to come looking for support and strength, and only finding horror—

His poor baby. He must've been so scared.

Taking a deep breath, Dazai steels himself. He can deal with his own emotions later. Right
now he needs to be Chuuya's boyfriend. Needs to be his support system, while they all figure
out what's going on with him.

He nods, and Gide flashes a grim smirk at him.

"I'll send a nurse to you with his room information when he's admitted. It's gonna be a long
night, Dazai-san. Hope you like coffee."

Gide leaves him to wait in the room as he jogs off, heading in the same direction the nurses
took Chuuya.

And then there's just... waiting. Leaning against the door frame and hoping that each nurse
that passes by is the one that's looking for him. Waiting to be lead into Chuuya's room.
Waiting to be told he's okay.

Waiting, waiting, waiting, his whole existence hanging in the balance.

Waiting for something to change.

 Gide's Anatomy
Chapter Summary

He’ll do whatever it takes. Chuuya will be safe and he will be perfectly healthy.

Chapter Notes

and the angst arc begins :)

Eventually, a nurse does come for him. She's friendly, making casual conversation that he
doesn't really respond to as he follows her to the room Chuuya's been admitted to. Fifth floor,
A wing, room 5158.

He's half-hoping that Chuuya is there when he walks in, but he isn't. The bed is missing, but
there's a full array of equipment along the wall ready to be used.

The chairs here are much more comfortable than the ones in the waiting room, designed to be
used for long hours. Dazai drops into one heavily, hunching over and holding his forehead
with the heels of his hands.

He resigns himself to the wait.

Time passes strangely in a hospital. Too fast and too slow all at the same time, like a separate
reality. A reality that works directly against you, because when you want time to go by faster,
it slows to a sluggish crawl, each endless tick of the clock stretching out farther and farther.
And just when you're asking for more time—

It's taken away from you. Snatched from your hands before you're ready, no matter how hard
you cling onto it.
He's not sure how long it's been when there's a bustle of activity outside, and Chuuya gets
wheeled in on the bed.

Dazai looks up, eyes strained. He looks so tiny in the bed, weak and small and pale. His eyes
are mostly closed, breathing deep. He almost looks asleep, but he moves sluggishly every so
often, blinking slowly.

He must be sedated.

Gide comes in shortly after him, watching over the nurses as they start an IV line. They use a
vein in his hand, which makes Dazai frown in sympathy. He waves Dazai over. "I have good
news, and I have bad news. Let's talk."

Dazai loathes the idea of leaving Chuuya in here alone, but his baby is exhausted and he
doesn’t want to scare or disturb him with medical talk. There will be nurses around to watch,
and a hospital is one of the safest places he can be.

The only place safer and more secure is home, but he can’t take him home. Not yet. Not until
he’s better.

He stands to follow Gide out of the room, taking the time to find Chuuya’s free hand and
squeeze it reassuringly. The feel of his hand in his is both reassuring and scary. Reassuring
because he’s here, not being rushed off into emergency surgery or seizing again or whatever
Dazai’s terrible imagination can come up with.

Scary, because his hand is clammy and completely limp. Unresponsive. He usually squeezes
Dazai’s hand, but not today.

Leaving the nurse to get Chuuya hooked up to the various machines, Dazai follows Gide out
into the hallway. He’s lost his lab coat at some point, leaving him in a smart suit. He’s broad
and well-toned for a doctor, shirt straining over his shoulders as he shoves his hands in his
pockets.
The room Gide directs him into is halfway down the hallway. It looks like a conference room,
or maybe a break room. There’s a large, round table surrounded by chairs and a coffee
machine set up on a different table along the back wall.

Two people are already sitting at the table, chatting over their cups of coffee. They look like
doctors or nurses, in pale blue scrubs with name tags dangling from the collar. The girls look
up when they enter, and their eyes go wide when they see Gide.

“Go back to work, interns. I need this room,” he says, stern, making shooing motions at
them. The interns scramble out of the room like he threatened their livelihoods. He probably
has the authority to do something like that, if they crossed him.

“Take a seat. Want a cup?” Gide invites, headed straight to the coffee machine. He’s changed
his hair at some point, from a messy ponytail to an even messier bun that leaves strands
dangling around his shoulders and face. There’s a symbol tattooed on the back of his neck,
but Dazai can’t make it out from this angle.

He sits, stretching out his legs under the table. Nerves make his leg bounce anxiously. “Sure.
Black, please.”

“Good choice. The cream here sucks.”

Watching him make coffee while Chuuya is in his room looking like he’s on death's door
feels absurd. It’s like he’s stalling.

Dazai’s never been in this situation. He’s never had anyone who was close to him be sick like
this. He doesn’t know the protocol. Should he wait for Gide to start talking or does he
demand answers or does he start breaking things like his temper is telling him?

Is there even a protocol for these types of things or is everyone just winging it?
Before Dazai can decide, a cup of coffee is being placed in front of him. He takes it in hand g
ratefully, eyeing Gide as he settles in a nearby chair.

“So, the CT scans came back clear,” the neurologist says, taking a sip of his coffee and
making a disappointed face. He doesn’t stop drinking it though. “I didn’t see any unusual
bleeding or clotting, or anything like that.”

The relief is marred by frustration, because that doesn’t explain anything. Obviously there’s
still something wrong with Chuuya, and if it wasn’t the fall then what is it? If it’s not
something that Gide can easily find, then where else is there to look?

“That’s a good thing, right? That they were clear?” Dazai asks, taking a sip of his own coffee.
It tastes like crap, burnt and cheap. Typical hospital coffee.

Gide makes a face, like he doesn’t agree with that. “It mostly means we have to keep looking.
He did start to panic when he was coming out of the machine. He showed some signs of
delirium,” he says, raising a hand to his jaw. There’s a red mark there, starkly visible because
of how pale the man is. “Your little fiancé packs quite the punch.”

Despite everything, that makes Dazai’s lips pull into a small smile. That’s his baby , fierce
even when he’s feeling bad.

“I’ve got him sedated to keep him calm. He’s scheduled for an MRI as well. That’ll give me a
clearer picture of what’s going on. It’s possible there’s some smaller bleeds, clots, maybe
encephalitis or abnormal swelling. He should be going up sometime soon,” he continues,
looking at the watch on his wrist.

“What if the MRI doesn’t show anything either?” Dazai asks, grip tightening around his cup
until it threatens to break. That’s his worst fear, the one he’s been steadily beating back ever
since Chuuya was admitted. Because—

What if it’s not simple? What if it’s something that doesn’t havé an easy fix, or something
that can’t be cured entirely? What if this is a major turning point in Chuuya’s life? In his
health?
“The next step will be an EEG. There are some tests after that that can be done, and we’ll
keep going from there,” Gide answers. His eyes are locked on his face, unwavering. It’s not
kindness in them, per se, but an unswerving and indomitable strength. Like Dazai can take
comfort in the idea that Gide won’t give up on Chuuya. Like he and his experience can be
counted on.

He lets out another breath, taking another sip of the godawful coffee to give himself a
moment to recover.

When he’s collected and controlled again, negative thoughts carefully stored away, he says,
“So you don’t know what’s happening to him?”

A shrug of a broad shoulder, a large hand coming to rest on the table. “I know what’s not
happening to him,” he answers. “As for what is happening...”

He leans forward then, closing the distance between them. His eyes are sharp, and Dazai can
practically see the wealth of knowledge stored there.

Dazai is smart, but he’s mostly smart regarding people. He’s instinctual, and he can suss out
motives and reactions to predict people accurately. He retains information easily, and learns
quickly. He can master most things he puts his mind to, if he has the motivation to learn it.

On the other hand, Gide looks like he has a textbook of the most complicated, fragile,
important pieces of the human body memorized.

“That’s where you come in. You’re going to tell me everything you know about him.”

Well, shit. It’s not like Dazai’s completely clueless—he has had a few conversations with
Chuuya, and he did look up his medical history once— but he’s not an expert. This question
would probably be much better answered by his father or someone else from his family.
Someone who knows him better.
But saying that gives up the ruse of pretending to be his fiancé, and will probably get him
kicked out of the building. The idea of not knowing what’s happening with Chuuya at all
makes him want to scream so—

“I’ll do my best.” He has a good memory. He can point Gide in the right direction. He can
help them both.

“Lovely,” Gide says, leaning back in his chair, balancing it on the back two legs effortlessly,
“Has Chuuya ever had a seizure before?”

“He had one when he was eleven. Said he got pneumonia pretty badly, and his fever spiked.”
Dazai didn’t even know fevers could cause seizures, let alone something like pneumonia.

When Chuuya had described it, it had been... detached . Like it happened to someone else, or
something he barely remembered and didn’t affect him. Dazai had been sympathetic, but he
really hadn’t known how traumatizing a situation like that would be.

Now he’s beginning to understand. He can’t even imagine what it would’ve been like for his
father, to watch his child become frail and helpless and terrifyingly sick when he was still so
young and fragile.

Gide considers that, taking another sip of coffee. “Has he shown any signs of epileptic
activity before? Uncontrollable twitching, odd confusion, staring spells, fainting?”

Dazai shakes his head. “No. As far as I’ve seen, he’s been a normal college student. Besides
the fainting today.”

“Has any of his family been diagnosed with epilepsy or any autoimmune diseases?”
Admittedly, Dazai doesn’t know that much about his family. He’s been surprisingly reticent
about talking about them, and mostly just mentions them in odd stories as ‘my father’ or ‘my
sisters’. He just figured it was a case of the over-sheltered child finally getting to experience
freedom and not wanting to talk about his family overmuch, even as much as Chuuya
obviously loved them.

Dazai understands. He doesn’t talk about his family either.

“Not that I’m aware of. He did mention his dad has high blood pressure though.”

“Does hé drink or do drugs?”

“No drugs,” Dazai answers, shaking his head. Chuuya had never seemed opposed to drugs on
a moral level, he just never seemed interested in them. “He drinks a glass or two of wine a
night, but nothing excessive.”

Mostly because Dazai doesn’t let it become excessive. Chuuya would drink a bottle for
breakfast, lunch, and dinner if he let him. Little monster loves his wine a bit too much..

Gide leans forward again, eyes piercing. “There’s a new drug floating around the colleges
lately, which doesn’t show up on normal tox screens. I think it’s called DOA, or something
similar. Is there any chance he’s taken that?”

There’s something familiar about that name, like a rat itching at his brain.

Chuuya’s never mentioned it though, so either he doesn’t know about it—

Or he was hiding it from Dazai.

“I highly doubt it. He’s never been interested in drugs before.”

Gide squints at him, like he’s trying to tell if he’s lying. “Has he been acting erratic the past
few days?”

That’s hard to answer. Dazai hasn’t seen him since he went back to his dorm, and Chuuya has
been unusually quiet and distant. But that could also just be because he was starting to feel
bad. It’s normal to lose social energy when you’re getting sick.

Dazai narrows his eyes at him. “Why? Does his symptoms line up with the drug?”

“We haven’t pinned down an exact symptom list,” Gide shrugs, “but some have shown
neurological symptoms like confusion, fainting. A case like his could be signs of an—“

Dazai cuts him off. “An overdose.”

Even saying that word makes Dazai’s veins flash with numbing warmth, remembered pain.
He ignores it, scratching absently at the skin of his inner wrist. He’s lucky he wore his
bandages today— he’s gotten almost used to not wearing them around Chuuya— but they
make his scars i tch.

Sometimes, anyway.

He refocuses. “Is that what you think it is? You think it’s an overdose?”

Gide pushes back from the table, taking his empty cup with him. He gestures to Dazai’s cup,
silently asking if he wants a refill.

Dazai shakes his head. Honestly, he’d rather go downstairs and drink some Starbucks than
drink any more of that crap. You would think the hospital management would get some better
coffee for their beloved doctors.
Starting to refill his cup, Gide answers, “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying it’s a
possibility that I need to be aware of. I’m not ruling anything out or favoring any reason
yet.”

All these ‘it could be this or that or maybe—‘ is setting Dazai’s teeth on edge. He hates not
having answers. “Have you tested him?”

Gide shakes his head, turning to lean back against the coffee desk. When he brings his cup to
his mouth, his shirt pulls tightly across his chest. The first button is undone, revealing his
throat. “Not yet. I have to take blood for that, and I’m hesitant to draw blood when the kid
looks like he hasn’t had a bite to eat or a drop of water in two days. That alone could push
him into another seizure, or cause other problems. The plan is to wait for the MRI results, and
if the scans are clean, then I’ll go about testing him.”

God, more waiting. Dazai understands that this visit has probably been comparatively quick
compared to most hospital visits, but it’s agony just waiting for results. It’s been, what— he
checks the time on his phone— almost three hours since they checked in.

Not only do they not have answers, they actually just have more questions.

Gide continues his questioning, completely changing the topic. “Has he travelled lately?”

This is starting to feel like an interrogation more than anything else. “We went to Osaka...
almost a month ago, for five days.”

God, it feels like so long ago now. So much has happened since then, and so much of their
relationship has changed.

Dazai wishes they could go back. Wishes he could rewind time and just—

Not come back. Stay in that hotel forever, where everything was easy and nice and fun. No
Sasaki to worry about, no Shuuji, no gang issues, no hospital visits, no mysterious drugs
popping up on the streets.

Just him and Chuuya.

Gide nods, looking thoughtful. “Has he visited the countryside lately?”

“No, but his family lives in…,” Dazai stalls out because he doesn’t actually remember where
his father lives. He’s not sure if Chuuya ever mentioned it, and when he was snooping around
his background, he was more interested in Chuuya’s info and not his family’s. “I’m sorry, I
don’t remember. It’s a rural city though.”

“Any complaints of bug bites or anything bothering him before the past few days?”

“No,” Dazai sighs, resting his cheek on his hand. “He was perfectly fine up until yesterday.”

That’s another terrifying realization. How fast this all went. One day everything was fine, and
the next, it’s all falling apart. Chuuya was fine up until yesterday. Or, at least he seemed fine.
And now he’s in a hospital, having seizures and getting his brain scanned.

The realization of how easy it is for the center of Dazai’s happiness to be shaken up and even
taken away from him is—

He doesn’t have words, other than mind-numbingly terrifying. He just found Chuuya and no
matter how hard he tries to keep him safe, he might be losing him just as quickly.

Everything he could ever want is inevitably lost as soon as he achieves it. Always.

Just then, the door to the conference room opens up. Dazai and Gide look over at the same
time.
A redhead is leaning against the doorframe, hair messy. He doesn’t exactly look like a nurse
with all the ear piercings and the notch in his eyebrow— but he’s wearing scrubs and holding
up an orange postage envelope.

“Brought you those MRI images you ordered. I know you like to have them hand-delivered,”
the guy drawls, a hint of a scoff in his voice.

Gide’s face melts into a beaming smile, turning him from stern neurologist to charming man.
“Merci beaucoup, mon amour,” he practically purrs, gesturing for the redhead to come over.
“You always know exactly what I like.”

Dazai turns back to his coffee, fighting back a snort as Gide blatantly flirts with the nurse.

There’s a fondly irritated sigh, and then the redhead is padding over to hand him the
envelope. Gide takes it with a charmingly grateful smile, tilting his head to the coffee bar in a
silent question.

The redhead huffs. “I know you think you’re special, but I’ve got four more MRI’s this hour.
I'm not sticking around to chat.”

Gide sighs in disappointment, his gaze clearly fixed on an interesting part of the redhead’s
anatomy as he turns around and heads back to the door. “I’ve got the best hands in this
building, Tachihara, you know that. I’m very special, and you wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t.”

There’s a clear innuendo there that has Dazai taking a sip of his coffee loudly. He is not
involved in this case of sexual harassment, whether it’s consensual or not.

“Whatever you say, Gide,” the redhead calls out, waving a hand as he exits.

“I’ll visit you later, give you my thanks for the rush order,” Gide says loudly after him.
Putting his coffee down, he goes about opening the envelope.
Dazai arches a disbelieving eyebrow at him, bemused by the audacity of that whole scene.

“Don’t judge me,” the neurologist huffs, pulling out a paper thin sheet of black translucent
paper, “You’ve got a fiancé who is eighteen years old, and I know damn well you’re nowhere
near your teens.”

Dazai puts his eyebrow away. Yeah, he’s got him there.

Gide holds the images up to the light. Dazai can see through the back of them, and he can
make out the shapes of what has to be Chuuya’s brain.

It just looks like organized noodles to him, but it’s fascinating that something so small and
fragile is the center of human existence. How everything in the world somehow comes back
to that small mound of electric jello. The brain invented everything and even though it is
fragile and needs to be taken care of—

It’s also surprisingly resilient.

Dazai watches, anxiety building, as Gide tilts the images back and forth, comparing the half-
dozen images on the paper. There’s a slight frown growing between his eyebrows, making
him nervous.

If he doesn’t see what’s wrong, that can’t be good, right? If he’s not finding anything then
that means they still don’t know what’s going on.

Raising his hand, Gide uses the end of his pinkie to compare the size of something on two
different parts of the brain.

Then his frown breaks into a grin.

“Ah, there it is,” he says, using his other hand to pull out the phone in his pocket.

Dazai leans forward, heart rate spiking. “What?”

Gide waves him off with the MRI images, speed-dialing a number on his phone. When it
starts to ring, he puts it to his ear. “Yes, hello— it is me, I’m so glad you recognized my
voice. Do me a favor, love, and start A5158 on a round of Acyclovir. Cortisone too, please.
Thank you so much, Hara, I knew I could count on you.”

The moment he hangs up, Dazai is snapping, “What? What is it?”

“Encephalitis. Pretty bad case of it too. I’m surprised the CT didn’t pick it up,” Gide says,
carefully sliding the image sheet back into its envelope. “Poor kid. No wonder his head
hurt.”

What the fuck is encephalitis? It sounds like an STD?!

Gide must see his confusion because he explains, “Basically his brain is swelling. He didn’t
have any more room in his skull, so his brain was starting to crush itself under the pressure. I
haven’t seen a case this bad since— well, med school.”

Finally, finally , Dazai feels like he can take an unobstructed breath. The lingering panic and
anxiety cinched around his chest finally begins to ease.

God, he’s going to be okay . Chuuya’s going to be okay, because they’ve figured out what’s
wrong with him and that means they can fix him.

“I just ordered him an anti-inflammatory and an anti-viral. That will ease the swelling in his
brain and hopefully knock out whatever is causing the swelling.”
Dazai could kiss Gide right now, and if he wasn’t happily taken, he might have actually done
so. “So it was just a virus that caused it?”

Gide makes a face again. “Well, the tricky thing with encephalitis is that most of the time, we
don’t know what caused it. Viral encephalitis is the most common, so the anti-viral is the
common treatment. If that doesn’t work, then we will move onto the other treatments until
we find the one that does.”

How do you go to medical school for ten years, and not know what makes a brain swell to
bursting? That doesn’t make any sense to Dazai, and the ‘we’ll just keep trying treatments!’
idea sounds risky.

But he’s not a neurologist, so he doesn’t argue. The more time Gide spends talking with him,
the less time Gide is spending fixing Chuuya. He does have two more questions though. “So
it wasn’t the fall that caused it?”

Out of all the fear he’s experienced today— and he’s experienced a lot, much more than he
even knew was possible— that was the most insidious one. That this was his fault and that
this could’ve all been avoided if he’d just—

If he’d been smarter. If he’d been better. If he listened to his instincts and all his knowledge
about head injuries and forced Chuuya to get checked out that day.

“My professional medical opinion is that you should always see a doctor after any sort of
head trauma,” Gide recites, like it’s a line that’s been drilled into his head, then hesitates.

When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Kinder, more understanding. Sympathetic. “But my
personal opinion is that it was probably a good thing he hadn’t been seen yet. If he had and
trauma had been ruled out, he could’ve been diagnosed with the flu and sent home. It
would’ve taken much longer for me to get his case, because the nurses would not have
thought it was neurological. He could’ve gotten a lot worse in that time.”

That... does make Dazai feel better, a little bit.

“Besides, there’s a lot of reasons this could’ve happened. I don’t think it’s directly related to
the fall— so don’t feel too bad, alright? You did the best you could.”

Dazai nods, forcing himself to take some heart from that. It’s hard to feel okay when there’s a
roiling, writhing ball of emotion in his chest— a lot of which feels like guilt— but he’s
starting to. A little.

And then his next question, the most important one: “Chuuya’s going to be okay, right? He’s
going to recover fine?”

The silence after that question is long and pained. Gide stares at him for a long moment, arms
crossed over his chest. His expression has returned to professional blankness, a bad omen.
"It's too early to say. He's young and in good health, so the hope is that he will recover easily
and quickly, with no lingering after effects."

That sounds good— so why does Gide look so grim?

"However," he continues, voice slowing, "There has been cognitive dysfunction in some
cases. Particularly the severe ones."

He said Chuuya's case was the most severe he'd seen since med school so that would mean—

"What kind of cognitive dysfunction?" He can't help but ask, morbid curiosity welling up. He
doesn't want to know, doesn’t even want to consider the thought, but he feels like he has to.
He owes it to Chuuya to be prepared if—

If he's going to be cognitively impaired.

"Again, I want to stress that it is too soon to tell. It hasn't even been an hour yet, and
behavioral changes immediately after is normal."
When Dazai's gaze doesn't waver, Gide sighs and continues: "Things such as mood changes,
speech impairment, memory issues and other issues have all been recorded."

Dazai's head drops into his hands. Every fucking time he gets a little hope, it just gets taken
away from him again. To think that Chuuya might be irrevocably changed by this is—

"I don't want you to think about that. Right now, what you both need to focus on is his
recovery. We'll keep him overnight for observation and if his symptoms have improved
enough by discharge tomorrow, then you can take him home."

So soon? Shouldn't he be kept in the hospital for a few days, at least? He just had a seizure
and encephalitis. Don’t they need to watch him? What if something else happens?

"When you get back into his room, he'll probably be asleep. That's normal. Unless you have
any other questions, I'll come check on him tomorrow morning," Gide says, pushing himself
off the coffee table to stand fully.

At the moment, Dazai's head is so full with news and diagnoses and information and
emotion, that he can't really think past the driving need to see Chuuya again. To see him with
his own eyes, to verify his health for himself. Hopefully, to watch him get better.

He's sure he'll have questions later but not right now. Right now, he just wants his baby.

"I'll have some for you later," Dazai says, shaking his head. He stands up, disposing of his
half-empty coffee cup into the trash near the coffee table.

Gide looks at his watch again. It's heavy and silver, a complement to his hair. He probably
has other appointments and patients to get to. He seems like a busy man.
"Alright— if you need anything, just let the nurse know. They'll help you out, or they'll come
find me," Gide says, throwing his own coffee cup away and following behind him as he
leaves the conference room.

Dazai waves a hand in acknowledgement. "Thank you."

There's so much he feels he should be thanking the doctor for. Taking Chuuya's symptoms
seriously, working quickly to figure out what was going on, keeping Dazai informed. He
knows this is his job but—

Chuuya is important to him, and Gide helped him when Dazai couldn't. He doesn’t know
what he would’ve done without Gide.

"No problem," Gide says, clapping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "Now go to him."

That is no hardship.

Thankfully, Chuuya's room isn't far away, just down the hall. Dazai nearly jogs there, heart
beating in his throat.

There’s a part of Dazai— likely always will be a part of him, trauma memories entangled so
deeply inside him he’ll be able to separate him from what happened to him— that is fully
convinced that Chuuya will disappear the moment he takes his eyes off him. Like he’s a ghost
that only exists because Dazai is looking at him, or something fragile that is only safe when
it’s at the center of his attention.

Like his parents, who were there one minute—

And forever gone the next. He looked away for a few moments, and they never came back.
It’s like a paranoid itching at the back of his mind, a constant voice in the back of his head,
like the scratching nails of a child on a door. Where is he, where is he, where IS HE—?

Dazai’s gotten pretty adept at pushing down the reactions he doesn’t like, the thoughts he
doesn’t enjoy. It’s more forceful ignorance than a real coping method but it works for him. At
least enough that he can function well above it, like he’s not traumatized at all.

Still, it never goes away. And the near-present only soothed when Chuuya comes back into
view.

Leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, Dazai just...watches him for a while.

He’s small in the bed, fragile and pale. His eyes are closed firmly, and his breath is even, so
he’s probably asleep just like Gide said. His hair is spread out on the pillow, and Dazai can
see the tangles from here.

At some point, he’d been changed into a hospital gown. It’s big on him, and the collar is
sliding off his shoulder. His collarbone looks more sharply defined than usual, sparking
another flash of concern.

He loses weight so quickly , and he’s been on a steady downhill ever since Dazai met him.
It’s life is just slowly draining him, no matter how much Dazai feeds him or cares for him.

There’s an IV pole standing beside his bed, sporting three different bags. The medicine Gide
ordered, and assumingly a bag of saline or nutrients. They’re being fed into an IV that is
taped to Chuuya’s hand.

The sight makes Dazai wince. The hand ones always hurt. He had one once, when he was
recovering from another attempt in Mori’s infirmary, and Mori couldn’t find a vein in his
arm. It felt like ice was being slowly pumped into the bones of his hand, painfully cold. Even
he, someone who had deliberately pushed his pain threshold to it’s limits many times, was
irritated and uncomfortable by the constant ache of it..
He moves to his side, drawn in by his presence, moth to loving flame. The chairs by the wall
aren’t secured to the floor, so he drags one over to his bedside. Most of the equipment is
standing on the left, closer to the door, so Dazai settles in on the right.

He’s careful as he slides his hand under Chuuya’s. This one doesn’t have an IV, but it’s still
limp and pale. A little clammy. So small compared to his, fingers short and delicate. His nails
were filed and clean, but they’ve become a little worse for wear over the past few days.

Chuuya stirs when Dazai squeezes his hand lightly, eyebrows drawing down in a frown.

Dazai holds his breath, waiting to see if he’s going to wake up—

He doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a tiny, irritated huff and turns his face away.

Dazai smiles at that. For a morning person, he’s always been adorably grumpy when he’s
waking up. Always huffing and pouting and pulling at Dazai if he tries to get up.

By now, it’s almost dark. He can see the sunset vaguely through the window, spilling orange-
red rays of light into the room.

Something occurs to him then, so he pulls out his phone with his free hand. Opening up the
messaging app, he shoots the neighbor girl, Naomi, a text asking if she can let the dogs
outside and feed them dinner. He doesn’t want to leave Chuuya’s side, but he also doesn’t
want to force Yoko and Kozo to go hungry for the night.

It’s a Friday, so hopefully she won’t be too busy. She’s still in high school, and her parents
are strict, so he doesn’t expect her to be out at a party or something.

Ten minutes later, he gets a text in agreement. He thanks her, giving her the location of the
house key he stores outside. He changes the location every week, just in case. He’ll have to
slip her some money when he gets back home, in thanks.
Then, with nothing left to do but wait until Chuuya wakes up — even if Dazai was tired,
which he’s not, he’s actually wired , hopped up on lingering adrenaline and even if his
chronic insomnia would let him sleep, there’s no way his survival instincts would let him
sleep in such a public and defenseless place— Dazai starts to comb through Chuuya’s hair
with his fingers.

He’s always been very particular about his hair. Doesn’t like when it’s tangled or when it’s
frizzy. Which is kind of a problem considering how damn thick it is, and how easy it is for
the curls to get tangled together. He also doesn’t like to wash it too often or use a comb on it
when it’s not wet. Dazai’s watched him brush through his hair with his fingers for an hour
rather than just pick up a comb and ruin the shape of the curls.

It’s tangled now, knotted to the back of his head. Probably from the seizure and the panic
attack.

Honestly, Dazai doesn't get it. His own hair is washed nearly every day, and it hasn't been
long enough to need a comb in a long while. But he does respect that Chuuya likes his hair a
certain way, and it gives him something to do so—

He pulls all the knots out slowly. He's careful never to pull too hard, and whenever his fingers
get caught, he pulls them out and slowly works the knot free. It takes a long while, slowly
working his way up from the bottom and teasing the tangles out. Chuuya must've washed his
hair recently. It's soft, plush with volume and shiny. It's almost alive, playful curls wrapping
around his fingers, looking like fire in the light.

The sight makes him smile. There's some things about Chuuya that just seem otherworldly,
almost too good to be true.

Time passes like that, cradling Chuuya's hand in one hand and absentmindedly coming
through his hair with the other. With the rhythmic beeps of the machines, it's easy to get lost
in the flow of things. Hours slip by, and the hospital doesn't change.

Then Chuuya moves.

Dazai looks up, blinking himself back into alertness. He'd been mostly zoned out, eyes
locked on the doorway, turning the situation over in his head again and again.

Chuuya stirs again, eyebrows bunching together in a frown. His head tosses, eyes squeezed
shut. A muffled whimper escapes him, strained and low.

Nightmare? Or is he in pain again? Should he call the nurse? Chuuya still doesn't look like
he's waking up and he is prone to nightmares so—

He'll try something else first. If it doesn’t work, he’ll call the nurse.

Climbing into the bed with him is a careful process. He has to avoid pulling on all the tubes
and wires connected to him as he slides his arm under his head.

Instinctually, or perhaps because he recognizes him even in his sleep, Chuuya curls into him.
His head finds his chest, leaning into him and using his frame to block out the harsh lighting.
The hand that Dazai was holding is now resting on his stomach.

It's uncomfortable for Dazai. He has to curl up his legs awkwardly to fit on the bed, and
there's only one pillow, which is already being used by Chuuya, so his back has no support
whatsoever as he curls over Chuuya.

But Chuuya quiets down, and the frown on his face melts away. It's replaced by a peaceful
smile, small and light. Tension melts out of his frame.

It's worth every second of discomfort.

At some point, a nurse comes in to check on Chuuya. She eyes Dazai disapprovingly, but
doesn't say anything as she silently takes down his vitals. She doesn't seem too concerned and
leaves quickly, so that must be a good sign, right? If she's not scrambling or calling the other
nurses, then Chuuya is doing better, right?

It's so hard to just wait and draw conclusions from the barest hints of what he's seeing and
hearing.

But he's still sleeping, and it's been hours since he was sedated and the medicine was
administered, so—

That's good, right?

Not having any answers at all is terrifying in itself; but having the answers and waiting to see
if the solution is working is anxiety inducing. Like waiting for the results of the most
important test of your life.

Dazai tucks his arm along Chuuya's back, tugging him close into the curve of his body. It
feels like the fever has gone down somewhat. He's warm against him, but not blisteringly hot
anymore.

The sheet on the hospital is light and scratchy, but Dazai draws it up anyways, tucking it
tightly underneath Chuuya's arm. His hand has to stay out of the blanket, but he makes sure
to cover the rest of him.

You're supposed to keep someone with a fever warm, right? Dazai has never actually taken
care of someone who was sick before. He’s only taken care of himself— and his method of
care was to just pop a hydrocodone and disassociate until he felt better. Yosano got the flu
once when they were in the Mafia, and he showed up with a bottle of liquor to ‘cure her’. She
tried to break it over his head.

Needless to say, Dazai is completely and utterly out of his depth. He’s assuming, based on the
way Gide was talking, that Chuuya will need quite a bit of care and support so he can recover
from this successfully.
Chuuya can’t be trusted to take care of himself the way he needs to be, so Dazai will make
sure he does.

He likes the idea of taking care of him. Makes a drop of warmth swell up inside him. He
might be out of his league and unprepared—

But he’s resourceful, he’s smart and he has access to the most valuable resource on the
planet: Google.

Does the act of googling “how to care for a sick person” and “how to lower a fever” and
“encephalitis after care” and “how to help nausea” make him feel a little stupid? Absolutely.
But it’s also 2am so he can’t text Yosano for advice without pissing her off. It isn’t an
emergency so he can’t call Gide. The neurologist probably wouldn’t appreciate getting drilled
with aftercare questions in the middle of the night. He’ll ask when he comes to check on
Chuuya in the morning.

Right now, all Dazai has is himself and his access to the internet. He’s determined to make
sure Chuuya recovers without any lasting negative effects.

He’ll do whatever it takes. Chuuya will be safe and he will be perfectly healthy.

(He won’t.)
 Demon, Devil
Chapter Summary

If you asked Nikolai how he got to this point in life, he would not be able to answer. He
could give you the sequence of events in logical order, but he still can’t wrap his head
around how he ended up like this.

Chapter Notes

bet u weren't expecting me to update on time for two weeks in a row >:) Also, warning
for medical procedures/ discussion of neurological defects in this chapter, as well as
mention of the idea of non-consensual drug use !! Warning for the Day by Day reference
too LMFAO. Hope you enjoy and I'll see you next week!!! :D

If you asked Nikolai how he got to this point in life, he would not be able to answer. He could
give you the sequence of events in logical order, but he still can’t wrap his head around how
he ended up like this.

He’s the second son of a mid-class family in Moscow. His mother is a teacher and a midwife;
his father works for the Russian Bratva. So does his elder brother.

Or did, anyways.

Nikolai himself was a small child, always hovering on the edge of bad health, and never
serious. He never needed to be, because he was the second son, and so he was considered the
spare. He could spend his time making up tricks and pranks, pulling colorful handkerchiefs
out of his sleeve to make his mother smile.

It was Sigma who needed to make the family proud, to bring them honor and money. Nikolai
was expected to make his family proud, but it wasn’t necessary to follow in his fathers
footsteps.
So as he grew up and he decided he wanted to go to college instead of joining the Bratva like
his father and brother before him, it was a shock to his family. But it wasn’t terrible. His
mother understood. His father was mean, but well—

That man was always mean. It didn’t matter what the reason was, he always found a reason to
be angry about something. There was never making that man happy, not really, and that was
something Nikolai had to come to terms with very early on in his life.

Then Sigma died and his father was arrested and sentenced to life in prison. His mother was
stricken with grief and spent many days mourning her lost son and husband. And Nikolai—

Well, he was the man of the house now, and it wasn’t a shock to learn that his father had
racked up quite the debt with the Bratva during drinking games. Something had to be done,
otherwise the last remains of his family would wither away in starvation.

There was only one option left: join the Bratva or leave his mother to waste away in the cold,
grieving and hungry. It wasn’t much of a choice, if he’s being honest.

In the end, he did go to college—

But it’s a pretense. A cover. A job.

It was supposed to be easy. Being placed in the college, near the center of Port Mafia
territory, and just soak up all the information he could find to relate back to Fyodor. Become
friends with Shuuji, and get close to him. Become trusted by him, so if Fyodor ever needed to
use him, there was already a foot in the door.

He rolls the pills in hand, purple-black. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The problem was he liked Chuuya. Genuinely liked him. He was kind, and understanding,
and he never made Nikolai feel strange or weird. He never pried too deeply into his life,
respecting Nikolai’s boundaries in a way he hadn't really experienced before.

Once, some of the other students had been making fun of Nikolai’s accented Japanese, and
Chuuya had nearly started a brawl in the campus courtyard defending him.

Nikolai liked Yuan too, and Shuuji was his job , but Chuuya—

Chuuya was never supposed to be involved. Chuuya was his friend. Not his first one, but the
first one he had in a long while.

Naturally, with Nikolai’s luck, that ended up with Chuuya somehow getting romantically and
emotionally involved with probably the worst person Nikolai could imagine. He’d tried to
warn him off without revealing too much of his job— because if Chuuya knew about that,
then a whole other slew of problems would be created— but the guy was stubborn and blind
when it came to Dazai.

And then Fyodor had found out, somehow. Nikolai had barely escaped punishment by
claiming he hadn’t known about the relationship—

But he did know. That was the first time he’d lied to Fyodor ever. It was the first time he’d
ever put himself at risk for someone other than his mother. It was the first time he’d broken
the unspoken rules of their world.

And then his job became watching Chuuya.

It was hard because it wasn’t like he had the option of refusing or lying. Fyodor could kill
him if he wanted, and then his mother would have no one. There was only so far he could
push the envelope before he got himself caught up in his own lies.
But every scrap of information he gave to him about Chuuya felt like betrayal. He was glad
when Chuuya disappeared for days or a week at a time, because that meant he didn’t know
what was happening. He could tell Fyodor he hadn’t seen or spoken to him, not for lack of
trying, and that was it.

And then the order came. Fyodor wanted him to dose Chuuya with the drug he was
manufacturing, without his knowledge.

Nikolai didn’t know what the pills did. It wasn’t his place to know. All he knew was that it
was probably going to according to Fyodor’s plan because the boss had been in a very good
mood lately.

He’d fucked him twice this week, which is completely out of character. Falling into bed with
the boss was a privilege, and he treated it like one. He only let the prettiest people or the
subordinates he was most pleased with get a taste of his cock. Only the people who earned
the rewards got them.

And Nikolai had to admit—

It worked. Because after being fucked on a luxurious bed covered in ten thousand Yen notes,
the imprint of rings left on his body for days, all he wanted was more. After being restrained
in yards of red silken rope, anchored to the ceiling in the shape of tangled wings, each knot a
display of Fyodor’s power, his vision , his skill, hanging from the ceiling with no leverage as
Fyodor did whatever he wanted to him—

He would do almost anything to experience mind-numbing pleasure like that again.

If Dazai was a demon, then Fyodor was the devil , and he fucked like it too. Entangling you
in his ropes and showing you by example what sin and pleasure really felt like. It was
impossible not to give into that sharp smile, even knowing that he’d take your soul—

Because he made every second worth it. Made you want to come back again and again,
giving up everything you had and everything you were—
Just so you would be his for a few hours.

Fyodor got new ropes for everyone he played with, so just knowing that there was a neatly
knotted wall of silk with Nikolai’s name on it, for Nikolai, and the only people to have
touched it were him and Fyodor, and only ever them—

It was intoxicating. His addiction, packaged up neatly and ready to be given to him whenever
he earned it. His and his alone.

So when the order came, he wanted to do it. Wanted to do what he was told, because it was
easier and better that way, because that’s what he was supposed to do, but—

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do that to his friend, one of the first genuine ones he’s had in a
while. God, he wanted to, and that made the guilt so much worse.

Besides, when Chuuya had come back from his impromptu get away with light bruising on
his throat— probably because of Shuuji and his temper, but possibly from Dazai— and
already complaining of a headache, how was Nikolai supposed to just take advantage of his
friends ailing health and make it worse?

Chuuya had defended him, had offered him nothing but kindness and friendship, and Nikolai
was supposed to just spit on that?

So he lied. Again. Told Fyodor that he did it when all he really did was take a pill and flush it
down the toilet, and was fully expecting to be punished. Fully expected to die, even, for
lying. If Chuuya never showed symptoms then the boss would know.

And Nikolai would confess if asked. Like a sinner to his god, on his knees and ready to
receive whatever would be given to him in return.
Except Chuuya did show symptoms of something. He’d collapsed at campus a few hours ago,
and the gossip vine was buzzing with the information that some tall, dark, handsome man
came to swoop him up and—

Fyodor and Dazai look similar enough that it could be either one of them. Chuuya could’ve
gotten the pills elsewhere — Nikolai isn’t the only one selling them on campus and some
people share their purchases— and maybe he took some and then Fyodor came to pick him
up.

He doesn’t know, and that’s the worst part. All Nikolai knows is that Chuuya isn’t responding
to his texts and his location, which he’s sharing with the friend group chat, says he’s at the
hospital.

He hopes he’s okay. Hopes that he’ll be okay, eventually.

But he also knows that he can’t keep hovering between the two sides anymore. He can’t
protect Chuuya and be a part of the Bratva. He can’t keep his friend safe and his mother safe
at the same time.

He has to choose.

Dazai has to protect Chuuya now, because Nikolai can’t do it anymore. He’s done his best.
Now it’s his turn, and he can only hope that Dazai is up to the task.

His phone, forgotten on the bed, beeps with an incoming text.

[ UNKNOWN ]: good boy, kolya.

The text makes Nikolai shiver. He can practically taste the nickname rolling off Fyodor’s
tongue.
[ UNKNOWN ]: there’s a car waiting for you outside

It feels wrong to be rewarded when Nikolai hasn’t done anything at all, but refusing would
mean that he had to explain, and reveal that he didn’t actually do anything at all, so—

So he goes.

The car is black, with completely tinted windows, and the driver is someone Nikolai has
never met before. It takes him to the building where Fyodor makes his office, a tall glass
building in the center of town. The brand name on the outside of it is something completely
unrelated to what really goes on in the building, some company that looks innocuous. It’s a
clever cover.

Nikolai does get nervous on the elevator ride up because—

What if Fyodor knows he lied? What if he’s about to get punished instead of rewarded?

Nikolai doesn’t know how he’d know— he was secretive about tossing the pill, and Chuuya
is clearly sick with something— but Fyodor is resourceful. He might’ve found out somehow.
It’s a better idea to plan on that man knowing everything than betting that he doesn’t know
something.

The office, when he steps inside, is surprisingly dark, with most of the light coming from the
sun outside pouring through the multiple windows. Fyodor is sitting at his desk, casually
nursing a bottle of vodka. There’s a shot glass in front of him, freshly wet.

Woven between his fingers is rope. Red rope, Nikolai’s rope. He’d recognize that color
anywhere, and the sight of it alone has his heart speeding up.

Violet eyes look up at him as he enters, nearly glowing in the light. Fyodor’s lips pull into a
satisfied smile, red and shiny. He looks kissable.
“Come in, Kolya,” he says, nearly purring with invitation. “Close the door behind you and
come here.”

It’s not in Nikolai to refuse a direct order when he’s being stared at like that so—

He comes.

Fyodor doesn’t move from his spot lounging in his office chair, like a leopard sated from the
hunt and stretched out magnificently across it’s resting place. Casually dangerous, and all the
more beautiful for it.

When Fyodor gestures to the floor next to him, Nikolai falls to his knees easily.

With a flick of his wrist, the rope in Fyodor’s hands is spun out and dropped around the back
of his neck. A noose he would willingly put his neck into, and a pull he does not fight as
Fyodor tugs him closer.

“You did well,” he praises him, and the pride that wells up in him feels like it would burn him
alive. Even if he has no right to feel that way. Even if it makes the lingering, twisting guilt
dig further into his chest.

Still, he lets Fyodor manhandle him, eyes going half-lidded at the pressure. He wants Fyodor
to kiss him.

“And now I have another job for you,” he murmurs, and Nikolai is subtly leaning on, leaning
up , aching to be put out of his mind so he can stop thinking for just a little bit. So he can stop
feeling guilty about the things he didn’t do and the things he has yet to do.

Soft lips brush against his own as Fyodor speaks again. “I want you to bring me Nakahara
Chuuya.”
Nikolai’s eyes squeeze shut at the same time Fyodor finally kisses him.

(No one told him this, but life should not be this hard. It shouldn’t be like this.)

Hospitals start their work early. Not too early compared to Dazai's standards— he's usually
awake before the sunrise, mostly because his insomnia is a rampant, vicious foe— but to
Chuuya's standards, definitely. Little brat thinks waking up before ten in the morning is
obscene, and that's when he's feeling good. Now that he's sick, Dazai has no doubt that his
adorable grumpiness will be even more dramatic than usual.

He does what he can, letting Chuuya bury his face in his chest to hide from the light and
lightly cupping his hand over his ear to help block out the sound of the hospital coming to
life.

A nurse comes in to check on him early, once again taking down all of Chuuya's vital signs.
She's respectfully quiet, humming lightly to herself as she writes down all the information.
As she leaves, she turns to Dazai and whispers, "The neurologist will be in to see you soon."

'Soon' ends up being nearly half an hour later. Chuuya is still stubbornly clinging to sleep, but
it's clear that he's slowly starting to wake up. Dazai hopes it's not a bad sign that he's so
exhausted. He knows his body needs rest to recover—

But he'd do anything to see those blue eyes open up again. He misses the sight of them, and
he feels like the only way he'll be able to tell if Chuuya is alright is if he sees them again. If
he wakes up and looks back at him.

"You do realize that the hospital beds are for patients and not for their fiancés, right?" Gide's
voice comes from the doorway, faintly amused.
Dazai looks over, blinking the strain out of his eyes. It's been a long night, longer than usual.

Gide's dressed in a different suit today. The lab coat and suit coat is missing again,and the
shirt today is a silver-grey that compliments his shiny hair. It's down this morning, falling to
mid-back, with his bangs pulled back in a handful of small braids along his temples. He looks
elegant, sleek, regal.

"He sleeps better when I'm here," Dazai explains, shrugging lightly. It's true, he's much more
easily settled when Dazai is at least in bed with him, even if he's not sleeping himself.

Dazai takes that moment to slide out from underneath Chuuya, slowly getting to his feet.
Chuuya makes a grumbling noise in protest as he leaves, much more clear than anything else
he's mumbled thus far. He must be close to waking up now.

Dazai raises his arms above his head, stretching out his spine until it pops loudly. His back
aches mercilessly, particularly his lower back where he was curled up and bent to fit in the
bed.

While he works out the kinks in his body, Gide grabs the chart and starts to flip through it.
His expression is calm but focused, red-tinted eyes taking in all the information easily. He
doesn't look concerned, so Dazai takes that as a good sign.

There's another small grumble, a sound of strain and a rustle of the bedsheets and pillow on
the bed and then—

"What happened?"

He's awake. He sounds hoarse and grumpy but when Dazai looks over, heart leaping in his
chest—

Chuuya's already looking, eyes bleary and half-lidded but clear and fixed on him.
Dazai could cry with relief. Almost does , actually, and it takes a surprising amount of
strength to rein in his reactions, but he doesn't want to frighten him again. It must be
disorientating to wake up after everything that happened, and he doesn't want to startle him
again. Especially after how bad he messed up yesterday.

Meanwhile, Gide snaps the chart in his hands closed. "Good morning, Chuuya," he greets
cheerfully. "I'm glad to see you're awake."

With his hands, Chuuya struggles to push himself into an upright position. He hisses in pain
when the IV in his hand is jostled, drawing his hand to his chest.

There's buttons on the edge of the bed, letting it be moved up and down. Dazai presses the
one that moves the top of the bed into a more inclined position, letting Chuuya 'sit up'
without having to strain himself or hold himself up.

He gets a grateful look in response, his free hand creeping across the bed to find Dazai's,
instinctively reaching out for comfort. Their fingers intertwine lightly.

Dazai squeezes his hand gently as he drops into the chair he'd left by his bedside, careful not
to hurt him but also so relieved he's awake and talking. He brings his hand to his lips,
dropping a reverent kiss there. His skin is still too warm, but it's not burning hot anymore,
and he squeezes his fingers in return.

"How do you feel?" Gide asks, leaning back against the doorframe. The breadth of his
shoulders blocks the sight of the hallway beyond, making it seem like the room is closed off
and secure.

"Uh," Chuuya starts, seeming like he's struggling to find the exact words he wants to say. He
touches his temple with his other hand once, wincing lightly. "Like shit— but better, I think?"

He's still showing signs of light sensitivity, and he's slumped back into the bed like he's
exhausted, but he's talking clearly—
That's a good sign, right?

"That's good to hear. You've shown signs of improvement throughout the night. Your fever
has gone down, and so has your blood pressure. I'm scheduling you for an MRI to check on
the swelling, but it seems to me that you've responded well to the medication."

The smile that grows on Chuuya's face is small and wobbly, but it's brilliant to Dazai.
Possibly his favorite smile ever, because he wasn't sure if he was going to see it again.

"So what happened to me?"

"You had something called encephalitis. It means your brain was swelling, and the pressure
was too much. That's what caused the seizure, and the rest of your symptoms. I'm not
completely certain what was causing the swelling, but the important part is that you're
responding to medication. If your MRI results are good, you'll be able to be discharged
today," Gide answers. Even though he's giving good information, he still looks stern and
professional. His arms are crossed over his chest.

Chuuya takes a moment to process that, squeezing Dazai's hand. He seems to be taking this
remarkably well, and even now a smile is growing on his face, slowly growing bigger. "So
when will I be able to go back to school? I'm enrolled at Keio."

The air goes completely still.

"About that," Gide starts, pushing off the wall and walking closer. He stands at the foot of the
bed, and his gaze is stern enough on Chuuya that Dazai is stiffening automatically, "Even if
your recovery goes perfectly— you won't be able to return this semester."

Chuuya gapes at him. "What do you mean? You said I'm recovering!"
"Yes, but that doesn't mean you're fine . You suffered a brain injury, one that could still have
lingering aftereffects. You need lots of rest and care, as well as medication. Bed rest, for six
weeks minimum and then slow transition back into normal life."

"Six WEEKS?" Chuuya repeats, sounding appalled . Anger must be giving him energy
because he's sitting up straighter, pinning Gide with a glare. "You can't make me not go, not if
I start to feel better. Just give me a note for two weeks, and I'll be fine."

He is the most /stubborn fucking person Dazai has ever met—

But he's met his match with Gide. Because Gide doesn't have emotional attachment to him,
doesn't want to see him happy above all else and wouldn't give into him just to make him s
mile. Gide only has one goal— get Chuuya healthy— and he won't give in on that.

"I'll be giving Dazai your note for the next three months," Gide answers, steady and calm in
the face of Chuuya's rising irritation, "And you're right, I can't make you take care of
yourself. But if you're going to take that route, I might as well take the IV out of your hand
right now. We'll all sit here and watch as the pressure in your head grows and grows.
Eventually, you'll seize again."

Chuuya looks pale, and his hand is beginning to tremble. His lips are pressed together so
tightly they're nearly white with bloodlessness.

"You wanna know what comes after that? Eventually the pressure in your head gets so much
that I’ll have to cut into it. I'll drill out a piece of your skull, sew it into your abdomen to keep
it alive, and leave the hole in your head open to relieve pressure."

Chuuya recoils, pressing himself back in the bed, and even Dazai feels vaguely
uncomfortable with the description of that. He's unfortunately glad that Gide is being so
ruthless, because it finally seems that Chuuya is getting it. This isn't a flu or a sickness he's
just going to bounce back from.

He doesn't get to pretend that he's okay after all this, because he's not. And if he doesn't take
care of himself, he might never be okay again.
"Oh? You don't like that?" Gide's smile is edging on mean. "You must be going after the
brain damage , then, right?"

He doesn't let Chuuya get in a word otherwise as he brings his hand to his chin, pretending to
think. "Let's see— I know a guy, can't remember a damn thing. Has a memory so shot he
can't remember anything past a few hours. Totally forgot his husband, by the way. He can
never live a normal life again. He needs a babysitter to make sure he doesn't get himself lost.
You want that to happen? You want to do that to yourself? To him?" He gestures to Dazai
then, and he hates being used against Chuuya like this but—

But he can't imagine a life like that. A life with a helpless Chuuya, who doesn't even know
who he is. Dazai doesn't know how he would handle that. If he could handle that.

"You want to live your life day by day, never knowing what came before? Having to have
notes in your kitchen because you don't know where the bowls are? Not knowing where you
live? Not—.”

Dazai cuts him off there, leveling a glare at Gide. "Stop. You're scaring him."

And Chuuya is scared. He's pressed back against the bed like he's trying to escape. Eyes wide
and filled with moisture, locked on Gide like he can't look away.

"He should be scared," Gide huffs, shrugging his shoulders like he doesn't care. "Brains are
complicated, fragile things, and all of my help and knowledge will mean shit if he doesn't
take care of himself. He could end up losing everything if he doesn't let his body rest and
recuperate."

"Okay," Chuuya chokes out, turning his head away and squeezing his eyes shut. "Okay, I get
it. So just— just stop, please."

Gide lets out a breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Okay. I didn't mean to
frighten you and I apologize for being harsh, but something like this can turn very serious
very quickly, and the fact that it's not serious yet is a good thing. You were lucky, Chuuya,
but luck won't hold out forever. So follow your care instructions, and you can go back to a
normal life as quickly as your body will allow."

Speaking of, that's exactly the question Dazai wanted to ask. "What are his aftercare
instructions?"

Gide pulls out a phone from his pocket, the same one Dazai saw yesterday. He thought
hospitals had like...

Pagers, or whatever, not phones .

"Now, this is all depending on his MRI results, because those will determine if he's
discharged today or not. If he is, I will be prescribing him an antiviral and an anticonvulsant.
The antiviral will need to be taken for the next... sixty days, to be sure. You'll need a refill at
thirty days. As for the anti-convulsant, I'm going to give him a ten day script, just in case.
Take one a day for the next three days, then only if he needs them. They'll make him tired,
but you must take them if you feel a seizure coming on. I'm sure you know what that feels
like."

Mouth twisting down in a frown, Chuuya nods. His face is paling, and he's gone limp again,
like all the fight has drained out of him. Like he's too tired to even be angry or upset
anymore.

Dazai aches for him. He can't imagine what it'd be like to work so hard for something, just to
have it taken from you by circumstances out of your control. Colleges aren't supposed to
discriminate by medical conditions— but Dazai's sure they do. The more prestigious ones,
especially, make it so hard for anyone who's not in perfect health to survive the classes.
They're merciless, never giving an inch and rarely adjusting due dates for someone who
might need it. Every accommodation must be fought for with tooth and nail.

Even if Chuuya does have a note for medical leave, when— if — he returns to class, he'll be
behind. An entire semester behind, and even if he can keep up with the workload again, he
might overwhelm himself again trying to catch up.
It's a shitty, shitty situation, and Dazai feels for him.

"I suggest you start a regimen of anti-inflammatories— like Tylenol— to help with the
headache and the swelling. Make sure to follow the instructions, though."

This time, Gide levels a stern look at Dazai, which he's more than okay with. Better him than
Chuuya, who looks so fragile at the moment. "Other than that, I'm prescribing lots of rest,
water and care. Do either of you have any questions?"

Dazai doesn't think so, and if he comes up with any more questions he can always call
Yosano. As long as it's a reasonable time— she swears she's getting old now and is in bed
before midnight, which is insulting considering that she is only a year older than he is—then
she'll answer him. She might be nosy about it, but she's always given him good advice.

He shakes his head. Chuuya makes a vague 'no' noise, still looking away.

"Alright," Gide says, rapping his knuckles on the metal frame of the bed, "The nurses should
be coming to get you for an MRI soon. If you come up with any questions while I'm gone, let
one of them know. Otherwise, I'll see you again when the scans come back."

He turns without another word, long legs carrying him out of the room easily. He's gone in
only a few moments, leaving them alone to process what just happened.

It's rare for Dazai to feel out of his element. He's been trained to pick up the details of any
situation and blend in, to use everything he can to his advantage.

There is no advantage here. There's just Chuuya, staring at the wall with his expression
forcibly blank, like he can't bear to reveal what he's feeling.

Dazai's never been good with emotions, in any capacity, so this is especially hard for him. He
doesn't know what to do, but he has to do something . He can't just sit here and let the silence
fester.
"Are...you okay?" He asks, and he knows it's a stupid question, but he doesn't know where
else to start.

There's a long silence, and although Chuuya hasn't let go of his hand, he's no longer
squeezing it. He's just letting Dazai hold his hand, fingers limp.

"No," Chuuya eventually croaks, and Dazai is just about to jump up and call a nurse or
something—

When Chuuya continues: "I worked so hard to get into Keio. I gave it everything I had, and
now it's gone."

His voice cracks the last word, wobbling. Poor thing. He must be feeling so lost right now, so
helpless.

Gently, Dazai reaches out and brushes his fingertips over his cheek. Trying to show his care
and support without pushing him. "It's not gone, baby," he murmurs, wishing he had the
words to fix this, to make it all seem okay, like this isn’t the end of Chuuya’s world. "You
just... need to take a little break, that's all. You can go back next semester."

But for someone like Chuuya, who has been very obviously frustrated with his health for
years and refuses to give himself even the smallest of breaks— it probably does seem like the
end of the world. For someone who is determined to push through every little pain or setback
with a clenched jaw, the idea of being forced to relax must be hard to handle.

It seems that Chuuya is too tired to argue anymore, because he just turns his face into his
hand and blindly accepts the comfort that's being given to him.

Dazai hopes they release him from the hospital soon, because the beds and equipment in here
make it really difficult to comfort Chuuya the way he wants to. Helping him sleep was one
thing, but he wants to hold him. Wants to pile Yoko and Kozo on top of him until he’s warm
and happy and safe.
Eventually a pair of nurses come into the room to take Chuuya for his test. They make small
talk as they prepare to wheel Chuuya out, but Chuuya is understandably quiet. Dazai is
nervous watching him leave, but he doesn't protest. He can't follow, so he's once again left
alone to wait in the room.

He gathers all their things while he waits. Chuuya's clothes and everything else he was
wearing had been packed into a clear plastic bag. His collar is in there, light pink and metal
shining underneath the light.

Dazai traces his finger over the shape of it, something in him aching at how empty it looks.
How bare Chuuya's neck looked without it.

While he's there, he shoves Chuuya's phone and wallet in the bag with his clothes. He's
probably wondering where they are, and Dazai's ass is numb from laying on them all night.

He wishes he'd thought of getting Chuuya clean clothes for discharge, but it seems too late
now. He can't make it to his house— Chuuya has a few outfits hanging in his closet, a sight
that makes him feel warm and bubbly inside— and back by the time he's discharged.

If the scans don't go well and he ends up having to stay another night, then he'll make the trip
to get him something comfortable to wear. If not, Chuuya will have to be okay with the jeans
and sweater he wore yesterday. It'll only be for a little while anyways, because Dazai intends
to get him straight home and into bed as soon as he's released.

Half an hour later, Chuuya gets pushed back into the room. He looks more exhausted than
ever, but the IV has been removed from his hand. That has to be a good sign, right?

Dazai greets him with a gentle kiss dropped on the back of his hand, but otherwise lets him
doze as they both wait for results.
 Purposeful Cat Acquisition
Chapter Summary

Chuuya relaxes into his care, letting him manipulate his head and move his body any
way he needs to.

It's peaceful, like time is frozen outside of this room.

(It will not last.)

Chapter Notes

hello this is late because i have somehow caught a stomach bug which makes me puke
up the nyquil i drink literally moments after i drink it. It is as unpleasant as it sounds, but
I have managed to sleep for 14 hours and I'm fine now i guess LMFAO. And I am
pleased to announce we are now two (2) chapters away from the Bad Thing, so please
accept this lil fluffy chapter as compensation of what will soon be happening. Hope you
enjoy it! :D see you next week.

‘Results’ come in the form of Gide waltzing into the room like he owns it nearly another half
an hour later. His hair has been pulled up into another messy ponytail on top of his head.
Honestly, Dazai doesn’t understand why he just doesn’t cut his hair if it’s such a problem, or
even start the day with his hair up.

He’s actually got his lab coat on this time, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. In his
hands is another brown package envelope, like the ones that were holding his scans
yesterday.

Dazai sits up straighter, waiting to hear if he can finally bring his baby home or if they'll be in
for another long night of waiting. Gide doesn't look particularly concerned or happy, but he's
been irritatingly hard to read so far. Professional in some moments, and swinging into
something resembling a heartless drill sergeant the next.
"Good news," he starts, grabbing the chart on the end of Chuuya's bed. He flips to the back
page, taking a pen out of his pocket. "Your scans came back with good results. You've shown
enough progress that you can go home today."

He signs the page with a flourish, before flipping the chart closed and tucking it underneath
his arm.

Dazai lets out a breath of relief, slumping back in his seat. Relief is flooding through him
quickly, finally washing away the lingering, sticky threads of emotion that have been clinging
to his lungs like tar. It feels like he can finally breathe again, and the air tastes clean and fresh
again.

Even though the hard part is just beginning.

Chuuya doesn't look nearly as pleased— in fact, he just looks exhaustively accepting, face
blank— but he nods and starts to pull himself into a sitting position.

Dazai slides over the bag of his clothes, not offering to help him get dressed because he's sure
that will just frustrate him even more and he's not even sure if he needs it. He can’t help but
hover nearby though, always within reach.

Gide waves him closer, eyeing Chuuya's hunched frame as he tears open the bag and digs out
his jeans.

"Keep an eye on him. Depression can be common," he murmurs to Dazai, quiet enough to not
be heard. Then, louder he says, "You'll need an appointment in thirty days, just as a checkup.
If anything concerning happens between then— like seizures or fainting or anything else—
go to the emergency room and ask them to page me directly. If there's nothing else, I'll leave
you to it."

Chuuya looks up then, and his eyes are clear, if drawn with exhaustion. "No, I think that's it.
Thanks. For taking care of me."
Gide smiles at him, expression dissolving into mild happiness. For the first time he doesn't
look like a professional force to be reckoned with— he looks like a man who loves his job
and is pleased when things go well. "You're welcome, Chuuya," he responds, caring and
warm. "Now, take care of yourself. I don't want to see you again,even if you are a better sight
than most of my patients these days."

He flashes a teasing smile at him, one that manages to pull out an amused huff out of Chuuya
and a rising blush on his cheeks.

Dazai is torn between thinking 'is he really flirting with my fiance in front of me??' and 'yeah,
Chuuya is very pretty, thank you very much for noticing' and 'why the hell is he blushing at
that?'. And over that is a hot, possessive thought of 'do NOT touch'.

Before Dazai can decide if he's overreacting or if he should be displeased, Gide is clapping a
hand on his shoulder. Maybe it's harder than it should be, but the squeeze is friendly enough.

And then he's gone.

Leaving him with a boyfriend that needs his help, even if he won't admit it, that he really has
no idea how to help.

"So," Chuuya says, reaching down to pull the ends of his jeans over his ankles. Then he
stands up and Dazai is watching warily to make sure he doesn't fall—

"Fiance, huh?" He continues, and oh , Dazai likes the way he says that, likes the little twinkle
of amusement in his eyes, the teasing curl of his lips. Like it's a secret between them,
something sacred tying them together.

Digging into the bag, Dazai carefully pulls out the collar and moves over to him. He waits
until Chuuya carefully pulls his hair on top of his head in silent permission before gently
sliding the leather around his neck.
"It was the only way they'd let me back here with you," he murmurs, making sure Chuuya has
enough room to breathe before buckling the collar. "And I couldn't just leave you here
alone."

The hospital gown is slightly large on him, exposing a section of his shoulders. His skin is
pale, freckles darker than ever.

It's a temptation, though, one Dazai can't resist. So he leans down, brushing his lips over one
of the constellations of markings. Chuuya tilts his head to give him better access, sighing. He
leans back slightly, letting Dazai take his weight.

He takes advantage of that action to slide his arms around his waist and pull him back,
wrapping him in a warm, solid embrace. Chuuya feels comfortingly real in his arms, if still
slightly fragile and too-thin. But he's breathing, he's getting better , his fever is coming down,
and Dazai gets to take him home again.

He hates hospitals. Even more so when it’s Chuuya who needs one.

"Mm," Chuuya hums, leaning back into him more firmly. His hands find Dazai's forearms,
squeezing lightly. Then—

"Ah, shit, do you think they called my dad?"

Dazai blinks, pausing in his self-given mission of adorning every one of Chuuya's freckles
with a kiss. Neither Gide or any of the nurses mentioned calling his father, but they probably
aren't required to mention that. Plus, even though Dazai was here and they all believed he
was Chuuya's fiance, he still wasn't his emergency contact.

"I don't know," he mutters, rising up to give Chuuya one last adoring kiss on the cheek. "No
one told me if they did, and I don't think he's called yet."
Chuuya's phone is on the last dregs of it's battery, almost dead, but Dazai doesn't remember
an incoming call at all last night.

"Dammit," Chuuya sighs, motioning for Dazai to untie the laces holding the gown together in
the back. He does so easily, handing Chuuya his shirt when the gown starts to fall off of him.
"He's going to be a pain to deal with."

He already looks irritated and exhausted by the concept, tugging his shirt over his head.

Dazai touches the middle of his back briefly. "I'll help you," he reassures him, supportive.

Of course, the next problem is one that Dazai can't help him with. In fact, in Chuuya's eyes,
he's probably a traitor for thinking it's a good idea.

Because when the nurse arrives with his discharge papers, she brings a wheelchair with her.
Chuuya eyes the contraption disdainfully. "I'm not getting in that," he announces stubbornly.
"I can walk. I'm fine."

The nurse opens her mouth to argue, probably something about hospital policy, but Dazai is
much more versed in arguing with Chuuya, so he takes this one for the team. He takes the
handlebars from the nurse, giving Chuuya his brightest smile. "Come on, I'll push you. It'll be
fun."

Chuuya's eyes flash at him as he signs the discharge papers and hands them back. "If you
think it's so fun, why don't you get in it, old man?"

Ow. Dazai has to fight back a smile because even though that was completely uncalled for,
it’s a good thing that Chuuya is showing attitude. It means he’s feeling better, at least enough
to feel snarky.

It’s also good that Dazai can’t punish him for bratty behavior, which he’s sure Chuuya will
take full advantage of in the coming days. He’ll have to get creative.
“Chibi is so mean to me,” he pouts, dramatically holding a hand to his chest and internally
snickering when Chuuya’s eyes flash again. He hates that nickname. “There’s no need to be
like that, baby,” he teases, flashing him the smile that usually means he’s in trouble.

Dazai pushes the wheelchair forward, arching an eyebrow at Chuuya. “Sit,” he tells him,
casually authoritative.

Like always, Chuuya crumbles under the tone, grumbling under his breath to himself as he
grudgingly trudges over and collapses into the wheelchair. “I hate this,” he mutters, crossing
his arms over his chest.

The nurse hands Dazai the papers for his prescriptions. He’ll have to get them later today, but
Chuuya should be good for today. They already gave him his meds earlier this morning.

“Personally,” Dazai muses to himself loudly as he follows the nurse down the hallway,
pushing Chuuya in front. “I’m having lots of fun.”

“Just you wait. I’m gonna run your wheelchair into a parked car, when you need one.” The
words themselves are harsh, but Chuuya is tilting his head to brush his temple over Dazai’s
fingers wrapped around the handles so the sting is soothed away.

It’s a good thing Chuuya can’t see his smile from this angle. “I suppose that’s better than a
moving car,” he says, pushing Chuuya into the elevator when the door opens. “But you’re
gonna have to wait a long time for that.”

Chuuya turns his nose up. “That’s fine. I can wait. I’m patient. I can hold a grudge.”

Little liar. He’s far from patient.Even the nurse is fighting a smile now.
Dazaj would never admit it to anyone else but the idea of Chuuya sticking around that long is
—

Very nice. Natural, even, like they’re both settling into something that was just meant to be, a
future Dazai can finally envision for himself. He’s never dreamed about the future before.
Viciously forced himself not to think about it, because he hated the idea of it, the idea of still
being here despite the fact that he’d promised himself so many times that he wouldn’t be
anymore.

But you know what? A future with Chuuya sounds pretty damn good. A future worth
dreaming about.

“I’ll be counting on it,” he says in response, tapping Chuuya on the back of his head lightly
with his fingers. “Don’t let me down, little brat.”

(He can’t see it, but Chuuya sticks his tongue out at that. The nurse does though, and the
amusement she’s been fighting finally breaks through.)

“You two are very cute,” she tells them, leading them past the reception desk on the first
floor. The lobby is already starting to fill up with patients, even though it’s still early on a
Saturday. “How long have you been together?”

Dazai beams at her, answering before Chuuya can. “Almost six months,” he says, not
wanting to pick a time that lands before Chuuya’s 18th birthday, just in case she knows his
age, but also wanting their relationship to seem reasonably long.. “It’s quick, but... when you
know, you know, right?”

The nurse ‘aww’s’, clasping her hands together. “That’s so romantic! Like a movie! Everyone
must be so happy for you two.”

“Oh yeah, ecstatic,” Chuuya says, amused, “His son, in particular, loved getting the news.”
Dazai flicks him in the back of the head again, wishing he hadn’t brought that up. Dazai’s
trying to cheer him up, and trying to cover their story. He’s making it difficult.

Chuuya gets parked on the sidewalk just outside of the doors. The nurse— Naomi, her
upside-down name tag reads— waits with him while Dazai goes to get the car.

Thankfully, his car hasn’t been towed or fined while they were in the hospital, though there is
a sticky note slapped onto the hood with a scribbled “>:(“ face on it.

Whatever. He crumples the note up, shoving it into his pocket to throw away later, starting
the car.

When he parks next to Chuuya on the street, he looks giddy. Dazai squints at him through the
side window as he reaches over to unlock the door. He’s up to something.

Chuuya, stubborn as always, doesn’t wait to be picked up or moved into the car himself.
When Dazai gets out and comes around to open the door for him, he’s pushing up out of the
wheelchair with a cheery wave.

Naomi waves back at him, grinning. Before Dazai can shut the door, she’s calling out, “Bye!
Good luck. Feel better. Oh— tell your son I hope he has a good first day at kindergarten!”

Dazai chokes. Chuuya smirks.

Shutting the door with a strained smile, Dazai says, “I will, thank you. Goodbye.”

When he slides back into the driver's seat, he looks at Chuuya with disbelief. “You told her he
was in kindergarten?” He hisses quietly, so she doesn’t hear.

Chuuya shrugs. “What? I’m justified.” When Dazai doesn’t answer immediately, smoothly
pulling out into traffic instead, Chuuya continues, “He’s an ass. Besides, it was funny.”
Alright, Dazai does have to give him that one, it was pretty damn funny. Especially when he
imagines Shuuji’s indignant reaction if he ever found out a girl— a pretty one too, not that
Dazai would ever admit that because Chuuya is jealous and possessive, but he does still have
eyes. Not that she even comes close to Chuuya though— thought he was a baby that still
cried and needed to be tucked in at night—

Yeah, it’s funny.

Plus, the fact that Chuuya feels good enough to be joking around at all— even though it
seems to have taken most of his energy, because now he’s slumped against his seat with his
head tipped back and his eyes closed— feels like a good sign.

It doesn’t ease the worry gnawing at Dazai’s insides. In fact, it seems to just give it more to
chew on, taking every scrap of ‘good’ news and reminding him that it’s not enough. It’s not
over yet, and he can’t forget the fact that Chuuya was fine three days ago.

Maybe that feeling will never go away. Maybe he’ll be paranoid for the rest of their lives.

Sliding one hand across the center console, he offers it to Chuuya. Cold, slender fingers
interlace with his own.

"Are you hungry?" He asks gently, hoping he has an appetite. The meager breakfast the
nurses brought him in the hospital was rejected with an upturned nose, and he didn't eat last
night either. Probably hasn't eaten in a while now, and even if the IV's did give him some
sustenance and nutrients, he needs something to eat . Something solid in his stomach.

"Yes," Chuuya mumbles, curling up sideways in the seat so his back is pressed against the
door and his temple is resting against the headrest. "But I just wanna go home."

Dazai hopes he's talking about his home that way, like it's the source of his comfort and the
only thing he wants right now. "Alright," he murmurs, "I'll take you home."
On the straightaway, he presses his knee against the underside of the steering wheel, taking
control. It's not exactly safe to drive with his knees, but it allows him to use his other hand to
reach underneath himself and pull out his phone from his back pocket.

Keeping the car carefully in the center of the lane, he offers his phone to Chuuya. "Do you
want to order something? Anything. It should be almost ready by the time we get home."

Chuuya takes the phone with a sigh. He enters in the passcode when Dazai gives it to him,
and navigates to the food delivery apps. Dazai's not worried about him finding anything
incriminating. That phone is clean, not at all attached to his work. He only uses it for legal
activities.

Though, Chuuya might be concerned if he sees how many pictures Dazai has taken of him
sleeping or unawares.

Chuuya scrolls for a while, making a face every once in a while. Dazai leaves him to it,
keeping his eyes on the road. He's not rushing home but he's not taking his time either.

"I got ramen from the place we usually order from," Chuuya says, getting his attention. "You
want your usual?"

The fact that Chuuya knows what his usual is and can order without him having to tell him
makes him feel warm. Likes he's being known and accepted.

"Yes," he murmurs back, squeezing his hand gratefully. He hasn't eaten either, since about
lunch yesterday. His stomach hasn't started protesting yet, but he's sure it will soon.

"Okay."
A few moments later and his phone is falling to Chuuya's seat, now that it's use is over.
Chuuya tucks it under his butt to keep it from moving, but otherwise just curls tighter into the
seat.

By the time they finally arrive home, Chuuya is nearly asleep in the passenger seat. He looks
like he's fighting it, head bobbing up every so often as he blinks himself awake, but it's clear
that he can't resist it for long.

The last few days have taken a lot out of him, and the anticonvulsants they gave him, in
particular, are making him drowsy. On a normal day, he might be able to push through it and
function well, but when he's fresh out of the hospital and exhausted—

It's a wonder he's not asleep yet. He'll probably sleep the rest of the day away, and maybe
even most of tomorrow.

Dazai parks the car in a spot outside the house, giving himself enough room to maneuver
Chuuya out of the car. Even if he insists on walking, Dazai won't let him. Not when he looks
mostly asleep.

Though, this time, when Dazai opens his door for him, it seems like he's finally accepted his
limits. Instead of trying to get out or start walking, he just raises his arms, Dazai's phone in
hand.

He's light but solid in Dazai's hold, his arms slinging over his shoulder. He tucks his nose into
his neck, hiding his face from the world as Dazai starts to bring him inside. "Food's almost on
the way," he mumbles, shaking Dazai's phone in explanation.

"Alright," Dazai responds, shifting his weight to one hand so he can unlock the front door. He
braces himself as it swings open, because even though it's past breakfast time for them—

The dogs are still much more excited to see Chuuya. As soon as the door opens wide enough,
Yoko and Kozo are jumping around his heels, each of them trying to get a good look at
Chuuya.
Yoko even rears up on her hind legs and places her front paws on Dazai's hip as a balancing
point as she sticks her nose into Chuuya's chest.

"Down, mutt," Dazai mutters, but his words are soundly ignored when Chuuya drops a hand
down and starts petting over Yoko's head. She pushes into it as much as she can, ears perking
up at the attention. "You're encouraging her."

"I missed her," Chuuya corrects sleepily, though he stops petting her and allows Dazai to
maneuver him through the door and up the stairs.

The dogs, at least, still have manners on the stairs, but he's resigned to the idea that some of
their bad habits have been encouraged to the point where he can't punish them anymore. For
example, Yoko races them into the bedroom and leaps onto the bed. She's whining with
excitement, tail whipping and knocking everything off the bedside table as she hops from
foot to foot.

His clean black bed sheets that are free from fur are a thing of the past, apparently. At least
Chuuya's smile makes it worth it. With a sigh, he places Chuuya on the bed. “Be careful with
him,” he warns Yoko sternly, but she ignores him in favor of crowding up to Chuuya and
trying to lick his face.

There’s sweatpants and comfy sweaters in a section of the closet that has slowly and subtly
become Chuuya’s side of the closet. Dazai pulls out his favorites and brings them over.

Kneeling in front of him, he takes off his shoes and socks, making sure he doesn’t tug too
hard. It’s not sexual, like most undressing is between them, but it’s infused with a level of
care that Dazai hasn’t shown anyone else before.

It comes...surprisingly naturally. For a long time he was convinced that caring was just not
something he was capable of doing. When Shuuji moved in and Dazai didn’t immediately
bond with him, it felt like confirmation of that theory. Like there was something so deeply
wrong with him, like some essential part of him had been stolen from him as a child, that’s
he’d never be normal again.
Like he’d always be the leftover ghost of the Demon Prodigy, too lucky to die and too
messed-up to live.

And maybe he will never be normal. He’s starting to discover that maybe that’s okay because
he has Chuuya and that’s enough for him. He has someone that leans on him as he tugs the
sweats up his slender legs until they’re snug on his hips. He has someone that needs him, and
maybe that’s all he really needs.

Dazai’s phone, tossed on the bed earlier and forgotten, pings with a notification alert.

“That’s probably the food,” Chuuya mumbles, crossing his legs. Yoko takes that as her
invitation to prove she’s a lap dog and climbs right on. He winces when her paws land
heavily on his thighs, but he doesn’t stop her or push her away.

Yoko’s big enough that when she sits—awkwardly, with her butt on his legs and her front
legs on the bed— that the only thing Dazai can see of Chuuya is his arms wrapping around
her and hugging her close.

Kozo, meanwhile, has taken to sniffing Chuuya’s shoes and making little growling sounds at
whatever he smells.

These dogs were born, bred and trained to be weapons, but put them in a room with Chuuya
and they become loving house pets. It’s endearing.

“Don’t let her crush you,” he sighs, reaching past him to get his phone. The notification,
when he clicks on it, says the delivery driver is only a few feet down the street.

"Worth it," Chuuya mumbles, dragging Yoko closer, "Right, Yoko?"

Her answer is a big doggy smile, panting happily.

Downstairs, there's a knock on the door.

Leaving the dogs to smother Chuuya in their love, he heads downstairs. He brings his keys
with him because he still needs to get the rest of Chuuya's stuff out of his car and move it into
the garage.

On second thought, maybe he should keep his school stuff in the car? Maybe seeing it so
soon after he got the news that he wouldn't be returning this semester would be upsetting? He
already has to go about the process of withdrawing, so maybe Dazai shouldn't shove a
reminder under his nose?

Eh, he'll bring the bag in and just leave it in his office. Somewhere mostly hidden so he
doesn't have to see it, but still easily accessible.

Another knock at the door, this one slightly louder than the last. They must be getting
impatient.

Glad the dogs are upstairs— they've always hated delivery drivers, for good reason— he
opens the door.

Standing just outside the door on the second step is a young kid, holding the bags of food in
his hands. As soon as the door is opened, he's pushing it into Dazai's hands with a big grin.
Too friendly, even.

Dazai takes it easily, bobbing his head in thanks. Reminding himself to send the kid a
generous tip on the app— his wallet is upstairs, and he doesn't want him to stick around to
wait— he shuts the door with a little wave.

Normally he doesn't eat in his bedroom. It reminds him too much of the times where his
depression got really bad and his bedroom was a sea of dirty dishes, empty sake bottles and
dirty laundry for months.
These days, he keeps his house— and his room especially— religiously clean, but today he
can make an exception. He's not going to make Chuuya come down to eat.

Balancing two bowls and the little chocolate dessert Chuuya ordered on a tray— even though
it's barely lunchtime—, he brings the food up.

When he pushes the door open with his hip, Chuuya is exactly where he left him. He's
leaning even harder against Yoko, like she's the only one holding him upright.

Unfortunately, Yoko does have to get off the bed for this. She's an opportunistic eater, and if
Chuuya puts a bowl of ramen under her nose, she'll end up eating it all.

Chuuya stirs when he sets the tray down on the bedside table, blinking heavily at him. When
he sees the food he nudges Yoko with his head. "Down, girl," he orders, pushing her lightly.

After a moment, she goes. She's reluctant and curls up right underneath his feet, but she
follows instructions like a good girl.

Dazai hands him his bowl, keeping an eye on him as he slowly begins to eat. It's more
mechanical than anything, without any of the usual enjoyment, but it is eating, so Dazai will
take it. He'll make him something for dinner later, maybe he'll like that more. He's always
liked home cooked meals better than takeout.

Chuuya manages half of his ramen and two bites of his dessert before he's pushing it away.

"Tired," he mutters, crawling underneath the blankets. He looks tiny underneath the
comforter, curled into a ball with a pillow pulled to his chest. Only the ends of his hair sticks
out.
After finishing his own bowl, Dazai places the entire tray high up on the bedside table where
the dogs can't reach it. He'll keep an eye on it to make sure they don't get into it and make a
mess, but his main goal right now is sliding underneath the blankets and finding Chuuya.
Wrapping his arms around his waist and bringing him into his chest, curling around him.

"It's too early for you to sleep," he mumbles in protest, though he's arching into his hold and
wiggling to get more comfortable. One of his feet slides between Dazai's legs, hooking
around the back of his calf.

Dazai presses a smile against his hair, holding him tightly. "It's never too early for naptime."

But Dazai doesn't let himself nap. He gives himself an hour to just enjoy and bask in the
sensation of Chuuya sleep-warm and safe in his arms. Lets the residual anxiety and worry
work through him in waves, counteracted every time Chuuya mumbles to himself in his sleep
or curls up tighter into him.

Loss is an emotion Dazai is familiar with, empty and hollowing, carving out pieces of him
and filling them with a strange, endless grief. A grief that doesn’t sting anymore, it just
slowly rots and festers, forgotten.

To think he almost felt it again , with Chuuya is—

It’s awful. He hates it. And even though Chuuya is still here, still warm and breathing and
safe, Dazai can’t help but think—

What if? What if I actually lost him? What if it was my fault?

It’s a thought that doesn’t go away.

Eventually, Dazai manages to pull himself away. He still has to get his prescriptions because
he’ll need them tomorrow morning. It’s still early on Saturday, so this is a perfect time, when
Chuuya is sleeping and won’t need him.
Giving the dogs the command to guard him and feeling reassured when Yoko hops up to take
his place in the bed while Kozo lays across the floor blocking the entrance, Dazai leaves.

He makes sure to put Chuuya’s phone in easy reach, and turns his own phone onto the highest
notification noise possible. If Chuuya needs him he’ll call, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

There’s a pharmacy inside one of the general stores not too far from his house. He goes there
because it’s the closest. The pharmacist takes the prescriptions from him and advises him that
it’ll be a twenty minute wait before they can be filled.

Dazai spends that time wandering the aisles and picking out all the things Chuuya might like
while he’s recovering. Most of the medical stuff— like heat pads and Tylenol— Dazai
already has but things like candy— Chuuya has a love for dark chocolate that Dazai will
simply never understand and an obsession with sour candies— an extra soft blanket, a face
mask or two, never hurt.

Besides, he’s pretty sure at least one of his medications require absolutely no alcohol intake
for the foreseeable future so—

He’s going to need a bribe when he tells him that he can’t even take a sip of wine for the next
few weeks. A good bribe, one that will stop him from biting him in retaliation or something
equally bratty.

When the twenty minutes are up and his handheld cart is filled to the brim with things for
Chuuya, he goes to get his medication.

The pharmacist is nice, explains everything about how the medicine should be taken. Dazai
listens intently, memorizing all the information, but doesn’t stay for small talk. He’s already
getting antsy being away from Chuuya this long.

Abandonment issues have always haunted Dazai but now he’s starting to suspect he’s delving
straight into separation anxiety . Like a dog or something. Like Yoko , who practically throws
a temper tantrum whenever Chuuya locks her out of the bathroom so he can take a shower by
himself.

When he gets back to the house, he parks the car in the garage where it belongs. Without
Shuuji driving the other car, it’s easy to get all of his vehicles perfectly lined up and parked.

At the last second, he remembers Chuuya’s bag and slings it over his shoulder to bring inside.
Neither of the dogs greet him when he gets inside. Expected, because they should still be
guarding Chuuya.

First, he puts the chocolate in the fridge and the candy in the pantry. The medications he’ll
take upstairs to put in his bathroom, same with the new chibi-sized fluffy blanket.

He can vaguely hear someone talking upstairs; it sounds like Chuuya, but it’s hard to tell.
Maybe he woke up and turned the TV on to watch something? If he’s awake he should eat
some more. He’s too thin, Dazai doesn’t like how sharp his collarbones have gotten lately.
It’s worrying.

He heads upstairs. Dropping Chuuya’s bag into the corner of his office, he makes his way
into the bedroom, medication in hand.

“— daddy?”

Perking up, figuring that Chuuya is talking to him, Dazai pushes open the door and steps over
Kozo in the doorway—

To find Chuuya on the phone, looking exasperated. He’s sitting up with Yoko sprawled across
his lap, blankets bunched up between them.

When he sees Dazai, he motions to the phone and mouths, “It’s my dad.”
Oh.

Well at least that mix up happened when his father wasn’t in the room, otherwise that
might’ve been awkward for Chuuya.

Giving them a chance to talk, Dazai puts the medications in the medicine cabinet in his
bathroom. They’re the only medications in there, the only ones Dazai trusts himself to keep
in easy reach. It’s a habit that started long ago that he has yet to break.

Then he pads back into the bedroom, going over to drop a kiss on Chuuya’s forehead before
heading downstairs to make him something to eat—

A hand on his arm stops him in his tracks.

Chuuya holds the phone out to him. “He wants to talk to you.”

Dazai blinks at him. “He wants to what?” He repeats, figuring he heard wrong or—

But no: "I said he wants to talk to you."

Ah. Well, that's awkward for Dazai. He's never spoken to the parents of his partners before.
He's always been careful never to let it get that far, and most of sexual partners wouldn't think
he was 'meet the parents' material.

Well, he did talk to Sasaki's father once, but that was when he was sixteen and that entire
conversation consisted entirely of putting his phone on speaker and letting him scream
obscenities at him while Dazai silently played a racing video game.

That probably doesn't count.

But Chuuya's looking at him expectantly and it's already been several seconds since he said it
and—

And Dazai really wants this relationship to go well, and he knows that Chuuya thinks a lot of
his father, despite their somewhat complicated relationship. He can't just say no , it would be
rude so—

He takes the phone, unreasonably nervous, and brings it to his ear. "Hello?"

The voice on the other side of the call sounds harried, frayed at the edges with worry. Also
irritated. "It's Dazai, right?"

Honestly, it's a little surreal to be talking to a man who is probably close to his age (the age
difference between him and Chuuya is something he chooses not to think about too hard or
too often) and far less powerful than him in terms of economic status and power, as some sort
of respected figure. Like a father in law.

Dazai never so much as respected his own father, let alone any father figure he might have
had. He doesn’t know how to act. "Yes," he responds, keeping his expression neutral. "And
you're Rimbaud."

God, he's so bad at this. Chuuya's staring right at him, expecting him to impress his father,
and Dazai's mind is blank.

"How long have you been dating my son?"

Here's the tricky part: Dazai doesn't actually know what Chuuya told his father. He doesn't
know if there's a lie he's supposed to collaborate on, or a story that's already been told—

He's winging it.

"Uh," he starts, hoping Chuuya went with the truth, and told him the time they officially
started dating and didn’t include the weeks of dancing around each other before that.. "About
two months..?

The response he gets isn't immediately aggressive or angry, so it seems he made the right
choice. "I don't mean to be rude, you must understand— it's just a shock to hear that my son
is dating someone for two months and didn't tell me. Not to mention that he's sick enough to
warrant dropping out. I'm sure you can understand my concern."

Slightly hysterical, Dazai thinks about responding with 'yes, as a father, I completely
understand' just to see what would happen. "I do," he mutters instead, sinking down to sit on
the bed. "But I can assure you that I'm going to take care of him and he's going to get better
soon."

There's an aggravated sigh, the sounds of papers rustling on the other side of the phone. "For
your sake, I hope so. It's too soon for you two to be living together, so I really think he should
return home, but he's being stubborn."

That is something they haven't discussed yet. Dazai was under the impression that the silent
agreement was that Chuuya would stay with him, but they should talk about it. He would
understand if Chuuya wanted to go home, but he hopes he stays here with him. It would
make him feel a lot more secure and comfortable with him still in sight and under his
protection—

But he's not going to say no if Chuuya wants to go home. He would never keep him from
doing something he wanted.

"With all due respect, sir," Dazai grits out, his natural rebellion against authority rearing its
head, "your son is an adult and he can make his own choices. He's welcome to stay here as
long as he likes."

He makes eye contact with Chuuya on the last sentence, making sure to get his point across
to him clearly.
He means it. He's more than welcome to stay here. Forever, if he wanted to.

Another sigh. "I guess you're right," Rimbaud concedes begrudgingly, though he doesn't
sound happy about it, "Though I do wish he wouldn't. Nothing personal, I'm just not sure who
you are. How do I know you're treating him fairly?"

How, indeed. "I suppose you could ask him," he says dryly.

"Well— let's just say that you better treat him right, because I have some friends in some very
high places."

Oh, yeah? Well, I have a gun, so now what?

Naturally, he doesn't actually say that, tucking his irritation away. He's always hated
overprotective parents for this exact reason. They threaten and posture, instead of teaching
their children how to protect themselves and recognize red flags.

"I understand," he sighs, even though he's curious as to what he means by 'friends in high
places'. Personally, Dazai has friends in low places, which he finds are often more effective,
but his father doesn't need to know that.

"I'll keep in touch," Rimbaud sniffs, and Dazai almost reflexively asks him if that's a threat
before he reigns it in. "I want to know more about the man my son is dating."

Lovely, now Dazai has to come up with another cover story that won't be questioned by
Chuuya. "Right. I’m looking forward to it. Is there anything else you would like to talk about
or...?"

"Not right now. I'll have some questions for you later, but I would like to talk to Chuuya
again."
Feeling like he dodged a bullet with this impromptu conversation— which sounds impromptu
on both sides, so he's sure there will be an interrogation the next time they talk— he hands
the phone back over.

Chuuya takes it with an irritated, "Are you happy now, Daddy?"

Dazai winces. He really wishes he didn't call him that, especially when he's right here.
Because—

His mind is telling him that it's innocent and inappropriate to think of it any other way, not to
mention that it illustrates how young Chuuya is. His libido, on the other hand is looking with
both eyes wide open, and it feels wrong , oh god, it feels so wrong—

Why does Chuuya still call his dad that? Especially after calling Dazai daddy? Isn't there
some one-daddy-only rule or—

"I will, I promise," Chuuya says, rolling his eyes in a clear sign that he's not actually going to.

Good for him.

"Yes, Daddy."

Dazai covers his face with his hands, sighing. When will this call be over?

"I'm hanging up now, okay? No . Goodbye— yes, okay, now goodbye." With an exasperated
grunt, Chuuya slams the ‘end call’ button and throws his phone into the bed. His face drops
into his hands a moment later, letting out a long groan.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “I tried to tell him no, but he’s stubborn as fuck.”
So it’s genetic, huh? Runs in the family.

“No problem, baby,” Dazai reassures him, reaching out one hand and finding his knee. He
squeezes it gently. “It didn’t bother me. It was... interesting to meet him.”

Interesting is one word for it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles back. “Sounded like he liked you though.”

Well, he basically threatened him, which probably counts for something . Dad’s only threaten
the ones they expect to stick around. He shrugs.

“He did give me some advice on how to start withdrawing from school, though. I’ll have to
go in on Monday, talk to the administration.”

That makes sense. Dazai nods, giving his knee another squeeze. He’ll probably have to move
all his stuff out of his dorm as well. Maybe he’ll move it into Dazai’s room instead? There’s
plenty of room here, everything will fit—

That’s a conversation they’ll have soon but not right now. Right now he needs support for
this. “Okay, I’ll take you in,” he says. “I’ll help you pack too, if you need it.”

Per doctor's orders, he will need it, but he doesn’t want to force it on him. There’s a fine line
between being supportive and overbearing. It has to seem like it’s Chuuya’s choice. This is
already hard enough for him, so taking away what little choice he has would be unnecessarily
cruel.

Chuuya’s voice wobbles a little as he asks, “Will you help me email my professors?”

Dazai isn’t sure they even need to be emailed about this, but if Chuuya wants to do it and
feels it’s necessary, then of course he’ll help. “Yeah.”
(Some people, when they feel overloaded, immediately start to show signs of it. They cry,
they yell, they vent, they scream. Arguably, it’s a much healthier way of dealing with their
problems.

But some people bottle things up. They hold it in and let it fester. Let it eat away at them,
slowly growing bigger and bigger. Slowly filling them up until it’s a struggle to hold
themselves together around the weight of it.

Sometimes it’s the small things that are the straw that breaks the camel's back.

In the end, it’s not emailing his professors that makes Chuuya crack—

It’s a scratch at the window. )

By now, it's evening. Right about the time where Dazai usually feeds the dogs right before
making his own dinner. Chuuya's been snacking ever since the phone call ended, so he can
only hope that he'll actually eat dinner.

Of course, Dazai has recently taken to feeding one other being at dinnertime—

The cat.

It's routine enough that the stray has started to show up regularly at this time. Dazai wasn't
here to feed him yesterday, and so he probably didn't get to eat. Now, Dazai is running a little
behind schedule, and the cat has decided that he's going to express his disappointment and
irritation by climbing up to the balcony— somehow— and scratching at the window while
meowing loudly.

"He keeps on coming back," Chuuya mutters, and Dazai isn't looking at him, so he doesn't
see his lip start to wobble.
"Yeah. He's just hungry. He'll go away once he eats, probably."

The cat usually sticks around for attention if Chuuya is dishing it out, but if they ignore him,
he eventually wanders off.

"He's hungry—” Chuuya's voice cracks here, and here is where Dazai starts to realize
something is wrong. "— and he's homeless and he's probably cold and—.”

He cuts himself off there with a loud, shuddering inhale like he's trying to hold back the wave
of emotion he's experiencing. Turning his head, Dazai stares at him in concern. He's always
been emotional over the stray, sure, but not enough to have tears pooling in his eyes like that.

What does he say?

"He'll probably be adopted soon," he soothes, even though he's not too sure. That cat has
been a stray for almost as long as Dazai has lived here. He's not sure anyone else in the
neighborhood wants him or even pays attention to him. His best chance is probably getting
picked up by animal control. "And then someone will take him home and love him."

That is the wrong thing to say.

Chuuya's face crumples immediately. "But I love him!" he wails.

And then he does what is, in Dazai’s opinion, probably the worst possible reaction ever:

He bursts into tears. Loud, gasping sobs that wrack his entire body and make him shake. His
hands come up to cover his face, but that does nothing to lessen the sheer force of his crying.
Dazai feels like he’s watching his life flash before his eyes, nearly stupid with fear because—
He doesn’t know what to do . What happened? How does he make it better, get him to stop
sobbing like his heart is being torn out of his chest? “It’s gonna be okay, baby,” he soothes
mindlessly, reaching out to him.

That’s an even worse thing to say, apparently.

“No, it’s not! ” Chuuya cries, voice thick and wet. “I have to drop out of school because of
my stupid brain and, and—I might have to go home and I don’t want to, and the cat is
HUNGRY!”

Dazai hasn’t ever seen Chuuya like this. He’s been emotional sometimes, sure, but it usually
gets displayed in shows of irritation or anger. He’s never seen him sob like this, and it’s
shocking, even if he can logically understand why he’s breaking down.

Instead of trying to talk him down again—because clearly Dazai just makes it worse when he
opens his mouth—, he scoots closer and drapes an arm across his shoulders. He’s not sure if
Chuuya would dislike being restrained with a hug right now, so he’s testing the waters first.

Chuuya doesn’t exactly fight him but neither does he really lean into the comfort as he
continues to spiral. “I worked so fucking hard to get into Keio and, and— now it’s over and
my life is over and now I’m behind everyone else so I’m never going to get a good job and
I’m gonna be homeless and work at— work at a convenience store forever! ”

Okay, so he’s clearly not thinking logically right now, because that is a very big conclusion to
make just because he has to take a semester off. Dazai doesn’t tell him that, of course,
because even if he’s being dramatic , that doesn’t mean his emotions aren’t valid. Or that he
doesn’t have a right to be breaking down right now.

He shushes him, chest aching for him, pulling him closer in an effort to calm him down.

“I’ve always wanted a cat and I’m never gonna have one because my dad hates them and I’m
gonna grow up to be a failure!”
Poor thing. Sets such impossibly high standards for himself that he really thinks his life is
over at eighteen because he got sick for a few weeks. Now, Dazai could try to talk him down
or just wait until this wave of emotions passes and they can have an actual conversation about
this—

But there is a simple solution to at least one of those problems.

Getting up, he walks over to the balcony door. The cat stares at him as he approaches, eyes
narrowed suspiciously.

It’s not like Dazai /hates/ cats, he just doesn’t prefer them. And if it’ll make Chuuya happy—
and give him a reason to stay— and make his recovery easier, then as far as he’s concerned,
the cat is already his.

When he opens the door, the orange cat trots inside with its tail held high and waving smugly
like he’s saying ‘took you long enough’. Yoko and Kozo watch from the floor with interest,
but the cat ignores them with the arrogance only a cat can have, trotting up to the bed easily.

“There,” Dazai announces, shutting the door again. “Now you have a cat.”

Chuuya strangles back another sob, looking up. His face is a wreck, face splotchy and tears
running down his cheeks. The blue of his eyes looks even more intense with how red they
are.

“What?” He chokes out, furiously trying to wipe his face clean. It’s clear he’s not done yet,
but he’s trying to get himself back under control.

The cat, after looking around cautiously, hops up onto the bed.

“I told you earlier, Chuuya,” Dazai reminds him gently, smiling softly, “if you want it, it’s
yours. If you want him, he’s yours.”
Chuuya looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “You can’t just give me a cat , Dazai, what the
hell is wrong with you? What if he has fleas?”

Even the cat looks offended at that one.

Dazai scratches the back of his head awkwardly, feeling so out of place. “So... you don’t want
him?”

“No, I—,” Chuuya lets out a strangled noise at that one, half sob and half angry scream,
“You’re shit at this. You’re not supposed to just stare at me! You’re supposed to hold me!
Compliment me! Make me feel better. Not give me a cat!”

