Chuuya awoke slowly, the blazing light finally forcing his wrecked body to contend with the world. He squinted and moaned, hand refusing to move and shield his eyes. Even his lungs and bones burned, every iota of him strained from the way he'd manipulated gravity around—within—his own body. He muttered a protest through cracked lips, tasting fresh blood. Corruption had surely destroyed his body like this in the past, but everything about it now felt fresh and dangerously new. He turned his head to the side to try and avoid some of the sun, tender muscles throbbing.
I suppose that's what happens when you can't fully use your own Ability for four years.
He blinked a few more times, sight gradually clearing. He stared at his hat, settled neatly on top of his folded trench coat. Recovering Q. Dazai. Corruption. Extraction point. Sunlit clearing.
The banked rage flared into full strength.
"Did you think I'd just let it go this time?" Chuuya asked, voice cutting easily through the murmur of the crowd, stopping Dazai in his tracks. "Did you?" He felt like he couldn't quite catch his breath. He hadn't been able to since waking up with blood still caked on his face and barely enough energy to call the extraction team, hadn't been able to since four years—longer, really—of repressed fury roared to life in a single stark morning. He hadn't even thought about what he'd do, besides track Dazai down and—and—"What was it you said? 'You got it, partner'?" His lips parted on a snarl, loathing the way Dazai peered at him with far too much innocence to be believable. Chuuya's hands were shaking.
"Ah, Chuuya!" The waste of bandages didn't even bother looking surprised. "I'm so glad you spoke, I'd have just walked by you, you're so tiny!" He stepped out of the flow of people to stand close enough to Chuuya that he had to crane his neck a little to meet Dazai's gaze. "You managed to get back to Yokohama just fine," Dazai pointed out with the smile he thought was charming and that Chuuya had always considered vaguely creepy. "Besides, it was for the best, don't you think? Boss spent all this time laying the foundation for our alliance." He tilted his head, smile widening. "I'd hate for your extraction team to get thoughts of revenge in their head, especially when the Guild is about to be the least of our problems." He clapped his hands together, struck by a thought. "Not to mention, how could I? I couldn't carry you and Q at the same time, and anyways I was injured!" He beamed, as though that should settle the matter.
Chuuya stared at Dazai incredulously. "You were injured?!" He grabbed hold of Dazai and threw him against the wall of the alley, pinning him there with one hand so he could grab hold of his knife and hold it to Dazai's throat, breathing heavily. "Traitor," he whispered, feeling hot all over. "You left."
Dazai's eyes were reserved, his expression stilling into something approaching kindness. Chuuya wanted to rip the expression off Dazai's face. Knife or teeth, he wasn't picky. "It was for the best," Dazai murmured. "Why tempt fate?"
"You're always tempting fate," Chuuya snapped. "Anything that will let you escape into death, isn't that right? Fucking coward." He moved the knife, just a little, just enough that a few thick drops of blood rolled down Dazai's throat and stained the bandages crimson.
Dazai's eyes widened, not in anger, but in something between surprise and desire. "Are you going to kill me, then?" he asked, and one of his arms slid around Chuuya's waist and tugged him close. Their bodies pressed together, and Chuuya could feel the vast heat Dazai gave off in exquisite detail. "That'd be a fairly stupid decision, even for you, my Hatrack. Like it or not, you need me. The Port Mafia needs me."
Chuuya tensed in aggravation, yanking himself free. He could have gotten free regardless of whether Dazai had permitted it or not, but Chuuya couldn't help but be aware that Dazai had allowed Chuuya to escape his hold. "Is this all a game to you?" Chuuya asked helplessly. Four years, and he was still here, trapped in the endless maze of mirrors Dazai always seemed to effortlessly construct around Chuuya with nothing more than a glance, a touch, and a word. Perhaps he had seen even this coming: Chuuya, clenching a knife in his fist, two steps away from Dazai and wholly aware that the other man may as well be on the moon, hands in his pockets and twisted smile on his face, untouchable.
Chuuya wanted to wreck Dazai more than he wanted anything in his life: the traitor, the partner, the one whom Chuuya trusted even as he drowned.
"If I'm going to live, aren't I supposed to be having some sort of fun?" Dazai inquired, tilting his head a little, smile brittle, and the anger burned everything else away as Chuuya lunged for Dazai, who danced away from the edge of Chuuya's blade and his blows time and again and laughed. "You know, if you hadn't been my partner, you might actually be able to kill me," he said as he dodged. "You're a much better fighter than I am—only problem is that I know you inside and out. There's no gaining the upper hand if I always anticipate you."
Chuuya knew it, too. Fighting with Dazai had stopped being a battle long ago, and never managed to be more than a dialogue. Once, Chuuya had used this exchange like it was a meditation: no thought was needed when the body could take over. Once, Chuuya had known Dazai's countermoves as well as his own. Once, Chuuya had been able to smile and offer thanks.
Once, Chuuya had been Dazai's partner.
Chuuya threw himself forward in a move equal parts graceless and passionate, ramming headlong into Dazai's body and slamming him against another wall with a snarl. Dazai's eyes widened for a second, and Chuuya clung to the shock with satisfaction before he found himself twisting through the air and wheezing as his back hit the ground, knife clattering from his hand as Dazai pinned him. The ground smelt of garbage and the great teeming masses of humanity that filled the city, but Chuuya forgot all about the stench when Dazai bent close enough to block out the sun. "You're going to have to do better than that, my petit mafia," he sing-songed into Chuuya's ear.
Chuuya let out a snarl of rage, thrashing against Dazai—but he knew that without leverage, Dazai's twenty centimeters would be too much to overcome unaided even as Port Mafia's best martial artist, never mind the weight difference. An ever-increasing feeling of despair built as Dazai handled Chuuya's every attempt to free himself. Dazai truly did know him all too well, and Chuuya had been stupid enough to let himself be contained. "Now what? Are you going to kill me?" His breath came in harsh little gasps, but Dazai looked dangerously composed, as always. "End this once and for all?"
Dazai shook his head. "Now that we've started this alliance, I'm hardly going to threaten it," he chided, like Chuuya was an irrational child. "Not since Atsushi was so insistent it happen in the first place and worked so hard to convince the President. And not while we've got rats," he added as an afterthought. Chuuya couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Besides," he continued in a low voice. "I quite like the sight of you beneath me like this. I much prefer women, but you're just as pretty as one!" He leaned forward, bracing himself over Chuuya. "You have the worst sense of style, but..." His finger slid along one of the red locks that framed Chuuya's face even as the rest of his body moved to keep Chuuya restrained.
Chuuya froze. All he could remember were the dozens of intimate touches they'd exchanged over the years. Dazai's mouth brushing the corner of Chuuya's own before Chuuya shoved him away. The weight of Dazai's arm around his shoulders, around his waist. The security that came with Dazai carrying him out of a battle, the only remnants of Corruption the blood that still bubbled on Chuuya's lips. Dazai's gaze, heavy and hooded, holding Chuuya's own for just a little too long.
