sun is a deadly laser ✻ bri ch 9 thread Profile picture
Mar 3, 2021 2782 tweets >60 min read Read on X
quiet grumble he always gives is /so/ endearing.

His hands wind up in Dazai’s hair, tugging on the strands lightly as he runs his fingers through it. It’s wild, and it’s starting to grow out again. The strands stick up for a moment when he brushes them out before falling under
their own weight. The undercut at the back is more of a fuzzy shave now, and could use a trim.

Or maybe he’s growing it out? Chuuya tries to imagine what that’d look like, Dazai’s face with his hair curving around his cheeks or brushing against his shoulders.

He wants to see
what that looks like. He likes the idea of being with Dazai long enough to watch his hair grow out.

It’s the simple changes that make his heart feel the warmest.

“Dazai,” he murmurs, tugging a little harder.

“No,” Dazai grumbles, nuzzling closer like he can avoid being
woken up if he just refuses to let go or move. He mumbles something else, too low to hear except for the last bit: “‘m sleepy.”

Smiling fondly, Chuuya tugs on his hair again, trying to get his nose away from his neck. “You don’t have to get up, you just have to get off me.”
“Comfy,” he whines in return.

“I /know/ you’re comfy, but you’re hurting me.”

It’s only a little bit of a lie. It’s more of an ache, and something Chuuya could deal with if he needed to.

Apparently that’s all he needed to say, because the next thing he knows, Dazai is rolling
over onto his back and dragging him with.

Yoko makes a startled noise, sitting up to look around in confusion as to why her pillow was stolen out from underneath her. The fur on one side of her face is flattened, while the other side is rumpled and sticking out in odd places.
She looks like she has bedhead, funnily enough, nearly a match to the look Dazai has on.

When she sees it’s just them, she yawns with a high-pitched sound of irritation. She stands up to stretch, first pressing her chest to the bed then her back legs one at a time.

She jumps
off the bed then, and trots out of the room. Chuuya can hear Kozo getting up to follow her— he’s strangely resistant to sleeping on the bed and prefers to sleep in front of the door— and a few moments later, the sound of their feet on the stairs echoes from outside the room.
Without the weight on his legs, feeling is quickly returning to his feet. He flexes his ankles absently, rubbing his toes against Dazai’s shins.

With his face turned into the pillow and once again breathing peacefully, Dazai doesn’t stir. He looks asleep again, not that Chuuya
can blame him. By the time they’d fallen into bed, the poor man looked like he passed out instead of going to sleep.

Of course, that means Chuuya is finally free to admire him without him interfering. When he’s awake he’s /annoyingly/ teasing, and if he sees Chuuya looking
at him, he /will/ tease him until he’s blushing and looking away.

Or tease him until he’s practically crying with the need to orgasm, but that’s almost as bad. Just more enjoyable.

Now that he’s /asleep/ though...

Chuuya can just drink him in.

Slowly, he pulls himself to
a sitting position with his legs tucked under him, balanced over Dazai's hips.

Dazai fell asleep without a shirt on, and with a little coaxing, Chuuya had managed to persuade him to take off the bandages, leaving him completely bare to his gaze.

His belly, strong and cut with
muscle, rises and falls with his every rhythmic breath. Above that, the gradual swell of pectoral muscles that lead nicely into mouth-wateringly defined shoulders and biceps.

On one side, the red and blue koi fish chase each other endlessly over the planes of his chest, sakura
petals falling like a river down the curve of his shoulder and arm. It's graceful, and with the slow, subtle movement of his body, it almost looks like a flowing river.

Now that he can take a moment to look closer without making Dazai edgy or nervous, he can find a few stretch
marks and places where the ink looks oddly thin. Like it was done when he was young, and he's grown into it.

"Taking advantage of me when I'm sleeping and unaware, are you?"

Startled, Chuuya flinches a little. His eyes dart up, catching on the small smirk curving Dazai's lips.
His eyes are still closed though, and the rest of his face is impassive. If Chuuya hadn't heard him speak, then he would've assumed he was still sleeping.

Scowling, he flicks at his stomach. "I'm just /looking/ at you, don't make it weird."

That earns him a huff of amusement.
His eyebrow arches, and his smirk widens but his eyes still don't open. "And do you /like/ what you see?"

/Yes/, in every aspect, from the well-cut build of his body to the snarky, charming personality hidden away in the teasing curl of his lips.

Licking his lips, Chuuya places
a hand on his stomach. He pushes up, letting his fingers follow every dip and bump of his body, tracing his way up. The way he tenses up slightly, abs flexing, makes satisfaction curl through his stomach.

"Yes," he admits, voice low. His hand slides over his ribs, following
the line of muscle over his side. It expands under his touch with another breath, intoxicating.

Finally, Dazai's head turns and his eyes crack open slightly, revealing those caramel-brown eyes Chuuya finds himself so fixated by. They're dark now, like coffee, drawing him in
closer so he can pick out the flecks of green and gold inside them.

"And what are you going to do about it, doll?"

Incensed by the teasing, inviting tone and the nickname he hasn't heard in /so/ long, Chuuya lurches forward to kiss him.

The first press of their lips together
is rough, hard enough that Chuuya's teeth press painfully into his lips--

But then he adjusts, planting a hand near Dazai's side to take his weight, and tips his head to better the angle.

The /next/ kiss is much better, and maybe it's because of the lingering emotional release
from the day before, or simply just how warm and heavy and indulgent everything feels right now, but this kiss isn't as rushed as it usually tends to be.

It's deep, yes, with Dazai's tongue sliding into his mouth to scrape the metal ball of his piercing along the insides of his
teeth. Chuuya takes his turn to pull Dazai's lower lip into his mouth until he can feel the rush of air escaping him in a breathy hush, tinged with the faintest of groans.

Underneath him, Dazai's hips press upward. Not a /thrust/, but a mindless, instinctive need to seek out
pressure on his growing erection. The heat of him pressed against the curve of his ass, separated only by the thin barriers of Dazai's sweats and Chuuya's underwear, is too tempting to ignore.

He slides to the slide, kissing the corner of his mouth and making his way down to his
sharp jaw. Dazai lets him, tipping his head back to give him better access to his neck.

There's a spot, just under the hinge of his jaw, that pulls out a low groan when Chuuya's teeth sink into it. The sound makes excitement thrill through him, so he sucks on that spot /hard/,
until he can feel his pulse throbbing underneath his tongue.

Hands find his knees, creeping upwards in a slow sweep of appreciation. Fingertips linger over the rising goosebumps, finding every sensitive spot and teasing it lightly with the barest brush of nails. Every inch
gained feels like it leaves flames behind, drawing his skin tight with sensitivity.

He moves down, biting marks over Dazai's Adam's apple and around the base of his neck. He finally understands /why/ Dazai has always spent so much time marking him up with his mouth, because the
satisfaction that wells up inside him when he pulls back to see the red, wet mark blooming on Dazai's skin--

It's /raw/, primal.Fills him with the hunger for /more/. More marks, more skin, more touch, more pleasure, more, more, /more/.

Dazai's hands coast over his hips, fingers
curling around the width of them and digging in. He drags him down, encouraging a slow, forceful rock of his hips that drags his ass along the length of the growing erection beneath him.

Chuuya's next breath is hitched, eyelids fluttering. The friction is good, but the /promise/
behind it is what really sets him off.

He knows what it feels like inside him, turning his brain to mush and overloading his system with pleasure, and he wants it /again/.

Just a little different this time, because--

Dazai is warm and solid beneath him, Chuuya is on fire with
need and anticipation, and he's /finally/ got the upper hand.

"Lube," he mutters into Dazai's collarbone, biting down hard until he gets a sharp hiss in return.

In retaliation, his hips buck underneath him, nearly unseating him. It also makes his own erection, trapped still by
his underwear, drag against Dazai's lower belly.

"Impatient," he hears from above him, which is directly contrasted by the way one of Dazai's hands lets go of his hip to dig through the small nightstand to his left.

At least he doesn't have to go searching through the drawers
underneath the bed, because Chuuya wouldn't give up his spot for the world. There's something satisfying about having someone so big and dominating underneath you, like turning the tables on them and taking control instead.

Naturally, he likes being /under/ Dazai too, but he's
enjoying the privilege of taking his /time/, and move at his own pace.

Usually, he's frantic with lust, vibrating with the need for Dazai to touch him /harder, faster, more/, and he rarely gets to /appreciate/ the beautiful stretch of skin underneath him like this, rarely gets
to mark him up with his teeth and tongue, rarely gets to grind against exactly how /he/ wants.

Maybe he's high on the power of it, because when Dazai's hand comes back with a lube bottle, he's snatching it out of his palm before he can even crack the top on it.

He's never done
this to himself /but/ he's had Dazai's fingers inside him enough times that he's confident he'll be able to figure it out.

"You really /are/ impatient," Dazai teases, hands pushing up the hem of his shirt. It's one of Dazai's, much too big on him.

Neither of them want to take
that particular piece of clothing off, but Chuuya's underwear /has/ to go.

"I just want to help," he croons temptingly, dipping his fingers into the waistband and starting to drag it down. "Don't you want me to do it?"

Chuuya /almost/ gives in, especially when his hands slide
over his ass and /squeeze/, long fingers nearly able to grab an entire cheek with each hand--

"No," he mutters crossly, biting his chest again because he /knows/ what Dazai is doing. Trying to distract him and take charge again. "I'm taking care of /you/ this time."
(That makes Dazai pause for a moment, a little confused because--

For a second he thinks he means he wants to fuck /him/, which, don't get him wrong, he's bottomed before and liked it, it's just not really his thing and he's not feeling up for teaching a virgin how to fuck him
this morning, especially when he's still so tired--

But then Chuuya squirts lube onto his fingers and brings them around to his own ass, and it starts to click.

He wants to be in /charge/. He wants to do the work himself, while Dazai just lays here and enjoys it.

Cute.
Surprisingly sweet too, because even though Dazai absolutely would not mind flipping them over and pressing him down into the mattress, there /is/ still a lingering exhaustion in his mind and his body, like a phantom ache.

He could ignore it if he wanted but--

The view /is/
nice though, as Chuuya sits back a little to work his fingers into himself so--

Why /not/ enjoy it?)

Chuuya is quickly realizing that being fingered is a /much/ different experience than doing it to himself.

First off, the angle is awkward enough that it puts strain on his
wrist and limits his movements. If he's not careful, he could give himself a cramp that would be /embarrassing/, because he thinks he's pulling off the whole smooth, suave, seductive thing very well right now, and he doesn't want to ruin that.

His fingers /are/ quite a bit
shorter and thinner than Dazai's, which creates frustration inside him because he's gotten used to the /stretch/ and the feeling of Dazai attacking his prostate until he's mindless from it, and he can't /do/ that to himself, his fingers just aren't long enough and he doesn't
know where that spot is.

It does, however, allow him to open himself much quicker than Dazai usually takes. Dazai likes to take his time and tease him until the next addition barely even causes a stretch, and Chuuya /likes/ that but--

Now he's on top, sitting on his bulge and
wanting it so bad he doesn't /want/ to wait. Doesn't want to draw out the process for as long as possible, he wants to be fucked and he wants it /now/.

It doesn't take long for him to work his way up from one finger to two to three. At that point, the most he can do is awkward
flexes of his wrist and fumblingly trying to spread his fingers inside him, because he /knows/ that if he doesn't open himself up properly and it looks like he might be hurting himself, then Dazai will put a stop to it.

Of course, Dazai /isn't/ helping him at all. His hands are
coasting over him in long sweeps, finding every sensitive spot and brushing lightly over it with /teasing/ fingers, building his anticipation up, up, /up/.

There's a point, too, when Dazai is unbuttoning his shirt-- not brushing it off, but just opening it so he can explore his
chest and play with his nipples until Chuuya is panting and arching into the tight pleasure-- that Dazai murmurs, "Come on, baby, you're going to need more than three to take /me/."

And that, the reminder of how /big/ he is, how completely he fills him up, how Chuuya feels like
he's overflowing and bursting with pleasure and heat and ecstasy whenever Dazai is with him,over him,/in/ him--

His body clenches down at the reminder, contracting hard.

Licking his lips again, he leans back farther, reaching back with his free hand to brace himself on Dazai's
thigh. That settles his weight deeper in his lap, and the heated outline of his erection presses against him hard. He rocks against it absently, twisting his wrist to add his pinkie finger.

It also gives Dazai access to his entire front, which he /eagerly/ takes advantage of.
One hand palms his chest, tweaking his nipple until it almost hurts, pleasure tight and coiling in his belly. The other drifts over his stomach, admiring the flexing muscles, as he works his way /down/--

His underwear is still trapped around his upper thighs, both of them too
impatient to properly pull them off before getting started.

That doesn't stop Dazai's hand from dipping inside and wrapping around his erection to pull it out. The friction is mostly dry, and the slow stroke Dazai gives him is /rough/, but the attention is /so/ good, finally
a taste of what he needs, and it just builds the desperation higher, hotter.

“I’m ready,” Chuuya pants, spreading his fingers inside himself one last time. His body is so eager for touch that his muscles melt into the pressure.

Pulling his fingers out, he shuffles to get his
his underwear off completely. He goes to shrug off the shirt, only to have Dazai’s fingers tighten around his hips.

“Leave it on,” he murmurs, tugging it back into place. It’s massive on him, the hem falling below mid-thigh, but it’s not restrictive or limits his movements, so—
He leaves it on. Partly because of the way he feels in it, cute and small and /sexy/. Partly because Dazai looks like he might devour him in it.

Dazai steals the lube back from him while he’s distracted, and pours a decent amount into his own palm. He slicks himself up with
quick motions, sighing pleasantly from the friction and the quick dose of pleasure.

Impatience rises quickly, and as soon as Chuuya sees that he’s wet enough, he’s knocking his hand out of the way and climbing back into place.

Dazai raises an eyebrow at his audacity, but
he doesn’t say anything.

(Not yet, at least. As always, Chuuya will pay for being a brat /later/, but he hasn’t internalized that lesson yet.

For now he’s just—.)

Impossibly, Dazai’s cock feels /bigger/ from this angle. The head slides wetly between his asscheeks, sliding
over his entrance but not pressing in.

Arching his back to reach under him to line Dazai up is /hard/, and he’s hoping Dazai will take some mercy on him and help but—

He doesn’t. He just watches, mouth curled into a smug look and clean hand tucked beneath his head in the
very picture of self-satisfaction. His expression says ‘you said you wanted to be the one to do it— so do it.’

After a few tries that end up with Dazai’s cock glancing off his hole and sliding between his ass, Chuuya /finally/ finds the right angle and begins to sink down.
And—

He made /miscalculations/.

For one, his fingers aren’t /nearly/ the same width or stretch as Dazai’s, so even though he used /four/, all the way to the knuckles, there’s still a burning, aching stretch that makes him have to fight for every inch he sinks down.

For
another, he can actually see Dazai's expression clearly from this angle, and /god/, it looks so good he wants to stare at it /forever/. Eyes dilating, going half-lidded, devilish pools of black tar that drink in the sight of him as he lowers himself agonizingly slowly.

Lips
parted on a soft groan, shiny and wet, the hint of teeth behind them.

A slight flush growing on his cheeks, dusting his cheekbones and nose with shades of pink, his nostrils flaring. Jaw clenched as he fights the urge to thrust /up/, letting Chuuya take his time to work himself
down in short strokes.

And /fuck/, he's so big. Big enough that it feels like it's carving out space in his insides,big enough that he swears he can /taste/ him in the back of his throat,big enough that /every/ sensitive spot gets pressed against mercilessly, driving him /wild/.
His head falls back on a moan, swallowing hard as he fights the urge to /chase/ that sensation recklessly, to drop down the rest of the way down in one quick slide, wondering deliriously--

Is it /always/ going to feel this big? Feel this /good/? Is he always going to feel like
his mind is melting under the pressure?

He swears he can feel every bump and ridge of his cock as he settles downward, feel it throbbing inside him.

By the time his ass comes to rest against Dazai's hips, taking a deep breath feels impossible. Oxygen is like fire to his blood,
molten lava in his veins and pumping through his pounding heart.

"God," he chokes out, shuddering when every shift of his body makes Dazai's cock move slightly inside him. Electricity crackles along his nerves, flaring higher with each tiny movement.

"Mm," Dazai hums, and
he can already /tell/ he's about to say something /stupid/--

"I prefer Daddy, but you can call me that if you want."

Yep, there it is.

He's glad his face is tipped towards the ceiling, because he can't help the small smile in response but he doesn't want Dazai to know he
found that even a /little/ bit funny.

Leaning back, he braces himself again on Dazai's thigh. His leg is strong and solid beneath him, packed with muscle, and providing an /excellent/ base for him to work off of. The angle tips his hips backwards, and now the ridge on the
underside of his cock is pressing /relentlessly/ against his prostate.

"Fuck you," Chuuya responds, not even a little bit ashamed of how breathy his voice is, or the tinge of amusement in it.

Dazai's hips flex, burying himself a centimeter deeper in a quick, sudden movement
that has his breath stalling out in his chest. "Baby, I think it's the other way around."

Well--

He has a point there.

Deciding he's had /quite/ enough of conversation, Chuuya rocks his hips, testing the slide. There's enough lube between them that everything is slick and wet,
satisfying a primal, animal part of him.

Dazai slides out an inch, presses back /in/ on the rock down, his cock hitting his every sensitive spot. Heat rockets through Chuuya, intoxicating and addicting, prompting him to rock his hips /again/.

Pleasure builds slowly, coiling
around the base of his spine and tightening with every rock of his hips. It satisfies his desire, only to relight a deeper, more irresistible desire for /more/.

It never feels like he's going to get enough. He could do this /forever/, and yet as soon as his hunger is sated,
it starts to grow again. He’ll never be satisfied, he’ll always need /more/. More of Dazai, more of him on him, over him, under him, /in/ him, needs with the fierce burning of a thousand suns.

Taking a deeper breath, he rises up on his knees, pulling up until Dazai’s about
halfway inside him—

Then he’s sinking down again, eyes rolling back at the sensation of being /filled/ again. With the angle, the head of his cock /drags/ over his prostate, such intense, merciless sensation that his thighs are beginning to tremble.

Coming back to rest against
his hips is like satisfaction itself, the width of his cock stretching his rim to its limits. He grinds there, trying to get him /deeper/, circling his hips slowly.

"Fuck," Dazai hisses, rough voice sending a pulse of excitement down Chuuya's spine. The arm folded behind his
head is tensing, bicep flexing. His other hand finds Chuuya's thigh, tracing the straining tendons and muscles in his thighs, leaving wet trails of lube behind.

Chuuya doesn't care about that, doesn't care about the /mess/, only cares about getting more touch, more pleasure,
more /everything/. He rocks his hips forward as he leans farther back, offering Dazai more access, /hoping/ he'll touch his cock again.

"Ride me, baby," Dazai murmurs, hand sliding up over his hip, thumb sweeping tempting close to where his erection is /aching/ for attention.
His eyes are like brands on Chuuya's skin, a physical burning weight that leaves him melting in its wake. "I want to /watch/."

Involuntarily, his body clenches up at the thought. There's something so intoxicating, so /addicting/, about the idea of being the center of Dazai's
attention. Like the rest of the world doesn't matter, the rest of his problems are melting away, all his insecurities and vulnerabilities fading away.

All there is is here and /now/, filled to the brim with pleasure and the need to /perform/.

The next time he drags his hips up
is a little faster than the last time, a little more confident. He circles his hips on the way back down, a moan escaping him at the different angles.

Dropping back down his relief on his thighs, but it's not as /hard/ as he wants it to be. Even with the weight of his body
behind it, it's not /nearly/ as hard as it was when Dazai was fucking up, and he's craving it.

"Beautiful," Dazai breathes, hot-wet hand coasting over his working abs. "Don't stop."

He won't, he won't, he won't /ever/ stop.

Building a rhythm is surprisingly easy. All he has
to do is follow the raging instincts of his body, the hunger in his stomach that is demanding more, and faster and /harder/.

Every bounce up is accented by the delicious drag of Dazai's cock against every one of his nerve endings. Every drop down feels like being remade again,
every empty spot inside him getting filled again, until he feels like he might /burst/ from the overload.

The tension is building, coiling in his belly and growing tighter with every slam down. Dazai feels /so/ big in this position, so big he can't escape it, all he can do is
hang on and /survive/.

His thighs are aching with the work, trembling with exertion. He's strung thin between the desire to stop and rest, and the /need/ to keep climbing up to the peak, chasing pleasure like a drug on his addicts tongue.

For the most part, Dazai is unmoving
underneath him. His hand is still wandering over his body, pausing to pinch and pull at his nipples until Chuuya is shuddering, sliding over his abs, thumb swirling over the pre-cum welling up at the tip of his cock.

With a wicked look in his eye, he brings his thumb to his
mouth. His tongue is wet and tempting, metal ball of his piercing flashing in the light of the room as he /slowly/ licks his thumb clean. Chuuya is caught by the sight, eyes intently following every talented curl and swipe of his tongue and vividly remembering what it felt like
on his /dick/, how wet and hot and /perfect/ his mouth felt, the second best thing he's ever experienced.

The first being, obviously, his cock /inside/ him, but it's a hard thing to choose between.

If he focuses enough, he can /almost/ imagine the sensation of it. There's lube
on his erection now, hot from the leftover warmth of Dazai's hand and if he /thinks/ hard enough, he can /just/ imagine what it feels like to be swallowed down again, hot-wet suction around him--

His hips stutter, his rhythm beginning to fall apart as the tension continues to
build, starting to reach a breaking point.

It's good, it's /so/ good, somehow even better with how hard he has to work for it. The aching need in the base of his erection is rivalled by the ache of exertion in his thighs.

Dazai's hips shift underneath him, bucking up once with
force that Chuuya is lurching forward to catch himself with a hand on his chest, nearly unsettled from his seat entirely.

"I didn't say you could stop," Dazai muses, hand coasting back up his chest, over his collarbones, to wrap loosely around his throat. "You can do better than
that, can't you? Don't tell me you're giving up already?"

He's not, he just needs a /break/. His thighs are burning and his abs are aching, and even though it's /so/ good, it's still somehow not enough, he needs /more/ and it's so /hard/--

He goes limp in Dazai's grip, hips
grinding forward absently to get more friction against his erection from Dazai's stomach.

"No," he gasps out, lungs burning, "I just--"

He cuts himself off with a low keen, unable to continue that sentence. Unable to even think of what he was going to say, mind melting and
thoughts blurring together.

"I /know/," Dazai croons, voice reverberating in the small space between them and dripping like wax down Chuuya's spine, "You're close, aren't you? Just need a little more?"

Maybe the intent is to be mocking, but all he can think about is how /good/
he sounds like that, how easy it is to slip into his control.

He nods, shifting his rhythm to small, short bounces on his cock. The angle means that his prostate is practically being /milked/, fiery waves of pleasure building and building and building.

"I can tell," he
continues, dragging him down to give him a sweet, lingering kiss. "I can feel it when you get close."

Finally, /finally/, his other hand is moving and he's touching him with /both/ hands. This one finds the curve of his hip, tightening around it ruthlessly and dragging him back
into every thrust, increasing the pressure.

Breaking the kiss, Dazai slides to the side to smear loud, wet kisses over his cheeks. His breathing is rough, the only thing Chuuya can hear besides the wet sounds of their bodies coming together.

"You get /tighter/, baby," he
says, and something about having his /own body/ described to him in that voice makes Chuuya spiral even higher. "Feels so good around me."

Yes, yes, he /likes/ that, likes that he makes Dazai feel good, likes that he's doing /good/.

"I should keep you here forever," gets
smeared into his cheek, like a thought Dazai hadn't /meant/ to voice but ended up revealing by accident. "Strung out and just waiting for me to give you what you need."

The last word is punctuated by the hand leaving his hip and moving inwards, /finally/ wrapping around his
erection. His thumb sliding over the pre-cum welling up and spreading the moisture around the head feels like beautiful hellfire.

"Maybe tomorrow," Dazai sighs, giving his cheek one last kiss before pushing him back a little. "Today I want to watch you cum."

This close, his
eyes are all encompassing, vast pools of brown that are so easy to fall into. Easier than falling, easier than coming home, easier than breathing.

Spurred on by the words, Chuuya manages to pick up the pace a little bit. Dazai matches his rhythm, but in opposite, hand sliding up
as Chuuys comes crashing down, rewarding him for another bounce up with another tight, wet stroke down to the base.

Pleasure is pulsing through him in hot waves, building and building, tidal pool into waves into /tsunamis/. He can feel it creeping up his spine, turning every
inch of his skin hypersensitive.

It builds momentum as it goes, growing faster, hotter, /better/ with each stroke of his cock. Every time his body clenches down, fighting for even /more/ pleasure, he's reminded of how unrelentingly hard Dazai is inside of him, throbbing with
heat.

He's a mess of moans and choked whines, eyes beginning to haze over with his impeding orgasm. He can't look away from Dazai though, partly because his gaze is searing hot and irresistible and /mostly/ because whenever his eyes begin to flutter shut, Dazai /stops/.

"Don't
stop, don't stop, /please/, I'm-- /I'm/--," Chuuya pants out, cutting himself off with /another/ cry as Dazai tightens his grip on his throat. It's not enough to choke him, but it's just tight enough that it's a slight struggle to breathe past, making him dizzy and lightheaded.
It just makes it that much easier for the pleasure to overwhelm him, sending him spiraling with no sense of return.

He's close, /so/ close, the edge is drawing near. He's hanging over the cliff, pushed closer with every stroke of Dazai's hand, with every bounce on his cock.
Dazai leans in, gaze unwavering and so close its the only thing Chuuya can see as he finds his bottom lip and slowly sucks it into his mouth. He sets his teeth into it and pulls back, stretching the sensitive flesh until it starts to /sting/--

On the upstroke, Dazai squeezes
the head of his erection /mercilessly/, thumb sliding up to dig his nail into the sensitive slit with almost enough pressure to hurt--

And he's gone.

The orgasm crashes over him like an ocean storm, huge and filled with electricity, and /drowning/ him in sensation. Rapture rips
through him from head to toe, with such intensity that it leaves his whole body shivering in the aftermath,filled with white-hot tingles.

Dazai's hand around his cock gets hotter and /wetter/, cum filling the spaces between his fingers and getting spread on the next stroke down.
He ekes out a few more bounces on his cock, overwhelmed by the sensation of his erection twitching in Dazai's grip, in the feeling of his prostate getting firm, relentless pressure applied, sending shards of white-hot pleasure down his thighs.

He can't get in enough air,
his lungs burning as the waves start to die down into weakening pulses--

Which is,of course,when Dazai stops having /mercy/ on him.

Vaguely, he can feel him shifting underneath him, legs drawing up and forcing Chuuya's thighs to open that much further as Dazai braces his feet--
The first slam of his hips /up/ startles a shocked cry from Chuuya, jolting in place. He doesn't have anywhere to /go/ though, his neck still caught with Dazai's fingers around it, and his thighs spread obscenely wide to fit his hips between.

The /second/ slam pulls out a
oversensitive /yelp/ because--

He's not exactly /aiming/ for his prostate, he's more just setting up a /brutal/ pace, but fuck, the ridge of his cock drags against on every pull out, slides against it /hard/ on the thrust in and--

Fuck, fuck, /fuck/!

Keening, Chuuya digs his
nails into his chest, clawing at him as he tries to /survive/ the fast pace Dazai starts.

The pain just makes Dazai hiss, just makes him fuck him /harder/, makes the hand around his throat tighten and--

And--

Chuuya is going to /cry/, holy shit.

He's been fucked through his
orgasms before but /that/ was with that strange, /wonderful/ hazy feeling he gets sometimes during sex. With that feeling filling up his head, it made it easy to relax into the oversensitivity, dulled the burning edge until it was easy to bear.

Now though?

Now he's /brutally/
awake, aware of every sensation coursing through him. It's /so/ much, confusing in it's intensity, and he doesn't know if it feels like ecstasy or /agony/, all he knows is that he has no chance but to hang in Dazai's grip and /take it/.

"Hhhngh," he chokes out, eyes rolling back
in his head. "Fuck, /Dazai/, it-- God, fucking /please/, it /hurts/--."

The laugh Dazai lets out against his mouth is sinister, /sadistic/. "Does it?" He asks, voice dripping with intent, with /temptation/, with power and domination "Or do you /like it/?"

That's the /problem/,
he doesn't /know/, it's so fucking much, and he's not even given a /second/ to breathe, he's just being fucked out of his /mind/, beyond reason, he can't /handle it/--

"I think you /do/," Dazai continues, his free hand finding Chuuya's hip and /yanking/ him down into the next
thrust, increasing the force. "Because, baby--" he slides to the side, scraping his teeth over his cheek, and the feeling of how /heavy/ his breath is is exciting on it's own, "-- you haven't told me to /stop/."

That's true, he hasn't, he doesn't know if he /does/ want him to
stop, and he knows he /could/ make him stop, the word 'red' is there on the back of his tongue but--

His body is struggling but his /mind/ doesn't want to stop. He wants to prove himself, wants to be /good/.

Eyes squeezing shut, he digs his nails into Dazai's chest, fighting
to ground himself as the sensations wildly spin between searing-hot pleasure and electrified pain, fighting to /hold on/--

"That's my baby," Dazai purrs, and the kisses he places on his cheek are achingly gentle compared to the savage rhythm of his hips. "So good for me, even
when it's hard."

The possession in his voice, the casual ownership of it, makes Chuuya shiver again, going limp in his grip. The fingers around his throat are tight, not because Dazai is choking him, but because he's supporting most of the weight of his upper body.

Chuuya
spreads his thighs a little more, uncaring that the stretch is a /too/ much now, giving Dazai more room to work with.

The pleased growl against his cheek, and the feeling of Dazai's body working /harder/ underneath him, makes pride and self-satisfaction surge in his chest.

"We
should get you a collar,someday. As much as I /love/ my hands on you, I could put a /leash/ on you, and you'll have to just /take/ whatever I give you,however I give it to you, like a good boy."

Yes, yes, whatever he /wants/, Chuuya will do anything, /be/ anything, /everything/.
(Is it unfair to be bringing up that topic for the first time while Chuuya is half out of his mind and Dazai is licking away his overstimulated tears? Probably.

Is Dazai in any state of mind to being thinking about /fairness/ and the /right thing/ right not?

Absolutely not.
Because he woke up with a little chibi sitting on his hips, watched him ride him like the only thing he wanted in the world was Dazai balls-deep inside him, and now--

Now he's tight and hot and /wet/, and even though he can feel his body instinctively trying to squirm away from
the overload, he can /also/ sense the way Chuuya is actively trying to relax into it and--

Fuck, he's such a /good boy/, how can Dazai ever resist him?)

"Yes, Dazai," Chuuya croaks, feeling a compulsion to /answer/ even if it was probably just a rhetorical question, "Yes."
Another slam of hips, more harsh breathing on his face. Dazai's rhythm is falling apart, jack-rabbit quick thrusts starting to slur into deep, frantic grinds. He's close.

Still, somehow his voice manages to stay /mostly/ composed as he scrapes his teeth over his cheek. "That's
not what you call me. That's not my /name/."

And, well--

Now that's he's gotten a little used to the sensation overload, he can think around it, just a little, enough that an /idea/ occurs to him, one that will either get him in /trouble/ or send Dazai over the /edge/--
"Yes," his lips curl, mischevious, "/Daddy/."

There's a second where he can feel the breath in Dazai's lungs still, where he can /feel/ him twitch and throb inside him, and his hips press up, burying himself as deep as he can go--

Then Chuuya's world is /spinning/ and he's
going from being on /top/ to being /pinned/ to the mattress with near-vicious intensity. Dazai is bearing down on top of him, one hand planting by Chuuya's side to hold his weight while the /other/ finds the bend of his knee and pushes it /up/, until it's pressed to his chest.
When Dazai /slams/ back in, it's with the force of his entire body behind it, burying himself as far as he can go in one savage thrust.

There's not even a second to adjust, because he's pulling back out just as quickly, pounding back in, setting up a rhythm that has Chuuya
choking on his own breath. He's arching beneath him, but there's nowhere to /go/, he's trapped, he's pinned, he's spread open wide for Dazai to fuck as hard and fast as he /wants/--

Somehow, Dazai manages to shuffle his knees to take more of his weight so he's balanced better.
Then his hand is coming up, grabbing Chuuya by the jaw. His fingers squish his cheeks, grinding the insides against his teeth until it stings.

"You," Dazai practically snarls into his mouth, dropping down to give him a searing kiss that steals what remaining breath he has.
Another slam of his hips, and Chuuya is hanging on with everything he has, but he swears he's not going to survive this for much longer--

"Are /so/," gets smothered into his mouth, like the words have more meaning if they're spoken directly onto his tongue.

His prostate gets
hammered on the next thrust, a direct blow that has Chuuya nearly /screaming/ in response, acid-burning shards of pleasure-pain melting through his spine.

Pushing his knee up higher, Dazai slams in and stares there, grinding wetly into him, as deep as he can go. His voice is
broken, cracked with rumbling groans, drenched in pleasure that it's making /Chuuya's/ breath catch in response. "Fucking /perfect/."

That-- the idea of being /perfect/ for him, being irresistable, being /exactly/ what Dazai needs and wants-- has Chuuya's body clenching down in
instinctive arousal, hips rocking against him as much as he can move with how hard he's being pinned.

One, two, three short, hard thrusts inside him that makes him feel like Dazai is trying to climb inside him /entirely/, so deep Chuuya will never get him out, will never be able
escape the feeling of him in his throat, in his lungs, in his /heart/--

Dazai goes still with a drawn out groan, hips twitching forward in intermittent thrusts as he orgasms. Chuuya's name is on his lips, muttered mindlessly and muffled into his mouth.

A new burst of warmth
floods through him. He can feel Dazai's erection twitching inside him in heavy waves that match the spurts of wet warmth beginning to fill him up. His hips are still rocking slightly, pulling out a little just to fuck back in, pushing his cum as far inside Chuuya as he can get.
Everything is hot and wet, satisfying some raw primal part of him. It's pleasant, and leaves Chuuya feeling buzzed and limp in the aftermath.

Even as the ache in his thighs begins to reassert itself, and his chest is heaving as he tries to catch his breath under the constriction
of Dazai pinning his knee to his chest--

The only thing he can really focus on is the raw /satisfaction/ of feeling cum beginning to leak down his ass in sticky trails as Dazai starts to soften inside him. God, he's a /mess/, smeared with lube, his own release and now /Dazai's/.
He likes it. No, /loves/ it.

With a heaving breath of exertion, Dazai pushes himself up and off him, settling back onto his knees. The motion means he slides out completely, cum spilling out after him. Brown eyes follow the trail, dilating at the sight.

With a wince, Chuuya
lets his leg drop back to the mattress. His hip is aching and the muscle shakes are already beginning to set in. He points his toes to stretch his legs out, groaning lightly.

Dazai presses a hand to his thigh, frowning when he feels how badly he’s trembling. “Are you okay?”
Besides feeling like he pushed himself /way/ too hard at the gym and he might not be able to walk for a few hours, and the strangely empty feeling from lack of stimulation as his body starts to come down completely—

Yes, he’s fine.

Sighing, he relaxes into Dazai’s grip as
he begins a light massage, pressing into the muscles and soothing them. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

He hisses when Dazai presses in with his thumb on the inside of his thigh. “Though I’m starting to wonder if you’re trying to kill me with sex.”

That earns him a smile and a huff of
amusement. His thumb presses in harder as he leans forward and presses a kiss to his stomach. “Baby,” he sighs,licking a broad stripe over the mess on his skin, “That was me going /easy/ on you.”

If that’s /going easy/, then Chuuya might not /survive/ Dazai being rough with him.
He /admits/ he’s not that educated about sex, but he’s learning quickly and he can’t /imagine/ more than what Dazai’s already done with him? He’s been tied up, publicly tormented, fucked until he’s crying from oversensitivity—

What /more/ is there? How many possible ways can
there be to /have/ sex? What else can Dazai do to him?

It’s half anticipation, half- almost-fear that fills him at the thought.

The feeling of Dazai’s tongue swirling over his skin, finding every smear of cum and strawberry-flavored lube and lapping it up. Chuuya doesn’t
know /why/ he finds the idea of Dazai licking him clean hot but—

Here he is, one hand buried in Dazai’s hair as he squirms at the sensations, breath quickening. Every breath he takes is tinged with soreness from his overworked abs.

His softened cock only gets one, long,
rough-wet swipe of his tongue before Chuuya is dragging him away by his hair with a pained hiss.

He’s almost expecting Dazai to /resist/, maybe to swallow him down in direct opposition, and Chuuya is bracing himself because it’s /too much/ after everything, but he also can’t
find it in himself to tell him /no/—

But Dazai moves with the pull this time, sliding up his body easily, until he’s hovering over his face. His free hand comes up, grabbing Chuuya by his jaw and pulling his mouth open so he can claim him in a deep, open-mouthed kiss.

His
tongue slides inside, rubbing the taste of himself over the roof of himself.

Last time, Chuuya thought this was gross. Now, it’s /bitter/, but actually pretty /hot/.

Now, his hands are in his hair, pulling him close. His legs are trembling too much to wrap them around his
waist, but he keeps him as close for as long as possible using just his hands.

Their kiss is broken when Chuuya’s phone beeps from somewhere further up the bed. He tries to hold on but—

Dazai breaks the kiss with a final peck, offering him a sweet smile. He pulls away
completely, rising up on his knees.

“You should answer that,” he says, shuffling off the bed, “I’ll get something to clean you up with.”

Chuuya pouts, but he can’t stop him from heading into the bathroom.

With a heavy sigh, he searches over the bed with his hand, looking for
his phone. It was under the pillow last night, but this morning finds it buried halfway beneath the blankets.

He pulls it out, unlocking it with easy movements.

He’s expecting a text from his dad, or his sisters, or maybe a social media tag—

Not expecting a text from Shuuji.
[ SHUUJI ]: can we talk? :(

Chuuya has... a lot of /complicated/ feelings regarding Shuuji. The beginning of their... /relationship/ was rocky, and he's only just now realizing how manipulative and messed up he was to Chuuya, now that he has Dazai to show him what a boyfriend
is /supposed/ to act like, and supposed to make him feel.

But he can't say that meeting Shuuji was a /bad/ thing, or that he'd ever change the way things turned out because...

His eyes wander over to the open bathroom door, where he can hear the sink being turned on and water
starting to rush.

If he hadn't met Shuuji, hadn't dealt with /everything/ Shuuji put him through, he wouldn't have met Dazai. Wouldn't have had a reason to spend so much time with him, wouldn't have had a reason for that first date, so long ago.