“Oh,” Dazai says, blinking. Now that he has instruction, the task of comforting him feels
much less daunting. “Right. Okay.”

He crosses back over to the bed, dropping down beside him and dragging Chuuya into his
arms. Chuuya goes willingly, burying his face into his shoulder with a hiccup. He arranges
them with his legs crossed underneath them, making a seat for Chuuya. His legs are slung on
either side of his hips, tucked underneath himself.

Chuuya clings to him this time as the sobs die down but the tears start up again. He’s at least
less hysterical, but he’s still affected.

“Baby,” Dazai starts, cupping his face and tilting it back and upwards so he can see. Even
with his face red and splotchy, he’s still one of the most beautiful people Dazai has ever seen.
His thumbs brush his cheeks, wiping away tears. “You’re not going to be a failure.”

Chuuya sniffs miserably up at him, but at least he’s listening.

“You are so smart,” Dazai tells him, leaning down to seal the words with an adoring kiss on
his cheek. “And hard-working.” Another kiss.

“Kind.” Another.

“And beautiful.” Another.

“You’ve worked so hard to get where you are, and I know it’s... frustrating and upsetting to
think that it’s all been taken away from you— but it hasn’t. You can go back next semester,
and try again. You’re top ten in your year at Keio— anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Chuuya shivers, swallowing hard. The tears are slowing now, but maybe that’s just because
Dazai is kissing them away as soon as they come.

“And next semester will be easy for you, sweetheart. You’ll already know what to expect, and
you’ll be ahead of all the kids in the class because you already took half of it. You’ll ace it.
And— you’ll have me.”

That makes Chuuya’s eyes widen briefly, hands tightening on his shoulders. When he speaks,
it’s something between hopeful and confused. “What do you mean?”

“Let me help you, Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs, pressing a sweet smile to his cheek. "Let me
take care of you. You can stay here as long as you want, as long as you need. I'll take care of
you so good, baby, you'll never need to worry about anything other than acing your classes."

Is it wrong to tempt him like this when he's coming down from an emotional episode like
this? Probably.

But Dazai has never fought fair, and if he can tempt Chuuya into staying with him instead of
going home to recover, then he'll whisper whatever sweet— and dirty— promises into his ear
that he needs to.
Chuuya presses up into the comfort willingly, his arms slinging around Dazai's neck and
pulling him in close. His breath is slowing into a more stable rhythm now, and the tears have
almost completely stopped. Seems he's coming out of it, now that Dazai has figured out how
to help .

"Do you really mean that?" He mutters, voice wobbly. "I don't wanna be— like a burden or
anything, and I know we haven't been dating for long, and it was unexpected so—”

Dazai shushes him again, sliding his hands back into his hair. It's messy again, but not too
tangled. "Of course I mean it," he says, trailing his lips down until they find the corner of his
mouth and pressing a kiss there. "You're not a burden, Chuuya. Not at all, not ever."

That seems to get through to him, because in the next moment he's letting out a shuddering
sigh and turning his head to catch him in a kiss.

It’s achingly slow and soft. No sense of urgency behind it, just the reassurance of comfort and
affection. Every slide of their lips together is a reiteration of how far they’ve come, how
much they mean to each other.

Eventually Chuuya pulls back again, breaking the kiss. His hands slide away from Dazai’s
shoulders, finding the tear stains on his cheeks and trying to rub them away. “Okay,” he says,
clearing his throat and trying to sound upbeat, “Alright, I’m good now. Everything
just...became too much for a second.”

Dazai can understand that, using his fingertips to tuck Chuuya’s bangs behind his ear. “I
know you’ve been stressed and that’s perfectly reasonable,” he says gently, “Do you feel
better now though?”

“Yeah,” he answers, sounding a little surprised, but also worn out. Emotionally and
physically.
Understandable. It’s been a very emotional day for him, considering everything, and
physically his body is still recuperating. It doesn’t take much to wear him out. He only had a
short nap, not nearly enough to tide him over.

An indignant meow interrupts them, followed by an insistent headbutt to Chuuya’s elbow

from the cat.

The action draws out a tired laugh from Chuuya and a few sniffles. “Sorry, kitty,” he mutters,
reaching out to scratch him under the chin to greet him.

The purrs start up nearly immediately, loud and pleased. The cat leans into it wholeheartedly,
stepping up on Chuuya’s thigh with its front paws to get closer.

“Can I still keep him though?” Chuuya asks, not looking at Dazai directly. “I know I said—.”

Dazai interrupts him, not needing an explanation. “Yes, you can have him. Though you’ll
need to give him a bath.”

The cat isn’t excessively dirty, but he is dusty and he’s been living on the streets for at least a
couple years. He could use a bath, even if he doesn’t have fleas like Chuuya said.

The thanks he gets in return for that is an excited wiggle from Chuuya, leaning in to rest
more fully against him.

After a long, peaceful moment of Chuuya pressed up against him and soaking up the warmth
of affection while the cat paces shortly back and forth to get scratches all over the best parts
of him, Chuuya speaks up again. “Sorry I said you were shit at this. I didn’t mean it.”

That pulls a lopsided smile from Dazai. “No, you were right. I was pretty shit at it,” he huffs,
amused.
Reaching down, he offers his fingers to the cat to rub up against, and is promptly ignored.
Obviously he has a favorite.

“Yeah, you were,” Chuuya says, then bursts into giggles.

Dazai lets him laugh at him for a while, warmth bubbling up inside his chest. At least he’s
feeling better, enough to snicker at him for a few minutes.

Eventually Kozo comes to interrupt, propping his chin up on the bed so he can sniff at the
cat. When he looks at Dazai, he lets out a few whines to remind him that it’s past dinner time
now.

Like Kozo would ever let him forget. The dog is an eating machine , and Dazai’s convinced
his only goal in life is to get fat.

Squeezing Chuuya, he says, “I gotta go downstairs and feed the pets and make you
something to eat. Do you wanna come with or do you wanna stay up here?”

Chuuya snuggles closer, slinging the hand that was petting the cat back over Dazai’s
shoulder. “Take me with,” he mumbles, letting out a surprised yelp when Dazai hefts him up
higher in his arms.

The stairs are tricky to navigate when there’s a cat determined to get under Dazai’s feet and
yowling up at him like he’s personally offended he’s not being carried down the stairs.

They have yet to get an actual food bowl for the cat, so he has to make do with a repurposed
Tupperware placed in the middle of the dining table to keep the dogs from getting to it.

Chuuya perches beside him on the table, one leg swinging beneath the table as he scrolls on
his phone and occasionally reaches over to stroke the cat on the back until another ferocious
set of purrs starts up.
Making dinner is peaceful, homey . Chuuya is his dedicated taste taster, taking every bite
Dazai offers him and making approving noises. They make small talk, carefully avoiding the
subject of Chuuya’s prescribed bed rest, but it’s not awkward.

After a while, the dogs come back inside. Chuuya spends half his time teasing Yoko by
wiggling his fingers just out of reach of her nose, and the other half brushing his toes over
Kozo’s belly, who has rolled onto his back beneath him. The cat takes one look at them and
turns his back on them, stretching out on his side along the table.

It feels like family. Like love and home and care.

Dazai hasn’t had a family in a long time. Not one that he/felt was his family, at least, not one
that ever made him feel like this.

He doesn’t know what to do with the building emotion in his chest, so thick and warm he’s
half-convinced he’ll get a sunburn just from the brightness of Chuuya’s presence. He can’t
stop touching him, feeding him little test bites and kissing away the extra sauce left on the
corner of his lip. Keeping a hand on his thigh as they eat, thumb rubbing over his inner thigh
and defending his bowl from a very interested cat with his other hand.

Carrying him back up the stairs as Chuuya starts to crash with exhaustion again, curling up in
bed with him even though Dazai himself isn’t tired.

His entire world, held in the spaces between Chuuya’s breath. The spinning of the universe
spurred on by the steady beats of his heart, a precious rhythm Dazai doesn’t know how he
ever lived without.

When Dazai eventually does fall asleep, hours later, he wakes up in the middle of the night to
find that the cat had wiggled his way between them at some point, pushing his butt into
Dazai’s face as he curls over Chuuya’s head.

Dazai debates kicking him out, because he’s taking up his cuddle time—
But Chuuya looks blissfully and peacefully asleep, a tiny smile on his face, so—

Dazai huffs into the cat's fur and endures.

Sunday is the calm before the storm. The day dawns clear and warm, rays of sunshine
collecting underneath the curtains shielding the balcony. Dazai is up much earlier before
Chuuya is, but he luxuriates in the warmth and comfort of bed until Chuuya starts to stir.

Then it’s time to make breakfast and give Chuuya his first round of medications. The
combination of food and medicine makes him drowsy again, so he spends another few hours
caught between dozing in bed and lazily scrolling on his phone.

(Dazai spends that time starting the information hunt about this ‘DOA’ drug, because there’s
something very fishy about it.

The Port Mafia has never been huge on drugs. They have a stranglehold on that business and
they do deal with drugs, but their main source of revenue is international trade and security.

The college campus is firmly on Mafia territory, and Dazai does not see a logical reason as to
why the Mafia would be pushing a drug that causes such obvious and negative side effects.

It’s like they’re asking for the government to get involved and start an investigation. It’s like
they’re asking for the tentative willful ignorance between the underground and the upper
echelons of the law to come to an end.

It’s like they’re asking to be taken down and dismantled.

But if it’s not the Mafia— and there’s no evidence to say it is— then it must be someone else.
Dazai starts to get a bad feeling.)
When Chuuya finally does get out of bed, it’s early afternoon. Dazai wants to check on him,
but he’s in the middle of a call. Once he hears the water start up in the bathroom, and the
sounds of the tub filling, he smiles.

When Dazai does get free again,he goes to check on him only to find—

Chuuya, luxuriating in the bath with his hair tired on top of his head and the face mask Dazai
bought yesterday layered over his skin and—

The cat , showing the signs of a recent washing, fur wet and spiky. Chuuya is repurposing
one of the tubs Dazai usually stores towels in, turning it into a makeshift boat for the cat to
lay in and float in the bath with him.

For a cat that should hate water, the damn thing looks blissfully content as he crouches in the
plastic boat and floats.

Dazai can’t keep the smile out of his voice. “What are you doing?”

Chuuya doesn’t even open his eyes or tilt his head to the side as he answers, “Taking a bath.”

“With the cat?”

A twitch of his lips, a smile quickly smothered but Dazai sees it. “You said he needed one.
Besides,” Chuuya reaches out with his toes, gently pushing the boat so it goes cruising down
to the edge of the tub, bounces off the wall gently and slowly starts to make its way back, “he
likes it.”

Dazai’s pretty sure it’s not the bath he likes, but the sheer fact of being close to Chuuya. The
cat is in love with his tiny redhead.
Dazai crosses over, bracing his hands on the edge of the tub and leaning over him. He stares
down at him, and when he speaks, his voice is as thick with affection as the air is with steam.
“You’re ridiculous.”

Blue eyes crack open, amusement shining from them like stars. “I’m practical,” he corrects,
a small grin growing on his face.

Dipping his hand into the wall of bubbles stacked near the edges of the tub, Dazai puts a blob
on the end of Chuuya’s nose and chuckles when he goes cross-eyed trying to look at it.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?” He asks, knowing that he probably wants to wash all
the hospital grime out of it, but isn't feeling up for the task.

Chuuya sighs, stretching out further in the tub. His feet don't come close to touching the
edge. "Yes, please," he mumbles.

It's the only time he's given permission for him to wash his hair— he's overprotective and
picky with his hair— and Dazai makes sure to do it with the care it deserves.

Cupping his hand underneath the back of his head and holding him as he gets his hair wet.
Carefully lathering shampoo into the roots of his hair, focusing on the spots near his temples
when it makes Chuuya sigh pleasantly. Rinsing his hair out again, then working conditioner
through all the way to the ends. Taking a comb and carefully untangling every knot until it's
smooth.

Chuuya relaxes into his care, letting him manipulate his head and move his body any way he
needs to.

It's peaceful, like time is frozen outside of this room.

(It will not last.)

 Coffee Date
Chapter Summary

"You can call me Fyodor, solnyshko," he offers. "And the Americano is for you. It
would be rude not to offer you something in payment after you've been so kind to me,
no?"

Chapter Notes

goodo morning friends!! Enjoy this chapter >:) also for legal purposes, i do not speak
russian but I have it on good authority that 'solnyshko' is a pet name that means 'little
sun' and 'besy' means demon. forgive any mistakes!! i also wanted to thank you for all
the lovely comments/kudos and for reading my story!! It means a lot to me <3 anyways,
I will see you all next week >:))!

In Chuuya's humble opinion, the ordeal of medically withdrawing from college is a hassle.
Not only does he have to seek approval from all of his course instructors— which seems
unnecessary and like a very easy way to have the entire process drawn out for an obscenely
long time— then he has to take all that approval into the administration to get that approved.
Then he has to sign a whole bunch of papers agreeing that him withdrawing means that all
his courses for the semester are incomplete, he has to return all the funds given to him by his
scholarships and financial aid, he has to vacate the dorm, and so on and so forth until Chuuya
just feels numb.

He didn't choose this. He didn't want this. He hates this. And even though he has a stack of
doctors notes saying that he can't be in class without negative repercussions, it feels like he's
being punished.

He doesn't even get Dazai's support in the office, because Chuuya wanted to do this alone.
Dazai looked apprehensive, but he couldn't exactly argue, and when Chuuya pointed out that
it was probably best if he got a head start on packing up his dorm—
He agreed. That's where he is now, picking up all the things Chuuya owns and packing them
away for moving.

(It takes Dazai a few minutes to find where Chuuya's dorm is. He gave him directions, but
without any idea as to where to go, it takes the help of the directional signs for him to find it.

Using the key Chuuya gave him, he steps inside.

Nikolai is there when he enters, and he looks terrified when he looks up and sees him
standing in the doorway, freezing in place. Chuuya must not have told him that Dazai was
going to help move his dorm out. He can imagine that being awkward, considering that
Nikolai has been friends with Shuuji for a while.

Unfortunately that means that Dazai has to deal with the awkwardness himself.

Nikolai’s a nice kid— Dazai has done several background checks on him and found nothing
out of the ordinary, besides a father that died of alcoholism and a brother that followed soon
after— so he forces a friendly smile.

“I’m here to help Chuuya move all his stuff,” he says, rocking back on his heels a little. “I’m
assuming that’s his side of the room.”

He tilts his head to the other side of the room that Nikolai isn’t sitting on, and gets a wide-
eyed nod in response. Great.

It doesn’t look like Chuuya owns a lot of things, because his side of the room is mostly bare.
A blessing, because Dazai only has so much room in his car. He doesn’t mind extra trips, but
he wants to get this over as soon as possible because he knows it’s going to upset Chuuya the
longer they’re on the campus.

It’s also kind of sad, because he’s come to realize that Chuuya is a nester and even though
he’s only been staying with Dazai the past two weeks, the bedside table on his side of the bed
has already started to fill up with all the knickknacks and little charms Dazai buys him
whenever they go out.

So to see a place for Chuuya that is so empty, when he obviously prefers it not to be if he has
the option—

Sad. Very sad.

Something occurs to him as he’s carefully folding all of Chuuya’s clothes and packing them
away into a box:

The calls Dazai had made about the DOA drug had turned up little to no information. Chuuya
said he didn’t know anything about it when he asked. But Nikolai has been on campus more
consistently than Chuuya has in the past few weeks, so it’s possible that he knows more.

Looking at Nikolai over his shoulder, he says, “Hey, I wanted to ask—I’ve been hearing all
sorts of things about this new drug going around? Think it’s called DOA. Know anything
about it?”

Nikolai pales.)

When Chuuya finally gets out of the administration building, he feels limp and irritable with
exhaustion. When Gide told him that he'd be on bed rest, he didn't know it meant he'd be tired
out by even the most mundane things. He's been sleeping so much lately, almost the entire
morning yesterday and even part of the evening, so it feels like a crime that he's already
dreaming of going back to bed.

He's hungry too, even though he had breakfast only a couple hours ago.

There's a small cafe between the offices and the dorms, and he makes his way there slowly.
The sun pours down on him, warm and energizing. It's Monday morning, and the campus is
as crowded as it usually is. All the students that have class or work today are drawn in by the
wafting smell of coffee.

Chuuya joins the crowd, choosing to sit at one of the available outside benches. He needs a
cup of coffee to wake himself up, but he doesn't have any money himself. Using the
allowance his father gives him feels wrong now, because he's not in college anymore.

He's not too worried, he'll just text Dazai and ask him to come over and pay—

Someone slides into the seat opposite him.

Chuuya looks up, curious, automatically painting a smile on his face because he's assuming
it's one of his friends wondering why he's not in class anymore, already preparing his story in
response—

It's not one of friends. In fact, it's not anyone he recognizes at all.

It’s a strange man, dark-haired and with a pair of dark violet eyes that seem to glow against
the backdrop of the sun. His smile is friendly, the flash of sharp teeth behind it subtle. He's
dressed impeccably well, with a dark purple shirt that matches his eyes. Over it, he has a dark
jacket that oozes luxury, with threads that practically shine silver.

His hair is up in a messy bun on top of his head, secured with what looks like a short piece of
red rope.

Interesting.

Chuuya tilts his head, lowering his phone before he can text Dazai. "Can I help you?"

The man smiles at him. "I think you can."

The way he's looking at him makes him think that he means more than just what he's saying,
eyes locked on target like a predator about to pounce.It makes the hair on the back of
Chuuya's neck stand up. He shifts, fighting the strange urge to run.

Then the man flips over the menu the cafe leaves chained to the outside tables, opening it. "I
haven't come here before; can you tell me what you would recommend to order? I'm very
picky with my food, but you look like you have good taste."

Oh. Well, Chuuya can understand that. He wouldn't want to order something gross either.
"Well, personally, I really like their Americano's and the spinach wrap, but if you like a
sweeter coffee, then I suggest a caramel latte. They make theirs with a few pumps of vanilla
too, and it's really good."

The smile grows. "Lovely, solnyshko" the man says. The foreign word makes Chuuya blink
in surprise. It sounds vaguely familiar, like a language he's heard before but doesn't
understand.

The waving down one of the waitresses who works here. She's a student, someone that
Chuuya vaguely recognizes from some of his classes. She looks engrossed by the man,
smiling eagerly at him.

"Can I get a caramel latte, an americano and a spinach wrap, please?" The man asks, lacing
his fingers together and staring up at the waitress unwaveringly. There's a tattoo around his
wrist that gets exposed when his sleeve slides up.

It almost looks like a noose wrapped around his wrist, the knot inked into the fragile skin of
his inner wrist. It descends further down his arm where the sleeve covers up, blocking him
from seeing the entirety of it.

The waitress nods, scribbling down his order before walking away.
"You must need coffee pretty badly if you're ordering two at a time, and at a place you've
never been to, uh—,” Chuuya jokes, before realizing that he doesn't actually know this
person's name.

The man seems to pick up on that, offering him another smile. He wets his lips by licking
them, tongue sliding deliciously slow over his bottom lip and—

Is that two tongue piercings, one on each side? Chuuya's never seen that before.

"You can call me Fyodor, solnyshko," he offers. "And the Americano is for you. It would be
rude not to offer you something in payment after you've been so kind to me, no?"

He doesn't think that offering his advice on food is worth buying him something to eat, but
it's not like he's going to turn down free food. Besides, this way he won't have to bother
Dazai for a while longer. Or go back to his dorm before he's ready to see the thing he's
worked so hard for be taken away.

He can eat, have a quick snack with Fyodor before making his way up to his dorm. "Thank
you," he says, giving him a grateful smile. "So if you've never been to this cafe before, then
you must not go to school here. What brings you to the campus?"

The cafe, nameless as it is, is the most popular one on the campus. Every student, teacher and
even office administrators drops by here at least sometimes. If Fyodor were here on business,
then he would know that, right? The cafe is practically a campus staple so—

He must be here on personal business.

"Oh, I'm just visiting an old friend," Fyodor sighs, leaning back in his seat. He's tall, almost
as tall as Dazai is, and just as broad. He takes up the entire seat, legs crowding Chuuya's
under the table even though his knees are spread wide in a casual display and dominance.

And Chuuya will be honest—

If he wasn't with Dazai, infatuated and very much happy with him, he would be eyeing up
Fyodor. With that posture, it's like he's asking him to stare at the bulge of his crotch.

Chuuya won't, but if he could, he might've.

"You see, he's stopped answering my calls recently. Very disheartening, because we are
business partners— but I also thought we were friends. So I've come to see why he won't talk
to me anymore," Fyodor continues, and he almost sounds like he's pouting.

The waitress comes back at that moment, placing his order in front of him. It isn't Chuuya's
imagination acting up when he sees the way Fyodor deliberately brushes his fingers over the
back of her hand as he accepts his drink.

"Thank you," Fyodor says to her warmly, taking a sip. He sighs into his drink when he tastes
it, smiling flirtatiously over the rim at the waitress. "Simply divine."

Chuuya's Americano nearly gets spilled with how hard her hands are trembling, and he
narrowly avoids getting his spinach wrap dumped onto his lap. Chuuya can't exactly be mad
at her, because Fyodor is staring her down, with a smug, self-satisfied look on his face like he
knows exactly what he's doing to her and revels in it.

Eventually she goes scampering back into the building, face bright red.

"That sounds terrible. I'd be upset if one of my friends stopped talking to me too," Chuuya
says, sympathetic. His spinach wrap, when he takes a bite out of it, is delightfully fresh. "Do
you think he'll show up here, or are you buying time until you can find him?"

Chuuya might think he's procrastinating, but somehow, he doesn't seem the type.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll show up at some point. I've got something he wants."
That sounds... slightly ominous, especially with the way Fyodors's grinning hugely at him.
Like he has a secret. Chuuya takes a bite out of his food to give himself some time to mull
that over. It's normal for friends to exchange things like clothing or house items, stuff like
that.

But Fyodor is speaking like he means something important. Like it’s an inside joke that he’s
inviting Chuuya in on, even though they just met.

"In the meantime, solnyshko, would you like to hear a story?" Fyodor asks, leaning forward
with his elbows on the table. His latte is almost entirely gone already, the remains of caramel
on the edges of his cup.

Taking a sip of his own Americano— it's stronger than usual, the bitterness more
overpowering— Chuuya shrugs. Sure, why not? He likes stories as well as anything else, and
he's not quite ready to go back to his dorm yet.

He's pretty sure Dazai won't let him lift a finger to help pack anyways, so there's really no
point in going back early just to stand there and watch as his entire college career is packed
away into a handful of depressingly small boxes.

He came here with only one box. He's probably only leaving with two.

"Sure. What's it about?"

Fyodor leans his cheek in his palm, eyes looking very far away. "Have you heard of the
campus fire that happened a little over eighteen years ago?"

Chuuya tilts his head frowning. "The one the memorial was made for? I thought that was
twenty years ago?"
Devil-sharp teeth flash at him in amusement. "Nope. It was eighteen— though closer to
nineteen years now."

"Wasn't that just a small fire that got out of hand?" That's what the stories online had said, at
least. They'd traced it back to a couple of kids who'd been smoking illegally in their dorm,
and when the carpet started to smolder because of a cherry that had fallen, it went unnoticed.

By the time the kids had noticed it and were ready to out themselves by reporting it, it was
already too late. The entire floor and the two below it had been ravaged by flames.

"Well, what if I told you that it was meant to get out of hand?"

Chuuya arches an eyebrow at him, disbelieving but amused. What's with everyone trying to
turn regular, every day tragedies into this horror story? It's already terrifying and upsetting
enough, there's no need to spin it into something else entire.

First Yuan,and then Nikolai. Now Fyodor.

"What do you mean?"

Fyodor's hand leaves the table, dipping into his pocket. He pulls out a short piece of rope that
doesn't seem to serve any purpose other than keeping his hand busy as he speaks again.
"Have you heard of the Port Mafia?"

Chuuya shoots him an unimpressed look, taking his last sip of his coffee. It doesn't seem to
have worked to wake him up. In fact, he feels almost more tired than he did before drinking
it, his eyes heavy and begging to close.

"Yeah, obviously. I do live here, after all," he confirms, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.
Fyodor tsks at him in reprimand, threading the rope through his fingers over and over again,
an unending pattern that Chuuya finds himself fascinated by. "No need to be sassy,
solnyshko, I was just asking a question."

A question that had an obvious answer to whoever has been living in Yokohama for any
length of time. But Chuuya supposes Fyodor doesn't actually know anything about him, so
maybe his reaction was unnecessary.

He smiles at him apologetically. "Sorry. It's been a rough week for me. Yes, I do know about
them."

This time, when he takes another bite of his wrap, Fyodor's eyes watch his movements
closely. When he notices that Chuuya has noticed, he smiles widely.

"Now you can't tell anyone this, because it's a secret, but the real story is that the Mafia was
involved with that fire," Fyodor says, leaning forward and lowering his voice like he's
sharing a secret.

"If that was true, why wouldn't it be mentioned in the news stories or be otherwise connected
to them? I looked up the news articles, and no mention of the Yakuza was made." Granted,
Chuuya only has access to publicized news, which is obviously biased and scrubbed clean of
too many details but—

If the government and news outlets had the chance to garner public outcry from the citizens
against the Yakuza, Chuuya doesn't see why they wouldn't.

"For the same reason a lot of crimes committed by the Mafia get covered up, solnyshko—
money. Lots of it. Someone doesn't want that story to be told."

That does make sense.

It's Monday on campus, barely mid-day with students coming and going all over the place—
But suddenly the air is starting to feel cold.

Chuuya's head hurts. It's not bad— yet— but he's regretting not taking the Tylenol Dazai
offered him earlier this morning. He'd insisted he wouldn't need it because they wouldn't be
out that long, but now he's regretting that.

"And what story would that be?" He asks, rubbing his temple to stave off the growing
migraine.

"The story of an adopted son, rebelling against his tyrant father. A story about a demon
prodigy," Fyodor says, with a wicked grin like it's a scary story or some sort of legend to be
told over a campfire. When he notices Chuuya's grimace, his expression fades into a
concerned frown. "What's wrong, little love? Did my story make you lose your appetite?"

The pet name, said in a voice like that, all smooth silk and honey, makes a shiver crawl up
Chuuya's spine. "No," he grumbles, blowing out a breath, "I just have a headache."

Fyodor makes a sympathetic noise. "Maybe eating more will help? Or I can get you some
water? I have some pain pills in my car, but you'd have to come with me to get them."

Paranoia itches at the back of his mind.

"No, I'll just finish my wrap and text my boyfriend," Chuuya mutters, taking out his phone
and opening it. It only takes a few taps on the screen to pull up his messages with Dazai,
shooting off a message asking him to come get him and his location.

The last few bites of his wrap taste... sour, almost. Like chemicals. But—

The ends of these things always taste a little funny, don't they?
"Oh, you have a boyfriend?" Fyodor latches onto that piece of information, leaning forward
across the table. His hand slides close to the jacket Chuuya had taken off earlier, draped
across the edge of the table.

His fingers dip inside the pocket without Chuuya noticing. "What's he like?"

Chuuya opens his mouth to answer, but just as he does, a large, broad shadow falls over them
both. When he looks up, it's Dazai, looking angrier and paler than he's ever seen before.

"Fedya," he practically snarls, crossing his arms over his chest. He's vibrating with tension,
eyebrows lowered thunderously over his eyes. He doesn't even look at Chuuya, snapping
something in a foreign, guttural language that's so aggressive that it makes Chuuya blink in
surprise.

He sounds angry. Angrier than Chuuya's ever heard him.

Fyodor leans back in his chair, taking his hands back and folding them behind his head
confidently. "Come now, besy," he says, flashing a charming smile, "Don't you know it's rude
to speak when the company can't understand you? You don't want to leave this pretty little
thing in the dark, now do you?"

Chuuya has not been unaware that Fyodor has been flirty with him. He didn't comment on it
because he assumed that it was just in his nature— the incident with the waitress was pretty
damning— but now he feels like he's being fought over. Dazai bristling with hostility, Fyodor
smug and cocky leaning back in his seat...

It's like watching dogs fight over a bone, except the bone is him.

"What the fuck do you want, Fedya?" This time it's Japanese that Dazai speaks in, harsh and
cutting and rude.

Chuuya shoots him a look, wondering what the hell the attitude is about but—
Clearly these two know each other. Clearly, they have a history that Chuuya knows nothing
about, and he doesn't know enough to step in between them.He only wishes Dazai wasn't so
loud, because people are starting to stare.

"Me?" Fyodor asks, spreading his hands in front of him innocently, eyes wide, "I don't want
anything. I was just telling Chuuya over here a story."

Chuuya frowns. Did he ever tell Fyodor his name? He doesn’t remember— doesn’t think so
— but how else would he know?

"A story?" Dazai repeats, disbelieving. "A story about what?"

Chuuya pipes up, hoping to dispel the tension by making a joke. "About some ancient demon
prodigy who apparently caused trouble a really long time ago."

Dazai looks like he just got kicked, whipping his head around to stare at him. At least Fyodor
seems to think he's funny, bursting into loud laughter.

Dazai gives him a look like Chuuya has personally betrayed him, moving his hand in a 'what
the fuck?' gesture.

Chuuya gestures back, wondering what the hell his problem is.

"No, he's right," Fyodor wheezes, barely containing himself. "He's so old. Ancient. Decrepit.
Probably can't even get it up anymore—.”

Dazai cuts him off there, letting out a loud sigh. "I get it. Is that all you wanted?"
He's still stiff with tension, and he's standing almost between them, like he's trying to block
Fyodor's view of him.

It takes quite a few moments for Fyodor to reign himself back in, wiping a tear from under
his eye. The faint eyeliner he's wearing— subtle, but noticeable that Chuuya is actually
looking— doesn't get smudged with how carefully he pats his eye dry.

"Actually, I came to see you , besy. You haven't been returning my calls lately, and it's getting
very frustrating. I'm starting to get my feelings hurt, and you know how I get when I'm
emotional, " Fyodor responds, blinking up at him with wide eyes.

Without looking away from Dazai, he takes the final sip of his latte, sighing contently. When
he wipes his mouth clean of foam, his bottom lip moves and reveals something black on the
inside.

What is that? He didn't eat anything black, so it couldn't be food or anything like that and it
almost looks like ink.

Curious and forgetting his manners, Chuuya blurts out, "What's that on your lip?"

Violet eyes glance over, flaring with something like teasing, smug heat.

Without looking away, one of Fyodor's hands comes up. The tips of his fingers hook into his
bottom lip, folding it down to reveal the soft pink inside.

And there, tattooed in black ink on the inside of his lip is 'SINNER'.

Chuuya's eyes are wide. Doesn't that hurt? He can't imagine sitting there getting an inner lip
tattoo. The pain threshold and the discipline it would take to get that done is—

Well, it's impressive. And maybe— just maybe— a little hot.

Taking his fingers out, Fyodor lets his lip pop back into place. "Lip tattoos fade after a year or
so. When I need to get it touched up, I switch between 'sinner' and 'saint'," he says, then licks
his lip slowly. "But no matter what, the tongue remains the same."

He pairs that with an obvious, saucy wink and even though Chuuya is taken, he can't help
that his cheeks are hot.

Dazai bristles, damn near sending the table crashing over as he steps even closer. "There are
better ways to get a hold of me," he seethes, jaw clenched.

It clicks for Chuuya, suddenly. He's jealous.

"Sure, but how could I possibly give up the chance to meet this lovely partner of yours?
You've told me so much about him, it's like I know him already."

(And poor Chuuya. He really does know nothing, so he's completely unaware that he just had
lunch with a lethal, dangerous man that Dazai has been trying very hard to keep him from.)

Chuuya blinks, surprised. If they know each other, that explains why Fyodor knows his name
even though Chuuya never told him. Does that mean he was looking for Chuuya? Or was it a
coincidence that he found him sitting at the cafe and came to say hello?

Was this planned, an elaborate ruse to trick Dazai into talking to him again?

"Chuuya, are you finished?" Dazai asks, not looking away from Fyodor for even a second.

Well, yes, he is, and he does want to go home because his head is starting to throb and he
really wants a nap—
But it feels rude to just leave Fyodor like this, and so suddenly?

"Uh, yeah," he mutters, stacking his empty cup on top of his plate. "Is my dorm—”

Dazai interrupts him with a clipped "Yep, it's done," and reaches down to urge him out of his
seat. He's not harsh, but he's clearly urging him to hurry, fingers pressing into his arm
urgently.

Fyodor watches with a satisfied look, not saying anything until Dazai is practically herding
him away, pushing him in the direction of where Dazai parked the car.

"Good night, Chuuya," he calls, a hint of something in his tone, something secretive and
smug.

Chuuya nearly stumbles at that because it's mid-morning, what the hell does he mean, 'good
night'? That doesn't make any sense?

When they get out of sight, Dazai gets fed up with Chuuya's shorter legs and grabs him
tighter. His grip isn't painful, but it is firm and he's practically dragging Chuuya along,
forcing him to awkwardly jog to keep up.

"What is wrong with you?" Chuuya snaps, jerking on his arm. It's no use; Dazai's grip is
unyielding. At no point does it truly hurt or does Chuuya feel in danger, but it's frustrating
and upsetting to be dragged around like an errant child.

Especially with how gently and affectionately he's been treating him the last few days. All
that care seems to have evaporated right now.

"Do you have any idea how much danger you were just in?" Dazai hisses. He sounds livid,
but at least he's slowing down a little bit, so it's easier to keep up.
His words make Chuuya gape, because—

Danger? Really? Fyodor seemed sweet. A little too flirty, maybe, and there was obviously
some bad blood between him and Dazai, but he was nice to Chuuya.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Chuuya snaps, throwing his most cutting glare at
the side of his head. People are starting to stare now, whispering to each other as they pass,
and it's embarrassing.

The car isn't far off now. Chuuya can see it, slowly getting closer..

Dazai pounces on that sentence quickly. "Exactly," he bites out, quickly crossing the distance
to the car. "You have no idea , so trust me when I say that man is dangerous."

Before he can come up with a response to that, they've reached the car. Dazai reaches down
to open the passenger door for him, looming over him until Chuuya gives in with an annoyed
huff and climbs in.

The backseat has three small boxes in it. The entirety of Chuuya's college career. Before, the
sight would’ve made him sad, but now he’s too angry to think about how depressing that is.

He glares at Dazai through the windshield as he crosses across the front of the car in a
handful of long, powerful, quick strides.

The driver door is yanked open, and Dazai drops inside.

Chuuya greets him with a snarl, "Or, instead of asking me to trust you, you could tell me what
the fuck you mean by that. How is he dangerous? He seemed normal to me!"

Dazai's expression twists into something like angry disbelief, jamming the start button until
the car roars to life. He peels out of the parking lot in livid silence, jaw clenched so hard
Chuuya can see the muscle bunched up there.

After a long moment of this— something that feels almost like the silent treatment—,
Chuuya loses his patience. He's tired, his head hurts, he's sad because he had to drop out, he's
stressed out—

And now Dazai is being un-fucking-reasonable.

"You don't get to just be an asshole for no reason and expect me to just believe you!" He
nearly shouts, twisting in his seat. "You don't get to just— to just say things, without any
explanation and expect me to understand! Tell me what the hell you're talking about."

Dazai nearly causes an accident when he floors it out of the parking lot, silent. It's the most
reckless he's ever driven with Chuuya in the car, and that just makes him angrier, because
Chuuya barely got his seatbelt on in time before he got thrown face-first into the dashboard.

Silent. Painful, writhing, wrathful silence, filling the car like a bomb getting ready to burst—

"Oh, so you get to reprimand me for being 'incapable of communicating' but when I ask you
to communicate, you treat me like— like I'm throwing a temper tantrum!"

There's a shout, something that sounds like a snarl, and the palm of Dazai's hand slams into
the steering wheel loudly. Chuuya didn't think he was the type to hit things when he was
angry, but apparently he was wrong.

"I CAN'T!" Dazai roars back, shaking the steering wheel like he wishes it was Chuuya he was
shaking some sense into. His grip is so tight his knuckles are turning white, and they're at
least twenty miles over the speed light, flooring it up the hills to Dazai's house.

Chuuya gapes at him. "What the fuck do you mean 'you can't'? If he was dangerous to me, I
have a right to know! What if he hurts someone on campus?!"
"Yes, you do have a right to know," Dazai seethes, taking a turn so fast that Chuuya swears he
can feel one of the tires lift off the ground. "But I have a right to disclose my trauma when it
is comfortable to me and not when it's convenient to you!"

That makes Chuuya pause, fists clenched and jaw working. Because, as angry as Chuuya is
and as much as he wants to sink his teeth into Dazai and tear him into pieces, to spill all his
secrets like blood between them—

He does have a point with the trauma part.

It hurts to admit, because he thought Dazai trusted him. At least enough to tell him things.

But it's also pretty clear that Fyodor and Dazai do have history between them, and apparently
that means a lot of bad blood as well. Chuuya didn't want to push Dazai into a corner and
make him feel like he had to divulge sensitive, painful information, he just wanted to know
what he meant .

It also doesn't feel fair for Dazai to be yelling at him and making Chuuya feel like a bad
person when he started this whole thing. This argument would've never happened if Dazai
hadn't been such a dick.

Fuming and unsure of what to say that doesn't make the situation worse or make him seem
like the bad guy, Chuuya crosses his arms over his chest and glares out the window silently.

When they finally get home— ten minutes quicker than they usually would— Chuuya is the
first one out of the car and storms inside without even looking at Dazai. Yoko and the cat—
who Chuuya is debating on naming Mochi but something about the name just doesn't fit—
greet him at the door, and he gives them minimal pets as he pushes his way to the backyard.

He doesn't want to be inside right now. He doesn't even want to look at Dazai right now, not
until he can figure out what he's feeling. It's all tangled up inside, hurt with anger and sadness
and physical pain and depression and—
It's just so much it makes Chuuya want to scream.

Dropping heavily into one of the chairs at the outside table, he puts his head in his heads and
just—

Endures.

It's a struggle to calm down when his chest feels tighter than a wire about to snap, but he
manages it after a while with careful breathing. He sheds a few tears, wetness collecting in
his palms, but at least he isn't embarrassingly sobbing like he was the day before.

His head hurts even more now, the aftereffects of the yelling.

Eventually the anger just cools down into misery, and it just makes Chuuya want to go
straight to bed, to forget any of this ever happened, forget the whole day—

"Can we talk?"

Chuuya sniffs, picking his head up and finding Dazai lurking in the doorway between the
living room and the backyard. He looks remorseful and slightly awkward, hands pushed into
his pockets.

How long has he been standing there?

"About what?" Chuuya asks miserably, wiping the tears from his face.

The first thing Dazai says isn't what he's expecting it to be. Chuuya's half-tense, prepared for
a continuation of their argument, but instead—
"I'm sorry."

Chuuya blinks at him, which makes Dazai's face soften with regret even more.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to yell at you. I was scared and upset, but I shouldn't have taken that
out on you. I shouldn't have made you scared or yelled at you for it."

He looks so genuine, eyes big and clear, mouth turned down into a slight frown, that Chuuya
can't help but believe him. The knot in his chest loosens a bit.

"I don't know why you were so angry. You were the one who made me worried in the first
place. I just wanted to know what you meant," Chuuya says, drawing his knees up to his
chest.

Dazai lets out a sigh. "I know, baby, I know," he murmurs, coming closer. He doesn't touch
Chuuya, but he does crouch down beside him so they can have a conversation that's closer to
face-to-face.

It's hard to feel equal when Dazai naturally looms over him, but like this, Chuuya feels a little
more like he's on even ground.

"That man," Dazai starts, looking thoughtful and almost-pained, like he's trying to decide
exactly what to say, "is not a good man. He has hurt dozens of people in every way you could
imagine, and he does it all to further his own goals. If he thought that hurting you would get
to me, I have no doubt that he would do that."

That doesn't explain anything, not really. It's so vague, and even if Chuuya's mind
immediately jumps into the worst scenario possible, that doesn't mean that scenario is true.
He doesn't understand.
"So you guys are... business partners? Friends?" Chuuya doesn't know any friends that would
treat each other like that and still be considered friends, but he can't exactly judge.

"We're rivals, of a sort. We've done business together for a very long time, even if I didn't
necessarily want to work with him," Dazai tells him, looking up at him with an expression
that's begging him to believe him and—

Chuuya does believe him. He's never seen Dazai this affected before, so he does believe him,
it’s just—

There's so many details that are missing that it doesn't make sense to him.

He hazards a guess. "And you're not going to tell me why he makes you so upset or what he
did to you?"

"I—,” Dazai stops there, blowing out a breath. He looks so frustrated with himself, but also
scared. Uncomfortable. "I want to, and it's not just what he did to me, it's— it's more of a
long story of my childhood, and I want to tell you, but it's hard and it's scary."

Today is the first time Chuuya has ever heard Dazai ever admit to being afraid. The man has
never so much as flinched at anything else before— besides his hospital visit, but that would
scare anyone— so to see him so obviously affected and admitting to his fear—

It's sobering. It makes Chuuya's chest pang with sympathy, sadness bubbling up inside him.

Tentatively, he reaches out, brushing his fingers over his cheekbone softly. He's half-
expecting him to flinch away or be stiff under his hands, but Dazai leans into the touch easily,
pressing his cheek into his palm. "You know you can tell me, right? You don't have to be
afraid, or think that I'll judge you or anything. You can tell me anything, Osamu."

The thing with fear is that it's not always rational. You can explain it away, you can put it into
simple and easy terms, you can dissect it with logic until it's all pretty squares, easily tucked
away. But that doesn't mean it will ever go away, not if you're not ready to let it go.

Chuuya can see, from the desperate, cold look in Dazai's eyes, from the way he leans into his
hand like he's afraid Chuuya will let go, from the way his fingers subtly tremble—

Dazai isn't ready to let it go yet.

Part of Chuuya wants to be angry about that. He's told him things that he's never told anyone
else, and it feels unfair for Dazai to still be hiding parts of himself away. But he can't force it,
and if he tries, he will only be proving him right. He'll just be proving himself untrustworthy
and—

Chuuya wants to be trustworthy. He wants to be the holder of all his secrets. He wants to
know Dazai's dreams and wishes and nightmares, and everything about him.

He wants everything and to get everything from him—

He has to be a little patient. They've only been dating for a little over two months. He's in no
rush. He can be patient.

They've got forever, right?

(Right?)

"I will tell you," Dazai promises earnestly, eyes shining as he looks up at him. "I will, I just—
I need a little more time, okay?"

Chuuya can give him that. He brushes his thumb over his cheek, trying to soothe away the
lingering pain and anxiety he can sense in him. "Okay."
His acceptance makes Dazai relax, shuddering slightly.

There's a long peaceful moment, and then long fingers are sliding up Chuuya's shins.

"Can I have a hug?" Dazai asks, sounding almost pitiful. He doesn't pressure him, he just
wraps his fingers around his calf and waits for his response, staring up at him.

How can Chuuya ever tell him no? When he looks like that?

Nodding, he lets his feet fall to the floor and leans forward to wrap his arms around Dazai's
neck. Dazai sinks into him with a sigh, burying his nose into Chuuya's shoulder and soaking
up the affection. His arms come up, wrapping low around his waist, pulling him to the edge
of the chair.

It's warm. Makes all the tension in Chuuya's chest simmer down and loosen, drifting away
with every exhale like petals on the wind.

Eventually Dazai stirs, mumbling something about dinner, and getting Chuuya his medicine.

The headache has gone away now, mostly. It throbs lightly in the back of his head, but he
does accept the Tylenol Dazai puts into his palm.

(And when Chuuya follows Dazai inside the house, his hands slide into the pockets of his
jacket and he finds a note that wasn't there before.

A tiny piece of folded paper with ten digits printed on it.

A phone number.
More specifically, Fyodor's phone number.)
 Candy Crushed
Chapter Summary

(Because this? This is the end.)

Chapter Notes

have i ever told u guys that i love you very much? :)

It has been two weeks. A very long two weeks, but not necessarily in a bad way. In fact,
Chuuya would say it was a good week, if adjusting to his new schedule wasn't so hard.

Dazai is ceaselessly doting in a way that makes Chuuya's every want and need feel obsolete.
He makes breakfast in the morning before giving Chuuya his morning round of meds. Those
usually put him out of commission for a few hours, making him incredibly drowsy until
lunch time is coming around.

Now that he's off the anticonvulsants— except for on a need-to-take basis, which he
thankfully hasn't needed to because he has yet to feel another seizure coming on— that's
getting better, but his body is still recovering. He's never needed to take a nap in the middle
of the day before, and now he needs at least one if he wants to avoid sleeping for fourteen
hours every night.

Lunch and dinner are similarly done, big meals that Dazai cooks for him. Chuuya can
understand why Dazai piles his plate high with food every time— he can see his collarbones
sharply in the mirror, and the beginnings of ribs— but it's still hard to handle because his
appetite has yet to return, and if he eats too much he gets drowsy again.

He’s getting increasingly tired of feeling exhausted all the time. Dazai tries to keep him
entertained, watching movies with him and relaxing in the backyard, occasionally taking the
dogs to the local park but—
There's only so much they can do when Chuuya is easily exhausted and practically chained to
the medicine cabinet. He needs his meds twice a day, and he's still on a regimen of Tylenol to
keep his headache down.

He is getting better, he knows that. Every day he has more energy, his naps are shorter, his
head hurts less. His attitude is perking up, and he's slowly starting to gain weight again. It's
just frustrating, because he wants to be better now and not in five more weeks. It's horrible
going from what he would consider healthy, to essentially being locked in the house.

That's not the only frustrating thing. The most frustrating thing is that Dazai has still not
talked to him about Fyodor or his 'trauma' at all.

Chuuya doesn't want to push him into it, and he understands two weeks isn't that long, but it
seems to him like Dazai is avoiding the conversation entirely. Not easing himself into it, or
revealing little pieces at a time, or testing the waters. Just straight up avoiding it. Any time
Chuuya brings up Fyodor or the college campus or his own childhood— trying to nudge
Dazai into talking about it or about anything at all—, Dazai just clams up. Says he has to
make a call, or let the dogs out, or that he's trying to watch the movie, or literally anything to
get himself out of the conversation.

It's not like Dazai has a due date to tell him by, but Chuuya is not naïve enough to believe
that he's going to wake up one day and just magically be okay with telling Chuuya
everything. It takes progress, effort and time , and Chuuya is willing to work with him—

But Dazai doesn't seem willing to work at all.

There's a subtle tension in the air now, vibrating between them constantly. Dazai either
doesn't feel it or he's actively avoiding it, because he's been acting obnoxiously upbeat and
talkative.

And there's another thing:

Chuuya hasn't thrown away the number he found in his jacket pocket, after he met Fyodor.
He hasn't inputted it into his phone or done anything else with it but—

He hasn't thrown it away.

It feels almost wrong that he hasn't tossed it. Like he's cheating or consorting with Dazai's
abuser, or otherwise being a terrible person but—

He's not, is he? Dazai said it wasn't something that Fyodor did to him, it was about his
childhood. Which implies that Fyodor was involved with his childhood, which would mean
—

He would know what Dazai is talking about.

For days he wrestles between a terrible, morbid curiosity, and guilt. He doesn't want to go
behind Dazai's back, of course, but—

Dazai has always been withdrawn. Even though he's known him for months, has been
unofficially living with him for weeks, and been almost completely reliant on him for two
weeks. His father has talked to him, even, and Chuuya is considering when it’s a good time to
introduce him to the rest of his family.

Chuuya still doesn't even know what he does for his job. His parents' names. If they're alive
or dead. If he went to college. If he didn't go to college. How he met Sasaki. There are so
many things about Dazai that he refuses to tell Chuuya and—

At some point, you stop expecting people to do what they say they will when they never
follow up. They might say they'll tell you everything, but will they really?

It's not fair that Dazai practically knows everything about him, while Chuuya only knows the
basic scraps and pieces that don't fit together. It’s not fair that he keeps himself hidden away
and then whenever Chuuya tries to get to know him better, he gets rebuffed and guilt-tripped
with Dazai defending his right to keep his trauma to himself.

It’s not even about the trauma, not really. If he wants to keep that to himself, that’s fine, but
what about everything else? It can’t all be tied back to bad memories, and even if it was—

If Chuuya is going to be exposed to so-called dangerous men, then he deserves to know how
dangerous they are and how to keep himself safe. It affects him too. He needs to know.

And at some point, you start to realize that if you want answers?

You have to go digging for yourself.

Chuuya waits until Dazai goes grocery shopping to restock the kitchen. It feels like a
cheating move because it's the first time Dazai has left him alone for any length of time since
his diagnosis and he had to convince him that he would be okay alone for an hour or two.
Dazai only goes after nearly half an hour of kisses and reassurances that he'll come back with
Chuuya's favorite candy, and please call if you need me at all, for anything—

Really, it makes Chuuya feel guilty, because he's essentially playing him. Getting him out of
the house so he can make a phone call.

He wastes the first twenty minutes of alone time by pacing back and forth in their bedroom
— their bedroom now, which makes butterflies cascade through his chest, and it's even
worse when Dazai calls it their bedroom— with his phone clutched to his chest.

He shouldn't. Logically, he knows that and feels terrible about the fact that he wants to but—

It's been months and Dazai has given him nothing. It's—

It's only fair, right?

Dazai never has to know. It'll be his little secret.

His fingers shake as he inputs the number. He has to backtrack twice to fix a mistake, and has
to squint at the paper to see if that's the symbol for two or three.

Once he has it entered, he almost doesn't do it. Thinks to himself, why am I doing this—

And then hits call before he can psych himself out of it for any longer.

He almost hangs up when he hears the dial tone start up, guilt and anxiety flashing up so
strongly his heart feels it might burst in his chest. He promises to hang up on the third ring.
He'll take that as fate that he wasn't meant to talk to Fyodor.

If something stops him at all, he'll take that as a sign, and he won't try again. If he's not meant
to know, the call won't go through.

One ring…

An agonizingly long pause.

Two rings, somehow feeling longer than the first...

Pause.

Thr—

"Hello?"
Oh shit, he actually answered. Chuuya didn't actually think this through, he has no idea what
to say or what he wants to talk about. In his mind, Fyodor just told him this wild regaling
story of his and Dazai's childhood, but Chuuya forgot he had to actually have a conversation
with the man.

"Uh, hi," he squeaks, ducking out of their bedroom and onto the balcony. This way he'll see if
Dazai comes home before he's expected to, and at least he'll get some sun as he paces back
and forth. "It's Chuuya. You know, from the cafe a week ago? You left your number in my
jacket and I was just..."

He trails off there, feeling stupid. He's rambling, trying to cover up his nerves with sheer
amount of conversation.

"Ah, yes, I remember you, solnyshko," Fyodor purrs from the other side of the line. His voice
is deeper on the voice, raspier. More inviting. "I'm surprised to see you call. Dazai not able to
keep up with you anymore?"

Chuuya automatically scowls at that, because this is not a call for an affair or anything. He
just wanted answers, and as far as he knew, Fyodor is the only one who had them. "No, it's
just— I was calling because..."

How does he say it without sounding crazy or invasive?

This was a mistake. He shouldn't have called.

"Let me guess, darling: you want to hear a story, right? But this time about Dazai," Fyodor
says. The other side of the line is eerily quiet, like he was expecting a call.

"Yeah," Chuuya mutters, wrapping his free arm around his middle. "I just... I realized I don't
know anything about him, and I didn't know who else to ask. He basically won't tell me
anything at all. You're the only one I've ever met who seems to have known Dazai before this
year."
"Ah," comes the answer, but the next words are what makes Chuuya's heart stop: "He's
always been like that with his victims."

Victims? What the fuck does that mean?

It's sunny outside, and the warmth of the sun is enough to keep him from needing a jacket. Or
at least he thought so before, because now he shivers.

"What—,” Chuuya asks, licking his lips because his mouth feels suddenly dry, "What do you
mean by that?"

There's a sigh on the other line. "You might need a drink for this, solnyshko."

Jokes on him, because Chuuya isn't allowed to have even a sip of alcohol. Dazai has even
taken all the wine and whiskey bottles out of the house and locked them in a safe Chuuya
doesn't have the combination to, just to make sure he can’t sneak a drink when he’s not
looking. It’s like being a child again, but he’s trying not to be upset about it.

"Just tell me."

He just needs to know if this was all—

All a lie. If their entire relationship has been a ruse, or a mistake, or something he should be
afraid of..

"Well, solnyshko, I should start by saying that Dazai is not a good man. I'm sure he's said the
same about me— and I won't say that I'm perfect, but compared to a man like Dazai, I'm
practically squeaky clean."
Again, with the vague details and the half-truths. Why does no one ever just say what's
actually going on? "What do you mean by that?"

"You remember what I told you about the Demon Prodigy? I assume you've heard more as
well," Fyodor asks. There's a sipping noise that breaks his speech midway through, like he's
drinking something. Alcohol, maybe, since he told Chuuya to drink.

Chuuya makes a vaguely assenting noise, turning on his heel to pace back the other way.

"Well, Dazai is the Demon Prodigy. He's been one of the bloodiest people in Yokohama ever
since he was, oh... fourteen? Fifteen, if I'm being generous."

He's...

He's what?

As much as Chuuya would love to dispute what Fyodor is saying, would love to just hang up
and forget this entire conversation ever happened—

It makes sense. It fits. The 'personal protection' business that Chuuya knows nothing about,
the business he has been away from for weeks now without ever seeming to worry about his
absence. The guard dogs. The fact that Dazai doesn't seem to have any friends or coworkers.
The tattoos. The secrecy about his life and the lies.

It all makes sense. Makes so much fucking sense that Chuuya doesn't know how he didn't see
it before.

How could he be so stupid?

(Naturally Chuuya has no way of knowing this, but he's fallen right into Fyodor's trap.
He didn't need to drug anyone, beyond what he told Nikolai to do. He didn't need to force
anyone's hand. All he needed to do was drive a wedge between them, tease Chuuya with
answers—

And wait.

Poor Chuuya will never know he's being manipulated and fed lies until it's too late.)

(Time set: 1 hour, 30 mins.

Tick. Tock.)

"And the victims? Those are the people he's— the people he killed?"

His answer is a considerate hum, like Fyodor is debating exactly what to say.

Yoko and Baki— he decided on a name this week. Arahabaki for destruction, because the cat
always knocks over his water bowl no matter how many times he’s told not to— stare out the
window as Chuuya makes another lap along the rail of the balcony. When Baki notices him
looking, he stands up to put his front paws on the window pleadingly, begging to be let
outside.

"It was, at first. But more recently, Dazai has had a disturbing habit of finding sweet,
innocent people like you and corrupting them. Normally, I wouldn't say that's a problem—
but somehow they always end up disappearing.”

(Lie.)

Chuuya's heart skips a beat, freezing in his chest. Disappearing? As in—

"He kills them?"

Fyodor makes a hitched grunting noise, like he's trying to cover up a noise he didn't intend to
make. "I'm not sure. All I know is that they disappear. Has he ever spoken to you about any
past partners?"

No, not even one. Besides Sasaki, that is, and he suspects the only reason he knows of her is
because he knows Shuuji. Kind of difficult to keep the mother of your child a secret.

"No, he hasn't. But I just assumed that was because he hadn't had any," Chuuya mutters.
There were some instances where Dazai seemed just as inexperienced as he was, so he didn't
think much of it. With how little friends Dazai seemed to have, Chuuya just thought he hadn’t
known enough people to be in a relationship with.

"Would you tell your future victim about your last ones?"

That...

That makes his blood run cold again.

He doesn't want to believe him. He doesn't want it to make sense. But it does, it fucking does.
Except for one thing:

"Why would you tell me all of this? Dazai said you were dangerous, so why should I trust
anything you say? What if you're lying to me? Dazai said you two weren't friends anymore,
so you could be lying to sabotage him, or something."

Chuuya is searching for any reason not to believe him. Dazai has been so nice to him, for so
long. It makes his heart hurt to even think about it being a trick.
It's not like they teach you in school how to recognize a predator. Chuuya's always had good
instincts though, and Dazai's never set off a single one. He's good, right, he's so good to him
—

"I could be lying, darling. I can't prove myself to you. But the question shouldn't be if I'm
lying. It should be that if you're willing to risk it," Fyodor responds. He sounds smug, a little
too casual, if you ask Chuuya.

And that is the crux of the matter, isn't it? Who he wants to believe.

Dazai, who has never treated him unkindly, but has always been veiled in a shroud of
mystery. Never giving up any information about himself, always giving himself an escape
route carved with money or knowledge.

Or Fyodor, who he has no reason to trust, but has been the first one to actually answer any of
his questions. The first one to willingly share information, and the only person that he knows
of that actually knows Dazai.

It's an impossible choice.

And one he doesn't have time to make because—

Dazai's black car is coming up the road at a steady pace. Chuuya watches as he parks, and
exits the car with half a dozen bags clutched in his hands.

"I have to go," he mutters into the phone, hanging up without waiting for an answer.

(That's fine. Rude, but fine.

Fyodor already has his man in place for the fallout.)

Chuuya watches Dazai enter the front door, heart huge and sick in his throat.

He has questions, and Dazai's going to answer them this time.

Chuuya doesn’t go down to greet him. He does move back into the bedroom, but he doesn’t
go back downstairs. He sits on the bed and waits, trying to cool the trembling in his fingers,
trying to calm his racing heart.

Yoko sniffs worriedly at his hands, but he pushes her away gently. He doesn’t—

Hé can’t deal with that right now. His mind is at war with his heart.

His heart is telling him that Dazai has only ever cared for him. He’s never pushed him, even
when Chuuya wanted him to, and he’s always treated him in a way that makes him feel
treasured. Cherished. Important.

Loved, in a way that doesn’t need words yet.

However, his mind is screaming that that’s exactly what a psycho would do. A psycho would
trick him into falling head-first, wait until every single brick of his defensive walls had fallen
—

And then strike. They’d give nothing of themselves while taking everything from Chuuya.
And isn’t that what Dazai’s doing?

Footsteps on the stairs. Quick and loud, like Dazai is bounding up the stairs.

Anxiety spikes. Does he know? Did—

Did Fyodor tell him? Does he have a tracker on his phone or something to keep track of who
he calls? Is that a thing?

Oh god, if he knows , then is he gonna—

Is he gonna kill him right now? Is this it?

Chuuya can barely breathe, torn between what he knows and how he feels.

The door flies open in the next moment, making Chuuya flinch hard.

“Baby!” Dazai crows, looking so excited with his big grin. The steps he takes closer seem
more like skipping, like an enthusiastic child. “I missed you.”

Chuuya shakily smiles back at him.

“Look what I got for you,” he continues, pulling his hands behind his back and—

It’s not a gun or a weapon or anything else Chuuya’s half-hysterical mind is thinking of but a
bag of candy. A big bag of candy, and it’s his ultra favorite. Mostly because it’s limited
edition and stores don’t sell it that often.

“The big bag,” Dazai states, sounding so damn pleased with himself, “This one should last
you like a week with how quickly you eat them but I got a few extra bags too, because I
know how much you like them. They’re downstairs in the garage.”

He bought him multiple giant bags of his favorite candy for him, without being asked to.
Chuuya didn’t even know they were in stock right now, and he’s only mentioned them a
handful of times. Dazai must have remembered.
“The shop owner said he probably wouldn’t be able to order them again because there’s not
much desire for them, but I’m pretty sure I can wear him down with enough time and money.
What do you think?”

He—

He has to know. He can’t bear to look at how excited and pleased Dazai is and just—

Let it go. He can’t. He has to know.

“Dazai,” he says, taking a deep inhale for strength. Dazai seems to finally realize something
is wrong because his smile is dimming. “Are you the Demon Prodigy?”

It’s a chance. He’s giving him a chance. Because if he lies to him then—

Chuuya can’t handle that.

Those last words make Dazai recoil like he’s been hit, flinching away and his eyes widening
like it’s a shock.

It probably is, because he never intended to tell Chuuya, did he?

Watching all the warmth and happiness drain from Dazai’s expression and be replaced with
stricken-cold shock shouldn’t be physically painful.

It is. Chuuya’s chest burns, like he’s inhaling smoke and flame. .
“I—,” Dazai starts, licking his lips. He’s retreated almost entirely now, back pressed against
the wall like he’s afraid.

(Fear response: Never expose your back. Protect yourself at all costs.)

“Who told you that?”

Chuuya stares at him. It’s not a no, and he’s acting like it’s a yes , but he’s still trying to evade
the question. Trying to turn the argument against him, trying to make it about something
other than it really is.

But unlike Dazai, Chuuya won’t lie right now. “Fyodor did. I called him.”

Dazai’s expression goes slack, eyes filling with betrayal. “You talked to him? You said you
wouldn’t!”

“No,” Chuuya replies, folding his hands in his lap to cover up the trembling. “I never said
that.”

It’s true. He hadn’t explicitly said that, ever. It had been the implicit, silent understanding—

But he’d never said he wouldn’t.

“You didn’t answer the question though,” he continues, staring up at Dazai with narrowed
eyes. “Are you, or aren’t you?”

“No,” Dazai says vehemently, desperately, like he’s trying to convince himself and Chuuya
at the same time.
Chuuya’s heart sinks into his stomach. He really thought Dazai respected him enough to at
least not lie to him when he’s already been caught in one. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not, I—,” Dazai looks frustrated, pained, eyes unblinking and posture stiff. “I’m not
— I was, as a kid , but I’m not. It’s not me, I never wanted it to be me.”

(Fear response: Do not look away from the thing that hurts you. It hurts worse when you’re
not expecting it.)

Here’s another of Chuuya’s conundrums:

Even if Dazai doesn’t have any plans of hurting him, is he really okay with knowing, dating,
loving a man that is a murderer? Is he okay with knowing that the man who buys him candy
and flowers used to set fires to college campuses and has blood on his hands?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks, morbidly curious. Honestly, he wants to stop talking. He
can almost feel them both splitting open the longer this conversation goes on, pain spilling
hot and ugly between them, filling up a space that used to be warm and soft. “I told you
everything about me.”

“Chuuya, I—,” this is the first time that Chuuya’s seen him so obviously shook, not knowing
what to say, words fumbling out of his grip like he doesn’t know how to speak anymore,
“Look, I respect you, and I know you had a hard childhood, and losing your mother was
terrible. I’m sympathetic to that—but it’s not the same. You are not a murderer. You did not
have a childhood of pain and blood and violence. You are not on Japan’s most wanted list.
You are not alive for the sole reason that your body won’t let you die.”

The pain in that last sentence is immeasurable. Dazai’s never spoken about his attempt, but
he’s never hidden it either. It’s like he views it as something so essential and such a part of
himself that he’s not ashamed or embarrassed or hurt by it anymore. It just is.

(Hi, I’m Dazai Osamu. I have brown hair and brown eyes, and I want to die more than I’ve
ever wanted to be alive. Would you like to commit a double suicide with me?)
“Just because you trusted me with your pain, doesn’t make mine any easier to handle.
Doesn’t make talking about it any easier.”

Chuuya presses his hands to his eyes, fighting back the growing headache. He wants to cry.
Watching Dazai like this, hurt and angry and scared because of him hurts.

He never wanted this. “Why did you give me all those speeches about communication when
you were hiding something so big from me? Were you ever going to tell me?”

Dazai’s hands come up, and Chuuya is flinching back automatically, unsure of what to
expect when Dazai is clearly so upset and—

Dazai looks stricken, staring at Chuuya like he’s in agony or he’s angry at himself, every
emotion that Chuuya can think of that somehow translates to pain and betrayal and disbelief.

“Baby— Chuuya—,” hearing him correct himself from the pet name he’s been using for
months is like a blow straight to Chuuya’s chest. “I’m trying. Please believe me. I am trying
so hard, and I would give you anything, I just— it hurts , and I didn’t want to lose you.”

His hands finish the journey upwards, fingers carding through his hair and pulling, hard, like
he can’t get through this conversation without hurting himself at least a little. Self-
punishment, maybe.

Chuuya... regrets.

He shouldn’t have done it like this. He shouldn’t have caused him pain like this, but how was
he supposed to know? He got so caught up in his own fear and instinctive panic that he didn’t
think of Dazai. He didn’t remember that Dazai has feelings and he deserved for Chuuya to be
considerate of them instead of jumping him with a question like that.
He just wanted to bring him candy. And now he looks like he’s going to cry or have a panic
attack, all because of Chuuya.

Chuuya wishes he could take it all back. Wishes he had been just a little smarter, more
thoughtful.

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking directly at Dazai even if seeing his wide, unseeing eyes and
knotted hair and twisted frown hurts. He has to believe him, Chuuya has to make him believe
he’s sorry, he didn’t mean to. “It’s just that Fyodor said...”

He trails off, not sure if he should bring it up—

But Dazai picks up on that, the heels of his hands pressed over his temples like he’s trying to
hold himself together. “What? What did he tell you?”

He stares for a long, terrible moment. He doesn’t want to say it, because he’s pretty sure it
won’t help, but—

He’s not a liar, and he can’t keep secrets after making such a huge mistake. “He said you...
had victims that you manipulated, implied you killed them and that I was next.”

The silence is heartbreaking.

“And you believed him?”

Chuuya doesn’t answer that, but his silence is answer enough.

(He should’ve lied. Because this—)

Fear response: Never let anything affect you. Cut it out. Be heartless. Show no pain, and
nothing can ever be used against you.

For a moment, Dazai just stares at him like he can’t believe what he did to him. Like the
betrayal he’s experiencing is so painful and shocking that he doesn’t even have words.

(Because this? This is the end.)

Then he’s taking a slow, steady inhale, nodding slightly to himself. His hands are dropping
away from his head, falling limp by his sides. His shoulders are squaring, but it’s a fragile
sort of strength, one deliberately cultivated to hide the fragility underneath.

And his eyes—

They’re empty. Cold, like whiskey ice, heartless and frozen. Like the Dazai he knows is
gone, and all that’s left is his body. Like everything he knew about Dazai— all the ridiculous
jokes and the goofy smiles, and the early mornings and soft warmth— is gone.

Because it’s not for him anymore.

“Right,” Dazai says, and he sounds surprisingly clear compared to before but disconnected,
“In that case— I think it’s time for you to go.”

No. Panic opens like a pit in his stomach, drowning him in cold-electric nausea. No, no, no,
please no.

“I’m sorry,” Chuuya gasps out again, the tears finally welling up in his eyes. He stumbles up
off the bed, tripping towards Dazai, hoping he’ll reach out for him, hoping he’ll catch him—

He does neither. He just watches, expression totally blank.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats desperately, needing him to understand but his mind is too blank to
come up with the explanation, with the right words to make this all better, “I didn’t mean it, I
was just scared and confused and— please, I’m so sorry.”

When Dazai speaks, it’s with this flat monotone, expressionless. “Maybe you didn’t mean it,
but I did. It’s time for you to go home, Nakahara.”

That word— that name — cuts through him like a knife. A dull one that tears him up to the
bone, shredding his soul into tiny, agonized pieces. Dazai has never called him that. It’s
always been Chuuya or baby or doll or sweetheart or literally anything else. Never that ,
never so cold, never so hurtful.

“But—,” Chuuya’s tears spill over, sliding down his cheeks. Dazai’s eyes watch them go,
unflinching, “but I love you.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. Never would have wanted to say it like this. It’s the first time he’s
ever told a boy that he loves him. The first time the thought has even crossed his mind. The
first time he’s ever felt like this, and he knows this is supposed to be a happy moment—

But it’s not. It’s like trying to fit a bandaid over a bullet wound, like trying to fix a broken
heart with words that should’ve been said sometime else.

It seems to shock something awake in Dazai, because he’s blinking now, and his eyes aren’t
dead-black anymore. More of a faded brown, that grows weaker when he sees how close
Chuuya is to sobbing.

Please, I didn’t mean it. I know I fucked up, but please let me fix it.

“No, you don’t,” Dazai says with a cruelly soft voice, taking Chuuya’s heart in hand and
shredding it with cold, emotionless words, “You’re too young to know what that word
means.”
People say that their hearts break when something tragic happens. Some, the dramatic ones,
say their hearts shatter.

Personally, Chuuya thinks shatter is too kind of a word. It implies that things can be mended.
The pieces will cut your fingers when you pick them up, but if you get all of them, you can
be whole again. Even if you get most of them, you’ll be okay. The pieces can be fit back
together again, with time and patience.

Chuuya’s heart does not shatter. That is not a strong enough word for how he feels.

It’s like a black hole has opened up somewhere inside him, with gravity strong enough to
shred planets, and is sucking every fiber of Chuuya’s being inside of it and destroying it. It’s
awful, like little strips are being peeled off at a time, leaving him raw, exposed, crying ,
unable to breathe past the gravity well in his chest.

And just like Dazai has always done, since the first time they met, he takes everything that
Chuuya is—

“And even if you did, someone who loved me wouldn’t do this to me.”

— and escalates it.

Chuuya is shaking. He can recognize that in the back of his head, faintly, but he’s too
preoccupied with the fact that his chest and throat feel like they’re on fire.

God, it hurts. Hurts much more than breaking his arm during Judo practice, much more than
falling the last three steps of his childhood home, much more than seizing out in the hospital
with his brain feeling like it’s frying itself with electricity.
It’s agony, visceral, hot-blooded agony that he can barely see past, because it feels like a
living thing determined to devour him whole.

“I—,” he gasps, reaching out to grab Dazai. Dazai lets him, but he doesn’t move into or away
from his grip on his shirt. It’s like he doesn’t care what Chuuya does anymore. Like he’s so
utterly indifferent that he doesn’t even bother to push him off, like Chuuya doesn’t matter to
him anymore.

“I can come back, right? Tomorrow? Please, I know I messed up, but let me fix it.”

There’s a moment where Chuuya dares to have hope. His vision is blurry through the tears
but he’s close enough that he can see the emotionless mask Dazai is wearing start to fracture.
Please let me come back tomorrow, he thinks desperately, hand fisted in his shirt.

Then the mask twists, and whatever hope Chuuya had is once again being used to cut him
wide open. “Why would you want to come back? Aren’t you afraid I’ll kill you?”

It’s seething, a glimpse into the roiling hurt and anger Dazai must be feeling. It hurts enough
to send Chuuya stumbling backwards again, feeling like his hand was burned.

He—

He can’t do this anymore. He can’t—

Maybe he deserves it, but he didn’t know what else to do and Dazai wouldn’t talk to him, and
now he’s begging him not to—

Not to break up with him. But they did, didn’t they? Dazai basically told him to leave and
never come back.

It’s over. It’s all over.

His life, his college career, his future, his relationship. All of it, gone.

And it’s all his fault, isn’t it?

He needs to leave. He can’t even look at Dazai right now without feeling the threads of his
self-control and restraint start to shred. He’s going to break down and he doesn’t want Dazai
to watch, but first—

He pulls his hands up, fumbling at the buckle of his collar. He’s not used to taking it off—
Dazai usually does it before and after his showers, and he never takes it off for long— and his
fingers are shaking so badly he can barely get a grip on it. He nearly loses impatience and
rips it off but—

He loves it. He treasures the damn thing, and even if he can’t stand the feel of it around his
neck right now, even if he doesn’t have the right to wear it anymore, that doesn’t mean he
wants to break it.

Eventually the buckle slides free, and the collar comes off.

Dazai still doesn’t look like he wants to touch him, so Chuuya has nowhere else to throw it
but the floor between them, the burning of the last bridge.

“I’m gonna go to my sisters,” Chuuya chokes out miserably, trying to wipe his eyes so he can
at least see. Every tear that he manages to wipe away is quickly replaced by another. “I’ll, uh,
get my stuff later, I guess.”

That’s an agony Chuuya has never experienced before. Giving back all the gifts he was given,
digging out all his things out of Dazai’s closet. Taking everything that is his out of the place
he had started to consider home.
Dazai's eyes drop to the collar lying on the floor between them, and his expression starts to
crack. His eyes flare with something like pain, and his eyebrows furrow.

"I'll drive you," he says, moving like he's going to shove off the wall—

"No!" Chuuya nearly shouts, because he can't handle that. He can't hold himself together for
that long, and he doesn't want Dazai to watch as he breaks apart agonizingly at the seams.
Their relationship started with a ride home, and the idea of ending it with one is too much.
"No, I'll call my sister and have her pick me up."

Dazai hesitates at that, and looks like he wants to argue—

But he can't. So eventually he nods, and his eyes feel like a searing burn on his back as
Chuuya turns around and stumbles out of the bedroom.

Navigating the stairs is hard when he's nearly blind with tears and he's starting to feel
lightheaded, but he manages it without falling. And just when Chuuya thought it couldn't get
worse—

Yoko is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, her ears flattened with anxiety and her
head tilting back and forth curiously. She whines at him as he comes closer, tail thumping
hesitantly on the ground.

Oh, god, Yoko. He's never going to see her again. Maybe once when he comes to get his stuff,
but this is goodbye. Forever.

He practically falls to his knees beside her, flinging his arms around her neck and burying his
face into her fur. She's more subdued than she usually is, leaning into him solidly as he
smothers a heartbroken sob into her neck.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out again, even though he knows she doesn't really understand what's
going on. All she knows is that there's something wrong and that he's upset.
That's the worst part, because Chuuya can't tell her he's not coming back. She'll always be
looking out for him and so sad when he doesn't come back for her. She’ll always be waiting
for him to come home again.

"I love you, baby girl, I promise. Okay? I'm sorry. You just— you just be a good girl, and I'll
miss you forever," he whispers into her fur, rising up to give her a wet kiss on the nose. She
licks him back, whining slightly.

After that, he has to go, because he's nearing the breaking point, and if he holds Yoko any
longer, he's not going to be able to let go. Baki is nowhere to be seen, thankfully, —he runs
when voices get too loud, so he's probably hiding somewhere— because Chuuya can not
handle that.

He stumbles out the front door, shutting it behind him for the last time. His phone is in his
back pocket, and he wrestles it out of his jeans as he staggers down the driveway. He's not
thinking anything, he's just thinking he needs to get away, he needs to go home, he needs to
find home because he doesn't have one anymore, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

It takes three tries for him to unlock his phone. Partly because of the way the sun is shining
on the screen, so he makes his way to the bit of shade between the two houses, partly because
his vision is blurry with tears, partly because his fingers are shaking.

It's been a while since he's talked to Kouyou, so he has to go to his contacts page and scroll
—

"Chuuya?"

Startled, Chuuya looks up. There, in the shadows of the alleyway, is someone he knows.

"Oh," he mutters, frantically trying to get a hold of himself and not wondering why he would
be here, outside like this, at this time. "Sorry, I didn't see you there—.”
"I'm sorry, Chuuya."

A painful slam against the back of his head, and Chuuya's world goes blissfully, utterly silent.
Darkness.
 Waterworks
Chapter Summary

Dazai is a firm believer in the idea that anything he could ever want will inevitably be
lost. Not only because life has been a cruel mistress to him and taken much more from
him than she's ever given, leaving him hollow and riddled with teeth-sharp holes—

But also because Dazai is a master of fulfilling his own prophecies.

Chapter Notes

happy saturday everyone!! >:D I hope everyone is having a good week <3 Please take
care with this chapter as well as the next few chapters, as it will feature violence and
angst! Nothing too explicit, but it is a definite overarching theme, so if that makes you
uncomfortable please take care of yourself! :D I will let everyone know when this arc is
over, but it won't be for a few chapters yet! :D I hope you all enjoy and I'll see you next
week with another update <3

Dazai is a firm believer in the idea that anything he could ever want will inevitably be lost.
Not only because life has been a cruel mistress to him and taken much more from him than
she's ever given, leaving him hollow and riddled with teeth-sharp holes—

But also because Dazai is a master of fulfilling his own prophecies. It's like a sick cycle,
because whatever he anticipates, somehow, inevitably, comes to pass and—

He just wants to stop hurting all the time. He's done good, he's been good for a long time, and
he's done the best he can with what he has and—

It's not fair that he always ends up cradling the empty, cavernous, wrathful hole in his chest,
where his heart would be if he were ever allowed to have one. It’s not fair that he always ends
up here, back to a wall, spiraling and wishing everything would just stop.
He's halfway between here and nowhere, feeling horribly disconnected from himself in a way
that fills him with sick-numbness. Everything feels so distant and visceral at the same time, a
confusing mix. Everything he's feeling is like a tidal wave of anesthesia in his lungs,
numbing him out and drowning him in equal measures.

It's been a long time since he's felt anything like this, instinct-driven and defensive, so long
he almost doesn't know how to find his way back. He knows he'll come back down
eventually, but he doesn't like it. He wants to be okay now .

It's the collar that brings him back, eventually. He can't look away from it, lying limp and
discarded on the wooden floor. It—

It shouldn't be like that. It should be taken care of, should be treasured, because it's a symbol
of their bond, and it should never be thrown away so carelessly.

But the true thing to bring him back isn't the sight of the collar, as heartbreaking as it is.

It's Baki.

It’s mid-afternoon now, just around the time where Chuuya usually settles down for his mid-
day nap. It’s not scheduled or anything, but it usually works out that shortly after lunch
Chuuya will hit a wall and will need a nap to recharge.

For Baki, that means it’s prime cuddle time. Mostly because Dazai doesn’t dare to interrupt
it.

They’ve been in a silent rivalship ever since Baki moved in, a tug-of-war of dominance to see
who gets more of Chuuya. Baki insists that because he’s a cute cat, that means he gets all the
cuddle time, the best spots and all the attention.

Meanwhile, Dazai insists that he gets the most attention because he was here first and it’s his
house, his bed and his baby—
Not his baby anymore. The thought splinters through him agonizingly.

Anyways, mid-day nap is Baki time, and he’s come looking for Chuuya. He can tell because
the first thing the cat does is hop on the bed and look vaguely offended that Chuuya isn’t
already there waiting for him.

After a second of sniffing the blankets, he jumps back off the bed and heads into the closet,
his questioning meow echoing from inside. A pause, and then a louder meow, like he’s
calling out for Chuuya and wondering why he won’t answer him.

The next place he checks is the bathroom, and the meows are getting more frequent. Louder,
with a hint of distress. When he pads out again, his tail is drooping low, a far cry from it’s
usually waving in the air smugly.

This time he comes up to Dazai, rubbing against his shin and arching his back. His mew is
softer, trailing off sadly, questioning.

That’s what breaks Dazai. Because it’s not him that Baki wants.

It’s Chuuya. He knows that Dazai always brings him up here. Sometimes Chuuya will fall
asleep on the couch or in Dazai’s lap, and Dazai will have to bring him up to the bed so he
can sleep well.

Baki knows that. He’s not asking for affection from Dazai, he’s asking him to bring Chuuya.
And that—

The realization of the fact that this was Chuuya’s home , and all of the pets know and love
him, and they don’t understand why he’s not here—

That’s what breaks him.

His knees buckle first, his back crashing into the wall and sliding down as his body gives in.
His ass hits the floor hard, sending a shockwave of pain through him that feels insignificant
compared to the pain in his chest.

“He’s—,” he sounds remarkably calm at first, but it’s only for a short moment, before
everything catches up to him. “He’s not here, Baki.”

The cat peers up at him, not comprehending. He meows again, arching his back and flicking
his tail invitingly.

That’s the last straw.

“Fuck!” Dazai chokes out, slamming the back of his head into the wall as the tears finally
come.

He’s a silent crier. A long ago defense mechanism that was drilled into him, the idea that
calling attention to himself or any weakness of his own would end in pain. It takes a lot for
him to cry, too, emotional response deadened by trauma after trauma—

But when he does cry, it pours. His cheeks are drenched in seconds, salt-water dripping from
his chin onto his arms.

He lurches forward, snatching up Baki and the discarded collar in each hand. Baki lets out a
surprised, shocked meow, but doesn't fight when he drags him into his chest to wrap him up
in his arms.

The cat tolerates it, limp in his grip and not fighting but not loving it either. Dazai buries his
face into his fur, clinging onto one of the last pieces of Chuuya he has left. The collar in his
other hand feels heavier than it ever has, nearly burning.
"I fucked up, Baki," he chokes out, grief tearing through him like a riptide. Regret is hot on
it's heels, filling every tear and scar inside of him.

What Chuuya did— going behind his back and believing Fyodor over him, even though
Dazai has never done anything to deliberately hurt him— was such a terrible thing to come
back to. Something so unexpected that he didn't know to prepare for it, so when Chuuya
asked, it—

It's like the words tore straight into the deepest, darkest parts of his mind. The parts he doesn't
think about, the emotions he doesn't let himself feel anymore, the things he put to sleep years
ago—

And woke them with a vengeance, starting a self-ravaging that leaves him breathless.

Dazai is his own victim, just as much as he is anyone else's. There's a unique pain in tearing
yourself apart from the inside out, the horror that lurks inside your bones and calls itself by
your name.

He—

He just wanted to give him candy and tell him that he was trying to get a regular stock of it so
he wouldn't have to go months without it anymore.

It was like being attacked without warning or reason and—

Dazai fought back. When his back was against the wall, feeling like he had nowhere to go, he
did exactly what he said he would never do:

He hurt Chuuya. In ways he shouldn't have, in ways he didn't deserve because—

Because he said he loved him. It wasn't the right time, it wasn't on purpose, but he could see
it there, swimming in Chuuya's eyes. Could see it building in him ever since Osaka, soft
warmth building in summer-blue eyes, like a cloud drifting on the sunrise. Dazai's personal
little addiction, something he wanted to cup in his hands to keep it safe, breathe it in like air.

He knew it was there. He wanted it to be there.

And he threw it away. Took Chuuya's confession— his first confession, ever— and told him
it meant nothing. Threw it to the ground like the collar had been thrown, crushing it
underfoot.

It broke him. He could see it, see the way that the trust Dazai had so carefully cultivated and
encouraged after he was treated badly by Shuuji start to shatter.

Worse than that, Chuuya needs him. He's sick right now, not even twenty days out from a
serious medical condition. It may not seem serious because he managed to avoid something
like surgery or an extended hospital stay but it is serious. He's supposed to be on mostly bed
rest for another four weeks.

Dazai promised to always be there for him. Promised to trust him and support him, and keep
him safe and happy and warm and loved and—

And he didn't. As soon as things had taken even a slight turn for the worse, he'd defaulted
straight into the mindset he'd worked so hard to overcome:

Hurt them before they can hurt you.

He's not stupid, either, he knows that the reason went looking for answers is because Dazai
wouldn't give him any. He was avoiding it, because he was petrified that Chuuya would—

That he would leave and never come back, and Dazai would be alone again. He doesn't want
to be alone anymore. He's gotten used to the sound and comfort of someone else being here.
Sleeping in his bed with him, eating meals with him, being in the house while Dazai was
paying attention to something else upstairs.

He got used to not being alone anymore. He doesn't want to go back there, to the coldness of
an empty house. Or the discomfort of a house with Shuuji in it, that silent tension of dislike
and irritation infecting the whole house.

He was scared to tell Chuuya because—

Because of exactly what happened today. Miscommunication, mistranslation, the rearing of

the ugly head of Dazai's trauma and defensive responses, hurting each other, crying.

He never wanted to make Chuuya cry like that.

And it's just—

God it's just so much, in every way he looks at it, missteps and mistakes made by both of
them. So much that he's smothering a fresh flood of tears into Baki's fur, breath trembling.

How did it all go so wrong so quickly? How is it even possible that Dazai was happy and
excited barely an hour and a half ago, and now he feels like he's going to drown in his own
grief and misery?

It's not fair . None of this is fair. Chuuya wasn't fair to him, Dazai wasn't fair to Chuuya, it's
just an entire fucking mess that ended up hurting them both.

He rubs his thumb over the metal of the heart in the collar, aching. How are either of them
going to fix this? How are they going to be able to move past this?

Is there a way to move past this, or is this just it, everything good they had going up in flames
in the span of an hour?
The beeping of Dazai's phone in his back pocket startles him, making him flinch in surprise.

Baki takes that moment to escape his hold, wiggling out of his arms and relocating to a spot a
few yards away to give his ruffled fur a few quick, offended licks to smooth it back down.

The beeping on his phone is for a reminder to give Chuuya his mid-day dose of pain meds, so
he doesn't get a headache later.

His meds. He didn't take them with. He went to his sister's house without his meds. The
pharmacist said that a single missed dose was alright, but don't double up on doses and don't
take them within twelve hours of each other.

If Chuuya doesn't come back tonight, he's going to miss two doses. And if he doesn't come
back before early tomorrow morning—

That's three doses. When he's only fifteen days out of the hospital, where his brain swelled so
much he seized.

Is he going to have another seizure if he doesn't take his meds? Probably. It makes sense. The
whole reason he’s taking them is so he doesn’t have any more seizures or symptoms.

Panic floods through Dazai so quickly that he barely thinks before he’s calling Chuuya’s
number and bringing his phone to his ear. It’s okay if he’s angry or upset or he doesn’t want
to see or talk to Dazai again—

But he has to come get his meds. Or let Dazai drop them off. He can’t be hurt because
Dazai’s such a fuck-up that healthy communication is basically impossible for him.

The call goes straight to voicemail. Maybe he’s so angry and hurt he turned his phone off?
“Baby—,” he gets most of the way through the word before he remembers he may not be
able to call him that anymore, “— Chuuya, I—,” he really hopes that the fact that he’s
obviously been crying makes it clear that he regrets what happened, because it’s not often
that words fail him, but he has no idea what to say right now. “I know you’re hurt and you
might not want to talk to me and— that’s okay, I just— I didn’t mean it, okay?”

It feels so hypocritical to use the same excuse Chuuya did, and hopes that he believes him.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you, I was just upset, and hurt and surprised and— I’m
sorry , so just... at least come back for your meds, it’s only five hours until your next dose.
You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, and that’s okay, but just... come get your
meds please, you need them.”

The silence of the voicemail box is oppressive. Eventually, he has no choice but to hang up
and hope.

Silent treatment has never really been Chuuya’s chosen mode of arguments— he prefers
yelling, which Dazai both loves and hates. Communication, even angry communication is
nice, but the yelling itself makes Dazai’s stomach squirm unpleasantly— so the fact that he
didn’t answer is...

Surprising. Not unwarranted, because he wouldn’t want to talk to someone like himself either
right now, but still unusual.

He balances his phone on his knee, turning the notification noise all the way in case Chuuya
decides to call. Or text.

Please call or text , he thinks desperately.

In the meantime, he just sits on the floor, feeling too weak to pull himself up to his feet,
turning the collar over and over in his hands. They’ve had a few discussions about what a
collar meant to them both and while they weren’t in a BDSM relationship with clear
contracts, rules and boundaries—
The collar was supposed to be a symbol of care and commitment. Something that both of
them wanted, a sign that Chuuya was wanted and Dazai would take care of him. But instead
of doing that, he’d been keeping secrets that could’ve put Chuuya in danger.

That’s when another thing occurs to him.

Fyodor.

He doesn’t exactly have a reason to be interested in Chuuya, because the business between
him and Dazai has been generally consistent and relatively peaceful. Granted, he’s been
avoiding Fyodor for the last few weeks, but it’s not like the man doesn’t have his own
information channels.

Dazai’s been avoiding the Mafia too, truthfully, and has deliberately not returned Oda’s calls.

It only took a few weeks with Chuya to realize how tired he was with this whole charade.
Tired of playing unofficial king to the Mafia, tired of playing nice with the Rats, tired of
threatening and scheming and everything.

He didn’t want to do this anymore. He just wanted to be happy and okay , and every time he
made another business deal or hunted down another scrap of information, he just—

It felt hollow. Draining. Finding the ghost of who he used to be in the Mafia, and wearing it
like a second skin. A mask that was sticky and horrible and didn’t want to come off.

Obviously Fyodor had shown some interest in him, because there was no reason for him to be
on campus at all, let alone when Chuuya and Dazai were there, and the phone call—

Which means Chuuya is in danger.

He calls again, anxiety pulsing as the dial tone starts up. It clicks immediately, and he sits up
straighter, hope flaring as Chuuya’s voice starts to filter through the speaker—

“Hey, it’s Chuuya! You missed me, so leave a message and I’ll call you back if it’s
important!”

Oh. It’s just the voicemail again.

Fuck.

Okay, he’ll just—

He’ll give him an hour to calm down and cool off. He said he was going to his sisters and he
has no evidence that Fyodor is even going to make a move on Chuuya. That fucker would
probably just be happy reminding Dazai that he’s not allowed to have anything for himself.
He’s always been a little twisted like that, reveling in the pain and despair of others.

He’s probably safe. Yoko and Kozo would be freaking out if they sensed anyone they didn’t
know, and they’re pretty quiet downstairs. A quiet whine or two, sometimes, because they’re
not used to yelling, but nothing alarming.

Even Baki, while clearly annoyed, has retreated to his favorite spot on the bed—Chuuya’s
pillow— and is serenely grooming himself.

Still, Dazai can't get over the feeling that something is wrong. It's a restless feeling, like
electricity pooling in his stomach, driving him up to his feet and making him start to pace
back and forth.

He wishes he had Chuuya's sisters phone number. Or even just a name because he's only
spoken of her using 'ane-san'. Or Kyouka-chan, for the middle sister, but she still lives at his
fathers house, so that's not where he's going.
He could look her up with the background check he ran on Chuuya so long ago but he'll need
to double-check to make sure that it’s her and how to get in contact with her...

Or he could check on the tracker he installed in Chuuya's phone.

It's such a violation of privacy that he's avoided using it at all possible, and only glances at
the map when he's feeling the separation anxiety pretty hard. He tries to avoid using it
whenever possible, and since they've been practically living together for the past two weeks,
it hasn't been used much.

He—

He just needs to check to see if he's okay. If he's at his sister's house. If he knows where he is,
then he can calm down a little bit. It's been almost an hour, and Chuuya still hasn't answered,
so—

He needs to know. He has to know where he is..

Opening his phone again, he hovers over Chuuya's contact before exiting out of the
messaging app. The tracking app he uses is one specifically designed and coded for him by
Rokuzou. It's nameless, but it has a skin that makes it look like one of the food delivery apps.
Almost unnoticeable unless you know what you're looking for.

He opens it, puts in Chuuya's contact number and waits for the map to load.

And waits.

It takes longer than it usually does, longer than it feels like it should, and every second the
loading image chases itself across the screen in endless circles, his anxiety ratchets higher
and higher.
He wouldn't say he's normally a high-strung person, but now it feels like every second takes a
year, heart thundering in his chest—

LOCATION FOUND.

Letting out a relieved breath, he clicks on the map. He's hoping for a building with a street
address that he can cross-reference with the owner to confirm Chuuya’s safety—

It's not.

It's outside. Not outside in the city somewhere or even down the street a little bit, it's right
outside. Like Chuuya hasn't even left the house, he's just sitting outside on the steps.

Why wouldn't he answer the phone if he was so close? Dazai made sure it was charged before
he left for the grocery store, so there's no reason for it to be turned off. And if he was waiting
for his sister to pick him up, it wouldn't make sense for his phone to be turned off either.

He could just be rejecting his calls, but...

Something is wrong. Something has to be wrong.

Baki startles when he bolts out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time and skipping the
bottom half entirely with a massive leap.

He lands heavily, making Yoko and Kozo jerk to attention, but he ignores them both as he
makes for the door. Kozo falls naturally into step at his side, ears alert and tail stiff. He's the
first one out of the door when Dazai opens it, inspecting the steps of the front entrance.
Dazai is half-expecting to find Chuuya on his doorstep, or Fyodor with Chuuya, but he's not
expecting to find nothing . The yard is empty and the street is quiet. There's nobody here, not
that he can see.

But then...where is Chuuya's phone?

Ignoring the instincts that are starting to scream in his head, Dazai pulls up the map again,
forcing it to refresh and zooming in as far as he can.

It's... right here. Right where he’s standing.

It has to be a glitch, right? Chuuya turned his phone off while he was still here and the tracker
just hasn't updated.

It's like a desperate mantra in his head, using any and every excuse to believe that everything
is okay and normal, telling himself over and over again that there isn't a reason to worry, that
he's just overreacting and there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything that's
happened that isn't the fact that Chuuya has gotten hurt—

The pink collar, loosely wrapped twice around his wrist, feels like a hangman's noose made
specifically for him.

Kozo trots down the steps, nose to the ground and snuffling. He's always had a better nose
out of the two dogs, and Dazai follows in his path, casting his eyes over the ground for any
sort of clue.

The silence is oppressive, pressing on his ears until it feels like he's underwater. Drowning.

Kozo leads him off the yard entirely, toward the little alleyway between his house and the
neighbors. He chose this house specifically for that tiny alleyway, because it winds a cramped
path between the houses on this street and the one behind it. It empties out on the next street
over, a street that directly connects to one of the several ways to climb down from the
residential area back into the city. Dazai chose it because it's an escape route if he needed it
and now—

Now it's been used against him.

There, on the ground, looking like it's been stomped on several times, is Chuuya's phone.

And this—

This is the moment where Dazai's heart feels like it just stops. Freezes in his chest, going
numb with despair and realization.

(He's always been more effective when he's cold.)

His only thought is no. This can't be real, this can't be happening. This is a nightmare. This is
all just a nightmare, a fucked up dream concocted by his equally messed up brain to remind
him that nothing is permanent. Nothing and no one is safe.

His hands tremble as he reaches down to pick it up off the ground. Kozo sniffs around the
spot.

The screen is completely smashed, like someone stomped on it with their heel. The back of it
is all scratched up from being ground into the gravel, and when he presses the power button
on the side, half the screen is completely black. The other half is a mess of glitches and color
mistakes.

Chuuya's lock screen background was a picture of them in Osaka. A selfie of them in bed,
when Dazai was too drowsy to protest a picture being taken of him. Chuuya had been curled
up against his side, one arm thrown over his chest. His head had been tucked under Dazai's
chin, a warm grin on his face and his eyes practically glowing with affection.
Dazai himself had been mostly asleep still, bedhead wild. The only sign he's awake at all is
that he has one eye just barely cracked open, a lazy and indulgent smile on his face.

It was, anyway. Now the screen is completely and utterly broken, and the only thing that can
be seen is a sliver of the blanket bunched up at their sides. A hint of Dazai’s smile, half-
formed, broken and twisted.

This was not a mistake. This was not an accident. Chuuya’s phone wouldn’t get this damaged
by accident, and he wouldn’t have left without it.

This was purposeful. His phone was broken so he couldn’t use it anymore.

Kozo makes a noise then, something between a low growl and a snuffle. The noise makes
Dazai look up, anxiety rising like the tide.

Kozo is a few feet away, nose to the ground. Dazai paces over, hoping he’s found something
interesting. A clue, something Dazai can use.

It takes him a few moments to find it in the darkness of the alleyway. It’s so easy to miss.

Blood. Tiny drops of it in a small patch, looking almost fresh. Not wet anymore but still new.

No, no, no.

His blood turns cold, aching in his veins, ice-water and numbing grief, hard to breathe.

Chuuya’s gone. He’s been taken.

The first thing that Chuuya registers is that his head aches . Pulsing agony centered in the
back of his head that radiates down his neck and through the rest of his head. He can feel
every beat of his heart, blood pulsing painfully in his head.

That’s what starts to bring him up out of unconsciousness.

His second realization is how fucking cold it is. An insidious type of cold, one that seeps into
his bones to freeze him from the inside out. Like he’s never seen the touch of sun before, all
the warmth he’s ever known faded away.

It’s also wet. A disgusting, lingering damp kind of wet, like he's in a place that has never
been truly dry. It layers grossly over his skin, making his clothes stick to him and adding
another facet to the aching cold.

He opens his eyes, groaning lightly at the rhythmic pulse of pain through his temples and—

Darkness. Uninterrupted, pure darkness, like it's pitch black in here without any light to speak
of.

Why can't he see? He can't see anything at all, even though his eyes are open. He blinks
frantically, hoping to clear up whatever is blocking his vision—

But it doesn't go away. It doesn't clear up. He can't see.

Panic flashes through him, white-hot and incoherent, and a whimper slides out of his throat.
He struggles briefly, trying to bring his hands up to check what's wrong with his eyes—

His hands are tied. He can feel the rope digging into his wrists, harsh and burning. His fingers
have long since gone numb.
It... feels like he’s in a chair? Upright but slumped forward, shoulders burning from the strain
of supporting his body weight when his arms are secured behind him.

What the fuck happened? Where the hell is he?

The last thing he remembers is fighting with Dazai— a pang of remembered pain shocks
through his chest at the reminder— and then going outside to call Kouyou to come pick him
up and then—

Nikolai. With a remorseful look on his face as he—

As he fucking knocked him out with the butt of a gun.

