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Sigma snores.
Usually, Dazai can tune out unwelcome noise without much effort, but right now each snuffled exhalation grates against his ears. Dazai huffs, rubbing more firmly at his arms through his prison-issued sweatshirt. Perhaps if his body weren’t already wracked with an unfathomable, unexplainable chill, the snoring wouldn’t bother him as much as it does. But ever since Chuuya dropped Sigma unceremoniously onto the bed and left for his own single hotel room without a word, Dazai’s body has refused to stop shivering.
It’s not something he’s ever felt before. He can’t pinpoint an external cause—the room is temperate, Dazai’s more than sufficiently dressed, and no strange breezes itch across his skin—and it couldn’t be an ability, which leaves an internal reason to blame. Of all the sensations he has to compare it to, it comes closest to the hollowness that haunted him for his two years underground after Odasaku died. But it’s more tangible than that loneliness was, something rooted more firmly in his physical self. If it weren’t for that detail, he’d just assume from context that he’s experiencing the after-effects of weeks in isolation, with no one but an eerie mirror of himself to talk to.
A few weeks of isolation is nothing in comparison to the years he spent alone, but he didn’t know the members of the Agency, then. Humans are social creatures, and he’s been unfortunately humanized by association during the years he’s been with the Agency. It doesn’t cost him anything to admit that he misses them. Misses teasing Kunikida into anger, misses Atsushi’s blind faith and gullibility, misses how Yosano bullies him into check-ups and threatens him when he complains. It’s a longing he’s not entirely comfortable with, proof of his connection to them that has always felt too much like a string someone could use to puppet him. But he’s not surprised that he experiences it.
This chill isn’t that, though. Loneliness doesn’t hurt like this, like someone is holding ice cubes against his skin until they start to melt, pulling them away just long enough to let sensation return before bringing the ice down once again. It’s as if his loneliness has been made physical.
Dazai blinks at the ceiling, abruptly understanding. For weeks inside his bubble, Dazai hasn’t been touched at all. No over-excited impulsive hugs from Atsushi, no fists twisted in his collar by Kunikida, no gentle cheek pats from Yosano as she sends him off with a clean—or at least tidy—bill of health.
Dazai’s body hurts with the need to be touched.
How disgusting.
Dazai huffs at his body and its preciousness. To think the bone-deep pain he’s experiencing now is due to a lack of affection. Ridiculous.
It requires a solution, of course. As he’s not currently in a position to off himself without incredibly inconveniencing those he cares about, he has to think beyond suicide. He’s never liked pain, and to just sit with it until he’s back in Yokohama would be a level of defeatism he refuses to give in to. He may be suicidal, but he’s not a quitter.
Sigma’s snoring permeates his thoughts once again. Dazai purses his lips. That infuriating slug, leaving him in this room with this overgrown three-year-old when he no doubt has a king-sized bed all to himself next door.
Dazai blinks again, backtracking to pick up that particular thought as if it were a discarded coin he found on the sidewalk. He turns it over in his mind, taking in all its little dents and edges, before deeming it sufficient and tucking it into his pocket. Dazai’s body needs to be touched, and he’s got a chibi one door over who knows how to touch him better than most.
Or who used to, at least.
Dazai climbs out of bed and moves in the direction of the bathroom. Given that it’s been over four years since Chuuya touched him that way, Dazai can’t imagine that a single provocative word would cause Chuuya to welcome Dazai back into his bed like a long lost lover. So he’ll need a plan. One he can think of while he prepares his body for the result.
By the time he reenters the main room, where Sigma continues to snore, Dazai has spent a solid hour trying to plan his infiltration of Chuuya’s bed. This should’ve provided him with more than sufficient time to come up with an idea that’ll get him past the threshold of Chuuya’s hotel room, and yet it didn’t. He discarded everything he thought of. Too ridiculous, too bold, and too earnest, in turn. As someone who prides himself on his quick, clever thinking, that’s about fifty-five minutes too long to be spending on a plan that the fate of the world does not hinge upon. Dazai huffs at himself.
“Sigma?” he croons to no response. Dazai crosses to Sigma’s bed, poking him in the cheek a few times before determining that he’s still well and truly passed out. Satisfied, he turns and stops just before he reaches the door, where a few tall mirrors panel the wall across from the bathroom. Dazai takes a moment to assess himself. The prison sweatsuit does little for him, and the lack of exercise in his bubble paired with the most consistent diet he’s been on in years have left him slightly softer around the middle and in his cheeks. Dazai tilts his head to the right. If he had a bandage around his eye, he’d almost mistake himself for eighteen again.
In the mirror, he watches himself smile.
It takes three long steps to cross from his door to Chuuya’s. It’s late here but nearly ten in the morning in Yokohama, and Chuuya has always been a disgustingly early riser. Even when they crashed at safehouses after late-night missions that were far enough outside the city, Chuuya always woke with the sun. Dazai would walk out to find him in the middle of a workout routine or something equally obscene for the early hour.
The thought of Chuuya sweaty and shirtless drives Dazai to lift his hand and knock on the door. He hears Chuuya let out a curse before his feet hit the floor with audible thumps, and then his loud footsteps stomp over to the door. Dazai leans close to the peephole so that Chuuya will be greeted by his fish-eyed stare, and he doesn’t restrain his smile when Chuuya growls in response.
The door cracks open just barely, a chain still linking it to the wall and cutting across Chuuya’s disgruntled expression. It’s better than Dazai’s worst predicted outcome, which was a muffled conversation through a firmly shut and locked door.
Chuuya glares. “What do you want?”
Dazai gives one of his more charming grins and cocks his hip. “Hi, Chuuya~,” he says, holding Chuuya’s name in his mouth the way Chuuya would taste one of his stupidly expensive wines.
Chuuya scowls and immediately starts to shut the door, but Dazai, having anticipated this, has already shoved his foot in the doorway. He doesn’t hide his wince as his foot is squished between the door and the jamb, since he knows any show of pain will just please Chuuya, and that is the point of the game, after all.
“Piss off,” Chuuya says, pressing against the door hard enough to grind together the bones in Dazai’s foot. Contrary to what one might think, it is actually a good sign. If Chuuya were truly trying to get rid of Dazai, he would’ve used gravity to completely crush Dazai’s foot beneath the door before he could even lift a hand to nullify it.
Dazai affects a pout. “But Chuuya, I’m bored.”
“Play with your phone.” Instead of me, Dazai hears.
“They took it when I was arrested.” That’s a lie. He hadn’t brought his phone to the racetrack at all, leaving it in a pile of Ranpo’s snacks to be shoved into his safe. It’s one of the few locks that even Dazai can’t pick, so he knew it would be secure.
Chuuya squints suspiciously but doesn’t call Dazai on the lie. “Read a book, then.”
Dazai huffs dramatically. “I’ve spent weeks reading books.”
“So one more night won’t kill you.” Chuuya scoffs, his eyes flicking away momentarily. “Not that you’d mind if it did.”
Dazai leans toward Chuuya, minimizing their height difference and bringing their faces closer together, even with the door still between them. He grins lasciviously. “I’m not looking to die right now.”
Chuuya remains unimpressed. “I’d rather kill you than give you what you’re asking for.”
Dazai considers the idea, wondering if Chuuya’s hands around his throat would soothe the ache the way his body wants. Perhaps if Chuuya took his gloves off first. Chuuya has nice hands with well-manicured nails and strong fingers. They’re soft, too, since he so rarely goes without the protective barrier of his gloves. It’s a pleasant thought, but Dazai discards it. He wasn’t lying when he said that he wasn’t looking to die right now. It’s not oblivion his body is craving.
“What if I asked really nicely?” Dazai offers, batting his eyelashes demurely.
“No point.” Chuuya’s face wrinkles in disgust. “Even if you somehow grew a single polite bone in your body, you still wouldn’t be able to make me believe it.” Dazai blinks a few times, analyzing the words. So it won’t be enough to simply play at pleading for Chuuya tonight. That makes the situation more complicated but not impossible. He’s always been good at adjusting his plans on the fly.
Dazai shakes out his shoulders and straightens up, ducking his head to keep his eyes on Chuuya’s. “Please, Chuuya,” he says with his usual—if slightly more self-effacing—irreverence. “Don’t make me say please.”
Chuuya squints up at him and Dazai lets his face do what it likes. Even in choosing to allow it freedom, he can’t help how he instinctively categorizes his own features. The remnants of a grin linger on his lips and his eyes are clear and open. It must look more like a puppet playing at humanity than his usual attempts at sincerity. Dazai knows how to feign the emotions others want to see in his face—it convinces them, reassures them, or frightens them as needed—but he thinks the not-quite-rightness of his current expression is probably the most honest of them all.
Dazai can play at human better than most, but it is always just that—playing. Even if the choice to show Chuuya the act is itself a manipulation, the honesty of it can’t be feigned, not if he’s going to convince Chuuya to open the door.
Chuuya scowls. The door shuts between them, and for a breathless moment, Dazai thinks he’s misstepped somehow. His mind is already analyzing the interaction, looking for where he must have fucked up, when the audible grind of the chain lock being slid open breaks through his thoughts. The door reopens wide enough for a person to fit through. Dazai releases the breath he’s been holding.
“Get inside before I change my mind.”
Dazai grins and does just that.
Chuuya’s hotel room is a near-exact mirror of the one Dazai just left, except it has a single king bed rather than a pair of doubles. A television sits atop a dresser opposite the bed and beside it is a desk and swivel chair. Chuuya’s jacket has been draped over the back of the chair, his boots sitting neatly on the ground below. His hat rests on the desktop and a tiny, half-drunk bottle of liquor from the mini bar sits next to it. Dazai takes in this information before turning to regard Chuuya.
Sock-footed and hatless Chuuya, in a loose-fitting white T-shirt and a pair of unfairly tight pants. His cheeks are faintly pink, likely from the alcohol, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Dazai since Dazai crossed the threshold of the room. Not in a sexy way, though. It’s more of a suspicious look, as if he’s still not convinced that Dazai doesn’t have some ulterior motive. Dazai supposes he does. What is wanting if not the strongest motivator?
“How do you want me?” Dazai asks, gesturing widely around the room with both hands.
Chuuya’s expression doesn’t shift. “I want you out of my room so I can finish my drink in peace.”
Dazai suppresses a wince. Apparently, entering the room didn’t win him the ground he thought it did. “Come now, chibi, let’s move past pretending you don’t want me here.”
“I don’t want you here,” Chuuya says with an immediacy that Dazai could take for a lie, but the tense line of Chuuya’s body, the frustration visible in his clenched fists doesn’t read like a lie. Then why did you let me in? Dazai wants to ask, like poking a bruise, but he bites his tongue. They both know the answer to that question, and voicing it now wouldn’t help him get what he wants.
“Most people would be grateful to have my pretty face in their hotel room, asking for this.” Dazai considers the distance between them. Chuuya stands beside the bed, Dazai at the foot of it. He wants to cross the distance, but he’s unsure if it would be welcome. Daring, he takes a step to the left, as if toward the mini bar.
Chuuya eyes him but doesn’t otherwise react. “I’m not one of them.” Dazai chances another step, this one further left but also forward, to the corner where the entryway meets the room proper. Chuuya’s glare sharpens and he spits, “If I never saw you again for the rest of my life, it’d still be too soon.”
