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Lover by Deception

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Chuuya delicately ran his fingers along the edges of the black and gold invitation that was hand-delivered to his apartment. When it first arrived he stared at it with a skeptical gaze, he didn't usually get invitations to prestigious charity events or rather a Port Mafia Extravaganza. He'd attended events but wasn't particularly fond of them but something was different and unsettling about this particular one but with minuscule trepidation, he accepted the invitation from the hushed towering man in black. 

After the deliverer had finally left him alone in his own self-comforting presence he finally analyzed the Invitation. The Invitation was clearly hand-crafted, not that Chuuya was an expert in craftsmanship, everything on the invitation oozed a substantial amount of detail. It was high quality and distinctive: from the sculpted edges to the gold leaf patterned overlay. The high-quality black card the work was depicted on was speckled with what Chuuya could only assume was fragments of gold leaf sheets—everything about the invitation manifested into wealth and money but most importantly status.

He didn't have any sort of relations within The Port Mafia, as a child, he desired to be one of the straight-talking, rugged looking mafioso's. He'd been scouted by numerous organizations Sheep and Port Mafia alike but Chuuya was made wary of them and reminded himself to steer clear of gangs that called themselves protectors. Each one of the organizations had their own definition and outlook on Protecting Yokohama. A person who also influenced his decision on determining who were the bad guy's, and who were the corruptors was Fyodor Dostoevsky.

When Chuuya had met him his appearance and the name that followed struck him. He was a tall and slim young man with long, dark, and messy hair that reached his shoulders. His eyes were sharp and of a dark purple color which gave him a tired look even when waking up after hours of refreshing sleep, it was just Fyodor being Fyodor so Chuuya paid no attention to it. His dress sense was absolutely atrocious but Chuuya didn't even care because it wasn't the dress sense that attracted Chuuya to him.

It was his uncaring attitude, his eccentric calm, and confident personality most of the time that sometimes wavered when he was angry with Chuuya, Fyodor doesn't appear to fear anything because everything about Fyodor emitted dominance.

Dominance which Chuuya fawned over. Sometimes Fyodor's dominance was overwhelming if a guy flirted or even looked at Chuuya in a suggestive way it would make Fyodor unleash a wave of anger that Chuuya had never seen.

Possessive almost obsessive. It was flattering to a degree but all in all psychotic. Their relationship wavered continuously due to Fyodor's jealousy and it was destroying their relationship as a whole as well as Chuuya. Chuuya gave Fyodor his love and fidelity but he doubted Fyodor’s trust in him.

His thoughts were disrupted when Fyodor wrapped his arms around him which caused him to jolt, frightened out of his wits as an electric shock ran through him, dropping the invitation out of his hand, it fell to the counter hanging dangerously off the edge. He quickly took his idle hands out of the air, placing them on the table in a rush: for some stability.

It wasn’t enough, Fyodor’s unexplainable affection always left him weak. The kiss from the day prior had installed an expectation, that this amount of contact wasn’t enough to fill. Fyodor hugged the red-head tighter, placing his neck on Chuuya’s shoulder, rubbing their cheeks together. He nuzzled closer, Chuuya blushing from the tantalizing affection.

“F-Fyodor?” He stuttered. What game was he trying to play today; extreme affection was becoming increasingly prominent within their relationship. Though it did have its downfall.

”Can’t I just show how far my affection for you goes? It’s limitless Chuuya~” he whispered, chin resting on Chuuya’s slim shoulders, his soft warming breath massaging his neck. Placing a soft kiss onto the petite male's slender unblemished neck he averted his gaze to the black and gold card which was obscured by Chuuya’s sparse long fingers, Fyodor placed his firm hand over Chuuya’s gripping it tightly, “What’s that?” 

Chuuya knew two things that could  happen if he lifted his hand: 1, Fyodor would be pissed that the Port Mafia was sending them—or rather Chuuya—invites or 2, Fyodor would be again extremely pissed if he realizes the Port Mafia, a merciless, ruthless, maliciously motivated organization was hosting a Charity event.

He maneuvered his hand so his palm was facing Fyodor’s, his fingers threaded through Fyodor’s pulling it towards his flat stomach, “I was going to trash it, it’s nothing—I think.”

“Were you going to really trash it?” He presses, picking up the invite with his free hand he brings it to his eye level, “Charity Event? How low even for them. When did this even arrive?” Chuuya could see Fyodor becoming frustrated, his fingers pressed onto the invite creasing the expensive card leaving an unattractive mark.

”Earlier. A man delivered it, pretentious I know.” Chuuya laughed leaning onto his lover, hopefully, Fyodor will become less exasperated, “I don't think I'm going to go. I’m surprised this Mori Ōgai knows me and my address.”

”Ah. I’ve never met him.” Fyodor explained with a furrowed brow, “I had business with one of his executives, Dazai Osamu. A despicable young man.” Chuuya could feel the tension increase in Fyodor’s body, what was he not telling Chuuya. There were no lies in their relationship so why did this feel like one of them.

”Dazai Osamu. Never heard of him...You said you did business with him, what business?” 

He licked his lips in minor anticipation.

”It doesn’t concern you Chuuya. What should concern you is the thought that the Port Mafia has your address and now your image.” Fyodor said with a firm abrupt voice, “I ought to speak to Dazai.”

”It’s fine.”

”No, it’s not. They are dangerous, just the thought of the Ports men putting their sinful hands upon you...” he growled pushing Chuuya into the counter, he winced at the pain caused from his back colliding with the hard countertop, “Corrupting you. I know those kinds of men. They would defile you, break you. Take you and make me watch. “

”I can handle a few ports men. I have an ability just like you Fyo—“ He turns slightly so he can face his lover, with a smirk he speaks again, “You underestimate me too much, I can control my ability.”

”You overestimate your abilities too much.” Fyodor spits. Chuuya grimaces scrunching his nose in disgust. Fyodor has been spiteful but never this malicious: was he really set out to hurt him?

”Well, you overestimated my statement, that I was not going to go to that event. But since I was invited it seems pretty rude to not even go for a few hours, you can join me if you wish.” He leans into Fyodor's space making sure he could feel Fyodors’ breath on his lips, he could feel the anger radiating off him, “Or instead I could find a real man that won’t be as temperamental you.” 

“You could call it temperamental, but many people would desire the protection and servitude I give to you.”

”I call it whatever—“ Chuuya’s words fall short when Fyodor grabs his chin roughly pulling it down, “Don’t be so rough.”

“You should hold more respect for me Chuuya.” Fyodor's free hand runs up Chuuya’s inner thigh closing into his crotch, “Jealousy is my weakness especially when it comes to you. I’d probably kill a man if you came home reeking of him.”

Chapter Text

“Fyodor,” he grunts, “Quit being so rough with me, manhandling me.”

Fyodor shuts him up with a back handed slap. It's not allowed, Chuuya knows, but he did it anyway. The knuckles of Fyodor right hand, crack, across Chuuya's right cheek, follow-through. Eyes, snap, shocked.

And when Chuuya hits the wall there's something like you'll pay for that in his face, falling to the floor all around him. With him.

Standing back, Fyodor watches. He wonders just what the price is, tries not to hope for too much.

Nothing's going to happen.

He watches Chuuya look up, not all the way up to his face, just about halfway up, his cheekbone flushing, bruising. There is blood. That’s cascading down from his nose. There is a slump in his shoulders. And of course the spark, and flash, his eyes.

He watches Chuuya reach across the air between them. He's not going to step closer, he won't, he's not even going to let this happen. He sees Chuuya's hand slide up his thigh, under his jacket, under his shirt. The pressure is good, good, getting better, and the firm press of Chuuya's cold fingers against his stomach, curling around the waistband of his jeans, pulling Fyodor closer still.

Chuuya pulls himself up, from his knees. There is a faint grunt and a jangle of Chuuya’s frustration with Fyodor’s belt soon enough it is unbuckled. The button pops, slow descent of zipper echoed on his spine, everything focused, eyes closed. Chuuya's teeth are sharp as Fyodor curls his tongue into Chuuya's mouth, his pale pure hands skim up Chuuya’s shirt.

Then Fyodor's thumb and fingers make a sideways smile around his nipple, and the suddenness with which he stops laughing would have had him choking on his tongue, was it within choking distance of his throat rather than pushing deep inside Fyodor's mouth.

He draws their tongues into his mouth, scrapes his teeth lightly over Fyodor's tongue and tries to put an edge on it. Chuuya twitches and slams their hips together, losing Fyodor's name in his mouth. There's a hand on Fyodor's dick now, and he wraps his own hand around both. He grips tightly and moves their hands in quick, hard jerks while he uses his teeth again and wonders if the hint of metal taste on his own tongue is blood -wonders if he's a vampire, such an impure dreadful creature - for wanting to get more of that taste. He pulls his mouth away but keeps tugging their hands.

"Chuuya." Fyodor offers a hidden-edges smile. "Going to bite me again?"

He shakes his head and looks toward the floor. His gaze is caught by the way their fingers are twined together, and he's glad he's already flushed, red, hot, hot. Fyodor's free hand tilts his head so gently. When he meets Fyodor's eyes, everything has gone soft; well - not everything, but Fyodor's eyes have, and so have Fyodor's hands - even the one Chuuya is clutching and pulling so harshly around his dick.

"Want me to bite you?" Chuuya innocently asks; Fyodor really deserves this for slapping him.

“No. Don’t you even dare, Chuuya.”

Chuuya ducks his head, like a nod, but his chin keeps going lower. Fyodor lets Chuuya's hand go and wraps his fingers around the back of Chuuya's neck instead. He digs them in a little bit like a possessive cat. Chuuya glances up at him and bares his teeth in a jaguar's smile before sliding his mouth down.

Fyodor knows Chuuya's teeth are sharper than usual and wouldn't be at all surprised if Chuuya's sharp tongue really did have something to do with it. He puts his other hand on Chuuya’s shoulder and pushes in deeper. Teeth and tongue are rough scrapes against his cock, dragging against the skin, and he throws his head back, silent, Fyodor isn’t exactly loud when they were intimate but Chuuya knows he likes it. It's still not pain, but it has that edge to it, the one Fyodor couldn't have known to look for before today.

“Chuuya.”

Fyodor thrusts in and out of Chuuya's mouth, understanding this can't be a test because Fyodor is loving every second of it and when Fyodor tests him, it's going to involve real pain – for him. This, this is just sharp and sleek and making him come with his thumb rubbing against Chuuya's skull and Chuuya's teeth glinting like their edges were never dulled.

The come dribbles out of the corner of Chuuya’s mouth, as he looks into Fyodor’s dead eyes. He is insisting Chuuya swallow his release in which he does with a deep gulp, the release slides down his esophagus.

“Well done, Chuuya.”

“Fyodor, I’m going to the event. I’m telling you because you can join me if you want,” he explains with a smile as he gets up off his knees with the help of Fyodor’s cold hands, “I’d like you to come.”

“I’ll join you, so nothing will happen to you.” He settles.

“Thank You.”


“Is there a reason you are here?”

“You requested me to accompany you, even as distasteful as it is,” The bandaged man replied, with a visible grimace, “Watching a grown man blunder aimlessly for a child’s gown, you have workers for this.”

“None of my workers, know what my dear Elise prefers.”

“She hates what you pick her.” He said incredulously, glancing at the many gowns in the boutique they were unfortunately habituated in.

“She’ll wear it.”

The bandaged man sighed, picking at the dress’s cheap embroidery, Elise for a fact will hate every one of these dresses, but the man keeps his thoughts to himself and rather requests why he is here, “Why am I here, Mori-san?”

“Dazai. I needed to go over the current affairs before the Port Mafia Charity Event tonight,” Mori explained with a smile, eyes closed Asif he was oblivious to his own organizations' toxic affairs, “It’s absolutely vital I know if anything is remotely wrong, this event mustn’t go wrong.”

“Something happened in the storage facility a few days ago, off the coast of the port.”

Mori’s thin eyebrows rose, eyes filled with bewilderment, and let out a soft gasp “An ambush?”

“Nothing of the sort. A disagreement. The Aryes’ weren’t satisfied with the price we were selling the armaments, Hirotsu tried to diffuse the situation but they weren’t happy but rather appalled and they tried to ‘shoot us down’” Dazai elucidated with a desolate look in his brown orbs.

“You said tried?”

“Yes, there were several victims on their side, but that was so long ago.”

“That’s good. But you must help me pick a dress for Elise.” Mori beamed with excitement.

‘What a pervert’ he thought to himself as Mori got off on the thought of Elise wearing a dress he has chosen, “No, I have to do something before the event later this evening.” He politely declined, ready to take his leave he twisted on his heel and positioned himself in front of the door, he waited on Mori’s reply.

“Ah. Oh, the lackey we sent off this morning to deliver that invitation to a Mister Nakahara, he said that the guest took the invitation gingerly. Are you sure it’s wise inviting Dostoevsky’s love interest?” Mori chided glancing, at each dress on the racks with the matching accessories, in awe. Dazai shrugged, dismissively.

“Fyodor and I have unfinished business so it’s wise enough.”

“I should warn you Fyodor’s ability is extremely remarkable it’s a shame we couldn’t scout him.”

“Of course. I know that Mori-san, I was in business with him.” He said, opening the door and briskly walking out.

Dazai looked toward the sky, the sky is a thick blanket of fog hovering thirty feet or so from the frigid ground. Branches newly bereft of leaves stretch up toward it, disappearing into the white as it their tips were yet to be painted on the brilliant canvas above.

Dostovesky. Nakahara. What a futile pair. 

He pulls out his phone and checks the time, "Two O’clock I should probably get back to HQ, Hirotsu wants to see me." he thought to himself.

Chapter Text

Behind the darkened windows of the Lexus, the man checked his rearview mirror. Damn freeways. It was three-friggin'-o'clock in the afternoon and he still had to slalom around a steady stream of cars. He stepped on the gas – half out of his mind with exasperation.

One hundred. That was above the speed limit but he didn’t care—it was nearing the time of the Charity Event and he still hadn’t reached HQ. What would Hirotsu want?

One hundred and ten. Surely it wasn’t anything serious, but as he knew, on the port there was a shooting with that overseas family, Aryes.

The Lexus shimmied under the strain of the speed. He let up and dropped to ninety-five.

Ahead of a pod of cars pooled as they approached Otome Road. Crazily he thought they looked like a pin set up at the bowling alley. Not that he visited bowling alleys anymore—he wasn’t the most social child, Hell he tried to kill himself to get rid him of being social—but he made the connection.

It would be so easy to end it all right here – just keep going like a bowling ball and take them all down in one fabulous strike. It sure as hell would solve all his problems. Maybe even he would be better off. Then again, the people in those cars might not want to end theirs so definitely.

Never one to like collateral damage if he could avoid it, Dazai went for the gutter, swinging onto the shoulder of the freeway, narrowly missing the concrete divider that kept him from veering into oncoming traffic. He was clear again, leaving terror in his wake, flying toward his destination.

The Lexus transitioned to an opening. It was clear sailing all the way to South Yokohama Highway where the freeway came to an abrupt end, spitting him out onto a wide intersection before he was ready. The tires squealed amid the acrid smell of burning rubber. The Lexus shivered, the rear end fishtailing as he fought for control. Finally, the car came to a stop, angled across two lanes.

Shit. Death by head-on collision wasn’t in the top ten suicide list.

Dazai breathed hard. He sniffled and blinked and listened to his heartbeat. He hadn't realized how fast she'd been going until just this minute. His head whipped around. No traffic. A dead spot in the maze of Yokohama freeways, surface streets, transitions, and exits. His hands were fused to the steering wheel. Thank God. No police officers. Police officers were the last thing he wanted to see tonight; the last people he ever wanted to see; he’d have to kill them.

Suddenly his phone rang. He jumped and scrambled, forgetting where he had put it. He rummaged in his coat pockets and tapped the answer button.

“What?”

“Hirotsu texted you an hour ago, Dazai-san.”

“What?”

“Hirotsu told me to inform you, that he texted an hour ago for you to see him in HQ.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Yes. But he is under the pretenses that you have not received his message.”

“Well I did and I’d like it if you stop pestering me, uh?”

Dori.”

“Dori. I don’t want another call.”

“Yes but-“

His head fell onto the steering wheel; the phone was still at his ear. He almost laughed. Some minimum wage idiot was worried about him.

“Goddamnit that son of a bitch could have got me killed, rushing to see that old man," he whispered and turned off the phone. His arm fell to his side. The phone fell to the floor. A few minutes later he sat up and pushed back his hair. Everything would be fine if he just kept his wits about him and got where he was going—the only thing bothering him was the possibility that Dostoevsky may not turn up but if he did it correctly the Russian would turn up if he knew what was best for his lover.

Taking a deep breath he put both hands back on the wheel. He’d damn well finish what he started the way he always did. As long as he was smart he’d all be okay.

Easing his foot off the brake he pulled the Lexus around until he was in the right lane and started to drive.

“Dazai-san, I’m glad you could make it this evening, upon such short notice.” Hirotsu bows, half-heartedly but then turns to his liquor cabinet and pulls out a well aged, whiskey. Dazai’s eyes watch closely as Hirotsu accompanies his whiskey—which Dazai isn’t familiar with—with two beautiful crystal glasses. Hirotsu smirks once noticing Dazai’s awe-inspired gaze, he places the glasses down and summons Dazai closer.

Dazai does so, he stares at the bottle.

Eyes widening at the name, “Is that-?”

He doesn’t finish his sentence because Hirotsu is already nodding, with a smug smile, “The Macallan Valerio Adami 1926 60-year-old. I received it as a consolation from the head of the Aryes, he was absolutely appalled with the way they behaved.”

“And thought he would give you the most expensive whiskey in the world. My own whiskey looks like shit compared to that.” Dazai gushes reaching for the bottle but it is retracted too soon from his reach, he tuts,  “I hope you didn’t call me to show off your luxury whiskey, that was auctioned off anonymously for $1,066,953.60.”

“I guess we know who the anonymous was.” He chided twisting the sealed cap off, then tipping a satisfactory amount in each glass, after he was satisfied he passed one to dazai with a smile, “I thought I'd tell you that we have recently received word from your Russian, saying that he’ll attend the sick event we are putting on but—“

“But what? Does he have demands?”

“Dostoevsky demands to know what your true intentions are.” Hirotsu explains, massaging his whiskey between his palms, “I had one of the lackeys just explain that it’s an event to which some civilians like his lover happened to be invited to and that he didn’t have to accompany him if it'd be distasteful.”

Dazai shook his head with laughter, “True intentions? That would be telling, the nerve of some people Hirotsu-san.”

“The nerve.” He agreed.

They stood in a comfortable silence before one of the underdogs opened the door abruptly, alerting the two mafiosos in the room, “Mori-san requests you all be ready and alert for the event by eight this evening.” The two men nodded their heads and the lackey shut the door to which Dazai smiled at Hirotsu.

“I must get going, thank you for the whiskey. I should bother you in the future for more.” Dazai chided, knocking back the rest of his whiskey, he swallowed thickly and bowed before Hirotsu, “We’ll reconvene this evening I suppose?”

“We must.” He inclined his head and watched Dazai take his leave.


“Fyodor?” Chuuya called from their bedroom, in a slight frenzy, he needed to look his best. This wasn’t just any event, it was a Port Mafia event as much as Chuuya wanted to deny it he had heard such great things about the cold-blooded killers he couldn’t not—not go to the event, it would be extravagant.

“Fyodor?” He tried again. Did he go out? When did he leave? He peaked his head around his door, “He must have left.”

He shrugged and glanced back at the outfit on his bed for tonight, he was hoping Fyodor was here so he could ask if he liked his outfit because Fyodor would usually have an opinion on what he’d wear. Too informal? Too formal? Too inappropriate?

He sighed and ambled toward the bed. This outfit would do, he would look okay, it was only a basic slim-fitted suit. All he had to do was wait for tonight and Fyodor to return.

“I hope this goes well.” He whispers to himself.


Every single guest at the villa is taking in the glittering splendor of their surroundings, reducing themselves to being just another collection of ornaments to set off the beauty of the rooms as they turn left and right. The warm light all the while glinting off their jewels, their hair, the fabric clinging to their skin.

While he walks through the halls, approaching the ballroom, Dazai is just a part of the crowd. But no one takes in the glamour around them with as cold and calculated an eye as he does. Dazai doesn’t gawk or gape isn’t fazed by either the glittering lights or the shining marble. He has seen places like this many times before, and he’s always left them worse than he found them.

Even if the crowd would not have moved towards it as one, the music would still have led the way to where the main festivities are taking place. Even though there are plenty of rooms, their doors half ajar, from which equal sounds of enjoyment seem to emerge.

The ballroom, however, is the glorious source of the sweeping melody that pulls every guest’s step into nearly the same rhythm. At least twice a dozen pairs of feet glide across the polished, inlaid floor, some more skillful than others, but all following the same demanding notes. Dazai can feel it wrap around his throat, pulling his gaze to the throng of dancers, but he doesn’t follow —any of them they aren't who he is searching for.