As it did now, imparting nothing but observing everything.
People always assumed that Chuuya was the offense of Soukoku, the true power. Fools, all of them. Chuuya had never been anything more than the last-ditch resort, the weapon Dazai alone could unleash and holster: Dazai's intelligence controlled the battleground, his Ability merely a factor of his strength, not the source of it. Chuuya was simply the bastard unlucky enough to fulfill the requirements Dazai needed in a partner, and even more unlucky to have an Ability only Dazai could control.
Chuuya closed his eyes and mustered his own strength. "Now what?" he demanded, lifting his chin. He glared for good measure.
Dazai stared down at him, expression unreadable. "Despite all the rumors that we were fucking, we never did." His fingertip rested against Chuuya's cheekbone, callused and so warm.
Chuuya frowned, briefly derailed. "I'm pretty sure I'd remember doing something that stupid." He sighed in exasperation, staring up at the sky. "Not to mention if I'm going to sleep with someone, I'm not going to be a replacement for someone else. The only person I want my lover to be thinking of is me." Dazai hid it well, in his own way, but if Chuuya had learned nothing else from Kouyou, he'd learned the signs of a man who thought he was in love.
Dazai's body went still and Chuuya yelped, more in surprise than pain, as Dazai's grip on him tightened. "What the hell—" He struggled against Dazai, whose eyes had gone huge and dark. A cruel smile lit Chuuya's face. He didn't need a knife in hand to cut Dazai deeply. "What, did you think I didn't know? I wasn't a whore for nothing. I saw the way you looked at him, and everyone else might not have seen it, but I did. Not that he ever looked twice at you. Why would he? Odasaku," he said mockingly, "saw you as a killer. Worse, he saw you as a friend."
Dazai's smile made every hair on Chuuya's body stand on end. "Well, you'd know all about unrequited love, wouldn't you?" he purred. "After all, I saw the way you looked at me. Stars in your eyes and everything."
Chuuya's lungs seized.
Dazai kissed him.
Nothing about it was attractive or arousing. The time he'd kissed a pig while drunk was a more fulfilling experience, because at least he'd gotten two shots out of the bet. This was everything and nothing he'd wanted when he was younger and far stupider, and there—the rage that had been briefly out of reach turned incandescent. Dazai shifted again, and Chuuya wrapped his fingers around his knife.
He drove it into Dazai's arm.
Dazai was still human.
He cried out, rearing backwards, wincing as his hand jerked up to hold the knife in place. Chuuya scrambled out from under him, nearly throwing Dazai on his ass. Chuuya stared at him, breathing hard, heart pounding. Dazai knelt, shoulder heaving, injured arm limp. His head was bowed, dark hair shielding his face as blood slowly seeped from around the wound, staining Dazai's trench coat a muddled red. Chuuya swallowed. Dazai shivered for an instant and then looked up, mouth tight with pain but gaze cool. They stood in that frozen tableau for a long moment, as though unsure what to do next, now that something had irrevocably given way.
Chuuya's feet moved without permission. One step, another, then two more and he was standing at Dazai's side, facing the street while Dazai continued to kneel. His fingers had grown slick with blood, which dripped slowly onto the ground. Everything else seemed muted in comparison. "Well?" Chuuya asked finally. His feet had made the decision, now his voice committed to it. "Are you coming or not?"
"Sit," Chuuya commanded, and for once Dazai silently obeyed and dropped onto the smooth marble counter with its sink, his long legs still nearly touching the ground.
Chuuya sniffed at that. He'd gradually had his entire apartment altered to his specifications, including making sure that everything was at a comfortable height for someone of his—stature. That meant that Dazai looked just a fraction too tall for the space, practically looming over Chuuya. "Stay," he added for good measure, taking visceral pleasure in the way Dazai raised his eyebrow, clearly recalling comments about a sheepdog. Chuuya bared his teeth in a vicious grin, and Dazai had a rare flash of common sense and kept his damn mouth shut.
Leaving the bathroom, Chuuya pulled out his first aid kit from the closet down the hall, checking that he still had the pre-packaged sterilized suture needles on hand. Although the Port Mafia had at least half a dozen facilities they could safely be treated at, including two that were wholly internal, it never hurt to have personal supplies on hand. Although truthfully, since Dazai had left, using them had become a rarity. Chuuya healed faster and cleaner with proper medical attention, of course, and now he couldn't remember the last time he'd stitched himself—or anyone else—up.
He stared down at the medical supplies. Dazai had rarely bothered to take care of his wounds properly when he was in the Port Mafia, so—Chuuya had. Chuuya had stitched him up and bandaged his wounds, and on one particularly memorable occasion dug out a bullet when they'd been at least three days from help. Somehow, they'd silently worked out a deal: Chuuya would see to Dazai's wounds so that he could guarantee they would be seen at all, and in exchange, when Chuuya put his foot down about the doctor, Dazai went without protest.
In retrospect, that had changed after the night they'd been christened Soukoku, christened rivals—Dazai visited the doctors from the start without complaint, and Chuuya—Chuuya had watched the divide grow between them silently and let the weight of that silence twist his confusion and broken heart into hot, righteous rage.
Now Chuuya would patch Dazai up again. He wondered if this was what gave his desire away; the way he'd smoothed his fingers over Dazai's carefully concealed wounds, the way he'd instructed Dazai to soak in the tub, the way he'd thrown back a glass of whiskey when Dazai should have been asleep and Chuuya couldn't make his hands stop shaking. Stars in your eyes, Dazai had said, and Chuuya scoffed. If nothing else he should have known better, growing up in the brothels, no matter how young and stupid he was.
He should have—well. Should have hidden that bullshit better, for a start.
Chuuya squeezed his eyes shut, standing in the shadows of the hallway where Dazai couldn't see him. What the fuck had he been thinking, in that alley? Somewhere along the line all his careful plans had been derailed, as they always were with Dazai. Even now, the whole conversation had taken on a stained glass quality, colored shards that should make an image lying in his lap, if only he dared put them together. As for their kiss—that still felt utterly unreal. Chuuya lifted his fingertips to his mouth, staring blankly down at the first aid kit.
Dazai's mouth had been as hot as the rest of him.
"Chuuya!" Dazai called, and Chuuya jumped. "Chuuya!" This time he drew it out into something approaching a whine.
"I'm coming, Mackerel!" Chuuya shouted back. "Can't you shut up and be quiet for a minute?" He propped the medical kit on his hip and carried it into the bathroom, making sure he didn't show a hint of his uncertainty or the growing conviction that he was an absolute idiot for bringing Dazai—former Executive, traitor, member of the Armed Detective Agency—back to his apartment. It had seemed like the only option at the time, somehow, and Chuuya gritted his teeth as he stepped around the doorway into the bathroom proper.
"I wasn't sure," Dazai replied innocently. "You're so tiny, you might have gotten lost on your way! Only my dulcet voice could guide you back to me!"
