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The meeting had run long. Dazai was nearly certain that Mori could smell the exhaustion of his executives and so was running the executive meetings later and later. He knew it was a punishment of sorts, his dissatisfaction with the turbulent state of the weapons market and the constant encroaching onto the Mafia’s territory materialising in a sadistic form of mind-numbing torture after they had all spent weeks coordinating their forces to best maintain their ground.
It was late and cold enough that he wasn’t dragging himself back to his container and he knew Chuuya was likely on mission this evening; he had been every night this week. He hoped to sneak into the slug’s apartment and crash in his bed, knew Chuuya didn’t bother to kick him out if he got home bone tired and Dazai had left him enough space to squeeze his tiny body onto.
And so, he’s shocked to pick the lock to Chuuya’s door and step into a well-lit apartment with the quiet sounds of music and cooking easing from the kitchen. He stops in the genkan, trying to decide if he’s too tired to deal with a performance, a fight, maybe even displacing potential company Chuuya may have.
He hesitates a moment too long apparently because a voice greets him from the kitchen, impatient and abrasive.
“You’ve already picked the lock, just fucking come inside. You’re letting in the cold.”
Dazai locks the door shut behind him and shrugs out of his coat, toes off his shoes, and dons his most comfortable façade of elated mockery for his dog.
He turns the corner and is forced to pause again though. Chuuya has his back to him, finishing something off on the stove, and Dazai immediately feels like he’s on the back foot. He takes in the two bowls of rice, two sets of chopsticks, the two glasses set at the table for wine, and he swallows.
“Am I interrupting the chibi’s attempts at wooing some poor hapless soul who doesn’t know any better than to accept such scraps?”
He knows it falls flat, not enough bite, too wordy. It’s like his brain is so overfull and fatigued that he can’t string together a sentence. The failure is acrid on his tongue, the fury at himself eating at his throat. Chuuya only turns to lay one unimpressed eye on him before turning back to the pan.
“No ‘wooing.’ It’s for you.”
Dazai knows, he knows, but it’s overwhelming, he can’t process this right now, can’t begin to pick apart the hints, the suggestions, the feelings that are laid out in an intricate pattern before him. The image in front of him burns into his retina; Chuuya cooking him dinner, two place setting, two glasses. It’s all too much and so-
“Don’t want you passing out again.”
A throwaway comment, like the words mean nothing, but Dazai’s entire mind screeches to a halt.
His eyes flicked from the table to instead stare at the back of Chuuya’s head, trails down to take in his hair tucked into a low bun, the burgundy shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, waistcoat discarded. He’s wearing dark slacks rather than his usual fitted trousers. Details Dazai usually would have noticed on first inspection.
As he turns with the pan, dishing into two bowls on the counter, Dazai sees the top buttons undone, the choker settled at his throat, the gloves still in place.
Oh.
They sit down to the meal in silence. Dazai tries to focus on the taste of the food, like he’s supposed to, identifying ingredients and guessing at methods, like Chuuya had taught him. Sips slowly on the half glass of red wine Chuuya had poured him. He does glance at Chuuya occasionally, impassive and calm, unbothered with the silence.
Dazai breathes and it’s like he’s tasting oxygen for the first time.
He can’t finish the whole meal, which is never actually an expectation, but he sees the way Chuuya nods when he puts down his chopsticks with almost three quarters of the curry gone and half the rice.
They finish their wine and Chuuya looks at him, all burning blue eyes and red tinted lips.
“You want help in the shower?”
Dazai has to take a moment, needs to translate through the static taking up space in his brain. He toys with the idea but very quickly concludes the distraction would simply delay the evening and he shakes his head.
Chuuya nods toward the hallway and collects their dishes, heading back to the sink.
Dazai is methodical with his shower, step by step; focus on the current action, overcomplicate the motions to keep the attention on his own hands rather than the noise in his head.
When he gets out the shower, there’s a glass of water beside the white towel and the black sweatpants. His bandages and clothes were removed and while he knows there’s a stock of more bandages in the cabinet under the sink if he needs them, he skips it.