Instead, he looks towards the table, laden with the most expensive food Nice has to offer. 

Pretty basic, good going Mori-san.

People are flocking around it like birds, betraying exactly which ones of them are used to such displays and which ones can’t help but scoff themselves, still enamored with what bores those that know no better.

Dazai doesn’t even look at the feast on the table. His eyes are fixed on the orchestrator of all this opulence, or rather, at the trophy by his side.

“Where are you, Dostoevsky?”


Chuuya would be as beautiful in a glittering gown like a woman just as he is in one of his tailored suit he looks good either way, but Fyodor doesn’t like his accessories. Not the heavy diamonds weighing down his slender neck and not the possessive, caviar-stained fingers wrapped around his left wrist. The man – Fyodor knows his name but refuses to remember it – drags Chuuya’s hand towards him, kissing the pale fingers, and Chuuya smiles. He smiles with those soft, plump lips, that have been stained with the dye from the red wine, and with his eyes wide and coy.

Fyodor stares, almost glares. Neither of them sees him. Why would they? He is being ignored, by Chuuya and these sinful grubby men.

It’s very rarely that Fyodor wants to be seen, but he also rarely stands out as little as he does here without even trying. Everywhere around him, with clothes that are nearly costumes, and more than one person whose attire is only pretending to be as fine as that of the person beside them.

Fyodor finds one of the genuine ones. A girl wearing a splendorous mix of expensive silk and spoilt boredom. He doesn’t address her, doesn’t bow, he merely looks down into her eyes and holds out his hand. And she takes it—was she sent over by somebody? He scans the crowd and sets his eyes on a familiar set of bandages.

Dazai Osamu.

Dazai wanted him distracted. Sending guests over to peruse his lover while he was feet away—glaring and swearing.

Dancing is just another trick. Just another balance of blending in and standing out. Fyodor knows how to dance. He’s pulling every unoccupied eye in his direction for a moment and the pliant little thing in his arms preens with gratified vanity. Fyodor is only interested in one pair of eyes, and he displays the girl to the room like a prop, putting her in the spotlight so he can glance up from behind it.

Dazai is no longer seated at the table. He glances to the left of him, swiftly twirling the dainty girl with his arm.

Chuuya is no longer beside him. Rather Chuuya, his fiery redhead is nowhere to be seen.

The dance ends and Fyodor casts his partner off to another man without a second glance. He turns around, whatever show of dissatisfaction there might be visible on his face safely hidden behind his bored stoic facade, and watches how the crowd parts for Chuuya—who seemed to be following a mating call.


Dazai waits for the redhead to get to a safe line of view before deciding to peruse his trail. He looks and preys upon the redhead how a lion renders the antelope.

Without a single glance left or right to Dostovesky, Dazai glides towards the red-head, looking absolutely breath-taking in all the wrong ways. His face is obscured by nothing but a fine set of curls painted in red that displayed the utmost of beauty, trimmed to perfectly frame his face. It’s nothing but shows, displaying his features instead of hiding them, flaunting his beauty in the sea of paper, wood and leather faces.

He knows why Fyodor Dostoyevsky was infatuated with him.

This man was uncanny, desirable and radiated and received lust.

Dazai can feel his heart pulse with every step he takes, but he doesn’t move. He waits for Chuuya to come to him, standing unmoving, surrounded by liveliness.

Chuuya smiles at him, and glances at him from under downturned lashes, and offers him a hand in greeting. Of course, they’ve never met before.

Dazai takes it, but he doesn’t speak. All glittering softness. Like a creature that’s been dressed in dove’s down for so long, it has forgotten it’s a viper underneath.

The orchestra is striking up a waltz, however, and he came all this way for one thing only. Unseen, his lips form a sneeringly courteous smile.

“Would your master feel very angry if I begged this dance of you?” His voice he speaks in suits the venue, it matches his suit and the gold-stained face he is wearing. It is not his own. Chuuya is taken back, he could be disrespectful and decide to make a scene. But Fyodor would be angry, he just couldn’t be bothered by Fyodor’s temperamental state. So he inclined his head.

Chuuya repays him in kind. “I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want me to be…” Dazai nods, casting a harsh gaze onto the crowd.

Dazai bristles with barely hidden disgust, his eyes darting to Dostovesky, who was holding a glass at the head of the table. He’s looking in their direction with an unsmiling, unsatisfied sort of fascination.

Abruptly, roughly, Dazai takes Chuuya’s hand and pulls him towards him, one arm wrapping around his waist. If the bastard wants a show he can have one. Chuuya follows willingly, but Dazai can just feel the hesitation of surprise in him. It’s only there for an instant though before  Dazai deliberately presses up against him—like an Alpha would do its Omega, carefully hidden triumph sparkling deep in his eyes.

“I always knew you were a dancer.”

“Always?” Chuuya recoils in his arms, “We’ve only just met.”

“Upon observation, of course.”

“Of course, you’re the perceptive type.” Dazai digs his fingers in Chuuya’s waist at the sound of his voice, sultry and captivating.


Fyodor watched and listened closely, his real voice. It was no more than a secretive whisper, but his voice , not the sickeningly demure drawl he used with the other people within the event he conversed with. That carefully crafted parody of his own voice that he always uses in places like this. Why would he do such a thing? Fyodor clenched his fist.


But they continue to dance, Chuuyas’ ears nearly deaf to the music and his feet left to find their way through the steps on instinct. All he feels is Dazai pressed against him and the anger twisting under his ribs at his own relief.

“Your master is watching,” he observes. It’s his own voice that passes his lips, so close to Chuuya’s ear that no one else will be able to hear it, lifting away from his ear with a smirk shot to Fyodor who was uncharacteristically seething.

Not a shiver in response from Chuuya, not even a single shadow on his flawless face. “I know…” he answers dreamily, “He doesn’t like this, he might get angry with me.”

For a single moment, Dazai’s certainty wavers and to his dread, Chuuya feels it. He smiles, the cruel delight of gratified vanity lighting up his eyes. Dazai might have pulled away from him, but suddenly Chuuya is suddenly pressing against him even closer, resting his head against Dazai’s chest while they turn.

It’s still a game, still the persona—pretending to not know who Chuuya is and who’s he is, but there is a shift in the way Chuuya’s body feels on his body. No longer quite so easily led, the soft fingers tightening their grip just a little, and his voice— His voice is as voluptuous as he remembered.

“You know Fyodor?” He whispers.

“I was going to kill him last month but I let him slip through my fingers,” he murmurs, his breath brushing past Chuuya’s neck, “You shouldn’t associate yourself with him.”

What?”

“Fyodor is dangerous. You shouldn’t be infatuated with him.” His voice became harsh and imperative. Chuuya pulled away, with wide eyes, “His intentions aren’t pure enough for you.”

Who are you?

Dazai takes Chuuya’s pale dainty hand and raises it to his puckered lips, “Dazai Osamu.” Before Chuuya could reply and ask questions, he was jerked backward by a firm familiar grip, his back collided with a firm chest.

“I think you’ve had enough socialising, Chuuya. It’s best we leave.” Fyodor growled, glaring at Dazai who had a smug smile painted on his face, “This man is no good for you.”

“Fyodor Dostoevsky. Should you really be lecturing Chuuya to who he should socialize with?” Dazai chided with a menacing smile, that irked Fyodor as he tensed and rutted against Chuuya’s flaccid body.

“He is mine. So I’ll tell him whatever I please without input from a sinner like you.”

“Yours? Do you hear that Chuuya, you're a dog to this Russian pig.” Dazai hissed.

“He is my lover, our relationship has nothing to—“

“I don’t even know you, Dazai. I would like it if you’d stop with these inconsistent lies your spouting about Fyodor. You don’t know him.” Fyodor smirks, like his pet had performed the trick they’d been over several times, Dazai’s eye possess somewhat harsh sorrow. How pitiful Nakahara, Dazai was offering Chuuya a way out of whatever they called it.

Dazai smiles, he reaches into his pocket and gives a piece of card to chuuya with his mobile number on it, to which Fyodor seethes and spits like gasoline to an open fire, “Call me if you need to Chuuya.” He turned around and dispersed into the throng of people, Chuuya tried to follow him but he was gone before he knew it.


Fyodor twirls Chuuya around, with a possessive glare he spoke, demanding and explicitly, “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Chuuya.” He warns.

“Nothing, he only said he knew of you.” Chuuya confesses with a sad groan, “I started talking about this party…” He tips his head back far enough to meet Fyodors’ eyes, a deeply gratified shine hidden in their depths. “I wanted to see if you’d come because I was jealous of that woman you got to dance with you…”

Fyodor’s mouth thins behind his mask, Chuuya is lying. He is adamant he is.

“And you were jealous,” Fyodor purrs. “Just for me.”

The music keeps going, their feet keep moving, but Fyodor is barely aware of it anymore. One twist of Chuuya’s wrists behind his back. Let that Dazai see just how easy it would be to take away what he thinks is his to command.

Maybe he’d even let him chase them, just so he could find Chuuya with that perfect hair disheveled all over his pretty face, with marks bitten into his neck.

Chuuya smiles into his invisibly contorted face. “Fyodor—”

Fyodor's right-hand moves and he grabs Chuuya by the back of his neck, driving the glittering diamonds into his skin with his gloved hand and squeezing just hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to see Chuuya’s lips part in an involuntary gasp and make his eyes widen with a genuine thrill.

He brings his face close enough to kiss him, the mask nearly their only separation. “Don’t speak to that man, Dazai Osamu.”

Chuuya’s throat works as he swallows, making no attempt to break free. “Or what?” he asks, nearly eager and nearly breathless.

“Or I'll kill him myself, in front of you”

Chapter Text

Tension bound the two together: an immaterial soup of discomfort which unfurled over a musky leather interior and exerted an expanding inner force against the shell of the car. Fyodor, whose vice-like grip on the wheel had remained since the journey's start, pictured steel panels buckling under the stress of the situation. Chuuya felt his skull was to suffer a similar fate as the steering wheel, Fyodor’s grip tightened further still.

Chuuya sat directly beside Fyodor. He remained quiet for some unknown reason. Fyodor’s white knuckles irritated him. The silence irritated him. The look of anger strapped to Fyodor's face next to him irritated him. Even the heat, the sole solace the night had offered, irritated him. Its only escape was through the crack between the car-paneling and the window which Chuuya stared awkwardly out of.

The drive continued. If an accident didn’t kill them, perhaps the tension would.

“Fyodor? What’s with you lately?” Chuuya asked, his hands finding their ways to the door handle which his hand unintentionally gripped tightly, but Fyodor didn’t answer rather he remained cemented to the steering wheel staring off into the dark dimly lit streets, “You’ve been acting awfully angry with me and I haven’t done anything remotely wrong. I didn’t ask to be invited there, I didn’t even ask that bandaged-freak to dance with me.” He confessed, with a slight pout playing on his lips.

“Chuuya. You give me nothing but reasons to be angry with you.” His face remained stoic but Chuuya could see he was getting agitated, “Dancing with Dazai Osamu, Satan himself. Do you know how that makes me feel? Seeing such a sinful pest sniffing around you,” he lets out a condescending laugh, borderline patronizing, But Chuuya remains hushed now, “Allowing him to touch your delicate unblemished skin, you looked like a whore.”

“Such tomfoolery happening before my very eyes and you—” he seizes Chuuya’s slim leg, giving it a harsh pull, his nails pressed through the fabric and to Chuuya’s leg hard enough to draw blood, Chuuya’s eyes filled with water, “You let it happen. So, you have no right to be shocked and distraught Your actions have consequences. A punishment should be put in place.”

No. Not that. The car pulled up to their apartment building. The engine was off and only pitiful silence resided between both.

“F-Fyodor, I-I didn’t mean it.” He confessed putting his porcelain hand over Fyodor’s trying to reason with him, it was no use, he wouldn’t care, “H-he wanted to dance with me, s-saying such h-horrible things about you b-but I didn’t believe h-his l-lies.” He mewled, hands reaching for Fyodor’s face, but he dodged the imploring hands.

“Have you learnt your lesson?” he asked.

“Y-yes, I-I won’t do it again. I’ll stay away from him, forever.”

“Go straight to the bedroom when we get in,” Fyodor ordered, opening the driver’s door and got out refusing to hear Chuuya’s astonishment at the request. He ventured into the apartment leaving Chuuya in the stationary vehicle.

When Chuuya finally plucked up the courage to enter his apartment, he made a straight beeline for the bedroom, closing the door behind him. He soullessly staggered to the bed and sat on the edge. Staring at his feet he heard the door re-open and close. For some uncanny reason he couldn't breathe, it felt as if someone was choking him. His heart was racing and all he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and wait for someone to save him. But no one would no one was there only Fyodor.

It pains him when Fyodor throws him against the headboard of the bed. A painful reminder of how out of the loop he is, even though he fought every day to keep himself in shape for things like this—it’s no match for him. Physically, he’s in shape. Mentally, he was malnourished.

His lips are against Chuuya’s and Fyodor’s hands rough on his unsuspecting body. One on his shoulder, the other in the back of his suit pants. He rocks against him, his teeth bite into Chuuya’s lip and again Chuuya is helpless to stop him. Chuuya’s fists against his chest mean nothing. He shakes them off like he can't even feel them.

Chuuya growls against his lips, and rock’s his body from side to side, desperate to escape this. It's too much, and to damned familiar.

Even if it feels so wrong. A choked cry for help forced itself up his throat, and he felt a drop run down his cheek. It seemed as if this was the end of the road for him.

"Chuuya," he groans against his lips, his erection thick and insistent against his crotch. Chuuya, thankfully, isn’t reacting, which he should be grateful for, but he can’t find in himself. As disgusted as he is by the fact that he's trying to ride His lap, he feels the small familiar burn of desire.

His hands, calloused and rough and so very strong, scour his body. It's like he sets him on fire with his passion and his desire and his exuberance. A leg thrusts between him and there's a knee pressed to his balls. And his back does not arch as his hand slides around his neck, cupping it threateningly beneath his chin.

"Don't do this, Fyodor," he grunts. He forces his body to stop, to rest. But he knows that it's pointless. He won't. Not until Fyodor rests too. Not until he is satisfied with his punishment. And he's not going to rest until, apparently, he's forced his cock inside Chuuya, “Please.”

"Shut up," he moans. His hips move quick and dirty, thrusting against Chuuya, heavy and determined as he snaps them forward. The hand around his neck forces he back, into the bed, with his face looking up. Fyodor bites his neck, sucking hard and painful, “You made me do this.”

He groans because it used to be one of the things that he enjoyed with him until he gave himself stupidly and unintentionally to Dazai Osamu. He was to blame.

"Fyodor," he pants, pushing against him. "Please, please don't."

Fyodor steps back, breaking his hands away from his body. Without meaning to, he gasps in heavy breaths of relief. It’s Over.

There's no warning, no alert before Fyodor's got his hands on his hips and Chuuya’s dress pants are low; he is now exposed. Wrapped tight around spread thighs. One hand wrapped around his flaccid cock, the other is shoving a dry finger deep into his body.

He threw his head back against the bed and whimper in pain. In more than a year, he hasn’t had anything like this. He isn’t used to the intrusion that Fyodor's trying to force on him.

His brain stutters into realization.

Fyodor's going to rape him. Right here.

Fyodor's going to rape him.

Tears gather and slip free, and he isn’t able to stop them. There's nothing he can do. All he can do is wait until he's done.

Fyodor’s finger frees itself from Chuuya’s body, and he spits into his hand before shoving two fingers into him.

He let his mind drift. Once, he had shared something beautiful with Fyodor. He had given his body to him, trusting him to love him as he'd loved him. Deeply, passionately. When he had, he never imagined anything like this. He never imagined that Fyodor would rape him—at least not again.

He clings to his shirt, and the sheets, desperate to anchor himself in the waves of pain. Fruit floats up in the air, something sweet, and it turns his stomach.

He clenched His eyes shut, grateful that at least he isn’t hardening at the contact from Fyodor's fingers. He pushes up, pressing himself flush against him, and he didn't really remember him opening his pants but they’re undone.

His fingers slid out of him, and because they're dry, they pull at the muscles, and it's a terrible, painful feeling. "Fyodor, don't," he grotesquely panted into the air. The only two words he can possibly offer him. Desperate to get him to listen, but unable to beg and implore much longer.

Fyodor kisses him, and it's nippy and obscene before he turns Chuuya around and presses Chuuya into the sheets. His shoulder hits the pillows, it offers some sort of childish comfort it hugs him. It doesn't mean anything, because Fyodor's pulling his hips back as he thrusts forward.

It's a shameful mockery of what had once been between them. It's painful, and it rips through him without mercy. The tears pour freely, relentlessly. Hot rivers of shame as his lover fucks him open.

It seems like a small eternity since he started thrusting into him, and it's going to last a small eternity longer.

When Fyodor releases deep inside him, it's like a fire being lit within his body. He cries out in shame and something else he can't explain. He falls against Chuuya, panting heavily against His neck as he gathers himself.

"God, Chuuya," he gasps against his bitten shoulder. "Stop making me hurt you." He lays on top of Chuuya for a while before rolls away from him. Fyodor stands at the bedside table, reinstating his disheveled clothing as Chuuya just lays lifeless and limp on the sheets naked, “I’m cooking dinner, would you like anything?”

Chuuya shuffles and looks up to Fyodor who stoically stares at him, “You said you wouldn’t do that again…” he murmurs, hiding behind the sheets.

“Do what again? Make you lunch?” Fyodor brushes off, ignoring Chuuya’s true meaning to his words, “Stop being so ridiculous.” Chuuya doesn’t respond but ignorantly flips over to the other side facing the wall, Fyodor sighs.

“Don’t be like that, I’ll call you for dinner.”

“M’not hungry.”

“You have to eat. You’ll be sick, just shower before coming out.” The door shut and Chuuya let out a deep breath of relief. He lay on the bed, blood and cum seeping from between his legs, wrists aching. There would be no doctor, no evidence, and now Fyodor would be his groveling lover until he lost his temper all over again. Already, he could smell the aroma of fancy cooking, a meal he'd never be able to eat through the pain that cut each breath short.


 

Chuuya walked leisurely to the shower, steam filling the room as he cut the shower on. He bathed his skin lightly, taking careful notice not to touch the bruises that scattered his body. His mind was in shreds; he could never get that picture out of his mind. Fyodor preying over him. His eyes fell closed over and over, each time showing me the images like photographs. The water pours down, it drips by his side, as his mind fades into dullness and everything is a foggy illusion. The sensation of the steamy water calms him; it takes his mind off things. All the things he honestly didn't care about. It's the water. His mind swirls, and it's like he’s standing under an everlasting waterfall. Ever so beautiful, but it can never last, he knows that now.

When he finally enters their dining room, calling it a dining-room was somewhat misleading. It was a room. They ate in it, Families/lovers eat in dining rooms, they weren’t lovers, Fyodor is seated at the table with their meals place in front of him. He was wearing loose fitted clothes, oversized and baggy so that it hid and smothered his body. He sat across from his lover who smiled up at him; this game of playing house was a joke. Fyodor pushes Chuuya’s meal in front of him, Beef Stroganoff, usually he could stomach Fyodor’s Russian Cuisine but not right now, especially when it was something immediately connected with Fyodor; almost rooted within him.

His fork pushes around the mushrooms and thin cuts of beef in the thick gloop off-white sauce, he eats the pasta that is the bedding for the meal. He can feel Fyodor’s eyes bore into him, “Are you not hungry?”

“I don’t have much of an appetite.” He murmurs, watching the gloopy sauce move around his plate like it was over-run with maggots just the thought makes his stomach turn and twist, “I might just eat it later.”

“You should eat it now, get your strength up.”

“Yeah, a few spoonful’s, I can do that.” He takes a loaded heap of the beef and mushrooms and shovels it into his mouth, and with a few agonizing chews he swallows it, “It’s good.” He forces out.

“My mother taught me before she unfortunately passed.” He chided, he doesn’t sound particularly sound upset or dejected it scares Chuuya, how can he be so stoic and fruitful while talking about a person who had birthed him?

He hums in acknowledgment, “Yeah, it’s different from what you’ve cooked before.”

“I thought you’d like some comfort food of sorts.”

Well, it clearly is traumatizing Chuuya not comforting him, Fyodor can see it in his eyes, Chuuya knows he can, “I’m full, I can’t stomach anymore.” He mumbles pushing his plate away.

“Are you sure?”

Very.”

“Do you—”

“I’m just going to bed.” he pushes his chair away, with a loud screech. Heading towards the archway, he whispers a bitter “Goodnight.”