Shuuji might've tried his best
to destroy what little confidence Chuuya had at the time, but it didn't /work/, and now he has Dazai.

All things considered, he'd say he came out with the better end of the deal.

Chuuya hovers over the keyboard, wondering what to say. They haven't talked directly ever since
Shuuji blew him off to go to that party. They're still in a group chat together and they're civil (as civil as Shuuji can be, at least) to each other there, but neither of them have been willing to break the silence first.

Until now, that is.

Does he answer? What does he say?
The /wording/ of the text is suspicious too. 'Can we talk', no explanation, no warning.

It's anxiety inducing, especially as a thought occurs to Chuuya:

Does he /know/ about him and Dazai?

They haven't talked about telling anyone else yet, and Chuuya doesn't know how he
feels about /that/.

He's not ashamed of Dazai, it's just...

Having a negative reputation, especially one spread and collaborated by a young, rich businessman (Shuuji, in this case) can completely ruin his career before it begins. While the naïve, romantic side of him wants to
believe that he'll be with Dazai for a /long/ time and he'll be able to protect him from that,it's not a guarantee.

And based on that one text Shuuji sent in the group chat to Yuan about killing her for sleeping with his dad?He /won't/ be happy they're dating.

He has to answer.
If only to keep the peace.

[ Chuuya ]: Sure, what's up?

In the time it takes the answer to come in, Dazai returns back to the bedroom. There's a wet washcloth in his hands, which he uses to gently clean the mess of lube and cum lingering on his skin. He's achingly gentle, and
the towel is warm.

Such a simple, small detail that would've been easily overlooked--

But Dazai didn't overlook it. Somehow, he always manages to think of /everything/.

[ SHUUJI ]: I wanted to say im sorry

It feels strange to be hiding his phone from Dazai, carefully tipping
the screen away from him in a move that feels natural to keep him from seeing. It feels like he's /cheating/ on him, but he's /not/, he would never--

He just doesn't know how Dazai would feel about him talking to his son, considering their relationship is filled with animosity.
Besides, he's pretty sure the etiquette of sex says that texting with your boyfriend's son only a few minutes after getting your soul fucked out of you is bad manners.

He's not /hiding/, he's just...

Seeing what Shuuji wants and then waiting for the best time to tell Dazai
about whatever it is.

(The best time would've been now. After this, after the next conversation and the next and the next--

It snowballs.

Too bad you rarely see the snow for the snowstorm.)

[ CHUUYA ]: sorry for what?

Dazai flips him onto his stomach so he can get the spots
on the back of his thighs. The rhythm he's using is relaxing, almost meditative.

[ SHUUJI ]: i was a real dick to you after the whole dinner thing. i was just having a really bad time with my whole family situation and when u didn't seem upset it made me think u didn't care :\
He's... blaming him being an asshole for Chuuya not being /upset enough/ about being stood up? His head hurts trying to wrap around /that/.

[ SHUUJI ]: and my life kinda sucks rn so when u stopped talking to me, it felt really bad and i didn't want to talk to you either

/He/
stopped talking to /Chuuya/, actually.

[ SHUUJI ]: and now im realizing that u were a good friend to me and i want you back :(

The problem with that specific statement is that they weren't /friends/ in most senses of the word. Sure, they were in the same friend group, and still
are, but there was always an implicit understanding that there was something /more/ there, a romantic interest.

And 'I want you back'? What is this, a romance movie?

Chuuya can't find it in himself to be /too/ mad right now, considering that Dazai has procured a bottle of
massage oil from /somewhere/,and is now massaging away all the aches in his thighs and lower back. /God/, his hands are lovely,they're /magic/. He knew that already,but when they find a knot at the base of his spine and press it away? /Heaven/.

[ CHUUYA ]: thanks for apologizing
Kouyou taught him to accept apologies instead of saying something else like 'it's okay'. Because it's /not/ okay, and he doesn't have to forgive someone the moment they apologize.

[ SHUUJI ]: so can we be friends again? :( my parents are fighting rn and yuan and nikolai are
annoying rn. they don't understand what it's like to not have 2 parents :\

[ SHUUJI ]: well i have 2 parents and u don't but u know what i mean lol

In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have told Shuuji that his mother died because--

Wow. Alright then.

[ CHUUYA ]: fine but we are
ONLY friends. no kissing, no dates, nothing like that. only friends.

[ SHUUJI ]: okay darling <3

Somehow, Chuuya doesn't think he gets the message, but he can beat it into his head another time.

Right now, he feels half-melted into the bed and Dazai is sliding up his body and
leading the way with a trail of soft, sweet kisses up his spine and over his shoulder.

"Anything important?" He asks, chest rumbling against Chuuya's back.

With a content sigh, Chuuya turns his phone screen off and pushes his phone to the side. It's not important, not /nearly/
as important as twisting around to draw Dazai into a kiss. "No," he murmurs, "just a friend."

(There will be a time, not too long from now, when he's staring down a barreling car, hands wrapped around his throat and fighting for his life--

That he wishes he said something now.)
------- +

Signing up for classes for his second semester of college is much easier than the first time. He knows his way around the website by now, knows some of the professors and has heard rumors of most of the others, knows /not/ to sign up for any more morning classes, and
knows which buildings contain which classes, so he doesn't end up scheduling himself for back-to-back classes in buildings that are on opposite sides of campus.

At the same time though, it has the similar feeling of /loss/ to it because returning to school means he's giving up
time with Dazai.

It's like moving away from home again, losing his family in small ways. He's still /there/, he's not /gone/, but Chuuya will soon be swamped in coursework and classes and he won't have time for boyfriend-things anymore.

No more time for trips to Osaka, no more
lazy days in bed, no more days at the park playing with the dogs.

No more /sex/.

Well, that last one Chuuya /will/ work around, because he'd rather die than go longer than a week without getting pounded into Dazai's bed, but now there's /restrictions/.

Because not only does
he have classes, the return of the semester means that Shuuji is home on a permanent basis.

/And/, by some stroke of luck that Chuuya is genuinely suspicious of, somehow he ends up in the same statistics class as Chuuya.

He didn't realize how /tiresome/ it was to work around
Shuuji until he's sitting there contemplating how to climb onto the balcony into Dazai's room without him noticing.

As for the conversation about whether or not they should tell Shuuji they're dating...

Chuuya keeps putting it off. Dazai starts to bring it up once, but he
quickly changes the subject because--

He hasn't decided how he feels about it. On one hand, he /wants/ to tell Shuuji just so they can stop sneaking around like new parents with an inquisitive toddler.

On the other hand, it /feels/ like there's a whole host of potential issues
that Chuuya is /not/ prepared for the fallout for. Second semester will probably be even harder than the first one in a lot of ways,and he doesn't need more on his plate.

On a different, slightly related look at the issue--

Dazai is his /first/ boyfriend. There's a part of him,
maybe young and naïve and /stupid/--

That wants to tell his /family/ first.

In his imagination, that's always who he's told first. Not his friends, but his sisters and his dad. They've always been his biggest supporters, even when it's been difficult.

He loves them, and he
wants to share this part of his life with them.

Wants to share /Dazai/ with them.

He's just not sure how to bring that up. By now, they've been dating for a little over two weeks, and it feels /way/ too soon to even bring up the possibility of bringing Dazai home, but he also
wants it. Really badly.

How is he supposed to bring that conversation up though?

'Hey, wanna meet my /real/ daddy'? 'How do you feel about bonding with your boyfriend's dad who is only a little older than you'?

Every casual slide into /that/ conversation seems even more
ridiculous than the last. Besides, he hasn't even /mentioned/ Dazai to his family yet beyond vague mentions of meeting someone, so he supposes it's still a moot point for now.

He can't help but thinking about it though, when he's drifting off to sleep or when Dazai is on a call
with him while he's taking a study break, when he receives yet /another/ order of food that Dazai sent to him without asking or telling him.

He thinks about it, over and over and over again.

/What if I brought him home? What if I kept him? What if he was mine forever?/
Those thoughts never go away. They lurk beneath the surface, growing roots, spiraling out endlessly into the unknown reaches, leading Chuuya naturally into hopes of /forever/.

Of /always/. Of home, no matter where he goes.

[ SHUUJI ]: hey wanna study tonight my house?
His immediate reaction is /no/ because he 'studied' with Shuuji once and that turned into being pinned against the wall and forcibly kissed until he was crawling with discomfort.

His second reaction, when he takes a few seconds to think about it, is /yes/ because--

Dazai is
home today. He mentioned that earlier, said he was glad to enjoy some down time with Yoko.

If he says /yes/, he gets to see Dazai. It's been almost 10 days since they last saw each other, and while that doesn't /sound/ like a lot, Chuuya is /dying/ to see him.

So..he says yes.
[ SHUUJI ]: ok cool I will pick u up in 1 hr

That gives Chuuya just enough time to change out of his lazy day sweats and into something /cute/. Possibly something that Dazai bought him in Osaka (his closet is practically overflowing now, and he actually can’t have all his
clothes clean at the same time because he doesn’t have enough /room/ for them all now. He’s resorted to shoving clothes under his bed to make room.)

[ CHUUYA ]: ok cool see you then.

He exits out of his message threads with Shuuji and opens up his conversation with Dazai.
Their last messages were about the stray cat. Chuuya’s been trying to convince him to give the poor thing a bath so he’s clean again, but Dazai is insistent on not getting himself “scratched to death.”

It’s a work in progress.

His thumb hovers over the keyboard. Should he tell
him that he’s coming over? Or should he leave it as a pleasant surprise?

He /wants/ to surprise him because Dazai’s surprised him with things he liked, and he wants it to be fair—

But it also feels wrong to show up with his son without even a warning, so he starts to type out
a message.

Halfway through, before he can send it, his phone starts to ring with an incoming call.

Kouyou.

It’s strange for her to call instead of text, so he immediately accepts the call and brings the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

For someone who hasn’t spoken to him beyond
texting and social media tags, Kouyou sounds /real/ exasperated as she says, “So did you plan on telling me what you did or was I supposed to just find out myself?”

Chuuya’s blood goes cold.If she’s angry enough to skip a greeting,and gets straight to the point then—

She knows.
But if Chuuya has learned anything from being a little sibling, it’s to never admit to your crimes unless you have no other option. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you don’t know? You think I wouldn’t figure it out? You think I wouldn’t notice. Don’t play stupid.”
Chuuya doesn’t have a response to that because the anxiety is /spiking/.

The silent tension builds for a long moment, with Kouyou clearly waiting for a guilty confession and Chuuya is /so/ close to admitting it, for ‘yes, yes, it’s true, I /am/ a dirty dad fucker’/ to come
spilling out of his mouth—

When Kouyou /bursts into laughter/.

“I really got you, didn’t I?” She cackles, sounding way too pleased with herself, “I bet you were really about to confess to something!”

Chuuya’s jaw /drops/. “You /asshole/! Did you call me just to /fuck/ with
me?!”

That just makes her laugh harder.

He hates having siblings. He should’ve been born an only child.

“No, no,” she wheezes, finally starting to calm down after laughing at his pain for nearly an entire minute. “I’m calling to tell you to stop ignoring Dad’s calls.
Every time you don’t answer him, he calls /me/ and if I have to spend one more of my lunches reassuring him that you’re /not/ dead in a ditch, you’re just being a little prick, then I am going to come down to Keio and embarrass you in front of all your friends by telling them you
ate the birthday candles on your cake every year until you were /fifteen/.”

“Because you /told/ me I was supposed to?!” Chuuya shoots back, outraged. “I was young and vulnerable and you took advantage of me!”

“Whatever you say, wax-eater.”

“I am /not/ A WAX EATER!”
From the other side, he can hear shuffling as she leans back in her chair with a satisfied hum. “I havé picture proof, baby brother. Either call Dad back or I start printing out the family photo albums.”

See, this is why Chuuya is gay. Women are evil, conniving little assholes.
He chooses to let it go though, because they’ve had this conversation /dozens/ of times before and they’ll just end up arguing circles with Kouyou being smug that she ‘introduced him to a new food group’ and ‘when you go grocery shopping, do you go to the supermarket or to Bed,
Bath and Beyond?’ and Chuuya getting increasingly mad at the fact that he /only/ ate birthday candles because she told him to for /years/.

Instead, he blows out a heaving sigh, turning his phone on speaker. Nikolai is in the room— he seems to be taking a more laidback approach
to this semester, and has been spending less time working and more time studying in their room. Chuuya’s glad about it, because he seems more rested and Chuuya missed him— but he has a big pair of headphones on as he scribbled on his notebook so he’s probably not listening.
He lays the phone on the floor, bending down to get a folded pair of jeans out from under his bed. “Âne-san, he calls me almost every day. I can’t talk to him /every day/, that’s ridiculous.”

“Sure you can,” Kouyou huffs, an audible eye roll in her voice, “Have him tell you a
bedtime story every night or something, I don’t care. Just talk to him; he’s lonely and he’s worried about you.”

“It’s not fair,” Chuuya mutters, knowing he sounds like a child but unable to help it, “he wasn’t like this when you or Kyouka went to college.”

By now, he’s gotten
comfortable enough with Nikolai that he doesn’t think twice about stripping his sweats off.

“Yes but Kyouka and I didn’t spend most of our childhoods in a hospital and flu season doesn’t kick our ass every year like it does to you.”

Ugh, it /always/ comes back to that. Yes,
he was born a couple weeks early and that caused a cascade of health issues that he struggled with as a child but he’s /outgrown/ that.

He’s fine now. Beyond some lingering mild symptoms— like needing much longer to recover from colds than most people his age and the continual
struggle to keep and hold weight— he’s /fine/.

Compared to how sick he used to get— like that time his regular cold turned into pneumonia that almost killed him— he’s practically the picture of health.

So what if he needs to take a little extra care during flu season? That’s
nothing compared to what used to happen.

“Besides,” Kouyou continues, “you’re the baby, so of course he’s more attached to you. We’ve been his whole life for so long, and now that you’ve left... he must be lonely.”

Well, /now/ he feels bad. He cares about his dad, obviously,
it’s just hard to feel like an independent adult when his dad is practically calling him to remind him to eat lunch every day.

“Fine,” he grumbles, yanking the jeans over his legs. They’re the same ripped pair he wore in Osaka, black with the hole in the thigh and opposite knee.
“I’ll call him tomorrow sometime. I’m busy tonight.”

The faint typing on the other end stops abruptly, and he can practically /sense/ the way her attention is caught.

“Oh? Got a hot date?” Her voice is coy, teasing for information.

‘Hot date’ isn’t exactly how he’d describe
this situation but he’s /not/ about to get into the whole mess, especially with Nikolai in the room. “Yeah, something like that.”

“So you /were/ hiding something from me,” she gloats, victorious from finally being proven right, “You met a /boy/.”

/Boy/ is not the right word
for Dazai, not even close. “Yeah,” he hedges, unwilling to lie and /wanting/ her to know, but knowing exactly what happens when she finds out he has a crush.

Right on cue: “So... what’s his name? Tell me everything.”

Chuuya yanks the shirt over his head. “I’m not telling you
his name. Remember what happened last time?”

There’s a small whining sound from the other side. Sometimes it’s just like the old days, before they grew up. Like they’re still kids, playing and messing with eachother. “Listen, it’s not /my/ fault your last crush was so stupid—.”
“We were /seventeen/ and you Facebook-stalked him and called him stupid until he cried and blocked the entire family.”

At the time he’d been /pissed/. Now it’s kind of funny, admittedly, but he’s learned his lesson. Never give his sister any information to work with.

“Well, he
was an asshole, anyways. Heard he dropped out of college ready,” she grumbles, blowing a breath into the receiver just to annoy him.

He pauses. “Are you /still/ Facebook stalking him?!”

“Anyways, tell me about your new boy toy. If you won’t tell me his name, then at least
tell me what he looks like. How tall is he? How old is he? Is he cute?”

He pulls on a long sleeve navy shirt, cute but comfortable for the cooling weather. His makeup bag— new, bought for him by Dazai— is sitting by the floor-length mirror in their dorm and he goes to sit on the
floor next to it.

He’s /pretty/ sure Nikolai is listening to music right now, and the other boy hasn’t even looked at him, but he’s sure to keep his details vague enough that they could describe Shuuji too. “He’s /very/ tall, very cute. Only a little bit older than me.”
‘Little bit’ meaning eighteen years, but /semantics/. It’s not like she can judge; Oda is nearly /eleven/ years older than her.

Rimbaud nearly had a heart attack when he first found out,but he’s come around by now. He likes Oda. They play golf together, sometimes.

“Is he rich?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes, carefully applying a light line of bronzer over his cheeks. “What is this, Gossip Girls?”

When she doesn’t respond, waiting for an answer, he heaves a sigh, “Yes. He owns a business.”

The noise she makes is appropriately awed and interested. “I knew I
raised you right. Get yourself a rich businessman. I’m proud of you.”

He snorts. “Yeah, okay,” he says, tapping on the screen to see what time it is. There’s less than half an hour until Shuuji gets here, and he still has to pack all his books for statistics. “I have to go
now, ane-san. I’ll talk to you later and I promise I’ll call Dad sometime tomorrow.”

There’s a pause, like she doesn’t want to end the conversation just yet. He /does/ feel kind of guilty, because he’s sort of dropped off the network ever since he met Dazai.

After he stopped
getting sick, they got really close for a while. Even when she went off to college first, or was spending most of her free time in extracurriculars after school—

There was always time for them to hang out together. /She/ always made time.

Now? Not so much.

Part of the
consequences about growing up is sometimes growing /apart/ and even though it’s normal, it’s still /sad/.

He makes a note to talk to his family more often.

“I should go too. I’ll talk to you later, Chuuya. Be good,” Kouyou says.

“Love you, ane-san,” he tells her, waiting for
her matching response before hanging up the phone.

A text had come in while he was on the phone, another one from Shuuji.

[ SHUUJI ]: can u bring the stats homework the teach assigned I wasn’t able to do it yesterday cuz of family shit :/

... What ‘family shit’?
He was talking to Dazai nearly all day yesterday and he never mentioned anything weird happening, and he didn’t /seem/ off, so...?

Maybe it has something to do with Sasaki, not that he’s heard much about her ever since the incident with Yoko.

Good. He’s never met her, but he
already /loathes/ her. Might even do something as reckless as /slap/ her if he saw her, for what she put Yoko and Dazai through.

Last he heard, she was still staying in a hotel, so maybe it has something to do with that.

Still, if Shuuji thinks he’s going to /copy/ off him,
he’s got another thing coming.

[ CHUUYA ]: I didn’t do it either lol but we can figure it out together.

A lie. He already completed and turned it in already, days before it was due. He’s an overachiever like that.

[ SHUUJI ]: oh ok

Closing his makeup bag, he gets up to
pack his bag quickly. Even if this is all just a sneaky way to see Dazai again, he should probably do /some/ studying while he's there. There's a quiz coming up next week sometime, and he needs to be prepared.

He'll study and /then/ he'll get play time with his boyfriend. The
reward system always works.

Reaching up, Nikolai tugs the headphones off his ears. They're pink, with light-up cat ears along the top. A little ridiculous in Chuuya's opinion, but they fit.

"Are you going somewhere?" Nikolai asks, looking up at him.

"Yeah, I'm going to study
with Shuuji. I’ll probably be back later tonight or maybe tomorrow morning.”

/Hopefully/ tomorrow morning, because Chuuya is already planning a midnight visit to Dazai’s bed. Which sounds even more exciting than usual because this time they’ll have to be /quiet/.

Nikolai
looks like he's going to say something else, but then Chuuya's phone beeps again, with another text from Shuuji saying that he's here.

Chuuya waves at Nikolai on his way out the door, leaving him to lock it behind him. His keys are buried deep in his backpack.

(Nikolai watches
him go with a strange, calculating look in his eye, before pulling out his own phone and shooting off a text.)

Shuuji's driving is, unfortunately, a lesson in the idea that you /can/ get used to anything with enough time, no matter how horrible it is. Chuuya barely even gets
carsick anymore, even when Shuuji goes fishtailing around a corner with enough speed that he swears he can feel two of the wheels lift off the ground.

They've barely seen each other since the party incident, so the atmosphere is a bit tense in the car. Chuuya tries to keep it
lighthearted by telling a few stories about his vacation over the break (carefully scrubbed of details, of course) but he's mostly focused on keeping him and his backpack in his seat, and fighting down a rising level of excitement.

/He's going to see Dazai soon. /

Luckily,
Shuuji seems to preoccupied by telling stories of /his/ own vacation-- in the Carribbean, of all places, which explains why he looks so pink and sunburned -- to really pick up on Chuuya's behavior.

By the time they arrive, Chuuya is practically vibrating in his seat. He barely
even waits for the car to turn off before he's getting out. Up here, it's even cooler, so he's glad he wore a long sleeve.

It's /also/ the long-sleeve he wore on his very /first/ date with Dazai, so he hopes he picks up on that. The 'D' necklace is around his neck, tucked into
the turtleneck for now to keep Shuuji from asking questions about it.

He likes it that way, actually. Likes the subtle reminder just for /him/ and no one else. Ever since the 'collar' comment Dazai made, he's been exploring the internet a little bit and--

He actually /likes/
the idea and look of those? Some of them, anyways. Some are way too outlandish and extreme for him, but the subtle ones? The ones that look like chokers, maybe with the little metal ring in the center or the ones that have a place for a tag to hang from them?

He likes those.
He can't even think about the 'leash' comment without getting flashes of star-fire heat, remembering how /deeply/ Dazai was fucking him then but--

He likes the collars. He wants one, and he thinks he's probably going to tell that to Dazai today.

Shuuji enters the house first,
with Chuuya right on his heels. The dogs are immediately there to greet them, Yoko in front. (She's better now. After some training and reassurance that she's /not/ going to be assaulted every time someone opens the door, she's gotten her confidence back.)

"I'll go get my stuff
from my room," Shuuji mutters, heading upstairs. He seems to be taking the 'friends' deal pretty easily, and beyond a few /darling/ comments, he's actually been rather respectful of Chuuya's new boundaries.

It feels strange, considering that he was fully prepared to tear him a
new one if he put his hand on his thigh like he usually does when he's driving--

But he didn't, which is a relief.

While Shuuji stomps about upstairs, Chuuya goes looking for Dazai. He wants to say hello at least, because after the call with his sister, he totally forgot to
warn him that he was coming. Hopefully he's not angry or anything.

Dazai is in the kitchen when he enters, frowning down at his phone and eating what looks like a piece of peanut butter toast. He doesn't see Chuuya right away.

"Hi," Chuuya says breathlessly, getting his
attention. He practically skips up to him, beaming, expecting a kiss hello--

Dazai stiffens, head shooting up. His eyes find Chuuya quickly.

The frown on his face does not fade.

He stares at him like he's not sure why he's here. "What are you doing here?"

Chuuya's smile dims.
The excitement in his stomach begins to sour. Dazai doesn’t look happy to see him at /all/.

Clutching the straps of his backpack, Chuuya looks away. He can’t stand to look at Dazai when he looks like /that/. “I came to study with Shuuji. He gave me a ride here. I wanted to see
you.”

His voice is small, quiet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dazai’s expression clear. Not in a /good/ way either. In a /bad/ way, like he’s forcing himself to not show any emotion, like he’s closing himself off, shutting down.

“You came to study with Shuuji,” he
repeats, making sure he heard Chuuya correctly.

Chuuya shrinks in on himself. “Yeah,” he mutters, feeling bad, /so/ bad, he fucked up, didn’t he, oh god, “We’re, uh— we’re friends now.”

He never really went into what happened with Shuuji. He’s sure Dazai knows some of what
their relationship was like, and he obviously knew Shuuji was interested in him, but they’ve avoided talking about it in depth.

/Mistake, mistake, he fucked up—/

Dazai’s eyebrow arches, slow and disbelieving. He shuts his phone off, giving Chuuya his full attention and
crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re friends with Shuuji.”

God,the way he’s just /repeating/ what Chuuya is saying makes him feel worse and worse, like what he’s saying is so /stupid/ Dazai can’t believe it. He nods, heart lurching in his chest sickeningly.

“Just friends?”
Chuuya’s stomach /drops/, mouth opening in surprise. “Yes, of /course/, I would never—.”

Dazai cuts him off, voice cold and cutting. “Does he know that?”

“Yes, I told him. You can even ask him if you want—.”

How did it all go wrong so quickly? He should’ve /said/ something—
“I’m not asking him; I’m asking /you/. If he knows that you two are just friends, then he knows about us, right? That we’re dating?” The tone in his voice is self-prophetic, like he’s just waiting for his suspicions to be proven right.

There are some points in your life, in the
aftermath of things, where you can look back and pinpoint the beginning of the fall. That /one/ decision that led you here, to this awful moment, and all you can think is—

How could I be so fucking stupid? Why didn’t I /think/?

Hunching his shoulders and wishing the ground
would swallow him whole, Chuuya mutters, “No.”

Dazai’s smile is /mean/, almost. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Finally, some spark of anger flares up in Chuuya’s stomach. /Yes,/ he made a mistake, he can see that now and he’ll apologize, but why is Dazai being so /mean/?
“Well how was I supposed to know you didn’t want me to be friends with him? If you don’t want me to, then /fine/, I won’t, but I don’t know why you’re acting like I’m cheating on you or something,” he snaps, throwing his hands in the air.

Dazai’s hand comes down onto the table,
cutting him off with a harsh /crack!/. “Stop. I didn’t accuse you of anything and I’m not going to, so stop with that. You want to be friends with him? Fine. You want to keep our relationship a secret? Fine. It’s not /those/ I have a problem with, it’s the fact that you are
/incapable/ of communicating about it. You are making these decisions without even /talking/ to me about it, and getting pissed when I’m upset about it!”

Chuuya’s mouth falls shut, clenching because—

He’s right. It hurts, but he’s right.

(For his part, Dazai /is/ trying to
keep it together, but he’s having a /bad fucking day/.

Rokuzou has been off the grid for almost an entire week now, Sasaki is /spamming/ him with calls, Shuuji is always complaining about the classes he signed up for—

And it’s the anniversary of his parents death in 3 days.
He always gets /moody/ around this time of year, and he fucking hates it because even sixteen years after he slit Mori’s throat in his own office, it still feels like he’s got his hands wrapped around his throat.

He can deal with it, he just gets angrier more quickly than usual.
And if he had a /choice/, he would’ve waited to see Chuuya for a few more days, because he doesn’t /want/ to be angry at him. He doesn’t want to yell.

But /fuck/, why can’t he just /talk/ to him? If he didn’t want to tell Shuuji, Dazai is /okay/ with that, he just didn’t want
the news to be sprung on him when Chuuya is /literally/ walking into his house for a study session.

He deserves a say in this relationship too.)

Chuuya opens his mouth to respond, but Dazai cuts him off again. All the anger has drained out of his voice, leaving just a frigid,
freezing chill that leaves him shivering in its wake.

“How many times do I have to ask you to talk to me? When will you realize that I have thoughts and feelings in this relationship too?”

Before Chuuya can even /begin/ to respond to that—

There’s a knock on the front door.
——— +
One of Dazai’s most underestimated talents is the ability to switch gears in seconds.

Because one moment, he’s filled with anger and struggling with the feeling that Chuuya isn’t in the relationship for /him/, he’s just in it for the sex, and /knowing/ that he shouldn’t
be feeling that way and it’s unfair to Chuuya but /fuck/—

And the next there’s a knock on the door, and suddenly he doesn’t have relationship problems at this exact moment anymore.

Now, he has a house with his boyfriend in it, and someone unexpected at the door.

Part of the
reason he chose this area to live in is that it’s /quiet/. Everyone minds their business, there’s no monthly meetings of the neighborhood, there’s not many kids under school age.

In the seven years he’s lived in this house, there’s only been a handful of visitors he wasn’t aware
of before they were coming.

He wasn’t expecting anyone today.

“Call Yoko,” he tells Chuuya, straightening. When he sees the confusion on his face and the argument beginning to form, he holds up a hand. “Please don’t argue. We can talk later, but I need you to call Yoko now.”
There’s a gun in a holster bolted to the underside of the dining table.He goes for it while Chuuya calls for Yoko, palming it and smoothly tucking it into the waistband of his jeans so Chuuya doesn’t see it.

When Yoko is sitting at Chuuya’s feet,he says, “Tell her to guard you.”
He issues the command that Dazai taught him in the backyard a few months ago, and Yoko instantly gets up and turns so her body is pressed against his calf. Chuuya looks up at Dazai, obviously confused and startled by the abrupt change from their argument. “What’s going on? Who’s
at the door?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters, stalking out of the kitchen. “That’s the problem.”

Kozo, who had followed Yoko when she was called, joins him at his side when Dazai gestures for him, head hanging low and focused. His tail is completely still, stiff. He’s on guard.
With silent footsteps, Dazai approaches the door, one hand hovering near his gun as he leans in to look through the peephole—

And nearly groans out loud when he sees who is on his doorstep, rocking back and forth on their heels cheerfully.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,”
Dazai mutters to himself, resting his forehead against the door. He really cannot get a single break today, can he?

Being who he is, Dazai knows of or knows personally every single person of important in Yokohama, and most in Japan. He’s dealt with most criminals, most
government and business officials in some form or another, and a decent amount of the police force.

/This/ person he’s been avoiding for months now, and the feeling /was/ mutual between them—

Until now, apparently, when he shows up at Dazai’s door unannounced.

Today sucks.
“If you don’t let me in, I’m going to cause you a whole lot of problems,” comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled.

Yeah, Dazai knows. He’s just gathering up his will to live right now.

Painting on a fake smile and gesturing for Kozo to wait out of sight of the
door as he opens it, he greets him with a, “Hi, can I help you—.”

The smaller man pushes past him without letting him finish, green eyes looking around with interest. “Cut the crap Dazai, we both know that you know who I am.”

Sighing, Dazai folds his arms over his chest.
Through his teeth, he grits out, “Hi, Ranpo. Is there something you needed from me?”

Green eyes zero in on Chuuya, who is standing defensively in the kitchen still, lighting up with interest. “Who’s that?”

Stepping to the side so his body is blocking Ranpo’s view of him, Dazai
opens his mouth to tell him that it’s none of his business and to stay focused when—

With all the confidence and thoughtlessness of someone who was never taught not to share your name with anyone who asks for it, Chuuya cocks his hip to the side and says, snidely, “I’m
Nakahara Chuuya. Who are /you/?”

Dazai’s gaze wanders up to the ceiling. God help him from stupid little idiots, because if Chuuya wasn’t on the Agency’s radar he sure as fuck is /now/.

Ranpo looks between the two of them, squinting like he doesn’t believe it. To Dazai, he
says while pointing at Chuuya, “That’s Nakahara Chuuya?”

Expression unmoving,Dazai neither confirms or denies anything.

There’s a second where they just stare at each other,both of them waiting for the other to crack while Chuuya makes disgruntled noises in the back.

And then—
Ranpo /bursts/ into laughter. Stomach- holding, knee-slapping, wheezing laughter that goes on and on and /on/ until there are tears streaming from his eyes.

“Why is he laughing?” Chuuya asks, sounding /very/ peeved.

“Because he’s an asshole,” Dazai sighs, exhausted, “and
probably because he knows something we don’t know.”

That just makes Ranpo laugh /harder/, and at this point Dazai is sure he’s about to start rolling on the floor.

“You don’t know,” he cackles, holding his stomach, “oh, that’s so good. I can’t believe this. You don’t know.”
Dazai hates him. He’s the only one in the city who can consistently and continuely beat him at his own game. “I’d know if you told me.”

“Oh no, no, no, I’m not going to /tell/ you. This is too good to just /tell/ you. But I do hope I’m there when you meet her because—.” Ranpo
dissolves into laughter again, and the only thing Dazai can pick out in the mess of giggles and wheezing is—

A garbled ‘family reunion’.

Now he /would/ latch onto that tidbit and try to figure out what /that/ means but—

“Hey Dad, who’s this?”

Oh my /god/.

He’s
understandably distracted when Shuuji comes trotting down the stairs and makes the whole situation ten times /worse/.

Pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the building headache, Dazai reasons with himself. Prison is actually pretty nice this time of year, he hears.
It’s election season and officials are up for re-election are trying to prove that they’re semi-decent people by loosening up strict rules for prisoners. If he gets arrested now, he might actually get a bonafide prison peanut butter and jelly sandwich /and/ a blanket before they
take it away again and drop him into a maximum security cell for solitary confinement.

He even has friends in prison. It’d be a vacation compared to this.

With a rustle of clothing, Ranpo straightens. His laughter has stopped, and is now replaced with a /salacious/ tone as he
introduces himself. “Edogawa Ranpo, the greatest detective. At your service.”

Anndddd.... now he’s /flirting/.

Yeah, that’s fine. That’s normal. That’s great. That’s /perfect/, actually.

With increasing hysteria, Dazai debates the pros and cons of turning himself in.
“My name is Shuuji, but you can call me anytime.”

Oh, /come on/.

Dazai’s eyes snap back open and he makes a /what the fuck/ gesture at Shuuji. If he’s going to flirt with Dazai’s technical arch-nemesis (Shuuji’s too, because he is technically the rightful heir to the Port
Mafia) then at /least/ flirt /well/. Use some original pick up lines or /something/, for gods sake, he’s making Dazai look bad.

Not that Ranpo seems to actually care, because he’s apparently that /looks/ are more important than speaking skills. If he checks Shuuji out any
harder, he might as well be undressing him.

This is a nightmare. Dazai hates it here. Well and truly hates it.

Without looking away from Shuuji, a seductive smirk curving his lips, Ranpo says, “I hope you’re not busy, Dazai.”

“By all means,” Dazai shoots back, throwing his
hands up, “take your time. I don’t have anything to do today, so go ahead. Flirt all you like.”

“Great,” Ranpo responds, taking a step closer to Shuuji. He’s a few inches shorter than him, but he doesn’t look intimidated in the least. He /also/ looks like he’s about to take
Dazai’s sarcasm at face-value and continue to flirt with his son /right/ in front of him.

Asshole.

“What do you want, Ranpo?” Dazai sighs, thoroughly exhausted already. They haven’t even gotten to whatever reason he’s /actually/ here for, and Dazai feels like hems going to
turn to /dust/.

“I’m here on business.”

Oh, good. Lovely. That’s /exactly/ what Dazai wanted to hear. That the business whose second-in-command is hellbent on putting Dazai behind bars, wants to do /business/ with him.

There’s a /reason/ Dazai doesn’t do business with the
ADA. Kunikida is /annoying/ and also pretty good at his job, enough that he’s almost caught Dazai twice now. Ranpo could catch him whenever he wanted, as evidenced by the way he showed up to his house that isn’t on any official records.

Also, crime tends to get a little /messy/
when you’re dealing with detectives and policemen. He’d rather not deal with it at all.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then,” Ranpo says, shooting him a grin over his shoulder, “I’m going to tell every one of your dirty little secrets to Kunikida. I’m sure he’d love to know.”

Checkmate.
He has no doubt that Ranpo knows a decent amount of his aliases, if not most or even all of them. If Kunikida gets his hands on /those/ names, he’ll be able to track Dazai anywhere.

Aliases,especially good ones,are a /pain/ to build. They require years of background information,
hacking into government records to plant records, people to collaborate your story, photos, /dozens/ of things that require money and time and effort.

Like he said, they’re a pain. He can’t afford to lose a good chunk of the ones he has in one go.

“Fine,” he gives in, “We can
talk in my office. Kids,” he looks at Shuuji and Chuuya, ignoring the way Chuuya’s expression falls into outraged offense, “get to your studying.”

He’s never spoken to Chuuya like that, highlighting how young and inexperienced he is mockingly, and he doesn’t even like doing so
now, but he’s /hoping/ that if he isn’t /obvious/ about how head-over-heels he is for Chuuya, Ranpo might overlook him a little bit.

Probably a false hope, but he’s also still angry and petty enough about their argument that it gives him spiteful pleasure to treat Chuuya like
one of Shuuji’s friends instead of his boyfriend.

/That’s what you wanted, right? You didn’t want anyone to know you were mine, right?/

He will feel bad about it, and he’ll apologize for it later—

But right now, he has /business/.

Ranpo gives Shuuji an appraising look
as he comes down the stairs fully, sizing up how tall he actually is. Shuuji did take after Dazai in that regard, and he’s taller than /most/ of the Japanese population, and quite a bit taller than Ranpo.

Apparently, /tall/ is his type, because Ranpo gives him an exaggerated
wink and a smirk full of sharp white teeth before he bounds up the stairs.

Dazai feels the weight of Chuuya’s (rightly) infuriated glare on his back the entire way up.

Because he intended to work from home today, his office has been left open. Ranpo has already found it and
is poking around inside. As usual, the man has no respect for privacy and opens whatever drawer or folder he finds interesting, taking down one of his knives to test the blade on it with his thumb.

“Sharp,” he notes, rubbing the resulting smear of blood between his thumb and
index finger. At least he’s respectful enough to clean the blade with a napkin he pulls out of one of his pockets before flipping the knife around in one quick, skilled motion before hanging it back on the wall.

“Of course,” Dazai grumbles, heading for the whiskey tumblers he
keeps in this room for these exact type of days, “I wouldn’t keep dull weapons around.”

The gun still tucked in his waistband gets taken out and placed gently onto the desk. He won’t need it, and even if he did, Ranpo could probably disarm him before he could even start to aim.
He pours himself a generous glass, throwing it back in one smooth swallow and savoring the burn of it. Warmth curls in his belly, comforting and familiar.

He pours himself another glass, one to sip on this time. Holding up the whiskey bottle, he silently asks if Ranpo wants a
glass for himself.

Dropping heavily into the chair next to his desk, Ranpo wrinkled his nose in disapproval. “Do you have peach-flavored vodka? Or Schnapps?”

Dazai stares at him for a long moment, waiting for him to start laughing or take back the joke because—

Who just
drinks peach-flavored alcohol just /because/? Not as a mixer and not because it’s the only alcohol available, but because he actually /enjoys/ it?

“No.”

Sighing heavily, like Dazai /offended/ him by not having disgusting liquor in his house, Ranpo shakes his head. “Keep your
gross whiskey.”

Alright, fine, more for him. Ranpo is probably a pain to deal with when he’s drunk anyways.

“So,” Dazai starts, settling into his own chair and relaxing into it. He really wishes he had a cigar right now. “What can I do for the Agency?”

“You can get the city
back under control and get those rampaging gang members off my streets,” Ranpo says, his gaze turning abruptly cutting. He’s still relaxed, one foot kicked up on the desk disrespectfully, but his tone is pure business.

