Archive of Our Own

It is the middle of the night and it is far from unusual for that damn fish to be inside his apartment, definitely by breaking in. The sun and the moon and all the stars in the sky know it all too well by now. Hell, Chuuya himself does. 

Such a scene of lanky limbs being tossed all over his couch has been more than expected ever since Chuuya had left for the mission. A week long, mind it. And fuck it, he has to admit: he is kind of glad that bastard hasn’t listened to a single one of Chuuya’s threats not to come anywhere near his apartment while he’d be away.

Though, there is a thing he doesn’t appreciate a single bit: the way no words roll down Dazai’s quick tongue as he keeps staring at the ceiling fan like it’s the perfect advice for a suicide. Actually, now that Chuuya thinks about it, the height is perfect. The ceiling fan just might be sturdy enough to hold a rope and Dazai’s weight—Chuuya ought to feed that bastard more and healthier.

“Oi,” Chuuya calls out, taking off his shoes and hanging his hat along with the coat and the cropped jacket onto the rack. His gloves soon rest neatly on the desk in the hallway.

All while no response comes from Dazai. So it is one of those nights. 

How fucking great.

“Bastard, I’m talking to you.” Chuuya clicks his tongue as he ventures over to the couch and sits atop its backrest. He can now see Dazai’s coat sprawled across him, but he isn’t wearing his usual work attire. Instead of the vest and the button-up, there is a black turtleneck firm against his lithe body. It looks a few sizes too small, and a realization dries Chuuya’s mouth. It’s Chuuya’s turtleneck, which means it probably also fits the bastard as a crop top. 

Fuck. 

He swallows loudly. “You could’ve taken a blanket, ya know?”   

“And get Chuuya’s nasty fleas all over me?” His whine is a glum mask, at best. “No thanks!”

“Geez,” Chuuya snorts, leaning down and ruffling Dazai’s hair, from which sweat rolls. Weird. “And here I was being worried.” 

Hell, now he is even more worried. Dazai and his teases are nothing new; it is when they fall out of Dazai’s mouth heavy and stiff and so obviously dejecting that all alarms in Chuuya’s mind start going off. But, hey, at least he is here, putting all his broken parts on display and giving Chuuya a chance to glue them back together, because that bastard sure as hell knows Chuuya can see right past him.

Sighing, Chuuya doesn’t stop to think Dazai’s vague state is caused by some wound or from lack of blood—he knows it isn’t the case, after all, he knows his mind’s wounds are much worse than any physical could ever be—he only flops down atop Dazai’s chest with a forceful thud.

“Chibi is such a brute,” Dazai heaves out, gritting his teeth.

“Deal with it, you poor baby.”

“A mean one, too.”

Chuuya scoffs and he wraps his arms and legs around Dazai. Dazai’s hands find their way to rest upon the small of Chuuya’s back. And it’s warm, this position, and comfortable and fuck does it feel good. Like home. Something neither of them ever really had. And fuck, since when does Dazai use such expensive and nice cologne? Actually, it’s one of Chuuya’s own he soon realizes. Surprisingly, he doesn’t find himself hating the fact as much as he thought he would.

Chuuya’s eyes close, and even if it is only this once, he feels so grateful for knowing he cannot dream. He doesn’t have to doubt the reality of this moment like that.

Yeah, okay, maybe Chuuya has grown even fonder and sappier for this stupid fish of his and he certainly missed him more than he thought he would, but so what?

 “Hey, Chuuya?” Dazai hums against the top of his head.

Or maybe Chuuya will regret ever daring to do so.

“Kiss me?”

“ Tch, ya asking that just now?” Chuuya rolls his eyes, but he still slightly shifts and he still unwraps his arms from Dazai, only to hold Dazai’s face between the palms of his hand with that tender touch he knows Dazai cannot fight as he turns into a puddle.

However, it seems, Chuuya can’t hold much pride over it for nearly as long as he would like to. He isn’t any better, really.

Dazai holds him tighter, smiling so dumbly against Chuuya’s mouth as their lips finally meet, slotting against each other’s like they’ve never kissed anyone else before and now have molded fit only to accept each other—well, hell, actually, Chuuya might just be worse than Dazai if the breathless moan that escapes him is anything to go by. Because, fuck, Chuuya didn’t expect Dazai to return him the kiss quite like that—so filled with the purest forms of adornment and hunger and fear amidst it all. He didn’t expect Dazai to be already sitting up, those long fingers of his burying into the fabric of Chuuya’s vest as if it is the most cursed object there is, daring to keep him away from the warmth of Chuuya’s skin. God, he seems desperate to keep Chuuya on his lap. If only he’d slide his coat away, so Chuuya could truly feel him.

Nevertheless, such needy actions taunt a smirk on Chuuya’s face. “Missed me that much, ‘Samu?” He breathes into Dazai’s mouth, nipping his bottom lip.

“You have no idea,” Dazai chuckles. Somewhat cracked and so utterly honest that such vulnerability leaves Chuuya slightly flinching.

It wouldn’t be a problem. It wouldn’t be anything, really, if Chuuya hasn’t already seen and taken in all of Dazai’s signs that there is something more than simply missing Chuuya. And Chuuya needs to figure out just what mold there is in Dazai’s brain before his kisses grow more as though they speak I can’t do this—life—anymore and not I’m glad you are here.

“Okay,”—Chuuya sighs, pulling Dazai slightly down by his bolo tie to slump his forehead against Dazai’s—“what’s wrong, bastard?” 

“Hmm?” Dazai hums, his pupils absolutely fucking blown as he looks at Chuuya. Fuck. “What would be wrong?” And it takes all of Chuuya’s strength to keep him away when the idiot fights to kiss him again.

“Mackerel,” he scolds, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not blind.”

“Can you pretend you are?”

Wow. No bratty retaliation?

“Absolutely fucking not,” Chuuya spits out through clenched teeth.

“Please?” Dazai dares to pout at him.

“I’m not kissing ya till you talk and I have all the time in the world.”

“Ugh,” Dazai whines, his head dropping on Chuuya’s shoulder. “Slug must be tired, though. We—“

“And since when do ya care ‘bout that?” Chuuya scoffs. His fish is a slippery one, but Chuuya knows him the best, after all, knows how to keep him in place. And he damn well isn’t risking waking up with Dazai gone, which with no doubt would happen if he were to simply let this little topic of theirs go just like that.

Dazai sighs in defeat, it tickles Chuuya’s neck. “It’s loud.”

Chuuya doesn’t need to ask to understand what he is talking about—the fog rules over Dazai’s mind like a plaque, concealing away every thought and emotion but that of how temptingly the pills or a river or the roof of a building whisper his name.

Chuuya hums, prompting him to continue, running his fingers through Dazai’s already messy hair.