“Are you forgetting something, Chuuya?” Fyodor asks, Chuuya’s pauses mid-step and swallows thickly. Twisting his body around he made his way beside Fyodor who looked up to him with idolisation, Chuuya leans down his hand cradles the back of Fyodor’s neck and squeezes it gently, firmly, he glances up with an acquiescent flicker of eyelashes when Chuuya hooks a thumb in Fyodor's mouth and widens it with a tug,  finally sets his lips on Fyodor's and slips his tongue in, it's like a snake has infiltrated his mouth. But then the kiss is like Fyodor's being rewarded for preying upon him. Chuuya knew just when he wouldn't be able to take it anymore. He pulls away instantly when he feels Fyodor’s hands grope his battered body, “Stop.”

“What? You usually like that?” he tries to grab at Chuuya, but he backs away.

“Just—I’m just tired. I’m going to bed.” He gulps and massaging the back of his neck, “I-I love you.”

“Me too.” He states firmly.

I hate you. Goes unsaid.

Chapter Text

He awoke to soft sheets, and the morning light trickled in through the blinds. Shedding himself of the remaining covers, his eyes were still shut as he soaked in the warmth of his covers before letting his blue eyes see the sun's rays.

Waking up is no longer the pleasure it was he concluded as he rouse. He supposed this was something the majority of people would consider beautiful—waking up, but he found it strange, hard even, to find something so meaningful in something so trivial, he didn’t want to wake up.

Because waking up for Chuuya lately, can be really harsh, especially if his dreams are better than reality. The saddest part of it is, though, that eventually even the memory of his dream will fade - if he is even lucky enough to remember it that is.

He is left with this lonely feeling of detachment, left to explore in the empty void of emotions, the only proof that he ever had the dream to begin with.

There is also a fleeting moment when he is whole again but it evaporates faster than summer rain off the burnt earth. Then his lids that were drooping and leaden with sleep snap open as violently as if he’d been woken by sirens.

So by the time his eyes are open his brain has become overwhelmed all over again as if it were all new, fresh, raw. He wished he could linger in that blissful ignorance of waking or else never sleep. Fyodor. Preying over him, it made him feel small and insufficient. He made him feel like he’d committed a crime, all he did was dance with another man—solely platonic. Why couldn’t Fyodor see that?

But he enjoyed it too much. Watching Chuuya suffer. He derived some sort of sadistic pleasure in watching him cry. Chuuya glances to the vacant spot beside him, the spot that used to hold some sort of sentimental reverence about it but now all he could offer it was disgust and mellow rage.

He averted his gaze toward the windows, and watched as the sun streaks penetrated through the room.He sat up, and dragged his feet off the bed, and rubbed his knuckles on his eyes. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. He watched his legs dangle above the white polyester carpet.

He made a non-committal grunt and finally stood up, if he had it his way he’d just mope around all day and lounge in their bedroom, even as unpleasant as that would be. Laying and wallowing in self pity on a bed he’d been abused on—it would make him exceedingly more pathetic. Just thinking back to the night before caused a wave of trepidation and disgust wash over him.

Soon enough Chuuya finds himself out of his bed and in his lounge. He didn’t spot Fyodor anywhere so he must have been at work not that Chuuya actually knew what he got up to in the day time. The fact that this Dazai Osamu knew what Fyodor did made him question all of Fyodor’s whereabouts and statements he’d said regarding the Port Mafia and Sheep at the time.

He made himself a small breakfast of leftover miso soup from the day before. He didn’t really have much of an appetite as memories from the night before kept replaying at a constant speed in his head. Each time he remembered the look on Fyodor’s face, cynical and disturbing he never thought Fyodor would actually do that again, he apologised and promised he wouldn’t and even with Chuuya’s frightening cries he still ignored.

He could smell semen and sweat with no source—he had showered the night before but the scent of Fyodor lingered, in his hair, on his skin, his taste still on his tongue. The scent was as strong as it was on the night before.

He stared into the soup, and his dishevelled reflection was returned. Weeping and discoloured. His heart rate accelerated and he attempted to control his breathing rate as he looked down at his meal.The odour and reflection took him back to his insides burning, ripped, bleeding. They took him back to lying naked and lifelessly on the sheets. He tutted at the repulsive soup and pushed it away. He didn’t have an appetite at all even for something as light as soup.

While staring at his dish in disgust he heard the lock to the front door click: Fyodor was back from his questionable excursion. All of a sudden Fyodor was beside him staring down at the bowl that was a few spaces in front of Chuuya. His firm hands clasped Chuuya’s slender shoulders making him jolt with unintentional shock.

“I was going to wake you earlier but I thought you’d need the rest after the night you’ve had.” Fyodor said, “I’m glad you rested well.” Chuuya’s shoulders tensed.

“We need to talk.” Chuuya’s demand came out a lot smaller and less firmer than he had imagined, as if a child had taken over his voice, “Please.”

Fyodor removed his hands from Chuuya’s tense shoulders and sat beside him, with a unidentifiable expression painted on his face, “Talk? About what?” He reached for Chuuya’s hands but Chuuya flinched and stood up his chair causing the unnecessary screech that filled the room.

“Please don’t touch me. Right now.” He begged. Fyodor nodded: what could he do exactly?

“Okay.” He put his hands up, “What do you want to talk about?”

"You know what," he replied calmly. There was a strain in his voice that only he could recognise. One that Fyodor had heard many times before so he should be remorseful, apologetic, mournful just something instead of stoic and unreadable.

“No I don’t know what Chuuya. Our relationship has been running smoothly other than a few mistakes on your behalf we’ve been fine.” He said with a smug smile. Chuuya stared back in dismay.

“Mistakes?” He panted, his breath coming in short pants. His heart beat became relentless pounding against his rib cage, he was in shock. How could Fyodor say that he made mistakes?

“Yes. Your mistakes.” He affirmed.

“I did nothing wrong Fyodor.” He growled, “I did nothing wrong. I didn’t lead anyone on, he came on to me. I told him to leave and you took it out on me.” He added meekly. Fyodor made him feel so insignificant.

“You allowed him to dance with you. You allowed him to kiss your delicate, pure, porcelain, hairless hand. You allowed him to put his blood stained hands on your body. You allowed him to grope your body.” He stated matter-of-factly, Chuuya listened intently to the words he was spouting he was trying to guilt-trip him when he did nothing remotely wrong. He was being obsessive and possessive and it was overwhelming, “Your actions have consequences Chuuya so you can’t blame anyone but yourself.”

Chuuya’s loose fingers found themselves pulled into a firm fist at Fyodor’s accusing words, How dare he?

“I didn’t deserve that last night. Not ever. Not even for the things you are accusing me of, Fyodor.” He spat, he was now seething.

“Deserve what?” He asked innocently.

“You raped me.”

“You’re my lover, whenever we have intercourse it’s consensual. Like last night it was consensual, Chuuya.” He smirked, it was infuriating, last night was far from consensual. Punishing him for wrongdoings he didn’t commit, “If you didn’t like it, you should have said so.”

“You’ve did it before, you take advantage of me and think things can go back to the way it was—it just won’t happen Fyodor,” He cried, his fists trembling at his sides, biting his lip he swallowed the large bile in his throat, “I think it’s best we take some time apart.”

“I’m sure that will be fine until you come back to your senses.” He shrugged slowly coming to his feet to stand in-front of Chuuya’s trembling body.

“For good. I want some time apart forever.” Chuuya bit out quickly, a sigh of relief left his lungs.

“No.”

“H-huh?” Chuuya gulped.

“No. We aren’t breaking up, you’re mine Chuuya. Time apart, okay. But you aren’t leaving this relationship.” He affirmed, with a strong voice, Chuuya flinched and backed away from Fyodor his body hitting against the wooden dining table chair, “You’re weak Chuuya. Pathetic. Insignificant. Nothing. Nobody will want you the way I want you, your body is damaged, scarred and only I can see that your beautiful anyway. No one will appreciate you the way I do.”

“Stop trying to manipulate me into thinking these vile things, Fyodor.” He shook his head, with a few more steps back his foot hooked on the chair causing him to collide with the hard floor. Fyodor stood over him, to which Chuuya stared back in horror, “Look at yourself Chuuya. You are nothing,” he paused and got the discarded miso soup from the table holding it between his calloused hands, “Go clean yourself up.”

Chuuya gawked up baffled, “Clean—“ chuuya wasn’t able to finish his sentence as the lukewarm soup was doused over him, he gasped in shock and grit his teeth. Becoming frustrated tears began to fill his bright blue eyes, “W-why would you do that?” He questioned with a few pants.

“You’re filthy. Clean yourself up.” Fyodor reiterated before leaving Chuuya sitting on the hard wood floor surrounded by a moat of soup. He watches Fyodor leave, it’s that he just leaves unbothered and unnerved that gets under Chuuya’s skin. They have been together for a substantial amount of time and he knew nothing about Fyodor. Trust was a hardship in their relationship which Fyodor couldn’t seem to overcome but when ever he spoke to beautiful courtesans, Chuuya was supposed to remain beside him silently and abide by the rules he was given. There was a clear power shift since the start of their relationship; they were equals.

Now. Now Fyodor doesn’t know what the word Equal means.

Chuuya’s fingers skidded along the soaked wooden flooring, he’d have to clean this up this mess Fyodor had caused. Because Chuuya caused it asking for to much, becoming arrogant and cocky.

He was stupid. Stupid and naïve to think Fyodor actually cared about his wellbeing at least in a normal way. What he did was for Chuuya. But it didn’t feel like it.

Falling in love with Fyodor was just like falling in to a black hole. Once he entered it there was no coming back and the more deep he goes into it, it becomes more dark and intense. No matter how much love he gives, in return he will only get nothingness and utter disenchantment . His love is more like trap with no chance of escape or bolting. Now even he feels as if he is a victim of this fatal and paralysing disease they name as love, which in actuality is only a disguise for repugnance and revulsion.

The words from the night before at the gala with Dazai as they danced came rushing back.

“I was going to kill him last month,”

“You shouldn’t associate yourself with him.”

“Fyodor is dangerous. You shouldn’t be infatuated with him.”

“Yours? Do you hear that Chuuya, you're a dog to this Russian pig.”

These were all claimed to be lies. If Fyodor found out Chuuya was doubting his honest word that would put a very much larger wedge in their relationship not that it was much of a relationship. Master and Slave it could come across as to outsiders but it never used to be like this. Speak when spoken to. The first couple of months into their relationship would be regarded as the honeymoon stage. Then things—trivial things—started to show the cracks in their solid honest relationship.

He knew so little about Fyodor Dostoevsky he could barely call him an acquaintance but he has labelled him as a Lover.

How could he have been so naïve? The circumstances were so natural how could have they not fell in love—well at least Chuuya did.

The only person who would know the truth about Fyodor would be this ‘Dazai Osamu’ from the port mafia. He peered at the soup that surrounded him and grappled to his uncoordinated feet.

“Dazai Osamu.” He whispered gaze drifting towards his entryway.


When Fyodor finally came to check on Chuuya’s progress with cleaning up the mess he made—he was gone. Not a note in sight. How could he let Chuuya slip through his fingers.


Downtown at the Port Mafia HQ Dazai Osamu was seated at his desk cradling a glass of much needed whisky. Piercing, with his unbandaged eye, at the guard that bursted through his once closed doors, frantically.

“You better have a good reason for interrupting my ‘me’ time,” Dazai sighed.

“S-sorry Dazai-san. A Mister Nakahara Chuuya is here to see you.”He rambled, stumbling on a few words but Dazai deciphered it. Dazai’s eyes sparkled and shimmered with a mischievous glint and smirk increased in size. He gave it a time frame and it payed off, gambles like this are the things that keep him going.

“Well then, What are we waiting for? Send him up.”Dazai squealed like a teenage girl finally getting that car she’d always wanted. This side of him clearly frightened the guard as he was out of the room like a flash.

“Nakahara Chuuya.” He mumbled to himself, his whisky reflected the smirk he had painted on his face. It disappeared as soon as he felt an unnatural but natural presence in the room and once his beverage was gone.

His back was toward Chuuya. Ignorant and asserting his dominance, what could you expect from a Port Mafia dog. Stand-offish.

“So,” Dazai’s calm demeanour was left unwavering as he twisted on one heel to be met with his fiery temptress, drenched in god knows what, “How can I help you Chuuya?”

“Who is—tell me who Fyodor Dostoevsky is?”

“Your lover? The person who you undoubtedly trust, love, lust after, defend and protect? Surely you know him.”He said condescendingly. Chuuya clenched his fist and seethed.

“I thought I did.” He said pitifully, but with a firm internal curse, he reverts back to his angry self, “Tell me what you know. You seemed awfully content with spilling everything you knew about him the night of the Gala.”

“Have a seat.” He gestured to the seats before him, “I’ll tell you all you need to know about Fyodor Dostovesky.”

This is where it all begun. 

 

Chapter Text

Nothing is ever free, is it, his love? Everything he ever gave him was a debt, "remember who gave that to you, remember I did that for you." Every conversation is a subtle competition Fyodor is never prepared to loose, for even the smallest of infractions can bring on his anger.

He takes all the love Chuuya gives him like it is his right to have it, and in return he shows only the most superficial of understanding.

He dominates him, hurts him, wages war with him, when all Chuuya only ever wanted was love, understanding, peace. After his tantrums he would make him work for his affection all over again, make him beg, taking his self esteem and burning it to ashes.

He needs his "permission" to be friends with people, he gets antagonistic if he laughs too much with people he labeled “distasteful”. Is happiness offensive to him? Is Chuuya only allowed a certain quota before he can drag him down once more?

In conversations he set out for victory, switching topics, portraying himself as the victim, showing no empathy. In truth he is the bully, instilling fear, obligation and guilt, anything to fog up Chuuya’s mind, clouding his thinking.

He manipulated, showboated and vented. He only welcomed appeasers and ego strokers into their life. He bit his tongue for many years, poured love into him as the fixer-pleaser personality type Chuuya is, always wishing he could do more to help him.

Every time he went to leave, Fyodor wanted to "improve” and “better” himself which sucked Chuuya back in like a damn vacuum cleaner. It was temporary of course because he reverted back to his old ways and Chuuya was always a fool to believe him.

Now that he was seated across from Dazai who would tell him all about his so called lover he couldn’t help but feel unsettled. He’s heard about the truth being to overwhelming for some, he could be in the five percent that would deem it smothering and overwhelming.

He waited patiently for Dazai to begin his tale on knowing Fyodor for who he really is, his fingers scratched at the oak varnish splayed upon the desk, overall overwhelming, “So, What do you know about Fyodor?”

Dazai smiled, welcomingly to Chuuya’s surprise and dismay, he wanted it over, “Before I get into my excruciatingly lengthy origin story about Fyodor, I’d like to know what changed your mind—in a few hours.”

“There’s always a price with you criminals.” Chuuya snapped, instinctively, “I have to give you something for a return of sorts.”

“That’s how the world works. Everything has a price and you have to bare the cost.” He replied eerily, eyes squinting evaluating Chuuya. The accessing was felt, his scrutinising glare noticed but Chuuya bit inside his cheek gnawing at the wet flesh of his inner cheek similar to his own anxiety to his skull.

“You’re right,” he lamented mournfully leering at the bandaged brunette that returned a stoic gaze, “Nothing is free at all, is it? Love, friendships and family—all desired but costly.”

Heavily.” Dazai concluded, “What happened after you left our charity venue?”

Again, the sense of foreboding trapped him again in that moment similar to the charity night but the first night. No remorse. No emotion. Just an empty void. It was their first romantic getaway, Chuuya had suggested it and surprisingly he got a firm unambiguous ‘Yes, that would be amazing’ from Fyodor. It was amazing at the start, more than he could have ever wanted—a lover that actually loved him, cared for him, and just wanted to cherish and adore him. But he was stupid and foolish. Don’t get it wrong Fyodor was interested and invested in Chuuya but not emotionally.

But now Dazai’s question just reopened wretched wounds from the first time.

The searing shot of pain ran up the young man’s body, a scream escaping his pale lips as the devastating sounds bounced off the hotel walls. A man sat opposite the weeping Chuuya, an iron fire poker by his side. His hands were firmly clasped under his chin, a gleeful grin stretched across his face. He was handsome, yes, but his charm had long gone. His hair was long and unruly and dark circles outlined his blood shot eyes. His skin was paler than it once was, as he hadn't been outside for quite some time.

The man didn't seemed at all bothered by the screams that came from his victim—his lover—Chuuya. If anything, he seemed amused by his pain. His stony eyes stared down at the twitching body before him as if he were inspecting a freshly plucked turkey, all ready to go into oven. The flames that licked up the sides of the fireplace reflected off the beads of sweat that had settled on Chuuya’s forehead.

His agony was his entertainment.

After a time, his screams had subsided and his tormentor had grown bored with his silence. Sending a single kick to his stomach, the man stood and left, but not without giving one last lingering glance to the man he claimed to love.

“Chuuya?” Dazai’s concerned voice broke his heated thoughts and memories from the past—for a brief moment he forgot what he came for: Fyodor’s origin.

“Sorry. I...I lost my train of thought. The night of the gala, he—“ he paused, not knowing how to word his incident to an complete and utter stranger, “Fyodor has a short temper, exceedingly short temper. After seeing you and I ‘frolicking’ he got aggravated and irritable at me because I allowed you to put your hands on my body. He’s acted this way before but I didn’t expect it so soon mostly because it was you, we went home and he was still infuriated by my actions and—“

He cast his gaze downwards and away from Dazai who seemed to be invested in the nights unforgettable unfortunate events, why was it so hard to tell a total stranger, it was Dazai to break Chuuya’s silence with a grunt as he placed his palm on the desk a few inches away from Chuuya’s. They held a stare together before Chuuya broke it away, “And What?”

“I know it’s questionable. He is my lover so everything we do gets questioned—even I questioned it briefly. But that’s not how a relationship works, taking what ever you want whenever you deem it okay or fit for punishment—it’s not okay.” Chuuya rambled clasping his own hands together, slowly bringing them up to his mouth, a panic bewildered look shot in his eyes, “It’s not okay. I didn’t deserve it. N-not for something as stupid as dancing with you.”

“What did he do?” Dazai requested softly, opposite of his port Mafia personality he’d earlier shown, “Did he hurt you? Punch you, slap you, tie you up? What did he do?”

He knew when he saw Chuuya’s eyes brimming with tears that he should relent, stop prying but he continued on his pursuit, “What did he do to you Chuuya?!” He demanded, he wanted an answer.

“He raped me.”

“Wow.” He laughed, solemnly to Chuuya’s surprise who was silently crying across from him, “I didn’t think he’d actually do something as sick and twisted as that. To sexually take advantage of you—when he first told me about you, which I didn’t get it until a couple months back, he called you A5158.”

Chuuya’s eyes flashed as his tears came to an alternate stop and he locked eyes with brown ones, azure meeting maroon once again, he wiped at his eyes in quick succession, “How—A5158.”

Dazai shrugged, “He named you A5158, I of course asked him were he derived such an unnatural, unusual name from but he said that’s what you were called for the duration of your life in a quaint lab. It wasn’t until you were  freed you had a name—an alias to go by. Nakahara Chuuya.”

Chuuya remained silent, listening closely to what Dazai was explaining to him. Fyodor knew him before he knew himself—Fyodor had been observing him like a shepherd watched his sheep.

“Obviously, I wouldn’t mention your origin story unless it was crucial for Fyodor’s Tale.” He explained to offer a sense of false comfort, but nevertheless Chuuya took what was offered, “He was immediately drawn to you. Your name, but most importantly your ability. For the tainted sorrow and of course Corruption. But it was only Corruption that piqued his interest.”

Chuuya mauled it over, “Corruption.” He mourned, recollecting his time in his abilities true form. So chaotic and destructive. What would something like that interest Fyodor?

“He believed that if he could take you—secure you, mould you into a perfect follower but now I see it wasn’t his sole goal. At least until he finally got a face for the name. The ideal follower and lover would be you Chuuya.” Dazai said with a sinister look hooding over his eyes, his lanky finger clasped over his mouth guarding it as he spoke, Chuuya was speechless and expression unreadable it was hard to figure out where his head was currently at, processing all what Dazai was currently confessing to him.

“Overtime it became a goal rather than a wish.  Just knowing what your full ability could do would deem you useful for his ‘righteous’ organisation.”

“Organisation?” Chuuya asked baffled. Fyodor was one of those freaks with a goal pretty much like the rest of them. A goal which he at the moment had no knowledge of, “Fyodor hated organisations, big shots with a goal.”

“Fyodor was—is that guy. The big shot with a goal. He rambled on about the sinful nature of men—labelling himself a god. A leader. Which he was, ‘The rats in the house of the dead’ A Russian organisation he led but we as the port Mafia know not of the originations whereabouts or goals. But he was grooming you, with the use of corruption you would have been a diamond for them. With Fyodor’s sinister attitude I assure you nothing good would have become of you staying with him.”