Dazai arches an eyebrow. Admittedly, he has been aware of
the escalating violence as tensions between the Mafia and Fyodor’s Bratva grew, but he’s not sure what that has to do with him. He’s not a part of either group, and he’s not encouraging any infighting. “I’m not sure why you think I can stop that. I’m not a part of the Mafia, and
I don’t have any power over them.”

There’s a pad of post it notes on his desk, and Ranpo reaches over to drag it closer. He rips off the top sheet and begins to fold it carefully. “We both know that the man with the information is the most powerful man in the room. You’re the
king of this city; act like it and get your people under control before they start pissing me off.”

“Do I look like a king to you, Ranpo-san?” Dazai snorts, taking another sip of his drink.

Another fold of the paper, precise and perfect. “Yes, you do. Everything that happens
in the city, you know about it. You answer to no one, not even tradition. You have the leaders of the clans under your control, /your/ influence. You decide what they know, how they act. You own them, because you have what they want, what they need."

The most infuriating thing
about that whole speech is that when he says it like /that/, it's true. When he makes information peddling into a /kings/ role instead of a duty given to the lower ranking members--

That would make Dazai the king.

He curls his lip at Ranpo, irritated. "I left the Mafia life
years ago, you know that."

Another couple of folds, and the shape of what Ranpo is making begins to reveal itself. A fortune teller, one of those mini ones that go on the tip of your fingers and you can write short notes on the inside flaps. "You know, I /might/ believe you,"
Ranpo says, not looking at him as he places the origami on his fingertips and begins to play with it, "except when you came back, you made sure that you had so much power and influence that you didn't have to answer to /anyone/, didn't you?"

It wasn't /like/ that. It wasn't out
of a desire for /power/ or position, it was about /survival/. If he wanted power, he could've gone back to the Mafia. He still could, technically.

He just wanted to /survive/.

"I didn't have a choice, Ranpo. This was the only thing I could go to keep me and my own safe."
Ranpo points the tips of the origami fortune teller at him. "That's where you're wrong. You could've gone to Fukuzawa for protection. He would've pardoned you, given you a job. We could've been coworkers."

Coworkers with /this/ menace. The city would probably not survive them.
"That wouldn't have worked for long," Dazai mutters, getting up to pour himself another drink. His stomach is warm now, but something in his chest feels empty.

"You don't know that. And if you had been with us, we would fight for you."

Back turned to Ranpo, Dazai pauses.
Loyalty is not something that is encouraged in the Mafia, not under Mori's reign. In the old boss's opinion, having loyalty to anything other than him or the Mafia as a whole was a /danger/. If he suspected that you loved someone, or you needed something, then he would
systematically destroy it and make you watch.

The only reason Yosano and Odasaku survived the Mafia for as long as they did with him, was because they were all too valuable to kill, and they were careful to act like rivals whenever someone from the mafia was watching.

Either
way, Mori made /certain/ that Dazai was isolated and trapped beneath his influence. His manipulations work best when his victim is alone and vulnerable.

Dazai hasn't had anyone fight for him. Even now, with Mori dead and gone, he can barely get Oda and Yosano to answer his calls
on a consistent, regular basis.

Feels pretty shitty that just Ranpo's words about it have a pang of loneliness and disbelief shooting through his chest.

"Anyways," he says after a bit, not wanting to talk about what could have been anymore, "I still don't know what you want me
to do about the fighting."

The glass he pours is a little bigger than the second one, but he feels like he deserves it after the absurd day he's had. It's not even near over yet, because now that he's not /angry/, he's starting to feel guilty about the way he treated the
situation with Chuuya. He could've handled it better.

"It's easy," Ranpo shrugs, stealing a pen from his desk and opening his origami to write something in the middle, "Pick one to side with, and starve the other out. Deprive them of information, of work, of everything that you
have at your disposal. Choose who your loyalty belongs to."

His /loyalty/ doesn't extend to anyone beyond a select group of people (one of which is still in this house), but he understands what he means. "Fine. I'll see what I can do. Now, tell me what's in it for you."

The
curl of Ranpo's lips is /pleased/, like Dazai is fufilling his expectations wonderfully. "Naturally, I can't be helping you for /free/. That's just bad business, you know how it is."

Considering Ranpo has done nothing but give him a headache today, and won't do anything in the
future about 'their' problem, Dazai /doesn't/ know how it is. But he also understands that Ranpo is a petty little thing, and he'll milk this excuse to get whatever he wants out of Dazai.

"So, in return for not telling Kunikida all of your dirty little secrets and letting him
know where you live so he can show up with handcuffs," Ranpo wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Dazai stares at him, deadpan, forcibly fighting back a smile. "You're going to give me whatever information I ask for, whenever I ask for it. It probably won't be often, because your
network is slow /and/ stupid most of the time, but who knows. I might need something some day."

Surprisingly, that's not a /terrible/ deal, nothing he wasn't expecting--

"And I also want your son."

Ah, he spoke too soon, apparently. There's the catch.

"Like as a hostage?"
"What? No, not as a hostage, you idiot," Ranpo replies, looking at him like he's lost his mind. "I just want to play with him."

Dazai is /pretty/ certain Ranpo 'plays' in the same clubs he does, so he can pick up what he means. "...Are you sure you don't want him as a hostage?"
"I'm not taking your son as a hostage, not even if you beg me."

Damn.

"I'm just saying it's an /option/--" Dazai says, cutting himself off under Ranpo's withering glare. "Fine, I guess, but he doesn't know anything about me or my work that you don't already know. He's useless
if you're looking to squeeze him for information."

Ranpo's eyes glint,expression dissolving into something like smug self-satisfaction. "No,I'm looking to squeeze him in other ways--."

"Nope,"Dazai interrupts,taking a large gulp of whiskey, "You're not finishing that sentence."
Ranpo sticks his tongue out at him, teasing.

He's sure he might regret this at /some/ point, because if Ranpo is going to be ...involved with his son, then they'll probably be seeing a lot more of each other, but fine. "Just don't do anything crazy with him, like get him
arrested or anything. It'd be a pain to bail him out, and I'm pretty sure he'd cry."

White teeth flash in a grin, and Ranpo's boot finally slides off his desk back to the floor. "He's safe in my hands, don't you worry."

Personally, that sounds like the /opposite/ idea of 'safe'
to Dazai, but hey. Shuuji's an adult. He can make his own decisions.

If he wants to put himself between Ranpo's teeth and expect to come out the same cocky, arrogant person he was before, then a lesson must be learned.

"So we have a deal? I will do my best to fix the problems
in the streets, you won't tell Kunikida about me. I give you information when you need it, you get to chase after my son to your hearts content."

Ranpo seems to think about it, clearly considering if he should add more terms to the roster. After a moment, he shrugs. "Yeah, we
have a deal. Pleasure doing business with you, as always."

They've never business before, but he appreciates the sentiment, he supposes. "Likewise."

Brushing off his sleeves, Ranpo stands up with a yawning stretch. His little origami fortune teller is left discarded on Dazai's
desk. "I'll be going now. The train I need leaves soon, I think."

"Sure," he responds, swirling his drink and feeling off-center because this is the /strangest/ deal he's ever participated in. "I'll talk to you later, I'm guessing."

Ranpo winks at him, shoving his hands into
pockets and strolling out.

Dazai is left there, drinking as he thinks--

God, what a crazy fucking day. He doesn't even know /how/ to feel about it, all he knows is that he's /confused/ and angry and hurt and on his way to tipsy and--

He needs a run to clear his head. Clear
his head so he can /think/ for a moment and not just /react/.

He changes into his workout clothes quickly, fueled by an increasing need to just /run/. Get away from it all. Head into the sunset and never look back, because it's /so/ hard being here, all the time, and the work
/never/ ends, there's always /more/.

(By the time he gets downstairs, Ranpo and Shuuji have already left. Chuuya is lingering awkwardly in the kitchen, looking uncertain and /sad/.

Dazai hates that, hates that he /caused/ that.

When he approaches, Chuuya doesn't even move,
big blue eyes staring up at him like he's expecting him to yell at him. Like he's expecting a fight that ends in tears and sadness.

Oh, poor baby, he really did scare him, didn't he?

Dazai takes a deep breath, rocking back on his heels a little bit. "I," he starts, "am very
upset right now, for a lot of reasons. If we talk right now, I'm going to get angry again, and I don't want to be angry with you. So I'm going to go for a run, and we can talk when I get back, okay?"

Chuuya searches his face, looking for a clue of what he's thinking. When he
speaks, his voice is quiet and heart-breakingly soft, like he's afraid to speak up too loudly. "Okay."

They stand there for a while, staring at each other and waiting for the other to make a move--

Dazai breaks first, because he can't /stand/ the look on his face right now.
Reaching out, he cups the back of Chuuya's neck and brings him in to give him a firm, lingering kiss on his forehead. The way Chuuya clings to him, fingers tight on his biceps, shows that he's clearly not the only one who needed a little reassurance.

"Ill be back," he mutters
against his forehead, filling his voice with reassurance. "Promise."

After another moment, he turns to leave and doesn't look back.)

(Chuuya is left there staring after him and--

Have you ever come back to a place that /used/ to be home and isn't anymore? Doesn't it feel cold
and lonely, and strange?

Like you're supposed to be there anymore?)

----- +

TEN MINUTES EARLIER

Shuuji has decided that Chuuya is fucking /shit/ at explaining statistics. Either he doesn't know what he's talking about, or he just can't explain it in a way that sticks.
Or maybe it's because Shuuji's mind is running circles around the green-eyed detective speaking with his dad upstairs, and he couldn't give a fuck about what Chuuya is saying right now.

He wouldn't say that he has a type. Usually, he just chases after whoever gets his attention
until he gets bored of them and finds someone new.

Chuuya was like that. He's not attractive /himself/, per se, but he's cute because he doesn't really look like anyone else Shuuji has met. The red hair is sexy, but Chuuya himself?

Too hard working, too /bland/. Boring. Not
even a challenge, either. All Shuuji has to do is send him some pleading eyes, and he gives him whatever he wants.

Which is fun, in the short term, but it doesn't keep his interest.

Case in point, he really wishes Chuuya would go home already, because he /really/ wants to get
to know that detective better. /He/ looked like a challenge, with those sharp, piercing grins eyes and the cocky grin.

He look like he might be /fun/ to play with.

"Are you even listening?" Chuuya asks, exasperated. He's been alternating between looking so livid he might catch
on fire, and screwing up his face like he's fighting off the urge to cry.

Shuuji might've cared earlier, but he's preoccupied now. "Not really."

Before Chuuya can respond to /that/-- it'd be a tirade, Shuuji can already sense it by the look of his face-- /Ranpo/ comes bouncing
down the stairs again.

He looks pleased with himself, like the ‘business’ deal went well—

And he’s also /staring/ at Shuuji, who is sitting leisurely on the floor, one elbow braced on the living room table.

Suddenly, homework doesn’t matter anymore. He’s only gotten through
one problem today, and the homework is due tomorrow morning—

But fuck that, he doesn’t care about /that/ anymore, the only thing he cares about is Ranpo staring him down as he casually skirts around the couch and comes closer.

He’s heard some of the girls gossiping about what
it felt like to have a crush. To have a heart-pounding, butterfly-inducing, adrenaline-filled obsession with someone, and how much better it felt if your infatuation was returned.

Personally, Shuuji thought they were just being dramatic or maybe emotional, because he’s /never/
felt that way, not for a significant amount of time.

Sure, finding someone he liked and was attracted to was exciting. Chasing them was fun, but as soon as he /got/ their attention and was holding it—

There must be something wrong with him, because as soon as he had them, all
those feelings went away.

And he /hated/ it, because /he/ wanted to feel special to someone, he wanted to feel loved and cherished, he wanted what all those other couples had.

Instead, all he had was a hollow ache of loneliness inside of him, and the increasingly desperate
desire to fill that hole with something, /anything/.

He went through guys and girls as quickly as he needed to, hoping that this one, that one, the /next/ one would /finally/ be able to make him feel something real and /solid/. Would prove to him that life wasn’t meant to be a
endless, wandering trail of starvation and pain.

And when it didn’t work— it never worked, it /never/ fucking worked— he got mad at his /partners/ about it. Getting angry with them and pushing them away was much easier than admitting the fault lay within himself.

Because if
he admitted there was something /wrong/ with him then—

Then he would be a freak, right? And if he was a /freak/ then...

Then it would make sense why his father never wanted him, and his mother barely even looked at him as he was growing up. Then it would be /reasonable/. Then
he couldn’t be mad about it, because that’s what he /deserved/.

And if that’s what he deserved, then—

// “Oh, stop crying, Shuji. Mommy’s /busy/, you don’t need to be such a dramatic little crybaby about it. //

Then his mother was right, and he /was/ just being dramatic. He
was just looking for /attention/, because nothing he had was ever /good enough/ for him.

And well, if his parents weren’t going to pay attention to him of their own volitions, and if people were going to hate him anyways because he was a /freak/ then—

Might as well give them
a /reason/ then, right? Might as well become the biggest asshole he could, because if they hated him because he was being a dick?

That was fine.

If they hated him simply because of who he was? He couldn’t handle that.

There’s always been a writhing ball of anger and pain and
hatred inside of him, and he doesn’t know what to do with it besides ignore it. Hope that it goes away some day.

It feels gone now, because right now he’s being /pinned/ by a pair of icy-sharp green eyes that cut through him like a knife and seem to see all the way through him.
And he’s expecting a frown, a snarl, something visceral to show displeasure because—

He /must/ know, right, he must see it, he must see that there’s something wrong with him, he /has/ to see it—

But instead, Ranpo smiles. Sharp and white and arrogant and /enthralling.
“I’m going home,” he says, placing his hands on his hips, and leaning in a little until Shuuji feels like his whole world is green and white and self-assurance. “You’re going to give me a ride.”

It’s not a question, but even if it /was/—

There’s only one answer. “Yeah,” he
breathes, feeling like all the air in the room has been sucked out.

His reward is a bigger smile and a conspiratorial wink.

“Sorry, Chuuya,” the detective says in a voice that doesn’t /sound/ very remorseful, “I’m taking your study date. I’m sure you can find something to do
in the meantime, though.”

(The innuendo in his voice is strong enough to have Chuuya flushing and ducking his head awkwardly and—

If Shuuji had been paying attention at /all/, he would’ve figured it out now.

This would’ve been a kinder fate.

But he’s not paying attention.
None of them are.

The clock is ticking and no one is listening.

Not even Ranpo could’ve predicted what comes ahead, for all of them.

But the lesson remains the same:

Ignore the countdown of a bomb long enough, and eventually the consequences will be fatal for everyone.)
Shuuji doesn’t even remember to say goodbye before pocketing his keys and following Ranpo outside to the car.

Anxiety isn’t really something he feels often, but he’s feeling it /now/.

He has to /impress/ Ranpo. He doesn’t know why he feels like he /needs/ to, like he won’t
/survive/ if Ranpo doesn’t think highly of him.

He’s /nervous/ and when he’s nervous—

“Your driving sucks,” Ranpo says, straight faced and calm as he leans hard in his seat.

Admittedly, Shuuji /did/ take that turn too quickly, but he feels like he’s all heartbeat right now,
pulse pounding in his fingertips and his toes and in his ears. How is he supposed to listen to speed limits right now??

“I’ve never been in an accident that was my fault,” Shuuji grumbles, slowing down a little to be /considerate/.

“Do you think that makes you a good driver?”
“Obviously? If I was a bad driver, then I’d have been in accidents. Logic,” Shuuji fires back. For some reason Ranpo’s comments feel like /teasing/.

“No, a bad driver would be going 20 over the speed limit, ignored a stop sign and ran a yellow light with a detective in the car.”
Oh, well. Maybe he has a point there.

Shuuji shrugs, stopping for a stop sign and waiting there for a deliberately obnoxious amount of time. How’s /that/ for ignoring stop signs? “What are you going to do about it? Arrest me?”

Ranpo shrugs, a gleam in his eye. He has one
foot lifted up and braced against the dash. Normally Shuuji would be pissed off about shoes on his car,but from here he can see the hilt of a knife stuffed into his boot, and that is a /sight/, so he allows it. “I could, actually. Reckless endangerment. Slap you with a big fine.”
Fines mean nothing to him, not with how much Dazai makes. Fines are child’s play. “Wouldn’t you have to arrest me for that? I don’t see any cuffs on you.”

They’re nearing the address that Ranpo had plugged into Shuuji’s phone when they got into the car. It’s an apartment complex
in one of the poorer sides of town, where the buildings are run down and the streets are ruled by orphan kids.

Shuuji doesn’t know why Ranpo lives there or why he wants to be dropped off there, because he’s assuming detectives make decent salaries. At least enough for a better
apartment in a better part of town.

Ranpo’s outfit is made out of decent material, and from what Shuuji can see of his boot-knife, it looks custom made. It has a special seal on the hilt, one he’s never seen before.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ranpo’s face tilt
towards him. His smile is amused this time. “You think I don’t have handcuffs on me?”

Ranpo’s belt, where cuffs are /usually/ hung, is empty. “I don’t see any.”

“Cute,” he snorts, “I /always/ have cuffs on me. You never know when you might need to restrain someone.”

The
curl of his lips dissolves into something /suggestive/. Shuuji’s glad he’s looking back at the road now, because the side of his face feels like it’s burning from the weight of his gaze, and if he stared at him for much longer, he might drive them into a wall.

“Where are they
then?”

“Keep acting up, maybe you’ll find out.”

Oh. /Oh/.

Hands tightening on the wheel, Shuuji stares straight ahead, eyes wide. Usually it’s /him/ chasing his partner, being aggressively flirty, and not the other way around.

Surprisingly, it feels a /lot/ different to be
on the other side of things. Embarrassingly, he can feel his cheeks start to heat up and he’s left scrambling for a response.

Before he can though, Ranpo is pointing at small cafe in the first floor of a rundown building. “Drop me off there.”

He doesn’t give any explanation
even though they are still technically five minutes away from the address he plugged in.

Superstitiously, Shuuji clicks the child lock button on his door. He’s not stupid enough to /actually/ lock Ranpo in, but he just needs a few seconds longer, and this trick always works.
There’s a little parking area half a block away from the building, and Shuuji maneuvers the car over there slowly. “So..” he starts, deciding to just go with the straightforward question, “Can I have your number?”

Ranpo barks out a laugh, his foot sliding down back to the floor.
“No. If you have an emergency, you can call 119.”

“Not for /emergencies/, but to talk to you,” Shuuji says, rolling his eyes. There’s another car in the parking spot, so he has to drive in slowly so he can give Ranpo enough room to get out without hitting the car or the wall.
“Oh, in /that/ case..,” Ranpo responds, pulling Shuuji’s phone off the car holder holds it to the dash. He opens up the contact app and starts punching in some numbers.

/Victory/. Hell yeah. Shuuji loves winning and getting what he wants.

When he’s done parking the car and it’s
idling, he holds out his hand for his phone. When Ranpo is finished, he puts it into his palm and stares at him with a big, self-satisfied smile.

Normally Shuuji reserves /this/ move for the more shy people he asks out, or the ones that look like liars. He wasn’t going to do it
to Ranpo but—

He looks like he’s hiding something, like he pulled the wool over Shuuji’s eyes.

“Let me call it, make sure you didn’t accidentally give me the wrong number.”

The smile widens, and Ranpo says absolutely nothing as he watches Shuuji click on his contact and
brings the phone to his ear.

It rings once, twice, three times.

Ranpo’s phone, if he has one on him, never rings.

Instead, after another ring, the line clicks and a recording starts to play:

“Hey! If someone gave you this number, it’s because you’re a fucking creep who
can’t take no for an answer! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

It’s obviously a pre-recording voicemail, but it’s /offensive/ and Shuuji opens his mouth to ask why the fuck Ranpo didn’t just tell him /no/ instead of embarrassing him like this, when—

With quick movements that
Shuuji can’t even follow, his left wrist gets handcuffed tightly to the steering wheel.

“What the /fuck/?” He hisses, yanking on the cuffs. They’re firm, locked right. Where did they even come from?

Ranpo leans in, close, closer—

His breath washes hotly over his ear, making
Shuuji stiffen in place.

“That’s for trying to lock me in,” he murmurs. Shuuji can feel his smile against his ear, self-satisfied and victorious.

God, /fuck/—

Then he reaches across his body and hits the child lock button again, unlocking the doors.

“See ya!” Ranpo says
cheerfully, not sounding at /all/ like the man who was just whispering sinfully into his ear as he slides out of the car.

Panic hits Shuuji abruptly, disorientating after the pulse of /excitement/ that he was just feeling. “Wait! You can’t just /leave/ me like this! How am I
supposed to drive like this?”

Ranpo spins around, looking back at him as he walks backwards. He shrugs at him. “Sounds like a you problem. I’m sure it won’t be much different than your regular, terrible driving.”

Shuuji yanks on the cuffs. They’re /real/ cuffs, not the play
ones that have a hinge for the restrained person to get out of them with. They need /keys/, keys that Shuuji doesn’t /have/.

“How am I supposed to get out of these?!” He shouts at Ranpo’s retreating figure.

Another shrug, a wave of Ranpo’s hand. “Ask your dad to teach you how
to break out of cuffs. It’s about time you learned.”

Then he’s /gone/, disappearing into the sunset and into his little cafe out of sight.

Shuuji is left there, staring after him, filled with opposing emotions because on /one/ hand—

/Fuck/ Ranpo. He can’t believe the little
shit actually handcuffed him to his own car and /left/ him. The /audacity/ of the little fucker, and he didn’t even seem like he felt bad about it! He was /smug/, even, about humiliating him!

And on the /other/ hand—

/Oh my god, I think I’m in love./

—————— +
Because Chuuya is glumly throwing the ball for the dogs outside and wondering if he should just call a cab and go home, he doesn’t actually hear when Dazai comes back.

The first thing he hears that’s out of the ordinary is /uproariously/ loud laughter coming from outside the
front door and when he goes to investigate—

He finds Dazai nearly on the /floor/ with laughter, tears gathering in his eyes as he laughs and laughs and laughs at Shuuji—

Who is handcuffed to his car and yelling at Dazai that it’s /not/ funny, looking nearly in tears himself.
And it /is/ pretty funny actually, and Chuuya ends up laughing too. Shuuji won’t say /why/ he’s cuffed, but considering he left with Ranpo, there’s only so many things that could’ve happened.

That leads to a very interesting lesson on how to pop the lock on a pair of handcuffs
with a bobby pin. It’s more of a “learn it yourself” lesson because Dazai just gives the basic explanations and then laughs at Shuuji as he struggles one-handedly to get the cuff off.

Chuuya spends half of the time snickering at Shuuji’s mutterings to himself and the other half
trying not to stare at Dazai.

There’s still awkward tension between them, and Dazai is careful not to touch him when he shows Chuuya— this time much more thorough— how to break the lock when Shuuji finally frees himself.

It doesn’t feel /malicious/, just...cautious?
Respectful, maybe, because Shuuji is still around and they haven’t talked yet.

He doesn’t know where they stand. Part of him was reassured by the kiss Dazai dropped on his forehead, but the other part...

Is worried that this fight is the end.

He can see where Dazai is
coming from, why he’s upset. He’s told Chuuya at least three times that he needs to get better at communicating, and every time he promises—

And then doesn’t follow through. He can see why that would be frustrating and insensitive—

Even worthy of breaking up with him.
He can see that, and that /scares/ him because he doesn’t know what to /expect/ right now.

Dazai doesn’t seem /mad/ right now, but he doesn’t seem happy with him either. He doesn’t seem like anything right now, just calm.

Teaching them how to break out of handcuffs turns into
ordering in dinner.

Dazai goes to take a shower while they wait for it to arrive, and the /talk/ is put off for longer.

Then when the food /does/ arrive, Shuuji wants to watch a movie while they eat, and Dazai says he has a call he has to make and retreats to his office.
Chuuya sits there, staring blankly at the TV screen, not watching the movie at all as a sick, curdling feeling in his stomach starts to grow. He can’t eat because of how bad he feels, stomach-turning fear and adrenaline making him nauseous.

It’s like being stuck in Purgatory,
waiting to be struck down in either way and /rotting/ with anticipation. Nervousness like festering ants in his veins, building up sick, agonizing homes in his stomach and chest.

Part of him wants to delay the conversation /forever/, even though this is the worst feeling ever,
because he doesn’t want to /know/ if it’s over.

If /they’re/ over.

He wants to go /back/, back to when things were happy and good and easy between them. Back to Osaka, back to this fucking morning so he could make better decisions that didn’t lead him /here/.

The other part
of him just wants to get it /over/ with, because—

At least it will be done, then. At least it’ll be over. At least the waiting will stop.

Eventually, Shuuji heads up to his bedroom. He doesn’t offer Chuuya a blanket or a pillow or a ride home, he just says goodnight and leaves.
The darkness, lit for a long moment by the TV before it eventually goes to sleep and turns itself off, makes it worse.

There’s no distractions, then. There’s only thinking and thinking and thinking, wobbling between what to say when he apologizes to Dazai and thinking up
arguments to use against him, and spinning himself into tiny, tangled up knots of anger and misery and pain.

Eventually, Chuuya gathers up his courage and his irritation and goes to find Dazai /himself/. He hasn’t come down from his office since he went up there for dinner, and
he’s half-convinced he’s avoiding the conversation.

Also half-convinced that the door will be /locked/ when he tries it—

But it’s not.The knob twists easily under his hand and the door swings open.

It’s dark inside, lit up only by the ever-present red lights from Dazai’s room.
He ventures in, holding his breath to be as quiet as possible. It’s hard to see, but he can’t make out Dazai’s figure anywhere in the office.

He goes further, pushing open the bedroom door farther open lightly, poking his head inside—

A hand wraps around his arm and /yanks/.
His first instinct is to /scream/ and he very nearly does—

But then there’s another hand under his chin, tilting his face up so a mouth can cover his own.

It takes him barely a second to recognize the feel of the body pressed against his own, the shape of the mouth moving
over his, tasting heavily of whiskey.

And—

They should talk. He knows that. Dazai /said/ they’d talk, and Chuuya wants to talk and they need to talk—

But giving in feels /so/ good, makes all the ugly butterflies made of rot and ruin disappear from his stomach. Makes the
anxiety go away and replaces it with /pleasure/. Makes the nausea and the fear fade away.

Maybe it’s not /healthy/,but being pressed up against the wall with his legs around Dazai’s waist and his hands in his hair while a different set of hands fumbles at the button of his jeans
feels /good/.

And after hours of feeling sick and twisted up inside, he just wants to feel good right now. Just wants to forget the ‘what if’s’ and live in the moment.

They can talk after, he promises himself, wiggling his hips to help get his jeans off. They’ll talk after.
It’s rushed, frantic, desperate. Chuuya only gets his jeans off and Dazai doesn’t even pull his pants off, he just unzips them and tugs them down just far enough.

It feels like Dazai dumps half an entire bottle of lube into his palm before pushing his fingers inside him,
muffling his shocked keen by drawing him into a deeper, harder kiss.

It’s the roughest Dazai has ever been with him, and Chuuya /loves/ it. He’s half-drunk on the taste of whiskey on his tongue, shuddering whenever Dazai pushes him a little too far too quickly.

He /needs/ it,
needs the reassurance of how /much/ Dazai wants him, so much he can barely wait, so much they don’t even make it to the bed before he’s pulling back his three fingers and replacing them with his cock.

It’s /deep/ like this, like Dazai is fucking his /soul/, and Chuuya can’t
tell if the tears on his face are from the emotional release, the pleasure, the need, the tinge of pain, or the overwhelming combination of it all.

He’s clinging to Dazai, as hard as he can, digging his nails into his back to scratch him up, to leave his mark on him, to leave
/something/ of himself on his body, a reminder.

/ Don’t leave, don’t leave me, don’t leave me behind, please, I’m /sorry/, I didn’t mean to, I need you—. /

He’s glad Dazai won’t stop kissing him, because it soothes the ache and because he’s not sure what he’d /say/ right now
if he could speak. Apologies or insults or gibberish nonsense as Dazai drives him towards the peak so quickly he feels dizzy with it.

It’s also the first time Dazai comes before him, and the satisfaction of feeling him twitch and spill inside him as he muffles groans against his
mouth is contrasted sharply by the rampaging need still inside him because he’s not /done/.

He rocks his hips frantically, grinding forward against Dazai’s stomach and back on his softening erection, desperate for just a /little/ more friction, a little longer, a little more,
/please/—

It’s easier once a hand closes around his cock and jerks him sloppily, rhythm nonexistent. Dazai’s hips are still rocking forward, fucking his cum back inside him.

The desperation of it all, the quick frantic rush and release, is enough to have him releasing a
muffled cry as he orgasms.

For a moment, all there is is white-hot pleasure and electricity. He revels in it, breathes in rapture like oxygen, always searching for more, to feel /better/.

It fades all too quickly, and the emptiness that comes after feels colder than usual.
Before he can come down too much, Dazai is taking his weight again and staggering over to the bed.

When they collapse onto it, it’s soft and warm and comforting. Dazai is heavy on top of him, forehead pressed to his shoulder and—

Chuuya could sleep. He could just fall asleep
right here, like this, without a problem.

He could just fall, and dream that nothing ever happened and that they’re okay, and everything is perfect and fine.

He could do it. It’s tempting, more tempting than a lot of things he’s felt recently.

He could sleep, like this.
But then Dazai shifts on top of him, stretching out a little more, and Chuuya realizes that he /can’t/ leave things like this between them. He has to fix it.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, burying his fingers in his hair and tugging to make sure he’s listening. “I’m sorry. I didn’t
know that not telling you would hurt you, but I should have known. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t want to talk about it because—,” he blows out a breath, trying to think.

This is harder than he thought it would be. He’s glad Dazai’s not looking at him, even though he can tell he’s
listening by the way his thumb is stroking over his ribs. It’s silently encouraging, enough that Chuuya forges on ahead.

“Because I wasn’t sure what Shuuji was going to do. I was afraid that if he told our professors that they would think bad of me and it would hurt my
scholarships. And...” he trails off here for a second, swallowing hard. The strokes of his fingers through Dazai’s hair are comforting, a grounding rhythm. “I wanted to tell my family first, but you’re right. I should’ve talked to you first, and I should’ve told him. I /will/
tell him.”

There’s silence for a long moment, long enough that he’s half-afraid Dazai fell asleep on him—

Then Dazai is rolling off him, settling on his side right beside him instead. He props up his head with one of his hands, elbow on the bed. His eyes are huge and dark,
fixed on his face with unwavering intensity.

“If you want to tell your family first, then you should absolutely tell them first. I meant what I said earlier; I don’t mind keeping us a secret if that’s what you think is better for you. I’m not /happy/ about it, but I want you to
be comfortable and happy more than anything else.”

His free hand comes up, skirting over the cooling mess on his stomach and curving over his side affectionately. He’s warm, familiar.

“And I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier. I was having a bad day and was upset for other
reasons that didn’t have anything to do with you. I shouldn’t have taken that out on you, and I should’ve been more reasonable when it happened.”

Chuuya’s smile feels wobbly, a little /wet/. This is hard, but it’s also /so/ easy. “You didn’t yell.”

It’s true, Dazai never
raised his voice. If anything, his voice had /dropped/, turned into something seething and low.

“I know,” Dazai murmurs, petting over his side, “but I hurt you, and I didn’t want to. I’m sorry for that.”

The knot in Chuuya’s chest finally loosens, and he can take an
unobstructed breath. He rolls over, turning into Dazai’s chest and wrapping his arms around his waist.

He clings on, pushing his leg between Dazai’s thighs to make sure they’re as intertwined as they could possibly be.

The hand on his side curves around to his back, large palm
pressing beneath his shoulder blades and pulling him closer.

“I’ll be better now, I promise,” he mutters into his chest, muffled, “At talking, I mean. I didn’t really understand before, but I do now, and I’m going to try my best.”

Dazai’s chest rumbles under his ear as he
speaks again. “I believe you, doll.”

He hasn’t heard /that/ one in a while, and his cheeks start to heat up at the nickname.

Now that all the anxiety is starting to fade and most of the emotions have been burnt out by sex, Chuuya is starting to feel exhausted. He’s warm and
comfortable.

There’s just one more thing.

“I’ll tell him, though. I’ll tell him, and then my family. We can go from there. But I want him to know because I don’t want to act like I’m not—“ his /first/ instinct is to say ‘not in /love/ with you’ and /that/ thought is so
startling that he almost loses his train of thought entirely because—

No, no, it’s too /soon/, he doesn’t /actually/ feel like that, he’s just pent up and relieved. It’s not true.

“Okay,” Dazai agrees, falling backwards onto his back and dragging Chuuya with him. They’re
still messy, but apparently this is the first time Dazai will allow it to stay that way.

Chuuya doesn’t /like/ the sticky mess, but the thought of getting up right now or letting go of Dazai is blasphemous.

“But we’re good now, right? Is there anything else we needed to talk
about or are we okay now?”

Dazai drags him a little higher, so his head is tucked under his chin comfortably. “Yes, we’re good now. Go to sleep, chibi, I know you’re tired. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The last of the tangled up emotions loosens up, leaving him exhausted
and pleasantly empty in their wake.

Reassured now, he cuddles closer and lets his eyelids fall shut.

He spends his last moments before sleeping planning out a good time to tell Shuuji. Monday, he thinks, maybe after class.

(He will never get the chance.)

He sleeps.

——— +
It’s not an alarm or the sun rising that wakes Chuuya up the next morning. It’s actually his stomach, growling and clenching painfully with emptiness, and it’s obscenely early. Dawn is /just/ beginning to turn the sky grey.

For a moment, he considers trying to go back to sleep.
He’s warm and comfortable, sprawled out over Dazai’s chest. There’s a steady heartbeat under his ear, and an arm thrown over his back, a firm thigh between his legs.

His stomach twists again. He’s so /hungry/, hasn’t eaten anything since early yesterday afternoon. He couldn’t
take more than a bite or two of his dinner last night, and the consequences of that are hitting him now.

Ugh. He grumbles to himself, slowly wiggling out of Dazai’s hold. He’ll just get a quick bowl of cereal or something so his stomach will stop trying to eat itself and then
he’ll come back and cuddle up again.

Dazai shifts when he’s /almost/ free, and Chuuya freezes, thinking he woke him up. It’s too early for him, and even though he wasn’t /drunk/ last night, he still needs more sleep to recover from what he did drink.

But Dazai just turns over,
sleepily searching with his hand until he finds a pillow and drags it closer. He curls around it, hugging it close to his chest with a sleepy, content noise.

Cute.

Chuuya leaves him to his pillow, creeping down the stairs as quietly as he can. Yoko and Kozo are sprawled out in
the hallway, snoring.

They startle awake as he passes, scrambling to their feet with small grunts. When they see it’s just him, they settle back down again and let out a couple of yawns.

Chuuya winces. It’s so quiet in here that they’re loud by comparison. “Come on,” he
mutters, ushering them down the stairs. “Time for you to go outside.”

Naturally, they /bound/ down the stairs with a ruckus. He freezes at the top, listening hard to see if he woke anybody up.

When nothing moves for a while, he continues his journey down the stairs.

The dogs
are waiting for him by the back door, prancing over themselves in their excitement. He lets them out as quietly as he can, shutting the door behind them to keep the noise down.

He pads over to the fridge, pulling it open and taking out one of the water bottles stashed inside.
Cracking it open, he chugs nearly the whole thing in one drink. He's so /thirsty/.

There's quite a few meals he could make from the food that's in the fridge, but that requires cooking and cleaning, and overall way too much effort. He just wants something easy, like a bowl of
cereal.

There's only /one/ problem.

The box of cereal is in the pantry, easily accessible. There's milk in the fridge, clean spoons in the drawer.

But the /bowls/...

Are stored on the /very top/ shelf of the cabinet, far out of reach.

Chuuya stares at them, /hating/ his
existence.

It's not like Dazai owns a step-stool either, because /he's/ tall and can reach the bowls. And it's not like Chuuya can just stick his hand into the cereal box and eat it by the handful because that would be unsanitary.

He has to climb up there to get them, but it's
so /early/ and the counters are already at hip-height.

God /fucking/ dammit, he grumbles to himself, hooking his fingers underneath the lip of the cabinet so he can start to pull himself /up/--

Only for a body to press up behind him, an arm reaching up and /effortlessly/
bringing down a bowl for him.

He scowls at the cabinet. That's so not fair. He practically has to become a goddamn spider monkey to get through life, but /Dazai/ just gets to reach up there without a problem.

"If you needed help, you could've just asked," Dazai rumbles, voice
tinged with amusement as he sets down the bowl in easy reach.

"Yeah, yeah," Chuuya snarks, unwilling to point out that he /didn't/ need help, he just needed to climb to do it himself, "whatever, daddy long legs."

There's a second where they /both/ process what he just said.
Chuuya with embarrassment, staring at the cabinet as his cheeks begin to burn. He didn't /plan/ on saying that, it just came out, fueled by lingering exhaustion and irritation. He wasn't even /thinking/.

With hands on his shoulders, Dazai spins him around and now he's looming
over him and his smile is big and blatantly amused, clearly fighting back the urge to /grin/. "What did you call me?"

More embarrassment floods through Chuuya, tinged with irritation.He turns his head, refusing to look at him directly. "I didn't call you anything."

Dazai snorts
and now Chuuya is struggling to suppress a smile because he sounds so damn amused and it's /contagious/.

Hands find his waist,lifting him up and backwards onto the counter. Chuuya hangs onto his shoulders, but doesn't fight him for even a second.

There was still this lingering
fear somewhere inside him. Even though they both agreed that they were good and the fight was over, he was still worried that things were going to be /awkward/ between them. That the fight would cause tension and uncertainty between them, and it'd take them a while to get back
into their old rhythm.

That's how it was with his sisters. Even when they made up after a fight, there was still this subtle, passive-aggressive anger and irritation towards each other that tainted all their interactions.

Eventually, it'd go away and they'd /actually/ be good
again, but it always took them a while after they made up to /actually/ be normal with each other.

He was half-expecting it to be like that now between them, but evidently he was wrong, based on the way Dazai is now pressing his smile against his cheek.

"No, you /definitely/
called me something. I heard it," he says, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"I think you're hearing things," Chuuya sniffs, turning his nose up even higher. He's /acting/ bratty and irritable, but he can't fight the growing smile. With how close Dazai is, there's no way he can't
feel it, can’t /taste/ it. “But if I /did/ say something, it’d probably be about how I could’ve gotten the bowl myself and I didn’t /need/ help.”

“Aww,” Dazai croons, layering his cheek with more kisses. “Are you /mad/ at me?”

