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It happens on a gloomy day, when Chuuya has taken to watching over a sick, broken-armed Dazai for some god-forsaken reason.
He goes to get Dazai a cup of miso soup that he knows will be turned away, because he’s a complete moron, really, and when he gets back to the room he finds Dazai flung across his bed reading some book.
“What is that?” Chuuya asks, referring to the black, leather-bound book held up by Dazai’s good hand. It’s not The Complete Guide to Suicide, which is the only book Chuuya has ever seen Dazai read.
Without looking over, Dazai says, “It’s one of Mori-san’s record books from my childhood.”
Chuuya frowns. That’s… creepy, and a little concerning, that something like that exists—standard for the Boss, he supposes. Still, “Why the hell was he keeping record books about you?”
“Hmm, I wonder why Chuuya is always so interested when I bring up my history with Mori-san?” Dazai says, turning a page and continuing to read.
“I’m not,” Chuuya mutters, ears going red. He momentarily weighs the pros and cons of pouring the hot soup over Dazai’s head. In the end, he decides he shouldn’t, but only because he’d ruin his own bed in the process. “Here,” he says instead, shoving it at Dazai, and it comes out like an insult.
Finally Dazai puts the record book down and looks at Chuuya. “Chuuya brought me soup? Why?” He makes no move to grab it.
Chuuya shifts, shrugs. Is the real reason going to freak Dazai out? He’s always meaner when he’s scared.
Really, it’s because Dazai has been loitering around his place all week while he’s been sick, and Chuuya has only seen the bandage-wasting-device eat once in that time. Even then it was nothing more than a few disinclined bites of canned crab he had left on the nightstand with a pair of chopsticks.
“I… You haven’t tried to kill yourself all week, shitty Dazai, so I thought you might be malnourished.”
Dazai sits up, sounds out the words slowly like Chuuya is the one lacking emotional intelligence: “I don’t need Chuuya’s charity.”
And that does it, because the last goddamn thing this is is charity.
Chuuya slams the soup down on the nightstand, flaring at Dazai. More than anything, he’s embarrassed, because he’s being pathetic and he knows it. There’s no reason he should have to interact with Dazai at all, except for the Boss’s orders. Yet he finds himself doing things like this not to obey the Boss, but because… because.
Chuuya can feel his face get hot when he says, “I was trying to be nice to you.”
“I never asked Chuuya to be nice to me,” Dazai counters.
“Well you clearly fucking need it the way you act so pent up and tortured all the time,” Chuuya retorts.
Voice low, Dazai asks, “What does Chuuya know about torture?”
And yeah, what the fuck is Chuuya supposed to say to that?
A thick, tense moment elapses as they glare into the dark pools of one another’s eyes. Chuuya says, “Don’t do that shit right now. Can’t you ever just communicate your needs like a normal goddamn human?”
It’s a lot to ask, maybe, for Dazai, but Chuuya doesn’t care. He’s so tired of being hit out of nowhere by the brief and lurid glimpses Dazai gives him of a beyond-fucked-up past, when there’s nowhere for Chuuya to go and nothing for Chuuya to do with the clues given to him.
The black cloud that is Dazai’s face clears some. He crawls slowly to the edge of the bed, up into Chuuya’s space and says, “Is that what a normal human would do?”
Chuuya wrinkles his nose, leaning away. The air is too warm between them, like Dazai’s fever-ridden body is radiating swells of heat. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t actually take a step back, but—“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a sincere question,” Dazai says, and his tone conveys no hint that it isn’t. “Would a normal human just ask for what they want when they want something?”
Okay, what—
“Hey, Chuuya, tell me. I’m asking because I don’t know.”
Chuuya swallows. “Yeah, they would. If you want something, and it would make you feel better, you should say it.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Chuuya repeats. Is this a fucking joke? “Because otherwise you won’t get what you want. You might get things you don’t want.” He frowns. “Shitty Dazai, are you trying to tick me off now?”
Dazai doesn’t answer, appearing to be lost in thought. And that’s…
“Oi,” Chuuya snaps, flicking the bandaged idiot’s forehead.
The haze in Dazai’s eye clears, and he looks at Chuuya like he’s seeing him for the first time. Leers at him darkly. “What I want,” Dazai purrs, stepping off the bed and smothering even closer, “is to get off. But my hand… Hmph.”
