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If Dazai was infamous for one thing in the Detective Agency, it was his penchant for suicide. The runner-up was his endless meandering, of course, and maybe, just maybe, if he was lucky, someone would bring up his intelligence. His name and the term were practically synonymous. Where Kunikida had his Ideal notebook, Dazai had his Complete Guide to Suicide. When others were filing paperwork or patrolling the vast streets of Yokohama, he’d be skipping around the top of a six-story building, humming that insufferable, likely fabricated, song about double suicide. The man was borderline obsessed with it, and it’s impossible for his coworkers to flat out ignore his biggest self-appointed hobby.
It’s even more difficult for Chuuya, his so-called ‘rival’ of seven years, to gloss over this dreadful habit.
It’s not that he’s concerned or anything, far from it, in fact. Dazai is good at perhaps everything except killing himself. The rope breaks seconds before consciousness. Before he can splatter his guts against cold-crusted cement, some trampoline transporters would conveniently pass by. Something always goes amiss during his numerous trench trudges – a snub-nosed kid would alert mommy of the Kappa in the water, she’d call for help, and Atsushi would come barreling down the canal, shouting ‘not again!’ There was no need to worry about his safety when fate itself was on his side. Rather, Chuuya was annoyed. Immeasurably so.
“Are you shittin’ me? You called me all the way for this?”
“You bet!” Dazai chirps below him.
He’s sprawled on his futon, his mismatched, sock-clad feet resting on the pillows while his head hangs where his legs should be. Chuuya recognizes the precautions. Dazai’s pushed his bedding near the window so he can survey his surroundings and watch the door at his leisure – not that it matters in this situation. Chuuya doesn’t have the luxury of using a conventional entrance. He’s peering down at Dazai with disdain from his perch on the sill, balancing all of 60 kilograms on the tips of his toes.
He makes no move to enter, nor does Dazai reposition to avoid getting his legs crushed. A thought briefly dances through Chuuya’s mind, a tantalizing mental image of flailed limbs and heavy exclamations, yet he refrains. Bastard would somehow see it coming anyway.
“Ew,” he grimaces at Dazai’s exaggerated glee. “Do me a favour and never sound that happy about bein’ strangled.”
“I don’t understand. Shouldn’t you be happy too? Isn’t this what you’ve wanted all this time?” Dazai purses his lips to pout, forehead crinkling as he struggles to form convincing puppy-dog eyes.
“Yeah, but I ain’t playin’ into your weird, perverted fantasies to do it.”
“It’s not perverted in the slightest! What’s so wrong about a man trying to find peace? Comfort? The warm embrace of nothingness?” The more he rambles, the more lovesick he sounds with the concept of dying.
Everything, actually. Everything is wrong about this. Chuuya shouldn’t have to haul his ass over to the Agency dorms to bicker with his ex on why it’s a dumb idea to choke him. The weather seems to agree with him. The frosty wind blows fiercely behind him, rattling his coat and the open window frame. He tightens his grip on his hat – normally he’d just secure it to his head with his ability, but he has yet to figure out Dazai’s scheme. Any moment now he could spring up, ram into him, nullifying his ability in the process, and send him spiraling below. It’s not a far drop, but he’d still feel the bone-deep pain – and emotional, when he spots Dazai outstretched pointer finger and seagull-esque laugh. Okay, maybe he’s not dumb enough for pointless, juvenile pranks, but there’s definitely something going on. By Dazai’s modern standards, he’s being too still. It’s unnerving.
“I can name a few things. One: I don’t want’cher buddies to discover your corpse and immediately bumrush the Mafia,” Chuuya deadpans.
“So you’re afraid.”
“Not at all what I said.”
“Sounds like it.”
Sometimes Dazai’s really predictable. Chuuya narrows his eyes, scoffing, “I’m not fallin’ for this. Your goading’s gotten real weak over the years.”
Dazai meets Chuuya’s glare with a passable begging gleam in his eyes, and he meets the expected call-out with complete and utter nonsense. “They’d have no clue it was you who did it.”
“Why’re you so adamant?" Chuuya’s fingers unconsciously curl around the dip of his fedora, felt creasing beneath leather.
“Because you’re my last hope!” Dazai exclaims. He throws his arms in the air, and then above his head, and then into dusty tatami with a dull thunk. “Everyone else turned me down already!”
“Gee, I wonder why…”
“Please, Chuuya, I’d forever be in your debt…”
“Y’already are. What’s one more favour to the tab?
“You don’t get it, this would be my last one!”
The double meaning makes Chuuya wince. “Quit talkin’ like that.”
“Again, you wouldn’t have to hear me talk if we got this over with!”
Or if I left. The idea is tempting, truly, the brightest star in the otherwise empty plane that represents Chuuya’s mind. It wouldn’t surprise him if, halfway through backtracking to the Mafia’s headquarters, his bike crunched over whatever piece of his brain slipped out on the ride here. It’d be inconvenient, no doubt, to piece together his spotty memories of small-printed road signs and transmitted directions without thinking of the message that brought him here in the first place: sand.
To the average person, it evokes feelings of joy – if they’re an avid beachgoer – or annoyance – same as above, simply with a different mindset. To Chuuya, two emotions took precedence: confusion, and potent panic. Sand referenced the material island outcasts used to call for help. It symbolized struggle, solidarity, and whatever poetic mumbo-jumbo a fifteen-year-old Dazai conjured up. Chuuya wasn’t exactly following, but he vividly remembers the two of them agreeing to use it as a personal SOS. It was a short message that relayed personal problems, a calling card for one person and one person alone. It was this Tuesday night he read the text, the one that broke nearly two weeks of silence.
Now that he knows the context, he wishes their absence had been stretched to three weeks. That old codeword should’ve been used elsewhere, kept abandoned and intertwined with the treasure trove of memories it belonged to. There was truly no need for Dazai to call him over.
Similarly, there was no pressing issue that demanded Chuuya return to headquarters.
“Why don’t you do it yourself, if it’s so important?” he seethes.
“It’s not the same,” Dazai throws his arms up in the air again, only for them to fall seconds later, the action useless in a way only a petulant child could muster. He huffs, “Instincts would kick in and bam my entire plan would be ruined! The Complete Guide to Suicide says–”
“THAT? You're still reading that? It's been…” Chuuya trails off, his eyes darting to the floor to count the tiles and the years alike. After a brief delay, he musters, “Six years!”
“Once a good book, always a good book.”
“You’re hopeless.”
Chuuya angles his body to the side, preparing to duck under the open portion of the window, and it’s at that moment that Dazai pounces. He springs up and braces his hands against the windowsill, either to stabilize or further rattle the unsteady perch. His fingers splay between cigarette ash and the flakey remains of cockroach shells. Chuuya reflexively flinches.
“Wait, don't go, it's an emergency!”
That damn word again. “No, it’s not. Don't use our codeword unless sumthing’s actually goin’ on.”
That reminder earns a matching flinch from Dazai. More of a twitch, really, his eyebrows purse together with vague displeasure.
“That system’s pointless. If I'm in danger, what’re the chances I’d have access to my phone, let alone willingly call you?”
Ever hypocritical, Dazai spits in the face of his former self and rubs his acidic saliva into the moth-eaten, flame-licked jacket. Chances are pretty damn high, Chuuya idly thinks, I’m everyone’s emergency contact at this point. He instead voices: “You’re not helping your case!”
“Pleaaaase, I’m gonna keep bugging you about it…” He reverts to his previous approach: drawing out words and whining until Chuuya inevitably gets fed up. It doesn’t work.
“No, yer not, I’ve better things to do.”
Steeling himself to look away from those piercing eyes, Chuuya turns to face the sky. Spotty reflections of what could be stars or airplane taillights hover behind faroff streetlights, which he directs his undivided focus to. Civilization seems so distant, yet so tangible at the same time… He flexes his foot downwards, blindly searching for a dip in the bricks to assist with the short drop. It looks around 16 feet, if that, he’ll be fine without gravity’s smooth control. As expected, a new light appears before he can enact such a plan. A familiar cerulean glow illuminates the back of his coat, along with a tight grip above his elbow. No Longer Human’s nullification washes over him in a smooth wave, the sensation akin to jumping in room-temperature water – it’s nowhere near the levels of an ice-bath shock, but it’s still chilly enough to jolt you in the present. He’s whisked back with sudden force.
“Ack–” he squawks in protest. His left leg smacks against solid clay, then his right knee to smudged glass, and then his head into something firm. There’s a short feeling of floating, and an even shorter sensation of falling, before his rear collides with a soft cushion. His hat slides off somewhere near the curtains. He immediately pushes up, attempting to straighten himself in spite of the arm wrapped around his waist.
Dazai’s grip only tightens. He presses his chest to Chuuya’s back, hunching over so his neck is leaning against the coat’s collar just so, and whispers, “I still have that file.”
Of course Dazai would use multiple strategies to get what he wants. The Port Mafia titled him a ‘torture specialist’ for a reason, yet Chuuya didn’t expect him to play his ace this quickly. Usually there’d be more back-and-forth, more protruding tongues – Dazai – and more overly-enounciated insults – Chuuya. Blackmailing him this early should be considered foul play: not that he’d listen to moral objectivity. The act of holding a failed mission over another’s head for a lustrum doesn’t scream altruistic.
“I hate you so, so much,” Chuuya grits. He slowly goes lax against Dazai, but he is by no means done fighting.
