Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It's quiet

It's wanted 

Waited and wished for on the chirp of cicada wings, the buzz of summer humming from beyond the open window of a Port Mafia apartment. There's a gentle nostalgia that rings on the underside of the droning buzz, memories of a childhood in a different life, fifteen by a different name, and only now, after so many years, can that chime be reaped. Can Dazai stand at the edge of the kitchen counter, the granite digging into the side of his stomach as he leans into the stone, absentmindedly picking at a pan of cold food with his fingers. A meal leftover from earlier in the morning, its scent replaced by a flickering floral candle tucked beside a plant in the corner of the counter. 

It's a moment reminiscent of a colder season when it was Dazai sitting at the island in the center of the bar, begrudgingly waiting for Chuuya to finish cooking. Now, it's the redhead's turn to sit at the black-speckled island, his bare feet hooked around the bottom bars of the stool, and forearm lazily draped atop the counter. The redhead leans into his propped-up arm, scarlet strands sifting through his fingers to flutter around his wrist, the executive unaware of the bourbon stare staining the tips of his hair. Dripping over flushed cheeks kissed pink by the heat of late summer, his freckles lit aflame in the spotlight of the kitchen island. 

No one speaks. 

No one cares to speak. 

Because for once, this quiet is comforting. This nihility that speaks of birth rather than death. For it's the silence that came before the stars, that will exist long after the sun, all without an emotion to its name. Without the hatred and fighting that has always found its way between a teenage devil and bastard god. 

Dazai softly hums to no one, the sound nothing more than an agreement with the night and it's quiet. Than a duet for the cicadas still blaring outside, a physical representation of contentment as he picks at a cooked carrot with his forefinger and thumb. He brings the food to his lip, the vegetable soft to the touch when it merely lingers over his closed mouth, emitting a light sylvan scent that compliments the candle at his side. That mellows the aroma of cigarette smoke perpetually in the air, a tinge of menthol lying behind every inhale taken in the redhead's apartment. 

Every exhale sans cigarette that still blows a poor man's perfume through the room when Chuuya shuffles on the bar stool. Smoke clings to the light linen of his shirt, the open front rustling with the draft, seeping the fragrance into the room. 

Air licks at the peeks of bare skin revealed by the wind and the executive lowers his phone to the island. Black glass blends with stone when the larimar light fades and the quiet rises, blanketing over the room without distraction. And in the newfound silence, there's a murmur of nervousness beneath the peace, a tightrope tension not taut enough to snap but snug enough for the redhead to stick a finger between his neck and collar, freeing his throat from the noose of the fabric. 

From the weight of this something on the horizon when Dazai lowers the uneaten carrot from his lip, following its descent until his chin greets his chest. Until his shoulders run rigid, the younger tensing against the countertop before relaxing with the next flicker of the candle. With the next inhale that blooms wilting spines as the brunette straightens, turning toward the island with a foggy half-smile. 

"I'm ready," he nearly whispers as if his voice will disturb the tranquility of summer that has settled into the kitchen. 

Chuuya hesitates with the confession, his head cocking sideways in puppyish confusion until his jaw digs into the skin of his palm. Until the seconds tick by without a word, the two simply staring at the countertop beside their ex-partner, not yet able to meet each other's eyes. 

Not until the next breeze blows, the candle flickers, and the pop of its wick whispers the translation into Chuuya's ear. "We don't-" the redhead begins before his gaze slips to chocolate eyes and he falls silent with the unexpected sweetness in Dazai's stare. The unexpected sheepishness at the way the detective tilts his hip toward the strength of the counter, his arm rising to pick at the corner of his lips while time passes by without a response. Without a continuation of Chuuya's severed speech when the executive can only stare, trapped in the stickiness of amber eyes and dough skin tacky from the humidity of summer. 

Chuuya leans deeper into his palm, his elbow suffering with the added weight as the bone wobbles. "You don't have to rush," small reassurances, cashmere letters too heavy in the heat, and yet they grab for it all the same, desperately clinging to this idyllic air. 

With a quiet chuckle, Dazai turns from the counter to fully face the redhead at the island. "It's been a year and a half, Chuuya, I don't think I'm 'rushing' anything," Bandage-less fingers grip the underside of the countertop behind him, the brunette resting his forearms on the onyx, leaning his weight into the stone until the edge of the countertop settles against his spine. Feet outstretched, he appears even taller than typical, a smirk flickering on the side of his lip when Chuuya noticeably drags his gaze up the pair of lengthy legs with a scowl. 

"I'm ready," Dazai reiterates, his voice deceptively clear. Crystal that has grown in place of blood-rusted silver, sincerity dripping from a reformed tongue. "I've thought about it, talked about it," he corrects himself with a tip of his head, his jaw nestling on his raised shoulder when he tilts away from Chuuya's waiting stare. "In therapy," unnecessary clarifications chime from a closing throat. Clink with the sound of glass truths, transparent and fragile, offered despite its nature to shatter. 

But freckled hands are soft from a lifetime of gloves, of holding cotton over ichor-stained arms, and Chuuya only gifts a quaint smile in response. It's more a reflex than an emotion, the edge of his lip barely rising before returning to a flat line with a hint of curiosity, only a wrinkle remaining as he leans into the backing of the barstool. 

Dazai leans away from the counter, maintaining the distance between them, never allowing the space to grow. It's an unconscious move, neither recognizing the need to remain together, pulled by the invisible strings that have tied them to one another for so many years. That have dyed scarlet with time, with the bloodshed and screaming, with words that tear worse than their knives, and yet in the end, when the blood dries, it’s a red string all the same. 

"So..." Dazai trails, his voice rising toward the end, granting that sing-song tone to his words as he detaches from the counter, ruffling a hand through his pocket until his fingers catch around a folded slip of paper. Fishing the item from the depths of his pants pocket, he withdraws his hand to hold a crumbled paper between his fore and middle finger, flashing the ruined page as if it's the winning hand with a smirk. 

At the sight of a yellowed square in Dazai's hand, Chuuya only plops an elbow onto the island, slumping his jaw into his hand with a lighthearted chuckle. Despite the shake of his head, Chuuya stretches his hand across the island, facing his palm upright before tapping four fingers into his palm in a beckoning motion, pulling the younger from the wall. "And this is?" Chuuya quizzes as Dazai peels from the countertop, his skin sticking to the stone from the humidity of the room. 

He isn't met with an answer
He's never met with an answer 

Somehow, it's no longer so bothersome...
so worrisome

Because Dazai strides toward the kitchen island with a straight spine and casual walk, his usual coat hanging near the door, exposing a cream linen shirt and matching bandages. Clean bandages, the material visibly dry, lacking the familiar oil stain of ointment that once blotted pink-dyed cotton. Even the posture of his arms speaks of comfort, a slight bow to his elbows when he walks, free from the taut pull of healing skin. From the sharp sting of jagged wounds catching on the cotton with a wrong move. 

There's silence
There's always silence 

But it's safe 

Protected in the sparkle of topaz eyes with an amber glow speckled in the iris, a hint of life that glimmers with the flicker of the candlelight, throwing life into a healthy flame, steady and sure of itself. Of its actions, its wants when Dazai finds his way to the edge of the kitchen island. He hovers beside the redhead, leaning over so his forearms can rest on the stone in front of Chuuya. From this close, he can feel the slight warmth radiating from Chuuya's legs beside him, can smell the perfume of cigarette smoke threaded through his hair, wafting from the absentminded scrunch of his fingers trapping the strands. 

They're close enough to touch...

Close enough to...

Amber eyes blink, clearing the fog begging to settle over his gaze. Dazai clears his throat before raising his chest from the countertop, his hip jutting outward from the low angle of the island. "I have a list," he wiggles the paper between his fingers, the material scratching against itself before it's tossed to the table in offering. 

Chuuya doesn't move. 

All he can do is stare. Is watch the crinkled patch of paper on the island, its white violent against the black of the island, refusing to quiet its presence. To differentiate itself from the image of another list scribbled by Dazai's hand, wicked words in a haunting autumn, and the flicker of candlelight in another life. And if Chuuya stills, will he be able to hear the faint sound of holiday movies from the next room over? Will he be able to hear his heart, hear Dazai's words, the boil of a pot at his side? Will he hear the sound of his own tears in that hotel room? 

The paper sits on the island untouched, nothing but a folded page between them. Its corners are withered and torn, and smudged indigo from the interior of his work pants night after night. Evidence of five hundred days, five hundred moments and tears that have led to a creased page soft from use, laying on a kitchen island, revoking the curse of the one that came before it. 

"You can open it, it's nothing bad," Dazai's lips curl at the ends, attempting to lighten the crease between Chuuya's brows with a slight chuckle. But the expression falls more nervous than reassuring, and both advert their gaze from the page, from each other. 

Freckled fingers slink over the stone, pinching the edge of the paper to drag the page toward himself. Pliable from use, the paper lacks a sound when Chuuya unfolds the page, flattening it against the table with the heel of his hand as he scans the blurry ink of the page. 

At the top of the paper, a faded trio of pictures are linked in a row, each with an illegible description beneath it. As Chuuya squints at the page, the paper sluggishly reveals itself. The image of three smiley faces materializes in shades of red, yellow, and green, each with a complimentary expression. 

Chuuya continues to read the page to himself, his brows scrunching with each word, with each line connected by the next sentence and subsequent smiley, a note messily scribbled in three lines beneath each section. Beneath each numbered scale that leaves thin lips drawing inward with a deep breath. With an inhale that fails to settle the cocoons cracking in his stomach, the flap of butterfly wings soon to come, waiting for the moment to strike. To bite at freckle-flustered cheeks until the skin prickles red, and the executive tilts his mouth into his open palm, shielding the pink threatening to paint the apples of his cheeks. 