Sitting on the edge of the bathtub in the sweatpants as he finishes the water, he rolls out his shoulders. Taking long breaths, he stretches his legs. He lets the noise rush back into his head as he loosens up his arms, lets out a sigh before pushing himself to his feet to leave the bathroom.
Dazai enters the bedroom with an empty glass and a buzzing brain and finds red.
One bedside lamp is on, dim but bright enough to cast a red-tinted glow through the lampshade and illuminate the scene before him.
Chuuya’s hair is down now, russet draped over his shoulder against the rich maroon of his shirt. He’s reclined on the burgundy chaise lounge against the wall opposite the bottom of the bed. Strewn across the duvet are the red ropes; carmine blood staining the black fabric with violence and devotion.
His eyes are steady, watching Dazai. He can feel the scan and categorisation of every inch of exposed skin, like a predator assessing prey for weaknesses. He slowly gets to his feet, allowing Dazai to watch the movements.
“How are you feeling, Osamu?”
Chuuya’s shift to his given name always sends a chill down his spine. It’s so nonchalant, so casually held in his throat, easily tipped over his tongue; like a natural gift he doesn’t even think about. Dazai is glad he saves it though, relieved he doesn’t use it with others, doesn’t simply toss it around for anyone to hear.
In these spaces, without his bandages and with Chuuya’s gloved hands and with the red ropes stark against the dark bed, he’s Dazai Osamu, not the demon prodigy or Mori’s apprentice or even the person that he is alone out there in the world.
Here, with a name softer and more human, he’s Chuuya’s.
And so, he hands the reins over to Chuuya, releases the control and the careful management and eternal composure. When Chuuya’s feet stop before his own, he leans over and rests his forehead on Chuuya’s shoulder, lets him take the empty water glass from him, and mumbles in a very un-Demon Prodigy like voice:
“’M tired, Chuuya.”
A hand reaches to rub down his arm soothingly, leather smooth on his skin.
“You want to sleep?”
Dazai knows why Chuuya asks the questions, knows that he prioritises “consent” over all else in these situations, but right now he wishes they could skip it.
“Mm-mmm.” He lets his head roll to indicate the head shaking motion, nudges into Chuuya’s neck, near begging for him to just accept the requests without forcing him to find the words.
For once, he seems to take pity on him, had probably sensed it in his earlier assessments and so he hums. His fingers move from Dazai’s arm up to his head, scratching at the nape of his neck and resting on his hair.
“Get on the bed.”
His voice is still soft, still as mild as Nakahara Chuuya could ever manage, but the instruction is clear and Dazai is only too happy to follow it.
Chuuya disappears from the room and Dazai settles at the head against the pillows, eyes caught on the ropes, blazing warnings to remind him of what’s to come, and yet all he can think about are red strings of fate.
When Chuuya comes back, Dazai’s mind is already cloudy with a low smoggy hum. There are thoughts but they’re tripping over each other, barely even trying to get his attention. Vaguely, Dazai thinks about beekeepers and their smokers as Chuuya approaches, a bottle of water and a protein bar in his hands.
He drops them onto the nightstand beside the large safety scissors. They’ve never had to use them, Dazai doubts Chuuya would ever really need them at all, but he knows they offer a security to Chuuya that he requires.
Their eyes meet and a hundred words are said in silence before Chuuya starts to position him.
His movements are always slow, even after all their experience together, like he’s allowing Dazai to monitor the process, track each touch of his hands.
Once he has Dazai settled on his knees, he slides off his gloves and reaches for the ropes.
Chuuya’s hands are small, especially in comparison to Dazai’s, but his fingers are long and his palms are solid. His hands bear the brunt of Corruption and so the scars there never really fade, only beginning to disappear as they snake beyond his wrists. Dazai knows Chuuya keeps the gloves off for this portion to properly feel every knot, test the strength and the tightness, always aware of how the rope will feel on skin.
He selects a length and the red looks like blood dripping down his hands, mixing with the scars of their history, the scars of their bond, and twining them together as he begins to trap Dazai with them.