There’s nowhere left to go but right to Chuuya now. Dazai hesitates for half a second. Dancing around Chuuya has always felt safer than approaching him directly, but his skin pulses with the reminder of why he’s here. Ah, well. Can’t be helped.
Dazai takes half a step forward and Chuuya stiffens. Dazai represses the urge to curse. There’s still a meter or so left between them, too far for Dazai to cross without risking Chuuya reacting faster and jumping away before he can make contact. Dazai’s fingers twitch at his sides as he runs through his options. If he chooses wrong, it could remove the possibility of this being anything other than another fight.
An idea occurs to him. He grits his teeth against it, but he’s only got so much time before Chuuya refuses to continue standing here in silence, and it’s the best shot Dazai has of getting what he wants.
Dazai takes a steadying breath and steels himself before sliding to his knees on the carpeted floor. It’s not as graceful as he’d like it to be, what with his injured leg, but he manages to catch himself without using his hands or hurting his knees, so he counts it as a win. When he peers up at Chuuya through his bangs, the wideness of Chuuya’s eyes also registers as a victory.
“I know Chuuya is still angry,” Dazai murmurs, so Chuuya has to look closely at his lips to make out the words. “He may take it out on my body, if he likes.”
Chuuya freezes. The air in the room is tense like a held breath as Dazai awaits his reaction. Several different possibilities flit around his brain and, if he cared to, he could grab any one of them and come up with a contingency plan. But Dazai has spent weeks constantly planning, adjusting, analyzing Fyodor’s words and expressions for some indication of how to keep the people he cares about safe. Perhaps he’s tired. Perhaps he can just let his heart beat too fast and wait for Chuuya’s reaction like someone normal would. He keeps himself still as he waits, holding one of his wrists in his opposite hand at the small of his back. There’s something sickeningly sweet to this kind of submission, not necessarily in the position itself but in choosing to let Chuuya decide what to do about it. It weakens something in Dazai, like sugar eating away at the enamel of a tooth. It takes concerted effort not to flinch away from it.
Between one blink and the next, Chuuya snarls and closes the distance. His gloved hand ends up twisted in Dazai’s hair, pulling his head back so that his neck bends at an uncomfortable angle and he has no choice but to look directly up at Chuuya looming above him.
Sometimes, Dazai can’t help but be struck by Chuuya’s beauty. In the time since he left Dazai and Sigma to their room, he’s managed to detach the fangs from his mouth, but his incisors still appear unnaturally sharp as his lips peel back in a snarl. His hair has made a good effort at slipping out of his side ponytail, red wisps curling around his face and neck. One errant piece even ghosts along his cheekbone, accentuating its prominent curve. The urge to touch it, push it behind Chuuya’s ear, and trail his own fingertips in its place, briefly overwhelms Dazai, even as he remains unmoving on his knees.
“You think that’s an even trade?” Chuuya asks through gritted teeth, as he tugs even harder at Dazai’s hair. “Years of dealing with your shit in return for roughing up a body you don’t even care about?”
There’s a logic to his words. Dazai has never truly considered his body to be part of himself. His body has always been a tool for his mind to use as needed. This body has been punched, stabbed, shot, and some if not all of that damage has been inflicted by his own hands or with the conscious permission of his mind. He hasn’t treated this body well once in his twenty-two years. Offering it to Chuuya now does seem like little more than an empty promise.
But tonight is different. Tonight, his body aches in a way his mind can’t reason away. His skin buzzes with need, and it hasn’t settled even slightly until now, with Chuuya’s gloved knuckles pressed into his scalp as he grips Dazai’s hair tightly in his fist. It’s not what he wants, it’s not enough, but it’s more than he’s had in weeks. Something inside him burns.
“What more does Chuuya want?” Dazai asks, wetting his lips after he speaks, finding them unexpectedly dry. I’ll give it to you, Dazai thinks but doesn’t say. He’s had too much experience negotiating to carelessly say something so stupid, but the fact that he even thinks it speaks volumes.
The snarl frozen on Chuuya’s face thaws momentarily into something more complicated, frustrated and pained in a way that hollows a space in Dazai’s chest. It suddenly strikes him how cruel he’s being, to come in here asking Chuuya for this, after everything. If he were truly the man Odasaku requested he become, he would leave now that he understands, but, as always, he falls short of that expectation. Dazai has willingly gotten shot for little more than information that could possibly save his boss, but tearing himself away from Chuuya’s hand right now would require a strength, a selflessness, he knows he doesn’t possess.
Dazai leans forward, pulling against Chuuya’s grip just enough to make it hurt the slightest bit more, and decides that if he’s going to be cruel, he might as well be stupid, too. “Whatever Chuuya wants, he can have.”
A growl builds in the back of Chuuya’s throat, but before it can breach the cage of his teeth he joins Dazai on the ground, using the grip on Dazai’s hair to pull their mouths together and muffle the sound. Chuuya tastes like liquor—not whiskey but something adjacent—as he licks into Dazai’s mouth. For a handful of moments, Dazai simply lets himself be kissed, jaw slack, lips parted, giving Chuuya all the breath in his lungs before he attempts to kiss back. The problem with not letting himself predict Chuuya’s reactions is that he hadn’t expected this, to be kissed like he’s being consumed.
When they were teenagers, Chuuya kissed like he was out for blood. He would leave Dazai’s mouth swollen and red, scrape his teeth against skin and bite as it pleased him. Dazai would laugh instead of moaning, quipping about his unruly dog until Chuuya got so annoyed that he’d shove something into Dazai’s mouth to shut him up.
Now, Dazai can’t break away long enough to speak. All the sharpness of their youth remains under the surface, like blood rising to freshly-bruised skin, but it’s more concentrated. Chuuya is patient, working away at the sensitive spots in Dazai’s mouth with focused determination until everything feels like one giant, exposed nerve and the gentlest of breezes would leave Dazai reeling as if he’s been smacked. After weeks of nothing, it’s everything and too much in a way he could see himself getting addicted to. Somehow, distantly, he manages to think about trying to have this again, after tonight, but then Chuuya drags his incisor along the top of Dazai’s bottom lip with enough pressure to leave a welt in his wake, and Dazai’s thoughts slip away so seamlessly he can’t find it in himself to care.
Dazai loses time. At some point, Chuuya’s other hand comes up to cup his cheek. The expensive leather should be smooth against his skin, but it only makes Dazai wish it was Chuuya’s bare hand instead. Periodically, Chuuya drifts away from Dazai’s mouth, pressing wet kisses down his chin and along his cheek, biting oh-so-gently at the hinge of Dazai’s jaw until Dazai’s unattended mouth lets out a breath that tastes like a moan, and then Chuuya drifts back to his lips to swallow the sound. Dazai only realizes he’s hard when his hips jerk without conscious thought and his crotch drags along the tops of Chuuya’s thighs. A groan chokes off in his throat.
“Chuuya,” he manages under the onslaught.
Chuuya’s hand tightens in Dazai’s hair, but he doesn’t otherwise react.
The dizzying pleasure has overwhelmed every other sense up until now, but as Dazai continues to rut, unable to stop chasing the contact, a sharp pain in his leg makes itself known. More intently, he says, “Chuuya,” and Chuuya actually pulls back far enough for their eyes to meet. A string of spit stretches away from Chuuya’s lips and Dazai acknowledges that the other end of it must be attached to his own mouth. Gross, he thinks idly, even as his dick twitches in his prison-issued sweatpants.
“Your leg?” Chuuya asks, voice rough like he hasn’t spoken in days. Dazai nods and Chuuya sighs. He releases his hold on Dazai’s hair at the same time his hand drops from Dazai’s cheek and he sits back until no part of their bodies remains in contact. Internally, Dazai’s body reacts like antiseptic has been unceremoniously dumped into an open wound. Outwardly, Dazai remains perfectly still.
Chuuya stands and steps around Dazai’s still-kneeling body. Dazai doesn’t turn to watch him go, just blinks at the wall in front of him and wills his heart rate back down to a resting level. Either he underestimated his body’s need for contact or Chuuya has become a remarkably better kisser—or both—because never before has Dazai been left so utterly ruined by a simple makeout. Despite the pain in his leg, which has only grown since it made itself known, he hesitates to stand in case his legs can’t hold his weight. To waver in front of Chuuya would be a level of vulnerability he hasn’t decided he’s comfortable with. That is, if Chuuya is even still looking at him. From his kneeling position, Dazai can see only the top half of the bed and the wall behind it. Chuuya’s footsteps have stopped somewhere near the dresser. The slide of a drawer opening registers even through Dazai’s haze, so he has a rough idea of where Chuuya is standing but nothing more than that.
“Get on the bed,” Chuuya says with a slight huff, as if he’s annoyed Dazai hasn’t already done so.
Dazai carefully pushes himself to his feet and suppresses a sigh of relief as his legs hold steady. He turns to find Chuuya standing at the dresser, a familiarly-shaped bottle and square, foil packet in his hands.
“Chuuya~,” he says, before he can help himself, “how presumptuous of you.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes but doesn’t scowl, which is basically a smile from him. “Don’t flatter yourself, asshole. It’s a French hotel. They’re complementary.”
That’s certainly a less fun explanation, but he supposes it makes sense. Turning away from Chuuya, Dazai regards the bed. It’s perfectly made, untouched even by dents, so Chuuya must’ve been sitting at the desk before Dazai arrived. It seems silly to climb onto it while still wearing his clothes. It’ll be much more difficult to take them off once he’s lying down, especially with his injuries. So he tugs off his sweatshirt and shoves the sweatpants from his legs. He steps out of the puddle of fabric on the ground and uses his uninjured leg to pull himself onto the mattress. As he settles down on his butt, shuffling up until his shoulders hit the pillows, the bottle of lube and foil packet are tossed next to him on the duvet. Dazai follows their trajectory back to their source, where Chuuya stands at the foot of the bed, considering.
It’s only as Chuuya looks at him that Dazai realizes he is one, still wearing his underwear, and two, still wrapped in most of his bandages. Most of the times they fucked as teenagers, one or both of them still wore the majority of their clothes, pushed aside just enough to get at the necessary places. That was because they usually fucked in places they probably shouldn’t have: alleyways after missions, backseats of cars, Dazai’s shipping container, which didn’t have enough insulation to make stripping comfortable or worth it. But whenever they fucked like this, in a real bed, they always shed all of their clothes. Dazai, notably, would take off his bandages.
“It’s not like I don’t know what’s under them,” Chuuya said once as he tugged them free from Dazai’s body. “And they’re scratchy as shit against my skin.”
For a moment, Dazai hesitates, slipping one finger under the edge of the bandage that wraps around the top of his thigh. But before he can try to undo it, Chuuya huffs and climbs onto the bed fully clothed. He pushes Dazai’s thighs apart to make room for himself between them and leans down. Dazai parts his lips in invitation, but Chuuya doesn’t kiss him on the mouth, instead ducking his head to bite at the underside of Dazai’s chin. Dazai swallows the sound of surprise burgeoning in his throat, but with his teeth right above Dazai’s vocal chords, Chuuya doubtlessly notices anyway. He doesn’t comment, though, just continues leaving bites down Dazai’s neck, nosing bandages out of the way as needed. In the awkward spots, like Dazai’s collarbones, the gaps in the bandages grow larger, and Chuuya lingers in those places, sucking bruises into Dazai’s skin before scraping his teeth over them, presumably to double the hurt.