"What I want to do," Chuuya reads aloud, his voice muffled in his hand, smearing his words until they match the faded images on the page. "I am comfortable kissing on the neck, ten," he continues, nuzzling deeper into his hand until his fingers encase the entirety of his cheek, sensing the warmth now emanating from his flustered touch. Because with each sentence read aloud, there's a subsequent mental image being crafted, stabbing at the nerves balling in his stomach. The bundle of something tangling beneath his navel when those butterfly wings flutter against the inside of his stomach, the executive nearly jerking when gentle wings turn into electrifying bites. "I am somewhat comfortable rubbing naked genitals together with a partner, six and a half-"

Bone slaps against stone, crushing whatever sentence is soon to be spoken. "I know Chuuya has to sound out his words," Dazai interrupts, leaning into his numb arm against the counter and dipping his head between Chuuya and the page, blocking the words from view. "But you really don't need to read them aloud."

Chuuya simply ducks around the mop of chocolate curls in his path, continuing to read the page. "I am uncomfortable with having a mouth, and, or, my mouth, on genitalia, zero." 

"Sorry," chocolate melts, drips from the side of blackened tables when Dazai adverts his gaze from the god at his side. From the presence now overwhelming when placed beside his shame.

But humiliation is so often paired with incense sticks and tearful prayers, and god only blinks in confusion, unable to comprehend the ignominy of broken men. Of worshippers who can't meet his eye, who subtly lean away when Chuuya leans forward. "What? Why are you apologizing?" It's genuinely asked, spoken plainly without the tone of a smirk that tends to trail his words in Dazai’s presence. In the memory of fifteen and the confines of a Port Mafia penthouse with only each other, with nothing more than bandages wrapped over young wounds, shattered hearts, and the promise that one day it may be alright. 

That one day Dazai will speak without tearing his teeth and Chuuya will listen without piercing the atoms in a room and their chaos will simmer into peace. 

Into two men in a quiet kitchen side by side. 

Dark curls lower, tipping when Dazai turns his head in avoidance of melting blue. Of ocean eyes that lack the choler of the sea, but hold a melancholy too rich for sapphire to stand. For Dazai to endure. "Most people want that and I can't-"

"And I'm fine with not having it," the executive rebuttals, his pitch rising with the question. "You don't have to apologize?"

Svelte fingers tangle together, Dazai interlocking his fingers in distraction as he wiggles them, feeling the squeeze of bone against bone. It's something to watch, something to do, something to distract him from the softening brows at his side."You're fine with it now..." Dazai trails, his voice fading into the inky surface of the island and his warped reflection in the stone. A version of himself he'll never meet again, blurred expressions, masks of stone, and the vision of an eye shrouded in obsidian. 

Cherry brows furrow. "I'm fine with it forever," the word slips quick enough that neither manages to catch the sound. Chuuya's hand still cradles his jaw and Dazai's fingers remain interlocked on the table, allowing the syllable to be buried as quickly as it was birthed. "If I apparently need my dick sucked that badly they sell toys for that," the executive grumbles, rising from his palm when Dazai still faces away, his nail scratching at the back of his knuckle while he watches the dance of the flame. 

The hypnotic sway of shadows he once called home. 

Chuuya leans his torso to the side, attempting to duck beneath Dazai's turned-away chin to capture his expression. Strawberry hair cascades down his shoulder, puddling on the countertop the further he leans. When Dazai continues to watch the crackling wick across the room, Chuuya straightens. His expression mellows until only the blue of his gaze reveals the storm brewing behind a visage of calm. The executive places both forearms on the counter, leaning forward until his sternum kisses the edge of the island. 

"Look at me," Chuuya commands, his voice lowering with the words soft but strict, cotton with a missed thorn, and Dazai shudders with the sting of the syllables, unable to ignore the barb in his side. The stare on the side of his cheek as Chuuya waits the three seconds needed for Dazai's resolve to collapse. For the younger to gradually twist to greet the absolute words of a god. 

To greet starlight eyes and constellation skin, a subtle glow encasing the older from the lick of the flame that leaves Dazai enraptured, a moth to the light, and there is nothing brighter than celestial suns. 

"Really, Samu, I'm not missing out on anything," Chuuya reassures him with a submissive tilt of the shoulder, subliminally casting himself as weaker, as someone who will never be deemed a threat. 

All it takes is a gentle smile and a halfway curl of the lip for Dazai's body to melt. The tension in his shoulders collapses, his body buckling with the warmth drifting through his arms, wrapping itself around him in a hold that isn't suffocating. Because it stems from Chuuya, because it is Chuuya. Chuuya's words, Chuuya's promises, Chuuya's protection, and the heat of a falling star.

The redhead chuckles when Dazai simply stares, lost to the fog of submission as he barely blinks, only able to examine the man at his side, drinking in the fine details only seen from this close. 

"I think I need to send your therapist a gift or something," Chuuya can't help but allow another chuckle to slip by, a lopsided grin breaking through the laugh as he watches Dazai's brow rise.

"It's a printed-off worksheet."

"That you honestly completed, and then gave to me," gloveless fingers trace the headline of the paper, avoiding bourbon stares too strong to swallow. Because that gaze burns when devoured, because it draws heat to his chest he can't quite bear, that he can't quite name. Not when care lies too close to words only pronounced once, the syllables foreign without the numbing agent of rum and weed. So the executive simply tilts his head to the side, watching the subtle shake of his finger outlining the letters.  "So aside from oral is there anything else you're uncomfortable with?"

The dry swallow that follows is audible. "...I think it would be better if I was on top..." Dazai mutters, watching his interweaved fingers to avoid the page before him. To avoid whatever expression the man beside him is crafting. 

The wide-eyed stare that floods from the paper, absorbing its shade as his face subtly pales, the redhead physically drawing away as the gears turn. "Like, you...penetrate... me...?" He quizzes slowly, each word crackling individually, shattering with his tight closing throat at the mere thought. 

Dazai's body springs upright. "No! I don't want to hurt you. It's-" his throat shuts, following Chuuya's lead as the unspoken lingers between them. The questions that can't be asked in response, but sit in the wrinkles of Chuuya's furrowed brow and Dazai's breathy exhale. "I was too..." the story fizzles as the detective awkwardly returns to his place leaning against the island, unable to gather the syllables needed to speak. Swallowing, his head turns, watching the candlelight and the gentle flutter of the curtains. "I never did that with Mori, I don't have any memories associated with that, so..."

Chuuya pales.

His finger pauses, the shiver dripping from the bone, draining any movement from his being. Rather, the redhead sits disturbingly still, his hand curled into a fist against the page.

"Is that alright?" Dazai quizzes, dipping a toe into unknown seas when Chuuya remains quiet. "Chu?" He can't dissolve the worry that follows that name, how his shoulders stiffen at the lack of a response, and his stomach swirls, shrinking into itself to avoid the disappointment sure to come. Whatever words of rejection the redhead is brewing with a bitten back lip and alabaster skin, the colour long since faded from his cheeks to gather into his balled fist. 

Gloveless fingers dig into themselves, crescents carving into the palm before gingerly unwinding."Fuck," Chuuya exhales, the phrase a breathy whisper, more an emotion than an actual word when he brings his wounded hand to his mouth, covering the burst of red overtaking his features. "I'm half hard right now," he laughs, the sound sharp with a mix of embarrassment. With attraction as he drags his hand down his lips and chin, straightening in his chair to displace the growing discomfort between his legs. "You're saying you want to ride me?"

Dazai pauses, the nervous jolt in his veins dissolving with the heat of Chuuya's blushing cheeks. With the laugh that bubbles from his own throat, anxious and quiet, nothing more than a noise to extract his worry, but it's a laugh nonetheless.

The redhead places his palm on the island, lifting himself from his seat to rearrange his position on the stool. "Would you be open to using a muscle relaxer? It might hurt more at first, especially on top."

Dazai shakes his head, subtle interactions domestic and light in the face of such a heavy conversation. "I don't want to feel like I'm drugged. And no condoms, I got tested and came back clean." 

"Red, yellow, green?" Chuuya dampens his shock, smothering it with his next question. 

"Stop, slow down and check-in, I'm fine," three fingers flick outward, counting down their established safe words with an acknowledging bob of brown curls.

Blue eyes find the courage to rise from Dazai's outstretched fingers, accidentally meeting the younger's waiting look. "What about words for if you need a break? Like you don't want to stop completely but you need to stop for a minute?" He suggests, accidentally scanning Dazai's features. Watching the subtle dilation of his eyes, how the scar on his nose has slightly faded since the last time he noticed it, and a new scar has found its way beside it.

"Will 'mimic' work?" Dazai quizzes without thought, throwing out the first word that comes to mind regardless of its meaning. Of it's history. 

Or the way Chuuya inevitably shrinks with the title, his lips souring before the expression is shaken clear by the ruffle of his hands in the front of his hair, pushing the waves toward the nape of his neck. "Then mine is 'flags' I guess."

"What-" Dazai starts and stills, his weight drifting from one foot to the next as his face tilts downward. "I don't-" his head droops between his shoulders before he resets himself, inhaling the lump in his chest. "Can there be a colour for when I'm... close..." he barely chokes out the request, timidity mingling with anxious fear for the response. For what won't be said, what will be said, another rejection he can't bear. 

Chuuya props his foot on the bars of the stool, bouncing his knee to relocate the wings still fluttering in his stomach. "Since our safe words somehow went down memory lane, how about 'black'? Will you remember that?" 

"For 'Double Black'?" The younger chuckles at a name long lost, remembered through stories and nothing more. But it's enough to lift his chin and relax his shoulders, his weight settling on one foot as his body comes to ease.  Moments tick by, an intermission of quiet that leads to the last act, the last monologue of a retired performer when the mask can finally fall. When his worries can be held between his fingers, clasped tight but no longer suffocating him, no longer locking his emotions behind clenched teeth pretending all is well.  

Scarred fingers clench, dig dull nails into skin to dissolve the residual taste of cough syrup from the back of his throat. "I don't want to come together, I want you to come first."

"That's fine," Chuuya whispers, an odd quiet blanketing the room with the last request of the night and the poisoned memory of its root. Of houses in suburbia, an oversized coat, and the drops of water from a rooftop. The first cigarette on young lips, the first promise between them, and the last touch that left an everlasting mark on four boys and a worried father.

"And I might need... permission, to be able to..."