“It’s loud,” Dazai repeats, shifting his weight from one side of his body, “It’s loud, and my limbs, my everything aches and I need it to stop, Chuuya.”

Because, fuck that physical pain and emptiness Dazai so hates and the fact that worsening of mental health dares to heave them down him like an ice storm.

Because, Dazai cannot fall apart, really fall apart in front of the agency when there are all kinds of pests running around their city. He cannot let them see that his silly suicide act is not silly at all. Though, Chuuya doesn’t doubt the agency bastards are already far well aware of that.

“Okay.” Chuuya sighs softly, planting a kiss atop Dazai’s head. The domesticity of it, the realization of how familiar and comfortable he has become to all of this yet again only slightly sends a pang through his stomach. “Okay, what do you need me to do?”

“I trust you.” His words are a mere tremble, like snowflakes under the guidance of zephyr. Still, Chuuya would be a liar, a fool, if he were to deny the earthquake they still send through him, through his heart— tearing it apart and sewing it back as though no damage ever occurred, making it even more beautiful.

Maybe it’s a mistake, letting himself go like this in front of still-technically-a-traitor. Nonetheless, he wouldn’t have it, this, Dazai, any other way. And, hey, at least the mackerel is actually trying to talk it out—unlike when they were teenagers—and not scattering crumbs around for Chuuya to follow and figure out his troubles and wishes all by himself, pretending as if he himself hasn’t already figured out all of Chuuya’s moves and isn’t playing with Chuuya as though he is a mere puppet. Or, worse, running away from Chuuya. From whatever this isolated bubble they have built is.

“I know you do, idiot,” Chuuya says after a beat of silence, gulping. Dazai’s breath is still so incredibly warm against his neck that he needs to stiffen his limbs, not to chase it with his lips, not to swallow it. Again and again. Greedy. Impatient. Starving. But he is only human and he cannot help but to at least kiss his cheek, mumbling, “I trust you, too, so get on with it already.”

“So demanding~”

“Mackerel.”

“I want Chuuya to send me into subspace,” he blurts out, the words falling out of his mouth hesitantly and regrettingly and he presses his forehead harder against Chuuya as though he hopes to break the barrier of Chuuya’s skin and nestle somewhere in his ribcage, never having to face him again. And, hell, Chuuya isn’t even sure if he heard him correctly.

What is subspace, anyways? Is that some metaphor for Chuuya to kill him?

“I’ll need more than that, Dazai.”

Dazai groans, “Stupid slug.”

A chuckle bubbles in Chuuya’s throat. He still isn’t really used to seeing Dazai, the master of words and manipulation, like this, all exposed and tripping over his own tongue. It’s cute, reminds him of a sulking black cat so much that Chuuya can’t even insult him back.

Oh, God, this bastard has him wrapped around his little finger, doesn’t he?

“It’s a BDSM thing, Chuuya.”

Oh. Oh.

Chuuya isn’t surprised, really. God knows Dazai’s list of kinks just might be as long as that of his crimes. Though, only one seems to keep getting longer and longer. But, something isn’t quite right; it’s still a mystery why Dazai is acting so on edge about it. And the only thing Chuuya can do is ask, just that.

“It’s like a trance, can turn your brain off for a while.”

Okay, yeah, that makes sense. Everything that has occurred in those past few minutes does. It is only understandable for Dazai to feel so fidgety about it; who is that bastard without his brain? If Chuuya does send him there, he will be completely vulnerable, dependent on Chuuya and his ability to read him through only his body language. Fuck, just how bad is it that Dazai Osamu, former Demon Prodigy, the smartest man in the agency (‘cause fuck that agency’s linchpin), has resorted to that? To asking Chuuya and not playing his little games to achieve it?

“Okay?” There is a slight wariness in his voice that Chuuya can’t keep at bay. Subspace can’t really be classified as a kink now, with this information. It is so much more, so much more vulnerable and intimate than anything and everything they’ve ever done in the bedroom. “What do I need to do to send you there?”

“The usual.” Dazai shrugs. Chuuya pretends not to notice the shiver that he so desperately tries to hide. “Edging, bondage, knife play, whatever you want. Just don’t let me cum.” He bites his lip, taking a deep breath through his nose. “No matter how much time it takes. Overstimulation is the point, so please.”

“You sure you want that?” Chuuya raises an eyebrow.

“I am.” Dazai confirms, “I really am, Chuuya,” once more with a nod and, fuck, when he adds, “I’m all yours,” with that bright look in his eye, how could it not be enough for Chuuya?

“Then let’s take this to the bedroom, yeah?” He scrambles off of Dazai's lap, prying Dazai’s hands away. The coat slides onto the floor, and it takes everything in Chuuya not to stare wide-eyed at just how hard Dazai already is, his erection perfectly visible through the tight-fitted black pants.

Dazai hurries after him, his breath hitching, “ Please.”

It has only been spoken thrice today, but if that words slips out of Dazai’s mouth once more before they have a chance of reaching the bedroom, where Chuuya wants to hear it, wants to feel it become palpable in the air, he is going to officially lose it and drop this whole thing. Sex isn’t supposed to be their primarily coping mechanism, nor a strategy to get necessities like it is in the Mafia. He knows, damn it, he has even drilled it into Dazai’s skull. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t give up. If Dazai is resorting to it now, it must be living hell roaring there in his mind.

The moment they reach Chuuya’s bedroom, Dazai knees seem to buckle and he fucking collapses on Chuuya’s satin sheets. Under the red LED lights and the dim atmosphere they create, such a scene tugs the corners of Chuuya’s mouth into a wide-open grin and draws a light chuckle out.

“Impatient much?” he teases, leaning down, only to quickly lick and nib on Dazai’s ear before scurrying over to kneel in front of the drawers of his nightstand. Dazai’s shiver, not a moan, but so fucking close to one that it leaves Chuuya’s mouth dry and his fingers tripping over each other as he opens the bottom drawer, hangs taut in the air.    

God, he needs to gather himself straight. They still have to discuss safe words and Chuuya can’t mess this up under any circumstance. Not when Dazai is giving him complete control, so unlike ever before. This just might be Dazai’s version of Corruption. And Chuuya be damned if he’d let him fall.

“Chuuya, stop being a slug and get over here,” Dazai whines, needy and desperate and only for Chuuya. Only Chuuya has this much of Dazai’s trust.

Fuck.

He is already getting hard and it’s becoming utterly uncomfortable and much too hot under so many layers. He doesn’t doubt Dazai is feeling just the same. God, just a week without each other has turned them into damn dogs in heat.

“We’re doing colors for this, vagabond,” Chuuya warns, inspecting the drawer’s containments. They are still working on Dazai actually using safe words, without Chuuya having to ask. But Chuuya can work with this, this once, and he doesn’t want Dazai to have a chance to ‘forget’ using a safe word or purposefully avoiding such when he will already be going through so much. “But you need to give me a safe signal, too.” Waiting for Dazai’s answer, he lays the lube and the silk scarf onto the bed and he tries to think what else to use. He didn’t really expect to jump right into this when he came back.