Chuuya sat still for a few moments. His heart was beating and he could hear it in his ears. There were times he felt like the world was slowly disappearing in front of him. Or maybe it was just him who was fading away. In these moments it didn't matter anyway. Because his empty burning lungs and his heart hitting his chest so hard he thought it will break his ribs and rip apart his skin were the only thing He could think about. And the void. The black hole in his head, deep inside his soul, slowly swallowing all his hopes and dreams and future. That was the worst of those moments. The realization of the vacuum, the nothingness, the absurd of his existence.

Finding out the man you loved only wanted you for one reason was one of these moments.

Chuuya can't breathe. He's over thinking. Did Fyodor ever love him? It's not like him to question something that was staring him straight in the face—the truth, Fyodor had only one goal in mind to achieve. Maybe he finally got tired and bored of Chuuya’s defiance and lack of obligation. All he wanted was Chuuya’s melancholic merciless ability.

Chuuya can feel his heart pumping through his chest, he can hear it. He tries to control his breathing but his breath is cut short by loud sobs. His chest hurts, he wraps his arms around himself and tries to stop but his panic attack is taking control. He notices now he's shaking, trembling, he starts to lose consciousness and begins to close his eyes before he feels hands grip his face and a faint voice that sounds a lot like Dazai but he isn’t paying any mind to it.

"Fuck, Chuuya, Can you hear me?" He hears faintly, falling in and out of consciousness. A brief moment of horror brushes him, was it Fyodor, It can't be him, he left him, he can't be here. He can't move but he opens his blue eyes and sees him. Fyodor? Dazai? His vision is hazy—clouded from tears and upmost delusion. He doesn’t know what’s real. What’s true.

"Talk to me,” Dazai’s hands grip his wrist, watching Chuuya’s tears threatening to spill but he keeps them back.

Chuuya feels numb, and out of place. He doesn't know what's real and what's not. Though this feels real. Dazai’s touch feels real. His voice sounds real. He wants to reach out to Dazai but he can't move. He want's to know that he's really there and that, in fact, he didn't leave him. But he can't move.

“Chuuya? It’s okay, right? Fyodor isn’t here.”

Dazai grabs Chuuyas arms and slowly moves them up to wrap around his neck. Chuuya whimpers, shuts his eyes again, and starts to cry. Tears falling onto Dazai’s shirt. He cringed at Chuuya’s brash crying having not known someone to show this much emotion before—he has seen kids cry as their parents were slaughtered before them but none that touched his cold heart like Chuuya’s did. Breaking down before him.

“You’ve got to breathe for me, and tell me what’s wrong?" Dazai rubs circles into Chuuya’s back, he felt Chuuya’s body relax against him resting on-top of his chest, “That’s much better.” Comforting is definitely not Dazai’s forte. Being sadistic and emotionless was more so—seeing this side of himself makes him shiver, god forbid anyone seeing him in this dubious situation it would surely tarnish his name.

Dazai could hear how Chuuya’s breathing patterns sounds like he is about to break into tears again; he could also feel how his own throat is starting to tighten, repulsively so. Once Chuuya’s eyes cleared up from the clouded hazes that obscured them, he pulled away from Dazai.

His eyes were rimmed with the soft colour of red and puffy, his lips swollen due to the incessant biting, nibbling and gnawing he did while he was crying. Dazai assessed Chuuya, clasping his face between his palms brushing away the loose tears that rolled down his cheeks, when Chuuya cried there was a rawness to it, like the pain was open wound.

He removed his hands from Chuuya’s colourless face, “Tell me what’s wrong, you just started crying.”

Chuuya trembled beside Dazai, he ran over his answer in his head, he feels so pathetic and weak just like Fyodor said he would be—without him, “I’m—I just feel a bit overwhelmed with all of this. With who Fyodor is—was, I just don’t know what’s happening with my emotions. They are all disoriented, I can’t think straight.”

“Just tell me what your thoughts are saying right now.” Dazai chided with a beaming smile as he removed himself from beside Chuuya and back behind the head of his desk. He sat down in-front of Chuuya leering at him, with a pleasant gaze. Chuuya returned his stare.

And for a moment, Chuuya couldn't help but turn his gaze to the floor; willing the erratic beating of his heart to slow down, willing the racing thoughts to skid to a stop and focus on Dazai in front of him, to look at Dazai and feel the small semblance of normalcy.

Chuuya turns his gaze away from him, only to raise them up again, with his heart beating calmly and a head clear of cluttered thoughts, “My thoughts...”

“Yes, your thoughts. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Chuuya’s nails scraped and scratched away at the oak wood, peeling back the varnish and exposing the wood, “The man I have shared a house, a home and my bed with has been lying to me for years. And the sick joke of it all is that it’s taken me years of manipulation and abuse to understand that he was exactly like the monsters he steered me away from. I gave everything to him, my trust, my love and my life so that I could be betrayed by the man I trusted the most. He stripped me of what I fought to hard for—my humanity. Being caged up in that lab, being poked and prodded with needles days on end to find out I was some sick Russians fantasy weapon and I was freed—“ he slammed his fist onto the desk, Dazai didn’t flinch, “Freed from that place and I ran into the arms of a man that knew me before I knew me.”

“Chuuya,” Dazai murmured his eyes trained on Chuuya’s piercing blue eyes, “You shouldn’t beat yourself up over something that was unforeseen.”

“I have to. I let him hurt me, I let him do these horrible things to me.” Chuuya snapped not ready for an argument, “I just feel so helpless.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Dazai asked politely, his question was harmless and didn’t seem to have any ulterior motive.

There was something. He could kill Fyodor for him, Chuuya didn’t think he’d have the stomach to commit intentional murder even to someone as evil as Fyodor, Dazai worked for the Port Mafia he was an executive he could order around some of his subordinates to kill him. But Fyodor’s ability—Chuuya knows he has one but doesn’t know what it exactly is.

“Do you know what Fyodor’s ability is?” He asks meekly twiddling his thumbs nervously.

Dazai nods, “I know of it, Crime and Punishment is it’s name, Ironic huh?” He perks up with a cheeky smile at Chuuya, which he finds hardly amusing, it’s not a time for fun and games, “I’ve seen it in action but I don’t know what his sole abilities extent. He can kill a person by touch, which isn’t limited to skin to skin touch when it’s activated.”

“I see.” Due to Fyodor’s ability, Killing him would be difficult. His ability was extraordinary and exceeding his expectations, as it was never activated around him he never knew.

“Is there anything else I could help you with, it wouldn’t be much trouble.”

Chuuya inclined his head, “I can’t go back home. He’ll be there and I’m not falling back into that cycle.”

“What would you like me to do?” Dazai smirked, “I’ll lend you my strength, I’ll do whatever.”

“Let me stay with you.”

“That can be arranged, beautiful.” And for the first time Chuuya’s blush was natural and he actually felt okay. Maybe Dazai wasn’t as cynical or rude, sadistic or cruel as he portrayed him to be.

Chapter Text

There was an unfortunate silence that squeezed it self into Dazai’s office after his charming words to Chuuya. Chuuya averted his gaze not willing to lock eyes with Dazai at any cost, he’d look at anything remotely uninteresting just to occupy his frail vulnerable mind.

The office.

The office was painted grey, and it had only one floor-to-ceiling window, which faced the peaks of each other skyscraper in Yokohama. In a state of half organized clutter, on top of a mahogany desk with three drawers on the right-hand side, sat a desktop computer, a notebook lying open, and a stack of papers sitting under a turtle-shaped paperweight.

In a corner, the air conditioner was blasting at medium—he thinks, and there was a sofa in the middle of the office with an accompanying coffee table, Chuuya assumed that was for casual work. There was bookshelf, bursting with books was in a corner, with yet another stack of papers under a paperweight that was shaped to look like a tuft of grass. A few pens were lying on the papers, but some had fallen onto the top of the bookshelf.

The office was the most tedious thing he could put his mind on but each minute he took observing and assessing each nook and crevice it became more stimulating. His observation turned towards the large painting of a young boy and much older – probably young at the time it was painted- man on the wall directly behind Dazai.

He stared up at it mouth, unintentionally, hanging open and wide, he was awe-inspired. Dazai became aware of Chuuya’s staggered stare and pursued the line of view Chuuya had acquired which led him to the atrocious depiction behind him.

The painting was all in bright primary oils but somehow it was still dark and dull. It reminded Chuuya of the poison that can lurk behind a pretty face, Fyodor, the subjects had that look about them, like beneath the smile was an entirely separate thought track. It unnerved him.

Like the people were looking out from beneath their own skin, like their flesh and bone was no more than a mask. He wanted to look away but instead he inched closer on his chair, the brush strokes were tiny and controlled, as if the painter was trying to tell him what these sociopathic looking kin were like on the inside.

Perhaps it would be nice to be that way, never anxious, always in complete control, never attached or love sick. But he couldn't wish it, not really. To love was to live, and without love how could he live?

“Do you like it?”

Chuuya swallowed thickly and looked at Dazai with a blush staining his cheeks, in a swift motion his brushed his hair from his face and nodded sheepishly, “Y-yeah, who are they?” he whispered, as if someone where listening to their conversation though it was only Chuuya and Dazai in each other’s company.

“That is my father and I,” Dazai grimaced, “When I say father, I don’t mean biological.”

“You’re adopted?” Immediately, he regretted calling Dazai a sociopath, which he was far from, maybe the other fellow in the image but from what he has experienced first hand with Dazai it wouldn’t label him a sociopath.

“Not legally but,” he smiled, picking at the papers on his desk, rearranging and shuffling, “Yes, you could say that I’m adopted.”

“That’s really good. Is he still around?” Chuuya immediately recoiled, he was being insensitive not everyone grew up Parentless like him, not everyone lived in an actual testing facility, “I don’t mean to pry.”

Dazai waved his hand fervently, “No, it’s okay to pry. But to answer your question from earlier, Yes, he is still around, I work for him.”

Suddenly it dawned on him, “Your dad is Mori Ougai, it makes sense that you’d work for him.”

“Not really. It was a choice, after my first suicide attempt he found me, and, on that night, he took me under his wing which was my choice.”  

“I see.” Chuuya was baffled and he hoped it didn’t visibly show, Dazai was talking about his suicide attempt so leisurely and naturally it disgusted Chuuya slightly. But he couldn’t disagree with Dazai’s thought of Suicide, growing up without parents or a caring guardian would be enough to question your whole existence and put it straight into perspective.

From an Orphan’s viewpoint, Chuuya believes growing up without a stable source of love and guidance can affect a child’s life determining where they will and who they will be when they reach an appropriate age of understanding.

For Chuuya he became dependent and destitute to fill that vacant hole of deprivation he had always experienced and for Dazai it seemed like he had a sort of disregarded attitude to love but he still held some sort of warm heartedness.

Chuuya’s thoughts clambered back to his own parents. He didn’t have any recollection of having parents, everything before the age of seven was missing. It was terrifying to know that his parents could’ve known him, loved him and then he was snatched from his bed as they all slept. Did he have a family?

Does he want a family? For as long as he knew it Fyodor was his family. For all he knows his  mother was lying by his father's side under the sand in the cemetery—he feels quite sadistic to be happy about the thought his family being dead but he’d like to believe that they searched for him long enough that they died of a broken heart, that’s a happy dream he’d like to believe but he’s not convinced because knowing nothing about his background or family history, he could have been born into a religious cult, a hippy commune or even a high status– but he bets nothing exciting lies in his past.

Most likely, his ‘mother’ was a drug-addicted prostitute who got knocked up and cared more about herself than the pitiful orphan she’d brought into existence and she handed him over to the government. Either way, he was in the same position as he was when he was freed from his laboratory chambers, who was here to care for him, to be troubled about him, to protect him?  He was alone again in the world like a tree without roots, like a leaf blown out to sea, like an unfledged bird that has fallen out of the nest.

Chuuya cleared his throat, “You said suicide do you…” he trailed off, hopefully Dazai understood what he was getting at. 

“Still want to?” Dazai chided with a large grin, Chuuya nodded meekly, “Yes. I want to die, but first I must find a beautiful companion to end their life with me, I haven’t had much luck asking someone to outright die with you doesn’t get you the reaction you expect.”

“I don’t know you well enough to tell you what to do but—isn’t your life worth living?” Chuuya questioned trying his best not to pry but he couldn’t help it, he had a suicidal person across from him.

“Nope. The biggest regret of my life is being born and living to this age.” He said sorrowfully glancing out of the large glass windows that displayed the skyscrapers, he watched as the birds flew passed the glass freely in a race of unknown pursuit.

“That’s…quite morbid, Dazai. But why with a beautiful companion?” he said repeating Dazai’s words.

“Because when I go to the afterlife, I will have a beautiful lover to keep me company.” Dazai beneath all of the Port Mafia bravado and Suicidal tendencies is actually a hopeless romantic, Chuuya thinks.

“You sound like quite the romantic.”

“Far from it.” He shudders.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you? Couldn’t have your subordinates actually thinking you have emotions.” Chuuya laughs feathery, his laugh is like silver. Shiny and attractive to Dazai’s eyes and Ears, he has never seen anything that was this beautiful or as beautiful as Chuuya was. His plump lightly coloured lips parted, and his pearly white teeth and pink tongue were on show, Chuuya didn’t mean it but it came off as very erotic for Dazai.

“No, I guess we couldn’t.” He glances to the clock on the wall adjacent to him and Chuuya, “Would you like to go for a drink tonight? Not as a date, it would be too soon for you.”

“Very soon. I think I should steer away from relationships for now but yes. I’d really like that.”

“As would I.” Chuuya didn’t notice the pained expression on Dazai’s face.

Chapter Text

"So, where are we going?"

"A bar I know of. It's nice. Quiet. We'll be able to talk there."

“A bar that is in walking distance?” Chuuya chides playfully, he feels like he is being himself again. He hasn’t felt this free in years, not even after he was released from the government’s grasp.

“Yes.” Dazai mumbles, “I used to rendezvous there all the time with my colleagues but not anymore.” Chuuya stares up at Dazai as he visibly reminisces to which Chuuya has no knowledge of what Dazai could possibly be sentimentally recalling, but this time Chuuya doesn’t pry but rather averts his gaze on the street ahead.

He refocuses his mind on the clothes that Dazai let him wear, well insisted he’d put on, not that Chuuya protested much as his own clothes were doused in, now, dried Miso Soup which Fyodor had earlier threw at him. The clothes are moderately large, as Dazai is taller than him but Chuuya makes do with what he was given.

Dazai pauses abruptly in his step. Chuuya’s gaze returns to him, “What?”

“It’s down there.” He gestures to the alleyway before them, Chuuya cringes.

“What kind of bar is this, Dazai?”

“I assure you. It’s in good taste.” After these words, Chuuya nevertheless trails behind Dazai obediently, “It looks quite shabby but I’m sure you’ll like it.”

“And you used to travel this way in the night? Like now?” Chuuya asked, eyes briefly shifting from side to side observing each suspicious looking thing in the alleyway, from old takeaway boxes to beer bottles.

He catches the sight of a homeless man sleeping against the grimy wall of an alley house, Chuuya smiles bitterly to himself, life was unfair sometimes.

In the dim light that oozes through a narrow alleyway, Chuuya labels it the underworld of any town: gloomy and unpleasantries. The whole disgusting task reminds him of his teen years

There are vines that crawl up window sills and the crumbling plaster that envelopes the old stone bricks appear romantic at first but become daunting as the sun sets behind the skyline of chimneys.

Darkness is lurking in every corner inside the labyrinth of narrow passages and dead ends. Litter is dumped on the street and birds’ nest amongst the sprawling rot. Suddenly, a muffled, indistinct scream reached Chuuya’s ears. He immediately clutched onto Dazai’s arm, in a startled panic—Dazai, of course, seemed unaffected by the scream and much more affected by Chuuya’s frightened wild look in his eyes.

“Hey—” Dazai started, “It was nothing, Chuuya.”

His grip on Dazai loosens and he pulls away, to Dazai’s dismay, swallowing thickly he looks up at Dazai, “Probably. It was probably nothing. I’m just a little on edge, alleyways aren’t the best.”

“Just a little further. I’m sorry for bringing you to my favorite bar.”

“No—It’s just that I’m startled easily.” He whispered, “I can’t believe you did this all the time before.”

“I had my ways.” Dazai paused underneath a flickering sign, which had the name ‘Lupins Bar’ displayed underneath a black and white picture of a man, “After you?”

Chuuya grunted in response, he rested his hand on the rough paintwork that coated the door and pushed. Rough wooden splinters grazed across his palm; shards of black paint crumbled to the floor. Very dingy, Chuuya concluded, with age. The hinges squealed as though they were a warning, but their plea was silenced by a wall of noise.

Laughter overpowers the slow jazz. Conversations swirl in a dirty cloud of smoke, the stagnant stench of cigarettes hides within the collaboration of mephitic odors. A sharp smell of smoke wafts towards Chuuya, like black plumes bellowing from the windows of a burning house. There’s even a hint of sick tainting the fragrance of the room.

He grimaced, “I didn’t expect this to be your scene.”

“It wasn’t ever this active in the past,” he murmured close to Chuuya’s ear, so that he could hear him clearly over the voices of the intoxicated others, his hand unintentionally finds itself on the small of Chuuya’s back ushering him inside, “I guess there is always room for change.”

“I haven’t been to a bar in a while,” Chuuya said as he observed the surroundings, “Fyodor said that alcohol would make me lose my inhibitions, so I steered away from it.” He confessed, only now when the wool wasn’t pulled over his eyes, Fyodor’s actions were controlling, limiting Chuuya to only what he deemed acceptable. He pushed the thoughts of Fyodor away; he wasn’t going to let him ruin this evening with Dazai like he ruined his life.

Dazai guided him towards the bar, where he pulled out a stool for Chuuya to sit on. Dazai did the same for himself and was seated beside Chuuya. Their knees brushed together as they faced toward each other.

Dazai summoned the barkeep with a raised hand, he turned his attention to the red-head before him, “What would you like?”

“Water.”

“Are you sure? You can have anything you’d like,” He gestured to the many bottles of wine, whiskey and other alcoholic beverages of the shelves, lit by a golden backlight, “I’m not Fyodor or your owner, it’s your choice.”

Chuuya shifted in his seat and followed Dazai’s gesture until it was in his line of view, he used to drink red wine occasionally when Fyodor had allowed it, he bit his inner cheek and pondered for a moment or two before continuing, “I’ll have some—actually, a glass of red wine.” He said firmly, with clear determination.

Dazai smirked, he liked this determination he hoped it wouldn’t become a new fixation of his, “Any specific preference?”

“Nope. As long as it’s red, I’ll take it.” He affirmed.

Dazai turns his attention to the barkeep, “One glass of any red of your choice and I’ll have a glass of Jameson.” The barkeep nods and turns away from the brunette to make their drinks.

The bar, other than the consistent smoke wafting before him, is rather pleasant. It's a bar, what did he expect, everyone is attempting to appear proper in their suits and attire, men in suits, women in attractive provocative dresses.

He and Dazai, seemed to be the only ones that look normal... but he presumes 'normal' is relative, right? It's a fancy place, a sort of minimalist-classical, but that's okay for them—even with the other people with them it seems like they are alone, and the rest is just background music to fill in their silence.

If he could melt into this bar he’d be the vibe for once and not an idle seat warmer who kept quiet, that moved around as easily as the smoke. He’d soak in the laughter and the smiles and minimal chatter, dance upon each octave. Only, when he’s morals were loose enough from the help of the alcohol and maybe even Dazai. He’s glad he met him, he seems freeing—everyone needed a person like that in their life.

But meanwhile, back in reality instead of his fast-paced imaginary world, he is life-size, and so; instead he’ll seep into the shaded room, consume the intoxicating liquor, that opens his eyes all the wider, see the muted colors of the bottles and the glitter than finds every spark of light.

As the moment—that felt like hours— goes on, he’ll be more comfortable in this crowd, intoxicated by spirits and the moments all the same.

Dazai taps the bar gathering the wanted attention from the barkeep, sliding the glass toward him, with a desolate smile he glances at the crystal tumbler a few centimeters from him then to Chuuya who had his wine glass in hand already. Dazai’s gaze remains trained on Chuuya, who was swirling and nursing his glass of wine.

 “I’m glad I went out with you today,” Chuuya confessed, after gulping down most of his wine in the blink of an eye, “You are great company, you make me feel normal.” His head hung low after his words tumbled out, Dazai took note of his ears slightly turning crimson.

“I get told that a lot,” Dazai confirms with a cheeky smile as he sips at his whiskey.

 “I’ve been meaning to ask,” he started, seizing the desired attention from Dazai, “Why do you wrap yourself in bandages?”

“I’d like to tell you someday but not now.” He grimaced, “We need to get to know each other a tad more and drink a lot more before I become loose-lipped.”

“I’m a lightweight well at least I think I am.” He said, quaffing the remnants of his wine before casting an unintentional sultry look to Dazai, “I’d like to drink a lot more with you.”