Chuuya's palm brushes over the piece of paper, lingering on the page with his palm upright, waiting for the hold of the wounded. For Dazai to shuffle his hand to the side, allowing Chuuya's fingertips to brush the back of his knuckle, the slightest of touches. "That's fine, Samu, I get it, you don't have to explain," reassurance and whispered words, the cashmere brush of a fingernail against the back of a hand without ever asking for more. 

It's simply touch without expectation, and Dazai's hand drifts a hair closer, soaking in the warmth of Chuuya's unconditional care.

•••

The door closes behind Chuuya, a click thunderous in a room so quiet, drowned by the pounding of his blood in his ears. By the rush of ichor desperately heading south despite the domesticity of the night and the simple actions of turning the lock behind him. 

 Somewhere by his side, Dazai has already slipped from his shoes, haphazardly discarding the pair in the middle of the walkway with one shoe turned over and the executive long gone. A click of a light switch sounds from the kitchen, honey light lapping at the shore of the genkan to play with the edges of Chuuya's shoes, glistening over the blacktop of his work boots. 

He stares at the bottled sunlight on his boot, one palm still flat against the wood of the door to steady himself. To support his being against the crashing waves of his own unbridled emotions. His own sweating palms, his twisted stomach, and tight chest. His shaking limbs that can barely lift enough to pull the zipper down his shoes, freeing his foot from the right boot before attempting his left with an absentminded stare.

Because he's trapped in the rush of his mind, barely aware of the room around him and the rustle of another body from the kitchen. Of Dazai's body, and Chuuya's fingers curl over the wood, sucking in an inhale that smells all too much of cotton bandages and half-priced cologne. 

Cabinets open and close in the background of his swirling mind, the flutter of plastic bags following close behind, and Dazai's faint humming rounding out the melodic theme of a domestic life. Plays soprano to the bass thump of a telltale heart beating out of time, a dissonant clash that rings between Chuuya's ears as he steps away from the safety of the door. Running his palms over his pants, the redhead walks into the living room with false confidence, tracking the faint sound of clicking light switches to their final destination.

To Dazai standing with his back to him, his coat discarded near the front door, revealing the bandages he shows more freely these days. His hands rest in his pockets, shoulders relaxed and spine loose as he stands on the outskirts of the open-concept living room, staring at the renovated design.

The glass coffee table has been pushed back toward the wall alongside the obsidian couches, creating a divet of extra space near the front of the room. It's large enough to shove a small mattress, simple in its design for ease of use. The air mattress has already been covered in sheets and a spare comforter, a few marmalade pillows thrown near the top of the bed standing out against the white and grey bedding.  

Dazai stands at the edge of the makeshift bed, silently eyeing the mattress before tossing his head over his shoulder, finally acknowledging the man behind him. 

Gloved fingers drag through the front of his hair, ruffling the strands with a nervous exhale. "I just figured if this all goes to shit, at least we can burn it after," Chuuya's gaze drops to the floor, the room rising ten degrees when Dazai continues to watch him without a word. 

Without a change in expression, just examining the fluorescent glow of Chuuya's cheeks that rivals Arahabaki's light in his veins. The older ruffles his hands through his hair a second time before registering the rugged touch of leather over his scalp. He removes his gloves with fluid motion, biting the tip of his finger to remove the leather before discarding the gloves on the nearby ledge connecting the living room and kitchen. 

Dazai blinks once, twice, before erupting. 

Porcelain shatters, littering the floor with glitters of a lost soul, of a demon cast away for good, and only the light is left behind. Only the scars remain where clay was cast and burned, only the stain of the paint lasts on warm skin beating and human, visibly soft to the touch, and pink from the heat. From the blood that flows beneath tan skin, that bubbles air and life and laughter into pink lungs as Dazai laughs and the room no longer turns. 

The rush in Chuuya's lungs no longer exists, punctured by the wind chime chuckle of the man before him. A Laughter that rivals the stars, that rises smoother than incense smoke and sweeter than rose, than alter-side wine and the bourbon it grew to become. The human, clean and bright, undeniably tepid, it has become. And Chuuya can only watch with a dry mouth, with a rustle in the cage of his ribs when sleeping beasts rise, shaken awake by the ringing of temple bells. 

Arahabaki slinks in the confines of his bones, suffocating the measly morsel of air that remained in the light of Dazai's joy. 

Dazai doesn't notice the starstruck gaze of god, his eyes curved closed from his laughter, only opening when the moment ends. Still lingering in front of the bed, the brunette slinks his hands in his pocket, contemplation hanging between his brows before he eventually gathers the courage to speak. "Where is Chuuya's phone?" He blankly asks, voice mellow and emotionless, barren of any hints that can reveal his inner thoughts. 

At the sound of Dazai's voice, the spell dwindles, freeing Chuuya from the confines of first loves. "Here," he reaches into his pocket without question, handing his phone to the detective. "Do what you want with it." 

Socked feet scrunch into the bohemian rug below as Dazai stares into the glass of the phone, the black staring back, swirling a hidden miasma behind the screen. Head down, the detective watches the wiggle of his toes in his socks, watching the threads stretch and pull as he slips both phones into his pocket. 

They're heavier than plastic should ever be

A nod to no one follows the action, a confirmation to himself and the past lurking at the edges of the room. The shadows that creep from the corners, crawling over the displaced sofa and settling on the leaves of the yucca near the television. Bandaged fingers twitch in the cover of his pockets, watching the night close in. Sluggishly crawl over the glass of the television screen and draw toward the mattress on the floor.  

Toward Dazai 

The brunette takes a step backward, eyeing the corners of the ceiling with scrunched brows and downturned lips. He doesn't speak, barely even moves as his head swivels to the four corners, tracking the shadow's curl. Ever waiting, ever watching, recording. 

"You can check whatever you need to," Chuuya’s voice punctures the room, scattering the encroaching fog settling in the corners until only the white of the walls remains, bright and pristine from the influx of sunlight flooding through the nearby window. 

Nodding, the brunette makes his way across the living room, attentively scanning the edges of the ceilings. He drags the tip of his finger over the plaster, feeling the rough bumps of the paint on his skin as he checks between the furniture, behind the doors, and enters into the next room to repeat the process anew. 

Furniture is dragged from its place, the scratch of wooden legs against the floor audible from the next room over as the executive patiently waits in place, allowing Dazai the space to create his own peace. Exiting the final room, the detective discards both phones in Chuuya's bedroom and shuts the door, bypassing the redhead in favor of the entertainment center in the living room. He wastes no time scooting the heavy furniture from the wall just enough to shimmy his hand between the two, fanning away spare cobwebs to yank the television's cords from the outlets, rendering it temporarily useless. 

Chuuya's lip falters, an odd sense of melancholy following the younger around the room, quiet and understanding, silently wishing this wasn't so. That a life existed for them where Dazai doesn't need to scan a house for cameras before he undresses. A life where a television remains on, never worrying about what film may appear on the screen. One where Dazai can be vulnerable without the prerequisite of easing his fear, one where the terror never existed at all. 

But fate is unkind and the devil is ruthless and children grow into adults unable to exist without perpetual unease to pump blood through their veins. 

Chuuya swallows

It's drier than before 

"No cameras," Dazai mutters as he returns to the redhead's side, a meek smile on his lips when his gaze drifts to the corner one last time. 

Chuuya nods, unable to trust his throat to not betray him. "No cameras," the words squeeze, crackling as his chest sinks with the weight of dead wishes. Of overwhelming wants when he takes a half-step forward, chin tilting upward to greet the taller when the space between them shrinks.

When the veil that has kept them apart for so many years falls with Dazai's decisive step forward, the younger holding back a smile when his chin tilts down to find Chuuya. When the two meet one another, their chests nearly touching, and Dazai's smile drips to Chuuya's twitching lips, spreading to the shorter when he inevitably laughs at the stretch of his neck. 

Fighting the urge to stretch on his toes, the executive bites down his growing smile. Rather, he drapes an arm around the taller's neck, guiding him with a hint of dominance that leaves Dazai following his lead without question. "Come here," Chuuya chuckles in the minuscule space between them, the scent of menthol drifting from his tongue, intoxicating the dwindling air left between their lips. It's as if he's speaking atop the other's skin, his lips brushing over Dazai's just by forming the shape of his wants. 

Of a wish granted a decade later, spoken on the backs of stars and satellites and anything that glows, just to taste this moment. To breathe in the fragrance of Dazai's bitter antiseptic, how it grants a rugged edge to the scent of cologne and bourbon oak that envelopes his skin, the aroma full-bodied from the heat of a beating heart. 

Dazai lowers 

Chuuya lifts the balls of his feet

And lips greet lips, swallowing a taste distilled since fifteen, coveted with teenage impatience, and yet when the cask is finally broken, it's sweeter than they could ever imagine. Slowly sipped, swirled around the edges of the glass, licking the tannins that remained until their mouths ran dry, sampling the taste from the other. Something mellow and smooth, moscato to a tongue that's only known the passion of merlots aged on an immature palette. 

Chuuya steps impossibly closer, the rough texture of Dazai's bandages rub against the inside of his arm, and yet it isn't uncomfortable. It's familiar and close, reminiscent of dark nights and early mornings, and the bitter seasons they somehow survived. That has led them here, kissing one another in a penthouse living room, soft and slow, devoid of the rushed nature they've always followed. Because for once, the goal isn't who can remove their clothes the fastest, what unwanted memories can be erased by another's touch on their skin, but... nothingness. There isn't an end, nor a destination to be reached before the next mission finds its way to the porch step. Before another redhead knocks on the door. 

There is nothing but time, nothing except each other, and the simple wish to touch just to touch. To feel the tacky sugar of a morning soda on Dazai's lips, to lick the last cigarette off Chuuya's tongue, and sense their arms around one another. How Chuuya nudges Dazai closer by the neck and the brunette obliges, lowering his chin to deepen the kiss while wrapping an arm around the shorter's waist, holding a flat palm to the low of his back to press him closer. 

Chuuya is the first to pull away for air, his lips still close enough to touch as blue roams the expanse of scarred cheeks and red-tipped ears, his pupils still blown from the kiss. "Is this okay?" He whispers close enough for his voice to masquerade as Dazai's, the question looping from one set of lips to the next. 