And he’s not stupid, no one knocks him out and ties him to a chair to throw him a surprise
party. In fact, this is pretty much exactly what happens in those movies about the Yakuza or
anything remotely gang-related. A kidnapping. A hostage situation.

A hoarse, exhausted chuckle escapes him.

It’s not funny. It’s really not funny, he knows that, it’s just so fucking absurd hat he can’t help
snickering at the ridiculousness of it all.

He’s only eighteen. Barely six months living away from home. He’s had a boyfriend, found
out he was attracted to dads, has a daddy kink, nearly got run over by a car, went to the
hospital, dropped out of college, broke up with his boyfriend—

And now he’s here. Probably kidnapped. A hostage.

It’s just so goddamn ridiculous. If you had told Chuuya he’d end up like this, he’d ask what
movie plot you were describing.
Okay, so maybe it’s a little funny. Maybe it’s the brain damage— or maybe the extra brain
damage on top of his other brain damage— but it is kind of funny.

He really cannot catch a single break, can he? It’s just like being strapped into a rollercoaster,
and every time he comes back into the station thinking it’s over, someone tightens the
seatbelts and sends him, screaming, onto an even worse part of the ride with a kiss goodbye.
It never ends, and it somehow always manages to get worse.

“Ah, you are awake. That is good.”

Chuuya jerks, head whipping up so quickly his mind swims. He didn’t know there was
anyone in the room with him until they said something.

There is something uniquely, primally terrifying about having one of your senses taken away
from you. You never realize how much you rely on things like sight and hearing and touch,
taste, smell until it’s taken away from you. Leaving you helpless and disoriented, struggling
to adjust to a world you didn’t know before.

It’s a throwback to ancient times, before humans had dominated the planet and changed the
face of it to suit their needs. A time when the sun going down meant danger, it meant you
couldn’t see , it meant all the things that could and would kill you came out to play.

Unseen sharks in the water. Silent hunting cats creeping through the underbrush, a quick
glimpse of hellish, glowing eyes in the darkness. Tiny, unseen spiders finding your foot and
crawling up, up, up—

Someone in the room with Chuuya, who he does not know or recognize. Someone he can’t
see or hear, no matter how hard he strains his ears.

As he moves, the bag over his head shifts. The darkness doesn’t let up, but at least there’s a
reason he can’t see. It’s a small relief, nearly worthless with everything else that is
happening, but a relief nonetheless.
(He couldn’t help but remember that conversation with Gide about brain damage. Instead of
being the guy who forgot his own husband, maybe Chuuya would be the guy who lost his

vision.

Wouldn’t that be fan-fucking-tastic?)

Chuuya licks his lips nervously, panic spiking in his chest. “Who are you? Where am I?”

This time, when the voice comes, it sounds from behind him, making him flinch in surprise.
He didn’t hear the person move at all, didn’t even feel so much as the shift of air currents, but
now the person is behind him.

“You’re six feet underground, boy,” the person sneers. Their Japanese is stilted, and their
accent is heavy and vaguely familiar. Not a native speaker. “Death’s number. You’re in your
own grave.”

Chuuya takes it back. This isn’t funny at all. Not even a little bit.

He opens his mouth to ask again who this person—a girl by the sounds of it, but with a rough
and low voice— is, but he’s cut off when a hand finds his head and pushes it forward.

It’s playful, more than hurting, like a cat batting around a captured bird with it’s paws, claws
sheathed. A game for the predator, but lethal for the prey.

Chuuya’s chair wobbles, two legs coming up off the ground briefly. It’s unstable, on uneven
ground, and he holds his breath in preparation for the fall, arms straining in an instinctive bid
to catch himself—

The hand that pushed him changes it's grip, latching onto his hair through the bag and
dragging him back onto stable ground. He winces as the hair over the bump on the back of
his head is tugged harshly. It burns.

"That was your only question. I will ask them now," the girl says to him, tapping long claw-
like nails over his head.

Then she's gone, like she was never touching him at all, disappearing into the darkness of
wherever Chuuya is right now. His breathing is oppressively loud in the bag, humidity
sticking to his face.

"You are Nakahara Chuuya, yes?" This time, the voice is slightly to his right, farther off. It
echoes oddly off the walls, sounding strangely hollow. Like.. concrete, maybe? An empty
room, with only them in it.

Now, Chuuya has a major flaw: when he gets frightened, he doesn't turn into a crying mess,
or starts to beg, or goes silent. Not any of those things, not anything most people would
consider a normal response.

No, when he gets scared, he gets mad. And when he's mad, he gets mouthy.

"Sure am," he says, offering a carefree shrug like his heart isn't pounding in his chest like a
drumbeat calling for war. "What should I call you? I feel like we should be a first-name basis
for whatever is about to happen."

"You know Dazai Osamu." From the left again, accompanied by the ever-so-slight tinkle of
something small and metal.

It's not so much a question as a statement of fact, but it makes Chuuya's stomach sink.

Oh. That's what this is about. He's being questioned— maybe tortured , his brain is quick to
remind him— for information on Dazai. This isn't about him at all. He didn't do anything
wrong at all, except for the crime of being involved with Dazai.
His silence is apparently answer enough, because there's a loud, screeching noise in the next
moment, like something being dragged over concrete.

This time, next to his ear, a whisper as cold as the northern winds: "You will tell me about
him. Everything you know."

But Chuuya doesn't know anything about him, not really. The last few hours— even longer?
He doesn't know what time it is or even what day it is anymore— have shown him that.
Dazai's fed him nothing but lies of omission, and even if Chuuya was wrong about the way
he went about getting answers— he realizes that and can admit it— that doesn't mean that
Dazai did right by him either.

And now he's paying the price for it. Because he highly doubts that he can tell this girl that he
doesn't know anything and she'll just believe him and let him go. He's pretty sure saying that
will just piss her off, actually, and get him into deeper shit.

"Uh, sure," he says, stalling a little bit, hoping his mind comes up with anything useful for
him right now, "His favorite color is green, and he really likes those shitty medical dramas on
TV. He usually sleeps from like 4a.m to 9 in the morning, and he has two dogs. He also likes
being called Daddy if that helps you out— ow!"

The bag deadens the blow when he's smacked across the face, but it still stings slightly. Not
as much as he expects it to hurt, but enough to startle him. Enough to have him quieting
down.

"Where is the USB he has on the Rats? Where does he keep his blackmail?"

This time there's a slosh of water next to the chair, and he's starting to get a really, really bad
feeling about this. "I," his voice quavers in the middle of his sentence, and he has to bring it
back under control. "I don't know, I don't even know who the Rats are."
It's the truth, he swears, he doesn't know anything. How does he make her believe that? What
can he say to make it clear that he isn’t the one they want, that this is all just a horrible
mistake and he can’t give them what they want?

"I believe you," is his answer, and for a moment, hope soars—

"But unfortunately, that is not enough for me. You know where he keeps his information, his
papers. You know more than you think, and you will tell me. Where is his office?"

This time, it's not stupidity or stubbornness that keeps his mouth shut. It's loyalty. Blind
loyalty that urges him to keep Dazai's secrets, despite the fact that he's in a very bad situation.
Loyalty that urges him to protect Dazai, at any cost.

He's only allowed a minute of silence, before a hand is knotting in his hair over the bag and
yanking his head back. He yelps, neck twinging at the sudden movement. His face is turned
up now, the back of his neck pinned against the metal of the chair.

"Being stubborn will not help you. Cooperate and I will go easy on you. I will ask you again.
Where does Dazai Osamu keep his information?"

He presses his lips together, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn't know, not for sure, though he
thinks they might just be talking about Dazai's office, which is in his house. It's a room that's
always locked unless he's in it, and the only ones to see into it have been Chuuya and Shuuji,
but maybe that’s not it, maybe there’s something else—

There's a pleased hum beside his ear, like the girl is happy that he's being silent. "You are
stubborn. I like that. But I will break you of it, because I've—” Another slosh of water, closer,
louder, and he whimpers automatically. "I've come for you, Nakahara Chuuya."

Water pours down on his face.

 House Calls
Chapter Summary

It's not out of a sense of politeness or consideration that Nika has come out to the
balcony— she likes the cold. Prefers it, really, the way it turns everything sharp and
clear, the way it sinks into her bones and brings her to life.

She gets it from her father, among other things.

Chapter Notes

A shorter this chapter this week, but it introduces a hot crazy woman so i think it's
extremely important :) I hope you enjoy, and I'll see you next week!! :D Next week's
chapter is very funny and very Dramatic >:)

THREE DAYS AGO, MOSCOW, RUSSIA.

It is a cold year in Russia. Summer has been bleak and mild, and winter…

Winter has come early this year. It brings with it a bone-deep chill, an icy touch that deepens
when the sun goes down.

The Moscow skyline is a beautiful sight at night, the glow of the city lights dulled through a
layer of frozen fog that hangs still in the air. Heat rises in the city, before it's trapped
underneath the icy grips of the sky. It lingers, wreathing the city in clouds of smoke and fog.

Taking a long drag of her cigarette, Nika adds to that fog, blowing out a stream of smoke that
curls and folds in on itself before floating away. It's too windy and cold to blow O's, but she
thinks the trails of smoke look almost like snakes or dragons' tails, which is almost better.
It's late. Half the city is sleeping, and the other half— the half that dabbles in things best left
unseen in the icy cover of darkness, the half that she commands— is awake.

She's awake, waiting for the reports to come flooding back in. Resting recklessly on the ledge
of the balcony, one leg hanging over the three-story drop, smoking a cigarette as she waits.

Inside, there's the faint noise of someone peacefully in her bed. A girl that Nika had taken
home a few hours earlier, to fuck and then send on her way. The fresh scratches on her back
and shoulders are still painful, but the brisk air cools the sting.

It's not out of a sense of politeness or consideration that Nika has come out to the balcony—
she likes the cold. Prefers it, really, the way it turns everything sharp and clear, the way it
sinks into her bones and brings her to life.

She gets it from her father, among other things.

While she waits, she idly tries to match up the skyline tattooed on her foot to the skyline in
front of her. It's not a perfect match, but it's a fun, silly game, and a reminder of where she
comes from. The city that bred and raised and honed her skills to a lethal point, inked on her
skin so she can never forget where she came from. Who she is. Who’s daughter she is.

She's expecting the phone call that comes in, screen lighting up the dark balcony with an
electronic blue glow.

She is not expecting who the caller is. Her father isn't supposed to check in on her progress
for another four days, and it is dreadfully late in Japan. Or early, depending on your view.
The sun must be rising there, ending another night of work.

She clicks accept, bringing the phone to her ear. "Hello, papa," she greets, swinging her leg in
the open air. She's not sure what kind of call this is, so it's best to be respectful, at least in the
beginning.
Her father is not a man that is to be disrespected, and the only man Nika would ever submit
or bow to. The only man who deserves power, and has earned it, in her opinion. The only
man worth listening to. The only one worth following.

"Hello, kroshka," her father responds warmly, affection clear and obvious in his tone. There's
a faint twinge of an accent there, even though they are speaking their native language, a mark
of him being too far from home for too long. "I trust you are doing well?"

Her father has never been an overtly kind man, so she soaks up every ounce of affection like
it's vodka in the wintertime.

"Da," she responds, sitting up straighter on the ledge. She wobbles slightly, rights herself
quickly by placing her fingertips down for a moment. "My assistant has been sending you
email updates. Have you seen them?"

Really, her assistant is a lifesaver. Nika has no time or patience for technology or writing
reports. Keeping communication between Russia and Japan is a lengthy process, and her time
is better spent overseeing this section of the Bratva.

Her father entrusted it to her, and she will not fail.

"I have, but that's not what I'm calling about." There's an edge in his tone, something like
excitement. "I have need of your services."

Oh? Her services— namely assassination and torture as well as strategy— aren't usually
useful to her father in particular. He trained her himself— the only one to be trained by him,
his heir and the only one to pick up the family secrets— and he's notoriously self-reliant.
There is rarely something she can provide that he cannot accomplish himself alone.

So for him to call on her, it must be a special occasion. Or something he personally doesn't
want to get his hands dirty with.
Twisting to the side, she hops off the ledge of the balcony. The tile is freezing cold under her
feet, but her mind is focused and alert. "What can I help you with, papochka?"

There's a pleased hum on the other side of the phone, the sound of ice clinking in a glass. Her
father always drank before bed, to keep his sleep dreamless.

She’s picked up the habit from him.

“You remember what I told you about Dazai Osamu?”

Her lip automatically curls at the mention of his name. Yes, she knows all about the Demon
Prodigy.

An intelligent man, manipulative and cunning. A bloody one, someone who bathed
Yokohama in blood ever since he was younger than she is now. Elusive, well-trained, always
knee-deep in the flow of information running through the underground.

A man that has been causing her family trouble for decades. First by driving out a fledgling
Bratva outpost in Yokohama when he was younger and now...

Causing havoc for the operation her father has worked so hard to develop in the last year.

The exact type of man she loathes, because all of the blood he’s shed and the pain he causes
isn’t for a purpose. It isn’t for a reason , or justifiable even by the most twisted of moral
compasses.

He’s the kind of man who proves himself superior by crushing anyone who might oppose
him, and then lords over their corpses like a skeleton king. A man who proves himself better,
smarter, faster, stronger, by tearing people apart.

A man exactly like the man who killed her mother.

“Yes,” she mutters, padding back inside the room. “Is he causing you trouble again?”

Her clothes are scattered across the room, discarded hastily in the heat of lust. She’s pretty
sure her panties are half-kicked underneath the bed, but they’re also soaked and useless, so
she heads for her leather pants near the doorway.

“Actually, he’s given us an opportunity,” her father says, sly smile evident in his voice. “It’s
come to my attention that he’s...romantically involved with the younger brother of the boss of
the Port Mafia.

She pauses in tugging up her pants, phone held between her shoulder and ear.

Kouyou Ozaki, boss of the Port Mafia. Low-born, with no known connections to the Mafia.
She joined young, and climbed quickly, taking the throne from anyone else who may have
wanted it.

Now, that is a woman Nika can respect and admire. Fearsome, deadly, strong, independent,
beautiful . Ruling with a manicured iron fist and doing so with lethal effectiveness.

And also very secretive. Most information about her has been wiped clean, and it’s only been
after months of digging that they found out that she had a family at all. A sister, a brother and
a father. Names, ages, locations unknown.

At least until now.

“How do you know you found the brother?” She asks, pulling her pants up the rest of the way
and zipping them up. They cling tightly to her skin, and it takes a few wiggles of her hips for
them to settle comfortably against her hips.
“I found a hacker who was desperate for any information on the Azure King. The best one in
the country, and willing to do anything to get the information I had. He confirmed it for me.”

She smiles. Her father has always been resourceful and cunning. Using everything to his
advantage to turn the tides.

Her shirt and corset are laying on the floor near the balcony. It’s lucky she chose the one with
the hooks, instead of her laced ones. They might have been torn in the struggle to disrobe.
“You think he knows about the Mafia and about the Demon?”

It’s quite the coincidence for the younger brother to be dating the ex-heir of the Mafia.
Almost too coincidental. If it weren’t for the fact that the Demon Prodigy has historically
refused to ally with any organization ever since he defected, she might’ve suspected there
was a mafia matchmaking service.

“Actually,” her father huffs in amusement, breath crackling loudly over the speaker, “I don’t
think he knows anything at all. Nothing about Dazai, at least, which leads me to believe he’s
completely in the dark.”

Another smile, this one crueler and meaner than the last.

Oh, her father is so good to her.

People who know nothing are her favorite targets. No one really knows nothing, and personal
information on her enemies is always a boon to have.

It requires mind games. Psychological manipulation and torture. Asking them questions she
knows they can’t answer, punishing them when they can’t, and just when they’re on the verge
of breaking, desperate to give her what she wants—

She backs off, offers them “easy” questions. Things they don’t think twice about answering,
because they seem so trivial compared to the earlier questions.
Sitting on the bed, she starts to lace up her boots. It’s a good thing she brought her
motorcycle, because she’s sure her father will want her on the next flight to Japan. “Who will
be in charge while I’m gone?”

The Bratva can’t survive without someone powerful in charge. Someone will have to take
over, and while she can suggest a few people that would be competent, she knows her father
is likely to have a plan already.

“I trust your judgment, kroshka. I will be returning to the homeland soon. I’ve been away for
too long, and it’s time you take the next step in your career. I’ll brief you when you get here.
Do you have any questions?”

Thinking, she finishes lacing up her boots. They’re tall, going all the way up to her knees,
and they put her firmly over the two-meter height range. “Not yet,” she says, standing up.

“Good,” her father says, and it’s clear the conversation is over. “I will see you soon.”

She makes an assenting noise, giving her father kisses over the phone before hanging up.

She doesn’t say goodbye to her lover as she slips out into the night. She’s got a job to do.

Nika Dostoevsky is going to Japan.

PRESENT DAY, YOKOHOMA, JAPAN

Ranpo has a… feeling. An itchy feeling that makes him feel...

Itchy.
It’s Tuesday, which is one of his least favorite days of the week, but he’s pretty sure that’s not
the reason for his bad mood. It might be the fact that Shuuji has, apparently, taken his
invitation to stay the night when he was wasted as an invitation to stay forever. It’s been
almost three weeks since he found him in that bar, and he hasn’t left his house yet.

Normally, Ranpo would kick him out but—

He overheard the phone conversation Shuuji had with his mother the morning after. He
couldn’t quite catch it all, because Shuuji had locked himself in the bathroom and even
pressing his ear to the door didn’t make everything clear, but Ranpo got the basic gist of it:

Shuuji was on his own for housing, because his father didn’t want him and his mother
insisted that she had nowhere to house him because she was hopping from hotel to hotel ‘like
a beggar’.

Granted, Shuuji probably might be able to beg his way back into Dazai’s good graces, but
Ranpo isn’t heartless .

The kid is stupid, stubborn, in college, has no job and no skills for a job. Even if he could get
a job, there’s no way he could afford an apartment on his own. It’s too late in the year to
apply for the college dorms, even if his scholarship covered it.

In short, Shuuji really has nowhere else to go.

And that makes Ranpo sympathetic because—

He’s never had nowhere to go. Even after his parents passed in the accident and he was little
more than a raggedy street urchin, stubbornly sleeping on park benches and breaking into
cars to sleep in the back seat, he always had somewhere to go. If he ever needed a bed, or a
hot bowl of curry, or somewhere to lay low or someone to talk to—
He always had a place he could go to that would always welcome him.

But while Oda is full of sympathy for misfortunate kids, he is not sympathetic for idiot
adults, so it’s not like he can go there either. Besides he’s pretty sure Kouyou would skewer
Shuuji if she ever found out he tried to run over her little brother, which would inevitably
lead to her finding out Chuuya’s dating Dazai, which would lead to family drama of epic
proportions.

That almost tempts him into doing it, but Shuuji would probably get his ass executed mafia-
style and—

Ranpo kind of likes Shuuji? He’s funny, sometimes. Like a really big, really stupid puppy
that doesn’t know how to play.

Except that he eats Ranpo’s candy. That, he hates. The last time he caught him with his hands
in Ranpo’s candy jar, he kicked his ass. He thought that would work to dissuade him except
Shuuji looked dazed and like he might come in his pants so—

Ranpo’s solution is to keep his candy at work now, which would be okay except there’s a
candy thief at work too.

Clues—or lack thereof— point to Fukuzawa. Which sucks, because he respects Fukuzawa
and he can’t be angry at him for eating his candy.

So yes, Ranpo is grumpy. He’s got an intruder in his home—who is recently making noises
that they should get a bigger apartment together, which is such a strange thing to
contemplate, but he can't say he wouldn't appreciate more room because Shuuji keeps
knocking over his trinkets stand which takes an hour to fix— he's got candy disappearing
before he can eat, Kunikida is on some weird kick with cold cases lately and is trying to bug
Ranpo into looking into it, and it's Tuesday.

He hates Tuesdays.
He almost makes it through the entire day without incident, too. Manages to shake Kunikida
off by sending him on a wild hunt for clues that will eventually lead him nowhere, he's been
playing iMessage games with Shuuji all day and kicking his ass at sea battle, and it's just—

It's almost a pretty good day.

That is, of course, until Dazai, of all people, comes storming into the Agency with less than
an hour before it closes. He damn near kicks the door in, storming in without so much as a
hello.

Kunikida looks like he's witnessing the devil rise to earth when he looks up and sees the man
he's been hunting for the past two years storm into the Agency, face determined.

"Hey—!” He shouts, rising to his feet and leaving the case file he was working on spread out
all over his desk. "What the hell are you—?!”

Kunikida makes a mistake then, coming around his desk and reaching out for Dazai's
shoulder. Probably to stop him from going any further, to hold him still so he can ask him
what he's doing or maybe to try to arrest him—

His hand doesn't even get close.

In a series of movements that's almost too fast for even Ranpo to keep up with, one of Dazai's
hands is flying up and wrapping around Kunikida's wrist. Using the leverage, he jerks him
forward, making him stumble in shock. Then then arm closest to Kunikida is coming up—

His elbow slams into his temple with brutal force, with a sharp crack! that makes even Ranpo
wince in sympathy.

"I'm not here for you," Dazai says, face expressionless as Kunikida goes limp. Unconscious.
Dazai isn't exactly careless but neither is he careful as he lets Kunikida drop to the floor. His
head hits the wooden floor with another crack that will probably keep him unconscious for a
while longer. Or maybe give him a concussion. Possibly both, if he’s really unlucky.

The other employees watch silently as Dazai advances further into the Agency. None of them
dare to challenge him, because Kunikida is the second-best martial artist in the entire agency.

The best is Ranpo, who is just silently watching Dazai approach with a raised eyebrow,
crunching on his chips.

Dazai must mean business if he's come to the Agency. Coming here is a risk for him, because
he could be arrested and taken into custody. It’s not exactly likely to happen, but even he can
be outnumbered and overpowered.

That, combined with the fact that he just assaulted Kunikida— a minor offense, compared to
his playbook, but still worth noting— and the cold, almost dead expression on his face—

Something happened. Something big happened.

There's a chair a few feet away from Ranpo's desk, and Dazai snags it as he passes, flipping it
around so the back of it is facing Ranpo. He sinks into it in a smooth motion, propping his
elbows up on the wood along the back.

"I need your help," he says, without even bothering to say hello or ask him how he’s doing on
this awful Tuesday.

Ranpo figured he needed help, because there's only one reason Dazai would put himself on
the Agency's radar like this, and that is if something happened that he couldn't solve himself.

Still, Ranpo is grumpy, and he doesn't appreciate Dazai storming into the Agency like this
when he's not even an hour away from being off the clock, so—
Without saying anything, he fishes out another large chip from his bag, shoving it into his
mouth and crunching slowly. His other hand gets flipped over, so he can glance down at his
wrist.

He's not wearing a watch, but it feels like the right tone of disrespectful, just to remind Dazai
that he isn't the king here. He doesn't get to barge in and demand help. If Ranpo helps him,
it's because he's a nice person— which he doesn't truly think he is, but he has his moments.

Besides, he's already dealing with one of Dazai's messes, and is he getting any thanks for
that? No .

When the tension builds to a breaking point and Dazai is clearly about to snap, jaw bunching
and fists clenching—

Kicking his feet up on the desk and leaning dangerously far back in his chair, Ranpo flashes
him an enigmatic smile. "What can the Agency help you with?"

The Agency. Not him. He doesn't want to get involved with whatever turf war or dominance
fight Dazai has gotten himself into. He's not a part of the underground, and he will not be
utilized in the unseen war that's going on. None of that matters to him.

"Chuuya's been taken."

The words drop like an anvil between them, cold and heavy with weight. It costs Dazai
something to say them, momentary anguish flashing through his eyes before they settle back
into cold, unfeeling darkness.

Ranpo frowns at him. He's sure Chuuya is a nice kid and all, but it's not like Ranpo can do
much without information. He's not a psychic. "Are you filing a missing persons report?"
He doesn't recommend it. Missing persons cases are a wreck to handle, especially for adults.

Technically, a person can’t even be reported as missing until they’ve been missing for over
twenty-four hours. Only then can they be filed, and even once the police get a report, it’s
never a top priority. There’s always homicides and assaults and violent crime that take a more
immediate precedent. All too often, missing person cases get pushed off to the wayside.

And any good detective knows that the first twenty-four hours after a kidnapping or
disappearance is critical to the person being found. After that, the likelihood of the person
ever coming home again is slim.

“No,” Dazai mutters. He’s leaning over the edge of the chair, like he’s trying to convince
Ranpo to hurry with the sheer weight of his presence. “I need to use the computer genius you
have holed up here. I need to get into the city CCTV.”

Ranpo arches an eyebrow. Katai is pretty smart, he will admit, even if ‘genius’ might a bit of
an oversell. There’s only room for one genius in the Agency, and that’s Ranpo . “Don’t you
have someone better? What happened to that one kid? The one that Kunikida has been trying
to get to sell you out.”

Dazai’s hands are clenching open and closed, like he’s missing the weight of a gun in them.
“He’s not answering me,” he says through clenched teeth, “and when I drove out to his place,
the warehouse had been emptied.”

So he ran. That... doesn’t spell good for anyone, really, because Rokuzou is the type of
person that should be monitored. Left on his own or letting him work for strangers could end
up with all of their information leaked.

Kunikida’s going to be pissed. He was working hard on that kid, trying to recruit him into the
Agency. Trying to give him a better life. It's possible that he pushed too hard too soon, but
Rokuzou disappearing so soon before Chuuya— who was relatively unknown and protected
from the underground, all things considered— is too much of a coincidence for Ranpo to
overlook.
Still, Katai is not the solution Dazai thinks he is. "Even if I did introduce you, he's going to
be terrified of you. He's useless when he's scared, practically hides in his futon like a child
hiding from a monster. Plus, he has this annoying habit where he absolutely refuses to do
anything without a warrant."

That is, unless his boyfriend asks him personally, but considering that Kunikida is still passed
out on the floor and unlikely to go out of his way to help Dazai—

Katai's a deadend.

Ranpo takes the last handful of chips and tosses them into his mouth before crushing the bag
up and throwing it into the trashcan near his desk. "Look, I am willing to help you because I
don't think Chuuya should pay the price for your fuck ups. However, I can't help you without
any information, and I don't have anyone to get you information. So unless you get me
something to work with, then all you're doing is wasting time."

Time that Chuuya doesn't have. The longer he's missing, the more likely it is that he'll never
be found. The more likely he'll run the course of his usefulness, and be executed. The longer
he's missing, the more likely it is they won't be finding him—

They'll be finding a body.

Besides, there's a better organization that will be able to help Dazai, and one that has their
own desire to find Chuuya safe and sound.

The Port Mafia.

Dazai probably thinks they won't help him if he asks, or that he'll have to force them to help
by taking control—

Little does he know, though. Ranpo is looking forward to that realization, and he honestly
wishes he could be there in the room when Dazai asks Kouyou for help locating her missing
little brother.

All the fun things always happen when Ranpo can't watch. It's annoying. What's the point of
knowing all this information if you don't get to witness the fallout?

"Fuck," Dazai mutters, slapping his palm down on the desk. One of the other employees, a
conservative young girl, gasps in offense at his language. "Fuck, okay , I'll— if I get you the
information you need, you'll help me find him?"

Ranpo shrugs, reaching down to pull out another bag of candy from within one of his desk
drawers. "Yeah, sure. But you'll owe me, big. And I mean big, you don't even know the
amount of trouble I've been going through because of you."

It's a testament to Dazai's desperation that he doesn't even flinch at the prospect of owing
Ranpo a favor. A big one, even, that Ranpo will surely collect at some point.

He just looks at him with a grim expression, like he's preparing himself for what he has to do.
Preparing to slide back into the version of himself that used to have the entire underground
under his thumb and use that to get the information he needs.

Like he's letting go of Dazai Osamu and coming back for the Demon Prodigy. Like he's
willing to let go of everything he worked for, to let go of the person he's tried so hard to
become—

All to get something back . Something so indescribably important to him that he's willing to
cross lines he hasn't crossed in years.

Love really does make you stupid, Ranpo thinks to himself as he pulls out his phone to
respond to Shuuji's latest turn on the game of Sea Battle they're playing. It really changes
who you are as a person.
"Right," Dazai mutters, standing up. He's tall, intimidating with it, towering over everyone in
the Agency. "I'll call you then."

Ranpo frowns, sending off his turn in the game. A hit, taking down the last of Shuuji's ship's
health bar. Another stunning win for him.

The Agency closes in less than an hour. They've been known to stay open longer in certain
circumstances, but this hardly counts as one. This isn't even a case that can officially go on
the books. So if Dazai calls the Agency , he's bound to just get them both in trouble, and he's
not going to get an actual answer from anyone.

He might have Ranpo's personal number, but Ranpo isn't willing to just put it out there that
they plan on working together by just asking out loud. Dazai's already halfway to the door,
bypassing Kunikida's passed out body without so much as a wince in sympathy.

Eh, he'll figure it out. The man is resourceful, and if he's really so set on getting Ranpo's help
— something he might change his mind about when he confronts Kouyou and realizes she's
just as invested in finding Chuuya— then he'll find a way.

The front doors to the Agency close behind Dazai with a resounding, final sound. Harsh and
loud. The other employees finally let out their breaths when he's gone, relaxing.
Unfortunately, people barging into the Agency like this is a somewhat common occurrence,
so no one is too broken up or stressed about what happened.

Just a slightly-irregular Tuesday in the Agency.

Eventually Kunikida stirs on the floor, heaving himself up onto his elbows. With a wince, he
touches his temple. "What happened?"

Ranpo peers over his desk at him, fighting a smile. "Oh, not much. Just missed your chance
to catch one of Japan's most wanted, that's all."
His mouth drops. "What— why didn't you do anything? You watched him knock me out and
just did nothing?"

"Well," Ranpo drawls, unwrapping another piece of candy, "something like that requires a lot
of paperwork, and I have plans for dinner tonight. Better luck next time, buddy."

Kunikida screams in frustration.

Ranpo snickers, attention diverted when Shuuji sends another invite to a game of Sea Battle.
He must really enjoy getting his ass kicked, Ranpo thinks, and sends off the opening shots.
 Backslide
Chapter Summary

Dazai, meet Kouyou.

Chapter Notes

Hello everyone :) Be careful with this chapter, as it contains some violence! The first
part of the chapter is mild, and also pretty funny because we finally have the
Kouyou/Dazai meet <3 However, the second part of the chapter, starting after the break,
is bit angst-heavy and contains heavy thoughts of character death, as well as torture via
water boarding. Please feel free to skip that part of the chapter if you are uncomfortable
with it! The story can be read and understood without it. As a reminder though, BH
DOES have a happy ending, no matter how painful it might seem now! Keep pushing
through, because it's all worth it in the end <3 It gets better soon, I promise LMAO. See
you next week! :D

Backsliding into something—someone— you used to be is like coming home. Giving up

against the rising tides and finally just letting yourself sink.

The problem is, you never truly realize how much better you’ve gotten until you throw that
all away and return to where you started from.

Looking at the high, soaring tower of Mori Corporation, Dazai feels completely and utterly
numb. A terrible sort of numb, one that feels inherently wrong. A numbness that leaches into
every part of his being, and slowly claims every part of him for its own.

In these moments, Dazai doesn’t feel like a person. He doesn’t even feel like the child he
used to be, a very long time ago. He’s cold and unfeeling, distant from his body, a machine
that runs on oxygen and delivers bloody violence. A war machine, carefully built and
cultivated by Mori Ougai, with all the things he enjoyed or wanted being held against him.
Being numb was just a defensive reaction, but once Dazai realized how good it felt just to
feel nothing at all—

It was impossible to stop. Pain and sorrow and fear were just things he had to painstakingly
cut out of himself, a surgeon with his own blood on his hands.

Beyond that, distantly, is anxiety. A pulsing mass buried too deep in his chest to be his own
heart, the driving force that urges him up the front steps and into the building.

He will do what must be done. Whether that means toppling the power structure of the Mafia,
claiming what had always been his— not by birthright, but by blood , the seat of this empire
built with the iron of his body—, killing anyone who stood in his way—

It doesn’t matter. He’s always been able to do what needed to be done, no matter the personal
cost. The cost to himself was always negligible.

He doesn’t take the elevator. That would be foolish because it would give him away. There
are cameras in the elevator, and he’s sure someone is watching the feed. Instead, he takes the
stairs that empty out into the lobby. Every building with more than a single story is required
by safety regulations to have stairs that connect to every floor. The larger buildings have two
sets of emergency stairs, one on each side of the building.

Mori Corporation is unique in that it has three sets of stairs. Two that are regulation standard,
and one that leads up to the highest floors.

The last one isn’t known by most of the legal employees— because Mori Corporation does
have a legal operation as a cover— and only a handful of the Mafia members know about it
either. It’s supposed to be a closely kept secret, an escape route known to only the highest
members of the Mafia.

Being who he is, Dazai knows all about it.

He bounds up the first set of stairs, ignoring the handful of employees still lingering in the
building. It’s getting dark by now, and most of the legal employees are starting to head out for
the night. They look at him oddly as he passes, whispering in his wake, but don’t try to stop
him.

The Mafia won’t be in full operation for another hour yet. But the boss should be here,
preparing for the night, and that’s all he needs right now.

He runs all the way up to the highest floor, ignoring the burn in his thighs and lungs as he
ascends high into the building.

He didn’t bring any of his weapons. Very purposefully, a last-ditch effort to avoid violence
until the last possible moment. A way to make sure that the only weapons he used belonged
to someone else today. He'd pulled on gloves before leaving his car parked a few streets
down in a parking lot. Skin-tight latex, to make sure he doesn't leave fingerprints behind.

Just in case.

At the top of the stairs, he has to cross the building and find a hidden doorway tucked into a
small, obscure hallway. There's no guards here at the bottom, but he's sure there will be some
at the top.

It's only four floors up to the penthouse floor, and he takes these stairs slower. Ears perked,
alert for any movement or noise. His steps echo loudly in the stairwell, heavy boots
eliminating any chance for a silent entrance.

Silent isn't what he's going for anyway. He prefers the shock and awe method, most times.

He takes a deep, steadying breath at the top, collecting himself. His focus is razor-sharp, the
deadliest weapon he has in his arsenal. A weapon that had been shaped and honed for years.
Pausing just before the door at the top, he listens for movement outside. It's twilight hours,
essentially dawn for the Mafia, so he's not surprised when he doesn't hear much beyond the
door. He's picked the perfect time, before most of the people who would defy him have
arrived.

Civilly, he opens the door. It's unlocked, a bad decision for them.

He's calm enough that the lone guard standing outside the door just looks at him for a
moment, not recognizing him for who he is or the threat he represents.

When he does finally realize that he’s not someone he recognizes and starts to move, a full
thirty seconds after Dazai opened the door—

It's too late.

Whip-fast, Dazai snakes his hand toward his lower back, sliding under the guard's loose shirt
and yanking out the gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

He starts to shout, jerking forward to try to grab him by the forearm.

With a flick of his wrist, the gun is flipped around in his hand. He holds the barrel, raising it
up and slamming the butt of it into the back of the guard's head with all of his strength.

He reels, dazed, eyes squeezing shut and a stuttered grunt leaving his mouth. Shaking his
head, he tries to stumble backwards, giving himself room to try to recover—

Dazai follows, hitting him again in the same spot, and watching with satisfaction as he goes
limp. The guards for this place have really gone downhill in quality. Mori would've never let
someone so unskilled and unalert stay in his guard rotation.
He doesn't bother to hide the body. He just lets the guard slump to the floor and steps over
him.

The Boss's personal quarters are in the far part of the floor, but there's a few rooms Dazai can
check before he goes there. It’s not unthinkable that the layout may have changed since he
was last here, so better to check everything.

The hallways are mostly empty as he stalks through, and the people that do see him fall back
when they see him, survival instincts flaring. They know when a more dangerous predator is
hunting, and they know when to stay out of the way. Idiots never last long in the mafia.

He finds his target in the third room he checks, a conference room. He can tell it's been used a
lot lately, because of the stacks of papers scattered on the table.

Sloppy, leaving information where it could be found.

And there, near the back of the room, is Kouyou Ozaki, boss of the Port Mafia. She's
attended by Odasaku, like always, and it looks like she's having a meeting, because Ace, one
of the executives if Dazai remembers correctly, is leaning back in a nearby chair.

They both look irritated, frustrated at something or another. There's another stack of papers
between them, and it almost looks like they're arguing over them.

Well, it's a good thing that Dazai's coming in with a distraction then.

This time, he kicks the door in. His boots make a satisfying thud against the wood before it
crashes in with a crunch of snapping wood and metal.

All three people at the table jump, whirling around in their seats as he strolls in, offering them
a sardonic smile.
Kouyou goes pale when she recognizes him, and Oda's expression goes stormy. His hands are
crossed over his chest, fingers twitching closer to the holsters under each arm.

"No need to stand up for me," Dazai starts, flashing a sharp smile. The stolen gun is still in
his hand and he spins it around in his palm threateningly.

While Oda has arguably had more training than him, and more practice—

Dazai has always been the sharpshooter of the two, coldly lethal and deadly accurate. He
learned to shoot a gun before he learned how to drive, before he even learned how to ride a
bike or ride the train for himself.

Oda is also, unfortunately for him, far more sentimental than Dazai’s ever been. Usually that
is a quality he envies; today, it is one that he will use against him.

The grip of the gun— while a fraction too small for his hands, obviously a generic version
without any of the customization he prefers— feels like coming home again, to a house he
never wanted to begin with.

"What are you doing here?" Kouyou's voice is flat, toneless. Her expression is forcibly blank,
like she's fighting off the urge to react. Trying to save face in front of her enemy.

Dazai's smile is mean, cutting. "It's time we do business, Boss of the Port Mafia," he says,
snide and sneering, sarcasm thick on her title. He doesn't need to speak the words to get his
disdain across.

Meanwhile, Ace looks like he's having the time of his life, leaning back in his chair with his
hands folded behind his head and grinning. He's always been smug, always too aware and too
invested in the power struggles of the Boss chair. An opportunist, that one.

Kouyou's eyes narrow on him, folding her hands primly in front of her. Her spine is ramrod-
straight, like she can prove her worth by refusing to bend. "Why would I do business with
you? Not only did you refuse my last offer— now you come barging in like you own the
place."

Dazai's grin grows. Technically, he does own the building. Not officially, not legally, but it
was always meant to be his. Mori destroyed more than a few families to ensure that.

"Because," he says, and he can tell she thinks he's about to threaten her. Point the gun at her
head and tell her that she has to give into his demands or he'll end her life right then and
there.

Dazai's not that foolish. He's got a better plan:

He settles the gun correctly in his palm, raising it up and slightly to the left—

Directly at Oda's head.

"If you don't," his tone is still casually conversational, with just a hint of derision, "I'm going
to take something very important to you."

It's not an idle threat. He loves Odasaku but—

Everything he loves will inevitably be lost, right? And if he does not do something, if he
doesn't get what he needs here, then he'll lose the most important thing to him. And for once
in his life, he is willing to fight for what he wants, what he loves.

He will do anything.

It's a calculated risk, a gamble. He's stacked the odds in his favor— Kouyou loves Odasaku,
he doubts she would let anything happen to him if she could stop it— but sometimes, you just
have to spin the wheel and hope.
There's a moment of tense silence. Odasaku is stock still, unmoving as always in the face of
danger. His eyes are focused on the gun in Dazai's hand, mouth tight and turned down into a
frown. He doesn't move. In fact, he's probably relieved that the gun isn't pointed at Kouyou.

With a drum of her acrylic nails on the table, Kouyou calls his bluff, "You wouldn't dare.
Sakunosuke is your friend too."

"I wouldn't?" Dazai repeats, smile growing so big it makes him feel nauseous. His hand does
not waver and his eyes do not leave hers as he pulls the trigger.

BANG!

Odasaku shouts, ducking, and a bullet buries itself in the wall barely a foot from where his
head had been.

Kouyou flinches, going even paler. There are splinters of wood and dust sticking to her pant
suit.

"It would be unwise to underestimate me right now," Dazai tells her, re-aiming the gun as he
strolls around the side of the table. His boots make him almost two inches taller, so he's the
tallest person in the room by far. Oda might be broader, but that fact is negligible when he's
towering over them all and holding a gun to his head. "I have lost something very important
to me, and if you won't help me, I'm going to kill him, then Ace and then you. Do you
understand?"

Violence and blood, it's—

It's not a second skin. It's not a mask Dazai can hide underneath, it's not something that can
ever be taken off or put away when he no longer has need or want for it. It’s a part of him,
beaten into his bones, teeth in his mouth that learned to bite before they learned to
compromise.
Some people, when put through years of trauma and hurt and anger, retreat. They hide,
become jittery, anxious messes, always looking for the knife behind a smile. Always on the
edge of running, always aware of where the nearest escape is..

And some people people choose fight instead of flight. They absorb all that pain and rage,
internalize it. They learn by example and when things get hard? They bite.

Dazai is biting now. The defensive, instinctive rage boiling up within him, demanding he hurt
before he is hurt, demanding he take control of this entire situation. If he has to, he will take
back what was originally his, by force. It won't be the first boss he's killed on this floor, won't
be the first blood of a friend that he has spilled. Maybe it will be his last.

Kouyou's lips press together, and her eyes are hard. Anyone can tell that she doesn't want to
give into him, that she'd much rather tell him to get lost.

But she doesn't have that option.

"Fine," she bites out, expression twisting like even the idea of helping him is horrible. "What
do you need?"

Relief, a tiny drop of dry land among the black raging tides, reigns briefly. "My boyfriend
was kidnapped, I need the CCTV for the entire city and any recent movements from the
Rat's."

The information seems to dumbfound Kouyou, because she just blinks at him. "You're...
dating someone?"

(Oda is rapidly coming to a realization, eyes widening as the pieces finally come together.)
The question hurts, because the answer is technically no, but he's not going to get into that
conversation. It's none of her business. That’s between him and Chuuya, and can be worked
out after he gets him home safely.

He nods shortly, kicking Ace out of his seat and ushering him out the door with a vicious
glare. He doesn't need to be here for this, now that Kouyou is cooperating.

"What's his name? And what does he look like?"

"Name is Nakahara Chuuya and—”

The tension in the room skyrockets so quickly that the hairs on the back of Dazai's neck stand
up.

"His name is fucking what now?" Kouyou's voice is pure disbelief.

Dazai frowns, locking the door and turning back around to them.

Kouyou is leaning forward in her seat, palms flat on the table. She's glaring now. Behind her,
Oda is making a face and gesturing with his hands near his neck, the silent and universal sign
for 'please shut up right the fuck now'.

Dazai pauses, feeling like he stumbled upon something he wasn't expecting. "Nakahara
Chuuya?"

Kouyou just… stares at him, her face growing redder and redder. "If this is a joke," she
seethes, "it isn't funny."

That sends Dazai reeling, confused, because—

"Why the fuck would I joke about my boyfriend being kidnapped?"

(Love makes you stupid, Ranpo once again thinks to himself, very reluctantly sharing his
dessert with Shuuji, and knowing that the drama he's been cultivating for months is going
down and he can't watch it.)

The silent, awkward tension grows.

When Kouyou finally speaks, the mask of civility covers her expression, at first. "So you
mean to tell me that not only are you dating my little brother—,” her hands slam down on the
table then, and she's surging to her feet, voice climbing to a furious yell, "but you also LOST
HIM?!"

Her what?

Dazai stares at her, looks back at Oda— is he recording this? — then back at Kouyou.

And in all his terrifying, near-legendary intelligence, his only response is:

"What?"

Kouyou lunges at him, and she nearly gets entirely across the table before Oda tosses his
phone down and catches her with arms around her waist.

It finally clicks in Dazai's mind, all the pieces coming together. Oh, Kouyou is his sister. His
ane-san.

In his defense, how was he supposed to know? He never mentioned her by name, and both of
their records were scrubbed clean and had different names. Kouyou has been avoiding
meeting with him and his calls for months, and Oda's, well, forgetful sometimes, so—
How was he supposed to know?

Awkwardly, Dazai scratches the back of his head. "He's gonna be pissed, I'm pretty sure he
wanted to break the news himself..."

Of all the reactions he could have, after the hellish day he's had, that's the first one that comes
to mind. Well, that and—

"Surprise?"

Kouyou doesn't look like she likes surprises, clawing at the air like she's envisioning his face.
Her face is red, and she's making noises about 'corrupting' and 'my innocent brother' and
'scoundrel motherfucker', and really it's all very dramatic and probably at least half-true but
—

Dazai checks his phone. "Can you get over it already? I'm happy to let you yell at me later,
but he's about to miss a dose of his meds and we need to find him soon because he can't miss
two doses."

Kouyou pauses, the fight leaving her momentarily. "Meds for what?"

And—

Dazai, assuming that Kouyou knows about Chuuya's hospital visit because his father knows
and that it's family common knowledge, casually answers, "His encephalitis."

Kouyou's mouth drops, and Dazai doesn't understand why she looks so appalled until—

"You gave my brother AN STD?!?" She roars, struggling beginning anew.

Even Oda looks a bit shocked, looking over her shoulder at Dazai like he's an idiot.

"I—,” Dazai sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can't exactly fault Kouyou for
thinking that, because he thought that too at first. "It's not an STD , it's a brain thing. Means
his brain is swelling, and he needs meds to keep it under control."

Kouyou thinks about that for a second, narrowing her eyes like she suspects he's lying.

Isn't she in a polyamorous relationship with Yosano, a certified emergency surgeon?

Shouldn't she be brushed up on her latin language roots or something? Don’t they do flash
cards for game night or something equally as nerdy?

"What the fuck happened to his brain? He was fine two months ago!"

Actually, he was messing around with Shuuji at that time, which they can all probably agree
wasn't for the best, but she doesn't need to know that. He’s spilled enough secrets today.

"Doctor said it was probably a virus," Dazai says, shrugging, "but that's not important right
now. Are you going to help me find him or not?"

Obviously, her only answer can be yes.

With a huff, she shakes Oda off, righting her pink pantsuit until it's pristine again. She's
chosen modern business woman as her aesthetic today, which is ironic considering the
traditional views of the Mafia.

(Meanwhile, Oda picks his phone up and stops the recording.

He opens his messaging app.

[ ODA ]: You fucker

[ Candy Man ]: LMAOOOOOOOOOOOO VID???? GIVE IT TO ME.)

"Yes," she huffs, pulling out her own phone. Probably to get in contact with the part of the
Mafia that handles technology like this. "But if we find him and he's hurt, I'm going to kill
you."

Dazai considers that. Then his teeth flash in a lethal smile, putting his hands on the table and
leaning forward. His eyes are flat black, menacing. "If he's hurt, you will have to find me in
the graveyard I make of this city."

Most people say that drowning is peaceful. That, once you get over the initial pain and fear,
it's exactly like sinking. Floating away into the endless darkness, as easy as falling asleep. As
easy as letting go, the rope of your life slipping away from your hands, drifting away.

In Chuuya's experience, drowning is none of those things.

It's horrible. It's all raw, animalistic fear, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe . The
person that he is overtaken by the instincts of his body, instincts that fight and fight and fight,
no reason, no thought, no logic. Just pure terror-fueled adrenaline, pooling in his body with
nowhere to go, filling him with the need to get away—

But he's trapped.

It also hurts . His lungs burn, water choking him and searing a painful path down his sinuses
and into his lungs.
If anything, drowning on dry land is the opposite of peaceful. It fucking sucks .

Maybe that's because he's not allowed to drown. Every time he gets close and his body starts
to run out of oxygen and the fight begins to drain out of him—

His head is tipped forward, so the wet cloth sticking to his face and blocking his airways
falls. Then he's left to choke and spit and sputter and desperately try to gather himself for the
next round.

There's always a next round.

The bag is soaked by now, but Chuuya can't even gather up the strength to be disgusted.
Whatever liquid the girl is pouring down on his face smells and tastes foul, like it's seawater
scooped directly out of the port bay, full of bacteria and disgusting. Chuuya's face is wet with
water and snot and water-vomit, and it's just—

It's fucking awful.

The rest of his body is wet too, clothes soaked and sticking to him terribly. The cold of the
room is beginning to sink in, coating his bones in frostbite, and he's almost too exhausted to
shiver.

He doesn't know how long it's been. Hours? Days? Minutes?

All he knows is pitch-black, freezing darkness, and wet-burning.

"You know," the girl says, dragging over another bucket of water. Just the scraping sound of
metal dragging over concrete is enough to have an exhausted spike of fear running through
him.
She's doing it on purpose. She can lift the bucket over his head with barely even a grunt of
exertion, so the fact that she's just dragging the bucket slowly over the concrete is just
another fear tactic.

It's working. His breath is already deepening, coming in wet-ragged gasps, his body trying to
stock up on oxygen even though he knows it doesn't work that way.

"I can keep this up all day. Forever. No breaks, no end. You will wish you won't survive, but
you will," the girl continues, sickly sweet. It's a threat, meant to terrify Chuuya into
compliance.

On one hand, it works. On the other—

He laughs. Wet, painful, rasping heaves, something that sounds more like sobbing than it
does like laughing. Hysterical.

It's not loyalty that keeps his mouth shut. It's a simple lack of answers. He can't actually give
her what she wants. He's tried. His answers aren't good enough, and by now, he would
consider himself broken.

He'd do anything to keep his head out of the water now. Just the thought of water makes his
sanity strain, terror threatening to snap him into pieces.

That's not why he's laughing.

No, he's laughing because he knows, with a morbid, dreadful certainty that he cannot survive
this for much longer. It's not giving in that makes him feel that way, it's just pure facts.

By now, he's surely missed at least one dose of his medicine. Maybe two, or even three,
depending on how long it's been. Time doesn't have a meaning in this place, not anymore. His
world is reduced to how many breaths he can take.
Every time water is poured down on his face and he begins the horrific process of drowning
on dry land—

He can feel the pressure in his head building. He has a throbbing headache now, fueled by
lack of oxygen and his missed meds and the blunt trauma of being knocked out. His eyes feel
like they pulse painfully with every beat of his heart, head feeling so heavy .

More than that, he can almost feel a seizure beginning to gather in the background. It's like an
electrical storm, unseen but felt , static charges gathering in his body and building
momentum. A metallic taste on the back of his tongue that has nothing to do with water or
blood or fear, his teeth aching like he just bit down on metal. The overload of sensation in his
body, the feeling of his mind beginning to buckle and strain, stretching too thin and holding
far too much.

Distantly, he wonders how long it'll take him to seize himself to death. How long it'll take for
his brain to give in once the damage begins.

If it'll hurt as his brain swells and swells, crushing itself under its own pressure. If it'll hurt
more than drowning. How long it'll take before the damage is too much to recover from. How
long it'll be before Chuuya will never be something that lives again, even if his body
survives.

"No, I really won't," he wheezes, wishing he could wipe the snot off his face, because it feels
fucking disgusting.

Because these people, they forgot to include one little detail in their plans when they
kidnapped him:

He's on a limited time frame. It's only a matter of time before his sickness kicks in and takes
him away. He doesn't face the idea of weeks or even months of torture. He doesn't need to
hold out until he's rescued or something else like that.
He just needs to wait until his body devours itself whole, and leaves him burning down the
path of no recovery.

It's not a nice thought. It's not a pleasant thought, really, but it does give him some sort of
dreadful relief, because—

Because he's not sure if anyone is looking for him yet.

Dazai and him broke up. Whatever the circumstances were and no matter who was right and
who was wrong, Dazai basically told him to get lost and never return. He didn't want him to
come back.

And Chuuya said he was going to his sister’s house and Dazai has never met Kouyou, so it's
not like he could confirm that he made it, if he cared to check.

His father will eventually try to contact him, but other than that...

It might be days before anyone realizes he's missing. He doesn't have any classes to be at, no
job obligations, he's basically drifted away from all his friends, his sisters rarely talk to him
anymore in any serious capacity. There’s nothing he has that will notice if he disappears for a
few days.

It might be a while before anyone comes looking for him. Even longer for them to find him
and—

Chuuya can't stand much more of this.The idea of days of this, drowning and choking and
breathing and drowning and choking and—

He can't do it. He's not like those strong, fearless, stubborn, indomitable heroes in the
movies.

He's not—
He's not someone who can do this. Maybe in another life, another story, another him...

It feels wrong to be glad that his body is a ticking time bomb, slowly reaching the end of it's
lifespan. It feels wrong to be grateful that his shitty immune system, his fucked-up body and
his stupid brain will give him one last gift—

The gift of death. Release, in it’s most permanent and inescapable form.

The scrape of the bucket against the concrete makes him flinch again, tears welling up and
dropping to join the wet mess of cloth around his head.

He's so cold.

"I'm disappointed," the girl rasps, her voice sounding like she's in the middle of smoking a
cigarette. It reeks too much for Chuuya to say for certain. "I really thought you'd be more
cooperative."

A slight spill of water drips on the back of his head, making his breath catch in his throat.

"I don’t—,” he whimpers out, cringing away from the touch of wet, "I don't know , I swear."

Another sigh by his ear, this one even more irritated than the last.

Chuuya is fully expecting for his head to be yanked backwards, neck twinging painfully,
taking huge breaths in préparation, shivers dancing nauseatingly up his spine—

“I believe you.”
Relief bursts through him, and he slumps in reaction, shoulders twinging as even more of his
weight settles on them. Thank god , she believes him, it’s over—

“So how about I ask you questions you do know, hm?”

Chuuya is so relieved by the idea of not having to go through that again, hope flaring sharp
and painful in his chest, that he’s nodding before he even understands what she’s saying.

I’ll do anything, just please don’t drown me again.

This time, her voice comes from in front and slightly below him, like she’s crouching right in
front of him. There’s a touch of warmth near his ankles, body heat. “Do you have any
siblings?”

No, not them.

Chuuya clenches his jaw shut, unwilling to give her any information on his family—

But then there’s the metallic scrape of metal on concrete, the slosh of water, and the fear
takes over.

“Yes,” he chokes out, cringing away from the noise. He can’t go far, but he has wet-friction
burns on his wrists from struggling anyways.

His mind is whirring-blank, so full of emotion and flash-fire thoughts, terror and adrenaline,
instinct and I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, that he can’t even pick out a coherent thought in the mess.
Sightless, scentless, thoughtless, an animal in its death throes.

“What are their names?” The question is accompanied by a light tap on his ankle, so much
more painful because it’s gentle. A reminder that he doesn’t have to hurt, she doesn’t have to
make him suffer, as long as he gives her what she wants.
“Kyouka,” he mutters, feeling like he’s betraying everyone he knows and loves, but he can’t
help it. Not when he has a sliver of hope, not when it hurts so much, not when he’s facing
what he thinks is his death, cold and painful and alone.

He’s so young , there’s so much he wants to do. He shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t end like
this.

“And Kouyou,” he whispers, deflating.

(Meanwhile, Nika is feeling two distinct feelings right now.

Pride, because she's getting exactly what she wants right now. The goal was never to get
Chuuya to cough up the information that Dazai Osamu has been hoarding against the Bratva.
That is a goal too far, and even if they are dating, she doubts that Dazai would be foolish
enough to share sensitive information with this...

Child.

Really, he's not much younger than her. A little over six months, but she was never
this...sheltered. Never this naïve, never this weak, never this unprepared.

It's completely clear that Nakahara Chuuya was completely and utterly unprepared for
something like this.

Which leads to the second emotion she's feeling: disappointment.

It's not often she gets to play with her victims. Father often prefers a quick, clean death when
dealing with the Bratva, and torturing victims was something he often considered above
Nika's paygrade.
It's been a while since she's been given free rein like this and it's always over too quick.

It's only been six hours. Six hours of intensive work, granted, taking Nakahara's senses from
him and working him over, deliberately making sure he has no sense of time passing. Taking
everything away from him that makes him human, leaving him a wounded animal desperate
for relief.

Which serves her well now.

Offering him a shred of compassion, an escape route, and reaping the benefits. Digging
through his cracked-open mind, finding a weak point, and forcing it open.

Personal information is a valuable commodity in the criminal underworld. Most people—

especially the more powerful ones— try to wipe everything about themselves from public
knowledge. No birthdays, no legal names, no family, no schools, no medical history, nothing.

They only want to be known on their terms, because every scrap of knowledge that someone
else knows can be used against them. Anything and everything is a weapon, when you're
building a file on someone.

Humans are pattern-oriented beasts. They form habits, follow schedules, make their
passcodes the birthdays of their significant others. There are very few parts of a person that
aren't, in some way, connected to their personal lives. To information that they think is safe,
secret and secure.

Information they think only they know, but because humans are pack animals and inevitably
drawn to each other—

Once you know somebody's pattern, you know them. And nobody knows someone like their
family, right?
Sibling bonds are such a curious thing, too. Full of animosity and competition and trust. Very
few people will ever know Kouyou Ozaki better than her little brother.

And Nakahara Chuuya is going to tell Nika everything .

It's all patterns, and Nika is an excellent strategist.)

 Trade Deals
Chapter Summary

What was the saying? Demons run when a good man goes to war?

Chapter Notes

Hello everyone :) I hope everyone is having a good week! No warnings needed for this
chapter, though we are still in the angst arc, so be aware of that :) Every week we get
closer to the finale hehe >:) As always, I hope you enjoy and I will see you all next
week! <3

Kouyou watches Dazai pace with narrowed eyes. It's annoying, puts him on edge. Wants him
want to pick a fight or bite, anything to dispel this restless energy building up inside him.

It's been eight hours since Chuuya went missing. Three since he missed the first dose of his
meds. Nine until he needs the next one.

A short time, in comparison to many hostage situations— Dazai himself was once held
hostage for almost five days, once, a length of time he only unwillingly revisits in his
nightmares— but every minute ticks by with agonizing, dreadful slowness.

Tick. Tock.

Torture is not something anyone can really be prepared for. People, especially regular
civilians who would be horribly unlikely to ever wind up in a situation like that, like to say
that they'd be the ones to hold out in the face of unimaginable agony. They wouldn't break.
They wouldn't give up their secrets because they are different.
It's easy to say that when you're sitting on the couch watching TV, or reading a novel. It's
easy to say that, until you're the one going under the knife.

It's easier to prepare when you know what you're in for—

But Chuuya doesn't know. Never knew. Kouyou was careful to keep it from him, and so was
Dazai. As far as he knew, up until the hour or so before he was taken, everyone he knew was
normal. He didn't know about the Mafia, or who Fyodor was, or anything about the Yakuza.

He was just a normal college kid. That's what he was supposed to be. And now he's...

Gone. Being held hostage, probably in the hands of Dazai's worst enemy.

At least, he hopes it's Fyodor because if it's not, then he has no clue who took him and how or
why. At least, for now, they have a direction to look in.

A direction that has led them to dragging up the CCTV for the streets surrounding his house.
They're difficult, because Dazai had Rokozou set them onto a repeating three-day loop ages
ago, a loop that never included him or any of his possessions in the frames.

The real footage is sent to a storage facility, to be deleted along with all the other old footage.
Keeps the facilities from overflowing, and it's rare for footage from a year ago to be needed.

Kouyou called... someone Dazai has never met or heard of, to dig the real footage out of the
digital dump. It's not a quick process, and every minute it takes feels like forever.

Dazai turns on his heel, pacing back the way he came. His palms itch, aching for the weight
of a gun.

The tension between all three of them— Kouyou, Odasaku and Dazai— has been steadily
growing for the past two hours. Odasaku has been soundly ignoring it, texting someone on
his phone and smothering huffs of laughter.

Dazai's been trying to ignore it, but Kouyou has been glaring at him and watching him pace
for the last hour or so, and he's quickly reaching his limit. His temper, when he's in this
mindset, has never been the best.

Finally, she speaks up. "How long have you been dating my brother?"

She says 'my brother' with a possessive sort of jealousy, like she's staking a claim on Chuuya.
She also says it accusingly, like she thinks Dazai might've done this on purpose.

Honestly, if he were still the Demon Prodigy, it would've been a solid plan. But he's not that
person, not anymore.

At least, he wasn't. Now... he would be, if he needed to be.

"A little over a month," he mutters, not willing to go into the details of their relationship.
They might have been officially dating for only six weeks, but Chuuya's been his for almost
four months now.

Dazai's been his for longer than that, infatuated since the day they met.

Red eyes narrow in on him, unhappy with his answer. "You seem pretty upset for someone
who's only known Chuuya for a few months."

The implication that Dazai is faking or lying, or any part of this situation was coordinated by
him, floors him. He whirls around, nostrils flaring as he tries to keep his voice in check. "Of
course I'm upset?! We're dating and I—”

He barely catches himself in time, jaw snapping shut around what he almost said. Kouyou
doesn't get to hear those words first, and he doesn't get to say it now. Chuuya is the only one
who is going to hear them.

I love him.

He rolls the words around on his tongue, tasting them. The weight of them in his mouth is
like truth, like absolution, heavy and summer-sweet, ripe fruit bursting over his starved
tongue and giving him a glimpse of heaven. It feels like the thing he's been looking for, for
all these years. The thing he didn't know he wanted or needed.

He turns away from Kouyou, hiding his face as he savors the revelation.

It's probably wrong and undeserved after what he said to Chuuya but—

After so long of being numb and empty, he really thought he didn't have the capacity to love
anyone. It felt like he'd snuffed those pieces of himself out, collateral damage in the war he'd
been waging on himself for decades. He was so broken that the damage couldn't be fixed
anymore, permanently etched into his being, even after he started the long, painfully-slow
process of healing.

Trust Chuuya to show him that even something he thought impossible was possible, and as
easy and inevitable as gravity. Falling is weightless.

It feels wrong to enjoy it, to say the the words over and over again to himself— I love him, I
love him, I love him — considering everything that’s happened between them, everything
that’s happening right now, everything that can and has gone wrong—

But maybe it’s just fate that Dazai discovered love on a battlefield, and probably lost it before
he ever realized he had it. Is in the process of losing it even now, probably.

Everything he wants will inevitably be lost.... but for now, he has a tiny little flame of warmth
and affection, something he can cup his hands around and hope it doesn’t go out. Hope he
gets to keep this, this tiny shred of love, and nurture it.
He’s not ready to give it up. Not yet.

Please not yet.

He starts pacing again, frustration bubbling up. This is taking so long, but they don't have a
lead on what vehicle Chuuya was taken with. The downside of living in the residential area is
that dozens of vehicles are always moving in and out of the neighborhood.

Dazai can recognize quite a few of them, but he doesn't know everyone, and even his
memory isn't perfect. There's still half a dozen cars that can't be excused away, and while
that's less than what they started with, that's still too many. They can't track every vehicle, it
would take too much time.

Every minute Chuuya spends in the hands of someone else is too much. They need to find
him now.

Dazai feels useless here. All his skills and intelligence amount to nothing when he doesn't
have a direction to work in.

It's safe to assume that Fyodor has him, but considering that the Rat's don't have a confirmed
headquarters that Dazai knows of, he could be hidden anywhere in the city. Whenever they
worked together, Fyodor has been annoyingly insistent in crossing boundary lines with
flagrant disrespect, offering meeting spots on Mafia territory, on no-man's-land, on territory
regularly patrolled by the police.

He's been very deliberate about avoiding a pattern, so Dazai can't hazard a guess where his
main building is. He knows where the warehouse is, but that seems too obvious a place to be
hiding Chuuya. Especially if he was planning for... an extended/ session.

Even thinking that makes him sick.

"So when are you going to realize that we need help, and let Oda call him?" Dazai asks,
shooting a hot glare at Kouyou before turning on his heel and pacing back the other way.

"Last I checked you already spoke to Ranpo, and he said he needed information. What more
information do we have now than you did when you went to see him? Hardly anything. Akio
is working his hardest, and he's narrowing down the suspects. When we have a lead, we will
call him, but you know as well as I do that calling him before that is just likely to piss him
off. Do you want a pissed off Ranpo?"

No… no, Dazai does not. Ranpo is mean.

(In the corner:

[ ODA ]: the girls are fiGHTTTINNGGGGG

[ ODA ]: is that the meme did i do it right

[ CANDY MAN ]: yes yes gold star what are they fighting about

[ ODA ]: You. Dazai wants to call you, Kouyou wants to wait

[ CANDY MAN ]: LOL

[ CANDY MAN ]: 10000 yen says dazai breaks and calls me himself

[ ODA ]: I know better than to bet against you.

[ CANDY MAN]: :( )
Dazai spins back around, letting out a sharp, frustrated noise. "Why does it feel like I'm the
only one taking this seriously?"

Everyone else is content to wait while he paces himself into the ground, legs thrumming with
the need to do something . It's impossible to sit still and wait for information.

Akio clears his throat, shrinking in his seat when Dazai's head swings toward him, pinning
him in place with heated, angry eyes. He's shaking lightly. Probably never expected to be in
the same room as three of the most powerful people in Yokohama, the mediocre grunt that he
is. He’s good enough to sit solidly in the middle of the power structure, but not good enough
to earn himself an audience with the boss.

Until today, that is. With no one else to turn to, Rokuzou missing, all Kouyou has is this guy.

He points to the screen. "Do you recognize that car? It left right around the same time, and
there's a blanket in the backseat that wasn't there when it arrived..."

Dazai looks, eyes narrowing on the screen. It's a gray four door, nothing too flashy or dingy.
Just the exact right of normal to pass by undetected by anyone at a glance. He doesn't
recognize it at all. "No. Did you check the plates on it? Are they registered to that vehicle?"

Akio looks briefly terrified. "I can't get into the government systems to check for sure, but I
can..."

He trails off, exiting out the camera feed and pulling up a regular, protected search engine.
Painstakingly, he enters in "license plate number search", clicks on the first website and starts
to enter in the numbers.

Dazai looks at Kouyou drolly, like 'Really? This is the best you've got? A man that can
google?'.
Kouyou meets his stare head on, gesturing with her hands for Dazai to present anyone better,
and looking damn smug when he lets out a frustrated huff and looks away again.

"The plates are registered to a car of that make and model... but not that color. Color is
registered as blue," Akio says. It's unnecessary because Dazai can read the screen, thank you
very much, but at least everyone is guaranteed to be on the same page now.

It's possible that the owner of the car got a paint job and has yet to report it to the vehicle
registry...

Or, it was never registered to that specific vehicle at all and the plates are stolen.

He doesn’t bother asking if Akio can check for reports on missing plates, instead squinting at
the screen to try to catch a glimpse of the driver. He doesn’t recognize the name offhand, and
he supposes they could cross-reference it with the names registered as owners on the nearby
houses in the neighborhood—

But Dazai’s got a hunch. There’s something about that car and the way it drives perfectly
safely that makes it suspicious.

"Where do they go?" Dazai asks, gesturing for Akio to get to work with the equipment.

He does, although it takes three times as long as it would've taken Rokuzou, haphazardly
following the vehicle's progress out of the suburbs and into the city using the trail of city
cameras. He makes a few mistakes, jumping to the wrong camera and having to fumble back
to the correct one, but he manages the task.

At least until the tunnel systems. There's a section there where the cameras are placed a
fraction too far apart, leaving a blind spot the length of a few dozen cars. It's a fault in the
system, and one that's taken advantage of—
Because when the vehicle exits, around the expected time, Dazai almost doesn't notice that
the driver is different and the blanket in the backseat looks flatter than before.

Driver switch. They moved him. And without a view of what happened, Chuuya could've
been transferred to another car— any car that exits around the same time, or heads back the
other way.

Their lead is dust.

"Now what?" Dazai asks meanly, turning his head to pin Kouyou with a glare. He was
patient, he waited while her half-competent man did what he could, and now they've hit a
wall. "You wanna manually check every vehicle for him?"

Sighing in frustration, Kouyou gestures to Oda. "Of course not," she snaps, aiming a dagger
stare at him, "Now we can call him. Stop acting like you're the only one who wants to find
my brother. Mishandling the search will just make it take longer."

The tone in her voice, like she's better than him, smarter than him, has more connection to
Chuuya than he does, makes him angry. He might have no experience in caring for people,
but that doesn’t make him less worried. Less capable.

His temper flares, more agitated than he ever remembers being, and he almost lashes out.
Almost takes out all his aggression and fear on her. He bites it back at the last moment,
clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt as Oda dials a number.

It’s hard to understand Kouyou, because she doesn’t have that same ruthlessness that he does.
That Oda or Yosano do, a vicious survival instinct that’s been carved into them ever since
they were young kids.

Oda chooses to be kind. That’s the kind of person he is. He creates kindness and compassion,
of his own volition. Yosano can be just as sadistic and heartless as Dazai is, always the other
half of Double Black. She’s simmered down as she’s gotten older, but there was a time when
she was the most accomplished torture specialist of the Port Mafia. Skilled and cruel, able to
carve out answers from any of their prisoners.
Dazai was the only one who could ever keep up with her.

But Kouyou? Kouyou had a nice childhood. Maybe it was never easy, but she had a family
who loved her. A father who made mistakes, yes, but one who tried his best to give his kids
what they needed and what they wanted. A father who calls Chuuya at least once a week to
check up on him, and he's guessing calls his other children about the same amount.

Cruelty is not innate to Kouyou, nor was it taught to her by example. She stumbled upon the
Mafia by chance, and rose up the ranks with luck and skill, but not by cruelty.

Dazai will admit that attitude is better for the Mafia in the long run— business has never
been better for them and relations with the public are reaching a new level of understanding
and complacency— but it's so frustrating to feel like he's the only one willing to tear down
the city to find Chuuya.

It makes him feel like he's a rabid dog, too dumb to understand how to get itself out of a trap,
while everyone else is looking on in pity. He's not stupid. His intelligence is one of the few
things that has never been taken away from him, and while he's riled up and anxious right
now, that doesn't mean he's stupid or acting out of turn.

It's hard to think when reactionary measures— at least in the present tense, when reflexes
could mean the difference between life and agonizing death— have been drilled into him
since before he graduated primary school.

But he also knows he doesn't have the power here. He gave up his power over the Mafia
years ago, and even if he wanted to take over again, it's not an option now.

Kouyou isn't going to step down willingly, and if Dazai hurts her, Chuuya will never forgive
him. He's already screwed things up enough, he doesn't need to add harming his family to his
crimes.
And after this, Dazai promises himself that he won’t ever lie to Chuuya again. It’s probably
too little, too late, and he’s under no illusions that it will be enough to solve their fight or earn
his forgiveness but—

If Chuuya can forgive him, he’ll make it his life’s mission to make sure he never hurts him
again.

Dazai has already forgiven him. He didn’t give Chuuya a choice either way, and he should’ve
known that his curious little baby would go looking for answers. He’s a brat like that.

He just hopes it’s not too late.

On the other side of the room, Oda pulls his phone away from his ear.

“He’s on his way up. Says everyone in the room owes him a favor, by the way, so I hope
everyone is ready to pay up,” Oda informs them, shoving his phone in his pocket.

Behind them all, Akio gapes. “Even me?”

“Yep,” Oda says, popping the ‘p’. “As far as Ranpo is concerned, everyone in here is
‘incompetent’ and he’s suffering the consequences for it. In his own words, he doesn’t suffer
stupidity lightly.”

Kouyou frowns at him. “He called us all incompetent?”

“Well...no,” Oda draws out, shifting on his feet, “Incompetent is the polite form of what he
said.”

Unbidden, Dazai’s lips curl into a smile. Trust Ranpo to have the balls to call the most
powerful people in Yokohama a room full of idiots.
“Who is Ranpo anyways?” Akio asks, leaning back in his chair. He seems to have gotten over
his nerves and is now enjoying the perks of being in the same room as them. He’s been
eyeing up Kouyou in her modern suit, face turning pink.

He’s lucky that Oda isn’t a jealous man, otherwise he might find his usefulness has quickly
expired.

“Ranpo is a detective,” Kouyou explains, straightening from her place leaning back against
the table. She comes around to the front of the room, to where she was sitting before when
Dazai barged in. With her long, pink-manicured nails, she begins to gather up all the papers
that had been scattered over the table.

Akio’s eyebrows shoot up. "He's a dirty cop? And you're just going to let a dirty cop talk to
the Boss like that?"

The last part of the sentence is aimed at Oda, with just a hint of sarcasm and disbelief. Poor
man has no idea who he's talking to. Odasaku might choose to be compassionate and kind,
but that doesn't make him less of a threat. That doesn't mean he's someone to take lightly.

The personal bodyguard and plaything to the Boss of the Port Mafia is not someone you
should underestimate, no matter how unassuming he might act or look.

Dazai aims a smile at Akio, taunting and condescending. "Why don't you ask him that when
he gets up here?"

"A cop?" Akio asks, disbelief filtering over his features, "In the Mafia Headquarters?"

This is why the grunts and subordinates don't get sensitive information. They start making
opinions before they even know what they're talking about. Who they're talking about, or
what that person is capable of. This city runs the way it does because Ranpo doesn't care
enough to turn them all in. Doesn't care enough to hunt them down and bring them all to
justice. He knows enough to bring all of them down and lock them up for life.
He doesn’t, though, partly because he’s a petty bastard that likes to hold that possibility over
their heads to get what he wants, and partly because he understands very well that an
uncontrolled criminal underground often causes more trouble than what it’s worth.

At least Kouyou keeps the drug runners, the prostitutes, the murderers and the illegal arms
dealers in check. Without a top dog, the rest of the pack quickly becomes wild.

Ranpo must’ve been waiting for a call like this, because it only takes him twenty minutes
before he’s strolling into the room with the sort of casual confidence only he has, hands in his
pockets.

“So,” he greets, mischievous glee in his tone, “how’d the family reunion go? Not good?”

Dazai’s eyes snap to him. “You knew?” He hisses, outraged.

Ranpo scoffs at him. “Of course I knew? Who do you think I am?”

“And you didn’t warn me?” Dazai snaps, throwing his hands up. This entire situation
could’ve gone over much smoother if he had known Kouyou was Chuuya’s sister. He
wouldn’t have had to storm in here, guns blazing, and offer to shoot the closest thing he has
to a best friend in order to get his demands met. He could’ve just asked.

Kouyou crosses her arms over her chest, the imperiousness of her expression completely lost
on Ranpo.

“Why would I just give you all the answers? It's a lot more fun this way," Ranpo says,
beelining towards one of the chairs and dropping into it with all the confidence of a king.

"More fun for you," Kouyou grits out,looking like she's itching to pull out one of the
weapons Dazai knows she has stashed on her somewhere. "My brother is missing."
Ranpo holds up a hand, tsking in annoyance. "That's not on me. I'm not the one who lost him
—” Dazai feels the sting of disapproval, making his lip curl, "— and I'm also not the one who
refused to prepare him for a possibility like this."

Kouyou winces, expression closing off.

“Now, you can both choose to be pissy with me because you—“ he points to Kouyou, “are
too stupid to think ahead and Dazai is a coward, in which case I will happily leave to return
to my date. Or you can let me have my fun and I’ll help you find your little pet. Choose
quickly.”

He’s in a worse mood than usual, Dazai muses. They must’ve interrupted something
important.

With a calming breath, Kouyou gestures to the screen. The picture of the tunnel is frozen
there. “We managed to track the car that took him to this tunnel. After this, we’ve lost sight
of him.”

Ranpo hums, rocking back in his seat dangerously far. He pushes his glasses up into his hair,
exposing his forehead and piercing green eyes. “Show me the route.”

The silence and tension only grows as Akio painstakingly retraces the path the car had made.
He doesn’t make any mistakes this time, which is good because Ranpo might tear him a new
one.

They end on the same still frame as before, a zoomed in view of the now-empty backseat and
the different driver. Dazai still doesn’t recognize him, and it doesn’t look like Ranpo does
either, based on his expression.

He tilts his head, eyes unreadable. “Do you have an architectural map of the city? And the
service tunnels?”
Kouyou nods, shooting a look at Oda. Her bodyguard disappears from the room without
another word, coming back a few minutes later with twin rolls of paper.

Oda unrolls then in front of Ranpo, weighing down each end with two of the many knives he
keeps on him at all times. The lines of the city map are dark enough that they can be seen
even with the tunnel map stacked on top, streets lined up.

Humming, Ranpo traces the path the car took through the city, pausing when he gets to the
tunnel. There's a service tunnel that connects there, but it's not helpful, considering the
service tunnels themselves are a winding, twisting maze.

"Dazai, you've met with Fyodor, right?" Ranpo asks without looking up, his finger resting on
the service entrance that connects with the main tunnel Chuuya was last seen in.

Dazai nods, pacing closer.

"Put the spots on the map," the detective orders, reaching into his coat and pulling out a
handful of tiny throwing knives from one of his many pockets. Makeshift thumb tacks.

It feels wrong to stab a knife into each spot of the map where he'd met with Fyodor, therefore
ruining the map with holes, but who is he to argue? He doesn't care to ask for a pencil or
something less permanent.

When he's done marking out the dozen or so spots he's met with Fyodor, he leans back,
gesturing to Ranpo to work his magic.

A long moment of contemplative silence as Ranpo examines the map with all it's
information, green eyes sharp and not missing a single clue. Then he makes a sharp noise,
victorious, followed by a "gotcha".
Kouyou leans forward, hands braced on the table, expression fervent and focused. "You
found him? You know where he is?"

It's remarkable, how Ranpo can be given scraps of information, and manage to come up with

an answer every time. Even Dazai, who is considered a prodigy, wouldn't be able to do
something like that so quickly or easily.

"Well," Ranpo hedges, leaning back in his chair again. "I know where Fyodor's headquarters
probably are, and considering that he's the one that took him, it's a good place to start."

"Where?" Kouyou demands.

Rampo folds his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves
here— we still haven't discussed what's in it for me."

To their right, at the head of the table, Akio sucks in a shocked breath. That seems to be the
last straw for Kouyou, the final push that shoves her over the edge into rage. In a flash almost
too quick to follow, her hand is diving underneath her skirt and whipping out the knife she
had strapped to her thigh.

With a snarl, she drives it into the table only a few centimeters from Ranpo's hand. "That is
my brother," she hisses, voice hot and angry, "Not a bargaining chip."

Unimpressed, Ranpo raises an eyebrow, haughty. "It's going to take a lot more than that butter
knife to frighten me. Even if you could use it on me."

It's a subtle barb, a pointed one, a reminder that Ranpo is probably one of the highest skilled
martial artists in the city, and it'd take a lot more than Kouyou to take him down. Not even
Oda or Dazai can beat him regularly.
They don't have time for this. "What do you want?” Dazai snaps, uncaring that he’s being
rude. He doubts Ranpo cares either, as long as he gets what he wants.

Right on cue, his eyes light up. “I’m so glad you asked,” he says, reaching into his pocket and
pulling out his phone. The code to unlock it is quickly entered, and he presses on the screen a
few times. When he finds the page he’s looking for, Ranpo places the phone on the table and
slides it over to Dazai.

Curious, he picks it up. It’s an ad listing, for a high-rise apartment near the middle of
Yokohama. Expensive, sleek, newly listed, and way above Ranpo’s pay grade.

“I want that apartment, fully paid for and in my name, by the end of the month,” the detective
says, tone firm. He doesn’t sound like he’s in the mood for negotiating.

Dazai clicks through the pictures quickly, wondering why he needs a new apartment on
Dazai’s dime, especially when letting Dazai know where he intends to live is not the most
strategically wise decision. When he gets to the end, he accidentally clicks out and the screen
exits into a conversation on a messaging app. The contact name is just one of those emojis,
the one that looks like a dog being walked on a leash. There’s very little conversation that
Dazai can see, mostly just Ranpo kicking whoever’s ass repeatedly at something called Sea
Battle.

Whatever. Not his problem, not his concern, and something that he can do easily. “Fine,” he
agrees, sliding the phone back across the table. Ranpo snatches it up quickly, stuffing it back
into his pocket.

The next person he speaks to is Kouyou. “I want guaranteed Mafia protection on that
apartment, and I want it made explicitly clear to anyone who ever even considered
committing a crime that that apartment is protected.”

Kouyou raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, an expression so familiar that Dazai’s heart
pangs with it. She looks so much like Chuuya, how did he miss it until this moment?
“You don’t need mafia protection,” she points out, and it’s true. Ranpo’s never needed
protection.

“You’re right. I don’t need it. I want it. Same way you want to find your little brother,” Ranpo
fires back, the curve of his smug grin slightly malicious.

No one is under false impressions here. Ranpo might be on the side of the “good” guys, and
might be a representation of the law—

But if anyone thinks for even a moment that he’s above letting someone die or be tortured in
order to get what he wants or to prove a point, they’d be utterly wrong.

Kouyou stares him down for a moment, evidently testing his resolve before she crumbles and
gives him what he wants with an accepting wave of her hand. “Deal.”

Ranpo grins again, folding his hands behind his hand. “Oda,” he calls, louder than before, “I
want the secret ingredient to that curry recipe.”

Oda gapes at him, grumbling, “You cheating bastard, we had a bet that you wouldn’t figure it
out.”

“Guess I win that too,” Ranpo crows, victorious, shrugging lightly. “As for the silent guy in
the back who thinks he’s escaped my notice, I’ll think of something. You owe me.”

Akio snorts. He’s too cocky, now that he’s found some solid ground to stand on. “And what if
I refuse?”

Shrugging, Ranpo turns his head to an almost unnatural degree, pinning the wannabe hacker
with a look. “I’ll assume that you have no respect, and I’ll gladly teach it to you firsthand. Or
I could let some information slip to the wrong people and surprise!, next thing you know you
got government agents knocking on your door and asking to speak with your wife."
Akio goes pale, swallowing hard.

"Tan from the ring you usually wear on your finger," Ranpo informs him smugly, rocking
back in his chair again.

Too late, Akio takes his hands back and hides them under the desk. "Fine," he mutters,
sounding reluctant.

Whatever. That idiot isn't Dazai's responsibility to look after, and if he wants to test Ranpo,
then let him find out the hard way exactly why no one fucks with him. Everyone finds out
eventually.

"You got your deals, now tell us where Fedya's hiding," Dazai says, sharp and demanding.
The devil may have gotten his dues but now it's time to pay up .

Tsking lightly, Ranpo reaches for the knife Kouyou had stabbed into the table. He yanks it up,
out of the table, moves it over a spot on the map and buries it back into the wood. "This
building, here, overlooks all of those meeting spots to some degree, and is in no territory that
hasn't already been claimed. More importantly, it's connected to the service tunnels. He
could've easily been moved there, and it's more than likely that Fyodor is in that building. As
far as I recall, it's a rented space, not owned by any company in particular, which makes it
perfect for his tastes."

Great. That's all Dazai needed. A direction to go in, and the beginnings of a plan.

"I go high, you go low?" He offers, shooting a look at Odasaku and Kouyou. He's assuming
Kouyou is up to speed on Odasaku's and his unique form of language, or that her boyfriend
will bring her up to speed.

Dazai will be bait, making a ruckus near the top of the building, where Fyodor will probably
be making his office, while Odasaku and his team scour the service tunnels for Chuuya. It's
not foolproof or even that great of a plan, but it's already the middle of the night. Chuuya's
been missing for nine hours now. He's four past his scheduled dose, and only another eight
until he misses another one.

Anything can happen in eight hours. A person can die in eight hours, they can be tortured in
eight hours, they can be broken in eight hours.

The longer they wait, the more likely it is that Chuuya will outlive his usefulness, and wind
up as a body somewhere in the tunnels. The longer they wait, the less likely it is that Chuuya
will come back at all, and be okay.

They need to get to work now , before Fyodor gets it into his head to move him. If Chuuya is
moved, then they might never find him again. Dazai will have lost— again— the only thing
he finds worth living for. He will have lost anything he wants and everything he loves.

"Yeah," Odasaku agrees, that friendly mask he was wearing while he bantered with Ranpo
dropping away. Instead of the friendly and approachable man that likes to provide housing for
orphans, now he's the calm and lethal bodyguard, eyes like frozen ice chips. He crosses his
arms over his chest, his dark gray silk shirt tightening over his biceps. The holsters under his
arms are holding twin pairs of pistols.There's a knife strapped to his thigh as well, what looks
like the twin to the one Kouyou had.

"Low and mean?" Oda asks, confirmation.

Asking if he should shoot to kill.

Lips peeling back from his teeth, Dazai grins, sadistic. "You know it."

As far as he's concerned, everyone in that godforsaken building deserves death for touching
Chuuya, for hurting him, for even being associated with the people that took him. They all
deserve a death sentence, and Dazai is not afraid to give them one.
Chuuya might not be the reason he left the mafia for a ‘normal’ life, he might not be the
reason he first put down his guns—

But he’s the only thing that makes it all fucking worth it, and Dazai will rain hell on anyone
who tries to take that away from him. He’ll burn this whole damn city to the ground, he
doesn’t care.

“I’ll call,” he says, pushing off the table and stalking towards the exit. If he’s going to do this,
if he’s going to storm into Fyodor’s office, he needs to be prepared. He needs to go home
first.

Ranpo watches him go, a thoughtful look in his eye.

(Sure, love might make you stupid— but it’s also one of the few things in this world that will
make a man tear down his own limits. A driving force that burns hot and pure and vicious, a
force that will make it so no price is too high, no deed too far, no limit unbreakable.

What was the saying? Demons run when a good man goes to war?

Ah, but even the devil himself trembles when a man in love picks up his discarded guns
again.)

Dazai has to break quite a few traffic rules to get home quickly, but he doesn’t even blink at
blowing through several red lights on his way there. If someone dares to pull him over
because it—

Well, Yokohama will lose a dedicated policeman. It’s a sacrifice Dazai is willing to make.

No one does though, and he’s able to screech to a stop outside the house without a single
delay, throwing the door open so he can storm inside.
Home is—

Empty. Painful.

Over the past month or so, he’s stopped thinking of it as his home, and started thinking of it
as their home. His and Chuuya’s.

There were his shoes in the doorway, joined by a few much smaller pairs, lined up neatly.
Chuuya’s jacket draped over the couch, his favorite cereal in the pantry, his candy in the
garage, his clothes in the right side of the closet, his pink toothbrush next to Dazai’s. A dozen
— a hundred— tiny little things that meant little in themselves, but added up to—

That made a home. Made it their home.

Everywhere he steps as he heads upstairs is littered with signs of Chuuya, little pieces of
settling in and comfort and love.

It all hurts. His chest aches for air that never seems to come, sour and stale. Every beat of his
heart feels like it throbs, squeezing painfully with earth-shattering pounds.

But the worst thing isn’t the candy or the shoes or the toothbrush. The hardest thing to see are
the pets.

Usually the dogs greet him as soon as he walks in the door. Yoko is always the most
excitable, but Kozo is diligent in giving him the sniff-over before he’s allowed to come
further into the house.

Today... Yoko is nowhere to be found, and Kozo perks up when Dazai first comes in but
when he’s not joined by someone smaller and brighter, Kozo’s ears start to droop. He doesn’t
come closer to greet Dazai, eyes morosely following his path up the stairs. Eventually the
dog lets out a heavy sigh and lays his head on his paws again, gaze fixed on the door.
Waiting for someone else to come home.

When he gets to the bedroom— their bedroom, with their bed, with Chuuya's side and his
side, the pillows stacked on Chuuya's side because he's a cuddler— he finds Baki perched on
the mountain of pillows and wailing.

He's always been loud, and his first reaction tends to be crying whenever he wants something
or his food bowl gets a little too low for his tastes. The cat takes after Chuuya that way, loud
and needy and adorable.

He stops for a moment when Dazai barges in, but quickly starts up his cries when he doesn't
see Chuuya follow him. It's the middle of the night, the time when Baki is usually cuddled up
with Chuuya and peacefully snoring away.

He's upset. He knows something is wrong.

He's not the only one, either. Yoko is upset too, she's just quieter.

Chuuya is slightly messy, especially with his dirty laundry. It usually means that the clothes
that need to be washed end up as a pile in the back of the closet, one that grows until either
one of them finally decides to do laundry.

A pile of clothes that Yoko is now curled up on, head on her paws with her ears drooping.
Her breathing has the slightest hint of a whine on the exhale, quietly whimpering to herself.

Dazai's heart aches for her, because she doesn't understand. He, at least, knows what
happened, and can rationalize it, even if it hurts.

Yoko can't do that. All she knows is that Chuuya left crying and upset, and he hasn't come
back for hours. It's night time, and the schedule for the past few weeks means that Yoko
expects them all to be curled up in bed and asleep.

Everything has changed now.

Dazai joins her in the back of the closet, pushing past rows of hanging clothes. Sighing in
sympathy, he crouches down beside her, giving her a few reassuring pets on her head. She
doesn't move, letting herself be petted but not searching for more herself.

"Don't worry, girl," he murmurs to her, "I'm gonna bring him back. I'm gonna bring him back
home to you.”

He swears he will, if it’s the last thing he does. The people and things he loves are counting
on him, and he’s not going to let them down.

Not again. Not ever again.

 Villain Monologue
Chapter Summary

“Wait for what?”

Just then, there’s commotion outside the door Chuuya came in through, something that
sounds like shouting and a muffled gunshot. The noise makes him flinch, heart jumping
in his chest.

Fyodor doesn’t seem surprised, head tilting. “For him.”

Chapter Notes

short chapter this week cuz i worked too much this week and i didn't feel like editing a
super long one :p next weeks chapter should be on time and longer! :) as always, thanks
for tuning in and i hope you enjoy!! See you next week <3

There's a bad taste in his mouth. Metallic, stinging, like he's bitten down on a metal fork and
his teeth are aching from it. Like blood, almost, except no matter how many times he
swallows, it never goes away. His head hurts, so much the pain has passed into dreadful,
ominous pressure that just builds and builds and builds.

At least Chuuya can breathe though. Small mercies, even if it smells awful, and he's started to
shiver. It's cold in here, freezing all the way to the bone.

The girl— he wishes he had a better name to refer to her by, but he doesn't, and every time
he's asked, it's lead to.. consequences— has been asking him questions the entire time and he
doesn't understand why any of the mundane answers matter, but he answers them anyway.

The searing guilt is better than having water poured over his head again.
He just wishes he could warn his sisters, because this bitch is sick , and obviously focused on
them, but he's pretty sure he's not going to get the chance. At least Dazai is prepared to
handle something like this, ex-demon-prodigy that he is.

His head feels like it's too heavy and too light at the same time, crackling with energy. It
won't be long now, he thinks. He can almost feel the end coming, the seizure building up
momentum at the base of his skull.

The room is still relatively quiet, beyond the sound of him shaking in his chair, the
intermittent sounds the girl makes as she drags the metal bucket over the ground to intimidate
him, the metallic clinks of tools that he doesn't want to know about clicking together, the
slosh of water. It's hard to hear much past his own loud breathing in the wet bag.

But he does hear the sound of a phone notification going off with a ding!, interrupting
whatever question she was about to ask. It's the first sound of the outside world that he's
heard so far, and for some reason, it makes a choked sob catch in his throat.

After a while, this place really did start to feel like his grave. Cold, wet, painful and lonely,
like the real world didn't exist anymore. He was in a place of suffering, of death, and nothing
else existed anymore.

The girl pauses, and there's a hint of footsteps shortly afterward. When she speaks, she
sounds farther away than she was before, and she speaks in a language he doesn't know, but
vaguely recognizes from Dazai's phone calls he sometimes overheard.

The memory of it makes him miserable and angry at once. Miserable, because his heart still
aches from their fight earlier and he stills feel guilty for going behind Dazai's back like he
did, still feels guilty for stomping on his trust like that—

But furious, because if this was a possibility, if winding up in this exact situation was
something that was always a possibility, then he should've known. If he was going to get hurt
because of Dazai, then he should've known. It's not fucking fair that he has to suffer because
Dazai is—
Well, because of who Dazai is.

If he had known this was a possibility...

Maybe he wouldn't have stayed. Maybe he would've chosen safety over his feelings. Maybe
he would've chosen his family over his relationship.

It's too fucking late now though, and because of that, because he wasn't given a choice, wasn't
given a chance, there's rage boiling behind the misery.

Honestly, fuck Dazai.

The conversation his torturer is having ends on a sharp, assenting noise from her, followed
by the sound of a phone being flipped shut. Must be a burner phone, because not many
people Chuuya knows still have a flip phone in this day and age.

"It seems to be your lucky day," the girl sighs, sounding frustrated. This time, her footsteps
are loud and aggressive, like she's angry over something and stomping back over to him.

Personally, Chuuya would go on record to say this is probably one of his worst days, but
that's a matter of perspective, he guesses. It's not like he's being asked either, so he very
wisely keeps his opinion to himself.

It's a good thing too, because in the next moment, there's something sharp and cold being
pressed to his arm, and he's automatically tensing, thinking this is it, this is how it ends, that's
a knife right against his wrists, it's all over—

The ropes holding his hands in place are sliced off, and he almost falls over when his arms
flop back to his sides, completely numb from restricted blood flow.
What? What's going on? Why is he being untied? Don't they only let people go when they're
about to kill them? That's what happens in the movies, and that's really all he has to go on
right now, so. He certainly wasn’t expecting to be untied anytime soon, or ever.

"Move it," the girl snaps at him, one of her hands wrapping around Chuuya's upper arm and
yanking him along.

She must be taller than him or she walks very quickly, because she practically drags him out
of the room. Chuuya has no choice but to stumble after her, blind and freezing and near-deaf,
arms numb with blood restriction and his feet so cold he can barely feel them, heart pounding
in his throat.

"Where are we going?" He croaks, daring to speak up. It burns to speak, throat sore from all
the water forced down his nose, but it's an oversight compared to the throbbing in his
temples.

There's a disapproving tsk, another pull on his arm. "You're going to meet someone very
important. I suggest you watch your manners, or I will beat them back into you."

Sure. Chuuya's a nice guy, a reasonable guy, he has no reason to be rude. Though, he doesn't
want to meet 'someone important' if he had a say in it. He's had enough of 'important people'
and he just wants to go home.

"Stairs," is his only quick warning before his shoe hits a concrete step and he nearly falls on
his face. Only her hand on his arm keeps him upright, and she's surprisingly strong as she
hauls him up the stairs, uncaring of his trips and fumbles.

He has to scramble to keep up, and it's hard to navigate stairs when he can't see them and he
doesn't have a handrail to hold on to and he's not allowed to take them at his own pace, but he
somehow manages to keep himself from face planting and giving himself a broken nose on
top of everything else.

He's not sure how long the stairs are, or the hallway that comes after them, but he recognizes
the sound of an elevator being called and the sound of the doors opening with a mechanical
whir.

So they're going upstairs? To a different part of the building? He would guess that there's a
secret underground entrance somewhere, because they probably don't want to flaunt that they
have an underground torture room. At least, that's what he's assuming, so he could be wrong.

He just hopes the bag gets taken off his head soon, because it's still wet and he has to lean
forward to make sure it doesn't stick to his mouth and nose, so that he can breathe. He can't
see a damn thing, and being yanked around while he's defenseless makes him nervous. Fear
pulses through him like a hated, familiar friend.

Now that he's untied though, he could fight. He's not sure he could win , considering how off-
balance he is and how numb his hands are but—

He could. Maybe it'd land him nowhere except in more pain, but fuck. Is he really going to
just stand here and take being tortured when he has the ability to fight? When his hands were
already tied when he woke up is a different story, but now… he can do something about it.
Wants to do something about it, because the idea of going down nicely, without a fight,
makes him want to bare his teeth. This is the reason he became a Judo champion, and as soon
as he gets a little more feeling back into his hands, he's going to do something.

It's amazing how much life and fight he can get back, now that he's up and moving.

The elevator lurches upwards,and he tries to count the floors by how long the ascent takes,
subtly flexing his fingers. They're so cold that it hurts to move his hands because of how stiff
they are, but it's warmer up here and the more he moves them, the easier it gets. He does the
same with his toes in his soaked sneakers, wiggling them and trying to get feeling back into
them.

If the girl tries to shove him into another torture room or tries to tie him up again, or anything
along those lines, he's going down swinging.

It's a long ride up to the top, punctuated hilariously by the serene sounds of elevator music
playing faintly in the background. The girl is quiet again, hand bruisingly tight on his arm but
otherwise quiet. That feels like an ominous sign, like she's preparing herself for the next
series of events.

Like he should be preparing himself.

Then the elevator slows to a stop with a too-cheery ding! and he tenses, fully expecting to be
thrown out of the elevator or for someone to reach in and drag him out, anything—

But nothing happens except for the girl stepping forward herself and taking Chuuya with her.

Outside the elevator is silence. Pure utter silence that makes their every step echo too loudly,
like it's a room full of nothing.

Better a room full of nothing than a room full of cruel things, right? Should this be a good
sign? Should he be glad that he doesn't hear anything or anyone? Not everyone is as quiet as
the girl is, and he's straining his ears so hard his head gives a twinge of pain in protest, but he
can't hear anyone else even breathing.