Dazai grinned as he flapped the bartender down, “We’ll have the same again.” Once their drinks arrived again Dazai extended his crystal tumbler and nudged Chuuya to follow and do the same, “To new beginnings?”

Chuuya giggled, clinking his glass with Dazai’s smaller one, “To much needed new beginnings.” This was where their night started.


 “What?” Dazai smirked as he leaned closer to the red-haired beauty sat before him, stirring the straw in his glass, before locking heavy-lidded and lust-filled eyes with him.

“You’re not telling me that you’ve never had a one night stand?” he asked almost in disbelief, and chortle that held a sort of husky sound to it, revealing that magical glint in those bright brown eyes.

Chuuya narrowed his eyes at him slightly and debated on whether or not to tell him the absolute truth, and as he went to war with himself in his mind, he watched as the brunette, tilted his head ever-so-slightly. Dazai’s silent but curious gaze boring into his.

“Of course I have… but that was when I was young and stupid.” He tried to laugh it off, his gaze falling to the napkin beside his glass on the table.

Dazai’s hand gently placed atop his, to stop it from fidgeting nervously, Dazai knew it was forward but he liked to gamble with his chances. Chuuya glanced back up to find an amused sparkle in those captivating maroon eyes.

“What?” he cocked an eyebrow and bit his lip to stop from smiling.

“You’re only 22. ‘Young and stupid’? I’m not buying it.” Dazai squeezed Chuuya’s hand gently and noticed the sharp intake of breath the redhead took.

“I guess… it sounds so stupid.” Chuuya huffed a laugh and tucked his curly hair behind his ear with his free hand. He wasn’t used to opening up to people, let alone ridiculously handsome men who he’d only spoken to a few times.


“I like stupid.” Dazai pinched Chuuya’s forearm and smiled, “I mean I’ve done a real number to label myself as stupid too, I doubt you have.”

Upon seeing that smile, Chuuya was hopeless to resist speaking what was on his mind. It was as if Dazai was the key to Chuuya’s lock. He could make the redhead tell him anything he wanted if he so desired.

“I guess I just… I think that finding someone worth waking up to is better than finding someone to sleep with.” the redhead’s face flushed. The words he’d just spoken aloud had only recently become true when Chuuya had met Fyodor—at least before he liked to wake up to Fyodor. Maybe it could change for the right person, he didn’t want to regard everything he had to Fyodor.

Dazai sat speechless for a moment, his gaze searching Chuuya’s intently.

“Nonsense, I know.” The redhead shook his head and knocked back the rest of his drink. Dazai found the blush coloring Chuuya’s cheeks, and the fact the redhead was looking everywhere but at him, was incredibly endearing.

The thought of how chivalry has perhaps not died, after all, popped into Dazai’s head. He could be the chivalrous man Chuuya desired rather than that rat he was manipulated by. His heart aching slightly as he watched Chuuya mentally berate himself, maybe that was why he steered away from alcohol, for what he can only assume is due to the honest answer he’d given to Dazai’s question. Absentmindedly, the brunette reached out with both hands to take Chuuya’s.

“You know what?” he asked, interlacing their fingers over the table, Dazai’s boldness was apparent—he should stop before he scared Chuuya away. He waited for Chuuya to look up but he didn’t, so he continued.

“That sounds so much more appealing than a one night stand, anyway.” he smiled and dipped his head to look into stormy blue eyes, “But I’m starting to understand why you don’t drink.”

Chuuya rolled his eyes but nodded slowly as Dazai’s comment sunk in, a small shy smile curved his lips. The small smile from him was like a shot of adrenaline through Dazai’s veins. His own smile spread to a shit-eating grin as he slipped off his stool and rounded the table, they had moved from the bar earlier to a table once it decreased inhabitants.

Chuuya’s heart began to race as Dazai got closer—he shouldn’t be acting this way, his heart still unwillingly belonged to Fyodor. He turned slightly so Dazai could wrap his arms around his.


“Thank you, I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to tell me this.” The brunette whispered as he hugged Chuuya tightly.

“Yeah, well... the most beautiful things to me are honest.” the words slipped from Chuuya before he stops them, he is loose-lipped when he is intoxicated he curses himself.

Dazai pulled back and smiled almost shyly at the small redhead in his arms. His words making him feel almost alien.

After a minute or so, Dazai’s smile grew and Chuuya couldn’t help but laugh. “What?” the tiny redhead asked, his eyes flickering to Dazai’s hand still on his shoulder.

A melodic hum sounded from the brunette as he sighed happily.

“I think you’d be a great philosopher or a writer.” Dazai teased lightly as he played with the ends of Chuuya’s hair.

“You’re hilarious.” Chuuya smiled and rolled his eyes, it was sarcastic but harmless.

“And for the record… if I was a person you’d be interested in, I couldn’t think of a better way to wake up, than for this face to be the first thing I see.” Dazai said quietly, as the tip of his index finger trailed lightly from the redhead’s temple to his chin. His eyes followed as light goosebumps left in the wake of his touch.

Dazai’s thumb then caressed Chuuya’s bottom lip, and he closed his eyes for just a moment as if memorizing the exact moment. He could feel Chuuya’s labored breathing on the pad of his thumb and the reality of just how close he was to the redhead, caused him to blink his eyes open and take a step back.

“Would you like another drink, I’m going to grab another?” Dazai asked, his gaze shifting from the ground beneath his feet then towards the bar.

Chuuya cleared his throat to make sure that not even the tiniest bit of disappointment he felt, would creep into his voice.

“Sure, I’d like the same,” Chuuya replied and watched as Dazai wandered towards the bar, through the crowd and out of sight. Dazai stood at the bar, debating whether to bang his head onto the hard-oak bar or just leave out of disgust. He was about to betray Chuuya’s trust he had bestowed onto him, Chuuya didn’t want to pursue anything now and Dazai was about to force a kiss onto him or so he believed.

It was too soon for casual relationships, too soon for Chuuya who is still in such a vulnerable state. Dazai stood at the bar berating himself as Chuuya watched from afar with a deplorable gaze. 

Chapter Text

Dazai returned later with another glass of red wine for Chuuya and another whisky for himself. Dazai sat beside him once again but this time in awkward silence.

Chuuya cleared his throat, “Do you always drink whisky?” Chuuya smiled to himself eyeing Dazai’s drink, hopefully this will set the freeing mood once again.

“An old friend introduced it to me when I was younger, we used to drink it each time we’d rendezvous,” Dazai divulged with a smile Chuuya could only label as bitter sweet, he concluded his ‘old friend’ must not be around anymore, “I liked it at first but now...now it leaves a pungent aftertaste.”

“This ‘old friend’, do you want to talk about them?” Chuuya tried.

“To cut a long short,” He started cementing his eyes on the glasses on the table instead of at Chuuya or any of the other occupants in the room, “He and I were close friends. He was my first actual friend in the Port Mafia, he was warm hearted while I was the cold hearted bastard my father always wanted. He was a low ranked Port Mafia dog but he always looked out for me and wanted the best for me, he was like a brother to me. My father didn’t like that, he sent him on a suicide mission of sorts and he ended up dead before I got him.”

He didn’t know when Chuuya did it, but he did it. Chuuya’s small pale hand found itself atop of Dazai’s rough and much larger calloused one. Chuuya squeezed it lightly, “Did you...” love him, he trailed off hoping Dazai understood what he may be speculating toward.

Dazai snorted and waved his free hand, “God, No. Did you completely miss the part where I said, ‘like a brother to me’? I never thought about him in that way—I was too caught up on finding pretty ladies to even contemplate that.” He sniggered.

Hey! Anything could’ve happened between you too,” he said defensively, clutching onto Dazai’s hand playfully, “But anyway, is Whisky even all that good?”

Dazai shrugged, “I’m happy to let you try some. Instead of that ‘any bottle will do’ wine.” He pushed his glass toward Chuuya, with a small incline of his head he continued, “But if your not up for it, I don’t mind. It’s just that whisky is for a more mature palette.”

Chuuya gasped, and feigned being in pain for a second, “Wine is clearly for people who have more of an acquired taste. Whisky on the other hand is for beginners—or so I’ve heard.” Bickering with Dazai seems almost familiar, he feels like he is a child, he’d never had a friend other than Fyodor who was more of a lover acquaintance. He missed out on this. But he’s always followed the saying, ‘better late than never’

Dazai inches the glass closer to Chuuya, “Taste it, I want to see your reaction. I want to see how you look after this liquid hits your tongue.” He sticks out his own tongue briefly before slipping it back in voluptuously, Chuuya tries his best to distract himself from Dazai’s suggestive trivial actions.

Chuuya eyed the amber liquid and the golden glow of the glass-like cubes. He poked them with his, what seemed to be, perfectly manicured nail to hear them jingle in the pre-dawn silence. He watched, entranced, as they bounce back up- remaining mostly submerged like mini icebergs. Wrapping his long fingers around the glass, he felt his heat leach into the drink.

Alcohol.

The elixir of his life.

He raised the glass to sip, feeling the keen burn on his tongue and throat- a burn that made him recoil as a man. Yet now it was a feeling he longed for right from the end of his diabolical relationship. By the time he inserted the key into his lock the single glass was on a closed loop in his brain, on endless replay until he fully ingested it. Chuuya lowered the glass to the table, letting it fall heavily, but not so much it spilt. He rested his head in his left hand, still mesmerised by the fluid, only now he observed the cloudy lip print on the rim.

Dazai sat captivated by the look on Chuuya’s face as he watched Chuuya’s face contort into something in the midst of blissful silence, he lifted the glass up and put it to his lips, with a slight smirk he tipped it back and swallowed the bare minimum that Chuuya had left behind. After the consumption he put the glass delicately on the table, and turned toward Chuuya, “Did you like it?”

“Maybe.” He said conceitedly, “But I prefer wine. The red liquid from the bottle.” He giggled, pushing Dazai lightly.

“Sounds a lot like blood from a vial.” Dazai said with a nonchalant attitude, he grinned off to the side and gave a glance to Chuuya beside him, his red hair faintly obscured his face, “My, my. Is Chuuya-san actually a vampire?” He jested.

Chuuya bellowed out a cute laugh, “You’re so stupid. To think your actually an intelligent mafioso, I really find it hard to believe.”

“I can’t believe that you are this beautiful and you got with someone that was punching way above his weight with you.” Dazai chided.

"He must be really intoxicated," he thought to himself. Even in his alcoholic stupor his own heart rate rose a little and his face flushed even pinker. Chuuya turned his head, the professional smile he’d worn all night was quite gone. His eyes were pink, lids sagging and his face hung loose and long, “Dazai,” he snorted, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know what I’m saying and seeing. Fyodor was really out of his league when he met you. I don’t know you much but,” he smiled in light fashion, “You clearly, deserved much more than what Fyodor was giving you. You need a man that will treat you right, Chuuya, someone that will idolise, and cherish you. Because of what you have to offer, you are under appreciated. You need a chivalrous stallion.” Chuuya stared in awe as he watched Dazai ramble on about what he needed. Where as Chuuya barely knew what he, himself, needed.

You know what I need?” Chuuya said sceptically, “What do I need, Dazai? Because if I don’t know, you wouldn’t.”

Dazai stared back at Chuuya, he was in fact rendered speechless but Chuuya continued, with a bitter smile, “You make it seem like Fyodor wasn’t the only constant thing in my stationary life for years. Fyodor was the best lover I had, because he was the first lover I had. He was great at the start, so how can you guarantee you know what I want and what I would like.” He let out a shaky breath, maybe it was the alcohol really getting him because he realised he just ruined the whole night.

Dazai retreated mindfully, “I didn’t mean to come across as patronising, I don’t know what you need or want. I just know what you deserve. You deserve so much more than the universe has bestowed onto to you.” He summoned the bartender over again, but it seemed like the bartender knew what he wanted because he had a small crystal glass in hand but none for Chuuya as his glass was still filled with the richest of red wine.

The barkeep puts it on the dark oak wood table with a fresh new card coaster with the same image that was displayed on the outside of the bar. The old man with the name ‘lupins’ beneath it.

“Kirishima. Please put all what we’ve had on my tab for the night.”

“Yes, sir.” The man turned away swiftly and took his place at the bar and steadied himself with idle work; wiping the countertop. Chuuya’s gaze finds its way back to Dazai, the ice clinks against the glass, and sizzles in contact with the warm air that's flushed the faces of the two contenders.

“I just want to apologise for if I stepped out of line a moment ago,” Dazai apologised, “I just want you to find the one that you’d be happy waking up to in the morning.”

He did say that and Dazai was clearly looking out for him, offering him some brotherly guidance since he’d never actually had it or had to endure it. It’s nice but overwhelming at the same time; this is still a new experience. He still feels like he is breaking rules of some sort when all of his actions have been completely innocent and lawful.

“I’m sorry too.” He confessed holding his own hands together to comfort and console himself, “I’ve just never had someone that truly cares for my well-being. It’s all so fresh, it’s like adding alcohol to an open wound it stings for a bit but I will be satisfied with the outcome in the future.”

Chuuya embarrassingly turns away with crimson suffocating his pale skin, he observed how the bar had decreased in numbers. The assortment of people perched on bar stools before him had dwindled and there was next to nothing left.

There's a glass slid across the wood top, an exchange of money, a mumbling rage about the high prices of the booze. Another man drowns his sorrow in the elixir at one end of the bar, and a young couple flirts shamelessly at the other end with the nectar in hand.

“Chuuya sees a future with me? At your side.” Dazai said causing Chuuya’s observation to come an abrupt halt.

He rolled his eyes, “Don’t push it, Dazai. But I’m sure you’ll be a really great friend in the future, I need someone like you in my life.”

That wasn’t what Dazai wanted to hear. In fact it was the complete opposite and at the direct end of the spectrum of what he wanted Chuuya to say. He wanted him to spout something that gave him a tad bit of hope but clearly not. Chuuya only knew him for two days, two days isn’t long enough to plan a life with someone.

“It’s getting late, we should get going to my apartment.”

Chuuya chortled, “Thanks Dazai.”

“Anything for you Chuuya. Anything.” He whispered the last thing to himself so he didn’t cause any trauma to Chuuya. Plus he didn’t exactly want hurting Chuuya on his conscience. Chuuya’s head fell onto Dazai’s upper arm, mumbling incoherently before Dazai could decipher something.

“I’m glad I met you.” He paused with a loud exhale, “I really am, Dazai.”

Dazai’s fingers found themselves deep in a bed of red curls as he carded them through each section, glancing down to Chuuya with a smile full of content, “I’m glad I met you too.”

I’m really glad.

Chapter Text

Chuuya wakes up to a nagging pain behind his eyeballs and a rather disconcerting blank in his memory where the previous evening should have been. He groans, half in self-pity, half because it eases the pain for a blissful second, and he focuses on getting his thoughts in order.

From the pounding head, vomit taste in his mouth and dehydrated feeling he figured he must have been drinking heavily last night. His throat felt like sandpaper. It hurt to move. It was like the flu only self-inflicted, which meant he’d get no sympathy from anyone. At least the curtains were still closed, he was always adverse to bright light when he was hungover. Maybe he could sleep it off. This was why he didn’t like drinking; he was a lightweight and he usually had minor memory loss after consuming alcohol.

Right. So, he drunk a little too much last night. Nice going dumb-ass, he feels every harsh word Fyodor ever said about him being a bad alcohol drinker becoming seemingly true.

But then Chuuya feels someone stir in the bed behind him and he realises, with a pleasant but uncanny surprise, that he is not alone.
Did he really manage to pull someone at that inactive bar? He must have been really out of it to even consider people to sleep with him or even come home with him.

A pair of arms wrap themselves around Chuuya's waist from behind, and he jumps as he feels someone curl up against his back. His brain starts running uncomfortably fast for this time in the morning, and he hardly even knows why until he looks down to see that this person, or whoever he is, has rather slender fingers.

Surely it can't be...

"Good morning," murmurs a very pleased and a very familiar male voice in Chuuya's ear. "Sleep well?"

Chuuya yelps and tries to scrabble out of the bed, but those arms hold him fast. Just how drunk was he last night? This isn't right. Dazai is in his bed—or he was in Dazai’s. This isn't right at all.

“What's wrong?" Dazai whispered against Chuuya's ear, he sounded concerned. "You're not getting cold feet are you? You told me last night that this was what you really wanted!"

Chuuya opens his mouth to try to reply, or to deny all knowledge of everything, or even to ask 'What did I do, or say?' but all that comes out is a pathetic sort of gargle.

There's an intake of breath, which Chuuya can feel against the back of his neck, and then a gruffly chuckle. Dazai’s arms around his waist tighten and fingers stroke his hip in a very disturbing way. "Don't tell me," Dazai said, sounding both surprised and amused, "That you don't remember what we did?"

I don't even remember getting into this bed’ Chuuya thought, but what comes out is, "Oh God."

Dazai chuckles again then places a, fucking, kiss to Chuuya's shoulder—which was completely unexpected for Chuuya who lay shocked and confused. "If you don't remember," Dazai purred, voice deep and breathy, "we'll just have to do it again."

“Dazai, No!” He shouted, pulling away from Dazai’s vice grip once free from Dazai’s grip he glared down at a surprised but clearly smug looking face.

“Chuuya? What’s wrong?”

“When—did we do anything?” He said with a blushing face, he would be pissed if he did because he wasn’t even ready to have sex with another man—not yet anyway and not Dazai. Dazai was basically a friend or brother something lawful anyway to Chuuya so it’d be very indecent for him to even have any sort of thoughts of or actually allowing Dazai to bed him while he was intoxicated and clearly not thinking straight.

Dazai suddenly came to the realisation, he rubbed his neck nervously which only put Chuuya back on his incredulous nerves, “We didn’t have sex if you think that. You just asked me to stay with you as you slept, I didn’t think you were much of a cuddling type.” He said sheepishly, he glanced back at Chuuya who was clearly relieved.

Chuuya leered at Dazai who clearly was uncharacteristically being quiet, he almost looked dejected, he waved his own hands in front of his face in a frantic gesture of denying, “Not that I wouldn’t want to have sex with you—well a lot of people probably want to have sex with you, but just not me right now. I should’ve known you wouldn’t try anything funny or indecent with me while I was drunk and still raw with emotion—I feel so rude for even suggesting that. You are a real gentlemen as well—“ he smacked his own hands over his face, “I’m so stupid.” He deadpanned.

Dazai shrugged, “It’s okay Chuuya. Would you like breakfast? I soon will have to leave to get to work but I’d like to leave after cooking you breakfast.”

Chuuya nodded sheepishly, “Yes, please. Thank you—could I?” He gestured to the bathroom.

“Shower? Of course, you can borrow some more clothes hopefully you can find some clothes that’d fit you better. I probably have some old clothes.” He explained with a wide smile as he got off the bed leaving Chuuya on his own in the sheets, “I hope you don’t mind breakfast.”

“It’ll be fine, Dazai.” He reassured with a small embarrassed smile. With that Dazai was out of the bedroom and Chuuya was alone again.


The bathroom could be described as somewhat plain.

Water leaked from the base of the faucet when it was in use. But it was scrupulously clean, the old tarnished mirror sparkled in the morning light. The towels were fragrant, fluffy and carefully folded on a chair in the corner.

Still, the bathroom had an earthy feel.

The walls were large format tiles of white honed travertine and the floor was made of mud brown tiles. The vanities were of a dark
wood and the counters were a brilliant white
quartz. There was no bath but instead a
huge walk in shower with two shower heads—Dazai’s Port Mafia job must pay handsomely he concluded.

He walked leisurely to the shower, steam filling the room as he cut the shower on. He glanced at each arm and each leg reviewing the marks from before; they were clearing and healing nicely. He bathed his skin lightly, taking careful notice not to aggravate the bruises that remained scattered on his body—he made sure not to linger on some parts of his body.

After his shower was finished he towelled off his hair and his body with the towels that were placed on the chair conveniently.

He left the bathroom with a towel around his waist and then politely took it upon himself to rummage through Dazai’s closet. He raised a brow at the shirts that were displayed on hangers, he flicked through each of them; they were all monochrome. He went straight to the residing end of the row of shirts to what seemed like the smallest shirt on there.

He tossed the shirt on the linen sheets of the bed then rummaged a few seconds more to find some suitable pants.

Dazai must have been kind enough to have set him out a unwilted pair of underwear, he sauntered to the bed and seized them with his hands. He massaged the boxers between his thumb and index finger before bringing them up to his nose to test the cleanliness. They smelt like they had just been freshly washed—and pressed. The detergent lingered in Chuuya’s nostrils even after moving them from his sensitive nose.

Soon he put the outfit, he’d haphazardly chosen, on his drying body.

The shirt was worn, and frayed at the cuffs, shabby, patched, too long on arms and for the legs, it was a couple of sizes too big, it looked like an older brother's hand-me-downs, he felt like he was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes, all of it aged and none of it matching, worn but aesthetically pleasing—Chuuya liked to wear clothes that had personality and weren’t just clothes that protected your body.