Dazai nods, his curls tickling Chuuya's forehead as he wraps both arms around the other's waist, taking a step back until his foot is on the mattress. And if four years in the mafia only amounts to being able to maneuver them both to the ground without falling, the experience was worth it, Dazai's back barely bruising the mattress with the coordinated fall. 

Now on the bed, Chuuya slips from Dazai's hold, positioning himself next to the brunette to avoid being on top of him. "What are our colours, Samu?" He unknowingly huffs the question, his chin rising and cheeks flustered from the remnants of their kiss. 

Dazai wiggles on the mattress, pulling his body fully onto the sheets. "Red, yellow, green, black, Flags, Mimic," he perfectly recites, a slight smirk playing at the edge of his lips with the seamless repetition. 

With the giddy air that overtakes the room, champagne-bubble soft, pulling the laughter from their lungs. Chuuya unknowingly smiles in response, sapphire melting to a lapis pliable, denting alongside the flesh of his thigh from Dazai's hold. Bandaged fingers sprawl over his leg, ghosting upward before thinking better of the move, returning to their place just above the redhead's knee. 

Dazai doesn't acknowledge the return of his hand, only grabs the skin a bit harder before bringing his lips to Chuuya's, resuming their kiss from earlier. Somehow, the addition of a bed makes the act vulgar, the expectation of what's to come settling over his shoulders, lodging beneath the gaps in his fingers to lift his hand from Chuuya's thigh. 

The change isn't lost on Chuuya. "Colour?" 

"Greenish-yellow," Dazai answers honestly, pecking the corner of Chuuya's lip before drawing away. Before his shoulders draw inward, his body shrinking toward Chuuya with a shuddering inhale, bourbon staining the sheets when his gaze drops to the mattress. "Will the bed creak?" He cautiously poses the question, and yet Chuuya can hear the child trapped behind his teeth. How Shuuji's gaze begins to fill with dread at the thought of bed springs too close to tear-stained cheeks and murdered cries. 

Chuuya draws back, allowing air to breathe into the room. "The guy at the store said it wouldn't because it's an air mattress, it doesn't have springs or anything," he offers the truth, uncaring of the tenderness it reveals. That he chose the bed with Dazai, with something as obscure and insignificant as the construction of metal springs, in mind. That he even bothered to ask an employee for confirmation to ensure the bed wouldn't make a sound. 

The two wade in the silence that statement creates, judging the decision to acknowledge the implications of what was just said. 

"Green-green," Dazai dodges the conversation, rubbing his hand down Chuuya's thigh. He loops the gesture, ghosting the tips of his fingers over the redhead's hip before withdrawing his touch, cascading the length of his thigh. 

Even through the cotton of his pants, Chuuya can feel the cashmere of that wanton touch. The restraint that flows from the twitch of bandaged fingers seeping heat into his thigh, leaving a burning trail in its wake. A blazing path that begs for more when Chuuya's hips instinctively rock forward, testing the theory of the bed when only the cotton sheets respond to the movement. The white sheets swish against his pants, teasing the fantasy of friction as the heat of that touch only grows. As it trickles down the curve of his hip, settles into the dip of his navel to painstakingly drip lower, a fire desperate to be fanned by lengthy fingers and a cotton-wrapped touch. 

Chuuya swallows and his eyes squeeze shut, washing ice over the scalding heat of his body. "Can I take our shirts off?" His throat strains from lust, the words airy and defiled, yanked into submission by a forceful bite of his bottom lip. 

Equally trapped in a daze, the brunette dreamily nods, continuing his exploration of Chuuya's thigh before recognizing his error, his eyes clearing to meet Chuuya's waiting expression. "Yes, green," he corrects as he pulls away from the older, grabs at the back of his collar, and pulls his shirt over his head. The fabric snags on his bandage before he shakes the article away, turning around to throw the item across the room and onto the black couch. Before he can turn back, a second shirt flies across the room, landing just short of the couch when it plops on the rug. 

"Chibi's arms are too short," Dazai snickers, his hand naturally returning to the place it's always belonged, fingers gripping the other's thigh at his side. 

Chuuya blushes from a source unknown, the executive's attention trickling to the hand on his thigh rubbing circles into his pants, swirling the excruciating heat he barely managed to extinguish. But cotton catches flames and Chuuya is weak to the fire, and his pupils dilate from the touch that can be felt through the layers of clothing that separate them.

That are now free from their chests and when Chuuya draws closer, he can see every scar that has found its way to Dazai's skin. Every shimmer of silver scars and tan wounds, the skin a mosaic of shades and stories, and suicides that kill the soul but not the body. Shirt disposed of, Chuuya can trace each wind of fabric around lanky arms, eyeing the silver clips that hold them in place as he nuzzles impossibly closer, the light of the room dimming when eclipsed by clouds of curls. By Dazai's body propped on its side, slightly hovering over the executive's chest as he lays with his back on the mattress, memorializing this image of trust in the back of his mind. The picture of Dazai holding his hip, of Dazai shirtless and secure, how Dazai's lip curls inward as if contemplating its next move before taking the plunge, meeting Chuuya's lips with a hum of surprise. 

Gloveless fingers twitch against the sheets, fighting the urge to reach out and touch. "Is it okay if I touch your hip?" Breathless questions float between them, Chuuya slightly panting onto Dazai's lips still hovering over his own as the younger pulls another kiss from pink-tinged lips. 

"Green," the word simmers over twin lips, twin tongues intertwining when the two kiss, cautiously holding onto one another as if this moment has the ability to break. As if Dazai's fingers will penetrate the canvas of alabaster skin and rouge blushes, and Chuuya's palm will crack the bone China beneath his touch 

Beneath his hand gently caressing the brunette's hip, careful, intentional in every wave and swirl of his palm. His touch never slips between them, never wanders to destinations desired despite the inferno itching under his skin. Despite the need to drag Dazai's hand forward and down, to remedy the tightness screaming to make itself known. Yet Chuuya only tilts his hip backward, placing distance between Dazai and his stiffening erection. 

Dazai separates from their kiss, pausing his exploration of Chuuya's thighs to stare into the space between. At the suffocating tent forming in the front of Chuuya's pants, the redhead audibly swallowing his lust though his hands betray him, accidentally journeying lower and onto Dazai's thigh. 

Neither notices, not when a different touch steals the stage, and Chuuya jerks. Insatiable fire melts his skin, burns him from within when svelte fingers cup around him, applying just enough pressure to border the edge of pleasure and pain. To roll his lips inward, muffling his moan behind tight-pressed lips when Dazai flattens his hand for a change of pace. To dispel the air of anxiety that trickles with the movement, that seeps from burning skin as Chuuya tracks any minuscule twitch of the lid or flutter of lashes, searching for any hint of unspoken discomfort. 

But all that meets him is rose cheeks and bourbon-flooded eyes, pupils wide with attraction. With want as his touch becomes intentional, increasing in intensity when he drags the heel of his hand over Chuuya's restrained erection, earning a spasm from the older’s hips. His stomach sinks in with the jolt, blue eyes briefly shutting to ride the wave of sharp pleasure. 

With a punched-out pant, Chuuya rises from the mattress, hands outstretching with the desire to pull Dazai into an unexpected kiss. But Dazai can only see the stretch of a palm from the side of his eyes, and as he turns to question the change of position, the two collide, foreheads knocking against each other with an audible clank.

"Fucking-!" The curse falls as instinct, slipping as Chuuya's mother tongue as he cradles his forehead in both hands, applying pressure to the impact point with a wince. 

Yet when he rises, even with one eye shut, he can see the radiance of Dazai's lopsided grin. How a laugh falls from scarred lips when his fingers cradle his curls and their eyes meet in the middle, both holding their wounded heads before the chuckles erupt. It’s the score of sleepovers at sixteen, of nights telling stories under blankets, and mornings brewing coffee in the kitchen. It's fifteen and flirting, seventeen and stealing glances, eighteen leaving what could have been behind if only to experience the joy that comes with finding it again. With cradling bruised heads on an air mattress with a crack that shatters the underlying tension in the room. That washes away the residual nerves with each chest-deep chuckle that giggles uncontrollably, giddy first-times romantic because they’re true. Because diamonds are only shimmering rocks at the end of the day, imperfect and flawed, but beautiful nonetheless. 

Stunning in the form of chocolate lashes and the tears of laughter that form at the edges. The wrinkles that carve into the fat of healthy cheeks with every smile that falls so freely, so comfortably. For it's just Dazai and Chuuya, the reincarnations of fifteen, a worshipper and its god, the devil and its dog, friends, lovers, partners in every meaning of the phrase that can be written by their hands. 

That can be held in timid palms when Dazai reaches forward, brushing his thumb over a freckled cheek as if dusting away the auburn specks. He repeats the gesture a second time, gingerly swiping his thumb over Chuuya's cheek before cupping it in his hand, staring at each dot, jealous of the brush that painted them. Of the heavens that touched this skin before him, that felt the warmth of this soul he'll never wrap his fingers around.

So all he can do is admire the work they've created, the body that was crafted by oni-gods, painstakingly painted and artfully designed, embodying their image in blank canvases. Placing a piece of themselves in the little details of a bastard child if only to remind him of this lineage. That he was birthed from starlight and the earth's demise, from a chaos god chained to the fearless heart of a little boy, and Dazai's thumb begins to slow, lost in the pieces of the other. The few sparse hairs that litter below the arch of his brow, how the blush that attacks his cheeks is splotchy, watercolour-layered, overlapping with the natural tan of his skin. A hue rich and warm as if summer endlessly dyes the flesh. How his eyes darken into raging seas when devoured by the pupil, his ears carrying the pink that remains from his cheeks, and a rough patch decorates the edge of his lip from where he picked away the skin. 

"...You're so beautiful..." Dazai murmurs beneath his breath, the phrase lost and wandering, only knowing it isn't meant to stumble over Chuuya's ears. 