The way he says it makes it clear he finds that
idea /adorable/. Like there’s nothing cuter than Chuuya being irritable with him over a bowl.

“Yeah,” he confirms, even as he’s hooking his knees around Dazai’s hips and drawing him in closer, as close as he can, until their chests are pressed together. “Super mad.”

Their hips
connect,and Chuuya can feel interest stirring there, growing hotter with the weight of their bodies.

Chuuya’s still not wearing underwear from last night,and he had shrugged on one of Dazai’s discarded shirts. Dazai changed into sweatpants at some point, hanging low on his hips.
He’s sleep-warm, voice rough and his hair wild and /how/ is Chuuya ever supposed to resist him? How is he supposed to do anything besides give into him when they’re pressed this close together, and he feels /so/ good?

Dazai presses a sucking kiss over his cheekbone, scraping his
teeth over the sensitive flesh. When Chuuya’s breath hitches, he lets him go again, moving onto the next spot.

“Oh, you’re so /cute/,” he murmurs, like he didn’t even mean to say it, it just came out, an unexpected confession.

Heart skipping a beat, Chuuya turns his head to
catch him in a kiss.

Last night,that was frantic and hasty and rough. It wasn’t about enjoyment then, it was about the /need/, about proving to themselves that there was still something there between them, about forgetting the emotional turmoil by indulging in physical pleasure.
This...

This feels like reassurance, like affection, like coming /home/. Like savoring your favorite meal after not having it for a while, bite after bite after delicious anticipated bite, feeling how easily the hunger is sated. Like coming home from after a long time away,
and being greeted at the door.

Every time Dazai’s mouth moves over his, coaxing his lips open wider so he can kiss him deeper, one of his hands cupping the back of his neck and tipping his chin back, Chuuya feels like he’s /reeling/. Being drowned in the sensation of being
caught and /held/ and savored.

He’s tipped backwards slightly as Dazai presses into him. His legs are hitched around Dazai’s waist, and he’s on the very edge of the counter. If Dazai pressed either way, forwards or back, Chuuya would probably end up falling.

But there’s
safety in the hand around the back of his neck, effortlessly holding him upright. Reassurance in the way Dazai is solid and steady between his thighs, something for Chuuya to cling onto.

There’s /need/ in the way his free hand has found one of Chuuya’s leg and is drawing a
swirling pattern /up/, slowly inching his way up his thigh.

Honestly, Chuuya should have predicted this. He’s learned that Dazai has an /affinity/ for sex in unusual places, and mostly places that are /risky/.

The risk here is inherent; Shuuji could walk in on them at any time.
While it /is/ still early and dawn is just beginning to break, and Shuuji is self-admitted to not being a morning person—

He could walk in at any moment.

That would be an interesting way to discover they’re dating, Chuuya thinks to himself with amusement, gasping as Dazai nips
at his bottom lip and sucks it into his mouth.

If they make too much noise, or take too long, or even just sheer bad luck—

They could get /caught/.

That doesn’t seem to bother Dazai though, because his thumb has found the crease of Chuuya’s hip and is rubbing over it in slow,
teasing-tempting circles. Dazai's shirt is huge on him, but it's been pushed up over his thighs to give Dazai room to work with.

Dazai Osamu is a bad influence. Before him, Chuuya had never even /considered/ doing risky things like this. He broke rules in other ways, but sex?
No.

He always thought he'd be on the /normal/ side of sex. That he'd like things predictable and easy. A bed, a few positions, and that was basically it. Whenever he /thought/ about people doing weird things during sex, he always found it strange and a turn-off.

But now he's
/rapidly/ discovering that the 'weird' stuff is actually pretty fucking hot, especially when he's doing it with someone like /Dazai/.

Case in point, he's already half-hard and getting harder fast, half-drunk on the idea of being caught at /all/. Dazai's hardly done anything
to him besides kiss him stupid and stroke fingertips over his thighs, and yet here he is, breathless and needy for more.

"More," he mumbles against Dazai's mouth, tightening his legs around his hips to grind his erection against the heat of his abs, gasping at the friction.
The smile that gets pressed against his mouth is teasing, self-satisfied. He's certain that Dazai is going to string him out until he's desperate, tease him with taste and touch and words until he can barely think but--

"I got you, baby," gets murmured back to him, soft and so
assured it feels as easy as breathing to fall into him.

Apparently either Dazai brought lube /with/ him-- arrogant bastard, but it works out in Chuuya's favor so he's not too angry-- or he keeps a spare bottle in the kitchen for these kinds of mornings. All Chuuya knows for sure
is that his hand leaves his hip for a few moments and then comes back wet, sliding between his thighs.

Chuuya has to scoot forward a little bit, rounding his back to give him better access. It leaves him hanging in his grip, supported by his legs and the hand behind his neck.
Prep is easy and quick, considering they fucked only a few hours before. It's not long before Dazai is pumping two fingers into him and then three, stretching him open steadily but not rushing it.

Still, every movement of his fingers and every accidental brush against his
prostate has him gasping out soft moans.

Usually Chuuya is /loud/--something that embarrasses him sometimes, but he can't /help/ it and he's certain Dazai tries to get him to moan as loud as possible as a /challenge/-- but something about this interaction feels /hushed/.

Feels
quiet and reverential, has him gasping out soft moans and hitched breaths that get swallowed by Dazai.

He hasn't stopped kissing him /once/, not even as he pulls his fingers out and slides inside him. Chuuya feels drugged by it, dizzy, brought to searing life and held there by
teeth and tongue and breath.

His body is still waking up from sleep, and that makes it so easy to feel overwhelmed by how /deep/ Dazai feels inside him, buried all the way inside and rocking in short, pointed slides against his prostate. Every touch feels like fire itself, every
breath feels like living and dying in the same moment.

It's slow too, his best spots being milked until he can hardly breathe through the pleasure as it grows and grows, heightening with every moment.

There's a point, when both of Dazai's hands are cupping his face and holding
him in place as he kisses him and kisses him and breathes little groans into his mouth and whispers his name, and all Chuuya can do is /hold on/, hands wrapped around his wrists and whimpering back to him as they spiral higher and higher.

His orgasm feels like it shakes him to
his very core, leaving him trembling and shivering as he rides out the heat-drenched pleasure.

Dazai isn't far after him, and the noise he makes as he buries himself as deeply as he can makes an exhausted ripple of arousal creep up Chuuya's spine.

For a while they just breathe
together, slowly recovering as their heartbeats slow down. Dazai's forehead, pressed to his, is damp with sweat. His sweats, pushed down /just/ far enough to pull out his cock, are rough against the back of his thighs.

It's peaceful, relaxing.

At least it is until--
Noise, upstairs.

Shuuji's waking up and coming downstairs, /fuck/!

Chuuya shoves Dazai away because he doesn't /actually/ want to tell Shuuji about them while's wearing /only/ his shirt and his cum is dripping out of him. He has /dignity/, and if he's going to be telling Shuuji
that he's in a relationship with his /father/, then he at least wants to be wearing underwear. Preferably pants too.

Preferably a whole rocking outfit, actually, as a confidence boost and also because he's /petty/ and he wants to look his best when he's telling Shuuji he'll
never get to touch /this/.

Dazai stumbles away, looking vaguely offended.

Chuuya hops down after him, wincing when he feels how wet the counter is behind him. "Please don't be mad," he hisses to Dazai, waving him away, "I want to wait to tell him until I'm at /least/ wearing
pants, /please/. Please understand that."

Dazai blows out a breath, and the irritation that was beginning to grow on his face slides away. He nods, pulling his sweats up and going to start a pot of coffee.

With shaky hands, feeling his heartbeat in his throat, Chuuya pours
himself a bowl of cereal. He totally forgot he was hungry and now he feels too on-edge to actually eat.

Shuuji comes bounding in, fully dressed and with his backpack slung over his shoulder. He looks too awake to have woken up anytime /recently/ and Chuuya is briefly paralyzed
by the thought that he /heard/ and he's come to confront them--

"Hey Dad, I'm busy today, can you give Chuuya a ride home?"

But apparently not.

Relieved, he takes a bite of cereal.

Dazai turns around, leaning back against the counter with a mug of freshly brewed black coffee
in his hands. There's a wet spot on his sweats from lube, and he's not even /trying/ to hide it, or the fact that he's sweaty.

God, this is a /nightmare/, but if Shuuji asks, Chuuya won't say no.

It's just /mortifying/ to bring up 'hey, I'm like technically your step-dad right
now and might actually be your legal step-dad some day so surprise! Hope you're not too mad! We'll invite you to the wedding if it happens' while there's /literally/ cum dripping down his thigh, hot and sticky.

Dazai smirks into his coffee. "Yeah, I'll give him a ride."

The
innuendo is /thick/, so blatant that Chuuya is shooting him a look. They're already in a sticky situation--literally--, he doesn't have to rub it in.

Shuuji doesn't notice, snagging a banana from the island counter and turning away again. "Okay, cool, thanks, bye!"

Then he's
racing out the door, apparently /very/ intent on whatever mission he has planned for today. What it /is/, considering it's a little past 6 in the morning, Chuuya has /no/ fucking idea, but he doesn't care.

"You /ass/," he hisses at Dazai, throwing a dry piece of cereal at him,
"You weren't subtle or helpful at /all/!"

Dazai downs the rest of his coffee in one gulp, grinning. He sets the mug down in the sink, stalking closer until Chuuya is once again pinned between him and the counter.

"What do you want me to say, baby? That you're /not/ dripping
my cum down those pretty legs of yours? That my cock /isn't/ still wet from being inside you?" His voice is lilting with smug pleasure, curling around his nerve endings enticingly.

Chuuya takes another bite to save himself from answering, but there's a /different/ hunger growing
in his stomach. It's a good thing he found Dazai, because the man is apparently just as insatiable as he is.

It'd be ridiculous if he wasn't so into it.

Dazai leans closer, until his cheek is sliding past his and his mouth is next to his ear. One of his hands finds the back of
his thigh, smearing over the sticky cum there without hesitation.

"Or I /could've/ said," he whispers, breath hot and audible in his ear, sending shivers down his spine, "that I want to do it /again/?"

Oh, /fuck/ eating right now.

The bowl of cereal gets placed on the counter,
forgotten, as he hops up into Dazai's arms with a grin.

Dazai supports him with hands on his thighs, tilting his head back for a kiss. "I have a grooming appointment for the dogs in four hours. Until then, you're /mine/."

Chuuya would argue that he's his /forever/, but he's too
busy kissing him to actually say anything.

(Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.)

--------- +

Yuan lives two separate lives. Sometimes she likes to think that she's her own doppelganger, both the evil and the good twin. It's more fun that way, to think of it as some party trick or a magic
show rather than the depressing reality that it is.

Because out /there/ she's the supposedly privileged, popular, pretty young college girl that gets whatever she wants. She's friends with most of the younger rich kids. She goes to all their parties, goes invited to a good
many of their vacations, gets gifts and handouts.

Because they think she's one of /them/. They think she's the estranged but still cared for daughter of a rich businessman, that she goes home to a big beautiful house in the suburbs and she's on the fast track to being rich and
successful.

When the truth is--

"Yuan, will you come help me with the vegetables, please?"

When the /truth/ is that she's the second daughter of a single mother, and the only 'privilege' she has is the one she's taken for herself with lying and manipulation.

Their apartment
is small, with only one bedroom. Her mother has given it up to her and her sister, making her 'bedroom' in a small corner of the living room by sectioning off a space with hanging curtains.

Yuan's sister, Elise, went off the live in the college dorms as soon as she could but...
Yuan couldn't leave their mom all /alone/. She gave /everything/ for them, worked two, sometimes three jobs in order to get them into good schools. Even now, after she's gotten a promotion as a secretary, she still works brutally long hours.

It makes Yuan sad, to think of her
mom working all day and half the night, only to come home to an empty and cold house.

She did have opportunities at the dorms at Keio but she's just fine with her tiny room with her mother.

"How was work today?" She asks her mother, joining her in the kitchen. It smells like
she's cooking ramen. They're in for a treat then, because Yuan /loves/ her ramen. Almost as good as some restaurants.

There's garlic and green onions and a few other vegetables waiting on the counter to be chopped. Yuan pulls out their cutting board and gets to work.

"It was
okay," her mother sighs, stirring the pot. "Ango is very tense lately, though. It makes my job hard to do when he is very grumpy."

Personally, Yuan thinks Ango is a prick even when he's being 'nice', always sending her mother out on unnecessary errands or calling her late at
night. There was a time where she thought he was /interested/ in her mother, but after a while, she's come to the conclusion that he's just a prick who doesn't think other people's lives matter as much as his does.

"Why is he so worried?" Yuan asks, slicing the green onion into
thin pieces.

Dropping noodles into a pot of boiling water, her mother shrugs, "He says that the crime rates are escalating very quickly, and making his job difficult. He says something needs to change soon, or people even more important than him will step in."

Yuan frowns,
gathering up the sliced pieces and dumping them into a bowl. That sounds pretty serious, actually.

What her mother's company-- the Special Divisions Unit, or something-- does has always been a bit of a mystery to Yuan, so she doesn't understand /why/ a higher crime rate would
affect them, but she hopes it stops soon. Her mother is much too overworked.

"Enough about me. How was class today, sweetie?"

Yuan hums, cleaning off her knife and board. She finished early, and it will probably still be another twenty minutes before the ramen is finished. "It
was boring, actually. We didn't learn much. But Shirase said he wanted to talk to me later, can I go see what he wants?"

Smiling, her mother shoos her off. "Go, then. Tell the boy I miss him, and he should visit sometimes."

She nods, leaving her mother to finish cooking as she
heads back to her room. She pulls out her phone, checking her recent texts.

There's an older text from Shuuji, two from Elise, some social media updates, and a newer text from Shirase.

Throwing herself back on her bed, she pulls up their conversations. Their last texts make her
snort in amusement.

[ DUMDUM ]: what's the different between a neko and a catgirl

[ YUAN ]: neko is a derogatory term coined by spanish invaders in the 1800's

[ DUMDUM ]: really?????

[ YUAN ]: god did you even go to school? no i was fucking with you

[ DUMDUM ]: i'm never
trusting you again

[ YUAN ]: 🥰

The most recent text, however, is the most concerning one.

[ DUMDUM ]: yo have you seen this???

He sent a recording of the public Snapchat hotspot for Keio. She doesn't usually look at it, because it's usually filled with boring videos, but
this time, it's something... interesting, to say the least.

It was posted about eleven this morning, nearly two hours ago. It's a shaky video of a dog grooming store, which would normally be something to skip past but--

It's Chuuya in the video, dressed up in clothes she's
never seen before and--

Kissing who is /obviously/ Dazai Osamu. Shuuji's /dad/.

And not like, awkward or accidental or any kind of kissing that might be able to be explained away. Full on, public, hands around Dazai's neck, smiling in the kiss, /almost/ a makeout session.
Her first thought is /fuck/, that is very not good.

Her second thought is, why does /he/ get to makeout with Dazai in public when she can barely get the man to say her name after trying to come onto him for /months/. Chuuya's been here like two weeks! He has to be cheating.
Her third thought, and this is the most pressing one--

Has Shuuji seen this yet?

She replays the video,hoping she was somehow mistaken--

But she's not, and this time she notices the damning information in the caption:

"YOOOO NAKAHARA STRUCK IT RICH HUH 👅👅"

Oh this is /not/
good. So not good.

Shuuji's going to be /livid/. Half the school has probably seen this already, and while Chuuya was never his official boyfriend, they were seen together often enough. People know.

Everybody's going to be laughing at him, and he's going to be /pissed/.
[ DUMDUM ]: what do we do?????? shuuji's gonna go off the deep end

Is there anything they /can/ do? It's a public snapchat spot, and she doesn't recognize the user of the person who posted it, so she can't ask them to take it down.

It's been up for almost two hours already. And
if Shirase already has a video saved of it, then there will be /other/ videos already saved.

Gossip spreads like the wind at Keio.

This is so not good. The situation is already spiraling out of control.

[ YUAN ]: fuck idk?? are you with shuuji today?? steal his phone so he
can't see it

[ DUMDUM ]: im not with him are you????

Fuck, so there's /no/ damage control then.

Okay, okay, she can figure out who posted it and then make them take it down before he sees it--

Another text, not from Shirase. This one is coming from the /group chat/.
Shuuji insisted on making a new group chat without Chuuya a few weeks before. She's been ignoring it, mostly, because she feels like that's mean to Chuuya--

But she can't ignore /this/ text.

[ SHUUJI ]: i'm going to kill that gold digging slut like he's a stupid fucking dog
/Shit/.

[ YUAN ]: woah woah let's not do anything too hasty

[ SHUUJI ]: shut the fuck up

[ YUAN ]: i get that ur mad but don't do anything crazy okay, just take a second and think about what will happen to you

Seconds turn into agonizingly slow minutes, panic beginning to
set in because--

If Shuuji gets angry enough, he /will/ follow through. He doesn't care about consequences or what happens because of his actions.

He'll do it. He'll fucking do it.

Shuuji doesn't respond again.

Her next course of option-- her /only/ course of option-- is
to call Chuuya and hopes he picks up so at least she can /warn/ him.

(Tick. Tock. Tick--

Oh, would you look at that?

Time's up.)

-------- +

[ SHUUJI ]: hey can we talk? :)

Chuuya shuffles his phone a little, contemplating. He was intending to wait until Monday to say
anything-- not for any particular reason, just because it gave him enough time to come up with a good speech-- but come to think of it, this seems like the perfect time.

It gets the conversation over with quickly, and then he can stop pretending he doesn't care about Dazai.
Besides, it's not like he has anything else to do right now. Dazai went to go pick up the dogs from their appointment, and when Chuuya offered to come with, he said he had an errand to run.

He already did his homework, and now he's just sitting on his phone playing games. So why
not just get it over with?

Just rip the band-aid off so they can all just move on.

[ CHUUYA ]: yeah I have something to tell you too

[ CHUUYA ]: im still at ur house btw we can talk here

Barely even a /second/ passes before gets a response.

[ SHUUJI ]: be there soon!
Shuuji is usually a pretty slow texter with him, so it’s pretty surprising that he answered so quickly. Maybe he has something important to tell him too.

Before he can ask—

His phone dies. He forgot to charge it the night before, and between getting fucked into Dazai’s bed like
the man was trying to snap his spine in half, and then going to drop off the dogs, and getting a quick lunch before coming home—

He hasn’t had the chance to charge it.

Ugh.

Luckily though, there’s a few spare chargers stashed in one of the kitchen drawers, so he gets up to
plug it in.

He hesitates there. It feels weird to be waiting for Shuuji in his own house to have The Talk. What is he supposed to do, watch TV? Sit by the door reading a magazine like one of those parents in movies?

Come to think of it, he actually doesn’t have the password to
the Netflix, so he can’t actually watch TV anyways.

So his options are to sit in awkward silence and stare at the wall until either Shuuji or Dazai gets back—

Or he can wait outside and soak up some sun while he waits. It’s been a while since he was able to just enjoy the
warmth and pleasure of the sun. He’s been locked up in classes or studying, or sprawled on his back in Dazai’s bed.

Plus, without his phone, he won’t be able to get any updates on when they’re coming back, so. He’ll be able to see them quicker if he’s waiting outside.

(Like
most bad ideas, it seems terribly reasonable when you first think of it.)

It’s a warmer day than the last week has been, but it’s still a bit chilly. The sidewalk, however, has soaked up all the sun and is warm against his ass as he sits near the drive way to wait.

(Inside,
on the counter:

INCOMING CALL: YUAN

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

1 MISSED CALL.

INCOMING CALL: YUAN

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

2 MISSED CALLS.

3 MISSED CALLS.

4 MISSED CA—.)

He sees Shuuji’s car first, speeding down the road to the house. He’s driving faster than normal.
***** The next scene will be difficult to handle for those sensitive to vehicular violence.

This is your warning. Do what you must.

There will be a summary at the end. Good luck. *****
(Have you ever been on a roller coaster?

You know that feeling when you get to the top, and you're hovering there, overlooking the drop and thinking--

I'm going to die. This will kill me. If I fall right now, I will die.

And you're reasoning with yourself: Rollercoasters have
safety precautions. They have seatbelts and rails and people who make sure that the tracks are clear and safe, and mechanics to make sure everything is running perfectly.

Rollercoasters are /safe/, predictable.

Well, what if the person securing your seatbelt was having a
/really/ bad day? What if there was an electrical fault somewhere down the line? A track broke? A branch was lying in /just/ the wrong place to send the rollercoaster flying off?

Have you ever thought--

What if the person driving the rollercoaster wanted to see you /dead/?)
Chuuya watches and watches and watches and--

Shuuji's always been a bad driver, but when is he going to slow /down/? Is he planning to just zoom past?

Closer, closer.

Why isn't he stopping?

Closer.

Oh, okay, he's starting to slow down now. Chuuya can see the brake lights
faintly now.

But wait, it's not enough, it's still too /fast/--

Heart pounding in his chest, his whole body feeling numb and tingly and frozen with fear, Chuuya realizes with startling calm:

He's going to hit me. I am going to get run over, right here in the driveway.
For a second, he just /stares/, waiting for the realization to connect with his body as Shuuji hurtles closer and /closer/ and /CLOSER/--

Then it's like all of his survival instincts roar to life at the same time, sending a shockjolt of adrenaline through him that sends him
scrambling to the side, heart in his throat.

/Move, move, move, I have to move, get out of the /way/--/

There's a screech as Shuuji slams on the brakes. The sudden friction of the tires locking causes the back end to fishtail in /Chuuya's/ direction, oh my /god/--
He rolls over onto the lawn, feeling a gut-wrenching sense of panic as he puts a little more distance between them. He rolls again, scrambling onto his hands and knees, craning his head to /look/--

There's a curb protecting him now, but with how /fast/ Shuuji was going, he ends
sliding over the driveway, tires screeching, and halfway onto the lawn before the car finally comes to a stop.

It's only a handful of meters away from him, right on track to crush him underneath the tires.

Chuuya stares at the front of the vehicle, eyes wide and pulse pounding
too fast for him to keep up with.

There's the smell of burnt rubber in his nose, filling up his senses.

Oh my /god/,that really just--

That really almost happened.

He almost got ran the fuck over.

Relief doesn't last long. As soon as the car is stopped completely, Shuuji is
slamming out of the car--

And that's when the /anger/ sets in.

"What the /FUCK/?" He shouts, rising up on his knees and throwing his hands up in the air. If he had something small nearby, he'd chuck it at Shuuji's head.

His entire body is shaking, but the fight isn't over yet.
***** SCENE end.

Summary: Shuuji tries to run Chuuya over with his car. It doesn't work.

*****
Stomach-turning adrenaline is still racing through him like liquid electricity, forcing his heart to speed up until it /hurts/. "What the /fuck/ is wrong with you, Shuuji?" He shouts again, fighting the urge to throw up.

He's off-center, still reeling from the close call. His
ghost feels like it's been flattened in the driveway, filling him with phantom aches of what /almost/ happened.

So when Shuuji stalks over and reaches down for him, grabbing his bicep in a painful grip and yanks him up with it, he's too startled to fight it.

He stumbles to his
feet, fighting to get his breath back for another shout. His chest feels too small for the lingering terror.

"What the fuck is wrong with /me/?" Shuuji hisses, fury laced through his voice as he shoves Chuuya forward,closer to the house. "What the fuck is wrong with /you/? What,
is my dick not wrinkly enough for you, you sick freak? Need some money to get turned on like a common fucking whore?"

And god, everything is happening /so/ fast that he's reeling, trying to keep up with what's happening and his first thought is--

Oh, he knows.

His second?
But he /doesn't/ have a wrinkly dick? It's pretty cute, actually.

That thought feels so absurd in this situation that he almost bursts out laughing,fueled by manic fear and adrenaline. God,what the fuck is happening.

He pulls on his arm, bracing his feet to get a better stance.
But he's made a fatal mistake:

Shuuji is taller than him, and he's just about as strong.With the way he's holding Chuuya's arm up as he drags him along,it's really to fight that pull /or/ get his arm back under control.

"Fuck you, asshole," Chuuya snarls, kicking at his ankle.
He can't think of anything smart to say right now, just mangled versions of insults.

Using the grip on his arm, Shuuji forcibly yanks him around. His foot catches on the step leading to the door, sending him stumbling with the momentum.

His back slams against the corner of the
door, the knob stabbing into his lower back harshly. The move knocks the breath out of him, making him arch away from the door with wide, pained eyes.

And just when he feels like his chest might expand again--

Hands encircle his throat tightly.
Chuuya's had hands around his neck often enough-- Dazai's hands, specifically-- that his first reaction isn't to panic or start struggling.

That's the only reason Shuuji manages to get both his hands around his throat and starts /squeezing/.

It's different than being choked by
Dazai. When Dazai chokes him, the pressure is mostly on the sides, and it's a steady, constant pressure that doesn't waver even if he struggles a bit.

/This/ is Shuuji putting direct force onto his windpipe, like he's trying to crush it, and it's sharp stinging painful. He can't
breathe past it.

"Fucking my dad wasn't enough for you, huh?Gotta embarrass me in front of the whole fucking school? Now everyone knows I was with a freak who had /daddy issues/!" Shuuji seethes,tightening his grip until it feels like his neck is going to be crushed.

And then--
Chuuya has had /enough/.

He's only ever been /nice/ and respectful to Shuuji, even when the fucker didn't deserve it. Sure, going behind his back to date his dad was kind of a dick move, but he doesn't deserve to be choked out and nearly fucking ran over because of it.

Then he
gets /mad/.

If Shuuji wants to fight, then fine, they'll fucking fight.

Thinking past the raw animal panic beginning to course through his veins, Chuuya brings his hands down and then up between Shuuji's arms. With all the strength he can muster he shoves his elbows outward,
breaking the leverage he has to keep him pinned.

It brings Shuuji's face closer, just close enough for him too--

Slamming his head forward to smash his forehead against Shuuji's nose is agony on his neck, but it manages to break the hold he has on him.

Yelping in pain, Shuuji
stumbles back a step, bringing a hand to his nose. It's not broken, but it is bleeding.

"You wanna fucking fight, asshole? Fine, let's fight," Chuuya snaps at him, reaching behind him to open the door. It's unlocked, and having his back against a wall without room to maneuver is
a bad idea. "Yeah, I fucked your dad, and he was a /lot/ better than you were. At least I was hard before he came, which is more than I can say for /you/."

He takes a step back, raising his hands in challenge and offering Shuuji his sharpest, most daring grin.

If he wants to
be embarrassed, he'll embarrass the /fuck/ out of him.

"It's so unfortunate that the genetics skipped you, because while most of /your/ dick is in your personality, Dazai's..." he says, smug, measuring out a length with his hands that's probably only a /little/ exaggerated.
He watches as Shuuji’s face turns satisfyingly red,mouth twisting into an ugly snarl.

Good.The angrier he is, the worse he’ll fight.

Keeping his distance warily,backing up in equal rhythm as Shuuji stalks forward,he watches as Shuuji reaches into his pocket—

And pulls a knife.
Okay, okay, that’s /fine/, Chuuya can handle that.He’s trained with knives before. Those were training knives, made of thick rubber, and far more forgiving, and it’s been a while—

But it’s fine. He just has to keep his distance unless he can disarm him.

At least it’s not a gun.
Planting a hand on the back of the couch, he vaults over it, landing on the other side with his knees bent. It creates more distance between them, puts an obstacle in Shuuji’s path.

“Are you afraid to fight me yourself, coward?” Chuuya asks, roiling with anger. “First your car,
now a knife. Can’t do it yourself?”

“I wouldn’t want to get the blood of some/thing/ as cheap and disgusting as you on my hands,” Shuuji seethes. He’s at the edge of the couch now, and instead of choosing a path to go around— which Chuuya can counter by going the opposite way—
he bends down and grabs the lip of the couch in his hands—

And flips the whole fucking thing over, throwing it to the side.

Well, shit.

Now the stairs are blocked off, and most of the living room is opened up. Chuuya can still jump over the upturned couch, but he has to
turn his back to Shuuji to do it.

Which would be a /very/ bad idea.

Shuuji’s blocking thé exit to the front door. The back door is locked, as it usually is.

“I’m going to /ruin/ you,” Shuuji snarls, brandishing the knife. He’s stalking forward, forcing Chuuya to skirt around
the island to keep something between them. “I’m going to tell /everyone/ that you’re a money hungry, desperate little whore that will spread his legs for anyone that looks at him long enough.”

See, /that’s/ what Chuuya was afraid of in the beginning. But now he’s too /angry/ so
he opens his mouth to tell him to go the fuck ahead—

Shuuji takes a running step, jumping up and sliding over the top of the island. Everything on top of it gets thrown to the floor with loud crashes.

Chuuya darts out of thé way, heading back into the living room. The floor is
covered in debris now though, making his steps rocky. He has to be careful where he steps so he doesn’t lose his balance and fall.

“I bet Dad didn’t even have to work hard, did he? What’d he do, take you on a little vacation, impress you a little, and you got on your knees?”
That one stings a little, because it’s partly true. He covers it up with another sneer.

Chuuya has many flaws, but one of his bigger ones is that when he’s /mad/, he’ll find the weak points of the person he’s mad at and sink his teeth in as hard as he can. He’s got a few anger
issues which mostly means that he will /always/ escalate the situation.

Even when he’s staring down a knife.

Sneering, he flips Shuuji off. “He didn’t even have to do that. Remember that time you ditched our study session? I celebrated by fucking Dazai in your bed.”
It’s a lie. The time he’s talking about happened before he even got together with Dazai.

He hasn’t actually fucked Dazai in his bed at all, but the idea is /tempting/, now that he sees just how pissed off it makes Shuuji.

With an enraged shout, he lunges at Chuuya.
It’s just the opening he needs.

He jumps out of the way, managing to hook his foot underneath Shuuji’s shin as he goes past, tripping him up.

He goes down hard, knife outstretched in front of him.

Chuuya lunges for it, intending to get it out of his hands to make it a fair
fight—

Shuuji’s free hand wraps behind Chuuya’s knee, yanking /hard/, pulling him off balance so quickly he can’t compensate for it, leg crumbling underneath him—

He falls backward with a yelp, arms flailing.

With a sharp /crack/, the back of his head hits the table.
A flash of painful-tingling numbness courses down his spine,all the way down to his fingers and toes.White stars burst through his vision for a moment,leaving him breathless and dizzy.

His hands go limp and fuzzy, unresponsive—

And with the pain comes the unadulterated terror.
Because—

He didn’t hit his head /that/ hard. He didn’t pass out and he’s not going to, it’s just a /shock/. The tingling and numbness is already beginning to fade away and his vision is clearing, he just needs a few more seconds to recover—

But he doesn’t have a few seconds.
Shuuji is already moving, crawling over him.

Raising his leg, Chuuya kicks at him, trying to give himself more time to recover. His arms feel weak but strength is coming back quickly, he just needs a little more /time/—

Snarling, Shuuji shoves his leg back to the floor,
uncaring that the force makes it pop painfully. He pins his thigh by kneeling on it, taking away the leverage he needs to throw him off.

Chuuya’s hands find his shoulders, pushing him back as hard as he can. He’s heavy on top of him, leaning all of his weight onto his hands as
he bends down.

The hand with the knife comes to rest by Chuuya’s neck.

“Get off me,” Chuuya grunts, frantic, shoving him back as hard as he can but he’s so /heavy/, and his arms are trembling and his fucking head hurts, fuck, fuck, /fuck/.

Hot breath washes over his face,
once again smelling faintly of ham in the most bizarre sense of déjà vu. “Why should I?” Shuuji sneers, shifting his weight so he can bring the knife up. “I thought you liked having someone on top of you, easy slut. You /like/ it, don’t you?”

People always call out for someone
when things start to get really bad. When they’re out of options, when their back is against the wall and they’re staring imminent death in the face, people always call for someone to help them.

Usually it’s parents. / “Mom!”/

But today Chuuya desperately thinks of the one
person he knows can save him right now.

Not his dad, or his mom or even his sisters, but—

/ Fuck, Dazai, /please/ come home right now, I’m scared and I don’t want to die, please— /

And like he called it into existence, there’s a canine snarl from a few feet away.

/Yoko./
Relief blooms because /yes/, Dazai’s here, Yoko’s here, it’s all going to be okay now, it’s over—

And then dies just as quickly, because the /knife/, Shuuji still has the knife, he’s gonna hurt /Yoko/—

He struggles harder, fighting to throw him the /opposite/ way as Shuuji
turns to look at her—

A large hand clamps down on Shuuji’s shoulder, yanking him back with enough strength that he goes tumbling.

“I’d ask what the /fuck/ you were doing, but I don’t think I’d like the answer. Get the fuck off him.”

/Dazai/, oh fuck, thank /god/, it’s Dazai.
With the weight off him, with the weight of terror slowly leaving his body, he feels like he can finally breathe again.

/Holy shit/, that was scary. It still feels like his heart is beating triple time, felt all the way down to his toes.

“Chuuya, are you okay?” Dazai asks.
His voice is low, steady. Familiar and comforting.

Laying there catching his breath, Chuuya considers that.

His head is aching and there’s some faint ringing in his ears, but he doesn’t feel any blood. Doesn’t feel dizzy or nauseous either, and his vision is fine, so /probably/
no confusion.

His throat is aching too, and every breath stings but he can swallow and breathe without any physical difficultly. It’s definitely going to bruise though, and the thought of that makes his stomach clench unpleasantly.

There’s a line of pain running down his
spine, centered on the left side of his lower back from where he was thrown into the door. That will probably bruise too.

His knee aches, but it’s not popped out of place or anything.

All in all—

He’s bumped, bruised, and scratched up, but nothing that a hot bath and some
time won’t fix. Nothing he /needs/ to go to the hospital for.

It could’ve been a lot worse, actually. He’s lucky Dazai came when he did.

“Talk to me, baby, I need to know if you’re hurt.”

Groaning, Chuuya sits up. Kozo comes to check him out, sniffing over him anxiously. “I’m
fine, I guess,” he grumbles, and then gets inspired by a spark of evil pettiness, “but he pulled a knife on me, so.”

Dazai is standing squarely in front of him, blocking his view of Shuuji. Yoko is pacing just in front of him, snarls ripping out of her muzzle every so often.
“Did he now?”

He’s never heard Dazai’s voice so /cold/, so threatening, dipped in lethal-cold mercury. It’s not even aimed at /him/, but it still makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

(Chuuya can’t see Dazai’s smile from here but /Shuuji/ can, and it’s cutting,
full of teeth and menace and—

If demons had human faces, their smiles would probably look like /this/.)

“Drop it,” Dazai orders.

Shuuji, probably realizing how /badly/ he fucked up, just stares at him and blinks. His hand doesn’t let go of the knife hilt, clutching onto it
as the temperature in the room starts to plummet.

Dazai’s smile grows. “Wrong answer,” he says, smooth as razor metal, tilting his head. “Yoko, fetch.”

With another vicious snarl ripping out of her, Yoko descends on him and sinks her teeth into Shuuji’s arm.

He screams.
His other hand starts to come up, probably to get Yoko off him by hitting her or yanking on her ears—

A black boot comes down with crushing force, grinding the bones of his wrist together underneath the full weight of Dazai’s body.

“Don’t touch my dog,” he says, sounding so
conversational even as he’s literally stepping on his own son while his dog tears at his arm.

Watching it is...

Shocking, to say the least.

Seeing Shuuji so effortlessly béaten down and in pain fills Chuuya with a vicious satisfaction, and the only thing he would change is
that he wishes /he/ was the one crushing Shuji underneath his boots right now.

But Dazai is /concerning/.

Chuuya expected anger. Yelling, throwing things, maybe even more fighting. That seemed reasonable to him, even if a bit excessive because Shunji /is/ his son.

But
he doesn’t seem to care at all? He sounds almost /normal/,completely detached, like they could be having a conversation about the weather instead of watching Yoko rip at his arm.

(Dazai feels nothing but cold, yawning emptiness. He will not have anything taken from him anymore.)
Dazai crouches down, getting closer to Shuuji. “You have one option,” he tells him, “you can drop the knife, or we can see how long it takes Yoko to chew through your arm.”

Tears streaming down his face, Shuuji drops the knife. There’s blood dripping down his arm in slow trails.
Reaching over, Dazai plucks it off the ground and flips it into his grip with a skilled flick of his wrist.

“Thank you,” he says, standing up again and moving back. “Off, Yoko.”

With a final jerk of her head, she lets go. Her teeth are stained lightly with blood.

Shuuji
brings his arm to chest, curling around it. The bite is deep enough to almost need stitches, the shape of Yoko’s teeth neatly torn into his skin.

Yoko goes back to pacing, this time closer to Chuuya. Her growls have quieted, but are still very much present.

“Explain yourself,”
Dazai barks, spinning the knife through his fingers and over his knuckles, casually skilled as he begins to pace lightly.

Chuuya's beginning to feel nervous because this...

This doesn't feel /normal/. This doesn't seem right. Even though Shuuji /was/ out of line, this doesn't
feel like /normal/ discipline.

Calling the cops would've been normal. Grounding him, kicking him out, having a screaming match with him, /that/ seemed normal.

This feels like something out of a Yakuza movie.

"That little /slut/ jumped me--," Shuuji starts, managing to sound
irritated.

The knife flies, burying itself a few centimeters deep only a handbreadth away from Shuuji's crotch. Paling, he goes completely still, gulping down a panicked breath.

The air seems frigid with tension.

"Watch your mouth," Dazai warns, pointing a finger at him. "The
next one won't miss. And don't try to lie to me. He has /bruises/ on his neck, and you were holding a knife to his throat. I don't believe that he 'jumped you' so the next words out of your mouth better be /why/ I found you pinning my--" he stumbles here, the first time all
afternoon that something /human/ has peeked out of this cold, cruel display, "-- pinning /Chuuya/ to the ground, or I am going to get /angry/."

So /this/ isn't angry? What is this, then?

"He knows," Chuuya mutters, carefully probing at his neck. It stings under his touch, but
it doesn't /feel/ swollen or anything. He's not an expert, though he has spent an unreasonable amount of time getting to know his body when it's injured.

He doesn't know /how/ he knows, but considering he mentioned something about embarrassing him in front of everyone, then
there was probably a video? Or maybe one of their mutual friends saw him and Dazai and told Dazai?

Frankly, he doesn't care right now, he just wants this to be /over/. Just wants to go take a shower and clean off the grass stains from rolling around earlier.