It sounds like they're still alone.

He feels the girl beside him lurch forward, reaching forward with her other arm, and then the
sound of doors opening.

Before he can react, he's being shoved forward, damn near tossed on his face, and he yelps.
His hands connect with the floor painfully, barely able to catch himself. Sharp pain rockets up
his right wrist, arm nearly collapsing under his own weight.

Behind him, the doors shut again with a resounding slam.

He scrambles upward, right arm held to his chest as he struggles to get back to his feet. His
heart is pounding sickeningly in his chest, and his thoughts are racing, wondering where the
next touch is coming from, wondering where the pain is going to come from, bracing himself.

Nothing happens, and he's able to get to his feet without incident.

"You can take that off now," someone says, further in the room. The voice is deeper than the
girls, more fluent in Japanese, the accent buried deeper. It's familiar, someone he's heard
twice before.

Three times now. Fyodor.

Reaching up, Chuuya grabs the wet cloth over his head and yanks it off. It feels disgusting
against his hands, water dripping down his hands and wrists. His hair is dragged along with
it, tangled, as he pulls it off completely.

Light bursts in his eyes, bright enough to make him wince and squint. The relief of being able
to see almost makes him choke again, blinking rapidly to clear the too-bright stars from his
eyes.

The cloth bag drops to the floor with a disgustingly wet slap.

When his vision finally clears, thirty seconds of agonizing terror where he's still helpless,
waiting for the catch, the sight he's greeted with is a well-furnished luxurious office, decked
out in purples and blacks. The very picture of wealth and power, and at the head of it all,
reclined confidently at a large desk, is Fyodor Dostoevsky himself, all sharp smile and devils
eyes, dark and dangerous.

"I underestimated you, Nakahara Chuuya," he greets, like that means something. He takes a
bottle perched on the edge of his desk, pulling out two shot glasses and placing them in front
of him. Opening the bottle, he pours some of the clear liquid in each glass, an exact equal
amount in each one. "Drink?"
It's probably a bad idea to take a drink from someone who had him waterboarded, but
Chuuya could use one. At this point, what more does he have to lose? He comes closer
slowly, eyeing Fyodor warily.

He's not sure what he means by underestimating him, considering Chuuya spilled every little
secret and piece of information he could come up with, but what does he know? Maybe he
knew more than Fyodor expected him to.

He sinks into one of the offered chairs, grimacing slightly when his wet pants stick to his skin
and squelch disgustingly underneath him as he sits.

A shot glass is slid over the table at him, and Chuuya squints at it suspiciously. He saw it
poured, and he saw the clean glasses, but he's not completely sure if the alcohol can be
trusted. Maybe it’s poisoned or something.

As if sensing his distrust, Fyodor raises his own glass with a knowing smirk, and swallows it
in one gulp.

And, well—

Chuuya isn't supposed to be drinking right now. It's dangerous on principle and he's not
supposed to mix alcohol with his meds but—

Fuck it, right? He doesn't want to die completely sober, and it's not like anyone is looking for
him, and it's not like he can fight his way out of the entire building. He just can't, and you
know, maybe he doesn't deserve to after spilling all of his family's secrets like they were
candy.

Sighing, he leans forward and takes the glass. He gives it a cursory sniff, making a face at
how strong it smells. Not surprising that Fyodor has the good stuff. Holding his breath, he
downs it in two gulps. It burns going down, and hits his empty stomach hard.
He's still not sure what time it is, but from what he can see of the sky through the windows,
it's dark. Judging by that and the rumbling of his stomach, it's late. Way past dinner time,
probably about the time he'd be curled up in bed with Daz—

Swallowing hard, wishing he had something to chase it with, he dares to ask, "Why did you
take me?"

He's expecting...

Well, hopefully, a damn classic evil-villain monologue, where Fyodor lays out all his plans
and gloats about his victory, all that nonsense. Or he'll laugh in Chuuya's face before telling
him what he's about to do with him. That sort of thing.

He's not expecting for Fyodor to lean back in his chair with a heavy sigh as he pours himself
another drink. Waving the bottle at Chuuya, he offers him another shot.

This one, he declines, already feeling uncomfortable heat roiling in his stomach. He doesn’t
want to be drunk, and with how empty his stomach is, it wouldn’t take much to get him there.

"You're a special man, Chuuya," he says, swirling the vodka inside the glass. "Dazai, I can
handle. Even the Port Mafia, I was prepared for. But the Armed Detective Agency? I wonder
what makes you so special that you can get nearly the entire city up in arms over you."

The speech makes his breath catch. Because—

He didn't think he was unloved, but neither of his sisters knew where he is, and Dazai either
didn't care or he didn't know he was missing, and he just—

He just didn't know that anyone was coming to look for him. He'd convinced himself that no
one was coming, that he was alone. That by the time anyone realized what was happening,
it’d be too late for him.
The question slips out of him unconsciously, shock and relief too much to hold back entirely.
“Dazai’s coming?”

A dark eyebrow, perfectly shaped, arches in response. “Did you think he wouldn’t?”

Chuuya doesn’t answer, the lingering taste of alcohol turning sour on his tongue, because—

Because he really thought he wouldn’t. Not necessarily because he thought Dazai was a bad
person, or that he wouldn’t care, but because Chuuya had broken his trust so badly that he
wouldn’t save him. That this was sick karma for what Chuuya did— for what both of them
did— and that he deserved this.

“Poor Dazai,” Fyodor sighs, shaking his head in disapproval, “No one ever has any faith in
that man. They’re always waiting for a reason to suspect the knife behind his back. I barely
had to say anything to get you to believe that... what was it? He was a serial killer that had
targeted you? Very disappointing.”

Guilt drips down Chuuya’s spine, ice cold. It hurts because it’s true. It only took a fifteen
minute conversation for him to be questioning everything he knew about Dazai. Everything
that Dazai has shown him and told him, every caring act suddenly in question.

“Why are you telling me this?” Chuuya asks, not addressing that jab. “If Dazai’s coming for
me then why are we having a conversation instead of—“

He cuts himself off there because he doesn’t want to give Fyodor the idea of killing him, or
even remind him that that is an option. Judging by the way his sharp smile widens, though, he
already knows.

“This is our last chance at a conversation, figured I’d make the most of it,” Fyodor says,
folding his hands over his stomach. Despite everything, there’s a calm, authoritative aura
radiating from him.
Chuuya goes cold, his next breath catching in his throat. “Are you gonna—?”

He can’t even say it. When he was hopeless and convinced that there was nothing in store for
him but pain, the idea of death was a relief. It was better than staying down there with the girl
— who has disappeared now, nowhere to be seen— and he almost wanted it. At least it would
be over then.

But now he has hope, and he doesn’t actually want to actually die. He wants to go home, he
wants—

He wants to see Dazai again. Things are complicated now and it hurts but he wants to see
him again. Hug him, hold him, kiss him. He wants to see his sisters again.

He’s not ready.

“Are you asking if I’m going to kill you?”

Chuuya stares at him, trying not to show the fear that is rapidly rising in him.

“Tempting, but no. While the idea of teaching Dazai a lesson is appealing, I’m not willing to
have all the work I’ve done here destroyed. I didn’t anticipate the Agency getting involved,
and that’s a mistake I can’t fix. So, lucky day for you. You get to go home today.”

Chuuya collapses backward in his seat, relief rushing through him so strongly he feels
lightheaded from it, too exhausted to even consider if it’s a trick.

He gets to go home. He gets to be okay, gets to see another sunrise and see Dazai again. See
his sisters again, see Yoko and Baki again. See all his friends again.
Something occurs to him then. “Then why did you say that this is going to be our last chance
at conversation? Not that I want to talk to you, but if you’re still going to be working with
Dazai then...?”

There’s a sparkle in his eyes that makes Chuuya think he finally asked the right question.
“Considering just how many people I upset with this move, I’ll be going back home. I’ve
done enough work here, and it’s time for my daughter to step up.”

Chuuya blinks. “You have a daughter?”

“Oh yes. You’ve met, though I don’t believe you liked her. She has that effect on some
people.”

Oh. It clicks for him then. The similar accents, the stilted Japanese, the questions, the phone
call. It’s her, the girl who was bucket-happy with the water boarding. What a lovely family.

Of course, now that he believes Fyodor isn’t going to hurt or seriously maim him, Chuuya
starts to get a little bold. His head is still pounding and it makes him irritable. “Isn’t that kind
of cowardly? Leaving your daughter to deal with the fallout of what you did. Don’t you have
a wife or something? Won’t she be pissed that you’re putting her in danger?”

Fyodor scoffs, smile growing with amusement. He reaches up, brushing his black hair away
from his face. The silver rings on his fingers shine in the light of the overhead lamps. “Trust
me, Nika is more than capable of handling herself. She’s been dying to get her hands on
Dazai. More importantly, everyone knows that the Mafia has a soft spot for children.”

She’s a child? She can’t be much younger than himself, with how tall and strong she was, but
he can’t imagine any sort of child doing any of the things she did to him, let alone being in
charge of a gang. That’s—

That’s bad parenting.

“No wife though, if you’re interested,” Fyodor continues, raking his eyes down Chuuya’s
soaked and disheveled form in a blatantly appraising look that makes him feel dirty.

“Then what about her mom? Why are you letting a kid do... all of that stuff? I mean, don’t
you care?”

Another tsk, a disapproving shake of his head. “Of course I care. But we aren’t soft like you.
Power is in her blood. It’s her birthright, and the thing she’s been working towards since the
day her mother died.”

Chuuya can’t wrap his head around that, but he supposes he’s in no position to talk morals
with a criminal who kidnapped and tortured him. A conversation like that won’t end well in
an agreement or end well for him at all. Sure, Fyodor might’ve said he wouldn’t kill him, but
he’s mentioned nothing about his sisters, so he should play nice until he can warn them.

“Sorry for your loss,” he mutters, dipping his head. He wants this conversation to be over
with. Let Fyodor say what he wants to say, and then Chuuya will...

Walk outside and find a public phone, or something. He doesn’t have his own phone, and he
doesn’t know where he’s at either. Maybe someone outside will lend him theirs.

“Yes, it was very tragic. Killed by one of my rivals back in Moscow. Nika was very young.
Just a little girl, so precious,” Fyodor says, pouring himself another drink and raising it up in
a silent salute before he downs it. His eyes are still razor sharp and intent, even though he’s
taken three shots—that Chuuya has seen— in the span of ten minutes. He must have a hell of
an alcohol tolerance.

“I’m sorry,” Chuuya repeats, unsure of what else to say. He’s not glad that anyone died, and
he can certainly empathize with the woman, but marrying a crime boss comes with it’s risks.
Certainly— hopefully— she knew that.

(The irony of that line of thinking won’t hit him until later, when he’s lounging in an outdoor
garden in France, only a mile away from a prestigious winery with a ring on his finger.)
“Oh, don’t be,” the Russian boss says, waving a hand with a charming smile. “She knew the
risks. She knew what would happen if her crime was discovered.”

The confusion must be written all over his face, because Fyodor continues with an impish,
self-satisfied grin, “Annika was killed by her husband when he discovered that the daughter
he had been raising was not his blood, but mine.”

Oh. That’s... That’s certainly interesting. He’s not sure if death is the acceptable punishment
for cheating on your husband and having a child with another man but—

What does Chuuya know? He’s not Russian, he’s not rich or powerful, he’s not a gang boss.
He’s just a normal, ordinary guy who’s first reaction probably wouldn’t be murder, and
instead would be...

Couples therapy? Divorce? Split custody arrangements?

“Right. That’s, uh... unfortunate,” Chuuya draws out, wondering what the fuck he’s supposed
to say to that.

Wondering what the hell he’s supposed to say to any of this, because he certainly wasn’t
expecting a drawn-out, nearly civil conversation with his kidnapper. Is he supposed to be nice
or just... sit here awkwardly?

“You must understand that if you tell Dazai any of this, Nika will be very upset. She’s not...
very understanding when it comes to things like this.”

Chuuya passes a hand over his face, confused as hell and on the verge of breaking into tears.
“Why are you even telling me this if you’re just gonna tell me not to tell anyone? That
doesn’t make any sense.”
He feels like a rat in a cage, making his way through the maze to get the food and hoping he
doesn’t get shocked for it. Being teased and tricked and played with for the hell of it, just so
someone can watch him squirm.

“Simple, solnyshko— I want to see how well you obey. You must be very good for Dazai to
be so infatuated with you,” is his answer, one that automatically makes his nose wrinkle in
response. The idea of Fyodor hitting on him might’ve been appealing before but now it’s not.
Now it makes him feel cornered, because he obviously can’t tell the man to go take a dive off
a balcony. “Call it an insurance policy. You talk, about anything, Nika comes to say hello.”

Right. That makes sense. Fine. That’s okay.

Fyodor sighs when he doesn’t go to answer, pouring himself another drink. The dark purple
of his shirt matches the dark color of his eyes. “You aren’t very talkative, are you?”

“Somehow,” Chuuya says, eyeing him, “I’m not really feeling up for conversation.”

“Understandable— but at least make it entertaining while we wait,” Fyodor responds, tone
thick with disappointment. He sounds like a lecturing professor, sitting down with an
antisocial student. Way too casual for this kind of situation.

“Wait for what?”

Just then, there’s commotion outside the door Chuuya came in through, something that
sounds like shouting and a muffled gunshot. The noise makes him flinch, heart jumping in his
chest.

Fyodor doesn’t seem surprised, head tilting. “For him.”

Dazai. Dazai’s here, he has to be here, he came for him.

Heart pounding for a whole different reason, Chuuya twists in his seat to watch the door with
wide eyes. Even though the noise outside is getting louder, and should be scary considering
all he went through—

He doesn't feel anything except relief, so visceral and overwhelming that tears are welling up
in his eyes from it. The feeling of water on his face when they spill over makes a reactionary
twinge of fear spark through him, but it’s easily ignored.

(For now.)

The noise outside comes to a sharp crescendo, with the sound of something that sounds like
glass being shattered.

After that, it stops completely, and Chuuya’s entire being feels like it’s hanging in the
resulting silence, focus zeroed in on the door, vibrating with anticipation—

The door opens with a slam, kicked in by one of the knee-high boots that Dazai is wearing.
They look heavy, each step resoundingly loud as he stalks into the office.

Finally. The end is in sight.

 Home
Chapter Summary

It’s different. It’s not the same. It’s just water. It’s just a shower.

Chapter Notes

A bit of a longer chapter this time hehehe >:) Nothing too terrible this week, but be
aware that we are starting to delve into the emotional aftermath of what happened, so
expect some angst, hurt/comfort and talk of fear :( as well as more angsty love
confessions, woops :( i hope you guys enjoy and I'll see you guys next week!!! :D <3

Another round of tears is started, and these ones Chuuya has to reach up and wipe away
because the feeling of water trickling down his face makes him itch in a bad way.

Dazai must not have been expecting him to be here, because his expression is tight with fury
when he enters, black coat flaring behind him, and when his eyes find Chuuya sitting in his
seat— they widen with surprise, mouth going slack as he takes him in. He looks shocked,
relieved, concerned, so many emotions flashing over his face so quickly that Chuuya can’t
keep up.

Just as quickly, his eyes are hardening again, turning flat black with anger, gaze snapping up
to find Fyodor behind him. “I thought you knew better than to touch what belongs to me,” he
hisses, half-feral, teeth sharp and possessive. He’s holding a pair of guns, one in each hand.

Chuuya’s never seen a real gun before. He’s only seen them in the movies and the way the
black metal seems to eat all the light to leave a dark, lethal hole, it's—

It's menacing. More than the vicious tone in Dazai's voice, the dark possession in his words,
more than the lingering smell of top-shelf vodka and oiled ropes.
For the first time, Chuuya is seeing who Dazai really is. What he is.

Not the charming father or the suave boyfriend, or the doting and caring partner. Not any of
those other facets of Dazai that he has seen and known and loved.

This is not Dazai. This is the Demon Prodigy, laced and booted for war, dangerous. The type
of man that can, will and has killed someone, and might again. The type of man that causes
whispers of dread and fear in even powerful men. The type of man that— despite everything
that happened, all the secrets and hurt feelings and mistakes, despite all the mistakes and the
little pieces of themselves that have been broken and damaged, despite the fact that Chuuya
probably shouldn't—

Despite everything, he is still the man that Chuuya goes to, when he slides one gun into a
holster under the opposite arm and holds out his hand.

Pushing out of his chair feels as natural as breathing, stumbling towards him is inevitable as
gravity. Chuuya doesn't care about those other things right now. He can be upset later, but
right now, he wants Dazai and he wants to go home. He wants to stop hurting.

"Oh, come in, I'm not busy," is Fyodor's response, followed by a slight shuffle of movement
behind Chuuya.

In a flash, the gun in Dazai's non-dominant hand is coming up, pointed unerringly at Fyodor.

Chuuya freezes, caught between fear and the urge to drop to the floor and cover his head,
thinking frantically about what action is the best one to keep himself safe, if he should duck
or dodge or run or just freeze—

Dazai’s fingers curl at him, beckoning, encouraging him forward. Relieved at being given
directions, Chuuya creeps forward again, shivers running up and down the length of his
spine, terror pumping through him.
“Oh, relax, Dazai. I’ve been nothing but cordial to your little pet and I’m even giving him
back to you without a scratch on him. I just wanted to talk with him,” Fyodor chides,
followed by the sound of glass clinking as he pours himself another drink.

The idea of what happened to him being considered nothing, like it could’ve been worse so
he has no right to feel upset or affected by it, like they’re both overreacting, makes a
trembling keen rise up in Chuuya’s throat.

It’s not nothing. It was awful.

The stroke of Dazai’s knuckles over his cheek, achingly gentle, when Chuuya finally
stumbles close enough makes the noise fade away before he can release it. Falling into him is
easy, and Dazai is warm and reassuringly solid as he wraps his arms around his waist and
buries his face in his chest.

Fingers slide gently down his neck and over his shoulder, gripping him gently and tugging
him back at the same time Dazai takes a step forward. Blindly, Chuuya follows the pull,
ending up hugging Dazai’s side and half-tucked behind him.

“I should kill you for this,” Dazai seethes. The arm on Chuuya’s side has dropped around his
shoulders to hold him close, but the other one still has the gun aimed directly at Fyodor.

Who doesn’t look phased in the least, by the way. Like staring down a gun is a regular
occurrence to him.

(It is. Russian Roulette is a favorite pastime of his. It’s a game he wins every time.)

“Maybe,” he answers, shrugging and swirling his drink in its glass, “but you won’t do it now.
Not in front of him, not when you can’t guarantee his safety,”—he nods toward Chuuya,
which makes him grimace— “and my flight leaves in...four hours.”

“That’s enough time to come back. I work fast when I’m motivated.”
Honestly, Chuuya has had enough of this conversation. He wants to go home, and while he
appreciates Dazai being protective, he doesn’t want to drag this out any longer. He just wants
it all to be over. Everything. All of it. He just wants to sleep, forever, and just wake up again
when everything is going to be fine. When nothing hurts and nothing is scary anymore.

Fyodor’s smile widens, wicked. “Are you sure you want to leave him unattended again?
Remember what happened last time?”

Chuuya shudders at the reminder, arms tightening. He doesn't remember everything that
happened during his kidnapping, but he does remember Nikolai's remorseful grimace, the
apology, and then the world going black.

He remembers waking up and being terrified.

He can't do that again. Not ever again. He won't survive. Dying would be better, would be
easier than going through this again.

Dazai looks like he's going to stay something in response to that, face twisting with wrath,
but when Chuuya leans harder against him, thoroughly exhausted by his ordeal, he rethinks
it.

"We'll settle this later," he decides on instead, silently urging Chuuya backwards and towards
the door. His gun hand doesn't waver, still locked on Fyodor unerringly, but now he's actively
trying to leave.

Fyodor's manic grin doesn't dim. "Sure. See you later, Chuuya. It was very nice chatting with
you."

On second thought, maybe he wouldn't mind if Dazai put a bullet through Fyodor's head, if
only so he would stop smiling at Chuuya like that. Like they've got a secret, like they're
friends, like he still has plans for Chuuya.
Chuuya has to let go of his death grip on Dazai so he can walk properly, stumbling in an
awkward sideways stagger, because he doesn't want to turn his back to Fyodor completely.
The idea of that feels a bit like putting his back to a lethal predator, turning away from a
loaded gun.

He transfers his grip to a desperate hold on Dazai's forearm, because he's still unsteady on his
feet, lightheaded. He also doesn't want to take the chance of being alone again, desperately
holding onto the idea of safety in numbers. Refusing to let go now that he has something to
hold on to.

The door to the office is still slightly ajar, the wood near the knob broken and bent inward
from the force of Dazai's opening kick.

Damn. He knew Dazai was strong, of course, but it's one thing to know how strong he is and
another to see the results of it.

Chuuya pushes through the small gap, using his foot to push the door open farther so Dazai
can follow him out into the hall.

The hall outside is... a mess. There's broken glass littered over the floor, from the windows
looking in on the other offices. Some of the furniture that had decorated the hall has been
smashed to pieces.

Sticking out from one of the rooms is a black boot, completely still.

Chuuya manages to peek as they pass by, Dazai pushing him along on a brisk but unforceful
pace towards the elevators. He wants to get out of here just as quickly as Chuuya does.

Behind the boot is an entire body, outfitted entirely in black. He can't make out a face or even
if the person is breathing before they've passed by and the person is out of sight.
"Did—,” Chuuya hesitates as Dazai reaches out to call the elevator, wondering if he even
wants to know, "Did you kill that person?"

Dazai's expression is strange. Not angry, not anymore, and not any emotion that Chuuya can
pick out, but a strange sort of forced blankness. Like he's shut part of himself down, the part
of him that normally breathes life into his eyes and body.

"Not that one. He's unconscious."

Oh. So Dazai didn't kill that guy...but he did kill someone else. Chuuya swallows hard,
wondering if he's supposed to feel bad about that because—

He really doesn't think he does. He doesn't feel anything more than a passing flicker of pity.
Maybe they shouldn’t have died— but he never should’ve been tortured, either, and the still-
hurting part of himself feels vindicated that they died for that.

The elevator doors slide open with a too-cheery ding, and Chuuya is only mildly anxious as
he steps inside. He didn't like the first elevator ride, but now that he's able to see and move on
his own power, there's only a light thrum of constant anxiety.

Besides, as soon as the doors are closed, Dazai is on him.

All that forced blankness, that near-dead look in his eyes, all that violent rage and destruction
drains out of him so quickly that Chuuya can barely believe it. One moment he’s a protective,
biting beast and the next—

Large hands frame his face, tugging his head upwards so a frantic gaze can look over his
features, taking in every inch of skin with a unique form of desperation.

“Baby,” — the pet name makes Chuuya’s heart jump in response, because there were a few
parts of the last day that made him really think he was never going to hear that sweet sound
rolling off Dazai’s tongue again, would never get to hear that overload of affection and care
packed into one, tiny, adoring word again— “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need a
hospital? I need you to talk to me, baby.”

His own hands come up, gripping onto his forearms as his eyes close, swallowing hard. He’s
not okay, but—

With Dazai here, he’s finally starting to believe that he will be okay, eventually. Finally
realizing that there is light at the end of this horribly damp tunnel, and he just has to reach for
it. But that isn’t what he’s asking, not right now. They can talk about the effects of this later,
but for now—

“No,” he rasps, wincing at how rough his voice feels, how much his throat hurts, “I’m okay.
I’m not hurt, I’m just— my head hurts.”

While the throbbing hasn’t increased any, and the ominous electric-metal taste in the back of
his throat has washed away, his headache isn’t gone.

One of Dazai’s hands leaves his face, and Chuuya is too weak to forcibly make him stay. He
holds on tighter to the other forearm, hoping he doesn’t leave, an automatic pulse of fear
running down his spine.

“Here, take these,” Dazai mutters, reaching into one of his many pockets. There’s a rattle of
pills in a bottle as he digs. “I don’t have water but I have a granola bar.”

He extracts Chuuya’s meds from his pocket, and Chuuya could cry. His meds were on the far
end of the list of things he was worried about, but Dazai didn’t forget. He brought them with,
and even brought a snack to eat them with before he’s not supposed to eat them on an empty
stomach.

He lets go with one hand so Dazai can shake the pills into his palm, paired with the strongest
dose of Tylenol he can take. Hopefully that’ll help with the throbbing of his head, and if not
—
He’ll let Dazai take him to the hospital. He’s not as stubborn as he used to be before, because
he really doesn’t want to lose his memory functions.

One thing at a time, Chuuya, he reminds himself.

Dry-swallowing the pills is harder than it’s ever been with how sore his throat feels. He ends
up having to chew a bite of the granola bar and swallow it down alongside the pills to be able
to get it down.

The food hits his hollow stomach hard, sending an uncomfortable pain shooting through him
before settling down. He’s not hungry, actually hungry— he feels too hollowed out for that,
like something precious in him has been broken and carved out, too exhausted to even think
about going through the motions of life— but he chews mechanically anyways.

“God, you’re soaked,” Dazai mutters to himself, fingers picking at the damp fabric of his
shirt, “What did they do to you?"

The question makes his stomach rise in his throat, squirming nauseous discomfort. It makes
him want to run, want to cry and scream and puke.

He knows what happened to him. Knowing the term for it— waterboarding, declared as cruel
and unusual torture almost universally by every major country that exists today, something
that’s considered a war crime for years— doesn’t make it any easier to reconcile. Doesn’t
make the fact that the feeling of his wet shirt sticking to his skin makes shivers of fear crawl
up his spine. Doesn’t make the raw animalistic instinct of survival any easier to think past.
Doesn’t make it hurt any less.

He doesn’t want to talk about it. Talking about it makes it real, makes it visceral, puts it into
terms that everybody knows but no one will understand. It’s not fair that something so
terrible can be summed up so neatly in a short, hideous sentence. How the fuck are words
supposed to encapsulate that awful experience? How is he supposed to explain?

“Um,” he stalls, blinking away another instinctive round of tears. He hates the idea of water,
and he’s honestly glad that Dazai forgot to bring some with him, because he’s half-convinced
he’d be sick at the sight of it, “Can I tell you later?”

Wide-eyed, Chuuya silently begs Dazai not to push the issue. He will talk about it, he swears,
just—

Not right now. Not when he still doesn’t feel completely safe, not when he’s only a few
stories away from the room of his nightmares, not when it's still so new and fresh and
terrible, not when he’s still wet .

Concern darkens Dazai's eyes, and his eyebrows draw together. He's smart, he can probably
put together what happened without Chuuya needing to explain it to him. Maybe he can even
empathize. Who knows what happened to him when he was...in the mafia.

Before Dazai can say anything, the elevator doors are opening again. The lobby outside is
empty, perfectly clean and serene. It looks like an office after hours, after all the employees
have gone home.

It's creepy, kind of. Unnatural. It feels wrong, and Chuuya creeps silently out into the lobby
in response, feeling on edge, every nerve tingling.

Dazai is right beside him, and he seems torn. He's never more than a step behind, and his
hands flutter around Chuuya, like he wants to touch him and help him, but he's not sure if
he's allowed to. His head is also on a swivel, paranoia evident in the way his gaze is
constantly searching the lobby for any trace of movement.

Chuuya leaves him to it, his gaze fixed on one point, his entire focus narrowed in on the door.
He can see the street outside through the glass doors, and the sight makes him choke up a
little bit.

Fresh air. He wants it so bad he can almost taste it, hastening his pace even though his feet
are still half-numb and the wet fabric of his jeans rubs the skin on his thighs raw. His shoes
make disgusting wet squishing noises with every step, filthy water oozing up between his
toes and making him grimace.
He wants to go home. He wants to shower, he wants to curl up in bed, he wants to hug Yoko
and Baki and go to sleep.

“Here,” Dazai says, catching his attention. In two long strides he’s ahead of him, pushing
open the door for him. He holds out one hand as he passes by him.

In it is his phone, already pre-dialed with a number Chuuya knows very well.

“Call your sister, let her know you’re okay.”

How does he know Kouyou? Sure, Chuuya has mentioned her before, but only in terms of
‘his ane-san’ and he absolutely didn’t share her number with Dazai.

How does she even know he was missing? He can see the time on the phone screen and it
hasn’t even been twelve hours yet. She wasn’t expecting him to call today, so there’s no way
she should know and there’s no way Dazai should’ve been able to tell her—

Unless he used his old mafia contacts to, like, stalk her or something? Get her information
with a background check or something? Isn’t that a thing?

Too weary to argue, Chuuya takes the phone from him and presses dial. If she’s worried, then
she deserves a call to reassure her that he’s okay. Well, mostly, anyway. Okay enough to
breathe and walk and mostly function. At least for the moment.

“I’m gonna pick you up,” Dazai warns him, only a few moments before arms come around
his back and under his knees, swooping him up into a bridal carry effortlessly.

Normally, Chuuya might protest or at least give the impression of protesting, but not today.
Now, he just snuggles in close, feeling distantly guilty that he’s getting Dazai’s clothes damp
with disgusting water. He’s warm, much warmer than the cool air outside, much warmer than
the freezing damp of his clothes.

Maybe he shouldn’t do this, but Chuuya doesn’t care right now. He blindly seeks out comfort,
tucking his nose against Dazai’s neck and making a space for himself under his chin. It’s the
first time he’s felt like he can take an untainted breath since he got kidnapped, a sweet sense
of safety and relief swirling through him.

It gives him the strength to bring the phone to his ear. It only rings twice before the dial tone
cuts off sharply. “Dazai?”

...How does she know Dazai? She sounds familiar with him, and she obviously knows this is
his phone number if she's starting with that greeting.

"No," he mutters, curling closer as Dazai quickens his pace, speed-walking away from the
building. The wind makes him shiver. "It's me."

"Chuuya?! Oh my god, are you okay? What happened? Where are you, I'll come there right
now—”

Chuuya cuts her off, because as much as he wants to reassure her and make sure she's not
worrying—

He is not up for handling smothering right now, especially by more than one person. Dazai is
sure to smother him a bit, or at least Chuuya is assuming he will, and while they both mean
well, it's too much.

He just—

He needs some time , to process and to handle what happened, and to come to terms with it.
Time to himself, time to feel safe and like his life isn’t over
"I'm okay," he says, filling his voice with as much conviction he can muster, making sure
none of the shaking comes through. Kouyou is stubborn, just like everyone else in the family,
and if she thinks he's lying, she'll come to check up on him whether he likes it or not. "I'm
with Dazai. He'll take care of me."

The arms around him squeeze, a silent confirmation and reassurance.

They're almost two blocks away from the building now, and getting farther fast. With how
late it is— in the middle of the night, judging by how dark it is and how high the moon is—
this part of the city is nearly completely empty. From what Chuuya can tell, it's the business
sector, where most of the offices can be found.

The lack of people means Dazai can take advantage of his long stride, hurrying out of the
district. Hopefully, he parked his car somewhere nearby, because the idea of taking the train
right now is nauseating. He doesn't want anyone else to look at him, with how bad he must
look.

There's a moment of silence, where he can tell that Kouyou is clearly disapproving. "Are you
sure you're okay? I can come pick you up, or take you to a hospital?"

"I just have a few bumps and bruises, so I don't need a hospital yet. I'll let you know if
anything changes," Chuuya relents, fingers tightening in Dazai's jacket. He doesn’t know
how much she knows about the situation, but he’s starting to get suspicious.

He takes a turn, down a narrow alleyway that's almost hidden between two larger buildings. It
looks abandoned, but Chuuya can just barely make out the shape of Dazai's car near the back.
A decent hiding place, if a little half-assed. Anyone could've come down here.

Switching his weight to one arm, Dazai manages to unlock the car with one hand. Opening
the door is a little more difficult, and he has to eventually set Chuuya down on his feet so he
can slide into the passenger seat. The car is warm and safe compared to the outside. He curls
up in the seat, kicking his disgusting shoes off. They flop wetly to the floor, but it's better
than wearing them.
When Dazai shuts his door and starts to walk around to his side of the car, Chuuya takes his
chance to ask Kouyou, "How do you know Dazai?"

It's not that he's hiding the fact that he asking her, he just wants to hear her side of the story
first.

There's a long beat of silence, like she's deciding what to say. She always does this when she
doesn't want to answer a question. When she's deciding if she's going to avoid it or not.
"It's...best if I tell you in person."

Miraculously, a sluggish spike of irritation crawls through him. He's sick and tired of
everybody keeping secrets. Giving themselves outs by saying he didn't need to know, or that
it was safer if he didn't know, or that they were scared of his reaction.

He's fucking tired of being left in the dark and inevitably suffering the price for it.

"Fine, whatever," he snaps, "I'll let you know if anything changes."

Then he smashes the end call button before she can respond, feeling a vindictive satisfaction
at having the last word. If she doesn't want to tell him, there's no need to talk to him at all.
Fuck her.

The driver side door opens then, allowing Dazai to slide in and start the car. As soon as the
car is running, he’s putting it in drive and pulling away. Chuuya is grateful he seems as eager
to leave as he is. If he doesn’t see that damn building ever again, it’ll be too soon.

“Do you want me to take you to your sister or do you want me to take you home— our hou—
my house?”
Dazai’s question is quiet and unsure, an uncharacteristic show of insecurity. Chuuya’s noticed
that even if he feels unsure, he will often cover it up with bold words or actions so no one
looks too deeply.

So the fact that his hands are wringing the steering wheel in rhythmic, self-soothing motions
and he stumbles over the end of his question is telling. He’s nervous. He also a reason to be,
but Chuuya doesn’t have the energy to bring up their past fight and everything that happened
before.

“Take me home,” he mutters, resting his head against the headrest. He’s so tired and his eyes
want to close but—

The sight of complete and utter darkness is scary. He can’t see what’s coming, can’t prepare.
Can’t protect himself if he closes his eyes.

His answer is a deep exhale from Dazai, the turn of the car onto the road that leads them
home.

After a few moments, the curiosity gets the best of Chuuya and he has to ask. “How do you
know my sister? How do you know her number?”

More silence, and Chuuya swears he’s going to scream if Dazai pushes the question off
again.

In the driver's seat, he looks hesitant, fingers drumming on the wheel. “I will tell you, if you
want,” he eventually settles on, “but I do want to say that you’ll probably want to hear it from
her.”

That...doesn’t sound good. But either way, she had her chance to tell him herself, and she
didn’t. He’s tired of respecting people’s privacy, only to get taken advantage of. “Just tell
me.”
Another deep breath. “Your sister is the boss of the Port Mafia.”

What? That’s wrong, that doesn’t make any sense. She’s an accountant at Mori Corporations.
She went to college for it, she’s the head of her department and has her own employees.
There’s no way she’s—

“That’s not funny,” Chuuya says sternly, hoping that Dazai’s joking or lying or just
misinformed because—

There’s no way his sister has been lying to him for years. There’s no way she would hide
something this big, this life-changing from him, something that would put him in this much
danger. There’s no way she would go as far as to fake company meetings and vacations and a
degree.

Dazai shoots a look in his direction, one that is quietly sympathetic. “It’s not a joke, chibi.
Kouyou has been the head of the Mafia for almost four years now.”

That’s—

That’s—

What the fuck?

Chuuya presses his hands to his eyes, trying to reconcile the idea of his sister— his sister,
who practically raised him and can’t cook and has pink bath towels and lavender-scented
candles— being the leader of one of the bloodiest organizations today. He doesn’t want to
believe it, but Dazai doesn’t have a reason to lie about that. It doesn’t gain him anything and
—

It doesn’t make sense any other way. That story explains perfectly why Kouyou knew Dazai,
how he had her phone number, and why she knew he was missing.
“Did you know? That she was my sister?”

He doesn’t want to think it but—

What if this was all part of Dazai's plan? Getting close to him? Chuuya doesn’t know how
that’d work, but it’s a big coincidence for the ‘Demon Prodigy’ to somehow end up dating
the little brother of the leader of the Mafia.

Maybe too much of a coincidence.

He doesn’t know who or what to trust anymore. Everyone has been lying to him forever . No
one ever tells him anything.

“No, not until a few hours ago. I’ve never met her personally until today, and both of your
records had been scrubbed thoroughly. I was just as shocked as everyone else,” Dazai
responds, voice sincere.

“Why did you meet her today? What changed?”

The look on Dazai’s face implies that he should know the answer already, and he shouldn’t
have to spell it out for him. “You went missing, Chuuya, and I couldn’t find you on my own.
I needed help.”

Oh. That makes sense, and it’s sweet in a way. Chuuya knows his past with the Mafia
probably isn’t clear-cut, dry or easy to handle, based on what he’s mentioned of it before. It
makes a spark of warmth bloom in his chest to realize how far Dazai would go for him, even
as complicated as it is.

Chuuya lets more silence fall, unsure of what to say or think or feel. He’s swinging between
incensed betrayal and hurt and indignation, trying to understand why no one ever trusts him
enough to tell him important things, and sheer, apathetic exhaustion.

Luckily, the car ride home passes by in a blur. It’s mostly silent in the car, beyond the sound
of the heater running full blast. Even the seat warmers are on to their max setting, something
that usually makes Chuuya feel like his ass is getting fried—

But now, it barely seems to make a dent in the ice that seems to spread all the way down to
his soul.

Eventually he has to crack a window when the smell of the foul water heating up begins to
waft through the car. It makes his nose wrinkle with disgust, and his eyes prick with tears.
He’s such a disgusting mess right now, and he loathes it. He wants nothing more than a
shower and clean clothes.

When they finally arrive home, Dazai parks the car in the driveway and is the first one out of
the car.

Unbuckling his seatbelt takes more energy than Chuuya thought it would, the button more
stiff than he remembers. By the time he gets it undone, he feels like he’s about to cry with
how weak his body feels. Like it’s about to give out at any moment.

It’s nearly 4a.m now, which means that he’s been awake for almost twenty hours, not
including the time he spent knocked out. It’s a record since he got sick, and he can feel the
exhaustion weighing on him like a physical thing, dragging at his arms and legs and pressing
down on his chest.

Dazai pulls him out of the car when Chuuya is too slow to do it himself, leaving his shoes on
the floor. He hikes him into his arms again, taking all his weight and supporting him so that
he doesn’t have to find the strength to walk himself.

Chuuya leans into him easily, hooking his chin over his shoulder and relaxing. His head still
hurts, but it’s slowly starting to fade away, now that he’s taken some pain meds.
Yoko greets them at the front door, more excited than she’s ever been, jumping and barking
and wagging her tail so furiously that her entire body shakes with it. She nearly knocks Dazai
over entirely when she jumps up to shove her nose into Chuuya’s back, sniffing loudly.

For the first time since everything happened, he smiles. It’s small and fragile, barely there,
but it is a smile.

Yoko’s such a good girl, it’s impossible not to love her. Even when Chuuya feels awful, he
always knows that at least Yoko will love him unconditionally, and she won’t ever fight with
him or leave him. She won’t ever lie to him or keep secrets from him.

He always has Yoko. Baki, too, even though he hasn’t seen him yet, and Kozo. They won’t
ever hurt him. They love him.

Dazai takes him up to the master bathroom, cautiously making his way through the house
with Yoko and Kozo practically stepping on his heels. Baki meows loudly when they come
into the bedroom, standing up on the pillow he's claimed for himself and arching his back in
clear invitation for pets.

He's still curled on Chuuya's side of the bed, in the same spot he would be if Chuuya were
sleeping in it. Like he was waiting for him to come home and take his spot.

(In that moment, Chuuya realizes something that will stay with him for the rest of his long
life—

Home isn't the house you return to at the end of the day. Home are the people and things that
love you and wait for you to come back, no matter how long it takes.)

Dazai lowers him to his feet in the bathroom, slowly enough that Chuuya can find his balance
before he pulls away.
"Do you want to shower?" He asks quietly, unobtrusive. He hasn't made a single comment
about the smell or the way he looks, and he doesn't put pressure on him. If Chuuya said no,
he's sure Dazai would just help him into a clean set of clothes without a single word of
complaint and let him sleep in his bed even as disgusting as he is.

Except Chuuya does want to shower. He's filthy and achy, and frozen to the bone. Some parts
of him have been rubbed raw by his damp clothing, and he doesn't even want to know what
his hair looks like right now. His face feels gritty and he needs to wash the phantom feeling
of wet cloth off his face—

There's just one problem, one that he should've expected:

Water.

Just the thought of water pouring down on him makes him shiver in cold fear. The thought of
being alone in there, water pouring down on him, over him, soaking him, and the lights will
be on, but he has to close his eyes sometime, and it’ll be cold dark alone wet pain—

"Um," he says, stalling, trying to breathe through the rising tightness in his chest, "Will you
come in with me?"

It's not a sexual thing, he just doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want to be left by himself
in there with the water.

Kneeling in front of him so he can peel off his socks, Dazai looks up at him. He looks
concerned at first, slightly confused, like he doesn't know why he's asking. Like he thinks
he's asking for the wrong reasons.

Chuuya gives him a pleading look, silently begging him not to ask and not to refuse.

Whatever expression he's wearing must be enough to convince him, because he's giving a
slow nod after a moment. Thankfully he doesn't say anything, because Chuuya has no idea
what he'd say to any questions right now. If he’d even be able to speak without bursting into
tears.

His clothes are peeled off carefully. It's a struggle to shrug out of his wet shirt, and his jeans
resist Dazai's fingers pulling on the waistband, but eventually he's standing there naked and
shivering, arms wrapped around himself. Vulnerable, all his defenses stripped away.

Dazai reaches over to turn the shower on so it can warm up before he takes his own clothes
off.

For once, Chuuya curses the excellent water pressure because the sound of the water hitting
the tile hard makes him flinch. It sounds like rain, sounds like water falling, dripping,
crashing onto the floor—

Grabbing the sleeves, Dazai shrugs off his coat. It's long and pitch-black, nothing Chuuya has
ever seen before. It also looks the slightest bit too small, straining over his shoulders as he
pulls it off, like he’s outgrown it.

His heavy, knee-high boots are next. Dazai props up his foot on the toilet seat, reaching into
the boot and extracting a long, sheathed knife.

Was that in there the whole time? Not only did Dazai bring at least a pair of guns— probably
more, because the sound the coat made as he draped it over the laundry basket was heavy—
but a knife in his boot too? Was he preparing for war?

Watching Dazai— this Dazai, which seems like a different Dazai than the one he's used to—
get undressed is a process. He's got weapons that Chuuya hasn't even heard of, tucked into
places he never would've suspected. His boots have to be unzipped and then unlaced before
they can be pulled off. The holsters around his thighs and hips need to be pulled off before he
can get to his belt. Same thing with the holsters under his arms.

Dazai seems practiced, efficiently getting everything off while Chuuya just...
Stares.

It's like something out of a Yakuza movie, the protagonist armed to the teeth with knives and
guns and explosives, and every weapon Chuuya can think of, stashed into tiny places. It's
ridiculous. It's unnecessary. It's overboard. It's...

Also kind of hot?

Obviously Chuuya isn't really thinking about sex right now, but the way Dazai casually flips
one of the bigger knives and catches it by the hilt so he can set it on the counter is attractive.
The confident way he handles everything, and the neat lines he makes with the weapons on
the bathroom counter is also surprisingly appealing.

Even with the array of knives, Chuuya still doesn't feel a hint of nerves about it. Despite
everything, he still doesn’t think Dazai would ever hurt him like that, not with the way he
came to his rescue, not when he seemed so relieved for him to be home again.

Finally Dazai's just as naked as he is and stepping into the shower. He turns around, so the
water is pouring down on his back and holding his hand out to Chuuya in invitation.

He can't put it off any longer. Can't distract himself anymore with other thoughts. He has to
get in.

The worst part is that he wants to. Logically, he does, and he knows its not the same, and he
can fucking see and taste and hear and know it's not the same as what happened to him.
There's no cloth over his face here, no aching coldness, no scrape of metal buckets with
disgusting water sloshing in them.

It's different. He knows that. And it doesn’t matter.

His body doesn't seem to get the message, because his heart is thundering in his chest, pulse
racing like it's trying to outrun the fear and panic rising inside him. He's broken out in a cold
sweat, shivering faintly, eyes locked on the drops of water hitting the tile. His knees feel
weak, like they might give out from underneath him.

"Are you coming in?"

Dazai looks concerned, eyebrows bunched together. His hair is wet now, plastered to his
forehead, water dripping down his features. His hand is still outstretched, waiting for him to
grab it.

Gritting his teeth, Chuuya forces himself forward a step. Two steps, three, all the way to the
edge of the shower, where the step lowers down into the shower and the water pools briefly
before draining back down.

He's not going to let this rule him. He might have been waterboarded and it was awful, but
he's not going to be afraid of his own damn shower. He's not a coward, he will push through
this.

The air is hot and humid, steam swirling through the air. It makes it hard to breathe, just
slightly, and sticks to his face. It makes him shiver, and despite the fact that he knows it's
warm, it feels too cold in here.

Reaching out, he takes Dazai's hand. Their fingers slide together, wet, before Dazai squeezes
and grabs on tight.

He doesn't pull him into the shower so much as he urges him in, providing a barrier with his
body that blocks most of the oncoming water. It gives Chuuya a little space to curl into,
pressing close until their skin is sliding together, wet and warm and comforting.

It gives him the time to get used to the idea of being wet without being in pain, letting his
heart rate slowly calm. Dazai's hands have come down on his shoulders, slowly and gently
enough that Chuuya could protest if he wanted. When he doesn't, his fingers get to work at
slowly massaging the knots out of his shoulders.
It's mindlessly comforting, touch and affection and warmth. Pushing the memories out of his
skin, washing away the remnants from his body, revealing the person he was before today.
Rubbing away the pain and fear, and replacing it with safety and security.

Taking a deep breath, Chuuya lets his hand slide outward, fingers coming underneath the
spray of water. The initial sensation— water pouring down on him— makes him flinch in
response, fighting the urge to withdraw and hide.

Just as quickly though, he's registering the differences of it. The water is warm, not cold. It
leaves him feeling clean afterwards, not gritty with filth. It's clear and with the ceiling light, it
looks almost golden.

It's not the same, not at all. It's just fucking water, and that realization shouldn't feel so huge,
but it does.

It's just water.

He lets it run through his palm, down his arm, carving out little paths of cleanliness. It drips
off his elbow, lands on his thigh, and when it's finally swirling towards the drain, it’s muddy-
looking and gray with grime.

Chuuya wrinkles his nose. Gross.

There’s a minor setback when Dazai reaches behind him and offers him the washcloth he
normally uses to scrub himself off. The wet-black sight of it makes Chuuya’s pulse skyrocket
back into panicked racing, and he shrinks backward, grimacing.

“No,” he says, firm, digging for the anger beneath all the pain and misery, fighting the
shudders that want to crawl down his spine. “Not the washcloth. I want the scrubby thing.”

For the first time, Dazai isn’t amused by his refusal to call the loofah by its proper name, and
silently swaps them out. He hasn’t said anything, but by the pained look in his eye and the
twist of remorse in his expression, he’s probably already figured out what happened.

Good. If he knows, then Chuuya doesn’t have to tell him. He doesn’t have to put it into neat,
horrible little words that will never be able to capture the experience. He doesn’t have to
acknowledge it, and he can just move on without that.

It’s fine, he reasons, lathering up the loofah with his strongest-smelling body wash. He has
quite the little collection now, and Dazai has even installed one of those shower baskets that
attach to the wall, so he can store his soaps in it.

The smell is cherry blossoms, almost too sweet. He doesn’t use it often, because it’s a strong
smell that lingers in the shower for hours after the fact, and overpowers any other scent
Chuuya tries to use that day. It's perfect for today, though, because he doesn't want to smell
anything like he does right now, dirty and filthy. If he never smells rotten water again, he'll be
happy.

The loofah is soft on his skin, gently scrubbing away every spot of dirt on his skin and
replacing it with foam. He works his way meticulously down his body, making sure to get
every inch of himself, starting with his arms and moving down his torso. Dazai is still
blocking most of the water stream, so he has to reach around him once or twice to rewet the
loofah, but it's not a hassle.

It's...quiet. Chuuya is focused on his task with laser intensity, making sure he gets every part
of himself, like he's afraid that the experience will stick to him if he misses even a speck of
grime. Dazai is silently watching him, expression forcibly blank, like he's trying not to react
to the sight of Chuuya scrubbing himself nearly raw.

Like he doesn't know what to say, because there's nothing to say to something like this.
There's only the ability to watch as Chuuya slowly washes away the composure that's holding
him together.

Eventually, Dazai reaches out and finds the very ends of his hair. He tugs on it, just hard
enough to get his attention without causing even a twinge of pain. "Can I wash your hair?"
Normally, Chuuya prefers to wash his own hair. It’s taken him a long time to find a routine
that works for him, and his curls have a tendency to go haywire for the next three washes if
there’s any deviation from that routine.

But the idea of lifting his hands above his head for long enough to work shampoo and
conditioner through his hair, rinsing, detangling...

It’s exhausting. He’s already starting to feel winded after just scrubbing his legs. He nods,
silently grateful.

Fingertips glance over his shoulder, getting his attention. He looks back and up, catching
Dazai’s concerned expression.

“I’m gonna take the shower head and get your hair wet, okay?”

Chuuya is torn, because he appreciates the warning because the idea of being sprayed with
water by surprise is terrifying now—

But also it feels so fucking weak and ridiculous that he has to be warned that he’s going to be
wet when he’s already in the damn shower. He knows he can’t move on so quickly, and he’s
not even a few hours out from when he was being drowned on dry land but—

It’s not fair that he has to deal with the lingering after effects of what someone else did to
him. It’s not fair that Nika gets to go on with her life probably never struggling with
something so simple, while Chuuya can’t take a fucking shower.

He nods, going back to scrubbing underneath his arms.

The shower head rattles as Dazai pulls it from it’s cradle, and the sound of water hitting the
floor increases for a moment.
Then water is hitting the back of his foot and Chuuya has to stop what he’s going and just...
fight back the urge to run, as the stream of water slowly makes its way up his legs.

His body isn’t so bad, and he can even relax into the stream after a while. He turns his hip
into it so the stream can reach the front of his body and start to wash off all the suds.

Dazai’s pulled his hair so it lays flat on his back, the ends reaching his shoulder blades. Even
that isn’t so bad, water coursing down his spine as the ends of his hair gets heavy with water.

It’s when the water hits the back of his neck that they run into a problem.

As soon as he feels water on his neck, he’s instinctively hunching his shoulders and lurching
forward out of the spray. He doesn’t have a lot of room to move without getting out of the
shower entirely, so he ends up half-curled against the glass panes, arms reaching up to cover
his face and shivering.

In the silence that falls, his shuddering breath— need air, need to breathe, can’t breathe, I
can’t breathe— is horrifically loud.

Dazai is the first one to break the tension in the room. He reaches out with the hand that isn’t
holding the shower head, brushing his fingertips over his shoulder blades. He doesn’t grab
him or try to restrain him, which Chuuya is distantly grateful for. He’s sure that would not
help the panic currently thrumming through him.

“Hey,” he murmurs, quiet voice seeping into the air like steam and sinking into his skin,
“You’re alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Chuuya knows that. Dazai can tell him that, he can tell himself that, but it doesn’t fucking
matter because he’s been taught first hand and ruthlessly that water does hurt. Not always,
but it can, and all he can feel is the aftermath of the burning feel of water in his lungs,
choking him.
“Not my face,” he blurts out, frantic, needing to get the message across because that’ll be too
much, he’s already holding himself together by the edges, a hairsbreadth away from falling
apart, from letting the newly-carved cracks show.

“Okay, I won’t. I promise,” Dazai responds, low and soothing. Something about the smooth
rumble of his voice, so different from the raspy accented voice that had questioned him lets
his heart rate drop again.

It’s different. It’s not the same. It’s just water. It’s just a shower.

“Would it be easier if you got your hair wet yourself?”

Objectively, yes, that would probably be easier. It would give him control, it would let him
take it at his own pace. But the problem with that—

It relies on Chuuya to make the first move. Right now, he isn’t sure if he can do that. If he
can feel the fear, the panic, the anxiety, the memories and still let the water pour over his
head.

That hurts the worst. He’s always considered himself brave, someone that would never let
anxiety or fear rule his actions. He’s always pushed through every obstacle that stood in his
way with unrelenting stubbornness, refusing to ever back down, even if he should. He always
viewed his recklessness with a sort of pride because he might be foolish and not smart
enough and too weak—

But at least he never backed down. At least he could be counted to push through, no matter
what he was facing.

Now, that feels like that's been taken from him. He doesn't want to be strong or brave or
reckless, and if it were up to him—

Maybe he'd never wash his own hair, and that's perhaps the most horrible part of all.
He shakes his head, forcing himself to uncurl and stand up straight. "No, I want you to do it."

He does not look at Dazai's face as he moves back into range, because he doesn't want to see
the pity there. He doesn't want to see the sympathy, the concern, or anything else he's feeling.
Chuuya's already feeling enough for both of them, he doesn't need to pile that on top.

"Okay," Dazai murmurs, quietly accepting and Chuuya is glad he's not pushing him to do it
by himself. He's accepting the limits that are being given to him without question. "Tip your
head back."

Suppressing a shiver, Chuuya does as he's told. Fingers find the back of his head, supporting
his weight as the shower stream moves up again.

It's better like this, marginally. The position— head tilted back— is unfortunate, but Dazai's
hand underneath him is easy to sink into, comforting, a reminder that he knows this. He
knows Dazai, he knows what's happening, he knows this won't hurt. He reminds himself of
that over and over again, his thoughts gaining a frantic edge.

As the water moves up, his hand switches grip, coming up to cup around his hairline and
making sure that no water drips down his face as he wets the hair higher up his head. It
blocks Chuuya's vision slightly, giving him a sense of privacy because he can't see Dazai
anymore.

Privacy he appreciates, because the act of being seen in a moment that Chuuya would
probably describe as one of his most vulnerable is... uncomfortable. It makes him want to
hide, even if he knows he won't be hurt.

Shampooing is a gentle process compared to his usual routine. Usually, he scrubs at his scalp
to make sure it's clean, but Dazai gently runs his fingertips through his hair patiently, working
the suds to the ends of his hair. He makes sure to get every strand thoroughly.
When his fingers find the bump on the back of his head, the sore pain makes Chuuya wince
again. The ache from where Nikolai knocked him out has mostly faded and is almost
unnoticeable in the sea of everything else that Chuuya is feeling right now, but it flares up
quickly when Dazai presses against it.

"What happened?" He asks, lightening his touch.

Here, Chuuya faces a dilemma. He could, and maybe he should, tell Dazai that Nikolai
ambushed him outside of his house and knocked him out. He doubts that Dazai knows that
Nikolai was working with Fyodor, because he probably wouldn't let an enemy befriend his
son like that and invite him over to the house. It wouldn't make any sense.

But on the other hand... he doesn't know what Dazai would do if he knew. Chuuya is
obviously pissed at Nikolai, but at the same time, he doesn't think he wants him to.. die, or
something. He doesn't want Dazai to do anything to him before he can at least speak to his
former roommate.

They were friends, and even if that might be fake and even if it was a set-up for Nikolai to get
close to Dazai, and even if Nikolai hurt him badly—

Chuuya still considered him a friend at some point, a really good friend, and that alone gives
him the right to explain himself, in Chuuya's mind. He has the right to explain himself, and
maybe apologize. He has the right to speak to Chuuya first, and not an overprotective Dazai.
And Chuuya deserves to hear his side of the story firsthand.

"They knocked me out," he settles on, short and succinct. It's the truth, but it's not the whole
story.

By Dazai's silence, he's not happy with the answer, probably angry on his behalf, but he
resumes washing his hair without another word. He doesn't actively avoid the bump, but he's
incredibly gentle when he massages shampoo into that area. It feels nice, relaxing.

Rinsing is either this time, now that he knows he won’t have water pour down on his face. It
still makes his heart race when he feels the stream near his hairline, washing out his roots, but
at least he’s able to stay still, albeit with some fidgeting and feeling like his heart is going to
beat straight out of his chest.

This time, as Dazai works conditioner through his hair patiently, Chuuya cups his hands
under the water and gets his fingers wet. Raising his hands, he works on rubbing the filth off
his face.

It’s slow going and feels woefully inadequate, like his skin might never be clean again, but
it’s better than nothing.

(Dazai is experiencing... a lot of emotions right now.

The first and most pressing is a sense of relief. He got Chuuya back—relatively unharmed, at
least in a physical sense— and now he’s safe and at home, within arms reach. No one is
going to hurt him any more, he’ll make sure of it.

He’s walking and talking, and coherent—

But something in him has been broken. He’s hurt, badly.

It’s not obvious to someone who doesn’t know him, but Chuuya is full of life. He’s snarky,
energetic, and friendly. A social butterfly who makes friends wherever he goes. Bratty and
defiant, but also loving. He’s the embodiment of what life should be.

Now, all that seems to have drained away, leaving Chuuya a pale, shivering ghost in his
grasp. He’s quiet— abnormal in itself, because he’s always been loud— and his eyes are flat.
Deep blue, without the shine of life, barely responsive.

Dazai aches for him, and below the relief of having him home, is the rage that someone dared
to hurt him. Rage at himself for letting him go, rage that he shouldn’t feel when Chuuya
shrinks away from the water.
Chuuya hasn’t said anything but—

Dazai isn’t stupid, he can guess at what happened to him. What they did to him. Why he’s
terrified of the water on his face and why he won’t even touch the damp washcloth.

Waterboarding. Dry drowning.

He’s never been waterboarded himself, but he has drowned before. On purpose, so it’s not the
same, but he can imagine the burning, searing agony of water in his lungs. He knows what it
feels like, and it hurts to know that Chuuya went through that. It hurts to see him hunched
over, rubbing his face with wet fingertips, because he can’t bear the feeling of water running
over his face. It hurts to see someone he loves so damaged and hurting because of his
mistakes.

This should’ve never happened to him. Dazai should’ve been more careful, smarter, more
trusting, braver. There’s so many things he could’ve been— should’ve been— to prevent this
from happening.

As always, it’s Dazai’s faults that lead to the people he cherishes most getting taken away
from him. Getting hurt because of him. He never learns his lesson, he’s never good enough
and he always ends up here.

Holding the love of his life and unable to do anything to take away his pain. Wishing—
wrongly, perhaps— that Chuuya had never met him, because if he hadn’t—

He wouldn’t be in pain because of him. Pain that Dazai can’t take away or wish onto himself
instead. He can’t do anything. All he can do is comb his fingers gently through his hair to
smooth away the tangles—

And offer something Chuuya should've had earlier. Say something he deserves to hear, even
if Dazai doesn’t deserve to say it, not now.)
“I love you.”

Chuuya stills.
 Tidal Waves
Chapter Summary

Anything he could ever want is inevitably lost, right? And some things.... some things
you just can’t come back from. Some things can’t be fixed, no matter how you try.

Some things... they just stay broken.

Chapter Notes

i am so tired of overtime at work!!!!!!!! also i hope u all enjoy this long chapter <3 see
you next week <3

For a moment, he thinks he misheard that, somehow. Or that it was a mistake, a slip of the
tongue, something that Dazai will laugh off and explain what he really meant to say. But
when he tilts his head, peeking over his shoulder at him, Dazai’s expression is calm and clear
and open. He doesn’t say anything when Chuuya looks at him, gaze steady.

It’s clear. He said it. He meant it. He wanted Chuuya to hear it.

For a moment, there’s joy. It’s the first time someone has ever confessed to him. It’s his first
boyfriend telling him he loves him for the first time, and Chuuya loves him too, how could he
not be happy? It’s everything he ever wanted, and maybe it’s not the life he pictured for
himself but—

He’s happy here, like this, with Dazai.

Just as quickly, the joy fades—

And that’s when the anger sets in because—

How dare he? How fucking dare he tell him that like this? Does he think that the misery of
this moment can be offset by a confession that’s too late? Does he think that fixes things?
Makes him feel better?

How fucking dare he tie Chuuya to this moment irrevocably? How dare he take something
that is supposed to be happy for Chuuya, and give it to him when he feels his worst?

Now Chuuya can never put this moment behind him. It will forever be the first time someone
ever confessed to him, and he’ll never be able to forget it. Never be able to move past it and
any time someone asks when his first confession was—

He will remember what it feels like now.

How dare he.

“No,” he hisses, almost surprised by the amount of seething rage in his tone, “you don’t get
to say that to me. Not after what you said to me—“ You’re too young to know what that word
means, Dazai had said mockingly “—not after what they did to me.”

Anger— true anger, from the soul— is corruption. It’s like something that lives inside you,
something that lives and breathes and has teeth. It takes over, turns your hands into tools of
destruction, makes bloody fangs out of your teeth, cuts your own tongue with the weight of
the words spilling from your mouth, carves you up from the inside out.

It makes you a monster. Uncontrollable, mean, destructive.

And the worst part is that at the end of the day, when everything is said and done… you only
have yourself to blame. There is no monster. There's just you , at your worst, fire and fear and
rage, destroying the things you love.
"I know," Dazai responds, his expression still dead-calm and unmoving in the face of
Chuuya's sudden anger, and Chuuya wants to bite it off his face. It's not fair that he gets to
look so calm and collected when Chuuya feels like he's imploding from the inside, collapsing
into the gravitational star in his chest, ripped apart by a black hole.

Oh, he knows? Furious, Chuuya lurches forward a step forward, slamming his palms into his
chest. "Then why the fuck did you say it?"

Maybe this is an unfair thought, and maybe he'll regret it later, but if Dazai had said that
literally twelve fucking hours earlier, then Chuuya would've never been taken. He never
would've been kidnapped or drowned or threatened, nothing!

This is all his fault, and it's not fucking fair that Dazai gets to be all calm while Chuuya has to
deal with the fallout, feeling like he’s falling apart.

Chin lifting, Dazai shows the stubbornness that is usually hidden. It's not that he's fighting
Chuuya, he just refuses to take it back. "Because it's true, and you should know."

It's—

"Shut up. Just— shut the fuck up," Chuuya whispers, voice cracking on the last word. It's too
much. Everything is too much. Too much pain, too much suffering, too much misery and
knowledge and surprise and it's just—

It's just too fucking much. He's been holding himself together pretty well, all things
considered, but now all that careful control is cracking.

A sharp keen builds in his throat, expression crumpling, emotions rising like the tide, too big
to contain.

And despite how pissed he is at Dazai right now, how much he's hurt him, how unfair it all is
—
He's still the person that makes him feel better, he's still the one Chuuya will automatically
look towards when he needs comfort. When he needs to be held and reassured.

No matter how much Dazai hurts him, Chuuya will always come back when he needs him
again. It feels pathetic of him.

He crashes into him, like gravity pulled them together, wrapping his arms around Dazai's
waist. Burying his face into his chest blocks out most of the light, and smears water over his
forehead. He doesn't care anymore.

The first sob that rips from him is brutal. It tears through his chest with near vicious intensity,
shaking his entire frame. It burns his raw throat as it escapes, prompting a round of tears to
pool in his eyes.

All the gasping cries and chest-wrenching sobs after that are not any easier to bear. It's
relentless, a flood of emotion that Chuuya breaks under, unable to do anything but cling
blindly to Dazai and draw in a raspy breath before it's being punched out of him again. And
again and again and again, ugly sobs heaving out of him until he's shaking with it.

Dazai's arms come around him lightly. They're just tight enough to make him feel secure
without making him feel trapped. One of his hands palms his spine, supportive. The other
slides into his hair, cupping the back of his head and holding him close. Making him feel
wanted and accepted, but never forcing him to stay.

"Shh, little love," he hears from above him, accompanied by the soothing sweep of his thumb
over his shoulder blade, "I've got you now."

It's a senseless, almost meaningless platitude, something that shouldn't mean as much as it
does.

It works though, soothing a tiny piece of him. A piece that makes him cling harder, digging
his nails into Dazai's back to somehow drag himself even closer. A piece that is frantic with
the idea that Dazai might let go, that he might be left alone again, a piece that fears the dark
and the cold.

Dazai never lets him go, not even for a moment. He just holds him as he cries, as he relieves
all the stress and pain of the last sixteen hours. As he mourns the tragedy of what happened to
him, mourns the fight he had with Dazai, as he processes everything he's learned today.

It's not long before Chuuya tires himself out. He simply doesn't have the energy to cry that
long right now. Between his ordeal, how long he's been awake, and his lingering exhaustion
from his sickness, he's worn out quickly. It's not long before he's swaying on his feet, sobs
dwindling down to an occasional sniffle.

Dazai is comfortingly solid, a warm furnace that Chuuya can lean against and know that he
won't fall. He doesn't move or say anything beyond the soothing sweeps of his hands, as he
waits for Chuuya to make the first move.

Licking his lips, Chuuya lets out a shuddering sigh. His face is wet. He's aware of it with a
tingling, crawling awareness, something he can't escape from. It's not enough to have him
tripping into a panic— yet— but he feels it.

"I want Yoko," he mumbles eventually, every part of him aching. He doesn't want to wash
anymore or be clean or talk. He just wants to go to sleep. "And Baki."

"Okay," Dazai says, the hand leaving his hair. "Let me finish with your hair, and then you can
go."

Chuuya doesn't fight or agree. He just stands there, breathing and fighting his eyelids which
want to fall, and lets Dazai carefully wash all the conditioner out of his hair. He's probably
hindering the process by refusing to move, but if he is, Dazai isn't complaining.

One of the side effects of his mini-breakdown is that his face is mostly clean. The last
lingering spots of filth are rubbed away by Dazai's wettened fingertips.
When he's completely rinsed off, the water gets shut off and the showerhead is replaced back
in its cradle. He's gently urged out of the shower by Dazai, and wrapped up in a heated towel
and slowly rubbed dry.

He's given one of Dazai's shirts to sleep in, and one of his pairs of underwear. It's his typical
choice of sleep wear, and the sight pulls at the corner of his lips, just slightly.

Back in the bedroom, Baki is stretched out luxuriously across his claimed pillow, looking soft
and inviting. He looks asleep but he's purring loud enough that Chuuya can hear it a few feet
away. He crawls into bed, nearly tearing up again at how soft and warm it is. The perfect
thing to sink into and sleep, wrapped up in cuddles and warmth.

Dazai's hand on his arm stops him. Chuuya shoots him a look, too tired to be irritated but also
annoyed at the delay.

"I know you said your head was okay," he starts, looking uncharacteristically nervous. "But
would it be okay if I called one of my friends with medical experience, just to make sure? I
don't want to push you or make you uncomfortable, it... it would just make me feel more
comfortable."

A big part of Chuuya wants to tell him no, that he's too tired and he's going to bed now. He
doubts that Dazai would actually argue, but he also knows that a worried Dazai hovers. He
frets and worries, and he probably won't sleep if he's worrying about him.

Besides, it would be good to know for himself too. He feels...okay, mostly just wrung out and
exhausted in every sense of the word, but he doesn't want to risk anything.

Heaving a sigh, he nods. He changes his course at the last moment, choosing instead to sit
beside Baki and drag the cat into his lap. Baki lets out a mew of protest, but settles into his
arms quickly.

Yoko jumps up onto the bed, seeming to recognize the somber moment. She comes up to
sniff Chuuya, pushing her head under his hand in a silent, mostly-polite demand for pets.
Smiling slightly, Chuuya puts his hand on her head to give her scratches. She's a demanding
thing, whining and needy, but she's very warm when she plops down on the bed beside him
and her unconditional, vibrant love is comforting. It's uncomplicated, easy, safe.

Dazai moves away for a few moments, letting the three of them settle in together. He's gotten
dressed in his own clothes— black joggers that look a little too formal for sleep and a plain
tee— and he pulls his phone out from his pocket to make his call.

Baki stretches, paws curled up and pressed to his face. His tail tickles Yoko's nose, making
her sneeze and snuffle at him grumpily. He purrs in response, like he's gloating that he gets
the lap spot while she's regulated to laying beside him with her head pressed against his leg.

If Chuuya cared to hear what Dazai was saving, he's still within listening range as he speaks
into the phone—

But he doesn't. He's too tired to care about that as well, and he's barely managing to sit
upright without falling asleep as it is. Especially with Baki cuddled up with him, like he
always is when Chuuya is sleeping.

He does hear when the call ends though, a short goodbye and thanks before Dazai is pulling
his phone away from his ear. After hanging up, he pushes the device into his pocket again
and comes back over.

He crouches at the edge of the bed, looking up at Chuuya with a sincere gaze. His brown eyes
are bottomless, a honeyed well that he could easily fall into. "I have someone coming," he
says, reaching out to skim his fingertips over his knee, "Her name is Yosano. But she's...
involved with your sister as well, so it's probably safe to assume that Kouyou will come as
well. I didn't call her, but I thought you would want to know."

Oh, more secrets that his sister is keeping from him. He's tired of it. Why does no one trust
him?
"I don't want to see her right now," he mumbles, closing his eyes. He needs time to process
what he learned today. Time to come up with questions, time to let the seething, roiling anger
inside him cool down so he doesn’t say something he regrets.

“Okay,” Dazai responds, mouth firming. “I won’t let her come into the room. Is Yosano still
okay? I could try to call someone else if you’d prefer?”

Honestly, Chuuya doesn’t care right now, though he is touched by the way Dazai asks. His
most immediate concern is getting checked out as quickly as possible so he can sleep. It
doesn’t matter who does it, really, as long as Dazai trusts them.

“No, it’s fine,” he mutters, shrugging.

Brown eyes flit over his face for a long moment, checking his expression. Trying to see if
he’s just going along with it when he doesn’t want to.

When Dazai doesn’t find anything concerning, he offers him a small smile, grateful. It’s one
of Chuuya’s favorites, lopsided and showing off his single dimple, small and sweet and
sincere. It’s like a ray of sun in the darkness to see again, a spot of light that makes a spark of
warmth start to grow.

Fingertips brush over his bare knee again, tracing the outline of the joint underneath the skin.
“Alright. Can I brush your hair while we wait?”

Honestly, Chuuya was fully intending to go to bed without brushing his hair at all, even
though he knows it’s a bad idea. He hasn’t even put his usual products in it, so he knows he’s
going to wake up with it tangled and messy in the morning. But that’s a problem for future
him—

Or for Dazai, it seems.

He nods again, slightly, pulling Baki up into his arms so he can bury his face in his soft fur.
The bath he gave him a couple weeks ago has left him extra soft and shiny, and he still has
the slightest smell of lavender. It’s comforting, to hold him and just sit here and breathe him
in. To feel Yoko panting happily on his heel, and know she’s happy to see him.

Dazai leaves and comes back a moment later with the wide-toothed comb Chuuya uses to
brush his hair after he washes it. Climbing onto the bed, he settles behind Chuuya with one
leg on one side of his hip, and the other heel tucked close to his body because Yoko does not
move even an inch.

Dazai starts from the bottom, meticulously pulling the comb through all the tangles. With
how careful he is— holding the air above the knot, separating the tangles with a single tooth
of the comb and working in small sections— Chuuya doesn't feel a single pull of his hand.

It's caring, in such a small and simple way that it feels huge. It's not a big gesture, not
something that most people would ooh and aah over. It's just making sure Chuuya is clean
and cared for, making sure he's comfortable. Taking care of him when Chuuya is too tired and
too hurt to do so himself.

It means...

A lot. It means he cares , even when it's hard, even when things aren't perfect between them,
even when Chuuya is angry and hurt and mean, even when Dazai is being, admittedly, a
fucking moron.

It makes Chuuya feel cherished and cared for.

By the time Dazai is done loosely braiding his hair down his back and tying it off with a hair
tie around his wrist, there's a notification bell coming from Dazai's pocket.

He digs his phone out of his pocket to check the next. "They're here," he says, sliding out
from behind Chuuya again.
He misses the warmth of him pressed up along his back, but he doesn't say anything as Dazai
leaves the room. He can hear him trotting down the stairs, to let his doctor friend in.

Yoko lifts her head, watching the door with narrowed eyes, clearly on alert. She's stiff,
fidgety, waiting for any reason to lunge and pounce. Even Chuuya's hand petting her ears
doesn't make her relax.

This time, he doesn't recognize the pair of footsteps that come up the stairs. They're lighter
than Dazai's, slower, and they sound more deliberate. Must be the doctor.

From downstairs, he can hear a commotion. Something that sounds like hissed yelling,
obviously trying to keep the volume down but still angry. Sounds like his sister, and she's
pissed that Dazai isn't letting her up the stairs.

Serves her right. Let her sit in fuming annoyance for a while, see how she likes information
being withheld from her. See how she likes being kept in the dark. It's petty, sure, but at the
same time it's only fair.

There's a light knock on the door. It sounds remarkably like a knock at the doctor's office,
quick and professional. It's nice that she knocked before coming in, even if he was already
expecting her.

"Come in," he responds, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard through the closed
door. His voice is raspy, burning a little. He's thirsty, somehow. It feels wrong to be thirsty
after the amount of water he was forced to ingest today. His stomach felt so full with water it
sloshed, and he somehow is still thirsty. His appetite hasn't returned yet, though. The thought
of eating or drinking anything makes his stomach churn.

The door opens, and in steps one of the tallest women Chuuya has ever seen. She soars over
him and is probably not that far from Dazai's height even without the heeled boots she's
wearing. It's rude to wear shoes in the house, but she doesn't seem to care, crossing over to
him and coming to stand right before him.
"Hello," she greets, violet eyes flashing as her full lips melt into a friendly smile. Her hair,
short and pitch-black, is slicked back to expose her forehead. "So you're the kid brother,
huh?"

There's something about her that isn't like any other woman Chuuya has ever met. The boots,
the way of speaking, the tight jeans with the chain belt, her sharp eyeliner—

It looks more androgynous than strictly feminine, more in line with an aesthetic rather than a
gender.

"I guess," he says, drudging up a sliver of energy, "Though I haven't heard anything of you."

The bag she's carrying with long, stiletto nails gets dropped to the floor unceremoniously. "I
have to say that this isn't exactly how I would've chosen to meet you," she draws out,
crouching down to pull a stethoscope from her bag.

No, Chuuya wouldn't have wanted to meet his sister's...whatever Yosano is, like this either.
He wouldn't have wanted to meet anyone like this, to be truthful. Not when he feels like utter
shit, and the first impression he makes is horrible. He doesn't want anyone to remember him
like this.

"How do you know my sister?" he asks, watching warily as she slips the stethoscope around
her neck.

Before she reaches for him, she first offers her fingers to Yoko to sniff. She must know the
dogs then, and knows how to handle them. At least knows enough not to trip her protective
instincts by grabbing for Chuuya too quickly.

Yoko sniffs her hand intently, wary. She doesn't growl or warn her off but she does watch
intently as Yosano gestures for Chuuya to unbutton his shirt so she can have access to his
chest.
"Well," she hedges, clearly hesitating and unsure of what to say. "We're...involved, but that is
probably a story you should get from her instead."

Ah. Another non-answer. Chuuya is getting sick of those. He knows the best way to get
answers is to corner Kouyou himself and interrogate her, but he's too tired for that right now.
Just one more thing to be added to the list.

He takes a deep breath when Yosano instructs him to, sitting up straight so she can listen to
his heart. He holds out his arm so she can take his blood pressure, opens his mouth so she can
look inside, follows her fingers with his eyes as she moves them back and forth through his
vision. All the basic tests that are run during a physical exam.

Eventually, when she’s carefully probing his throat for injuries, he can’t help but ask. “Why
didn’t she tell me? That she was in the Mafia.”

The touches slow, and he can just barely see the thoughtful frown on her face with the way
his head is tilted.

“That’s something you should ask her,” Yosano responds, the flash of cosmetically-sharpened
fangs showing when she opens her mouth, “but if I had to say, it was probably to keep you
safe.”

Neither of them mention the fact that that plan utterly failed, but the knowledge is there,
hanging like a poison cloud in the air. Neither of them have talked about what Chuuya went
through, and she hasn’t asked any questions.

Silent acknowledgment. The worst kind, because Chuuya knows that she knows, she’s just
being polite. Treating him like a fragile, broken thing that might break at the mention of it.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe he will break.

Or maybe he’s already been broken.

Swallowing hard, Chuuya ducks his head. She’s feeling his wrists now, examining the rising
bruises brought on by the rope. The friction burns sting when she touches them, but it doesn’t
feel like there’s anything more seriously wrong.

“Will you tell her I’m sorry?”

That makes her pause, looking up at him from her position crouching on the floor. “For
what?”

“I—,” he starts, guilty tears pool in his eyes, shame twisting him into knots, “I told them
everything.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Dazai is facing his own dilemma.

Namely, the fact that Kouyou is furious that he's blocking the way up the stairs and won't let
her up to see Chuuya. She's pacing back and forth in front of him, fists clenched. She looks
like she wants to slap him, and he doesn't blame her for feeling that way. Hell, there's a large
part of him that blames himself for—

Well, for everything. Every part of this can be traced back to his mistakes, and even when he
tries to make it better— like telling Chuuya who his sister really was, telling him who he
was, telling him that he loved him— he only ever makes it worse.

No matter how long he lives, he will never forget the way Chuuya's expression crumpled into
agony in the shower. How fearful he was of the water, how trusting he still was, even though
Dazai didn't deserve it.

And now his confession seemed to be the thing to shatter him into pieces. How agonized he
sounded as he sobbed in his arms, how exhausted he looked when he curled up in bed.
He can never make up for that. Chuuya was right to be angry with him for confessing when
he did. But he couldn't help it. He was so relieved when he saw that Chuuya was still alive,
mostly whole even if damaged, so heartbroken for the pain he was obviously in—

And he couldn't not say it.

It's probably some form of sick, karmic justice that every time they confess to each other,
they just end up hurting each other. It's probably what Dazai deserves, even if Chuuya
doesn't.

Still, he's determined not to mess this up. He's holding onto this simple task with the
desperation of a failed man. Chuuya said he didn't want to see his sister right now. After the
ordeal he's been through, he can completely understand needing space to process everything
that happened. He respects that.

So, Kouyou will not be seeing Chuuya today. She can yell at him, threaten him, hit him, put
a damn bullet in his head and a knife in his heart and Dazai will not move.

The only thing that matters to him right now is helping Chuuya get better in any way he can.

"You don't have the right to keep me away from him," Kouyou hisses at him, whirling around
to pace back the other way. Her hair is down today, long and vibrant red, swaying with her
every movement.

It's similar enough to Chuuya's hair— just the straight version— that the sight makes his
heart tighten. It's hard to breathe around the stone weight in his chest, but he manages it. "He
was the one who said he didn't want to see you right now. I'm not keeping you from him, I'm
just respecting his wishes."

"Liar," she shoots back, her hand lashing out in an instinctual reaction. Her manicured red
stiletto nails slice through the air like claws.
Dazai's pretty sure the only reason she's not actually trying to claw at his face is because
Kozo is sitting at his side, hackles raised as his eyes follow her every move. He won't move
unless he gives the order, but if she gets physically aggressive with Dazai, his training will
kick in and he will react.

Behind her, Oda is leaning back against the couch with his arms crossed over his chest.
Despite his relaxed posture and the fact that his fingers are far from his weapons, his
expression is tense and vigilant.

If any of them move too fast or too violently, the entire room will dissolve into a fight. The
tension is crackling between all of them, one wrong move away from snapping.

"This is your fault," Kouyou snaps at him, jabbing her finger at him. "If it wasn't for you, he'd
be perfectly safe. You caused all of this! You don't get to tell me I can't see him!"

He understands why she's upset. He's upset too and he's actually seen Chuuya. Took in all the
details and his response, saw firsthand how affected he was. He understands.

But that doesn't mean he's not going to fight back, and while he will agree that he has a lot of
blame in this situation—

That doesn't mean she's blameless and that she can put everything on his shoulders when
Kouyou has almost as much blame as he does.

"I'm not telling you that you can't see him. I'm telling you he said that you couldn’t see him.
Besides,” his lip curls, showing off a set of shiny, cutting teeth, “I’m hardly the only one to
blame for this, aren’t I? He didn’t know you were the head of the mafia and therefore had a
target on his back, until an hour ago.”

That makes her still. She’s glaring at him, breathing hard with her eyebrows lowered
thunderously over her razor-sharp blue eyes. “You told him?”
She sounds absurdly pissed off about that, almost as angry as she was when she found out
what happened to him.

“Of course I told him,” he scoffs, crossing his own arms over his chest. “He has a right to
know, and obviously you weren’t going to tell him. Someone had to. He wasn’t kidnapped
just because of me— his connection to you puts him in danger as well.”

She falls into seething silence at that, nostrils flaring. He can tell she wants to argue, but she
can’t really find a good point.

Because he’s right. Kouyou has been lucky so far that Chuuya hasn't suffered any
consequences for her position. Most children or families related to the higher ups of the
Mafia are placed under a protective guard. Kept safe in private or home schooling, never
going anywhere without a guard detail. They are made aware of the danger they might face
some day, and so they are prepared for that potential possibility.

Some part of him understands why she never told Chuuya. When she first joined the mafia
and first started to climb the ranks, she was barely more than a child herself. Chuuya,
certainly, wasn’t old enough to understand something like that and it would’ve been too easy
for him to get them both in trouble if he bragged to the wrong person about how cool his
sister was.

Some part of him is even grateful that she didn’t tell him because—

They never would’ve met if she did, right? She would’ve warned him off of Dazai, told him
whatever stories it took to keep him away, and they never would’ve met.

Trying to imagine his life without the little chibi in it is painful. He never realized how
intertwined their lives had become until they fought.

Chuuya is in his house, in his car, adored by his pets. He’s in Dazai’s every waking thought,
in his breath, made a home for himself in his very soul. There’s no part of Dazai—nothing he
owns or makes or is— that doesn’t belong to Chuuya too.

He can’t imagine a life without that. Without him.

Still, even as he’s thankful Kouyou was stupid when it came to her little brother—

He won’t let her put the blame entirely on his shoulders. She may like it or not, but he knows
that Chuuya wasn’t kidnapped for just his relation to Dazai. He has no doubt that Fyodor’s
questioning involved detail on his sister.

They are both to blame in this, for different reasons. They both had an obligation to keep him
safe and secure—

And they both failed. No matter what happens from here on out, they will never be able to
make up for the fact that Chuuya was waterboarded because of them. They can blame each
other and apologize and cry and so many other useless platitudes—

And it would never take away the fact that Chuuya is afraid of water now. It will never make
the fact that he probably won’t be able to take an easy, peaceful shower or bath by himself for
months easier to bear.

“Please, Dazai,” Kouyou says, voice cracking with emotion. In this moment, she’s not the
Port Mafia Boss, cold and dangerous. She’s not powerful, not right now. All that headstrong
anger she usually hides behind has faded away, leaving nothing but shaky fear. Now, she’s a
sister who nearly lost her little brother tonight. “Please just let me see him. I just want to
make sure he’s okay.”

Dazai does understand. If the circumstances were switched, he doubts there would be
anything or anyone that could keep him from Chuuya.

But the circumstances aren’t switched. “No. You can’t see him. He doesn’t want to see you.
He needs some space right now, and you need to respect that. Yosano is checking on him
now, to make sure he doesn’t need a hospital.”

Kouyou deflates, seeming to realize that he’s not going to back down. She takes two steps
backwards, leaning against Oda and the couch like she’s too tired to hold up her own weight
anymore.

He can understand the sentiment. The last eighteen hours have felt like they’ve dragged on
for years.

“How do I know you’re not doing this on purpose? How do I know you’re not manipulating
him to— to keep me away from him? To hurt him? To hurt me? How do I know this isn’t
some set-up?” Kouyou’s tone is hoarse when she speaks again, and her voice is quiet, like
she’s talking to herself.

The worst part is that she’s not wrong for thinking things like that. In another time, this is
exactly what he’d do. Find somebody’s weakness by finding their family, get close to his
chosen tool for revenge. Drive a wedge between his tool and his target, isolate them, make
them completely and utterly dependent on him, and then destroy them both when the right
time comes.

But this isn’t another time, and the fact that he has to prove that his feelings for Chuuya are
genuine and not a ruse— even though he’s expressed no desire for Kouyou’s position and
therefore has no need to harm her— fucking sucks. Doubly so because he feels that he
doesn’t need to explain himself to her.

To Chuuya? Yes, and he will at the first opportunity.

To her? No.

“Guess you’ll just have to trust me,” he says, shrugging. “I would never hurt him.”
The only response he gets to that is a disbelieving snort, just condescending enough to make
his jaw clench. She's not wrong to think along those lines, but it still hurts to be thought the
worst of all the time, even when he's worked so hard over the past few years to prove that he's
not cruel. He's—

He's not a bad person. He was a messed up kid in an even more messed up situation. Yes, he
hurt people, and yes, he even enjoyed it—

But he's different now. He's been different, and it fucking sucks to constantly be reduced to
the crimes he committed years ago. To only be viewed as the monster Mori made him to be.
A monster that Chuuya never saw him as and Dazai never wanted him to see him as. That's
why it hurt so badly when he brought it up the way he did.

Before any of them can say anything else, the door upstairs is opening again. The sound of
Yosano's boots— heavy and black, knee-high, a harken back to the lethal steel-toes she used
to wear on their missions— approaching the stairs makes his heart skip in his chest.

Yosano is a capable medic— not formally trained, but she learned at the right hand of Mori,
who was trained— and she's stitched him up more times than he can count. He trusts her to
tell him the truth, even if she's not necessarily gentle about it.

Kouyou perks up too, her eyes finally leaving Dazai and moving towards the top of the stairs.

"Oh, stop looking at me like I'm some angel of death,” Yosano says, waving one of her hands
casually as she comes down the stairs.

If she’s making jokes, that must mean it’s good news, right? If it was serious, she wouldn’t be
speaking so casually, right?

She comes to a stop on the step above Dazai, her duffel bag slung over one slim shoulder.
Despite how heavy it looks— and how heavy it actually is, Dazai would know that from
experience because she used to make him haul the damn thing around— the way she carries
it looks effortless.
“As far as I can tell, he’ll be fine,” she says without preamble, “Exhausted and very
understandably upset. He’s probably cried himself to sleep by now.”

Dazai’s heart sinks in his chest. He was crying again?

He knows that’s normal, but he can’t help but feel upset when his baby is crying. He
shouldn’t ever cry, and now he’s hurt and upset and probably in a lot of pain. At least
emotionally and mentally, if not physically.

There’s nothing that Dazai can do to take that away from him. He can’t go back in time and
make himself think before starting their fight. He can’t go back and stop him before he left.
There’s nothing he can do to fix this.

“He said he didn’t have any seizures when he was kidnapped, so as far as I can tell there’s no
need to bring him into the emergency room. I do recommend that you are very strict on his
medications from now on. Keep an eye out for any minor seizing, and if he shows any signs
of that, bring him in immediately. I’m sure the neurologist you took him to gave you a
rundown on symptoms?”

At Dazai’s nod, she continues, “Other than that, keep an eye on his breathing to make sure he
doesn’t develop pneumonia. He’ll be tired the next few days and emotional, but that’s
normal. When’s your follow up with the neurologist?”

Dazai called to make that appointment only a week ago. It feels so long ago. “Just under three
weeks.”

Yosano nods, coming the rest of the way down the stairs. Dazai moves out of her way
quickly, motioning for Kozo to do the same. “Then my advice is to just to keep an eye on
him, keep him on his regimens, and wait until the appointment.”

That’s it? Wait? That feels so little, that feels like nothing. How is Dazai supposed to just sit
there and watch? Isn’t there something more he can do?
(Sometimes, the most painful part of recovery is the waiting. Healing takes time, and every
minute can leave you feeling dried up and useless.)

“Shouldn’t we take him to the hospital anyways? Just in case?” Kouyou pipes up behind him.
She’s looking at Yosano like she’s heaven-sent, someone who can give her all the answers to
her questions.

“Well,” Yosano pauses to hand off her duffel bag to Oda, who takes it without hesitation or
effort, “Physically, that might be the best option. They can do more tests than I can and they
have a lot more knowledge and experience on hand.”

Kouyou starts to stand up, looking like she’s determined to drag Chuuya down and force him
to go to the emergency room herself. Dazai bristles immediately, clenching his fists.

“However,” Yosano continues sternly, pointing one long stiletto-sharp nail at the both of
them. “First off, we have no cover story for what happened to him. Asking him to lie or keep
his pain a secret would be wrong, and if he told, it’d be trouble for everyone. The last people
we want him to talk to right now are the police.”

Just the mention of them makes Dazai scowl. Not only because the police have caused him
and his own trouble many times, but also because of their reputation in handling victims.
Kindness is not something that is often attributed to the Yokohama Police Force.

If they knew just how much information Chuuya has on all of them, he has no doubt that
Chuuya wouldn’t see outside an interrogation cell for a very long time.

Another black claw joins the first. “Secondly, what’s most important for him right now is that
he feels safe and secure. He needs to feel protected right now, and he’s not going to feel that
way when he’s in a bustling hospital, taken away by himself to do tests, being poked and
prodded by people he doesn’t know. He’s fragile right now, and he’s holding it together pretty
well, all things considered, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need support more than ever right
now."
That makes sense, but it's hard to reconcile that the only thing Dazai can really do is just be
there for him and watch him struggle. He knows that the wariness in the shower is hardly
going to be the last trauma response, even if it might be the most prevalent. He'll be afraid,
paranoid and anxious, probably of things as small as unexpected noises—

And all Dazai can do is hold him and be there with him. If he's even allowed to do that, he
reminds himself bitterly. He's not unaware that their relationship right now is unstable and it
wouldn't be wrong of Chuuya to just...

Not want to think about that or deal with it right now.

It would hurt, but if Chuuya decided tomorrow that he didn't want to see Dazai or talk to him
until he felt better—

He could never tell him no. It would hurt and the thought of having him out of sight is
anxiety inducing, but he would never tell him no . If he did, he'd be just as bad as the person
who kidnapped him.

Trauma is never an easy route to navigate, not even for the people regulated to the sidelines.
Not even for the people who just want to help.

Kouyou looks torn between arguing, chewing on her lip. From what Dazai's heard of
Chuuya's tendency to get sick— he vividly remembers the story of the pneumonia he got as a
child that ended up with him being hospitalized for a week and seizing— he's almost tempted
to side with her.

Yes, Chuuya obviously needs to feel safe— but he also needs to be physically healthy, and
Yosano can't guarantee that. The only way to guarantee that is to do a multitude of tests. At
least, the only way to get close to something like a guarantee.

Dazai is well-versed in knowing how hidden wounds can fester and bleed if they're not taken
care of properly soon enough. He knows very well how injuries grow. He wants to do what's
best for Chuuya and what's best for his health, and right now those feel like conflicting
ideologies.
"Now that we got that out of the way," Yosano carries on, propping her hands up on her hips.
She has a unique presence, not quite commanding but not controlling. Not quite cruel, but
not altruistic either. Not quite feminine, but neither masculine. An enigma, something she
deliberately cultivates by regularly pulling from opposite ends of a spectrum.

"Personally, I don't care about whatever pissing content you two have going on," she says,
looking between Dazai and Kouyou, blue gaze hard. A strand has come undone from her
slicked-back hair, curling over her forehead and bouncing with the movements of her head.
"But you need to put whatever that is behind you and move on."

Yosano is probably one of the few people that have the balls to look like she’s lecturing
school children while chiding two very dangerous people. She ran the Mafia for years
between the time Dazai left and Kouyou took over, and the hallways of the main building
havé heard the echo of her boots thousands of times. She’s been ruthless and cruel, cunning
and vindictive. She was everything she needed to be to rule the Mafia with an iron stiletto-
clawed hand, and then some.

Arguably, she was a better leader than Dazai ever was. Or was going to be. That doesn’t
mean he feels particularly cowed under her gaze, until she carries on again.

“If you’re serious about him,” she warns, staring Dazai down. Her anger is the hardest to
bear, because it looks the most like Mori’s. Cold, cutting like a scalpel, slicing through right
to the heart of things. “Then you’re going to have to get along with Kouyou. No more games
to see who is the most powerful, no more pissing contests, no more threatening to kill each
other.”

Dazai looks away, slightly embarrassed. She’s right. There’s been a lot of instances in the
recent past where he’s put his pride above anything else. He’s always viewed himself as
better than Kouyou. Smarter, more resourceful, braver.

Even when he was trying to meet with her, it was always with the sense that she would bend
to his will. He had the information she wanted, and so she would be forced to agree to
whatever his terms were if she wanted to get that information.
It’s a typical Mafia relationship, but Dazai isn’t in the mafia anymore. He doesn’t want power
or responsibility or influence. He doesn’t want to be high up in the food chain anymore, and
he doesn’t want to be the uncrowned king.

He wants Chuuya. In every and any way he can have him.

Screw the mafia, the information rings, the deals and the bargains. That’s only ever brought
him pain. It only ever allowed him the dignity of being able to choose his pain and the path
he took to get there.

Chuuya brings him light. He brings him happiness and peace and love and acceptance. All
the things Dazai has ever wanted, wrapped up in a pretty, tiny package.

He’d give up everything for him.

He nods.

After another second of keen observation, Yosano seems satisfied with his answer. Her eyes
leave him, pinning her next victim in place. “And you need to stop acting like you’re better
than him. That’s your little brother up there, and if he’s dating Dazai, then you might as well
get used to it. He needs you both right now and fighting at all is just going to alienate and
isolate him further.”

Even Dazai can tell that Kouyou is fuming, but she doesn’t say anything. She just glares at
the wall near Yosano’s shoulder silently, face tight.

It’s hard for people used to wielding power to be treated like an idiot. Or told what to do.
Both of them have made a name for themselves in their own ways, both of them are
exceedingly capable and talented.

Neither of them enjoy the way Yosano is looking down on them like a pair of squabbling
toddlers, and the worst thing is that she's right. Most of their problems with each other are
superficial, and would've been solved if they had been more mature about the situation from
the beginning. If they had been dedicated to working together instead of dedicated to
showing the other one up.

"But—,” Kouyou starts, looking frustrated. "I want to see him—”

This time it's Oda who silences her, nudging her shoulder with his own. "You'll see him
soon," he reassures her, "but for now, he needs to rest. He's angry and exhausted and
confused. Yosano said he was okay and will recover. I'm sure Chuuya will want to see you
soon, but for now—,”

He looks up then, pinning Dazai with blue eyes, as infinitely endless and serene as the sky
itself. There's something about Oda that often feels like wisdom and peace.

Not that Oda has ever been completely peaceful himself, but he's so steady and unshakeable
that it seems like nothing can ever bother him. No matter how bad things get, no matter how
bloody the missions they used to go together on, no matter how blatantly miserable and
sadistic Dazai used to be, no matter what happened, he always took it all in with a steadfast,
calm acceptance.

Nothing fazed him, and maybe that was part of why Dazai was so drawn to him at first. In a
world of reactions, where his presence was treated with fear and anxiety, and he got a sick
thrill off tormenting random strangers with his suicidal tendencies—

That unfazed acceptance was appealing. It made Dazai feel like no matter what happened, no
matter what he did or said or thought, Oda would be right there beside him. He could never
scare him off or chase him away.

It felt like someone believed in him.

A belief that is shining at him again.

“I’m sure Dazai will take care of him.”

Oda and Dazai might never have the perfect relationship, especially at this point in time. Oda
might hurt his feelings sometimes, or question him when Dazai swears he’s earned some faith
—

But somehow, he always manages to have his back when it matters most. Somehow, he
always manages to say the thing he absolutely needs to hear, exactly when he needs to hear it.

Kouyou looks from Oda to Dazai, and although her expression is still pinched with
frustration and irritation—

She doesn’t look like she’s searching for a reason to distrust him or hate him anymore. It
looks like she’s trying to trust him, even if it’s hard. It’s probably the most amenable they’ve
ever been with each other. No threats, no cutthroat negotiations, no hidden motives.

(Just a sister looking at her future brother in law, getting the first realization that this man is
here to stay.)

“I promise I’ll take care of him,” Dazai pipes up, looking her straight in the eye to show how
serious he is. Then, after a moment, his lips quirk up in a lopsided smile, not any less
charming for how subdued it looks compared to his usual one. “If he’ll let me.”

That, miraculously, draws a short bark of laughter from Kouyou, fondly irritated. “God, he’s
so fucking stubborn, isn’t he?”

Dazai’s smile grows a little bigger, sweetly affectionate at the edges. “Yeah, he really is.”

Not that Dazai would ever change that— he wouldn’t change a thing about Chuuya, except
for maybe taking care of himself better. It’s endearing, the way the tiny chibi will stand his
ground until he decides to move.
It’s also cute that he’s apparently been stubborn forever. He can just imagine a tiny, chubby-
cheeked Chuuya, fists planted on his hips and stomping his little feet. The thought is so
adorable it makes his heart swell, despite everything.