Chuuya will be damned if he admits that it catches him off guard, but he doesn’t shy away from Dazai’s looming. “Huh. It’s too bad I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Chuuya relishes in the fact that were he not so close, he would have missed the way Dazai’s eye narrows fractionally.
Pouty brat.
“I might feel better if someone helped me out,” Dazai shrugs. His nose scrunches up then, and it’s fucking annoying that it’s cute. “Someone that’s not Odasaku. That’s gross.”
“What a shame there’s nobody you like around,” Chuuya muses, enjoying the leverage he knows he has right now even if Dazai is acting like he’s in control.
Rocking back on his heels, Dazai puts some much-needed space between the two of them. “Ah, Chuuya misunderstands me. I don’t hook up with people I like.”
Chuuya levels Dazai with an unimpressed gaze. “Is that a rule?”
“Strictly speaking.”
Chuuya hums. Looks Dazai up and down. It’s the first time he’s let himself do so without trying to hide it from the other, not keen on inviting the relentless teasing that would no doubt rain down upon him. But right now, Dazai can’t tease Chuuya for his open staring; Dazai is the one in a position to be made fun of, if anyone is.
But that’s not what Chuuya wants to do right now either. Making a decision, he keeps his eyes on Dazai. “Undo your belt.”
Dazai’s lone eye widens marginally. Surprised that Chuuya is actually going along with it—Chuuya scoffs. If Dazai thought he would do nothing but blush and shy away like a virgin at his provocation, he’s wrong.
Deft fingers make effortless work of unbuckling the belt, even barring the use of one hand, but like the stubborn brat he is, Dazai stops there and gives Chuuya a waiting smirk. He’s too attractive like this, Chuuya thinks, too pretty in a yanked-down tie and his belt unbuckled. It’s repulsive.
Chuuya wants to dishevel him even more.
He steps forward, hooks a hand in Dazai’s waistband, and crowds him against the wall. Cages him in with his free arm. Their noses are so close that he can feel the heat of Dazai’s breath on his face, soundless as it is, and the intricate pattern of Dazai’s iris looks to Chuuya like the swirls of a bleeding dust planet.
“Hah,” Dazai taunts, pushing his hips forward, “It looks like Chuuya is too eager to do this.”
At a glance down, Dazai is already half-hard. Chuuya tightens his grip and jerks him against the wall, holding him in place so he can’t move.
“Shut up,” he hisses. “If you want this, you’re gonna keep your bratty mouth shut. I’m doing this so you’ll be less annoying. Nod if you understand.”
And it’s always a surprise when Dazai actually complies. He nods once, pupil blown, not tearing his gaze from Chuuya’s.
The hand on Dazai’s waistband moves to undo his zipper. If Dazai hasn’t gotten off in weeks, Chuuya is going to drag this out. It’ll make it better for Dazai, anyway. And it will be fun for Chuuya to watch him suffer. But he doesn’t want to get too into this, because it’s fucking Dazai, and this entire scenario has only come to pass for the sake of getting him off so he’ll stop being such a whiny brat. Not for Chuuya’s own pleasure. Dazai’s broken arm will heal soon, and they’ll both act like this interaction never happened.
They stare at one another for a second that feels more like a minute, or an hour, or a goddamn eternity. Finally Chuuya snaps out of it enough to wrap his hand around Dazai’s cock, causing him to suck in a breath.
Chuuya deliberately looks away from Dazai’s face now, because if he doesn’t he might do something stupid like kiss him. He’s so fucking attractive, and something about him needing to be jerked off because he can’t do it himself is inexplicably hot. Dazai, who won’t ask for help if it kills him.
This is a very, very awful idea.
But Dazai wants this too.
“Do something,” he demands, and Chuuya realizes he’s been staring.
“I thought I said to shut up,” he snaps, but he obliges nonetheless.
Dazai sighs as Chuuya starts stroking him, slow, like he really hasn’t gotten off in awhile, head falling back against the wall with a dull thud. Chuuya figures he probably tried to do this himself, but that the angle wasn’t right and he was left unsatisfied and frustrated. The mental image of that is—
Don’t, Chuuya stops himself.
He does his best to focus on Dazai, as objectively as he can given the fact that this is really happening. The fact that he’s giving Dazai, of all goddamn people, a handjob. The last thing he wants is to get turned on by this himself, because Chuuya is obviously stupid but not so delusional that he’s convinced himself Dazai will reciprocate after this.