“Do I?” Dazai whines. “You know my body better than I do.”

He does, and he knows all of Dazai’s signs of discomfort by now, still, “Yes, mackerel you do but account for that you won’t be able to use your hands,” he says, because this is an uncharted territory, with no knowledge of how Dazai might act when he gets close to entering subspace. 

“I can kick you.”

“Will you have the strength to?” Chuuya teases, playful smirk on his face, and he allows himself a glance at Dazai. Bad idea, really. Dazai’s brows are drawn closer together in a silly offense, his lips slightly parted, so, so sultrily inviting for Chuuya’s tongue. The red lights turn the droplets of sweat on his forehead into the worthiest rubies, and, oh, the opportunities are just endless now. And that damn cropped turtleneck surely isn’t helping Chuuya stay sane. God, that waist…

Chuuya lays an anal vibrator onto the bed, too, and “Wait here,” he whispers, making sure to kiss Dazai’s forehead before running into his kitchen. Dazai’s displeased grumble follows him and Chuuya makes sure to be as quick as possible to grab a round ice mold from his freezer and return. He is all too familiar with what a little bit of cold does to Dazai. That’s why they never bother to warm up the lube, either.

“Last chance to give up, mackerel,” he says, smirking as he places the ice mold onto the nightstand. It’s anything but last, really, Chuuya can and will stop with the slightest sign of discomfort. But if Dazai wants to play, so be it.

“I might if Chuuya doesn’t stop being a slug, already.”

“Oh?” Chuuya can indulge his antics for the time being. “Feeling bratty, are we?”

“Chuuya—“

God, Dazai is so enveloped in his own desires. And fuck it if Chuuya is any better.

“Shhh,”—Chuuya quickly straddles Dazai’s lap, his finger resting upon Dazai’s lips for an ephemeral moment before it slides into the wet warmth and his other hand tugs at Dazai’s hair—“why don’t we put that foul mouth of yours to a better use?”

And, fuck, either Dazai’s dick became made out of steel while Chuuya was on the mission or—

“Are you wearing a cock cage?” Chuuya cocks an eyebrow at him, smirking at the sight of Dazai’s cheeks contracting around his finger and saliva rolling down. It wasn’t Dazai’s erection he was seeing, at all. Now, that meek feverish look he has worn makes so much sense.

“Maybe,” Dazai chokes out the word as Chuuya slips another finger deep in. His tongue coils around them, sticking past his lips here and there for a brief second, long enough to tempt Chuuya and make him wish to stop this game that has barely begun and take every inch of Dazai with his mouth. “Does Chuuya want to know what else I have?” The look in his eyes is a wicked and damp one, the suck he gives to Chuuya’s fingers is.

Their quiet moans melt together, and it gives strength for Chuuya to hum, “Pray tell.”

“A butt plug—in and out—since days ago,” Dazai says, all muffled, his tone as if laced with red velvet, “I couldn’t bare being empty, being without you —“

Chuuya doesn’t let him finish, aggressively tugging his fingers out and catching Dazai’s whimper with his mouth. “God, you’re so fucking filthy.”

It seems to do something to Dazai—not that it’s anything new, really—for, he claws at Chuuya’s waist, another whimper rocking his body that Chuuya makes sure to drink right up.

“You like me that way,” Dazai musters the strength, the inhale and exhale, to choke out.   

“Damn right I do.” Chuuya smirks against his mouth. And he licks their corner, dragging his tongue down to Dazai’s jaw. “Filthy and so, so beautiful.”

“Then take me,” it falls out of Dazai’s faintly swollen mouth like a breathless command and a vigorous plea all at once. And Chuuya almost falters. Almost.

“Oh, no, no,” Chuuya chuckles, “not yet.” The one thing Dazai now wants, needs, is touch, Chuuya is sure. And he is not going to give it to him for any longer, no matter how much it pains his very own self. “I have so much planned for you.” But first, “Color?”

“Green,” Dazai says without missing a beat. And Chuuya takes it as permission to slide off Dazai’s lap, to ignore the protesting sound that escapes from the deepest depths of Dazai’s lungs.

“Middle of the bed,” Chuuya nudges his head, smirking at how lazily and boneless Dazai crawls to it. “Now strip for me, baby.” The pet name comes out of absolutely nowhere and much too fondly; Chuuya’s head jerks in bewilderment. And Dazai already has that stupid, shit-eating grin on his face that just screams trouble and teases. Before any have a chance to actually take shape, “Shut it,” Chuuya groans, rolling his eyes. And, God, he would very much like to hide in some corner of his ceiling, the one above his closet, preferably.

Thankfully, and it’s only this once, Dazai takes pity on him. Kneeling, he raises his arms, hands grasping the hem of the turtleneck. He takes it off slowly, letting Chuuya carve into his memory every new frame in which his skin and bandages reveal more and more, like he is straight-up some porn animation.

The turtleneck is hurled onto the floor. For Chuuya, it’s both a loss and a blessing.

Dazai lies down and next comes his pants, buttons smoothly fall apart under his fingertips, and it’s visible, his relief, as the pants slide down, not putting such pressure on his cock. His head jerks backwards, back arches, and Chuuya hates not standing closer to fully hear that guttural moan slipping out.

It takes Dazai a moment, a deep breath, to continue. To grasp his boxers with something in-between a hiss and a moan and start pulling them down his knees. The metal bars encapsulating his shaft glisten under the lights, and Chuuya gulps loudly.

Oh, a cock cage and a cock ring. Dazai really went full on with this, huh. He better not let that ring stay on for too lon—

“Enjoying the view?” Dazai teases, kneeling again. But Chuuya doesn’t miss the uncomfortable shiver that gently racks through his body, or how he, definitely unconsciously, shifts away from the middle of the bed, closer to Chuuya.

“ Always,” Chuuya says, the word soft and true and laced with probably too much adornment on his tongue. But, Dazai needs to know it. To know Chuuya isn’t only talking about moments like these. “Come here,” he proposes as he sits on the bed. Power play is fun and all but there are certain aspects even they don’t mess with. Such as Dazai’s bandages. The only armor he has left on, much too unlike Chuuya.

“Can you take them off?” Dazai’s voice is barely a whisper before Chuuya gets a chance to inquire on his own. It bubbles such a warm and giddy sensation in his stomach. Dazai is finally voicing his wishes, without Chuuya having to do anything about it.

“Of course.” He smiles, his palm on Dazai’s cheek as he pulls him closer, into a kiss. It’s not feverous and starving like those before. Rather gentle, slow, patient. Chuuya’s favorite. “You okay?”

“ Always,” he mimics Chuuya but, clenching his hands around Chuuya’s waist, adds, “When I’m in Chuuya’s arms.”