"Bastard!" Chuuya snapped, slamming the medical supplies on the counter and digging out the local anesthetic and gauze before pulling on a pair of gloves. "It's my home, moron! If you don't stop making a nuisance of yourself, I'm going to drown you in the bathtub! It'd probably be less of a mess than cleaning your blood up." Not entirely fair—Dazai had actually made a point to try and keep his blood on his own clothes once they'd gotten inside. Since getting into the bathroom, though, there'd been a steady drip from Dazai's fingertips onto the floor despite the blade that Dazai carefully held in place. "Now hold still." Chuuya focused entirely on Dazai's arm, refusing to so much as glance at his face in fear for what might be on that knowing visage.
All things considered, Chuuya's wild thrust hadn't done as much damage as it could have. The stab wound was cleanly located in Dazai's biceps and didn't seem to have impacted the bone at all, nor had Chuuya gotten close to any major arteries. Chuuya would have to inspect it more carefully once the blade was removed, but stitching it shut shouldn't be a horribly complicated process. Chuuya assembled everything he'd need. Then, without a word of warning, Chuuya removed the knife as cleanly as possible and dropped it into the sink with a clatter. Dazai groaned, low and pained, then went abruptly pale as fresh blood slid down his clothed arm. He made another, softer noise in the back of his throat as Chuuya pressed gauze to the wound, fingers deceptively gentle. "Hold it," Chuuya instructed, and efficiently started using the safety scissors to remove Dazai's coat, shirt sleeve, and bandages, letting them fall to the floor without disturbing the wound. Chuuya barely glanced at the freshly bared skin, focusing instead on making sure the bleeding was stemmed by the pressure Dazai was applying to the wound, fingers pressed tightly to the gauze.
Anesthetic was next, and Chuuya injected it in a neat series around the wound as Dazai's expression slowly eased and his breathing steadied. The blood flow slowed a little as well. Chuuya offered a replacement piece of gauze, his hand brushing Dazai's as Dazai took it and held the new piece to his arm. Even with the nitrile gloves as barrier, Chuuya still couldn't recall whether Dazai had always run this impossibly hot, or if Chuuya was just all too aware of how much trouble Dazai could get Chuuya in. Chuuya dismissed the thought and immediately refocused himself on the minutia of treating Dazai's wound, trying not to think of Dazai himself at all.
"This is so much better than that time in Yokosuka," Dazai pointed out, and his voice was clear and even and far too close to Chuuya's ear.
"Don't do that!" Chuuya snapped as he started a little. He had to make sure his hands were steady before he could inject the last couple of shots of the anesthetic, and then discarded the syringe in his trash, the bloodied gauze Dazai had been holding to the wound following it. "I'm trying to concentrate—unless you want me to accidentally-on-purpose find ways to stab you where it'll hurt most." He scowled at Dazai, who leaned forward and grinned. He looked perfectly composed, despite, or perhaps because of, the pain he was enduring. Between the missing sleeve and impish smile, Chuuya all-to-clearly remembered their fight against Lovecraft. "Stop it." Undeterred, Dazai reached up with his bloodied hand and Chuuya knocked it away. "Stop it, you moron," Chuuya repeated more severely, as though that might have some effect.
"Incredible!" Dazai exclaimed cheerfully. "Your bedside manner has gotten even worse! Are you out of practice, Little Mafia? I suppose you haven't bothered to do this for anyone else." His dark eyes glittered in the too-bright lights of the bathroom. "Or has it always been just me you've patched up like this?"
"I've met few people as stupid as you," Chuuya retorted. Even Dazai's promotion to Executive hadn't curbed Chuuya's tongue for long. "Most people are happy enough to go to a fucking trained professional to make sure that they don't suffer permanent damage." If Dazai had any sense, that's what he'd be doing now, too. "Yet here you are, bloodying up literally everything you touch. What are you going to do next, piss on my shit to claim it?" He tore his gaze away from Dazai's, grabbing the bottle of saline and shaking it lightly. The wound's bleeding had slowed to a drop here and there, so Chuuya began to carefully rinse out the wound. It was a few inches deep, and diluted blood ran freely into the sink as Chuuya positioned Dazai's arm over it. Blood continued to drip off Chuuya's blade as well. If Dazai's eyes were too dark for this room, the knife was too bright.
"Chuuya!" Dazai gasped, scandalized. "If you wanted me to be kinky with you, you just had to say so!" His bloody hand attempted to grab hold of Chuuya again, so Chuuya punched him in the stomach. Dazai wheezed, breath briefly lost, and Chuuya used the seconds it bought him to wipe away the remnants of the dried and fresh blood until the wound was mostly clean. Changing into a new pair of gloves, Chuuya opened his suture kit and pulled out the curved needle with the attached thread. Like the knife, it caught the lights.
This time, when Dazai grabbed Chuuya's wrist, Chuuya allowed it. Dazai's fingers mostly curved around the bottom of the glove, but his pinky left a tacky imprint of Dazai's blood on Chuuya's forearm. Chuuya lifted his gaze, meeting Dazai's. All thoughts of medical care fell out of Chuuya's head, and he was left with this: standing between Dazai's spread thighs, the iron tang of blood filling the room. Dazai leaned towards him, broad hand around Chuuya's slim wrist. They breathed each other's air, close enough for everything or nothing to change.
"Keep your arm still."
Dazai blinked slowly, and then sat up straight, arm carefully held between them for Chuuya to easily access, but didn't otherwise shift away from Chuuya's slender frame. Chuuya kept his thoughts under control and silently sewed up the gash, stitch by careful stitch until he could knot it off properly. He cleaned off Dazai's skin one more time, careful of his handiwork, and then bandaged the wound.
Only then did he let his gaze fall to the rest of Dazai's arm, free of its usual bandages, the scars scattered across it now visible.
Most assumed that the bandages were intended to keep Dazai's skin from coming in contact with that of other Ability users, and they weren't entirely wrong. The barest brush of Dazai's touch would nullify anything and everything, and it was an acknowledgement of Dazai's war-torn past that he'd kept up the habit in the Armed Detective Agency, lest he accidentally nullify an ally at a crucial moment in the chaos of battle. What they didn't consider, however, was the fact that those rare few with healing Abilities couldn't touch Dazai either.
Chuuya's fingers slid down from the fresh bandage to the scar that marked another, far nastier wound just above the crook of Dazai's elbow. His opponent had twisted the blade, and Dazai had almost bled out before Chuuya could kill the fucker and get Dazai to safety. The scar didn't look quite so bad now, with more than five years of healing behind it, and Chuuya's fingers rested on it lightly. He could feel a phantom pulse from the skin even now. A bullet hole had been patched up just beside it, and there was the scar from the time Dazai had broken his forearm and the radius had been shoved through the skin, and there was the time Dazai'd been on the wrong side of a homemade flamethrower, and there—and there—Dazai caught Chuuya's questing fingers in his own, and only the thin layer of protection provided by the gloves Chuuya still wore saved his sanity.