Slowly, he takes away Dazai’s agency, his arms attached and then tied to his torso. He wraps the ropes around him, creating intricate patterns of crimson across Dazai’s chest. He watches the movements, hypnotised by Chuuya’s deft, practiced fingers slowly putting his parts back together and making sure they don’t fall apart again.
He doesn’t notice when his eyes moved to watch Chuuya’s face instead, taking in the calm focus in the set of his jaw, the slight pursing and tightening of his lips as he completes a knot, the distant movements of his eyes.
Dazai won’t ask, but he can tell this brings Chuuya some kind of strange peace as well, some kind of rest and distraction from their world outside. In here, maybe Chuuya is Dazai’s too.
The cool eyes do flicker up to meet his own gaze for a moment as he’s drawing the rope across to tie it off around his waist and the movements stop while another silent collection of words are shared.
Dazai feels warm, like he’s cracking open Chuuya’s chest to crawl behind the ribcage; the safest place he’s ever been.
When Chuuya shifts him to trap his legs, Dazai sighs out a breath and drifts off a little, stares up at the ceiling from his tilted position against the pillows, feels the stretch of his shoulders with his arms trapped to his back and relishes in the slow confinement of his legs as well.
Like this, with Chuuya’s warm fingers running along every rope, tugging lightly at the knots, shifting his limbs to check circulation and hold, Dazai feels cared for, cherished, loved.
It’s not a feeling they’re worthy of, not a word they can ever use in their world, but in here with Chuuya’s Osamu and Dazai’s Chuuya, maybe it exists.
“Can you take a deep breath in for me, inflate your chest fully?”
He follows the request on autopilot, feels the ropes cut into his skin with the perfect pressure as the air fills his lungs. Chuuya moves into his field of vision again as he does and he smells his conditioner, feels like he’s swallowing down pieces of Chuuya, collecting them inside of him to ease his own being.
“All good?”
His voice is soft again, the check-in, be real with me, no jokes voice and Dazai can only nod, trapped on one of the tiny islands of brown flecks in Chuuya’s eyes, surrounded by nothing but the blue waters of his irises. Chuuya’s fingers comb through his fringe, pushing the damp hair off his forehead.
“You’re already slipping under a little. Sure you want to go up?”
Dazai is present enough to offer an enthusiastic nod, even if words are failing him right now. Chuuya chuckles and the sound sets the room alight around Dazai.
“Okay, hang tight. I’ll be right back.”
His hand presses against Dazai’s cheek before he disappears entirely. Dazai’s eyes return to the ceiling but he still feels like he’s on an island, a quiet one, just him and Chuuya lying on the sand and staring at the never-ending blue sky.
He hears the suspension swing come down, sees small movements from Chuuya, feels the bed shift around him. Smiles as he pictures Chuuya having to step up onto the bed to reach the fastenings to tug it down all the way; so tiny.
And then he’s back and red hair is tickling at his cheeks and all he can smell is apples from his conditioner and there are soft hands on him again, connecting the ropes, testing his knots again like he hasn’t turned this into an art perfectly executed for only Dazai.
He feels Chuuya’s hands repositioning him again, getting him laid out flat on his back, his arms ache where they’re pressed between the mattress and his back, but he isn’t in place for long.
He turns his head to the side to watch Chuuya slip his gloves back on, reach for the rope, and their eyes meet for a moment more before he begins to tug on the rope.
Slowly, he feels himself rising, the ropes pulling taut and tightening around his body, perfectly trapping him into place and keeping everything together.
As he rises though, he can feel his thoughts being left behind, the messy exhaustion and tired webs of consciousness pooling on the duvet beneath his head as he’s lifted away from them, as Chuuya carries him away from it all.
Finally, he’s suspended a couple feet above the bed, his head dangling down, and the lights are turned off, only the soft red glow from the LEDs beneath Chuuya’s bed casting enough light to see Chuuya’s shape moving.
He can’t see or hear him, but Dazai knows he’s there. Even if he wasn’t perfectly tuned into Chuuya’s existence at all times, he knows Chuuya would never leave him like this, would never leave him this vulnerable, exposed without covering his blind spots.