“I’ll see what I can do about getting him to talk to you tomorrow,” he acquiesces, willing to
work with Kouyou to help put her mind at ease. He understands where her worry comes
from, and he wants to prove he’s serious about Chuuya by being...

Friendly.

“At least a call or a text. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”

That seems to be enough to mollify her, at least for now. After another hard look, clearly
trying to impress on Dazai how much she means it, she’s letting Oda steer her to the front
entrance.

Yosano claps a hand on his shoulder as she passes. In her boots, she’s almost as tall as he is
and can look him in the eye flat footed. Her grin, when Dazai looks at her, is so similar to the
one she used to wear when they were just rambunctious, too-powerful, too-mean kids that he
aches with it.

“You, settling down? Never thought I’d see the day.”

Dazai snorts, shaking his head lightly.

Truthfully, he never thought he would either. The idea of a ‘normal’ life— marriage, kids, a
job and a house, pets, everything that comes with building a life with someone else— never
really appealed to him. There were some days where he thought that something like that
would be nice. But most of the time, he knew he would never find something like that, and
never bothered to want it.
Now though—

It’s different. Now he has two sets of clothing in every drawer, a pink toothbrush sitting next
to his in the cup by the sink, shampoo and conditioner that isn’t his in his shower. He has a
side of the bed now, and the other half is taken up by an endearing puppy pile made up of one
dog, one cat, and the love of his life.

You see, whenever he thought of a ‘normal’ life, he always envisioned it would be sudden .
He’d meet someone and just realize, then and there, that he was ready to give up everything
he was and had to be with them. To build something new with them.

It’s only now that he’s beginning to realize that life—and love— doesn’t happen that fast. It’s
slow, a molasses crawl into sharing his life and home and bed. By the time he realized it was
happening, the deal was already sealed.

He never had to change. He never had to give anything up. He never had to be someone else,
because Chuuya loved him the way he was. He wanted Dazai, not some character of himself
that he could play, not someone different in his body.

Just Dazai.

“Thanks,” he mutters, trying to shrug off the growing guilt he feels at feeling happy right
now. Now isn’t the time or place to be feeling wonderous or lucky.

But fuck , he never thought he would have something like this. He almost lost it, yes, but he’s
changed. He knows better now. And if Chuuya will let him, he’ll spend the rest of his life
making sure his baby doesn’t suffer a single hurt ever again. If Dazai has his way, he’ll never
feel pain again.

“Congratulations,” Yosano responds, a little cheesy. “Take care of him, okay? I want to be
invited to your wedding, not your funeral.”
That pulls a lopsided smile out of him. “Yeah I will. Thanks for coming out tonight. I know
it’s past your bedtime, old man,” he teases.

Yosano heads for the front door, not looking back at him as she offers him one elegantly long
middle finger. “Yeah, yeah. I’m always getting your ass out of trouble.”

That is true and has been for as long as Dazai can remember. He doesn’t even bother trying to
deny it.

Kozo watches, ears perked with interest, as they all file out of the door before shutting it
behind them.

The house is almost eerily silent after they’ve left, a tense and anxious energy falling over the
entire place. It almost feels haunted now. Not by a ghost or a spirit, or anything else so easily
banished.

It’s haunted by all the things that have happened to them and between them. A lingering
shadow over them that can never be cleansed or uprooted, something that will dog their
footsteps for quite a while yet. It, like most things, can only be outgrown with time.

Sighing slightly to himself, he heads back upstairs. He’s not sure what to do in this situation
—he’s never comforted someone after a trauma, and definitely not someone so important to
him— but he’s not going to take the chance of doing nothing.

He wants to do it right . It just makes him nervous because he’s only ever been taught how to
do it wrong.

The bedroom, when he carefully pushes his way inside, is mostly silent. Yoko is panting
quietly to herself, obviously happy even if her energy is more subdued than it usually would
be. She's curled around a lump in the blankets, chin resting on the back.
Chuuya, curled up as tightly as possible beneath the blankets, trembling hard enough that it's
just slightly visible. He's not making any noise, and somehow that seems even more
heartbreaking than if he were sobbing.

Dazai's heart aches for him. Chuuya was always a vibrant person, loud and impossible to
ignore, shamelessly and fearlessly making his place in the world and now—

He hopes it's only temporary, but now it seems like something in him is broken. Something
irreplaceable and fragile and precious. Something Dazai should have been caring for and
protecting, but he didn't do it right.

He wasn't enough.

He hesitates in the doorway for a long time, unsure of what to do. Obviously, he wants to go
over there and hold him, comfort him—

But he's not sure if he's allowed to. With the terrible things he said to him before, the way he
took Chuuya's offered heart and crushed it, the fight, his next mishap in the shower...

Their relationship is rocky. If they even have a relationship anymore, because Dazai basically
broke it off. He regrets that now and he wants to take it all back, but they haven't talked about
it. The idea of talking about it right now seems wrong anyways. Dazai's feelings right now
don't matter, not when Chuuya is hurting the way he is.

God, he just wishes he had the exact words to make everything better. He's so smart, so why
does he feel so stupid when he tries to navigate their relationship? Everything else comes so
easily to him, but he just seems to keep messing the important things up. Always saying the
wrong thing, reacting the wrong way, always making mistakes. Mistakes that Chuuya
inevitably pays for.

Why can't he just do this right?

"'zai?"

Dazai stirs, slightly startled when he hears Chuuya mumble his name. It's quiet, voice rough
and croaky, but he heard him. He wasn't expecting him to be awake right now, as exhausted
as he must be, much less want to talk to him. "Yes?"

There's a long moment of silence, like Chuuya fell asleep or he's deciding what to say. Or like
he regrets speaking up at all.

Then, "I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, it's dark."

There's a pang in his chest, a physical pain that he has to breathe through. Chuuya sounds so
miserable, suffering dripping from his tone and evident in the way he's hunched over himself
under the blanket. He sounds like he's on the verge of crying again, voice thick. Intermittent
sniffles are just barely heard over the sound of Yoko's breathing.

Poor baby.

Dazai pushes off the doorframe, padding to the other side of the room. His room is always lit
up in some fashion— he hates the dark too, even if he's gotten used to it— but for now he
turns on the bigger lamp on Chuuya's side of the bed. He doesn't use it often, because it's an
LED bulb that makes his head hurt, but hopefully it will do the trick.

White light spills across the room, illuminating half of the room easily and banishing all the
shadows to somewhere else for the rest of the night.

When Dazai turns around, he finds Chuuya huddled under the blanket, with only a small
section over his eyes pulled up so he can look out. He's squinting into the light, blinking
slowly. The bags under his eyes look terrible and gray. He's got more color in his face than
before, but he still looks pale and drawn.

He looks hurt.
"Is that better?" Dazai asks, making sure to keep his voice low and soothing. He needs to
comfort him, not upset or overwhelm him with his own emotions.

Chuuya blinks at him, the lower half of his face hidden beneath the blanket. "I don't know.
Maybe."

He sounds so lost, like he doesn't know how to handle himself or what to do. Like he's
struggling to make sense of it all, and to process the fallout.

Dazai can't not go to him.

It only takes him a few short strides to have him crouched by the edge of the bed, putting
himself at eye-level. He doesn't reach out for him yet, even though his fingers ache to touch.
Letting his expression fill with concern— trying to show how genuine he is— he asks, "Is
there anything else I can do to help?"

Blue eyes, duller than they've ever been and covered with a sheen of exhaustion, stare out at
him. When he speaks, it's with a mixture of frustration and misery. "I don't know."

Okay. Dazai can work with that, he can handle that.

By relative terms, Chuuya has led a rather... sheltered life. He's struggled with his medical
health, but he's never really had to deal with external factors harming him. His family loved
him and kept him safe, and it wasn't until a few weeks ago that he ever had to deal with
someone trying to seriously harm him.

It wasn't until a few hours ago that he realized that true, genuine cruelty and evil existed in
the world.

Poor thing.
Dazai dares to reach up, coasting his fingers over the bulge of Chuuya's legs under the
blanket. He keeps his touch light, unobtrusive, not wanting to frighten him or push him too
far. "Okay," he murmurs, "Can I hold you, then?"

He wants it. He wants it so badly it hurts, and he wants Chuuya to want that too. Wants to be
the person he seeks comfort in, wants to be the person he runs to when he's hurting and the
world is huge and scary and mean. Wants to keep him safe.

Chuuya is silent for so long he's convinced he's going to say no, gaze flitting over Dazai's
face. He's not sure what he's looking for, but he hopes he finds it.

"Yeah," he eventually croaks, scooting backwards slightly to give him some room.

Dazai's heart feels like it's soaring, like it's in his mouth, impossible to breathe around, his
feelings for the chibi too much to contain. He doesn't hesitate to follow through, sliding under
the blanket with him.

It takes some rearranging, because he wants Chuuya to stay facing the light and Yoko has to
be moved from her spot lying along the length of his back, all without pulling the blanket off
of them, but he eventually manages it.

It's worth it though, as soon as he's spooned up behind him, his knees tucking in neatly
behind Chuuya's. He wiggles one arm underneath his head and wraps the other around his
waist to pull him close, curving his body to fit his.

Chuuya melts into him easily. He's a little colder than usual, but all his resistance has melted
away completely. He doesn't move to make himself comfortable, but Dazai knows how he
likes to be cuddled and does so without prompting.

He props his chin up on the top of his head, his body completely enveloping Chuuya's.
Keeping him safe and sheltered in the curve of his body, keeping him close. No one can hurt
him here.
"Do you think you can sleep now?" He asks, voice hushed to honor the quiet atmosphere
that's fallen over them. His thumb strokes soothing rhythms over Chuuya's waist over the
shirt he's wearing. It’s one of Dazai’s, one that had unofficially been stolen from him weeks
ago. It’s old, faded, and much too big for Chuuya—

But he always sleeps in it, even now. Even after everything.

It gives Dazai hope that one day— someday— everything will be okay again. That they’ll be
okay again, someday. They have something worth fighting for, something worth keeping.

Chuuya’s almost unnaturally still against him. He’s a restless sleeper, normally, always
tossing and turning and tugging at Dazai in the middle of the night.

“Are you going to leave when I do?”

Dazai inhales slowly at the shaky question, hurt pulsing through him. It’s a mixture of his
own hurt and sympathy for Chuuya. “No,” he reassures him, drawing him closer until every
line of their bodies are pressed together tightly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That seems to be enough for Chuuya, at least in this moment. Their problems are far from
over, and they have a long road ahead of them—

But for now, Chuuya is flipping over in his spot. Burying his face in Dazai’s chest like he’s
trying to hide from the world. Pushing one of his legs between Dazai’s, wrapping his arms
around his waist to fist the back of his shirt, like he’s afraid he’ll try to pull away. Like he
feels the need to hang on, scared something else will be taken from him again.

Hugging him back tightly, Dazai has to forcibly ignore the growing dampness of tears he can
feel on his shirt, and the slight shuddering of his breath. Acknowledging it won’t make it
better, making Chuuya talk about it won’t make it go away. Keeping him talking when he
needs to be sleeping and recovering is counterproductive. If he wants to talk, then he can—
but so far he’s just breathing shakily into his shirt silently.
They can talk later.

Still, Dazai holds him tighter in response, tucking his head under his chin. Yoko has relocated
to laying over Dazai’s hip so she can drape her head over Chuuya’s side. Baki is curled up on
his pillow, pressed against the back of his head, and purring up a storm.

Funny, how Dazai never realized how small his world was until he was holding it in his arms.
Funny how he used to think he needed a long, bulleted list of things to be happy—

But all he ever needed was this.

He wants to say it again. God, he knows he shouldn’t— he can’t— but the realization of his
feelings feels like an addiction.

I love you. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

He wants to say it again. He’s never said it before to anyone else, never felt the need or desire
to say it, but now that he’s said it once , he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to say it again and
again and again, in a thousand different ways, every way he can think of.

It feels wrong to feel even a smidge of happiness or excitement right now, but he can’t help
it.

He did it. He did it. He, who once thought himself so hollowed out with dread and depression
that he couldn’t even feel anymore, who thought that his only fate was to end up in a bloody
ditch by himself, who’s only friends in life were just as bloody and fucked up as he was—and
even they didn’t want him, sometimes—, who never thought that he would ever experience
happiness in his life—

He did it. He fell in love.

He wants to keep it. God, he wants to keep it, so badly. He wants to cherish it, hold this little
ball of warmth and light in his hands and never let it go.

But that’s not up to him anymore. He’ll try, he’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to
Chuuya, to prove himself to him and make sure he’s healthy and happy—

But at the end of the day, that’s not his decision to make. He can’t force it, and if Chuuya
wants to leave—

He has no choice but to let him.

Anything he could ever want is inevitably lost, right? And some things.... some things you
just can’t come back from. Some things can’t be fixed, no matter how you try.

Some things... they just stay broken.

Dazai doesn’t sleep that night. He just lays there, holding a fretful chibi in his arms, and tries
not to feel like this might be his last chance.

Like his life is over before it ever really began.

 Demon Prodigy
Chapter Summary

This time, it's Dazai who takes the plunge into deeper conversation. "If you're up for it,"
he starts, taking a deep breath as he dumps the dry noodles into a pot of boiling water, "I
thought I would tell you about my time in the Mafia."

Chapter Notes

i have no excuse except for the fact that i'm sick lol

Chuuya dreams of horrifying things. The scrape of metal buckets over concrete, the slosh of
water, stench and wet and burning pain, get it off, get it off, I can’t breathe—

No matter how hard he thrashes, he can never escape. There’s rope around his wrists, a bag
over his head, a surprisingly soothing and familiar voice that comes from very, very far away
that urges him back to sleep. It’s singing, maybe, but every time he tries to focus on it, the
darkness comes plunging back in.

The struggle never ends. Chuuya’s a fighter by nature, but—

He’s so tired . He just needs a little break. Just five minutes, please, he just needs to breathe
and calm down and fucking think for just a moment.

When does it stop? Why doesn’t it ever stop?

When Chuuya wakes, eventually, he somehow manages to feel only marginally more rested
than before. It feels like he’s been fighting in his sleep, head aching with the memories of
nightmares.
The first thing he notices is that the aches have set in. He didn’t notice it yesterday, because
everything was too visceral, but now points of soreness have developed along most of his
body. The most painful points being his legs, wrists and back. Even the rhythm of his breath
causes twinges of pain in his spine.

His head hurts. Not terribly, but there’s a dull, steady throbbing behind his eyes, something
that might have to do with how dry his mouth feels. He’s thirsty. What kind of fucked up joke
is that? Waterboarding victim, afraid to shower, still somehow manages to be thirsty after
being forced to ingest a gallon of water or more.

Logically he knows bodily functions won't stop just because he's hurting, but still. How is he
supposed to reconcile the fact that he needs water even when the thought of it makes him
sick? How is he supposed to just...

Drink. Put water to his mouth, when he knows how painful it is to choke on it?

The next thing he notices is that he's warm. Almost suffocatingly warm, with a virtual wall of
warmth wrapped all around his front. There's another heavy weight on his hip, shaped like a

dog's head.

Yoko, and Dazai. It seems like they haven't moved at all, essentially in the same position he
fell asleep with them in. Parts of him are numb from the weight, one of his arms completely
dead. That's probably part of why he's so sore. He didn't have any room to move with how
they were laying on him, so he probably spent most of the night locked into one position.

But he prefers that to the chance of waking up alone. It might be dark, but it's warm and he's
being held, and there's comforting weight pressed all along his body to keep him from
spiraling back into the realm of endless nightmares.

He can tell Dazai is awake too, because there's a large hand cupping the base of his spine,
thumb moving over his skin slowly in soothing rhythms. The drag of calluses— calluses that
he now knows came from handling a gun— over his skin makes him shiver slightly, a breath
of sensation that feels life-changing in how gentle it is.
And for a second, lying there in Dazai's arms and feeling so warm and obviously cherished,
Chuuya hates himself.

It's—

It's complicated. There's a huge part of him that wants to blame Dazai for...everything. Wants
to blame him for what happened, for his kidnapping, for his pain, for his lingering fear, for
the feeling of being haunted by memories.

Maybe it's wrong, but he wants to blame Dazai. Because if he had just told him about his
past, maybe he never would've gotten kidnapped. If they had just talked, maybe he could've
been more careful, more aware, and been able to avoid this.

Hell, maybe he would've been single and moping in his dorm room instead of this.

But no matter how much an angry, hurting, seething part of him wants to put the blame on
someone else just to make himself feel better, just to give him an outlet to channel his anger
at how awfully, terribly, painfully unfair it all is—

There's another part of him that wants to cling onto Dazai. Wants to be held and cherished
and kissed and comforted, wants to be told he's loved and adored, please don't leave him,
please don't leave him alone again—

Like everything else lately, it's hard. How is he supposed to slog through a black tar sea of
emotions that stick to him, drag him down and drown him?

How is he supposed to feel? He wishes someone would just tell him, so he wouldn’t have to
figure out everything on his own all the time, when it’s far too late to make a difference.

"Are you awake?"

When Dazai's voice comes, it's soft and unobtrusive. Gentle enough that if he wasn't awake,
it wouldn't have woken him up.

But he is awake.

He contemplates for a moment if he wants to answer— partly because he wants to go back to

sleep even if only to escape the exhaustion of being awake, and partly because he feels that
speaking will force him to acknowledge the complicated knot of emotions— but he
eventually decides that he should.

"Yeah," he croaks, the roughness of his voice making him wince. It's better than last night,
but it still hurts. There's a particular wet-burning in his nostrils, a remnant of how much water
he accidentally inhaled.

He hopes it goes away soon. The reminder is driving him crazy. He just wants to move on,
just forget it ever happened. Just put it behind him, and never think about it again.

Dazai shifts, leaning backwards. The hand on his back comes up, sliding across his frame to
eventually come up to his face. With fingertips so gentle that it aches, he brushes the hair that
had fallen out of his braid out of his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

Chuuya's kept his eyes closed this whole time, but now he can't resist the urge to open them
and look.

The sight of Dazai's face is a welcome one. He looks tired, dark bags under his eyes like he
didn't sleep at all, and his eyes are darker than they have been for a while. His hair is messy
and he looks so concerned that it makes Chuuya want to—

Hide, maybe, or maybe it makes him want to bite. He wouldn't be forced to acknowledge
how pathetic he must look right now if Dazai wasn't looking at him like that .
"I don't know," he mumbles again, chewing on his lip.

The hardest part of that is that it's true. He doesn't know how he feels because there's so much
everywhere he looks.

He's never faced anything like this before. Sure, there've been schoolyard bullies and people
that weren't kind to him, and medical scares and accidents in Judo class, but never something
that came anywhere close to this.

The closest thing was what happened with Shuuji, but that's different. He was always
expecting that situation to go badly, so when it went wrong, it was almost expected. More
dramatic than he ever thought, but he was still somewhat prepared.

And afterward, he had Dazai's support. He had a system in place, one that took care of him
and made sure he wasn't badly hurt, washed him up and made him feel better. He wasn't
alone, because he had someone he could trust.

He's not alone now, but—

Now he has no one he feels he can trust. Everywhere he turns, he's finding more secrets that
the people closest to him are hiding from him.

Dazai's secretly an ex-murderer, Yakuza prodigy who still does business with the mafia, and
has a relationship with the Yakuza that Chuuya knows nothing about. Kouyou is apparently
the boss of the Mafia, and has been for years. Been involved with the Mafia for longer than
even that, and has been feeding him lies for years about how she's working as an accountant
at some company.

Liars, everywhere, and it fucking hurts. Not only because it makes him wary and feel like he
has no one to turn to, but also because—
Don't they love him? Don't they trust him? Isn't he supposed to be important to them? Don’t
they want to keep him safe? Why are they lying to him like this? Why do they keep treating
him like some kid who can't be trusted with the truth, someone that has to be managed?

If they love him, why are they treating him like this?

Having no support to fall back down when it feels like the ground has been pulled out from
under his feet and he's been left to freefall is awful. He can't trust anybody because nobody
trusts him.

How is he supposed to trust either of them again? How is he supposed to move on from this?
What is he supposed to do? No one ever gave him instructions or a list of expectations. He
can't do this on his own.

"Does your head hurt?"

Funny how his medical condition— something that disrupted his life hugely, something that
had him convinced his life was basically over— has now become the least of his worries.
"Not really," he mutters, "I need to take a Tylenol soon but... nothing terrible."

Dazai nods slowly, the tips of his fingers brushing over his cheek reverentially. He makes
nonsensical patterns over his skin, pressing gentle feeling into an area that was abused only a
few short hours ago.

It’s nice, and it’s easy, and Chuuya wants so badly for something to be easy, so he just melts
into it. Turns his face into the comfort and tries to leave his racing mind behind.

For a long moment it’s just that, easy comfort and soft touches, warmth that starts to clear
away the newly hollowed out space inside of him.

Dazai is the first one to stir, fingers sliding underneath his braid and tugging lightly on the
loose plaits. His hair needs to be redone, but at the same time the idea of doing that seems
exhausting. “Are you hungry?”

Chuuya wrinkles his nose at the thought of food. He’s not hungry at all, even though he
knows he should be. It’s probably been almost an entire day since he last ate. He doesn’t even
remember what he ate last, come to think of it.

The idea of feeding himself seems exhausting. Even if Dazai does all the cooking, he still has
to come downstairs, sit upright, raise the utensil to his mouth over and over again. All while
he feels like his body has been turned inside out with exhaustion and he has no appetite to
speak of.

What’s the point of it all?

He blows out a breath. “No,” he says, quiet, “I just want to go to sleep.”

He wishes he could. Nothing is confusing when he’s sleeping and everything is just...

Gone. He doesn't have to deal with any of it. He can just float in the sea of blackness and
just...stop existing, for a little while. For as long as he can manage to stay unconscious.

The corners of Dazai's mouth tip down in a concerned frown, the pad of his thumb brushing
over his temple. "If I make you something and bring it up here, will you eat it?"

Fear lurches inside him, a new friend that's made a home for itself in his lungs. A living and
breathing nightmare that's infected him all the way to the core, something he can never wash
out or scrub away.

He hates it. He wasn't afraid like this before. There was a long time where many people
called him fearless, brave, a force of nature.
Oh, if they could see him now, biting back a shiver at the thought of Dazai leaving him alone
long enough to go downstairs. They'd probably laugh at him, get sick off of how pathetic he
looks.

At least, that's what he thinks of himself, right now. Terrified and pathetic with it, sickening.

He shakes his head, clinging onto Dazai's shirt. For all of his complicated feelings, there is
nothing he wants less than to be left alone right now.

The last time he was alone, he was taken . He woke up someplace new and terrible, a room
he will never be able to forget for all that he never saw what it looked like. A room that will
forever live on in the endless stretches of his nightmares, a room that some part of him will
forever be trapped inside.

He did not leave that room whole, he knows that.

"You have to eat something, little love."

He ignores the new nickname. It's cute, admittedly, and it makes something warm bubble up
in his chest, but it's...

It's complicated now. More accurately, it's always been complicated, he's just aware of it now.
He's finally been brought into the light.

"I know," he grumbles, letting go of Dazai's shirt so he can struggle up into a sitting position.
God, he's so fucking weak right now,it feels like all the strength he's ever had has been
sucked right out of his body to leave him limp as an overcooked noodle. "I'll come with
you."

He'd rather be exhausted and slumped over in the kitchen chair with his boyfriend-slash-
sugar-daddy-slash-criminal-overlord-slash-maybe-ex-boyfriend-slash-love-of-his-life than be
stuck up here alone.
Yoko doesn't move easily and Baki is particularly upset when Chuuya's arm jostles him
enough to wake him up, but he somehow manages to sit up under his own power. He's
slightly winded afterwards, feeling just as bad as the first day he came home from the
hospital a few weeks ago. Maybe worse.

Suddenly, the trip downstairs feels daunting. It's just downstairs, but goddamn if that doesn't
seem like a marathon right now.

Dazai follows him up, sitting beside him. "Okay," he agrees, and that tone of mild
acceptance, like he's treating Chuuya gently is fucking infuriating. He wants to be treated
normally, and while Dazai has always been careful with him—

He's never been gentle. Chuuya's never wanted to be treated gently, and the fact that he is
makes the building tension in his chest writhe with fury. He's not—

He's fine . He's over it. He's home and safe and healthy and he's fine . He doesn't need to be
treated gently or like he might break.

"Would you like me to carry you downstairs, since you're so tired?"

At any other time, he would probably say yes. He actually likes being held and carried
around. Makes him feel light and cherished. Right now, though, he's struggling between a
desperate desire to prove to everyone— including himself— that he's fine, and feeling like
he's choking on every emotion in the damn book, not wanting to give in to Dazai so quickly
and easily after he hurt him so much—

"No, I'm okay," he says, ignoring the burn in his thighs as he swings them over the side of the
bed and prepares to take his weight.

He can do this. He will do this. He will not have his autonomy taken away, and he will not
wallow in the arms of someone bigger and stronger than him. He can walk down the fucking
stairs.
Which, of course, turns out to be easier said than done.

His ankles ache with every step he takes, a remnant of how hard he struggled in the chair. He
has to hold onto the railing desperately, ignoring his frightfully bruised wrists, because if he
looks at them then he remembers and then he feels , and it's just all too much. His thighs burn
with every step down, his legs shaking with every movement.

It feels almost ridiculous to be this sore. He never even left that stupid chair, so why does he
feel like he was run over by a truck?

Dazai hovers a step behind him, clearly wanting to just pick him up and take him down
himself—

But at least he trusts Chuuya in this. He doesn't say a single word the whole way down.

The chairs of the kitchen table are so relieving to see, the end finally coming in sight, and he
manages to shuffle over to them slightly faster than he walked down the stairs.

Sitting is hell on his back— he swears he can feel every step and breath in the aching muscles
along his spine— but easier on his legs. He resigns himself to feeling uncomfortable in any
position for the next few days, sighing as he draws his legs up onto the chair with him.

By the time he's found a position that feels mostly okay, Dazai is placing a glass of water in
front of him, along with three pills. Tylenol, his anti-inflammatories, and his seizure meds.

He makes a face at the big round pill of the seizure meds. He hates taking them. They make
him sleepy, but in a way that's mostly restricted to his mind instead of his body. Like he's
fading around the edges, or too dazed out to think properly, head full of cotton.
He was glad when he was able to stop taking them earlier, because he didn't like the way they
made him feel. It sucks to be back taking them again.

Better than having a seizure, though. He doesn't feel one on the horizon anymore, but better
safe than sorry, right?

He swallows the pills, restricting himself to the tiniest sip of water to do so. It makes him
nervous with the cup just sitting in front of him.

Like the water is going to jump out and attack him or something. It's ridiculous.

"Udon sound okay to you?"

It's not Chuuya's usual breakfast, but the idea of having a heavier western breakfast full of
sweets and sugar makes his stomach turn. He'd prefer something more familiar to his
stomach. "Yeah."

Dazai nods, going through the kitchen to gather all the ingredients and tools he needs.

Curled up on the chair with his chin propped up on his knee, Chuuya just... watches him.

Part of him doesn't believe that Dazai is really the 'demon prodigy'. It just doesn't reconcile
with the domestic, careful view he's always had of Dazai. Sure, there were parts of him that
were mysterious and sometimes even dangerous, but other parts of him were so domestic and
normal that it didn't seem real.

What kind of 'demon prodigy' dated a regular college student? What kind of 'demon prodigy'
went on vacation, ate normal food at normal restaurants? Had a pair of lovable dogs, a
(shitty) kid, and lived in the normal suburbs of the city where all the other high-class families
lived?
What kind of 'demon prodigy' took relaxing baths, told someone much younger and less
experienced than him that he 'adored them', watched videos on how to braid so he could braid
Chuuya's hair before he went to sleep, learned his hair care routine so he could wash his hair
in the shower, was so careful with him that Chuuya never felt pressured or insecure once?

What kind of 'demon prodigy' would love someone like him and show him that love? Sure,
the confessions had been complicated...

But even before that, Chuuya felt like he was loved. Felt like he was cherished.

So how can the man he loves, and the man that loves him, also be the man that caused city-
wide terror years ago? It just doesn't make sense.

This time, it's Dazai who takes the plunge into deeper conversation. "If you're up for it," he
starts, taking a deep breath as he dumps the dry noodles into a pot of boiling water, "I thought
I would tell you about my time in the Mafia."

The question is, does Chuuya actually want to know? He should know, he has a right to know
now—

But does he want to? Does he want his image of Dazai to change so much?

Is he ready to handle what he's about to hear?

He doesn't know, but does he have any other choice? His only other option is to just... sit in
willful ignorance and hope something like this doesn’t happen again. Even that isn’t an
option because his sister is the boss of the Port Mafia, so he’s connected to it all whether he
likes it or not.

“Okay.”
Dazai looks thoughtful and strained for a long moment, clearly wondering where exactly he
wants to start. He plops an egg into a different pot of boiling water, bracing his hands on the
counter nearby afterwards.

“My father was… not a very nice man. Nor was he a smart one,” he starts, staring blankly
ahead like he’s seeing some other moment in time. “He was a gambling man. Lost all his
money more times than he could count, won it back just as often. He thought he was
invincible, untouchable. Lucky.”

Chuuya has a feeling that luck would not last very long in this story. It’s the first time he’s
ever heard of Dazai’s parents at all. He’s never even mentioned them in passing. It’s been one
of those secrets he’s kept close to his chest.

“He used to borrow money all the time, so he could keep himself in a certain lifestyle. He
always had the assumption that he would just… win more later and be able to pay back his
debts eventually. It didn’t matter to him how long it took or how much he borrowed.
Eventually his debts found their way into the pockets of the wrong people.”

A hush falls over the room, filled with subtle tension. Dazai doesn’t look like he’s enjoying
telling his story or even like he’s telling it to him. His eyes are unfocused and empty, like he’s
not in his body anymore even though he’s still mechanically going through the motions of
cooking.

“My mother was a good woman. Much too good for him,” Dazai continues, one side of his
mouth quirking up just slightly. There’s a ghost that haunts Dazai’s words, a silent presence
that comes now that it's been called, an afterimage of gentle hands and soft hands. “She loved
me, more than I can ever say. She protected me, she encouraged me, she loved me. She was
so proud of me because I was so smart— I skipped two grades by the time I was eight, and I
was always one of the highest in the country on the national tests.”

He quiets then, focusing on pulling out the cooked noodles from their pot and arranging them
in a huge bowl. Chuuya hopes he doesn’t expect him to actually eat all of that, not with how
faded his appetite is right now.

“I miss her,” he quietly admits, his voice cracking in the most obvious display of emotional
vulnerability that Chuuya has seen yet. “I still visit her grave sometimes.”
Chuuya has never had a mother, but he can’t imagine ever losing his father. He doesn’t know
how he would be able to function or go on with his life without having that pillar of support
and love to fall back on.

Is their relationship perfect? Absolutely not. There are lots of things Chuuya would change
about his father if he could, but he also knows—

He has been loved since the day he came home from the hospital. Smothered in love, over
saturated with care, hovered over to make sure he grows up strong and healthy. He can’t
imagine losing that. He could never imagine what it was like for Dazai or his own sisters to
lose their mother.

Dazai barrels on as he chops some vegetables to put into the ramen, trying to get through it in
one sitting. “The Port Mafia wasn’t the same back then as it is now. Back then, it was more of
a… loosely organized gang of thugs, debt collectors, murderers. Any scumbag could make it
into the Mafia. It wasn’t until one of them started to get smart that things began to change.”

After dumping the rest of the sauce, vegetables and one soft-boiled egg into the ramen, Dazai
brings it over to him. It’s in a bowl big enough for two, and smells delicious. Despite
everything, Chuuya’s stomach stirs and rumbles in anticipation. He takes the offered
chopsticks and slowly starts to dig in, going for the lighter pieces first.

Dazai sits across the table from him, looking weary and strained. He’s always been youthful
in appearance, unlined skin soft and his attitude boyishly charming in some ways—

But now he looks like every one of his years is finally catching up to him. Or maybe he looks
like the ghost of the kid who used to run the mafia with a bloody fist. A kid that’s grown up
and changed, but can never escape his past.

“Mori Ougai was a wicked man, and he had plans. He wanted to be in control of the entire
city, and wanted the Mafia to be a more cohesive and dangerous unit. He wanted to make a
clan where there was none before, except his clan would not be ruled by bloodline, but by
strength alone. To do that, he needed people who were strong, dedicated… and smart.”
Dazai’s next smile is grim, more of a mockery than anything genuine. “I was nine when he
killed both of my parents and took me under his wing.”

Chuuya almost drops his chopsticks, staring at him in shock.

Nine? He was only nine? When Chuuya was nine, he didn’t even know what gangs were. He
was in and out of the hospital, slowly getting better and growing stronger. He’d never even
been to a public school yet. He didn’t even know evil existed when he was that young,
besides things in stories that were inevitably defeated at the end to make way for the happily
ever after..

But Dazai had been kidnapped and essentially forced into violence, all before he even hit
puberty?

Suddenly, Chuuya has perspective on why Dazai reacted so negatively when he sprung the
demon prodigy question on him. He wasn’t just hiding some fucked up shit he’d gotten into
as a teenager. He was a kid.

He was a traumatized victim of violence, someone who had been targeted, and Chuuya
sprung those memories on him without warning.

It doesn’t make hiding that information okay, especially after what happened, but…

He understands now.

“The Mafia is not a good place for anyone, really, but especially not for children. Especially
not for someone like me. I could have whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it. Drugs,
weapons, violence, money. It was all mine, and Mori always encouraged me to take more.”

Chuuya looks at him, expression crumpling into something like pity. He hasn’t explicitly said
what happened, but he sounds so hurt that it’s not hard to read between the lines.
He raises a finger, stopping his words in their tracks. “I don’t remember a lot of what
happened during the Mafia. I know the outlines and I can put together the idea of what
happened, but the details… they’re gone.”

An entire chunk of his young life, stolen from him. Assumingly so bad that he can’t even
remember it, memories slipping between the cracks of his brain, blood and violence and fear
washing away like it never happened.

“I do remember that there was something wrong with me, though,” Dazai says, voice going
rough and hoarse. He doesn’t seem like the steady, strong man that’s taught him so many
things since they met, the man that was the pillar of support when Chuuya got sick.

He seems like someone who needed to be saved and never was. Not until it was far too late.

“I enjoyed hurting people. I enjoyed hurting myself. I was a mess, and the Mafia was a mess I
was supposed to fix, and there were times where I swore that the city would burn with the
matches I struck. I didn’t care about anything or anyone.”

That's the uglier side of trauma. For some people, trauma makes them hide. Makes them
anxious, more aware of their surroundings and other people, finetunes their reflexes. And for
other people, it feels like their only option to deal with the ravaging pain inside them is to
force that pain onto other people, clawing and biting and lashing out, because hurting other
people was always better than being alone in the dark. Hurting other people was easier than
letting yourself be hurt again, it was better to be defensive than ever risk the possibility of
being hurt again.

It was easier, and it felt better to hurt someone else before they could ever hurt you. When all
the kindness has been ripped and beaten and torn out of you, and you were taught, with
ruthless certainty, that every kind hand was hiding a dagger and that every kind gesture was a
cover for cruelty—

Eventually, you learn that the only things you can trust are your own sharp teeth.
"I killed a lot of people, I won't lie to you," Dazai says, a desperate fervor rising in his voice.
He finally looks at Chuuya, really looks at him, for the first time since he started talking. His
eyes are huge, all the brown snuffed out to be replaced with a pitch black. They practically
shine with misery, the ghost of agony reflecting back at him. "I killed a lot of people, and I
hurt a lot more. Most of the time, I relished in it. It was…an escape for me, I guess.”

He wants to be judged and condemned for that, he can tell. He’s laying out all the facts in
such a manner that would make it easier for Chuuya to be appalled with his behavior and do
something drastic about it.

Turns out there’s one thing about his experience with torture that Chuuya didn’t quite expect:
empathy.

Before, he’d never felt a visceral desire and urge to hurt someone. Not even the people he
didn’t like, even Shuuji, even people that were just generally assholes that honestly deserved
to be hurt. He got angry, and he always pushed back when he was confronted, but he never
felt a need to actually hurt someone. He never wanted that, never craved it, never felt the
clawing need for it.

Now, he does.

Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it makes him a bad person, maybe it makes him just as fucked up
as Nika is—

But if he had her tied to a chair, bag over her head and a bucketful of water, right now—

He would do it. He would visit his pain upon her, just so the sharp-edged hole in his chest
didn’t feel as empty. Revenge is a dish that leaves everyone colder, but he would fucking do
it.

So when he looks at Dazai now, very obviously in pain, knowing what he does, having the
perspective that he does…
All he feels is sympathy. He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know what to say,
silently taking another bite of his noodles.

Eventually, Dazai goes on when he doesn’t answer. “Eventually I met Sasaki. We never really
had a relationship, but she was always up for having sex and I was always looking for a way
to feel better, so it happened a lot. Yosano never approved, but it never stopped me.”

That makes Chuuya start. While he wouldn't qualify the doctor from last night as nice — he'd
probably go for the term blunt and straightforward, almost to the point of bullying— he
would not have pegged her as someone that was in the Mafia.

Though, now that he's thinking about it, it would be reasonable for someone that Dazai was
friends with and that was involved with his sister— he didn't ask but he's pretty sure they're
dating, which he doesn't understand because Kouyou is dating Oda... but that's none of his
business— would be from the Mafia. "She was in the Mafia?"

For the first time this entire conversation, Dazai actually smiles. It's small, thin and wobbly
compared to his usual smiles when he's with Chuuya, but it's there. "Yeah. She hasn't changed
much, actually. Still wears the same skull-stomping boots."

If it were anyone else or if this was a different conversation, Chuuya would say that was an
exaggeration. As it is, he's pretty sure Dazai means that literally.

Strange to think that the woman who treated him mostly-gently and checked him out with a
doctors brusque care is... also a murderer.

Damn, is everyone he knows a murderer? His boyfriend, his sister, his sister's boyfriend, his
sister's maybe-girlfriend, probably Shuuji too— aren't the sons of Yakuza men supposed to be
dangerous and unhinged? — and hell, probably even Ranpo. It's like he walked into a cult
where the joining requirements are to kill somebody.

"We were never supposed to be friends, actually. I was being groomed for the boss seat, but
Mori always had a habit of keeping spares. We both knew that she was supposed to be my
competition, and if I made too many mistakes or defied too many orders... she'd take my
place," Dazai says offhandedly, like the idea that his mentor would kill him off if he didn't
please him is normal. Nothing worth getting upset about. "But we were friends. Good
partners too. They called us Double Black."

Personally, if Chuuya was in the Mafia, he would've chosen a cooler codename. Like…
Corruption or something. Something that actually sounded scary.

"Anyways, one thing led to another and eventually I got a call from Sasaki saying she was
pregnant. I was just barely sixteen, unprepared and... genuinely afraid. I remember sitting
outside a convenience mart that same night, just staring at her positive pregnancy test and
thinking that I had somehow become my father."

Chuuya's stomach twists. He's not sure if it's because he's full, or because of the mention of
Sasaki and Shuuji, or because of how self-loathing Dazai sounds or because of how relatable
that is.

As much as he might love his father, as much as he might admire some aspects of him, he
never wants to become him. And he feels that way about his loving father— he can’t imagine
Dazai looking in the mirror and finding that he resembles a man who has only ever hurt him.

“Worse than that, actually,” Dazai says, his smile humorless and his voice so full of self-
loathing it must be cutting his tongue to speak, “because at least my father had the decency to
contain his cruelty to his family. I made the entire city my victim.”

When Chuuya was being told about the rumors of the Demon Prodigy and the so-called
Dragon Head Conflict… it all seemed like stories. Stories made up to cope with all the
bloody violence happening, but ultimately something that was exaggerated.

Dazai has still yet to tell him any concrete details— truthfully, Chuuya isn’t even sure if he
wants to know, because there’s a difference between knowing Dazai killed people and
knowing who he killed— but none of it seems anything less than the truth.

Which is hard to comprehend and even harder to reconcile with the image of someone who
has always been so kind and considerate to him.
Just goes to show that just because someone treats you nicely doesn’t mean they are a nice
person.

“Did your mentor know? Mori? Is that his name?”

Dazai nods, leaning back in his chair completely. “Not really. I’m sure he suspected
something but I never told him. I knew that if he knew, Shuuji would be raised the same way
I was. Oda was always going on about how children needed to be protected and I didn't want
to condemn another person to the life I had lived. I wanted to be better.

"I wanted to be someone that my mother would be proud of."

Chuuya pushes the bowl of ramen away, full. For the first time in a while, Dazai doesn't try to
push him into eating more. The meds are starting to kick in now, making him woozy. The
exhaustion from earlier is creeping back up on him, covering his entire body in a warm,
heavy blanket.

"Is that why you left? Because of Shuuji?" He asks, fighting the urge to lay his head down on
the table. He's so tired , and now that the painful soreness is hidden behind a wall of
painkillers, it's hard to stay awake.

"Partly," Dazai answers, instantly honest. "Partly because of that and partly because I was
just… done. I could never handle it, and I tried to kill myself more times than I can count, but
there was never an escape. Back then, I knew if I didn't leave soon then I would never leave. I
would do exactly what Mori wanted me to; take over the Mafia and spend what little
remained of my life hurting myself and others before I was finally gone."

That's the first time he's ever spoken about any suicide attempts. Chuuya was able to put it
together by the long scars on his wrists, but he didn't expect it to be multiple attempts. Or to
be told like this, so...
Underwhelming. Factual, almost, all the emotions taken out of the equation. It's like he's
discussing something easily seen and observed, something that just was.

The sky is blue. Birds fly, plants grow in the sunlight and I wanted to kill myself.

Easy, like it didn't mean anything, like it wasn't worthy of sympathy or pity. It just was, just
another fact of life.

Chuuya will never understand on a personal level. There's been times where he was close to
dying, other times when something shitty happened and he thought briefly that he'd rather die
than deal with it, other times when he joked about wanting to die, but—

He never consistently wanted to die, let alone attempted.

To see someone in so much pain, to see the ghost of the hurt child that Dazai was, is
heartbreaking. How can anyone just look away from that, let alone drive someone to the
brink of that? How can someone make a child do all those things?

"When I told him I wanted out, he laughed at me. The thing about the Mafia is that it's a life
commitment. The only way to leave is in a body bag. Mori said that, and when I said to bring
one up then, it ended in... sort of a stalemate. He didn't want me to die because I was useful,
but I wasn't allowed to leave. So he sent me on a mission instead, to Keio."

His mouth drops open slightly. "So the stories about the campus fire were true? You actually
set the fire that killed a bunch of innocent college kids?"

Dazai spreads his hands over the table, fingertips pressing hard into the wood. "It wasn't...
exactly like that. Many of those kids were children of rival gang bosses, or politicians or
someone that was making too much noise or causing too many problems for the Mafia. The
Mafia doesn't have a habit of killing innocent people needlessly...but yeah, I did."

Oh. "Did...you enjoy it? Would you do it again if you had the chance?"
Because that's the real question here. Obviously Dazai was in pain back then, too young to
know how to really cope or handle it. Chuuya's not trying to overlook that. But did he
change? Is he still that damaged, sadistic kid? Would he still needlessly hurt people for the
fun of it?

Perhaps Chuuya is being judgmental but he doesn't think he can be involved with someone
that enjoys hurting other people. Not because he's a saint or anything like that, but—

It's wrong. It's evil . Chuuya can't support or be attached to someone who is evil. Not even
just for the sake of others, but for his own safety too. If Dazai is cruel, then there's nothing
stopping him from turning that cruelty on Chuuya, someday. Sure, he says he loves him and
he would never hurt him—

But that's what they all say, right? No one ever says ‘hey, I’m going to hurt you because I will
enjoy it’. They give you platitudes instead, tell people how much they love them, how they
would never hurt them, how they didn’t mean it—

And then they hurt them, make victims out of the people closest to them.

The reality is that if people get a thrill out of hurting other people, if they enjoy it, they will
enjoy hurting you too. Even if they say they won’t or never will.

Dazai hasn’t hurt him— yet.

There’s always a ‘yet’.

“I didn’t enjoy it the way you probably are thinking of,” Dazai says slowly, and he can tell
he’s struggling to be purely honest. That means a lot, especially right now, but it might not be
enough. “But I would do it again. That moment made me realize that the only way out was
death— just not necessarily my own.”
(Dazai remembers that day vividly. Not because it was particularly bad, or good, or even very
memorable in itself.

He remembers it because he finally made a decision for himself. Not one that was subtly
guided by Mori, not one he was instructed to make, not a decision he was forced into making
by being stuck between a rock and a hard place.

He remembers standing outside the burning building, watching it go up in flames and

thinking—

This is it. I’m done. I’m not doing this anymore.

He didn’t even do the job he was supposed to do— he was supposed to leave the group alive
while they burned, to teach them and all the people that came after them a lesson about what
happens to those who anger the Mafia, but he ended up smothering them all instead. It doesn't
matter if it was out of mercy or just another strategy— and all things considered, it wasn't the
worst thing that he's done.

But he couldn't stop thinking about what life his child would end up with. If this was the fate
they were going to be met with some day, because of who Dazai was. If they were going to
be punished because of him.

And, despite everything, despite it all—

He did want to be a good person. Not because he has staunch morals, or anything like that,
but because of his mother. His mother, who loved him so much and always tried to keep him
safe, who made him warm milk when he couldn't sleep, who hung his shitty drawings up on
the fridge, who cuddled him in bed and told him stories of far-off lands, who told him he
could be anything he wanted to be.

If she could see him now, she would be ashamed. She would ask him why, and he would not
have an answer. He could only say how much it hurt, all the time, and she would probably
pull him into her arms. She would be sympathetic, because he's her son and she loves him.
Not that he would deserve it, but god. What he would give to be eight years old again. What
he would give to have his mother back.

It's at that moment that he first realizes...

He became his fathers son. He became exactly what his father wanted him to be— smart,
powerful, cruel, vindictive, successful, proud, vengeful—

And become nothing of what his mother wanted him to be. Nothing the loved little boy he
once was, was supposed to be.

It wasn't an easy choice. Self-realization is always hard, and it's not like he didn't have any
obstacles in his path. It's not like he was free to choose for himself his entire life.

But this, this decision right here, the one that changed it all—

That was his. That belonged to him, and even though he should've made it to be a good
person, to stop hurting people—

He did it for his mother. Tossed the jacket Mori gave him into the fire in her name, turned
away from the crumbling building with his hands in his pockets for her. And then—

He picked up a knife, one last time, and sought revenge for her. Justice for her, in the only
way he knew how to deliver it. Mori didn't deserve a bullet. He didn't deserve an impersonal
death. He deserved to feel every ounce of pain he'd put Dazai through for the last seven
years, he deserved to look him in the eye and realize that the weapon he forged turned on him
in the end.

The thing about Mori is that he was confident. He calculated so hard and so long,
systematically destroying any perceived threat to him, that he never looked for the snake
underneath his boots. Dazai never wanted power, which is why Mori never expected to end
up with one of his own scalpels in his throat, driven there by Dazai's hand.

Revenge isn't cold or satisfying. Revenge is body-warm, the spill of blood over a carpet that
will never forget the stain, an empty chair. Revenge means next to nothing in the end— just a
closing of a story.

That's how Yosano found him, actually, blood inches from the toes of his boots. Without his
usual coat, bandages tightly in place, Boss dead on the floor. He remembers turning to her,
seeing how tense her face was and knowing that she knew that Dazai was dangerous. Not
only to himself but to her and everyone they knew and to the entire city itself. He's self-
destruction personified, and he would take everyone with him.

The scalpel got tossed on the floor, the metallic clang of metal loud in the silence. The only
thing louder is the sound of his boots as he turns, turning to stalk out of the room with his
head held high.

As he passes Yosano— one of his only friends, which is ironic because they were never
supposed to be friends— he tilts his head, offers her a sharp smile. "Chair is yours,
dragoness."

Is calling the boss chair the dragon chair disrespectful? Probably, but every royal knows—

Royalty is built on blood and bones, and Dazai has spilled plenty of both.

That was the last time he saw Yosano and Oda for a very, very long time.)

"The last person I killed was Mori Ougai, former boss of the Port Mafia and my personal
tormentor."

Chuuya draws up one of his legs, resting his chin on his knee. Part of him wants to be
disturbed by that admittance, because killing someone is a very drastic and permanent
measure.

But it's not like he can say he hasn't gone out of his way to teach someone a lesson for
hurting him. There was some kid that bullied him relentlessly when they were in elementary
school. Always calling him stupid, saying he was ugly, that kind of stuff.

It really wasn't that bad, especially looking back on it now as an adult, but as a child, it hurt .
So, one day when it went a little too far—

He waited until they were outside for recess and the teacher was looking away before beating
his bully up, screaming every insult he was ever given back to him. Got himself suspended
for it, and detention for weeks, but it was worth it.

It's not the same thing, but the core idea is the same. If someone hurt him that badly, he can't
say he would never go to drastic lengths to protect himself. He's a nice person by choice, but
he does believe in revenge.

Besides, wasn't killing Mori a good thing? He was a bad guy, he was causing trouble for
everyone and hurting lots of people. He was a bad person, and maybe it wasn't just to kill
him, but maybe it was right. "What did you do after that?"

Dazai tilts his head, one side of his mouth quirking up humorlessly. "For about five years, I
basically drowned myself in drugs, sex and self-avoidance."

Despite how serious this conversation is and how sad that is to hear, Chuuya can't help an
amused breath from escaping him. It's funny, in the same way that depression jokes on social
media are funny: because if you can't laugh at the pain, then you have to cry, and laughing
feels better.

"I didn't do anything interesting during that time, really. I wandered around the world, never
staying in one spot for more than a few days. Technically I was on the run— from the Mafia
and from law enforcement— but it felt more like...finding myself. Coming to terms with
what had happened to me, trying to figure out what was wrong with me and trying to fix it. I
read a lot of those self-help books. I visited Sasaki and Shuuji when I could, but for the most
part, I was alone," Dazai says, reaching out for his cooling bowl of ramen.

Chuuya watches him take the bowl into the kitchen to clean it up, taking the time to dump all
the extra food into containers before cleaning the rest of the kitchen. He's noticed Dazai is
like that, always likes to keep himself busy and especially so when they're having difficult
conversations.

That world-wandering life sounds nice, from his perspective. He's not trying to ignore Dazai's
obvious mental health issues and trauma, especially at that time, but…he's always wanted to
travel. If he had the chance, he probably wouldn't ever come back.

So why did Dazai? Why did he come back to the place where he was put through all of that?
Why did he come back to where he was hurt, where he caused so much pain? Why did he
come back at all when he could’ve started a whole new life somewhere else?

He’s guessing he could have, anyways. He doesn’t really know how any of that running away
or legality works, but he completely believes that Dazai can do whatever he puts his mind to.

“Why did you come back to Yokohama? Wouldn’t it have been better if you just… stayed
away? Started someplace new?”

Dazai doesn’t answer him right away, humming thoughtfully to himself. He’s moved onto
making breakfast for the pets now.

The scene is so domestic—Dazai padding over to the box that holds Baki’s food, expertly
dodging the little feline who has come into the kitchen as soon as he heard the bowl rattle,
then setting that bowl aside so he can make the dishes for the dogs, then setting them all up in
their respective places— that it makes Chuuya ache a little.

Whenever he envisioned his future, it was always something like this. A nice home, pets that
loved him, a husband that loved him, somewhere where he felt safe and secure and happy.
Part of him was—still is— so hung up on having that with Dazai, that he can barely stand
watching it right now. Because now, he’s not sure if he can have it. Not sure if he truly wants
it, not sure he can handle it.

Because he can never go through that again. He can never be tortured again. He’s a strong
person— he would never discredit himself by saying he wasn’t— but he’s not invincible.

He’s not like Dazai. He wants to live. He’s not like Yosano, either, who looks like she might
even enjoy being tortured.

He can’t do it. He won’t. If that means giving this up, then…

Well. At least he always has his fathers home to go back to, right?

“My life is here,” Dazai says eventually, after all the pets are happily scarfing down their
breakfast. “My parents are buried here, my friends are here. Sasaki and Shuuji were here for a
long time. I didn’t want Mori to win by chasing me out. I wanted to retake part of my
history.”

That makes sense. Even if Chuuya were given the option, he doesn’t think he’d permanently
leave his family or his home. He wants to travel, but home will always be home. He’ll always
want to come back, even if he doesn’t stay.

Chuuya wants to ask more questions. Wants to get to the bottom of things, wants to know
every dirty and ugly detail. The more he knows, the more informed his decision will be. But
he’s getting tired now. The medicine combined with the full stomach and the lingering
exhaustion is finally catching up with him. He’s starting to fall asleep at the table, eyes
growing heavier and heavier.

There’s one last thing he really wants to know now. “What do you do now? You’re still…
part of the Mafia, aren’t you?”
Dazai shakes his head. “No. I sell information. I have worked with the Mafia, but I’ve also
worked with the other gangs in Yokohama as well as law enforcement. I’m not loyal to any
one group.”

Right. It makes sense that information is such a lucrative career, though he’s confused on
how Dazai manages a network and the deals without being attached to a group.

“It’s a relatively safe business. Everyone wants what I have and no one wants to piss me off
enough to send me working with their enemy, so… for the most part, it’s peaceful,” Dazai
continues unwarranted, an edge coming into his voice. He’s trying to convince him that what
happened isn’t normal. Isn’t par for the course. Kidnapping and torture isn’t something that
usually happens.

God, Chuuya wants to believe him. Wants to believe him more than anything. Wants to just
put aside his fear and pain, and just enjoy what was almost taken away from him.

Can he?

“That’s basically the whole story,” Dazai mutters, stalling out in the kitchen now that he has
nothing to do. He looks almost panicked without something to keep his hands busy. “Minus
the details, but I figured now isn’t the time for that. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know
but…,” he pauses there, drumming his fingers against the kitchen island, a nervous
background noise. “What are you thinking?”

The last question is almost desperate. Dazai’s kept it together for most of the conversation,
telling him his life story with a sort of detached air, like it didn't really matter to him. It's
impressive, considering the last time Chuuya got even close to discovering his past, he yelled
at him and called him Nakahara.

Among all the other things he should be worried about, that still manages to haunt him,
somehow.

Still, it's—
It's a lot and Chuuya doesn't know what to think. A large part of him just wants to ignore
everything that happened in the past and just move on, be happy with Dazai. Part of him is
shivering in terror, wondering what painful thing will happen next. That part wants to run,
flee all the way back home to his father, so he can hide under the covers of his childhood bed,
where nothing will ever hurt him again.

But most of him is—

"I think," Chuuya says slowly, letting his leg drop to the floor. "That I am very tired and I
want to go to sleep."

It's true just as much as it is an evasion tactic. His head feels stuffed full of cotton, sluggish
and exhausted. His body is heavy and half-numb, the soreness fading away into a suffocating
weight. Sleeping gives him more time to think, but it also gives him more time to recover.

If he's going to make a decision on what to do about them— and he has to, one way or
another— then he wants to do it when he's thinking the clearest. He doesn't want to make a
rash decision and end up regretting it for—

For a long time.

(For the rest of his life.)

Besides, he still has to talk to his sister and get her story. He's not nearly finished yet, and he
wants to have all the facts before he decides what to do.

So he's just going to sleep on it for now. He thinks better when he feels better.

Dazai looks like he wants to argue, biting his lip until it looks like it hurts. Waiting for an
answer is probably painful for him. Not knowing what to expect or how to prepare for it must
be hard for him. After a second and a long, blown-out breath, he nods. He doesn't push him to
make a decision right now, leaving the ball in his court.

It feels strange to have all the power in the relationship when most of their relationship has
been spent with Chuuya submitting to Dazai. He almost wishes he would take control and tell
him what to do and what to think. Following orders is much easier than deciding for himself.

But he's also grateful that he doesn't because—

This feels like it might be Chuuya's last chance to escape this kind of life, if that's what he
wants.

Right now he's still reeling from everything that happened in the last thirty-six hours, so it's
easier to separate himself from his feelings for Dazai. That won't always be the case though.
If he stays, if he loves him—

He's going to do it forever. There's no going back. There’s no changing his mind because he
truly doesn’t believe he will ever want to change his mind. Maybe he’s young. Maybe he’s
stupid. Maybe he’s naïve and all these other adjectives to describe his youthful inexperience
—

But some part of him knows that Dazai is it for him. That’s his soulmate . That’s his other
half, that’s who he was meant to be with.

More importantly, that’s who he wants to be with. He wants to spend his life with him. Their
relationship has never been conventional in any sense of the word, but it has been the best
thing he has ever experienced. Not even just the good, easy parts either. The playful banter,
the smug teasing, the silent compensation for emotions. How owned Chuuya feels
sometimes.

He likes being owned. He likes being taken over, likes following directions, likes wearing the
—
His hand floats up to his neck, fingers wrapping around the sudden-emptiness of it.

His collar.

With how exhausted he’s feeling, he didn’t notice it before, but Dazai’s wearing his collar.
It’s double-looped around his wrist, the small heart ring pressed against the back of his wrist.

Part of him wants to demand it back. That’s mine, you gave it to me, it belongs to me and I
want it back.

He’s not going to wear it if he’s not committed, though. And right now? He’s not sure if he is.
He needs time, still.

The prospect of climbing the stairs is incredibly daunting. The trek down was bad enough,
but now he has to somehow make the climb upwards when all his muscles feel like painful
bricks beneath his skin.

Or he doesn't, actually.

With a sigh, he surrenders his pride. It's not that big of a deal, and he'd rather just go to bed
without putting himself in unnecessary pain. Besides, this might be one of the last times he
gets to enjoy something like this. "Will you carry me up? My legs hurt."

Dazai immediately pounces on that admission, head whipping around to pin him with a
concerned look. "Hurt how?"

Exasperated, Chuuya rolls his eyes. He knows Dazai has reason to be concerned and he only
wants to help, but Yosano gave him the all-clear and he agreed to go to the hospital if he
needed it.
He doesn't need it. Doesn't want it either, because hospitals are terrible places to recover,
surprisingly, and they'll call his dad . He can't explain what happened to him to anyone
without getting the authorities involved. That's just another thing he doesn't want to deal with
right now.

"Like I'm sore. I'm fine, I promise you. I'm just sore and tired and overwhelmed and I just
really want to go to bed and it's quicker if you help me."

Dazai looks on the verge of calling him a liar, squinting at him like he's trying to detect the lie
in his posture. He's probably lucky he doesn't have a phone in hand because he might've just
called 119 right off the bat. He looks like he's on the verge of it anyways—

Heaving another, louder sigh, Chuuya begins the process of standing up. Most of the pain is
centered in his back and ankles, so in theory, once he gets moving, it'll be easier—

Dazai beats him to it. Before he can even get his weight under himself, he's coming around
the side of the table and swooping him up into a bridal carry. It's a bit messier than the usual
way he carries him and Chuuya's toe bangs against the table, but it's still nice.

Chuuya curls into him, pressing his nose against the side of his neck. His hand comes up,
coasting over his shoulder and draping over it, fingers curling in his shirt. Maybe it's wrong
to give Dazai hope— to give them both hope— when it still might be false but...

It feels so nice to be cared for. So nice to be treated gently, to let someone else take over for a
moment so he can breathe without the weight of the world crushing him underneath.

Yoko follows them upstairs again, sniffing interestedly at Chuuya's arm. She's been clingy all
day, reluctant to leave his side even when she's supposed to be eating or going outside. The
sight of her doggy smile, ears flopped sideways with the tilt of her head, is enough to fill him
with the burning desire to stay. He already said goodbye to her once, and he doesn't ever want
to do it again

She's the first animal he would ever consider a pet, and that bond runs deep.
Dazai sets Chuuya in bed gently, dragging some of the pillows on his side of the bed and
stuffing them under his back and between his legs as support. The bed is heavenly on his
body, the perfect mix of support and comfort that he sinks into eagerly.

Sleep pulls heavily at his eyes. He barely even has time to pull the blanket up to his shoulder
before his eyelids start dropping.

Dazai hesitates for a moment, but when Chuuya doesn't move to invite him in, he seems to
take the subtle hint and backs off. Yoko eagerly takes the spot instead.

It's only when he's making his way out of the room entirely that Chuuya remembers he has
one more, very important question:

"If I wanted to leave, would you let me?"

Maybe it's naive to expect Dazai to give him an honest answer when lying would be so much
easier and beneficial for him—

Somehow, Chuuya manages to still trust him.

Dazai pauses in the doorway, hand coming up to curl around the doorframe. His shoulders are
more tense than Chuuya's ever seen them, but his voice rings with genuine truth and honesty.
"Yes. If you wanted to leave, I would let you. I would never hurt you."

But he did hurt him. Whether by lies of omission or vicious words or sheer trauma response,
Chuuya has been hurt by him and because of him. Neither of them can escape that reality.

Now, they just have to move on and hope they can both stay whole in the aftermath.
Turning over, Chuuya hugs Yoko to his chest, burying his face in her fur to drown himself in
the scent of dog and faint pet shampoo.

He sleeps.

Everything is easier when he's sleeping.

 Sibling PVP
Chapter Summary

Chuuya calls Kouyou

Chapter Notes

hi :p this one is short again and a lil late BUT the good news is that i'm mostly over
being sick now and am getting my motivation back so there!!!! :D i win. you will notice
the chapter count has jumped again; this is not a guarantee that it won't change again
BUT we are closing in on the end of the fic so :D <3 thanks for tuning in and see you
later <3

The next day, Chuuya finds himself with a choice.

He slept nearly the entire day yesterday, only waking to scarf down some food or go to the
bathroom. He hasn't had a real conversation with Dazai since the one in the kitchen, choosing
to make stilted small talk when he came down for dinner instead.

This morning, when he woke up and it became obvious that he was going to stay awake,
Dazai presented him with a phone.

"Yours was... smashed," he explained, delicately skirting around the subject of his
kidnapping. "I couldn't fix it, but I managed to input the SIM card into this one, so you
should have everything."

The phone is sleek, one of the newer generations of iPhone. It's actually much better than his
old phone, which makes him snort with irony. Only takes a kidnapping for a phone upgrade.
He spends at least an hour procrastinating, dicking around on his social media’s and making
sure all his apps work and his photos are all in the same albums.

His messaging app gets a thorough combing. The conversation he has with Kouyou gets
inspected, wondering if there was any clue about her career choice. If there was something he
missed, if there was a way he could've known if he was smart enough or observant enough.

He doesn't find anything, which is just as relieving as it is disappointing.

Despite the fact that he knows he has to actually talk to her, he skips past the 'call' button for
now and heads into his messages with Dazai. This is a land full of nostalgia and memories.
Pictures of Dazai and Yoko and things he offered to buy Chuuya. Sweet goodnight messages,
the time they sexted, date plans.

Chuuya hovers over a picture of them in Osaka, wondering where it all went so wrong.
There's very little he wouldn't give to go back to that time of relaxation, lust and love. How
easy it all was back then, how natural. They never fought back then. They didn’t have to deal
with any of this.

Eventually he sighs and navigates to the calling app. He could text Kouyou, but that robs him
of the chance to hear her voice and detect if she's lying to him. She's always been an
accomplished liar, but he knows all her tells. Benefits of being siblings.

There's a little '1' notification hovering over his voicemail section. He almost ignores it
entirely because he's pretty sure it's about his defaulted scholarships for school, which he now
has to pay back and he’s technically in debt for.

Which fucking sucks , by the way, to be in debt when he’s only eighteen, young and with no
real career prospects. He spent his whole life working his ass off so he wouldn’t have to take
out loans for school—

And like everyone says, life’s a bitch, and he somehow wound up there anyway.
He doesn’t want to listen to it right now, because he can only handle so many things at once
and his torture recovery comes before the loan payoffs. But he should at least delete it, right?
Out of sight, out of mind or whatever the saying is. Besides,the notification bugs him.

It’ll only take him a few seconds. It puts off calling his sister a little longer.

Navigating to his voicemail box, he expects to see a call from an unknown number.

It’s not. It’s from Dazai.

That in itself is surprising— Dazai almost never leaves voicemails, and if Chuuya doesn’t
pick up his calls then he’ll send a text instead— but it’s also.. a long message. Almost a
minute long, which is practically a record in this day and age. It was also left on the day of
their break up. Not even an hour after the fact, actually.

Which isn’t that long ago in terms of linear time—almost three days— but still. It seems like
so long ago.

His thumb hovers over the play button, wondering what it says. Is it angry? Sad?

Is it an apology?

Maybe he should wait until he’s in a better state of mind to listen to this but—

Only one way to find out, right? He’s never been a coward before, no reason to start now. He
presses play, curled entirely beneath the blankets of Dazai’s bed, a protective fort of his own
making. He has a feeling he’ll need it.

The first second of the voicemail is just silence, offset by what sounds like a miserably wet
sniffle. He almost starts to think that the voicemail was just an accident, but then—
“Baby—,” Dazai’s voice is wet, choked with such obvious emotion that it makes Chuuya’s
heart squeeze in response. He’s heard Dazai when he was angry, frustrated, pleasured, tired—

But he’s never heard him choke on a sob before.

“Chuuya—“ the fact that he corrects himself hurts, because he doesn’t know if it means he
doesn’t want to call him that or if he doesn’t think he can, “I— I know you’re hurt and you
might not want to talk to me—,”

That’s wrong. Chuuya always wants to talk to him. He wants to tell him a lifetime of secrets
and stories, he wants to tell him everything, all the time.

“And that’s okay, I just— I didn’t mean it, okay?”

When he says it like that, like he’s desperate to prove it, it’s impossible not to believe him.

In the background, there’s another wet sniff, and what sounds like a faint grumble from Baki.
"I shouldn't have said those things to you," Dazai continues, the replay of his voice somehow
managing to translate the sheer self loathing that sentence holds. "I was just upset and hurt
and surprised and— I'm sorry , so just...at least come back for your meds."

Even then he was concerned about his health, and maybe that shouldn't be a big deal but…
Chuuya has learned, from his fathers example, that the people who love you most will go out
of their way to make sure you feel happy and healthy at all times.

Dazai made mistakes, but he also tried to fix them and—

Isn't that what matters? Isn't that what's important?

"It's only five hours until your next dose. You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to,
and that's okay but just... come get your meds, please . You need them."

The voicemail ends there. The silence is resounding, almost deafening underneath the
blankets of Dazai's bed.

He's alone with the realization that—

Dazai tried to fix the fight. It was too little too late, but he called him, he apologized, he
wanted to fix things. He wasn't expecting any of this to happen, Chuuya basically ambushed
him and forced him to tell him what he now knows is a very traumatic story when he had
already promised to tell him, Chuuya was just impatient and didn't want to wait.

And despite the mistakes that he makes— that both of them make— Dazai is always trying to
pick up the pieces and put them back together again. Trying to make them better, learning
from what he did wrong and evolving—

And always trying to make Chuuya happy. He can only think of this one time where he
actively hurt his feelings. This is the one time he's fucked up, and yes, it was huge and it led
to unfortunate consequences—

But he always gave Chuuya another chance when he fucked up, didn't he?

Besides— and this is the agonizing part that he's been trying to avoid thinking about for the
past two days— it's not like he's blameless either. He fell for Fyodor's trick, he instigated the
fight, he left the house when he could've literally just gone out in the backyard for ten
minutes while he called his sister.

The worst part— the absolute worst part— is trying to come to terms with the fact that he's
not blameless in his own trauma. If he had been smarter or less rash, or trusted Dazai or tried
to be kinder—
This could've all been avoided. It didn't have to happen like this. This wasn't meant to happen
— it just did. It's unfortunate, it's horrible , it's something he has to recover from—

But he can't give up on Dazai. Can't give up on them . Not when things are finally starting to
go right, not when they're just getting good. Not after Dazai confessed to him, even if that
ended up going wrong too.

He's not ready to give up yet. He's not ready to let go, not before he's experienced everything
with Dazai.

Plus, it's not like he can actually get away from the Mafia now. His sister is the boss and
while she was adept at keeping him safe for a while, it's obvious that time is up. The spell has
been broken, and now Chuuya has been dropped into the world of the underground by
association. And if he's going to be here anyways, he might as well be happy. He might as
well have what he wants, what he loves.

He might as well have Dazai, if he'll have him too.

Bolstered by a strange sense of confidence and motivation, Chuuya navigates back to his
sister’s contact information. This time, he doesn't hesitate before pressing the call button.

It only rings twice before Kouyou's voice interrupts the ringing. "Chuuya?"

She sounds the same, if concerned, and it fills him with the sense of home and safety. "Hey,
ane-san."

"I'm so glad you're okay," she says earnestly, a hint of tears in her voice. She's rarely so
vulnerable with her emotions. "I was so worried about you."

Chuuya can imagine. Kouyou has always been, for better or for worse, something between a
sister and a mother for him. They've always had this weird dynamic where she felt
responsible for him because of how lonely her own childhood was and how sick he was
himself and how busy their father was. It created this weird bond between them, and he only
began to realize it when he started to hang out with Yuan and her sister. Their relationship
was nothing like his and Kouyou's is.

"I know," he mutters, curling up tighter. He has Dazai's pillow clutched to his chest, a meager
source of comfort that he clings onto desperately. "But Yosano said I was fine, and I feel
better now."

The mention of Yosano brings back the tension between them. It's a reminder that Kouyou
isn't who she always told him she was. It's a reminder that she might be his sister who cared
for him, but she's also a liar.

Before she can say anything, Chuuya is interrupting her, barreling onward with the
conversation before she can avoid it. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me you're
the head of one of the most dangerous operations in Japan?"

The first answer he gets is a sigh and the sound of a tea cup rattling. She's always been a tea-
drinker when she's stressed.

"First off, we shouldn't be having this conversation over the phone and you should definitely
not say things like that . This is a conversation that's much better to have in person."

Anger rises up. Maybe she's right, but she's also avoiding the conversation. She's playing it
off, making him wait, giving herself time to come up with better answers. Telling him to wait
like he's a child or something. "Tell me now or I'm gonna get pissed ," he hisses, digging his
fingers into the pillow. He hates being left in the dark like this.

Another moment of silence and then—

"Fine," Kouyou says, giving in. He can hear her getting comfortable on the other side of the
line. "It didn't start like this, this is just where I... ended up. I joined when I was sixteen, just
like every other rebellious teenager. It was fun and dangerous and scary— but I always
planned to get out some day, you know? I always thought I would leave some day, and go on
to have a regular life. Go to college, like you did. It was just supposed to be a temporary
lapse, which is one of the reasons I never told anyone back then. And then... I met someone."

"Oda?" Chuuya asks. They've been together for five years that he knows of— he wouldn't be
surprised if that was a lie too— so that would be around the right time frame.

"No, actually," his sister replies, voice turning wistful. "I met Yosano first. She was in charge
at the time, and she just had this...aura about her. I can't explain it, but there was just
something so fascinating and compelling about her. She was fierce and strong and capable—
and when she offered to take me under her wing, I couldn't say no."

Chuuya snorts. He remembers feeling something similar when he had a crush on an

upperclassman at his high school. "So she was your bi awakening?"

That draws a laugh out of Kouyou. "Yeah, you could say that. Anyways, she taught me a lot.
She introduced me to Oda, gave me responsibilities, made me feel things I've never felt
before and showed me just how much of the world I was missing. I didn't tell anyone because
I was afraid it was going to be taken away from me, or that I was going to face serious
consequences. You know how Dad is— if he knew I was committing crimes, he'd call the
police on me just as quickly as anyone else."

That is true. Dad is a stickler for the rules and for the law. He's always insisted that all his
children follow all the rules to the letter, and he never has any sympathy for when they do
break them, whether it was an accident or not. If he knew that his daughter was part of the
Mafia, he would absolutely call the police. Even if it meant life in jail for Kouyou.

"You were young then, and you had a habit of tattling."

Chuuya cringes at the mention of his snitch phase. He was a kid, and it's understandable, but
it's embarrassing to remember that he used to tell on everyone . He was the teacher's pet, for
god's sake, and if he even thought he saw something wrong, he would go scampering off to
tell. Luckily he grew out of that quickly when he realized no one wanted to be friends with
him when he was a little snitch.
“By the time you were old enough to know and to understand, I had just gotten used to
keeping my secret. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell you, I just didn’t want your opinion of
me to change. I was scared of what would happen and what you would do. I didn’t want you
to become like me.”

That makes Chuuya’s eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “Why? You think I couldn’t handle it
or something?”

Unfortunately, due to his young childhood upbringing, he’s always suffered a complex about
his strength. There’s always been a part of him that is terrified of being perceived as weak or
helpless, a part that usually drives him to do stupid shit just to prove he can handle it—

Like refusing to go to a hospital even when he should, for example.

“No!” Kouyou says, sounding appalled. “I just didn’t want you in this life because it’s
dangerous. You’re still my little brother and I just want to protect you.”

Ignoring the part about joining the mafia—which he’s conflicted about, because part of him
almost wants to, now that he has so many ties to the Mafia and there’s no other direction his
life is taking in the foreseeable future, he gets straight to the point. “But you didn’t protect
me. You left me in the dark for years and while that might’ve worked when I was still a kid at
home, there’s no way you actually thought that would work forever. It’s a miracle I even
made it through orientation week without getting kidnapped!”

Chuuya doesn’t have to be there physically to see how she practically rolls her eyes.

“Everything was going great until Dazai showed up. I had everything under control. I was
planning on letting you take your first year of college and then slowly tell you."

"Was it?" Chuuya asks mockingly, seething with hurt and anger and disbelief. Getting
Kouyou to admit to her faults has always been hard— in her mind, there's always an excuse,
always a reason why, always someone or something else to blame. "Was it under control?
Because— do you know who my roommate was? Nikolai Gogol. Do you know who they
asked me questions about? You."
Silence. Yeah, he fucking thought so.

She pipes up again. "I had your entire background wiped, they had no reason to look into you
until Dazai started showing interest in you. I was careful, and no one knew you were my
brother until he came and messed everything up—”

"Will you stop blaming him? He has his own faults, but you left me in the dark for years. I
couldn't defend myself because I didn't know I should be defending myself. I didn't know I
was supposed to be watching out for criminals that know my sister!"

In a weird way, Chuuya actually is grateful that Kouyou never told him about her job.
Because if she had, it's likely he wouldn't have met Dazai. Or at least not had the same
relationship he does with him now, because it's clear that they don't get along.

"I know , and I'm sorry you got hurt, but I never meant for that to happen. I know I should've
told you but there was never a good time and I couldn't figure out how to do it. It was safer
for you not to be involved with me, I swear. Fyodor never even knew you existed until Dazai
pissed him off, and that's when he started to hurt you. I was just trying to keep you safe."

"Yeah," Chuuya mutters, suddenly feeling absolutely done with this conversation. "That
worked out well for you, didn't it?"

"It did," she insists, running on blind stubbornness, "You were literally perfectly fine until
you started dating Dazai. I've been in the Mafia for eight years now and no one ever hurt you
until now. This is exactly why I didn't want you involved. You shouldn't be dating a man like
that—”

Chuuya pounces on that, protective instincts rising. "A man like what? A man like you?
Because last I checked, you two are similar. You both lied to me by omission, you both failed
to keep me safe, and you’re both hiding the fact that you’re murderers.”

Kouyou makes a noise, like that hurt.

Good. Fuck her. She’s his sister and he loves her and he would do anything for her, even now
—

But sometimes he could fucking strangle her.

Why can’t she see that the only reason he happened to stay out of trouble was luck? Maybe
she made a deal with her gang friends to keep him safe or whatever, but that was never a
permanent solution. She was so wrapped up in keeping herself out of jail, keeping their
relationship steady that she forgot that he had a right to know because it put him in danger.

(Neither of them are thinking rationally. Chuuya is still reeling with emotions and recovery,
and Kouyou is drowning in guilt and struggling to pick up the pieces of what happened.

The best— and worst— thing about siblings is that they fight. For better or for worse, their
stresses are always best taken out on each other. It gets better as they grow older, but siblings
fight, viciously so, especially when they’re scared and confused.

But they will always find their way back to each other.)

“The only difference that I see is that you chose to be in the Mafia and he didn’t— which
makes him a better person than you, in the end,” Chuuya finishes with a hiss, yanking the
phone away from his ear and smashing the end call button.

He ignores the immediate call back in favor of burying his face into the pillow and screaming
out his frustrations. Sometimes, family is the most frustrating thing in the entire world.
They're a pain to deal with, they hurt him, they smother him, they try to tell him what to do,
they piss him off, they make him sad.

But that's still his family. That's still his sister, and he'll forgive her some day.
Just not today.

Today, he's angry.

 "I'm sorry, I love you"
Chapter Summary

Trauma has a way of freezing time. Of breaking something off of you and freezing that
part into an endless nightmare, refusing to let go of it. Part of him will always be stuck
in that dark, muggy room with a bag tied over his head. Part of him will always have
nightmares and will always be aware of how much water can hurt. Part of him will
never be the same.

Chapter Notes

im BACK bitches. i have been what u may call "struggling with my mental health" but i
won so i'm back lol. please enjoy this chapter :)

also!! just letting you all know that with my schedule, i'll be scaling back updates to
every other saturday. i can't keep up with weekly updates at the moment, and it's
stressing me out so i'm slowing it down a bit! we're getting close to the end, and i want
to enjoy the finale of my hard work :) i'll see you next update!!! <3

Trauma has a way of freezing time. Of breaking something off of you and freezing that part
into an endless nightmare, refusing to let go of it. Part of him will always be stuck in that
dark, muggy room with a bag tied over his head. Part of him will always have nightmares and
will always be aware of how much water can hurt. Part of him will never be the same.

But the rest of him.. those parts get to move on. Get to continue living his life. The next two
weeks are...surprisingly easy.

He feels better by the day. The physical soreness slowly disappears after another three days.
His headaches slowly get less and less painful as the days go by, until one day he just wakes
up and doesn't have a headache for the entire day.

He's able to get off his seizure meds again, something he's grateful for. The other meds— the
anti-viral— he still takes religiously, and it feels like they're working.
His energy has slowly returned. It's not the same as when he started college, but it's a little bit
better than when he was kidnapped. Every day, he needs a nap in the middle of the day less
and less. His appetite returns, even if slightly less. He's able to drink water without feeling
like he's about to spiral into a panic attack.

His biggest achievement, he thinks, is that after almost two weeks, he's able to take a shower
by himself again. It's slow-going and he has to be careful not to push himself too hard, but for
the first time he's able to get into the shower without Dazai being there.

Speaking of Dazai, their relationship has been on a...

A break, some might call it. They haven't actually talked about it, because Chuuya isn't ready
to talk about the break up yet. It still hurts and there's already so much on his plate that he
feels like he might shatter like glass if he takes on anything more.

They do talk about other things though. Dazai's past, his current work, his relationship with
the criminal underground. Chuuya's family, his childhood, how Dazai can help him feel
better. Stuff like that interspersed between talks about dinner, the show they're watching, talks
about taking Baki to the vet for his shots.

Domestic stuff. Normal stuff.

Dazai doesn't push him, but he's open in a way that he never was before. He answers every
question Chuuya has without hesitation and offers up pieces of his life story like little
treasures.

Chuuya never realized how much Dazai was hiding until that veil of secrecy was ripped
away. He’s still the same person, but he has more depth now, like he’s sharing his soul.
Letting Chuuya in, completely and truly.

It’s what Chuuya deserves but it’s more than he expected, and it just—
It leaves him torn in a state of frustration— because he should’ve gotten this Dazai in the
beginning, he should’ve been like this the entire time— and also awe because the more he
learns about him, the more he feels for him. Not just love— which is growing in his chest
again, Chuuya can’t deny that— but also sympathy and anger on his behalf and pride that he
came so far on his own.

Dazai Osamu is an enigma that is opened to his eyes only and it feels like he could spend his
entire life putting him together. Putting all the details into place, building stories from him
and with him.

Their relationship is slightly strained and not on the same level as before— they don’t kiss
because Chuuya hasn’t indicated he wants that again, they don’t fuck. They’re tiptoeing
around what they had before, Dazai waiting patiently for Chuuya to make up his mind.

They still sleep together, most nights. Shower together too, because it’s harder for Chuuya to
shower now, especially by himself. Eat together, take the dogs on walks together.

It’s not all perfect, of course.

Chuuya’s angry a lot of the time now. Sometimes when he wakes up in the middle of the
night from a nightmare or when he’s struck with the realization that he can’t take a bath now,
and he just—

He gets so fucking angry about what happened that he just wants to destroy something, wants
to hurt someone just to get a handle on his own pain, wants to scratch and bite and rip. Wants
to vent and scream until the boiling rage in his chest finally goes away.

Dazai ends up hanging a punching bag in Shuuji’s old room, and some days Chuuya just
beats the shit out of it until he tires himself out.

The hardest thing to wrap his head around is the fact that recovery is a process. It’s not linear,
it’s not steady.Some days he feels like he’s leaped forward in terms of progress, and other
days it feels like he’s taken three steps backward.

Some days he’s able to pretend that nothing ever happened at all. Other days, it’s like he’ll
never be able to move past it. He’ll never be normal again, he’ll always be this warped,
damaged version of himself.

It all comes to a head on the day of his neurology check-up with Gide. It’s six weeks after his
diagnosis, a wellness check to see how well he’s responding to the medication and how well
he’s recovering. If anything needs to be adjusted, it’ll be in this appointment.

It’s also, secretly in Chuuya’s mind, a measure on if he’s ever going to be normal again. If
there’s even a point to trying to move on, a point to trying to have a life when his body is too
sickness-prone and too weak. He shouldn’t be thinking like that, he knows, but it’s so hard to
be hopeful and determined for so long. It’s so hard to keep pushing all the time.

Honestly, he’s not expecting good news. His recovery times have always been abysmally
long, and he’s not expecting anything différent with this encounter. He’s fully expecting to go
home with another regimen of recovery instructions, probably new meds. Maybe a referral to
a specialist, or told to come back again in another thirty days so they can try again.

It creates this depression in him before he goes, one that isn’t helped by the fact that he asked
Dazai to wait in the lobby. If he’s going to get bad news, he wants some time to process it
alone first before he has to reveal to Dazai that he’s going to be an invalid for the foreseeable
future.

Gide runs him through a battery of tests. All his vitals, his weight, how he’s been feeling.
Asks him if he has any concerns before sending him up to get an MRI.

Getting the images back is the longest part of the appointment, almost an hour in itself. It’s
the quickest Chuuya’s ever gotten tests back— perks of Dazai’s ridiculous insurance policy—
but still long enough that he is forced to twiddle his thumbs and stare at the wall for a
horribly long time.
Eventually, Gide comes back, brown folder in hand. Chuuya perks up when he sees him
because—

Hé doesn’t look like he has bad news. In fact, he almost looks like he has good news. Happy,
in a subtle and professional way.

He gets right to the chase. “Well, Chuuya, I’m happy to say you have recovered remarkably
well. There is still some swelling, but nothing that I would consider dangerous. I’m going to
prescribe you another thirty days of the anti-virals, and I do recommend that you keep taking
anti-inflammatories whenever you think you need them— but otherwise, I’m happy to say
that you can slowly go back to your normal life now.”

Chuuya’s breath stalls out.

He’s okay? Even with everything that happened to him, even with the hours of literal torture
that deprived oxygen to his brain, he’s okay? He’s not going to be stuck in this endless cycle
of fighting for every second of recovery just for it to slip when he’s not looking? He can go
back to college next semester?

“Now, this is not an invitation to be reckless,” Gide says, pinning him with a stern look. “You
need to continue your self-care routines and look after yourself. I want to see you again in
ninety days for a final follow up. Lots of rest and care are still imperative, but you can slowly
go back to your normal routines as you continue to feel better.”

“Oh,” Chuuya says dumbly, feeling so relieved that he doesn’t really have words for it.
Floored too, because he was so worried that the waterboarding set him back in his recovery.
Possibly made it so he could never recover, and that he would always have to deal with the
problems caused by something he had no choice or control over.

Like he would forever be working with such low-energy that he had to take a minimum of
one nap a day, he would always suffer from chronic headaches, he would never be able to go
back to school or work, he would never have what he envisioned as a normal life.

It was depressing to think about but—

Now he has proof that life does go on, life does get better and—

He has to live his life now. He has to choose his life. There’s no more deadlines to hide
behind, no more reason to wait, nothing left to distract himself with, no reason to keep
holding back.

But he already chose once, ,and now he has to choose it again.

The rest of the appointment is a blur. Gide doesn't hold him much longer, and releases him
with another prescription for the anti-viral. The hallways are quietly sterile and empty as he
makes his way back to the lobby, paper clutched in hand.

Dazai is waiting for him in the lobby, perking up as soon as the door opens. He stands up to
meet him halfway, and god , the sight of him makes Chuuya's heart swell in his chest.

"Good news," he tells him before he can even ask because he can see the worry on his face. "I
have another prescription and an appointment in ninety days, but other than that... I got
better."

The relief is evident in Dazai's exhale. He doesn't reach out to touch him— he's been hesitant
with physical touch in a way that he never has been before, something that Chuuya
appreciates because it means he's trying to respect unseen boundaries but also mourns
because he wants to be touched by Dazai— but the tension melts off his expression. "That's
good," he breathes, sounding so relieved. "That's really good."

It is. In more ways than one, because now Chuuya feels like there's progress. He has
motivation now.

The ride home is surprisingly quiet, filled mostly with music. Dazai offers to pick up his
prescription later that week and they pick up food to celebrate his good news.
They eat in comfortable silence, before Chuuya heads up to shower alone. It's still a process
for him, and his face hasn't had a thorough scrubbing yet, but he manages to clean all of
himself. It just takes patience and persistence, something that Chuuya is still learning to give
to himself.

But it's worth it to get out, fresh and clean and wrapped in a warm towel, and feel almost
normal again.

His sleeping clothes are stacked near the sink and he pulls them on before doing his nightly
care routine. The sight of his products lined up next to Dazai's makes his heart skip a beat in
his chest.

When he's finished, he takes a deep breath for courage and exits.

Dazai is on the bed, propped up against the headboard and reading some book. Chuuya has to
stop in the doorway and just… stare at him. Just take him in because—

There’s a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, softening the sharper angles of his face
into this welcoming vision of domesticity. The book he’s reading is some game theory book,
one that’s probably too complicated for Chuuya to read unless he was willing to put the time
in to actually study it. He’s wearing a comfortable sweater and a pair of jogging sweats, hair
messy, and he just —

He looks like home .

This is the man he loves. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. So fiercely that he can’t believe he
ever believed he was going to give him up. That’s his life right there, on that bed.

The first step he takes forward feels like the first active choice he makes in choosing his life.
How he ended up here was just happenstance, just coincidence, something he didn’t know he
was getting into.
Dazai chose him and now—

Chuuya’s choosing him back. He’s weighed all the consequences, all the hurt, and has made
his decision.

Brown eyes, heart-achingly beautiful behind the glasses, look up at him when Chuuya crawls
onto the bed. They have so much depth, it’s like he could look into them forever and always
find another spot of gold, another reason to love him.

The book gets tossed to the side when Chuuya settles in his lap. It’s one of the few times he’s
taller than Dazai, and it never fails to make him feel powerful in ways that don’t have to do
with strength or skill.

“We should talk.”

The spark of anxiety in Dazai’s eyes is visible. His hands find his thighs, fingers digging
lightly into him like he’s afraid he’s going to slip away. Like he’s afraid he’s going to lose
Chuuya.

“Okay,” he murmurs, staring up at him with a certain desperation, eyes flitting over his
features like he’s trying to memorize them. “What about?”

(Just like Chuuya was earlier, he’s expecting bad news. He’s expecting the end.)

Thoughtful, trying to put all his emotions into coherent sentences, Chuuya lets his hands
coast up Dazai’s front. Presses his palms to the planes of his chest, reveling in the feeling of
hot, firm muscle under his hands. Drags them up over his chest and his shoulders, to finally
end up with the tips of his fingers playing with the ends of Dazai’s hair.

It’s the first time he’s really touched him with the intent of pure, simple enjoyment since he
was rescued.
Taking a deep breath, Chuuya begins the speech he was practicing on the entire drive home:

“I’m sorry.”

It’s not what Dazai was expecting, clearly. His eyes go wide with shock before blinking at
him dumbly. Then his mouth opens. “You don’t have to—“

Chuuya cuts him off, tugging lightly on his hair at the same time he shakes his head. “I do,”
he insists, giving him a shaky smile, “because I deserve an apology from you. But I hurt you
too, and it’s not fair for me to get an apology from you without doing the same.”

He still looks hesitant. Not arguing yet but clearly on the verge of doing so. Dazai probably
thinks he doesn’t deserve an apology. He’s never expressed a need or desire for one, and he’s
never even outwardly expressed being angry with Chuuya over their fight but—

Over the last two weeks, he’s done a lot of thinking. The first few days were full of anger and
frustration and pain, wanting to believe he never did anything wrong. Believing that
everything was Dazai’s fault.

Then he listened to the voicemail again and again, a dozen times over, and he eventually
came to the conclusion that, while he absolutely has the right to be angry and hurt with Dazai
—

He hurt Dazai too, and he loves him enough to put aside his pride and his own hurt feelings
long enough to address that.

“So what we’re gonna do is… I’m going to apologize to you. You’re going to apologize to
me. And then we’re going to talk. Sounds good?”
The hands on his thighs firm, Dazai finally daring to take a real hold on him, to touch him
properly without any hesitation or insecurity. His thumbs rub over the insides of his thighs,
pushing up the shorts he’s wearing.

“Okay,” he agrees, voice going soft and reverential, an homage to the quietly intense moment
beginning to grow between them.

Dazai’s hair is soft and vibrant under his fingers, something he draws courage from. “I’m
sorry,” he repeats, filling his voice with as much meaning as he can because he is sorry. Truly
and deeply. “I shouldn’t have gone behind your back to get information on you. You did say
you were going to tell me but you weren’t ready yet. I should’ve respected that boundary. I
also shouldn’t have brought it up like that, or taken a virtual stranger's word over your own.
You’ve never tried to hurt me, so I shouldn’t have believed Fyodor when he said you would.
You deserve more respect than that.”

He makes eye contact, trying to show how apologetic he is—

Only to find bottomless, unconditional forgiveness already shining back at him, a sight that
knocks him breathless.

“I forgive you,” Dazai tells him without hesitation, without having to think about it, without
contemplating. Just pure, effortless, easy forgiveness. Hands coasting up his thighs, curving
over his hips to come around to his back, hugging him close.

It feels wrong that it’s this easy. It wasn’t this easy for Chuuya to forgive him . He still doesn't
think he's quite managed it.

But that’s part of being in a relationship. Some things—a lot of things— are hard, and other
things… aren't.

Dazai cuts in before he can say anything else. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve told you about my
past. It’s scary and uncomfortable to talk about it, but you deserved to know who you were
getting involved with. I promised myself I would always protect you, and I failed. I can never
make up for that and I can never make that go away— but I would make sure that never
happened to you again, and I would spend my life making it up to you. I would give you
everything of me."

That's—

That's all Chuuya wants. That's all he needs. That’s all he ever wanted.

There's just one thing he has left to get off his chest before he can be happy again. Before he
can fully move past this. "I don't want you to hunt down Nika or Fyodor for what they did to
me. I want you to just leave them alone."

Dazai goes still, eyes hardening. His gaze roams over his face, evaluating his expression.
Evaluating how serious he is.

Chuuya isn't stupid. He knows how protective Dazai is, and it would be foolish to believe that
he isn't planning on getting revenge on him. Kouyou's probably doing the same, but he can
handle her.

Dazai is a whole different beast.

"I want you to promise me to leave them alone about this."

A big part of Chuuya does want revenge. If that were an option, if it came without
consequences, he would absolutely indulge that sick part of himself. But it does have
consequences. Nika showed him there would be consequences.

A war would break out. People would get hurt— innocent people, but also his people. He
would be a target again. It would be bloody and horrible, and maybe—

Maybe this time he wouldn't be physically hurt. Maybe this time he would lose his sisters or
his father, or Dazai.
He's okay with the only victim being himself. He can make peace with that, he can pull the
blanket over his own nightmares and skeletons, he can stare in the face of his fear and learn
to cope.

But he can't lose Dazai. He can't be a widower or a single child.

He can be a victim. That's fine, as long as he's the only one.

"Chuuya..." Dazai says, low, like he's fighting the urge to argue with him. His expression is
clearly disapproving, every line of his body slowly gathering tension.

Chuuya shakes his head, tightening his fingers in his hair. “No. You aren’t taking my trauma
and acting out a revenge plan. I don’t want you to do it.”

“She deserves it,” he insists, staring up at him imploringly. His eyes are hard, even if the
hands on his hips are exceedingly gentle.

Chuuya would agree with that statement. She probably does deserve it, but—

“It’s not about what she deserves. It’s about what I’m not willing to lose. It’s about what I’m
not willing to risk. It’s about what I want.”

That seems to be something that he can’t argue with. After a moment, Dazai deflates visibly.
“Okay,” he agrees quietly, pressing his fingers into the small of his back like he’s savoring
the shape of him. “I won’t.”

Chuuya gives him a grateful smile, hands climbing higher into his hair. The undercut has
fully grown out by now, soft and fuzzy. He shivers when Chuuya runs his nails through it,
lips parting on a breath.
Now that they’ve talked —at least a little bit—it’s time to give into the swell of emotions in
his chest. Smiling lopsidedly, Chuuya asks, “Can I kiss you?”

The spark in Dazai’s eyes lights into a flame, even as heartwarmingly gentle as it is. Like fire
that doesn’t burn, but warms you to the core.

“You don’t have to ask,” he says, the beloved single dimple making a reappearance. One of
his hands is moving, coasting up along his side. Around to his front, sliding over his chest
and up his shoulder. Long fingers curve around the back of his neck, strong and capable. The
feeling of safety and security in the press of the metal charm of the collar still wrapped
around Dazai’s wrist.

Chuuya leans in, his entire being focused on his eyes and how they seem to glow for him.
“Someone very important to me once said that you should always ask to kiss someone.”

The reminder is like the final piece settling into place.

Dazai’s hand firms around his neck, pulling him in at the same time he’s leaning, closer,
closer, closer—

His breath washes over him first, warm and familiar. And when the space between them is so
minuscule nothing could ever come between them—

“Yes,” Dazai breathes.

Their mouths meet, and it’s like two halves coming home. It's like being caught, it's like
being held. The entire world fading into the background to give way to the opening strains of
the symphony arching between them.

Dazai's lips are soft, achingly familiar. Something he's been able to memorize over the last
few months and yet something he will never get tired of. He will never get enough, will
spend the rest of his life needing to touch Dazai like this.
Needing to kiss him, needing to hug him and touch him. Needing to love him, because it's
only here— wrapped up in long, strong arms, fingers buried in dark, unruly hair, breathing
the same air, a warm, sturdy body underneath him, a body that he knows and adores— that he
feels complete. That he feels whole beyond his own self, a content fulfillment that he can't
describe.

He can only revel in it, sliding closer until their bodies are pressed together tightly.

Dazai's first exhale against his cheek is shaky, and his lips tremble under his own. He's not
moving, all of that effortless talent and finesse seemingly gone now that Chuuya is kissing
him again.

It goes on long enough that he tries to pull back, wondering if there's something wrong—

Then Dazai is pressing upward, the hand on his thigh sliding upwards to wrap around his
back. Fingers press into the back of his neck, thumb against his thrumming pulse, and he
kisses him.

Deeply, meaningfully, lips moving against his own. It’s deeper than any kiss they’ve had
before. Not physically but emotionally. It’s not a kiss that’s a prelude to other things or a
casual show of affection. It’s not like anything they’ve had before.

It’s a confession. It’s revelation, it’s reassurance, it’s everything.

It doesn’t cure the pain they’ve been through in the last weeks, but with each slide of their
lips together, the cutting edge of bad memories is soothed a little more.

Chuuya slides his hands back, cradling Dazai’s jaw in his palms. The feeling of his jaw
moving in his hands, muscles bunching in rhythmic waves, so full of life, makes an unnamed
emotion swell in his chest that feels almost too big to even breathe around.
This is his. He gets to have this, he gets to keep this. He never has to let this go.

It's common for young people to be unsure of where they'll end up in life. For a long time,
Chuuya was like that too, his future uncertain and scary. He had an idea of what he wanted to
do, where he wanted to end up, but it's still so unknown to him. The future is frightening
when you're still so young.