He yanked his hand away and stripped off his gloves, tidying the medical supplies away and cleaning up the blood. "Take antibiotics when you get back to your pitiful little agency. Keep the stitches dry and clean. Have that doctor of yours take them out in about a week." Dazai said nothing, and Chuuya began to clean more aggressively. "Well?" Chuuya snapped while he worked, shoving at Dazai's thigh. "Get the fuck out of my home before you get us both killed."
Dazai hopped down from the counter, landing softly. Chuuya had been there when Miyabe had worked for hours to teach them both the tricks to moving quietly, blending into the crowd and subtle assassination. Dazai had found them boring; Chuuya had found in them an exquisite defense against those who took his looks and stature as the hallmarks of a potential victim. The first of many differences of opinion.
Dazai took one step away, and then another.
Chuuya picked up the knife from the sink last, cleaning away the blood carefully with soap and warm water before drying the blade.
In the mirror, Chuuya could see the set of Dazai's shoulders, the dark curls of his hair, and he stared at them, wondering if this was to be the pitiful end of Soukoku. Then Dazai inhaled, and Chuuya only had a single moment to think, Oh no.
"Chuuya," Dazai whined, and Chuuya's hand tightened on his knife in reflex. That tone had preluded everything from Dazai begging for Chuuya's food to shifting missions onto Chuuya's shoulders. Dazai still faced away, but Chuuya knew far too well the pouting expression Dazai must have on his face. "Your bedside manner really has gotten worse! Aren't you going to come to bed with me? You always complain I hog all the blankets if I fall asleep first!"
Chuuya whirled to stare daggers at Dazai's back. "No! You're not sleeping here!" he shouted, waving his knife for added emphasis. "Did you not hear what I just said? You're going to get the fuck out of here and in return I won't stab you a second time for good measure!"
Dazai half turned, casting his eyes to the heavens while Chuuya watched in growing horror. "Chuuya used to let me sleep here after I was injured," he declared mournfully. "Besides, if anyone was watching your apartment, Mori already knows, so I might as well get a good night's sleep out of it before the shooting starts, and your bed is comfortable." He glanced at Chuuya out of the corner of his eye. "After all, you were the one who stabbed me unprovoked."
"Unpro—are you fucking with me?" Chuuya demanded, aghast. This was it. Dazai had lost his mind, and Chuuya was going to throttle him. "Get out! Get the fuck out now! You're the one that left, you asshole! Why in the hell do you think that I want you sleeping here?!" Of course Dazai pulled this shit just as he thought he had things under control. Of course. Chuuya would never have a moment's rest so long as Dazai haunted him. Of course Dazai would happily drag Chuuya down to drown right beside him.
Dazai tilted his head, mouth curving wickedly. He opened his mouth, but Chuuya didn't let him say a word. "No," he began, breathing heavily. "No. Not this time. You're not going to twist this around me somehow, as though we're still partners. You're not going to fall asleep in my bed as though I'm safe. You're not going to pretend things have changed. You're not going to make this into a joke, coax me into laughing, try to convince me that this is somehow alright! You left, Dazai! You fucking left and blew up my car while I drank wine, and we were fucking thrilled to be rid of each other! You don't get to drag me back when you left!"
Dazai turned to face Chuuya, and for the life of him Chuuya couldn't read Dazai's expression. "Have things really changed that much? After all—sometimes when you look at me, there are still stars in your eyes."
Chuuya had never lost his mind like this outside of Corruption. Between one heartbeat and the next, metal began shrieking as stone cracked, everything in the bathroom threatening to warp and give way beneath a deep red glow. Everything except Dazai, who tucked his uninjured arm into his pocket and faced Chuuya squarely, entirely unaffected by Chuuya's power. Even so, Chuuya took a chunk of cracked marble and launched it at Dazai, who held up a hand. The stone touched his palm and a ring of light expanded from the point of impact, its momentum and immense gravity dispelled as a product of Chuuya's gift before dropping to the floor.
Fortunately, that also kept him from seeing Chuuya launch himself across the room right behind the remnants of his bathroom counter, aided by his Ability, only to release it at the last second as he plowed into Dazai, knocking him back against the far wall of the bathroom with a crash. Skin on skin contact meant the rest of the bathroom, though in shambles, was no longer trying to compress itself into an active black hole, but neither Chuuya nor Dazai was concerned about that when Chuuya once more had his knife to Dazai's throat, eyes enormous and dark.
"I'm going to kill you," Chuuya breathed. Dried blood still lingered on the bandages at Dazai's throat where Chuuya had nicked him only an hour previous, but it felt like it had been another lifetime. Chuuya went to the same point at the upper edge of Dazai's bandages, where his carotid fluttered. The tip of Chuuya's knife began a slow, torturous descent though the bandages. He wondered, staring up at Dazai, what it might be like to shove the blade in deep and watch Dazai bleed out. For now, though, Dazai's skin just barely parted, blood following blade, staining white red. When Chuuya reached the base of Dazai's throat he kept going, blade nudging fractionally deeper now as he moved through the hollow between Dazai's collarbones and down his chest, cutting through his shirt and bolo tie, the bandages that usually wrapped his throat and upper torso sliding over Dazai's shoulders and fluttering to the floor as blood began to spill from the shallow wound.
Dazai's pupils had gone huge and hungry as he stared down at Chuuya. His shirt was wrecked, blood sliding down Dazai's skin and seeping into the fabric. His hands were pressed flat to the wall behind him as though Chuuya had chained him there with nothing more than his presence. Deliberately holding eye contact, Chuuya lifted his knife to his lips and licked off Dazai's blood.
Dazai's lips parted on a soft, delicate, wanton note.
"Dazai," Chuuya purred. "Are those stars in your eyes?"
Chuuya kissed him.
When their lips met this time, it sent a bolt of desire running through Chuuya's veins. He unabashedly rose on his toes to press closer to Dazai, who still hadn't taken his hands off the wall. Then Chuuya tilted his head, or maybe it was Dazai, mouths sliding together in a way that made Chuuya shiver faintly. One kiss turned into two, to three, to four. Chuuya's tongue flicked across Dazai's lower lip and then retreated as Chuuya slid one hand into Dazai's dark curls, pulling him in closer. Chuuya was aware of the knife in his other hand, but only just. Dazai's own mouth was surprisingly soft and full, matching Chuuya's kisses with almost omniscient grace; even Chuuya's missteps as he learned what Dazai enjoyed, and didn't, seemed natural in a way Chuuya could have never achieved alone.
Dazai pulled his mouth free for only a moment before Chuuya brought it back. If they stopped kissing, they would have to consider what a disaster this was, and how fucked they were. Instead, Chuuya scratched his nails against Dazai's scalp as they kissed harder, slick little noises escaping them both. Dazai leaned into the touch, lashes brushing against Chuuya's cheek, and Chuuya's teeth found Dazai's lower lip again, biting with considerably more force this time, so that they both tasted blood. Dazai took revenge, breaking their kiss so he could make his way across Chuuya's jaw and throat.