He ruffled his red hair and smoothed out the tangling curls and newly forming knots. After deeming himself satisfactory he flung his towel in the washing hamper and left the bedroom to check on Dazai.


 Chuuya slowly crept his way into the lounge then through to the dining room which had an large opening that ran through to the kitchen. He sat down at the dining table and watched Dazai work at the counter. Dazai remained unaware of Chuuya’s presence or intense gaze. Chuuya soon enough glanced around and focused on more riveting commodities in the room—he tended to do that when he became bored.

Dazai spread the avocado over the sliced baguette bread and sprinkled tomato on top as if it were cake decorations. There was a joy in how he did it, as if for a moment he was happily absorbed by a feeling of love that played in his subtle smile and soft gaze.

Dazai spluttered unexpectedly, catching Chuuya’s attention.

“Hey!” Dazai beamed, waving his hand wildly.

“Hello.”

That was another thing about Dazai. It seemed no matter how drunk he got, he never had a hangover—well from Chuuya’s observation he seemed extremely more excited and fruitful.

Dazai studied Chuuya who took a seat at his small and quaint dining room table, he had on a white shirt that was clearly to large and too long on his petite slender frame, “Is that my shirt?” Dazai asked, unable to move past that particular fact.

“Yeah.” Chuuya rubbed the back of his neck. “It was in the closet… I hope it isn’t a problem but you said I could wear something of yours.”

“That’s my shirt.” Dazai replied stupidly and dazed as he stared at Chuuya, how could his shirt look amazing and unadulteratedly voluptuous on Chuuya, Maybe it was because it was miles to big for his slender frame or it was that his defined pale collarbone was on show, or it was that it was slowly drooping off his shoulder and Chuuya had to almost every second keep pulling it up.

Or maybe Dazai didn’t expect anything this good would be coming out of Chuuya borrowing his clothes, he had his morning after look— dazed and undeniably pure— to accompany his shirt.

Dazai noticed the red strands cascaded down his back like molten lava. Around his face it was cut a little shorter, feathered to accentuate his perfect dainty features. Then he shot Dazai a smile that could light up the night and he was clearly smitten.

He looked stupendous.

Yes,” Chuuya dragged out the E, not entirely certain where the conversation was going, “Do you want me to take it off? If you don’t want me to wear it?”

“No!” He said almost instantaneously, “I mean—no you can still wear it.” He has to admit that Chuuya does have a point. And, well, he can’t complain, really.

It’s a very strange feeling to see Chuuya in his shirt, though. His shirt and his pants, the pants wear actually quite fitted on his body. The shirt’s longer than Chuuya’s could ever be, and much looser – and with the a small logo emblazoned on the breast. The irony of Chuuya actually wearing it isn’t lost on Dazai.

Chuuya stared at Dazai sceptically, “Okay, I’ll keep it on.”

Why does he have to look completely debauched?’ Dazai conferred with his thoughts as he turned to plate up their small but simple breakfast he knew how to cook—other than that it was canned crab meat for the rest of the day.

After the breakfast was plated and dishes out he bought them over to the table and placed in front of his and Chuuya’s seats.

“You made some sort of bruschetta?” Chuuya said in a shocked voice, they looked particularly diverse with different shapes but they looked edible—the bread was sliced at different angles, did Dazai not know how to slice bread identically?

“Yes. The only breakfast I actually know how to cook—I wouldn’t say I was a chef but I’d say I was a trainee chef.” He laughed with a large smile and sat before Chuuya, “I ate it a lot when I would go on missions—hotels and stuff.”

“Trainee? You got that right.” He countered, “Hey? Since I’m staying here for a while until I get back on my feet—I could cook for you? I’m sure after a day at the Port Mafia you’d like an actual home cooked meal?” He asked with a hopeful smile Dazai just couldn’t deter.

“Sounds convincing but what else could you do but cook?”

“I’ll be your maid.” Dazai choked on a piece of bruschetta as Chuuya maid his heartfelt suggestion.

He coughed and banged his chest before he could speak in a raspy voice, “Are you sure?”

Since I won’t be contributing to anything for a while I could help you out. See it as a well earned thank you—for all what you’ve did for me. Without you I’d probably be with Fyodor right now.”

“Well then, I suppose that’s quite alright.” He grinned. He liked the idea of having Chuuya as his own personal maid but the filthy thoughts that trailed behind the suggestion. Crude images of Chuuya in a dirty tempting maid’s outfit, Chuuya was feminine enough to do so.

His delicate, dainty features permitted him to.

Dazai closed his eyes briefly allowing the image to poke and prod its way into his mind to only assault it. Dazai admired how the dress clung to the curves of Chuuya’s hips and waist. He loved how the ribbons and corset like midsection constricted his breathing a bit. He loved how the frilly bottom of the dress stopped nearly mid-thigh, showing more of Chuuya’s leg than Dazai deemed okay. The stockings were the most beautiful part, white and black fabric bringing the whole look together.

“Dazai.” Chuuya’s mumbling voice bought him out of his impure thoughts, his gaze rose from his plate to Chuuya’s face.

“Uh, yeah? Sorry I drifted off for a moment.” Dazai explicated with a beaming grin.

Chuuya nodded, “You’ve been staring into space for the past ten minutes.”

“Sorry.” He massaged his neck nervously, feeling extremely embarrassed, “I was thinking about work, my dad—“ He stared at the glass clock on the wall it was quarter-to-ten, he was going to be late for the executive meeting if he didn’t leave now, “My dad will be wondering where I am, I have a meeting at ten fifteen.”

“Shouldn’t you leave? Aren’t the port headquarters quite far?”

“It’s far for people who abide by the speed limits.”

“Don’t you get stopped by the cops? They are pretty tight on laws like that.”

“Doesn’t bother me much.” Dazai shrugged with a Noncommittal grunt, “Bad boys like me don’t abide by the law.”

“I can see. Tall, dark and handsome mafioso.” He drawled, wiping the corners of his mouth that had crumbs from the baguette bread on them, “Don’t let that compliment go to your head.”

Dazai shook his head, “I won’t.” It was but Dazai wasn’t going to say that. Dazai pushed out the chair and reached over to take Chuuya’s plate into the kitchen to wash up but Chuuya slapped his hand away.

“I said I’ll be your maid of sorts, so let me do that for you.” He said picking up the plates and meandering to the kitchen, he looked up at Dazai once he was at the sink, “Shouldn’t you really get going?”

“Yes. He will quite literally kill me if I’m late, he has quite a temper on him—even in his old age.” Dazai grimaces, remembering his fathers sociopathic and violent tendencies. He recalls the way his father took over the Mafia from its previous boss—it stirred rumours at the time, how could a doctor climb the ranks to boss in a matter of hours but his still father remained unfazed and joyous about them.

“I see.”

Dazai tossed on his long black coat, pulling at the collars and cuffs, making himself more presentable. He made sure his bandages were wrapped correctly and clean before smiling at Chuuya who watched him intently.

Chuuya cleared his throat, “I’ll cook you dinner for when you come back? Any preferences?”

Dazai unlocked the door and narrowed his onyx eyes at Chuuya, “Anything with Crab, fresh, canned, dried—anything.” He said before closing the door behind him, leaving Chuuya alone.

Chuuya placed the dishes into the sink, “Anything with crab? He must really enjoy it.” Chuuya thought to himself with a small smirk.


Dazai gritted his teeth. He was already sitting in this meeting room for two hours, and he hadn’t achieved anything yet. This was the hardest executive meeting he ever had, and it stressed him out. If he’d not been in the presence of his father/boss he would’ve just threw the table to the executives faces and walked away.

Dazai massaged his temple. “Hear me out, Boss,” he said. Mori was just looking at him, crossing his feet and his arms, looking back at him with an amused but slightly off putting expression. It seriously thorn Dazai, he really wanted to punch his father. “If you really want to cooperate with them, you must know that they can’t make a deal with another distributor.”

Hearing Dazai’s words, Mori blinked very slowly. The motion was really delicate it made Dazai cringe.

“Dazai-kun, you are the one who needs to hear me out,” Mori responded. He leaned in closer to the table, his hands clasped together, covering his mouth. “Our terms are short and simple. You must acknowledge that our organisation greatly expands sales potential throughout Asia as well as official founding cities—like Yokohama. We will sign exclusively with them if they agree to use us exclusively, as we are the only organisation with the highest standards in this continent.”

Dazai suppressed his stress groan. “I know, Boss. They want to work together with you. But as a supplier, we can not work exclusively for them. It’s there in the law—not that we generally abide by it.”

Mori smirked. He leaned back to his chair while sipping his coffee. “Dazai, as a supplier, you need a distributor who can deliver your stuff in any places. Right now, we don’t have that service. But they’re the only ones who can help us here.”

Dazai exhaled deeply. Mori was right of course. That was the reason why Mori and the said distributors discussed about their cooperation in the first place. The Port needed a distributor, and The Kiwanchi’s needed a supplier. But Mori was literally asking him to work against government law. What should he did so his father could understand that?

“Dazai-kun,” Mori said again. His violet eyes looked directly at him. “Do remember your place here. I’d hate for something to happen to your new guest.”

Dazai’s mouth went dry at that sentence. The way Mori said it was beyond vicious despite the honorific’s. And Dazai was weak. Very weak. Threatening Chuuya was disrespectful but Mori wouldn’t possible think of actually touching a hair on Chuuya’s pretty little head.
Dazai sighed. “I’ll see what I can do about that,” he said in the end. “I’ll see the Kiwanchi’s later this week or today to update you about the progress?”

Mori grinned. “I’m sure they will be delighted to hear we are becoming business partners.”
Dazai didn’t say anything again. He just kept massaging his temple. He felt a headache coming on, maybe it was a delayed hangover?

Dazai smiled and sighed weakly for the umpteenth time, “Is there anything else we need to confer about? I have to draw up some documents for the Kiwanchi’s”

Mori placed his sickening colourless hands into the table and inclines his head, “The rest of you may be excused.”

A simultaneous chain of, “Boss.” Was heard before the squeaking of hinges and the clasp of a lock was apprehended.

“Upon my weekly scamper through the footage for the Port Mafia owned apartment buildings, I noticed a particular distinctive redhead,” Mori announced with a unimpressed look splayed upon his pronounced features, “A distinctive redhead that happens to be infatuated romantically with a particular russian—you’ve had personal business with.”

“You know I hate playing unfortunate guessing games,” Dazai deadpanned, “I preform poorly at them.”

“You don’t happen to be also infatuated with him?”

“By infatuation, do you mean sexually? Romantically? Friendly? Casually?” Dazai shrugged, “I just could be any of them, father. Please do be specific.”

Mori sighed, “It doesn’t matter what type of infatuation you have with him but I warn you—if any type of threats arise from this sudden infatuation you will have to bare the consequences.”

“I am aware of that.” He rolled his eyes.

“Have you thought of having your new companion join us?”

Dazai stares perplexed at his father’s sudden question, “No, Chuuya doesn’t seem like he would be interested in cold blooded killing and shady business deals.”

“Dazai. Nobody seems interested at first, you just need to have your own moment of complete exhilaration. Chuuya-kun doesn’t seem like a hard nut to crack.” Mori explained with a serious glare.

“I’ll refrain from corrupting Chuuya.”

“Consider it. I’m sure his ability with yours at the ready would be considered extremely useful for the port.”

“His ability?” He asked innocently.

“I read upon his files. You shouldn’t leave them around Dazai, anyone could waltz in and take them.”

Dazai let out a huff, “By anyone, you mean you?”

“Chuuya is Arahabaki’s vessel, I’m sure he’d like to seize this opportunity—he’d rise in the ranks almost effective immediately.”

“I assure you; he will never be interested.”

“Never say Never, Osamu.” Mori smiled, his eyes squinting with the pressure of the grin, “He just needs the right push into our direction.”

“It seems you’re convinced.”

“Very much. But only time will tell.”

“I suppose.” He averted his gaze away from his father but to the large row of windows, “Only time will tell.”

Chapter Text

“Say, how has Chuuya been lately?” Mori asked, sickeningly sweet this was uncharacteristic for a man like Mori to be interested in the wellbeing of someone else other than himself let alone an outsider.

Dazai shrugged finding his gazed trained to Mori’s unsuspecting back, “And you’re interested in Chuuya’s wellbeing because?” Mori laughed in response clasping his hands and spinning on his heels to face Dazai.

A strained smile was placed upon his face, “Can I not care for my sons new found interest, Dazai?”

“No you can’t.”

Mori sighed, unclasping his hands, “Do you know of Arthur Rimbaud?” He cross-examined Dazai’s uninterested facial expression.

Dazai stared at him; stoically. He didn’t really know Arthur Rimbaud, he had heard that he used to be an executive within the Port Mafia, but that’s as far as it would go other than that he has no recollection of Meeting this said ‘Arthur Rimbaud’

“I’ve heard of him but no, why?” He mumbled, sparing a glance to Mori, who was currently walking around the room disinterestedly but clearly what Dazai had to say he was listening intently to.

“When Arahabaki was held in the government Facility, he posed the idea that his ability would be strong enough to break the vessel free and obtain and contain it for himself,” Mori explained vaguely, “Obviously, when he proposed this idea to me, I, of course, deemed it a fruitless endeavour. His ability would never be able to break Arahabaki free. I told him to stop this childish game and get on to real business because if Arahabaki was released Yokohama will be at stake.”

Dazai yawned insolently, “And you are telling me this because?” He slouched against the nearest wall, tapping his feet against the fall. He wanted to go. He wanted to be in Chuuya’s presence and not Mori’s especially when he was babbling on about a late Arahabaki seeker.

“In due time, Dazai. Please be patient.” He shooed him off the topic of rushing his tale, Dazai made a gesture of protest that was immediately shot down by Mori, “Obviously, defiance must have ran through his blood as he still went ahead with his plans, that stupid man. He infiltrated the government facilities where they were holding Arahabaki, and he broke it out without a problem.”

“He did?” Dazai’s interest was piqued.

“Yes. But the idea about containing it in his ability fell through as Arahabaki was to strong and vicious once it was freed and his ability wasn’t able to entrap it. Arahabaki ruined the government facility and then it, I presume, wandered in the city.” He shook his head, “A town was destroyed and a vessel was born. A vessel that so happened to be Chuuya, only a few know that Chuuya is it’s vessel. If any of the other organisations find out about this he could be killed if he doesn’t join the Mafia.”

“Nope.” The bandaged man said cheerfully, wagging his one finger, “I can protect him. He is under my care and the Mafia has no input on that.”

“You work for the Mafia. I would’ve stayed well away from this affair between you and Chuuya but the circumstances in which he was bought to you were undignified.”

“The circumstances are the least of our worries.” Dazai rolled his eyes, “Having arms dealers rip you off is a problem—you should let me teach them a lesson.” Dazai cracked his knuckles then his back, rising off the wall and spinning on his heel.

“There is no need. Hirotsu and the others will see to that.” Mori objected, “The circumstances mean enough for us to receive a bounty upon yours and Chuuya’s head.”

Dazai froze, he concluded that Fyodor was extremely serious when it came to other men playing with what he deemed his property, he scowled , “What? A bounty? The first I’ve heard of this.”

“I received word before the meeting was issued to begin. Fyodor has requested Chuuya to be bought back to him unharmed, untouched and very much alive with a large reward where as you, you have received a hefty bounty upon your head the bounty will go to the person that brings you back to him dead.” Mori said solemnly. Considering he never said he’d cared about Dazai, he looked very hurt—no matter how hard he tried to hide it— speaking about the news of the bounty.

“And you’d like me to coerce or even push Chuuya into the Mafia. For your lousy meat heads to protect us.” He huffed out a cynical laugh, “Come off it, Mori. Your people won’t be able to protect Chuuya and I.”

Osamu.” He growled, juxtaposing the smiling face he had, “We will have the best ability users on standby guarding your apartment. We will also have twenty-four hour surveillance and we will have non-ability users on standby also armed. I want to protect you even if it means protecting Chuuya also.” His head lowered not looking at Dazai.

“Ha. How compassionate of you, I’ve never seen you show so much emotion.”

“Osamu, I’m trying to protect you. I saved you once from the grip of death and I can’t put you in unintentional harms way.”

“You forgot something. I wanted to die.” Sometimes, all Dazai wanted to do was jump off the roof. As just a mafioso who had no chance of finding any sort of ideal happiness, he had to deal with all the daily demons that plagued his exhausting, dull life. The demons held the darkness over his life so he could never go forward in his left or take the next step.

His demons had dispersed after Odasaku came into his life; he showed him what he could make of mafioso life. The Mafia wasn’t his life, something else could be his sole purpose and at the time with Oda it had been friendship. His first friend in the Mafia kept his demons at bay but as soon as he was tipped away from Dazai, he knew the demons would return and run havoc in his mind.

They never shut up.

Overtime, the voices then started coming back. The voices he’s locked away years ago. Back when he first met the man that would soon become his everything. Dazai had kept the voices at bay all these years, only because he knew that he was beside him, keeping Dazai grounded, telling Dazai that what he’s doing is saving lives but he knows he isn’t but he can’t argue with something ungraspable.

The voices grew louder and louder. Screams of pain, begging for mercy, crying for help, wailing for the people they’ve lost. Screams of his parents imploring for him to leave and not stand and watch them die but he did anyway. Dazai wanted to do all of them.

There was no stopping the voices. No matter how much Dazai tried, he couldn’t shake them off, couldn’t lock them away. Not when he’s hurting so much.

Dazai knew there was only one way to shut up the voices. He chose death many times but only plucked up the courage once; that was when Mori found him hanging from his bedroom ceiling. Any second later and Dazai would have been dead—at least that’s what Mori liked to remind him.

After Odasaku he hadn’t tried to commit suicide because Odasaku told him to live and that’s what he’s been trying to do for twenty-two years but until that night he found out about Fyodor’s lover and he had a face to go with the description: nothing was worth living for.

Chuuya gave him purpose. Something to live for. Something to love. Something to protect. Someone to call his own.

He just wants to be someone that someone can rely on.

“Osamu.” Mori clenched his fist, raising it slightly but then immediately putting it down, with a sigh he slowly blinked at Dazai, “I’m doing it with or with out your permission. This is the Port Mafia we care for our own. You are apart of it, even if Chuuya isn’t…he is apart of your life so we protect him also.”

“If you didn’t want to hear what I say, why tell me?” Dazai spat, “Don’t give me that bullshit, ‘The port Mafia cares for our own’ yeah right? What about Odasaku.” Dazai’s hand clenched forming an unbreakable fist. He kept them at his sides as he shouted, Mori was silent, “Yeah. You force feed your workers lies but you can’t to me. I know you, Mori. I spent the rest of my childhood in your care so I should know how you are a compulsive liar.” He ranted, his fists at a constant tremor at his sides.

“Oda was an unfortunate loss that was out of my control. I miscalculated the situation, I underestimated the opponent he was up against.”

“Haven’t I told you about these lies? They don’t work on me. Mori you didn’t just miscalculate the situation you intentionally did it, even when it’s not by your own hands you still manage to take lives.”

“Osamu. You need to calm down, this isn’t good for you. Taking out any frustration on me won’t give you the release you need.” Mori reasoned, sauntering to his chair at the head of the table. Swiftly pulling it out he sat down and shifted comfortably, “Before you say something you will regret, you should go home for the rest of the evening. It’s one o’clock, I’m sure you will appreciate it.”

“You’re trying to get rid of me? That’s pathetic.” He scoffed crossing his arms in a childish manner, he glanced away from Mori.

“Make sure you are refrehed by tomorrow, you will have to speak to the distributors.” He inclines his head, “Surely you’ll be up to it?”

Dazai huffed, “Yes.” He never spared a glance at Mori but walked over to the door. The door to the office opened and Dazai walked out, slamming the door behind him.

He stood outside back against the door, “Fuck!” He hit his head against the dark oak door. Talking with Mori, was like speaking to a defiant child. He doesn’t listen but rather ignorantly voices his own opinion rather than listening to others. Dazai knew when being labelled his ‘son’ he wouldn’t get special treatment but he’d like Mori to listen.


Leaning against the elevator wall, Dazai sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, the dull head ache that started before the car ride over finally starting to disappear. Worry, anxiety and pride had been swirling in his head all day.

But that has no place in the present, especially when he’s almost to his apartment, keys already rattling in his hand, heart lifting at the thought of being able to have Chuuya in his arms, not literally but just having Chuuya In his presence could lighten his mood. Unlocking the door, he walks in, slipping his shoes off and onto the shoe rack by the door before hanging his long black coat in the closet.

That’s when he notices the smell- of crab—fresh crab?— and vegetables along with spices, but also with something sweet like chocolate underneath it. Keeping quiet, he peeks around the corner, a bright smile tugging at his lips.