“Alrighty!” Dazai clasps his hands together, voice oozing with false enthusiasm. Chuuya doesn’t match his zeal. His stare is on the messy dorm. He’s seen glimpses from the window, of course, but inside and up close is a different story. The closet doors remain open, showcasing unfolded coats and vests of varying bland shades. A towering pile of paperwork sways precariously in the breeze; one wrong inhale and they’d topple over and bury the desk they’re perched upon. Unlabeled, dented cans and empty whiskey bottles surround Dazai’s futon like an open casket. A specifically stout bottle leaks a crimson fluid from where it’s tipped over on the floor. Surprisingly enough, it’s the sole visible stain.
Dazai spots Chuuya’s staring. He leans over, grabs the bottle, and experimentally swirls the remaining droplets. “Before we get down to business, why don’t we set the mood? Care for a drink? I’ve got candles ‘round here somewhere.”
Chuuya doesn’t need to sniff the liquid to know he’s uninterested. He sneers, “And you say this isn't perverted."
“It’s not.”
“Then why're you making an atmosphere? What's next? We gonna whisper sweet-nothins’? You gonna start some jazz music? Fuck is your plan?” Chuuya’s shoulders raise higher and higher with every punctuating shrug.
“Nothing,” Dazai smoothly lies, “I simply want my dream to be a reality. I want to make Wataru Tsurumi proud.”
“Who?”
“The author of A Complete Guide to Suicide.”
Chuuya shouldn’t be surprised. He pinches the bridge of his nose, index finger hovering near his temple to rub away the incoming headache. “For chrissake, I might start reading that book at this rate.”
“Oooh, I’d highly recommend it! It's a fascinating read.”
“It’s a waste o’ perfectly good trees.”
“If they’re gonna be cut down anyway, it may as well be in the pursuit of art.”
“That can't be classified as art.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
Chuuya can feel his eye twitching in annoyance. They can continue this back and forth for days, and, quite frankly, he doesn’t want his last moments to be next to this freak. He returns to the nibbled-on bullet.
“Okay, what d’you even want me to do? What’s the point of this?”
Dazai decides to show pity. “Right, so realistically you'll let go before I die, that's a given.” Chuuya opens his mouth to interject, only to be shushed by a mantra of ‘apapapapa–’ He continues, “What I'm hoping for is to faint. Truth be told, I've been having problems sleeping lately, and this is a decent fix.”
The issue can’t be as simple as that, there’s no way. Dazai’s too lazy to voluntarily seek out Chuuya without an ulterior motive.
“Genuinely, what is wrong with you.” It’s not a question. “Just eat melatonin like everyone else, or, y'know, do sumthin’ productive with your day. That tires you out.”
“Meh, too expensive, and too much effort. The ag–”
“A pack is, like, five dollars!”
“How much d’you think the Agency pays?”
“Enough for melatonin.”
“I wish.” For a second, Dazai stares mournfully off into the distance, furthering Chuuya’s righteous confusion. He snaps back to life with some unconvincing finger guns. “Anyway, get to it, chokey-boy.”
“Uh- never say that again. What does that even mean…”
Chuuya moves Dazai’s accusatory fingers, of which he welcomes. He splays his palms, showing an international sign of peace, and gets comfortable. He uncrosses his legs, reclines and stuffs a pillow beneath his head. His neck cranes back in a smooth arch, Adam’s apple barely protruding behind sterile gauze.
“Right, my bad. How about tangerine?” Dazai starts tame.
“Romeo?”
Chuuya feels his frown deepen.
“Purse pooch?”
Then his lips twist towards one side, jaw premeditatedly gritted. Dazai’s drawling his words and using his deeper register; that’s never a good sign.
“I know Ane-san would like that one. Think of it, you all dolled up, stuffed insi-”
“Right, you can shut up now!”
Chuuya finally pounces. If this dumb decision is thrust upon him, he may as well make the most of it. He crowds Dazai into the thin bedding, smaller form lingering over a still pose with a predatory fever. His hands quickly encircle his throat, and he shakes Dazai’s neck for good measure. His head submerges into the off-white pillow with a soft shh.
There’s a brief moment where he just stares, lidded eyes widening to normal vision. His grin stays frozen on his face, unnaturally so, like an unfortunate smear frame caught when a movie gets paused. It’s when Chuuya’s own lips curl in a snarl that Dazai takes his cue to resume. His head lolls to the side, neck unable to support its heavy weight, and that horrid smile thins into something repressed.
“Aha,” he exclaims, equal parts laugh and gasp. “I knew you still had it, my volcanic comrade! Gotta hand it to you, your explosions have become oh so infre- eehk…”
He stops mid-word, breath fizzling into something unheard. Chuuya reiterates the importance of shutting up by tightening his grip. His thumbs dig in below his thyroid on either side, and the direct pressure to his trachea creates the urge to cough. Windpipe protesting for freedom, he can only stall for so long before he’s turning his head and wheezing into the open air. Chuuya holds him through his minor convulsions. He leans forward, his elbows purposefully digging into Dazai’s chest to keep him in place.
“Stay down, this was your idea!” he seethes.
Dazai, for whatever reason, vigorously nods. His hand instinctively flies to his throat, and he raises Chuuya’s hands to thumb over the crease in his bandages. While most people would scramble for oxygen, he simply readjusts the chokehold for a pleasant lightheadedness. His hands are steady. He seems more than used to this, not a gulp to be felt or an awkward backtrack to be heard. Even when his eyes unconsciously drift up, when his world turns fuzzy and stippled with black, he doesn’t fear the avoidable.
“Harder…” he breathes, voice a low rasp.
Chuuya doesn’t listen. He doesn’t care for the way Dazai phrased that – consonants clipped around the filthy instruction – nor would tightening his hold affect this whole process. It might create deeper bruises, sure, but it won’t speed things up. He’s going to avoid playing into Dazai’s hands for as long as he can.
Unfortunately, Dazai’s hands have a mind of their own. After lightly squeezing Chuuya’s wrists, he lets them fall to his sides. They hover over the mafioso’s knees, where his legs are braced near Dazai’s waist due to the straddling, and climb higher. His fingers spider up the length of his leathered thighs and lock around his solid waist.
“What’re you do-- tch-!” Chuuya jolts at the contact. Not exactly the placement of Dazai’s hands – it’s weird, undeniably so, yet his brain rationalizes that it’s instinct – but the temperature. Cold, bony fingertips dip below his vest and linger where his shirt has ridden up. They follow the dip of his hip with a suspicious lack of scratching and unintentionality.
Dazai doesn’t push away like he expected, so Chuuya takes the responsibility for himself. He twists his hips in an attempt to shake off the touch, only to immediately regret it when the momentum presses them closer. He unintentionally grinds against Dazai, his legs tensing at both the friction and the faintly familiar feeling of something firm below him. Dazai’s eyes glaze over. Chuuya scrambles away like he’s touched fire, the searing weight of realization being physically painful.
“Whyareyou-” he starts too fast, words spewing from his mouth before he registers them. His newly freed hands exasperatedly gesture at Dazai’s– well, everything. He spits, “I knew you get off on this!”
Dazai, in comparison, slowly rises. He lazily raises one of his hands, the placating motion doing nothing to distract from how raspy his voice is.
“Calm down, it’s just muscle memory. I’m used to ladies straddling me.”
Chuuya doesn’t doubt the circumstances: he knows for a fact multiple people have wanted to, some even succeeding to, throttle Dazai. It’s hard to believe his body naturally reacts like that, though. Even stranger to wrap his head around the mental image of Dazai voluntarily touching a woman. In teenage years, far past the age of such a mindset, he insisted they had cooties. He made romantic and sexual advances ironically, not as something he hoped people would genuinely fall for.
“Great. Didn't need to know that!”
“It’s not a big deal. We're guys. It happens.”
Getting aroused while being choked does not just ‘happen’ to the average person, but Chuuya’s not going to be the one to call him out. For some reason, he finds himself more embarrassed than Dazai. Maybe it’s the knowledge that he was the one to indirectly initiate friction, or the distant, nagging reminder of what happened the last time one of them was hard. Regardless, he sighs through his nose and shoots Dazai a withering stare. He continues unbidden.
“Though, since we’re here, and since you managed to screw even this up…” Dazai idly massages his own neck, dwelling on where Chuuya’s touch was moments ago, half-expecting bruises, or, more fantastically, red to ooze out of the fresh stain. He should’ve recovered enough air by now, yet his voice has yet to rise from airy, just-finished-mountain-climbing-yet-not-wanting-to-seem-too-out-of-breath, territory.
“I know there's another way to pass out…”
The way Dazai’s looking at him, gaze clouded, pupils dilated, eyes alive with a certain spark, has Chuuya’s heart thudding through his chest. It’s second-hand embarrassment, insulted disbelief, surely. His body’s making up for Dazai’s lack of shame, right?
“I swear to god, you better be suggesting a bedtime story.”
“We both know I'm not,” Dazai shakes his head, then murmurs a daring non-sequitur, "And we both know you haven't forgotten that car ride.”
Chuuya’s heart stops. A burning sensation ignites in his chest, an unnecessary bounce of energy that encourages him to pace, or jog in place and rant. It’s nearly a fight-or-flight response. His cheeks burn from the inside-out.
Of course he remembers, how could he forget? It was a momentary lapse in judgement, an impulsive mistake he made as a teen, a ‘competition’ he wishes he never went along with.
He and Dazai were in polished leather seats, one of the mafia’s chauffeurs transporting them to headquarters. Dazai wasn’t strictly needed. It was part of the old gem trade he insisted he supervise, executive orders and all that. ‘I need to make sure that dog doesn’t mess this up,’ he said.