Meanwhile, Chuuya’s gloved hands begin to roam. He drags the leather along Dazai’s sides, pressing on the extra softness around Dazai’s hips and stomach. Usually Dazai is skin and bones, running on a diet of whiskey and pain pills, but Meursault was strict about its prisoners adhering to their diets, unwilling to let them die due to malnutrition because it would prematurely end their sentences. Gloved fingers slip under the bandages just below Dazai’s belly button and press so firmly it hurts, dimpling the skin of Dazai’s stomach.
Dazai looks down, past Chuuya’s head still buried in his neck to where black leather disappears under white bandages. He follows the line of Chuuya’s hand to where the glove gives way to Chuuya’s delicate, pale wrist. He continues up Chuuya’s forearm, lined with purplish veins, to his upper arm, bicep tensed as he pushes into Dazai’s skin. His muscles are taught and lithe where they disappear under the hem of his T-shirt sleeve. Chuuya’s power has always been deceptive, hidden inside his small, graceful body until the moment he unleashes it. Dazai knows that better than anyone, and still he finds himself unprepared to be at the receiving end of it.
It’s the ache, Dazai thinks. It continues to pulse under his skin, his body’s hunger only growing with every touch interrupted by fabric. If only Chuuya weren’t wearing his clothes, if only he’d taken off his gloves. If fingertips were branding Dazai’s skin rather than the buttery-soft, impersonal leather, the ache would abate and Dazai would stop reacting to everything Chuuya does with unprecedented awe.
“Chuuya should take off his clothes,” Dazai says, since that seems less damning a request than asking him to remove the gloves.
“No,” Chuuya responds, muffled into Dazai’s sternum.
“Why not?” Dazai says, affecting something of a whine, but it hitches as Chuuya bites down too hard. His teeth linger, not enough to break the skin but long enough that little bruises in the shape of his bite will probably bloom on Dazai’s skin.
“You said I can have what I want,” Chuuya says, pulling back far enough that the air from his words fans over the spit-wet skin, inducing a shiver. “This is what I want.”
Dazai twists his hands in the duvet beneath him. It was stupid of him to say that—terrible negotiating—but in the moment, it seemed like the only way to get anything from Chuuya at all. As Chuuya resumes his work, biting and mouthing at any visible skin, Dazai tries to remind himself that having something is better than nothing, especially when the something leaves him breathless and leaking in his briefs. But the disappointment lingers regardless, like grief.
The hand at Dazai’s stomach drifts down, teasing the line where his briefs meet his bandages. After Dazai had decided on this course of action, he’d dragged himself into the shower and scrubbed himself clean of debris and blood until his skin was pink around the jagged, white lines of his scars. He sat on the edge of the tub and wound bandages around his body, fresh ones he’d pilfered from a pharmacy on the way to the hotel. In the moment, it seemed practical, even though he planned to take them off as soon as he got to Chuuya’s room. He had no other clothes to wear but the prison sweatsuit, which was also dirtied from the whole ordeal, so the bandages would at least be a layer between his soap-clean skin and the sweat-soaked fabric. Partly for that reason, and partly because it was a hard habit to break after so many years of doing so, Dazai had been careful to wrap bandages around every bit of himself that he could.
It’s almost ritualistic for him, at this point. He starts at his neck and wraps in measured, even loops, criss-crossing around his torso until he can tie the bandage low on his hips. Then, he wraps his arms, right and then left, going from his wrists up to his shoulders, where he tucks the ends into the bandages around his chest. Finally, he does his legs, starting high on his thighs and continuing until he reaches his ankles, where he wraps the bandages around the arches of his feet. When he takes the bandages off, it’s always the same process, unwrapping his chest first and letting the bandages around his limbs unwind after.
Contrary to what one might assume, he doesn’t breathe easier without the restriction on his lungs. Any additional space for air is countered by the discomfort that comes without the sensation of bandages against his skin. Rarely does Dazai wish for them to be gone. The bandages have only ever been removed by himself, doctors, and Chuuya. Dazai has been wrapping himself in the same manner since he was twelve years old, and he knows, with the same surety he has that Chuuya will always come for him when needed, that Chuuya remembers exactly how to take them off. Right now, Chuuya’s hand lingers on the end of the bandage around Dazai’s torso, where it’s tucked in place. One twist of Chuuya’s hand would unravel the whole of it in moments.
Chuuya bypasses the end of the bandage in favor of slipping his hand inside Dazai’s briefs. Disappointment spreads as a bitterness at the back of Dazai’s throat, and he swallows as he pushes his hips into Chuuya’s gloved hand.
Dazai has leaked enough from Chuuya’s efforts so far that the glove glides smoothly as he strokes Dazai’s dick. It’s still just shy of how wet Dazai would prefer it to be, but he bites his tongue instead of requesting more lube. He told Chuuya he could have what he wants, and if what Chuuya wants is a slightly too-dry handjob, then Dazai supposes he owes him that and more. Besides, why bother asking for things if Chuuya is just going to refuse him?
Chuuya hums into the skin below his teeth as Dazai lets his hips jerk into the curl of Chuuya’s hand. “No performing,” he says, the words buzzing against Dazai’s pectoral.
Dazai huffs, twisting his fingers further into the duvet. “Are you sure Chuuya’s ego can handle that?” A sharp bite indicates Chuuya’s annoyance. He presses his tongue sharply into the indents left behind by his incisors.
“I don’t need you to pretend to give me the reactions I want.” Suddenly, he twists his wrist, his thumb digging into the slit of Dazai’s dick, the seam of his glove rough against sensitive skin. Unbidden, Dazai gasps, a sound so quiet anyone other than Chuuya would’ve missed it. Chuuya’s mouth stretches into a grin against Dazai’s chest, and it takes effort to slow his own pulse before Chuuya can taste that, too.
Chuuya works him over with unwavering dedication, his mouth continuing to roam across Dazai’s chest as his hand pumps Dazai’s dick inside his briefs. It takes less time for Dazai to reach the slope of his cresting orgasm than he would care to admit. His breath begins to hitch, his fingers twisting so hard in the duvet that it wouldn’t surprise him if the fabric tore, and his hips jerk into Chuuya’s hold erratically, rutting against Chuuya’s thighs.
“Chuuya,” he says, as a warning but also because he wants to. He repeats himself with sharp frustration as Chuuya abruptly tightens his grip at the base of Dazai’s cock, effectively staving off his orgasm before it can begin. “Chuuya,” he says a third time, whining, as Chuuya’s hand slips out of his briefs. He glares up at Chuuya, who seems much too satisfied with himself for Dazai to stomach. Without thinking, Dazai reaches up and tugs the hair-tie out of Chuuya’s ponytail, flicking it away carelessly so it can’t be easily retrieved. Chuuya’s hair falls around his face and neck, ringing him in an orange halo that does nothing to smother the smugness in his face or his beauty.
“You can’t honestly think I’d let you come that quickly,” Chuuya says as he wipes his gloved hand clean on the bandages around Dazai’s thigh. Dazai’s nose wrinkles, though he doesn’t verbally protest. Chuuya’s grin still grows, as if he can see Dazai’s restraint. Once his hand is clean, Chuuya taps two fingers against Dazai’s hip. “Flip over.”
Dazai wants to argue, but he remembers his own words and bites his tongue. He has to pull one leg up awkwardly far to flip onto his front without displacing Chuuya, who remains firmly kneeling between Dazai’s thighs. Once he’s managed to turn over, Dazai gets his knees under himself, ignoring the pain in his leg, and grabs a pillow to fold into his arms, smothering his face with it. Behind him, Chuuya hums, groping at Dazai’s ass through his briefs with one hand.
“Your bony ass finally has some meat on it,” he says as his thumb drifts to press at Dazai’s hole through the fabric. Against the ass cheek Chuuya isn’t currently groping, his free hand comes down with a smack. It’s not hard enough to genuinely hurt, but it is enough to surprise. Dazai huffs into the pillow.
“Is Chuuya body-shaming me? How uncouth.”
Chuuya’s groping becomes a too-tight grip. His thumb is still pressed against Dazai’s hole, almost pulling him open as a result. “Hah?! What do you call all your comments about my height, then?”
“Honesty,” Dazai says primly. It comes out rougher than he intended.
“Shitty Dazai,” Chuuya growls. Something hot and liquid runs down Dazai’s spine. In the next second, his briefs are pulled down under the curve of his ass and the tell-tale snick of a bottle opening reaches his ears. Dazai holds his breath as he waits for Chuuya to breach him, wondering with something closer to hope than expectation if Chuuya will finally remove his gloves to finger him. But as a pair of leather-clad fingers press at his entrance, he releases his breath in a disappointed sigh.
“Two?” Dazai says, his voice higher than he’d prefer as Chuuya presses unrelentingly at his hole. “Chuuya’s so brazen.”
“If I’m so small, can’t you take it?” Chuuya’s free hand tangles in Dazai’s hair once again, pulling back until Dazai’s neck can’t give any further. “Or are you trying to tell me you haven’t had anything inside you since you left?”
Dazai hasn’t, not really. For all his flirting, he rarely goes so far as to actually fuck people, and never does he let them do the fucking. The only thing that’s been inside Dazai since he left the mafia are his own fingers, and his masturbation sessions are few and far between. He’d usually rather jump in an ice-cold river than make himself feel good, if he’s got the free time to try.
He can’t explain any of that now, for a variety of reasons, so he just says, “Would Chuuya be jealous if I had?”
Chuuya laughs harshly as his fingertips push past Dazai’s rim. “Fuck no.” Dazai realizes he can feel the seam of Chuuya’s gloves with how tight he is around Chuuya’s fingers. “What do I care what you do with yourself? I wouldn’t even be fucking you now if you hadn’t begged me.”
Despite his harsh words, Chuuya doesn’t let up, pushing in to the first knuckle and continuing his steady slide until his hand bumps up against Dazai’s ass. Dazai exhales as Chuuya’s fingers enter him fully. It’s a lot, but it’s not too much. If Chuuya wasn’t wearing his gloves, it might be. But the only places they’re touching now are Chuuya’s hand in his hair and his fingers in Dazai’s ass, and both are mediated by leather.
It’s not right. Chuuya shouldn’t be lording above him, laughing at the idea of caring about Dazai, with the barrier of bandages and clothes and gloves between them as Dazai shivers under him, his body longing to feel Chuuya’s skin against his own. Dazai has played subservient to Chuuya enough times before that this shouldn’t bother him, and yet he can’t stop picking at the thought like a scab. Perhaps Dazai underestimated the painful, wanting ache. He thought he could sate it with a simple exchange, but maybe the ache wants more. The thought concerns him, so he shoves it down and focuses instead on the stretch in his ass.
Chuuya hasn’t moved since he bottomed out, but remaining stationary seems worse than any potential burn so Dazai rocks his hips in invitation. Chuuya tightens his grip on Dazai’s hair but gives in, sliding his fingers out halfway before twisting and shoving them back inside. Dazai hums into the pillow. Despite the overabundance of fingers, Chuuya slicked himself with enough lube that it doesn’t actually hurt. It’s a lot but in a good way, in a way that could make Dazai lose himself. It’s enough that he can let himself focus on just that, and the background channels of his mind can dim to a pleasant chatter as his body opens up for Chuuya.