Chuuya's breath hitched, and then Dazai's teeth dug into Chuuya's throat just above his leather choker. Chuuya couldn't have stopped his whispered, "Dazai..." even if he'd wanted.
Dazai took it as permission: his arms lifted free of the wall and twined around Chuuya's waist, half lifting him off his feet so that Dazai had better access to all the spots that made Chuuya squirm and gasp in desire. The hand that still uselessly clutched the knife shook a little. Dazai's hands, in contrast, were steady as they came to rest on Chuuya's ass, tugging him closer still. "You're here," Dazai murmured against Chuuya's skin, more to himself than anything. He bit down again where his mouth had been working, a fresh bloom of pain sparking every one of Chuuya's nerves, and his back arched as their bodies rubbed together. His clothes were stiflingly hot.
Panting, all too aware of how stupid a decision this was and even more aware of how good Dazai felt wrapped around him, Chuuya let his head fall back. "No kidding, moron," he quipped breathlessly.
Instead of answering, Dazai's fingers pushed up Chuuya's vest, questing for the shirt beneath and pulling it out of Chuuya's pants so that he could slide his fingers beneath Chuuya's clothes. His palms made every part of Chuuya feel electrified. They lingered as they traced down Chuuya's spine, across his ribs. Chuuya may have fewer scars than Dazai, but that wasn't hard. When Dazai's fingers stroked over a particularly sensitive scar that traced the curve of Chuuya's hip, Chuuya could feel the resulting throb of pleasure in his blood. "Fuck," he hissed, and pushed Dazai back against the wall and separated the pair of them so he could have a chance to think.
Dazai neatly ruined that the same way he ruined everything, simply by existing. His cheeks had a flush of color in them once more, and the kisses had left his lips darker as well. He kept staring at Chuuya's mouth with a heady intensity that was only made more enticing by his disheveled clothing. The line of tacky blood on his throat caught Chuuya's attention most of all. Chuuya finally remembered that he was still wearing a sheath and tucked the blade away so he could crowd in close to Dazai once more with both hands free. Dazai's throat was at a perfect height for Chuuya to lavish attention on, and he promptly left a series of open-mouth kisses along the flesh he'd cut, until his mouth was filled with the fresh taste of Dazai's blood. Dazai's head gently hit the wall as it fell back, a moan escaping. Chuuya pushed away Dazai's coat, letting it fall to the floor. Vest and collared shirt were next, revealing the bandages that wrapped around Dazai's torso and uninjured arm.
It was almost strange, looking at Dazai as an adult instead of a gangly teenager. The thinness of youth had been exchanged for lean muscle mass, and there was a—solidness, perhaps, that he'd lacked as a teenager. As though Dazai might once have been blown away by the wind but was rooted now. "Tch," Chuuya muttered, and hauled Dazai into another kiss, the taste of blood lingering on both their tongues.
"Unfair, little Chuuya," Dazai scolded, and he pushed at Chuuya's cropped jacket, nearly tangling Chuuya's arms in the process before he managed to successfully free Chuuya from it. Something approaching a laugh bubbled from Chuuya's lips and Dazai smiled against Chuuya's throat again before judiciously applying his teeth to the mark he'd left only a moment earlier, tongue sliding across Chuuya's skin. "If I'm going to be naked, you'd better be naked too." His fingers fumbled for the multitude of buttons on Chuuya's clothing. Chuuya was too busy trying to distract Dazai with more kisses, heady and luxurious, to help. Somewhere along the way Dazai must have gotten practice, because he did something with his teeth that made Chuuya's cock throb. Only then did Dazai pulled away, mouth slicker and redder than ever.
Chuuya couldn't recall ever seeing Dazai this disheveled from sex; even the one time he'd caught a glimpse of Dazai getting his dick sucked by someone Chuuya didn't recognize, he'd looked utterly composed, edging towards bored. He hadn't done more than slightly push down his pants. Dazai smirked and Chuuya's attention focused wholly on Dazai's face. "What?" he asked suspiciously.
"My petit Mafia," he murmured, tangling his fingers in Chuuya's bright locks and bringing their lips within a hair's breadth of each other. "Are we going to your bed or not?"
Chuuya swallowed. Dazai had to know the effect he had on Chuuya at the moment and was using it to his advantage, the bastard. Chuuya closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tasting the ghost of a kiss Dazai offered on his lips. They could fuck here, inside Chuuya's destroyed bathroom, half undressed and half mad and Chuuya could kick Dazai out afterward and there'd never be another word said about it until Dazai needed or wanted something. Even if Chuuya committed to this single night, Dazai might well walk out again for another four years—and Chuuya couldn't tell whether he even cared anymore, because it wasn't as though he'd ever get himself untangled from the knots Dazai had wrapped around his heart.
After all, he hadn't managed to do so in the last four years.
A bed would be some sort of surrender, Chuuya knew that much, and it still wasn't a guarantee of a tomorrow. Dazai would leave for the ADA again. Chuuya would be the one carrying the shards of what had been, would be the one burdened with trust in the betrayer, loyalty to the defector. He opened his eyes, searched Dazai's face, but Dazai's expression was opaque. Chuuya had only enough rope for one of two things: hanging himself, or Dazai.
As though either option would prevent Dazai from walking away with whatever the fuck he desired.
So Chuuya chose recklessness, and hoped he had enough slack in the rope that his neck would snap in the fall.
Chuuya wrapped his hand around Dazai's slender wrist, one of the few places he still showed his youth, and took him to the bedroom.
Chuuya bedroom was as lush as the rest of his apartment, filled with warm colors and silk sheets and dark wood with touches of the French mystique he loved so much. The number of people who'd been permitted entrance to this room could be counted on one hand, and the sexual partners required not even a single finger. This was Chuuya's refuge from the Port Mafia and the world at large. Somehow it seemed fitting; upon their reunion after Dazai's departure, the first thing he'd done was wedge Chuuya between a rock and a hard place to force his hand and get the information he desired for that subordinate of his. Now he was forcing his way in here, too, even as he pressed up against Chuuya's back and bent to nuzzle the hair at the nape of his neck.
"Strip," Chuuya commanded, as he began to carefully remove his own accoutrements: his hat, and gloves had been left at the doorway next to his shoes, his jacket discarded in the hall, but that still left his vest, bolo tie, and belt to be removed and carefully arranged on the dresser top. He watched Dazai in the mirror as he worked—and Dazai met his gaze in it, smirking as he slowly peeled off what little remained of his clothing. "Stop," Chuuya commanded once Dazai was down to nothing more than a hard dick and bandages. "On the bed."
Dazai turned with lazy grace and did so, stretching out on the bed with a sigh like it was his own. "I knew Chuuya would have an amazing bed," he sighed to the ceiling. "You're such a hedonist." His mouth curled wickedly. "Which, to be fair, is to my advantage tonight."