‘Tch, good thing it was on the cheek. She wouldn’t have survived your awful breath,’ he said when he witnessed an affectionate jeweler give Chuuya a peck.
Chuuya said his breath was fine, Dazai was the one with yellow teeth.
Dazai ignored him and insisted that Chuuya was a bad kisser.
Chuuya told him to mind his business.
Dazai asked why he was so defensive, if he kissed anyone before.
Chuuya told him to get off his high horse.
Dazai claimed to have kissed countless girls.
Chuuya rolled his eyes and told him to prove it.
Dazai said he didn’t have photos. He jokingly said they’d have to kiss for proof.
Chuuya said Dazai was diseased.
Dazai said there’s only one way to find out. He leaned in.
Chuuya wanted to spite him and closed the gap. He went too close for comfort.
Dazai froze when their lips connected.
Chuuya jolted back, eyes saucered to stare in disbelief. He shot a disbelieving smirk when he saw the emotion was shared.
It was Dazai’s turn for petty revenge. He kissed back, deeper.
Chuuya broke away, called the action pathetic. He went in for seconds.
Dazai bit his lip.
Chuuya slipped his tongue in.
Dazai lifted his legs to get closer.
Chuuya pushed him against the door.
Dazai hesitated.
Chuuya triumphantly exclaimed that he was the bad kisser.
Dazai grew spiteful. He said his mouth is good for other things. He pushed Chuuya off him. He crawled between his legs.
Chuuya guided Dazai’s head. He liked it more than he would’ve thought.
Dazai shot the driver when they were done. He never spoke of it again.
When Chuuya mockingly brought it up, he shut down. When Chuuya mulled over the event, he knew to keep his questions to himself.
It went ignored.
Dazai has no right to bring it up so casually, not after they’ve avoided addressing the event for years. Chuuya’s hands bunch into Dazai’s thick, threadbare blanket. A nervous smile stretches the corners of his lips, silver canine flashing in moonlit reflections.
“That was years ago, why bring it up now?”
“C’mon, you can't be this dumb.”
“I’m not, it's… eugh. It's stupid to look back on.”
Dazai undoubtedly notices Chuuya’s tone change. There’s no fire to his voice, hesitation outweighing any surface-level annoyance. He sits on his feet and tilts his head, dark, outgrown hair shadowing his expression.
“I don't think so.”
The admission doesn’t linger, neither let it fester. Dazai presses close, breaking the distance and bunching his hands inches away from Chuuya’s.
“Though, if it’s that embarrassing for you, why don't we bury it under new memories? Y'know, like a do-over.”
Chuuya’s legs scramble on the mattress, kicking back so his torso is a few precious inches further from Dazai. His gloved hands are cemented in place, however.
“I’m not a horny teen.”
“Obviously. A little practice never hurt anyone, though.”
“Not a virgin either.”
“M’kay,” he hums noncommittally, borderline suprised. “Then think of this as a way to one-up me. Or blackmail me.”
“You can't be this desperate.”
“Not desperate, just curious.”
“Right…”
“I'm guessing you are too. You haven't left yet.”
Chuuya’s mind reels every time Dazai doubles down. He draws nearer and nearer with every correction. Chuuya hates that he’s not wrong. His brain flashes between multiple explanations for this strange behaviour, or future excuses Dazai will spew when he inevitably flees again. ‘I had a bet going,’ or, ‘I was joking. I wanted to see how you’d react.”
This has to be a sick play on his emotions, if not then he’s mere collateral damage for Dazai’s self-destruction – something would be wrong if it’s not. Everything’s already wrong. This whole situation is fucked.
Dazai’s a guy, Chuuya’s a guy.
Dazai’s part of the Agency, Chuuya the Mafia.
Dazai yearns to commit double suicide with a woman.
Chuuya once argued with him for a full day.
They’re sworn enemies.
They shouldn’t be talking.
It’s been years since they were this close to each other.
Dazai’s too damn close. Chuuya can see the flakes of gold in his hollow eyes, can feel the breath ghosting across his cheek when Dazai talks, can smell the lingering pang of antiseptic and a variation of woodsy shampoo, can practically hear Dazai’s pulse where their chests touch.
“Yer like a trainwreck,” he whispers.
“Aww, so you can’t look away from me?”
“I’m callin’ you a mess.”
“Touche. … But you've always been the one to clean up, haven't you?” Dazai rests the tip of his thumb against Chuuya’s bottom lip. He gently pulls it down, examining the faint sheen of saliva that coats the inside. Chuuya resists the urge to lick off the chapped skin.
“I think it’d be nice for you to relax a bit.”
“Fucking you doesnt scream relaxing.”
Chuuya voices aloud his obvious suspicions. Dazai doesn’t correct him. To his utter shock, he doesn’t pull back and snort, ‘Hah, that’s what you thought was going on?’ He confirms, “Put aside your bias for two seconds.”
“It’s just me. We've been through worse.”
Chuuya removes Dazai’s thumb so he can say, “Can’t get worse than this.”
“Nobody would have to know.”
“You’d actually keep your mouth shut?”
“Mhm.”
“You’ll leave me alone after?”
“Told you, this is just to forget our first time.”
The statement isn’t as comforting as Dazai expects it to be, but Chuuya would be lying if he said his silver-tongue fell flat. He’s never been one to be swayed for honeyed words, but Dazai in particular has always had the innate ability to transform people’s wills into leaves in a hurricane.
“Don’t call it that. Makes it seem like we actually slept together.”
“Depends on your definition.”
Chuuya’s not as appalled as he wishes he was.
“We didn't. You were just… bein’ weird. Get that through your thick skull.”
“I felt inspired, as I do now.”
With the way Dazai’s staring at him – like he’s some piece of art, something to be honoured in a museum for decades, something to be treasured – it doesn’t sound like a lie. Chuuya knows full well he’s being manipulated, but he’s never seen Dazai make that face before. The only time he showed similar intensity was when he discovered Chuuya was under Kouyou’s direct command, or when he’s expressing exaggerated anger. Chuuya much prefers it in this context.
“Then stop talkin’ and make a move already.”
Dazai obliges. His wrist slips out of Chuuya’s weak grip and cups his cheek, tugging his face forward and locking him in a kiss. He starts off slow, experimentally so, lips pursing around Chuuya’s and inhaling his stifled gasp.
Chuuya, as soon as he recovers from the shock of having a warm body on him, takes Dazai’s romanticism and crumples it in the trash. He kisses back with fervor. One hand finds Dazai’s hair, fingers tangling in black roots, and he tugs backwards. The momentum silently whisks Dazai’s head away, and Chuuya invades the newfound space with his tongue.
Dazai tastes like whiskey and cough medicine, a concoction so entirely unromantic that Chuuya drinks it up like a man dying of thirst – too much, too soon, unhealthy for the human body. Dazai tries to push back, to smush Chuuya into the wall and take control, and the mafioso resists. His hands stay firmly braced in the tatami now, encouraging proper posture and a position of power.
“Mhh-” he murmurs a soft, pleased sound into Dazai’s mouth, eyes squeezing shut to focus on the sensation, on the demanding push of his own tongue, the outlines and indents of another set of teeth, the soft smacking whenever he pauses for air, on the calloused, bandaged hands that have taken residence on the buttons upon his collar.
Unless an idea is particularly brainless, Dazai’ll encourage and goad from the sidelines. He’s always been offensively go-with-the flow, and now is no different. He tugs near the top of Chuuya’s ribbon tie, loosening the already lax fabric and popping buttons in the process. He abruptly pulls away. He doesn’t comment on the protesting noise rumbling in Chuuya’s throat, he just bites on his new canvas.
Chuuya, halfway to wiping off the spit that’s dripped on his chin, pauses when dull canines sink into the soft flesh above his collarbone. He subconsciously tugs Dazai’s hair, encouraging him to move up. He bites down on the back of his hand in time with Dazai to his jugular. Eyes shooting open, he blankly stares at the ceiling, not really seeing, and tilts his head back to give better access.
Dazai uses the opportunity to shove open Chuuya’s legs, to creep onto his heaving chest and shove him down onto the mattress. He’s met with no resistance, so he bites harder, scraping his teeth against a small mole. He sucks a dark, identifying mark into the side of his neck. Chuuya offers a high ‘ngh’ sound for half of a second before he remembers who he’s with and swiftly seals his lips.
Act normal, he chastises to himself.
He suddenly reaches for the buckle of Dazai’s belt, which the detective, of course, notices. He retreats with a kitten-lick.
“Aya,” he tsks, “someone's eager.”
“I want this over with,” Chuuya pants.
If Dazai were looking at him, he’d notice the feverish intensity. Instead, his eyes stay trained on Chuuya’s reddened neck, on the way the bright bruise stands out amid tan skin and a dark, silver-studded choker. He hums, “What do you have in mind?”
Chuuya, quite frankly, hasn’t thought this far. He hasn’t exactly detailed the process in his head in a step-by-step format. He just wants as a whole. His pants feel embarrassingly tight after a mere makeout session, and he can feel Dazai straining against him through his pajamas in kind. He not-so-subtly stares at the outline of his bulge, realizing the obvious once more: they’re both guys. He doesn’t know how to go about this. Doesn’t know if he wants to.
“Dunno, figured I could just use my hand,” he mumbles, brain kicking back into gear and flying through rations of emergency excuses.
“I could do that myself.” Dazai deadpans.
“Then do it. If your only goal is to get tired it shouldn't matter.”