It distracts Dazai enough that the first brush of leather against his prostate makes him jerk in surprise. This time, Chuuya’s laugh comes out more breathy than harsh. “There you are,” he says, sounding more pleased with himself than Dazai would usually tolerate; but before Dazai can quip, Took you long enough, Chuuya presses again with more intention, and the words are lost in Dazai’s throat. Chuuya alternates between firm presses, rubbing his fingers against it, and glancing off the sensitive spot like he’s missing it accidentally, even though Dazai knows Chuuya is too good with his hands for such clumsiness. There’s no discernible pattern to it either, so Dazai is left to take what Chuuya gives him with no way to predict or prepare himself for any of it.
Even the third finger is a surprise, the accompanying stretch enough to have him gasping aloud. Chuuya’s hand slips out of Dazai’s hair, sliding to the base of his skull, then down Dazai’s neck and along his spine, its path unhurried until it reaches Dazai’s ass. There, he pulls on Dazai’s ass cheek, spreading him for Chuuya’s gaze, and the thought of Chuuya watching his fingers disappear inside Dazai’s ass causes an unexpected warmth to blossom on Dazai’s cheeks. He didn’t think he had enough shame to be embarrassed, but his body has surprisingly proven him wrong. It’s almost as if, after all these years of using it as a means to an end, his body has finally turned around and gotten one over on his mind. Dazai huffs out a sound that might be a laugh.
“You ready?” Chuuya asks, but it sounds far away. Either Dazai takes too long to answer, or Chuuya decides he doesn’t care to hear a response, because he says again, firmly, “You’re ready.”
Dazai anticipates the loss of fingers but his body continues to betray him by reacting as if he isn’t prepared, his hips jerking back to chase the sensation. When he manages to still himself, Chuuya taps again at his hip, a clear instruction to turn over again. Dazai makes an inquiring sound.
“Your leg’s still fucked, dumbass,” Chuuya says as if Dazai should’ve realized the reason behind the order without Chuuya needing to verbalize it. Dazai did, in fact, assume as much, but asking for clarification gives himself time to will away the lingering flush from his cheeks. Also, he’s gotten Chuuya to admit consideration for Dazai’s comfort, which is a nice bonus.
“Aw, chibi,” he says as he rolls onto his side. “You do care.”
As Dazai wriggles around to settle onto his back, he’s met with Chuuya’s unimpressed glare. “No I fucking don’t,” he says while Dazai shuffles the pillow down to rest underneath his hips. “I just don’t want to have to listen to your bitch ass complain all the way back to Yokohama tomorrow.”
Dazai smiles and bats his lashes. “I’m sure I’ll find something else to bother you with, don’t worry.”
A growl rumbles in Chuuya’s chest, but he doesn’t verbally respond, instead choosing to curl his fingers under the hem of Dazai’s briefs and pull them down his legs in two swift tugs. It leaves Dazai completely bare aside from the bandages, while Chuuya kneels between his spread legs, still perfectly decent.
Dazai’s eyes are drawn to Chuuya’s hands as he begins to undo his belt buckle. With sure, confident movements, he flicks open the bar and tugs the leather from the frame. Unhurried, as if he’s not in any sort of rush to release the visible bulge in his pants. Chuuya can’t hide how hard he is, though, not in pants that tight. Dazai remains riveted as Chuuya lets go of the belt, not even bothering to slide it out of the belt loops before going for his fly. As the fly of his stupidly tight pants parts, he lets out a sigh, relieved but still playing at casual. When a few seconds pass and Chuuya has made no move to pull himself out of his briefs, Dazai’s eyes flick up to meet Chuuya’s. Chuuya smirks cruelly.
“Ask me nicely.” The request seems reasonable enough, if petty, until he adds, “Make me believe it.”
Dazai falters.
Making Chuuya believe it should, in theory, be easy. The trick to fooling Chuuya has always been to simply believe what he’s saying. Chuuya can see through his bullshit in a fraction of the time it takes others to do the same, so Dazai just has to make sure that, if only for the span of time it takes him to speak, the words aren’t bullshit. The only thing I like is your taste in shoes, he said on the night of their first reunion as Double Black, and at the moment that he said it, he liked Chuuya’s shoes. It was as easy as adjusting his heart rate.
But recently, his trick hasn’t worked flawlessly. He’ll go to say something put upon and it will come out wrong, like a single off-key note on a piano that ruins the whole melody. He recognized the pattern behind it almost immediately, but it hasn’t helped him rectify the problem.
The whole conceit of the trick is that he must be pretending. If the words he intends to make Chuuya believe hold any bit of truth to them, it won’t work. When they were kids, Dazai genuinely believed in nothing, so flipping a switch to believe some bullshit didn’t involve any complicated rewiring. But now, when he tries to make himself believe his own bullshit about caring for Chuuya, it doesn’t work because there’s enough truth to it that it’s no longer a lie.
Which brings him back to this moment: Chuuya smirking at him with his pants undone, everything Dazai’s body craves held on the other side of this task that he’s been set. It wouldn’t be bullshit, if he opened his mouth and pleaded for Chuuya to touch him, to take out his dick and fuck the wanting from his body. He doesn’t know how it will come out, if it will convince Chuuya enough to give him what he needs or if it will rip everything Dazai wants out of his hands before he can even truly hold it in his grasp.
Dazai can’t let that happen.
“Surely Chuuya won’t back out now,” Dazai says, instead of begging prettily like he should.
Chuuya merely raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Why not? I could kick you out and finish myself off, and then I wouldn’t have to deal with your bastard self.” His grin grows sharp. “I’m not the one who’s empty right now.”
Dazai knows that Chuuya means it physically, in terms of Dazai’s lubed-up asshole, but it’s truer than he knows. Right now, Dazai has more to lose than Chuuya does. The ache continues to permeate his body, a bone-deep chill biting through his skin. If Chuuya got up and walked away right now, he might have blue balls for a time, but Dazai isn’t sure if his traitorous body would even support him long enough to return to his own room. Dazai should beg, but he can’t be sure it will work; he should call Chuuya’s bluff, but he can’t guarantee that Chuuya won’t simply walk away. Dazai does the only thing he can think of, despite the alarms in his head cautioning him against fucking this up.
Dazai tosses his head irreverently and looks at Chuuya through his bangs. “Is Chuuya hesitating because Mori didn’t give him orders to fuck me? Tell me, Slug, can you do anything without begging for his approval, first?”
Chuuya’s reaction is like a lit fuse: immediate, dangerous, and captivating. A snarl mars Chuuya’s handsome smirk, his eyes widening with incredulous fury as his skin flushes a darling shade of red. His body twitches forward like an animal about to consume its prey. Dazai’s breath leaves him, his stomach clenching in anticipation at finally getting what he wants, but Chuuya stops after moving forward only an inch.
The anger in Chuuya’s face transforms into something less mindless, hesitation seeping in like oil displacing water. His head tilts slightly as his newly-clear eyes dissect Dazai. Dazai’s stupid, traitorous body immediately shifts, uncomfortable under the gaze. He’s been less affected under torture, for fuck’s sake, and now is the moment his body chooses to falter? Dazai twists his fingers in the duvet in an effort to hold his rogue limbs still. Then he realizes that remaining immobile will be just as telling, so he smooths out the imperfections in his expression, spreads his legs wider as if it costs him nothing to do so, and forcibly slows his heartbeat until it tricks the rest of his useless flesh into believing that nothing is wrong. All in all, it takes him less than a second.
Unfortunately, that second is still too long.
Chuuya’s expression smooths with comprehension, and he goes slack-jawed in a way Dazai would immediately make fun of him for if he wasn’t so busy trying to hold together this crumbling interaction between them. Chuuya is no stranger to Dazai’s habit of poking at bruises to keep him from noticing Dazai’s own bleeding cuts, and if he’s realized that Dazai is deflecting, he could easily untangle the rest of it with enough thought. Of anyone in the world, Chuuya is the person most likely to puzzle out Dazai’s motives.
The thought of Chuuya, incredulous and cruel, laughing and saying, You need this right now, don’t you? pushes Dazai to begin contemplating possible escapes.
But before he can flick his gaze to the door, Chuuya’s expression shifts back into one of familiar, incandescent rage. Dazai lets his escape plans slip away with a sigh of relief. This is one of his favorite things about Chuuya: that he will be fully aware that Dazai is trying to rile him up, and he’ll decide that the fact that Dazai does it at all is reason enough to explode, anyway.
When Chuuya’s mouth encompasses Dazai’s, it’s the most reminiscent of his teenage self that Chuuya has been all night. He bites at Dazai’s mouth until it bleeds and then licks the blood away as if that had been his intention all along. With Chuuya in his face, Dazai can’t see Chuuya’s hand working between them, can only feel the backs of his gloved fingers as he fumbles himself out of his briefs. In his haste, he drags his cock along Dazai’s thigh, the tender-soft skin where his leg meets his hip, and it’s so hot and real and unrestrained that a groan echoes in Dazai’s throat.
The head of Chuuya’s dick drags along his skin, leaving a wet trail in its wake as it moves down, bypassing Dazai’s dick and taint to press deliciously against Dazai’s hole. Dazai’s body has only felt more empty every second since Chuuya pulled his fingers out.
“Yes,” he gasps too honestly into Chuuya’s biting, bloody mouth, only for Chuuya to pull away abruptly, leaving no contact between them. The cool air rushes back to torment Dazai’s skin. “Chuuya, please.”
“Shut up,” Chuuya snarls. Dazai blinks his eyes open—he didn’t know he’d shut them—to find Chuuya fumbling for the condom. Dazai has to swallow his instinctive protest at the sight of it. It’s just another barrier for Chuuya to maintain between them. Dazai can’t help remembering the bubble he’s lived in for weeks. Something inside his body falls, continues falling as he watches Chuuya roll the condom onto his dick. Most people who survive a suicide attempt after jumping say that they changed their minds on the way down. Dazai always figured they weren’t people of conviction, but he abruptly thinks that there may be something to it. If he’d known the distance Chuuya would keep between them and how it would cut Dazai’s skin worse than any blade he’d ever held to it, would he still have knocked on Chuuya’s door?
When Chuuya has finished his task and thrown the wrapper away, he grabs Dazai’s uninjured leg, so Dazai’s splayed wide beneath him. With his other hand, he guides his cock to Dazai’s hole, teasing him again as he rubs the head around without enough pressure to actually push past Dazai’s rim. For a brief, breathless moment, he wonders if Chuuya’s going to make him beg again.
Chuuya thrusts inside.
It’s immediately more than Dazai accounted for. The leather gloves were thick enough to minimize the heat transfer from Chuuya’s fingers, but the condom does no such thing. The length of Chuuya burns inside him, hollowing out space Dazai thought he’d already made. Maybe it’s just been too long since Dazai’s last had someone fuck him, but his body can’t stop being overwhelmed. Each time he thinks he’s adjusted, Chuuya moves the slightest bit and a new wave of pleasure and fullness washes over him. Unconsciously, he reaches out for Chuuya’s hand where it presses down on his thigh and gets a grip around the line where Chuuya’s glove meets his skin. Half of Dazai’s palm touches leather, and under the other half, Chuuya’s pulse flutters against Dazai’s lifeline.