But not anymore, because he knows he always has a home to come back to. This might not
be where he thought he would end up, but this is where he was meant to be. This is his future,
right here holding him. He never has to be afraid because this is home now. His home, his
meant-to-be home, the home he made and built with someone else.

Neither of them push to deepen the kiss so that it sparks into fire-heat lust. They're content to
indulge in the emotional high rather than the physical, soaring into a warm bubble of
happiness. It's not about finding satisfaction in eachother's bodies, it's about proving to each
other just how much they mean to each other and just how much they missed each other.

And just when Chuuya swears it can't get better, feeling like his very heartbeat is being
driven by the rhythm of their kiss, his breath tasting and smelling like Dazai, the rest of the
world miniscule and unimportant compared to them—

Dazai pulls away, just slightly, thumb pressing into his neck with just enough force to make
him pause in his instinctive bid to chase after him because he's not ready to stop yet—

His lips catch against his as Dazai speaks, his voice a reverential murmur, an offering to the
only god he would give worship to:

"I love you."

Chuuya's breath catches in his throat, caught behind a lump of emotion.

If their first confessions hurt because of bad timing and bad circumstances--
This one feels like it wipes it all away. Makes it all better again, replaces something that did
hurt with something that feels so inexplicably right.

His first response is to lurch forward, tightening his hands on Dazai's face to drag him into
another kiss, this one more desperate, needier, more emotional , with more depth.

Dazai surges upward to meet him, nearly toppling him off balance. It's only his arm around
his back that keeps him upright and pressed close. There's an energy in him that feels frantic,
a tension that's displayed in how tightly he's holding him and how hard he's pressing into the
kiss. Like he doesn't know how to handle himself now that his confession has been accepted
and—

This time, it's Chuuya who breaks the kiss briefly, pulling back a fraction to speak, response
to call, like music: "I love you /too/."

— and returned.

Dazai shudders underneath him, his hand unwrapping from his back and reaching up instead.
Both of his hands find his jaw, cradling his cheeks in his palms and stroking his thumbs over
his cheekbones. It's blindly reverential, the next kiss, an offering and a promise all in one.

Chuuya kisses him back as best he can, overwhelmed with the sheer intensity of it all. His
hands end up in Dazai's hair, fisted in the soft dark strands. It's not so much about holding
him in place as much as it is about holding onto him in every way possible.

Their breathing is harsh before the kiss starts to slow down, coming to a natural stop. They
don't part, still wrapped up in each other, arms and hands hanging on with a desperation that
speaks of never wanting to let go.

In fact, the only thing that forces them to separate is Baki. Meowing loudly, he pushes
between them in an effort to take his rightful place in Chuuya's arms. They missed their
afternoon nap/cuddle session because Chuuya had to go to his doctor's appointment, and the
cat is miffed at having missed his daily dose of attention.

"You're a brat," Chuuya huffs in amusement, pulling Baki into his arms. The insult falls on
deaf ears.

Dazai slumps backward against the headboard again, hands falling to his thighs again. He
doesn't complain like he usually might, content to watch Chuuya perched in his lap and
raining kisses on Baki's head. His eyes are practically glowing with warmth, so openly
affectionate that it makes Chuuya feel like he's about to be burned with it.

"Are you tired?" He asks gently, thumbs massaging the inside of his knees. He can't seem to
stop touching him.

Chuuya nods, dropping Baki onto his side of the bed so he can stretch his back out by raising
his arms in the air. It's been a long, emotional day. Between the talk with Dazai and the
appointment with Gide, he'd be wiped out even if he had managed to take his usual afternoon
nap.

He hadn't, because of the appointment. Something he's proud of, but slightly regretting,
because it’s only the third day he's managed to go the entire day without taking a nap to make
it through. He is more exhausted than usual as a result, and he's sure that he's going to sleep
in late tomorrow, but it's progress.

It's still early in the evening, but it's late enough that Chuuya doesn't feel bad about passing
out. He's eaten and showered, so there's really nothing left to do besides hang out on his
phone anyways.

Well, there's one thing.

He reaches for Dazai's wrist, hooking the tip of his finger in the metal loop on the collar that's
wrapped around his wrist. Tugging on it lightly, he asks, "Will you put it back on me?"
He's been wearing chokers— and later, collars— that Dazai had given to him for months
now. His neck feels almost startlingly bare without it, and now that they're okay again, he
wants it back. He wants to wear it again, wants the reassurance of warm metal pressed up
against his throat and the reminder it brings him.

Dazai flips his wrist over, revealing the buckle so Chuuya can undo it. "Are you sure?" He
asks, not pressuring, but there's a definite edge of excitement in his voice.

Chuuya smiles. Dazai's always been respectful of his boundaries, but he's been extra careful
ever since their argument. It's thoughtful.

"Yes," he says, unbuckling the collar and tugging it free from his wrist. Instead of putting it
on himself, he just places the leather in his hand.

It’s an offer. Letting him know what he wants and letting him make the final move. Equality
and partnership.

Without looking away, Dazai takes his hands away from him. Carefully, he takes the leather
between his fingers and leans upward. Tipping his chin up. Chuuya offers him his throat
without hesitation or fear.

The tips of Dazai’s fingers drag over the side of his neck as he wraps the collar around his
neck, drawing a shiver out of him. Without being able to look, it takes Dazai a few moments
to buckle the collar, but he manages it. When he does, he runs a finger between his neck and
the leather, checking the fit.

The feeling of the collar against his throat makes something inside Chuuya sigh with
contentment. It’s the last piece to finally fall into place, the last piece he needed to really feel
at peace. To let go of the final pieces of tension and anxiety and just breathe.

“Are you going to sleep with me, or are you busy?” Chuuya asks, fixing Dazai with his best
puppy dog look he has. He wants to be cuddled, so he’s hoping he’ll say he’s ready to sleep.
Dazai reaches for the book he discarded, ripping off the top corner of the page he stopped on
in a casual display of disrespect towards books that makes Chuuya cringe. “We can cuddle,”
he offers, tossing the book onto the nightstand.

He doesn’t offer to sleep but he knows Dazai well enough by now to realize that the man has
insomnia. It’s gotten better over the last few weeks, now that he’s sleeping with Chuuya—
who has always had a good sleeping schedule—and there’s more routine in the act of getting
ready for sleep, but it’s not a cure.

Sometimes he’ll just curl up with Chuuya and just hold him while he waits to sleep to take
him. It used to make Chuuya feel bad— it feels unfair that he gets to sleep peacefully while
Dazai struggles— but Dazai reassured him that it helps. He has a reason to stay in bed now
and eventually he usually gets a few hours of sleep at least.

Chuuya crawls under the blankets, yawning.

He ends up stretched out along his back, with Dazai’s head resting on his chest and his arms
around his waist. His own arms are draped over Dazai’s broad shoulders, fingers creeping
under his shirt at the nape.

Baki curls up near his head, deliberately putting his back to Chuuya. The silent cuddle
treatment makes him snicker, nudging Baki with his head in response. Yoko eventually leaps
up and plops down at the end of the bed. Kozo settles in the doorway with an exaggerated
groan.

Like that, Chuuya falls asleep while surrounded by his family. It’s not the first time, and it
won’t be the last—

But somehow this feels like a new beginning. The beginning of something fantastic.
 Shopping Trip
Chapter Summary

“What kind of stuff?” Dazai asks once they start driving, not-so-subtly eyeing the
discrete bag stored at Chuuya’s feet.

Chuuya gives him a sweet, secretive smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

Eyebrows shooting up, Dazai gives an incredulous laugh. “What?”

“You’ll find out later,” Chuuya insists, pushing Yoko back into the backseat because
she’s trying fruitlessly to climb into his lap.

“Oh, now you have to tell me!”

“I do not.”

“Okay, but what if I guess? Will you tell me if I’m right?”

Chuuya pretends to think about it. “Sure.”

He’s lying. He’s not going to tell Dazai if he’s right.

Chapter Notes

this chapter is SO LONG and it took me SO LONG to edit so i hope you enjoy it :) see
you next update <3

The minute Yuan spots Chuuya among the crowd in the shopping mall, she’s fixing him with
a concerned glare over the rim of her pink Starbucks cup. She’s decked out in all pinks and
oranges today, and there’s a new streak of sunset-orange in her pink hair that wasn’t there the
last time he saw her.

“Where the hell have you been?” She whisper-shouts at him, waving her hand like she’s
going to smack him. Her nails are pink with little cherries drawn on them. It’s a style change,
but not that different from her personal style, and it’s a comforting sight to see. Not
everything has changed.
Chuuya suppresses a wince. When he dropped out, he did tell her that he was doing it for
medical reasons a few days after the fact. He never really explained what happened to him,
but he reassured her that he was recovering and okay. It hadn’t been enough and she’d
pestered him every day for the last few weeks, but at least she didn’t show up at Dazai’s
house demanding answers.

Chuuya sips his own drink, dropping into the seat beside her. “I went on vacation because I
thought I was doing better, and turns out I wasn’t.”

That’s the story he’s going with to explain why he disappeared for the two days of his
kidnapping and rescue, and for why he’s been generally quiet and refusing to hang out since
then.

It’s been nearly a month since his rescue, and it’s the first time he’s gone out in the city
without Dazai or his sister to accompany him. It’s the first time he’s felt up to being without
the protection of his family right beside him.

It’s slightly anxiety-inducing. He hasn’t talked to Nikolai since he knocked him out and
kidnapped him— pretty sure he never wants to again, but the fact that his own friend hurt
him like that has him silently boiling with hurt and confusion— and he doesn’t know what
happened to him. It makes him nervous, nervous shivers crawling up and down his spine.
He’s way more alert than he needs to be, feeling one step away from bolting at any time, eyes
catching suspiciously on every single person who has dark hair or light eyes.

But it also feels…

Good, in a painful way. Like ripping off a bandaid to reveal the painful wound beneath.
Healing is almost as painful as the wound itself is, but it’s progress.

“Why didn’t you tell me, you pint-sized jerk?” Yuan sniffs, turning her nose up at Chuuya’s
offended gasp. “I was worried.”
Chuuya doesn’t doubt that. Yuan’s always been a good friend— the best friend Chuuya has
made since he left for college— and the only one that hasn’t betrayed him in some way. “I
know,” he says, scooting over to lean against her comfortingly. “I didn’t mean to worry you,
it just… happened like that. And I’m better now, I swear. Got a doctor's seal of approval and
everything.”

Yuan blows a raspberry at him, taking a long sip of her drink in obvious irritation. But she’s
leaning against him too, her shoulder soft and warm through her light jacket.

By the time she’s done drinking, she’s apparently moved on. “So,” she starts with, wiggling
her eyebrows, “Dazai took you on vacation?”

Honestly, he swears that a decent part of the reason Yuan has been so insistent on hanging out
with him is so she can get the gossip on Dazai. “Yeah,” he says, giving her a secret look.
“Osaka.”

The best way to keep true to a lie is to embed it in truth, so he’s just basically using the trip to
Osaka he went on earlier to cover up his absence.

“Osaka?” She repeats, sounding oddly disappointed. “You would think he would take you
somewhere more upscale with all that money he has. I was expecting somewhere more
romantic. Like...America or something."

Chuuya snorts. "You think America is romantic?"

"Well, not really but you get what I mean!"

"Suure," he says, taking the last sip of his own drink and standing up to throw it away. "Come
on, I need your help buying something."

That gets Yuan's attention, perking up and following after him eagerly. "Oh, really? What do
you need my help with?"
Chuuya only hesitates a little because he's gotten used to the concept of discussing sex. Dazai
is very open about it, and he's learned by example that it's really nothing to be embarrassed
about. Even Yuan has discussed her hook-ups around him a few times and it wasn't weird.

But this is a little more involved, and he's not sure if it's too much, but he really wanted a
female perspective on this idea and he really just pounced on the idea of going shopping with
Yuan. In any case, she’s the most fashionable person he knows besides his sister Kyoka.

Two birds with one stone. Reassuring her that he's not dead, dismembered or kidnapped—
her words, not his, which is almost hilariously ironic— while also getting to catch up and
solve his little problem.

"Well," he sighs, heading towards the opposite side of the mall. The store he wants is on that
side. "Dazai and I had a...little argument."

Understatement, really, but he can't go into the details of their brief break up without going
into the story about Dazai being ex-mafia and his kidnapping and his sister being current
mafia, and that entire mess.

He's not completely sure if Yuan knows about the Mafia— she's friends with Nikolai and
Shuuji too, which makes him suspicious, but she's never done anything herself to make him
think otherwise. If she's not aware, then telling her would put her in danger and give her too
much information.

If she is aware, then it means she knew about Nikolai, and he can't be friends with her.

Dazai himself said she probably didn't know, and Kouyou backed him up,so he's going on the
assumption that she doesn't know anything about the underground. Which is good, because
he wants a normal friend. A friend he can call up and go to lunch with without the politics of
the Yakuza hanging over their heads. A friend he can just be normal with.
"Oh, we're fine," he continues when Yuan shoots him a concerned look. "We're over it and we
both apologized, but now he's...hesitant with me."

Which is true, unfortunately. Dazai's been affectionate with him, but there's an undercurrent
of insecurity that wasn't there before. Like he's not sure if they're actually okay, and he needs
to keep himself behaved to keep from scaring Chuuya away. He's always responsive with
Chuuya and his needs, but he's never pushed for something more.

Which is fine, and Chuuya appreciated that while he was still recovering and confused but—

He's not, now, and he wants attention.

"Hesitant how?" Yuan asks.

Sighing, Chuuya just decides to go for it. "We haven't had sex since."

That's an understatement— they actually had sex since before Chuuya's medical scare. It's
been over two months and he's just a guy, okay, he's starting to get needy. And because Dazai
isn't pushing anything that could be a boundary it's put Chuuya in the position of initiating
himself.

Which he's never really done before, not like this. He's not... shy or nervous anymore, he just
hasn't seduced Dazai deliberately before, not in a way that requires sneaking around,
planning and foresight. He wants— needs— to do it right.

It's slightly nerve-wracking because of their difference in experience. Chuuya has no doubt
that he wants him, but he's also sure that Dazai has had a lot more partners that were more
experienced and better than him. It’s intimidating to feel like he might not measure up against
something someone else has done before.

Which is why he's here. Technically he could just ask Dazai to fuck him and it'd be fine but
—
He wants something with more flair. He wants to put effort into it. He wants to put as much
effort and consideration into this as Dazai has put into his own seductions.

Yuan gasps, like she's scandalized. "No sex for what, a whole week?"

Chuuya shoots her a scathing look, softened by the bump of his hip against hers.

She giggles. "No, I get it. If I was getting that dick, I'd probably be bouncing on it all the
time."

She sighs wistfully, her expression dreamy, and maybe Chuuya should feel peeved that she's
technically daydreaming about his boyfriend's dick but honestly? He gets it. Hell, he's spent
the last few days fantasizing about his cock and he's experienced it. Dazai is unfairly
attractive, and Yuan already said she wanted him even before they got together, so.

They have an understanding.

They weave their way through the mall, heading toward the lingerie shop Chuuya picked out
for today.

"So you need my help seducing him?" She confirms, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"Yeah," Chuuya confirms. "I haven't really done something like this before, so I need some
advice."

She gives him a salacious grin, eyes twinkling. "You came to the right place. But I require
payment."
Chuuya thinks about it. "I can buy you whatever you want at the store? Dazai gave me his
black card and basically told me to go wild, so I don't think it matters how much I spend."

Her jaw drops. "He gave you his black card?"

Chuuya nods. Three months ago, the idea of that would make him feel guilty and
uncomfortable, but with how much money Dazai spends on him anyways, he's gotten used to
it. Besides, they're committed now. It's not a fling, it's not something temporary. He should
get used to the idea of spending Dazai's money, right?

Yuan sighs again. "I wish I had someone to give me their black card to go crazy with.
Especially someone as hot as Dazai, because all the sugar daddies are mostly..." she makes a
face, "eh."

'Eh' sounds like the correct description for that, but Chuuya doesn't know enough to agree
wholeheartedly. He can imagine, though.

As they step into the shop, Yuan shakes herself out of it. "But no, that's not what I want. I
want details. I'm living vicariously through you so you gotta tell me everything."

Chuuya frowns at that, looking over the display mannequins dressed in various outfits of
lingerie and cute feminine underwear. He's gained a lot of confidence since he started dating
Dazai, and now the idea of buying lingerie doesn't make him uncomfortable anymore.

That doesn't mean he knows what looks good on him though, because the only set he has—
which is now ruined, by the way, permanently stained because Dazai made him cum in them
— was picked out by Dazai. He's not sure what style looks good on him, or things he should
avoid, or anything, really.

Which is why he brought Yuan.

"Details?" He asks, heading towards the side of the shop dedicated to lingerie with Yuan
following behind.

"Yeah!" She says, much too loudly and shamelessly for what she's about to say next. "Like,
how is the sex? Is he kinky? How big is it? Please tell me it's big."

He can't help the snort of amusement. Typical of Yuan to focus on things like that. "The sex is
good. Can't really compare it to anything but it's really good. He is kinky, at least in my eyes.
don't know if you'd think he was kinky though. As for..."

He hums, measuring out a length approximating Dazai's cock— he is not ashamed to admit
to himself that he's fantasized a lot about it lately and probably has the size of it memorized
— and watches with satisfaction as Yuan's eyes bulge.

"You're lying."

Chuuya denies that by shaking his head, picking up a sheer lingerie piece that looks almost
like a dress. He likes the color and cut of it, but he's not sure if it fits for his plans. Maybe
something more bold and sexy for this, not something sweeter and softer. He wants Dazai
falling apart with need.

"Oh my god, I knew it was big," Yuan mutters to herself, sounding way too pleased with
herself. "You lucky bastard. And he likes to see you all dressed up? Or do you like it?"

That seems like a probing question.

"Both, I guess," he says, shrugging. He doesn't think she'll make a big deal about it, but it's
nerve-wracking to tell someone else that he...

Kind of likes dressing in feminine clothing? Girl clothes are prettier and there's much more
style options, and there's something very freeing and sexy about wearing a skirt. Not to
mention all the more sensual pieces like lingerie and thigh-highs and harnesses. Men’s
clothing just doesn’t really have those options.

That’s part of the reason that he loves Dazai so much. He doesn’t pressure him. He doesn’t
point out all the things that Chuuya likes that aren’t exactly masculine, and ask him why he
likes it or what it all means. He just lets him enjoy what he enjoys, and helps him explore
other things he might like, and he doesn’t make any assumptions about it.

Or maybe he does, and he just never says anything. It doesn’t matter to him either way.

Chuuya’s just Chuuya. He just wants to enjoy himself, in whatever way or fashion feels best
to him.

“Oh,” Yuan says, blinking at him and there’s a moment where he thinks she’s going to call
him weird, but she just continues, “Did you have anything planned?”

“Not really,” he mutters, moving over the racks. There’s a pretty, strappy piece on the
mannequin, but he can’t seem to find it on the rack. “But we’re both going to be home, so I
was thinking about doing dinner?”

Maybe his seduction plan would be better acted out at a fancy restaurant but he remembers
how long Dazai teased him for whenever they went out in public, and with how pent up he’s
been lately, he’s not chancing that. Plus, he’s still kind of iffy about being in public for long
periods of time, and he doesn’t think he’s ready for that.

He’d much prefer an easy, cozy dinner at home before being carried up to their bedroom.
Less mess, less anxiety, less tension. More of just focusing on them without any distractions.

“Oooh,” Yuan says, beginning to flip through the rack closest to her. “Candlelit dinner. Very
romantic.”
Chuuya makes a mental note to buy candles on the way home, because he didn’t think of that.
“So what I was planning is that I get home, I cook dinner. We eat, and then I go up and
shower where I change into something…” Chuuya holds up the baby doll to his frame,
making a ‘you know’ face.

Yuan makes a sound of victory, pulling out a hanger that has something with a lot of straps
and buckles on it. “No, no,” she says, coming over. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re
going to go home, do all your shower stuff and then change into this—.”

She holds the piece up to his torso, and he can see that it’s a thigh-heavy piece. Lots of straps
and buckles that would go over his hips and thighs and waist, with not much that goes on his
chest.

Dazai’s always liked his thighs, so that’s a plus. And it’s black, which is a pretty classic color,
but obviously one of Dazai’s favorites. Looking bad in black is nearly impossible.

“— and then put your regular clothes on top. Make sure he sees it. I don’t care if you have to
cook bacon shirtless, you make sure this man knows you’re dressed up underneath your
clothes. You’re gonna torture him. Make him wait, make him simmer. You want him
desperate to touch you."

Turns out, seduction is not just a science— it's an artform. Chuuya sort of expected as much,
based on the times Dazai seduced him, but it still feels like he's being dropped onto a theater
stage with only a crash course on his lines.

Yuan gives him so much advice while helping him pick out a few— half a dozen— sets of
lingerie. Ways to touch Dazai to 'build him up' — a hand on his knee, brushing his fingertips
over his forearms— , teasing him by not giving him too much but just enough to make him
interested, subtle ways to flash the lingerie he's wearing underneath, ways to eat his food
seductively, food that can be eaten seductively, how to sit, how much eye contact, things to
say.

"You sure know a lot about this," Chuuya mutters after he comes out of the changing room
for the fifth time. Yuan offered to go in with him to give her seal of approval, but he refused
because he isn't quite comfortable showing her all his bits.
Besides, he needs some time to process and take notes on his phone, because there's a lot.
When he decided to seduce Dazai, he knew there was going to be legwork. He could've gone
the easy route and just straight up asked Dazai to fuck him— he's positive the man would
never say no to him— but he thought about it and consciously decided to make an effort.

So far, Dazai's usually been the one initiating and leading their sexual lives. He doesn’t mind
that—in fact, he actually really likes it—and he’s not trying to change that—even though he
has been playing with the idea of fucking Dazai some day and pondering when he should
bring it up—but ever since they restarted their relationship, he’s been determined to take an
equal part in their relationship.

Which means he can’t just sit around and wait for Dazai to initiate. If he wants something, he
needs to work for it.

“Oh sweetheart,” Yuan sighs at him, pushing him towards the cashier’s register. “Being a girl
is all about learning how to seduce your way into getting whatever you want. How do you
think I got all this stuff? Work?”

Well, he never really put a lot of thought into it. He just assumed Yuan was rich like everyone
else was, even though she never mentioned her family and he’s only rarely seen her pull out
money to pay for something herself.

“I’ve been conning men out of their wallets for years,” she brags, “I’ve learned a few tricks.”

Oh. Well alright then. Good for her.

He pays for the lingerie, staring hard at the cashier and almost daring him to say something.
The young man at the register doesn’t say a word. Maybe it’s because he came in with a girl,
or maybe it’s the dead-inside look in his eyes, but he just calmly rings it all up and gives him
his total in a monotone voice.
Chuuya hands him the card, feeling like he’s bragging by flashing a black card in the middle
of the store.

“Do you want regular packaging or discrete?" The cashier asks, showing him a bag with the
store's logo on it and another plain paper bag.

"Discrete," Chuuya says. Dazai will be picking him up soon, and he doesn't want to ruin the
surprise. He doesn't want him to know too much before he's ready. Yuan said the most
powerful moment is in the reveal, and he's taking that to heart.

All his purchases get folded neatly and stored into the bag without another word.

Yuan links arms with him on their way out of the store, looking self-satisfied with herself.
"You have to tell me how it goes," she says, nudging him with her hip and giving him an
obvious wink. "And you have to hang out with me soon. Don't be a stranger. I miss you."

Chuuya does feel bad about that, because as soon as his relationship with Dazai started to get
intense, he basically dropped most of his friend group. It wasn't intentional and it wasn't
because he didn't want to hang out with her, it was just—

He was busy with Dazai, busy dealing with the fact that Shuuji literally tried to run him over,
then dealing with his medical scare, and then dealing with being kidnapped, and THEN
dealing with the mafia revelation.

He was busy.

And he misses her too, because she's a really good friend.

"I will," he promises, squeezing her arm. "We can hang out soon, I promise. Maybe next
week?"
It's around the time for finals week— a thought that makes him sad, because he should be
drowning in studying and homework right now, and he misses that frantic schedule— so it's
probably one of the few times she can hang out before finals start.

Yuan brightens. "Yeah! Isn't your birthday soon?"

Chuuya thinks about it, doing the math in his head. "In about six weeks."

He didn't really notice it before, but he was only eighteen and a half when he met Dazai.
Then so much has happened, and now he's about to be nineteen. Time really does fly. Gone
almost before he can notice it.

Yuan nudges him with her elbow. "Make sure Dazai does something nice for you for your
birthday."

Oh, he has no doubt in the world that Dazai will go all out for his birthday. He hasn't found
anything yet, but he's caught Dazai on his phone in the middle of the night a few times, and
each time Dazai noticed he woke up, he quickly put it away. He's planning something, and
Chuuya is already starting to feel excitement at the thought of what might happen.

"I will," he snickers, giving her a wink. "But we'll do something too, don't worry."

Yuan gives him a big grin before waving goodbye, promising to text him and reminding him
to text her all the details.

Part of Chuuya is nervous watching her walk away because she's taking the train alone, but
he just has to get used to it. Life doesn’t change just because he’s now aware of all the
dangers that come with it. He can’t stop living his life, his friends can’t stop living theirs, and
he can’t hover over them in paranoia.

It’s fine. Everything is going to be fine.

Dazai is waiting outside in the parking lot, leaning against his car. He looks exquisitely good
in a pair of normal jeans and a shirt, it’s actually unfair.

And he brought Chuuya a surprise. As soon as he gets in sight, there’s excited barking
coming from the car. Dazai looks torn between fondness and exasperation.

“Yoko wouldn’t let me leave without bringing her with,” he greets, “She was upset that you
weren’t there to play with her.”

Honestly, she’s gotten a little spoiled, not that Chuuya is upset by that. Since he’s been home
pretty much all day every day, she’s gotten used to him being around for playing and
cuddling all the time. She’s been particularly clingy since he got kidnapped, and he can
barely go to the bathroom without her scratching at the door to be let in.

“She’s spoiled,” Dazai sighs, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Chuuya smiles at him, stepping up to him and wrapping his fingers in his shirt to tug him
down into a kiss. “She loves me,” he corrects, chasing the words with a greeting kiss.

Dazai smiles against his lips. “She has to get in line,” he murmurs back, one hand finding the
small of Chuuya’s back to pull him closer. “You’re teaching her bad habits. I was here first.”

Grinning fondly, Chuuya loops his arms around his neck, leaning back against his hand
without a shred of hesitation. He knows Dazai would never drop him. “What am I? A toy for
you to fight over?” He teases, leaning back to look at his boyfriend more fully.

Dazai doesn’t exactly deny that, changing the subject with a cheeky grin. “Did you have fun
today?”
With one final squeeze around his neck, Chuuya lets him go. Yoko sounds like she’s getting
impatient in the car. “I did. Nothing too interesting happened, and I got some stuff.”

Dazai watches him cross to the other side of the car. It had taken work to convince him to let
Chuuya out of his sight, because he was still nervous about him being unprotected. Almost as
nervous as Chuuya himself was. He’d only agreed under the condition that Chuuya would
turn his phone GPS on and text him regularly, as well as being the person to drop him off and
pick him up.

Some would think that would be creepy and far too possessive to the point of crossing a
boundary, but Chuuya found it comforting at this stage. It made him feel secure and
protected.

He slides into the car and is immediately greeted with a soft muzzle in his face, frantically
sniffing and licking his face in greeting. Laughing softly, he leans away—because he doesn’t
actually like the feel of dog slobber on his face— and gives Yoko some pets instead.

“What kind of stuff?” Dazai asks once they start driving, not-so-subtly eyeing the discrete
bag stored at Chuuya’s feet.

Chuuya gives him a sweet, secretive smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

Eyebrows shooting up, Dazai gives an incredulous laugh. “What?”

“You’ll find out later,” Chuuya insists, pushing Yoko back into the backseat because she’s
trying fruitlessly to climb into his lap.

“Oh, now you have to tell me!”

“I do not.”
“Okay, but what if I guess? Will you tell me if I’m right?”

Chuuya pretends to think about it. “Sure.”

He’s lying. He’s not going to tell Dazai if he’s right.

Dazai spends the rest of the drive flinging out increasingly ridiculous guesses, and at some
point he seems to be doing it just to make Chuuya laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners and his
own smile growing wider every time he manages to make him burst into laughter.

When they get home, Chuuya heads straight up into the upstairs bathroom to go shower.
Dazai offers to come with him, voice carefully neutral, but he declines.

He’s slowly getting used to showering by himself again. It’s a process, and it takes longer
than ever before, and sometimes he overdoes it, but he’s working through it and there’s
progress. Slow but steady progress.

Admittedly, it’s something he had to get used to, because he’s not used to physical things
holding him back anymore but—

Progress. A learning opportunity.

He told Dazai he was making dinner tonight—which the man honestly seemed excited for,
perking up like a puppy with his metaphorical tail wagging because “he’s never had someone
cook for him before”, which does put a certain amount of pressure on him to make it good—
so he’s not worried about having to rush. He can stand under the spray and leisurely take his
time soaping up every inch of himself, breathing through the lingering anxiety that never
seems to go away, even if it is beginning to fade.

Washing his face is a process now, because he can’t dunk his face under the water, but he
manages it.
Then it’s time to get dressed, and that’s when the nerves begin to set in. Because he's never
put this much effort into seducing Dazai, and he's not sure if it's too much? He's doing all the
things he knows Dazai likes, but is he trying too hard? He doesn't want to look desperate ,
and he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself.

It'd be too embarrassing to back out though, because he already put the thing on— which
took almost ten minutes, to make sure all the straps were correct and laying nicely— and he
already told Yuan he was going to do it, so he's just going to do it . Fake it 'til he makes it or
whatever.

Taking a deep breath, he goes downstairs. It's hotter now, spring in full swing, all the flowers
returning and the summer sun beginning to make its reappearance. The days are hotter now,
even with the AC on inside, which means he's taken to wearing shorts and loose shirts inside.

Which means he gets a fantastic view of Dazai looking up from the dining table, a soft
welcoming smile on his face, only for his eyes to catch on the straps peeking out of his shorts
and encircling his upper thighs and go wide.

Chuuya has to fight off a smug smile, all his nerves disappeared again under the wave of self-
satisfaction. Prey caught.

"Did you have a nice shower?" Dazai says, and his voice might be a little breathier than it
should be. His eyes still haven't moved any farther up than his hips, watching the sway of
them as Chuuya moves into the kitchen.

On the way there, he decides on a detour. Light on his feet, he comes over to stand in front of
Dazai. He's still sitting, knees spread wide in unintentional invitation. Wide enough for
Chuuya to stand between, one of Dazai's knees slipping between his thighs as he leans
forward.

With him sitting, Dazai actually has to look up at him, and Chuuya will never get over the
feeling of power that gives him. Never get over the sight of brown eyes tipped to the light,
entirely focused on his face. "I did," he hums, resting his forearms on his shoulders and
leaning over to give him a greeting kiss.
This one is more charged than the kiss in the parking lot. Dazai pushes up eagerly into it, the
slide of his lips against his a welcome and familiar feeling, the hint of his tongue behind a
tease. A hand finds his thigh, palm sliding roughly over soft skin. Dazai's thumb hooks in one
of the straps, tugs teasingly on it as the rest of his fingers quest upward—

With a final, teasing swipe of his tongue over Dazai's bottom lip, Chuuya pulls away before
he can get carried away.

Dazai pouts at him, looking like he just got denied his favorite meal. Chuuya pats his
shoulder patronizingly before he slides out of his arms entirely.

The dinner he chose to cook is a relatively simple one, just his personal spin on a beef stir fry
that he started making when he was in high school. Easy and familiar, the perfect dish to
jump back into cooking with. It also comes with a lot of memories of his childhood home.
Practically inhaling the dish as he frantically studied for finals, laughing with his sisters at
whatever stupid show they were watching, sitting with his father on the porch.

Adding Dazai to those memories, interweaving him in the fabric of Chuuya's life, feels right.

Plus, he hasn't had access to a kitchen or the drive to cook in a few months, so it's best to start
with something simple. He doesn't want to embarrass himself by burning something or
making something gross.

Dazai watches him fondly as he moves around the kitchen, the heat in his gaze slow and
simmering. He doesn't move, content to just...watch him chop all the vegetables and stir up
the sauce.

(What he doesn't know is that Dazai is having something of a revelation at this moment.

He meant it when he said that no one's cooked for him. Sure, Oda and Yosano would
occasionally shove a cup of cooked ramen in his hands, and sometimes Mori would share
some of the meal he cooked for himself with him, but other than that? No one.
No one's cooked for him since his mother did, so long ago, and he's just... quietly marveling
at the sight.

He never realized how intimate cooking was until he's faced with the sight of it. It's not just
knowing how to cook something he likes, or doing it where he can see, it's—

It's Chuuya, knowing where every one of the utensils he needs is located. Moving around the
kitchen like he lives here, effortlessly finding all the spices and ingredients, even things that
Dazai had half-forgotten were there. It's how confident he is, like he's not a guest in this
kitchen.

This is his home, and this is his kitchen, and Dazai feels like he's about to soar off a cliff
when he realizes how true that is. This is his home. This is their home, together, and maybe
some parts of it are cobbled together, maybe some parts don't always fit the way they're
supposed to but—

This is theirs. Chuuya is here to stay, despite everything that tried to break them apart, despite
all the mistakes they've both made, despite all the obstacles and pitfalls and places where they
could have failed—

And still, Dazai gets to have this. He gets to keep Chuuya and cherish him and love him and
make a home with him.

It's more than he ever dreamed of, because in every thought Dazai ever had of the end of his
life, he was always alone. And now, he's not.)

"What made you want to cook?" Dazai eventually asks, his chin propped up on the heel of his
hand. He's been staring at Chuuya with huge eyes, like he's doing something amazing instead
of throwing together a memorized meal.

"Well," Chuuya says, portioning out two bowls of rice, "You're always doing something nice
for me, and I wanted to do something nice for you."
He sees Dazai's eyes widen slightly, and he takes this chance to strike, lowering his voice into
something he hopes is seductive. "Take care of you, like you take care of me."

Now, that could be taken as innocent, so he accents the innuendo by leaning forward over the
counter until his shirt is riding up over his hips and exposing the black criss-crossing straps
over his lower back, arching his spine just enough to make it tempting—

He can practically feel Dazai's sharp inhale, victory coursing through him like a drug.

When he's done adding the vegetables to the bowls, he drops back down onto his heels, the
hint of lingerie underneath once again being hidden away. When he sneaks a look at Dazai,
the man still hasn't moved—

But his posture has changed. Gone is the straight-backed, alert and adorable boyfriend, to be
replaced by the siren that lives in his blood. He's leaning back against the back of his chair,
effortlessly and powerfully built, a lethal jungle cat lounging in its territory. His eyes have
darkened, focused on Chuuya with predatory intensity. When he sees him looking, he licks
his bottom lip in one long, teasing slide—

And then smiles, sharp and knowing. He's caught onto the plan now, probably, and now he's
playing with him.

The game is on now. Who's going to win?

"Oh, but sweetheart," Dazai says, honey-sweet, "You know I like taking care of you."

Again, the words themselves could be innocent, but it's the tone he uses to say them, the same
tone he uses in bed, low and rough that makes Chuuya's body flash heatedly with muscle-
memory, remembering what the voice sounded like in his ear, in his mouth, on his skin.
He smiles, covering up the ball of heat beginning to gather in his belly. "I know," he
murmurs, because he does know, Dazai's proven that many times over. "But I want to take
care of you too, you know? Sometimes it's nice to switch things up."

That earns him an arch of a dark eyebrow. "Is that what you want? To switch things up?"

Suddenly, Chuuya doesn't feel like they're talking about cooking anymore.

Giving himself a moment to think about his response, Chuuya brings the bowls over to the
table. He sets one in front of Dazai, his smile softening at the word of thanks he gets in
response.

He settles on the other side of the table with his own bowl, waiting somewhat nervously as
Dazai picks up his chopsticks to take his first bite. He's not a chef or anything, and any
restaurant has better food than this but he still wants him to like it.

It's his first time cooking for a boyfriend. The experience is more nerve-wracking than he
thought it'd be.

Dazai's first bite is punctuated by a surprise noise of shock and enjoyment, and it's closely
followed by a second bite. It seems like he likes it, based on how eagerly he's digging in.

The sight makes Chuuya relax again, confidence resurfacing. "Mm," he hums, taking a bite
of his own, "It'd be nice sometimes, don't you think? Letting me do all the work, letting me
take care of you. You wouldn't have to think or worry about a thing."

Not for the first time, Chuuya is grateful for how short the table is. It means he doesn't have
to slouch too much when he reaches under the table with his foot, his socked toes finding
Dazai's ankle under the table.

He keeps his expression open and innocent, his gaze lightly fixed on Dazai's face while he
takes another bite. Playing innocent while his foot is slowly dragging up the length of his
shin underneath the table, a teasing and slow climb upwards.

Dazai shifts in his chair, his knees spreading wider in clear invitation. He even pushes his leg
forward into his touch, silently asking for more. "That does sound nice," he agrees, his eating
slowing down now that Chuuya is stirring his other appetites. "Though, I don't think it'd be as
easy as you make it sound."

That's fair. Being with Dazai has done wonders for his confidence, and he's certainly sexually
experienced by now, but assuming he can make Dazai mindless might be shooting past
confident and going into cocky. He can rile him up, can make him needy, but mindless is
another step after that, but—

"I'm a fast learner," Chuuya throws out there with a charming grin. By now, his foot has
found Dazai's knee and is beginning the agonizingly slow slide inwards. The muscles in
Dazai's thigh are tense, clenching in intervals. He can't wait to feel them under his hands
again, get to touch and feel and taste him.

Dazai arches an eyebrow at him, his expression curious and smug. He doesn’t seem daunted
by the subtle conversation at all, which is good news in Chuuya’s eyes. Maybe once he really
brings up the idea of fucking him , the conversation will go well.

They’re edging on it now, but it’s not clear enough. After their last issues with
communication, Chuuya is determined to keep every important conversation blindingly clear
and upfront. No subtle understandings, no implications, no reading between the lines, no
assumptions. It’s a promise that they both made, and while this conversation is fun and
obviously building them both up—

It’s nothing certain yet. And Chuuya has something else on his mind.

Dazai tilts his head. “Is that what you wanted to do tonight?”

“No,” Chuuya hums, his foot sliding inwards all the way and finally pressing the heel of his
foot against Dazai’s crotch. Like always, he’s intoxicatingly warm. “Tonight I was thinking
of… something else.”
He accentuates his words by flexing his toes against the slight bulge in Dazai’s pants,
grinning at the stirring of interest he can feel there. He’s winning, and it feels so good to be
wanted back so easily.

Dazai’s free hand drops down, long fingers encircling his ankle. He doesn’t pull him in or
push him away, he just—

Holds him there, in place, thumb rubbing roughly over the slender bones of his ankle, tracing
the outline of his tendons. He has a ring on his index finger that presses warmly against his
skin.

“Oh? What did you have in mind then?” Dazai asks, his voice incredibly calm and collected
for how much heat is pouring off his body, for how the very tips of his fingers are tracing
swirling patterns over his ankle, so light that Chuuya can't help the reflexive shiver.

And Chuuya—

He's had enough of teasing and building up. Now that he knows, very well, how good Dazai
can fuck him, he just wants to skip to the best parts after over a month without it. He can
enjoy the teasing on a different day, when he's not practically squirming just from fingers
sliding slowly up his calf and the feeling of Dazai hardening against the ball of his foot.

Playing is fun, but he spent the last week fantasizing about sex, spent the entire day thinking
about what would happen tonight, got himself pretty and dressed up, and he knows what he
wants.

And now, he is not too shy to go after what he wants. Not anymore, not ever again.

He lifts his chin, giving Dazai his sultriest look. "I was thinking you finish eating and then
take me upstairs, and I could show you what I'm wearing underneath my clothes," he says,
flashing him a smile. "I think you'll like it— after all, you bought it for me."
Dazai's always had a thing for buying him things, seeing him in them and fucking him in
them. It's gone unmentioned, but Chuuya picked up on how eager he got whenever he was
wearing something Dazai bought for him.

The memories of the last time Chuuya dressed up for him— all white lingerie, that one lacier
and softer, collar around his neck and leash at the base of his throat— makes another flare of
heat curl enticingly in his stomach.

Dazai's eyes go so dark they might as well be black, fixed on his face with devilish intensity.
His hand tightens on his ankle, inadvertently dragging him in, his foot pressing harder against
the bulge in his pants.

Chuuya can actually feel the responding throb of his erection, and he instinctively lips his
lips, wanting it so bad it almost hurts—

That seems to be the breaking point for Dazai.

In the next moment, his half-eaten bowl of food— it's the least Chuuya has ever seen him eat
— gets shoved away. His chair makes a screeching sound when he pushes away from the
table, letting go of his ankle so he can stand.

He's deliciously tall as he rounds the table, and it's moments like these that remind Chuuya of
it. He doesn't know if he wants to be over Dazai or under him, swallowing him up or being
taken over by him—

He barely has enough time to bring his legs back to himself and twist in his chair to face him
before Dazai is bearing down on him and reaching down to pull him up into his arms.

Chuuya jumps to assist, wrapping his legs around Dazai's waist and squeezing him tight.
Their hips press together briefly, the heat and firmness there prompting a shuddering breath
of desire from him before he's being hoisted higher into Dazai's arms.
He almost protests, because he wants to feel him, but then his mouth is being covered with a
deep, hungry kiss.

Fingers sliding into dark hair, Chuuya makes a delighted noise in the back of his throat. Ever
since their mutual confessions, ever since they became committed to each other, their kisses
have had a certain depth that they didn't have before.

Before, it was mostly lust backed by a burgeoning affection and fondness, both of them
exploring just where the boundaries of their relationship were. Now that they know, it's
deeper, somehow. More loving, more knowing, more emotional. Dazai knows exactly how he
likes to be kissed, has kissed him hundreds of times at any time of the day, knows every
weakness of his and uses them in his favor.

And just as much as Dazai knows him, Chuuya knows Dazai. Knows how he looks at
obscene hours of the morning, eyes tired and hair crazy, knows how hurt he once was and
how much better he's gotten, knows how gently he's always treated him even though kindness
has never been something that was taught to him.

Kindness is something that he had to learn, and the fact that he's been consistently respectful
of Chuuya and always made sure that he was comfortable and felt safe—

It makes Chuuya's heart soar. Dazai isn't perfect, they both know that, but he tries.

Chuuya can see that clearly now, and it makes every instance of love and kindness that much
sweeter. Makes every kiss a little better than the last one, a harmonic growing between them
that only grows more meaningful as they practice.

He barely even registers the fact that Dazai is carrying him upstairs now, too caught up in the
whirlwind of emotion, too focused on kissing him with a desperation that feels like reunion.

He does notice when Dazai breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, just long enough to
mutter, "No, Yoko," to the dogs when they try to follow them into the room. Then he's back
again, like he can't bear to be separated for even a moment.

The door to their bedroom gets kicked shut behind them, and Chuuya is too preoccupied to
even care about Yoko's disgruntled whine when she realizes she's locked out.

His back meets the bed, and his tight grip around Dazai's waist ensures he follows him down,
pressing him into the mattress. His hands move from supporting Chuuya's weight under his
thighs to braced near his head, holding most of his weight up. His hips end up wedged
between Chuuya's thighs, erection pressed against his ass.

He's boiling hot and comfortingly heavy above him, exactly like he remembers, exactly what
Chuuya's been fantasizing about for the last few weeks. He can't help himself, rolling his hips
down against his clothed cock and tightening his legs.

The breath gets knocked out of him when Dazai meets him halfway, hips rocking up to
increase the force. Heat explodes through him like a firestorm, making him dizzy.

Dazai goes down on one elbow, the length of his body pressed against his own, and he can
feel the effort in his body as Dazai rocks forward again, slowly starting up a rhythm—

There's just one tiny problem.

"Wait—” Chuuya gasps, pulling away. He doesn't have much room to move, but the way
Dazai immediately goes still on top of him is heartwarming.

"What?" Dazai murmurs into the meager space between them, his breath humid and exciting,
and Chuuya is this close to saying 'fuck it, just keep kissing me'.

"You gotta kick him out," Chuuya says, tilting his head to where Baki is stretched out along
the bed and glaring at them disgruntledly for interrupting his nap.
Dazai pauses, so close that Chuuya can feel the smile start to form on his face. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously," he says, digging his knees into his side. "We can't fuck while he’s in here. I
don’t want him to watch, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to watch either.”

There’s a moment's pause, where Chuuya is sure Dazai is holding back laughter—

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, fond, dropping one last kiss on his lips before pulling off of
him.

Baki watches him approach warily.

“Come on, little guy,” Dazai says cheerfully, sliding his hands underneath his body. “You
heard your father— you’re getting evicted.”

Baki uses his main, most powerful defense against him: going completely limp and yowling
mournfully.

“Don’t cry about it. Take it up with management, I’m just following orders,” Dazai tells the
cat—who sounds like he’s being assaulted, not gently carried out of the room like a baby—
before opening the door.

Yoko’s snout pushes through the gap. Dazai drops Baki on her face, therefore pushing her
back, and quickly closes the door before any of the animals can push their way back in.

(Outside, Yoko and Baki stare at each other for a long time, both of them startled, before
eventually Baki decides she makes a nice enough scritching post and rubs up against her
front legs with a quiet purr.)

“It’s like having kids,” Dazai mutters, locking the door behind him because Baki has this
habit of reaching up and pulling on the knobs until he somehow manages to open the door.
That pulls a laugh out of Chuuya, his chest warming at the reminder at how much of a little
family they’ve built together.

(A family that is not quite done growing yet, because there is still room for one more person.)

When Dazai makes his way back over to the bed, the frantic energy of the mood has cooled a
little. It’s not gone, but it’s given Chuuya a moment to think and collect himself. It’s given
him a moment to wiggle closer to the middle of the bed, so he’s not half-hanging off the end
of it awkwardly.

Dazai pauses at the edge of the bed, heated gaze raking over his body. Taking in the arch of
his body, how rumpled his clothes are, the peak of the straps around his thighs showing from
beneath his shorts.

Eager, Chuuya’s hand falls to his pants, reaching for the button to pop it open so he can
wiggle out of them.

“No,” Dazai murmurs, reaching for his ankle again and tugging his leg closer to him. “Let
me?”

His voice is filled with heat and temptation, a prelude to the things that will happen soon.
Chuuya nods, an electric shiver trembling down his spine. His skin feels hypersensitive,
every slight brush of Dazai’s fingers over his skin feeling like hot electricity, goosebumps
rising up on his leg.

The first piece of clothing to go is Chuuya’s right sock. Dazai’s finger hooks in it so he can
peel it off slowly, his other hand cupping his lower calf to keep his leg high in the air. The
sock gets tossed to the floor, immediately forgotten in favor of Dazai leaning forward.

His lips find his ankle, tracing over the slender fragility of it, teeth scraping occasionally over
the bone in a way that makes Chuuya twitch. It's not painful— it's worshipful , tasting
everything that Chuuya has to offer, nibbling indulgently as he moves up, up, up.
Before, he never would have classified his lower legs as sensitive, but there's something so
electric about the way his mouth slides over his skin, taking his time to find every interesting
spot and lavishing it with attention. There's a scar on his shin that Chuuya got from a bike
when he was a kid, and Dazai pauses there for a long moment, sealing his mouth around it to
suck, tongue sliding over his skin indulgently.

A freckle closer to his knee gains Dazai's attention for a moment, and Chuuya feels like he's
being built up, tension slowly winding him tight with every slow slide of Dazai's tongue,
every flick of his piercing over his skin.

Then his mouth is coasting over his knee, teeth scraping over the joint like he's debating on
eating him, only to settle on a spot a little higher up and slightly inwards, sucking on the
sensitive skin of his inner thigh until it's pulsing in time.

Sex is usually more fast-paced between them. Driven by frantic desperation and a frantic
need for more , now. Chuuya isn't ashamed to admit that he's usually the one who pushes the
pace because he's addicted to the pleasure Dazai can give him—

But this is nice, he decides through a haze of heat, reaching down to slide one hand into
Dazai's hair. It's not rushed, and he can enjoy every second of Dazai's mouth slowly climbing
upwards. There's no risk of being caught, there's nowhere they have to go, there's nothing
else they have to do.

He can just lay here, affectionately running his hands through his hair over and over and over
again, and enjoy the slowly building tension and know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he's
going to be taken care of.

When Dazai reaches the top of his thigh, his hand slides up from his calf to hook under his
knee and push his leg open wider. He moves forward, one knee sinking into the bed with his
free hand bracing his weight, just as his mouth finds the lowermost strap wrapped around his
thigh. He seals his mouth over it, a fraction of an inch below his shorts, slipping his tongue
underneath the strap to tease at the skin beneath.
The suction on his inner thigh, so close to where he wants it, so close to where his erection is
straining against the zipper of his shorts, makes Chuuya squirm, panting. His entire leg feels
tingly, made hyper-sensitive by the worshipful devotion Dazai gave his skin, and he wants
that mouth everywhere. Wants it on his chest, on his neck, on his mouth sharing their breaths,
on his cock. He wants every inch of himself to be claimed by Dazai, wants to do the same in
reverse, because they belong to each other. Utterly and completely.

A tug on Dazai's hair earns him a smirk pressed against his skin, a feeling that makes him
shiver in response.

Letting go of his thigh with a wet pop, Dazai moves upward again, hot breath washing over
the fabric of his shorts. His lips brush over the bulge of his erection trapped behind his zipper,
the pressure so light that it's a tease that makes Chuuya shudder in reaction, hands tightening
in his hair.

His teeth find the button of his shorts, somehow managing to tug on it in exactly the right
way that it comes undone. Chuuya's shirt has ridden up, so he can feel his breath on his lower
stomach as Dazai noses the fabric aside so he can catch the zipper underneath with his teeth.

Chuuya holds his breath, insanely turned on at the casual display of skill and the pressure
against his trapped erection as Dazai agonizingly slowly pulls down his zipper.

By the time Dazai gets to the end, Chuuya is squirming unconsciously, his breath shuddering
out every time he presses a little harder against his erection, giving him a taste of friction but
with no relief. Building him up slowly, bit by bit, winding him tighter around his clever
fingers and even more skillful tongue.

He's half-hoping that Dazai will just lean up and yank the shorts off of him so he can get to
the strappy lingerie underneath—

But instead, Dazai starts moving down again, this time worshiping attention on his other leg.
This one is even more exciting, because his hands have reached up and hooked in the
waistband of his shorts, and every time he moves farther down, he tugs his pants down a little
further.
The same spot on his inner thigh gets a matching hickey to the other side, twin points of
throbbing sensuality that just adds to the gathering heat in his belly. Another small scar on his
knee has the years-ago phantom pain sucked away, shorts tugged halfway down his thighs. A
scraping path of teeth and tongue down his shin that ends up with another bite on his ankle
and his shorts around his shins.

Then Dazai is leaning back, sliding his pants off the rest of the way and taking his remaining
sock off in one smooth motion. And then he just—

Stays there, taking in the sight of him, gaze roaming over his body like a physical weight.
Touching on every piece of strap and lace on his body— it's a two piece originally, but
Chuuya skipped the upper half today, leaving just his lower body up to his waist and down to
his thighs wrapped up prettily in crisscrossing straps, his erection covered by a thin panel of
lace.

Slightly impatient, Chuuya reaches up to tug his own shirt off. He wants skin contact, wants
every part of him touching every part of Dazai, and he's not patient enough to wait for him to
slowly slide it off like he did his shorts.

He arches his back alluringly, hooking one of his knees around Dazai's hip to tug him in,
silently begging him to come down here again, touch him, taste him, love him, please—

"God," Dazai croaks, sounding struck. His palm presses against his thigh, fingers digging in
just enough to let Chuuya know that his restraint is thinning. "You are so fucking beautiful."

Despite himself, Chuuya flushes a bit, somehow still unused to receiving genuine,
unconscious compliments like that.

But Dazai still doesn't move, like he's stuck admiring him, and Chuuya is impatient—

So he hooks his other leg around Dazai's waist, and with one powerful twist of his body, he
manages to smoothly reverse their positions.
Dazai lands heavily on his back on the bed, eyes so wide with surprise that Chuuya preens
with pride, smiling down at him victoriously from his perch straddling his lap.

"My turn," Chuuya tells him breathlessly, immediately diving down to kiss him.

It's full of heat and need, the feeling of Dazai warm and solid and hard beneath him driving
Chuuya to deepen the kiss instantly. Dazai opens up for him with a single nip on his bottom
lip, and then Chuuya's tongue is pushing inside, tracing the outline of his teeth.

The metal ball of his tongue piercing drags against the bottom of his tongue when Dazai
meets him halfway, making him shudder in response. All he can feel, all he can taste is Dazai,
from the very tips of his toes to the very breath in his lungs.

Before he can get too distracted— because feeling Dazai's erection under his mostly-bare ass
is already a distracting temptation enough— he breaks the kiss in favor of sliding to the side,
lavishing Dazai's jawline with a series of kisses.

There's a spot, just under the bolt of his jaw, that Dazai loves, and Chuuya zeroes in on it,
sucking until he's sure there will be a mark left over, and sinking his teeth into sensitive skin
until he can feel him twitching beneath him.

Then he's steadily moving down his neck, peppering his skin with bites because Dazai loves
being bitten, even if he never outright admitted to it. He's not as slow as Dazai was, because
he can feel his hips subtly rocking up to meet him and it's driving him crazy, but he does take
the time to find all his favorite spots and briefly lavish them with attention.

Dazai's shirt gets in the way eventually, and while Chuuya is not skilled or confident enough
to try unbuttoning it with his teeth, he does reach up and unbutton it slowly, pausing between
each button to lavish the revealed skin of his chest with attention, peppering sucking bites
over his body until little marks appear in his wake.

He has to shift his position when he gets lower, rising up on his knees to scoot backwards.
Dazai’s stomach, etched with muscle, flexes in reaction, a temptation that Chuuya can’t
ignore.
He slides his tongue over the indents of his hips, steadily making his way inwards and down
to the short trail of hair peeking out from the waist of Dazai’s pants. His hands come up,
bracing his weight over his hips and dipping into his waistband to tug on his pants.

And now, with the bulge of Dazai’s erection only an inch from his face, Chuuya decides to
pay back all the teasing Dazai had just done to him.

He looks up, thrilling when he sees that Dazai is already looking down at him, eyes nearly
glowing with heat in the relative darkness of the room.

Letting his eyes fall into that half-lidded look he always gets when he’s got a mouthful of
cock, Chuuya maintains searing eye contact as he rolls his tongue out and slowly licks the
length of Dazai’s clothed erection. He can feel it throb in reaction under his tongue, burning
hot even through the barrier of cloth.

It’s a victory in itself to see how easily he can affect Dazai, how easy it is to fall into the
natural rhythm of give and take, how delicious pleasure tastes on his tongue. It's thrilling, it
makes sensual confidence bubble up inside him that makes it so easy to hurriedly pop open
the button of Dazai's jeans and carefully tug down the zipper.

For once, Dazai is actually wearing underwear, which is partly a hindrance but also kind of
cute. Clearly he wasn't expecting to be seduced, because if he had , he would've skipped
wearing underwear.

Chuuya indulgently seals his mouth over the head of his cock over his underwear, roughly
running over his tongue over the shape of him until the fabric is wet. At the same he reaches
up, hooking his fingers in the waistbands of his jeans and underwear and slowly beginning to
tug them down.

It's meant to be payback for the way Dazai was teasingly stripping him earlier, but by the
twitch of his erection and the pleasured hiss that comes from above, his boyfriend is enjoying
it.
A hand comes down, fingers threading through his hair. Usually, when Chuuya is sucking
him off, the hand on his head is a guiding force, subtly pushing him to where Dazai wants
him to go and encouraging him to do what he likes.

Today, though, his hand is unfailingly gentle. He doesn't push him or encourage him to do
something else, he just strokes his hands through his hair like he can't not touch him. Like
he's enjoying this in all its aspects, from the rough pleasure he gets from the friction to the
feel of him under his hands.

The subtle dynamic change— wherein Chuuya has more power and control than he usually
does— only drives him higher. It fuels him to stop playing with him, sitting back up so he
can yank his pants and underwear off in the same motion.

Dazai helps him out by wiggling his hips, raising his legs to make it easier to pull the fabric
off, and kicking his foot when his jeans snag around his ankle.

Then he's naked, his open shirt pooling around his sides on the bed, erection lying hard and
deliciously flushed against his stomach, so enticing that Chuuya's mouth waters just from
looking at, desperately wanting his hands on it, his mouth on it, inside him—

Before he can dive back down, hands are hooking under his arms and dragging him up again.
He goes willingly, knees on either side of Dazai's hips as he gets pulled into another searing
kiss.

This one is hotter than the ones before it, a desperate tension building that makes Dazai pull
his bottom lip into his mouth and suck on it until it's throbbing, a need that drives Chuuya to
press forward with all his weight to deepen the kiss.

As he settles further down, Dazai's erection slides against his ass and the underside of his
cock through the lace. The friction and the feel of him— god, he's so big, radiating delicious
heat, that it makes his head spin with a heady combination of memories and fantasy, all the
things Dazai has done to him and all the things he wants him to do swirling together
intoxicatingly— makes a shuddering breath escape him, one that Dazai drinks straight out of
his mouth like wine.
Unable to help himself, he rocks his hips down against him, shivering at the friction. He's
throbbing in his own underwear, the lace adding a hint of friction that just deepens the
experience.

One of Dazai's hands slides down his body, tracing over the spots made previously sensitive.
Thumbing at his nipples until he's fighting the urge to squirm, brushing over his ribs with a
care that he never had before, long fingers wrapping around one of his hips and encouraging
him to pick up a longer, slower grinding rhythm.

He just touches him, all over, filling his palms with the feel of his skin, like he's
rememorizing the shape of him. Like the new connection between them gives so much more
meaning to every touch and tremble, and Dazai is helpless to do anything but to drown in it.

Chuuya doesn't know how long they spend there, endlessly kissing with their hands roaming.
The urgency for more is there at the back of his mind, but every kiss tempers it a little more.
Makes it seem like he could spend forever here and never miss a thing.

At some point, both of Dazai's hands find his lower back, fingers slipping underneath the
straps of the lingerie to knead at his ass.

The reminder of what will happen next breaks Chuuya from the spell he was under. He
pushes back into Dazai's hands, arching his spine enticingly as he pulls back slightly from the
kiss.

"Please," he murmurs, almost directly into his mouth, one of the few things either of them
have said during this entire scene. It barely even feels like they need words. They know each
other so well that they don't need to speak to satisfy each other completely.

From this close, Dazai's eyes look pitch black when they open, a reflection of all of Chuuya's
deepest desires. "I got you," he mutters back, using all those hard muscles to surge upwards
and flip their positions again, dumping Chuuya on his back and bearing down over top of
him.
Excitement crackles like lightning, and his thighs spread wider automatically to fit his larger
body in-between. He reaches for him, wanting another kiss—

Only for Dazai to evade him with a fondly smug smirk, straightening so he can reach into his
bedside table. Through the course of their relationship, Dazai's supplies have somehow
navigated from neatly organized drawers under the bed to their favorite flavors and toys of
the week being stored in his bedside table for easier access. Chuuya once pointed it out with a
snicker, and Dazai just said it was because he couldn't bear to be separated from him that
long, blowing raspberries against his skin until he laughed.

The last toys they used were a succession of cherry flavored lubes and intimidatingly large
plugs—Dazai said he wants to get his hand inside him one day, which is as intimidating as it
is intriguing— but the lube he pulls out this time isn’t either of those.

It’s still in a box, and while it doesn’t take Dazai long to open it up and dump the bottle into
his hand, it’s just long enough for Chuuya to catch the title of ‘stimulating lube’ on the box
before it’s tossed away. The sight of it makes Chuuya’s eyebrow quirk up, anticipation
stirring hotly in his stomach. He didn’t even know ‘stimulating’ lube existed, and he wonders
how it’s different from the warming one.

Somehow, Dazai always has something new and exciting to show him, always expanding his
knowledge on sex, letting him explore and find new boundaries, new enjoyments, new limits.
It's never boring, and just when Chuuya thinks he knows it all, Dazai brings up the idea of
something new.

He's glad he didn't suggest a toy today though. Stimulating lube adds just enough variety,
while letting the main focus be them. Chuuya likes the toys, but today he just wants to revel
in their connection.

Tossing the bottle of lube onto the bed, Dazai takes a second to completely shrug off his shirt.
When he crawls back onto the bed, hovering over him, he's completely naked.

Thighs spreading eagerly to fit him between, Chuuya tugs him down into another kiss.
There's a need inside him that he can't deny, one that only feels satiated when he's as close to
Dazai as he can be, skin on skin, breathing the same air as him.
Dazai meets him eagerly, dropping down to one elbow so he can cup the back of Chuuya's
skull in one hand, tilting his head to the perfect angle to give him a searing kiss. Deep and
perfect and satisfying.

Based on the movements of his shoulder, he can tell that he's reaching out to find the lube
bottle, dragging back to their sides. At the same time he pops the cap on it one-handed— god,
how dexterous and strong his hands are is insanely sexy—, Dazai pulls back to breathe
something worshipful into his mouth: "I love you."

Chuuya shudders in response, fingers sliding into Dazai's hair to pull him into another kiss,
trying to express the sheer amount of emotion in his chest. He's still not used to hearing it.
Dazai's said it tens of times now, and it never fails to make Chuuya feel full to bursting. Each
time it feels like he's saying it for the second time— not the first, because that was a shit
show, but the second time was perfect— and he keeps wondering about how many times
Dazai will have to say it before it stops feeling so monumental. How long it will take before
it’s such an essential, consistent part of his life that it feels normal.

Dazai’s fingers, freshly wet with lube, brush over his pelvis, dragging wet fingertips over his
hips, the neatly trimmed trail of hair leading down, over the shape of his erection over the
lace, down, down down , until he’s tugging the underwear out of the way so he can press
lubed fingers to his hole.

Thankfully, he doesn’t tease him like he usually might. Instead he just starts the slow press in,
not drawing the foreplay out but also making sure not to push his body too fast too soon.

It’s when Dazai’s index finger is buried to the first knuckle inside of him, wiggling enticingly,
that Chuuya finally feels like he can think past the soaring emotions that seem to have grown
wings in his chest, pulling back just far enough to whimper back to him breathlessly, “I love
you too.”

Dazai surges forward in instant response, like he’s trying to swallow the words directly from
his mouth, like he’s trying to taste the syllables on his tongue. Like he doesn’t know what to
do with the overload of emotions either, all he knows what to do is kiss him. Over and over
and over again, devouring him whole—heart, body, mind, soul— claiming every part of him.
Taking everything that Chuuya offers up to him and making it his.
Lightheaded and dizzy from the combination of oxygen deprivation and sensation, Chuuya
barely recognizes as Dazai slowly buries his finger into him up to the last knuckle. Pleasure
sparks when his finger crooks upward, but he’s too busy sucking on his tongue like his life
depends on it, drinking him in.

One finger quickly becomes two, and this is when Chuuya starts to feel the ache of the
stretch.

Before, two fingers was no problem, but he hasn’t had anything inside him since the last time
they fucked, and his body has almost forgotten how big Dazai’s fingers feel inside him. He
can breathe through the stretch and it’s not painful—

He’s just not used to it anymore, and it’s almost like their first time again. In a way, maybe it
is their first time again, because now there’s no secrets. There’s no pretenses, no more dark
backstories, no conceived loyalties to anyone else, no insecurity, nothing.

They know each other now. They know everything about each other, and the feelings they
have are stronger than they’ve ever been before.

When Dazai’s two fingers are halfway inside of him, flexing intermittently and rubbing
against his sensitive inner muscles indulgently, Dazai pulls back from the kiss again.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, sliding sideways to press his soft request into the heated skin of
his cheek, punctuating his request with achingly soft and adoring kisses rained over his
cheek. And then he— a man who does not beg, a man who is used to having frightful people
on their knees and looking to him for direction, a man who was born and sculpted to lead—
adds something else in a gently pleading voice that Chuuya can’t resist, even if he wanted to:
“Please?”

Letting out a shuddering breath, Chuuya rocks down into his hands. He tightens his legs
around his waist and arches upward, increasing the context between them until they’re
pressed together as closely as possible. Turning his head, he nudges his cheek into Dazai’s
nose, and lets his words fill the meager space between them. “I love you, Dazai.”
Attaching his name pulls a sharper reaction from him, and in the next moment Dazai’s
pressing a sucking kiss over his jawline at the same time he spreads his fingers inside him
almost ruthlessly far.

It twinges slightly, a spark of aching pain lighting within him, but it’s nothing to relax into
Dazai’s touch completely. It’s nothing to take what he’s given and know without a shred of
doubt, that he will be cherished and taken care of.

And now that Chuuya knows what he wants, what he likes, what affects him, it’s so easy to
chase after it.

“I love you.” A twist of his fingers that leaves him breathless, expertly finding all his
sensitive places and lavishing attention on them.

“I love you.” Dazai’s mouth settling on a spot just underneath his jaw, sucking and sucking
until he can feel his pulse throbbing steadily in his mouth.

“I love you, Osamu.” His hand pulling back, two fingers replaced by three, and it’s so easy to
melt into them, internally thrilling at how easily his body takes Dazai. At how well they fit
together, even if it might seem like they might not work with their size difference, and how
Chuuya only feels full to bursting when he’s got Dazai buried inside him.

Even though Dazai is clearly concentrated on gracing his neck with a choker of marks made
by his teeth and tongue, over and under and beneath his leather collar—which he has not
taken off once he got it back except for when he’s showering— his clever hands don’t pause
for a second on the important task of prepping him.

There’s no rush, but there is a burning need to be as close as physically possible. A

desperation that both of them know won’t wane until Dazai is buried to the hilt inside him.

When his fingers— four now, because it has been a while, and Dazai would rather die than
risk hurting him right now— finally slide out of him, Chuuya accepts the resulting emptiness
with a shuddering sigh.

He’s not worried. The entire time, Dazai’s erection has been pressed to his lower thigh, subtly
throbbing, twitching every so often when Chuuya makes a particularly delicious sound and
smearing pre-cum over his skin. He knows he’s going to be taken care of, because Dazai is
just as needy as he is.

For once, there’s no power imbalance. Dazai isn’t calm and controlled while Chuuya is
desperate, isn’t making plans and driving him crazy with them. They need each other and
when Dazai’s hips slide between his thighs, it feels like coming home.

He hitches his knees higher, opening himself up more for Dazai to reach down and line
himself up. His eyes go half-lidded at the feel of him, the slicked head of his cock sliding
over his entrance.

With his other hand, the dry one, he reaches up to peel Chuuya’s hand off from where it’s
clenched on his shoulder. He presses a kiss to the back of it, quietly worshipful, before he
intertwines their fingers together and pins his hand to the mattress.

The first slow slide of him pushing inside is like a slow breaking down of Chuuya’s entire
world, the very foundation of him crumbling beneath the onslaught of sensational overload
that Dazai brings to him. Stripping him of all his defenses, leaving him a raw bundle of
nerves that sings under his clever hands.

He shudders when the head pops through that first ring of muscle, slowly spreading him
wider.

Dazai takes that moment to reposition himself, shuffling higher on his knees and moving his
hand out of the way. It finds Chuuya’s other hand, and he doesn’t even care that his hand is
wet with lube when their fingers slide together.

He ends up with both of his hands pinned to the bed, heavy palms pressed against his own,
Dazai leaning forward to press their sweaty foreheads together.
“I love you too, you know,” he sighs into his face, his hips taking up a slow rocking rhythm
that pushes him deeper in slow, tiny increments. It’s the perfect reunion, just fast enough that
Chuuya feels like he never gets used to it, always given more as soon as he’s ready.

“How could I not?” Dazai continues, eyes fluttering shut on a pleased sigh, like he’s too
overwhelmed to keep his eyes open. There’s an expression on his face that Chuuya can’t
quite describe, his mind off-center and overwhelmed by the relentless march of pleasure
being pressed into him, but it seems so much more open and vulnerable than it usually does.
“You’re so perfect,” Dazai sighs, sounding like he’s talking to himself, unconscious rambling
of praise as his hips finally meet Chuuya’s ass, as deep inside him as he can possibly go, so
deep he might as well be housed in his soul. “Perfect just for me. So fucking pretty— and
smart and strong.”

Chuuya clings to him, shuddering, feeling a previously empty hole inside him start to fill up,
the ache of it sealed away by his mindless praise. He doesn’t get a lot of compliments on his
character— he’s been called too much by too many people that it’s left an underlying pit of
insecurity that he covers up with loud bravado.

He’s always been too loud, too energetic, too angry, too quick to fight, too restless. There’s
always been so many parts of him that are too much for people, and he’s spent a lifetime
oscillating between trying to stuff himself into smaller, neater, more manageable boxes so
that people will like him more and telling himself that he doesn’t care if he’s too much for
other people because that’s their problem, not his.

So to hear that Dazai likes him—no, loves him— and all his pieces, all the parts of himself
that Chuuya thought were flaws, knows him and accepts him and loves him in his entirety—

It’s enough for him to let out a shuddering breath, fingers tightening around Dazai’s, filled
with a renewed determination to never let this man go. His legs, wrapped loosely around his
back, tighten to drag him in closer, wanting to feel as close to him as physically possible.

He barely even knows where he ends and Dazai begins. Their hands tangled together and
pressed to the mattress, a grounding point Dazai used to brace his weight as he starts up a
slow, deep rhythm with his hips. Chuuya’s thighs spread wide to fit his hips in between,
ankles crossed to press his heels against the small of his back. Their breaths intermingle as
Dazai leans down, pressing their foreheads together in a gesture that's so intimate it takes
Chuuya's breath away. Buried to the hilt inside him, claiming every part of him and offering
himself up in turn, give and take, siren call to ocean symphony, a melding of two halves into
one.

It's good. Sex is usually more fast-paced with them, a race to drown themselves in as much
pleasure as physically possible, a mutual unraveling. Chuuya hadn't realized how good slow
could feel, the relentless march of ecstasy singing in slow-motion across every one of his
nerves.

Every slow drag out feels like it touches every pleasurable spot inside him, making him
hyper-aware of every bump and ridge of Dazai's cock. Every push back in feels like coming
home, all that smoldering pleasure compressing into a ball under the pressure of his
overwhelming presence. A ball that wraps tightly around the base of his spine, steadily-
tightening around every part of him, from his heart to his soul.

He can't even think under the onslaught, mindlessly arching up to meet every rock of his hips,
caught in a heady need to have Dazai deeper. Lifting his chin to share a series of quick, wet,
desperate kisses, shuddering when Dazai lets out a whispered groan into his mouth.
Tightening his fingers and legs, forcibly keeping them pressed tightly together as everything
starts to build.

"God, Chuuya," Dazai mumbles, sliding to the side to lay a sucking-kiss to his cheek, like he
can't not kiss him even though Chuuya is panting too hard to keep up a real kiss. The sound
of his voice sends a bolt of thrilling-heat through him, a drug straight to the brain.

"I love you," he says again, like he has to say it, has to keep saying it, can't live without the
weight of his words in his mouth.

Chuuya sighs in response, murmuring it back as he raises a knee to press it into Dazai's ribs,
letting him get that much deeper. Inside him, he can faintly feel his cock twitch from hearing
it repeated back to him, throbbing. His hips jerk forward, faster than they have this entire
session, burying himself in to the hilt.

There's something so right about being stuffed full with Dazai. Nothing else in the world
matters, nothing else can touch him. There's only here and now and this.
"Fuck," he hisses out on a particularly good slide, body clenching down at the feel of the
head of his cock grinding against his prostate. His own erection is still trapped in the lacy
underwear, adding just a hint of friction burn that only deepens the pleasure in contrast.

Part of him is aching to be touched, because he hasn't gotten any direct contact and rubbing
up against Dazai's lower belly only makes him more desperate. Without a hand on his cock,
the pleasure only builds and builds and builds, tension steadily winding tighter until he feels
like he can barely hold all of the pressure inside of him.

The other part is glad Dazai's not jerking him off to the finish line because he'd probably
come way too soon, and he wants to savor this. He's exactly where he wants to be, still
mostly-dressed in lace and lingerie, spread out and pinned underneath Dazai like his favorite
meal, his body in flames that are stoked with every mind-bendingly good thrust inside him.

He doesn't want it to stop. This doesn't feel like sex, this feels like making ove, taking all the
emotions of the last few weeks and channeling them into motion and heat and desire.

"Osamu," he breathes, a prayer to an earth-struck god, his breath hitching when he feels him
twitch hard inside him, impossibly growing harder and hotter. "Fuck, Osamu , you feel so
good. Don't stop, never stop, love you so much—”

With a strangled groan, Dazai comes.

Chuuya wasn't expecting it, his legs twitching with surprise at the burst of warmth and wet
inside of him. Apparently, Dazai wasn't expecting it either because he drops down on one
elbow and smothers a shocked gasp near his ear, his hips stuttering with every wave.

Chuuya isn't disappointed, because there's something so viscerally satisfying about Dazai
filling him up, even if he's not quite there yet himself—

But it doesn't matter because even though Dazai's hips slow and his rhythm is faulty, he
doesn't stop moving for even a second.
Then there's the excitement of feeling his cum spilling out in thick droplets, being fucked
back inside him, hearing the oversensitive hitch in Dazai's breath as he pushes through the
searing-painful pleasure, refusing to stop, rocking into him again and again and again.

“I won’t,” he promises mindlessly, voice hoarse, his body dropping down the rest of the way
to press him completely into the mattress. The feeling of his body working, abs flexing
rhythmically, his skin wet with sweat from exertion, his breath coming out in hissed gasps as
he keeps going, keeps fucking him as his cock struggles to harden again, coaxed into another
round. He hasn’t pulled out for even a second, hips continually rocking forward even as he’s
not as hard as he was before.

And Chuuya—

He’s had multiple orgasms before, and he knows, from experience, how sensitive his cock
gets after each orgasm. So sensitive that sometimes even the air feels burning on his skin, and
he has to work his way back up into being touched again.

Dazai’s never had more than one orgasm in a row since they got together, and he can feel the
strain of it. Can feel the way his thighs are trembling against the back of Chuuya’s, the way
his hands tighten on his own every so often, fighting to ground himself in the waves of
overwhelming sensation.

And he seems so lost in it, all that careful, dominating precision stripped away, leaving him
raw and vulnerable and needy.

“Won’t ever,” he says again, sliding over to give Chuuya a kiss, so uncontrolled and hard that
it’s bruising, causing a sting of pain that just adds to the swirling cacophony.

“Won’t ever let you go,” he promises, and with the way he’s draped over him, Chuuya’s
trapped erection gets a searing amount of friction between their stomachs, making him pant.
“Gonna keep you forever, gonna make you happy, gonna make you mine, mine, mine.”
It’s just mindless repetition, Dazai clearly more affected than he’s ever been, practically
tearing up as he continues to push them both past the point of no return—

But Chuuya’s mind immediately flashes to their first time, when he was saying something
along the same lines. It was different then, and Chuuya didn’t know then what he knows now
but—

It feels like they’ve come full circle. They’ve been through so much, both together and
individually, and somehow they always manage to find their way back to each other. No
matter what happens, they only ever seem to grow stronger together, the layers of their
connection deepened by healed cracks.

The pleasure and the emotions behind it have Chuuya clinging onto Dazai, arching up into
his every grind forward to increase the force, quickly climbing to the edge.

It’s not the most intense sex they’ve had on a physical level, but it’s so much more emotional
than it’s ever been. Chuuya’s heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest, cradled in Dazai’s
hands. Every part of him carved out, offered up, showered in acceptance and want and love—

That, combined with the way Dazai’s teeth sink into his shoulder to stave off his second
orgasm, his stomach pressing closer to give him even more friction because they both refuse
to let go of the grip they have on each other’s hands, is enough to send Chuuya tripping into
his orgasm.

It’s earth-quaking. Every pulse of pleasure feels like it lasts forever, each wave melting into
the next into the next into the next. His entire body sings with it, feeling so hot he might as
well be on fire from it.

And if that wasn’t good enough, he can feel Dazai succumb to the rush too, shuddering
through his second orgasm. His cock twitches weakly inside him, adding another few spurts
of cum to the already hot-wet mess. He can feel it starting to drip out of him, firing up a raw,
primal satisfaction in him.
By the time Dazai collapses onto him, breathing heavy and trembling, he's practically purring
with contentment. All his muscles are limp with satisfaction, his body practically melted into
the bed. He knows there will be a vicious ache in his thighs later— a result of the fact that
Chuuya hasn't been active in the last few weeks, and he has to stretch to fit Dazai in between
— and probably his back too, but for now, it's held back by an inescapable sense of
satisfaction.

Dazai is heavy on top of him, a treasured weight. He can feel him breathing, harsh as he starts
to come down.

Somehow, their hands are still entangled together, even through all of that. Chuuya squeezes
his hand, tilting his head to the side to mouth affectionately at the skin of his upper arm,
tasting the salt of sweat.

For a while it's just them breathing, coming down from their highs, finding comfort and
security in how closely tangled together even now. Dazai still hasn't pulled out and Chuuya
finds that oddly pleasing, content to just lay here and enjoy being so intimately connected
with him. He could cockwarm him for hours and never get tired of it.

It's Dazai who breaks the silence first, clearing his throat and struggling up onto his elbows to
take his weight off him. "Fuck," he rasps, inelegant and straight to the point.

Chuuya laughs quietly in response, the silent relaxation of the moment ripening into
something sweeter.

After another moment, Dazai manages to roll them both over to lay on his back with Chuuya
sprawled on top of him. He misses his weight already, but it does give him the chance to
stretch out his hips and thighs, arching his back until he feels something pop back into place.

Dazai pulls out with the motion, and he shivers at the feeling of cum dripping down his
thighs, collecting messily over them both.

"You ruined my lingerie again," Chuuya pouts playfully, making a face at the way his
underwear feels now, soaked all over. It's probably stained irreversibly now, from a
combination of lube and cum. It's a shame. He liked this set too. He wanted to wear it again
some day, probably with the top too.

"You knew I would," Dazai says, his voice achingly fond. His hands find Chuuya's hips,
fingertips coasting over his skin in a mundane show of worship. Whenever he finds a spot
that makes his breath hitch in soreness, he presses in and massages it away.

That's true. Both times he wore lingerie, they were ruined by the end of the night. Not
intentionally, but it's like Dazai can't even wait long enough to get him out of it. Or that he
likes seeing Chuuya get all messy in his pretty clothing, likes making a mess out of him when
he dressed up for him. Still, just because he was half-expecting them to get ruined, that
doesn't mean he's not disappointed.

"I'll buy you more," Dazai offers, like Chuuya doesn't already know that he'll buy him
whatever he wants whenever he wants. Especially if he gets to see and fuck him in it.

"We're never going to have enough if you keep ruining them as soon as I get them," he teases,
leaning down. He braces his elbows on either side of Dazai's head, the perfect distance to run
his fingers affectionately through his hair and watch his smile form right in front of his eyes.

"I'll buy in bulk," Dazai murmurs back, lifting his chin to silently ask for a kiss, and who is
Chuuya to deny him?

This kiss is just as sweet as the rest of the other ones today. Soothing and adoring, one that
could easily be turned into something heated, but both of them are content to just bask in the
glow without needing anything more. It stirs something wonderful inside of Chuuya,
something warm and soft and loving. Something that he's always wanted before, a storybook
ending, a fairytale happiness

And now he has it. A bit unconventional, a bit unexpected, a bit strange to other people—

But this is exactly where Chuuya was always meant to be. This is always what he wanted.
This is what he needed.
"I missed you," he murmurs, pulling back a fraction to whisper against his bottom lip. He
doesn't know how else to relate the burgeoning emotions in his chest, doesn't know how else
to put it into words, just—

Kissing him, over and over and over again, pressed so close and never feeling like it's
enough. Always needing more. Any distance is too much distance.

"I haven't gone anywhere," he whispers back, lifting his head to deepen the kiss. His clean
hand comes up, cradling the back of his head and holding him close.

Chuuya knows. It's just…after almost losing him, after almost losing everything, after losing
what he has lost by accident or design, it's hard to forget. It's hard to forget how easily this
could all be taken away away from him even though he knows—

"I'm not going anywhere ever again." A promise sealed with another kiss, hands cradling him
lovingly.

— that Dazai is telling the truth.

 Loving Bullying
Chapter Summary

Chuuya, bullying his older boyfriend,

Chapter Notes

uhhhhhhh, throws u this lil snippet of fluff and disappears again. the next chapter is
really funny tho i swear

Chuuya has always been the sort of person that thinks that time goes by too slowly. He's
never had a lot of patience, especially as a child. He's always wanted things to happen right
now, and the slower paced parts of life— like growing up, school, finding his place in life,
becoming an independent adult— have always made him frustrated. Ever since he can
remember, he's always wanted to be at the end of his journey, instead of still fumbling his
way through.

It's ironic that now he wants to grab onto the timer of life and force it to halt. Every day goes
by too quickly, slipping away from his fingers before he can properly savor it. A landslide of
unforgettable days, gone as quickly as they come. Days he wants to grab onto both hands
with, days he ends up only being able to savor as memories.

By now, Dazai and Chuuya have only been officially dating for a little over four months. It
feels longer than that, and even though a lot of people would categorize them as moving too
fast— even Yuan seemed shocked and a little surprised when he told her they were living
together— it just feels so natural. So easy.

Waking up next to Dazai every morning is just normal . Eating breakfast with him, watching
movies with him, reading silently beside him, going out with him. Their entire lives tangled
together intricately, every part of Chuuya’s routine sprinkled in with Dazai’s presence, never
one without the other close behind. It wasn’t fast, it was right.
He slowly starts to repair his relationship with his sister too. It’s not always easy, and there’s
some conversations that leave him fuming with the desire to throw things at her—

But mostly, he tries to understand. If he was in the Mafia, he would probably hide it from his
siblings too. Maybe not as long, but if it kept them safe then he would do whatever it took to
keep them safe. Obviously Kouyou’s plan didn’t work, and now there’s new tension on top of
their existing problems because she hates Dazai for some reason, but in the end…

She’s his sister, and he loves her. He understands where she was coming from and why she
did it, even though it was fucking stupid. And because she's his sister, that means he might be
the first person in line to kick her ass, but they’ll always be there for each other. They will
fight and argue and hurt each other, sometimes by accident and sometimes on purpose— but
Chuuya would never give her up for anything.

Besides, it would be hypocritical to forgive Dazai for his mistakes and not his sister,
especially when it’s nearly the same mistake.

It’s surprisingly easy to luxuriate in the sense of peace beginning to settle over the city. Nika
and the Bratva have been silent, unwilling to disturb the silent truce, because Dazai isn’t
alone anymore.

Now that Dazai knows that Kouyou is Chuuya’s sister, he’s unofficially become the Mafia’s
informant. He doesn’t work as often these days, and some days it even seems like he’s
looking to retire, but he’s firmly aligned with the Mafia. No more selling information to the
Bratva or the other smaller gangs in Yokohama.

(Add to that that Ranpo now has loyalty to someone that is close to Dazai, it makes quite the
power group that the Russians don’t really want to fuck with.)

Honestly, it kind of confuses Chuuya, because he thought that all gangs were locked in this
eternal, bloody struggle for power that featured lots of gunfights, kidnappings, murder, the
whole city locked in a silent, underground war.
When he asked, Dazai said it wasn’t really like that. Yes, there would always be power
struggles and fights if the situation called for it or if the opportunity to make a move arose.
But, generally, there’s just this odd truce where everyone could get along as long as everyone
respected the boundaries. No one wanted to start a useless war because wars cost money, it
costs blood , it gained public and government attention.

Overall, no one wanted to fight unless they had to or it was worth it. With the Bratva
operating on foreign soil, it would be a difficult task to take on the Mafia and the Armed
Detective Agency, and so they were waiting for better times to make their move.

Never gone, but silent, for now.

Dazai and Kouyou reassured him that they’re prepared now, for anything that might happen.
Part of him— the frightened part that will forever be stuck six feet underground in a grave
with his name on it, the part that is still too afraid of water to take a bath— finds that hard to
believe but—

Life goes on, you know? He can't spend his life in terror. He wants to enjoy living, enjoy
what he has. Crawling under the blankets to hide from the monsters might be appealing
sometimes but Chuuya is no coward. He will not live in fear. He will always go down
fighting, to the bitter end.

Fighting fear or fighting a person, it doesn't matter. It's all the same battleground to him.

And because his family— god, it still makes him giddy to think of Dazai as family — is
prepared, that means he should be too.

With Gide's permission, he slowly returns to normal life. He doesn't need naps anymore, and
now he can exercise again, something he didn't realize he would miss so much. It starts with
some early-morning jogs with the dogs. Dazai comes with him the first dozen times, but then
he gets lazy and stops coming.

(He's lazy in the mornings now, slow to wake up and even more reluctant to let Chuuya
leave. It's a far cry from when they first met, when Dazai barely slept at all.
It's cute.)

Then it's slowly progressing into a heavier routine, feeling so damn proud of himself when he
looks in the mirror and sees that he's starting to regain all the muscle and weight he lost over
the past three months.

Then he starts sparring with Oda, brushing up on his Judo training and adding a few more
'street' skills. He's still an excellent Judo martial artist, but he hasn't gotten in that many real
fights, let alone any with Yakuza members, and definitely not many where he’s actually
fighting for his life, so he still needs some improvements. Real fights don't have any rules,
and Oda shows him quickly that Yakuza are not afraid to fight dirty and mean.

He's an excellent student though, and it's not long before Oda and him are evenly matched,
and he starts to win .

Dazai continually pouts that he's not sparring with him, but the last time they sparred,
Chuuya managed to flip him over his hip before pinning him on his back. That quickly
devolved into a heated, desperate round of impromptu sex outside in the backyard because
'chibi looked so good when he pinned me and looked like he was going to hurt me, how
could I resist?', so.

No sparring rounds with Dazai, no matter how much he pouts, unless Chuuya is looking to
get fucked.

All in all, it's just...perfect. His life, unfolding exactly the way it's supposed to, getting better
with each day. Visible progress in the things he's working on, and a support system that loves
and encourages him.

It's not exactly what he dreamed his life would be, but it's everything he could've ever wanted
and more.

There's only one, teensy, small problem:

His birthday is soon— less than a week— and his family has a tradition of having a birthday
dinner the night before, so they can all celebrate properly without taking time out of Chuuya's
actual birthday.

Now, this is the first birthday that he's had where he wasn't living at home, which means he
could probably beg off or get away with offering a Facetime date instead. But… he does want
to go home. Not forever, of course, but he wants to see his dad again. It's been almost eight
months since he last saw him or Kyouka in person. He misses them. It’s the longest he’s ever
been away from them.

Kouyou already cleared her schedule so she could come, and she's probably going to bring
Oda as well.

None of that is the problem.

The problem is that, when he brings up the idea of introducing him to his family, Dazai looks
terrified. The most frightened Chuuya has ever seen him, which would be concerning if it
wasn't so funny. He literally saw this man face down a Russian gang boss with a straight face,
but the mere mention of his father has him pale-faced and wide-eyed.

It's hilarious. Big, bad Dazai, famed criminal mastermind, bloody and dangerous, petrified of
a tiny little man who likes wine too much for his own good.

"Do you not want to meet my family?" Chuuya asks, hands planted on his hips and fixing
Dazai with a look.

Admittedly, he is having a little too much fun tormenting Dazai. Is that unfair of him? Yeah.
Is he having the time of his life? Also yes.

"No! I mean, of course I do," Dazai says empathetically, "It's just..."

Whatever he says next is mumbled so low that Chuuya can't even hear it, Dazai's chin tucked
close to his chest like an animal protecting its vulnerable underbelly.. He arches an eyebrow,
leaning closer. "What? I can't hear you."

Dazai looks briefly frustrated and then embarrassed and then—

"What if he doesn't like me?"

Aw, he's nervous. That's adorable. Chuuya could reassure him that his father will like him,
that it's going to be okay and he has nothing to be nervous about but he's having too much fun
watching Dazai sweat.

"Oh, he's definitely not going to like you," he says easily, raising a hand to count off his
reasoning on his fingers, "You are far too old for me, you're a criminal, you don't have a job,
you already have a kid, and you stole me from someone else. That's five strikes against you.
It's not looking good."

Dazai's lip wobbles and he looks like he might cry. "The age thing is dirty, you know," he
sniffs, crossing his arms. "I still haven't gotten over you calling me a grandpa when you heard
about the Demon Prodigy. My ego will never recover."

"Sweetheart," Chuuya says, reaching over to pat his cheek a little patronizingly, "That's not
even the worst thing I said about you, old man."

Dazai gasps in offense, giving him a look of such pure, abject shock and horror that it makes
Chuuya giggle.

"But really," he carries on, stepping closer to stare up at him, letting his touch fade into
reassurance, "It doesn't matter if he likes you or not, because I love you, and that's what really
matters, okay?"
Dazai leans his cheek into his palm, his skin soft and warm. His eyes, as he looks down, are
bottomless pits of warm affection, practically glowing in the light of the kitchen. There's a
moment of just soft reassurance and warm affection—

"Take back the old man comment," Dazai says suddenly, uncrossing his arms to drape them
over Chuuya's shoulders and bringing him even closer with the weight of his body,

He blinks. "What?"

"Take it back or I'm not going."

Pinching his side, Chuuya scoffs at him. "I'm not taking it back. You have to go. It's my
birthday."

"Not yet," Dazai points out, which is very true, because there are still six days until his
birthday, "Which means you're not the boss of me yet."

That's a lie and they both know it. Dazai would give Chuuya everything he ever wanted. He's
got him wrapped around his little finger,and all he has to do is pout to get his way.

Cute that he's trying to play it off though. Chuuya sticks his tongue out at him, playful. "Fine.
I'll take it back. You're not old," he says and just when Dazai is looking hopeful and preening
with pride at having won this playful argument, he continues with, "You just have
seasoning."

Dazai gapes at him. "What does that mean?"

Chuuya adopts a mournful look. "The gray hair is starting to come in. I can see your youth
fading away as we speak. It won't be long before I have to start calling retirement homes."

Dazai stares at him, expression disbelieving. "You're lying. I don't have gray hair."
He is absolutely lying. He just happened to catch Dazai checking out his hair a week ago in
the mirror, and filed the instance away for blackmail material. Not that he actually minds if
Dazai gets a few gray hairs— he's starting to think the silver fox aesthetic is pretty sexy,
actually— but it's funny to watch him panic over it.

"Of course not, mackerel," he says sweetly, smiling up at him.

Dazai looks torn between believing him and denying the idea until his last breath, one of his
hands coming up to touch histemple self-consciously. If there was a mirror nearby, he'd
probably be checking himself out in it. "Don't even start on the retirement home idea. I'm
only thirty-four," he grumbles.

And for all that he sounds grumpy, he hasn't pushed Chuuya away by even a centimeter. In
fact, he's probably shuffled closer, draping his weight over his shoulders.

"Practically middle-aged," Chuuya sighs, patting his cheek again. "You'll be a mummy soon
enough. You've already got the bandages."

Well—

Used to have the bandages. He doesn't wear them at home anymore, all his scars and ink and
stories on display. It's a display of trust that Chuuya treasures. He still wears the bandages
whenever they go out, but their home is safe for him.

Dazai looks torn on what to say, his expression flickering, before eventually settling on a
fondly sighed, "You're mean."

Chuuya beams up at him, slinging his arms around his neck. "So mean," he agrees
empathetically, tugging him down for a kiss.
Dazai gives in easily, both of his hands finding his back and supporting his weight as he
bends him backwards slightly, just enough to make him hover on the edge of falling. His kiss
is sweet, freely offered and overflowing with affection.

"What am I going to do with you?" He murmurs into his mouth, unconsciously fond.

"You're going to meet my family," Chuuya declares with a final kiss, pulling back to smile in
Dazai's eyes, and well—

Chuuya always gets what he wants.

 Family Dinner
Chapter Summary

Dazai is...nervous. He won't admit that to anyone, and especially not to the little menace
whom he lovingly calls his boyfriend— because he would never let him live it down,
just like he's continually pointed out gray hairs he apparently found in Dazai's hair and
then refused to actually show them to him— but he is. Just a little bit.

Chapter Notes

i got a new kitten (her name is saltine) and also i'm interviewing for a manager position
next week, wish me luck :)

Dazai is...nervous. He won't admit that to anyone, and especially not to the little menace
whom he lovingly calls his boyfriend— because he would never let him live it down, just
like he's continually pointed out gray hairs he apparently found in Dazai's hair and then
refused to actually show them to him— but he is. Just a little bit.

The thing is, he's never met someone's parents before. All of his mafia friends are various
shades of runaway's, orphans and neglected, so it's not like he was having regular sleepovers
as a teenager. He avoided Sasaki's parents for a long while, because he wasn't her friend or
her boyfriend, and he absolutely was not interested in meeting his fuck-buddy's parents back
then.

Of course, he did eventually have to meet them when Sasaki got pregnant with Shuuji, but
that wasn't a meeting so much as it was... a three-hour lecture over the phone. He doesn’t
even remember much of the conversation, and he didn’t speak a word throughout the whole
thing.

Needless to say, he has a bad track record and he's pretty sure that it's not going to get better
this time because he really doesn't think he's family friendly.
Which is nerve-wracking, because he knows how much Chuuya loves his family, even with
all the issues that come with it, and Dazai has to make a good impression. He wants the
chibi's family to like him— because Chuuya is his family now, which makes this his family
as well— and it's putting a lot of pressure on him.

Not to mention that he's going to be locked in a house with Chuuya, his father, and both of
his sisters for two days and a night. He's going to be eaten alive. They're gonna gang up on
him and hate him and bully him out of existence.

"Are you ready?"

No. "Yes."

Chuuya is the first one out of the car, looking so familiar with his surroundings and
completely at ease that Dazai almost envies him. He's been to the more residential cities in
Japan before, and he's looked at all the houses and people that live there but he's never felt a
part of it. Never looked at a row of houses and felt like he was coming home.

Chuuya's childhood home is a respectable building. Not as big as Dazai's house, but the
smaller size of it lends it a cozy feeling. Homey. There's barely any yard to speak of, and the
houses on either side are stacked up very closely, almost identical to each other. The only
defining features are the decorations on the front doorstep, heavily featuring flowers and
nature.

Chuuya waits for him to come around the car, linking his arm through his. He smiles up at
him, bumping his temple against his arm in a silent show of support and reassurance.

Dazai clutches the bottle of wine he brought— Chuuya said it was his fathers favorite brand
and that he'd love the gift— and hopes he doesn't drop it with his clammy palms as they
march up to the front door.

It feels like he's going to war. Or maybe to his death. Not even squaring off with Mori had
been this nerve wracking.
Chuuya reaches out to knock on the door without hesitation. "Smile, Osamu. You look like
you're going to faint."

Dazai forces a smile on his face, too big.

"Not like that, you look uncomfortable."

He is uncomfortable. He dims the smile down.

"Now it just looks like you're faking—”

The door opens. In the entrance is a man with long, dark hair pulled away from his face with
an elegant braid. He has a big, welcoming smile on his face, and he seems like a homey,
family man with his cashmere sweater with a little plaid design on it.

"Chuuya!" He says enthusiastically, his face softening. He looks so happy to see him, but it
changes to confusion when he takes in Dazai by his side, a recognizable pair of blue eyes
taking him in from head to toe.

Dazai dressed nicely for the occasion, slacks and a sleek button down, as well as covering up
his tattoos with a thick layer of foundation— because he doesn't want to explain the bandages
— and even styled his hair. Still, he can't help feeling judged and found wanting.

He opens his mouth to introduce himself—

"Chuuya, who is this?" Rimbaud— Dazai asked what his name was before they got here so
he wouldn't look bad— asks, looking back over at his son with a confused look.

Oh, they are not off to a great start.

"My boyfriend?" Chuuya says, giving him an equally confused look. "I told you he was
coming? You said it was fine."

Rimbaud looks at him. Looks at Dazai. Back to Chuuya. "That is a grown man?"

What is with this family and making him feel ancient? It's not like he's decrepit, but he's
starting to fucking feel like it. His smile stays in place out of sheer willpower.

Chuuya shoots his dad a look. "Obviously? What did you expect? Of course he's an adult?"