Chuuya’s brows furrow at his own wording. ‘Goal,’ right, this is all just an end result for him. He can feel his irritation simmer beneath the surface. (Maybe the volcano analogy wasn’t so far off, after all.)
“Please, my curiosity goes deeper than that.”
As if reading his mind, Dazai sounds passably offended by Chuuya thinking so little of his scheme.
“Quit talking like I’m some experiment. You're not makin’ any sense.”
“Likewise. What's the point of something so cheap?”
With that vague insinuation, he swats Chuuya’s hand away in lieu of pressing against his crotch. He rolls his hips in one smooth, calculated motion, firm enough to make Chuuya’s own pelvis jerk up. The redhead takes the hint. His hands encircle Dazai’s waist and he guides him, grinding in tandem. The sensation’s not entirely foreign.
“If you’re the expert, what d’you have in mind?”
His question – non-rhetorical, for once, he actually wants a reply, goes unanswered. Dazai resumes his previous task of undressing Chuuya. He unclasps the cinched vest with ease, larger buttons springing free of their own accord, and the button-up follows in a quiet crescendo of pops. His hands are braced against a bare chest in no time.
He leaves off where he began. He peppers sloping pecks and echoing nips along the column of Chuuya’s throat, tongue darting out to occasionally lick up the lingering luster of cologne and salty sweat. Down he goes. His nose dips into Chuuya’s clavicle, then he veers to the side to spread his saliva around the faint swell of a nipple.
He’s so warm, Chuuya can’t help but note, just like last time.
“Hypocrite… mm- this is also pointless.”
“Shhh, you’re ruining the mood…” Dazai pulls away to hush him, leaving damp skin to cool in the empty air.
Chuuya shivers at the barest of losses. His abs clench where Dazai’s hand is traveling south, and he can literally feel himself twitch in anticipation. Hips moving in increasingly faster circles, he can no longer find the presence of mind to actively interrogate Dazai. Every sensation is simultaneously too little and too much. He doesn’t care what his motives are, so long as he gets some enjoyment out of this.
“Hurry up,” he shudders.
“But the mooood,” Dazai draws out the word, the elongation halfway between a purr and a deliberately obnoxious whine.
“We’re fine,” Chuuya jerks up for emphasis, making his own breath hitch. “You’re just stalling. And torturing me.”
“‘m not, but thanks for the idea.”
Dazai continues his slow descent, completely unperturbed by Chuuya’s increasingly aggressive encouragement. The sole sign of progress comes in the form of his hands. While he unclasps Chuuya’s belt, his head lolls forward, stray strands tickling the other’s sternum.
“Your heart’s racing,” Dazai states the obvious, his ear snugly smooshed and detecting every stuttered beat.
Chuuya doesn’t dignify that with a response. He reaches down and wiggles out of the restraining binds of pants and boxers alike, not directly exposing himself, but pushing the fabric aside so his cock will spring free with an easy downward shove. Knowing Dazai, it’s best to be the one to make the first push, else he won’t shut up about your lack of action, your imaginary fear. Besides, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Discrediting that fateful, far-flung frenzy of an evening, they’ve gone to bathhouses and hot springs together: Chuuya’s caught glimpses of Dazai’s body he’d care less about, and the reverse is probably true.
Probably. In no universe would Dazai purposefully ogle Chuuya’s body. …Or that’s what he would’ve thought if his ‘partner’ didn’t peel his forehead off to sinfully stare. With the belt hurdle officially climbed, Dazai’s fingers continue their descent. He brushes over the slope of his v-line and curlicues of light hair to gingerly stroke a vein on Chuuya’s cock.
“Been a while, hasn’t it?”
Chuuya grunts in acknowledgement, barely able to muster sound with how every nerve in his body is establishing propaganda for attention. It’s been a while since he’s slept with someone, or jerked off, or enacted any non-mafia-oriented deviance in general, now that he has more job responsibilities and political connections. He finds himself fighting against his body, pouring cement and laying bricks to cover the natural contortions of his face. It gets worse when Dazai touches him proper. A hand loosely wraps around him, the chafed gauze of his palm an aggravating sensation against sensitive flesh.
“You’re still so red,” he observes. It’s uncertain if he’s talking about the rosy hue of Chuuya’s cheeks or the tint of his tip.
Luckily, Dazai doesn’t bother using his hand – good thing, else Chuuya would’ve bitched in excess about how much of a hypocrite he truly is. He slinks his lower half away with the fraying strings of his self-control, body moving to the edge of the futon so his head is aligned where Chuuya wants him. His thumb soars to the tip of the mafioso’s length, digit rubbing heavy circles and applying enough pressure for precum to seep from the slit.
“Still just as eager,” he sighs his final observation before getting down to business.
He makes pointed eye-contact as he lowers himself, free hand bending Chuuya’s pants and allowing his arousal to breathe unrestrained. He’s rapidly growing damp under Dazai’s thumb, and he greedily laps up the beads of arousal before they drip low. Chuuya hears his own breaths in his ear, his inhales sharp and his exhales shuddered. He sounds like he’s standing outside in the cold, when, in reality, he fears he’s flying too close to the sun.
Dazai is a notorious plague, an infectious creature who feeds off other’s displeasure and seeps his cancer deep in their bones. The longer you’re with him, the more red flags present themselves.
Chuuya wants to be infected.
That sinful mouth opens wider around above him, neck craning to wrap around Chuuya’s head. He’s not a half inch in Dazai’s mouth before his ego gets the better of him. Spotting the way Chuuya’s biting his lip, the way his hands twitch into the blankets, his attention solely on him and him alone, Dazai removes the hand that was bracing himself on the mattress. He submits himself to gravity, arms crashing on Chuuya’s stomach and head dropping to the base of his pelvis. Chuuya hits the back of his throat in one fast, jagged motion akin to a failed pushup. He doesn’t flinch.
Chuuya does. He thrusts up in spite of common sense, ramming himself into the roof of Dazai’s mouth without thought.
“AY– warn me first! You’re so… so… fuu…” He trails off with a censored curse.
Warm. He doesn’t say that but he certainly, dumbly, thinks it again. In his defense, the average person wouldn't be able to muster cohesive, unique thoughts except for base desires when confronted with such an issue. Dazai innocently bats his eyelashes; it’s in those brief milliseconds that he truly looks innocent, when his lust is covered and undetectable to another. Any other time he’s not blinking is pure, adulterated filth.
‘Eyes are the window to the soul’, they say. Right now Dazai’s soul is conversing the sounds his mouth could never form: ‘I want you.’
Maybe Chuuya’s projecting. Maybe his hippocampus finally melted under the intensive daily regiment of strong emotions. Maybe he’s succumbing to whiplash and this entire day is part of the flash of memories before he truly goes.
Again, that memory pops up.
Dazai’s hunched in the back of the stretched sedan, his ass facing the tinted windows and his face buried in Chuuya’s crotch. His crooked nose stabs pale skin whenever he sinks too quickly. His touch stays directly on Chuuya’s waist, right above the tanline, afraid to wander. His visible eye is squeezed shut behind a curtain of long bangs.
Chuuya reaches out to brush aside Dazai’s bangs, the brown looking noticeably streaky in comparison to the rest of his head. It’s probably been a while since he’s dyed it. Chuuya clutches those darker strands like his life depends on it, not quite tugging, just holding. His breath comes out in small, audible huffs through his nose. It’s inconsistent, faltering with the way Dazai moves. His forehead grows sticky under his hand, and he can’t tell who’s sweat it is.
Dazai’s clumsy with it. His teeth drag across sensitive flesh too often for Chuuya’s liking, and if he wasn’t so focused on keeping quiet he would berate him to be careful. He doesn’t rise when he’s supposed to; he’d rather envelop Chuuya whole than put thought behind his tact and the depth. Shallow up, shallow down, over and over in a weak nod. His tongue stays lax in his mouth to avoid the bitter, alien taste.
“Lucky me. I’ve always preferred salty foods,” present-Dazai resurfaces to rasp. He keeps his tongue still, letting his head do all the work as he licks upwards like a cat grooming themselves. He doesn’t give either a break or a chance to adjust. Just when Chuuya thinks he’s getting used to the tight suction of Dazai’s throat, he pulls back and mouths around his tip, expertly lapping and sucking, then diving right back in.
“Oh god…” Chuuya finds himself replying. He forgets to close his mouth after, eyes having the opposite issue and struggling to stay open.
Dazai has yet to look at him. He keeps his head bowed, body pliant, neck fragile to Chuuya’s needs; if he tugs a single strand of hair, Dazai follows his lead and pushes him to his soft palette. Chuuya’s not exactly small, nor is he gentle, yet Dazai shows no signs of discomfort. He doesn’t gag or swat the other’s thigh to get him to stop, but it’s not like his lip is split with a smile either.
Dazai won’t stop looking at him, mouth grotesquely stretched over his girth. Taking this staring contest a bit too seriously, he hollows his cheeks and makes a lewd slurping sound, daring Chuuya to look away from sheer shame. The mafioso quietly groans, filling the stifling atmosphere with his own sound of sensuality.
Dazai’s gotten so much better over the years. Chuuya distantly questions who he’s practiced on – not that he can come up with good theories with his spiteful ‘partner’ working him faster. His head lolls on the pillow, vision blackening as he allows himself to focus on the sensations, on the electricity working its way up his spine. He weakly crosses his shin over Dazai’s upper back, trapping him by sheer presence and obligation.