Too soon, Chuuya slides back. It’s stupidly wet with lube and yet it drags against Dazai’s insides in the same way Chuuya’s teeth left welts on his skin. Dazai stares at the ceiling, unable to focus his gaze, or close his mouth, as Chuuya pulls back until nothing but the head remains inside him. Then he fucks forward with one harsh, violent jerk of his hips and a sound somewhere between a cough and a sigh leaves Dazai’s parted lips.
Chuuya bends to mouth at Dazai’s chin, likely missing his target of Dazai’s mouth, as a moment later he corrects himself and swallows Dazai’s second sort-of-sound. Even as Chuuya worries at the now-clotted cut he left on Dazai’s lip, no doubt reopening it, Dazai can’t help the gratitude that floods his chest. Thank you, he might say, if Chuuya weren’t occupying his mouth. Thank you for fucking me, thank you for touching me, thank you for covering my mouth with yours before I could give voice to any of this inanity.
The pace Chuuya sets from the outset is brutal and unyielding. Either he believes that Dazai had let others fuck him in the four years they’d been apart or he’s decided that he doesn’t care about Dazai’s comfort enough to let him adjust. He fucks Dazai like they never stopped. Chuuya has always been the kind of person who takes up space—metaphorically, of course—without apology or hesitation. Dazai’s always silently marveled over his confidence, how Chuuya acts like he’s never anywhere other than exactly where he’s meant to be, even when he doesn’t know why he’s there. Or maybe, Dazai thinks blearily, as Chuuya empties and refills him over and over again, it wasn’t confidence, but trust.
Trust that Dazai had placed Chuuya in a position where he could thrive. Trust that Dazai wouldn’t lead him wrong, not in something as important as this. If Dazai were more coherent, he’d admonish himself for coming to conclusions that favored emotion over logic. But here, under Chuuya, around him, consumed by him, Dazai lets himself believe that the partnership between them is worth more than the utility of their strength. The ache inside him, which persists despite all the places their bodies are touching, fades just slightly.
Chuuya’s dick glances off his prostate, and in the haze of flowery emotions and sensation, something that could be accurately described as a moan escapes the seal of their mouths. It takes a moment for Dazai to realize that he’s the one who made it. It surprises both of them, apparently, because Chuuya pauses his furious fucking for half a moment to laugh.
“You’re so easy for it tonight,” he says, sitting back on his knees and adjusting his grip on Dazai’s thigh. With his free hand, he grabs Dazai’s hip and pulls him closer so he’s all but sitting in Chuuya’s lap. The new position allows Chuuya to reach even deeper inside of him, nudging up against Dazai’s prostate directly. Dazai stutters out a breathy sound that’s less like a moan but still louder than he would typically be.
“S’been a while,” Dazai says when Chuuya just sits there. He’s so far inside that Dazai feels like he’s taken a deep breath and can’t make himself exhale it. Dazai attempts to rock his hips, but it’s impossible to get leverage in a way that doesn’t irritate his injured leg.
“Ha.” Chuuya bends again, but he can’t quite reach Dazai’s mouth again in this position. He settles for biting down on Dazai’s pulse, allowing Dazai to quicken the pace of his heart just to feel it flutter under Chuuya’s lips. “Haven’t found anyone who fucks you like I do?”
Finally, Chuuya starts moving again, rocking his hips into Dazai with the same ferocity as before, only now the pace is slow enough for Dazai to feel every inch Chuuya shifts inside him. Dazai lifts his hands as if compelled, his fingers skittering along Chuuya’s shoulders and down his back in feather-light touches. Despite the silky smoothness of Chuuya’s stupidly expensive T-shirt, he’s irritated by the fabric. He’s so preoccupied with thoughts of ripping the shirt off of Chuuya’s back that Chuuya’s words register in his mind on a delay, as if they’re talking to one another from opposite ends of the planet.
Perhaps that’s why Dazai says with the admittedly few reserves of sincerity inside him, “I’ll never find another you.”
Chuuya’s unrelenting pace stutters to a stop.
Dazai twists his hands in Chuuya’s shirt. “No,” he says, straining to fuck himself back on Chuuya’s dick. It sounds more like a plea than a demand when he says, “Don’t stop.”
The clamp of teeth over his carotid makes Dazai shudder out a gasp that unfortunately sounds like Chuuya’s name. When Chuuya releases him moments or minutes later, Dazai isn’t sure if the liquid dripping down his neck is saliva or blood. Between their bodies, Dazai’s untouched dick spurts warningly onto Chuuya’s T-shirt.
“Stop lying,” Chuuya growls as he resumes thrusting, faster and more fiercely than before.
“Not lying,” Dazai says, too breathless and pathetically earnest.
“Bullshit.”
The way Chuuya says it, the pained rasp of his throat, his gloved hands tightening where they hold Dazai open for him, the flinch that runs through his body as the word leaves his lips, feels like Chuuya is holding on to his belief in Dazai’s bullshit like it’s a cliff’s edge keeping him from falling.
The thought hurts Dazai. It hurts more than his body hurt before he decided to knock on Chuuya’s door, more than his leg or the bullet wound in his shoulder. It feels similar to the pain that consumed him as he held Odasaku through his final breaths, like all the emptiness in Dazai has been flooded with acid after so many years of nothingness, and it’s burning through all the things that are meant to hold him together.
Before Odasaku died, Dazai didn’t think he could experience pain like that.
Before this moment, he didn’t think he could hurt like that for someone other than himself. But he was apparently wrong about that too, because right now, he burns for Chuuya.
Chuuya, who has always cared too much. This has been useful to Dazai on a number of occasions and it never bothered him back then. But right now it seems so useless to waste all that care on Dazai, who can’t appreciate or return even a fraction of it. It’s something they’re both painfully aware of, to the point that Chuuya refuses to entertain the idea that Dazai could ever hold any regard for him in return. Dazai knows this because he spent years crafting a knife’s blade of trust between them, where Chuuya can give Dazai his life but never his heart. It’s useful because their partnership requires that level of trust, but Dazai knows that if he ever damaged Chuuya’s repeatedly broken yet perpetually hopeful heart, everything else between them would crumble. Better not to let Chuuya hand it to him at all, to let that care thrash at the cage of Chuuya’s chest than to be the one that shoots it dead.
That’s been true for years, so why does Dazai suddenly care now?
The surge of emotional pain twines with the physical discomfort Dazai’s already experienced for hours. Stupidly, childishly, he just wants it all to go away.
“What if,” Dazai says, his hands still dancing along Chuuya’s back, his breathing just erratic enough to muddy his words, “what if we just pretend?”
“What?” Chuuya snarls.
It’s not an outright refusal, so Dazai perseveres.
“What if we pretend that we’re good?” The word is insufficient for all the meanings he wants good to encompass, but it’s the only one he can muster at this moment. “Just for the night,” he adds, when Chuuya’s body becomes a tense line under his skittering fingertips. “Just ‘til the morning, just for—” His words break on a gasp as Chuuya jerks into him with the released tension of a cut wire. “—now.”
Chuuya considers the suggestion as he continues rutting into Dazai, his closed lips still pressed against Dazai’s pulse as he rolls the words around his mind. “We can’t,” he finally says, muffling his words in Dazai’s skin as if it also hurts him to hear them said aloud. “We’ve never been good.”
“That’s why it’s pretend,” Dazai says coaxingly. It’s second nature to urge Chuuya to go along with his plans. The familiarity is cool and welcome, soothing the burn in his belly.
Chuuya huffs into Dazai’s neck. “It’s always pretend with you.”
Dazai shuts his eyes.
For some reason, the first thing that comes to mind is a memory of words Dazai said when they were seventeen and fucked up in different, simpler ways. “Of course I don’t love you,” he’d said, in response to some sneered complaint Chuuya made: don’t pretend like this is anything close to love. At the time, it hadn’t taken any conscious thought to slow the attempted rise of his heart rate as he sniffed haughtily and added, “As if I could even feel something so repulsive.”
It doesn’t make sense for Dazai to think of that now, because he wasn’t pretending then. Dazai’s not capable of love. He’s always known this.
But Dazai’s body doesn’t understand that like his mind does. Dazai’s body wants to hold Chuuya’s heart between its teeth, with the threat of puncturing it ever-looming along with the chance to prove himself capable of keeping it safe. His body wants Chuuya to trust that he won’t clamp down too hard and leave a hole in his chest. Dazai’s body wants Chuuya to willingly take off all the layers between them without regretting it for a moment.
The wanting ache inside him has directed the entire evening. Might as well let it continue.
Dazai isn’t capable of giving Chuuya anything remotely close to fairness, but in this moment, he wants to give Chuuya something he can believe. Something so irrefutably true that even Dazai can’t fuck it up.
Dazai wraps his arms around Chuuya’s back, pulling their bodies together and fucking up Chuuya’s rhythm by forcing him into an embrace. With his chin hooked over Chuuya’s shoulder and his mouth pressed just behind Chuuya’s ear, Dazai whispers, “I didn’t bomb anyone else’s car.”
Chuuya continues to rock into him violently, so reminiscent of Corruption that it brings Dazai right to the edge of his orgasm. Chuuya’s confusion manifests in a disgruntled sound, his fingers twitching where they grip Dazai’s skin. “What?” he finally asks through gritted teeth when he’s given up trying to figure out Dazai’s meaning for himself.
“When I left,” Dazai says just as quietly, letting his heartbeat flutter as it likes, “I didn’t bomb anyone’s car but yours.”
The only indication of Chuuya’s comprehension is the harsh, “Fuck,” he smothers into Dazai’s neck as his pace, impossibly, quickens. He releases his grip on Dazai’s thigh, leaving Dazai to keep himself spread, and palms at Dazai’s dick between them. The seam from where the thumb is sewn onto the rest of the glove glides roughly along a vein on the underside of Dazai’s dick, and he bites back a groan. All of the sensations build until Dazai can’t focus on anything else. The zipper of Chuuya’s pants scratching on Dazai’s inner thighs, the smooth T-shirt brushing Dazai’s chest where gaps in the bandages allow it, Chuuya’s cheek warm against Dazai’s collarbone where the bandages have all but fallen away. With only the one hand on Dazai’s hip, Chuuya holds Dazai in place and fucks into him without faltering.
When Chuuya digs his thumb into the slit of Dazai’s dick, Dazai can’t stop himself from coming between them. It gets everywhere, notably on Chuuya’s shirt, but Chuuya doesn’t stop fucking him long enough to complain, chasing his own orgasm at a pace that immediately borders on too much. Dazai keeps his arms wrapped around Chuuya’s back as each thrust punches a breath out of his chest. Chuuya hits Dazai’s oversensitive prostate and his body clenches instinctively. That sends Chuuya over the edge, and he groans into Dazai’s neck as his hips stutter out of their rhythm.
Chuuya pants into Dazai’s neck, allowing Dazai to continue embracing him for almost thirty full seconds, before tearing himself away. The loss of contact, paired with the unexpected emptiness, makes Dazai let out a hurt sound that is so unlike him it strikes him silent immediately after.