"It's going to be to your something tonight, alright," Chuuya muttered under his breath. Still clad in his rumpled button up, black slacks, and leather choker, he paced towards the bed, once more unholstering his knife from its sheath at his side. He climbed atop Dazai's hips, grip on the blade firm as he rested a hand on Dazai's chest, fingers sliding gently against the remaining bandages. "Hold still," he crooned, and the blade flashed in the dim light.
Dazai's eyes went completely black as the tip of the knife just barely dug into his skin, just deep enough that Dazai could feel it when his flesh gave way, could see the fresh spill of blood from the wound as Chuuya continued what he'd started on his throat and upper chest. The knife dragged down past Dazai's pectorals in Chuuya's expert hand, down to his abdomen, where his skin quivered slightly. Nerves or desire, Chuuya neither knew nor cared.
"If you don't keep still," Chuuya breathed, "I'm going to gut you like a pig." He shifted his weight so his ass pressed down against Dazai's bare cock. Dazai choked for a second before taking a deep breath and going perfectly, almost preternaturally, still. "Good," Chuuya praised with a little smirk. "If you can't control yourself, I definitely don't want you fucking me." Dazai's eyes briefly widened, and Chuuya thrilled at the victory, even as his knife kept inching across Dazai's skin. A particularly large droplet of blood followed the curve of Dazai's ribs, and Chuuya leaned down to lick it away before it touched his sheets. Dazai moaned. "Always leaving me with a mess to clean up, aren't you, Mackerel?"
"But you enjoy it so much!" Dazai countered, voice just barely uneven.
Chuuya bared his teeth. "You ought to know by now that there's plenty I'm willing to do if I get to use a knife on you." The bandages had all slid free to the bedsheets, so Chuuya shifted down his legs next, positioning himself between Dazai's spread thighs. He kissed up Dazai's abdomen to the base of his sternum, where he sealed his lips over the cut and sucked, tongue flicking out against it.
Dazai trembled, head thrown back and eyes clenched shut as his breathing went unsteady again. "Chuuya," he groaned, and Chuuya pulled away, wiping the back of his hand across his lips and smirking when it came away bloody. Dazai's fingers tightened suddenly in the sheets. "Fuck."
Chuuya glanced at him through lowered lashes. "Stay still," he reminded in a voice that was a deliberate echo of Dazai at his most aggravating. "If you don't, I'm going to stop—though not before I settle some debts."
One deep breath, and then another, and Dazai's body went still again, even if his pulse kept fluttering and his dark eyes refused to look away from Chuuya. Chuuya almost preened for a moment beneath that hot gaze before sliding his hand up Dazai's thigh, following it with the flat of his blade, until he reached the top of the bandages. Again his knife moved by slow degrees on first one leg, then the other, Chuuya's mouth keeping any particularly large drops from reaching his silk sheets even as a part of him recognized that by the time they were done, he might well need a whole new bed. Dazai remained obediently still, although Chuuya knew well that the instant Dazai thought he could get away with it, that would change.
With one last delicate kiss pressed to Dazai's inner thigh, making his cock twitch enticingly, Chuuya sat up again, licking his lips. It felt like the only thing he'd tasted in eons was Dazai's blood. "Arm," he said pointedly, and with another hungry little noise Dazai turned his arm so that the sensitive flesh of his inner wrist was exposed. As before, the tip of Chuuya's knife delicately pressed into Dazai's skin and began moving, parting fabric and flesh with equal ease while Dazai's lashes brushed his cheeks for a long moment. The closer Chuuya got to Dazai's hand, the more labored his breathing became and the tighter Dazai's unbandaged arm gripped the sheets. Well—unbandaged except Chuuya's handiwork, an enticing prospect all on its own.
The bandages slid free of Dazai's skin to pool on the bed as all the others had, Dazai's last defense slowly being sliced away by Chuuya's hand. As the knife reached Dazai's wrist, Chuuya slowed a little, drawing it out to torture them both. Dazai looked a little drugged, mouth soft and open, eyes hazy. As Chuuya reached the last couple of rows of bandages, he was abruptly aware that he'd been hard for what felt like forever, skin aching for a proper touch beneath his clothes. Dazai inhaled sharply as Chuuya suddenly whipped his knife through what little remained, digging fractionally deeper in the process, a little spray of blood following the blade.
Chuuya stared at Dazai, entirely naked, and for the first time truly examined what he had wrought.
There was the set of gunshot wounds that had punctured Dazai's lungs on his right side, and a small scar on his pectoral from a training session gone wrong. Burn scars from an explosion which were themselves littered with shrapnel scars. This one had been from a pair of brass knuckles. That had been from an arrow, of all things. Fewer were the scars that Chuuya couldn't place, but with so many signs of war, it was a miracle Dazai was still in one piece. Chuuya trailed his fingers along the shallow, bloody line he'd drawn down Dazai's right arm to his wrist, lifting Dazai's hand to his lips and kissing first his palm, then the curve where palm met wrist, then the wrist itself, once more over that open wound—and then moved it over the deep scar Chuuya had bisected in cutting off the bandages.
"I'm still not sure if I forgive you for that," Dazai murmured.
Chuuya glanced at him and smiled, lips painted red. "Considering the many things I don't forgive you for, it's only fair."
Dazai laughed at that, sudden and rich, and pulled Chuuya in close for a kiss, licking every hint of blood out of Chuuya's mouth. The part of Chuuya always aware of his sartorial choices mourned the fact that he'd never fully remove the bloodstains from this shirt; the rest of him was lost in straddling Dazai again, knife dropped onto a pillow so Chuuya could bury his hands in Dazai's dark hair. Chuuya savored the taste of him, the smell of him, and the heat of him—God, Chuuya had never met anyone this warm.
Dazai arched up against Chuuya, and even through clothing the friction was exhilarating and not nearly enough. Chuuya made a breathless noise of agreement as Dazai finally took the opportunity to undo Chuuya's shirt and pants, only to have his clothing get caught on his sheath. Dazai snarled a truly impressive string of curses that showed he'd learned something from the Port Mafia after all. Before Chuuya even had the chance to laugh at him, however, Dazai had unhooked the leather that kept the sheath in place on Chuuya's hip and tossed it across the room where it collided with Chuuya's dresser, nearly knocking over his pristinely arranged cologne and candles.
"Be careful!" Chuuya squawked, only for Dazai, mediocre martial artist, to grab hold of Chuuya so Dazai could pull off his shirt, then pants, then underwear. All three joined Chuuya's sheath in being flung across the room. "Seriously, asshole—" Chuuya shouted, and then yelped as Dazai moved him around like a doll again, positioning him on all fours while Dazai settled his weight across Chuuya's back, skin on glorious skin, and Chuuya sighed in satisfaction. At least Dazai was good for something.
"You were saying?" Dazai chuckled right in Chuuya's ear, nudging aside Chuuya's hair so he could find the love bite on Chuuya's throat that he'd been torturing all evening. His nose brushed along the edge of the leather band still resting around Chuuya's neck, just below the mark, and Chuuya shuddered. "You said something about being fucked?"