Standing in the middle of his kitchen, sleeves folded up past his elbows, apron tied around his (impossibly slim, should be illegal) waist, Chuuya is staring down at something in front of him on the stove, arm vigorously mixing whatever it is. The slow cooker is puhed against the wall right next to him, steam on the glass. “Come on, Chuuya,” he hears Chuuya mutter, “you can do this, it’s for Dazai.”

Knocking against the door frame to announce his presence, Dazai asks, “Do you need help?”

His smile widens, a faint blush colouring his cheeks, as Chuuya whips around, face a bright pink, hands desperately clutching a whisk. “Dazai,” he squeaks, “you’re home early, you didn’t have to stay?” Walking up with his arms wide open, Just as Chuuya was to pull Dazai to him, he mindfully reminds of the chocolate covered in his hand so he backs away with a darker crimson coloured face.

“I got everything done early,” Dazai says, he hates lying to vulnerable people like Chuuya, “and I thought I would come home early, to see you.” He smiles heepishly.

“Oh,” Chuuya softly breathes, face turning even pinker, he seems to have a weakness for affection, both vocal and he can only presume psychically, “well that’s good. I like that.”

“What are you making,” Dazai asks, peeking around Chuuya.

Chuuya gives him a gentle one hand push to the chest, “Go get change first, then I’ll tell you.” Dazai nods, ruffling Chuuya’s red curls before he turns to leave.

But before he can, a hand catches his sleeve, stopping him. He turns to face a pouting (cute) Chuuya in confusion, who merely stands up on his tip toes to close the distance between them, kissing his cheek. “Welcome home.”

Warmth filling his body, Dazai berates himself for not tilting his head to capture chuuya’s lips before going to his bedroom to change. Stripping out of his work clothes, he shrugs on a pair of joggers and a thin sweatshirt, laying his dirty clothes over the back of the chair in the corner. Walking back out, sock covered feet muting his steps, he smiles again- chuuya is back to whisking the chocolate, muttering underneath his breath.

“What are you making,” Dazai asks again, propping his chin on Chuuya’s shoulder.

“Well,” Chuuya drawls, ears red, leaning back against Dazai’s chest, still whisking, “I’m trying to get the chocolate glaze ready for the cake, while the cake is finishing cooling. Except, you know, I’m no baking expert and was trying to figure out the best way to coat the outside.”

“Let me help,” he asks against Chuuya’s head, his hands already sliding up his sides and along his arms.

Chuuya shrugged, “Since when did you get familiar with me?”

Dazai pulled away his hands almost immediately groaning, “I’m sorry. It’s just a habit, when I get beautiful people in my home—which isn’t very often. I’ll stop.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. You can if you want, I never thought you’d be so tactile,” he mumbles staring at the chocolate glaze, “It’s not like I hate it. Being with you feels almost normal.”

Now it’s Dazai’s turn to blush, he turns away from Chuuya and starts to walk to refrigerator. He grabs the cake out and places it atop of the counter near Chuuya, who is still continuously stirring the glaze.

“Get out a knife, just in case.” Chuuya orders. Dazai does as he says and setting it on the counter, he waits until Chuuya has a firm hold of the chocolate bowl

“One, two,” Dazai starts, Chuuya finishing with “three” as they gently pour the melted chocolate around the top of the cake, Dazai softly smoothing it out with the knife, running it along the sides. “There we go,” he mutters, stepping back eyeing be the finihed dessert. “You did an excellent job, Chibi~”

“You helped cover it, Dazai.” He rolls his eyes dismissively.

“You made it.”

“It needs to go in the fridge, then the crab should be finished so we can eat,” Chuuya mutters.

“Go get cleaned up, and I’ll finihed up.”

“Chuuya!” Chuuya gives him an impish smile as he gives points to his chest referencing the apron, before hanging up his apron and heading towards the bathroom to wash up. Shaking his head with a fond smile, Dazai slides the cake into the fridge.

After scooping out the crab into two bowls, dousing it in the fragrant sauce Chuuya had prepared, stomach growling at the delicious smell, he opens up the cooler and starts to pull out a bottle of wine, two wine glasses already on the counter. An arm nudges his back, the other arm nudges the wine back into the cooler. “Not that one,” a finger points at a different bottle, “that one.” Pulling out the desired bottle, Dazai gives a soft whistle, impressed by the year and brand.

“Excellent taste, as expected.”

“Well,” Chuuya drawls, pulling away from him and picking up the bowls, “only wine, I suppose.”

He sits down at Dazai’s dining room table, leaving the bottle and glasses on the end table nearest to himself. “Did you miss me?,” Dazai asks with a small chuckle, taking his bowl from Chuuya, who was seated across from him.

“I-I can’t say that I didn’t miss you,” Chuuya mutters, ears tinged red, clearly embarrassed. Dazai doesn’t say anything yet.


“By the way,” he causally begins, tugging at Chuuya’s ‘sweater’ “is this my sweater?”

Wiggling his eyebrows, Chuuya replies, “Maybe. Want it back?”

“No- you look too cute in it.”

Chuuya laughs, “Charmer. How’s the crab?”

Taking a bite, Chuuya hums as the taste of fresh Crab, chilli, and other vegetables fills his mouth. “Delicious. Though, why crab? Just because I told you I eat it most days doesn’t mean you have to slave away and cook it for me.” He takes another bite, watching as Chuuya’s ears start to turn pink again, he won’t ever get tired of watching Chuuya being emotional vulnerable and open like this, the careful, well put together persona that he wears like armour.

“I thought it would be nice to have something that you enjoy—but in a more extravagant way than you probably cook it. It’s a thank you.”

“Oh.” He breathes out, with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

Chuuya chuckles, “I know with everything going on lately, you probably would need something like this. And I know you probably felt like crap after I treated you like crap after we woke up together” Chuuya smiles sadly, “so I thought you would like something other than crab out of a can or takeout.”

“Chibi~ you spoil me.” He cooed.

“Shut up.” He growled in embarrassment.

Chuuya brought his and Dazai’s glass from the end of the table and poured some wine before asking him about his day, “How was your day? You said you had a meeting with your dad in the morning, was it okay?” Chuuya asked while playing with the glass, slowly making the wine move and swirl. He smelled it and nodded appreciatively before tentatively taking a sip.

It burned his delicate palate at first but then the taste settled down and the rich aroma of raspberries exploded on his tongue, This was a fine bottle, he could tell by the way his mouth was still revealing from the experience and he took another sip, “Are you okay?” He followed up with, waiting for Dazai to answer.

“It’s nothing, just a fight with Mori, it’s not the first and it won’t be the last.” Dazai’s voice sounded annoyed and yet a little miserable. Chuuya simply nodded and didn’t push it, strategically changing the subject to deflect the attention.

“What was the meeting about, anyway?” Chuuya casually said before taking another sip of his wine. He definitely liked the beverage and he was now trying to figure out where it came from. Probably somewhere in France, he thought.

Chuuya was looking at Dazai expectantly, “About suppliers and distributors. He wanted me to speak to them so I could cut the best deal.”

Chuuya smiled and nodded trying to understand what the port would be supplying and needed distributing, “Is that all? Seems pretty straightforward.”

“You’d think that but with Mori nothing isn’t ever straightforward. He cuts corners, he scams and he puts lives in danger.”

“I still don’t know why you chose to work for him—not that it’s any of my business. Wouldn’t you want to do much more honest work?” Chuuya trailed off and took another sip of wine, thinking it could be a Bordeaux or maybe, maybe a Côte du Rhône since it was strong enough to eliminate most of the other kinds.

“Why don’t you quit?” He finished absentmindedly, “I mean it is your only source of income I presume so I get why you wouldn’t and plus it’s your father.”

“As weird as it sounds I don’t I’d want to leave the Port Mafia. Not now anyway.” He said vaguely, completely uninterested in his wine or crab. Which was surprising.

“Why?” Chuuya asked, sincerely wondering. Clearly wanting to know why he would want to stay with the port if it was so lifeless.

“Because…Chuuya I have to tell you something.” Dazai said in a somehow tentative tone, a sense of foreboding washed over Chuuya and was promptly shown on his face. His blue eyes sparkled with fear and his lips parted to inhale a shaky breath.

“D-Dazai?” He stammered out but Dazai stared back at him desolately and detached. Chuuya could only hope for the best while he wait for Dazai’s response.

 

Chapter Text

This can’t be happening. Chuuya keeps repeating to himself in his head over and over. The day had started out so nice – he and Dazai had been laughing together just not long ago. So, what happened? He can’t think of what Dazai might have remembered to turn his handsome smile into a stoic-faced glare.

Dazai’s hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically at his brown locks as he stared at the oak wood table. He knew his jaw was nearly cracking under the pressure of his teeth grinding together.

“You have to join the Mafia.” Dazai sternly stated, Dazai ran his hand through his  hair three times in quick succession and fixed Chuuya a stare that could have frozen the Pacific, “No questions asked.” He didn’t want Chuuya to ask questions because asking those questions will obviously give Chuuya answers he won’t like. The answers would most definitely frighten Chuuya and make him feel unsafe in a place where Dazai was offering safety.

Chuuya swallowed thickly, his own saliva felt dangerous as dangerous as the request Dazai had just thrown at him. Chuuya blinked and tilted his head to the side like a confused cat, “What do you mean ‘You have join the Mafia’ and better yet, I can’t ask why?”

Dazai inhaled sharply and straightened his posture and tugged on his sweatshirt sleeves, but even such a well-practiced mask couldn’t hide the green in his face from his outburst only moments before, he looked sick to his stomach, “Please—Just don’t ask me questions regarding my request. Just do—“

His eyes narrowed. His bark of laughter cut Dazai off, “Just do what? Dazai I just spent the most part of my adult life with a man that compulsively lied to me and abused me for years.”

“Chuu—“

Chuuya leaned forward in his chair and propped his elbows on the table, “Just tell me why.”

Dazai was silent for several moments, his eyes narrowing slowly as he stared at an unflinching Chuuya. This was harder than he thought. It wasn’t just the general guy he was scouting and coercing; this was Chuuya. Chuuya who trusted him. Chuuya who was willing to risk his life for safety with Dazai. This was Chuuya who had already been tricked and bamboozled by that Russian pig. He couldn’t do it.

“I want to Chuuya. Believe me I do, I just want to protect you.” He sighed loudly, “You asking me ‘why’ is restricting me from doing so.”

Chuuya chuckled darkly as he stood, grabbing the plate to deposit in the sink, “Call me ungrateful but Dazai—you doing this hurts me. It makes me question if what Fyodor said was true. The Port Mafia men lie, cheat and manipulate.” A pause, “You’re no better than him.”

He was nothing like Fyodor Dostovesky. Quite the opposite. No. Completely the opposite of that Russian pig.

Dazai rounded the table until he was standing in front of the other man, his fury once more tainting his perfect composure, “You know I’m nothing like Dostovesky.” He spits out his name like petrol to an open fire, “I’m trying to protect you from that very thing. I’m trying to keep you with me so you stay out of grasp.”

“How can I trust your word Dazai? You want me to work for a bunch of criminals, you kill people and if I join I’ll have more than the people I killed, when Arahabaki escaped, blood on my hands.” Chuuya sighed loudly, the twinge of pain recalling such hurtful memories would have caused him had long since dulled, “But to even ask me that is inconsiderate.” He muttered.

Chuuya made a gesture to step around Dazai, effectively ending the conversation, Dazai’s  hand wrapped around his bicep – not in an attempt to turn him around but merely to halt his progress in leaving the room. Chuuya’s throat clicked several times as he swallowed, his eyes never leaving the faucet above the sink.

“Won’t you just let me care for you?” he asked quietly, oddly subdued compared to the stoic-glaring-demander that had initially interrupted their evening together.

“You can care for me...once I know why you want me to join the Mafia .” Chuuya said, enunciating clearly.

“What?”

With a quiet growl Chuuya shook off Dazai’s hand and made sure Dazai was truly paying attention before he spoke again, “I said, You can care for me until your hearts content but only if I know why you need me to join the Mafia.” Chuuya smiled sadly at Dazai, “I just can’t allow myself—however much I want to—to get close to you if you’re going to blatantly lie to my face.” Chuuya shook his head and took a step back, realising he had moved closer to Dazai as he spoke. “I really trusted you Dazai.”

Trusted.

“Trusted. Do you not trust me anymore Chuuya?” Dazai’s faced was twisted with confusion and Chuuya rolled his eyes, utterly unsurprised that the mafioso couldn’t understand – for such a clever man he was often incapable of following emotional leaps of logic.

“I did trust you. I wanted to trust you. The port Mafia is a maliciously motivated organisation which unorthodox practices have made me distrust you.” He said pitifully.

With that Chuuya left the kitchen and locked himself into the bedroom, for a moment he felt the urge to let Corruption run havoc and tear the room apart. But this room still held pleasant memories and he couldn’t do that to himself and he couldn’t do it in a place he did not own. Instead he pressed his face into the pillows and dug his fingers into the mattress as deeply as he could, cursing himself for being such a fool.

Dazai watched as Chuuya stalked off in the direction of the bedroom.  

Dazai blinked for a moment, gawking at the empty air where Chuuya was standing , absolute sadness and minor anger -at Mori- creeping over his features.

Dazai takes a moment to try to collect himself, trying to listen to the little voice in the back of his mind telling him that confronting Chuuya now is a bad idea . He should let him calm down and let him come to his senses. Unfortunately his mind has its own agenda, because he knows leaving Chuuya now would evoke more questions from him.

He wanted to despise Mori for doing this to Chuuya but Mori was helping protect him. The only person he despised was Fyodor for putting the bounty on their heads and for ever laying a hand on Chuuya.

Dazai doesn’t even realise he’s moving until his stomping footsteps lead him right up to the door of the bedroom. He twists the handle – locked. Figures.

“Chuuya. Open the door.”

A distant ‘ no! ’ is muffled by the wooden door. Dazai lets a grunt tear out of his throat as it quickly morphs into a half-yell.

“Chuuya. Open the door, please.” He bangs his fists against it, knocking at the handle more than he is turning it. “Stop acting like this. I’ll explain everything to you if you just let me in.”

Another low response is muffled by the blocked doorway, but Dazai is pretty sure it’s an insult along with an uncharacteristic swear from Chuuya.  

Dazai hits the door once more for good measure before backing away, tuning in small circles as he contemplates whether or not it’s cost efficient to just kick the door in right now – probably not, but it’s an appealing thought. The longer he waits in the hallway, the more and more attractive the idea becomes. But he can’t do that. Chuuya was fragile.

“Please. I’m sorry Chuuya.”

A pause.

“I didn’t mean to lie. I thought it was best to keep it from you.”

A pause.

“Just open the door so I can tell you.”

No response is gained from beyond the threshold of the door.

The heated breathing soon slows down to become somewhat more regulated as Dazai slouches in the hallway, focusing on calming himself down as the clocks tick onward into the night.

Dazai blinks himself awake a few times, shaking his head each time it droops to the side as he diligently watches for the door to creak open. So far, it hasn’t. He hasn’t heard a thing since Chuuya slammed the door shut and locked himself in. The room sounded so quiet it seemed empty but it clearly wasn’t.

Soon the silence becomes too much for Dazai. It’s eerily quiet, and he doesn’t like it at all as his heart rate began to quicken again.

“Chuuya? Chuuya, are you okay?”

No response.

Please talk to me, Chuuya. You don’t even have to open the door if you don’t want to. Just let me hear your voice.”

  There’s a moment of hesitation before Dazai hears a faint rustling along with muffled footsteps, they approach the door, but leave it be as they still just behind it, remaining hidden beyond the barrier.

“What do you want me to say, Dazai?” He whispered, clutching the door handle, “Do you want me to say I undeniably trust you because you’ve just told me you’re sorry for lying?”

Dazai sighs a little to himself before he answers, “Chuuya, no, I just want to apologise for lying to you. I wasn’t completely straight with you.”

He waits with bated breath for a response. I’m sorry, his mind repeats like a broken record, I’m sorry .

“I just—I just don’t want to be hurt and preyed upon again. And I just know, within my gut, that the Mafia isn’t the right place for me Dazai.”

He hears a deep sigh and a low thud, part of the light coming from under the door is obscured by a shadow – Chuuya probably sat down, Dazai figures to himself.

“Can you let me in?”

The door creaks open and Dazai takes that as an invitation for infiltration, he steps over the threshold and rounds the door. He stared down at Chuuya. He looked a minute away from bursting into tears. Chuuya didn’t like the hawking he received from Dazai, it felt surgical. He felt as if he were in an operating room. Dazai was opening him up and watching  and examining each part of his body. It was uncomfortable and simultaneously comfortable.

He can’t take this.

Chuuya turned making exit from the bedroom. Dazai jolts as well, grabbing Chuuya’s arm tightly to keep him in place.

“Just let me go Dazai.”

“No. Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

Chuuya struggles for a moment, twisting his arm in an attempt to pull Dazai off of his sleeve, but Dazai holds steady. The two stay like that for a few moments, Chuuya looking away as he tries to leave while the other fights for him to stay. Eventually, Dazai pulls Chuuya in by his arm, gently reeling him in close enough to get a hand on his chin to make him look at him.

When Chuuya finally does turn, his downcast eyes are full of unshed tears, the line of his mouth pressed tight as he struggles to choke back his emotions. Dazai shrinks at the sight, uncomfortable with not knowing how to handle the situation, but mostly worried at seeing Chuuya so distraught.

“Chuuya—don’t shut me out,” he starts, “I want to care for you. Be there for you.”

Chuuya huffs out a sharp exhale, leaning forward into Dazai as he sobs lightly, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dazai, “ he repeats like a mantra, “I can’t deal with all of this. Fyodor. The Mafia. My feelings and my mind are chaotic and I’m taking out my frustration on you.”

Chuuya shakes his head in frustration, not being able to find the proper words and hating how unbelievable whiny he sounds. Dazai holds him close, patting his back lightly as he softly urges him to continue.

“Chuuya. You’re not bothering me.” He affirmed, “The reason you need to join the port Mafia isn’t for a perverse reason Chuuya but rather your complete safety.”

“What do you mean? Am I not safe with you?”  The question hangs in the air heavily. Dazai doesn’t have an answer, yet. He ponders for a few minutes before trying to formulate a good response that didn’t make Chuuya flee from the apartment.

“Fyodor has issued out a bounty on both of our heads. He wishes for me to be killed and you to be seized and bought to him unharmed. “He explained as softly as he could, he didn’t want fyodor’s antics to get the better of him. He heard Chuuya’s sharp intake of breath, “My father—Mori—has issued the best ability users on standby guarding this apartment. We will also have twenty-four hour surveillance and we will have non-ability users on standby also armed. If you join the Mafia you will have double that protection, you will climb the ranks in no time.” He finished with a smile, he listened closely to Chuuya’s uneven breathing.

It takes a few minutes more for Chuuya to calm down. It almost seems like the only thing holing him up is Dazai as he leans heavily against the man’s shoulder, still looking away slightly as his breathing evens out. Dazai hushes him softly, rubbing slow circles up and down his back as he tries to soothe him further. It wasn’t exactly the talk he was looking for, but Dazai feels like he can start to understand.

“But we’ll make it work. We’re strong enough to fight through this and ignore Fyodor’s advances. But that doesn’t mean you won’t need a shoulder to lean on every once and a while; that’s what I’m here for.” Dazai consoled with a small smile, “I’ll let you think about everything. It’s getting late.”

“I know. I will.” Chuuya smiles weakly, closing his tired eyes as he leans into Dazai, “Thank you for protecting me.” He feels like he should give a more audible response, but this feels like enough – to be close to Dazai and letting his body do the talking if his tongue won’t let him.

Dazai seems to understand, wrapping his arms around Chuuya in a warm embrace, scrunching his face as he plants a firm kiss to the top of his head, pouring every ounce of concern and devotion he has into it as to somehow let Chuuya know that he’s not going to let him drown. And he’s not going to let him give up either.

Dazai swears to himself as he watched Chuuya sleep, perched against his chest, he will kill Fyodor Dostovesky before he even gets into the five-mile radius surrounding Chuuya.

With proper training and stability Chuuya will be able to confront Fyodor with him. They will both, in due time, be able to confront this Vodka stained problem.

Chapter Text

When Dazai woke up a little before midday, he presumed, the memories of last night immediately came rushing back to him, he felt almost dizzy with the huge wave of emotions washing over him. He tilted his head to the left and his lips immediately curled into a smile, even before he laid eyes on the head resting against his shoulder.

Dazai was greeted by the uncharacteristically mussed-up curls of none other than Nakahara Chuuya; the usually impeccably flawless styled red-head. Of course, he had known that the position Chuuya chose to sleep on wouldn’t keep his perfect curls tight, but it was still a sight to behold, seeing Chuuya's bright curls in their natural, loose state for the first time.