After dealing with the condom, Chuuya crosses to the desk and bends to rummage through his jacket pocket before he retrieves a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He seems to realize his right glove is stained with Dazai’s spend because he tugs it off his hand by biting the middle finger and drops it onto the desktop. The sight of his bare fingers makes that wanting ache take root in Dazai’s chest again, as if it hardly ebbed at all. Without a wasted movement, Chuuya produces a single cigarette from the pack and tucks it between his lips. He leaves the pack on the table and uses both hands to light it, his bare fingers flicking on the lighter and his gloved hand cupped around it to block any wind, likely out of habit. The lighter flicks off and Chuuya pulls the lit cigarette away from his lips with a weary exhale.
Dazai watches Chuuya cross to the window, where the skyline of an unfamiliar city lights up the night. He smokes half the cigarette without a word. Dazai, still sitting where Chuuya left him on the bed, his spend going tacky on his stomach, just watches. This time, he’s simply waiting for Chuuya’s reaction, not because he’s chosen not to try and predict Chuuya’s response, but because he truly doesn’t know what to expect. All of his predictions of Chuuya’s behavior are based on experience, growing up alongside Chuuya, learning how he reacts. But Dazai has no basis for this because he’s never been genuine with Chuuya before.
The truth of what Dazai said is undeniable. No one else received a car bomb or any similar threat after Dazai defected. Still, it’s unclear if Chuuya will recognize that sincerity when he has no basis for it, either. They’re in unfamiliar territory, and Dazai supposes that should concern him, or at least cause him some kind of trepidation. But it’s difficult to worry when he’s with Chuuya. Double Black thrives in any situation, unfamiliar or not.
The cigarette has burned low enough to tease at singeing Chuuya’s ungloved fingertips when he finally speaks, not turning away from the window. “Just for the night.”
Dazai lets his heart pound away in his chest. “Just for the night,” he echoes in agreement.
Chuuya sighs, a string of smoke curling away from his body. It takes a side step to tamp out the cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. Once his hand is free, he uses it to reach for the collar of his shirt, dragging it over his head in one smooth pull. In the yellowed light of the room’s single lamp, his pale back is softened, even as the muscles moving under his skin make his strength evident. He drops the shirt onto the chair alongside his jacket before his hands move toward the waist of his pants. With the belt and fly undone as they are, it hardly seems to take any effort to shove them down his legs, even as stupidly tight as they are. After he’s tugged them off, he straightens back up to fold them and place them on the chair, too. Now, all that remains are briefs, stark black against his skin.
Dazai hasn’t quite accustomed himself to their agreement yet, because if he were truly pretending that nothing is wrong between them, he would call out and tell Chuuya to stop. Say, “Let me,” and cross to the window, kneel at Chuuya’s feet, smile up at him through his bangs and glide the fabric from Chuuya’s hips. Let his fingers drag against Chuuya’s ass and thighs and calves on the way down. Perhaps even press a kiss against the scar above Chuuya’s left knee, the one he got from taking a knife that was meant for Dazai because “the ability healers don’t work on you and you’re a bitch when you’re injured for real.” Never mind the fact that they both know he’s a bitch, regardless.
But Dazai doesn’t speak, just watches Chuuya spare one more look for the unfamiliar skyline and shove his briefs from his hips. He leaves them in a pile on the floor, because they are apparently the one garment that doesn’t require the respect of the chair.
When Chuuya finally turns from the window, there isn’t enough light to make out the intention in his eyes, but Dazai still can’t look away as Chuuya crosses back to the bed. He kneels on the duvet next to Dazai’s unmoving body and reaches out with his left hand. They both still as they realize that Chuuya’s still wearing one glove.
Before Dazai can stop himself, he says, “Take it off.” He swallows, staring at the black leather, before adding, “Please.” He doesn’t let himself look at Chuuya’s face to try to discern if he’s convinced Chuuya of his sincerity, because he’s starting to learn the parameters of the situation he’s gotten them into. If they were “good,” Dazai wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not Chuuya believes him, because Chuuya wouldn’t have any reason not to.
It doesn’t seem like them, but the thrill that runs down Dazai’s spine at the thought wouldn’t come from anyone other than Chuuya, so it must be.
Chuuya pulls his hand back. Dazai watches, rapt, as Chuuya pinches the end of each finger and tugs the glove off, one minute pull at a time, slowly revealing more of his hand until it’s completely bare. When Chuuya throws the glove into the room without caring where it lands, a moan threatens to develop in Dazai’s throat. It doesn’t go beyond a vague notion, but that’s still more of a reaction than Dazai would expect himself to have to something that isn’t even physically touching him.
With his newly-bared hand, Chuuya reaches out in the direction of Dazai’s hip. So fast his fingers are almost a blur, he untucks the edge of the bandages around Dazai’s torso, and it causes a domino effect. All of the bandages fall away, lingering loosely around Dazai’s wrists and ankles, before Chuuya tugs them the rest of the way off and leaves them in a pile at the foot of the bed.
When Dazai is fully naked, Chuuya straddles his waist. Neither of them is hard again yet. Their soft dicks bump against one another in a way that should be awkward and uncomfortable, but it just has Dazai reaching out to hold Chuuya’s hips in his hands and keep him right there in Dazai’s lap. Chuuya doesn’t fight it, just settles his own hands on Dazai’s skin in turn, his right palm pressed against the side of Dazai’s throat—loosely, not choking at all—and his left cupping Dazai’s cheek so tenderly that it makes Dazai flinch.
“Chill out,” Chuuya murmurs, so unlike his usual tone with Dazai. “This was your idea, remember?”
“I know,” Dazai says, which is the kind of inane platitude that he usually finds beneath him, but he doesn’t know how else to deal with the way his eyes widen against his control, the way he can’t seem to take in air fast enough. Chuuya’s thumb glides from the corner of Dazai’s mouth to the top of his cheek in an arch, and Dazai’s lips part on a gasp.
Chuuya takes that as an invitation. He kisses the same way he did before—sharp and intent and generally overwhelming—but it’s slower now, like the difference between a car chase and a leisurely drive. Both require focus to direct the vehicle along the road, but one is done with the express purpose of reaching a destination as quickly as possible and the other is taken purely for enjoyment.
Dazai doesn’t think he’s ever experienced Chuuya enjoying him before.
As they kiss, soft wet sounds fill Dazai’s ears. The longer they go without parting for breath, the more worked up Dazai’s body becomes. At one point, Chuuya rocks down against him, his hardening dick grinding into Dazai’s stomach as his taint rubs against Dazai’s own rapidly filling cock. Instinctively, Dazai jerks up against him and realizes that this position actually allows him the leverage to do so without straining his injured leg. Chuuya, whose physical competence exceeds Dazai’s own, must’ve intended as much when he crawled into Dazai’s lap in the first place. That thought, along with the pleasant, rhythmic rocking of their bodies, warms something in Dazai’s chest.
Chuuya’s hand begins to wander from Dazai’s cheek, apparently trusting Dazai to keep the angle without his direction. His fingers trail along Dazai’s neck and chest, playing over raised scar tissue and rubbing against the marks from Chuuya’s mouth that are already blooming. Eventually, he wraps his arm around Dazai’s back and pulls him up into a sitting position, pressing their chests and bellies together. Chuuya hums, as the contact likely provides pleasant friction against his now fully-hard dick. Dazai’s hands twitch on Chuuya’s waist, and he instinctively tries to keep himself still before remembering that he doesn’t have to. Tentatively, half expecting Chuuya to slap his hand away, he lets his hand migrate upward, pressing his palm firmly into the muscles of Chuuya’s side. Chuuya is so small that Dazai’s hand spans Chuuya’s ribcage, thumb touching Chuuya’s nipple while his fingers fit into the divots of Chuuya’s ribs. Dazai gives an experimental squeeze and a sound rumbles in Chuuya’s chest, right against Dazai’s hand.
Emboldened, Dazai lets his other hand slide around to Chuuya’s ass, getting a handful of it before giving a second, firmer squeeze. Chuuya’s rocking rhythm stutters momentarily as he jerks against Dazai’s belly.
“You wanna fuck me?” Chuuya asks. His spit-slick lips drag against Dazai’s cheek with the words, since he doesn’t pull far enough away from their kiss to say them. As soon as they’re out, he’s back to kissing Dazai’s mouth, using the hand still against Dazai’s throat to tip Dazai’s chin up slightly with his thumb, perfecting the angle.
Dazai hums, considering the thought as he squeezes Chuuya once again, but ultimately says, “No,” into Chuuya’s mouth. Chuuya seems surprised by this, if his momentary pause is any indication, and Dazai, for the first time maybe ever, finds himself wanting to explain. “I’m empty,” he says, although he doesn’t try to imply anything beyond the physical, even if it’s the truth. “I’d rather Chuuya fill me up again.”
Chuuya huffs into their kiss, causing a strange sensation as Dazai’s mouth is filled with Chuuya’s breath. “You’re really needy tonight, huh?”
Dazai hums again, kissing the corner of Chuuya’s mouth, then his chin. “No one fucks me like Chuuya does.” Dazai can feel Chuuya’s instinct to argue the truth of that in the way his back becomes a straight line, rather than remaining curved over Dazai. He firmly squeezes Chuuya’s ribs once more to remind him of their agreement. Chuuya exhales his argumentativeness in a shaky breath and his spine softens once again.
“You take it well,” Chuuya says, almost begrudgingly, like he’s losing something to admit it. The hand on Dazai’s lower back drifts even lower, nails scratching softly at the top of his ass before they can’t reach any further, since Dazai is currently sitting on it.
For all that Dazai knows his own worth, he’s unused to praise, especially from Chuuya. He perks up. “Really?”
Chuuya hums, half-affirmative and half just noise. He continues to tease the top of Dazai’s ass, digging his nails into Dazai’s skin before smoothing his fingertips over the sting. “When you’re not performing,” he says, as if he can’t help but qualify it, “you let me in like you need it. You’re tight, like you don’t want to let me leave.” Chuuya wriggles one finger between Dazai and the duvet and just barely brushes Dazai’s rim. “You can lie everywhere else,” he says, the words warm against Dazai’s shoulder, “but not here.”
Dazai ought to take issue with the assertion. He can lie any and everywhere. His expressions, his sounds, his posture, even his asshole are all tools for him to use as he likes. But it makes sense that if anyone could see through his lies in the most intimate part of his body, it would be Chuuya.
“Chuuya should fuck me now,” Dazai says, and smiles over Chuuya’s shoulder at Chuuya’s softly huffed laugh.
“Should I?” Chuuya pulls his hand away. It’s impossible to chase from this position, but that doesn’t keep Dazai’s body from trying, his hips twitching ineffectively against the duvet. Chuuya settles back, resting on the tops of Dazai’s thighs, more heavily weighted toward Dazai’s uninjured side. His hand remains against Dazai’s neck, Dazai’s pulse steady under his palm. Chuuya lifts his free hand and thumbs at Dazai’s lips until he parts them just slightly. “I could,” Chuuya says, seeming unenthused by the idea. “Or you could sit on my face.”
“That one,” Dazai says with comical yet genuine alacrity.
A smile threatens at Chuuya’s lips—the corners of his mouth don’t actually curl upwards, but they twitch like they want to—and the warmth in Dazai’s chest glows like someone’s blown across hot coals.