"Oh, so /that's/
why," Dazai drawls, his voice shifting into something like predatory satisfaction, an animal on a hunt that finally found the trail. "You got upset when he told you we were dating, and you threw a fit. Got your ego hurt, so you decided to trash my house and take it out on someone
smaller than you, hm? Took him down when he was alone and unarmed?”

With every sentence he gains momentum, anger growing. He’s pacing faster, like he’s fighting the urge to go /at/ Shuuji.

One, two, three steps. Turn. One, two, three steps. Turn.

“What were you going to do
now that you had him pinned? Cut him up? Kill him? /Assault/ him?”

Goosebumps flare up on Chuuya’s arms. He hadn’t considered /that/ option before, but that bit at the end about /liking it/...

He shivers.

“I was just trying to /scare/ him, I wasn’t going to do anything,”
Shuuji.

“I’m fucking sure,” Chuuya mutters to himself, heaving himself to his feet. His knee cracks again when he sets weight on it, making pain flare up briefly before it settles again.

“Besides I have a /right/ to be angry. He was /mine/, and he cheated on me because you
/stole/ him! Honestly, Dad, you should be fucking ashamed of yourself. I can’t believe you would do that to me, and with someone so /young/. Are people your own age too hard to get with anymore, so you gotta go for low-hanging fruit?”

Dazai’s head swings towards him, locking
onto him with focused intensity. “Are you implying I’m /preying/ on him?”

Shuuji shrugs a little, inspecting his arm. “I didn’t /say/ that, but it’s pretty damn shitty of you to go for Chuuya as soon as I had my back turned when you /know/ I was interested in him.”

Dazai’s
smile—god, why is he /smiling/ at a time like this, why isn’t he frowning or scowling— is sharp. “You have a strange way of showing interest. Ignoring him, being rude, standing him up to go to a party instead. You didn’t want /him/ at all, did you, you just wanted to /fuck him/.”
He stops pacing then, and somehow that’s even worse, because now tension is coiling in his posture, fists clenching at his sides. A predator preparing to pounce. “I’m starting to think that this isn’t the /first/ time you pinned him, either. This isn’t the first time you’ve
taken advantage of him, is it? Because /someone/ taught him that his consent wasn’t /necessary/, and now I’m thinking it was /you/. What did you do? Did you—.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya says, cutting him off. He hadn’t told him about /that/ time, and he never intended to because it
doesn’t /matter/ anymore, and it wasn’t that bad. He’s over whatever lingering wariness he got because of it, and /that/ has nothing to do with what happened today.

Dazai’s head snaps toward him, and for the first time since he arrived, he’s looking directly at Chuuya.

He has
to fight the urge to step back because—

He’s never seen eyes that /empty/ before.

Pitch black and unresponsive, like Dazai isn’t there anymore. None of the usual life in them is there anymore, just a emotionless black void, soul-sucking.

There’s something /wrong/ here.
Chuuya’s nerves are crawling with it because /this/ doesn’t look like Dazai.

“I’m okay,” he mutters, voice slightly rough from the bruising on his throat. He’s not sure what else to do besides stare at him, hoping to get the message across that’s he’s /fine/.

It was scary
and it sucked, but he made it through relatively unscathed. At this point, Shuuji is probably more injured than he is.

The longer Dazai stares at him, the more he takes him in, the more the void in his eyes seems to ease. The more his posture relaxes, inch by painful inch.
The more the coiled tension in the air fades away.

Without looking away from him, Dazai speaks again. “Get out.”

Honestly, how Shuuji has the nerve to look appalled and hurt, Chuuya doesn’t know.

“I get that I probably went too far but I was so /angry/. You should’ve heard
the things he was saying to me! He was deliberately pissing me off!Besides, I didn’t /actually/ hurt him, and I’m fucking bleeding. I’ll apologize but you both owe me one too for going behind my back like that.”

Chuuya’s eyebrows shoot up. That’s /bold/ of him to demand right
now, even if he /does/ have somewhat of a point.

He hadn't planned for him to find out like this, where the situation was out of his control. Maybe if they'd been able to have a /conversation/ instead of a /fight/, Chuuya would've actually apologized.

He can understand /why/
Shuuji would be upset. If one of /his/ friends or romantic interests started dating his dad secretly, he'd be pretty upset too.

Of course, he wouldn't treat his interests the way Shuuji treated him, but semantics.

Right now though, Chuuya is too damn pissed off at the memory of
being nearly run over in the street like a goddamn dog to feel any pity for Shuuji whatsoever.

Speaking of...

His eyes slide to Dazai, who looks like he's /finally/ showing some real, bonafide anger instead of that creepy cold cruelty. Does he know about the running over part?
He guesses not, because he hasn't mentioned it at all, and that seems like something he'd be pretty pissed about.

Does he tell him? /Should/ he tell him?

He feels like he /should/-- he's taking this whole communication thing to heart, and nearly being run over on purpose feels
too big to hide form him-- but at the same time, this situation feels perilously close to getting out of control.

Shuuji doesn't even look that sorry yet, though it looks like he's starting to get there, and Dazai has /already/ thrown a knife at him--which Chuuya didn't even
he could do-- and set Yoko on him.

Dazai whirls on Shuuji, taking a step so he's looming over him. "You didn't /hurt him/? He can barely talk after you /strangled him/!"

That's a /little/ dramatic, he can speak just fine, his voice is just a little raspy.

With a hissed sound
of pain, Shuuji rises to his feet. He keeps his arm close to his chest, but he doesn't back down at all, glaring up at Dazai with a twisted scowl.

Chuuya will give him one thing, and it's that the man does /not/ back down, even when he probably should.

"Well, I'd consider us
even now. I'm bleeding because of your dog, he's a little bruised. I don't want to talk about this anymore. I need to see a doctor, so why don't we all apologize so we can move on with our lives?"

Chuuya must be more concussed than he thought he was, because is Shuuji really
just trying to /move/ on? Is he trying to act like he's the reasonable adult in this situation?

Fuck trying to keep the situation controlled, Chuuya doesn't care anymore.

"/Move on/?" He cries, throwing his hands up. "You tried to run me over with your car less than fucking
twenty minutes ago? You really expect me to just 'move on' after that? What the fuck is wrong with you? Go to therapy instead of trying to kill me when you're mad at me?!"

Dazai /lunges/, so quickly that even Chuuya is letting out a noise of shock.

He's expecting him to throw a
punch or something like that--

/Not/ to backhand Shuuji so hard that he goes tumbling to the floor with a pained shout.

"I have been /much/ too kind to you," Dazai snarls, reaching down to pick Shuuji up by the front of his shirt and drag him back up. "You are /rude/ and
inconsiderate, and a bully. You are /exactly/ like your mother."

"Maybe if you had actually given a /fuck/ about me before I became an adult and actually raised me, then I'd be a better person! This is /your/ fault for teaching me that not even my own Dad wanted anything to do
with me!"

"That's not my fault!" Dazai roars back, shaking him like a ragdoll. "I TRIED. I /wanted/ to, and /she/ said I couldn't!"

Chuuya stares at the wall feeling like he shouldn't be hearing all of this, but he can't say he /isn't/ soaking up all the gossip, because /wow/.
This family is pretty fucked up.

"LIAR!" Shuuji shouts, hands like claws in his shirt, "She told me your secret! She told me you've hated me since I was /born/, so stop acting like you've ever wanted to even look at me! Just admit you hate me!"

"I--" Dazai hesitates, some of
the anger draining out of him. "She told you that?"

"Yes," Shuuji snarls, leaning closer, like he can prove how angry and hurt he is by shoving it into Dazai's face, "I've known this /whole/ time."

"Shuuji, I've /never/ hated you. That's never been true."

There's an awkward
silence that has Chuuya edging out of sight, towards the stairs. He doesn't want to remind them that this whole situation started with him getting almost-murdered, because clearly there is some deep-seated family issues here, and obviously they need to talk about it.

"I don't
believe you," Shuuji mutters, and some of the anger is starting to fade away now. Now he just sounds confused and /lost/. "Why would she lie to me?"

For a second, Chuuya really does feel for him. He never had a mother, and there was a while where his siblings didn't really care
for him either--

But he /always/ had his Dad. And Dad always told him how much he loved him and that his sisters /did/ like him, they were just struggling, and that his mother would've loved him.

To have one parent forcibly absent by the actions of the other one, while the
present one is actively destroying any relationship Shuuji might have had with Dazai?

He can't imagine what that'd feel like, to feel so viscerally and consistently...

Unloved. Unwanted.

Still doesn't excuse the fact that he pulled a knife on him, but it's clear now that he's
hurting. Been hurting, for a long time, and no one cared to notice.

"I don't know, but she did," Dazai mutters, sounding much more tired than before. He hasn't let go of Shuuji yet, but he's not shaking him anymore.

"If it /was/ a lie, then why have you been acting like you
hated me this entire time? And when mom moved here, why didn't you /try/ to fix things between you guys? We could be a /family/, but you're with /him/ instead!"

Chuuya pauses. Sasaki moved to Yokohama?

"Is that what this is about? You think Chuuya is ruining our 'family' or
something? You think I like him better than I like you?"

Shuuji doesn't respond, which is answer enough.

Dazai heaves a sigh. "Look, it sounds like we need to have a talk, because obviously Sasaki has left quite a few things out when she was telling you things. We will talk
about it. But not right now. Right now, you need to leave."

Shuuji gapes at him. "Leave? You /just/ said you didn't hate me?!"

"The person who tried to ran over my boyfriend doesn't get to sleep in the same house as him," Dazai grunts, dragging Shuuji over to the front door.
Shuuji struggles the entire way, scowling. "But Dad, I don't have anywhere else to go."

His voice cracks near the end of the sentence, making Chuuya's heart squeeze in sympathy. Being kicked out of your house suddenly would be terrible.

"Should've thought of that /before/ you
tried to kill him," Dazai says, shoving his hands in his pockets and pulling out the car keys. "Call someone. Ranpo. Your mom. It doesn't matter, but you're not welcome here anymore and you're not driving my car."

"You're /really/ going to choose that gold-digging whore over
your own son?!"

"Yeah," Dazai mutters, shoving him out of the door, "I am."

Chuuya recoils, hurt filling him. Why would Dazai say that? Why would he agree with that?

...He doesn't /actually/ believe that, right?

Right?

The door shuts, and Dazai leans his forehead against it
for a long moment, just breathing.

Chuuya stares at him for a second, wondering if he's going to say that he didn't /mean/ it, or to ask if he's okay again, or /anything/--

And when he doesn't move, eventually Chuuya turns away, eyeing up the couch situation. He /really/ wants
a shower, but his back has stiffened up a little bit ever since he stopped moving, and he's not sure if he can lift the couch back into place right now.

He'll have to climb over it, but that feels rude to put his feet on the couch.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Dazai's
voice startles him, making him flinch a little.

"Um," he says, looking between him and the couch, "To take a shower?"

Dazai pushes off the door, walking over to him quickly. "Not until I've had a look at you."

Chuuya almost goes to say that he's /fine/ again, but then he sees
how drawn Dazai's face is, and how pale he looks.

It wouldn't hurt to let him fuss and worry over him, see for himself that Chuuya isn't injured. He closes his mouth again, bobbing his head slightly. Nodding hurts too much right now.

With a little grunt, Dazai bends down to
grab the arm of the couch and lifts it. He drags it away from the stairs, righting it but not bothering to actually put it back in it's place.

Before Chuuya can even move a muscle, Dazai is making his way back over. Hands finding the back of his thighs, he sweeps him up into his
arms.

Chuuya could protest or struggle, but after everything that's happened in the last hour, he just wants to be /held/. Dazai is warm and solid and comforting beneath him, the perfect thing for Chuuya to curl himself around and just...

Try to forget what seeing his life
flash before his eyes was like. Try to forget what being on the verge of death felt like.

------ +

Dazai's hands are shaking. Subtle, probably subtle enough that Chuuya doesn't even notice, but he knows.

His hands /never/ shake. It's been trained out of him, ever since he was
old enough to reliably hold a gun. Steady hands, steady grip, steady aim.

His heart is still pounding too, sickening thumps in his chest that feel too slow and too fast at the same time, pumping acid-burning anxiety through his veins like poison.

He sets Chuuya down on the
counter in his bathroom as gently as he can. There's a first aid kit in here, freshly-stocked.

Peeling his hands away from his legs feels like physical pain. Every fiber of Dazai's being is screaming at him to hold him close, to curl himself around Chuuya as tightly as possible,
to keep him warm and secure in the safety of his arms.

He could've /lost/ him. At least twice.

He has to drop a kiss on his forehead just to convince himself to let go for long enough to dig underneath the cabinet and pull out the first aid kit.

Setting it on the counter next
to them, he pops the lock on it and opens it. He's not sure what he needs--he hasn't /seen/ any blood, but Chuuya is wearing dark clothing and has red hair--so he's glad that he restocked it recently.

Using the hand sanitizer shoved in the box, he cleans his hands quickly before
shoving his sleeves up and out of the way.

"Alright," he murmurs, trying to keep his voice steady. Chuuya just got /attacked/, he doesn't need to handle his emotional breakdown on top of it too. "Let me see, sweetheart."

The injury he's most concerned about is his throat. It
looked concerning downstairs, but in the new light of the bathroom, it looks downright ugly.

It's already starting to bruise, greyish-purple splotches starting to appear in the form of fingers. There's two rings of them, stacked tightly on top of each other.

With a gentle
fingertip, he guides Chuuya's chin upward, mindful of the way his mouth twists downward in discomfort when the skin stretches. With his other hand, he probes lightly at his throat as softly as he can, checking for structural damage.

"Can you swallow for me?" He murmurs, laying
his palm over his throat to feel it move. "Can you breathe okay? Speak?"

Chuuya swallows first, and then rasps out a "Yes."

Dazai frowns at his voice. It's rough, a bit too rough for his tastes. "I should take you to the hospital," he mutters to himself, sliding his hand
around to the back of his head. He'd noticed Chuuya was touching it and wincing, so he's guessing he hit his head at some point.

"I don't want to go," Chuuya grumbles, wincing when his fingers brush over a certain spot in the middle. "I'm fine and they're just going to make us
wait forever just to tell us the same thing. Besides, they'll call my dad and then I'll have to stay up all night talking to him to reassure him that I'm okay. Doctors probably won't even do anything besides send me home with a pain prescription anyways."

Sure, but the
difference is that /they/ have a medical degree, and /Chuuya/ habitually pushes himself past his own limits. Dazai would feel /much/ more comfortable if Chuuya's head got x-rayed, and his throat checked.

"You're so goddamn stubborn," he sighs heavily, tracing the outline of the
bump on the back of his head. It's small, somewhat hard under his fingers and hot, but there's no blood.

"Don't yell at me right now," Chuuya grumbles, his forehead thumping into his chest lightly. "I don't like hospitals."

(Really, that's an understatement. Ever since his
stint with pneumonia, he's hated them. They smell like sanitized death, and half the time he feels like he's dying whenever he's in one.

It's probably not helped by the fact that every time /since/ the pneumonia, he's stubbornly refused to go until he was literally being carried
or wheeled into the hospital, but technicalities.)

"I just want to make sure you're okay, baby," Dazai says, moving his hand down so he's cupping the back of his neck and pulling him close. He tips his face down, pressing his lips to the top of his head and just breathing him
in.

His shampoo smells like honey and vanilla. Dazai's chest is starting to loosen, the sick pounding of his heart beginning to settle down.

"I'm okay," Chuuya insists, leaning into him and wrapping his arms around his waist. One of his ankles hooks behind Dazai's knee, like
he's trying to keep him close.

Like Dazai would rather be anywhere rather than here.

Then Chuuya counters with a question he wasn't expecting, not in this context and not like this.

"Are /you/ okay?"

He doesn't move when he asks, granting Dazai the reprieve of being able to
hide his expression as he thinks because--

No, he's not alright.

After the entire shitshow yesterday-- the thing with Ranpo /still/ has him knocked on his ass, because he never thought of it that way, the fact that he came back to Yokohama just to put himself back into the
underground power structure even further up the hierarchy. He told himself that it was /different/, because he was different, and he wasn't directing the clans himself but--

A demon by any other name is still a demon, is it not? Mori intended to put him on the throne, and Dazai
killed him to escape, only to choose a better one for himself.

Maybe he didn't change that much after all.

Plus the argument with Chuuya-- which seems like a /prophecy/ now, because if he had insisted that they should tell Shuuji yesterday instead of waiting, this wouldn't
have happened. If he'd been /thinking/ instead of just reacting, he could've prevented this.

This is his fault. Even if not for preventing the situation in the first place, then for not regulating Shuuji's behavior hard enough before. By not trying to bond with his son, by
not pushing hard enough, by letting him push him /away/.

He'd been antsy about leaving Chuuya alone at home too, and his /gut/ had said that something was wrong, that he shouldn't leave him by himself. He'd pushed the feeling away, thinking it was some separation anxiety that he
didn't want to encourage by giving into it.

He can't say that he /knew/ this would happen, because he didn't, he didn't even /predict/ it, because Chuuya said he wanted to tell Shuuji later--

But no matter how he looks at the situation, no matter how he twists it around to look
at it in different ways--

There's always some part of this that is /his/ fault. He could've prevented it, could've thought ahead more, could've insisted he was here.

But he didn't, and Chuuya paid the price for it.

Almost paid with his /life/.

Maybe Chuuya feels the way
his heart squeezes painfully in his chest, pulse tripping up, because he's squeezing him tighter, burying his face in his chest with a content hum.

God, he's /so/ sweet, Dazai doesn't deserve him.

And he doesn't deserve the inherent danger that comes with being associated with
Dazai. He doesn't deserve a life of danger and always looking over his shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That's the only life Dazai can reasonably provide for him.

But--

Leaning back and smiling slightly at the grumbled noise Chuuya makes as he dislodges him, he
cups his face and gently, oh so gently,guides him backwards so he can lean down and kiss him--

How is he ever supposed to let this /go/? How is he supposed to be okay with not having this, Chuuya sweet and pliant underneath him? How is he supposed to know what /this/ feels like,
waking up next to someone, cooking for someone, getting selfies from Chuuya when he's in break during class with the only caption being "I miss you 💖", getting to share himself on a level he's never done before--

How is he supposed to let that go?

How is he supposed to /not/
hang onto that with everything he has, even if it means cheating and stealing and doing /whatever/ it takes--

Including lying. Because at this point, he's sure that not telling Chuuya about his work and about his past counts as lying. Lies of omission, but still lying.

It makes
him a hypocrite, he /knows/ that, considering he literally just tore into Chuuya yesterday about not communicating but--

How does he relate his deepest, darkest, most agonizing and painful parts of his life that he /still/ participates in and is affected by, while knowing that
it will probably make Chuuya leave?

How is he supposed to talk about the things that ruined his life, when he knows it will probably take away the most important thing to him, the person Dazai /just/ found?

Chuuya's hands slide up into his hair, brushing over the undercut
gently before tangling into the longer strands. It breaks him from his thoughts neatly, interrupting the ever-downward spiral.

Dazai smiles into the kiss. He's noticed that Chuuya likes to run his fingers over his undercut, likes to play with the short strands until it makes him
shiver. He'll have to cut it again soon, since he likes it so much. It's been weeks, and now it's more of a short hairstyle than a shave.

He presses a little further into the kiss, pouring all his emotion into the slide of his lips, the affectionate swipe of his tongue over his
bottom lip.

He can't /say/ what he needs to say, can't put this feeling in his chest into words, so he has to resort to kissing him until his lips are buzzing and Chuuya's eyes are half-lidded and dazed.

"I'm fine, sweet chibi," he murmurs, brushing another kiss onto his lips,
unwilling to add onto the struggles Chuuya already suffered through today. He's starting to feel better, now that he has his baby wrapped up in his arms. Spoiling him will help them both. Lets his bruises and scrapes heal up without a problem, while Dazai recovers from the
emotional atom bomb Shuuji dropped on him earlier.

Speaking of...

"Why did you tell him when I wasn't here?" He asks, reaching down to help Chuuya out of his shirt.

With a light grimace, he raises his arms so the fabric can slide easily over his head. "I didn't tell him," he
admits, twisting his head to look over his shoulder at the forming bruise. "He knew,somehow. I think someone told him, or maybe someone took a video of us and posted it somewhere. I don't know. I was /going/ to tell him, but he already knew."

Dazai goes still, heartrate spiking.
/Fuck/. That's /bad/, so fucking bad.

Videos are /evidence/, and if Shuuji figured out they were dating from a video, then it must be pretty incriminating.

If it was posted /publicly/, that means /anyone/ could see it, including /every single one/ of Dazai's enemies. If /they/
catch even a /hint/ of how much Dazai cares for Chuuya, that /immediately/ puts him on all of their radars.

If Ranpo knowing about him wasn't bad enough, now there's a huge possibility that the /entire/ underground knows about Chuuya.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's a /target/ now.
And the /worst/ part is that /neither/ of them have enough information that Dazai can do damage control. He can't limit who sees it,or delete the footage,because he doesn't know /anything/ about who took it,where it was posted, or even /if/ it was posted.

He can't do /anything/.
Now they're sitting in the middle of a situation Dazai can't control and--

If Chuuya thought attempted vehicular manslaughter was bad, he won't even be able to /comprehend/ the levels of depravity and pain his enemies will go to if they think it'll give them an edge over Dazai.
But Dazai can.

Once, when he was sixteen, he was captured by one of the Port Mafia's enemy organizations. The Yamaguchi-gumi was an old organization, steeped in tradition and the respect and arrogance that came with age.

It was exactly those characteristics that Dazai used
against them to grind their clan into the dirt.

And at the end, when it was clear that the clan wasn't going to survive--

Their boss, Shinbou Tsukasa, had gotten /bold/. He'd turned all his resources into capturing Dazai. His plan was to go out in a blaze of glory, with his
enemy being gutted in front of him before he took his own life.

// "But first..." //

Dazai can still hear that raspy, hissing voice in his dreams sometimes, curling down his spine like rotting blood.

// "I want to see if you're really a demon under that human skin." //
He'd planned to strip the skin from his back, using a wickedly sharp knife to slice the skin away to reveal muscle and bone and blood.

Back then, Dazai had only been mildly curious to see how long it would take for him to start screaming. He was too traumatized to feel real fear
back then, too distant to feel much of anything--

But he feels it now, imagining Chuuya under the knife of someone who wants to hurt him. In the hands of /anyone/ Dazai didn't explicitly trust.

That can't happen. He's already been hanging onto the shreds of his self-control for
the past few days.

Finding Shuuji pinning Chuuya to the floor with his baby struggling as hard as he could /nearly/ shoved him off the edge. There had been a /few/ moments there when all his thoughts had dissolved in a whirlwind of rage and fear.

Where he hadn't been /Dazai/,
but the /demon/. Thoughts running on hyperdrive, but also uncontrollable, leaving him down dark, horrific paths that would drive any normal person insane.

It's shocking that he's gotten so protective of Chuuya so quickly-- or maybe not shocking, considering everything, but he's
never gotten attached to someone so /quickly/. It took him months of forced interactions with Yosano and Oda before he got attached to them, and he has yet to feel any strong attachment to his son-- but that's quickly leading to a /problem/.

Because he's /selfish/. Even knowing
all this, knowing what /could/ happen, knowing that logically, it would be better for Chuuya if Dazai broke it off and protected him from afar--

He doesn't want to let go. He wants to be wrapped around Chuuya so thoroughly that the little chibi can't even take a /breath/ without
feeling Dazai in his lungs. He wants his entire /world/ to be him. Him and nothing and no one else.

Is that healthy? No, probably not, but he's never been healthy before, so why start now?

It'll be fine, he reasons with himself as he reaches out to help Chuuya with his jeans,
he'll just...

Take care of it. Quietly, quickly. Chuuya never has to know.

He /can/ protect him, it's just /taxing/ because he's the only one he trusts with his safety. There are other people he could call, but the only person he /knows/ will put Chuuya's safety over anything
else is /him/.

He can do this. He /has/ to do this.

There's a bruise on Chuuya's thigh that has him frowning in sympathy, examining it. It's circular, in the shape of Shuuji's knee. Probably a bit uncomfortable, but nothing compared to the bruising on his throat or on his back.
"Alright," Dazai mutters, too exhausted to argue, "I can't make you go to the hospital, but if you so much as cough or wheze /once/ then I'm calling an ambulance, and then it will be /really/ embarrassing."

Chuuya's not showing any signs of concussion-- no slurring of words, no
dizziness or loss of consciousness, no throwing up. Pupils are responsive to light and equal to each other, and he holds a conversation well.

Overall Dazai is /iffy/ about letting him stay home without a doctors note, but there's no way /he's/ sleeping tonight, so he'll just
keep an eye on him and make sure nothing changes. Wake him up a few times in the middle of the night.

"Fine," Chuuya huffs, reaching over to turn on the shower. He likes his showers boiling hot, Dazai has noticed, which would be /unbearable/ for him, if it didn't turn him an
adorable shade of pink all over.

It's when his back is turned, adjusting all the lights and water of the shower when he asks: "Did you mean it? What you said?"

Dazai pauses in removing his own shirt, casting back to figure out what exactly Chuuya's talking about. He said a
/lot/ of things today, from sweet little whispers in Chuuya's ear while he fucked him until he cried to harsh things downstairs that he probably should not have been witness to.

He meant /most/ of it, anyways, he's just not sure what /specifically/ he's talking about. Tossing
his shirt in the hamper, he starts in on his jeans.He's less careful with his own pants than he was with Chuuya's,unbuttoning them quickly and shoving them down to his thighs before reaching down to pull them off. "Mean what?"

"When you basically called me a gold-digging whore."
Dazai stills, his pants halfway off his ankle. "I... didn't call you that?"

He would /never/ say anything like that, because it's not true. Chuuya /barely/ lets him buy him anything at all.

Even if it was true, it's not like he cares. If Chuuya wants his money, he can have it.
He can have it all, as far as Dazai is concerned.

"No, but Shuuji said it and you agreed with him," Chuuya says, his back still turned to him as he steps underneath the spray of the water, "I realize I might be thinking too much into it, because /you/ didn't say it, but you said
I needed to communicate more so... so I'm telling you now that even though you didn't say it explicitly, it still hurt and I want to know if you meant it."

When Dazai looks over at him, he's tipping his head back underneath of the spray of water, eyes tightly shut. He looks
halfway between embarrassed and frustrated, like he can't believe he's actually asking it. Like he thinks he's being /dramatic/ and he shouldn't say anything.

Admittedly, that does make guilt twist through Dazai, because he's hiding something that is /much/ bigger than just some
miscommunication and hurt feelings--

But he's also /proud/, and nearly bowled over by the affection that fills him up. His baby is trying /so/ hard, isn't he?

This is Dazai's first /real/ relationship--or what he'd consider a real romantic relationship, at least-- and even
though he's sure he often comes off as experienced and knowledgeable--the truth is, he's read a lot of those self-help books in order to help himself with his /issues/, because therapy isn't much of an option for him-- he's often amazed at how quickly Chuuya learns and how hard
he works.

Sure, there's mistakes-- but he's so /young/, it would be unfair of Dazai to think he'd be perfect.

He is, though. Perfect, that is. Perfect, just for /him/.

Silently, he tugs off his underwear. The tension winds tighter the longer he goes without answering, but he
wants to give him a more /personal/ answer than a muttered 'no' from across the room.

When he joins him in the shower, Chuuya's eyes crack open. His eyes are so dark like this, almost-black and bottomless, framed by wet curls of dark-red hair. His cheeks are red, from
embarrassment or the heat of the shower, he doesn't know. Either way, it covers his freckles. His cute little button nose is shiny with water.

He's so /cute/ Dazai's heart hurts with it.

"No," he murmurs, filling his voice with as much sincerity and emotion as he can manage,
making eye contact and refusing to look away for even a second, "I don't. Not even a little bit, I promise."

Chuuya stares up at him, blinking through the water running down his face and examining his expression. Eventually he lets out a small breath, offering him a tiny smile.
"Okay," he murmurs, "Thank you."

Usually, this is the point where Dazai would pick him up and pin him against the wall--

The bruising on his back stops him this time, so he offers something /else/ instead. "Let me wash your hair?"

"Hell no," Chuuya scoffs, holding his hand up
like he's afraid Dazai will get too close.

"But I promise I'll be gentle, chibi," he whines, giving him his best puppy eyes.

Without looking away, Chuuya reaches into the little nook and pulls out a bottle of shampoo. It's the one Dazai had bought for him during their trip in
Osaka, halfway through when he'd complained about the hotel shampoo drying out his curls. It's tiny, travel-size, but the sight of his shampoo and conditioner next to his in /his/ shower feels--

Feels--

God, he doesn't even know, it just feels /good/, like a piece of him has
settled into place. Like his home feels more /complete/ with Chuuya's stuff stacked right next to his.

"That's a lie," Chuuya says, squirting a little dollop of shampoo in his palm. "I've seen the way you wash /your/ hair."

Okay, /that's/ fair, but just because Dazai scrubs his
scalp like he's washing a stubborn dish doesn't mean he'd wash /Chuuya's/ hair like that. He's watched him wash his hair often enough, he knows how his routine works.

He'd be /gentle/.

He pouts harder, but Chuuya is merciless and doesn't give him an ounce of pity. The shampoo
gets rubbed into his scalp, with extra care taken around the spot where he'd hit his head.

When Dazai steals the loofah and brandishes it at him with a victorious smirk, Chuuya rolls his eyes with a fond smile. He doesn't protest that one, letting Dazai wash every inch of his
body.

He's extra careful of the spots he's bruised, wiping the suds away after to check the skin.They're bruising nicely, and the sight of them makes Dazai irritated. If Chuuya is going to have bruises, they better come from /him/.

He works his way up steadily, and by the time
he's gotten through with his entire body, Chuuya has already combed conditioner through his hair and is watching him with half-lidded eyes.

Gently, watching his reaction, Dazai brushes his fingertips over his throat. He's not sure how he'll react, now that there's /trauma/
associated with hands around his neck.

Which is /very/ upsetting, because Dazai /loves/ to hold his throat in his palm, loves to have the most vulnerable parts of Chuuya cradled in his hand, full of life and vitality.

He understands, and he won't push it if Chuuya doesn't want
that anymore--

But he will miss it.

"No one should have hands on your throat," he sighs, fighting back the swell of anger and guilt that starts to build inside him again--

"Except for you," Chuuya interrupts, eyes drawing him in. He leans forward, one of his hands finding
Dazai's forearm and holding his arm still.

His fingers slip around his throat neatly, covering the forming bruises with his much larger hands.

Chuuya doesn't even flinch, staring up at him unwaveringly.

"Except for me," Dazai agrees, awed by the amount of /trust/ his bab has.
He’s sure he frightened him downstairs, at least a little. He’s never seen that part of Dazai, the cold and angry part. It’d be shocking if he /wasn’t/ wary at all, actually.

But here he is, leaning his throat into his hand with a content, half-lidded look, like this is the only
place in the world he can imagine being.

“Kiss me?” He murmurs, and how is Dazai /ever/ supposed to tell him no?

He sweeps in, ducking his head underneath the spray of water.

Their lips come together easily, taste and feel familiar. With the way the water pours down on them
and the way Chuuya’s arm loops over his neck to drag him closer, and the beating heart in his palm—

It feels like the entire world doesn’t exist anymore. It fades away, leaving only them and here and now.

Naturally, with Chuuya wet and naked and pressed up against him as they
kiss over and over again, heavy drugging kisses that fog up Dazai’s mind, his body starts to respond, hardening against Chuuya’s stomach.

Chuuya smirks into the kiss when he feels it, bratty and smug at how easily he can get Dazai going, and that’s when Dazai leans back and
breaks the kiss.

“I’m not fucking when you might have a concussion,” Dazai says, raising his eyebrow when Chuuya opens his mouth to argue. He doesn’t tighten his fingers around his neck, but he does keep his grip firm and unwavering. “Don’t argue, brat.”

Lower lip jutting out,
Chuuya pouts at him, eyes huge and pleading.

If Dazai were a lesser man, he would’ve given in to him.

“I’m not being a /brat/,” Chuuya argues, turning up his nose in a very haughty and /bratty/ way, “I’m just saying that an orgasm would cure my headache.”

“Is that your
professional medical opinion?”

Chuuya can’t nod much, but he bobs his head a little, stepping closer. He sounds /very/ sure of himself, very convincing as he responds, “Yes, it is.”

Huffing in amusement, Dazai drops a kiss on his forehead. Cute little brat. “I’ll need to see
a doctors note for that prescription, then.”

The hot water is still running, but the bathroom is full of steam now, swirling thick in the air. Dazai doesn’t mind staying in here longer, but it’s getting harder to breathe and he doesn’t want to put any extra strain on Chuuya’s
body by making him breathe it in.

Besides, he wants to get him off his feet and into bed, curled up with a heating pad for his back and an ice pack for his head. It’s too soon for the soreness to set in, but Dazai wants to head off as much of it as possible.

“Time to get out,”
he announces, dropping his hands to Chuuya’s shoulders and steering him out of the shower. Before he can protest, Dazai shuts the water off completely.

“I wasn’t done!”

Smiling, Dazai hands him a towel for his hair. “Yes you were, you just wanted to boil for a little longer.”
Chuuya flicks him with the towel, which is answer enough that he doesn’t bother responding. He goes about squeezing most of the moisture out of his hair.

Dazai dries him off quickly before wrapping him in his biggest, fluffiest towel. It’s huge on him, nearly comes to his
calves.

Dazai wraps a different towel around his own waist, uncaring that water is dripping down his chest. It makes the tattoos wet and shiny, and even though Chuuya’s eyes sometimes linger, he respects the rule Dazai made a while ago, and doesn’t ask questions.

It feels
strange to be completely naked in front of someone without having to worry about it. He knows he’s attractive, physically, but there’s always been huge parts of himself that he’s hidden away from anyone who got too close.

Chuuya gets closer to seeing the whole picture every day,
a thought that fills Dazai with a mix of gut-clenching anticipation and the near-overwhelming need to /hide/.

When the people closest to you have named you something inhuman, over and over again, it starts to make the idea of opening up to someone new petrifying.

Sighing, he
opens the medicine cabinet. There’s nothing stronger than extra-strength ibuprofen in here. He doesn’t allow himself anything stronger, because sometimes the temptation is too strong on dark, lonely nights. If he’s ever needed anything more for pain, he finds Yosano to give it to
him, then suffer until he recovers.

Still, he shakes two pills out into his palm and holds them out to Chuuya. It’s a good thing they both ate only an hour or so go.

Chuuya takes them without complaint, though he does make a face at the glass of sink water Dazai gives him.
While he swallows them, Dazai pads out of the room and heads to his dresser. He keeps most of his sleeping clothes in here, and /lately/ there's been a little section of shirts and sweats that Chuuya has been steadily stealing from him to sleep in, tucked into the right side of
the drawer.

/Chuuya's side/.

He pulls out clothes for Chuuya and himself. By the time he's dressed and heading back into the bathroom, Chuuya is scrunching up his hair with his hand, encouraging the curls to form. There's a line of wetness trailing down his back, caught by
the towel.

"Come on, let's get you into bed," Dazai says, shaking out the shirt so he can pull it over Chuuya's head.

Logically, he understands he's being a /little/ overbearing by hardly letting Chuuya even walk by himself, and the chibi is shooting him occasional looks
because of it, but he can't help it. Taking care of everything Chuuya needs right now is the only thing that makes the twisting and roiling anxiety in his gut settle down.

But Chuuya doesn't argue with him either, lifting his arms a little so Dazai can pull the sleeves over his
hands. Though he does grumble out, "It's barely 4pm, I'm not going to sleep."

His lips twitch into a smile at how adorably grumpy he sounds. "Good. You shouldn't be sleeping anyways right now. If I catch you sleeping I'm going to wake you up again."

Maybe a little overkill
considering he's shown no other signs of concussion, but it will make Dazai feel better. If Chuuya wants to be stubborn and not go to the hospital, then he's going to have to deal with his overprotective brand of care.

Once he's dressed, he steers Chuuya out of the bathroom by
his shoulders. He'd pick him up, but the only way to carry him without putting pressure on his back would be to have his legs wrapped around his waist and--

While Dazai's /mind/ is firmly against any sex at the moment, his body is taking a while to get the message. If he has his
baby in his arms, soft and sweet and heavy, with their hips pressed together and in the perfect position to--

He'd probably get excited again, and he's only a /man/, how is he supposed to tell Chuuya no /twice/?

Instead he ushers Chuuya into his bed, pulling back the blankets
and practically pushing him in. There’s an outlet behind the nightstand on his side of the bed and he plugs the heating pad in before giving it to Chuuya.

Chuuya allows this all with the exasperated attitude of someone what knows he won’t win the argument if he tries. “Fine, but
if I’m going to be forcibly regulated to bed rest, can I at least have my phone? It’s charging downstairs, in the kitchen. I need to read something for class and text my study group.”

That’s perfect. Dazai has to go grab ice for his head anyways. “Yeah, I’ll go grab it for you.”
Kozo and Yoko are patiently waiting outside his bedroom door when he opens it, staring up at him with twin expectant looks.

At this point, Dazai is resigned to the idea that /some/ parts of their training— training he paid thousands of dollars for and reinforced for years— have
been found cruel and unusual by a certain /someone/, so he just opens the door farther with a sigh.

“Be gentle with him,” he grumbles, watching them leap onto the bed without hesitation. Five years. He kept the dogs off his furniture for /five years/ and it only took a few
loving receptions and kissy faces from the chibi to bypass that all.

He’s not mad about it, because Chuuya always looks ridiculously happy when he’s being crushed by them, but he does like to grumble about it.

When he makes his way downstairs, he finds Chuuya’s phone exactly
where he said it was. As he takes it off the charger, the screen comes to life.

Seven missed calls. A few social media notifications, and even more texts.

Here’s where Dazai hesitates. He /understands/ privacy, and he would normally never go through Chuuya’s phone, especially
when he’s not looking.

Normally.

This is not a normal situation.

/Somehow/ Shuuji found out about them. Chuuya mentioned a video or a witness, but he didn’t know for sure.

But all these calls—from Yuan— are from about 45 minutes ago, clustered together like she was calling
repeatedly.

Dazai got home about 25 minutes ago, which would put these calls right around the time Shuuji got home and started attacking Chuuya.

Was she trying to warn him?

If she /was/ trying to warn him, then surely that would mean she knew that Shuuji knew, which leads
to the assumption that she also found out about them the same way.

Which supports the idea that is was a /video/, possibly public, because if Yuan and Shuuji were together, then she would’ve found a way to stop him. She’s resourceful, sneaky.

His thumb hovers over the passcode
prompt. He knows what it is. He saw Chuuya enter it once, and unless it’s changed recently, then he can unlock it easily.