Chuuya makes a hum of half-acknowledgment, unsure of what was said but knowing something was. His hand slips over Dazai's on his cheek, rubbing his own thumb over the back of Dazai's hand as he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering slightly with his next shuddering inhale. "...Can I touch you?" It's only a whisper, barely above Dazai's mumble, but it clearly rings in the tranquil air of the room, devoid of the nervous energy they began with. 

Blueberry eyes melt with the heat, his gaze sweet and dripping when it peers through the cover of his lashes, eyes half-lidded with lust while he awaits Dazai's answer. 

For the removal of a bandaged hand as the brunette contemplates the query. "Not the front," he settles, voice equally weak and strong, trusting in Chuuya but lacking the confidence in himself to speak it any louder. 

Sapphire switches between chocolate eyes and cherry lips, unsure where to land as he draws closer to the brunette. "Tell me if you're uncomfortable, okay?" Chuuya reassures with the light cover of his hand over Dazai's own. Cupping the brunette's ear, he rubs it between his index finger and thumb and plants a gentle kiss on his lips. The next kiss follows in a trail, small pecks that find their way to the crease of Dazai's lip and down his jaw, the redhead nuzzling under the bone to drink in the natural fragrance of Dazai. Of his partner, an unrequited crush that only existed in their minds, and he can barely swallow the moan rattling in his chest, vibrating the front of his throat as he chokes down his sounds. 

The quiet whines too animalistic to belong to himself, his hand falling to rub along Dazai's jaw and cheek. Sliding a red-tipped ear between his flattened fingers, he buries himself deeper into the younger's neck. Chuuya rests his cheek in the valley of Dazai's neck and shoulder, sucking on the thin skin until freesias bloom behind every touch. Fiercely spread over the ivy of his veins as Chuuya devours the skin, reveling in the little noises that rattle in Dazai's throat with the touch. With his touch, Chuuya's touch, and the thought is enough to leave the redhead burrowing in the detective's skin to hide his rapidly growing arousal. Because he's responsible for the quaint shiver that runs through lithe frames, his lips are the reason kissed necks tilt and relax, falling into his hands stroking brunette curls, twisting a ringlet around his finger. 

"Chuuya," Dazai moans, the name wet and loose, crawling from his throat of its own accord. 

The redhead pulls away, slotting his lips against Dazai's before setting their skin on one another, drunkenly giggling atop Dazai's lips with hazy eyes. "Yeah?" He kisses behind another lust-laden chuckle and twirl of a curl around his finger. 

And it's Dazai's turn to gift an intoxicated smile when he returns the kiss, exhaling the pride that outlines his grin. "I'm hard," he announces with an almost disbelieving huff of air at the tight pull of his pants. At his growing erection, half soft but hastily finding its way when Chuuya sucks a celebratory mark along his jawline. 

The detective reaches behind his back, experimentally tapping the ground until his fingers find plastic. "Green," he retrieves the lube from the edge of the mattress, handing it to Chuuya with lowered eyes and burning ears. 

"I'm green too," breathless repetition, the air stolen by the weight of a bottle being dropped into his cupped palm. Chuuya rolls the bottle of lube in his hand as a distraction from the burst of nerves in his stomach it brings. That it carries alongside the sound of fabric shimmying over fabric when Dazai wiggles his pants over his bandaged thighs, sporadically kicking the pooling material off his feet until the fabric falls to the floor. Now freed, he settles back to the mattress, his feet flat on the bed and knees in the air, thighs slightly parted as his dripping cock rests between. 

Chuuya can barely draw his gaze away from the sticky mess he's become, precum pooling at the tip of the reddened head, and the amber scent of sex emanating from his spreading legs. From his thighs that part perfectly to allow enough space for Chuuya to settle between them, the redhead kneeling on the mattress with lube in hand, starstruck by the sight he's been blessed with. 

That he's been trusted to cherish, to praise, to worship as he kneels before the altar and its offerings. 

The plastic cap flips open 

It's deafening

"Colour?" Chuuya quickly checks in, holding the lube out of sight despite the thunderous echoes bouncing off the walls. 

"Still green," the detective physically nods, watching Chuuya beneath the cover of fluffy lashes. A spark lights below his navel when Chuuya drizzles the lube over his fingers, rubbing the liquid together to warm it with visible concentration weighing on his brows. 

With visible concern when he catches his clean thumb between his teeth, nibbling on the nail as if sketching a plan on how to approach the first obstacle. The first battle they'll face together, a natural team when Dazai lifts his hips and Chuuya slips a pillow beneath his lower back. The two perpetually move in complementary motions, a yin and yang that curves and flows, seamlessly following the lead set by the other. 

"I'm only using one finger," the redhead narrates his movements, catching the detective's eye and gifting a reassuring smile when his hand slips between them. When his finger experimentally glides over Dazai's entrance, circling the skin with increasing pressure. 

Slender chests rise and sink, the breath calculated and reserved, working through the sensation of a hand between his legs. Of a finger catching on his rim, pulling downward to stretch the skin, the touch both wanted and discomforting. Not quite butterflies, but moths that poison with their bite, a fluttering sensation beating in his stomach, soured by the hesitation weighing on his chest. 

The ink drop of fear that ruins the pond, dying crystal waters in opaque obsidian he can't wade through. He can't differentiate from the suffocating rush of black water on his tongue, of sea foam thick and nauseating, the salt of the ocean clinging to his lips when a fingertip wiggles past his rim, finding its way inside him. 

That finger inches deeper, entering to the first knuckle and pressing down, knocking against his tightening walls. "Colour?" Chuuya checks, pausing his intrusion as he waits for the color that never comes. "Samu, I need your colour-"

A deep breath that can't exit, that can't find its way past shrinking lungs. "Talk," Dazai chirps, voice strangled and sharp as he blinks at the ceiling.

"What?"

"Talk," he repeats, an urgency rushing the request from trembling lips. From tight muscles and clenching jaws. "Just talk, say something, can you just-"

Chuuya stiffens, eyes wide when they roam across his partner's paling cheeks. "Um-" the redhead swallows, moving to withdraw his hand. Yet it's stilled by a shivering hand over his wrist, Dazai keeping him there, gently pressing into the veins of his wrist. Slim fingers draw over his own, tracing the curve of his hand. 

"I- I went to the store the other day," nervous starts, a story haphazardly scribbled on the back of his skull. "I was going to grab this wine I'd tried not that long ago. It was at a restaurant, it was good as hell, but I didn't remember the name, right?" He asks without needing a response, merely pulling the brunette back to his voice, to the present, and a touch that doesn't hurt. 

That is safe. "So I go back to the bar and ask the guy, and he says he doesn't remember. So I'm like, 'How the fuck do you not remember this? It was literally last night.' He has the audacity to say, 'Well, I see a lot of faces', no, you don't, that bar can't keep a customer to save its life," Chuuya grumbles, lost in the retelling of mundane adventures. Persimmon curls fall over his shoulder when his head tilts with the memory, lips pouting, already forgetting the ring of muscle relaxing around his touch. "So I just asked for the bottle because that makes the most sense, and the bottle looked cool so I knew that I would recognize it. Dazai, when I tell you, this man pulled this bottle from the shelf, and do you know what he told me?" Cherry brows cock, disbelief and amusement tracing the lines of his smile at the sight of a calmed brunette beneath him. "Listen, he said 'oh, this old thing? I just keep it for the bottle. It's actually 2000 yen wine from the supermarket.'"

Bandaged fingers press into the back of the other's hand, guiding Chuuya's touch deeper inside. "Chibi is such a snob," Dazai teases with a tilt of the head, his curls sprawling over the pillow to accent the blush painting his cheeks and shoulders. The weak breath he huffs when he guides a second finger to his rim.

Chuuya loosens his hand, allowing Dazai to guide him. "I am! I'm not buying supermarket wine no matter how good it is!" Posh palettes whine, voice rising in pitch to defend his extravagant taste.

A second finger pushes inside, earning a wordless moan from both parties. "Tell me the name and I'll buy it, call it a gift for all the dinners I put on your card over the years."

With this, Chuuya cocks a taunting brow, their banter flowing naturally despite the years that have passed. "Can you afford 2000 yen wine? Aren't you in serious debt?" 

"Chuuya!" Dazai kicks his heel, digging the back of his head into the mattress with a playful wail. "Debt isn't sexy!"

Ignoring the younger's bratty pout, Chuuya only chuckles, attraction slowly morphing into something more. "It made you laugh," it's a weak counter, earning a shot of bourbon glares from the detective who can't hear the delicate breath that follows. "So I beg to differ..." Chuuya mumbles, unaware that the phrase was spoken at all. That his inner thoughts, his deepest feelings, can be seen past the haze of his eyes. Past the concentration overtaking his expression when he catches sight of his hand cradled in Dazai's, working into the brunette's pliant body relaxing with each push and pull. With every scissoring motion and glide against his walls, the muscle tightly squeezing around his touch with a wispy gasp. 

"Is it right there...?" Chuuya leads, eyes blown, and face a mess. Stray hairs litter his forehead and his chest is lit ablaze by desire. He can barely speak, every word blanketed by a veil of lust too sheer to disguise the passion electrifying his veins.  

Slow nods, shut eyes, and soft moans follow. A gentle press of hands over hands, the twitch of a thigh, and skitter of electricity down the spine. Piercing the chest with every muted grumble and half moan, scratch of hair over cotton sheets, and scent of tepid arousal. 

Gloveless fingers drag upward, applying pressure on the laggard pull until wrapped legs involuntarily quiver. A bead of precum drops down the seam of his cock, slipping into the curve of Chuuya's hand pressed tight to his body. 

Dazai's grip loosens on the wrist in his hold, laying an unconscious trap Chuuya knows too well. He stops the moment the detective's grip loosens, halting mid-thrust to address the brunette. "You're completely in control," each word drops independently, slow and understanding, carved from a decade of patience. of... "I'll never do anything you aren't comfortable with," shy swallows determined to spit with confidence. With enough stability to hold them both.

All it takes is a nod for Dazai to continue without question, manually pushing Chuuya's fingers further before trusting his touch, removing his guidance to draw his hand up the redhead's thigh. Down his erection, the brunette cups the other's restrained cock, earning a bitten-back groan from the redhead. 