Noting the increasing gloss on Chuuya’s bottom lip from his biting, and the tenseness of his legs, Dazai acts. He discreetly reaches for his portable dresser, wheels it closer, and inches open the bottom drawer. He blindly gropes past boxers, his wallet, various keys, and old photos to lock onto a bottle in the corner. He sets it behind himself with a faint thud that Chuuya’s too lost to hear.
The subsequent pop of the lid certainly gets his attention. He cracks one eye open and squints at Dazai through blurry vision. The new addition of the bottle doesn’t escape his notice. If it weren’t for the indented, conveniently grabbable center, he would’ve guessed it was more alcohol.
“What’re you doin’?” he manages to gasp.
Dazai doesn’t pull away, and, knowing that it’s rude to talk with your mouth open, doesn’t answer either. Chuuya’s expression quickly morphs into pleased, seconds away from uncaring, before Dazai moves his hand towards the inconspicuously bare bottle. He lightly tugs his head up. Dazai retreats with another slick pop.
“I was planning to get you ready.”
Somehow the idea never occurred to Chuuya. Through his fragmented thoughts of ‘more,’ ‘shit, this is weird,’ and ‘he’s insufferable,’ he never once questioned ‘what’s next?’ The bottle evicts his deja vu without mercy.
“O-oh, hell no. That's gross.”
Dazai sends a pointed glance to Chuuya’s slick dick, lips glistening in tow.
“Where do you draw the line?” He exasperatedly asks.
“Uh… this? Can’t say I'm in the mood for a prostate exam,” he reveals. Few are. At this moment, he’s thinking exclusively with his dick. Dazai’s still nearby…
“It’ll feel different,” Dazai interjects. He brushes over Chuuya’s uncertain expression with, “Probably. I know I’ll make it good.”
Unfounded self-confidence aside, Chuuya asks, “D’you even know what yer doing?”
“Can’t be that different from the girls’.”
It’s not what Chuuya wanted to hear. He trusts Dazai to a point, but not to this extent. It doesn’t help that he can see the outline of Dazai’s own dick. He audibly gulps at the mere thought of that being inside him, at the prospect of not knowing where else he’s put it.
“‘kay, sorry, but I ain’t trusting you anywhere near my ass.”
Dazai retorts on instinct, “Your idea wasn't any better! ‘Least this way we’d both feel good.”
“That cannot feel good,” Chuuya skeptically claims.
“Sure it can, there's studies on it.”
“Where d’you get this information?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I will,” Chuuya refutes. “‘least test it out in real life before ya start getting jabby.
“Who else am I s’posed to test it on?”
He doesn’t want to think about it. Maybe it’s Dazai’s brusque change of topic, maybe it’s because he’s sobering up without the heat fogging his transparent brain, either way he finds himself slowly returning to hesitation. He suggests, half-sarcastically: “Yourself.”
And Dazai’s face changes as if he was contemplating it, eyes flashing with recognition like Chuuya brought up another long-lost memory. He scowls, “That's embarassing….”
“This was your idea,” the mafioso reminds him on autopilot. He’s caught on the red hue of Dazai’s face, the way it lights up his pale skin and contrasts with dark eyebrows. Ever since the prominent, puberty-induced acne faded, he’s had a ghostly pallor. The blush adds light to his gaunt cheeks. He doesn’t look half bad like this. He doesn’t admit his findings.
With little encouragement, Dazai peels back the overlapping bandages on his right palm, then he wraps his fingers around the bottle’s base. He starts to tilt it towards two elongated fingers.
“Help me get out of these pants,” he smoothly instructs.
While Chuuya would normally hate to listen to Dazai’s orders, the thought of being the only one exposed is just as detestable. He listens without a verbal reply, complaint coming in the form of a snort through the nose, akin to a bull preparing to charge. He uses his hands to hoist himself up, then promptly gets to work on Dazai’s belt. He tries to ignore the quiet swirl of liquid inches from his ears, tries to ignore the way his ‘partner’ stiffens at the first brush of his knuckles.
Dazai’s arms aren’t the only things that are stiff. A few inches away, Chuuya’s eyes are given express permission to trace the outline of his obvious bulge. When he manages to skirt the plaid pajamas down to Dazai’s mid-thigh, he’s met with a pair of plain black boxers. They ride up his legs where he’s kneeling, slightly too tight around bandaged thighs that have fractionally filled out. The gauze stops a bit above the knee. The dark color matches his old funerary wardrobe better than his present earthy palette.
“‘course you’ve got bandages down ‘ere too,” Chuuya dryly murmurs, throat feeling equally parched.
“That a problem?” Dazai’s quick to ask.
“Nah.” Chuuya’s long accepted that he won’t be able to see what’s underneath. No matter how close they become, there will always be some barrier between them. The wall may change from steel, to cement, to cheap paneling, and to crumbling drywall, but it will always stay.
He palms the front of Dazai’s boxers, whispering, “Just curious how far they go...”
One soft sigh through his nose later and Dazai deflates: “Quit tempting me. A certain someone insists I do this first.”
He leisurely lowers Chuuya’s hand, his own still tacky from their encounter moments prior. Chuuya’s lips purse, initially with displeasure, and then at growing disbelief as Dazai sticks to his word. The detective slides to the head of the bed and weakly nudges his pillow collection out of the way with a pointed elbow. His fingers are in the process of peeling his underwear down to his pants.
He moves away like he wants to avoid attention, yet his body remains angled in such a way that Chuuya’s instinctively attentive eyes can drink in the sight. His forearm swerves around his aroused cock – long like his limbs, inflamed head, curving inward – to probe the area where his spread legs meet. His glossy, knuckled fingers blindly circle his hole. He stares at
Chuuya. He parts the overlapping skin of his ass to slide his middle finger inside himself.
There’s barely any hesitation. He doesn’t put on a show, there’s no slow reveal, no time-consuming adjusting. He’s right to business. In one second his middle finger is catching on his rim, and in the next he’s buried three knuckles deep.
He’s never been one for visible wincing, but he certainly has his tells. He sucks in, blinks thrice too quickly, and adjusts his lips so they jut out identically from the side. Chuuya places his hand on his bony knee in a vague sort of comfort.
His following: "Don't feel good, huh?” is far from coddling, however. If he wasn’t speaking at a decently low volume, he’d come across as smug.
“It… shouldn’t at first,” And Dazai speaks slowly, measured, as if he’s mulling over his words and stressing too much importance on them.
“For the record, this ain’t exactly convincing.”
What’s more telling than Dazai’s microexpressions is his stillness. Other than drawing his knees together, he has yet to move.
“I’m also rushing. I’d be more patient with you.”
“You’re never patient.”
“Far as you know. I could’ve changed.”
“I s’pose,” Chuuya shrugs.
“You’ll see, don’t worry.”
“Do I have to?”
Dazai starts, “Well, I’d appreciate it,” while Chuuya talks over him. “You’re makin’ a dumb face.”
He eradicates their distance with two long crawls, knuckles apishly supporting his leap of faith. They find the large buttons of Dazai’s vest with ease. (He found the energy to substitute his trousers for something more comfortable, yet the button-up remains sleepwear?) Chuuya internally curses Dazai’s fashion choices in his mind. He’s still wearing too many layers.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s not going to find a nice rack underneath the fabric, nor any prominent curves – hopefully not, if Dazai’s truly been eating well enough for his ribs to stay hidden. Maybe he just wants to reveal a years-old hunch, an indescribable urge to strip Dazai bare and figure out what he’s hiding. Maybe he wants some kind of insurance. You’re completely naked, so you can’t run out easily.
He doesn’t want things to go south either, but his mind traitorously fills in blanks of what could be behind him. With his back to the door, he can only pray this crumbling building has steady locks. For the umpteenth time, he wouldn’t know what he’d do if the Agency members walked in on this.
Dazai halts in tow, the back of his hand freezing its rhythmic shifting indicative of internal movement.
“Don’t let me stop ya,” Chuuya murmurs, head down to both free the buttons and take in the unfamiliar sight.
“What, you want front-row seats?”
“Dumbass. Just said yer makin’ a strange face,” he finds himself exhaling against Dazai’s throat.
His breath is still uneven from restrained, unfounded want. In an effort to speed things up, he grabs Dazai’s wrist and nudges him up, guiding his sole finger deeper inside. He swims against the current to fractionally pull out and instead slip a second finger in. His hole stretches around the intrusion without any visible resistance. Dazai belatedly sighs all the same.
“Can you shut your face? This feels weird,” he finally admits the obvious.
“Well, I’m glad I’m not the one bein’ sacrificed,” Chuuya grouses.
Realizing how negative they both sound, Dazai tries again. He softly clears his throat and corrects, “It's not bad, just new.”
Chuuya offers another bare hum in response. With his hand overlapping Dazai’s, it’s much easier to notice movement. His knuckles bend as he curls his fingers inside himself, and the distance between his fingers noticeably widens in an attempt to scissor himself open. A slick sound seeps from between his thighs. Chuuya’s hands still on the half-open vest, freezing in place on the fourth button out of six. He knows Dazai knows he’s watching.
“What if I lead?” The words come bubbling from deep within, instinctive save for the way his voice pitches near the end like a question.
It shouldn’t be a question. He shouldn’t be so insecure. He should put Dazai in his damn place. He should walk out. He should be doing anything else but imitating a deer in headlights.
“Yooooou wanna fuck me?” Dazai drawls.
Chuuya grimaces at the vulgarity, shakes his head ‘no’ so orange strands ding-dong-ditch the protective bandages.