Chuuya settles onto the bed near the head, where Dazai can see him upside down. He’s holding the water and a book and he rearranges the pillows to shuffle a little closer; only a few inches from him now. He can smell the apples again.
He watches Chuuya, silently tracks every movement. He admires the sharpness of his cheekbones in the dim lighting, the cut of his jaw, imagines the softness of his lips and the harshness of his teeth. He follows the outline of Chuuya’s narrow shoulders but sees the way the muscles bunch and shift as he pulls a blanket out from under the bed.
Finally, finally, Chuuya looks at Dazai again and he only realises how cold he’d felt without the eyes on him when they return and burn through his body. He feels sluggish and drunk, mind hazy but filled entirely with Chuuya.
The gloved fingers reach out and comb through his hair, Dazai can’t stop the whimper that falls past his lips and Chuuya draws back, removes the gloves, and reaches out again; hesitant and halting. Dazai closes his eyes and Chuuya takes it for the invitation it is.
In this space, Dazai’s mind drifts from his head, his entire being centred on Chuuya’s light fingers combing through his hair, brushing his cheekbones, trailing down his neck. The touches shift from the barest breath to firm kneading, never consistent and keeping Dazai tethered within the ropes.
He doesn’t know how much time passes like that in silence, his mind floating and his body trapped, attached only to Chuuya and his touches spanning his body; the occasional shift of a rope around his waist or the adjustment of a knot at his thigh. Sometimes the touches simply wander, finding the spaces between the ropes and raising goosebumps along Dazai’s skin.
He feels like his body is melting, like it will start to drip apart and pool on the duvet with his lost thoughts and Chuuya’s gloves, and then Chuuya starts talking.
Dazai doesn’t follow much of the meaning, some gossip, some strategy, some poetry, and the praise. He doesn’t always hear it now, but he remembers it afterwards, often alone in his shipping container days later when his brain is sorting through fragments of memories and puts them together.
The compliments are his downfall, each one categorised and filed in his head. He doesn’t know if Chuuya knows he hears them or remembers them at all, but it doesn’t matter. They aren’t like the compliments he gets from Mori or Hirotsu or even from pretty subordinates trying to find a way into his bed.
They’re odd and sometimes Dazai isn’t certain if normal people would consider them compliments, but he does. A quiet admission that his plan a week before had been good, a gentle reminder to eat the soup Chuuya is sending home with him, a throwaway comment about how nice his fingers are, a lamentation that he was struggling to make his hot chocolate as tasty as Dazai managed to make it for them on gaming nights.
Sometimes they’re complaints that Dazai picks apart until he finds the real meaning; bitching about Dazai forcing them to hide in a safehouse for three days when they could have escaped if he had just used Corruption, grumbling that the winter hat he got him was ugly and clashed with his hair [before gifting Dazai a matching ugly winter hat the following week], complaining that all this hosting of a lazy, clingy mackerel was forcing him to get used to Dazai’s company.
Dazai Osamu was no idiot, not even when it came to Chuuya.
Chuuya shifts back around to his head and supports his neck, lifts Dazai's head up to ease the stretch of his muscles and allow him to stare down at his own body through half-lidded eyes.
The red is vibrant, communicating a vitality that doesn’t usually exist within Dazai. The patterns are beautiful, framing his chest and running down to his legs. He never recognises himself like this, has to look at himself instead as something of Chuuya’s, just another pretty ornament he liked and brought home.
“You always look so lovely in red, Osamu. So beautiful.”
The words are spoken into his hair and the shudder that tremors through Dazai’s body is violent enough to pull at the ropes, force a quiet whine from his throat.
Chuuya drops his head back a little so they can look at each other again and the breath catches in Dazai’s throat at the smile.
The fingers in his hair are soft and Chuuya opens his mouth to continue talking but Dazai doesn’t hear any of it, has departed from this place entirely.
Because with Chuuya’s ropes holding his pieces together and his fingers in his hair and his voice easing through the air, Dazai exists inside of him.