With the next scissor and pull of fingers, Dazai's back slightly arches, his touch tightening on the twitching heat under his hand. "I'm ready," lust-laden eyes draw down the length of Chuuya's body, the subtle flex of his stomach brought by those two words. 

Withdrawing his fingers, the older places his palm next to Dazai's waist, supporting his weight on his hands as he maneuvers onto the mattress. "Okay, hold on," he speaks more to himself than his waiting partner while he wiggles over the sheets, sliding his pants to his ankles, and loosely flicking them away with a few kicks.  

Now freed, his erection twitches with the kiss of cold air, with the image of Dazai carefully swinging a lanky leg over his hip to straddle him on the bed. 

Wrapped fingers clutch at Chuuya's skin, the pinch pleasurable in its pain. "I don't know how to..." Dazai trails, continuing to pick at Chuuya's chest in avoidance of his own embarrassment. An odd sense of shame settles beside the emotion, subtle but there, wrapping its fingers around his thighs, his hips, his-

"I'll put it in," Chuuya offers, pulling Dazai from the edge of the abyss without touch. With only the will-o-the-wisp murmurs that guide lost souls from the dark, toward a light bright and burning. "Just lower a little," he leads, both hands hovering over the other's hips, granting support only if it's wanted. 

Keeping one hand near Dazai's hip, the other grabs the base of his cock, aligning it to the brunette's entrance as he lowers, spearing himself at a speed so slow it's agonizing. Yet Chuuya only bites his lip and grips himself tighter. His hovering fist curls as he's swallowed by the other, sluggishly devoured until he's forced to feel every move of throat and lips and greedy bodies pulling for more. 

"Green," Dazai exhales, eyes blown and thighs trembling when he settles flush to Chuuya's hips. Kneeling on the shorter's body, his back bows as it adjusts to the sensation of being filled, his walls unconsciously twitching to squeeze around the redhead.

Around the executive hastily melting. "Green," Chuuya barely speaks the phrase, his mouth parting as a dry tongue darts over his bottom lip, allowing a shuddering breath to seep from his tight chest. From his quivering stomach and jerking cock being squeezed each time Dazai's torso leans wayward to adjust. 

Fuck

Chuuya can barely breathe, barely think, every minuscule movement of the man above him shooting molten lead beneath his skin. He wants to move, he needs to move-

"Chuuya?" Dazai weakly calls, the name barely audible over the white waters of the executive's rushing mind. The black abyss of Dazai's when his gaze slips to the fist clenching the bed sheets, the knuckles flushed white as the surrounding skin blooms pink from the force. And as freckled fingers grip tighter, draw lines through the fabric deep enough to stretch the threads, Dazai's body tightens. Pales as the blood is sucked from stiff limbs, from dolls that were never meant to be human. "Does- is it painful?"

Blue eyes blink, the room fading into focus when the fog clears, and it's fear that greets him. Twisted expressions and damp eyes red at the corners, unaware of the brewing tears that accompany downturned lips and the anxious dip of his brows. "Hey-"

"If it hurts-" Dazai interrupts before Chuuya overtakes him, the redhead releasing his grip from the sheets to instinctively reach toward Dazai's wounded aura. 

"Samu! Hey, I'm fine, okay? I'm not hurt," scarlet waves shake as he holds both palms upright, displaying himself to the trembling detective with a showcasing wave. "I'm alright." 

Chocolate stares stick to the sheets, the fabric wrinkled around the ghost of Chuuya's frantic grip. It's lifted from the bed in his haste, the cotton sticking upright though no hand holds it.  "You grabbed the sheets," explanations served with slanted brows and quizzing eyes, with a deep-set confusion genuine and childish, unable to comprehend the gesture outside of what he's always been instructed. Outside the absolute commands of a father.

"I grabbed them so I wouldn't grab you," Chuuya exhales the tension in his chest, moving his upright hands to the side to fully display his body. "I feel good, I'm not hurt," he reiterates slower, head tilting to catch Dazai's expression when the younger's chin drops. "Should we take a break?"

"No," fluffy curls fly with a quick shake of the head, Dazai's body loosening with the explanation, melting enough to experimentally roll his hips forward to the sound of twin moans. 

To the applause of stunted breaths when he lifts, feeling every inch dragging across his walls before he buries himself to the furthest point, head lulling to his shoulder with shut eyes and scarlet cheeks. Scarlet desire that overtakes fear, which smells of cigarettes and Chuuya's sex, salt and cologne, and his own panting breaths as he gathers a steady pace. His stomach tightens on every drop, feeling the tip of Chuuya's cock press deep within him before he drags it away to start the process anew. 

Chuuya can barely breathe 

Is lost to the sight of Dazai unraveling atop him, the sensation of his heat numb in comparison to the painting before him. Art that equates to sculptures of old, marble carved by hands that can never be recreated. That can only be cherished despite the wear of the stone, despite the cracks and erosion that come with the cruelty of time. The imperfections that make it divine.

"Chuuya," Dazai whines, nearly whimpers as his cock bounces, precum dripping onto the other's stomach when he rides  "Chu," the name falls possessed, wanton and wild, bouncing alongside his twitching hips. "God," the curse slips alongside that name, falls from quivering lips and rolling stomachs. From fallen back heads and halos shattered, plastered to his sweating brows. "God, fuck, " he cries as his body tightens around the cock inside of him. "God-"

Blown pupils look up, shimmering under the haze of low lids and glittering lashes. Pink cheeks and smirking lips when Chuuya tilts his head with a tease. "Yes?" He answers the call of forgotten names, of forgotten prayers when Dazai cries for god, for the one he promised was his only. 

Dazai stills, eyes wide, his fingers clutching Chuuya's chest the only evidence he's even alive.

"Samu-"

"Would I know if I came?" Dazai quizzes, thighs quaking and hips beginning to stutter with need. By now his face and shoulders are stained red, the hue trickling to his chest and leaking dick as he stares at Chuuya's cocky little expression. 

The redhead places an experimental hand on Dazai's thigh, rubbing the tension from the muscle with a grin. "Did that make you cum, baby?" He shoves the pet name beneath a chuckle, unsure of how it'll be received. But the tight grip on his cock says otherwise, Dazai's stomach tensing with the pleasure it brings. 

Relaxing, Dazai continues to ride, his hands clasping Chuuya's on his thighs, pushing them deeper until the executive clutches the skin, cotton and fat spilling from his tight grip. Chuuya's body rocks on the sheets with every rhythmic rise and fall, lips curling for a sense of control over the lightning bolts radiating from the point they're connected. Even beneath Dazai's weight, his body spasms, a shivering hand drawing to his mouth to bite into the side of his thumb, distracting himself from the haze hastily overtaking his mind. 

The younger's pace begins to slow. "Can we try you on top?" He huffs, exhaustion already eating away at his speed, his body grinding to a halt to catch his breath. 

Watching from below, Chuuya can only cough out a laugh at his partner's terrible form. some things never change... "Tired?" He rubs the question into sore thighs, the muscle jumping before relaxing enough for Dazai to pull out, flopping onto the mattress with an overdramatic huff. 

Now sprawled on the mattress, a bandaged arm swings over his forehead with a theatrical groan. "This is a lot of work!" he gifts a faux-whine, the performance shattering with the laugh he can't stifle. "My leg is cramping!"

"It's not a lot of work, your stamina is just shit," Chuuya aligns himself, holding his cock in his hand as he sinks into Dazai with a bitten-back moan. His hips slowly rock, allowing the detective to adjust to the change in angle. To the fast snap of his hips as he buries into the brunette, reveling in the squeeze it earns him. 

Wild moans hiccup one after the other, the first barely dropping from Dazai's parted lips before the next slams its way out, rushing to find its way to the sheets. To the dip in the mattress between his shoulder and ear, his groans collecting in the crater to lap at his cheek, crawling into his ear until it's all he can hear. Until it's all he can speak, not even the tight press of his teeth able to cage the moans punched from his quivering stomach. From the depths of his being, the stroke of Chuuya's body inside of him, forcing the sounds from his tongue. Scraping them despite his wishes, against his iron will that isn't enough to quiet this voice that isn't his. 

"Orange," the colour scrambles, Dazai sinking dull nails into the other's thigh to slow him. "I keep moaning," he offers the explanation without waiting for a response. "I'm not in control of it, it's just happening," Dazai continues, his nails digging deeper into Chuuya's leg for purchase. 

The older pulls out without question. "Flags," he safe-words as he gingerly blankets Dazai's hand on his thigh, wigging his fingers between the skin and palm to hold Dazai's hand in his. "Let's take a break," Chuuya taps the brunette's hip with their intertwined hands before unwinding their touch. 

Before rising from the mattress, forgoing any clothing to walk into the adjacent kitchen. The rustle of plastic bags shimmers in the air alongside the dull thump of the fridge and clatter of condiment bottles. By the time he returns with two glasses of water and a bag of chips, the brunette is sitting upright, a crease between his brows and gaze distant, blatantly displaying his discomfort. 

Chuuya stops in front of the mattress, crouching down to meet Dazai sitting on the bed. "What's wrong?" He genuinely asks, voice raw and true, the world falling away until it's only him and the man before him. 

Chocolate eyes simmer, a sweetness to the gaze that softens dual fear, that allows Dazai to speak his mind without hesitation. "I don't like you leaving, because I don't know who might come back," he admits, clutching and releasing the blanket draped over his naked lap. 

A second passes in silence, a moment to digest what is spoken, for Chuuya to swallow the implications, and grind his own anxiety into his knee with a slide of his hand. "Come with me," he nods toward the kitchen behind them before reaching out a waiting hand, palm upright in surrender. 

And when Dazai places his palm in his, it isn't the slam of bear traps, of iron teeth and rusting blood that greets him, but the gentle shut of petals. A closing bloom that encases him in cashmere warmth, in skin smooth from the perpetual protection of leather. Allowing Chuuya to pull them from the mattress, Dazai follows the executive to the kitchen, quietly chuckling at the naked body collecting the plastic bags from the island.

Grey grocery bags litter both of Chuuya’s arms, snacks and sodas weighing down the plastic, threatening to tear before gravity intervenes, lightening the load enough to casually haul it to the living room. 