“But you're smaller, that's not how these things usually go–”
That gets his attention, his immature, dick-comparing – in this case literally – urges raring their ugly heads. With a ‘front-seat-view’ as his partner so eloquently teased, he sees the difference. Dazai’s not small either, but he’s more proportional to his towering height than Chuuya is to his staunted stature. He’s always had big hands, and everyone knows that myth. In this case it’s accurate.
“Hey, not where it actually matters!” he buts in.
“It’s still not what I want,” Dazai, impossibly, manages to play aloof while he’s actively fingering himself.
“You’re not really complaining,” Chuuya notes.
Dazai’s always been a coin toss. If he’s truly opposed to an idea, he shuts it down with a flat “no, that sucks.” Or, on the opposite end of the spectrum, if he’s really against it, he’ll agree out of spite and turn the tides in his favor. He’s doing neither. He’s just talking to talk, his baritone drowning out the lewd sounds.
“This isn’t painful,” he reiterates.
Chuuya briefly debates calling him out, saying how he looks like he ate a lemon, but he thinks better of it. He wants to draw a more dramatic reaction. He wants Dazai to lose his omnipresent cloud of superiority. He’s roughed around enough to know that most people get more than winded from penetration.
“Glad to hear it,” he sighs.
Underneath Dazai’s checkered vest lies more buttons, ones that have simultaneously shrunk in size and multiplied tenfold. He gives up, better things in mind. He reaches around Dazai and scrambles for the cast-off lube, finding it tipped over and lightly leaking on the sheets. With unnecessary force, he flings his gloves somewhere behind him and squeezes a helping heap onto his palm. The temperature is an ice bath against overheated skin. He begrudgingly rolls his fingers in the mess and nudges Dazai with his knee who, miraculously, complies with the hint. He retracts his hand to let the other lead, albeit with a loud groan.
Chuuya pushes past the theatrical dismay to push his own finger in. Dazai immediately flinches.
“Ack– it’s cold!” he whines.
“Oh, suck it up” – Dazai does, quite literally, his hole opens without resistance. “Can’t be that bad,” Chuuya mutters.
Dazai opens his mouth to bitch some more, only to think better and save face with a slow: “...Tolerable.”
He’s too tense for this to be merely mediocre, whether from discomfort or pleasure has yet to be determined. He parts his legs for Chuuya to chart, to explore dark depths that hint at the sickness within, yet his gaze stays trained on the ceiling.
Chuuya experimentally jabs up, maybe too sharply, because Dazai’s foot stomps down beside him. He remains stone-faced when his partner repeats his earlier motions. His fingers twitch at his sides when Chuuya scissors him open. His head tilts back when he picks up a speedy pace full of aborted thrusts and shallow massages. He grunts when a third is added.
“You have to be doing this wrong,” he huffs, “this isn’t anywhere as crazy as people make it seem.”
Chuuya probably is doing this wrong; he has neither maps of Dazai’s ass nor a manual on intimacy. Then again, it’s Dazai, he’ll complain even if it feels good.
“What happened to convincing me this was so wonderful?”
“I realized I can't do that without making a fool out of myself.”
That last word comes out fairly breathy, bordering on a gasp if he inhaled quicker. The irony earns him a derisive snort.
“Too late for that,” Chuuya snarks.
He keeps up the inconsistent pace, fingers pushing in and out of time with his internal metronome. The resistance is stronger, this time, his third digit struggling to pull through the tight, clenching layer of muscle. Dazai’s own fingers clench into the tousled blanket below him, brows furrowing for a split second before he furtively corrects them. His raised wrist slumps against the sheets, the veins of his tensed hand fading back into obscurity. Gradually, he starts deliberately thrumming his fingers.
“Hurry up,” he demands through his next exhale. “Or do better. Stick it in, change something.”
Of those options, only one appeals to Chuuya. As much as a small, sadistic sector of his brain lights up upon seeing Dazai in pain, he doesn’t truly wish harm upon him – at least not permanent. He reasons, "I don't want you bleedin’ all over me.”
Dazai’s eyes finally flick down from the ceiling. He shoots Chuuya a skeptical look. Evidently, his unknown source didn’t go into graphic detail, as he unabashedly voices, “Doubt that’ll happen. Worst case scenario, you’ll have another fluid on your dick. Nothing a good shower can't fix.”
“Do you ever think before you speak?” Chuuya knows the answer in excruciating detail – he’s witnessed Dazai’s serious face once or twice during interrogations, and he could practically smell the rust of his mental gears turning, mulling over replies – but he asks it all the same.
He also complies all the same. With Dazai’s strange spree of bluntness, and his own throbbing need in mind, he acts. Since Dazai’s saliva dried about two minutes ago, he grabs that almighty bottle of lube and refills the small puddle in his hand. Logically, it’s a waste of product, but his ‘partner’ doesn’t resume his tirade about prices, so he swiftly makes use of the surplus amount.
As soon as his slick hand comes into contact with his dick, he stiffens. Dazai wasn’t kidding about the temperature.
“I’m just telling the truth,” the detective egotistically claims.
With a shuddering sigh, Chuuya forces himself to run his hand up and down his length, regardless of the temperature. He’s not technically jerking himself off, this is all business after all, but it certainly feels like it. The contact reignites his attentive nerves, and, under Dazai’s keen gaze, that same burning feeling arises with a vengeance. He swallows his embarrassment and continues coating himself in lube.
“Tell me if the feeling gets too weird, ‘kay?”
It feels like the reminder goes for both of them. Chuuya’s heart physically pounds in his chest, almost painful in its intensity, and his surroundings fade into a blur. With someone who has such a conflict-heavy life, he can’t afford to lose focus. If he was in the field, even a small dip of his surroundings could wind up getting him stabbed in the back.
But he’s not in a fight.
Dazai’s unarmed, stripped bare save for his bandages. For once, his hands are open and empty, all aces played.
Chuuya’s hand slides off himself, and his similarly empty grip winds around the other’s waist. His index finger faintly runs circles around a bony hip bone as he inches closer.
“Trust me, I’ll yell if you screw this up,” Dazai reassures(?). He follows Chuuya’s unsubtle cue and shifts down on the mattress, spearing himself against the lingering touch.
“Don’t do that. Damn coworkers’ll come rushing in like a pack o’ wolves,” Chuuya distantly hears himself reply.
“And they’d laugh at you,” Dazai finishes.
“I’m not the one with my legs spread.” Chuuya’s own reminder snaps him back in his skin. Dazai’s thighs bracket either side of his waist, his body heat inches away. Between his spread legs, his hand is frozen in place. He slips it out with a squelch, wraps those wet fingers around his base, and guides himself forward.
Dazai’s still looking down. Eye-contact failed, Chuuya sets his sights on the free entrance that’s begging to be filled. A few more inches and the head of his cock is lined up around Dazai’s rim, and the lube-coated, sensitive skin easily accepts him. Before he can think better of it, he rams the rest inside with one brutal thrust.
They both make a sound. Chuuya makes a short noise of relief, a grunt that slips from parted lips. Dazai, meanwhile, jolts beneath him with a guttural ‘Nngh’ that struggles to escape clenched teeth.
“Uh… you good?” Chuuya falters.
That didn’t sound good.
Dazai’s impossibly tight beneath him, body rejecting the foreign intrusion. No matter how badly Chuuya wants to sink deeper into that beckoning heat, the other’s squeezing too tightly for proper movement.
Despite this, all other tension on Dazai’s body inflates. His hands slowly let go of the comforter, and he turns away to reach for his discarded book. He flips it open with a mock display of having no care in the world, blocking his face from Chuuya’s view.
“...no. I'm still bored,” he grits like it’s the worst possible thing in the world, like he’d prefer a death sentence over waiting a mere minute or two. Just like that, Chuuya’s fledgling concern sprouts wings and flies far, far away.
“Are you shitting me.”
Dazai muses, “Well, I hafta sleep somehow,” and flips to his bookmarked page. Past the red cover of pointed kanji – The Complete Guide to Suicide, of course, because he might actually prefer death to bottoming – a torn piece of lined paper proudly sticks up.
“I’m literally inside you, don't you have bigger concerns?”
“Yeah,” – his tousled hair bobs beyond the book as he nods his head – “There’s not enough water in the fridge to overwork my kidneys.”
To say Chuuya’s confused is an understatement. “What?”
Fortunately, Dazai’s generous enough to flip over his page and reveal the wonders of convenient deaths. Apparently, as shown by a cartoonish pair of frowning kidneys, you can die from overhydration.
“Okay, whatever, stay focused,” Chuuya rushes through. He moves one hand to bracket itself beside Dazai’s head. For someone who was so adamant about setting a proper mood, he doesn’t pick his nose up from the book.
“Nothing to focus on.”
“Just gimme a sec, damnit.”
For a brief second, Chuuya shallowly grinds forward, only to immediately halt at Dazai’s next absurdity:
“Isn’t it fascinating how weak the human body can be? You can meet all its needs, and it’ll still find a way to fail you.”
For what’s supposed to be a silly little trivia fact, that feels weirdly, symbolically targeted – or perhaps Dazai’s still hung up on his apparent inability to sleep, hell if Chuuya knows.
He deadpans, “Not really,” and rocks forward again. This time, he’s given some leeway. Dazai eases below him both physically and ever-so-slightly mentally. In a rare show of pity, he blurts: “Look, my libido is a fickle thing.”
Clearly.