Chuuya escaped Dazai's hold with an easy twist of his body, ducking out from underneath Dazai's arms. "And what, you'll just open me up and fuck me like a dog? Have some class, Dazai. I'm regretting this idiocy enough already. Don't make it worse," he sneered, only to awkwardly knee-walk to his bedside table so he could pull out the lube. Dazai's mouth twitched, but contained any further reaction - which was good. If he'd laughed again Chuuya would have throttled him to death and happily disposed of the evidence. "Get on your back, Mackerel. You're useless in bed so we're doing this my way."
"How do you know I'm useless in bed?" Dazai asked. Instead of doing as instructed, he gathered the bandages Chuuya had cut off him and dumped them over the edge of the bed.
Chuuya snorted. "I've met you, that's how. You never did learn how to be a good partner in the ways that mattered." He rummaged around, but his lube was somehow at the back of the drawer, trapped behind a pair of dildos that he would rather die than let Dazai see. It took a moment of wriggling to pop it free, during which time his ears started to burn. He just knew that Dazai was staring at his ass. Sure enough, lube obtained, Chuuya turned to the bed to see Dazai stretched out and watching him with a little smirk. Despite the bickering, Dazai's frank lust and appreciation as he studied Chuuya reminded them both exactly why they were making this horrendous, enticing mistake. Chuuya stared back, too conscious of his nakedness—his vulnerability—for his own comfort. He glanced down at the pale green sheets, which glowed a little in the evening light, hoping to somehow defend against that hot gaze.
"You're so small," Dazai breathed, and Chuuya scowled at him. This, at least, was familiar ground.
"Well, we can't all be gangly trees," Chuuya snapped, and squirted some lube onto his fingers, warming it up and spreading it around.
"You won't let me do that?" Dazai asked, pouting a little.
Chuuya pursed his lips. "Not a chance in hell. I don't trust you to do it properly."
Dazai arched a brow, looking amused. "Can I at least touch you?" he asked in a wheedling tone.
Chuuya almost refused, then thought what it might be like, to have the heavy weight of Dazai's eyes looking at nothing but him, dissecting him, understanding him. He couldn't tell if the thought was intensely arousing or the stuff of nightmares. "Fine," he allowed.
Dazai grinned and knee-walked over to Chuuya, still too tall by half and unfairly beautiful. The scars added to that beauty, rather than detracting from it. Perhaps it was the old intimacy of knowing how he'd received those scars, or the fresh intimacy of the shallow cuts that had only just stopped bleeding that represented Chuuya's hand on Dazai's body. Perhaps it was none of that, just the recognition of the playful smile on Dazai's face that made Chuuya's insides squirm, especially as he realized it reached Dazai's eyes. Dazai's fingers skimmed down Chuuya's jaw to his chin, lifting it up so that he could press a chaste kiss to the corner of Chuuya's mouth, infinitely gentle. Chuuya exhaled shakily. "Dazai..." he whispered, not sure what to say next. It was an act, because it was always an act with Dazai. He twisted Chuuya around his fingers so effortlessly, and still Chuuya kept falling for it.
He prayed that the rope would be long enough.
"You left," Chuuya breathed, and for the first time the crystalline edge of rage he'd harbored and compressed to diamond—it dulled. Chuuya closed his eyes, hating Dazai for dulling that edge most of all.
"I haven't yet," Dazai coaxed, and his mouth found Chuuya's again, pressing a slow and sickly sweet kiss to his lips.
"I'm going to kill you," Chuuya promised, and opened his eyes.
Dazai's eyes were still dark, and he still smiled. "I'd expect no less from you, my petit Mafia."
Then he kissed Chuuya, utterly possessive, his palms sliding down Chuuya's sides while their cocks rubbed together, and Chuuya let thought go.
Reaching behind himself, back arching, Chuuya pressed two fingers inside of himself with a little groan. His fingers were slim enough and the angle poor enough that he would inevitably feel Dazai tomorrow, but Chuuya craved it with a pathetic sort of desperation as a means of proving that this was real, this was happening. Dazai's mouth went to Chuuya's throat again, systematically dismantling Chuuya's ability to focus on anything but Dazai. His fingers were everywhere, pinching Chuuya's nipples and giving his cock a brief stroke, while Chuuya's thighs parted further and he twisted his own fingers. He couldn't quite reach his own prostate like this, but he didn't care. Chuuya's body burned with want.
With a little moan, Chuuya added a third finger, straining a little. He couldn't remember the last time he'd tried to open himself up in this position, but Dazai effortlessly kept him upright as he contorted his body, muscles aching with the strain. "Fuck," Chuuya gasped.
"Allow me," Dazai said smoothly, and before Chuuya could protest, Dazai's finger joined his own. Chuuya gasped again, wordless this time. He didn't have a single fucking clue as to when or how Dazai had managed to get lube without so much as looking away from Chuuya. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised, given Dazai's track record of casual impossibilities, but he couldn't do anything but sag back against Dazai's steadying hand.
As Dazai pressed in a second finger, fucking Chuuya's ass alongside Chuuya's own, much more slender fingers, Chuuya suddenly remembered what he'd said moments earlier. "You—" Chuuya began, and then lost everything when Dazai easily stroked over Chuuya's prostate. "Oh fuck," Chuuya whimpered, clutching embarrassingly to Dazai who simply pressed a smug kiss to the love bite on Chuuya's throat, making him shudder. It also made Chuuya pull himself together long enough to push at Dazai's chest until he withdrew his fingers. Chuuya pulled his own free as well with a filthy little noise, too desperate to wait any longer. He pushed harder at Dazai's chest until he laid back against the sheets, Chuuya straddling him and wiping his fingers on the silk. Dazai, with a wicked smile, did the same and Chuuya just rolled his eyes, mouth twitching despite himself.
Chuuya balanced over Dazai's hips, gazing at him for a long second before leaning down to kiss the wounds over Dazai's throat and chest. They were too shallow to scar, but Chuuya selfishly hoped that at the least they'd take a while to heal. Dazai's breathing grew rough as Chuuya pressed kiss after filthy kiss to Dazai's body, lips turning sticky with half-dried blood, until finally Dazai's nails dragged up Chuuya's back to his hair. Dazai pulled lightly and Chuuya reluctantly lifted his head. "Now," Dazai said softly. "Now, Chuuya."
Chuuya spent a moment kissing the taste of his name from Dazai's mouth and then sat up, positioning Dazai's cock and then slowly pressing down around it, breath trapped in his lungs. Dazai's eyes were narrowed to slits, teeth pressing into his lower lip, the muscles of his throat strained. Chuuya continued to move patiently, rocking down on Dazai's cock by degrees, a gorgeous torture for them both. He felt unfairly good, riding that edge of too much that Chuuya always sought for himself, and Chuuya couldn't help tightening for a moment to really feel him. "Chuuya," Dazai gasped again. A plea and command: Chuuya rocked the rest of the way down in one moment and then stopped, hardly daring to move.