He floats in the pools of blue of his eyes, cool water easing his limbs. He drifts in Chuuya's lungs, sharing his oxygen to stay alive. He drowns in Chuuya's blood, so human and real and intimately his.
The tears start to drip down towards his temples, soaking into his hair. His eyes are open but he isn’t seeing anything but blue, not cognizant of the world around him anymore, nothing beyond the hand on his head and the voice in his ear.
Time passes and he feels lips on his cheeks and then fabric underneath him and he’s been lowered to the bed, arms still trapped behind him and legs still immobile. He comes to as Chuuya is turning him over onto his front, adjusting the ropes on his thighs to let him support some weight.
He whimpers and Chuuya is there, eyes burning and focused, studying the glaze over Dazai’s gaze.
“You want me to untie you? We can come back and-“
Dazai is already shaking his head, some of the blurriness dissipating, displeasure filling his chest.
“Please, Chuuya.”
He isn’t sure if he actually says the words or hears them in his head, but Chuuya only brushes his hair away from his face and kisses at his temple before disappearing behind him again, so he assumes the message was conveyed.
He feels Chuuya’s hands skate along his hips, skim the knots and dip under the ropes, his thumbs drag over the scars on his thighs. Every part of his body ceases to exist when Chuuya’s hands aren’t on him. His ribs crack open and fall to dust, his arms melt into puddles, the sinew and muscle separating from bone until he’s a pile of starched bones beside a stain of red.
Nothing is real beyond those touches, firm but intimate. He doesn’t hear the lube bottle clicked open but he does feel one of Chuuya’s hands disappear. His right side vanishes into the ether, only his left flank still present under Chuuya’s steady grip.
And then there are slippery fingers circling his hole and he sighs at the feeling of Chuuya’s pointer finger sliding inside of him. It’s slow and careful and he pushes against it without thought, chasing after the vitality, the spirit, the burning sun that is Chuuya to fill him and warm him and bring him back to life.
His body automatically rocks back against each thrust, muscles aching already from the awkward position, but body welcoming the first finger, then the second, until soft, slick sounds are echoing in the room while Chuuya spreads Dazai open with three.
Dazai feels the appendages slowly pull out, understanding what’s happening, but uncaring of it all as long as the hands stay on him. And it does, resting opposite the left hand. Before he can fully comprehend the change though, he’s been spread and a warm, wet tongue licks across his hole.
The noises are uncontrollable as Chuuya licks into him, spreads him open and fucks into him, drawing wet, choked off sounds from Dazai’s throat. He muffles them into the duvet and falls into the pleasure, focused on all three points of contact from Chuuya; the two hands spreading him open and the mouth wringing every tensed muscle and breath of air from him.
The tears start to leak from his eyes again; seeping into the fabric below him to join his scattered thoughts. When he’s crying from the overwhelm and the satisfaction and the devotion he’s drowning in, Chuuya starts to maneuver him again.
With hazy vision, Dazai’s body slowly begins to disintegrate when Chuuya steps away to quickly strip off his own clothes. Mumbled, uncertain cries fall from Dazai’s lips as he feels his skin peeling off, but Chuuya is quick to replace it, stroking down his side and helping the skin reattach to his muscle, returning the blood to his veins.
Dazai tries to help get himself upright when Chuuya begins to lift him, but almost tips them both over before Chuuya laughs.
The sound reverberates through his bones, an echo chamber of the melody, stored away for him to hear when he’s gone.
“I’ve got you. No interfering, you brat.”
Dazai rests his head in the crook of Chuuya’s neck and nods, feels some more tears drip down his cheeks, lets the saltwater fuse their skin and keep Chuuya near him always.
He lets his weight settle entirely once Chuuya has him in position, settled on his lap with his bound legs settled either side of him. He’s as slow to position Dazai over his dick as he was to open him up; all slow presses and careful adjustments until he can lower him slowly onto him.
Dazai sighs as he finally feels Chuuya inside him, feels the warmth creep through him from where they’re joined to the base of his skull.