And it would be a harmless statement, really, only a sappy proof of love. But it is Dazai’s mouth it slipped out of, and now Chuuya has to figure out if it is a plea for never to let go or a dare for more deprivation of Chuuya’s touch.

One step forward, two steps backwards; always, with that bastard.

“Clingy little shit,” Chuuya scoffs.

“Hmm~ and what is Chuuya going to do about it?”

Ah, so the game is on. But Chuuya needs to extend this pause they’ve put on it for an ephemerality, to tuck Dazai’s hair behind his ear and ask, “Ya need me to get naked before I undo the bandages?”

“No, I think I don’t,” he says it completely truthfully. But that wording isn’t enough in situations like those.

“Think or know?”

“Chuuya,” he dares to whine at him, “it’s obvious those are synonymous.”

“No, they aren’t, mackerel.”

“They are, slug.” Dazai sighs exaggeratedly, a playful tone dances through his words. “When it comes to me, they are. I am a genius, after all.”

“Tch,”—Chuuya rolls his eyes and okay, that is enough—“always so full of yourself.” His fingers tug at the bandages around Dazai’s neck and chest, setting them loose, setting them apart.

A smirk grows on Dazai’s face, and Chuuya knows he is so utterly fucked long before his words come. “And never full enough of Chuuya.”

 Maybe, Dazai is setting Chuuya himself apart. Who is edging whom here?

“I hate you,” Chuuya groans, but even a beheaded cockroach, if to feel the kiss Chuuya gives him and follow all the paths his fingers leave across the battlefield of scars, would understand how reverse such a statement is.

“The feeling is mutual, chibi,” Dazai chuckles; it seeps all the air out of him and Chuuya damns why there isn’t a way to store it safely within his lungs and heart forever.

Goddamn it, he can’t be getting all sappy now of all times.

“Shut it,” Chuuya snorts, all his endeavors to sound at least a bit intimidating drowned beneath Dazai’s revealing skin. His arms, his legs, the scars litter. And Chuuya makes sure to kiss each one of them, the known and unknown. The ones caused by Dazai himself and the ones not. It is not an act of sexual nature by any means, moments like these are never so. It is simply a statement that Chuuya is there, for him. No matter how annoying the bastard can be at the times. No matter on which side they are—night or twilight.

“Pipsqueak still owes me an answer,” Dazai croaks out, his eyes bid closed under the softness of Chuuya’s lips and the slight shiver that zaps through his limbs.

 Chuuya clicks his tongue. “I know.” And he makes sure to kiss Dazai once more in that impossibly tender way; God knows they’ve deserved it after all the bloodshed and loss that ruled and still remains to rule over their lives, their bodies and souls. “Color?”

“Green.” Dazai grins against his mouth, and Chuuya can do nothing but return it. It truly is green, then.

“Okay,” Chuuya says, a smirk tainting his face as he gets away from the bed once again. “Then, to answer your question: I am not going to do anything about it.”

“Oh?” Dazai tilts his head, eyeing between Chuuya and the toys on the bed.

Chuuya follows his gaze, and when he is sure they are watching the same thing—the vibrator—he says, “Back on your knees, princess ; you are gonna do all of the job for once.” There it is again, a slip of the tongue. Though, this time, Dazai whips his head at Chuuya as if he is the center of his gravity. His mouth agape, his eyes widened and pupils dilated—oh, it’s so Chuuya’s win. “What,” he scoffs, amused, “is something unclear, prin—“

“Chuuya is mean,” Dazai wails, shaking his head as he sits on his knees, spine straight up, “so very mean—mean, mean, mean.” But he takes and opens the lube, smears it across his stupidly long fingers and Chuuya knows those insults are only about the nickname.

“Am I now?” Chuuya says, his fingers unhooking his belt and letting it collapse onto the floor. “Do I need to be afraid of your dick falling off?” Because, he can’t put it past Dazai to play and mess with his well-being. And it has already been a good amount of minutes since Chuuya’s return.

“Gross, slug,” Dazai recoils, “I don’t wish to die so painfully.”

I wish you wouldn’t wanna die at all.

A shuddered breath slips past Dazai’s lips as he reaches inside of himself. All that detest against pain, only to crumble when it comes in sex, when in Chuuya’s hands.

Chuuya has to gulp, to drop and keep all his weight to his feet not to rush to him and hold him. What for fearing his death would come far too soon. What for to simply touch that skin that must be scorching by now and to swallow each moan, each gasp filling the air as Dazai pulls out the butt plug. Next, he coats the vibrator with lube and steadies it upwards, between his feet.

“Slowly, mackerel,” Chuuya warns, unbuttoning his pants.

 Surprisingly, Dazai doesn’t give any witty remarks. Only turns the vibrator on and angles himself. Only takes a deep breath through his nose, carefully lowering himself. Only drives Chuuya crazier with the need to hold and to kiss and to protect. The damp moan that echoes as Dazai bites his bottom lip and his eyes roll surely isn’t helping Chuuya’s case. He looks both like an incubus and like an angel. And Chuuya wants him, all of him.

“Good,” Chuuya says, his throat desperate to coil around the words, “you’re doing so good. But I need your eyes on me at all times.”

 “Or?” Dazai croaks, his upper body already shivering, his lip already bleeding as he moves slowly up and down and the bed sheets wrinkle around his fists. The sweat is forming all anew on his face, dampening his dark bangs and sticking them to his forehead. And, his eyes, God, his eyes. Chuuya could drown himself in them, in their foggy light, with no regret. But he is a man of his word, of his promises.

“Or we’ll drag this through the whole night.” Chuuya simply shrugs, sliding off his pants and boxers completely.

Dazai rolls his eyes, indubitably to provoke Chuuya.

“Up the speed,” Chuuya says with not much emotion. And damn it if he knows who is holding the upper hand here. He is playing fit right for Dazai’s wishes. When he would much rather be there, collecting the air and the gasps that Dazai breathes out of his heaving lungs, kissing his forehead.

God, just when have the roots of desire to touch that stinky fish at all times grown so deep?

“Hmm~ and what if I won’t?” Still, he reaches his hand behind and by the jerk that storms through his body, Chuuya knows the vibration is up.

What a brat.

 “Take the ice,” Chuuya only says, his arms crossed at his chest. If Dazai so wants his punishment, Chuuya will gladly be his judge.

Hands shaky, Dazai reaches for the ice mold and opens it, takes an ice ball out of it. It is somewhat melted, already. The water droplets roll down Dazai’s fingers and drip onto the bed sheets and his quivering thighs. They, too, look like shards of rubies underneath the red lights. Such a sight, Dazai all wet and panting and so utterly beautiful, so utterly Chuuya’s, surely though is a sight worthier than any ruby or gem there is.