"No, no, I just expected someone..." Rimbaud obviously thinks about it, and it's clear that he
settles on something different to say because of how hard Chuuya is staring at him, just
waiting for him to say the wrong thing "..different."

Oh, just you wait, Dazai thinks to himself half-hysterically, he doesn't even know half of it
yet. Just wait until he hears about his background. Or about his son. Or about how they met,
or how old he is, or anything at all.

"Hello," he butts in before they can start gossiping about how old he is or something like that,
"I'm Dazai, it's nice to meet you."

He even offers up his hand to shake, because Chuuya told him Rimbaud has spent a lot of
time in the international business world, grimly keeping his smile in place.

Rimbaud clears his expression, keeping his face and voice carefully neutral as he shakes his
hand. "Hello, Dazai. I'm Rimbaud, Chuuya's father," — he says that like Dazai is supposed to
be intimidated by him, which doesn't work in the way he probably thinks— "Come on in,
you're the last ones to arrive."
Oh, great. Dazai's just getting thrown straight into the fire, no waiting for the heat to build or
anything. Chuuya practically drags him in by his arm, totally brushing by that awkward
introduction without a single care.

It's a smaller house, so the living room already seems packed full with three people standing
in it chatting.

Chuuya brightens when he sees them. "Kyouka!" He calls, an excited grin on his face as he
rushes over.

Dazai's happy for him, he is. He knows he hasn't seen his sister for a few months and he
knows he missed her, but did he really have to leave Dazai floundering awkwardly in the
space between the hallway and the living room, wondering what he should do? He's not even
going to introduce them?

Rimbaud's disappeared into what looks to be the kitchen with a wave at his children. Dazai is
still clutching the bottle of wine in his hand, and he’s pretty sure it needs to breathe before
they can drink it, so he should probably go drop it off in the kitchen…

On the other hand, he can see Oda making small talk with Kouyou in the living room,
looking so at ease and comfortable that Dazai almost wants to hit him for daring to have a
good relationship with the family when he feels like he’s on the ropes already.

But—

His eyes catch on Chuuya, who’s squeezing his dark-haired sister in a giant hug. She’s
squealing in protest, kicking her feet in a fake attempt to escape and they’re both laughing.
Even Kouyou has a fond look on her face, watching them from a distance.

Dazai has always been prone to cowardice. If he can avoid something he doesn’t want to do,
if he can outthink it and out-strategize it, then he absolutely will. If he doesn’t want to do
something, he will go out of his way for hours just to think up ways to avoid it.
But for Chuuya , he’ll be brave. At least a little bit. Even though his father really isn’t the
terrifying monster his nervous stomach wants to believe he is. He’s just a guy. Just a suburban
dad with a minivan.

Dazai has fucked scarier people than that. This is nothing . He’s going to walk in there, make
smooth conversation, impress him—

When he walks into the kitchen, Rimbaud is viciously chopping some vegetables for a salad
— they’re having some sort of pasta, he thinks, french cuisine to go with the four wine
bottles lined up on the counter— which is at odds with the sunflower apron covering his
chest and the soft braid trailing down his spine.

His eyes snap up to meet him and Dazai almost drops the wine.

“Uh,” he starts with, so incredibly elegant, he’s not sure why Rimbaud isn’t fawning over him
already, “I brought wine. For dinner. For you. To drink. And Chuuya— for his birthday, of
course,” — not because he’s encouraging underage drinking, no, not at all, he would never,
“So—“

He holds up the wine bottle like he needs to prove that he has it, like he would lie about
something so stupid as that. His smile feels painfully fragile.

Setting the knife down—Dazai noticed he’s not that skilled with a knife, but he doesn’t need
to be, he just needs to be passionate and have motive to hurt Dazai, which he might have—
Rimbaud brushes off his fingers on his apron. He squints at the bottle, expression suspicious
and ever-so-slightly judgmental. “I don’t have my glasses— bring it here. Let me see it.”

He needs glasses. Why is he terrified of a man that needs to wear glasses?

(He refuses to admit that he’s started to need reading glasses lately, because that has nothing
to do with his age and everything to do with the fact that newly-printed books are obsessed
with using smaller and smaller text.)
At least he doesn’t trip on his way over, offering the bottle up easily. Rimbaud takes it in
hand, holding it up to the light and squinting at the label. His lips purse, his expression
carefully neutral.

Dazai feels like his entire opinion on him is hinging on how much he likes the wine he
brought. Nerves buzz through him as he waits for the verdict, because he doesn’t know
anything about wine. Chuuya told him what to buy and he trusts him but—

What if Rimbaud’s tastes had changed in the last few months? What if he asks him
questions? What if he wants to talk about wine and Dazai looks like an idiot even more? He
knows nothing about wine besides what can be read on the label.

Rimbaud sighs.

Oh no.

The pursed lips fade away and he actually offers Dazai a smile, lowering the wine and adding
it to the line of bottles already on the counter. “This is lovely, thank you. It’s one of my
favorite wines.”

Oh, good . He likes it. Everything is going perfectly.

Dazai’s knees feel a little weak. “You’re welcome,” he says warmly, “Chuuya helped me pick
it out. I wanted to bring a gift for you.”

Now that this conversation went okay, he’s fully planning on ducking out and going to
introduce himself to the rest of the family because at least he’ll have Oda and Chuuya there,
at least some sort of support he can hide behind—

“Oh, so you do have manners,” Rimbaud says, and even though his words are biting, his tone
is friendly, like it’s a joke.
But is it a joke?

Dazai freezes in place, unsure what he’s supposed to say to that, unsure what he means,
unsure if he’s truly mad at him or just trying to make him laugh to disperse the awkward
tension.

“After all,” Rimbaud continues lightheartedly, pulling out a corkscrew and smoothly opening
the bottle Dazai had brought. There’s a large empty glass vase-looking thing nearby that he
pours the entire bottle in to let it breathe. “A man would introduce himself to the parents
before moving in with their child. That is the polite thing to do.”

Dazai is torn between wanting to bite back that Chuuya is a grown man, and neither of them
need to get Rimbaud’s permission to do anything and just really wanting him to like Dazai.
This is his boyfriend's family, this is someone important to Chuuya.

It’s worth swallowing his pride, even if it tastes sour.

“Yes, well,” he mutters, dipping his head in silent apology. “We talked on the phone and it
did not occur to me to introduce myself before. The relationship moved quickly.”

Rimbaud pounces on that immediately, smoothly transferring the salad he was making into a
larger bowl. “Ah, yes. How long have you two been dating?”

“Officially, almost four months,” Dazai answers, doing some quick mental math. “We were
seeing each other for a few weeks before that though.”

Rimbaud’s mouth twists slightly. “That would be… right around when he started college,
right?”

Technically about two months in but close enough that Dazai nods cautiously.
Honestly, he’s expecting an argument about that. Because, from an outside perspective and
from a parental perspective, he can understand why that looks bad. Why it’s suspicious that a
newly independent college kid almost instantly found a boyfriend that is obviously older than
him.

He doesn’t blame Rimbaud for being suspicious. Hell, if he had more parental instincts and
Shuuji brought home an older man only a few months into college, he’d probably throw a fit
too. He understands, but he doesn’t have to like it.

Thankfully, Rimbaud doesn’t say anything to that specifically, choosing to let that go with a
thin smile. Instead, he starts in with a different line of questioning. “Don’t you think you two
are moving a bit quickly? Four months is not a long time, and I understand that his medical
scare might have frightened you both, but living together already? I mean, how well do you
really know each other? Living together is a big commitment."

Dazai has no idea what 'normal' relationships look like, but he does know this: "It might seem
fast to you, but it was a very natural progression of things. It felt right in the moment and it
feels right now. If something changes, then I'm happy to discuss and accommodate him, but
for now, we're happy," Dazai responds, shrugging with one shoulder and lifting his chin to
give Rimbaud a steady glance. "And you're right— maybe I don't know him as well as I
should, but I will spend the rest of my life getting to know him, and I will enjoy every
moment of it."

Evidently he said something right, because instead of coming up with another question or
squinting at him suspiciously, Rimbaud's gaze actually softens. He looks at him for a long
moment, quietly assessing. Like he's actually looking at Dazai instead of through him. Trying
to get to know him instead of just finding pieces of him that can be viewed as wrong.

Before he can say anything else, there's a call from the living room. "Dazai!"

That's Chuuya and Dazai eagerly takes his cue to escape—

"Wait," Rimbaud stops him in his tracks, holding up a hand. "Take this with you."
In a series of smooth movements, Rimbaud procures a wine glass out of somewhere and fills
it a quarter-full with the wine he poured into the aerator. He offers it to Dazai with an
expression that is just a little warmer than the one before their conversation.

Dazai takes the wineglass, careful not to spill a drop as he turns on his heel and—

He's a man. He can admit it. He flees into the living room, pathetically grateful for the rescue.

Chuuya looks over his shoulder at him, eyes practically sparkling with happiness, and Dazai
is drawn to him like a moth to the flame. He comes up behind him, pressing his front to his
back. He drapes one arm over his shoulder and brings the other hand around to the front to
offer up the wine. Chuuya takes it with a grateful hum, pressing back against him as he takes
a sip.

Dazai leans down, nudging the side of Chuuya's head with his cheek. "I wanna go home," he
complains quietly in his ear. "Your dad is mean to me."

Chuuya pats his arm patronizingly and ignores him completely. "Dazai, this is Kyouka," he
says instead, gesturing to his dark-haired sister.

Dazai offers her a welcoming smile, tipping his head in greeting because he refuses to let
Chuuya go.

She clearly takes after their father, with long black hair and a slightly-darker pair of blue
eyes. She's probably the most interestingly dressed out of all of them. Her shirt is a black tee
with a bunny face on the front, and she has striped black-and-white suspenders that connect
to her black skirt. She took her shoes off when she came in, just like everyone else, but he's
pretty sure the giant knee-high platform boots adorned with buckles and zippers by the door
are probably hers.

She even has little pink bunny clips in her hair pinning back her bangs into her twin
ponytails. It's cute but eccentric, and she certainly doesn't look her twenty-two years.
"You already know Kouyou, and Oda," Chuuya continues, nodding at his sister and her
boyfriend-slash-bodyguard.

Kouyou is impeccably dressed in a modest red dress that compliments the fall of her long red
hair. She even has cutting red eyeliner on, and a big pair of dragon earrings dangling from her
ears. She looks like a Mafia boss on vacation, sleek and elegant and sensual and powerful.
Even Dazai can admit it’s a good look on her.

She offers him a strained smile over the rim of her wine glass, nodding at him. Their
relationship has been weird lately. They've always been rather rude to each other, and they’ve
never got along, floundering somewhere between rivals, reluctant coworkers and enemies.

They still don't get along, and he's pretty sure that she's actively trying to convince Chuuya to
leave him, but she's acting cordial to his face now. Not friendly, per se, but civil. It’s an
improvement, even if a small one.

Oda, on the other hand, is her counterpart in all black. He looks as comfortable as can be,
sipping idly on his own wine and not at all looking nervous.

Which isn't fair, because not only is Oda only a year younger than him, he's actively in the
Mafia, and he has a polyamorous relationship with two women— one of them being
Rimbaud's daughter, who is the head of the mafia— and he's pretty sure they're swingers.

Really, Dazai is normal by comparison, so why does he have to feel like he's being targeted
by Rimbaud? Why is he the nervous one?

"How'd you get past the dad?" He mutters crossly, wishing he had his own cup of whiskey to
calm his nerves. "He's looking at me like I'm a walking corpse."

Oda flashes him a smile. "My youthful good looks and witty charm."
Asshole. He's enjoying this.

Chuuya pats his arm again. "You're doing fine," he tells Dazai. "He hasn't threatened to sue
you yet. That's practically a ringing endorsement."

" Sue me? For what?"

Kyouka shrugs. "Doesn't matter. It's just a threat. He's just...like that. Overprotective."

No offense, but that sounds way less effective than threatening to kill someone who pisses
him off.

"I've heard a lot about you," Kyouka continues, eyeing him. "You're...shorter than I
imagined."

Dazai blinks. He's never heard that before. He's almost absurdly tall, especially for Japan, and
there have been plenty of people who said he was too tall. He's never been called short. How
does he even respond to that?

There's a twinkle in her eye that he catches onto too late, and now he's convinced that she
said that on purpose to damage his ego but—

"Dinner's ready," Rimbaud calls from the kitchen. "Someone help me bring the food out."

Oda is the first to move, setting his glass down on the table as he disappears into the kitchen
to help.

Sighing mournfully at the idea of having to let his chibi go, Dazai goes to help as well.
There's only a handful of dishes, so it's not long before they're all settling down at the table to
eat. Rimbaud is at the head of the table, with Chuuya on his left and Kyouka on his right.
Dazai sitting next to Chuuya, Oda across from him and Kouyou at the end of the table.

Every one of them has a glass of wine. Even Dazai, who mournfully sniffs at his glass before
taking a sip to be courteous. He wishes he had something stronger, but apparently this family
loves their grape juice. There’s no accounting for good taste, he supposes.

Everything is easy as people pile up their plates with their respective foods, casual
conversation made as they pass dishes back and forth over the table. Dazai almost relaxes,
thinking that dinner will be easy and he'll have at least an hour of relaxation—

(But he's wrong. Because if Rimbaud has learned one thing while raising three children on
his own, it's that if he wants to know something, then he has to corner someone where they
can't leave.)

"So, Dazai," he starts casually and Dazai's stomach sinks into his pasta. "How did you and
Chuuya meet?"

Oh no . That is not a good question.

He hesitates, wondering what exactly he should say because he doesn't want to lie but the
truth is... awkward . It's not like Chuuya and him came up with a story beforehand and he
doesn't know exactly how much Chuuya told his father, and he doesn't want to lie if he
already knows—

Thankfully, the love of his life, the apple of his eye, the sweetest and smartest man Dazai has
ever known, answers for him. "His son introduced us."

Oh boy.
Dazau does not look at Chuuya, but he discretely pinches him under the table because what
the hell . He wasn't ready to have this conversation. He's already on thin ice.

Rimbaud pauses, a bite of pasta halfway to his mouth. His eyebrows lower in confusion, and
he looks from Dazai to Chuuya and then back again.

The rest of the table is silent, but he can see Oda's shoulders shaking with repressed laughter.
That motherfucker.

"You have a son?"

Dazai smiles, his cheeks feeling like they might crack under the tension. He nods.

Slowly putting down his pasta, Rimbaud laces his fingers together and rests his chin on them.
That warm expression from earlier is completely gone. In fact, he looks even less welcoming
than before. "Well," he draws out, "How old is the little tyke? Chuuya's always been good
with kids, so I'm not that surprised."

Oda snickers. Kouyou takes a loud drink. Kyouka looks between them all eagerly, probably
sensing the incoming drama.

Dazai is going to fake his death. He's going to choke on his wine until he suffocates and then
he's going to leave the country forever. "Eighteen."

Rimbaud tilts his head. "Sorry, what was that? I thought you said eighteen."

Dazai wants to die. Chuuya knows what he did. He fed him to the dogs and he's just sitting
there, smiling at him like he loves him but he hates him. He hates Dazai, he has to.

He clears his throat, repeating himself louder. "He's eighteen. Shuuji is eighteen."
Rimbaud stares at him, unblinking. Dazai is too afraid to look, staring at the wall just behind
him, waiting for his inevitable end. Will Rimbaud kill him with the fork he has in hand, or
will he go back for the knife?

"My son is eighteen," Rimbaud says slowly, making Dazai wince.

"Nineteen tomorrow," he mutters, like that makes a huge difference.

"How old are you?" Is his next question, and Dazai is writhing in embarrassment. The entire
table is staring at him expectantly, and Chuuya is no help. He's actually just put his hand on
his thigh under the table as moral support while he's interrogated.

"Thirty-four," he answers, voice wavering.

Silence. Horribly awkward silence. He can feel everybody staring at him, and there's just the
slow scraping of a metal fork over a plate as Kyouka slowly eats her pasta, eyes bright with
glee.

How did he get trapped in a family of tormentors? This is terrible. This is awful. He
should’ve fled into the sunset while he still had the chance.

He shoots Chuuya a look like 'help me' and Chuuya opens his mouth—

"I'm forty-seven," Rimbaud announces, clearly highlighting the fact that Dazai is closer to his
age than he is to Chuuya's.

He's going to pass out, this isn't fair. Someone help him.
Chuuya lifts his wine glass. "It's fine, Dad," he says, calmly, like he wasn’t watching Dazai
drown and enjoying the show. “Leave him alone. It’s not a big deal.”

Dazai wholeheartedly disagrees that any of this is fine.

Rimbaud’s gaze cuts to Chuuya and he actually looks angry, his eyebrows lowered
thunderously over his eyes. “Are you friends with his son— Shuuji, is it?”

(And this one, Chuuya doesn’t mean to throw Dazai under the bus—because he has enjoyed
watching his boyfriend suffer in the name of harmless revenge for keeping all those secrets—
but he can’t help it.)

Chuuya cringes. “God no. We made out a few times and that’s it.”

Well, Dazai thinks to himself so hysterically that he’s swung back around to calm, at least no
one has mentioned the time Shuuji tried to run Chuuya over yet. Some things are still sacred.

Rimbaud’s eyebrows shoot up so far they might as well be part of his hair. “Let me get this
straight. You ‘made out’ with his son. His son introduced you to Dazai. And then you started
dating. The father . A man nearly twice your age.”

Finally, Chuuya’s face starts to get red with embarrassment and he fidgets. “Yeah.”

“Chuuya!“ Rimbaud gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “I didn’t raise you to be such a—
such a hussy.”

Now, Dazai would normally be the first one to defend Chuuya if anyone else ever even
implied that he was a shameful whore. But now he’s trying to bite back hysterical laughter at
the word hussy being whispered over the table like it’s a curse of the highest order.
Plus, now Chuuya is squirming with discomfort and Dazai is getting vindictive pleasure out
of that, out of not being the center of attention. Karma, you little hussy, Dazai thinks to
himself, finally taking a bite out of his pasta—

Which is, naturally, when things go to hell.

“Don’t call me a hussy,” Chuuya says indignantly, and in very youngest sibling behavior, he
flings his hand out and points at Kouyou. “She’s the one dating two people, call her the
hussy!”

Dazai swallows slowly, putting his fork back down. Across the table, Oda’s eyes are wide
and Kyouka looks like she’s eating this up.

“She’s what?!”

At the other end of the table, Kouyou throws her utensils down on her plate. “You traitorous
whore?” She accuses Chuuya, throwing her hands up. “This isn’t about me. Leave me out of
this, dad-fucker.”

Dazai doesn’t know if he should cry, laugh or be offended that she spit ‘dad-fucker’ like it
was an insult.

Chuuya sticks his nose up. “If I'm going down, I’m taking you all with me.”

Oda leans over to Kyouka, whispering something lowly in her ear.

(They’re taking bets.)

Meanwhile, Rimbaud looks stressed. “Are you cheating on Oda? He’s such a nice man!”
Oh, so Oda is the nice man, but Dazai is being treated like the devil, even though they are
almost exactly the same. Where’s the fairness in that?

“No!” Kouyou denies, and even Oda shakes his head in solidarity, “It’s just— we’re both
dating the same other person, it’s fine!”

Dazai wonders if it would be impossible to sneak away from the table without making a
scene. At least the attention is off him now, but he’s not sure if this is actually any better.

Kouyou looks like she’s about to vault over the table at her little brother, and Dazai pushes
his food back so it won’t drop into his lap if she does—

“Enough!“ Rimbaud snaps, slamming his hands down on the table.

The entire group goes silent, ears burning with shame and embarrassment.

“I would like one normal family dinner,” Rimbaud practically hisses, his fingers coming up
to rub at his temples. “You’re embarrassing me in front of our company.”

Personally, Dazai is just grateful he’s not being questioned anymore but he’ll go along with
whatever Rimbaud says as long as this conversation stops.

“I haven’t seen all my kids in one place for years,” he continues, glaring at everyone
individually. Even Kyouka and Oda get the treatment, even though they haven’t said
anything. “So we are all going to get along and be civil with each other, got it?”

Chuuya, Kouyou and Kyouka all shrink in their seats, mumbling understanding too quietly to
hear.

Oda is the only one who is enthusiastically eating, eagerly reaching for seconds while
everyone else is awkwardly picking at their plates.
Silent, strained, awkward peace reigns for the next few minutes and Dazai really thinks it’s
over. The worst has happened, there’s nothing left to talk about, dinner will be finished soon
and then the worst part will be over for good—

“Daddy—“

Now, Dazai has been coaching himself for the past two weeks, ever since he agreed to come
to dinner. He knew Chuuya unfortunately referred to his father like that sometimes, and he
swore to himself that he would not respond to that if it came up during this trip. He also
asked Chuuya not to call him that, but—

Chuuya forgot and he’s been calling Dazai that for months around the house, so often he calls
him ‘daddy’ more than he says his name, so he automatically looks up, remembering too late
to stop himself—

Only to lock eyes with Rimbaud and Kouyou.

For the first time, Oda looks a little nervous, his hand hovering with a bite of pasta near his
mouth as the blood drains out of his expression—

Kyouka mouths ‘oh my god’ to herself.

There’s just this awkward, horribly invasive silence as Dazai looks at Rimbaud and Rimbaud
looks at Kouyou and Kouyou looks at Dazai and Dazai looks at Kouyou and Rimbaud looks
at Dazai—

Clearing his throat, Rimbaud raises his utensils and Kyouka is leaning forward like she’s
expecting a fight to break out, and even Oda is leaning back in his chair.
“Do not tell me anything,” Rimbaud says, oddly calm considering the rest of the evening, as
he steadily takes a bite of salad. “Chuuya, what did you need?”

The redhead is shrunken in his chair, visibly squirming with discomfort and so red he almost
matches his hair. “The wine, please,” he mutters, sounding like he wants to be anywhere else.

Everyone’s eyes fall to the wine bottle and they all realize at the same time—

The glass is much closer to Dazai than it is to Rimbaud.

There’s another moment of silence as Dazai struggles on what to do because he can’t ignore
Chuuya but if he reaches for it then that will be like acknowledging the mishap and then
everyone will just know—

“Well?” Rimbaud asks, his eyes boring a hole in the side of Dazai’s face as he takes another
bite. “You heard him. Hand it to the man.”

“Right,” Dazai mutters, clearing his throat awkwardly. He reaches over, picks up the bottle
and places it in front of Chuuya.

Everyone pretends not to watch as Chuuya pours nearly an entire glass of wine, chugs the
whole thing, and then pours another quarter glass, a socially acceptable amount.

Dazai takes another bite of salad. His appetite is gone, but he can’t be rude on top of
inadvertently causing world war 3 in the family. This is only dinner, he reminds himself,
grimly resigning himself for whatever happens after. They have plans for a late-night movie
showing after this.

Then they’ll come home for sleep—god, how is Dazai going to sleep in the same house after
all this, he should’ve insisted on getting a hotel room— before waking up for brunch, a short
day at a local park, and lunch before everyone starts to head back to their respective homes.
Judging on the way Rimbaud is alternating between glaring at Dazai, looking at Kouyou and
frowning at Oda—

Honestly, he’s not sure he’s going to survive. If Rimbaud doesn’t kill him, then Kouyou
probably will and if they don’t…

Dazai might just do it his damn self.

Surprisingly, the rest of dinner is… mostly mundane. There’s still some lingering tension, and
things get a little awkward when Chuuya drinks a little too much and Dazai moves the bottle
out of reach before he can start getting rowdy, but mostly things are way calmer than they
were initially. Dazai actually manages to hold an entire conversation with Rimbaud that
doesn’t end up with him embarrassing himself.

The movie after is okay too. It’s some action film that Dazai doesn’t catch the name of,
because he’s not a big movie person and he honestly doesn’t care that much. He’s only here
and watching it because Chuuya wanted him to come.

There is a bit of a tense moment in the middle of the movie when there’s a bucket of water
dragged on screen, the metallic screech and the slosh of water making Chuuya shudder and
turn his face into Dazai’s chest.

He’s there in an instant, covering one of his ears and mumbling quiet reassurances into his
hair until it’s okay for him to look again.

Kouyou knows and Oda knows, so they both respectfully ignore the two of them. The most
Kouyou does is reach over and squeeze his shoulder in silent support.

But Rimbaud doesn’t know, and even though Chuuya doesn’t make a fuss and he’s back to
watching the movie in a few minutes, he can tell that something is different.
Dazai locks eyes with him over Chuuya’s head when he’s comforting him, silent in the movie
theater. And Rimbaud watches for a moment, his expression questioning and thoughtful,
before eventually looking away again.

Dazai tries to make the moment look romantic so that Chuuya doesn’t have to come up with a
lie to tell him, but he’s not sure if it works. He just hopes Rimbaud can sense that even
though his children all love him and cherish him—

They’re grown up now. And they have secrets, they might need other people more, but that
doesn’t mean they don’t love him.

There is a point where Dazai slips away for a few moments while everyone is crowding into
an ice cream shop for dessert. There’s a convenience store not even a block away, and he
ducks in to buy a pack of cigarettes.

It’s been a long time since he’s smoked regularly, but it’s been a stressful day, so he deserves
a little stress relief.

Besides, he’s fairly certain Oda still smokes, and it’s a good excuse to catch up with him.
They haven’t really talked since Dazai pointed a gun at him, and while he’s sure there won’t
be any hard feelings— it’s far from the first time they’ve held a gun to each other’s heads—
he’s sure Oda will be less happy that he indirectly threatened Kouyou.

The man takes his job seriously. If Dazai were anyone else, his existence would’ve been
wiped from the planet by now. Oda might not be cruel but he is protective, loyal to a fault.

He's also in love, and Dazai can understand the sentiment. There isn't much he wouldn't do to
keep Chuuya safe and happy.

When he returns, only Chuuya seems to have noticed he slipped away for a few minutes. He
beams at him, his happiness all the more tangible and obvious when he's surrounded by the
people he loves.
Dazai takes his place next to him easily, dropping an arm over his shoulders. Chuuya offers
him a bite of his ice cream— dark cherry chocolate— and even though it's Dazai's least
favorite flavor, he still leans down and obediently opens his mouth.

The sweetness of chocolate has nothing on how sweet Chuuya's smile makes him feel.

After that, the group spends a little while roaming the local shopping mall, taking in all the
sights. Dazai hasn't been to a smaller city in a while, and there’s something… homey about
its simpler charms. It’s not as loud as the big cities are, and not so bright. Quieter, in a way
that makes Dazai feel like he might belong if he decided to make a home here.

His arm squeezes over Chuuya’s shoulders. If they decide to make a home here, he silently
amends himself, secure in his secret thoughts.

He won’t put words to it yet but—

Maybe someday. Maybe if he’s lucky enough.

 Forbidden Fruit
Chapter Summary

"So," a teasing voice interrupts, "You survived your first day. How's it feel?"

Chapter Notes

dazai dilf with a dad bod is sexy, in this essay i will--

Despite the awkwardness of the initial meeting, Dazai actually gets along pretty well with the
group. There’s still lingering tension between him and Kouyou (which can only be assumed
will last for quite a long time), but Oda is as deadpan-funny as he always is. Rimbaud is
suspicious of Dazai, but he’s friendly enough if you ignore the occasional subtle jabs.
Kyouka is rebellious and sneaky and she has this way of inciting chaos just to watch the
drama play out that is incredibly funny. Chuuya is not the greatest of peace-makers—he gets
into a heated fight with Kyouka about how Xbox is way better than PlayStation for at least
ten minutes—but there’s something about his loud exuberance that’s contagious.

All in all, the first evening goes great. Dazai waves goodbye to Kyouka as they make their
way out of the mall. She got a hotel nearby, and she’s eager to duck out in a way that speaks
of someone or something waiting for her there.

Unfortunately, Dazai didn’t find anything to get Chuuya for his birthday at the stores, but he
already has a few things that he ordered online and another few ideas that he’ll complete once
they get back home. After all, it’s his first birthday that they're going to celebrate together,
and Dazai doesn’t want to do anything by half. After the year his chibi has had, he deserves
to be spoiled.

Not that he doesn’t already— a fact Chuuya would argue against— but it's his birthday, and a
little extra spoiling is good.
When they arrive back at Rimbaud's place, Kouyou and Chuuya head inside with their father.
Dazai settles on the cramped front porch to give them some private time, extracting the pack
of cigarettes he'd stashed in his pocket.

Packing the tobacco with a few slaps of the pack on the palm of his hand, opening it up and
bringing a cigarette to his lips is a long-forgotten habit that feels as familiar as it does new.

"So," a teasing voice interrupts, "You survived your first day. How's it feel?"

Dazai looks up as Oda comes to a stop on the porch, leaning against a pillar. He looks relaxed
and happy, a playful grin on his face and his hands shoved in his pockets.

Rolling his eyes, Dazai tosses the pack at him. Oda catches it easily, hopping up to sit on the
railway framing the porch. It doesn’t look strong enough to hold someone like him, but that
doesn’t seem to bother him.

“Stressful,” Dazai mutters, taking a long drag and feeling a low buzz begin to grow in his
veins. Nicotine highs are such a strange one to him, a high that makes his body feel hollow
but his mind clear. It’s never been his personal favorite, but it’s good in a pinch.

“Mm,” Oda hums, taking out a cigarette and cupping his hands around his mouth to light the
end. The brief flash of the lighter makes his eyes flare in the dimming twilight. Sunset has
passed long ago. "To be fair, you did a lot better than I thought you would. He cried when he
met me. Something about his kids being all grown up now."

Unbidden, Dazai's lips twitch with amusement. The mental image of that is hilarious. "I'm
surprised he didn't run me out, especially after the—"

He shuts his mouth before he brings up the daddy thing, because going through it once was
already bad enough, and relieving the visceral embarrassment of it again might put him in an
early grave.
Oda laughs though, knowing exactly what he's talking about even if he doesn't say it. He
doesn't know why he's laughing, because he distinctly remembers making awkward eye
contact with Kouyou during that, not that he's going to think too deeply on why she looked
up.

"Nah. He likes you," he says confidently, like he doesn’t even have to think about it.

Dazai… doubts that. There have been very, very few people that have actually liked him.
Maybe temporarily, maybe in the context of a situation—

But truly liked him? Only a handful of people have ever done that, not that he’s ever gone out
of his way to be liked. Not that he ever really thinks about being liked or disliked until
something like this happens.

It’s fine. He’s gotten used to it over the years.

When Dazai snorts disbelievingly, Oda kicks a booted foot out at him. “It’s true,” he insists.
“The man only wants what’s best for his kids, and he’d have to be blind to not see how much
you love Chuuya. Or how much he loves you.”

That’s true. Dazai’s lips curl into a small smile around his cigarette. There are very few things
he’s done right in his life, but Chuuya will always be one of them. He’s not perfect by any
means, but he’ll try his best in this, at least.

He hopes Oda is right, because Dazai doesn't have a lot of practice in making himself more
palatable for others but he does want Chuuya's family to like him. They're important to him,
and thus, they're important to Dazai.

"You deserve to be liked, Osamu," Oda says suddenly, with an intensity that he rarely gets,
only when he truly means it and he thinks someone needs to hear it. "I know we've all done
bad things, and I know you've been hurt a lot, but—” he shrugs helplessly, taking another
drag, "— you deserve to be liked. You deserve to be loved."
Dazai blinks at his old friend, torn between shrugging the odd proclamation off by ignoring it
or denying it the way his gut makes him want to.

Pain is a dull, familiar friend, and it only hurts worse if you start to realize you don't deserve
it.

Before he can decide, the front door is opening up again and two redheads are stepping out.
One of them— the taller of the two— goes immediately to Oda, reaching up to grab his jaw,
perfectly manicured nails digging slightly into his cheeks. "I thought you quit smoking,"
Kouyou says, voice soft despite the imperiousness of her words.

Oda's smile is garbled with how she's squishing his cheeks, but it's genuine all the same. "I
did."

He leans forward, obviously trying to go for a kiss, but Kouyou pushes him back. "You're not
kissing me with that ashtray for a mouth," she denies, patting him on the cheek. "We're
leaving, get in the car."

It should be embarrassing how quickly Oda hops up to follow orders, but Dazai's attention is
eclipsed by something far more important to him:

Chuuya, beaming like the sun when he spots Dazai on the chair, padding over to him.

There's something so domestic and wonderfully familiar about how easily Chuuya
approaches him, sliding into his lap with one knee on either side of his hips. It speaks to how
comfortable he is with him, that he doesn't even hesitate before touching him.

"Hi," he says, like the few minutes they were separated from each other was a distance
worthy enough to be greeted again now that he's returned.

Dazai's smile is big, unable to contain the overflowing affection in his chest. He lifts his
hand, moving the still-lit cigarette downwind so none of the smoke gets in Chuuya's face.
"Hello."

Kouyou clears her throat awkwardly, looking like she wants to say something but isn’t quite
sure what. Hesitance isn’t something that settles naturally on her shoulders, but it’s been
something that’s been showing up more often now.

Their relationship— both Kouyou’s with Chuuya and with Dazai— has been understandably
strained ever since the… incident, as Chuuya likes to refer to it. None of them really know
where they stand with each other, and Chuuya has been working through a lot of anger and
betrayal Kouyou’s secrets have brought out in him.

He’s better now, but there are parts of him that will never be the same. There’s a defensive
anger that flares up more easily and hotly than ever before, and there are still some nights he
can’t bear to have the lights off. Certain sounds still set him off, and he’s more paranoid and
hyper aware of his surroundings than he ever was before.

They’ll work through it with time, Dazai’s sure, and he does his best to encourage Chuuya to
reach out but he has his own issues with Kouyou to work through, and it’s not like she’s ever
liked him either. Truth be told, it’s awkward for everyone.

Kouyou has been surprisingly civil for the entire trip, and even now she just blows her bangs
out her eyes with minimal frustration. “See you two tomorrow?”

It’s progress, of sorts, that she includes Dazai instead of frostily ignoring his existence. Hell,
he’s starting to feel welcomed compared to how it used to be.

Chuuya waves at her, his expression slightly stilted now that he doesn’t have company to
pretend for or distract him. “Yeah.”

Kouyou hesitates, looking like she wants to say more, but eventually lets it go. She turns with
her own wave goodbye, and heads down the drive.
“Say hi to Yosano for me,” Dazai calls after her, ashing his cigarette. He takes another drag,
carefully keeping his face turned so none of the smoke gets in Chuuya's face. He might be a
murderer, but he has manners.

It's Oda that acknowledges his words, raising a hand from where he's leaning against the
driver side of their car waiting for Kouyou to get in. She does so without hesitating,
murmuring something over the roof of the car to him that makes him smile.

Then it's just him and Chuuya, alone for the first time since they arrived hours ago. Not
completely alone, because Rimbaud is in the house somewhere, possibly listening in or
peeking out the window to make sure Dazai isn't corrupting his son or something like that.

He hadn't realized how spoiled he'd gotten with having Chuuya all to himself for most of the
time until he had to share him. Part of him just wants to curl up with Chuuya and shamelessly
beg for attention until he's all warm and fuzzy inside.

"I didn't know you smoked," Chuuya says, shifting to get more comfortable on his lap. He's
gained weight again, his recovery evident in how much healthier he looks, and Dazai
cherishes every second of it.

He shrugs. "I don't, really. It was a bad habit I kicked years ago. I haven't smoked in a while."

Chuuya looks at him, blue eyes seeming to look through him, straight to his soul, reading
between the lines. Before, it would've made Dazai uncomfortable, but now it just makes him
feel...seen. Safe. Secure and known and loved. "What made you start again?"

Dazai scrunches his nose at him. "Specifically the moment you mentioned Shuuji."

Chuuya laughs at him, the little brat, sliding closer and giving him the doe-eyed innocent
look that he knows he can't resist. "It wasn't that bad," he teases, "You survived, didn’t you?”

“Barely.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Chuuya snickers, reaching up and wrapping his fingers around
Dazai’s wrist. He barely even tugs, but even the lightest pressure from him would have Dazai
bending. “Dad might be intimidating, but he likes you.”

Guiding his hand to his mouth, Chuuya finds the butt of the cigarette and takes a drag without
ever pulling the stick out from between his fingers.

He’s overzealous though, and takes a big hit, clearly overestimating his abilities to handle the
smoke. There’s a second where his eyes squeeze shut, watering quickly. Then Dazai has to
take his hand back quickly as he launches into a series of hard coughs, hoarse.

“That’s,” he croaks between coughs, blinking away tears, “not what I remembered it was
like.”

Ah, yes. Dazai remembers hearing all about the two weeks Chuuya became a ‘rebel’ during
his last semester of highschool and spent his lunches chain smoking underneath the school
bleachers. He even, he had boasted, ditched school once to go to an arcade, just because he
could.

Cute. Harmless and almost painfully boring, but Dazai likes the rebellious side of him, even
if his whims are far tamer than anything Dazai would have considered.

“That was over a year ago,” he reminds him, unable to help his fond smile, “and these are
menthols. They hit harder, at first.”

Recovered from his coughing fit, Chuuya makes a face at him. “Alright, cool guy,” he
mutters, then makes grabby hands at his cigarette again. “Give it back, it tasted good.”

Normally, Dazai would share, but Oda stole the pack from him when he left and he’s only
had a few drags himself. The thrumming undercurrent of anxiety hasn’t subsided yet, and he
doesn’t trust Chuuya not to accidentally burn the whole thing down in his overeager pulls.
“I got a better idea,” he says, tilting his head back and bringing the cigarette to his own
mouth.

This time, instead of letting the sharp-harsh smoke settle in his lungs, he lets it pool in his
mouth. The taste of it is somewhere between minty and ashy, fresh fire that burns clean and
cold and low. It makes his tongue tingle, his head lightening with prolonged nicotine.

When he feels he has enough, he tilts his chin back down. With his free hand, he reaches up,
thumb pressing gently to Chuuya’s lower lip. It gives for him easily, mouth parting on an
easy breath, blue-hot eyes locked on the thin trail of smoke escaping from the corner of
Dazai's mouth like it's the only thing he can see.

With a slight smirk, Dazai tips his head to make the angle better and leans forward. Close
enough that their lips brush, and he can sense the vibrating energy in Chuuya, a desire to push
forward and seek out what he wants.

Instead, Dazai blows, transferring the stream of smoke in a delicate, intimate trade. He keeps
his eyes half-lidded, open just enough to watch as Chuuya's eyes drift shut. He inhales at the
same time, and it's almost a perfect exchange. He doesn't cough this time, probably because
he's bringing in air at the same time, dulling the burn of smoke.

His weight gets heavier in his lap as he leans forward, chasing after the smoke for a kiss, one
of his hands finding Dazai's shoulder and digging in like he's afraid he's going to slip away if
he doesn't hold on tight enough.

Dazai lets their lips meet in an achingly soft kiss, something that shouldn't feel so tender and
loving when it's tinged with the taste of acrid smoke. They haven't kissed since they arrived
hours earlier, and Dazai is surprised to see how much he misses the ability to just kiss
Chuuya whenever he feels like it. He's gotten spoiled, having his baby nearby at all times, for
him to kiss and hold and touch, whenever he wants.

But because they're at his father's house, and Rimbaud insisted on them staying the night,
Dazai keeps the kiss short and light. He pulls back after a long moment, keeping Chuuya
from chasing after him with the hand on his chin. His thumb smudges Chuuya’s growing
pout, but it’s almost as devastatingly successful as it usually is.

“Better?” He asks before Chuuya can ask him to kiss him again—something Dazai won’t
deny him, but he’s trying to behave himself— and brings the cigarette back to his own lips.
This time the smoke somehow manages to taste sweeter with the aftermath of their kiss.

Deciding to show off just a bit, Dazai takes a long pull and fills his mouth with smoke. He
moves his tongue to the back of his mouth and rounds his lips, puffing out a tiny bit of smoke
in a gentle ‘O’ that breaks apart after only a few minutes of floating on air.

Chuuya watches it, eyes sparkling with amazement. “I didn’t know you could do tricks.”

Dazai hums in answer, focusing on making the next ‘O’ a little bigger. He’d learned years
ago, when he was still wandering through the world after he left the mafia. He doesn’t
remember a lot of that time, but he does remember laying on a bed in a shitty hotel, hitting a
stolen vape with the highest nicotine content he could find, his head spinning and spinning
and spinning, the ceiling shrouded by a layer of broken-apart smoke rings and his blurry
eyesight. The overpowering taste of watermelon-lime, water vapor in his nose, wetness on his
cheeks and sliding over his top lip.

Chuuya doesn’t ask for another hit, seemingly content with watching him take another slow
drag. He’s warm compared to the cooking air outside, the sun-warmed skin on his cheeks
pinker than usual. Dazai reminded him to put on sunscreen for the drive, but he didn't listen.

A new freckle has bloomed high on his cheek sometime in the last few weeks. Dazai adds it
to his mental map of the natural-born constellations stretching across his skin.

When Chuuya speaks up again, it's quieter, more hushed. Gone is the playful teasing from
before, replaced by something more sentimental. "Thank you for coming. I know things like
this are hard for you and you probably didn't want to anyway and it was awkward in the
middle but— thanks for coming anyway."
Dazai slides his hand over to cup his cheek, swiping his thumb over the new freckle. "You
don't have to thank me, little love. I'm happy you brought me home."

Chuuya hums, leaning into his hand. It's too dark to see properly, but his eyes are filled with
so much emotion they practically burn.

This time, when Dazai takes the final drag off the cigarette, he lets the smoke pool in his
mouth again. It escapes his mouth in wispy tendrils, and he inhales them again through his
nose, like a dragon.

Chuuya watches him again, and this time, there's a spark in his eyes that Dazai doesn't quite
catch. He slides closer, wiggling further into his lap and draping his arms over his shoulders.
"Are you ready for bed soon?"

An abrupt change of subject, but Dazai goes along with it easily. They do have an early
morning tomorrow— Rimbaud mentioned wanting to do something with Chuuya before they
all met up together again for brunch. It was a long drive here, too, and the entire evening was
filled with excitement.

He’s glad Chuuya brought it up, because he’s certain he couldn’t mention the fact that he was
tired too without getting some comment about being an old man. He’s already had enough of
that today. Too much more and his ego might actually take a hit.

There’s no ashtray outside, probably because Rimbaud doesn’t smoke. Dazai has to settle for
stubbing out the last of the cherry on the wooden windowsill to his left. Rude, perhaps, but
once he brushes the ashes away, there’s barely a mark left behind.

The butt, he sticks in his pocket to throw away later. With both of his hands newly free, he
cups Chuuya’s face and leans him backwards to steal a kiss from him, quick and fleeting.

"Let's go inside," he murmurs, nudging Chuuya's cheek with his nose, "I need a shower
before I go to bed."
Chuuya smirks up at him. "Can I join you?"

Normally Dazai would love to have Chuuya join him in the shower but not this time. They're
in his fathers house, and Dazai is keeping his hands to himself at all costs. "No."

Chuuya's eyes go big and round—

"Don't pout at me, brat."

— then his expression is falling into a scowl, the same one he always gets whenever Dazai
manages to deny him something. It doesn’t happen nearly as often as it should but what can
he say?

He likes spoiling him.

Chuuya leads the way into the house, shooting hopeful glances over his shoulder at Dazai
like he might change his mind if he looks pitiful enough. It almost works, and Dazai has to
look away when his resolve starts to waver.

It’s not like he wants to tell him no on his birthday, but they’re literally sleeping in the same
hallway as his father. If they were at a hotel— like Dazai originally suggested for the trip—

then he would’ve been happy to let Chuuya ring in his birthday with an orgasm but they’re
not at a hotel. Sucks for both of them.

While Dazai takes a shower, Chuuya goes off into the bedroom. He even makes sure to lock
the door so the bratty little chibi can’t sneak in and take advantage of him while he’s naked
and vulnerable.

The shower isn’t as good as the one he has at home— there’s only one shower head and the
pressure is abysmal, and the hot water starts to run out quickly— so he doesn’t take long. He
skips conditioning his hair completely, deciding to let it dry unruly and curly, and uses a
clean washcloth with the body wash they brought with them.

It’s only fifteen minutes before Dazai is heading into their appointed bedroom with a towel
wrapped around his waist. He’s not in the habit of bringing his clothes into the bathroom with
him, so he forgot. It’s lucky Rimbaud went to sleep about an hour ago.

Chuuya’s childhood bedroom is… pretty much what he imagined it might be, actually. The
walls are crowded with posters from bands—a decent amount of them from hard rock bands
he doesn’t recognize— along with amateur pieces of art in vibrant colors. A string of orange
lights line the junction between the ceiling and the walls, lighting up the space pleasantly.

The room is small, so there’s really only room for a full-sized bed shoved against the
window, a small dresser decorated with a dozen little figurines and things that look like the
prizes from old-school arcades, and a computer desk with an outdated desktop on it.

It's cute. Completely the opposite of Dazai's near-minimalism aesthetic, with every square
inch of space filled with things. Even the ceiling has Judo medals taped all over it,
interspersed with those glow-in-the-dark star stickers.

It's a room full of history. Chuuya's history, his home for years, a veritable shrine to his
happiness and health and growth. Dazai's glad he got to see it, even though he's not sure how
sleeping on a full-sized bed is going to work out for him. Sleeping with his feet hanging off
the bed is only comfortable if he chooses it.

Speaking of, Chuuya is stretched out along the bed-- green covers and sheets, which is
slightly surprising because Dazai always took him for a red kind of guy-- and he's watching
him, his eyes fixed on the droplets of water sliding down his chest in a look he recognizes
very well.

Digging out briefs from his suitcase, Dazai points an accusing finger at him. "Stop that. I
know what you're doing. You're objectifying me."

Chuuya's smile widens, unrepentant. "I'm just looking. There's nothing wrong with that."
"Some people might call that sexual harassment," he points out with a sniff, pulling his
underwear up his legs and following it with the pair of gray sweats he brought to sleep in.
"Keep your eyes to yourself."

Chuuya pillows his cheeks on his hands, grinning without looking away. "But there's so much
to look at."

He rolls his eyes at that one, even though he is secretly pleased at the compliment. Ever since
he started dating Chuuya, he hasn't been spending as much time exercising. He still keeps a
routine, but it isn't as strenuous or often as it was before. Between that and the way Chuuya
insists on him eating full meals three times a day, and plying him with those candies he likes,
Dazai's gained some weight. His stomach is a little softer, his thighs squisher, his arms less
defined than they were six months ago.

Initially he was worried that he lost some appeal— but Chuuya has responded to his
newfound softness with an enthusiasm that is doing wonders for his ego. It's hard to feel
anything but appealing when Chuuya is practically drooling after him at all hours of the day.

He especially likes it when Dazai shows off that he's still just as strong as he's ever been
when he bounces him up and down on his—

No. No sex thoughts. Dazai will not be tempted. He is pure and virginal and chaste.

Normally he sleeps without a shirt, but he's not giving Chuuya the opportunity to tempt him.
He pulls one on, sticking his tongue out at Chuuya. "Yeah, yeah. It's off-limits tonight,
though," he pauses for a second, and continues under his breath in a slightly vindictive tone,
"you hussy."

That makes him laugh, turning his face into the sheets while his shoulders shake. Dazai can't
help his responding smile, walking over to the bed.
He pushes at his side, scooting him over. "Come on, make room. Bed's barely big enough for
the two of us even without your habit of taking up the entire thing."

"I do not!" Chuuya gasps at him, offended, but rolls over anyways, scooting close to the wall.
"You're the one who takes up the entire bed, you giant."

"Is that why I always wake up in the middle of the night with you clutching onto me like I’m
going to escape?”

Chuuya sniffs, refusing to answer.

And really, Dazai should’ve known it was a trap, because as soon as he gets comfortable and
stretched out on the side of the bed that will be his for the night, Chuuya is rolling over and
on top of him.

Hé perches over his hips, ass deliberately wiggling over him until he’s comfortable. With
most of the lights off— save for the yellow-orange-glow from the years-old LED’s along the
ceiling— Chuuya’s mostly a shadow hovering over him. He can't make out his features, and
he's forced to rely on the more intimate sense of touch to detect where Chuuya is moving.

However, he doesn't need to see him to pick up on the teasing tone of his words. "You know,
I kinda like it when you call me a slut."

Does he now? Dazai's imagination immediately fixates on that, conjuring up a dozen

different scenarios where he's got Chuuya bent over, spread on his back, face-down, calling
him a—

No . Dazai resolutely turns his thoughts away from that, focusing on—

The economy, or something. Milk's been pretty expensive lately, it's getting out of hand.
Someone should do something about that. Maybe the prime minister. Maybe Dazai should
write him an email. Let him know what’s going on in the grocery store, tell him how to fix it.
Unbidden, his hands find Chuuya's hips. The intention is to stop him from grinding or
wiggling against him anymore, but in reality, his thumbs just press into his hips hard enough
to bruise. "I know what you're doing."

He swears he can hear Chuuya's grin. "I'm not doing anything. I just want a goodnight kiss, is
that so bad?"

Yes. It's never just one kiss.

Still, denying him something so simple and sweet costs more strength than Dazai has.
Especially so when it's barely an hour until his birthday, and when it's been such a good day.

"Come here, then," he murmurs, the hushed quality of his voice adding to the intimacy of the
darkened room. Like this, it's only them, warm heavy heat pressing down on him, the
cherished sounds of breathing, a smile he can't see but knows is there anyways.

He tugs at his hips, but doesn't reach up or guide him down, content to let himself be kissed.
If Chuuya wants him, he knows exactly where to find him. He'll always be here waiting for
him.

With another amused huff, Chuuya leans down. His hand braces his weight by Dazai's head,
propping him up.

Because of how dark it is, his lips find Dazai's cheek first, a little ways off from the corner of
his mouth. The miss isn't awkward, the way it might've been if it were earlier in their
relationship.

Instead, it’s sweet, feeling the gentle huff of his breath as he slowly drags his lips over his
cheek toward his mouth. Unable to fight a smile coming to his own face and feeling a
responding smile form against his skin. A dozen tiny kisses smeared over his skin on his way
to the real destination, a raining of pure affection that has Dazai tipping his head to meet him
with a sigh.
Despite all of Dazai’s reservations, the kiss isn’t inherently provocative. It’s sweet, a gentle
press of lips that feels full of soft, warm feelings that have already been spoken about and are
reaffirmed with every touch. Chuuya’s breath tastes like his toothpaste, a familiar mint, and
there’s a content little hum building somewhere in his chest. He’s smiling still, probably
gloating about his victory over Dazai. He’s always been smug like that, practically breaking
out the pompoms whenever he wears Dazai down.

It’s cute, and if Dazai sometimes puts on a show of rejection just to watch the victorious little
grin he gets when he eventually gives in—

That’s for him to know and for Chuuya never to find out.

With a pleased sigh, Chuuya drops to his elbows. He braces himself on either side of his
head, wiggling his fingers through his hair. He takes a light grip, tugging slightly and running
his nails through the newly-trimmed undercut just to feel Dazai shiver underneath him.

His entire body is pressing down on him, but he is behaving. No more wiggling or grinding,
or teasing words. It’s just the feeling of his fingers in his hair as he kisses him over and over
and over again, like this is the only thing in the world that he ever needs. Like he’s only
content to breathe air that comes directly from Dazai's lungs.

Dazai lets himself relax into it, head tilting to the side to better the angle. The air between
them heats up quickly, every heady breath lingering in the meager space. Chuuya is equal and
opposite to him in rhythm, breathing in when he breathes out, his lips sliding over his gently
and without hesitation.

It's only when Chuuya shifts, tilting his head until he can take Dazai's bottom lip between his
and suck it leisurely into his mouth that Dazai realizes it's a trap . He's been lulled into a false
sense of security, tricked into letting his guard down.

Because the way Chuuya sucks on his lip is sinful, the pressure exactly the way Dazai likes
it. He even nibbles a little, setting his teeth into his flesh and pulling just enough to sting,
only to soothe the pain with a slow swipe of his tongue.
He still doesn’t move, but he doesn’t need to, because Dazai’s hands are tightening on his
hips already. His head feels foggy, pleasure and need stirring deep inside his veins. His heart
seems to beat with the same rhythm as his kiss. Slow, sluggish with molten heat, spiking
when Chuuya gives another slow, relentless suck.

Tightening his hands again, he pushes on his hips to nudge him away—

But Chuuya’s got him in his grip, hands in his hair and teeth in his lip, and he’s pressing the
advantage.

(Really, Dazai knew it was bad luck when he came home to Chuuya reading the Art of War a
few weeks ago. He’s learned strategy .)

“Chuuya,” he means to growl, but it comes out a little breathless and hushed, a whisper
falling between them.

Chuuya hums back at him, using the grip on his hair to keep him in place as he finally lets go
of his lip. It pops back into place, lightly throbbing in time with his heartbeat. It feels swollen
and sensitive, the brush of cool air enticing.

Chuuya slides slightly to the left, his mouth making a slow, wandering path over his cheek
towards his jawline. He shaved just this morning, so his skin is more sensitive than it usually
is. He can feel every centimeter of skin tingling in Chuuya's wake.

"Osamu," he murmurs back to him, sinking his teeth lightly into his jawline, and oh, that is a
treat. Chuuya rarely uses his given name, obviously preferring to call him daddy or Dazai or
a dozen other nicknames he's come up with for him.

Not that Dazai doesn't like those— god, he does—, but there's something so intimate about
hearing his name like that. Soft and heated and hushed, clearly meant for him and him alone.
Murmured into the skin of his jaw like a treasured secret just between them.
Dazai swallows hard against the lump in his throat. His mouth feels dry, all of a sudden. With
the air conditioner on, it’s cool in the room, but he feels like he’s overheating.

Chuuya takes advantage of his indecision, his mouth wandering down until he finds the spot
just beneath the hinge of Dazai’s jaw that always makes him weak. He settles there, scraping
his teeth and sucking until Dazai can practically feel his heart beating in his mouth.

There will be a mark there by tomorrow, Dazai knows. He can already feel it forming, and
the only way he’ll be able to cover something that high is if he uses foundation or wraps his
entire neck in bandages.

Everyone will know anyway. They already do because of the marks Dazai left on Chuuya’s
collarbone four days ago so—

Why is he resisting again? There was a reason, it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore in the
face of how heavy and hot Chuuya is on top of him.

“Chuuya,” he starts again, trying to get his thoughts in line.

“If you want me to stop,” he breathes into his neck, the movement of his lips hot-electric over
wet skin, "then tell me to stop."

And that's the thing— because Dazai doesn't want him to stop. They should stop, they
shouldn't do this here and now—

But it's also Chuuya's birthday in a matter of a few hours, and Dazai is weak. Watching and
feeling as Chuuya gets more confident in his desires, more assertive, watching him use how
well he knows Dazai to his advantage by teasing and taunting and seducing him—
How is he ever supposed to say no to that? He doesn't want to say no, he's just struggling
because they shouldn't.

That has its own appeal though, the inherent illicit edge in doing something wrong.
Something dangerous. It's hot, like a drug, makes adrenaline and the rare touch of fear swirl
headily in his veins. It makes his body twitch, arch, the rise of his chest sudden after a harsh
inhale.

Chuuya meets him halfway, pressing down with his full weight, pinning him down carelessly.
He knows Dazai doesn’t want to escape him, not truly.

Dazai practically watches as the last shreds of his self-restraint fizzle away. He's always been
a weak man at heart, beholden to a few stubborn vices, and this — Chuuya, confident and
assured and wanting, using his weakness for dangerous sexual games against him— has
grown to be the worst of them.

He says nothing, and digs his fingers into his hips, hard enough to bruise. Not hard enough to
dissuade him, of course, and not hard enough to stop him, but hard enough that he can feel
the bones of his hips moving underneath the skin. The ripple and roll are temptations in their
own rights.

Chuuya lets out a shuddering breath, giving that little adorable wiggle of victory that he
always does when he wins something over on Dazai. It’s a lot less adorable when it grinds his
ass against Dazai’s crotch, but based on the smug little smirk being hidden in the crook of his
neck, that’s probably on purpose.

Chuuya knows exactly what he’s doing to him, and Dazai revels in the thrill of being known
so intimately, so well, that all of his weaknesses are used effortlessly against him. It combines
with the heat of Chuuya’s hips rocking slowly against him, a heady sense of intoxication
swirling through his veins.

“Osamu,” is murmured against his neck, a siren call, “don’t you want me?”
Of course he does. Of course he does, and Chuuya doesn’t really doubt that, he’s just toying
with him. Using that whining, raspy tone that drives him mad, breathing the syllables into the
sensitive skin of his skin so he can feel the heat.

Dazai says nothing, glad that Chuuya can’t see the twitch of his lips from this angle. The
game isn’t about refusing anymore— no, Chuuya has won that battle already—, and now it’s
all about being quiet. Keeping himself quiet and restrained, even as his hips start matching
the rhythm, rocking up to meet Chuuya’s circular grind down.

It’s one of their favorite games. Chuuya has always been louder than he is, and he always
delights in cracking Dazai’s composure to get to the filthy words that lie beneath. He loves
teasing and taunting him until he gets what he wants out of him.

And Dazai loves to deny him, loves to string him out until he’s shaking and desperate.

The next kiss is more of a bite, teeth sinking roughly into the curve between his neck and
shoulder. It‘s just shy of painful, sending an electric shock skittering down his spine. Heat
curls in his stomach, flares hottest in the spaces between their bodies.

It’s hard to think with how hot it feels in the room suddenly, with how he can feel every
pound of his pulse in the skin between Chuuya’s teeth, with every breath that presses their
chests together for the briefest of moments, with every subtle rock of Chuuya’s hips.

It doesn’t even feel intentional, it just feels inevitable. Like Dazai was always meant to be
here, in Chuuya’s home and in his bed, just as much as Chuuya was always meant to be in his
home and in his bed.

On the next roll of his hips, Dazai meets him halfway, rocking up. He has to spread his legs a
little further to get the leverage for it, which forces Chuuya’s thighs wider to fit around his
hips.

This time, there’s the slightest breath of a moan smothered against his neck. He’s trying to be
quiet, which never really works out for him— Chuuya is loud, delightfully so, and Dazai
always enjoys pushing him to his limits.
With a smug grin that Chuuya can’t see from this angle, the game quickly changes— now it’s
not about resisting, it’s about making him cry for it, making him scream, forcing him to be
quiet when he wants to be anything but.

If Chuuya wants to play, then Dazai plays to win.

Even though Dazai has already silently given in, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even
move, barely tilts his head back to give Chuuya more room and rocks his hips subtly. He’s
going to make him do all the work, since he wanted it so badly he couldn’t wait.

Besides, there’s something thrilling about watching Chuuya take what he wants from him. He
gets delightfully frustrated whenever he doesn’t get a big enough response, biting down
harder and switching up the grinding rhythm of his hips, like he might shock Dazai into
reacting. Then he’ll get distracted when the pleasure starts to get to him, using Dazai for his
own needs—a hot enough idea that does it for him— before remembering that he’s supposed
to be enticing him, not just using him.

It’s cute. And hot. Dazai loves it.

Loves him, practically vibrates with the intensity of it.

One of Chuuya’s hands slides under his shirt, palming over his stomach on its way up to his
chest. Ever since the stories behind his tattoos came out, he’s had a mild fascination with
tracing the lines of them, pressing down with his fingers until blood blooms to the surface,
until faded red ink is overlaid by faint red fingertips. Until the history inked into his skin is
covered by the story of the present.

“I’m gonna ride you,” Chuuya mumbles into his collarbone, using his other hand to tug down
the collar of his shirt until the threads threaten to break. He says it like it’s a threat, pressing
down with his hips like Dazai has to be convinced.

He doesn’t.
“Go on, then,” he says, deliberately low and calm, striving for an almost-bored tone. He rolls
his hips upward slowly, a smug thrill shooting through him as Chuuya’s hands tighten over
his flexing abs. “Show me how bad you want it.”

That seems to be the breaking point, because a small choking sound escapes him. In the next
moment, nimble fingers are sliding back down his chest and hooking into the waistband of
his sweats.

Dazai— having attempted to be an upstanding guest, if he says so himself— is appropriately

wearing underwear under his sweats. When Chuuya remembers that little fact, he makes a
disgruntled sound like he’s offended, and yanks them down with his sweats.

It means he has to let go of his neck, shuffling up on his knees to get enough room between
them. The orange lighting washes over Chuuya’s face, casting his eyes into dark fathoms and
pooling in the curve of his collarbone. He’s wearing one of Dazai’s shirts, he notices now,
and it’s too-big on him in a perfect way. The collar keeps sliding off one shoulder and the
hems gather at Chuuya’s hips and hide his thighs beneath. His hair, recently trimmed with an
undercut to match Dazai’s own, falls around his chin in a riotous fall of orange. He looks
good, gilded with lust and impatience as he wrestles both Dazai’s pants off and then his own
shorts.

Their shirts stay on— because Dazai isn’t uncivilized, he won’t get completely naked in
someone else’s home and Chuuya looks too good in his shirt to even think about taking it off
— but Dazai’s shirt gets shoved up around his armpits.

Dazai’s hands fall naturally to Chuuya’s thighs as he settles back on top of him, newly naked
from the waist down. He pets over his skin, runs his fingers up and down to admire the play
of muscle beneath soft skin. His fingers disappear underneath the hem of his shirt, an illicit
thrill running up his spine.

There’s no one in the room with them and the lighting is low, but there’s an inherent rush in
touching in hidden places, where his hands can’t be seen. Doing something he’s not supposed
to, something that’s wrong.
When Chuuya leans forward, he expects a kiss. Tips his chin up for it even, letting his eyes
go half-lidded. His thumb digs into his inner thigh, right in one of the spots that he commonly
leaves sore after he’s done with Chuuya. His leg trembles in response.

Instead, smirking smugly right into Dazai’s eyes, Chuuya braces himself with one hand by
his shoulder. The other slips underneath the unoccupied pillow, fingers searching over the
sheets.

When he finds his prize, he holds it up triumphantly.

Dazai doesn’t need the light to know what he’s holding. He can tell by the shape and smell of
it alone. It’s lube, one of their recent favorite ones. “You planned this,” he accuses Chuuya,
unable to keep the fond lilt out of his voice.

Chuuya’s grin glints in the light, sweetly wicked. He’s never been good at playing innocent,
not that he tries very often. Mischievous is too good of a look on him anyways.

Dazai digs his fingers into his thighs until they’re sure to bruise. Chuuya is hot and tempting
above him, his erection sliding against his own as he wiggles in self-satisfaction.

The lube gets opened with a soft crack, the normally quiet sound sounding overly loud in the
silence of the room. Heat blooms in Dazai’s face.

“Menace,” he hisses lowly, “Am I really that easy?”

Chuuya doesn’t even bother to respond to that one, which is as clear a yes as he could
probably give.

Maybe he should start telling Chuuya no sometimes and actually following through on it.
Clearly his baby is too used to getting whatever he wants, whenever he wants. He’s spoiled.
“I know you,” Chuuya murmurs instead of answering, and in the darkness of the room, with
the scent of artificial cherry—Chuuya got tired of strawberry flavored lube and demanded
they try out new flavors— in the air, and the quiet sounds of sleeping suburbs outside, it feels
more like a confession than it does a statement.

Some emotion wells up in his chest, something too big and too warm to name—

He hisses when Chuuya’s hand, newly wet with lube he sneakily poured on his fingertips,
closes over his cock. The lube is cold and slick, and makes his skin tingle intoxicatingly.

“I know you can’t resist me,” Chuuya says, and that is absolutely true, especially when he's
dragging his hand up his shaft so slowly that he swears he can feel every line of his palm. "I
know you want me."

He does, he does , he always does, and now he's struggling between the mounting need to flip
them over to pin Chuuya against the bed to take what he wants, or continue playing this game
of pretend nonchalance, struggling between the knowledge that they need to be quiet and how
little he's starting to care—

Chuuya plants his free hand on his shoulder, firmly doing away with any ideas of sitting up or
flipping them over. If he wants it like this— Dazai flat on his back with his hands pushing up
the hems of his shirt so he can catch glimpses of the soft shadows collecting between his
thighs— then he'll get it like this.

When he deems Dazai slick enough, he shuffles upward to arrange himself into place. He
switches his grip, reaching behind him and between his legs to hold Dazai steady.

When he starts to press down, his hands fly to his hips and keeps him from sinking down.
Unless he missed it, Chuuya hasn’t even taken a single finger in prep and as much as Dazai
loves some rough not-enough-prep sex, he doesn’t actually want to hurt Chuuya.

Chuuya jerks in his grip, forcibly rocking down until the head presses in.
It’s too easy of a slide, his body easily accepting the intrusion. He barely even has to push for
Dazai to sink another inch inside of him. The head pops in, and Dazai feels like a man
remade.

“You—“ he starts, hands clenching when Chuuya drops down halfway in one sharp
movement. The words fall apart in his mouth. His ears are ringing.

Chuuya smirks down at him, radiating smugness. “Me,” he agrees, rising up in one short,
teasing bounce before falling back down all the way. His ass meets his hips with a soft noise
which sounds way too loud at this time of night.

Dazai clutches at his hips, fingers tangled in his shirt, feeling like he’s losing his mind. He
must've prepped himself while he was in the shower, and the image that realization brings to
mind— Chuuya, sneaking their lube into his luggage and taking it out, fingering himself
quickly, mouth pressed into the sheets to silence himself because he only has limited time and
he can't get caught— sends a bolt of heat through him.

Fuck, this is good, and it's even better because it shouldn't be this good.

Chuuya sets up a rhythm, slow and deep, grinding in his lap without lifting up an inch. He
milks the pleasure out of them both, circling his hips until he finds the best angle and keeping
it.

Between the low lighting and the shirt, his form is hidden and hazy, shades of orange
catching on the cotton and casting moving shadows. But Dazai knows him, and he doesn't
need to see him to know how the muscles in his stomach are flexing rhythmically, the bones
of his hips moving like waves beneath his skin. Doesn't need to be kissing him to know the
heat of his breath, doesn't need to be touching him to know how fast his heart is racing,
doesn't need to be stroking him to know how hard he is.

Dazai knows him inside and out, would know him by touch alone. Has seen him in hundreds
of situations, and this play at secretive and hidden is setting Dazai on fire.
For once, he doesn't have anything to say. It's rare that he can't speak, but now he can't even
think beyond the roar of flames in his mind, the chant of Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya and fuck
and god, it's good.

Unbidden, his hips twitch upwards, turning the next grind into a half-thrust. Chuuya's pace
stutters, thrown off-rhythm, and his head drops back on a hitched breath. The next rock is
harder in response, an echo of their usual roughness.

Dazai has to let go off one hip to reach upwards, the shirt tumbling back down. When his
fingers brush Chuuya's chin, he looks back down.

Firm, Dazai covers his mouth with his palm, because he knows he's going to get louder from
here on out. Even his gasping breath is too loud, and every shift of the bed makes Dazai
cringe internally.

"You have to be quiet," he breathes, digging his fingers into his cheekbones and his jaw, until
Chuuya can't escape his hold. His breath is hot from his nose, gusting over the back of his
hand. He can feel his tiny smile, the movement of his lips dragging across the palm of his
hand.

Chuuya clenches down on him, hips moving in maddening waves. The pleasure is coursing
through him like smoke, curling inside of him and filling him up until even the brush of
Chuuya's calf over his thigh feels electric. He reaches for it, because the name of this game
isn't endurance, it's being fast and quick and dirty, getting what they need as fast as possible.

Chuuya already has the right idea, the rock of his hips quickening. One of his hands comes
up, fingers wrapping around Dazai's arm.

He doesn't try to pull him off or move his hand. In fact, he holds his arm in place with a
surprising amount of strength, fingertips digging into his forearm like he wants to feel the
strength in his arm.

His breath is speeding up, partly because he's going faster, chasing his pleasure, but also
because his breathing is restricted now. He can't breath through his mouth with his palm over
it, and the harsh inhales through his nose pick up hot, twice-breathed air. If his head isn’t
spinning already, it will be soon.

Dazai grins, not giving him even a second of relief. Chuuya loves his breathing being
restricted anyways— he practically melts whenever he gets a firm hand around his throat.

This is a different form of restriction, one they haven't played with before. It's effective all the
same, based on the way his thighs are starting to tremble.

Using the grip he has, Dazai drags him closer. He wants to kiss him, but he'd have to let go of
him for that, so he settles for pulling him down until he can make eye contact.

Chuuya's eyes are huge, nearly completely black in the darkness. They're wet, desperate, and
they lock onto Dazai with a silent sort of begging.

Dazai doesn't do anything that he probably wants him to do, like flip them over or pin him, or
even start fucking up into him. Chuuya always wants it harder than he can get himself.

Instead, he pulls him down a little farther, until the only thing he can see is him. With his
other hand, he finds his hip again and forces him into a faster pace, ignoring the muffled
whine Chuuya gives.

"Come on," he breathes into the scant space between them, quiet enough that the wet sounds
of their bodies coming together aren't covered up. "You wanted it— so take it."

Chuuya makes a choked noise, nodding. He picks up the pace even more, adding short little
bounces when he can and rocking frantically in his lap whenever his thighs get too tired to
lift. The shirt falls completely off his shoulder, revealing the flushed and sweaty skin of his
shoulder and neck.

"Slut," Dazai says absentmindedly, voice far too fond for the inherent shaming of the word.
He watches voraciously as Chuuya works, reminding himself that he can't move, no matter
what the burning need in his stomach is telling him to do, because it's going to be too loud.

There's a certain satisfaction and pleasure in restraining himself, in fighting against his
desires and winning. It adds to the pleasure, the tight heat of Chuuya's body, the animal
enjoyment of hot and wet, of using and being used, the rebellion of pleasure found in
someone else’s body.

Chuuya’s next breath is even shakier than the one before, shuddering out over his hand. His
body jerks in reaction, rippling around Dazai’s cock like the sweetest reward. Underneath the
shirt, there’s a moving shadow, his own erection twitching as the pleasure builds up. He’s
always liked the sweet shame in being gently and lovingly degraded.

He loves being Daddy’s little slut.

After another few minutes of this, watching as Chuuya gets increasingly desperate writhing
on top of him, Dazai finally decides to take some mercy on him.

Raising his free hand to his mouth, he licks a wet stripe down his mouth. If he wanted, he
could go for the lube but that means he’d have to let go of Chuuya’s mouth, and that’s not a
good idea. He’ll get them caught, with how loud he is.

As it is, he almost gets them caught anyway, with the loud whine he makes when Dazai’s
spit-slick hand sneaks underneath his shirt and wraps around his cock.

They both freeze, hearts pounding loud enough that it’s hard to hear anything else in the
house. Dazai can’t tell if the creak he just heard was the bed moving or the house settling or
someone walking through the hallway, but he and Chuuya stare at each other, eyes wide and
faces only inches apart, as they wait to see if they’re about to be interrupted.

God, fuck, Dazai is way too old for this, but he's also never done this, and it makes him feel
recklessly young, like he's so infatuated with his first love that he can't keep his hands off
him.
When nothing happens for a long moment, Chuuya lets out a shuddering breath. That seems
to be the signal to start moving again, slow rocks of his hips.

Dazai doesn't know how long it's been— probably not that long, especially compared to how
long they usually take— but every moment feels stretched out and syrupy-thin, stretching
ever longer and a dangerous tension beginning to build as it threatens to break under its own
weight.

When Chuuya lifts himself—slowly, so agonizingly slowly that Dazai can feel every
centimeter of himself that slips free—, he rolls upwards to meet him. Fiery pleasure races
through him, as heavy as if the sun were burning in his chest.

He sets his own pace, digging his fingers into Chuuya’s face and holding him in place until
he gets the clue and hovers over top of him. It’s not as fast or as hard as either of them would
like— every time he braces his feet on the bed, it creaks alarmingly, and every time their
bodies come together it’s obscenely loud— so he has to settle for a fast, shallow rhythm,
pulling out only an inch or two just to plunge back in.

Chuuya’s panting again, and he’s nearly deadweight on top of him, strung out between his
knees on the mattress and his face in Dazai’s palm. He’s trembling all over, body clenching
down in waves, hips tilting down like if he presents himself better, he might get fucked
harder.

He’s close. He can tell by the faraway look in his eyes, like he’s so focused on his pleasure
that the rest of the world fades away. Dazai speeds up the hand on his cock, stroking him just
the way he likes—fast and hard, a little too rough.

Chuuya shudders, and muffles another sound into his hand. His lips are moving against his
skin, trying in vain to say something. His name, probably, or daddy, begging the best way he
knows how.

Dazai gives it to him, driving him up to the edge as quickly as possible and shoving him over.
There’s a moment where Chuuya arches in his arms, spine taut and eyes wet, where he thinks
he might scream.
“Shh,” he murmurs frantically, dragging him down to whisper in his ear. He can’t stop
himself, not when it feels so good as Chuuya shivers and ripples around him, and he’s so
close, he can’t stop now—

Painted fingernails dig into his forearm hard enough to hurt. He hisses, repays Chuuya for his
kindness with a harder thrust that he knows rides the electric edge between pleasure and pain.
He can feel the effects of overstimulation in his body, Chuuya fighting to get away and to get
closer at the same time.

Somehow, Chuuya manages to open his mouth wide enough to sink his teeth into the
webbing between Dazai’s thumb and forefinger. He bites down hard, scraping his free hand
down his chest as the tears in his eyes finally spill over.

It’s too much, it’s too much, Chuuya clenching around him in hot waves, the wetness of his
hand, feeling Chuuya gasp and shake above him, knowing he has to be quiet, but also not
caring anymore because he’s close, he’s so close, who cares if the bed is creaking a bit too
louder and his palm is slipping off Chuuya’s mouth and his choked-off gasps and whimpers
are starting to fill the room, but it’s okay because he’s close, and he’s dragging Chuuya down
and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to taste the way he gasps in response and his body
tenses, and Dazai feels like he can’t breathe, he’s so close, it feels so good—

His orgasm crashes into him like a wave of relief, the tension winding as tight as possible for
a split second before splitting open. Pleasure pulses down his thighs and up his spine,
dizzying in its strength. It goes on forever, prolonged by the way his hips can’t stop twitching
and Chuuya can’t seem to stop grinding down to meet him.

When he finally finds the self-control to let go of Chuuya’s lip— he can already tell it will be
swollen and bruised tomorrow, probably with the imprint of his teeth lingering on the soft
inside— that seems to be the last point of tension holding Chuuya together.

With a sigh, he collapses on top of him, going completely limp and burying his nose in
Dazai’s neck to catch his breath. He’s trembling all over, still, but the humming noise he
makes in the back of his throat makes it obvious that he’s very satisfied.

As he should be. The little gremlin got exactly as he wanted and what he planned for.
Dazai hugs him close, propping his chin up on the top of his head and letting one hand slide
under his shirt to stroke gentle rhythms up and down his spine. He’s tired; even though it isn’t
too late. It was a long drive here and with all the excitement and planning, he hasn’t been
able to get as much sleep as usual.

He settles in, squeezing Chuuya to his chest like his own personal stuffed animal, letting his
eyes close and the gentle waves of exhaustion lap at him and start to pull him under—

Which is, naturally, when Chuuya starts wiggling.

“Where are you going?” He grumbles, trying in vain to hold on as he wriggles out of his grip.

Chuuya huffs at him. “To clean up, dummy.”

Come to think of it, that is a good idea— he can already feel himself slipping out of Chuuya,
and the satisfying wet collecting between his thighs— but they have wet-wipes in here, and
surely that would be enough for now, right? He’s comfortable and sleepy and he doesn’t want
his little chibi to leave.

“Just use the wipes,” he grumbles, turning on his side and watching forlornly as Chuuya
slides off the bed and pulls on a ratty pair of shorts with a slight grimace. If they were home,
he’d just go without pants but they’re not, so.

“That works for you,” he says, shooting an exasperated look at him. “But I need to go to the
bathroom.”

“Noooo,” Dazai whines, but because he is in love with the meanest, most heartless chibi ever,
Chuuya doesn’t even give him another glance before slipping out of the room.
He gives himself about ten seconds to mope about the injustice of the situation, then sets
about cleaning himself and the sheets up. All told, they were relatively clean, so it doesn’t
take that long to get everything clean enough to sleep on.

It is, incidentally, just enough time to finish and lay back down before he hears the toilet flush
in the bathroom and then Chuuya’s footsteps— he can tell he’s trying to be quiet but he’s
always been a stompy little thing— coming down the hall, and Dazai starts to settle down—

A door opens loudly in the hall. “Chuuya? Is that you?”

Oh. Oh no.

“Oh!” Chuuya yelps in surprise, followed by a hasty chuckle that is completely suspicious.
“Hey, Dad. What are you still doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. All the…noise and excitement from today,” Rimbaud answers dryly.

Dazai presses his palms to his eyes and wishes for a quick death.

Chuuya’s voice immediately goes up an entire octave, and Dazai is unfortunately and
viscerally reminded of the fact that no one ever taught him how to play it cool. “Right! Me
too, ahaha. I brought some wine to my room but then I drank too much, and so I had to go to
the bathroom. But then I spilled some wine on my way out so I had to wash it off and that’s
why my shorts are…wet. I know it’s hard to see ‘cause they’re black, ahaha, but that’s why.”

God, Rimbaud’s just going to let Chuuya go on forever, isn’t he?

Dazai despairs. “Shut up, Chuuya,” he mumbles to the uncaring ceiling, feeling like his
chances of making it out of this family reunion alive are lessening by the second. “Please just
shut up.”
Miraculously, Chuuya does, but the godawful rambling is replaced by this horribly awkward
silence, stretching so long that even Dazai starts to squirm and he’s not even in the room
being subjected to what is probably the most disbelieving stare in existence.

“Right,” Rimbaud says eventually, so dry Dazai can practically taste dust. Then, louder, “You
should be more careful about the things you do in your bed. Goodnight, Chuuya.”

Dazai is probably going to pass away on the spot if he ever makes eye contact with Rimbaud
again.

Chuuya flees with his life, slipping back inside the room and pressing his back against the
door. His face is red and his eyes are wide. “Do you think he knows that we—?”

Oh my fucking god.

“I’m going to kill myself,” he announces without fanfare, dragging his hands down his face.
“I’m never coming home again. I can never look your father in the eye. We are never having
sex again. Ever. We’re becoming nuns.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” he responds with a roll of his eyes, picking his way across the room
and sliding back into the bed. This time, he’s wearing clean and dry underwear. “He didn’t
even say anything.”

“Oh, he definitely said something,” Dazai mutters, wrapping his arms around him again and
squeezing him too tightly, in slight petty revenge. “You are a hazard to my health.”

The way Chuuya pats his side is indulgent, quietly sympathetic. “You’ll survive,” he says
simply.

Well, who is Dazai to disobey him? He sighs, glad he has at least a few hours to prepare
himself for the morning.
He goes to sleep, warm and comfortable and half-draped over Chuuya to keep him pinned in
place.

Breakfast is, for lack of a better word, a complete nightmare. It’s filled with an awkward,
lingering sort of tension. Chuuya keeps talking about anything that comes to mind, from his
friendship with Yuan to the fact that he plans to go back to college in the fall.

Rimbaud takes it all in with a placidly unchanging expression, systematically cleaning his
place with long scrapes of his utensils. The fact that he almost never looks at Dazai feels very
deliberate, and he never responds to anything he says.

It’s awkward. It’s so terribly, horrifically awkward.

And it gets even worse when Kouyou shows up to whisk Chuuya away to spend some time
together. Dazai is invited to go with them and he is very tempted to do so but—

He promised himself he would do this before they had to leave. It’s now or never.

When he declines and says he wants to speak to Rimbaud alone, Chuuya—who has been
mildly paranoid since his kidnapping— squints at him suspiciously. He doesn’t look
convinced about Dazai wanting to spend quality time with his father.

Dazai shoos him out the front door with his hands on his shoulders and a kiss dropped on his
forehead.

When the front door shuts it sounds ominously loud and final.
Pasting a strained smile on his face, Dazai turns to Rimbaud.

The man stares at him and says nothing. He doesn’t need to; he already knows.

“I know,” Dazai starts, taking a deep breath for courage, “that you haven’t known me for long
and I probably haven’t made the best impression—“

The flat stare Rimbaud gives him makes it abundantly clear that he has, in fact, definitely not
made a good impression. Rimbaud lifts another bite of egg and rice to his mouth, chewing
slowly.

Dazai is sweating. God, why did he want to do this now? He wanted to do this correctly, he
wanted to do it right and while he was already here, but now he’s rethinking it. He could’ve
asked later, he could’ve arranged another trip here, but he’s already started so he can’t stop
now.

“I know it’s— it’s early , but I just wanted to ask your permission to—.”
 A Mother's Love
Chapter Summary

Rokuzou vs the entire Bratva, Round 1

Chapter Notes

hello my friends i have rapidly switched from working night shift to a morning shift,
which has kicked my ass unfortunately :( but it's good news, and i have more days off
now, so more time for writing! :) sorry for the late chapter, but i hope you enjoy it lol.
this is basically just explaining away why i'm never going to mention the bratva again
because coming to an actual, in-depth explanation for that would require an entire arc
and plotline, and BH is already long enough LMAO. thanks for reading!! <3

Araya Sora is tired.

This, in itself, is not a new concept. She is the last child of poor parents who could barely
support themselves reliably, let alone their three children. She is the surviving widow of her
high school sweetheart, a man who worked himself to the bone despite his ever-decreasing
health and the ever-growing pile of medical debt. She is the mother of two girls, both of
whom are incredibly smart and always dreamed of going to the best college in the country.

Sora is always tired. She's been working two, three, sometimes even four jobs when she
could find the time, in between the trials of growing into adulthood, learning to support
herself and her ailing husband, and then learning to support two young, rambunctious,
squirrelly and deviously smart girls.

In some shape or form, Sora has been exhausted her entire life.

It's been a new strain of exhaustion lately, though. She's landed a new, better job— a
secretary for the Bureau of Special Investigations. It comes with paid vacation holidays,
private health insurance that ensures she'll never have to avoid going to the hospital again,
and pays well enough that she no longer has to work two jobs just to keep her tiny apartment.

It's good. It's a good job. Her boss isn't always perfect, and sometimes he makes her work
long hours, but it's the best thing she's had in...a long time. Maybe the best thing she's ever
had, if she's being honest.

But it's different now. Now Yuan has gone off to her first year of college. She stays in the
dorms, and sometimes comes home for weekends, but their main mode of communication
now is texts and infrequent calls. Elise is most of the way through her double-major criminal
justice and forensic psychology degrees, and so barely has time to eat, let alone come home
for a visit.

Even Shirase, the poor orphan boy who has spent so much time bouncing between foster
homes that he might as well have been homeless, who only ever called Sora's house his
home, doesn't stop by much anymore.

Objectively, this is a good thing. They're busy, young adults, building their own lives. They're
doing well for themselves, and Sora is proud of them all.

It's just...

She doesn't know what to do now. For so long, her life had been defined in things she had to
do. She had to work, because otherwise she wouldn't be able to eat. She had to take care of
her babies, because her husband couldn't do it. She had to raise her children alone, because
she was the only one left to do it.

And now that's not the case. Now she has time and money and no one left to coddle. Now she
can do what she wants, but she doesn't know what she does want. She barely even has any
hobbies, and very few friends.

For the first time in her life, Sora is experiencing empty nest syndrome, and she doesn't know
what to do about it except—
Just keep going. Keep squirreling away parts of her paycheck to pay for the girl's tuition,
even though Elise already has a paid internship on top of her scholarships, and Yuan gets
money...somewhere. She says she has a job, but Sora wasn't born yesterday— Yuan has too
many expensive things and never speaks about her work, so it can't be a normal job.

Just keep making meals for four, even though she's usually the only one at the dinner table.
Sometimes she brings the leftovers to her coworkers, and sometimes she drops them off at
the homeless shelter fifteen minutes away, or gives them to the neighbors.

Keep scouring the web pages for a good job opening— just in case— and keep watering
Elise's plants so they don't die. One of her plants, the fern-looking one, has grown so much
that Elise probably would not recognize it when she sees it again.

In this strange limbo she's found herself in, there's nothing left for her to do except keep
going.

Which is why, when there's a loud, frantic pounding on her door on a nameless, ordinary
Tuesday evening, it gives her pause. She's not expecting anyone, and she hasn't had visitors
for weeks now. Her neighbor across the hall, who she has tea with sometimes, is away on a
business trip.

Living where she does, Sora knows very well that she should not open the door to someone
she's not expecting. If it's important and the person knows her, they can call her. If not, they
can leave a letter wedged in the door.

She has every plan to leave whoever it is outside, but then—

Another round of knocks, and in the sudden silence that follows:

"Auntie Sora, are you home?"

There's only one person who calls her auntie. It's Shirase, and he sounds frantic. Worried.
Desperate. Like he's in trouble.

Quickly, she sets aside the romance book she was reading and hustles over to the door. Her
heart is pounding, the same way it always does whenever one of her children might be in
trouble. Her mind is racing, comping with solutions just as quickly as she’s coming up with
worst-case scenarios.

When she opens the door, she's not sure what she's expecting to see. Tears, maybe some
panicking. Blood, if she's unlucky.

She is not expecting Shirase to be standing in the entranceway with the arm of an unknown
boy slung over his shoulder. The boy is taller than him, and much skinnier. His dark hair is
greasy and knotted, his bent head making the strands fall over his face and obscure his
features. He doesn't look overtly injured, but he also doesn't look up when the door opens.

She looks at Shirase, concerned. He smiles back at her, slightly strained but looking
unscathed. "Hey, auntie. We, uh...we need some help."

And like all good mothers, when her children come asking her for help, no matter what it is
—

She lets them in. Checks the hall on either side to see if anyone saw them come in, and locks
the door behind them. Ushers the boys to the kitchen table, while she goes to get the first aid
kit stored in the bathroom. Shirase has come to her with enough black eyes and split lips and
bloody knuckles for her to have a routine down in situations like this.

The boy moves under his own power, walking where he's directed, but he doesn't do anything
else. He sniffles intermittently, his breathing wet from what could either be tears or a bloody
nose.

Shirase sits him down and then.. stands there, looking a little awkward and a little panicked.
Never been the best at handling emergency situations and making snap decisions, that one.
Sora hustles over, setting the kit down on the table. “What happened?”

“Rokuzou started picking fights with some bad people ever since he came back from
Europe,” Shirase shrugs, “Told him he should stop before he gets himself in trouble, but he
doesn’t listen to me. I found him like this a couple of hours ago. Won’t tell me what
happened.”

“I don’t listen to you, Buichirou,” the boy—Rokuzou, assumingly— snarls, adding a sneer to
Shirase’s name that makes it clear how little he thinks about that statement. “I’m not part of
your little after-school club, so don’t try to boss me around like I am. Just fuck off and leave
me alone.”

Shirase’s face twists with anger. “I’m not trying to boss you around, I’m trying to help you
because we’re friends , you massive dickbag.”

Rokuzou’s head jerks up and he shoots such a scathing glare at the other boy that even Sora
feels singed by it. He opens his mouth to say something, probably something mean and
fueled by the obvious hurt and rage bubbling beneath his skin.

Sora steps in neatly, well-used to disrupting the arguments between two stubborn children.
Nothing that will be said right now will be helpful or conducive to the situation. “Alright,
boys. Let’s not fight right now. I’m sure we can fix whatever happened, but let’s just cool off
for a minute. Rokuzou, can I clean your face?”

There’s blood smeared underneath his nose and over his lip, and his eyes look well on his
way to blackening. There’s the faint shape of a knuckle bruised into his cheek. He must’ve
taken a few punches.

“They lied to me,” he hisses, all the rage of a hurting young boy spilling from his voice like
an open wound. “They knew what I wanted and they lied to me and they made me betray my
friend.”
Sora doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but she doesn’t need to know that to wet the edge
of a washcloth and start cleaning off the blood on his face. “They shouldn’t have done that to
you,” she murmurs, holding his chin so she can dab at the blood on his lip. “Is your friend
okay?”

Rokuzou’s shoulders slump. “Probably but he’s definitely going to kill me now.”

She tuts at him, frowning when his lower lip starts to bleed under the attention. “Oh, I’m sure
it’s not that bad. Boys like you make mistakes all the time, it’s just part of being so young!
You’ll make up again soon, and everything will be okay again, you’ll see.”

(Of course, she doesn’t know that the people he’s crossed might actually kill him, if they
wanted to.)

“Now,” Sora continues before he can keep spiraling himself into a panic attack, “Would you
like to talk about what happened? How did you get hurt?”

The smile that grows on his face is all wrong. It’s mean, blood still dripping off his teeth, and
it looks much too sharp for a boy his age. It’s a hunting smile, like the curve of a pulled bow,
threat inherent. It doesn’t match up with the way his eyes are still watering. “It’s fine. I just
needed to get some things, and I did, and now I’m going to make them pay.”

Sora has no idea what to say to that. She’s glad she only ever had sweet, if slightly
headstrong, girls to raise. Elise and Yuan might’ve been handfuls growing up— and handfuls
even now, no longer at home— but at least they never came home bloody and angry like this.
Even Shirase, during the time he used to get into trouble with that little crowd of friends that
follows his every lead, was never quite like this.

"Alright," she says slowly, because even though she's a mother and a reasonable person— she
doesn't actually know this boy. She can't tell him what to do and expect to be respected or
listened to. "Is there anything I can do? Can I call your parents for you? I'm sure they're
worried about you."
It's meant to be soothing, a reassurance. Instead, the simple statement makes his expression
crack open, heartbreaking sorrow and grief held in the reflexive twist of his mouth.

Oh. Oh no.

She hurries to keep going, trying to brush over whatever pain her unthinking offer had
brought up. "Or I can take you to the hospital? You should probably have your nose looked
at."

Rokuzou shakes his head. "No hospitals. I'm fine. I've got it handled."

Despite his firm tone and the way he stubbornly claims independence, he doesn't move to
pull out of her grip. Doesn't even shuffle away or twitch like he's just bearing with it. If
anything, he's leaning into her, subtly chasing the soft, caring touch of a parent.

Sora doesn't know anything about him, but she can't help but think he must be lonely.

She sighs at him, but puts away the washcloth so she can gently feel at his cheeks and nose.
She's not a nurse, but she doesn't think anything is broken, and he doesn't flinch badly under
her touch. "What about the police then? Whoever did this to you should be brought to
justice."

At their side, Shirase shifts in his place, leaning against the wall. Sora doesn't have to be
looking at him to see the derisive look on his face. The boy has never liked the police, not
since he was a little boy and stealing candy from the stores so he had something to eat that
day. Not since he had a pair of officers thrice his size running him down through the streets to
try to catch him.

Rokuzou snorts lightly, and then grimaces when it dislodges a blood clot in his nose. "Like
the police would do anything."
"I'll make sure they take you seriously. You know, I'm on good terms with the Bureau of
Special Investigations," Sora says, attempting a lighthearted joke to lighten the atmosphere.

It falls flat. Or, rather, it gets a response she's not quite expecting.

One of Rokuzou's hands slides into the pocket of his ratty jacket, clutching around something
small. His eyes snap up to meet hers, a sort of fevered intelligence sparking there. "You're a
Special Investigator?"

"Oh, no, nothing that fancy," Sora laughs, delicately placing a butterfly bandage on the cut on
his nose. Now that the boy is all cleaned up, he looks in much better shape than what he
arrived in. A few scrapes, quite a few bruises, but altogether nothing truly harmful. He'll
probably be fine in a week or two. This time, it looked worse than what it was. "I just file
their paperwork."

Rokuzou studies her as she packs the first aid kit back up and stows it underneath the kitchen
sink again. There's a keen judgment in his gaze, too shrewd and calculating for a boy his age.

He doesn't say anything immediately though, so Sora gets up to fuss over Shirase. It's been a
while since she's seen him, and although he makes grumbling and groaning noises, she can
tell he secretly likes being doted on. Likes when she pinches his cheek and scolds him for not
coming around sooner, likes having a bowl of food pushed into his hands because 'really,
you're much too thin, have you even been eating lately?' before being ushered over to eat on
the dining table. Likes being reminded that, even though she may not be his mother, he has a
place in this house and home.

Dinner (if it can even be called that, especially because she’s just using food as a way to
make the situation fractionally more normal) is a bit awkward, with their new guest— whom
Sora isn't sure how to approach, now that he's quiet and the immediate danger is over— but
she's made enough for three, as she always has.

Shirase and her talk quietly for a short while, of mostly mundane things. What he's been up to
— he's got a new job, working night shift at the port docks—, if he's still trying to get into
college— no, but he's considering going to a trade school—, if he's talked to Yuan or Elise
lately— yes and no, though he hasn't actually seen Yuan in a few weeks.
The whole time, Rokuzou stares into his bowl and chews on his lip, clearly thinking
something through.

Eventually, she can't take it, and turns to him. "Is there anyone I can call for you?"

She doesn't bring up his parents explicitly, remembering his earlier reaction. It's not her place
to dig into his personal life. She just wants to make sure he gets to somewhere safe, the same
thing she'd do for any child.

The single, aggrieved shrug Rokuzou gives is answer enough. It's the same response when
she asked Shirase if he had anyone to call, the first time they met. "Alright. Do you have
somewhere to go?"

The response is slower this time, with Rokuzou wavering on the answer he wants to give. He
shrugs lightly, then shakes his head. Then shrugs again, like he's not sure if the correct
answer is yes or no. Like he thinks there might be somewhere he could go, but he's not sure if
he's welcome anymore.

Shirase pipes up. He's on his second bowl of curry, devouring each bite with the hunger of a
young and growing boy. "He can stay with me."

Rokuzou throws him a look, like he wasn't expecting the offer.

Truthfully, Sora isn't sure if she should let these two out of her sight— she's never actually
known where Shirase sleeps, because he always dodges the question when she asks, but she's
sure it's not a very nice place. It feels wrong to let them stay somewhere that might not be
safe, or warm, or comfortable.

But she's not their mother and they are young adults, and the only thing she can do is offer
help. "Both of you are welcome to stay here tonight. It's not much," she gestures to the small
room, with the sectioned-off part where she sleeps, "but you are welcome to stay."
Shirase grins at her, and she can tell that he will probably agree, and sleep in Yuan's bed
tonight. It's a routine of theirs now, comforting and familiar.

Rokuzou looks between them, and takes a deep breath, the first he's taken since he arrived.
Slowly, he pulls his hand out of his pocket and brings it above the table. His fingers are
curled around something small and thin, protecting it from view. He looks at the backs of his
fingers for a while, occasionally glancing up at her. “Are you really part of the Bureau of
Special Investigations?”

Sora sneaks a look at Shirase, wondering why Rokuzou is so hung up on that detail. He’s not
looking at her, instead frowning slightly in the other boy’s direction. He looks thoughtful, and
maybe a little concerned. “No, like I said, I mostly just file their paperwork.”

“But you can get them something. If I gave you— if I gave you something, you could bring it
to them.”

Now that is more concerning. Rokuzou seems like a nice boy, even as troubled as he is. But
she doesn’t actually know him, and there could be any number of things or reasons why he
might want to get ‘something’ to the Special Investigators. Reasons that could be benign, or
even helpful—

And reasons that would not be benign, or helpful. Dangerous reasons.

She hasn’t been a single mother, independent and responsible for making a way in the world
for herself and her two daughters without learning how to be wary. “Depends. What would
you want me to give to them?”

Rokuzou uncurls his fingers, extending his arm until his palm is hovering in the space
between them. In his palm is a thin USB. It looks innocent, shining a dull black in the light
from the kitchen.
“I want you to give them this,” Rokuzou says, moving his hand closer like he’s afraid she
might not see what he’s talking about. “It has…information on it. About...the bratva. About
Russian gangs. Don't ask how I got it, or why I have it, or how I know the Russian mafia is in
Japan," he hurries to add when her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, "Just trust me. It's
information that will help. It will help everyone. The Bureau will want to see it."

Now, Sora isn't an idiot. She's neither slow nor stupid. The argument could be made that she
simply isn't around enough to know everything about her kids— which is unfortunately true
—, but she notices things.She knows things.

For instance, she knows that the little pack of young rascals that follow Shirase around like a
mob of overeager puppies aren't exactly wholesome and innocent. She knows that Shirase
refers to them as the 'Sheep', and she can guess that not all of their actions are above board
and legal. She knows that sometimes, children have to fight for their place in the world with
sneaky fingers and running feet and hungry hearts.

It's better that she doesn't know the details, which is why she never presses. She does what
she can— offers food and socks in winter, and whatever spare change she can scrounge up—,
but she can't save them all. Only people far more powerful and influential than her can save
them, and so far they are uninterested in doing that.