His thrusts are deep, lifting and dropping Dazai’s body on top of him to match the movements of his hips. For a moment, Dazai laments the ropes keeping his arms to his back, wants to wrap around Chuuya and feel nothing else, but then Chuuya adjusts the angle and Dazai doesn’t care about very much other than the pleasure sparking from his prostate up his spine over and over again.
Chuuya holds him in position, supporting his posture and raising him up as he needs, his strength still a marvel to Dazai. He pulls back enough to trail his lips down Dazai’s chest, leaving crimson marks between the ropes with his teeth and his tongue, creating a new pattern on the bare, marred flesh. Every burning bite is a reminder that even when the ropes are gone, they’re still bound.
Dazai’s world shrinks down to this view: Chuuya’s red hair across his shoulders, scarred hands tethering him here, red ropes holding him together, and Chuuya’s lips against his skin. It’s like that with just the image and constant nudging against his prostate that his first orgasm bowls him over.
His spine protracts, head leaning back, the ropes tighten around his arms as the noises continue to spill from his mouth; unbidden and unmuted without the duvet under him. The neurons in his body crackle with it, obliterating every other sensation for a moment.
When his body settles, Chuuya is still grinding inside of him, lips still lathing gently across the harsh marks dotting his skin. Dazai's eyelids flutter but don’t close, taking in the image.
Chuuya looks up at him, lips red and eyes bright and he smiles that tilted, imperfect grin at him. And still, he moves, shifting Dazai in his lap, rocking up into him and the overstimulation tips over into that terrifying place of too much but simply not enough. The tears start running again, whimpers dripping from his throat.
Chuuya carefully tilts them backwards, supporting Dazai down until he’s splayed helplessly across his chest, knees still planted in the bed on either side of Chuuya's hips and head back in the crook of his neck.
The thrusts pick up force like this, knocking up into his prostate, already pushing him back to a painful hardness that’s compressed between them. The noises continue to escape, growing in volume and only half muffled into Chuuya’s skin.
Suddenly the movement stops and the whine from his throat is silenced with hand over his mouth and lips murmuring into his hear, filthy and saintly:
“Osamu, you’re going to disturb the neighbours. You don’t want to bother them do you?”
Dazai barely comprehends the question but he can hear the disappointment, the chiding in Chuuya’s tone and he shakes his head, sobs out a broken, incoherent, “No.”
Chuuya removes his hands and continues with his sinful voice.
“If you can’t lower the volume, I’m going have to gag you. I don’t want to have to gag you, you know that, yeah?”
Chuuya’s dick is pressed directly on Dazai’s prostate, eliciting burning supernovas behind his eyes and he nods around the pleasure.
“Yes.”
The sound is pitiful, desperate, cracked with emotion. Chuuya shifts, lifting Dazai’s hips up and then dropping him down to slam straight into his prostate again with a quiet murmur into his ear:
“Good boy.”
Dazai tries to stop the cry but there are fireworks exploding behind his eyelids, all he can see is red and all he can feel is Chuuya, he isn’t even really here, just soaking in the pleasure inside of Chuuya’s chest where it’s warm and safe and he feels so good.
But there are consequences and though Chuuya is careful when he shifts Dazai back over onto his chest, ass facing up, his stained black tie from his day at work is balled up and tucked between his teeth, stretching his jaw open and holding it in place like the rest of his body.
The tears spill over again and his nose begins to run and he feels spit soak into the tie as Chuuya slides back into him. His bare chest folds over Dazai’s back and presses to the exposed skin between the ropes, the small pieces of Dazai still on display, and soothes the ache.
Chuuya’s free hand wraps around Dazai’s own dick, still slick with cum from his last orgasm, and he matches the slow movements of his hips to those of his hands.
Dazai sobs around the gag, desperate and pleading. His shoulders ache and the pressure in his belly burns as Chuuya keeps him on the edge, slow grinds and teasing touches.