“Put it in your mouth, since all it knows to do is disobey,” Chuuya warns, but makes sure to quickly add, “Color?”

“Green,” Dazai moans out, breathless, and he slips the ice ball between his lips. With his saliva, the water slips down the corners of his swollen mouth.

“Max speed, now.” Chuuya sighs. “If you spit out the ice it’s ‘Try again’. Understood?” As if Dazai would ever falter so easily; Chuuya’s words are only that. If Dazai spits out the ice, something is wrong and Chuuya will be right by his side.

Dazai only nods, eyes firm on Chuuya’s as he reaches an arm behind himself. Once it’s back to gripping the bed sheets, Dazai’s upper body raises and lowers with minimum strength, all of it being ripped away by the spasms of his body and hitches in his chest, by his determination not to stray his gaze from Chuuya’s.

“See?” Chuuya snorts. “You can be so well-behaved when you want to.”

The spit and the water continue to mix, to fall upon Dazai’s chest, thighs, in-between the gaps of cock cage. Under the red mist and Chuuya’s gaze, Dazai’s body still remains searching desperately for a relief he cannot possibly get. Only when his upper body seems to be giving up and his riding becomes more of throwing himself at the vibrator, does Chuuya continue to undress. First his vest, bolo-tie, then his button up. Mere two buttons remain when a choked out moan comes from Dazai. And it sounds painful.

 Shit.

“Chuuya—“

The buttons are torn off the moment the poor excuse of the ice ball drops and rolls down Dazai’s knee. The red glow, melting with that of the LED lights, envelops Chuuya and in a millisecond he is back on the bed.

“I’m right here,” he whispers, the button-up slipping down his shoulders as he holds Dazai’s waist up, “I’m right here.” And he gently pulls out the vibrator, turns it off and lays it aside. Dazai’s head—all of him, really—slumps against Chuuya. Coldish breaths tickle his neck and he positions them to sit more comfortably, never letting go of Dazai. “You okay there?” he mumbles against the top of Dazai’s head, kissing it, rubbing circles across Dazai’s back.

“Not all of us are such work-alcoholics to have so much stamina,” Dazai groans against Chuuya’s collar bone. Though, there is a playful tone in his voice and Chuuya can breathe a little easier.

“Yeah, some of us are lazy fish,” Chuuya chuckles. “Want me to take that off,”—he looks at the cock cage and cock ring—“and we can try this another time?”

“No, no.” Dazai shakes his head, arms encircling Chuuya. “I think we are close. I just need…”

 “What, Dazai?”

“Just let me have this for a moment more.”

For a moment more, as if Chuuya wouldn’t give it to him for an eternity. As if he hasn’t heard, I just need you, long before Dazai came up with a version that doesn’t sound as clingy. (Debatable, really.)  

“We really should take those off.”

“I’m too far gone, Chuuya.”

“Oh, are you now?” he scoffs teasingly, placing a kiss and a kiss more on Dazai’s cheek.

“All of our efforts will go to waste if we take them off.”

“Another day is always a possibility.”

“What if it isn’t?” His voice grows darker, bordering on falling into the pit of nihility, ruled by one and only—The Demon Prodigy. “Not for me.”

“Oi,”—Chuuya gently slaps the back of his head—“don’t fucking say that.”

“It’s the truth, hat-rack.” Dazai sighs and he wiggles away from Chuuya’s firm hold. “What are you doing here if you can’t wrap your small mind around it?”

“Don’t do this bullshit now.” Chuuya’s eyebrows furrow. “You can’t push me away.”

“Both you and I know I can and I will.” Dazai shrugs. “Already did it once, didn’t I?”

Deep breaths, Chuuya. Scared mackerels are splashy ones. Deep breaths, Chuuya.

But dogs, scared of another wordless goodbye, of not being good enough, of not having a purpose, bite, too. It’s in their nature, no matter how much love they hold.

“Yeah, you did. Guess nothing has changed, huh?”

The last remnants of lights are engulfed in the black holes of Dazai’s eyes. Of course, ‘ you haven’t changed and you never fucking will’ is what Dazai heard. Not that Chuuya can blame him, not when he was practically implying it. Fuck. That isn’t fair. But it is only logical, isn’t it? They know each other the best. They know which wounds hurt the most when touched upon.

“Guess you are still only a dog in every sense of the word.”

“Fuck you,” Chuuya yells. God, he knows Dazai meant it metaphorically even with such wording. He knows and he knows and he still can’t keep himself to stay on the bed.

“Chuuya, I didn’t mean—“

“Why are you still here, Dazai?” Chuuya sighs, taking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the jacket draped over a chair. He brings a cigarette to his lips and lights it. “In my life, I mean, if you are still planning to leave eventually?” He takes a deep inhale and the smoke dances out of his mouth. “You’re just wasting our time.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Dazai is watching him, with those observant and mathematical eyes of his. Like Chuuya is some mission and nothing more. God, he hates it. Yeah, he definitely prefers when they are filled with light.

“I never wanted you to leave.” He exhales. “But we both know that also never mattered. And, just to be fucking clear, before you get those stupid ideas of yours, I am happy for you. I am glad you left, for fuck’s sake.” The cigarette ashes float into the ashtray that stands on Chuuya’s desk.

At least one of us got to see the light, Chuuya thinks.

And he is back there, holding detective Murase’s corpse, shouting and pleading: What happened to arresting me, detective?! I thought you were gonna show me the light..?

At least Oda’s death, however cruel and unfair, brought something good. Gave Dazai the push he needed. And Dazai has been brave enough to follow. The Flags, Murase, died practically for nothing. There is no honor, no greater cause, no comfort. They only died because of him. And who knows how many—

“Chuuya?”

“What?!” He slaps Dazai’s hand off of his shoulder.

When the fuck did that stupid fish come near him?

 “I said I am glad I left too.”

“For once we agree.”

“But I am not glad that I left you.” God, he says it so softly that Chuuya almost wants to believe it.  And he holds Chuuya’s cheek, tips his head down and bends his spine to kiss him. Just as softly. Manipulative bastard. “I’m sorry,” he breathes into Chuuya’s mouth, and Chuuya wishes he could suffocate in it.

“Fuck you,” Chuuya grits out, but his shoulders relax and the cigarette stands abandoned in the ashtray. He throws his arms around Dazai’s neck and in the next moment they are back on the bed. Every trace of argument gone, drowned under the fervent kisses, all tongue and teeth and drool, as Chuuya straddles Dazai’s lap and Dazai’s fingers bury into his hair once he tears the button-up off of Chuuya and throws it amongst other clothing on the floor. Not the healthiest way to reconcile, for sure, but, oh well, shit happens. They are only human, after all.   

“We wouldn’t be in this situation if the slug just did so,” Dazai whines, a shiver streams through his body so ardently and desperately it infects Chuuya himself.