The /boyfriend/ part of Dazai is arguing that checking out his texts and calls is a breach of their trust. It’s dishonest and /sneaky/ and if he really
wanted to see what Yuan said, then he could go upstairs and ask Chuuya to show him. He’d probably agree.

However, the /mafia/ part of Dazai is reminding him that he doesn’t have a reason to give to Chuuya for why he wants to see the video that doesn’t delve into his past. He
needs to see the whole thing, and will probably need to do some digging to see where the video came from.

Besides, he already has to install a tracking program on Chuuya’s phone. It’s for safety, so if anything happens to him then Dazai can find him quickly.

It’s for safety.
That’s the thought that drives him to unlock his phone and pull up the messaging app. He doesn’t touch the voicemails, not yet. They’re too loud, and might get Chuuya’s attention if he hears them.

[ 10 MISSED TEXTS: YUAN, PINK BITCH 💖 ]

He snorts at the contact name, opening
the thread.

[ YUAN, PINK BITCH ]: BRO SOMEONE CAUGHT YOU AND DAZAI ON VIDEO AND POSTED IT ON THE SCHOOL SNAP STORY

- SHUUJI SAW IT AND HE’S PISSSEEEDDDDD HES ON HIS WAY. RUN BRO IM NOT EVEN JOKING HES CRAZY

- also 👀👀👀👀 you got with his DAD? Damn bro what’s the 🍆 like
asking for ME

- I realize this is a serious moment and I HOPE UR OKAY PLS TEXT ME BACK IM WORRIED I JUST COPE WITH HUMOR

- 1 video sent: 20 secs long

- look at you GO get that tongue 😩

- okay Shuuji’s location is at his house are you okay???? text me BACK MF

- CHUUYA???
- bitch if he didn’t kill you then IM gonna kill u for not texting me back???? HELLO???😭😭😭🍆😭😭😭

- the 🍆 was a typo I swear CHUUYA PLS

The last text was fifteen minutes ago. He hopes Chuuya doesn’t have read receipts on, otherwise he’s probably going to get /another/
influx of texts about why he’s not responding.

(He /is/ tempted to text back about the /eggplant/, if you know what he means, but that will give away that he went through his phone.

Maybe he’ll look later, see what Chuuya said about /him/.)

He clicks on the video, muting the
sound. He doesn’t need to hear it.

It’s a video of him and Chuuya outside the dog groomers, kissing. It’s shaky, clearly taken by an amateur and the caption, if the video wasn’t damning enough, explicitly states Chuuya’s family name.

Shit. A visual is bad, but a /name/? He
might as well be serving Chuuya up on a silver platter, at this rate.

The user name, in the top corner is:

@.daovercoat

He mémorizes it. He’s not sure what exactly a username will /get/ him in this situation, considering the video has been up for probably a few hours by now,
and by the time he can trace the user to a person it will probably have already timed out.

The video /looks/ like it was intended to be taken in good fun, not necessarily harmful or targeting. It just looks like Chuuya was the butt of a joke by one of his classmates, which
/unfortunately/ went too public and caused problems.

He clicks on the video to send it to himself and—

The top five contacts that come up as suggestions are dad 🍷, ane-san 1 🍵, ane-san 2 🐰, yuan, pink bitch💖 and—

Daddy 🥰💕

There’s only /one/ person that could be.
Just in case, he exits that screen and navigates to the conversation with that contact—

Yep, it’s him.

The contact picture is one of the ones Dazai had sent him very early on, with Yoko nestled between his thighs and looking up at the camera.

Though, the picture is
/conveniently/ focused on the little strip of skin showing, just above his hips.

(That had been on purpose. Once he decided that he /was/ going to be involved with Chuuya, he wasn’t going to make resisting him /easy/.

If that required popping the button on his slacks to send a
photo that was so subtle it could barely even be considered teasing while still getting the point across, then so be it.)

Curious, he scrolls up to see if he can see when Chuuya changed his contact name. They don’t text tons— Dazai prefers calls whenever possible— and it only
takes a few scrolls to get him to before their trip to Osaka.

The new IOS update included a change that noted in the conversation whenever contact names changed so—

When he doesn’t find one, even /all/ the way back that means that he either missed it—

Or it /never/ changed.
Has he been /Daddy/ this entire time? Ever since their first date?

Did Dazai miss out on /weeks/ of being called Daddy?? Has Chuuya been keeping this a secret to himself this whole time?

Cheeky little /brat/. He's going to have to find some way to 'find out' about this later,
so he can tease him about it.

Quickly, he sends the video to himself and opens up his own phone to download it to his photo gallery. To cover his tracks, he deletes the messages in their thread and marks all of Yuan's messages as unread. Hopefully Chuuya won't notice, but he can
always come up with an excuse if he needs to.

He's good at that, thinking on the spot.

There's a few ice packs stored in the freezer. He never used to keep them on hand--in fact, never used to have a first aid kit on hand for much of his criminal life-- but now he's come to
see how useful it is to keep them nearby.

Especially because ever since he hit his 30's, his /back/ has started to hurt. He'll wake up in the morning sometimes and it's like his entire body aches for no reason.

It's gotten worse since he started dating Chuuya, but at least he
can blame that on the fact that he has to bend down so far just to kiss him.

He had to set a chiropractor appointment for last week, and while it /did/ feel good, he's still bitter that he needed one at all.

Faced with Chuuya's youth, he's starting to realize that, at some
point in time, he'd gotten /old/.

It's a strange feeling to realize that, too many emotions for him to untangle easily. Regret and fear and /pride/, and so many more things when he realizes that he /did/ survive his life and continues to live, even when he never meant to.
Deciding to ignore /that/ knot of emotions for another day, Dazai heads back upstairs with the phone and one of the more flexible ice packs in his hands.

When he comes back to the bedroom, he finds Kozo stretched full length on the middle of the bed, already snoring. Yoko has
decided to reassure herself that Chuuya is okay by draping herself over his middle and forcibly making him stay still by laying on him.

For someone who is being squashed under a dog that's nearly his own weight,Chuuya looks pretty damn content, one hand petting over Yoko's head.
"Here," Dazai says, getting his attention. He drops his phone into his palm, and slides the ice pack under his head. "You know the drill. Ten minutes on, ten minutes off. If you get even a /little/ bit dizzy, you have to tell me."

"Yes, /Daddy/," Chuuya sighs, ever the brat. The
way he's looking at him is /begging/ him to do something about it, put him back in his place.

Which, naturally, gives Dazai great pleasure to tell him, "I'll be downstairs cleaning. I'll come check on you every so often. No sleeping or I'll wake you up."

He gets a small scowl
in response, and a little huff, but no actual complaint.

He leaves Chuuya to his phone, going back downstairs to clean up the mess Shuuji made.

It's not /terribly/ dirty, and it should only take an hour or two to clean because it's mostly the big stuff that needs to be fixed,
like the couch and all the things that had been knocked off the kitchen island. There's some broken glass that needs to be swept up, and he'll have to replace some of the glass containers.

First though, he takes out his phone and rewatches the video, imprinting the details of it
into his mind. He'll think on it, see if he can remember anything suspicious he saw when it was happening.

Then he sends the video off to Rokuzou, wishing he didn't /have/ to show Chuuya's face to a criminal hacking mastermind, but knowing it's unavoidable.

[ DAZAI ]: i need to
know everything about the user that posted this.

As he's staring, waiting for a response, Ranpo's words come back to him.

// "You need to pick a side, and starve the other one out." //

Well, Ranpo predicted it well. Dazai has chosen a side.

It's just not either side Ranpo
told him to choose. It's not the Mafia or the Bratva.

It's Chuuya.

He picks Chuuya, and he'll bring the entire city to it's knees if he has to. He'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe. If anyone wants to touch him, they'll have to go through Dazai first.

-------- +
Chuuya is.... miffed, for lack of a better word.

His entire childhood was spent being worried over, to an obnoxious degree. Even the slightest scrape was treated like a major wound, and he was almost never allowed to play with the other kids in his neighborhood, because ‘Chuuya,
love, they play too rough, what if you get /hurt/?’.

It got to the point where he had to talk his dad out of calling an ambulance for things that /didn’t/ need an ambulance, quite a few times. He had to start hiding whenever he was bruised from playing or sports, just so he
could get some peace and quiet.

He was allowed to be sore or bruised without a trip to the hospital being threatened. He was a /kid/ in martial arts, of course he was bruised some days.

When he went off to college, he finally thought he was out from underneath that overbearing,
overprotective care.

He doesn’t blame his dad for being that way, because he knows that he was a pretty sick child and there was a whole where his dad could do nothing /but/ worry and fret over him.

But it was frustrating. Once it was clear he grew out of his issues, he didn’t
want to be treated like that anymore. He wanted to be /normal/, like the rest of the kids in his neighborhood.

He didn’t want to be taken home and regulated to ‘safe games’— basically video games and nothing else— in his room whenever he fell on the playground. The other kids
got a kiss to make it feel better, a bandaid if the situation called for it, and then sent back off to play some more.

It wasn’t /fair/. There were plenty of people that, for many reasons, couldn’t live a ‘normal’, healthy life, but he wasn’t one of them.

Beyond his persistent
weak immune system, he was perfectly healthy. He didn’t need or want special treatment.

But he’s quickly coming to a conclusion:

Dazai is a /worrier/.

Case in point, Chuuya had winced /once/ while stretching morning and Dazai had promptly shoved two pain pills into his hand,
followed by a breakfast of soup— because anything solid “might be too hard to swallow”— and then fifteen minutes later, he’s wound up here.

In a hot, steamy bath filled to the brim with epsom salts and other things Dazai claimed would help with soreness.

Normally Chuuya loves
baths. They’re relaxing, and he’s willingly soak for hours. Put on some music, maybe read a book—

Drink some /wine/.

Except when he asked, Dazai said /no/, he /can’t/ have a glass a wine, he needs to stay /sober/, so he can monitor him.

So he’s sulking in response.
Well, as much as he can sulk while he's floating in a bath of blissfully hot water and leaning back against Dazai's chest. The tub is long enough that he can stretch out completely and his toes don't even touch the other side.

"As nice as this is," he starts, sighing pleasantly
when Dazai pours a handful of warm, lavender-scented water over his chest. His hair is tied up in a high bun on top of his head to save it from the water. He doesn't want to have to wash it again so soon. "I really wish you'd believe me when I say I'm /fine/. I've had a
concussion before, and I promise this is nothing like that."

Dazai's cheek, pressed against his temple, moves when he speaks. "I'll believe you when you're completely healed, or when you show me a doctors note. You look like you got /mauled/."

Chuuya sighs again, a little
heavier and more exasperated. "Bruises always look worse the second day, you know that."

The bruise on his thigh, from where Shuuji pinned his leg, has already turned an ugly yellow-green color. It doesn't hurt at all, already well into the healing process.

The ones on his
back are much the same, except for a lingering ache near the center. He's not even properly sore now that he's warmed up and not stiff from waking up.

The bruising on his throat is the worst. They've turned an ugly black-green color, blooming larger so the initial fingerprints
are hard to make out. The edges have faded out a bit. There's little pain, and only when he's directly touching it.

"Besides, /you've/ given me bruises before," Chuuya feels the need to point out. It's true. He had to cover up a bite mark on his throat more than a few times
when they were in Osaka.

There was even, after the night of the balcony, the ghost of a handprint on his ass.

"Not like /this/," Dazai says, fingers running lightly over his stomach. He doesn't stiffen or move, but there's a note of sadness in his voice in response to the
comparison. "Never like this."

That's true. Chuuya /liked/ those bruises, and they were very satisfying to feel and see. These ones, not so much.

"I know," he sighs again, moving his feet so the water moves over them in small waves, "I just don't want you to worry so much."
With how his cheek is pressed against his temple, he can feel the growing smile. "Silly chibi," Dazai teases gently, pulling him back into his body with the hand on front, guiding him to float between his legs, back to his chest. "I'm always going to worry."

That makes Chuuya
smile because--

/Always/ implies a /long time/, doesn't it? Which means Dazai wants to be with him for a /long time/, and he's anticipating doing so. He's thought about it, and now he's /saying/ it.

Maybe not explicitly, but enough that Chuuya can get the hint.

/Always/.
Chuuya settles between his legs easily, coming to rest against him. His knees are drawn up on either side of him, bracketing him easily.

With his fingertips, he traces the ridges of his knee, the slight bulge of the strong muscles in his thighs. "Is there anything I can do to
make it better?"

He doesn't want to worry Dazai, not more than he has to. If he feels anything like how he felt the day when he needed his help with Yoko, he wants to take that away.

Dazai hums, pulling him up until his chin is hooking over his shoulder. The lip of the tub
presses against the back of Chuuya's skull, bracing his head easily.

"I like this," Dazai offers, palm pressing against his chest. His hand is warm and huge, fingers long and nimble. "Very relaxing."

/Relaxing/ isn't exactly the word Chuuya would use. The word he'd use,
actually, would be more along that lines of 'exciting'.

Or /frustrating/.

Because he's naked, Dazai's naked, they're both wet and pressed up against each other, skin sliding deliciously over skin. Dazai's /touching/ him, mostly innocently, and he's been breathing in his ear
for /minutes/ and it's not fair.

He /wants/ him. Wants him so bad it almost aches and it's not /fair/ because Dazai isn't going to give him anything.

Maybe he /shouldn't/ want him that badly right now, considering he was recently injured but what else is he /supposed/ to feel
when they're naked together? Especially after Dazai's been /doting/ on him for the last twelve hours, taking care of his every need and want?

And there's a new aspect to the need, because now Shuuji /knows/. He's not in the house, this is not something they need to hide anymore.
Chuuya doesn't need to be /quiet/, they don't need to rush, he doesn't have anything left to worry about.

(He does, but by the time he realizes, he'll be six feet underground, and it will be far too late for him.)

The idea of being caught was exciting, and he /likes/ that
rush of danger and excitement. But he never realized how /stressful/ it was to have to be constantly worried about having sex in his own home until that stress disappeared.

Well. Not his own home. That's a little too early to say, but he can't say that there's something /very/
homey and comforting about Dazai's house. His boyfriend lives here, and his dogs live here, and there's a wine rack slowly filling up with bottles even though Dazai doesn't really drink wine, and especially doesn't when he's by himself.

This feels like home, to him. The dorm
room just feels like somewhere he sleeps, even though a good amount of his belongings are still there. It feels like a hotel, honestly, somewhere temporary and transient.

His childhood home feels exactly like that. Somewhere his family lives, and that he can return to, but not
/his/. He's welcome there, but it's his /fathers/ home, at the heart.

This feels like it could be /his/ home. His and Dazai's, someday.

Dazai pulls back a fraction, tracing his lips over Chuuya's shoulder. His mouth is soft, so soft it almost tickles as he marks a path over
the top of his shoulder. His hand pulls him farther back, fingertips rubbing slow circles over his chest.

Chuuya sighs pleasantly again, arching into his touch. It feels /good/, like everything else Dazai does to him, soft pleasure swirling in his veins with gentle insistence.
Still, below that, is /frustration/. "Don't tease me if you're not going to do anything about it," he grumbles, tipping his head back further and pushing his throat into Dazai's palm when his other hand coasts up to find his neck.

Like this, he's so effortlessly held and caught,
with Dazai a warm, living wall behind him, and his legs bracketing him easily, and his hands big and inescapable.

Not that Chuuya ever wants to escape.

"But you /like/ when I tease you," Dazai huffs against his neck, his voice amused. He's moving upward, finding the bruises on
the side and painting over them with a series of gentle, barely-there kisses.

It just makes Chuuya breathless, hyperfocused, practically vibrating with anticipation for the next kiss, the next touch, hoping /this/ one will be harder, /better/, will finally start to satisfy the
growing pit of hunger and need inside him.

With the hand on Dazai’s thigh, he pushes himself backwards, arching his back temptingly. He can feel Dazai’s cock stirring against his lower back, slowly starting to thicken.

It makes want and /hope/ start to flare up, but he also
knows it means nothing. Dazai has denied him when he’s hard before, and he probably will again.

Just because /he’s/ horny doesn’t mean Chuuya will actually get anything out of it, which is so /frustrating/, because he can never predict when Dazai will give into him.

All he
can do is give himself up to his hands and mouth and /hope/ that Dazai will take mercy on him.

“I like it better when you’re nice to me.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounds breathlessly and dripping with need.

He lets out a gasp when Dazai’s teeth find his skin, scraping
over the skin in a move that’s /just/ shy of painful. It causes tingles of aching-pain to spark, little fireflies of sensation.

“Are you saying I’m not nice to you?” Dazai rumbles, soothing the small pain away by briefly sealing his mouth over the bite and /sucking/, tongue
piercing swirling over his skin wetly. “I think I’m /very/ nice to you.”

Chuuya wiggles, rubbing the swell of his ass over Dazai’s crotch until he earns a hissed out breath in response. “That’s a lie. You’re mean to me all the time.”

Frustratingly, the hand on his chest
hasn't moved. It's still and unmoving, beyond the fingertips which are rubbing slow circles /just/ a hairsbreadth away from his nipple.

"Oh? When have I ever been mean to you, baby?"

When Chuuya opens his mouth to respond, Dazai uses the hand on his neck to tilt his head to
the side, giving him access to the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. Teeth sink into him lightly, a tease that makes Chuuya jolt and whimper in response.

He's starting to think he has a /thing/ for being bitten, because there's not many things more /satisfying/ than being
between his teeth. Dazai /could/ hurt him, but never does.

Never more than he wants to be hurt, anyways.

"You're being mean /now/," Chuuya asserts, trying to keep his voice from wobbling even when he's pushing himself into Dazai's grip as much as possible, a willing sacrifice
to an earthen god. "And in Osaka, when you made me wear the vibrator for /hours/ and you didn't even fuck me afterward. That was mean."

There's a rumble in Dazai's chest behind him, suppressed laughter. "/Mean/ is a strong word, baby, because as I recall-- you /liked/ it when I
did that to you."

Yes, but that's /besides/ the point. Chuuya can like it when mean things are done to him, but it's still /mean/.

"Just like you like /this/, right?"

Chuuya keeps his mouth shut for that one, choosing instead to reach back with one hand and find Dazai's hair
to pull on it in wordless demand. He /does/ like this, but he's not willing to admit it just yet.

What if it makes Dazai /stop/? How does he get him to keep going?

He's half-hard already and growing ever harder, the heat of the bath falling away in the face of how hot his body
feels.

He wants, he wants, he /wants/, and with the pain pills Dazai pushed on him, he doesn't even feel an /ounce/ of pain. How does he convince Dazai, how does he get what he's aching for, he'll do /anything/, just--

Dazai moves from behind him, pushing him forward until
he's sitting up under his own power. "Time to get out, chibi."

What? /No/, that's so not fucking fair. He's just going to build him up like this and do /nothing/ about it? "You're not gonna--?"

Planting his hands on the sides of the tub, Dazai heaves himself to a standing
position. The water runs off him in waves.

He steps out gracefully, body wet and glistening under the lights of the bathroom. God, he looks like he just stepped out of a magazine, all wet and rippling with muscle and /delicious/, it's not fair.

"I might," Dazai says, shooting a
teasing, cocky look at him over his shoulder as he wraps a towel around his waist. "Depends on how quickly you /move/, doll."

He disappears into the other room them, leaving Chuuya to scramble after him.

Anticipation spikes sharply, driving him to dry off as quickly as
physically possible before tossing the towel into the hamper and practically running after him.

When he gets into the bedroom, he finds Dazai next to the nightstand on his side, arms raised up and hovering near his face as he fiddles with something.

Chuuya starts to go to him--
"Get on the bed. On your stomach."

He falters a little, surprised by the sudden change in plans. He wants to /touch/ and be touched but--

Listening to Dazai always turns out fantastic for him, so he listens eagerly.

Crawling onto the bed, he flops onto his stomach and
stretches out with a small groan. He's pleasantly limp from his bath, all his muscles melting easily into the bed.

The only /stiff/ part of him is his half-hard cock, rubbing against the sheets. It's rough, but it's the most stimulation he's gotten so far, so he rocks his hips
into it mindlessly, sighing.

A hand comes down on his ass, smacking the cheek with just enough force that it makes him flinch. It's surprisingly loud, but Dazai knows how to make it /loud/ without making it hurt.

"Stop that, or I won't touch you at all." Dazai's voice has that
/tone/ to it, the one that drips power and domination. It enters Chuuya's bloodstream like a drug, taking over his body so thoroughly it almost feels like his heart wouldn't beat unless Dazai commanded it to.

With a hitched sigh, Chuuya goes from grinding against the sheets to
pressing back against him, enjoying the tingling sensation the smack had given him. It adds to the heat building in his system, a burning maelstrom building in intensity with every touch and movement.

"I want your hands by your head. I don't care what you do with them, but I
don't want them to move. Understand?"

Yes. Chuuya nods, pressing his face into the sheets to hide the growing blush on his face. Excitement is thrumming through him. He fists his hands in the sheets near his head to show he understands.

"Good boy," Dazai croons in response,
climbing onto the bed. The mattress sinks under his weight, making his body dip as Dazai settles between his thighs.

His legs have to spread ridiculously wide to fit him between, a thought that's /exciting/. Being reminded of how much bigger and taller Dazai is, is /exciting/.
It feels /dangerous/, because Dazai could hurt him. Easily, even, or by mistake simply because of how big he is--

But he never does, and that complete /control/ over himself--and over Chuuya-- is sexy.

A large hand finds his shoulder blade, fingers digging pleasantly into his
muscles and dragging down. There was a knot just along his spine, but it's easily dissolved with a few pushes of Dazai's fingers.

The weight on the bed shifts as Dazai leans forward, and the next thing Chuuya knows is the sensation of lips trailing over his spine. They're
soft, leaving tingles and whispers of heat behind.

Chuuya arches his back, pushing into him, shivering when he feels how immovable he is on top of him. He hooks his ankle behind Dazai's thigh, pressing his heel into his leg with growing urgency. Maybe if he just /shows/ how
much he wants this, Dazai will take mercy on him and get to whatever he has planned quicker.

"Eager, aren't you?"

The question pressed against his spine makes him shiver, and the following lick--oh, he must have changed his tongue piercing, Chuuya thinks he recognizes it--
makes him choke on a breath.

He doesn't know how Dazai does it, but /somehow/ he manages to make even the most innocent of places, places on his body Chuuya didn't even /know/ were sensitive, hypersensitive. It's like he could touch him /anywhere/ and have him melted into a
puddle within moments.

He doesn't bother responding to the question. He doesn't need to, not with the way he's pressing into Dazai eagerly, chasing after every contact with single-minded desperation. Wanting more, needing more, and knowing Dazai will give it to him this time.
He just doesn't know /how/ because--

Shouldn't he be on his back for this? Or shouldn't Dazai be lubing up his fingers? How are they going to progress from Dazai licking and biting his way down his spine, to /sex/?

Sometimes Chuuya's lack of knowledge feels embarrassing, but
sometimes it's /exciting/. Because Dazai is teaching him all sorts of things, things he loves and enjoys, and every day it's something /new/.

Dazai finds the dimples on his lower back, sealing his mouth over one and scraping his teeth over it until he's shuddering from it.
This time, when he pushes his hips back, Dazai's hands come down and pin him back to the bed effortlessly, forcibly keeping him still.

"Don't move," Dazai murmurs against his skin, following it up with a bite over the soft, squishy part of his lower back. "Or I'll stop."

The
idea of that makes Chuuya let out a frustrated keen, pushing his head into the blankets. He doesn't know what to /do/ with himself when he's practically vibrating with need and desperation. His body wants to squirm and struggle for more, and controlling that energy while he's
near-mindless with anticipation is /hard/.

He kneads the sheets between his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists as he forces his body to go still and limp. This would be easier if Dazai pushed him into that hazy state, but he's not even close to it.

The hands on his
hips tilt him upwards, giving Dazai better access to his ass. His mouth trails downward, swirling his tongue over the sensitive, still-tingling skin. He never follows a /pattern/, never gives Chuuya anything he can get used to, always changing it up and stringing him taut between
the sensations.

"Dazai," he mutters into the blanket, unable to stop himself from jerking forward when teeth nip at him sharply. "Dazai, /please/, I want it, I've been good. Please."

There's a muffled /pop/ as Dazai sucks a bite-sized piece of skin into his mouth before letting
it go. "You've been /good/?" He asks, amused disbelief in his voice, "Weren't you just saying that I was being mean to you, brat?"

Chuuya makes a frustrated noise, because he doesn't want to get /punished/ for that, he was just trying to convince Dazai to make him feel good.

He
switches tactics, aiming for Dazai’s weak spot. He fills his voice with as much pleading desperation as he can, dropping his tone until its soft and sweet. “Please/, Daddy?”

(He can’t see or feel it, but Dazai’s cock fills out, getting harder so quickly he almost feels dizzy
with it.

Cheeky little brat, always desperate to get what he wants instead of what Dazai wants to give him.

That’s fine, though. Dazai’s already committed himself to spoiling his baby rotten today, and if he’s asking so /nicely/?

Dazai will give him exactly what he wants,
Even if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s asking for.)

“I got you, baby. Just relax for me,” gets breathed over the swell of his asscheek, moments before Dazai’s thumb digs into him and spreads him open.

Chuuya fights the urge to squirm, because it feels embarrassing to have
his face so close to /there/ but—

They’re one step closer now. Any second now, there’s going to be wet fingers filling him up, breaking him open in preparation for Dazai’s cock.

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, Dazai’s face slips lower, /lower/, hot breath washing
over his most sensitive spots. Chuuya’s eyes are widening, his hands clenching in the sheets. He only gets halfway through his thought of ‘Wait, what is he /doing/?’ before he’s licking a broad, wet stripe over his entrance.

Chuuya jerks in place with a whine, fighting between
his mind being /instantly/ mortified and his body thrilling as the feeling of hot, wet slickness sliding over him.

He opens his mouth to protest—

Dazai licks over him again, dragging the flat of his tongue over his hole so firmly that he can feel the shape of his tongue
jewelry sliding over him— and oh, /god/, he recognizes the shape of that one, the memory of it buzzing against the base of his cock is /seared/ into his memory— followed by the very tip of his tongue tracing over his rim.

His hips squirm, unsure if he wants to /escape/ or if he
wants /more/, torn between the desire to hide and how /good/ it feels.

With a displeased rumble, Dazai uses the hand on his hip to pin him again. The action spreads him wider, allowing Dazai to slide his face that much deeper.

“Dazai,” he pants out, eyes squeezing shut as
Dazai spreads him a /little/ further with the hand on his asscheek, “thats—!”

He cuts himself off with a high-pitched moan because apparently Dazai is the kind of person that can /roll/ their tongue, and the feeling of it undulating against him, folding it on itself and pressing
so firmly that his muscles start to give way beneath the pressure.

And just when Chuuya is thinking 'oh god,he's going to do it, he's gonna put his tongue inside him, oh /god/'--

Dazai pulls back, just a fraction. "Yeah? That good?" He says, prideful teasing in his voice as his
hand leaves his hip. There's a second of silence, and then a tiny /click/.

The next time Dazai speaks, his voice is slightly garbled, shaking oddly. "Keep talking to me, doll. I wanna know how you feel about /this/."

The next time his tongue returns--

It's /vibrating/.
"Oh /god/," Chuuya practically wails, all other thought whisked away by the sensation of Dazai licking over him again, slowly enough that he feels /every inch/ of vibration.

It's not as powerful as the vibrating toy Dazai used on him in Osaka, but /that/ wasn't wet and hot and
flexible. That wasn't swirling over him without pattern or rhythm, that wasn't pressing into him insistently until the tip is sliding inside him.

The tiny vibrator presses against the outside of his rim, shifting with the movements as Dazai drags the tip of his tongue along the
inside.

It's hot, it's /wet/, it's so intimate with how /close/ Dazai is to him, fucking his tongue deeper inside him in a series of short, swirling thrusts. The bath has loosened up every one of his muscles and relaxed his mind, making it so easy for the pleasure to swamp him
in heavy waves.

Dazai curls his tongue /down/ then, coaxing his entrance open with steady pressure. With a wet, squelching noise his tongue slides deeper, the raised shape of the vibrator pressing unrelentingly against the inside of his rim.

"God," Chuuya whimpers again, his
thoughts blurring into white noise. All embarrassment and shame has faded away, replaced by pulsasting excitement as Dazai tilts his hips, dragging him into the next thrust of his tongue.

There's no friction, not with how hot and slippery his tongue is. His tongue flexes in odd
ways, so different from the way his fingers move that they can't even be compared.

His /fingers/ are long, dexterous, stroking against his inner muscles to coax him into warming up and relaxing. They can bend and flex, but the /main/ aspect of pleasure they give him is how deep
they can get inside him, how far they can stretch him open. The anticipation that comes with the knowledge that he's /probably/ going to be fucked afterwards.

The best part about his /tongue/ is how flexible it is, curling one moment and flattening the next. Moving in ways his
fingers just can't, swirling and rolling and dragging the small vibrator against his inner walls.

Unlike his fingers, which Chuuya can clench down on to feel more of, he /can't/ do that with his tongue. If he tries to grind back or clench down, or in any way tries to get /more/
of the sensation, just makes Dazai's tongue slide out of him.

All he can do is arch his back and just /take it/, spreading his thighs until the stretch hurts, offering himself up as much as he physically can.

His breath against the sheets bounces back at him, covering his
face with heat and making his head spin.

His erection is aching hard now, the tip dragging intermittently against the sheets beneath him. Each flex of Dazai's tongue inside him prompts a throbbing response in his cock, need and pleasure growing like mountains in his stomach.
Dazai's hand digs into him harder, pulling his ass apart so he can slide his tongue /that/ much deeper, jaw widening as he points his tongue, making it as long as he can--

The /very/ tip of it brushes against the outside edge of his prostate, making Chuuya jolt in place and
bite down on a high-pitched keen.

God, it's not /enough/, he can feel the vibrator buzzing away mere /centimeters/ away from where he wants it most. The pleasure and the desperation mix, the headiest of drugs.

It makes his heart pound in his chest, so hard that he can barely
hear anything past the throbbing need roaring in his ears, in his veins. He can't hear, he can't /think/, all he knows is--

"Dazai, Dazai, Dazai," he chants into the sheets, mindlessly rocking back into his mouth and down into the bed to get friction on his aching cock.
Mercifully, Dazai lets him grind into him. His tongue retreats as Chuuya moves forward, flattening and filling him up.

When Chuuya rocks /back/ again, his tongue stiffens and plunges in deeply, and if Chuuya spreads his legs wide enough and tilts his hips at /just/ the right
angle, he can /almost/ get direct stimulation on his prostate and it's /so/ good.

Mind-meltingly good, actually, it's almost /unfair/. Better than his fingers, and /almost/ better than his cock entirely. The pleasure builds slowly, inescapably, like an earthquake gaining power
as it goes on, shaking the very foundations of his being.

The only thing he's missing is the ability to /kiss/ Dazai. This feels /fantastic/, but there's something so intimate and loving about being able to feel Dazai's breath against his mouth, taste his pleasure on his tongue.
But this-- Dazai's thumb hooking into his rim and stretching the muscle open until Chuuya is shuddering with it, allowing him to fuck his tongue a /little/ deeper-- is almost as good.

On the next grind back, Chuuya arches his back until his spine arches with the strain and holds
the position as Dazai's tongue /thrusts/--

"There!" Chuuya practically shouts, fighting against the urge to shudder because the vibrator is /just/ on the edge of his prostate, spiking pleasure in his body. If either of them move, he's going to /lose/ that sensation and the
thought of that might make him cry.

There's a muffled noise against him, like Dazai might be laughing at him. His tongue rolls teasingly, making as if he's going to pull back before pushing forward again.

The sensation is hot, nearly electric. The tension building along his
spine is exacerbated by how still he's forcing himself to be, all of his muscles clenching tight until he's trembling from the strain. His breath speeds up, warmth collecting the space between his face and the blankets, until he can't tell if he's breathing air or /fire/.

A hand
closes around his hip and helps him hold position, supporting him as the pleasure builds and builds and builds.

It feels suffocating, like a blanket being drawn over his head and drowning him from head to toe--

But it's not /enough/. Dazai's tongue isn't /quite/ long enough and
the vibrator is buzzing /just/ on the edge of his prostate. It's good, sweet electricity, but it's not as good as it /could/ be, as he needs it to be. All the sensation does is build him up and up and up, until he feels like he might shatter underneath the strain.

The edge is
so close and yet /so/ far, hovering so close Chuuya can almost taste it, like a ghost on his tongue.

Then the hand holding him up leaves and he nearly wobbles out of place, catching himself at the last second. He's not sure how much longer he can hold this position, because his
lower back is already starting to ache with how far it's arched.

Then--

A thumb presses against his pernieum, rubbing in the wetness left from his saliva. The pressure there is /surprisingly/ good, ratcheting up the pleasure a little farther, a little /hotter/.

With the
pressure on the /outside/ combined with the swirling vibrations inside him, it builds him higher.

His hands are like claws in the sheets, kneading the blanket with all the pent-up tension. His lungs are stuttering in his chest, heaving in sharp breaths and letting out
in increasingly high moans. He's dizzy with it, pushed full with so much pleasure that he can barely tell where his body is anymore.

"Dazai, /please/, just a little more, right there. Please, Daddy, /please/!"

He's surprised that Dazai can even understand what he's saying when
his face is pushed into the bed, but /somehow/ he does.

There's a muffled /growl/ against him, additional vibration that makes Chuuya shudder and gasp, before he's being yanked up farther. Dazai pulls his hips as high as they can go, until his chest is pressed against the bed
and his spine feels like it might /break/ from how far it's bent.

The thumb hooked in his rim is swapped out with a long, brutally pleasurable finger that sinks into him to the last knuckle in one, relentless move. It's dry, with no lube besides his saliva.

The friction makes
him shudder, keening, adds a rough, burning edge to the swell of pleasure inside him.

His finger dives beneath his wiggling tongue, reaching /past/ to zero in on his prostate with unrelenting pressure.

The dual sensations--no, /triple/ sensations-- of his tongue swirling hot
and flexible inside him as tongue-fucks him with searing intensity, his finger massaging his prostate relentlessly and his thumb rubbing his perineum over and over and over again until Chuuya feels like he's going to lose his /mind/--

It's enough to have him squirming, arching,
/crying/ as the pleasure builds and builds.

It feels /so/ good, liquid-fire pulsing through his veins, drenching him in tingling electricity. He can feel it building, gathering momentum as his body writhes under the strain, struggling to hold it as his orgasm creeps up on him--
The thumb rubbing just under his entrance leaves, and for a moment, Chuuya mourns the extra loss of sensation because it lessens the intensity of the pleasure--

Then his hand comes /crashing/ back down, delivering one hard, wet-fingered spank onto his ass. His palm stays there,
pressing the heat of impact into his skin with a solid /squeeze/.

The shock of pain makes him cry out. "/Fuck!/"

His body jerks once, is dragged back in by the inescapable grip Dazai has on him. His tongue presses deeply, his finger /jabs/ at his prostate.

The combination of
sweet-edged pain and searing pleasure is enough to have him /shatter/. His orgasm roars over him like a tsunami, blinding him with pleasure and muffling his senses.

For a long, wonderful movement all he can do is just ride it out, body bucking and thrashing in Dazai's grip. His
hands on him tighten to keep him in place, fingers digging into him until they might bruise.

It lasts /forever/, waves of electricity making his heart pound so hard in his chest he can hardly breath around it. Every time the pleasure starts to die down, his finger moves inside
him or his tongue curls to drag the vibrator against his inner walls, and it causes another cascade of firey sparks down every one of his nerve endings.

By the time Dazai lets him /rest/, he feels like he might pass out entirely from lack of oxygen. When his grips loosens, he
slumps into the mattress, quivering with aftershocks. Every single one of his muscles feels weak and lax with pleasure.

He's not on his stomach for long. Dazai flips him over quickly, thankfully rolling him out of the mess he made of the sheets. Unfortunately, there's still cum
smeared on his stomach and his ass feels obscenely wet with saliva. He feels like a /mess/ and he just got out of the bath. If he didn't feel so good, every inch of him thrumming with pleasure, he'd feel kind of gross.

When nothing happens for a second, and the wet sounds of sex
are replaced by Dazai's labored breathing, Chuuya cracks his eyes open and looks down his body--

Oh. Dazai is jerking off, quick and short strokes, hungry eyes roaming over Chuuya's pleasantly wrecked body. His expression is tight with lust and pleasure, breath speeding up by
the second.

Wiggling slightly, Chuuya reaches down to help him out—

Large, criminally long and skilled fingers wrap around his wrist and pins it by his side. His grip is tight and inescapable.

“No,” Dazai mutters, voice hoarse and breaking on a groan, “I just want to look at
you.”

Dazai has never made Chuuya feel anything less that heartbreakingly beautiful, but there’s something different about /this/.

Being told he’s pretty while he’s fully dolled up, that feels like /aesthetic/ beauty. That feels like all the work he puts into looking good is
noticed and appreciated.

This—looking so good when he’s naked and messy, so good that Dazai doesn’t even need to touch him or /be/ touched by him to have him leaking precum over his own fingers— feels like he doesn’t need to do anything to be beautiful.

Dazai’s gazs on him
is heavy, burning with weight. It makes him bold, makes him reach down with his free hand and swipe a finger through the mess on his stomach.

Not looking away, he brings his finger to his mouth and licks off the pearlescent liquid. It's bitter and sticky tasting, but the taste
is worth it to see how Dazai's pupils dilate, filling with ravaging hunger.

In the next moment, Dazai is falling on him, over him, capturing him in a deep, feral kiss. His tongue thrusts inside his mouth, eagerly chasing the taste of himself on his tongue.

Chuuya is once again
torn between mortification--because his tongue was /just/ inside him, isn't that /gross/?-- and desire, because Dazai's kissing him like he might /devour/ him, like he might eat him /alive/. He can also feel the quick, frantic movements of Dazai's wrist between his thighs.

As he
gets closer to orgasm, muffling groans against his lips, his hand speeds up.

"Fuck, /Chuuya/," he groans, guttural.

The sound of his name like that sends a thrill of heat through Chuuya, prompting him to dig his ankle into Dazai's calf to urge him on. With the way Dazai is
kneeling over him, he can't move much, but he wants Dazai to come.

Then, in the next moment, the kiss is breaking as Dazai slides /up/, crawling up his body quickly.

He ends up kneeling over his chest, Chuuya's arms trapped between his knees as Dazai continues to jerk off
inches from his face.