Finally, lips press to his shoulder blade and then the pace picks up, Chuuya fucking into him harshly, his hand tight around Dazai’s dick as it keeps pace. His cries are choked and his body slips down from the force. His back arches and his shoulder scream before Chuuya has his other arm wrapped around Dazai’s waist again and tugs him up into the thrusts.
It’s as Chuuya lifts him, dragging him straight back onto his dick, that his second orgasm crashes into him and his mind whites out entirely, flinging him into oblivion, to float adrift among the stars. His body ceases to be, every nerve ending and cell dissipating into the cosmos.
Chuuya’s hands bring him back, gentle skin that sets the gravitational pull and then Dazai is falling through the atmosphere again, burning up as he plummets toward earth, the edges of his vision red from the heat.
Before he can crash into the earth and simply continue through the crust down to the mantle, Chuuya has caught him. The hand is gentle on his cheek, thumb stroking across his cheekbone and down his jaw.
As he opens his eyes, he finds red hair and blue eyes above him, a small smile tilts on Chuuya’s lips when he blinks the bleariness from his eyes.
“You good?”
Dazai swallows and nods, glancing down at his body as Chuuya turns to something behind him.
He’s back in the sweatpants, skin clean and while his muscles ache, there are no evident burns or bruises from the ropes. The only sign of any kind of intricacy making his body more interesting were the hickeys and bite marks Chuuya had spread across the open skin; a reminder of the bonds that had held him together while his body tried to drift apart.
Chuuya pushes the bottle of water into his field of view, supports Dazai’s back as he pushes himself to a seated position again. There’s a dull ache in the base of his spine, the mildest sting as he shifts to lift the water to his lips. He hopes it takes longer to dissipate, hopes the marks take weeks to fade, hope he can carry the pieces of Chuuya with him forever.
“Can we both stay in here tonight?”
The words come out before he can think them through, a little raspy and desperate, something Chuuya will mock him for. He blinks and turns to Chuuya, ready to take it back and throw a taunt but he’s stopped by his favourite shade of red all evening; the tinge of it across Chuuya’s cheeks.
Emboldened, reckless, probably stupid from the orgasms, he repeats with more certainty, less cracking.
“I’d like it if we could both sleep here. Together.”
Chuuya swallows and nods, already nonchalant, like a blush hadn’t stained his cheeks moments earlier.
“Sure. I can stay with you.”
They curl up facing each other, Chuuya keeping a grip on Dazai’s wrist like he always did after this; maintaining skin contact to keep Dazai from drifting off again. But this time, he didn’t let go to go sleep on the couch in his living room or head off for an early morning mission while Dazai got some rest. This time, he stayed and they told stories until their eyelids were drooping.
And then Chuuya shuffled closer, a nervous energy about it until Dazai frees his wrist to clasp their hands together instead. The red of Chuuya’s cheeks returns and Dazai feels as safe and warm as he did inside Chuuya’s chest, but now existing in his own damaged body.
“What’s Mori got you all in meetings for so long for anyway? Ane-san’s been complaining about it too.”
Dazai sighs, watches Chuuya reach over to turn off the lights, and drags him into his chest when he comes back. The small giggle from Chuuya’s chest at the motion seeps into Dazai’s bloodstream, eases his worries and soothes his mind.
“He’s fretting over this international organisation. They’re a threat, but it’s mild. Pretty sure he’s just pissy they aren’t already cleared out.”
Chuuya tucks his head under Dazai’s chin and Dazai breaths in apples again.
“But you do think they’re a threat?”
Dazai hums, takes a small moment to gather some of his still scattered thoughts and really thinks on it.
“Maybe, probably nothing big though. Might cause some disruption with loyalties and we may lose some people, but the Port Mafia aren’t going to be beaten by something like them.”
Chuuya’s own voice is fading as he answers.
“Glad to hear it. Hope you don’t die and stuff. Should I be keeping an ear out with my people?”
Dazai presses his lips to the top of Chuuya’s head, hair silky beneath his skin, and he sinks into the embrace, feels their heartbeats sync and their ribcages meld and their limbs twine together like tree branches to never be separated.
“Never a bad idea. They’re called Mimic.”