She also knows, from observations of her boss and the ever-increasing workload of
paperwork, that there is something of a silent war being waged on the streets. There's a new,
mysterious drug flooding the city, there's more tension than ever before between the Bureau
and it's smaller cousin, the Armed Detective Agency, and there's been more arrests of Port
Mafia members over the last few months than there has been in the past year.

Sora isn't given the specifics, but she would have to be a fool not to see how the streets at
night are emptier than they usually are, and the homeless man who has always lived in a
small park a few blocks away for as long as Sora has been living in this building has
disappeared without a word.

So— she might not know what is going on in the quieter, underground parts of the city, but
she knows something is happening. Shirase is thinner than he should be, and don't think she
hasn't noticed the near-permanent scrapes on his knuckles.
Somewhere out there, there's a fight going on. And if Rokuzou is right— if he can be trusted
— then maybe that USB in his hand can help...someone.

In the end, that's what drives her to reach out and take it. Maybe it won't mean anything,
maybe it won't help at all.

But if it will, if it'll mean that her kids are that much safer on the streets than before, then she
owes it to them to try. She can't do much, but maybe she can do this.

She wants to ask how Rokuzou got involved in this, why a boy as young as him got his hands
on information like this, why he's doing it. Why he's part of this at all, when he should be at
home, safe and sound.

But he already told her not to ask, and she doesn’t know him well enough to push his
boundaries on that. It’ll only make him clam up further. Maybe it’ll push him to lie.

So instead she asks: “Are you sure you want me to do this for you?”

All told, it’s a low-risk venture. She can always plug the USB into her own computer to see if
it’s malicious before giving it to Ango. If it is, he never has to see jt. And if it isn’t— if
Rokuzou is telling the truth—, then he’ll want to see it anyway.

“Yes,” the boy says, firm and unwavering. He lifts his chin, the very picture of defiance with
his bruised eyes and his bloody lip. “They took something from me. So I’m going to take
everything from them.”
 Therapy Isn't Enough
Chapter Summary

Shuuji: therapy isn't enough i need to kiss my fathers rival and my father to apologize
for my childhood

Chapter Notes

heLLOOOOOO EVERYONE i hope u enjoy this lil ranposhuuji interlude <33 i noticed
we hit 150k views recently and wow!!!! i never thought i'd ever get that kind of support,
and it's so amazing to see <33 thank you guys so much, i appreicate every single one of
u <3

Ranpo lasts about…three weeks. Really, he’s impressed that he managed to last that long
without losing his mind or doing something dramatic when he’s a little too bored. Patience
and empathetic understanding has never really been his strong suit.

The thing is, Shuuji is… sticky. He’s latched onto Ranpo with a puppylike devotion, with the
simple logic of ‘I like him and he likes me, which means I’m staying forever’. It’s cute, in a
way. Sweet, too, and there’s few things Ranpo respects more than a man who is not easily
swayed. He likes a man who chooses a path and sticks with it, no matter what happens. He
likes a man who knows what he likes and chases after it shamelessly.

And in that department, at least, Shuuji is exemplary. He took one look at Ranpo and just…
never gave up. Not even when Ranpo is deliberately mean to him. Not even when Ranpo
goes on a candy-eating binge that makes him surly with a tummy ache and hyperactive in
turns, or when a new video game he’s interested in comes out and he spends nearly twenty-
four hours straight sitting in front of his TV and refusing to do anything else until he’s gotten
a 100% completion score on it, at which point it will be unlikely he’ll ever play that game
again.

And so Ranpo just decided, with as little thinking or second-guessing as possible:

If Shuuji is just gonna stick around, then Ranpo might as well have fun with him, right?
Which is why he finessed a brand new, expensive apartment out of Dazai. He was tired of
having to explain to Shuuji that no, that trinket wasn’t trash, stop trying to throw all my stuff
away, and yes , you still have to sleep on the floor with the blankets, I am not sharing my bed,
and get your shit out of the middle of the floor, Shuuji, there’s no room to walk.

Which is also why, about a week into Shuuji’s break— when he showed no signs of leaving,
and still hadn’t made up with his parents—, Ranpo decided to take him to work. Just for fun.
Just to see what would happen.

The only thing he told Shuuji was: “Don’t tell Kunikida who your dad is.”

Kunikida will flip if he knew that the slightly stupid, slightly rude and completely unexpected
person Ranpo brought in was the son of the criminal he’s been hunting for the last few years.

That's actually why Ranpo told Shuuji not to tell him. Either Shuuji listens to him and doesn't
tell, in which case he gets the pleasure of being obeyed without reason or hesitation. Or
Shuuji will tell him, in which case Ranpo gets the entertainment of live-watching Kunikida
have a mental breakdown in the office.

It's a win-win situation. Ranpo is the smartest person he knows. Nothing about this could go
wrong.

Chewing absently on the stick of what used to be a grape lollipop, he stares at his phone. Him
and Shuuji are playing Sea Battle again, one of their favorite ways to pass the time in the
office when it’s a slow day. Ranpo almost always wins, but Shuuji never gives up. That
determination is part of why it’s so fun to keep beating him.

Today, he's playing a long game of it. Placing his bombs in what seems like a random pattern,
always coming closer to sinking Shuuji's ships but not quite. Not yet. He's enjoying watching
Shuuji become increasingly twitchy on the other side of the office, the confused frown he
gives his phone whenever he manages to sink one of Ranpo’s ships without paying for it
dearly with his own ships, the sharp click of the stapler in his hands becoming louder with
every turn.
Because Shuuji isn't actually part of the Agency, he's technically not allowed to have access
to any sort of information or investigation in the building. Because of who Ranpo is, and how
important he is, his guest is granted a bit of leeway, but since Kunikida is, unfortunately, the
most dedicated stick-in-the-mud Ranpo has ever met, it's only a small allowance. For the
most part, the only thing Shuuji has been doing ever since Ranpo dragged him in is
paperwork.

Stapling papers together. Filing them numerically by case file. Occasionally running down to
get coffee for Kunikida, candy for Ranpo, or more cat treats for Fukuzawa, that sort of thing.
In essence, he's a glorified and completely unpaid secretary.

It's great. Ranpo hasn't had to file a single word of paperwork for the last couple of weeks. He
might never staple anything in his life ever again, not while he has Shuuji to do it for him.
Life has never been better.

An incoming text from Odasaku interrupts the game of psychological warfare via iPhone
games Ranpo is currently indulging in. He frowns at his screen, quickly switching message
threads to see what he sent.

Oda has been...busy, lately. The Bratva greatly overstepped when they took Chuuya a couple
of months ago; the foreign gang had flourished when the Port Mafia, the ADA and Dazai
were all at odds with each other, able to sink their fingers into places that belonged to other
people. They thrived on chaos, hungry mouths devouring whatever territory that wasn’t being
watched carefully.

Now that there's an understanding between them, and the three are more or less willing to
work with each other, the Bratva was quickly finding itself facing a united front it wasn't
prepared to handle.

Kouyou would burn the entire organization for justice for her brother; Dazai was way ahead
of her in terms of revenge. Oda would do whatever his wife wanted, and Ranpo was willing
to help out occasionally in exchange for favors or whenever someone managed to piss him
off.
When Fyodor had left the city— and Ranpo knew he left, because while he isn't as smart as
Ranpo, he certainly was intelligent enough to be a challenge, and smart enough to recognize a
losing battle— , he'd left his subordinate in charge of a sinking ship. Ranpo almost felt sorry
for them, watching them struggle to keep a hold on the power they'd stolen.

The only downside of this whole thing is that Oda has been busier than ever, which means
that he hasn't had time to hang out with Ranpo since before Redhead Jr. got himself
kidnapped and tortured. Not even enough time for dinner, which is a real shame because
Ranpo loves Oda's curry. It’s probably his favorite meal ever, and has been ever since he first
tried it in his teens.

Really, as much fun as this city-wide pissing contest is, he can't wait for it to be over. So he
can get back to his regularly scheduled activities of being the scariest person in the city.

[ ODA ]: have you talked to the special investigators??

Just the thought of those puffed-up government agents makes Ranpo's nose wrinkle in
disgust. They're all just a bunch of mediocre men with inflated senses of importance and
value. One of them, Ango, had spent months trying to wheedle Ranpo into joining his team,
making all sorts of promises to him.

Like Ranpo would ever give up his loyalty to Fukuzawa for things as petty as increased pay
and vacation time. It was insulting. He’s more than happy where he’s at, with all the candy
and vacation time he could ever ask for.

Eventually, Ango had given up, but the result was that Ranpo hated the Bureau on principle
alone. The others at the Agency, loyal friends that they are, had followed Ranpo's lead.

[ RANPO ]: ?? i still have my dignity ?? why tf would i talk to them they're UGLY

[ RANPO ]: also why do u think i talked to them what happened

On the other side of the room, Kunikida snatches up whatever paperwork Shuuji is working
on and starts lecturing him on staple placement or his handwriting during transcribing, or
something else like that. Shuuji leans his chin on his palm, staring up at him with an innocent
smile, the one he knows pisses Kunikida off and sends him off on even more lectures.

He's such an instigator. Ranpo likes that about him, the brat.

[ ODA ]: they got their hands on something. they know things they shouldn't. it's annoying

[ RANPO ]: arent they always annoying

[ ODA ]: yes but now theyre annoying and in my way. do u know anything

[ RANPO ]: sure don't! :D

It's not even a lie. Ranpo doesn't know what Oda is talking about, though he's sure he could
figure it out if he had a reason to. But he doesn't, beyond the arbitrary fact that he doesn't like
things that piss Oda off.

Sometimes that's enough to send Ranpo hunting, sometimes it's not. This time, he doesn't
think it is— he has his hands full watching Shuuji anyways. Besides, Oda wouldn't be texting
him if it was a real problem. He'd be asking to meet up, if he truly needed Ranpo’s help.

[ ODA ]: ugh fine. i hate dealing with those nasty whores. did u know one of them tried to
arrest k once

Yes, Ranpo does, in fact, know that, mostly because Oda is pouty about it. It was years ago
and nothing ever came of it, but whenever the Bureau comes up in conversation, Oda is
turning his nose up and huffing in offense that they ever dared to look at his wife.
It's adorable, really. Kouyou doesn't even care about it, and she's had much worse people
come after her, but Oda refuses to ever let this go.

[ RANPO ]: yeah lol shoulda killed him when u had the chance

[ ODA ]: too much paperwork. k would have my head

That's true. Kouyou's approach to her leadership is a lot more kind and cooperative than the
past leaders. It wouldn't do good to underestimate or cross her, but compared to Mori, Yosano
and Dazai? She could almost be described as friendly. She values peace over petty displays of
power or revenge. She values success over pride, which makes for a very good leader, despite
everything else.

[ ODA ]: anyway if the bureau is gonna be out on the streets tryna catch people, we gotta lay
low. u wanna come to dinner next week sometime? akari misses u

He can't help the fond smile that grows on his face at the mention of the little girl. Oda might
run something that could probably be considered an orphanage with the emotional
magnanimity that means he doesn't pick favorites— but Ranpo does not. He could charitably
be considered an uncle or a family friend, and Akari is absolutely his favorite.

A young girl of eleven with a whip-smart mind and an even sharper attitude, she'd taken to
Ranpo immediately. Stole all the candy from his pockets the first time they met, and ate them
all. Whined and wheedled for help with her math homework, only to reveal months later that
she knew how to solve the problems the entire time and she only wanted someone to do the
work for her.

She's sneaky and a trouble maker and a menace and Ranpo loves her so much.

[ ODA ]: u can bring ur boy toy too if u want

[ ODA ]: ;)
That bastard. Oda knows exactly what he's doing, and Ranpo feels a curl of amusement
bubble up inside him, even though no one is supposed to know about his relationship with
Shuuji.

It's not that he's ashamed of him or doesn't want people to know— it's just that he doesn't
know what he's doing with Shuuji. Everything has happened too quickly for Ranpo to keep
up with, even if he's the one pushing the envelope half the time. They're not quite friends—
too much sexual tension for that— but they also haven't so much as kissed, let alone had a
conversation about what they want to be to each other.

That's why he hasn't said anything about him to anyone else. Hard to explain who someone is
when you don't know that information yourself.

He's not terribly surprised that Oda somehow knows that information anyways, though. The
man is still friends with Dazai, and Kouyou has eyes and ears in every part of this city. Oda
has probably had this information for days and has been waiting for the best time to reveal
that he has it. He cane be a bastard like that sometimes.

Still, even if he and Shuuji have a talk about them— he makes a mental note to bring it up,
because if he won't then it will probably never be addressed— it's a bit too early to bring him
home. Ranpo hasn't brought anyone to meet Oda before, and he wants to be sure before he
does that. He wants to make sure Shuuji is going to stick around before he starts to reveal all
the pieces of his past.

Besides, Shuuji being who he is— Dazai's kid, who tried to injure Chuuya to a varying
degree of success— means that Ranpo can't just bring him home without warning or
discussion. They'll all have to have a discussion— ugh— about it first.

[ RANPO ]: maybe later. make sure u make curry next week otherwise im not coming

[ ODA ]: sure thing

Before Ranpo can continue the conversation, Shuuji is showing up at his desk. He rocks
quietly on his heels, patiently waiting for Ranpo to notice him and give him attention. When
the detective looks up, arching an eyebrow in question, the smile on Shuuji's face grows
brighter, pleased.

The Shuuji standing in front of him now is a far cry from the Shuuji he met weeks ago. The
Shuuji then had been all sharp edges and sharper tongue, so deep in his self-dug hole that he
was trying to drag someone— anyone— down with him. He'd been taught that the only
attention he could reliably get was negative attention, and like any neglected child, he was
willing to be mean if it meant that someone— anyone — would finally give him attention.
He didn't act the way he did out of true desire to be cruel, but a driving need to be noticed.

The Shuuji of today is a bit more settled. He's not fixed by any means, and he still has a long
way to go in regards with accountability and apologizing for his actions, but he's at least
recognized that he doesn't need to be a nasty gremlin for attention. Now that he's been
removed from the situation that encourages that behavior, he's more secure in his knowledge
that he can just ask for attention.

If nothing else, Ranpo won't ignore him. Not if he asks.

"Kunikida kicked me out of the office," Shuuji says, grinning like he's won a prize. His hair
is longer than it was a few weeks ago and it falls in his eyes charmingly, a mischievous young
man. "You wanna get out here?"

Ranpo pretends to think about it. He hasn't really been doing anything all day, since the
Bureau's increased presence on the streets means that the Agency has less cases than it
usually does. Really, if it weren't for the infighting between the Mafia and the Bratva, this
would be a very boring month. "Sure. Where do you wanna go?"

There's an arcade a few blocks away that they haven't been to yet. Shuuji has been wanting to
go for the past week because he swears he's the Dance Dance Revolution champion and he
wants to beat Ranpo at something. He's expecting that Shuuji will want to go there, with their
unexpected hours off—

"Let's go home?" Shuuji says instead, something in his eyes and posture softening. He’s
leaning forward slightly, shoulders curving like he’s being drawn into Ranpo’s orbit. Like his
world is only as wide as the space between them.

Ranpo sighs, unable to help the way the corner of his mouth softens and tips upward in a
small smile. “Yeah.”

That reminds him though—

“We have to stop by the new place first, though. I have to sign some papers so I can get the
keys.”

All told, the fact that Dazai was able to buy a condo in Ranpo’s name in only a few weeks is
impressive. By normal standards, at least. He’s sure Kouyou could have done it in less time,
if she wanted to. Maybe he should swindle her into buying property for him some day as
well, just as an experiment to see who can do it faster.

Shuuji perks up. He’s been adorably interested in the new apartment, spending an almost
ridiculous amount of time looking at the pictures of it online. He’s also sent Ranpo dozens of
pictures of interior designs, only a few of which are actually possible to incorporate into the
new apartment, or even the old one.

Still, his enthusiasm is infectious. Even if they won't be officially living together— Shuuji
has been assigned to a dorm at the college at the beginning of the semester, now that it's
obvious that he won't be going back to either of his parents houses— it's still nice to see
someone who is uncomplicatedly happy about a new living space.

Ranpo has been struggling with the idea of letting go of his first home himself. The
apartment he has now might be tiny, but it was the first thing that was ever his. The first
home that was only ever his , and it's a strange feeling to be contemplating saying goodbye to
it forever.

"Okay," Shuuji chirps, watching as Ranpo pushes everything on his desk into his unique
brand of organized chaos, "I've wanted to see it anyway. I know for a fact that the pictures
they used don't match up to the real thing."
Somehow, the thought of moving on and moving forward is less intimidating when he has
Shuuji at his side.

The train ride to the condo is about the same amount of time it takes to get to his current
apartment, just in the opposite direction. It's closer to the business district of the city, the
heart of skyscraping glass towers. It's a more luxurious part of the city, which means that
there's a lot more people, and almost all of them are dressed better than Ranpo or Shuuji are.
Even the sidestreet restaurants are much more sophisticated than the food stalls back in his
neighborhood.

Curious, he watches Shuuji out of the corner of his eye as they walk. There's always been this
sense of entitlement that hangs around the other man, something about the set of his
shoulders and the angle of his chin that radiates an expectance of being noticed and catered
to. It's the rich boy in him, the result of a childhood where he was able to have nearly
anything he could ever want given to him at a moments notice, of being told that he’s better
than a whole host of people just based on what family he was born into, of never having to
face true, physical struggling.

He fits in here, in the neighborhood of the rich and privileged, even when he’s wearing one of
Ranpo’s too-big shirts and a pair of scuffed-up boots that he bought from a thrift store. It’s an
interesting combination, the attitude and the clothes.

It suits him well though.

Once they get to the condo tower, the signing of the papers and the exchange of keys only
takes about half an hour. Could’ve gone quicker than that, but Ranpo knows better than to
sign any contracts he hasn’t at least looked over.

Then they’re allowed up into the condo itself. It requires a passcode, and Ranpo doesn’t
correct the real estate lady when she hands both of them a copy of the code. Shuuji
immediately stuffs it in his pocket, like Ranpo might take it away from him if he doesn’t hide
it quickly enough.
The apartment is on the thirtieth floor, a height that would be unbearable if it weren’t for the
trio of easily accessible elevators. They have glass floors and sides, letting them watch as the
ground drops away beneath them. Ranpo is vaguely glad that he’s not scared of heights as he
watches the ground drop out from underneath them.

It’s not an overly crowded building, so when they exit onto the correct floor, there’s no one in
the hallway. It feels strange to walk down a long, carpeted hallway without any of his
neighbors popping out to go to work and saying hello as they pass. He doesn’t know anybody
here, and while Ranpo would never say that he’s a particularly social man, he’s always stayed
in one spot, and that means he will eventually get to know everyone that stays.

The door unlocks with a quiet clock, and it doesn’t even make that loud squeaking noise that
Ranpo’s apartment makes every time the door opens. It’s almost eerily quiet.

Shuuji bounds in first, looking around with a childish enthusiasm, like he’s being presented
with a museum of exciting artifacts instead of an empty apartment.

It’s a spacious condo, with a sectioned off kitchen and living areas. There’s two bedrooms,
Ranpo knows, one with a walk-in closet. There’s a bathroom and a hallway closet, but the
best part is none of those things.

The best part is the view .

A wall of windows overlooks the city below, at just the right height to feel a part of the fog
that rolls off the ocean in the early mornings. The building isn’t positioned correctly to offer a
view of the sunrise, but it does give a wide view of the sprawling city. There’s a balcony, too,
big enough to fit a couple of chairs and a table. The railing is glass as well, making sure that
the view stays unobstructed.

It’s there that Shuuji heads to first. Slipping out of the door, he goes to stand by the railing.
With only his hands on the railing and a thick sheet of glass keeping him from falling through
the sky, he leans over fearlessly.
The wind blows the hair off his forehead, exposing the small scar etched above his left
eyebrow. There’s a faint pink tinge to his cheeks, a result of soaking up the sun by sprawling
underneath the window at the Agency. His teeth, shown off in a breathless and
unselfconscious grin, are almost startlingly white and straight.

Ranpo is a man who has learned to curb many of his wants. He has had and lost many things,
wanted and never got many others. He has learned, through circumstance and tribulation, that
life is a lot easier when he just stops wanting things. Wanting doesn’t feed him, wanting
doesn’t put a roof over his head, wanting doesn’t bring his parents back.

It’s easier to keep himself limited to the small things. Candy. A trinket here or there. Small
things, things he doesn’t actually need, so it doesn’t destroy him when he doesn’t get it.
Things that mean nothing to him, in the grand scheme of things. It is so much easier to just
stop wanting things. His therapist says it’s unhealthy— but his therapist has never been
homeless and hungry, crying out for his parents to make the ache in his stomach go away, so.

It’s a work in progress.

Here, Ranpo finds himself almost struck by it, the realization that his life is not something he
truly chose for himself. At no point had he ever wanted — truly wanted— his life to end up
like this. And yet here he is, with Shuuji, who was only ever given the luxury of choosing his
life.

He could’ve done anything. He could’ve gone anywhere, been anything. He could’ve had
anything, and yet here is, in Ranpo’s new apartment, grinning into free fall, looking for all the
world like he’s never wanted to be anywhere else.

Ranpo wants him. Wants him fiercely, not in the way he’s wanted his past one night stands
and brief flings. Wants to crack him open, wants to see him broken and whole, wants to sink
his hands into the tender heart of him and scoop out every bit of it.

As if sensing the sudden shift, Shuuji tilts his head to look at him. It’s not sunset, not quite
golden hour, but the way the sunlight hits his eyes make them look like molten honey, amber
mixed with swirls of rich brown. A scaled-down picture of the world, as sugar-sweet and
sappy as it comes.
Something in Shuuji softens when he realizes Ranpo is already looking. His posture, maybe,
or perhaps his smile. Either way, it’s as if the image he projects to the world— all bitter-
tinged privilege and mischievous playfulness— falls away, and leaves only the boy behind,
young and growing and sticky-sweet.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, sweeping his fingertips over the top of the balcony railing. Ranpo
knows he’s seen better views before, but there is still something captivating about changing
your perspective on things you have seen a hundred times before. Something awe-inspiring
about elevating yourself and seeing how small everything truly is, and witnessing how far
you can see. Something about seeing your home differently than every other time you’ve
seen it before.

Ranpo takes a step closer, a tether-tug in his chest urging him forward. Closer. "Yeah, it is."

He's not talking about the city.

Shuuji completes his turn, moving to lean backwards against the railing. He's tall enough that
he could tip over, if he leaned too far or if the railing moved behind him. The prospect of that
doesn't seem to even occur to him, because he leans his entire weight against the glass
without hesitation.

Ranpo could push him over the edge easily.

He won't. Wouldn't ask him to commit to a fall Ranpo would not join him on.

Resting his elbows on the railing, Shuuji continues softly, a wealth of hidden meaning
dripping from his tone, "I like it a lot."

Now Ranpo isn't sure if Shuuji is still talking about the view, but—
Does it matter?

Another step closer, feeling a surge of satisfaction when Shuuji's eyes watch his every
moment.

Normally, Shuuji is a bit taller than him. Probably close to a dozen centimeters when Shuuji
is standing straight, but it's hard to remember the exact distance between them when Shuuji
seems to effortlessly bend around Ranpo's presence, folding towards him like he’s trying to
get on his level.

"I do too," is Ranpo's answer. He's still not talking about the view, and Shuuji must know by
now, based on the way he's watching him step closer, on the way his fingers keep twitching
and his weight keeps shifting like he's fighting the urge to fidget nervously.

When Ranpo steps close enough to touch, he has to look up to keep eye contact. It's not an
entirely unpleasant situation, but right now—

It just won't do.

Shuuji sucks in a breath when he reaches out to touch him, fingertips dragging over his chest
through the shirt. He's warm under his hands, wired tension practically vibrating through him
— and yet when Ranpo pushes out of curiosity, Shuuji is shifting easily under the pressure.

The air between them is charged and crackling with electricity, thick enough that it feels like
breathing in lightning every time Ranpo inhales. It builds on itself, a towering storm cloud
that will consume them both.

In the back of Ranpo's mind, he knows they should talk about this. It's the correct thing to do,
it's the thing his therapist is always pushing him to work on, it's the only way to solve this
uncertain fumbling between them.

But at his heart, Ranpo is a man of action and not of discussion.

So he drags his hand up, up, up, until he's brushing the faint outline of collarbones
underneath his holey shirt. Further up, feeling a surge of satisfaction when he feels Shuuji's
pounding pulse underneath his fingertips, when he watches him tip his chin upwards as he
leans his weight forward, offering up his throat so effortlessly and easily that Ranpo can’t not
wrap his fingers around it.

He doesn’t squeeze. He keeps his grip light, palm cupping his Adam’s Apple and fingers
pressed lightly over his pulse points so he can feel how fast his heart is racing.

There’s a long, drawn-out moment where they just look at eachother, silently acknowledging
the thrumming energy between them, a feedback loop that builds on itself with every touch
and every moment of eye contact.

Then, slowly enough that either of them could stop it if they wished, Ranpo tightens his grip,
and pulls.

Shuuji moves easily, letting himself be tugged down to his level without anything more than
a shuddered exhale. Almost out of sight, his hands shift to grab the railing, fingers flexing
rhythmically. His eyes grow wider every centimeter they get closer, looking so shocked it's
almost funny.

He doesn't say anything though. Just lets himself be tugged into position and waits to see
what Ranpo will do with him.

Ranpo doesn't say anything either. At least, not at first. Not until Shuuji is only a few
centimeters away, his breath washing over Ranpo's face in warm, nervous gusts.

Then he pauses, bracing his grip on Shuuji's neck just enough to hold him in place when he
tries to keep leaning forward. This close, his eyes are huge, the only thing Ranpo can see.
The only thing he wants to see at this moment.
He lets the corner of his mouth curve into a cocky smirk, watching with satisfaction as brown
eyes flicker down to watch the movement raptly. Pressing his thumb down just hard enough
to feel how his pulse struggles to pump past his grip, Ranpo leans another centimeter closer,
enough that his breath coasts over Shuuji’s lips when he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

Shuuji jerks like he offered something shocking, his eyes widening even further. For a
second, he doesn’t seem able to answer, too shocked to reply— and then he’s nodding
quickly, leaning forward harder, one hand instinctively finding Ranpo’s shirt and clutching
onto it like he’s afraid he might move away if he doesn’t answer quickly enough.

Well, if he’s that eager—

Closing the scant distance between them, Ranpo claims their first kiss.

It’s an easy thing. Natural. Not colored by the usual awkwardness of a first kiss, the slight
struggle as they both get used to the other. Shuuji’s lips are full and plush against his own,
slightly rough from his tendency to bite them. His breath tastes like the cotton-candy lollipop
he stole from Ranpo’s pocket, and he smells a bit like the agency office, like paper and stale
coffee. However, he is warm from the sun, a gentle radiating heat that feels luxurious and
indulgent. A simple pleasure that even beasts can appreciate, like cats sprawled out in
sunbeams.

Shuuji feels like summer. Almost too hot to be borne, a radiance that can burn under the right
circumstances, long days and short nights, a childlike freedom of not having responsibilities,
of play and sugar-sweet drinks, hiding in the shade and slathering sunscreen on to protect
yourself from the inhospitable sun. Everyone likes the idea of summer, and yet when it
comes, no one likes the burns that come with. They want a summer that's quieter, milder,
easier to handle.

Ranpo's favorite season has always been winter, but with his hands full of sun-warmed skin,
and his nose full with the smell of city-wind and familiar laundry detergent, hot breath
washing over his face and a wet mouth opening eagerly underneath the testing swipe of his
tongue— he thinks summer makes a very argument.

Unconsciously, Ranpo presses closer. Shuuji ends up squeezed between him and the railing,
with nothing to catch him if he ends up tipping over. He's tangled up in Ranpo, one of his
hands finding his shoulder and the other tangling in the hairs at the nape of his neck, bent
over to minimize the height difference.

It's a good first kiss. A hint of recklessness and daring, a stream of desire and desperation
turning into a burning need to know more, tiny fumbles when Ranpo pulls on him too hard or
Shuuji tries to sink his teeth into his bottom lip and ends up missing entirely. It's not fast
enough or hard enough, and it's unequal, Ranpo pulling too hard and Shuuji pushing forward
too quickly.

It's not perfect, but it's good. It's the thrill of doing something for the first time and the
discovery that you could be good at this, given a little time. It's expecting to make something
horrible and bland— only to take a step back when it's done and realize you did pretty damn
well. It's watching a skill become more and more refined the longer you work on it, and it's
wanting to keep going, pushing yourself to get better and better.

It's wanting to do this for a very, very long time— for the rest of your life, maybe.

Ranpo would not mind doing this for a very, very long time. Slowly getting familiar with
Shuuji's tells and his preferences, realizing what every hitch of his breath means, getting to
know when he wants more and when they should slow down, getting to know everything
about him.

For Ranpo, who has only ever been known by a few people, the idea of that is intoxicating.
To know and be known, down to the air in his lungs and the thoughts that flicker through his
head. To expose the soft, true vulnerability of his underbelly and know that he'll be safe.

For perhaps the first time, Ranpo would like to share himself with someone.

By unspoken agreement, the kiss remains steady. It doesn't rush into heated desperation or
slow into something sweet and familiar. It stays explorative, each of them trying out new
things just to see the reactions it pulls.

When Shuuji swipes the tip of his tongue over Ranpo's top lip, it makes him smile. When
Ranpo dodges his bite so he can sink his own teeth into his lip, Shuuji gives a humming gasp.
When Ranpo sucks his tongue into his mouth, he's delightfully eager, flicking his tongue over
his palate and exploring his back teeth. When Shuuji tips his head to better the angle, Ranpo
shivers as the hand in his hair tightens and pulls just slightly.

In the end, he doesn't know how long they stand there kissing. It's long enough that Ranpo's
lips turn numb, then tingling, and then back into oversensitivity. Long enough that it becomes
natural for Shuuji's breath to be washing over his face and into his lungs. Shuuji's hands on
him go from gripping tightly, like he might escape if he loosens his grip, to a lazy,
unconscious flexing, like a kneading cat.

The entire time, Ranpo's mind is blissfully, wonderfully and completely empty. He's not
worried about how to push this pleasantry forward, he's not preoccupied with a difficult case,
he's not searching for something to keep his overactive mind active. For these long, blissful
moments, it's just Ranpo and Shuuji, and the bubbling emotions between them. It's not
complicated, it's not confusing.

It's just them. Simple and easy to understand.

Unsurprisingly, Ranpo is the one to break the kiss. He ends it slowly, dipping back for a few
light pecks simply because he feels like it. Because he can feel Shuuji's smile growing slowly
and surely, and he wants to have a taste of his happiness.

Eventually they slow to a stop, standing close enough that their foreheads are nearly
touching. Shuuji's back must be aching from bending over for so long, but he doesn't utter a
single complaint. He's leaning in just as much as Ranpo is, breathing in the hot and humid air.

When he speaks, he can feel the vibration of his voice through the hand on his neck. "That
was nice."

Amusement curls through Ranpo, makes his fingers squeeze affectionately before he
remembers to let go. "Yeah."

He takes a step back, refusing to let himself feel a pang of disappointment when Shuuji's
hands slide off him.
Shuuji straightens with a groan, rolling his neck and arching his back until the ache goes
away. When he's done, he leans back against the railing again, somehow managing a
charmingly attractive sprawl. His smile, when he flashes it at Ranpo, somehow looks better
now that he knows what it tastes like. "We should do that again."

A snort escapes him before he can call it back. "Eager. Didn't anyone teach you patience?"

When Ranpo turns to go back into the apartment with the vague impression of mentally
mapping out where all of his things will go— he won't be moving everything from his current
apartment, and he'll definitely have to buy some new furniture to fill up all this new space—
Shuuji is immediately draping himself over his shoulders and whining in his ear. "Noo," he
cries, dragging his feet, "I don't want to be patient! I've been patient for so long."

Facing away from him, Ranpo doesn't have to hide his amused smile. He doesn't let himself
be pulled to a stop, hitching Shuuji's weight higher on his shoulders and practically dragging
him back through the apartment. "Too bad; I've got stuff to do."

Shuuji wails like he's been shot. "But what about me? When is it my turn?"

"When I say it is."

Before they can continue this banter— a playful argument that might end up with Shuuji
pinned against the wall if he plays his cards right—, there's a knock on the door, quiet but
firm.

Ranpo pauses in the middle of the living room, eyes narrowing on the front door. He
shouldn't be getting any visitors. He hasn't even officially moved in yet, and the only one who
knows about this condo is inside with him.

Well, not the only one. Ranpo has a sneaking suspicion about who is on the other side.
Shrugging Shuuji off, he ignores his melodramatic sprawling over the counter separating the
kitchen and living room while he goes to check who is at the door. Answering the door for
unexpected guests isn’t usually something he does— someone has attempted to rob him once,
which did not work out well for them— but for this he should probably make an exception.

It’s a good thing he did, because it’s exactly who he thought it was:

Dazai, rocking back and forth on his heels and looking incredibly awkward. He doesn’t say
anything to Ranpo, merely offering his hand in the most awkward wave he has ever seen.

Ranpo’s eyebrows shoot up. It’s not often that he sees Dazai, especially on what he would
consider his home turf. They might be on opposite sides of the law, and generally run in
adjacent business circles, but they’ve never had many reasons to interact with each other until
recently.

They had a silent understanding; Ranpo didn’t interfere with whatever Dazai was sticking his
hands in unless it affected him personally. Now, he supposes that a lot of what Dazai does
affects him personally now, considering just who is standing behind him.

The smile Ranpo gives him might be a little mean for a casual visit, but he’s never had cause
to be nice to Dazai. “What can I help you with?”

As far as he knows, Dazai has been laying low for weeks now. Ranpo is pretty sure he left the
city for a few days about two weeks ago, but other than that he has no idea what he’s been up
to, or why he’s here right now.

He knows better than to ask for Ranpo’s help without a significant bribe. He knows better
than to show up unannounced and empty handed. Or he did, at least, before today.

Dazai huffs. "You're a hard man to get a hold of," he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
He looks better-fed than the last time Ranpo saw him, filling out his shirt more and looking
significantly more relaxed.
That's true, mostly only because of who Dazai is. It's not like he can show up to the Agency
any time he wants, and Ranpo has taken pains to keep the location of his tiny apartment from
being common knowledge. This is probably the only place Dazai could find him.

He wonders how long he's been waiting to speak with him.

"Is Shuuji here?"

There's a muffled sound behind them as Shuuji obviously ducks behind the counter to avoid
being seen. Dazai's mouth twitches, but he doesn't move or address his son directly, staring at
Ranpo steadily.

Despite himself, he does appreciate that sliver of respect he shows by not barging in and
demanding to speak with his son even though they both know Shuuji is here.

Truth be told, Ranpo has...complicated feelings about Shuuji's and Dazai's relationship. He's
well aware that he doesn't know the whole story, and he's sure that Shuuji doesn't know the
full story either. He knows Shuuji hasn't been the best of people, and he's done a lot that
deserves punishment. He knows that both of them have made mistakes, and Dazai has never
gone out of his way to be deliberately and unnecessarily cruel to his son.

However, he also knows that the second time he saw Shuuji, he had marks from dog teeth
bitten into his arm, regardless of the situation that led up to that. He had been crying, and
drinking, and he didn't have anywhere to go.

Maybe he would've found somewhere to stay. Maybe he wouldn't have. Dazai hadn't seemed
to care about that or anything else when he kicked him out.

And over the last weeks, weeks that Shuuji had spent curled up and sleeping on his floor—
neither of his parents had contacted him. Not that Ranpo knew of, at least. It didn't seem like
Shuuji was trying to contact them either, at least beyond that first call with his mother, but the
fact remains that Shuuji had been lost and alone, and Dazai hadn't bothered to check up on
him.
Maybe he knew where he was due to his connections in the underground, and knew that he
was safe. Maybe he didn't, and he just didn't care.

Ranpo knows all this. But he also knows that if he had the chance to speak with his father
again, no matter how hard they might've fought sometimes, he would do anything.

It's also not his choice. As much as he might want to keep Shuuji locked away and unharmed,
show him what it's like to live with people that genuinely and uncomplicatedly care about
him—

He can't do that. It's not his choice. It's Shuuji's.

He shuts the door in Dazai's face without answering.

Turning back around, he spots Shuuji peeking over the counter edge, only his forehead and
eyes visible. When he sees that Ranpo didn't let Dazai in, his face does something
complicated that might be relief or might be disappointment. It’s hard to tell without being
able to see the rest of his expression.

Ranpo crosses over to him, looking down on his crouched position. “Do you want to talk to
him?”

Shuuji blinks up at him, looking surprised that his opinion was asked at all. Which makes
sense— from what Ranpo has gathered, he saw his father whenever his mother said he was
going to and never any other time, and he was basically pushed into agreeing to stay with
Dazai for his college career.

How many times has Shuuji been asked his opinion? Not on silly, inconsequential things—
but the things that really matter?
“I’ll make him leave if you don’t want to talk to him,” he continues when Shuuji doesn’t give
an answer, “but he said he wants to talk to you.”

“Oh, uhm,” he hesitates, eyes flicking between Ranpo and the door. Then he surprises him by
asking, “Do you think I should talk to him?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Ranpo stares at him, taking in his expression and his
posture. He looks nervous but hopeful, eager and anxious.

As much as he might want to give him a quick, easy answer, none of this is quick or easy. It’s
messy and tangled and complicated. And also Ranpo has been working on his control issues,
courtesy of his therapist.

What can he say, self improvement is its own reward. Or whatever those inspirational posters
on the wall say.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. Do you want to talk to him?”

Shuuji wrinkles his nose at him in irritation, and then sighs. He straightens up, no longer
taking refuge behind the kitchen counter or Ranpo's relatively smaller frame. "Yeah, I guess.
What's the worst that could happen?"

He says it like a joke, like it really doesn't matter to him, like he's really not worried about
having a conversation with his dad— even though they can both see that he is.

And it's okay that he is. It's okay that he wants to speak with his dad, to potentially have a
relationship with him, even after all the bad things that have happened between them. It's
okay if he wants his parents in his life, even if they aren't good parents.

What's important is knowing that there's no more 'worsts' that can happen. He has power over
that now, and he doesn’t have to stay for whatever happens. He’s independent to leave if he
wants.
"I'll be in the room," Ranpo tells him, a silent reminder that he will be within reach even if
he's not shameless enough to eavesdrop on their conversation. He's not leaving him to speak
with his father alone.

"Right," Shuuji agrees, watching as he makes his way to what will be the master bedroom.
By his side, his fingers twitch in an aborted reach.

After another moment— and a long breath for courage—, Shuuji moves to the front door
himself and opens it. Dazai is still standing there, arms crossed over his chest as he waits.
The amused expression on his face melts into shock when he sees who answered the door,
and then changes into something awkwardly soft.

"Hey, Shuuji," he starts, offering him a tremulous smile, "Can we talk?"

Shuuji giving a tentative nod is the last thing Ranpo says before he disappears into the master
bedroom out of sight. He doesn't completely shut the door, leaving it cracked just slightly.

Tuning out the low murmurs of conversation in the other room, he surveys what will one day
be his room. It's spacious and clean, with a large closet and a small bench fixed to the
window. The floor is made out of light-colored wood, brightening the entire space by
reflecting the natural light.

Looking at it, Ranpo kind of misses his tiny bed-space at home. Sure, it was small and
cramped, but it was comfy and familiar. He didn't have to worry about filling up space
because he didn't have any.

Since he doesn't have anything else to do and he's not about to go barging back into Shuuji's
conversation, he sits down with his back to the wall and pulls out his phone to play one of the
racing games he recently downloaded. It's not as good as the games on his switch, but it's
better than sitting here twiddling his thumbs while he waits.
He's not sure how long Shuuji and Dazai talk for. He ends up playing a handful of games,
absolutely trouncing someone with a username of Petrus89 and unlocking some sort of
achievement that allows him to pick the color of his cars. He picks pink, of course.

Outside, there's a rough clearing of a throat followed by a long pause. Then another set of
murmurs before the sound of the door opening and closing.

Nothing happens for a moment. Ranpo is half-expecting Shuuji to come bounding in,
metaphorical tail wagging as he spills all the details of what they talked about. He likes to
overshare.

But that doesn't happen. Almost five minutes pass and he doesn't come to find Ranpo,
although he knows exactly where to find him.

Did he leave? He doesn't think he'd leave without saying goodbye, or at least a text, but
maybe he decided to go with his father? To spend quality time with him or keep talking or
maybe just go home with him, now that he has somewhere else to go.

For some odd reason, Ranpo's stomach sinks at the thought of that. He finishes his last game
listlessly, not caring that he comes in fifth and breaks his winning streak.

Whatever. It doesn't matter anyways, not really.

With a sigh, he pockets his phone again and starts to head out to the living room again. He
still has to finish the initial walkthrough of the apartment, make sure everything is in order
and all the appliances are working before he can start the process of moving in.

Stepping out of the room, he finds—

Shuuji, standing in the middle of the room with his arms folded over his chest and frowning
at the wall. For a second, he looks so much like his father that he almost has to do a double
take at seeing him.
Mercifully, he doesn't look up as Ranpo enters, which allows him the time to get a wrangle
on the feeling of his stomach swooping pleasantly in his belly.

Shuuji doesn't look upset, or sad— no tear tracks on his cheeks, no angry furrow to his brow,
no bitter twist to his mouth— but he does look...

Confused, maybe. Shocked. Like he's been given information that he doesn't quite know how
to reconcile with his current view.

Ranpo edges closer, unsure if he should say anything or give him a hug or maybe offer to
punch Dazai—

Shuuji doesn't look at him when he speaks, but his voice wavers only slightly. "He
apologized to me."

Taken off guard, Ranpo pauses. That's...not exactly what he was expecting to hear. Truthfully,
he didn't really have an idea of what Dazai wanted to talk about, but apologizing to his son
was pretty far down on the list of possibilities. "For?"

"For how I grew up. For the things that my mom used to tell me about him. For not being
better, and for not caring as much as he should have."

That's...quite a lot of things to apologize for. And yet, is it enough? Will an apology ever be
enough if he doesn’t change the way he behaves?

Shuuji finally looks over at him, and while he's not crying, there's a certain blankness in his
eyes that Ranpo doesn't like. Like he's distanced, not completely present anymore. "He said
he wants to try again and be a better dad."
In Ranpo's opinion, it's a bit too late for that, considering Shuuji is a full grown man with all
the consequences of growing up unwanted and neglected — but perhaps late is better than
never, in Shuuji’s opinion.

“Do you forgive him?”

Expression twisting abruptly with frustration, Shuuji gives a huff and a sharp shrug of his
shoulders. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t I? He’s my dad.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to forgive him.”

Shuuji hunches over, curling himself over his crossed arms. He sounds mulish when he says,
“And what if I want to?”

Eyeing him with sympathy, Ranpo lets silence fall between them. There’s not much he can
contribute to this conversation. Even if he let himself tell Shuuji what to do, it’s not like he
could give him the right answer. This is personal and conditional, both things Ranpo does not
do well with.

At some point when he was getting closer, he must’ve crossed some invisible line. Turning
suddenly, Shuuji practically flings himself into his arms. It's only Ranpo's quick reflexes that
keep him from being bowled over or dropping him entirely, one of his feet sliding back
automatically to brace their combined weight as Shuuji essentially folds himself over his
shoulders.

"I don't know what to do," he says, muffled into his hair, a bit of his usual petulance coming
into his voice. He's solid in Ranpo's arms, not heavy enough to be a burden but weighty
enough to feel him. "What do you think I should do?"

Before he can even think of anything to say, let alone actually open his mouth to say it,
Shuuji is pinching the skin of his upper arm. "None of that 'it's up to you and what you want'
bullshit. I want to know what you think. I know you have opinions."
Well, if he wants his opinions: "I don't think you should forgive him. Not yet, anyway. That
whole thing with the apology and the wanting to try again is nice and all— but it doesn't
mean anything if he doesn't actually do what he says. Make him work for it. Make him earn
his forgiveness, and the chance to be better."

He can tell that strikes Shuuji by the way he goes silent and contemplative. He drapes his
arms over his shoulders and props his chin on top of Ranpo's head as he thinks, and normally,
he might be irritated at his face being shoved into someone else's chest without even being
asked first but—

It's kind of nice. Shuuji is taller than him, but Ranpo is stronger, so it's easy just to let the
taller man drape himself all over him like a particularly affectionate and limp towel.

Eventually, Shuuji lets out a dramatic, heaving sigh, and Ranpo is already biting back a smile
at hearing him return to his usual melodramatic self. "He also said I needed to apologize to
Chuuya."

Ranpo tightens his arms around his waist, dragging him closer. "Yeah, that's probably a good
place to start."

"Ugh."
 Mini-Me's
Chapter Summary

Life can't always be perfect -- but it can be really, really good.

Chapter Notes

helloooooo welcome to the latest installation of the family drama reality show TV: bad
habits B) Your next update will be September 20 :D <3 thanks for reading!!!

The next two years of Chuuya's life are undoubtedly the best years of his life. Perhaps it's a
little cliché, but it really does feel that adulthood agrees with him and life really is better
when he’s able to make decisions for himself and isn’t bound by the expectations or rules of
others. It's not always easier— the problems he faces aren’t as easy to navigate as the
comparatively simple issues of his childhood, and life can’t always be perfect.

But it can be really, really good.

Naturally, there are struggles. During his recovery from his encephalitis and all kidnapping-
related trauma, he had somehow deluded himself into remembering that college was way
easier than it actually was. When he finally ends up going back, an entire year after he was
forced to drop out, he ends up enrolling in six classes and quickly finds himself
overwhelmed. It's hard juggling four advanced classes and two electives-- that he took with
the intention of enjoying as hobbies, but he realized too late that art and creative writing
classes are still classes— that all have their own homework, projects, tests, study sessions,
extra credit opportunities.

Granted, his living situation is a lot less stressful than before— he no longer needs to worry
about where he's going to live if he fails a class— but he's still relying on scholarships to pay
for most of his schooling. Dazai has offered more than once to pay for his schooling, and
Kouyou wouldn’t refuse him if he asked for help— not after all that time she spent tricking
him into thinking she never had money to spare, when she’s really one of the richest people
on this continent— but he doesn’t want to take those offers unless he absolutely has to. He
wants to earn his way with his own smarts and hard work.

Still, he ends up lasting about two weeks before he realizes he's overworking himself and
ends up dropping two of the classes for the semester.

The Chuuya of two years ago would have never considered dropping classes. He would've
kept pushing, stubbornly insistent that he could handle it if he just handled his time correctly
and tried harder. He would've worked himself into the ground and felt only frustration when
he started to burn out and struggle. When he inevitably failed, he would’ve blamed himself
with the same intensity he used to view all of his weaknesses and perceived failures.

The Chuuya of today feels no guilt at dropping two classes he couldn't handle, and feels
better for the fact that he now gets to go to bed with his boyfriend at a reasonable time every
day.

He's also picked up quite a few hobbies, little games and crafts to keep him entertained. At
first it was just about finding something to do to fill up his free time, but he had a lot of fun
trying out new things and kept up the habit even when he no longer needed the activity. Some
of them are dropped nearly as quickly as he tries them— he really does not have the patience
for things like knitting, but Dazai seems to like it. He's made one multi-colored scarf that he's
gifted to Chuuya, and he loves it, even though it is quite possibly the lumpiest and ugliest
thing he has ever seen in his entire life.

But things like writing and photography, he really enjoys. He has an instagram for his photos
now, and it's not popular, but he enjoys making the posts and reading the comments his
friends and family leave for him. His writing is still rudimentary and developing, but he plans
on participating in a poetry slam at a local cafe in a few months. The idea makes him nervous
and antsy, but he’s always been good at being brave about the things that scare him.

Art, he's not as good at, but that's okay. It's taken him a very long time, but he's realized that
he doesn't need to be amazing at everything. He can have hobbies, things he's only
moderately good at and enjoys anyways, and that is okay. Wanting to do them is all that
matters. He might never be described as one of the great artists, but Dazai puts his messy
sketches of birds and pets and trees on a special place on his desk, and they’ve been writing
shitty poetry for each other using fridge magnets and it's good and he loves it.
He's happy. That's what matters.

Dazai's happy too, in a way that is visible and obvious. When they met, he was dark and
broody and wilting with consistent sleep deprivation. He was secretive, and hidden, and
scared. He never truly relaxed.

Now he's soft. He's gained weight, and he approaches all of Chuuya's culinary
experimentations with eagerness, and he rarely skips a meal. Breakfast in bed is a common
occurrence, because he's still a naturally early riser, but he is easily convinced to take naps on
the couch with Chuuya. He spends more time with the pets, and has started knitting adorably
hideous sweaters for Baki.

The cat hates them. Dazai gleefully ignores his protests everytime he wrestles another
sweater on him.

Now that Dazai is on semi-good terms with his family, a lot of tension has been dissolved.
Kouyou is still stubbornly antagonistic, but she also has let Dazai assimilate back into the
Mafia as part of the information ring and she never speaks badly about him to Chuuya, so her
continued reluctance is just a show that she puts on.

It's understood that Dazai doesn't want to lead the Mafia anymore and despite everything, he
is very good to Chuuya. He just wants to be at home with Chuuya. Honestly, if Dazai had his
way and he wasn’t plagued by the unfortunate inability to handle boredom, Dazai would
probably love to be a house boyfriend.

(Dazai does, in fact, very much enjoy being a house husband, soon enough.)

Chuuya isn’t… happy about the Mafia thing, for many reasons. He still struggles with the
fact that his sister had been in the mafia since they were both kids, has been the head of it for
years and lied to him about it the entire time. In fact, if he hadn’t met Dazai and fell in love
with him, he probably would’ve never found out. Kouyou never intended to let him in on the
secret, even if it was for good reasons.
Which also means that Oda, whom Chuuya has met several times, is not just the guy that
came to his violin recital when he was sixteen. He’s also a secret lethal bodyguard, which is
nice, because that means his sister is protected but it also means that Chuuya once threw an
Oreo at the head of a man who has actually and literally killed like…a lot of people.

It’s a lot to get used to.

But he’s working on it. Yosano gave him the phone number of a therapist that works
exclusively with the Mafia, and he’s had two appointments so far. He’s not sure if he’s getting
what he needs out of it— or even what he needs, specifically— but it’s nice to have someone
to vent to about all the things that have changed in his life without having to censor himself.

He’s been trying to get Dazai to go too, but the man is incredibly stubborn. Says he doesn’t
need therapy, because he already knows all his issues and how to handle them. Chuuya
disagrees heavily, what with the occasional screaming nightmares and the semi-frequent
mood swings—which most often feature a seething anger and a horrific soul-sucking
depression—that Dazai experiences, but he's working on it. He can't say that Dazai hasn't
improved— because he has— but he could be better. Recovery takes constant effort.

There are a lot of things that having a safe home, a loving relationship and a sense of stability
will do for mental health, but it's not everything. There's a lot of things in Dazai's past that
Chuuya can't kiss better, a lot of nightmares that can't be soothed away by curling up with
him and letting Dazai hug him like he's his personal squeeze toy. Even now, there's still a lot
of things Dazai won't willingly speak with him about. He will answer if asked direct
questions, but he will almost never volunteer information himself. He's quiet, but not
secretive. Traumatized and conditioned to silence, but no longer hiding.

And Chuuya has learned to be okay with that. Maybe he'll never know every part of Dazai's
past. That doesn't mean Dazai doesn't love him. It doesn't mean he doesn't trust him.

It just means some things are hard to talk about, and that's okay. Chuuya has learned the
value of patience and trust. Most people don’t know every single detail about their partners,
and he shouldn’t expect that to be different for them.

He's also learned his lesson about trusting other people too much and too quickly. Nikolai has
seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth after he knocked Chuuya out to kidnap him.
Admittedly, it's not like he's looking for him, and it's not like he really wants to see him,
either, it's just—

He thought they were friends. They had been roommates, whether by accident or plot on
Nikolai's part, and they had been friends for half a year. Chuuya had defended Nikolai
whenever the need arose and he always invited Chuuya to hang out. Chuuya had helped him
with his math homework, and whenever he was studying for his own classes, his favorite
energy drink always appeared on his desk mysteriously.

They had been friends. At least, he had thought they were friends, but maybe that was all just
a lie. Maybe it had all been a game of pretend that he had fallen for.

As much as he doesn't want to see Nikolai and he'd sure as hell never trust him again— a part
of him wants to ask. Wants to know if it was all fake, all an act that had him looking like an
idiot, or if— like a lot of things in his life— it had been an unfortunate coincidence.

But he never gets that opportunity. He never gets an explanation and he's not sure how he
feels about that. Angry, maybe.

At least he still manages to be friends with Yuan. She's completely normal— he had Dazai
check, just to be sure, because he was paranoid after being kidnapped, and other than a vague
connection to someone in the Special Investigations Bureau, her record is completely clean—
although she has confided in him that she's been a sugar baby for longer than he's known her.

Somehow, that's not that surprising.

On the other hand, his relationship with Shuuji has gotten objectively hilarious. To be honest,
he wasn't holding onto anger about the whole attempted car manslaughter thing because
Chuuya definitely came out as the winner in the situation. Yeah, it sucked, but he got a rich,
loving boyfriend out of it, a huge house, pets, a more honest relationship with his family—
while Shuuji got himself kicked out, and then shacked up with a detective who might
honestly be one of the most annoying people Chuuya has ever met.
It's hard to be mad when you're winning so hard in comparison. Plus, it’s hard to be mad at
something so small in comparison to the other, much more urgent things he’s faced since
then.

Still, he did appreciate the apology, and as thanks, he keeps the stepdad jokes to a minimum.
He saves them up for the monthly dinners they have together, when Ranpo looks amused and
Dazai looks like he wishes he were anywhere else.

So—

All in all, life is good. Wonderful. Not anything he had envisioned as a kid when he was
making dreams of his future, and definitely not perfect and sometimes it's been hard and
painful and dreadful— but it's good, now. And it feels like it's going to be good for a very
long time.

Every day he wakes up and looks forward to the day he's going to have.

Dazai pops his head into the bedroom, interrupting his thoughts. He's dressed up, his eyes
outlined with a smear of red eyeliner that Chuuya helped him apply. "You ready?"

They're going to Oda's house for dinner tonight, a relatively new tradition that has developed
ever since they all realized that the only time they were actually going to see each other is if
they started making time to see each other. With how busy and varied their schedules are, it’s
hard to find shared free time.

One thing they don't tell you about adulthood is how hard it is to make and keep friends when
everyone is busy with their own lives.

So, monthly dinner at Oda's house. It means that Chuuya gets to see his sister, and Dazai gets
to see his friend while also continuing to coax Kouyou into liking him— or at least approving
of him. He's oddly determined that every person in Chuuya's family will like him, and he
won't ever tell Chuuya why. Whenever he asks, he gets this twinkle in his eyes and says it's a
secret that Chuuya will find out someday.
"Almost," he responds, checking himself out in the mirror one last time. Because he helped
Dazai with his makeup, he missed out on half an hour of extremely vital outfit consideration.
He's gotten into layering things lately, which comes with the territory of having to take quite
a few pieces off if he doesn't like the way it looks.

After making sure the chains hooked to his belt loops are artfully dangling over his right
thigh and his ass, he decides it's good enough. If he had more time, he might've changed his
shirt again but they're about to be late as it is anyways.

It's almost an hour drive to Oda's house, and they're supposed to be there in an hour. If they're
late, Kouyou will hound him about it for weeks.

The pets all say goodbye in their own little ways. Baki claws at the laces of his boots until
Chuuya has to bend down to gently extract his claws. Yoko gets extra belly rubs, since she's
gained a bit of anxiety about Chuuya leaving the house now. Kozo gets an extra treat and his
favorite toy.

By the time he's done saying goodbye to the pets, Dazai is leaning against the passenger side
of the car waiting for him. He smiles when he sees him coming, more of a softening of his
eyes and expression than a true movement of his mouth. He's dressed casually, in a pair of
ripped jeans and a t-shirt from a band that Chuuya introduced him to. The boots he's wearing
are the same ones that are on Chuuya's feet, just older and without the chain that Chuuya had
attached to his.

As it has for every day of the past two years, warmth fills his chest at the sight of him. It no
longer feels new or exciting, or like Chuuya might die if he doesn't look at Dazai or if Dazai
isn't looking at him. It's aged and settled now, sweeter for it, like wine. It's a steady delight of
knowing he gets to come home to this every day, the tenderness of getting to see Dazai in all
his forms, whether that be just out of sleep early in the mornings, or playing games with the
dogs, acting like he hates it whenever Baki uses his chest as a pillow even though he never
dares to wake the cat up, or excitement when something that he's been looking forward to
happens.

It's knowing and being known, down to the changing core of him. It's loving and being loved
in return, and always having a home to return to.
"Hello, handsome," he greets, stepping up to him so he can look up at him. Dazai
automatically widens his stance to make room for him, reaching out to thread his fingers
through his belt loops to pull him closer.

"Hi, sweetheart," is his breathy response, slow and sweet. Knowing Chuuya won't move from
his grip, he brings his hands back up. His fingers brush over his jaw, coaxing his chin upward
and tilting his head back.

The position, so reminiscent of their very first kiss, makes Chuuya buzz with love and
nostalgia. Unconsciously, he smiles, and feels on top of the world when Dazai automatically
mirrors him. Unlike their first kiss, however, Dazai doesn't feel the need to ask permission.
He already knows he has it. He just leans down and kisses him, like he has hundreds of times
before and like he will thousands of times after this.

They don't have time to get carried away, but Chuuya leans up into him anyways, making
sure to pour all the love and affection he feels into the kiss.

They might not always be great with words, and talking might always be a struggle— but
this, they're great at. Chuuya never has to worry about anything else when he can taste
Dazai's smile. When they're like this, pressed together, love and commitment in every line of
their bodies, time feels endlessly beloved and easy.

Chuuya breaks the kiss first, because Dazai would happily stand here and kiss him for hours
if he let him. Not that he’s ever opposed to that, or that he doesn't want that, but they're about
to be late, and he's been looking forward to this dinner for weeks now.

With a pout and a sigh that brings to mind the highest of injustices, Dazai lets him go and
opens the door for him to climb inside.

While he crosses around the front of the car, Chuuya connects his phone to the bluetooth in
the car and starts scrolling through his music playlists. As the passenger— he does know how
to drive now, but he prefers to be driven— he is also the designated DJ. It's a role he's thrown
himself into with abandon, making a playlist for every occasion and mood.
With both of them singing along to the music he's chosen, the near-hour drive seems to fly
by.

The house they pull up to is not Kouyou or Oda's house on paper. It's one of their safehouses,
one of their most secretive and secure ones tucked away near the outskirts of the city. It's a
drive for everyone, and Kouyou and Oda usually spend most of their nights holed up in one
of the safehouses closer to mafia headquarters, but this house comes with the added benefit of
a small backyard and enough space between houses to create privacy.

Which is absolutely necessary, because when Oda opens the door to let them in, there are at
least four little gremlin children poking their heads around his legs to peer out at Chuuya
curiously.

That was another/shock he had to get used to: the fact that his sister is the guardian-slash-
aunt--slash-older-sister-figure to an entire horde of children. She herself doesn’t really want
children of her own, and she reportedly would rather die than get pregnant— but she loves
Oda enough to support him in his little endeavor to pseudo-adopt every orphan that so much
as gives him a pitiful look.

It’s not entirely legal or above ground, but Chuuya’s not really sure of the logistics of it, nor
does he really care enough to dig into the details of it. As far as he’s concerned, this is a good
thing happening, and he doesn’t need to question it.

Truthfully, he’s just upset that he missed out on years of being a pseudo-uncle. He loves kids.

Right on cue, one of the smaller ones—Kousuke, a young boy who only started primary
school this year— shouts “CHUUYA!” at the top of his lungs and immediately throws
himself into his arms. If it weren’t for the way he automatically braced himself for impact
and Dazai’s hand on his back, he might’ve fallen. As it is, he nearly goes staggering anyways,
and barely catches the boy without letting him fall.

"Hey guys," Oda greets, ushering everyone out of the doorway so that the two of them can
step inside. The door gets soundly locked behind them, blocking out the view of the rest of
the neighborhood.
Chuuya's never met their neighbors— he's not even sure if they have actual neighbors, or if
it's just a port mafia guard rotation that occasionally stays in the nearby houses to make them
look lived in— and it seems like today is not going to be that day either.

"Is that the short stack?" Comes a voice from one of the back rooms, tone dipped in glee
because Yosano knows how much Chuuya hates those kinds of nicknames. Which is exactly
why she does it; says she hasn't gotten in enough little-brother-bullying, and she's making up
for it now. Chuuya doesn’t see how that’s his fault, or why he’s being punished for his sisters
secrets, but that woman is not reasonable.

Kousuke, having given Chuuya a completely incoherent and rapid-fire rundown on the last
month of his schooling, reaches out for Dazai next. Chuuya might be his favorite because of
'how cool he is', but Dazai's a close second because of how tall he is. Few things make
Kousuke happier than riding on Dazai's shoulders and shrieking about how tall he is.

It makes Chuuya's heart melt to see how naturally Dazai reaches for the kid, making dramatic
sounds about how heavy he's gotten lately, all while easily swinging him up to drape him
over his shoulder.

When they first started coming over for dinners, Dazai was so awkward with the children.
Always kept his distance, like he was afraid to touch for how fragile they were, and answered
all of their questions with endearing adult-like seriousness. Whenever he was invited to play,
he declined most of the time and when he did finally agree, he always sent looks over to Oda
and Chuuya like he wasn't sure if he was playing correctly.

It wasn't that he was bad with kids, it was just blindingly obvious that he hadn't had the
opportunity to be around them often. From what Chuuya knows, he didn't have many chances
to see Shuuji when he was a child. He was still only a young, depressed and traumatized man
himself, and Sasaki had never made fatherhood easy for him. God knows Dazai hadn't the
opportunity to be a child himself, either, so he doesn’t even have the memories of childhood
games to rely on.

So watching Dazai slowly overcome his hesitancy and gain his confidence in how to handle
children has been a heartwarming experience. Seeing him go from unsure touches to realizing
he can securely manhandle Kousuke and making playful threats of dropping him— even
though everyone knows he wouldn't— makes a part of Chuuya feel squirmy and hot and
affectionate.

He can't help it; Dazai looks so good with a kid in his arms.

After giving Oda a quick hello hug, Chuuya leaves Dazai and him to catch up as he heads
into the kitchen. Kouyou can almost always be found here before dinner, steadily sipping on
wine as she dedicatedly taste-tests everything that Oda cooks. There's always another glass
waiting for him.

This time, Yosano is perched on the counter as well, the heel of one slippered foot bumping
rhythmically against the cabinets below her. She grins at Chuuya when she sees him, raising
her whiskey glass in toast to him.

It’s not terribly often that she joins them for dinner. Even now, Chuuya doesn’t know the
exact status of her relationship with Kouyou and Oda— she seems to be committed to them
sometimes, and other times she’ll disappear for weeks or even months at a time, and comes
back with stories about the flings she had and the people she’s met.

There’s only ever one recurring thing— Kouyou and Oda are the only ones she’ll come back
for. The only ones she loves, even if it’s not understood by anyone else. Oda and Kouyou are
content, comfortable and happy with their arrangement— and that’s all that there needs be.

Seeing her today is an unexpected surprise. A good one, because Chuuya likes her.

“What’s up, emo kid?” He teases back, nudging her companionably with his hip as he walks
by to pour himself a glass of wine.

With a mock-offended gasp, Yosano presses her hand to her chest. Like most of her outfit— a
more masculine vibe today with ripped black jeans, a t-shirt with holes artfully cut into it that
show off the sports bra she’s wearing underneath and steel toe boots— her nails are black and
stiletto-sharp. The silver rings on her fingers might be the only source of color on her today.
“Babe! Your mini-me is being mean to me! Make him stop.”
Leaning against the counter, Kouyou rolls her eyes and very deliberately takes a sip of her
wine without answering.

Chuuya wrinkles his nose at Yosano. “She likes me better than you, she’s on my side.”

There's a pause, and then Kouyou makes a long, drawn-out humming sound which expresses
so much doubt that Chuuya is automatically reaching out to smack her on the arm lightly.

Yosano laughs, and very kindly doesn't offer her opinion on that statement. "How have you
been, kid?" She asks instead.

He has to fight the urge to roll his eyes at the reminder of his age. She delights in holding that
over him, even though he's been dating someone her age for a little over two years now. He’s
not a child, even if he is still young. "Good," he says, "Finals are coming up for me soon, so
I'll be glad to get that over with. Dazai says he wants to take me somewhere afterwards, to
celebrate."

Yosano leans forward, eyes sparkling. She's wearing red contacts today, and although it looks
good, the effect of being stared at is slightly unnerving. "Oh really? Has he asked you
anything else lately?"

Kouyou throws her a sharp look, like she’s silently urging her to be quiet.

"Uh," Chuuya pauses, thinking. "No?"

Yosano heaves a deep,dramatic sigh, shaking her head and clucking in exasperation. She
mumbles something under her breath that sounds disapproving, before she takes a sip of her
drink.
Before Chuuya can ask what that's about, Kouyou is changing the subject with a pointed
cough. "Dad mentioned that you were thinking of doing a poetry reading for your writing."

Chuuya groans, embarrassed. He talked to his dad in confidence about that because he
wanted his opinion, not because he wanted him to blab to his sister . Now she's going to want
to read his stuff, or something equally embarrassing.

"He is," Dazai confirms, taking that moment to walk in. Kousuke is attached to his leg now,
sitting on Dazai's foot and giggling whenever he lifts him up by taking a step. He comes
closer, just enough to drop a kiss on top of Chuuya's head. "He's very good."

Chuuya wrinkles his nose and fights the urge to squirm, feeling pleased and mortified in
equal parts.

"I didn't know you were coming today," Dazai says to Yosano, lifting an eyebrow in question.

Yosano shrugs, refilling her glass. She pours far too much whiskey than is acceptable for
dinner, but she has a remarkable tolerance. Over the last two years, Chuuya has seen her
drink Dazai under the table at least two different times, a feat that he personally finds
impossible. She could probably drink half of the bottle, and still be mostly coherent. "A new
kid was dropped off a couple of weeks ago, so I figured I'd stick around and help out if I
could."

Chuuya's eyebrows shoot up. Another kid? Doesn't that bring the orphan count up to like,
seven or something? "Another one?"

Kouyou sighs, swirling her wine around in her glass. She doesn't look sad, per se, but she
does look very tired, now that Chuuya is looking. The bags under her eyes are heavy, tinted
purple. "Yeah. A baby, this time."

Chuuya's jaw drops. He thought the whole idea of babies being dropped off on doorsteps was
a thing that only happened in movies, not in real life. "Someone dropped off a baby? What
kind of person does that?"
Sensing that the conversation is rapidly turning to something not suited for children's ears,
Dazai takes a toy off the nearby counter and ushers Kousuke out of the room. Oda still hasn't
come into the kitchen; he must be getting all the kids washed up and ready to eat.

With a rueful twist to her mouth, Kouyou tips her head. She finishes off her wine with one
long swallow, placing the glass by her side. She doesn't move to refill it, like she’s too
exhausted for reach for the bottle. "Extenuating circumstances," she says, like that's any kind
of explanation at all.

Without saying anything, Yosano hops down from the counter and crosses to the open bottle
of wine. Grabbing Kouyou's empty glass, she refills her drink elegantly, and hands the newly
full cup to her.

The exchange is quiet, but there's a soft, unspoken sort of care in the easy nonchalance of it,
in the affectionate brush of their fingers together over the stem. Kouyou smiles at her in
thanks, face softening.

"Still...I can't believe someone would just give up their baby like that," Chuuya mumbles,
feeling torn. He's not heartless, he knows there are a lot of reasons why a mother might not
want their child, many of which are probably extremely personal. Taking care of a child is a
heavy responsibility, and not one everyone can or should undertake. He knows that.

But he's also squirming with anger and frustration and sympathy at a baby being given up.
Sure, they're in a good place now— Oda has proven himself to be a kind and capable
caregiver, even as strange as that might seem, given his occupation and past— but still. There
was a point in that baby's life where it was unwanted, and the thought of that hurts Chuuya
more than he expected it would.

He's angry that someone, anyone, could be so unwanted like that. That the baby will have to
grow up knowing that their mother didn't want or love them enough to stay. That they will
grow up without a mother at all.

Dazai's hand comes down on his shoulder, squeezing gently in comfort. He knows Chuuya's
complicated childhood, and the way he still aches to have a mother, sometimes. The way he
stares at the one picture he has of her, sometimes, when he’s sad or guilty or feeling hollow.

"It's not her kid," Yosano pipes up, leaning against Kouyou's side. "It was her sisters."

That makes Chuuya pause, confused. Does that mean that the sister— the mother— is no
longer...in the picture? That changes things, but now he's thinking how heartless it would be
to give up the child, maybe the last living legacy of a sibling that had died.

If Kouyou— and this hurts to even think about, a wrongness that makes Chuuya flinch—
died, he would clutch everything she left behind close to his chest, and never let it go. He
would never give anything up, not her frankly ridiculous amount of orphans, not that
terrifying red-and-white snake she keeps in her office and handles like it's something soft and
fragile instead of something that looks like it could kill Chuuya in one bite, not even her car
or her journals or a single note she had written.

How could anyone give anything like that up?

"I knew her," Kouyou sighs, tone somewhere between sympathetic and sad. "It wasn't an easy
decision. This is the fifth kid her sister had. The first four were taken by child protective
services due to neglect and unsafe housing. The grandmother was able to take the four, but it
hasn't been easy for any of them. And she didn't know her sister was pregnant until she was
about to give birth, so she didn't know to make sure she wasn't doing drugs."

Oh. Oh my god. Chuuya shifts, horror bubbling up inside him. "Is the baby okay?"

He doesn't know much about the effect of drugs on fetal development, but it's common
knowledge that expecting mothers aren't supposed to be consuming any kind of drug not
approved by a doctor. They're not even supposed to drink caffeine , which is so common in
society that most people don't even know it's a drug, and even things as small as soda have
caffeine in them.

"Oh, yeah," Yosano answers, wandering over to the pot of rice sitting on the stove. Taking a
spoon out of the utensils drawer, she steals a spoonful and adds a drop of soy sauce before
eating it. "She's small, but as of now, she's perfectly healthy and happy. The amphetamines in
her system might lead to some developmental disorders, and there's some things we'll need to
keep an eye on, but for now, she's just a happy and hungry baby."

Before Chuuya can figure out why he feels so angry about the entire situation, Oda is
bustling into the kitchen with a small herd of children trailing after him, all of them excited
and hungry, and just like that, the conversation is derailed for the rest of the night.

But Chuuya can't stop thinking about it. He keeps circling back to the same thoughts, turning
the situation over and over again in his head like it might make more sense if he just looks at
it a different way, making himself sad and angry by turns.

He just— he doesn't understand why something like this would happen. How a tiny, innocent
baby ended up in a situation like this, how this could happen to anyone, how could anyone
treat a baby with anything other than love and adoration, how could anyone leave a baby lost
and alone in the world.

It's enough that Dazai notices his mood. He doesn't say anything during dinner, cheerfully
talking for him whenever Chuuya lapses into confused and frustrated silence. But when they
get home, he catches him by the elbow in the entranceway before he can disappear into the
house.

He spins him around easily, his other hand coming up to rest comfortingly on his shoulder,
thumb pressed to his pulse point. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Frustrated with himself, Chuuya lets his head drop until his forehead is solidly thunking
against Dazai's chest. "I don't know why I'm upset about it," he grumbles, "I mean, it's
upsetting, but it feels so...personal, for some reason."

"Hmm," Dazai hums, and Chuuya already knows he's about to say something perfectly
reasonable and intelligent and he's going to want to bite him about it. "A newborn baby just
lost her mother before she ever knew her, and likely won't ever get to know her. I wonder
why you're upset."

Yep, he definitely wants to bite him about it. "It's not the same."
"It's not," he agrees, guiding him over to the couch. He barely lets him take his shoes off
before making him sit down, curled up in his lap. "But it can still be personal, and it can still
hurt."

Baki, ever the opportunist, quickly jumps up on the couch and welcomes them both home by
quickly settling directly on Chuuya’s thigh and giving a huff like he’s been waiting around
for them all day. Like they’re the ones being unreasonable here.

Taking some time to work through his thoughts, Chuuya sets his fingers onto the top of
Baki’s head and strokes down. The cat purrs, happy to be petted as a distraction. He kneads
Chuuya’s thigh, digging his claws in rhythmically until he’s wincing.

Dazai doesn’t push him, content to hold him in his arms and just sit with him. Occasionally,
he tugs on Baki’s tail just hard enough to irritate him, just enough to hear him meow in
complaint.

"I just," he mutters eventually, feeling absurd, "I don't want her to grow up without a mom. I
don't want anyone to grow up without a mom."

Dazai hums again, tucking him closer so he can prop his chin on top of his head. "You have
such a big heart, chibi."

Normally, he puts up a fuss about the nickname. He doesn't hate it, he actually likes the many
nicknames Dazai makes for him, but if he didn't at least put up a little bit of a fight, Dazai
might start thinking it's okay to call him short whenever he feels like it. It’s about the
principle of the thing.

Today, he just pushes back into Dazai, accepting the comfort even as absurd and
melodramatic as he feels. "I mean, it's different too, because at least I had my sisters.
Everyone in this baby's family gave her up."
Chuuya might not have had a perfect life, but at least he had a life where he was wanted.
Maybe his childhood was hard and unfair to him and both of his sisters— but at least they
always knew that their father loved them.

It was even obvious that their mother loved them. Chuuya may have never met her— but he’s
been told many times how eager she was to meet him, how she had so many plans for his
nursery, and his first room. How she used to talk to him all the time, and how his name and
his hair came from her.

Which makes it even worse that her doctors failed her so tragically, but she loved him, even
when it hurts to know that. When it hurts to know that he lost something good, when it hurts
whenever his dad gets too wine-tipsy and pulls out the old scrapbooks he keeps in the attic,
humming the old lullaby she made up under his breath and trying not to cry.

When he was little, he used to want more. He used to think he was missing so much, used to
think that there was a whole part of life that he was just…missing. Not for any reason that he
could use to justify or rage against, either— but just because that’s how the cards played out.
He was just unlucky.

It was just a terrible thing that happened to his family. Something that wasn’t anybody’s fault,
and maybe that was the most hurtful part of all, that no one could’ve done anything
differently. Maybe there were different choices that could have been made, but there’s not
much they could’ve done to prevent the outcome.

It’s not the same for the new baby. It wasn’t a tragic, unexplained accident that could not
have been avoided. It was deliberate, a mistake after a mistake, something that could've been
avoided if—

If only someone had cared enough. If only there had been enough effort made.

"I would never give up one of Kouyou's kids," he mutters to himself, frowning to himself.
Maybe that's the part that upsets him the most— the complete abandonment.
Dazai blows out a breath, gusty enough that Chuuya's bangs get ruffled, falling into his face
in ticklish strands. "Not everyone has that option," he says, a subtle and kind reminder that
he's lucky. Not everyone has an obscenely rich boyfriend, or a secretly obscenely rich sister.
Not everyone has the support system he has, or the opportunities he's had. Not everyone has a
home to go back to, no matter what happens.

Some people truly are on their own. For some people, any mistake or problem could be life-
altering.

He sighs, feeling frustrated and absurd and silly. Really, why is he so worked up about this?
It's not like this affects him personally, and it's not like he has some deep, underlying trauma
that's being dragged up by the situation. He's never been or known anyone in foster care.

He's just being weird, making a situation that has nothing to do with him about him. He needs
to let it go.

"Yeah," he agrees, hoisting Baki up in his arms and ignoring the cat's half-baked protests as
he manhandles him into holding him like a baby. "Yeah, you're right. I'm just being weird, I
guess. Emotional."

Ever since the kidnapping incident, Chuuya has had... he wouldn't go quite so far as to say
bad days, though that might be the best description for them. He’s always been an emotional,
passionate person, but some days, it feels dialed up to ten. Every emotion is louder and
bigger than it should be, where loud sounds make him jump and the drip of water in the sink
drives up the wall into unwarranted rage. Days he has bad dreams and even worse
nightmares.

He hadn’t thought today was that kind of day— but maybe that’s why he’s so hung up on
this. Maybe it’s just a weird day for him mentally, and this just triggered some emotional
intensity for him for some reason.

It’s fine. It’s normal and it’s fine, but he’ll get over it soon enough. He always does.
 Baby Talk
Chapter Summary

Chuuya wants children. A baby. Dazai's baby. A baby with Dazai. Either or any work.

Chapter Notes

i have watched all of game of thrones and dany's character was utterly butchered without
even giving her the decency of more than 2 episodes of character decline, in this essay i
will

Except this time, he doesn’t let it go. He can’t seem to, can’t get the thought out of his head,
can’t stop thinking about it, stuck.

In the middle of class, he finds himself wondering what kind of school the baby will end up
going to. If she’ll want to go to college, or even if she’ll be able to go to college with the
shady-semi-legal fostering Oda takes part in. If she’ll end up being in the mafia because she
doesn’t really have any other choice. If she’ll know any different, anything better.

Eventually he manages to bully Kouyou into sending him pictures of her— a feat that has her
side-eyeing him and sending him thinking face emoji’s for the next couple of hours, but she
eventually relents.

And then he spends a couple of days superstitiously looking at the adorable photos,
especially the one where a rubber duck has been placed on her forehead and she's gone cross-
eyed to try to look at it.

He's not... he's not hiding it from Dazai, but he hasn't mentioned it since the initial day, and
he's starting to realize that he doesn't feel just stressed about the situation. Yes, it's still
upsetting, and he still feels a lot of sympathy and anger towards the people who should have
been there for her and weren't and couldn’t be.
But...

The longer he sits on it, the more he realizes that he actually kind of wants a baby. It's not that
surprising of a thought of itself— he's always wanted a family, with one or two little ones
running around. Not too big, but just big enough that his home always feels warm and full
and comforting to come back to.

But what is surprising is that he's twenty-one, has been dating the same man for almost three
years, and he finds himself thinking:

I want a baby. I want a baby with Dazai.

Finds himself daydreaming about it, picturing early mornings with Dazai making breakfast
with a little chef by his side. Taking their kid to school, teaching Yoko how to play nicely and
gently with someone much smaller than she's used to. Taking the spare bedroom and
redecorating it with pinks and oranges and yellows, the colors of sunsets and sunrises. Dazai
sitting at the kitchen table and helping their kid with their English homework while Chuuya
helps them with their math. Dazai with their child sitting on his shoulders.

It's all so charmingly domestic and he yearns for it. Finds himself aching for it, daydreaming
about all the things that they could have together.

And maybe he's too young. Maybe they're not ready for something like that. Dazai is still his
first boyfriend, and even though they've been dating for what seems to be a long time for
him, he knows it's not a long time in the grand scheme of things.

Two, almost three years. They're not even married yet. Even though there is this silent
understanding that their lives will continue to be planned and lived together— Dazai's been
making noises about moving to a different house eventually, one better suited for their needs
— they haven't actually discussed the future or what comes next. Not seriously, anyway, and
not anything like this. The biggest commitment they’ve talked about so far is getting another
puppy.
This is a big step to consider, he knows. Children are a serious commitment, for everyone
involved. And he knows he's young, not even graduated from college yet, and without much
life experience or opportunity to be truly independent.

The more he thinks about it, the more logical reasons he can come up with that they
shouldn't. Dazai's good with kids, but he's never mentioned wanting any more of his own.
Dazai already has a kid. They don't have the space. Chuuya is young and irresponsible. It
would take lots of time and money

And yet, he can't talk himself out of feeling like this.

He can’t stop himself from feeling like his heart is going to burst when he wakes up from a
dream so ordinary and domestic that it’s almost embarrassing. He can’t stop himself from
looking at a couple walking down the street with their child’s hands in theirs and thinking
that could be us. Can’t stop from putting on those family movies, the ones with the surprise
children. Can’t stop himself from scrolling through Pinterest and dreaming of all the things
that could happen. Can’t stop himself from wondering and thinking and feeling.

When he finally talks to Yuan about it— needing to get this off his chest to someone even if
he's not yet brave enough to speak about it directly with Dazai or Kouyou yet— she wrinkles
her nose at the thought of children, but she's also very enthusiastic about being an 'aunt' to his
children. And then she shows him this Tiktok account that features videos of this adorable
toddler being dressed up in the cutest outfits and being dropped off at daycare.

Needless to say, that conversation— which he had come into firmly expecting to be
dissuaded from the possibility of kids— does nothing more than fuel his desires.

In the end, he tries to bring it up subtly. He waits until they're intertwined in bed, relaxing and
recovering from a frankly marathonic round of sex, to bring it up:

"Do you ever want more kids?"

Okay, so maybe subtlety isn't his strong suit, based on the way Dazai's eyebrows immediately
shoot up in surprise. He even pulls back to look at him fully, blinking at him like he’s not sure
what to make of the question.

Hot with embarrassment, Chuuya fights the urge to squirm. Trying to play it off will only
make it weirder, so he just has to keep going with this conversation even though this is
definitely not how he wanted to bring it up. He wanted to play it cool and casual and
uninterested, not… embarrassingly obvious.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Dazai says after a minute, letting go of Chuuya to stretch
out his back with a long sigh. He points his toes when he does, flexing until he trembles in a
move very reminiscent of Baki when he stretches. It’s cute.

To give himself something to distract him with, Chuuya reaches for the wet wipes they keep
in the bedside table. He starts cleaning up between his thighs and over his hips where
lingering traces of lube are still smeared over his skin. He'll need a shower soon, but he can at
least stop feeling so sticky in the meantime. "But you're not opposed to it?"

Dazai is usually a pretty decisive person. If he wants or doesn't want something— which is
rare, considering he's also generally neutral and apathetic about a lot of things—, he's upfront
about it. Sometimes Chuuya can wheedle him into changing his opinion with enough work,
but if Dazai truly doesn't want something, nothing can change his mind.

So the fact that he hasn't outright said no—

That means something.

Easily offering up his hand so Chuuya can clean up the sticky residue lingering in between
his fingers, Dazai looks at him. His gaze never wavers, no matter how many times Chuuya
looks up and then away, unable to hold eye contact during a conversation like this. It feels
like revealing too much of himself, putting too much of his hopes and dreams out there to be
seen and recognized.

"I don't know," Dazai says cautiously, his voice even and steady. There's no inflection or
overtone in it, which somehow makes Chuuya's nerves worse. If he had sounded off-put by
the idea, or if he had sounded excited, at least he could've had an idea of what to expect out
of this conversation.

As it is, he has no idea.

"Why?" he continues, pulling his hand away when it starts to become obvious that he's using
it as an excuse to avoid the conversation. "Is this about the new baby?"

Chuuya makes a face, throwing away the used wet wipe. Trust Dazai to know him well
enough that he can cut straight to the heart of the matter in seconds.

"No," he grumbles, and then immediately has to change his answer to a reluctant "Yes" when
his boyfriend raises an eyebrow at him.

Flopping back onto the bed, he drags a pillow to his chest and props his chin on it. His foot
ends up nudging against Dazai's calf, and he takes comfort in that small, simple point of
contact as he gathers his thoughts so he can speak without making a fool of himself.

It's not that he thinks Dazai will judge him or do something like laugh at him— but this is
still an important conversation, and he wants to have it right. He wants to say what he means,
what he wants, and not be stumbling over himself or leave something out.

"It's not really about her," he sighs, looking up at the ceiling because he can't bear to see what
kind of expression Dazai is making right now. "It's just... seeing her kind of made me realize
that...I want kids. I want to have a baby."

The mattress shifts as Dazai rolls over, and now he can't avoid looking at him, because he's
propped up on his elbow with his face only a few inches from his own. It's a bit too close to
make out his expression clearly, but his eyes are steady and non-judgmental, the same lovely
brown they always are. "You've always wanted kids, though."
That is true; he's never been exactly secretive about his future plans including children. But
it's always been a hypothetical thing, plans entirely made on the concept of 'one day'. Plans so
far in the future they might as well be dreams, so abstract and nebulous they could hardly be
put into concrete words.

But it's not like that anymore. It's not 'one day' for him anymore— it's 'soon'. He wants a baby
now, soon, not five or ten years in the future. All those far-fetched, abstract dreams replaced
by the reality of it, the knowledge that after so long of thinking of it, it could finally be here.
No more waiting, no more thinking.

Just doing it.

"I know," he says, chancing a peek at Dazai's expression through his lashes. His boyfriend
doesn't look like he has a strong opinion in either direction, just slightly confused at the
sudden conversation. "But I've been thinking about it a lot lately, and I think I want kids now.
Or— soon, anyways."

This time, the silence is so long Chuuya has to bite down on the urge to take it all back, to
turn it into a joke, to make it seem like something he doesn't actually care that much about so
he can't be hurt if Dazai doesn't feel the same way.

Eventually, Dazai clarifies: "Kids. With me."

And— yeah, that's a huge part of it. Not only from a practical, logical aspect— Chuuya might
be a little better off than he was when he was eighteen, with more opportunities and
schooling, but he's still only twenty, and still can’t support himself and a child. Maybe, if he
was pressed, he could do it, but his family would most likely have to step in and help him
out.

But he doesn’t want to do it by himself or with his family. None of his imaginings have ever
included just him and a baby; it’s always been him, his partner, and their children.

More recently, it’s been him and Dazai and their children. Even if Dazai hasn’t physically
been in his imaginings— like the fantasy he’d had about teaching his child how to tie their
first Judo belt— there’d always been a quiet knowledge that Dazai was always there in the
background. He might not always be there, but he’s never gone.

It’s been Dazai. It’s always been Dazai, ever since the moment they met, since the moment he
took Chuuya to dinner so he wouldn’t waste his makeup, since the day they kissed while
pressed up against his car.

He can’t imagine any part of his life without him now. It’s just him, it’s just Dazai, no
thoughts of anyone else besides the people that can fit comfortably in the spaces they create
together.

He nods, watching Dazai through his lashes to get a gauge of how he’s feeling. They haven’t
had a lot of ‘serious’ conversations, not since Chuuya learned everything there was to know
about Dazai’s past with the mafia.

By that time, they’d already moved in together, and they already had pets, and it was already
agreed Chuuya would go back to college when he could. Having children hadn't been
anywhere in the discussions then— and it's the only big, life-altering decision left to make.

Well, besides marriage, that is, but Dazai gets a little squirrely whenever he even mentions
marriage offhand, so Chuuya's kind of tabled that discussion for later, when his boyfriend
doesn’t look like he’s about to start accusing him of murder whenever he brings it up. Even
murder is an easier conversation to have with him.

“It doesn’t have to be right now,” he clarifies, because it’s not like he’s expecting to sign
adoption papers tomorrow or even next month, “but… yeah. Kids, with you. Together.”

For a long moment, Dazai just...stares at him. The expression on his face makes it seem like
he's thinking hard about something, like he's struggling to understand.

Was bringing up the idea of having children together that surprising? Early, maybe, and
probably completely out of the blue, but was the subject really enough to have Dazai looking
that dumbfounded?
"Are you sure that's what you want?" he asks eventually, slowly enough that Chuuya's
stomach starts to plunge with what he assumes is about to be a gentle letdown. "I mean,"
Dazai shrugs, "you saw how Shuuji turned out. Are you sure you want to have kids with
someone who’s already a bad father?”

The way he says it is like he’s trying to play it off as a joke. Like it doesn’t bother him, like
it’s supposed to be funny, like Chuuya is supposed to just giggle, come to his senses and drop
the subject now that he knows better.

But he already knows better, and it’s not in the way Dazai probably thinks he should.

In no way is Chuuya saying Shuuji is a great person— but other the past two years, watching
both Shuuji and Dazai work on mending their relationship, both of them tentative and
awkward and delicately trying to smooth over all their past mistakes, has given Chuuya a
new insight into Shuuji’s character. The man who comes to dinner once a month with a bottle
of wine or whiskey, eagerly dragging his boyfriend behind him— and Ranpo and Shuuji is
not a pairing that Chuuya would have ever thought of, but they seem to enjoy it and each
other, based on the ‘your son calls me daddy too’ shirts Ranpo wears whenever Dazai makes
the mistake of inviting him to family dinner—is not the same boy who once pulled a knife on
Chuuya. The old Shuuji would’ve never awkwardly apologized to him, would’ve never
considered dropping out of his business degree to pursue becoming a private investigator (a
fact that both Ranpo and Dazai find hilarious), probably would’ve never been caught in an
almost-year-long relationship.

He’s different now. He’s changed, grown. Even Chuuya can see it, and he’s not someone who
spends a lot of time with him. Plus—

“You can’t take all the blame for that, and you know that,” he reminds him gently, rolling
closer and pushing on his shoulders until Dazai gets the message and lets himself be pushed
over onto his back. Following him smoothly, Chuuya swings a leg over his hips and lands
squarely in his lap. “We’ve talked about this.”

Face twitching with discomfort, Dazai looks away. They haven’t had a lot of conversations
about this, mostly because Chuuya isn't sure how to bring it up when it makes Dazai so
uncomfortable. He still doesn't like to talk about his past and likes even less to be absolved of
sins he’s accepted of himself, but he will listen if Chuuya pushes for it.

"You were young," he reminds him gently, reaching out to stroke his cheeks, uncaring that
the three-day stubble drags against his fingertips.

It’s true— he was young, so terribly, terribly young and inexperienced. Younger than Chuuya
is now, younger than he was even when they first met. And he didn’t have any knowledge to
draw from, never had even a memory of a good family to look back on. Never had to watch
over younger siblings, or even had friends with siblings. When Shuuji was born, he had no
idea what to do with him and no one that would help him learn.

Even Sasaki, from what Chuuya can gather, mostly left them to their own devices when she
allowed them to see each other at all, too hurt by Dazai’s seeming betrayal when he refused
to get into a relationship with her again. Which, in one aspect, can be seen as a good thing—

But in another, it meant that the intermittent times Dazai was allowed to see Shuuji when he
was a child, he didn’t have any idea what to do with him. Didn’t have any idea of what was
going on with the kid at home, didn’t know how to enforce boundaries, didn’t know that he
needed to be setting an example.

Back then, he didn’t know a lot of things. It’s the reason he made so many mistakes. Not the
only reason, but it’s a bit unfair to expect someone like Dazai to be instantly good at
parenting. The man can barely parent himself most days, and he’s almost middle aged.

“Besides,” he continues, patting his cheek, “you wouldn’t be alone this time. I’d be with
you.”

Gaze swinging back to him, Dazai just…looks at him for a long moment. Takes him in from
head to the soft paleness of the inside of his knees, his eyes brimming with something
unreadable. It’s not sexual, but it is a little unnerving, like he’s trying to see straight through
to the heart of him, trying to decide if what he’s saying can be trusted to be true.
If nothing else, Chuuya knows that he’s proven himself capable of handling Dazai’s most
secret, vulnerable places. If nothing else, Dazai should know that he will stand by him, even
when it’s hard, even when they both take turns stumbling off the path making mistakes.

Maybe it’ll be hard, and confusing and scary. Maybe at times it will all go wrong and it’ll be
hard to remember why they did it. But at least they will always have each other. At least
they’ll never be alone again. At least they’ve chosen each other over and over again and will
do it again.

Running his hands up Chuuya’s legs in a caress that’s both affectionate and sensual, Dazai
hums. “You want kids with me?” He repeats, a note of teasing entering his voice.

It’s not an answer either way, but Chuuya relaxes anyways. Dazai’s always like this;
whenever he needs a break, needs space to think about something and come to his own
conclusion, he always turns the conversation with humor. Makes him laugh or gets him
distracted so Dazai can think it through on his own.

Over the years, Dazai has become very familiar to him. Chuuya knows him down to the
bones, even the parts he instinctively tries to hide. By now, he can tell when Dazai genuinely
needs a break and when he’s truly uncomfortable.

That’s the reason Chuuya lets him play it off, right now. There’s no pressure, not now; he
doesn’t need an answer right now. He'd like one, but—

He's learned his lesson on pushing Dazai into speaking about things before he's ready.
Learned his lesson about putting him on the spot and surprising him.

It's fine. They have time— and Dazai taking the time to think about it means it's not a no. Not
outright, at least. Thinking about it means he might say yes. Chuuya is patient enough to wait
for that. He loves him enough to give him space to come to his own decision.

And if Dazai wants to do something other than talking... he could very easily be convinced to
go along with that idea. The soft skin of his thighs is already pebbled with goosebumps,
always ready to react to any of Dazai’s touches.
“You want a baby?” He continues in the same voice, one of his hands coasting high enough
to sweep his thumb over the crease where Chuuya’s hip meets his stomach. The other stays
on his thigh, casually displaying how big his hands are by easily wrapping his fingers around
nearly half of Chuuya’s thigh, his palm burning hot and the pads of his fingers assertively
strong in how he absentmindedly kneads at his muscle.

The inside of his thighs are still littered with the marks he left. Some of them are days old,
favorite spots of Dazai’s that never really go away because he never lets them completely
fade away. Some of them are only hours old.

Almost too naturally, Dazai’s fingers align with a bruise he left two days ago. He squeezes,
not harsh but firm, unrelenting until there’s a twinge of sore-pain that zings up Chuuya’s
spine.

There’s a certain type of masochism that lies in pushing a body to its limits and forcing it to
keep going. It’s what Chuuya loves the most, the thigh-shaking exhaustion, the sweating, the
way his body aches for a break that it won’t get, the straining for just a little more, a little
longer.

He’s almost there already. His thighs still ache from being thrown over Dazai’s shoulders
earlier, and his abs ache with every deep breath. Satisfaction thrums through him like a drug,
potent enough to make his whole body buzz.

It’d be easy to stretch into sleep, to let a quick nap take up the rest of his late afternoon. It’s
the weekend, nothing to do except enjoy the rest of his free time.

Beneath him, Dazai’s thighs flex. It’s not a move to throw him off, but just a way to remind
Chuuya how easily he can lift his weight, how easy it would be for him to flip them over and
pin him down.

“You want my baby?” He asks, eyes hot enough to melt. The tone he shoots for is casual but
falls short, curling into something darker, headier, rolling off his tongue like wine-flavored
sin. The hand on Chuuya’s stomach moves, an almost-innocent gesture that purposefully
sweeps over the soft expanse of his belly on its way up his chest.
And—

This isn’t what Chuuya meant by them having kids— hadn’t even thought of something like
this, really, but he can’t deny that the gesture sparks something inside him.

If he could have Dazai’s baby, if he was fucked good enough, long enough, that his body
could do nothing less than make a space inside for Dazai to stay, if his belly could grow soft
and round and everyone could see the evidence inside him, being so thoroughly claimed that
it would be obvious to everyone who looked at him, the idea of growing a precious little life
inside him, maybe one with Dazai’s nose and his hair, being able to see and hold the evidence
of their time together—

It sends a spark of heat through him, a shot of longing like lightning down his spine. He
shifts, a subtle rock of his hips. Beneath him, Dazai’s thighs flex again.

It’s too early for his cock to fill out again— Dazai had practically wrung him dry, seemingly
determined to make him cry before he finally let himself finish— but there’s a different kind
of arousal stirring in him now, something deeper and hotter. Not the urgent, outward need
that burns quickly, but a molten desire that smolders low and long and deep. Something that's
not easily sated, something that burns and burns and burns, and won't be put out quickly or
quietly.

All too-knowing, Dazai grins up at him. Self-satisfaction is a good look on him, the twinkle
in his eye and the unique curve to his mouth when he realizes he's about to get what he wants
as compelling as the idea itself.

Happiness, contentment, is an even better look on him, and something he has settled into well
over the past two years. Chuuya wants to keep him looking like this, starry-eyed and pink-
cheeked, for the rest of their lives.

Settling deeper into the seat of Dazai’s hips and letting his ass brush deliberately over his
stirring cock, Chuuya makes his eyes rounder and lets his tongue swipe over his bottom lip.
“Yes, daddy,” he says, faux-innocent, a grin growing on his face when Dazai’s eyes
immediately turn molten and focused.
After all this time— even after Chuuya shamelessly abusing the ‘daddy’ privilege to get
whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it— it still gets Dazai going. It’s like a button that
just turns off his self-control, and Chuuya loves to press it.

Fingers digging hard into his hips, Dazai drags him forward and then back, a mimicry of the
way he moves when they fuck.

“If you want it so bad,” he breathes, devil-sweet, “then take it.”

With a giggle, feeling high on life and full to the brim with happiness and love, Chuuya does.
Again and again and again, until they’re both too breathless to keep going.
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