“Oh, yeah?” Chuuya clicks his tongue and he wraps his hand around Dazai’s throat, pushes him down onto the bed. Dazai’s increasing heartbeat pulses and Chuuya gives himself a moment to just feel it, to indulge the needy kiss and a moan Dazai gives him. Underneath Chuuya, his back arches, and Chuuya lets him tug on his hair, kiss him again and again as if they both are about to disappear. It is always a possibility, after all.

 “Is that really what you want, princess ?” Chuuya smirks against his mouth, biting Dazai’s bottom lip and drawing out a petal of blood.

“ Please,” Dazai chokes out.

 “Come on, then.” Chuuya flees from Dazai’s lap, ignores how much he misses the feeling of his skin against his already. “Color?” He holds up the black silk scarf, and Dazai scoots closer to him, lies on his back next to Chuuya.

“Green.” And he stretches his arms above his head, letting Chuuya tie the scarf around his wrist, to the crimson fence headboard. Not too tight but restraining enough, nonetheless.

“Kick me if you want me to stop, ‘kay?” Chuuya mumbles as he gets between Dazai’s thighs, snatching the lube. “Or do you want a safe word?”

“Kicking is okay,” Dazai says and nods and he hooks his legs around Chuuya’s waist, pulling him closer. And Chuuya doesn’t miss how the headboard shakes in Dazai’s failed attempt to hold Chuuya, indubitably to scratch his back.

“Easy, mackerel,” Chuuya chuckles, leaning closer to him, to his lips. “I’m right here.” It, the kiss, is like a compensation for their very first one—blossomed years ago, shaped out of compensated emotions and desperate tongues—all over again. “I’m right here.” The shaky air out of their lungs mixes and frolics together.

Dazai’s is a much too vulnerable one as he tips his forehead against Chuuya, the feeble question that slips past his lips is, “Are you?”

“Always,” Chuuya whispers, smiling. “Need me to untie you?”

“No.” Dazai shakes his head; his hair tickles Chuuya’s face. “God, no.”

“Okay,” Chuuya says through a sigh. “Okay.” The cock cage grazes his skin with a tinge of cold, reminding he cannot let this go on for much longer, as he opens the lube and smears it across his fingers. “Ready?”

Dazai nods, head slumping back against the pillow. The moment Chuuya inserts a finger and two, he can hear him gulp, suppressing a moan—and Chuuya would prefer if he didn’t do such, at all. Dazai is plenty stretched already, but that little more lubrication is much needed.

 “Chuuya,” the moan finally echoes, albeit still strangled. His eyes close and he pushes himself lower, desperate for Chuuya to give him more than mere fingers and fluttering kisses across his neck, his chest and nipples. “Chuuya, please.”

And it’s beyond enough for Chuuya. He smears the lube and pre-cum across his hard cock, and he takes his fingers out. Dazai’s thigh spasm around Chuuya’s waist, his movements sloppy as he tries to glue Chuuya to himself. The headboard shakes once again, much more vigorously this time and Chuuya is already on the move to set Dazai free.

But, “Don’t,” Dazai gasps, spit scattering down his chin. “Please, Chuuya, just get on with it.”

It takes Chuuya a moment to act, to get used to this rare picture of Dazai. Trembling and teary-eyed and clinging onto Chuuya for dear life. Beautiful.

“Chuuya—“

 Work, brain, work.

“I’m right here, ‘Samu.” Chuuya kisses his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “I’m right here.” And he lifts Dazai’s hips just a tad more, angles them just right. His cock slides into Dazai, not at all slowly—Dazai sure is eager, pressing himself harder against it.

“Fuck,” Chuuya moans and Dazai follows with sounds just as wet. “You’re so good for me.”

The headboard shakes, Dazai does. Whimpering, drawing more blood out of his bottom lip. Chuuya makes sure to kiss it away, to drink all those whimpers up as his thrust get deeper and faster, Dazai’s muscles contracting around his cock.

 A little too much for Chuuya’s liking.

Something is wrong.

All of this is wrong.

Dazai’s next moan, barely heard, all suppressed and strangled confirms it. And, as if that alone isn’t enough, his words are, “It hurts.”

Chuuya’s eyes widen. All movement stops.

And once Chuuya looks at him— really looks—the heavens within him all fall down. 

Dazai, who wraps himself in bandages to both shield himself and shield others from himself. (All others but Chuuya.)

Dazai, who would rather die the most painful death than ever allow anyone to glimpse into the darkest of tar-holes that he is sure resides within him. (Chuuya isn’t so sure.)

Dazai, who has never done so before. (At least not in front of Chuuya.)

Dazai, who…

Dazai fucking Osamu is crying.

“Shit,” Chuuya curses, “shit. Hey, Osamu, look at me.” And in an instant, he is out, lying by Dazai’s side and untying the scarf, bringing him lower and closer to his chest. Dazai’s legs are still hooked around him.

“No, no, Chuuya, please,” Dazai rants, sniffling, borderline sobbing as his nails dig into Chuuya’s back, “It was there, it was right there.”

“I don’t give a shit about that now,” Chuuya mumbles into his hair, hand rubbing circles across Dazai’s fast rising back. “You’re fucking uncomfortable and we can’t continue like that.”

“Comfort doesn’t matter, Chuuya,” Dazai grumbles, all wobbly and hiccuply, “the end goal doe—“

“Yes, it fucking does, you stupid fish.” Chuuya sighs and he grasps Dazai’s chin gently, rises it up. For a split second, he wishes he hasn’t done so. Tears stream down Dazai’s warm cheeks slowly. Chuuya tries to wipe them away but only more come and fuck. They fucked up. Chuuya fucked up. “We are gonna do this some other damn day, ya hear me?”

Dazai opens his mouth to speak, more suicidal bullshit, probably, but Chuuya cuts him off, “I swear I will tie you up if I have to; you’re not getting anywhere near rivers or whatever your stupid mind comes up with.”

“Why must my dog be so stubborn?” Dazai retorts, but his hold on Chuuya only tightens, and Chuuya can feel blood sprouting across his back. Not that he complains. Not that he can complain. It is clear who is more distressed here.

“And why can’t my fish take care of himself?” He kisses Dazai’s hair, tugs a strand behind his ear. Dazai only gives him a displeased whimper as a response, seemingly content to somehow become one with Chuuya. “Where’s the key, mackerel?”

“Pants,” he shivers out, nudging his face back into the crook of Chuuya’s collar bone.

“Okay,” Chuuya says, “you’ll have to let me go for a moment.”

“No.” Dazai shakes his head, his hold on Chuuya getting so firm Chuuya wouldn’t be surprised if he managed to crack a few of his ribs. From where he gained the strength, only God knows. “No.”

“Dazai.” It’s not a question by any means. “Let me go. I’ll be right fucking back.”