Ah. He's doing /that/ again.

With a murmured sigh, Chuuya lets his eyes fall mostly shut. He still wants to /watch/, is mesmerized by the sight of Dazai's cock leaking pre-cum over his fingers, but he doesn't want to get any in his eyes. His lips part,
tongue slipping over his bottom lip in anticipation.

The sight seems to be enough for Dazai, because in the next moment he's squeezing just under the head and angling it /down/--

The first spurt of frothy-white cum lands on his cheek, hot and wet. The next waves aren't far
behind, falling on his cheeks and chin.

It’s sticky and cools rapidly, but Chuuya preens underneath it all. It’s surprisingly hot to be marked like this, like Dazai is marking his territory or something equally as possessive and feral.

It makes Chuuya feel /owned/, desirable,
/possessed/.

It takes Dazai a second to calm down, settling back on his heels while making sure he’s not crushing Chuuya beneath his weight. Panting, he looks down at him—

And /smiles/. Big, bright, sharp with satisfaction.

“You look pretty with my cum all over your face,” he
tells him, practically purring as he reaches down and thumbs one of the stripes on his cheek. “I should just keep you like this. No class, no homework, no worries— just laid out on my bed, all pretty and perfect, waiting to be fucked as hard and often as you want. A good little
cumslut, hm?”

Thé thought—and how /filthy/ Dazai’s tone is— makes Chuuya’s face burn, but he doesn’t resist when Dazai rubs his thumb over his mouth. It paints his lips with cum, and Chuuya can’t help but follow the motion with his tongue, cleaning himself up teasingly.
Chuuya considers himself an independent person. He wants to do well in school so he can get a good job as support himself as quickly as possible. Whenever he’s envisioned relationships, it’s only been with him and his partners as /equals/ in every right.

But when Dazai talks to
him like /this/, all sugary-sweet temptation and liquid-hot desire, the devil on his way down to hell and coaxing him into falling--

He'd do /anything/.

He sucks Dazai's thumb into his mouth, letting it press down on his tongue. It earns him a flash of Dazai's eyes, one that
makes Chuuya internally preen with pride. He swirls his tongue over the pad of his thumb, almost the same way he'd do if there was a cock in his mouth instead.

"I love your mouth," Dazai hums, pushing his thumb deeper until Chuuya has to consciously control his gag reflex, "I
can't wait to fuck it again. Feels so good around me."

Dazai is /normally/ so well-spoken and civilized, so when he's like /this/, foul-mouthed and curses dripping from his tongue like /sin/, it sets Chuuya on fire like nothing else.

He can feel his cock twitching down below,
valiantly trying to harden again even though he came only a few minutes ago.

"Not now though," Dazai sighs, taking his thumb back. Chuuya almost mourns the loss of something to suck on, even if the taste isn't /exactly/ his favorite. He prefers sweet, /but/ the taste of Dazai
is satisfyingly bitter.

"/Now/, it's time to clean you up, and get you more pain meds. How's your head feel?"

Ugh. Now the mood is /gone/, and /Daddy/ Dazai has been replaced by /worrier/ Dazai.

Still, Chuuya can't be too mad, not when he's still limp and pleasantly tingly
from his orgasm. With his arms pinned to his side by Dazai's knees, he can't reach up to pull him down into a kiss so he has to resort to lifting his chin and pouting his lips while making puppy eyes at him to get his point across.

With an amused huff and a fond smile, Dazai
shuffles backward so he can bend down to give him a quick kiss.

"I feel good," Chuuya reassures him, and if he rubs his cheek against Dazai's to get /him/ sticky too--

Well, he never said he wasn't petty.

------- +

In the end, it's a coincidence that Ranpo finds him here.
Some might even go as far as to say it's /fate/ but--

He doesn't believe in fate. He believes in facts. Data. Numbers and clues and statistics.

And statistically speaking, it's not /that/ great of a coincidence for them to end up at the same bar together accidentally.

Now,
Ranpo /is/ a law-abiding man and in general, a mostly-upstanding citizen (at least as far as everyone /else/ knows, anyways).

But he's also banned from like... most of the bars in the immediate area around Yokohama. Bars in the upper class areas, in the lower class ones, in the
red light district.

You name it, Ranpo has probably been banned from it.

He's a man that believes in /fun/. In eating whatever he wants, doing whatever task or hobby that intrigues him.

And sometimes /fun/ means starting fights just to sit back and watch a gang of drunken
idiots smash themselves and the bar to pieces. It's /funny/, how it sometimes only takes a few words to send someone into a rage.

It's like pushing the buttons on an arcade machine to watch the lights flash.

This bar in particular, Rai's Bar, is known for serving the... less
civilized beings of Yokohama. Which includes people like Ranpo, who are banned in nearly any other establishment--

And people like /Shuuji/, who are still too young to legally drink.

Ranpo orders a drink from the opposite side of the bar, killing time. Truthfully, he's not
sure if he /wants/ to talk to the kid, because he came here with the intention to relax and /not/ play with some stupid puppy with anger and manipulation issues.

He came here for a few drinks, a quiet evening before going to home to sleep. He hasn't been sleeping well lately,
and it's made him grumpy. Irritable.

But then Shuuji slaps his hand down on the bar loudly, demanding another drink loudly enough that several other people flinch and look over at him and--

Ranpo decides that he /does/ have time for a little game. Just a little, before he sends
him back home to sleep off what is likely to be a ravaging hangover.

He takes his drink with him-- a Lemon Drop cocktail, just sour enough that it makes the sweetness of the drink really pop, with a sugar-dusted rim-- as he slides over, settling into the seat next to Shuuji. He
leans his elbows back against the bar, watching the crowd. "Hello again."

Shuuji flinches hard, like he wasn't paying attention. A stupid thing to do in a place like this. Should always keep his wits about him, otherwise he might find his wallet has been stolen out of his back
pocket. Hell, Ranpo might even steal the damn thing himself just to teach him a lesson.

"Did you come here to laugh at me?" Shuuji snarls, unreasonably angry. Clearly, he's already a few drinks in and is wobbling on his bar stool.

"Yeah, pretty much," Ranpo responds, finding
the straw in his drink and sucking on it as he muses on /why/ Shuuji is in such a bad mood.

There's bandages wrapped around one of his forearms, tightly wrapped. There's a spot of dried blood in the middle. They need to be changed.

Ranpo snorts, because the image Shuuji makes
is almost exactly like the rumors of what he heard /Dazai/ was like.

Tall, dark-haired, covered in black clothes and bloody bandages. Foul-tempered--though, in opposite directions, because Dazai's temper always ran /cold/ and lethal, while Shuuji's runs hotly-- and drinking
himself stupid in a bar.

Maybe that's the reason for his foul mood. Or--

Ranpo /does/ remember seeing a certain video on the public Snap story of Keio University. He likes to keep himself up to date on the public stories the college kids put up.

You'd be surprised how many
illegal activities are recorded and posted publicly for the world to see. Kids these days, they only think about /likes/ instead of realizing they /probably/ shouldn't be posting about underage drinking and drug activity.

Not that Ranpo /does/ anything about it, he just likes to
snicker at the stupidity and store all the information for later,if necessary.

Anyways, point is--

Ranpo saw the video, and he's /pretty sure/ quite a few other people did too--some of which will inevitably cause problems with this new information-- and it's safe to assume that
Shuuji saw it too.

Maybe that's why he's so pissy. Ranpo takes a stab at it. "Daddy issues acting up lately?"

Shuuji snarls wordlessly, swinging around to look at him. He wobbles hard on his stool, catches himself with a hand on the bar. "Don't-- Stop fucking /laughing/ at me,
you /prick/. I've had /enough/ of people laughing at me and making a fool out of me behind my back!"

Ah. He hit a nerve. "Have you tried opening your eyes? Not being so stupid anymore? I hear it works wonders."

Shuuji's face turns red so quickly Ranpo is half-convinced he might
pass out entirely. "I'm not /stupid/!"

"You're right. You're not," Ranpo agrees, spinning on his own stool. He knows Dazai, and he knows of Sasaki. From what he hears, Sasaki is manipulative to the core, which requires a high level of intelligence to do competently.

Dazai, of
course, is /wickedly/ cunning. Someone that even Ranpo dare not underestimate. It's true that he's kept himself on top of their silently tense arrangement, but not because it's been /easy/.

Dazai's one of the few people in this city who can actually keep up with Ranpo at all.
There's no way Shuuji didn't get /any/ of that.

"You're not stupid, are you? You /are/, however, so used to effortlessly getting your way that you've never had to /try/. Am I right?"

Based on the incoherent snarl Shuuji gives him, and the drunken swipe at him, he's pretty close
to the mark. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Ranpo will give him that. He has quite a few guesses, and he likes to keep up on all the drama that happens in the city, but he's not omnipotent. He knows a lot, but not everything. "Tell me, then."

He's not sure why he
cares, really. Sure, Shuuji is entertaining in his reactions, and he's fun to play with, but that doesn't mean Ranpo has to know his internal struggles.

But there's also something about how /lonely/ he seems, in a crowded bar sitting alone. There's something familiar about the
defensive pain in his eyes, like a wounded animal that doesn't know anything but the instinct to fight.

Ranpo was like that too, for a while. After his parents died, he didn't care about hardly anyone at all.

The bartender places a shotglass in front of Shuuji, filled to the
brim with clear liquid. Vodka, probably. Shuuji seems like a vodka kind of guy.

He takes the shot in one swallow, his face screwing up comically at the sour taste. Swallowing seems hard for him.

Slamming the shot glass back on the bar, Shuuji says with only a hint of a slur in
his voice, "My dad /hates/ me, has always hated me and to prove it, he stole that little /slut/ I was involved with. And it was posted on /Snap/, so now everyone knows that he cheated on me with my /dad/, and everyone's laughing at me, I know it!"

That's a lot to unpack there.
Ranpo /could/ get into the whole "your dad doesn't hate you, he's just incredibly traumatized and also a criminal who essentially rules the city, but he cares enough that people don't know anything about you" conversation, or he could--

"So you didn't know they were fucking?"
"You /knew?/"

Ranpo takes another sip of his drink. There's a cherry at the bottom, soaked in alcohol and sugar and he /wants/ it. "It was pretty obvious, I have to say."

It was, at least to him. The way Dazai immediately moved to shield Chuuya from Ranpo--god, he will /never/
get over the fact that Dazai is fucking Kouyou's little brother, his /arch-nemesis/ if he ever had one, and doesn't even /know/ about it-- was pretty telling.

Plus, Dazai didn't try to protect Shuuji at all. Possibly because he knows hiding anything from Ranpo is next to
impossible, and showing defensiveness is just likely to make Ranpo /more/ interested.

Shuuji goes back to grumbling, but he doesn’t try to smack Ranpo again. Good, so he /can/ learn.

“I’m gonna ask you something, and you’re gonna answer it honestly,” Ranpo announces, turning
to face him fully for the first time, and getting a good look at his face.

He looks terrible. Sleepless red eyes glaring back at him, hair mussed and the bags underneath his eyes are especially pronounced today. He looks like he hasn’t sleep.

“You didn’t really want to be with
Chuuya, did you? You just wanted to have sex with him. You didn’t actually want to be in a relationship with him.”

Shuuji’s mouth curls, but he doesn’t answer.

That’s answer enough for Ranpo to continue, arching a brow at him. “So why does it matter? Why are you so upset about
it if you didn’t have feelings for him?”

Slumping forward, Shuuji rests his forehead on his crossed arms. The answer he gives is mumbled into the air, too low to hear past the din of the bar.

Ranpo raps his knuckles on the wood. “Speak up.”

Sighing, Shuuji tilts his head to
the side, so Ranpo can get a look at the way his eyes are starting to fill with tears. "I just want someone to pick /me/ for once."

Oh, he's hitting the emotional drunk part of the night. It's too early for this. Ranpo waves over the bartender, silently gesturing to his cocktail
for a refill. When the bartender-- a tall girl, with long black hair-- goes to fill another shot for Shuuji, Ranpo shakes his head in a negative.

He doesn't need to be drinking any more.

Fishing the cherry out of the bottom of his drink, Ranpo says, "Then stop making it so
easy for people to leave."

"I don't make it /easy/!"

"You do, though, don't you?" Another cocktail gets placed in front of Ranpo, and he swaps out his empty glass for the new one. He takes a second to lick over the sugared rim, tasting the slight hint of lemon in it. "You act
like an asshole to push everyone away. You test everyone, pushing them away to see if they'll leave once you give them a reason; and when they /do/ leave, eventually, you're hurt and think you've been proven right again. Everyone always leaves, so why try with the next person?"
Making a frustrated noise, Shuuji makes as if he's going to get up and leave.

Ranpo forces him to sit down again by placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing down. He's weak, made dizzy by the amount of drinks he had and he crumbles easily beneath the force.

Ranpo's not done
speaking to him yet. He's on a roll now, and while this /isn't/ what he had in mind for his evening, there's something very satisfying about tearing down this rich, spoiled boy's worldview.

Shuuji's only five years younger than him, but the age difference seems /massive/ right
now, especially when it's backed by the difference in their life experience.

"You're a self-fufilling prophecy, Tsushima Shuuji. You set yourself up for failure, and then wonder why you always end up so slow. You've been given everything you could ask for, and it's not enough
for you. What more do you want?”

“Parents that love me. A boyfriend that doesn’t /cheat/ on me, or a girlfriend.”

Ranpo slurps on his drink. It’s already half-empty and he’s beginning to feel the tiniest buzz from it. Normally he’d be drinking more—it’s always fun to watch
Kunikida lose his mind whenever Ranpo is late because of a hangover— but if he’s going to be hanging out with Shuuji, then /one/ of them needs to be sober. “Who cares if your parents didn’t love you? Doesn’t mean nobody else will and it doesn’t mean you can go around acting like
an asshole to everyone and cry about the consequences.”

Shuuji pushes himself up, sitting straight again. His face is getting a little green, so he’ll probably need to puke soon. It’s a shame he’s wearing all black. The stains will show forever if he gets any on himself. “You
don’t know anything about me,” he repeats, drunkenly confident, “I’m a very nice guy.”

Ranpo doesn’t bother to address /that/ idiocy with a comment, choosing instead to raise an eyebrow and stare at him disbelievingly until he’s wincing and looking away again.

With a sigh,
Ranpo decides to take a /little/ mercy on him and change the subject.

“How’d you get that?” He asks, nodding towards the dingy bandages wrapped around his arm. They need to be changed. His fingers itch at the sight of them, feeling the need to replace them with clean ones.
The question makes Shuuji laugh. Loud, wheezing, uproarious laughter that catches the attention of some of the other people in the bar. “I,” he wheezes, slapping the bar top like Ranpo just told him a funny joke, “I tried to run Chuuya over. With my car.”

He puts his hands up,
mimicking driving a car. “And then I tried to stab him. He was being an asshole and I wanted to make him shut up.”

Ranpo stares at him, eyes wide because—

Shuuji really is fucking stupid, isn’t he? Not only did he try to kill Dazai’s boy toy, but he just admitted it to a /cop/.
"I'm going to pretend that you didn't just admit to two felonies," Ranpo mutters, rumbling his temple with his free hand, "because I don't feel like doing paperwork right now. Stop telling me that you are committing or trying to commit crimes."

Shuuji rolls his eyes. "If anyone
committed a crime, it's my /dad/. He set Yoko on me. She bit me! Really hard!"

He waves his bandaged arm at him for emphasis and might have actually started to unwrap it if Ranpo didn't stop him.

"That's not a crime, that's /karma/," Ranpo snickers, keeping his fingers wrapped
loosely around his wrist to keep Shuuji from doing anything stupid.

Well, anything more stupid than he's already done. Trying to kill the person Dazai is emotionally attached to is pretty high on the list of 'stupid things you shouldn't do', in Ranpo's opinion.

"You're lucky to
be alive," he mutters. He's sure that the /only/ reason Shuuji is still breathing is because of who he is. If it were anyone else--

Well, then Ranpo wouldn't be amused at how /clueless/ Shuuji is about how close he came to death, and would instead be hearing about his
mysterious disappearance.

"Lucky is a strong word," Shuuji huffs, shaking his head until his bangs fall over his eyes. He doesn't try to get out of Ranpo's grip, instead leaning slightly into him. "Now I'm homeless and broke and my arm hurts."

Much of Ranpo's sympathy is nixed
by the fact that Shuuji /is/ an adult, even if a young one. He's not a child, he's not helpless, and his actions brought him here. He did this to himself by being cruel.

But--

Ranpo remembers what being homeless felt like. What being /poor/ felt like, and even if Shuuji's
situation isn't nearly the same...

He still feels a /little/ sympathy. A little.

Just enough for Ranpo to wave down the bartender, intending to get Shuuji a glass of water. His hangover will be hell if he doesn't drink some soon. He looks like he's about to pass out at any
moment. "What are you going to do about it?"

Shuuji blinks at him. He looks confused for a second, like he's never considered the idea of being able to change his situation. Like he's just been going along and doing what he has to with the life he's been handed, but never making
his /own/. Always doing what he's been told to do, and what he's expected to do.

"What do you mean?" He asks, making a face at the glass of water that's put in front of him. He only drinks it when Ranpo stares at him hard enough.

Ranpo agrees; bar tap water isn't that good.
He probably wouldn't drink it either, but he, at least, has the sense not to get drunk in public. Or at least not anywhere without bottled water.

"Well, you made a fool out of yourself and got kicked out. Are you going to spend your time getting drunk in bars or are you going to
do something about it?"

Shuuji looks like he's considering the question /too/ hard, drawing Ranpo's patience thin. "I was hoping I could just drink about it?"

Ranpo snorts. Typical bratty college teenager. "Not happening, kid. It's time for you to make some changes. Stop being
an ass, and get your life together. I don't want to handcuff you again."

Shuuji swings around, eyes huge. "You would do that? I learned how to break out of them, by the way. Easy, once you get the hang of it."

Ranpo wouldn't cuff Shuuji the way he's thinking of, but it's cute
that he’s proud of being able to break out of simple cuffs.

Ranpo learned that when he was twelve, but he can’t expect /everyone/ to keep up with his skill level and expertise. It’d just be unfair.

“I think you’re right, though,” Shuuji continues, standing up from his seat.
He sways hard, nearly stumbling into the person behind him. Luckily, it’s a smaller guy, who just moves out of the way instead of causing a problem.

Not that Ranpo /dislikes/ causing problems, but he feels responsible for Shuuji right now, and he doesn’t feel like wading into a
bar fight to defend the dumb puppy. If he gets banned from this bar too, he might end up just losing his mind.

“I’m tired of feeling like shit,” Shuuji declares, slapping his hand on the bar top authoritatively. “And I’m tired of making other people feel like shit too. New week,
new me, right?”

That’s... not exactly how things are supposed to go, but the enthusiasm is endearing. “Alright.”

Shuuji looks at him then, eyes huge and flashing with the bar lights. They’re pretty. Dark. Naïve.

“Okay, so what do I do?”

Throwing back the rest of his drink,
Ranpo snorts. "How should I know? Do I look like a therapist to you?"

It's getting late, and the night crowd is starting to shuffle in. These people are louder, rowdier. Some of them are already tipsy from their drinks at a different bar, and they slam up against the bar without
consideration to the people already standing there.

Half of them are already drunk, so Ranpo's standoffish glare loses a lot of it's intimidation. He hates when strangers touch him, especially /drunk/ strangers.

"No, but you're /really/ smart, aren't you?" Shuuji asks.
Ranpo stands up, brushing off his vest. It's been a long day, and it's time he starts to head home. He doesn't feel like dealing with any more drunk people.

Though, he does have to admit that drunk Shuuji is pretty cute. Like a lost puppy, looking for someone to hold his leash.
"Yes, but that doesn't mean I'm equipped to handle...whatever you got going on up there. If you /really/ want your life to change, you need professional help. Therapists work wonders. I've had mine for a few years now."

Shuuji follows him towards the front of the bar, walking
close on his heels. He's /much/ taller than Ranpo, towering over him by nearly an entire head, so seeing how eagerly he follows him is amusing.

"You're in therapy?" He repeats, but before Ranpo can get irritable at /that/ invasive question, he continues, "Do I need a doctors
note or something?"

Ranpo pauses, glad he's facing away because his lips twitch in amusement at that. "No. You just have to call and make an appointment."

Honestly, he's starting to believe that Shuuji really /was/ sheltered. Probably can't even cook for himself. He's had his
whole life handed to him, treated like an incompetent child, and now that he's an /adult/, he doesn't know how to deal with himself.

Children are cruel, after all, to themselves and to others.

"Oh. Okay," Shuuji says, nearly bumping into Ranpo's back. He steadies himself with
a hand on his shoulder. His grip is too hard, nearly pulling Ranpo off balance.

They're near the door now, and just as they reach it, it opens. A stream of people stumble inside, laughing too-loud and their grins drunkenly lopsided. The group is all hanging onto each other, with
some of the girls--college age, young-- clutching onto the arms of the boys in the group. They don't seem to see them or care, too busy calling out to each other and giggling.

Ranpo doesn't move, planting his feet. Shuuji herds close to his back, sheltering behind him as the
crowd breaks into two around him.

"Where are we going?" Shuuji asks loudly, bending down to nearly shout in Ranpo's ear. With all the new people in the bar, filling up the dingy space with their loud voices and drunken bodies as they demand more drinks, it's getting too loud.
"I--," Ranpo announces, pushing out of the bar on the tail end of the group. His phone is stuffed in his vest pocket, and he reaches in to grab it. "--am going home."

Outside, it's already close to full dark. He'll have to call a cab. As much as he'd love to bother Kunikida,
it's past his mandated bedtime, which means his phone will be on 'do not disturb'.

He could call Fukuzawa and he knows he'd answer the call--

But the idea of waking the boss up and making him come all the way down here, green eyes so understanding and yet /exhausted/, is not
what he wants to deal with right now. The thought makes his stomach clench unpleasantly.

Ranpo has a limited tolerance when it comes to handling other people's emotions and needs on top of handling his /own/, and he doesn't want to put either of them in a position like /that/.
So, a cab.

"Oh," Shuuji mutters, faltering so hard that Ranpo can feel it behind him. His voice has dropped into something sad and somber, nothing like the drunkenly-upbeat tone he's been using the entire conversation.

The emotional whiplash is hard to keep up with, but Ranpo
remembers.

/ "Now I'm broke and homeless and my arm hurts." /

Knowing Shuuji, if he left him here, he'd only get himself into /more/ trouble. Get even more drunk, maybe get into a fight.

The bandages would never get changed. All that energy for a 'fresh start' or whatever he
was talking about would be gone.

Very possibly the /next/ time they'd see each other is with Ranpo handcuffing him /again/, but in a decidedly less fun then.

Besides--

When Ranpo was low and on his last legs, feeling trapped and helpless, someone offered /him/ a helping hand.
It feels disrespectful to Fukuzawa--and, distantly, to the memory of his parents-- not to offer the same help to someone else when they so clearly need it.

"And you're coming with me," Ranpo says, swinging around to pin Shuuji with a firm stare that shows he means /business/.
No arguing, no weaseling out it.

Not that he expects Shuuji to actually argue.

"Oh," Shuuji blinks, and even though he's a /head/ taller than Ranpo at least, the height difference doesn't seem so daunting when he's hunched over and looking confused.

Then the confusion melts
into a suggestive smirk and--

"/Oh/. Taking me /home/, huh?"

Yeah, there it is.

Ranpo arches an eyebrow at him. "Yes, to keep you out of trouble. And if you don't behave, I'll make you sleep outside. My neighbors have a doghouse. I'm sure you can fit, with enough incentive."
Shuuji tries to strike a pose, which just ends with him having to pinwheel his arms to keep his balance when he tips himself over too far.

The reminder of how /tipsy/ he is, probably even outright drunk even though he's handling his liquor well, all things considered, seems to
be enough of a reminder that his flirty energy dies out again. "No," he mutters, adjusting his coat from where it's slipped over his shoulders. "I'll behave, I just-- I'm just tired, you know? I didn't sleep last night."

He's lucky he wasn't /put/ to sleep like a dog that bit
too hard and too often, but the downcast tilt to his eyes and his voice makes Ranpo's chest pang in sympathy.

"Yeah, I bet," he murmurs. He doesn't know exactly where Shuuji spent the night, but based on the smell of his clothes, it was probably a bar or in an alley nearby.
Maybe /this/ bar and alleyway. "But don't worry, I got an extra futon you can use."

"Not your bed?" Shuuji looks so damn /hopeful/, it's almost amusing to shoot him down.

"No, you're dirty. You smell like vodka," Ranpo helpfully informs him, checking on the status of the Uber
he ordered. It's a little over a block away. He's lucky it's /late/, otherwise getting around the city by car would take /forever/. "I don't let dirty things into my bed."

"Sounds like a boring sex life," he hears from behind him, like Shuuji didn't /mean/ for him to hear it.
Ranpo snorts, not bothering to justify /that/ with a comment.

Aw, he thinks Ranpo is /vanilla/.

Truth is, his sex life is /exciting/, kinky, wild and /active/. Not that Shuuji knows.

Might never get the privilege of finding out, either, if he doesn't learn to hold his tongue.
Ah, but Ranpo hasn't had a real, bonafide brat to tame in a while. He /loves/ a challenge and while his other partners have been /fun/, they give in too easily.

He takes Shuuji in, looking him up and down out of the corner of his eye. He's tall, lithe, with a young face and
unruly hair that practically begs to be yanked on. His legs are /long/, waist slim, arms toned.

And he /does/ learn. Eventually. Ranpo's seen it for himself.

Plus, the added thought of fucking the son of one of the most dangerous men in town--truthfully, he would go for Dazai
himself, but their tastes run a little too similarly, and while Ranpo /does/ enjoy a little battle for domination every once in a while, he prefers the satisfaction of willingly given submission-- on a semi-regular basis, or even /more/--

That's enough to make it interesting.
Hm. /Maybe/. Maybe, maybe.

The Uber pulls up then. The guy who leans to look out the window looks American, but his Japanese is fluent when he calls out to them. "Are you Ranpo-san?"

Grabbing Shuuji by the sleeve of his coat, Ranpo pushes him forward first. He goes easily,
stumbling slightly under the force but not protesting.

He has to nearly fold himself in half to get into the tiny car, grumbling to himself and nearly hitting his head on the door frame.

Waiting until he slides over to give Ranpo enough room, he follows him in and shuts the
door behind them.

“I hope you don’t mind American music?” The driver asks, pulling away from the curb without hesitating. The interior of the car is clean and smells nice.

Shuuji looks like he might throw up soon. Ranpo gestures for him to roll down the window at least. He’s
not paying if Shuuji pukes in the car.

“No, I don’t mind,” he says, buckling in. Shuuji waves a hand, which is probably a good an answer as the driver is going to get when the kid is pushing his forehead against the cool window and taking in deep, rhythmic breaths.

“Great!”
The American says, reaching over to fiddle with the center console. They don’t really get too many American music stations here in Japan, but the man has his phone connected so he’s able to choose a song.

And when it starts to play, Ranpo can’t up his amused grin when he
recognizes the opening riff. Karma or coincidence, this is just outright /funny/.

Leaning over to nudge Shuuji with his shoulder, he asks with a sly grin, “Do you know English?”

He would /assume/ he does, given that he probably has gone to the /best/ schools ever since he was a
child, and the Japanese school system is very insistent on teaching English as a second language. But it just depends on how well he’s kept up with it.

“Not while I’m drunk,” Shuuji admits, pressing his cheek to the glass. He looks marginally better, but he squeezes his eyes
shut when the driver takes a turn too-quickly.

That’s a shame because—

// “Stacy’s mom has got it going on.” //

— the song that’s playing is /hilarious/.

And Shuuji doesn’t seem to recognize it at all, too busy taming the nausea. Ranpo hums along with the beat, grinning.
Thankfully, Ranpo doesn’t live too far away. It’s only two stops away by station and the traffic gods seem to be smiling upon them, because it only takes the length of three songs before they’re pulling up to his apartment complex.

The second one Ranpo doesn’t recognize, but the
third one?

‘Guys My Age’ by Hey Violet.

Which is such a genre change that Ranpo would normally be offput by it— he doesn’t usually enjoy American music anyways— but the message of it has him snickering under his breath nearly the entire car ride.

The driver looks at him
like he’s crazy, and Shuuji makes confused noises under his breath, but Ranpo ignores them both.

Life really is funny, sometimes. Especially when it’s at other people’s expense.

By the time Ranpo and Shuuji get dumped out of the car outside Ranpo’s complex, Ranpo is in a
/good/ mood.

Is this what he had planned for the evening? No. Is this better and more entertaining that his original idea of getting tipsy and going home alone?

Oh yeah.

“Aren’t you a detective? Why do you live in such a shitty place?” Shuuji mutters, staring blearily up at
his complex.

Ranpo isn’t offended by that, because he’s right. It is a shitty place, all things considered.

It’s a tall, rundown complex in the poor district. The walls are crumbling in some places, and the fence surrounding the place is rusty and old. Some of the windows are
boarded up, and others have been thrice-replaced. The locks are the only thing that are new and modern, because Ranpo replaces them whenever there’s a break in.

There’s trash littering the floor, and the stray dogs and cats like to eat out of the nearby dumpster.

In all senses
of the word, this place /is/ shitty.

But when Ranpo was fresh off the streets, it seemed like the height of luxury. And now that’s he’s /better/, in a better place with actual money and friends and a career and a /life/—

He can’t make himself let go of this last remaining
shred of home.

His first home, since his parents died.

“You know what they say,” Ranpo says, whimsical, leading the way up the dirty concrete steps. “Home is where the heart is.”

Shuuji shrugs, taking that as his answer gracefully.

The outer door is opened easily with a
key Ranpo keeps in one of his pockets. Shuuji stumbles in, bracing himself on the concrete wall.

The interior is mostly clean, if usually devoid of life. Not many people linger in the hallways outside, too wary to take a chance.

Ranpo lives on the third floor, in the middle,
and he ends up pushing and prodding Shuuji up the steps in front of him. The stairs are uneven and dangerous even when sober, and he doesn’t want Shuuji to fall backwards.

By the time they make it to his door, Shuuji is muttering incoherently under his breath grumpily.
Hopefully he’s not being loud enough to wake all his neighbors. Everyone around here are light sleepers, and Ranpo hasn’t brought anyone home ever, for that exact reason.

In this instance, Shuuji /is/ his first. One of the /very/ few people Ranpo has let know where he lives, and
one of the only ones that will see the inside of his tiny 1-bedroom apartment.

He wouldn’t say he’s /nervous/, but he does fumble with his keys once.

When the door opens for them, Shuuji follows him inside easily enough. He’s /trying/ to be quiet, he can tell, but his shoulder
bumps noisily against the door frame and he nearly takes out the small desk standing just around the corner on the inside.

Ranpo grabs him by the back of the coat, forcibly steadying him. He /just/ cleaned his house, and he’s not about to clean it again because Shuuji knocked
over everything.

Inside, it’s cramped. Every inch of space is covered with /something/, and there’s so many colors and shades it’s hard to get a grasp on what everything /is/ at first glance.

Ranpo likes to collect things that interest him, and once he brings it home it’s
hard to convince himself to throw it away. He likes to collect pretty and interesting things.

"Bathroom," he says, pushing Shuuji in that direction. It's the only other room in the house. His bedroom is more of a /closet/ that fits only his bed and a tiny nightstand in it.

The
lighting in here is dim, but it's just enough to get by.

"Sit," Ranpo orders, pushing Shuuji in the direction of the stool in the corner. There's a first aid kit under the sink, just stocked enough for Ranpo to care for most of his injuries at home.

He hates hospitals. A
leftover relic from his past life.

Besides, he's not about to let Shuuji get dried and gross blood over his futon. Blood takes forever to wash out.

"Unwrap the bandages."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Shuuji jolt into action at the command. He's fumbling and not kind
to his injury, ripping off the bandages harshly whenever it sticks to the skin. Idiot is probably going to make himself bleed again.

He tosses the dirty bandages in the trash. They fall a little short, and Shuuji has to lean forward and shove them fully into the bin while making
a face at having to touch them again.

The injury underneath isn't as bad as it /could/ be. He's seen dogs take chunks out of people's arms, but this one looks bad mostly because it's been neglected. It doesn't even look like it was properly cleaned. Like Shuuji just wrapped
his arms in bandages to stop the bleeding, and called it a day.

It's like he's /asking/ to get an infection.

"This is gonna hurt," Ranpo mutters, taking one of his bath towels and getting it wet with lukewarm water.

With firm fingers to keep Shuuji from jerking away, he tilts
his arm so it's facing the light. He's marginally more gentle when he wipes away the dried blood and scabs.

There's four punctures, two on the top of his forearm and a matched pair along the bottom. Fang imprints.

They're not deep enough to need stitches, but they /do/ need to
be cleaned properly, or he'll wind up with an infection.

Ranpo does take a sadistic pleasure in doing that for him, dumping hydrogen peroxide on them to clean any bacteria from the bite and holding Shuuji still as he whines and wiggles and tries to tug his arm away.

"Don't be a
baby," he tells him, taking some antibiotic cream and smearing it over the deepest parts.

"You're /torturing/ me! That hurts worse than the bite itself," Shuuji wails dramatically, slumped against the wall and looking at him pitifully. His eyes are shiny, wet with reflexive
tears.

"Healing always hurts, dumbass," he responds, making sure he's satisfied with the injury before slapping on some Band-Aids over it.

He doesn't cover it with gauze. He likes Shuuji better when he /doesn't/ look like a reincarnated version of his father. All young and
bruised and destined for greatness.

Or death.

In the mafia, sometimes those meant the same thing.

"You're done," Ranpo announces, turning around to clean up all the items he'd pulled out of his pack. Because of how cramped his bathroom is, that leaves his back pressed right up
against Shuuji. He can see him in the mirror, a dark spot in the otherwise dingy white of his bathroom.

"Are you gonna at least kiss it better?" Shuuji grumbles, giving him a hopeful look. He's taken his jacket off, and it's draped across his lap. His undershirt is a dark red,
clinging to his chest.

Ranpo snorts, shoving his first aid kit back underneath the sink. "No," he says, "I don't kiss drunk injured boys in my bathroom. Try again later."

Shuuji looks sad for a moment, and then he perks back up. "So I /can/ try again later?"

Ah, so hopeful.
Ranpo doesn't answer that, choosing instead to pad out of the bathroom with a sly smile.

There's a small storage closet near his 'bedroom', and that's where he keeps all his stuff he doesn't need or use on a regular basis. Coats, extra blankets, and his spare futon.

It's a
little dusty when he unrolls it, but it'll be fine for the night. He'll just cover it up with a blanket, and it'll be as good as new.

"You can sleep here tonight."

Shuuji looks at the threadbare futon with a hint of disgust, but doesn't say anything. His shoes get kicked off
and placed near the door. His jacket gets shoved under a nearby desk.

It's only when he's popped the button on his jeans and has his thumbs hooked into his waistband that he seems to realize that Ranpo hasn't actually /left/.

"Are you just gonna stand there and watch?" He asks,
offering him a cheeky grin. Teasingly, he snaps his waistband against his hips.

With the way his shirt is pulled up, Ranpo can see the outline of his hips. He's skinny more than /toned/, but there /is/ a dusting of dark hair leading down that catches his attention.

He arches an
eyebrow at him, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "Why, do you have something to /hide/?"

"No," Shuuji says, not looking away as he shimmies his jeans a little further down his hips. "But I usually sleep /naked/, and I don't think you have any clothes that would fit me."
That's a /bold/ assumption. Ranpo actually has a pair of oversized sweats and sweater for when he's feeling under the weather but--

Shuuji doesn't need to know that, does he?

"You're probably right," Ranpo concedes, letting his mouth curl into a sharp, teasing grin.

He
doesn't move to leave. He's giving him a /challenge/.

After a moment, Shuuji shrugs and keeps undressing. He leaves the underwear--tight-cut briefs in navy blue that leave very little to the imagination and outline his butt cutely-- on for now, pushing down his jeans until he
can reach down and pull them off by his ankles. He leaves his socks on.

His thighs are toned, slim. Ranpo can see the slight ripple of muscle there when he straightens back up, hands going to the buttons on his shirt.

He'd look cute in thigh highs, Ranpo muses, or maybe a
garter belt. Something /cute/, to embarrass him.

Ranpo would /love/ to see him in pink. He'd probably hate it, be all squirmy and blushy and maybe try to cover himself up--

But he'd do it. Ranpo would bet on it.

Shuuji's fingers fumble a few times on the buttons, and he has
to break eye contact so he can look down and see what he's doing.

Ranpo's lips twitch. Poor baby can't hold his drink.

Cute.

Eventually the shirt gets completely discarded, but whatever suave, sensual energy Shuuji was going for is obliterated when the sleeve gets caught on
his hand and he has to flap his arm around a few times to get it off.

Then he's /mostly/ naked, with only the black boxer briefs to cover him and Ranpo allows himself the opportunity to /look/.

He was right-- Shuuji is skinny, but not unattractively so. He's got a dusting of
dark hair on his chest and between his hips. He's pale, and could use a few hours in the sun somewhere. His collarbones are sharp, regal. Elegant, almost.

He's not /bad/, but he could use some work. A little bit of feeding, an improved workout routine so he can finally fill out
his body instead of looking like a gangly teenager--

Oh.

/Aw/, is he already starting to harden at the attention Ranpo's giving him? Just from being /looked at/?

Not a /lot/, but Ranpo notices /everything/.

That's /adorable/.

But it's like Ranpo said-- he doesn't kiss
drunk boys, and especially not for the first time. Not when they aren't in the right mind to consent.

And not before Ranpo has given them a chance to /work/ for it.

Giving Shuuji one last hot glance over, smirking slyly at the way he practically preens under the attention,
Ranpo turns around and heads into his room. "Good night."

There's a strangled noise from behind him that sounds like /frustration/, but he soundly ignores it.

He shuts the door on Shuuji, using his makeshift lock on the door to ensure that the little brat doesn't do anything
/sneaky/, like try to crawl into his bed while he's sleeping.

It's not quite the doghouse (Ranpo lied about that, actually, none of his neighbors have a doghouse) but he /knows/ that the futon has to be too short for Shuuji, because it's the perfect size for /himself/.

Also,
the blankets he gave him /suck/. They're scratchy and itchy compared to the luxuriously soft and fluffy ones Ranpo keeps in his bed.

Payback, for being a brat. Puppies sleep on the /floor/ when they're naughty.

Still, this sleep is probably the best Ranpo's gotten in a while.
He tells himself it's not because there's someone /else/ in his home with him.