Instead, for a secret, stolen heartbeat, Chuuya tried to imprint this in his mind: Dazai, dark hair tousled against Chuuya's sheets, bloodied and scarred with a bandage-wrapped arm, mouth parted and spit-slick, that entrancing mind focused solely, dangerously, on Chuuya.
As though he saw even that, too, Dazai blinked up at Chuuya and grinned like the devil himself had come calling: like he could see every one of Chuuya's sins and scars, like he could take Chuuya apart bone by bone with nothing more than a laugh and a touch, like he'd won.
Chuuya could still see his knife, just barely out of arm's reach on the pillow where he'd dropped it. His nails dug into Dazai's chest, leaving bloody little furrows, as Chuuya reached, strained, and grabbed hold of it, clenching it in his fist. He rested it against Dazai's throat, body shivering with the press of Dazai's cock inside him. Dazai's expression never changed, but he tilted his head up fractionally, baring more of his throat for Chuuya in challenge, an invitation to let Dazai escape at long last: and as always, it didn't matter what choices Chuuya made, because Dazai always won.
Chuuya stared down at Dazai's face, eyes wild. Did you predict even this? he wondered. Is this how it all ends?
"I hate you, you bastard," Chuuya choked out.
Dazai's hand rose, and his thumb brushed against the kiss mark that he'd etched into Chuuya's skin; Chuuya didn't need to be fucked to ensure that he would never be able to forget tonight. Chuuya would never be able to escape this moment, would never be able to unlearn the shape of Dazai's bright smile against his skin. "I know," he replied, voice soft and calm.
Holding the knife steady, Chuuya tensed his thighs and began to move.
He fucked with frustration clawing at his skin, Dazai's hands too gentle, too warm, as they possessed every part of Chuuya's body. Dazai had never been magnanimous in victory. Chuuya had never been graceful in defeat. So instead Chuuya settled for making sure he left as much of a mark as he could on Dazai, mouth greedy and teeth cruel as he ignored the way Dazai approached sweetness with his touches except over that damn hickey. Their breath came in gasps as they lost themselves in each other, Dazai whispering Chuuya's name against the curve of his ear, his jaw, his lips. Chuuya clung to his silence as best as he could, but Dazai wrung noises from Chuuya every time he found Chuuya's prostate, or tweaked his nipples.
It wasn't fair, none of it was fair, and Chuuya had never been so goddamn hard in his life.
"Chuuya." Dazai's hand wrapped around Chuuya's cock, stroking it hard and fast and perfect like he lived to make Chuuya's toes curl. "Come on. Come for me."
For you? Never, Chuuya wanted to curse, but it was Dazai's name bubbling on his lips like blood after Corruption, breaking Chuuya down from the inside out. His hands couldn't stay steady, blood soaking into Chuuya's sheets from Dazai's skin, the blade moving in time with Dazai's thrusts, Chuuya's hips. The tell-tale tightness in Chuuya's groin had him moaning, sweat soaking his skin. "Fuck—f-fuck—" he stuttered.
Dazai gave a lethal brush of his thumb over the head of Chuuya's cock and Chuuya curled inwards all at once with a hot, desperate cry of Dazai's name as he came. Pleasure sparked inside him for a brief eternity as Chuuya weakly braced himself against Dazai, cock pulsing all over the bloody mess on Dazai's stomach. It took a few more moments for Dazai to follow suit, mouth wrapping around Chuuya's name like a caress and making Chuuya shudder with aftershocks.
Chuuya's breathing gradually slowed, and he tossed the knife in the direction of his bedside table. He misjudged, however, and sent it clattering off against the lampshade and to the ground. He winced, running his fingers through his hair and clambering off Dazai with a groan, feeling sticky and grimy and ridiculously sated.
Dazai remained collapsed on the sheets, looking as messy as Chuuya felt, both of them breathing in unison. Chuuya kept his face turned away. He'd need to wash up at some point, or waking up in the morning would be a deeply unpleasant experience. He closed his eyes when he felt more than heard Dazai sit up and leave the bed without a word. "Tch," Chuuya muttered. Well, it wasn't as though he was surprised, honestly. Dazai had gotten everything he'd come for and more, most likely. He had no further use for Chuuya.
When ten minutes passed without Chuuya hearing the front door, however, Chuuya sat up with a frown. He winced a little as his ass and lower back protested, and then forgot all about the ache when Dazai walked back in, still gloriously naked, some damp bandages in one hand. "I thought you'd gut me if I used one of your towels, and I don't feel like being rushed to the hospital, so." Dazai's smirk was back on his face and he looked wholly at ease as he stared down at Chuuya.
Chuuya groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Oh God. You're one of those people who feels awake after sex," he complained, words muffled. "Fuck off. Let me sleep."
"No," Dazai hummed. "Clean up first because you're filthy, and I don't want to listen to you bitch about how disgusting you are." He tossed the wet bandages to Chuuya. Chuuya caught them and began to clean himself perfunctorily, while Dazai tossed the two worst bloodstained pillows off the bed, followed by the top sheet. Chuuya watched in grim annoyance, unsurprised, as Dazai settled in. "Maybe Chuuya's a good person after all..." Dazai mumbled, looking more relaxed than Chuuya could ever recall him being.
Chuuya snorted, tossed the makeshift washcloth onto the floor atop his ruined shirt, and crawled under the covers as well. "Go to hell, Dazai." He could sleep for a fucking week at this rate. He pressed his face into the pillow, sensation rolling down his spine as his leather choker rubbed against the love bite Dazai had left. "You're gone before morning, understand?" He said nothing about the way Dazai's body warmed the sheets, or the way the pale green complimented Dazai's features.
"Of course," Dazai agreed, and Chuuya rolled over so his back was to Dazai, and let Dazai's presence lull him to sleep.
Chuuya stumbled out of bed far too early in the morning, nude, skin still littered with the imprints of fingers and teeth. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out what woke him as he entered the dim kitchen, frowning in confusion.
On the counter, a tall green glass bottle was proudly displayed with a cream-colored bow wrapped around it. The cream ribbon matched the label, which had deep red lettering and a red seal on it. Chuuya stared at it in confusion for a minute, and then his eyes widened and mouth dropped open. Pétrus Pomeral, 1989. He all but tripped over himself to grab it. "What..." he murmured, cradling the wine gently. He cast a practiced eye over the bottle, but it didn't look like a forgery. He smoothed his fingers down the green glass again, peering at the liquid inside. He shook his head in disbelief, standing in the stillness of his apartment like he might yet sense a second presence.
His mouth curved, warm and darkly delighted. Chuuya would take this over a thousand promises, or a hundred thousand of them.
Opening the cabinet, Chuuya located his bottle opener and popped the cork in short order, pouring himself a glass before heading to the couch and stretching luxuriously. He inhaled the scent of the wine slowly, taking the opportunity to run his fingers over the kiss-mark he could feel on his throat, just above his leather choker, which would rub against it all day.
Chuuya lifted the glass to his lips, and waited for sunrise.