Soda cans snap, filling the space with citrus bubbles, and the crinkle of fairy laughter. Of fizzing carbonation popping between them as they pass the can back and forth, sticky sugar clinging to kiss-swollen lips begging to be licked away. To be captured in a gentle kiss when Dazai catches Chuuya's cheek in his hand, briefly slotting their lips together before pulling away. 

"You taste like sugar," Dazai comments, falling back to the mattress with a stretch of lanky limbs. His raised knee knocks into Chuuya's shoulder with a mischievous chuckle, content with simply watching the executive exist. Open chips and sip soda and cup a palm over scarred knees, absentmindedly rocking the limb. 

"How ya' holdin' up?" Chuuya glances over his shoulder, taking in the shallow rise and fall of wrapped chests as Dazai returns to stasis. 

A bandaged hand reaches out, fingers rapidly opening and closing, the slap of them against his palm annoyingly loud until Chuuya hands him the soda can. "I feel better, not as tired," he answers between sips, handing the can back to Chuuya's waiting fist. Moments pass by, peppered by the swallow of citrus and steadying breaths. "Chuuya?" Dazai speaks up. His voice is relaxed, tranquil as it rides the rhythmic wave of his knee beneath Chuuya's hold. "Can I have the password to your shopping account? I lost mine." 

"You didn't lose it," carbonation chuckles, citrus lightening the tongue. "I changed it," soda bubbles rise and pop with the airy lift of shoulders, Chuuya once again glancing behind him to watch Dazai serene and safe on the bed. Devoid of the terror that always followed, that crept beneath black sheets, black coats, and red lights that stain. "Remind me later and I'll get you the new one," he clears his throat, detaching his gaze from Dazai before it can grow roots. 

The detective doesn't mind the tickle of that stare, his own locked on the redhead as his hand wanders the expanse of his back. Slips between the valley of shoulders and defined muscle, slim but powerful, echoing every breath and swallow. Every thump of his heart that can be felt through the palm, radiating from his being to pour into Dazai. Into blushing cheeks and weeping erections and cotton touches slip lower, wrapping around Chuuya's bare hip to subliminally bring him closer. 

Bring him to the sheets beside him, Chuuya setting the soda out of reach before laying beside Dazai on the bed. The brunette greets him with a kiss as he crawls on top, inserting Chuuya without assistance. 

Their groans echo between them, an endless feedback loop that flows from one mouth to the next, copied through a kiss. "Samu," Chuuya huffs, catching his breath though they remain close, noses touching and eyes shut in bliss. "See if you can bend forward and I'll do the work. Lift up so I can pull out a little," he taps the back of Dazai's thigh, the other following directions without question. 

Chuuya slides out, only the tip remaining inside as he holds himself steady with one hand and uses the other to gingerly clutch the executive's upper arm, guiding him forward and down until they're chest to chest. "Scoot down a bit," little taps lead, maneuvering until Dazai's lanky frame overlaps Chuuya's, the executive's head cradled between the taller's neck and shoulder. "A little further and then lower your hips for me," he kisses the instruction into the other's neck, cautious not to leave a lasting mark. 

Dazai follows along, lowering his hips until he's once more flush with Chuuya's, his muscle restricting with the newfound touch until it’s liable to snap. 

"Is this alri-"

"Green," watercolour bleeds, the hue washing over scarlet waves littering his cheek and nose, the scent of floral shampoo intoxicating from this close. "Fuck," the curse drags alongside his face as he burrows into the sheets, mouth agape, struggling to withstand the change in angle that presses the executive impossibly deeper. "Neon green, Chuuya, move," he nearly cries, eyes shutting and fingers tangling in the strands beside him, clutching at scarlet hair before shakily drawing away. Instead, he grabs Chuuya's arms, wrapping them around himself in invitation, his forehead limply falling to the sheets when Chuuya holds him close and finally thrusts. 

Fucks into him as if it's all he's ever known, all he'll ever know. As if this is the beginning and the end, and the cyclical loop of the ouroboros. As if this scent of cotton and cologne, of sex-dyed sweat and freshly washed curls, is the only air he'll breathe. Dazai's name is the only word that will ever slip past quaking lips, that will ever grace a tongue living to speak just three syllables on repeat. His arms wrap around the quivering detective on top of him, holding him tightly for all the times he couldn't. For all the moments he wished for nothing more than to plant a kiss on cotton-wrapped necks, to feel the beat of a heart he's always known was there. 

"Yellow," Dazai lifts his cheek from the sheet, distancing himself from the executive trapped in a trance. "You're breathing in my ear."

Chuuya only nods, barely half-aware as he repositions the brunette, continuing to fuck into him with reckless abandon. 

"Chuuya," Dazai moans, clawing at red hair and pulling, only driving the older when he chokes out his own moan at the sting. "Chu, fuck," his lips wobble, words shaking with every hit of hips that bounces the sparse fat of his thighs. That shoots pleasure up his spine until he's shaking and desperate, gripping Chuuya's shoulder with a deep-set groan, eyes nearly rolling as he continues to be bounced on the executive's throbbing cock. "Fuck me," the plead warbles, lodges in hoarse throats until it's pushed out by a chest-deep moan, Dazai's hips swaying in an attempt to meet Chuuya halfway. To pull him in deeper, faster, until the sound of Chuuya's name falls in place of his endless whines.

Chuuya's arms wrap tighter around the brunette, each cry of his name beckoning the haze at the edge of his mind, the edge of his vision. "Dazai," he moans back, the name shaky and disrupted by the snap of his hips. From the weight of Dazai on top of him, the scent of Dazai, the sensation, the heat enveloping him hot enough to melt the bars of his ribcage. 

To allow second souls to seep out, 

crawling toward their offering...

"Dazai, Sa-" Chuuya chokes. His body moves without command, running on wild instinct and nothing more when those claws dig into the center of his chest, the weight of Arahabaki suffocating. "Fuck," his arms wrap around Dazai tighter, pressing against him until demons can tear into his chest, can burrow into the only one they've ever loved. Chuuya's hips quicken, the pace nearly deranged when the first laugh cuts through his teeth. Bubbles behind a lustful groan that has his head falling back, skull digging into the mattress with his next moan and archaic laugh. "Fuck!" 

Curious cheeks turn, clouded by desire when Dazai's head dips to moan into the older's ear. "God," he throws gunpowder to the flame if only to see what colour the smoke will be. 

What expression Chuuya, Arahabaki, will make when summoned. "Dazai," blue eyes widen, pupils constricting with a bitten-back laugh. With wobbly lips and huffing moans when that familiar light encases the top of his crown, trickling as molten rain down the back of his skull. Scorching hot when it sludges past hazy eyes unseeing, sinking into the white it creates until nothing but the black remains. 

Nothing but the abyss of creation, the stars they were birthed from, and it's Chuuya's turn to be cast into the cage of his ribs, only distantly aware of the bloody laughter shocking his being. 

Of the influx of carnal pleasure flickering through his veins and the faint sensation of his body being hugged by Dazai's form. His moans scream in languages lost to time, the repetitive taste of a worshipper's name drenched in giggling blood flowing from his lips. 

His worshipper
His partner

His. 

Dazai shimmies in Chuuya's punishing grip, sliding just far enough to tap three fingers on the side of a quivering jaw, lifting his face to greet him. "Hi, Baki," he softly smiles at blank eyes, an abysmal blue with a pinprick pupil floating as the only tether to a sunken soul. 

Chuuya, Arahabaki, only laughs, the sound wicked and cracked as it claws its way past a bleeding throat. Past the gurgle of his name being chanted a cursed mantra, an audible representation of obsession.

Yet Dazai only cradles that giggling cheek, swiping a thumb over the paling skin, and planting a kiss on his lips, tasting the metal beginning to accumulate on his teeth. "It's time for Chuuya to come back," he explains, voice low as he continues to stroke the cheek of god, of the only salvation he's ever believed in. 

Sapphire trickles from his hand, spreading beneath his thumb to stretch over the redhead in winding vines. No Longer Human slips into azure eyes, returning the sea to its glory when Chuuya's pupils dilate, and his laughs lessen until nothing but the quiet remains. 

But the quick jerk of Dazai's body when Chuuya shoves him forward, pulling out in time to violently cum on his own leg. 

Dazai's head twists. "Chu-" he starts before quieting, watching the rapid flutter of blue eyes on a corpse-still body. 

Only a few seconds pass in silence before a debilitated groan floods the room, the redhead loudly complaining as he shuts his eyes, digging the heel of his hand into the bone in utter exhaustion. "No one's ever fucked me so good I had a seizure," he mutters still in a daze, barely aware of his own body while he attempts to swim to the surface of his consciousness, shaking away Arahabaki's grip on his ankle. 

"Mimic," Dazai safe words in his place, stroking Chuuya's cheek and hair while he struggles to come to. 

The two simply lay on the bed, Dazai watching Chuuya and Chuuya watching the ceiling, occasionally digging his hands into his eyes, still disoriented from the fall into himself. They lay in silence peppered by another pop of a soda tab and crunch of a chip bag, Dazai breaking a chip in half to press the piece to Chuuya's lip. 

Blood-dried lips part. "Is this your apology for trying to kill me just now?" His brow cocks but the question lacks malice, more a tease than an accusation as he bites down on the chip, washing the metallic taste from his mouth. 

"Me?!" Theatric hands fling, Dazai clutching the bandages over his heart with an overacted gasp. "Try to kill you? Why! I would never!" He sing-songs, cadence flying to the ceiling and back, and eyes widening in faux shock. 

"Yeah, yeah," soda sips, spilling over the side of Chuuya's mouth when he smiles at the endearing play in his midst. "So you say."

Dazai's hand slips from his chest, sincerity weighing on his expression when he rubs the other's thigh, gifting warmth back to the frozen limb. "What's Chuuya's colour?"

"Green, a tired green," he corrects with the tilt of the head, sweaty hair sticking to his temple. "But that was the best orgasm I've ever had, so I can't complain that much," he half-shrugs against the sheets, taking the soda from Dazai's hands as they cool from the prior events. 