The telegraphed smile disappears as soon as it appeared, and Chuuya gets to work on a setup that will prevent Dazai from completely fucking up his leg while sitting astride Chuuya’s face. The plan appears to depend on a fuckton of pillows, which Chuuya piles up on the right side of his head, allowing Dazai to stretch out his wounded leg while providing enough support that Dazai won’t completely crush Chuuya below him. Dazai kneels with his left leg, stretches out his right, and Chuuya slides under him like a mechanic would slip under a car. Dazai can’t help his snort as he stares down at Chuuya between his legs.
“Shut it,” Chuuya says without his usual heat, smacking the back of Dazai’s thigh to emphasize his point. “If you hadn’t gotten into a doomed elevator, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“I knew Chuuya would save me,” Dazai says, unable to completely rid his tone of the usual teasing praise, but he tucks a stray strand of hair behind Chuuya’s ear as he says it and hopes that it adds credence to his sincerity.
The soft pink that dusts across the tops of Chuuya’s cheeks tells Dazai that it has. “Just fucking sit on my face already.”
Dazai grins and does just that.
Gripping the headboard with his hands, he slowly lowers himself until Chuuya’s nose brushes his taint. He hesitates to sit further, but Chuuya ignores his hesitation by grabbing Dazai’s thighs and pulling him more firmly against Chuuya’s mouth. At the first touch of Chuuya’s tongue, Dazai exhales harshly, his hands twitching on the headboard.
Chuuya starts with slow, leisurely licks around and over Dazai’s rim, getting everything stupidly wet. The lube from earlier hasn’t dried out completely, so it’s not entirely necessary, but Dazai’s not going to point that out. It gets wet enough that Chuuya’s nose starts slipping against Dazai’s taint, and he pulls Dazai even more firmly against him, digging the tip of his nose into Dazai’s prostate from the outside. Dazai steadies himself on the headboard, already dizzy with sensation, and Chuuya hasn’t even pressed inside yet.
When Chuuya does finally point his tongue, he teases, dipping into Dazai’s rim before pulling out to circle it again. He does this enough times that Dazai’s frustration can’t be ignored. When Chuuya pulls away yet again, Dazai steals Chuuya’s move and growls. “Chuuya.”
“Yes?” Chuuya asks, using the reprieve to suck in air even as he drags his teeth against the sensitive skin beside Dazai’s rim.
“Inside,” Dazai says insistently. If he were playing his usual role, his tone would be chiding, as if he has to long-sufferingly explain to Chuuya how rimming is supposed to work. But as it is, the word just comes out needy. From the way Chuuya squeezes at his thighs, he doesn’t seem to mind.
“So impatient,” Chuuya says, but when his tongue returns to Dazai’s rim, he wastes no time before finally pushing inside. A tongue is, obviously, much smaller than a dick, so Dazai isn’t overwhelmed with the stretch, but the hot, wet shape and the dexterity of it have Dazai swallowing sounds as he tries to rock back into the sensation. Chuuya curls his tongue like he’s trying to spread Dazai apart, his jaw opening as wide as it will go, his chin nudging into Dazai’s ass. One hand drops from Dazai’s thigh to pull at Dazai’s ass cheek and give himself even more room to lick at Dazai properly. Once again, Dazai finds himself the singular focus of Chuuya’s attention and once again, it overwhelms him.
When Chuuya slips two fingers inside next to his tongue, Dazai lets out an actual, genuine moan from deep within his chest. It cuts off at the end because Chuuya immediately finds and presses down on his prostate. Then he spreads his fingers and wiggles his tongue in between them, giving Dazai both the delicious stretch and the indescribable sensation of being tasted at once. Chuuya’s fingers and tongue work in tandem, fucking into Dazai at a dizzying pace, keeping him full and unable to focus on anything but Chuuya inside him.
All too soon, he finds himself nearing the edge.
“Chuuya,” he says, his hands spasming against the headboard, “can I—?” Dazai cuts himself off, his cheeks warming, as he realizes he was just about to ask Chuuya for permission to touch himself. There have been times where Chuuya slapped his hands away from his own dick, insisted he come from Chuuya fucking him or not at all, but never once has Dazai voluntarily offered him power over it. It just seemed natural in the moment to let Chuuya control how he came, and that feeling of rightness makes Dazai bite his tongue in embarrassment now.
Chuuya pulls his mouth away as his fingers curl unrelentingly against Dazai’s prostate. “Do you need to?” Do you need to touch yourself to come?
Dazai shakes his head. He doesn’t know. It’s been a long time since he’s come without touching his dick, and he’s significantly older now than he was then. Perhaps those kinds of orgasms are only possible for the overeager youth. The lingering embarrassment mixes with his frustration at being unable to answer the question, and no words leave his lips at all. Chuuya doesn’t wait for a response, though, just returns to licking at Dazai in between his spread fingers.
Dazai wants to, he decides, screwing his eyes shut. He wants to come just from Chuuya’s mouth and fingers in his ass. Partly because he’s not sure he could keep himself steady without both hands on the headboard and partly just to see if he can. Maybe, if he does it, Chuuya will praise him again. Dazai’s hips jerk at the thought, and Chuuya holds him still with the arm wrapped around his thigh.
I’m going to come, Dazai insists to himself, rocking back into the sensation as much as he can within Chuuya’s grip. His body has betrayed him all night, but now it’s going to do as he asks because it is his tool to use as he pleases, and right now, it’s Chuuya’s, too. Dazai will be damned if Chuuya finds it wanting.
At the same time that Chuuya rubs the pad of his middle finger against Dazai’s prostate in a dirty, firm press, he curls his tongue and runs the point of it along the inside of Dazai’s rim, his nose digging into Dazai’s taint in the process. Dazai’s body is wracked with a rumbling wave that starts at his lower back and ripples out to the top of his head and all his fingers and toes. His dick twitches erratically before spurting out against the headboard. He comes and doesn’t stop as Chuuya continues to lick at him like he’s savoring it, savoring Dazai.
For the first time in hours, weeks, Dazai’s body is only warm, like someone has placed him just in front of a roaring fire. It consumes him and he gives himself to it. The choice to let go just prolongs the sensation.
However long later, Dazai finally comes down. He swallows, his throat scratchier than he remembers it being. Did he yell? Perhaps he did.
Chuuya slips his fingers out first, then his tongue, before releasing his grip on Dazai’s thigh and falling away from Dazai’s ass to collapse against the bed. “Fucking gorgeous,” he says on a sigh, and Dazai’s whole body lights up with warmth again, less all-consuming but just as pleasant.
Chuuya slides out from under him and helps Dazai get out of the stiff position, laying him down face-first on the bed with a pillow under his cheek and a second under his hips. Dazai’s body melts into the duvet, his limbs liquid, his mind the closest it’s been to clear in a very long time. He only lets out an inquiring hum as Chuuya knocks his thighs apart, settles between them, and gropes gently at Dazai’s ass.
“Can I?” Chuuya asks, trying to sound like he’ll be alright with Dazai’s answer either way. But Chuuya is Dazai’s partner, and Dazai knows him better than anyone. He can hear the thread of want that Chuuya’s trying so hard to smother, can feel the insistent way he grips at Dazai’s ass.
Dazai doesn’t think he can come again for at least another twenty-four hours. The icy, painful want from earlier has all but vanished, leaving just the barest hint of a chill lingering in Dazai’s chest around his blackened yet still-beating heart. Even if the chill weren’t there, though, Dazai knows his answer would be the same.
“Chuuya may use me as he likes,” Dazai says, his smile squishing his cheek into the pillow underneath him.
Chuuya’s hands spread him apart wide enough that it tugs at Dazai’s hole. The same motion that brought a flush to his cheeks earlier now has him settling further into the pillows and duvet underneath him. Fully sated, he finds himself unusually content.
Even still, the first press of Chuuya’s dick against his rim sends a shiver through Dazai’s body. Two orgasms in under an hour have left him undeniably oversensitive, all the nerve endings in his body sparking with sensation that walks the line between pleasure and pain. Dazai has never liked pain, but he’s always liked Chuuya’s delight at inflicting pain on him too much to stop him. Now is no exception.
One of Chuuya’s hands moves up, pressing into the small of Dazai’s back and flattening him firmly against the mattress. The duvet, despite its likely stupidly high thread-count, chafes against Dazai’s soft dick, forcing a hasty breath from his throat.
“You’re okay,” Chuuya says, which he’s said before when pushing Dazai’s body to its limits, but never this gently. He smooths his thumb against Dazai’s tailbone in a rhythmic, soothing motion, and it’s only then that Dazai realizes he’s tightened up so much that Chuuya can’t press inside any further. With a careful breath, Dazai forces his body to obey him and sighs out in relief when it actually listens.
Now that he can, Chuuya pushes steadily inside, not letting up until he’s fully seated. Kneeling as he is, he’d need Dazai to be on his knees, too, to get as deep as he can, but like this, he can avoid pressing against Dazai’s prostate, so maybe the position is more for Dazai’s sake than his own. The thought chafes at Dazai. He twitches his hips, trying to pull that last inch of Chuuya inside. Chuuya presses down on his back more firmly.
“Don’t,” he says, shorter than anything he’s said since they agreed to this whole idea of pretending, but it sounds more like a result of his own erratic breathing than any kind of anger.
“I said Chuuya could use me as he likes,” Dazai insists, though he stops fighting Chuuya’s hand against his back.
“I am.”
No, Dazai wants to say, you’re holding back to keep from hurting me. But he doesn’t, because it edges too close to the line of touching a bruise just to see Chuuya wince. Pointing out that Chuuya doesn’t actually want to hurt him, despite all the ways that Dazai has wounded him since they were fifteen years old, would be cruel, even if the cruelty is unintended.
“It’s alright,” he says instead. “I can take it.”
Chuuya hesitates, still sheathed inside Dazai, but he slowly lowers himself until his chest is pressed against Dazai’s back. His mouth ends up somewhere near Dazai’s shoulder blades, which he knows because Chuuya presses a kiss to the edge of one before pushing in that last, final bit. Dazai gasps, his chest expanding against the confines of the mattress at his front and Chuuya’s weight at his back, as Chuuya nudges up against his oversensitive prostate. Even though it hurts, he doesn’t regret forcing Chuuya closer, not when it led to the heat of Chuuya all over his skin.
“Even when we’re pretending to be good, you can’t help but make me be mean to you,” Chuuya says, half laughing , half growling into Dazai’s spine. He starts to rock steadily into Dazai, barely pulling out before thrusting back in, using less force than earlier but with more intention in every movement.
Dazai’s first thought is to tell Chuuya that he should want to be mean to Dazai, that this should be seen as Dazai offering him a generous gift. He knows better than to believe his own taunts. Chuuya is the perfect fighter, engineered to deliver efficient and impeccable violence without hesitation. But he’s never enjoyed hurting others in the way Dazai does, taking pleasure in excess and successful torture. Chuuya exacts the precise amount of violence he deems necessary—nothing more, nothing less. It’s an impressive amount of control, which is why Corruption is such a stark, awe-striking change.
By all accounts, Chuuya should want to use unending violence to deal back even a fraction of the hurt that Dazai has inflicted on him. He’s never shown any modicum of control when it comes to Dazai, so the truth of it must be that, against all odds, Chuuya cares more about Dazai than he hates him.