All it took was Chuuya leading for him to back down. It’s not the first time this has happened, and, knowing how little Dazai’s changed in some aspects, it certainly won’t be the last. Any time he’s met with an unknown situation, he’ll suddenly feign disinterest to study the new variable, or he’ll flat out throw a silent hissy fit.
Like hell the hypocrite’s getting away with this. He can’t just shut down after getting Chuuya so worked up – he won’t allow it.
He sneers, “You really know how to dirty talk,” and slowly guides that damn book away. The urge to crumple the pages is strong, and he barely listens to the microscopic angel on his shoulders.
“Listen, I want your focus on me.”
Dazai finally looks up, and what Chuuya sees makes him either want to punch him or kiss him until his head feels floaty. His cheeks carry an unchanged fluster, and his eyes continue to sparkle with some emotion, but his lips are pressed into a thin line. Unamused.
“Didn’t know chibi was so territorial,” he gripes. “Look at you, fighting over a humble book for my attention.”
Wham. The aforementioned book is swatted straight out of Dazai’s hand, and the momentum topples that rare gentle voice off the redhead’s shoulder. He pounces in one fluid surge, face now inches from Dazai’s own.
“Oh, fuck off! Whaddya want from me?”
Chuuya’s urging fails to physically affect Dazai. The man blinks rapidly at him, once, twice, as if cursing him in morse code, and then his bemusement is gone.
“I want you to make this worth my time. Convince me to keep your vast screwups a secret.”
The reminder makes Chuuya sputter, “I’m literally doin’ what ya want.”
“No, you’re not,” Dazai smoothly refutes. “You derailed my plans.”
Chuuya opens his mouth, a spicy retort bubbling on the tip of his tongue before he closes it. Technically, linguistically, yes, he has changed Dazai’s initial approach to getting laid. He can’t argue with that logic, so he simply flashes a toothy grin.
“A’right, you’re on.”
Without further delay, or any more back-and-forth, he transforms their vocal scuffles into something physical. With a firm grip on one of Dazai’s wrists – the one that was spidering for the spine of his favorite instruction manual – Chuuya thrusts forward with enough force to bounce his ‘partner’ up on the futon.
Dazai’s head dips over the curve of a raggedy, off-white pillow. He absently licks his lips, unblinkingly focusing on a black speck on his spotted ceiling. He doesn’t dare unclench his jaw.
“Hah–” Chuuya half-laughs, half-sighs, because damn if the sudden stimulation doesn’t feel good – normally he’d be more gentlemanly, but Dazai’s always been an exception. He pitches, “You're quick to shut up.”
“We have thin walls.” The detective is forced to pause his curt explanation between thrusts.
A better man would pause his movements to calculate the risk factor of being overheard – especially since the Agency, for whatever ungodly reason, follows the Mafia’s tradition of hiring young.
Chuuya’s never claimed to have high morals, he just keeps sinking deep into that now-welcoming heat.
“‘n you still invited me over?” he huffs.
“You the type who can’t contain noise?”
He swiftly interjects Dazai’s follow-up correction – something about how loud he is in combat, he knows it's coming eventually – by his own amendment.
“Mean, I could, but it ruins the experience.”
“And I thought I was the dramatic one…”
Over the pale expanse of Dazai’s revealed throat, Chuuya barely spots his eyes fluttering closed. Without a second of delay, he ducks his head to jab his pointy canines into the side. The gauze dampens beneath his touch. It tastes bitter. He softly grunts despite himself when he spots Dazai’s eyes flying open, the sound loud enough in his ears to almost drown out the other’s hitch in breath.
“Listen, you better not hold out on me ‘kay?” He asks– no, more like demands.
“I’m gonna be acting like my normal self,” Dazai acquiesces, “means you’ll have to try harder.”
“Trust me, I’ll pull sounds from you. I’ll– mng- make you scream.”
Chuuya doesn’t know where this talk is coming from – most of his trysts are one-and-done deals with women who perform, there’s no need for such promises when it’s an inevitability – but, staring at the unflappable man he’s had to deal with half his life, he finds the threat comes naturally.
Dazai must think otherwise, as he manages to climb the hurdle of his own heaving chest and patronizingly pat Chuuya’s head with his free hand.
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” His eyeroll is practically audible.
“Yeah, turn over.” Chuuya states yet another non-request. He snatches that wandering hand out from his scuffed hair and yanks it towards its trapped counterpart. He has to really extend his fingers to wrap both of Dazai’s wrists in one hand, yet he makes due. He then nudges a pale side to encourage Dazai to roll over.
He begrudgingly complies, and with an additional shove Dazai’s flat on his stomach, insufferable face down, annoying ass up, and with Chuuya stretched over him in order to keep those dangerous hands contained. Like this, his flushed chest to Dazai’s tensed back, he’s pressed deeper. He raggedly breathes against him despite knowing how much it gives away.
“I’ll make you fucking wail,” he murmurs into Dazai’s ear.
Again, it’s a completely unfounded resolution, and, contradictorily enough, Chuuya ruins his already-slim chances by wrapping a hand around Dazai’s neck. (Even if a chokehold is what got Dazai hot and bothered in the first place, it’s not the beat for drawing noises.) Chuuya has yet to chain his floaty thoughts away from the clouds they’re so susceptible too, and, with him buried deep in the prone, faux brunette beneath him, there’s no chance they’ll recover. It’s luck alone that makes Dazai jolt on his next thrust.
But, with their limbs so tightly-knit, Chuuya can recognize that telltale twitch even with his eyes squeezed shut. He covetously slows down and angles his hips in a search for higher ground. He peels his chest away to establish a better grip around a bandaged throat, and when he manages to hit just right…
“Like that…” Dazai breathes into the blankets.
Chuuya, doesn’t give the switch-up much thought, half-beliving it to be a joke. He tries his luck with, “Look, you're already breaking.”
“I’m just asking, nothing more– ah…” Dazai’s speedy backtracking is easily dealt with by a tightened grip. He gasps into the blankets when Chuuya brushes over his prostate, throat shifting with his subsequent awkward swallow.
“You… like that, huh?” Chuuya confirms the obvious.
Steadily enough, he is indeed beginning to form a map of Dazai’s ass. With vague uncertainty, he eases back into the general angle that made him clam up. He knows he’s successful when the detective’s back arches beneath him, and when his own grin grows to jaw-aching heights.
He repeats the motion. Again. And again. Then, selfish being that he is, picks up speed with new vigour. His head bows forward without permission, eyes greedily drinking up the dip in Dazai’s spine. No matter how badly he wants to trace and touch, to claim this human canvas with fresh, righteous bruises from long-awaited karma, his hands are tied with Dazai’s imaginary needs.
If he’s finally getting a reaction, he’s not going to change jack shit.
Not when it feels this right.
Taunting, though not first or second nature to him, falls into a comfortable third.
“What d’you like about this? Is it the sense of danger, or– or is it the feeling of being powerless?” He hates himself for stuttering, hates that he can’t fully utilize this opportunity without getting side-tracked by his own creeping pleasure.
He adds as an afterthought, “S’pose they go hand in hand.”
“Mmm…” Dazai intelligently replies.
Chuuya continues with a boisterous, “I hold the power here, just like always.”
Dazai doesn’t correct him, though he very well could with how Chuuya’s clammy grip is starting to slide away from his windpipe.
For reasons that Chuuya will no doubt make fun of later, Dazai seems to clench tighter around him, squeezing his dick for all it’s worth.
For a split second, he loses himself and his movements turn shallow, anything to meet that delicious stimulation. He groans, “Fuck, you’re so tight…”
With slightly more breathing room, Dazai manages to interrupt, “And- and whose fault is that?”
“Yours. Didn’t prep good enough,” Chuuya weakly retorts. Like he even cares. “Whatever. You probably get off on the pain anyway, you sick fuck.”
As if the power imbalance wasn’t already obvious, Chuuya forgoes his go-to method of strangulation and instead shoves Dazai’s face into the mattress. The futon’s rather thin – Chuuya would know, his knees distantly hurt – but Dazai’s half-formed moan doesn’t seem to stem from true discomfort.
“And you get off on seeing me suffer,” he turns his head to gasp.
“It's deserved,” Chuuya growls, “blackmailing me into sex…”
“Like you weren't just waiting to pounce me,” the other seethes.
“You overestimate your own worth. You’re just another hole.”
Chuuya’s rebuke would seem ten times more viable if he didn’t immediately press forward, demanding skin-to-skin contact and draping himself over Dazai’s back. They’re both panting, by this point.
I even got him to sweat, Chuuya smirks inwardly.
“And that's why you're– uugh- losing your mind?” Dazai’s voice slightly cracks when another thrust strikes his sweet spot true.
“Never said it wasn't good.” Chuuya’s back to breathing in Dazai’s ear – this time unintentionally. The detective shoots him a brief glance over his shoulder. A fragile, knowing smile graces his lips.
Wow, I’m getting a list of adjectives here.”
“Yeah, too many. Shut up,” Chuuya repeats for what feels like the millionth time tonight.
To prove his point, he draws his hips out nearly all the way, stopping only when his tip is on the verge of escaping, and slams back in. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, along with Dazai’s punctuating grunt. On take four Chuuya’s able to draw out a proper moan, one short and pitchy but undeniably real.
So much for keeping quiet.
He doesn’t care if Dazai’s coworkers overhear; he wouldn’t stop even if there’s teenagers pressed up against these supposedly thin walls. He doesn’t care about anything other than his dick, the building heat in his nerves, Dazai’s rare, amazingly pathetic sounds, and the feel of gauze below him. The bandages are growing on him. He’ll give anything to melt into the man below him, to be intertwined and stuck in bandages like a kitten with an unraveled yarn ball.