As they wait for Dazai's light touches to grow pressure, to begin to wander wayward, and Chuuya's cock to fill again. It doesn't take long for the redhead to become ready, the sight and touch of a naked Dazai at his side more than enough to have him bouncing back. Already lying down, Dazai only has to straddle the executive, penetrating himself with drooping brows and tight lips, fighting the moan that leaves his legs shaking. 

That quickly has him whining out calculated moans, the sound blatantly fake, only existing to communicate his enjoyment to Chuuya. With each rock of his hips, his sounds grow, each moan accompanying a trembling lip or straight spine, the wayward curve of his body in both want and avoidance of the sensations wracking his frame. When his lip lowers for the third time, a hand finds its way to his hip, Chuuya rubbing the skin and carefully examining the subtle shifts in Dazai's expression. 

"What's your co-"

"Black." 

The colour drops.

Hits Chuuya's chest with enough force to shatter his sternum, the executive stilling with the punch. "I just got really nervous," he admits without shame, voice strained and hand instinctively leaving Dazai's skin to grant the detective space. 

Dazai only nods in agreement, a half motion drowned in lust, lagging behind his body when his eyelids flutter, his movements picking up speed with another discomforting whimper. 

Another moan that has Chuuya perking, severing from his anxieties to care for his crumbling partner. "Hey, slow down," his hand returns to wrapped hips, clutching the bone and pushing when Dazai pulls, forcibly slowing his sporadic movement. "Slow down, Samu, it's alright. Take your time," he exhales the breath he didn't know he was holding when Dazai actually listens. "Is this position okay?" 

Spines snap, uncomfortably straightening to crawl away from the growing heat in his stomach. "I want on my back," curls shake in opposition, chocolate eyes seizing with the tears prickling the side of his eyes. His apprehension is palpable, evident by the way his arm jerks from the redhead attempting to help him to the bed. Gaze sharp and alert, limbs held tight to his being, he's a picture of stress by the time he lays on the mattress, curling away from the cotton sheets that surround him. 

"Okay," nervous swallows, a hand ruffling through persimmon hair if only to hide the way it shakes. "Do you need anything?" Chuuya offers when Dazai curls into himself, facing the redhead lying on his side. 

A response never comes, only the lift of a wrist when Dazai grabs Chuuya's hand, guiding two fingers to his entrance. It only takes a moment for him to understand and sink a finger into the brunette, pumping his fingers in and out while Dazai curls further into himself. Shrinks until his knees nearly touch his chest, only the blushing back of his neck visible to the executive. A bead of sweat rolls down the top knob of his spine, earning a paranoid shiver that has him curling tighter, shielding himself from Chuuya when he finally yanks the hand away in fear. 

Rather, he reaches between them, taking himself in a rare hand and stroking his length, shivering at the doubled sensation. The weight and heat in his palm, the tight drag and pull of his cock as he quickly jerks himself next to Chuuya, biting down his growing moans. 

But moans are too close to tears and sounds can't be differentiated without sight, and Chuuya's heart can't withstand another blow of such a magnitude. Can't sit and wait when all he wants is to reach out, to touch, to comfort, to see the unspoken emotion written in bourbon eyes. "Samu..." and it's his turn to curl his spine, to lower his chin until he's kissing the top of sweat-damp curls. "Can I see you...?" He whispers, nerves stealing the sound from his throat, the courage from his chest at the thought of what will greet him. What doll, what devil, what child is burying their face in these sheets. 

What tears he'll be faced with when Dazai draws his cheek up the bed, looking up at the executive for the first time. His eyes are dyed red by his cries, bourbon overspilling with the weak crackle of his pleas. Of the only wants that children have. "Will you hold me?" His lips mouth the words and yet no sound falls. No syllables survive the quake of a tear-clogged throat when he crumbles into Chuuya's waiting hold with a bumbling sob.

Chuuya's heart fractures, shatters as glass drops, immune to the hits and punches of the past. But it's the softest touches that leave him broken, that reach into his vulnerable core, and he's blinking back watery eyes. "Come here," his arms open, chest hiccuping when Dazai rushes into his hold. "Come here, I've got you," promises kissed in unruly curls, rubbed into the scalp by the drag of a cheek over his crown as Chuuya cradles him. Faintly, Chuuya can feel the beat of Dazai's fist against his leg, can hear the squelch of lube over the brunette's gasping pants and clenched teeth. Over his muted cries when the next drag of his hand leaves him groaning, the pleasure slipping with the influence of a lifetime of pain. 

And all Chuuya can do is hold that dying body, is feel his shuddering breaths through his back, and the hiccup of his chest against his own while Dazai attempts to chase his end to no avail. 

It isn't until Dazai digs into the sheets with a frustrated groan that Chuuya pauses, recalling that night in the kitchen. Recalling Dazai's request. 

"I might need... permission, to be able to..."

All it takes is a subtle reminder for the executive to gain his composure, taking hold of the situation, of his partner safe in his arms, with newfound confidence. "I've got you, Samu, you're safe," his arms wrap tighter, speaking the promises into Dazai's hair, Dazai's cheek, Dazai's heart. "You're safe, Dazai, I'm here, I've got you," he repeats when Dazai's cries grow louder, the slap of his fist deafening in the nonexistent space between them. "Look at me,"  the command whispers, saturated in love and a thin sheen of lust, Chuuya nuzzling closer in the small space to drink the taste of his partner's tears. To devour the pain if only so he doesn't endure it alone. "Look at me, baby." 

Tear-stained faces lift, greet ocean eyes, sea salt taffy, and blueberry glazes. Saccharinity and security, something to hold on to. 

"Come for me." 

A single command is all it takes, three words, three syllables, and a decade of trust. Of stitched wounds, set bones, and lies to protect another from the secrets behind a closed door. 

A decade of waiting, watching, yearning, wishing for this moment. For the day Dazai can be bracketed safely in freckled arms, for the moment when the moan that passes his lips is wanted, spoken of his own accord, freely granted to the one beside him. Freely falling in strips of white as his body tenses and shivers, and he comes with a low groan in the protection of Chuuya's hold. 

In the hands that will never allow him to harm himself. "Wait, nothing is staining," Chuuya's forearm rises to block Dazai when he sits upright, attempting to view the state of the sheets. "There's nothing there that's why we used a throwaway bed, nothing is stained," he reassures when the brunette tries to duck around the limb before finally surrendering.

Before finally breaking.

"Dazai?!" Chuuya shoots upright, body twisting to protectively cover the brunette sobbing in the sheets. He doesn't know what to do, what to say as Dazai continues to cry, his tears painting the bedding light grey when he continues to sob so hard his shoulders shake. 

A tear-stained cheek rises from the bed, revealing a weak smile. "It's happy tears," it’s spoken with a faint grin on faltering lips, and yet his eyes scream that it's true. For there’s a glimmer in the iris that catches the overhead light, sparkling with life beneath its glow. "We finally did it," bandaged chests shudder, chopping with his next cry that rattles through the entirety of his being. That pushes out rare admittance, words that were always there, buried under scar tissue and drowned by black blood, but there. For he was always capable, always deserving of it. 

“I'm happy," Dazai smiles at the executive, his cries still freely flowing, but more a stream than a tsunami wave of stifled emotions, allowing the laughter to shine through. The giddiness of childhood crushes and first times, the epitome of fifteen, and all they've conjured in the years. All the sideways glances in a crowded room, the messages tapped into cold skin, the teases to blanket the care they didn't know how to reveal. How to express without exposing their hearts, gifting it to a love they knew would destroy it. 

But they're older now.
They can be trusted now. 

Those words can finally be spoken aloud.

"I love you, Chuuya," Dazai murmurs, nuzzling closer to the redhead with a watery grin softer than they've ever known.

Soft enough to wipe away ten years of protective walls, weathered in a single night by Dazai's cries, and the dam breaks with a hiccuping wheeze. 

With violent cries that peel the paint off the walls, that shifts the gravity in the room to revolve around the only one in Chuuya's eyes. In his bleeding heart with his sleeve torn, the executive sobbing until his vision blurs. "I love you. I love you so much," he chokes on the confession, on the manifestation of his every dream, curated since pool halls and arcade games, and drinks snuck from padlocked stashes. Little moments of life and love, memories held close, afraid they'd never come again. 

But only because they're replaced by the new, by the phantom scent of smoke in a kitchen, birthday meals, and songs sung loudly over the radio. Evenings dancing in the streets, fireworks painting the backdrop of a drunken star fizzling at twilight. 

“I'm in love with Chuuya," Dazai reaches out, wiping the flood from Chuuya's blazing cheeks. The skin is scorching beneath his touch, tears rolling into the dips of his fingers as Chuuya continues to sob. So Dazai only bows his back, bending until his forehead meets the other's. Until their cries flow as one, relief and shock puddling on the sheets. "I've always been in love with you."

Chuuya’s trembling hand encases the wet bandages on his cheek saturated by his cries. He clutches the hand until the bones threaten to fracture, but it's the light that guides him home. That leads him to where he was always meant to be, holding Dazai's hand in his, forehead to forehead, cheek to cheek, spilling their love without inhibition. "I love you so much," Chuuya cries, squeezing Dazai's hand on his cheek as he struggles to see past the bokeh of his watery eyes. 

"I made Chuuya wait a while," Dazai chuckles, a hint of apology stringing behind the phase faint enough to be missed. 

Yet Chuuya grabs onto it, shaking his head with a gentle smile. "I would wait my whole life for you," he admits, body buckling with his next cry as he squeezes Dazai's hand on his cheek, scarlet on sapphire, bringing their lips together in a slow kiss. A delicate push and pull, the taste of soda fizz and cigarettes, and the scent of shared shampoo. Shared smiles, shared laughs, shared tears, casting in a gentle luminescence that shimmers beneath their intertwined hands. Their intermingled tears sparkle in the hue illuminating Chuuya's cheek, attracting wide eyes when they part to watch the ripple of light. The aurora borealis built by their hands, pulling out childish joy and disbelieving giggles as the sobs slowly settle. As the cries begin to dry, and all that is left is each other, is their limitless love, 

and the radiance of that violet light.