A shiver runs down Dazai’s spine, which Chuuya must feel because they’re pressed together so closely. He seems to take it as indication that Dazai is becoming overwhelmed with oversensitivity, the pain growing so great that it manifests physically, because he says, “Just a little more,” and curls his palm over the back of Dazai’s hand where it’s twisted in the fabric of the duvet. His fingers slot between Dazai’s, his fingertips folding over the top of Dazai’s palm. Instinctively, Dazai curls his own fingers around Chuuya’s, too, so they’re holding hands properly.
Despite Chuuya’s intention, it does hurt. Not physically, in the overwhelming sensation or the continued use of his thoroughly fucked hole, but in the tenderness Chuuya shows him. Dazai knows how to deal with Chuuya’s hatred, welcome and familiar, something he’s cultivated carefully since they met. But Chuuya’s concern, the way he treats Dazai’s body as more than a tool for his own pleasure or a prop for Dazai to use in his schemes, hurts more than if he abused Dazai’s body without remorse. In contrast to the icy pain that had brought him to Chuuya’s door, this pain burns like a fire in his chest that impossibly continues to find fuel despite the emptiness there.
Chuuya may take it out on my body, he’d said, and it brings a rough laugh to his lips, because he hadn’t intended this when he said it. He hadn’t intended any of this, especially the pretending he’d begged for as Chuuya fucked him with all of that anger. What good would it do to pretend as if their years of history didn’t exist—or, worse, to pretend that they’d somehow confronted it enough to treat each other with something close to care?
Dazai’s tired of pretending. He spent weeks sitting opposite Fyodor, pretending he was as calm as his forcibly steady heartbeat would suggest and like he wasn’t worrying constantly over Atsushi and the others. Then today, the pretending increased tenfold: Dazai pretended to be shocked when Fyodor and Chuuya survived their drowning, pretended to beg a supposedly unresponsive Chuuya for his life, pretended to himself that he was absolutely sure that the bullet wouldn’t pierce his skull until the moment it actually stopped at his skin.
Most of it was done to convince Fyodor. But that’s not the part that matters, Dazai’s mind insists as Chuuya continues to rock into him, each thrust punching the breath from his lungs. The near clarity of mind he’d possessed directly following his orgasm has given way to his usual overactive detective brain, and it seems to have picked up the thread of a mystery. Rarely has Dazai experienced the catching-up that others have to do because he’s almost always figured something out before the rest of the world. Now, he’s been so grounded in his own body that it seems he’s been outpaced by his own mind. How novel, he spares a moment to think, before letting the puzzle take his focus again.
What matters is that Dazai has pretended to Fyodor all day, over and over again, that he doesn’t care about Chuuya, and even with his broken bullshit trick, he somehow managed to convince Chuuya, too. Bullshit, Chuuya had said, when Dazai let slip the laughably childish confession that he’d never find another person like Chuuya. Chuuya believes that Dazai doesn’t care about him, that Chuuya doesn’t mean anything to him. That the thought of losing Chuuya doesn’t scare Dazai so badly that he refuses to try to have him at all.
Chuuya groans into Dazai’s shoulder blade, his thrusts speeding up as he grows closer to his orgasm. Dazai, who’d closed his eyes at some point, blinks through the blurry haze in his vision to stare at the wall to his left. What? he thinks belatedly, replaying those last few words over in his mind. Surely he doesn’t—he couldn’t possibly—just. What?
Dazai shuts his eyes again, imagining that he can hear his own mind laughing at him. It’s one thing for his body to betray him, as it’s done countless times tonight, but for his mind to do so, too?
Puzzle pieces fit together behind the blood-red blackness of his eyelids. The picture that forms is one he’s never seen the shape of before, even though it’s hovered at the edge of his vision for years. All this time, Dazai thought he didn’t care about anything until after he lost Odasaku. But if that were true, why would he have cared about losing Odasaku at all? It seems so obvious now that he almost wants to laugh.
Dazai did care. He always has cared, but until Odasaku died he hadn’t let himself know it. Because caring meant having something to lose. Once Odasaku died, his oblivious mind assumed he had nothing left, anyway, so he might as well let himself acknowledge it in the aftermath. But there was still something he couldn’t—wouldn’t—part with, not if he was to continue trying to find a reason worth living for. So his mind drew a line at the moment Odasaku died and insisted that before, he had cared about nothing and no one, even when the facts disagreed.
He thought of all the years he spent insisting that Chuuya didn’t matter to him—to Chuuya, to himself, to anyone who would listen. He’d tricked himself, believing his own bullshit so thoroughly that it was impossible to see through, and he put them here in this moment, where neither of them thinks that Dazai is capable of caring about Chuuya at all.
“I’m close,” Chuuya rasps into Dazai’s shoulder, and Dazai, dazed from his own years-late revelation, can’t bring himself to speak. He just squeezes Chuuya’s hand, still twined with his own.
Four years ago, Dazai decided to leave the Port Mafia. He’s always said that he did so without looking back, but that’s not true. On a cold night, days after agreeing to go underground for at least two years so that Taneda would help him fulfill Odasaku’s final request, Dazai crept into a well-secured garage. He’d bypassed a pink motorcycle in favor of a gaudy sports car Chuuya only bought because he had more money than he knew what to do with. He slid under the chassis of the car and attached the bomb, which he’d spent almost a week sourcing the parts for and a day and a night assembling so it would go off exactly as timed. Then, he’d slipped out from under the car, out of the garage, and into the night.
It was the only goodbye he gave to the life he’d lived for four years.
Chuuya groans again, teeth clamping down around Dazai’s skin, possibly in an attempt to muffle his noise, but Dazai hears everything as if through a tunnel, anyway. The sensation of Chuuya twitching inside him as he comes, the near-painful grip of Chuuya’s hand, fucks the last lingering chill out of Dazai’s body, allowing him to return fully to his mind without distraction.
His mind, usually a fairly orderly place, spins.
Dazai still doesn’t know if he’s capable of love. The mushy, wonderful, heart-pounding thing that people describe doesn’t resonate with him. Nothing that can survive inside Dazai’s body could be so fragile and sweet. But if not love, what else?
What else would drive him to risk his own freedom, the chance to fulfill his friend’s dying request, for some semblance of a goodbye? What else would stop him from allowing himself to have Chuuya fully, out of the fear that he would slip away as soon as Dazai held him?
If it’s not love that surges inside Dazai’s empty chest right now and has for years despite his refusal to name it, then it’s at least something worth living long enough to figure out. Maybe for Dazai, this is the closest he can get to the real thing.
Dazai should be annoyed by Chuuya’s wet panting between his shoulder blades as he begins to come down from his orgasm, but Dazai is just pleased that Chuuya hasn’t pulled away immediately, like he did before. This time, Chuuya lingers, going soft inside Dazai as he alternates between kissing and nipping at Dazai’s skin, his hand still squeezing intermittently around Dazai’s.
Dazai wants to say something, but he’s not sure what. A taunt would ruin this and cause Chuuya to pull away, reverting them to their usual dynamic. That may be comforting in its familiarity, but it’s not what Dazai wants. Anything close to an admission of love would probably result in the same, because Dazai doubts that he could convince Chuuya of his sincerity. He’d take it as another tease. An expression of gratitude might do, but the thought of it makes Dazai cringe. He could compliment Chuuya’s bedroom skills, but that also feels insufficient.
In the end, Dazai remains silent. Chuuya pulls away—he has to, eventually—and leaves the bed at a sedate pace. Dazai remains face down on the duvet, listening to the sounds Chuuya makes to paint the picture of what he’s doing. Soft footsteps carry Chuuya toward the hotel room door, and the flick of a light switch indicates that he’s made for the bathroom instead. The faucet turns on, then off, and muffled, wet noises imply that Chuuya is cleaning himself off. The water turns on and off again, followed by Chuuya’s approaching footsteps, and a gentle hand on Dazai’s lower back, preparing him for the warm washcloth that Chuuya drags between his cheeks. Chuuya is thorough without lingering long enough to cause discomfort. When he taps two fingers against Dazai’s hip, Dazai turns on his side so Chuuya can wipe away the lingering spend around his cock.
Despite his intention not to look away from the wall, Dazai’s eyes catch on Chuuya’s face just as Chuuya looks up at the headboard, letting out a soft tsk. Dazai follows his gaze to see his own come already dried on the wood.
“The maid’s tip just got doubled,” Chuuya says sardonically, but he doesn’t sound truly annoyed. He folds the washcloth to a clean spot and makes an effort to scrub away Dazai’s come, but it seems to be a lost cause. With a sigh, he gives up and returns to the bathroom. Dazai manages to keep his eyes on the wall until the last second, catching only a glimpse of Chuuya’s naked body as he disappears around the corner.
Dazai waits. He should get up, get dressed, and return to his own hotel room. If not for his own sake, then he should do it in case Sigma wakes up sooner rather than later. But this unexpected longing has been let loose inside him. Now his mind and body are working together and want to remain in Chuuya’s bed for as long as Chuuya will allow it. Dazai would say that both his mind and body have betrayed him in this, but that would necessitate Dazai himself being some separate third thing, and he’s had enough revelations tonight. He’d rather not start another internal debate about whether or not he has a soul, so he leaves it for now.
When Chuuya leaves the bathroom this time, he flicks off the light and does the same with the lamp on the bedside table. It takes some cooperation on Dazai’s part for Chuuya to crawl into the bed and pull the blankets over himself. It has the (unintended?) side effect of bringing Dazai under the covers with him, leaving them truly in bed together in the nearly dark, skyline-light room.
It takes a few moments for Dazai’s eyes to adjust to the change in lighting before he can make out Chuuya’s face on the pillow across from him. His eyes are closed, lashes pillowed on the tops of his cheeks, his loose hair falling around him in untamed curls. His forehead and brow are free of wrinkles and his lips are a loose line, parted just enough that Dazai hears the tiniest of wheezing sounds as he exhales. As far as Dazai can tell—and he can tell pretty far—Chuuya is perfectly comfortable at this moment.
Meanwhile, Dazai has to forcibly slow his heart as it attempts to race. This new revelation is so loud in his mind that it takes every ounce of his control not to reach out and touch Chuuya again. It seems impossible that after the years they’ve spent apart, a handful of inches between their naked bodies under the shared cover of a duvet has suddenly become intolerable to Dazai, and yet here he is.
How cumbersome these newly realized feelings are surely going to be.
Dazai’s lamentations are cut off almost immediately as Chuuya reaches out blindly to clasp Dazai’s fingers, squeezing them once and then leaving their intertwined hands on the mattress between them.
“We’ve got until morning, remember?” Chuuya mutters, eyes still closed. He gives Dazai’s hand another squeeze. “Now stop thinking so much and go the fuck to sleep.”
Dazai’s mouth gives a valiant attempt at a smile, but maybe the act of trying and failing makes it more sincere than a true smile would be. Either way, Chuuya isn’t even looking, so it doesn’t really matter. He’s right. Tomorrow, all the complicated parts of their relationship will return and no doubt feel harsher after tonight’s reprieve. Dazai could spend the remaining hours until daylight planning how he wants to deal with all of these new, unruly emotions, how he’s going to convince Chuuya of their sincerity, how he’s going to get another chance like tonight without having to pretend that he’s pretending. But that would be a waste of this remaining time with Chuuya, and even if Dazai is inevitably going to lose it, this moment is still worth holding in the meanwhile.
Dazai curls his hand around Chuuya’s in return and lets his eyes close without a fight.