He lets go of Dazai’s wrists to wrap an arm around his stomach, keeping his back perfectly arched and their hips firmly connected.
Dazai only fights him to jerk downwards. He obliviously ruts against the blankets, subconsciously trying to stimulate himself enough to relieve his own growing pressure. The jerky movement doesn’t escape Chuuya’s notice.
“Tch, you're like a dog in heat.”
“Of… of all creatures…why that?” Dazai’s sentence is fractured between heaving gasps for air, the dusty blankets and their shared body heat doing his overworked lungs no favours.
“I should really- kgh- record you next time. You sound so stupid.”
The threat earns him incrementally louder sounds, like Dazai’s a parrot that’s desperate to show off its mimicrys. Emboldened, Chuuya fucks into him with vigour, sans worry save for the ticking timebomb that is his indurance. He feels himself twitch inside, and with Dazai’s taut hole enclosing him so perfectly, he knows he can’t keep this up. His toes curl inside his socks, and his weight increases against Dazai’s back. He mindlessly pulls him closer, neck smugly tucking between a broad shoulder and the comfort of tangled hair.
Fortunately, as is customary for their bond, he doesn’t have to say a word for Dazai to get the hint. The detective wordlessly wraps his hand around his neglected length, softly whining at the mere ghost of a touch. He shamelessly touches himself with whitened knuckles, fist bobbing furiously to alleviate the pent-up pressure.
Chuuya’s a goner. Dazai could very well be faking his sounds for his benefit, but this? Jerking off before him without a dare or warning is all the proof Chuuya needs to know he’s enjoying this just as much.
It does more than stroke his ego. His thrusts falter and turn shallow, selfishly speedy. He gasps into Dazai’s neck, “I can’t... Cum already.”
Fuck eloquency. Fuck speaking entirely: he doesn’t want to say anything more embarassing. In a last-ditch to stifle themselves, as if it’ll miraculously make up for their previous ruckus, Chuuya reaches down and ferociously spins Dazai’s head to the side, locking their lips in a desperate kiss.
It’s messy and over-the-shoulder, meaning his mouth nearly misses the mark – when his lips initially overshoot, he finds the side of Dazai’s mouth wet, and the damp spot below his elbow affirms that it’s from saliva. He got Dazai to literally drool. If that’s not victory, he doesn’t know what is!
That future brag, and the increasingly familiar taste of Dazai on his lips, is the last thing he processes before he tips over the edge. He ushers a senseless curse, mouth freezing over Dazai’s shifting one. He distantly feels the sensation of being kissed back, along with the uncomfortable warmth of him spilling inside, but it’s all background noise in comparison to the boon of pleasure invading his senses.
Even with his eyes closed, he swears he sees white. He doesn’t know if his high lasts seconds or hours, but he’s confident that it’s one of the best orgasms of his life.
When he finally comes to – yes, because holy hell he felt like he was in another dimension – he finds himself collapsed on top of Dazai. The latter’s face is half-turned, allowing him to see his pinched brows and the small oval his mouth morphed into. His hand is stained white.
Unable to help himself, Chuuya lazily peppers kisses along his cheekbone, committing to memory this exclusive face he’s gotten to see. Good thing too, as it takes a few seconds for the intensity of Dazai’s expression to fade. He slowly closes his mouth, blinks open his eyes, and glances at Chuuya across from him. He subtly tilts his head to give better access.
But, of course, because this is Dazai and peace never lasts long with him, he breaks their tranquil spell with an unfitting insult.
“...how do you weigh so much?” he eventually murmurs, mock-contemplatively.
Chuuya takes that as his cue to back up. He slowly braces his weight on the bed and rightens himself into a kneeling position. Still half-hunched over, though, he doesn’t bother to pull out.
“Piss off. It's pure muscle.”
“Hm.” Dazai noncomitally hums. When Chuuya moves aside, he follows suit and supports himself on his elbows. In the process of moving his hand, he spots the obvious remains of his own mess. He grimaces and slightly shakes it off.
“You also came inside,” he hollowly observes.
“You didn't give me a condom. It's either that or on your bed.”
“I’d prefer bed.”
“Well too bad.”
With a grunt of exaggerated effort, Chuuya fully sits up and pulls out. Dazai seems to get his wish regardless, as his release drips out and stains the light blue sheets. Completely uncaring of their fluids, the man himself slumps back down, the task of kneeling supposedly too strenuous for such a sluggard.
Chuuya chastises “Least pull up your pants before conking out,” and scrambles to pull up his own. The sight of his release on Dazai’s bedsheets, not to mention inside him, releases the temporarily smothered logical part of his brain. Self-preservation kicks in hard, and with it his blush, and with it nerves. He struggles to fasten his belt in a timely fashion.
“It doesn’t matter,” Dazai shrugs. He repositions his arms under himself, forming a makeshift barrier between his face and the pillows – because that’s somehow easier than turning over on his back.
A dumb part of Chuuya's mind wishes he'd chase after him, but they both know staying is too much.
He shoots the back of his head a confused glare, one he promptly drops to stuff his head back into his shirt. “What if someone walks in?”
His hands continue to shake as he works on the buttons, muscle memory carrying him through his button-up and failing him with his vest.
“It’d just be Kunikida. He's seen worse.”
“What, you sleep with all your coworkers?” he spits.
For some reason, the thought makes his chest hurt. (It’s probably just from exertion, he pleads, or from having that parasite pressed against him for so long. He’s not jealous, that’s pathetic.)
Fortunately – or unfortunately, for Chuuya’s racing thoughts – Dazai admits, “Nah, just you”
Chuuya blinks dazedly down at gloves, struggling to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. He’s glad his bangs hide his expression, should Dazai dare to turn around, as he ducks down to pick up his discarded hat and slide on one loafer.
“Lucky me,” he grumbles.
With a hurried glance around, he locates his other shoe next to the window, where he’d originally slid them off to spare the tatami his blood-stained soles. He leans against the wall to finagle his foot inside the lip, and out of the corner of his eye he spots Dazai looking at him expectingly.
He swallows his grimace.
“Yeah? Whaddya want?”
“...nothing,” the other slyly whispers into his arm.
“Spit it out.”
Out of the blue, Dazai reminds him, “I can’t burn the reports.”
In Chuuya’s rush to leave, it takes him a few seconds to remember what Dazai’s talking about. He hopes the pause isn’t long enough to be suspicious.
“You ass, why not?” His nose wrinkles in distaste.
“Never had them,” he casually reveals.
Just like that, Chuuya’s frustrations briefly punch him in the chest. His heart is still racing, though not from anger; the most he can muster is annoyance. Deep down, he honestly doubted Dazai had physical blackmail. Of all things to keep after running from the Mafia, he doubted some stupid files were in his top ten.
Nonetheless, he still played right into Dazai’s demented, freakish hands. Since it’s magically the hour for late-night admissions, he bitterly grits, “Right. And I never wanted a do-over.”
“Hm.” Dazai repeats.
“If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have remembered that shitty car ride. So... thanks for that reminder, I s’pose.”
Chuuya’s content to leave this strange interaction as is, to rush out the open window – god knows what time it is, he’s not going to go trampling down the Agency’s hallways – before his dug up grave can reach the core of the earth. Yet Dazai keeps talking. As always, yearning to have the last word.
“You have a bad memory. You gonna forget tonight too?”
It’s not his usual meaningless ramblings, however. Chuuya pauses by his unconventional exit to really stare at Dazai. The man’s head is tilted into his pillows, one cheek buried in fluff and the other paling from lack of contact. He lazily threw the castoff blankets over his naked form, but he’s frozen otherwise. His eyes are half-lidded, empty and unreadable, but undeniably… looking for something.
Chuuya doesn’t know what, and he’s sure as hell not going to risk finding out. He doesn’t push any further.
“Hopefully.” The dismissal is muffled against his wrist, where he’s reaching up to secure his hat snugly on his head. He’s too drained to use his ability besides necessity, so, though from the looks of it the wind has eased up, he’ll play cautious.
As if unhearing, Dazai slurs, “Right. See you tommorow…” and contently closes his eyes.
Chuuya fights his instinctive correction. They have no reason to meet tomorrow, not unless Dazai’s planning another mini-conflict just to toy with him.
Then again, he vaguely remembers babbling something about ‘next time’ when he was balls deep in his enemy-turned-lover for the night.
The word tastes foreign on his lips, bittersweet.
His fingers twitch against the sill. Taking Dazai’s submission as a dismissal, he clutches his jacket over one shoulder and faces the night air. It lays limp behind him, bad weather certainly tamed for the night. Past the amber sheen of streetlights lie stars, and beyond that streets turn into well-worn trails. If you have binoculars, even past that cities fade into the ocean, and in the middle-point lies sand.
Sand will always seep through the cracks.
“...yeah, ‘night,” Chuuya whispers.
With that momentary farewell, Chuuya vaults over the windowsill, activates his ability last second, and lands safely on the ground below.
With one last sweeping look at the crumbling Agency dorms, he faces civilization once more, running away from his and Dazai’s private island before the fledgling detective can sprint away first.
He doubts this night will change anything, but, at the very least, he knows he’ll remain the first person Dazai calls if his makeshift sailboat gets a tattered sail, should he ever need help, no matter how… unconventional.
Years have passed, and they’ve relapsed. And somewhere, deep inside his hopelessly naive heart, Chuuya hopes for more ‘do-overs’ in the years to come.