Even so, it’s hard to stay indifferent with the reactions Dazai is having.
True to Chuuya’s command, he’s stopped talking, but he isn’t really making much noise at all. Soft hitches of breath are the only sound in the room, the air charged with tension that could spill over at any moment. Stomach muscles twitch beneath the hand Chuuya has brought down to splay over the flat, bandaged plane of Dazai’s abdomen, and his eye is closed but not screwed up.
Chuuya wishes he would react more. It’s so like Dazai to reel in as much of his vulnerability as possible, even when he’s getting a fucking handjob.
“What’s it gonna take, huh?” Chuuya questions harshly, digging nails between gaps in bandages and into soft, sensitive skin. “I said to shut up, not to play dead.”
Dazai hisses a little. “Maybe if Chuuya stopped fucking teasing. This isn’t a porno,” he shoots back.
He sounds angry and far too composed, but Dazai doesn’t normally swear and Chuuya sees through it. Not bothering to hide his triumphant smirk, he yanks on Dazai’s hair so that he opens his eye and is forced to look at Chuuya again. A flush stains Dazai’s cheeks as he’s pinned harder against the wall, and the dilated pupil that gazes back at Chuuya draws him in like a black hole. The next moment, Dazai swears, and his hips jerk like he can’t help it.
“Better,” Chuuya murmurs, letting go of Dazai’s hair and catching his earlobe in his teeth when Dazai’s head drops down to rest on his shoulder.
It seems a little easier for Dazai now that Chuuya can’t see his face, even if his eyes have been mostly closed the whole time anyway. And Chuuya was teasing a little before, but he doesn’t now. Attaching his mouth to the sweat-damp skin of Dazai’s neck exposed between bandages, he gives him what he wants, what he’s been pent up over for weeks, brushing featherlight fingertips along his skin, stroking him at a perfect rhythm, thumb grazing the sensitive tip each time.
Hidden from Chuuya’s view, Dazai only half-stifles a whimper, hips stuttering. Chuuya would have missed it were Dazai not so close to his ear, and he relishes in the humiliation the brat must feel trying not to moan, completely at Chuuya’s mercy in such a desperate position when he usually maintains a constant guise of power and control. Chuuya almost doesn’t realize that Dazai’s unbroken hand has stayed glued to his side the whole time until trembling fingers are twisting in the lapel of his jacket.
“Close?” he asks, voice low.
Dazai shivers imperceptibly, nods once.
And God,it’s criminal that he’s really holding his tongue like Chuuya told him to. Apparently some orders are all it takes to get Dazai to shut up and be obedient. Wanting to reward the good behavior, Chuuya digs a thumb into Dazai’s hipbone at the same time that he brushes soft fingers across Dazai’s leaking slit. Another twist of his hand, hushed words of encouragement, and Dazai comes.
Chuuya only lets go when Dazai’s hips shy away from the overstimulation and even then, he drags it out a few ruthless seconds more just to enjoy the way Dazai squirms. He doesn’t think too hard about the fact that Dazai doesn’t tell him to stop because it’s—too much.
The silence in the room is at once deathly, ruptured only by Dazai’s faint panting. He lifts his head and lets it thunk back against the wall, leveling Chuuya with his hazy, sated gaze.
Chuuya’s insides swoop at the sight of Dazai pretty and spent, but he ignores it. He stares back at him, and then when it gets to be too much and Dazai isn’t looking away, he glances at his sticky, cum-covered hand, making a disgusted face. “Gross.”
“Chuuya wanted to do it,” Dazai shrugs, dragging his zipper back up.
“I wanted you to stop acting like a brat,” Chuuya corrects, irked by his own arousal as he steps away from Dazai.
Dazai tilts his head. “Chuuya should deal with that,” he says unhelpfully, pointing down at Chuuya’s pants. “Hah, the slug was into it.”
It takes everything Chuuya has not to just shove Dazai’s cum back in his face. He needs to scrub his skin. Restraining the volcanic anger that threatens to boil over and erupt, Chuuya keeps his tone as even as possible when he speaks. “Shitty Dazai. When I come out of that bathroom, I want you gone.”
“Aah, scary, scary~” Dazai concedes, putting his hands up in mock surrender.
And sometime later, when Chuuya does exit the bathroom after standing under a harsh stream of ice-cold water until the effort of keeping his mind blank isn’t Herculean, Dazai is gone, and with him, the soup.