Dazai says nothing, and it only sends a zap of worry more through Chuuya as Dazai simply unhooks himself from Chuuya and turns his back to him. This is going just fucking peachy.

With a heavy sigh and legs just as heavy, Chuuya slides down the bed. True to Dazai’s words, the key awaits him in the pocket of the pants. He takes it quickly and throws himself onto the bed.

“Hey, idiot,”—he shakes Dazai’s shoulder—“turn around.”

Begrudgingly, Dazai does so, but he remains firm on not looking Chuuya in the eyes or saying a word more. Embarrassment doesn’t suit the bastard, not that Dazai would ever admit he is feeling so. Chuuya only slightly wants to yell at him for it; they are far past the need to be embarrassed around each other, for fuck’s sake.

Chuuya inserts the key into the base of the cock cage and unlocks it. The moment he starts sliding it and the cock ring off, Dazai hisses in pain and seemingly decides being a feisty leech with limbs is enough of a grounding.

“There you go.” Chuuya sighs, his eyebrows furrowing both in slight worry and unsettling admiration at how fast and just how hard Dazai gets in mere seconds. It used to take him a while to reach such a state.

“It hurts,” Dazai chokes out, and Chuuya feels tears soaking his shoulder all over again. Well, fucking shit.

“I know,”—he gulps the guilt down, fingers racking through Dazai’s hair—“I know. Try to cum, it’ll help.”

Dazai shakes his head, his body trembling as if he is the thinnest branch amidst the storm. “I—” His voice cracks. “I can’t.”

Well, double shit.

“Let me help?” Chuuya tries. Does he even deserve to help him? Does he deserve Dazai’s trust and touch?

“Please,” flies down Dazai’s lips, and it isn’t a matter of deserving anymore. It’s what Chuuya has to do.

“Okay,” Chuuya says, “Okay.” And he reaches for the lube, to make this whole thing at least a bit more comfortable. He drips it into his palm, across his fingers, and he trails a finger up and down Dazai’s cock, to get him used to the sensation.

“Fuck,” Dazai hisses and he gasps and his teeth graze over Chuuya’s shoulder.

“Bite me if ya need to,” Chuuya mumbles, his hand forms an ‘O’ around Dazai’s cock and Chuuya starts stroking him. His thumb rubs like a feather over its head, twice, trice, four times and there is still no pre-cum in sight. Only Dazai’s whimpers and jerks. He bumps against Chuuya’s chin and Chuuya swallows the groan it bubbles in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Dazai whispers, back to nipping Chuuya’s shoulder.

“Don’t focus on that now,” Chuuya sighs, draping his other hand over Dazai’s throat and holding him firm against himself. God, he wants this night to be over already. Or does he, really? There is always a chance Dazai will leave in the morning, drink himself silly to forget.

Biting his cheeks, Chuuya shakes the thoughts away. He can’t, he won’t blame Dazai if he decides to do so. How could he after everything that went to shit tonight?

“I am sorry, Chuuya.” Dazai says it like a plea for Chuuya to believe him, not to leave him. And, God, Chuuya can’t handle it. Dazai. All teary and trembling and hurt.  

“You have nothin’ to be sorry about.” He kisses his head, over and over again, and his strokes get a tad bit faster. “I’m the one that has.”

“Hats for brains,” Dazai grumbles, shivering, and Chuuya can’t help but to quietly snort at that. “‘T’s not Chuuya’s fault.”

Yeah, well, it surely doesn’t feel or look like it’s not. Still, he can’t have Dazai thinking about it too much now of all times. Thus, Chuuya doesn’t say anything, solely buries his face into the mess of Dazai’s hair and continues stroking him, up and down, all while his thumb remains to rub his head. It takes a while for Dazai to start leaking, and for his whole being to return into a quaking mess.

“It hurts, it hurts,” he cries, “Chuuya—“ and he gasps and his teeth dug into Chuuya’s shoulder much deeper.

Oh, there is definitely blood dripping now, alright.

Still, Chuuya remains silent, focusing only on Dazai’s cock in his hand, on ending this.

“Chuuya,“ Dazai chokes out a strangled moan, more spit and more blood drooling all over Chuuya’s skin. There are more tears now, too.

His back is like set aflame all anew, but it doesn’t matter. What does is the jabbering mess of sounds that ripple through Dazai’s throat, the warm cum splattering all over Chuuya’s hand and their stomachs. Finally.

   “You’re doing so well,” Chuuya whispers, but his words fall flat in the air. The cum drips and drips and drips out and Chuuya wonders just how much more there possibly can be. He will definitely need to run them a bath the moment Dazai’s all finished.

His hand starts to ache, milking out everything Dazai can give him, and once there appears to be no more, a relieved sigh mixes with sweat in Dazai’s hair. Dazai’s pants are quieter now, too, his trembling is. Chuuya removes his hand, wipes it against the bedsheets. He will need to change them, anyways.

“Dazai?” he tries and for a damn moment he thinks the bastard fell asleep. He is only averted from such thought when Dazai’s grumbles something Chuuya can’t quite decipher. “Huh?”

Dazai is completely limp against him but his fingers remain buried in Chuuya’s back.

“You okay?”

As an answer, he only gets a soft nod.

“I need words, Osamu.”

Of course, he gets none. Great, just great. He goes to tug on Dazai’s hair but his hand freezes mid-action.

Oh. Oh.

Did they do it?

“Idiot,” Chuuya scoffs half-heartedly, “up you go.” Exhaling loudly, he makes sure those damn octopus limbs of Dazai’s won’t lose their grip on him as he rolls them out of the bed and stands on the floor.

It surely is a mess, finding them pajamas and hauling himself over to the bathroom with an octopus leeched onto him. But, Chuuya Nakahara is a damn mafia executive, gravity manipulator, Arahabaki’s vessel; there is nothing in this word he can’t do. Except tripping over his own feet and almost crashing them both into the bathtub. Emphasis on almost.

They are safely lying in the bathtub, warm water slowly filling it up yet again now that Chuuya has washed all the sweat and semen off of their skin, and Dazai remaining pressed against his chest with Chuuya’s hands around his waist. Maybe—definitely—Chuuya would go to fetch them some of those fancy bath bombs and oils, if his knees only weren’t on the verge of giving out. Body wash and the poor excuse of bubbles it forms will have to do.

“Hoping you havin’ fun for once in that head of yours,” Chuuya mumbles, eyebrows slightly furrowed, as he layers shampoo across his palms and massages it into Dazai’s hair, working out the few knots that have formed.

The bastard seems perfectly content, and Chuuya knows he isn’t asleep by the count of his breaths. He is just there, somewhere. And, truth be told, Chuuya would much rather have him here, with him. Dazai is maybe okay now, but he sure as hell wasn’t just a few minutes ago.