Chuuya's face was hidden against the left side of Dazai's chest, one arm curled over Chuuya’s hip and the other awkwardly wedged between their bodies. He briefly wondered if Chuuya could experience the feeling to his own limbs falling asleep when they were stuck in a weird position for too long, but he was distracted from his musings when the still sleeping red-head tilted his head a tiny bit, exhaling an unneeded puff of air against Dazai's cool skin through his parted, kissable lips.

He had desired to kiss those lips a few hours ago, Dazai reminded himself with a happy feeling bubbling up in his chest, warming him from the inside. He could just lean down and capture the lips for his own pleasure but then again, he’d be as bad as Fyodor; taking advantage of Chuuya.

Regardless, there was no need to rush things, he believed everything happened for a reason and if they hadn’t kissed yet it’s because it isn’t their time yet and they could instead enjoy every single step slowly but even more intensely.

Dazai’s pleasant thoughts dispersed when his gaze traveled to the digital clock on his bedside table, which was located behind Chuuya’s slender body, it was currently eight in the morning. He needed to wake up Chuuya plus cautiously ask him if he’d thought about joining the mafia any time soon and if so, he could accompany and guide him or just be there with him.

“Chuuya.” Dazai groaned, softly shaking him.

Chuuya grunted in response, slowly stirring awake. “I’m tired, Dazai.” The red-heads eyes lazily rolled open, glazed over with the remnants of a dream. Chuuya yawned, his mouth gaped open as he washed away his tiredness. Soon enough with the help of Dazai’s gentle shaking, he sat up. Dazai watched him with a loving gaze, Chuuya had that slightly pink-eyed look and his shoulders were slouched.

His facial expression was corpse-like, not just sagged but lacking its usual liveliness completely as if he had left his spirit snuggling under the duvet. His eyelids drooped and there was a slight lolling to his head, drunk with fatigue after a session of night-time emotional chaos no doubt.

“Are you okay?” Dazai asked, tilting his head to get a much clearer view of Chuuya’s lackadaisical expression, “Are you really that tired chibi?” his calloused hand massaged Chuuya’s upper arm.

Chuuya, with no hesitation, relaxed in Dazai’s warm touch before gradually allowing himself to fall against his shoulder.

His head rolled against Dazai’s shoulder, his shiny eyes glanced up toward Dazai, he swallowed visibly and audibly, “Dazai. Isn’t there any other way?” he whispered, Dazai could hear the trepidation in his voice and the pain that followed it after. The fatigue in his eyes vacated and was now occupied by heartfelt pain and suffering.

Dazai sighed, “No. There isn’t any other way.” Chuuya tensed against him and let out a shaky breath, Dazai’s arm snaked around the other slim body in a protective manner, “God. Believe me, If there was any other way, you know I would choose that over this.”

Chuuya’s pale hand found its place atop of Dazai’s arm, “I know. This is just—I can never escape him. He is forever going to be my past, present, and future.”

“No, he won’t. Not if you don’t pay him any mind.” Dazai reassured, “If you let him get to you, he will always be there.”

“But—”

“No. Don’t let him ruin what you could be able to achieve. Even if you have to join the Port Mafia, look at it with optimism.”

“I see.”

“Good.” He chided, loosening his hold on Chuuya, “So what’s your answer?”

“I’ll join you after…” Chuuya paused for a moment before a small smile was placed upon his face, “You make me breakfast?”

Dazai mulled over the proposition, “Instead of my half-assed breakfast of bruschetta, we’ll grab something from a small café, I just know you’ll love.”

“Well then,” Dazai watched intently as Chuuya removed himself from his loose hold and grappled to his weightless feet, he then spun on his heel and faced Dazai, “I better freshen up, if you’re going to generously buy me breakfast and it’s also my first day working with you.”

“Don’t take too long.”

“I won’t.” With that Chuuya closed the bathroom door behind him. Dazai watched as the door closed obscuring Chuuya and he listened to the running water when it became audible. Dazai couldn’t help the smug smile that planted itself on his face; he really liked Chuuya.


The elevator had white marble walls, a blue carpet, a silver handrail, and no buttons. Chuuya watched as Dazai pressed his hand against a small glass panel. A sensor read his fingerprints, verified them, and activated the elevator.

The doors slid shut and the elevator rose to the sixtieth floor without stopping. Nobody else ever used it. Nor did it ever stop at any of the other floors in the building; it carried Chuuya and Dazai to the thirty-second floor.

The elevator doors slid open at an agonizingly slow pace the lack of speed added to his nerves. He was nervous. He’d never been in the mafia headquarters which explained the glares and the suggestive glances but all in all the smirks and dirty grins.

He trailed beside Dazai, cementing his nervous gaze to the immaculate flooring. But here he was, upon the executive level—at least that’s what Dazai called it when they hopped off the elevator— he was nervous, with the help of Dazai, approaching the door to Mori’s Office.

He’d heard about the shake-ups and reorganizing that had been going on in the wake of his father’s takeover of the port several years back, especially the firing of a good number of the top executives and the re-hiring of a few prominent former subordinates and placing them under his thumb as executives.

It was ‘impossible not to’ Dazai said, because of the suspicious circumstances the predecessor had fatally passed from.

Dazai paused in front of a set of large mahogany doors, he could only imagine the man that was perched on a chair behind it.

Dazai maneuvered his body so he was facing Chuuya, he could see Chuuya was anxious, he cleared his throat and clasped a heavy but comforting hand on Chuuya’s slim shoulder, “You don’t have to feel so nervous, Chuuya. If you feel uncomfortable around him just tug my coat sleeve and I’ll conjure up a lie to get us out of there.”

Chuuya stared up at Dazai, unintentionally locking eyes with him, “I’m only nervous because it’s a new environment for me, new people plus I’m meeting your dad.”

“If you say so,” he smirked tipping his head to the side, “Though I can’t deny, meeting my parent is rather soon. Chibi hasn’t even taken me on a date.” He said playfully, silently screaming when Chuuya scowled but soon enough giggled in response. Chuuya was cute.

Dazai took it upon himself to waltz into his fathers’ office without knocking or making himself known; to his satisfaction, he was by himself finding solace playing with his signature scalpel.

“Osamu, do knock before entering.” Mori said cheerily but Chuuya could see from behind Dazai he was clearly annoyed at Dazai’s entrance and childish demeanor, Mori’s exasperated gaze fell on Chuuya which made him drop his scalpel and abruptly stand up and round his desk, a perverse smile was on his face, “And you bought a guest…”

“Don’t look so surprised, you wanted him under your protection and—” he gestured with his hand the length of Chuuya’s body, “He is, now, here.”

“Chuuya,” Mori rasped out, he was all of a sudden breathless, “Do come closer dear.” He summoned Chuuya with a long thin finger before Dazai could protest Chuuya was walking over—as if he were entranced by his father’s command. It repulsed Dazai.

Mori raked his gaze over Chuuya’s petite body, glancing toward Dazai each time he lingered on a specific part of his body whether it be his pale slender neck or his ocean blue eyes.

Dazai clicked his tongue in annoyance, making his father's inspection come to an abrupt halt, “Rimbaud would be so happy with how you’ve blossomed into a beautiful young man” Mori explained with a distant leer, he gave Chuuya a second once-over before grabbing his chin delicately, “A fine young man.”

Chuuya didn’t make any attempt to escape Mori’s gaze nor his touch but rather allowed him to do as he please almost as if he were subdued or tranquilized.

Dazai cleared his throat, “I think that’s enough with the handsy inspection, don’t you think?”
Mori nodded and retracted his hand, reluctantly, “I suppose.”

“You wanted him here, so what do you propose he does in his inconvenient time here?” Dazai inquired with a lopsided smile, as he tugged Chuuya beside him.

“Tachihara, Gin and Hirotsu will guide him.” Mori explained absentmindedly, he turned to Chuuya “You won’t delve straight into dirty work. Tachihara will probably become most familiar with you while you learn the ropes.”

“I see.”

“I suppose you have already told him about the circumstances?”

“He has,” Chuuya responded before Dazai could open his mouth.

“That’s stupendous,” he smiled, “Tachihara should be waiting outside for you.”

“Then we should get going—” Dazai started to only be cut off by Mori’s stern voice.

“Dazai, you have a job to do. Chuuya will be on this excursion on his own.”

“Ah. Well then,” Dazai nodded to Chuuya with a sad smile, “I guess this is where we part ways, I’ll make sure Tachihara knows to take you to my office after you all finish.”

Chuuya walked over to the door and waved awkwardly to Dazai before leaving the two relatives alone together; Chuuya and Dazai could only wonder what Mori anticipated.


 

Somewhere in the town of Tsurumi:

A man walked into an isolated communications area as Fyodor ended the call he was on. "I’ve got a very particular request," he told the man, “That needs to be handled with the utmost care.”

Fyodor brought up an image of a mugshot. "Do you recall this man—Dazai Osamu?”

"Yeah. What about him?"

"He has taken—no—stolen something, a prized possession of some sort away from me.”

"Huh," mused the large man, "I thought he was dead."

“No. It seems like he is allergic to death."

"Well, no worries, Boss. We'll bring him in."

“No. I want Dazai dead and I want my darling Chuuya bought back unharmed.” His face contorted into something maniacal, “If a hair on his beautiful body is somehow plucked from his very skin or that gorgeous pale casing marked, I will kill you myself.”

“Yes, Boss.”

Fyodor looked at the mugshot again. Different clothes, a new alias couldn’t hide Dazai nor Chuuya. ‘Terushima Shuuji’ the alias he'd been using when Fyodor became familiar with him.

A name he'd stolen off someone unfortunate enough to have attracted his eye. “Be wary of a ‘Terushima Shuuji’, that’s Dazai’s alias.”

“I will. Give me a month.” The man had gone.

Fyodor turned to his own computer station. It was time to get to work, he zoomed in on the security cam footage of Chuuya entering one of the Port Mafia bases, it was the day he first went missing. He paused the footage on Chuuya’s face, his trembling fingers traced the computer screen where Chuuya’s face was displayed, “Soon enough, my sweet Chuuya, I will have you within my arms again.”

Chapter Text

"Mori, do you have a few minutes to chat?"

Mori rolls his eyes before turning to face Dazai with a grim smile. "Yes of course I do.”

"What was your thought process behind that?” Dazai replies, quirking a brow. "Was it just to piss me off?”

"Dazai, It seems you have a problem with everything I try and help you with. Whether it be aiding in Chuuya’s protection or in fact your own protection.”

Dazai chuckles, mouth quirking up into a wry smile. "See, that's exactly my problem. You asked for Chuuya to be under the Mafia’s care alluding to the notion that I would be mentoring him. Have you forgotten there is a bounty on his head? Because if you haven’t that’s solely the reason why I can’t trust Tachihara protecting him and mentoring him.”

“Why is he on your radar? What’s your exact problem with him mentoring Chuuya?”

“The larger question you should ask is: Why is he on my radar in the first place. There was an questionable amount of stuff very much involving him in the past that links back to him pretty much directly with this, I don’t trust him. Never have and never will. We have lost a great deal of men to death and the law enforcers because of him."

"That is indirect and circumstantial at best, and you know it." Mori studies Dazai for a long moment, then huffed to himself. "Look, Dazai, if you actually had any evidence regarding Tachihara, you would have already given it to me. Tachihara’s mistakes have cost us a great deal of men, I know, but I can’t just assume he was outright slaughtering them and handing them over to the police.”

Without thought, Dazai rubs the knuckles of his left hand, but tries to play it off. Dazai was seemingly getting more frustrated with each word Mori spouted, "Look, Mori, even if Tachihara is innocent, you have to admit that the coincidence of all of these deaths and seizures is pretty damning. This all intertwines, If this is Tachihara we need to exterminate him once we have ocular proof."

He paused with a more pejorative expression taking over his face, “Or if this is Fyodor, we have an informant in our midst which means another traitor. We can’t let them think we aren’t onto them, you’re losing control over your workers, father, after all the work you had gone through to secure your head place at the table has been fruitless.”

“Dazai—”

“Tell me I’m wrong. All of this is connecting all because you have lack of control, if anything happens to Chuuya I will kill you like you killed your predecessor.”

Mori leans back against the light table, arms crossed over his chest. "You going to lay all the deaths of my men on me, too? You know death is a part of life, you knew what you signed up for when you asked me? Tell me what you think are the causes for all the iniquities in the world? This isn’t the typical nine-to-five job in an office Dazai-kun, this is the mafia people die and we can’t blame anyone but the person themselves.”

Rather than wait for Dazai’s answer immediately, Mori simply drops one of his hands on the table. "When you decide to take that chip off your shoulder and stop this trivial pursuit to pain me in some pathetic psychopathic way, you can speak to me about traitors being in our midst.”

He doesn't wait for Dazai to answer, stalking away to his seat at his desk. Pulling out his chair, he removed his black coat and placed it on the back of the chair before smoothing out his pristine white shirt to then sit down.

“Does this anger you? Someone finally calling you out on the hypocrisy of it all.” Dazai sneered.

Mori raised a fairly prominent brow, he stared at Dazai scandalously, “Ah, What hypocrisy Dazai?”

With Dazai he never argued with his fists but his words packed a powerful punch. Carefully spoken, without drama, his words had an air of finality to them and no matter how hard a person railed against them, nothing would change his mind.

Dazai shook his head, it was laughable. Mori was being the typical bastard he’d always been.

Lying.

Cheating.

Scum.

All in all a unlawful ingrate, “The hypocrisy of it all. You offering Chuuya a hand in safety to only oversee the main thing your offering, ‘his safety’ if there is unruly, traitorous subordinates you are so happy to employ. He can’t not be safe.”

“Dazai.” He empathised artificially, a grin was playing on his dehydrated lips, cracked with desperation, “I’m not sure what you are trying to achieve. I put Chuuya under Black lizards care, they specialise in Hand-to-hand combat in which you don’t. If I allowed my feelings to cloud my judgement Chuuya would have been here with you but I’m a practical and tactical man. Leaving him with you would have been futile.”

He was right. No matter how much Dazai tried to fight it, Mori would always be right. If Chuuya had been here with him he couldn’t have taught him anything regarding combat. He could’ve taught him how to read his opponents but sometimes when you have opponents it’s not always the reading route you’ll have to travel down, it’s the combat.

Mori took Dazai’s silence as an understanding to what he’d been bashfully reiterating on repeat, “If I could have did it any other way, or you had any other qualities that would aid Chuuya I would have. Dazai you must know that I would’ve.”

Dazai snorted, covering his forehead with his uncharacteristically sweaty palm, he shook his head, “I would like take your word for it but as you know, you’ve said similar things about Odasaku’s unfortunate demise. But I’ll leave it for now, but remember,” Dazai smiled widely, his onyx eyes crinkling at the corners, this was a sarcastic smile.

It had the intent a threat would, ambiguous and vague but you clearly understand what it’s trying to convey, “If my theory regarding the connection of Tachihara and Fyodor holds up and I obtain proof. I will exterminate Tachihara with my bare hands and then if Chuuya, as a result of this information coming to light, gets hurt in any way, I will cut your throat open with your own scalpel.”

He cocked his head to the side, his smile unwavering, “Do you understand?”

“If you weren’t someone I cared dearly about Dazai, you’d have been hanged off Yokohama’s landmark tower. A fitting death just like you so much desired.” Mori countered with a smirk.

Dazai beamed, a roaring bite of laughter left his lips. He held his stomach in an attempt to contain his laughter, tears welled up in his eyes as a result. He stayed sniggering for two minutes before wiping his eyes with his calloused hand, “And here I thought you were father of the year. I thought you would’ve noticed by now, suicides involving pain aren’t in my interest. So, death by hanging wouldn’t be suitable. I’d give it to you to offer me a two hundred meter drop to my death.”

Mori tutted, “I’ll have to remember next time. Your tastes are always changing and altering.” He was referring to Dazai’s sudden interest in Chuuya, who is very much a man. Dazai’s interest in woman had been all he could ever talk about.

“My tastes change because my tastebuds have been challenged.”Dazai explained with a small simper, “As you can see they had been very much challenged.”

“Chuuya is a beautiful young man. Many women would envy the beauty he has been so lucky to obtain, I can see why so many people had been interested in him.” Mori said sweetly, Dazai would question his sincerity but he couldn’t help but concur immediately with what Mori was declaring.

“He is.” Dazai stated, “He has a beauty I can’t quite explain.”

Mori watched as the gleam in Dazai’s eyes flickered. There was something Dazai was skirting around and not willing to say. Mori has only ever seen this look on another once in his lifetime, Kouyou Ozaki.

“Are you trying to say his beauty isn’t superficial, it has a much deeper worth than it seems?” Mori tried.

“I can’t explain it. His beauty on the surface is…” he trailed off. What was beauty? What was Chuuya’s beauty? What made Chuuya so desirable? The questions became relentless bombarding him demanding an answer, he glanced at Mori who sat patiently waiting for Dazai’s answer. An answer he didn’t really have.

He averted his gaze to the birds soaring through the sky freely.

Beauty.

Beauty.

Beauty is an unquantifiable characteristic. The criteria are impossible to establish objectively.
Beauty does not come "one-size-fits-all". There is a certain truth that bone symmetry comes into play, it signifies good health and good breeding prospects. But the rest of it, nose shape, hair length, eye colour is all so subjective and superficial.

What a person may find beautiful is informed by cultural preferences and swayed by images in the media.

But right now, Chuuya seems like the most beautiful person in existence. He’s no supermodel—though he could be, heads do not always turn when he passes in the street, but when there's sad news on the television he hides his face because he’s crying. When he sees suffering he connects to it, he has never built up an immunity to it and Dazai doesn’t think he ever will. It's hard for him to be that way, but to Dazai that's real beauty.

Dazai concludes, that there is a connection between "beauty" and "love," but not in the way advertisers would have everyone believe.

They tout a form of beauty that is merely aesthetic, something that could inspire lust - a thin replica of love based more in desire and conquest.

What they claim to bestow they cannot, for real beauty comes from within; and it is only that form of beauty that can make lasting love connections. Dazai knows and has seen Chuuya’s beauty on the surface and within, it’s his hair, it’s his eyes, it’s his skin, it’s his scars, his mannerisms, his habits and his voice what make him face value beautiful.

But Dazai knows his personality, his emotional scarring, his emotional baggage, his damaged heart that has been laced in enough trauma to kill a man, is what makes him beautiful on the inside.

Dazai likes that. He likes that he can see qualities an outsider couldn’t or even qualities an outsider wouldn’t be able appreciate and comprehend. And for some insane reason, compared to all the other lovers Dazai has shared moments with they seem insignificant and boring, Chuuya’s moments with him seem worth more. They haven’t kissed, they haven’t had sex but Dazai feels they’ve connected.
Physical intimacy can not be compared to emotional and mental intimacy.

“His beauty is unique. It’s as if it was manufactured by God himself just for Chuuya. The beauty on the surface is incomparable to the beauty he has acquired on the inside. I find it uncanny. Usually personalities wouldn’t have me desire to delve deep into them rather being psychically intimate would. Chuuya is probably the only person I’ve overlooked psychical intimacy with.” Dazai confessed, he kept his gaze trained on the clouds on the other side of the glass.

The sky was azure almost identical to Chuuya’s eyes, “One can desire physical intimacy but one can only wish and hope for a connection that doesn’t rely solely on it.”

"Do you love him?"

The question smacks Dazai like a sideways glancing blow, Mori’s words echoing in the empty expanse of the office.

Of all the things he expected Mori to ask him, that was not one of them.

He turns slowly, brown unevenly cut hair falling above his dark fawn eyes, and finds the other, two strands of loose hair shaping his face along with stern violet eyes, meeting his gaze equally implacably.

Love.

The word feels greasy and metallic on his tongue. Like something he doesn’t have the right to utter. Like something sacred, pure, he’d defile by speaking with his own mouth.

“Yes." The word grinds out almost involuntarily, like some truth clawing its way up out of a cage his darkest fears had been locked away in.

“Are you sure?” He asks again. His tone is still hard and demanding.

“As much as I’d like to deny it, because this feeling is almost suffocating, I can’t.” Each word feels like it takes an eternity to scratch itself up from a throat that feels parched and choked, like he's been lost in a the wreckage and his ship has sunken. In a way, he supposes he has.

Mori glances away, and there it is, that flicker of discomfort, of a sympathy the other man doesn't want to feel. Not toward him. Dazai can't really blame him. "What do you propose you do about your feelings?”

“It’s too soon for everything. As much as I’d like to wine and dine Chuuya, it would be insensitive of me to do so. He still has a fragile state of mind.” Dazai feels a tiny warmth, as he says this, he knows he doesn't deserve to feel.

“Not that I’ve experienced this myself but waiting around for Chuuya to state when he is ready for another relationship would be foolish. You’d have lost your opening to swoop in and comfort him effectively. I’m sure Chuuya is experiencing the same feelings you are but because of Dostoevsky hanging over his head he is unable to move forward and realise what he has.”

“I see.”