There is so much they have to talk about. Fuck, they were supposed to discuss this a whole lot more. Maybe even eat first; unlike Chuuya at the headquarters with Ane-san after he had taken a shower there, he doubts Dazai did so before coming to Chuuya’s apartment. It was Chuuya’s job to ensure Dazai would be safe and fine and he failed so fucking miserably.

His teeth clench, and he has to pull his fingers away from Dazai’s hair before he hurts him more. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  To hell wi—

“Chuuya knows I love him, right?”

What a timing.

“Mhm,” Chuuya mumbles, hands trailing over the water to rinse off the shampoo. “Close your eyes.” He sighs. As if they weren’t already closed. And he turns on the showerhead, making sure the water is warm enough. He watches and watches the water chasing away all of the shampoo.

“How do you feel?” He asks once he turns the water off and he is sure Dazai won’t somehow choke on it.

“High,” Dazai breathes out and nuzzles lower and closer against Chuuya’s chest as Chuuya now layers conditioner onto his palms. “Better than high, somehow.” He chuckles, pulling a smile out of Chuuya, who smears the conditioner into Dazai’s ends. “It’s all foggy, but in a good way. ‘T’s not heavy and draining as it always is.”

“I’m glad.”

“Couldn’t really speak for a while. Tongue got all numb, still is kinda.”

“I’ve noticed,” Chuuya hums.

“And I’m sleepy, Chuuya, I am sleepy.”

“Sleep, then.” Food should be priority, but if Dazai fucking Osamu is sleepy then he better sleep while he has the chance.

“Don’t wanna.”

“Why?” Chuuya asks, confusion lacing his voice.

Dazai shrugs. “Want to spend some more time with my dog. Make sure he doesn’t eat his brain away. This isn’t his fault.”

“You were fucking crying, Dazai.” He drops his hands away from Dazai’s hair and clenches his fists. “You were in so much damn pain you were crying.” And I could’ve stopped that.

“So?” Dazai shrugs again. “It’s not Chuuya who hurt me.”

“Yeah, sure,” he scoffs.

“I hurt myself, Chuuya.” He kisses Chuuya’s collar bone, and Chuuya has to bite his lip not to let the shiver that runs down his spine be seen. “It’s what I always do, and you always help me.”

“Not this time.”

“ Especially this time.” Dazai wiggles a little, splashing the water all around like the fish he is. And he cups Chuuya’s cheeks; God, his eyes are barely open, all foggy and still filled with light. Chuuya wants to drown himself in them.

“How so?” He cocks an eyebrow at him.

“…”

“Dazai,” he grits out, “what did you do?”

“Don’t get too angry?”

Oh, just with that Chuuya is seething. But under Dazai’s such innocent and vulnerable and pleading tone most of Chuuya’s anger is bound to ebb away.

“Okay?”

 “It was bad, Chuuya. It was really fucking bad.” He slumps against Chuuya’s shoulder again, a cracked chuckle rippling through his throat. “But I didn’t want to leave you. Not while you were sent away and without a word again.” Four years ago. “So, I tried to send myself into subspace alone. Didn’t really work out; suicide isn’t the only thing I can only fail at, it appears. My body must’ve gone into the overheat.”

“No fucking shit,” Chuuya rolls his eyes. What a stupid fish. God, he doesn’t want to know how much, for how long Dazai was edging, torturing himself. But, at least he was trying to find a way to stay alive. Small steps are still steps, goddamn it; how can he be angry at him for that? “I’m glad you didn’t kill yourself, mackerel.”

“Even though I cause you nothing but trouble?”

“I’ve gotten used to it,” Chuuya mumbles.

“Good,” Dazai chuckles, “because it will keep happening.”

“Menace,” Chuuya snorts. My menace. “But, taking care of you isn’t classified as making trouble. So, next time just talk to me.”

“We can do this again, then?”

“I meant in general,” Chuuya says. “But, sure. As long as we talk about it and make sure you won’t be hurting so much next time. Close your eyes now.” And he turns on the showerhead again, washes away the conditioner.

“I know how to get there without so much pain, now,” Dazai says while the water still runs and promptly gets water and conditioner into his mouth, coughing.

“Idiot,” Chuuya scoffs, but he still turns off the showerhead and pats Dazai on the back. “So, what’s the strategy?”

“Touching you helped a lot,” Dazai says, dragging his finger up and down Chuuya’s upper arm, “makes sense, ‘cause I trust you, Chuuya. My body knows you, knows I am safe with you.” 

“I hurt you, Dazai.”

“I hurt myself, sluggy slug.” Dazai pokes his cheek, again and again, and giggles. The bastard giggles. “You weren’t hurting me; everything was just too much because of the actions I took prior.”

“Stop pokin’ my damn cheek,” Chuuya grumbles, swaying his head left and right, never able to escape Dazai’s touch.

“Worry doesn’t suit you, chibikko,” Dazai chuckles. “So stop. I want to sleep.” And he pecks Chuuya’s lips, nestles against the place where Chuuya’s heart directly beats. It’s a thing he does, always, Chuuya has noticed. And Chuuya doesn’t comment on it. He knows why already. Death is bound to leave a scar on one’s soul. They both know it far too well. 

“Bed, Dazai,” Chuuya sighs, “the water’s gonna get cold soon.”

“Chuuya can take care of that,” he says, a content little sigh frolicking across Chuuya’s chest.

 It’s damn weird, in a good way, kind of, having Dazai—all pliant and mushy and talking about important things without a trace of hesitation—in his arms. But, Chuuya can’t find it in himself to complain much.

“Lazy bastard,” he snickers, with no annoyance able to be detected in his voice as he places a long, long kiss atop his hair. “Rest, partner.”  

“That’s my gig,” Dazai grumbles, all jumbled up. And cute.

Damn it, Dazai will be the death of him one way or another. Maybe, Dazai will even get the double suicide he so desires at this rate. It’s a wrecked, cruel thought pulling at Chuuya’s heartstrings—that they might lose each other, this little bubble they’ve built around themselves, one day.

Again.

Forever.

Only because of that, Chuuya holds him a little tighter. There is no real point in attempting to get Dazai out of the water now that his brain is a whole new level of a fish one and his limbs must’ve turned into useless fins. Not that Chuuya himself is any better, really. He isn’t looking forward to changing the bed sheets; he’ll have to wake up Dazai to eat and drink something, at least a bite and a sip, too. But it’s just fine. Dazai trusts him, and they are talking for once in their lives. Chuuya will gladly take care of his pet fish to ensure it stays that way.

Soon, Dazai’s breathing falls into that familiar pattern, like there is no danger in the world. Chuuya holds his cheek and rubs soft circles across it and, as if the bastard wasn’t cute enough already, he nuzzles deeper into Chuuya’s touch. A sleepy smile, brutally honest and rare, grazes over Chuuya’s palm. 

 And Chuuya knows: they’ll be okay.

 They’ve shared too many memories not to.