He just never got used to sleeping /alone/, that's all.

---------- +
Sometimes, it amazes Chuuya to recognize how far he's come and how much he's matured in the last few weeks.

For instance, if he had been staring at the logo of /this/ store a few weeks back, he'd be stuttering and red with embarrassment. The idea of going in would've /never/
occurred to him.

Now, he's just arching a brow at Dazai in silent question, wondering why they're here in /person/ instead of browsing the online store. From what he say, the online portion had /way/ more options, and customizable ones too.

Dazai curls his fingers at him,
beckoning him closer. For once, they've managed to park /near/ the store itself, and it's barely a block of walking to get here.

Because it's impossible /not/ to come when Dazai calls, Chuuya steps forward. He fits himself into Dazai's side naturally, shoulders sliding under
his arm.

"Why didn't we just shop online?" He grumbles quietly, allowing Dazai to pull him closer towards the store.

It's two days since the /incident/-- which is how Chuuya is referring to it now, because 'the day I nearly got ran over and knifed' feels too /visceral/-- and
they had the /collar/ conversation last night.

Well, maybe calling it a /conversation/ is a a bit generous. Chuuya barely got through "I was thinking about what you said about getting me a collar, and I think I'd really like one--" before Dazai was rolling over him like a storm,
pinning him to the mattress and kissing him breathless and making him /cry/.

In a good way. In a I'm-going-to-be-very-sore-tomorrow kind of way.

Then Dazai /barely/ let him sleep him--sue him, Chuuya is using all his sick days for class and soaking up the luxury of being able
to sleep in until noon-- because the 'store' he wanted to go to opens at 10a.m.

It's not like Chuuya can protest, because he has to go back to class /tomorrow/, and he'd never give up an opportunity to spend more time with Dazai.

Even if that means suffering a /little/
embarrassment, because this is /another/ adult store.

He doesn't even know the name, because the building is unmarked and unassuming.He wouldn't even know there /was/ a store here if it weren't for Dazai.

"Online is fun," Dazai concedes, fingers playing with the end of Chuuya's
braid. He tugs on it occasionally, prompting Chuuya to pinch at his side in retaliation. "But I prefer to look at things like this in person. Check the quality of it. Besides, it's much quicker if I have to make a return.

Chuuya can't argue with /that/ logic, pausing with Dazai
as the man reaches to open the door for them both.

But it does bring up another question, one that makes /slight/ insecurity coil in his stomach. "Have you bought collars for other people before?"

It's not like Chuuya can fault him if he /did/--though Dazai has never mentioned
anyone special or any previous relationships, beyond Sasaki-- but he can't /help/ feeling a bit insecure. He knows Dazai likes him but--

There's /better/ people out there. Older, more experienced, smarter, more beautiful. Someone who /deserves/ to be spoiled the way Dazai spoils
him, and didn't /stumble/ into it the way he did.

He doesn't try to indulge those thoughts, because the more he thinks about it,the harder they are to ignore, and the guiltier Chuuya feels because it feels like he's /dismissing/ Dazai's feelings whenever he doubts himself.

It's
hard sometimes, being in a relationship. It's /worth/ it, obviously, but it doesn't cure the problems Chuuya has with himself.

As always, Dazai pushes into the building first, holding the door open for Chuuya to follow behind. He's always been strangely insistent that /he/
needs to be the one to enter a building first.

Chuuya hardly notices it now though, automatically waiting until Dazai tilts his head to usher him in.

"Mm," Dazai hums, seeming to think about it for a moment. "Nope. You're my first, little siren."

/That/ makes Chuuya's heart
skip a beat, heat rising in his face. Dazai's been so many of /his/ firsts, and the idea of being one of /his/ firsts too makes him ridiculously giddy.

(It's not /technically/ the truth, because Dazai /has/ bought collars for general use, but this is the /first/ time he's bought
a personalized one /for/ someone. The first time he's bought something so... /meaningful/ for someone he's in a relationship with.

He's terribly excited. His mind has been spinning with ideas and options ever since Chuuya admitted he wanted one, and he knows Chuuya is supposed
to pick it out himself, and obviously his opinion matters but--

God, there's /so/ many Dazai wants to see him in.Pretty, subtle ones, ones with attachments for /leashes/,one with a tag on it, colored ones, one that says /Daddy/--

If he's not careful, and if Chuuya is /willing/,
they'll probably end up with a whole /collection/.)

Inside the store is...

Well, it's /classier/ than the last adult store, but not by much. The front part is arranged with shoes and knick-knacks, but /behind/ that, Chuuya can see a big array of toys. He even recognizes most of
them, this time.

To their left is the reason why they came to /this/ store specifically, nearly an hour away from Dazai's house:

Collars. Whole shelves of them, displayed in shelves and on hooks, on the walls. Dozens of them, in different colors and shapes and sizes.

It's a
bit daunting, if he's honest, because how is he supposed to /choose/?

Is it like fashion, and he just picks the one that is most practical? One that's more /subtle/, so he can wear it more often?

More /bold/?

If there's a rulebook for picking which one he wants to wear, Dazai
didn't give him one. He's not sure there even /is/ one.

Dazai makes nice with the shop owner for a bit, making conversation that's familiar enough that it hints that he's a repeat customer. Makes sense, considering he's got a /collection/ of toys, and this store is even bigger
and better stocked than the one in Osaka.

Dazai probably funds the store nearly himself, with the rate he spends money and buys things.

By himself, Chuuya wanders over to the collars section and just...

Takes it all in. Takes in the different styles and colors, and pauses at
whichever ones catch his attention.

Some of them are /way/ too bold for him right now, with big metal rings attached and chains dangling from them, or with big metal letters along the front. They're appealing in a /way/, but Chuuya thinks he wants something /subtle/ for his
first collar.

He's not ready for something so /obvious/ and eccentric, and he does want to be able to wear his new collar in /public/ if he wants to.

Along the back left, is where the more subtle pieces are. There's not as many, but enough for him to have a choice of options.
There is /one/ that immediately catches his eye.

It's a light pink, light enough that it could be white in certain lighting, and it's made of simple leather. The only decoration on it is a small heart in the middle, made of metal. It has an adjustable latch on it, with a few
holes so he can choose the size he wants.

It's /cute/, subtle and could be passed off as a choker. (He doesn't want people on the street to see him and just /know/ that he's wearing a collar, that still seems embarrassing.)

It's also small enough that it could be tucked
under the collar of his shirt without anyone noticing. Small enough that he could sleep with it on, and not be bothered.

(He will sleep in it.

In fact, there's only /one/ instance where he takes it off with no intention of putting it back /on/ and--

That's a much sadder story
than the one of him /getting/ the collar. It will be the worst day of his life.

But that's the thing about broken clocks and burnt-out timers:

Most of the time, they can always be fixed. Restarted.

Tik, tok, Chuuya. You're running out of time.)

He takes it off the shelf,
weighing it in his hand. It /feels/ nice, pleasantly heavy and smooth in his grip.

"That one?"

Dazai's voice comes from behind him, startling him. He whirls around, clutching his hand to his chest as his heart leaps in fear-response.

Dazai's standing just behind him, hands
hidden behind his back. He's got a /sneaky/ smile one, but before Chuuya can even narrow his eyes in suspicion, he's gesturing with his chin at the leather still in his hand.

"I like it," Chuuya says, feeling oddly defensive as he presses the collar to his chest. "It's cute."
Dazai nods, offering him a bright smile. "It /is/ cute," he agrees. "Do you want to try it on?"

Oh, yeah, he should probably do that, right?

There's a mirror floating around head-level on a shelf a few feet away. He moves over there, reaching behind to flip his braid upwards
so he can slide the collar around his neck.

It cinches in the /back/, so it's a bit difficult to buckle up with only one person. He has to turn the entire thing around so he can see the buckle in the mirror, and then slide it back around once it's tightened.

Dazai follows him
over to the mirror, but doesn't offer to help. He's rocking back and forth on his heels and watching avidly, but his hands remain firmly behind his back.

Chuuya has to adjust the collar a few times before the little metal heart is resting comfortably over his Adam's Apple. It's
loose enough that he can breathe comfortably, and jst tight enough that he can feel it's presence around his neck whenever he moves.

It's like a choker, but with more /meaning/. It's like having Dazai's hand wrapped lovingly around his neck, all the time. A reminder and a
promise, even when they're not physically together.

It's also subtle enough and so /lightly/ pink that he can match it to almost every outfit he can think of.

It's perfect. He likes it, a lot.

He meets Dazai's eyes in the mirror, opening his mouth to tell him that /this/ is
the one he wants--

When he notices that Dazai's hands are /still/ behind his back. He narrows his eyes, squinting at him suspiciously. "What's behind you back?"

Dazai shifts in place a little, intentionally widening his eyes to make himself cuter and harder to resist. "Just...
hear me out, okay?"

Chuuya doesn't agree to /anything/,watching him in the mirror as he takes his hands out from behind his back and presents to him--

A hanger,with sheer, lacy white lingerie hanging from it. It's strappy, ethereal. Sexy.

Dazai holds the hanger just underneath
his chin, giving him his /best/ puppy eyes.

It's hard to resist when he looks like /that/. Chuuya can already feel himself beginning to crumble, even though he had never considered wearing /lingerie/.

"Please?" Dazai asks, voice sweet and pleading. Then, as if the idea will
help to convince him, he points out, "It matches the collar."

It doesn't /exactly/, considering the collar is pink and the lingerie is /white/, but he can respect how hard Dazai is trying to convince him.

Stepping forward, he takes one of the straps in hand. It's cute, he has
to admit. Just strappy enough that it doesn’t seem /too/ feminine and instead more /sexy/. There’s straps that would hug his hips and thighs and waist, all places that /Dazai/ likes to hold.

However there /is/ a bra section, and while Chuuya isn’t necessarily opposed to wearing
something like that on his chest but he doesn’t /have/ breasts. His pecs are defined, but not /that/ much.

Wouldn’t it look weird with the loose fabric?

“Do you think it’ll fit?” He asks, tugging on the trap that would hug his waist. He’s not exactly proportionated like a
woman, even though he is still pretty small.

“It’s the smallest they have,” Dazai responds, moving to show him a buckle on one of the straps. “And it’s adjustable. It’ll fit.”

Dazai /does/ know his size pretty well, so he’s probably right. It looks about his size anyways, but
it’ll probably need to be adjusted around his hips and thighs especially.

“You want me to wear this?” He asks, just to make sure. It’s obvious but—

He never /thought/ about wearing something like this, especially for someone else, and it’s a /little/ hard to reconcile with.
He doesn’t think he has the body type to pull something so /revealing/ off, but Dazai looks like he might /beg/ him to put it on.

“Yes,” Dazai responds immediately, voice hopeful.

“For you?”

Dazai nods, looking /very/ close to an excited puppy. Minus the ears and tail.
“I don’t know,” Chuuya hedges, playing into his instincts to /tease/ and play. He’s interested but he still needs to be /convinced/. “What’s in it for me?”

It’s shocking how fast Dazai can go from his /boyfriend/—silly, playful, sweet, a little stupid— to the man who /dominates/
him on a regular basis.

“Oh, /baby/,” he practically purrs, reaching out with one hand to hook a finger underneath the leather of his collar. He tugs, pulling him closer and forcing Chuuya to tilt his chin back and rise up on his toes.

Forcing him to meet a gaze that is
suddenly /molten/, nearly glowing with heat. So hot it feels too warm to breathe, suddenly.

“I’ll fuck you so good you won’t even remember your /name/ by the time I’m done with you.”

Chuuya shivers, lips parting. An electric thrill shoots down his spine, pooling in his stomach.
He is not immune to the idea of sexual favors.

Besides, Dazai has proven that almost everything he suggests turns out /good/ for him. Mind-bendingly good.

He’ll take a chance with /this/ too, even if he does feel a little daunted by the idea of wearing something... so overtly
sexual.

“I’m not trying it on here though,” he mutters, swaying forward a little farther. He aches for a kiss, even just a /little/ one.

Dazai’s finger flips around, stroking the pad of his finger over his rabbiting pulse for a second before sliding out. “That’s fine. I just
want to get a few more things, and then we can go.”

A ‘few more things’ being an /obscenely/ huge bottle of something called ‘cum lube’—the bottle is mostly covered by the label, but he can see some liquid that looks thicker and /whiter/ than regular lube—, a pack of batteries,
what /looks/ like some sort of toy he can put on his tongue, and—

A /leash/. Made of silver chain, with a white leather strap on the end. It has a hole that Dazai can slip his wrist into.

Chuuya can barely even look at the cashier, even though he knows this is just a regular
day for /her/. She barely even looks twice at them, beyond taking down Dazai’s membership information.

The man has a /membership/ to a /sex store/. Chuuya hopes he gets discounts or something. Maybe there’s a points system.

‘Buy 10,000yen worth of toys, get a vibrator free’ or
something.

The bag the cashier uses to put all their stuff in is discrete, a plain brown without any labels. Chuuya is grateful, even though he’s pretty Dazai wouldn’t bat an eye at carrying a bag from an adult store down the street in plain view.

If there’s anything Chuuya
has learned, it’s not Dazai is /shameless/, at all times and hours of the day. At least Chuuya acts decent in /public/.

Well, most of the time, anyways. The public play with Dazai nonwithstanding, because he was clearly /coerced/ into doing that.

Then Dazai is ushering him
out the door, and for /once/, he seems just as eager to get home as Chuuya is. Usually he likes to make him /wait/, to show off his skills of self-control and patience by drawing out the anticipation as long as physically possible--

But now he's almost /rushing/, like he's so
eager to see Chuuya dress up for him that he's almost pushing him into the car to get him going faster.

It's /amusing/, to be on the other side, for once. Yes, he wants to try on the lingerie--wants to get /fucked/, he's needy and addicted-- but clearly not as much as Dazai
wants to see him in it.

Chuuya eyes him as he's driving them home--five over the speed limit, which is a /bit/ faster than usual, but nothing that should get them pulled over-- wondering...

He already said /please/ once so--

Is this Chuuya's chance to make /him/ beg?
It's always been /him/ begging so far, and don't get him wrong, he /likes/ that. He likes their power dynamic, likes how easy and effortless it is to give into Dazai and let him take complete control--

But what would it be like on the /other/ side? To have /Dazai/ on his knees?
The mental image of /that/ sends a thrill of excitement through him, making him take a sip of the coffee they stopped to get to cover up his rising blush.

He wants it. He just doesn't know how to /get/ it.

He's a /lot/ more confident than he was in the beginning, and he
recognizes that. /However/, they've fallen into a natural order of things, where Dazai takes control and Chuuya submits, and he doesn't know how to /flip/ that without messing it up or making it awkward or killing the mood.

The best course of action is probably just to /talk/
about it. To tell Dazai that he doesn't mind having /some/ control sometimes, and that he /wants/ to have power over him too, sometimes.

He makes a mental note to bring it up sometime. Not now, because this is the /first/ time he's doing something like this and he's already
nervous. He wants the /first/ time to go easy and good, which means letting Dazai take control and show him what to do.

Next time, though. When he's a little more confident, and can work the situation to his /advantage/.

When they finally arrive home--just under an hour later,
because Dazai was speeding the /entire/ time--, Yoko and Kozo greet them at the door.

Chuuya feels bad that they didn't get them anything on their shopping trip, so he takes a moment to feed them both a handful of treats to make up for it.

Dazai gives their ears a quick stroke
before disappearing upstairs.

Anticipation swirls heavily in the air, gathering like sun rays swallowed easily down. Sticking to his throat and lungs, pushing his blood to pump a /little/ faster, a little heavier. He's hyperaware of himself in a way he rarely is, cognizant of
the sway of his hips and the way his chest expands on a breath.

Part of him wants to draw it out, as revenge for all the times Dazai made /him/ wait but--

He's addicted himself, and now that he /knows/ what's waiting for him upstairs-- /"Oh, /baby/, I'll fuck you so good you
won't even remember your name."/-- how is he supposed to /wait/?

Patience has never been a virtue of his, despite his father's best efforts. If he wants something, he wants it /now/, immediately.

When he joins Dazai upstairs, the man is nowhere to be found. However, the door
to the bathroom has been left open. The light is on, the spill of warmth and brightness beckoning Chuuya in.

There, spread out on the counter and waiting for him, are three things:

The choker, which he had to take off to buy and Dazai didn't let him put back on in the car. The
leash, which is coiled up in a perfect circle, like /that's/ supposed to make it any less dirty.

And the lingerie, taken off the hook and straightened until it's pristine and perfect against the black marble.

Well. That's a pretty obvious sign, isn't it?

He shuts the door,
making sure to lock it so that Dazai can't get a sneak peek before Chuuya's ready.

Stripping his clothes off is easy, routine. He shaved and trimmed everything a few days ago,before the /incident/, so he doesn't need to do that--

Though, now that he's /considering/ it, wouldn't
the lingerie look better if he had shaved legs? It's not his legs are /obnoxiously/ hairy, because he doesn't grow a lot of hair anyways, and what hair he /does/ grow on his body is a light orangey-blond, almost too faint to see but--

When he envisions wearing something like
/this/, he imagines silky smooth skin. Sleek and shiny and perfect.

Fuck it. Why not? It gives him extra time to prepare, and lets Dazai simmer in the meantime.

Shaving his legs is harder than he thought it'd be, actually. He has to hike his leg up onto the counter with his
knee pressed to his chest. He steals some of Dazai's shaving cream, because he took a shower this morning and he doesn't want to take another one.

He ends up nicking himself like three times, when he's trying to shave his knee-- an awkward, nearly impossible task-- and near his
ankle when he goes too fast. He's pretty sure he missed a stripe of hair along his calf, and he doesn't know if he's supposed to shave /behind/ his knee or not, so he just doesn't.

It's fine. It doesn't have to be /perfect/. He just has to be /presentable/.

Dazai has some
fancy lotion that Chuuya's pretty sure is imported from France or something, and he slathers his legs up until he's slippery and shiny.

Then comes the /real/ trial:

Putting on the lingerie.

Without it being on the hanger, it's hard to figure out exactly where everything
/goes/. The straps are confusing, and pulling it on is awkward because he has to adjust each part.

The built-in collar, he actually takes off entirely. There's a little hook that connects it to the straps that run lengthwise down his body, and he hooks /that/ to his brand-new
collar instead.

Eventually, he gets it right, snapping all the pieces in place. Taking a breath, he looks at himself in the mirror and--

Okay, yeah, he can /definitely/ see the appeal to this.

The white color makes his hair and eyes pop even more. The straps over his hips and
thighs are just a /little/ too tight, making the skin on either side bulge out a little in compensation. The lace itself feels pretty nice against his skin, and once he's tugged the top down a little farther than it's meant to go, his chest fills it up pretty nicely.

The
/underwear/, on the other hand, is a bit uncomfortable. Clearly, this wasn't exactly built with his /bits/ in mind, so finding out the exact way to stretch the lace around his dick is /hard/. Plus, it's a /thong/ in the back, which admittedly does make his butt look very nice but
it's a little /uncomfortable/ to get used to? Like having a wedgie, but smaller and constantly.

Still, though, the visual makes up for /every/ ounce of awkward fumbling. He's /hot/. Pretty. Ethereal. Like something out of a magazine.

And this is all /before/ Dazai has seen him.
He's probably going to lose his /mind/ and rock his world as soon as he does. He promised, after all, and Dazai always keeps his promises.

It's that thought that gives him the bravery to take the leash--untouched so far-- and unroll it. There's a small metal loop on the back of
his collar, right at the nape of his neck. It takes him a second to clip it on.

Then--

There's nothing left to /do/ but to go out into the room. He's shaved and lotioned, and touched up his makeup. He's dressed, collared, /leashed/.

Time to shine.

Taking a deep breath, he
throws open the door.

The light in the bedroom is comparatively darker than in the bathroom, so he has to blink a few times until his vision adjusts.

The first thing he sees is /Dazai/, sitting in the armchair by the bed. He's leaning forward slightly, phone forgotten in his
hand as he /devours/ him with his gaze. With how dark it is, his eyes look pitch black, endless pools of darkness that entice him further in.

Chuuya strikes a pose in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame and cocking his hip to the side. His fingers find the end of
the leash, swinging the leather at the end in slow, cocky circles. "Like what you see?" He purrs, fluttering his lashes and letting his lips curl into a self-confident smile.

How could he be anything /less/ than confident when Dazai's staring at him like /that/? Like he might
eat him /alive/, like nothing is more important to him in this moment than /Chuuya/. Like he's been knocked off-center, and his self-control is fraying at the edges.

"Yes," he responds, voice dark and throbbing, curling out of the darkness, "I /do/. You're /beautiful/, doll."
Chuuya preens under the attention,arching his back and tilting his hips forward.

Dazai raises a hand, beckoning with long, elegant fingers. "Come here, lovely."

Eager, Chuuya goes to take a step forward--

"No," Dazai interrupts, voice darkening. "I want you to /crawl/ for me."
Chuuya falters, hesitating. That's not what he was expecting at /all/. It makes him /pause/, wondering what exactly to /do/--

But something about how self-assured and /sinful/ Dazai's voice is, like sweet red wine and dark chocolate, makes his knees start to buckle in response.
Whiskey-brown eyes flash at him in the darkness, /approving/ as his knees hit the floor. His hands follow next, cold wood against his palms.

"/There/ you are," Dazai says,low. "Come here."

He settles back in his chair with that, spreading his thighs in invitation. He's changed,
into slacks that seem too formal for home wear but are /perfect/ for this exact moment.

He's even wearing /shoes/, shiny and clean.

The first reach forward with his hand feels less like a conscious decision and more giving into instincts. Accepting all the heat that Dazai
ignites within him, all the /desires/, all the filth and sin and debauchery at the talented hands of /one/ man.

His knee follows naturally, spine rolling sensually. The chain of his leash drags along the floor loudly, nearly getting caught up beneath his legs. Making sure he
doesn't kneel on it when he's /trying/ to sink into the mood of what's happening is annoying.

He could hold the chain in one hand to make sure it stays out of his way, or he could--

Pausing for a moment, he looks up at Dazai through his lashes. The man is staring him down,
like an arrogant king watching him approach, all sharp eyes and sharp smile, teeth glinting like treasure in the low light.

Without breaking eye contact, Chuuya finds the end of the chain where it connects into the strip of white leather--

And brings it to his mouth.
The chain is cold in his mouth,hard against his teeth.

It has /nothing/ on the way the sight of Dazai's hands tightening on the arms of the chair, digging his nails in like he's fighting against the urge to reach out and drag him closer, jaw clenching around the things he wants
to /say/--

The next step, back rounding and then arching in a sensual roll of movement, is even easier than the first. He's only a few feet away now, every step bringing him closer, dragged into the orbit of a dying star and set afire to burn alongside.

Another step. Another.
Coincidentally, or perhaps on purpose, Dazai's knees are spread /just/ wide enough for him to settle between. Room enough for /him/, and nothing else.

He comes to his knees, wrapping one hand around Dazai's ankle. The other slides up his thigh, silently fawning over the bunched
muscle there.

He presses his cheek against the inside of his knee. The material of his slacks is pleasantly rough against his skin, sweet friction after so long of /aching/ to be touched.

Dazai's hand comes down and Chuuya feels almost like a /cat/, pushing into the
fingers that stroke over his cheek with almost loving gentleness.

“Look at you,” Dazai murmurs, almost to himself. “So /beautiful/. Pretty and perfect and /eager/.”

He /is/ eager. He’s already starting to harden in the panties, just from the attention and the sheer /dominance/
Dazai radiates like an oncoming storm. The lace is rough, slightly grating against sensitive skin and the sensation makes him squirm in place.

Fingers wrap around the chain hanging from his mouth, gently tugging it free. Chuuya lets it go without complaint, mouth opening for
Dazai at the slightest pressure.

Dazai’s hands look like they were /made/ to hold a leash, elegantly wrapping the chain over his knuckles and threading it through his fingers until the leash is taut.

His mouth gets coaxed open a little farther, just far enough that Dazai can
push his thumb in. The pad of his finger presses down on his tongue, silencing him and encouraging him to /suck/ in the same movement.

“The things I’m going to do to you,” Dazai muses to himself, eyes black. The chain wrapped around his fingers presses against Chuuya’s cheek,
slowly warming to skin temperature.

With a thumb in his mouth, Chuuya can’t /say/ anything, but he doesn’t need words to express how /eager/ he is. He looks up at Dazai through his lashes, deliberately widening his eyes into a pleading pout at the same time he hollows his cheeks
and /sucks/.

Dazai's eyes seem to get /redder/ as he gets excited, the bulge in his slacks slowly growing and turning Chuuya into a heated mess. Being able to affect him, even when he's acting controlled and dominating, is like a drug Chuuya can't get enough of.

Thumb hooking
behind his teeth, Dazai tugs him upwards.

It's slightly awkward to shuffle upwards when he doesn't have that much leverage or room to maneuver, but Chuuya manages it. He ends up with a knee on either side of Dazai's thighs, suspended over his lap.

"Good boy," Dazai mutters,
and uses the leash to tug him into a first, searing kiss.

This kiss is different from all the others before. For one, Dazai is /teasing/, slotting his upper lip between Chuuya's, and nibbling lightly on his pouting bottom lip. He seems more intent on driving him /crazy/ than
giving him what he /wants/.

Secondly--

Whenever Chuuya gets too into it, whenever he presses forward too hard or tries to catch Dazai in a bite, hands tugging demandingly at his hair--

Dazai tugs on the leash until he's forced to submit to the pull, reluctantly going lax in
his lap and letting himself be kissed exactly how Dazai wants to kiss him.

Which is long,lingering, a reverent offering to the heat slowly coming to boil inside them. It's only when Chuuya's lips are tingling and half-numb that his /tongue/ comes into play, the tip of it sliding
over sensitive flesh and making him gasp.

Then his tongue is in his mouth, and his fingers are threaded through the leash, and his other hand is smoothing up his thigh. He's burning hot underneath him and coaxing him into mindless desire.

Every tug on the leash is /arousing/,
a physical reminder of the control Dazai has over him. He doesn't /need/ the leash to order him around, because he /likes/ being good, but there's something so visceral about being pushed and pulled around.

Like he's /helpless/, unable to do anything except take what's given to
him and moan for more.

Dazai's thumb slides under one of the straps on his thigh, stroking over the soft skin of his inner thigh. His hands are rough with use,calloused from work, and /talented/. His fingers are long enough that they wrap nearly the width of his thigh, squeezing
and kneading at his flesh until his breath is catching in his throat.

His leash gets pulled,forcibly tugging him backwards until the kiss is broken. Chuuya leans backward to compensate for the pull, reaching one hand back to brace himself on Dazai's knee.

"I /like/ when you're
all dressed up for me," he murmurs, hand running up his thigh and over the curve of his hip. It lingers in spots, tugging at the straps over his hips and waist, fingers rubbing over the lace until Chuuya is nearly squirming from the sensation and beginning to pant. "Do you like
it?"

He /does/, actually, partly because he feels so... /sexy/ in it. Irresistible, like a wet dream come to life.

Partly because he'd like almost anything if it made Dazai like /this/, all purring dominance and sensual control, petting pleasure into him with every stroke of
his fingers and brush of his palm.

When Dazai makes a tsk'ing noise and tugs on him, Chuuya nods. He opens his mouth to give a verbal answer, but he cuts himself off with a choked groan when his palm settles over his straining erection.

He's still trapped in the panties, lace
rough against his skin. Beyond it, the heat of Dazai's palm is nearly /scorching/. The friction is rough, but Chuuya arches into the attention, rolling his hips forward and letting his head tip back.

"I thought so," Dazai muses, tracing the outline of his cock with a teasing
fingertip. When he finds the slightly-wet spot where Chuuya is starting to leak pre-cum, he rubs the wet lace over the sensitive slit mercilessly.

“But now that you’re /in/ it, how am I supposed to take it /off/ you, hm? How am I supposed to get you all messy when you look so
pretty?”

As nice as being /admired/ feels, makes heat swirl in his stomach, he needs /more/. Dazai promised him.

He wiggles forward more, until he’s sitting directly over the bulge beneath Dazai’s zipper. Dazai lets him, watching him with amused, heated eyes as Chuuya gets
comfortable and finds his balance. He rocks downward, grinding against Dazai's clothed erection until he's pulling out a long, low hiss from the man.

He doesn't say please, though he will if Dazai wants him too. Instead he just lets him /feel/ him, the heat of his body behind
the lace, the way his muscles move under the skin, the way he seems /made/ to fit in Dazai's arms, a perfect match.

Dazai's erection thickens underneath him, growing hotter, harder. Chuuya wants it so bad it /aches/.

"I guess you're right," Dazai says, even though Chuuya
didn't /say/ anything. His hand, now roaming over his chest and pinching at his nipples through the fabric, leaves for a moment, reaching for the nearby table. "If we get /this/ set dirty--"

By the curl of his mouth, the heat swirling in his eyes, and the bottle of lube he's
pulling out of the drawer, the erection he's currently grinding against--

Dazai plans on getting him /very/ dirty, just the way Chuuya loves to be.

"-- we'll just have to get you /new/ ones,right?"

Surprisingly, Dazai hands him the bottle. It's the /new/ bottle he just bought,
the 'cum lube'.

He finds out /why/ it's called that when he pops the cap on it and pours a generous amount into Dazai's waiting palm.

It's thick, milky white and thick. It /smells/ artificial, like latex and rubber, but it looks almost exactly like cum. When Dazai spreads it
over his fingers, it looks almost /exactly/ the same way it does when Chuuya comes in his hand.

Except more. A /lot/ more.

Still, the visual is shockingly hot. Lube itself doesn't do anything for Chuuya-- it's just part of the process. He likes it when it's flavored or smells
nice, but he's never liked /lube/ for itself. It's always been about how good Dazai makes him feel with it, the knowledge that something /more/ is coming.

Now though--

Now it doesn't look like /lube/ that Dazai spreads across his thighs as he reaches between his legs. It looks
like cum, /his/ cum,marking him up in the most primitive way there is. Like the way he likes to cum on Chuuya's face, the way he likes to come /inside/ him, fill him up until he can't take anymore.

It's easy to pretend, and it makes Chuuya's stomach clench when his fingers brush
against the underside of his ass. In this position, he has to lift one of his legs to give Dazai enough room to worth with, but it /also/ means he gets to feel his wrist work and flex underneath him as he hooks one finger in his underwear and tugs it to the side.

Chuuya isn't
exactly surprised, because he /expected/ to be fingered open or maybe even fucked while wearing the lingerie--

But it still feels /filthy/ to be fucked in clothes, any clothes. Like they can't get /enough/ of each other, like they're so frantic with want that they can't even
take the time to get their clothes off before /devouring/ each other.

And like this-- Chuuya dressed up in pretty lace and straps, collared and leashed in Dazai's lap, who is fully dressed in slacks and a silk button down with the sleeves rolled up--

They must make a /sinful/
picture. Chuuya almost wishes he had a /mirror/, or a camera, just so he could imprint this image in his mind forever. So he could revisit it again and again, admire them both from all angles.

Dazai's fingers, wet with lube, slide over his entrance. They fuck so often that it
feels achingly familiar to have him rubbing lube over him in long, indulgent strokes. Like something inside him was missing, and Dazai is offering him back that missing piece.

The leash gets tugged again, shocking Chuuya out of his breathless reverie. He's trembling,
hips rocking down into Dazai's every push. He denies him every time though, retreating every time he gets /close/ to pushing inside.

"Kiss me, puppy," he murmurs, tugging him forward again. His eyes are devastatingly dark, lips wet and shiny in the low lighting. He looks almost
like a shadow come to life, his darkest and sweetest dreams come to drag him into the darkness.

The pet name has Chuuya blushing instinctively, but the /command/ has him lurching forward near-immediately. The bottle of lube gets discarded, forgotten in the space between their
bodies and the arm of the chair,in favor of filling his hands with dark, wavy hair.

Pulling on the strands isn't as satisfying as pulling on a /leash/ would be, but he does it anyway. In one motion, he's forcibly tilting Dazai's head back for a better angle, and the /next/, he's
surging forward and claiming him in a kiss.

Hot, deep, filled with frenetic energy and tingling-electricity. His tongue plunging into Dazai's mouth, using his higher position and leverage to control the pace and depth of the kiss--

Then Dazai /smirks/, and in the next second,
he's driving his finger inside him on one brutal slide. He gets to the second knuckle before Chuuya's body catches up with the sensation and instinctively clenches down in reaction.

He /almost/ breaks the kiss with a choked moan, but Dazai's pulling the leash tight, dragging him
close and not letting him move even so much as a centimeter away. His groan gets muffled into his mouth, swallowed up.

"Shh," Dazai murmurs back, pausing to suck on his bottom lip in the same rhythm that his finger is working deeper inside him. "Take it. You can do it; you
/always/ do it."

He /can/ do it, of course, but Dazai is usually more /gentle/ with him, at least in the beginning. Like he's testing Chuuya's limits each time, and only when he finds them does he begin to push past them slightly.

Now, it seems like he doesn't care for limits
at /all/. Like he knows exactly how much he can take, knows exactly where his limits lie and pulling out his finger and replacing it with /two/, sinking into him with slow, relentless ferocity isn't /pushing/ him, it's just giving him what he /needs/. What he wants.

With the way
they're sitting and the angle of his wrist, almost every brutal thrust of his fingers grinds mercilessly against his prostate.

The near-constant stimulation, combined with the /stretch/ and his erection rubbing against the lace of his panties, and the way Dazai is /still/
kissing him, swallowing his noises and pushing his tongue inside his mouth on a sensual slide, a counterpoint to where his fingers are /fucking/ him--

It's all making him climb to the edge, so quickly that he's dizzy with it. He's clinging onto Dazai's hair, fighting to ground
himself in the overload of sensations. He's panting into his mouth more than kissing him back, but its hard to /breathe/ when Dazai's fingers feel like they're forcing the air out of him and replacing it with searing-electric pleasure.

Of course, it doesn't help that Dazai
is still tugging on his leash every once in a while and tightening the collar around his throat. Not enough to /choke/ him, but enough that his breath stalls out for a moment. Enough to remind him how much power and control Dazai has over him, both physical and mental.

He /owns/
him, in a way that Chuuya revels in. He knows /exactly/ where to touch him, how to kiss him, what to say to him to get the reaction he wants. Knows what he wants without him having to /say/ it.

Logically, Chuuya knows that they still have a lot to learn about each other--

But
in moments like these, where he's full with his fingers, a wicked tongue in his mouth, unable and unwilling to move, strung out on Dazai's lap like he was /born/ to be here--

It's like none of that /matters/. The rest of the world fades away. It's just him and Dazai and his
heart that's pounding so fast it feels like it might burst in his chest.

Dazai's ring finger curls, rubbing against his slick and stretched rim. He doesn't push in /yet/, just teases at hyper-sensitive nerves as his fingers still inside him, splayed open and forcing his inner
muscles to stretch to accommodate.

/Finally/, Dazai allows him to break the kiss. Chuuya can't /go/ anywhere with how hard his thighs are trembling and how hungry the pit in his stomach feels. He ends up slumping forward even more, chin hooking over Dazai's shoulder.

The
position forces him to arch his back, pushing back into Dazai's hand. Knuckles catch on his rim, just on the /verge/ of too rough. Just enough that he clenches up in response, a bitten-off moan escaping him.

"Yeah?" Dazai breathes in response, teasing. His cheek is pressed
against his temple, the perfect position for his breath to curl around Chuuya's ear. His breath is hot, humid. "You /like/ that, don't you?"

It's not so much a /question/ as it is teasing, because obviously Chuuya likes it. Loves it, even. There's still only two fingers inside
him, with a third teasing at his rim, and he's still achingly hard. Trapped in the lace underwear, which is starting to grow painfully tight, and pressing intermittently against Dazai's clothed stomach, jostled forward every time his fingers thrust inside him.

"I--," he starts,
choking himself with a sharp inhale when the fingers inside him curl /inwards/, finding his prostate and pressing /in/, applying constant and direct pressure. It's enough to have his breath catching in his lungs and the trembling in his thighs increasingly sharply. "I--."

He
can't seem to get /anything/ out because as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, Dazai is moving again. Grinding his fingers in or spreading them wide, or pulling them back just to /slam/ forward again, over and over and over again in a rotating, senseless pattern until Chuuya
feel like he's going to shake apart in his arms.

"What's wrong, baby? Don't you want to talk to me?" Dazai murmurs, blowing a breath directly into his ear. His voice is teasing, smug and satisfying. He knows /exactly/ what he's doing to him and he's reveling in it.

Frustrated,
and strung out with the teasing, Chuuya moves his head down and sinks his teeth into his shoulder. It's not /hard/, considering he's biting through the shirt and he doesn't want to make Dazai /mad/, he just--

He /wants/ more, and Dazai is being /mean/ to him. He's making it
/hard/ for him, on purpose. He's enjoying stringing Chuuya along, like he always does,but now it's /worse/.

There's a sharp hiss of breath near his ear, then the leash is tightening so quickly that he nearly chokes at the pressure of the collar around his throat. He's physically
dragged off him, pulled backwards until his hand flies backward on instinct to brace himself on Dazai's knee to make sure he doesn't fall off his lap entirely.

"Is that /any/ way to ask for what you want?" Dazai reprimands, fingers stilling inside him as a form of punishment.
Chuuya opens his eyes, frustration and want boiling inside him in equal measures. He's /so/ close to what he wants, it's /maddening/. A third finger teasing at dipping inside him, the bulge of Dazai's erection underneath him.

He's /been/ good, he's been pretty and pliant, and
he got all dressed up. He wants his /reward/. Wants to be fucked into /oblivion/ like Dazai promised.

He opens his mouth, but Dazai tugs on the leash again, unbalancing him enough that he lets out a startled yelp. His other hand flies back, grabbing Dazai's other knee just in
case. It's not like he believes Dazai would let him fall, but he can't help the way his instincts flare and his stomach drops when he wobbles.

"I think I changed my mind," Dazai muses. He's leaned back in the chair, relaxed, looking for all the world like a king on his throne.
Like he's unaffected by this whole thing, like having Chuuya dressed up in lingerie and being knuckle deep inside him is just where he's /meant/ to be. Like this is just what he's /owed/.

Of course, the casual smirk on his face and relaxed posture is contradicted by the feel
of how /hard/ he is, practically throbbing against his zipper.

"I think I want you to be /quiet/ right now, baby. You aren't being very /nice/, and I want to give you what you want. And you want it /so/ bad, don't you?"

In the next moment, his fingers are retreating. They
return quickly, this time all three clustered together and pushing inside.

A heated, burnt-caramel gaze watches his expression carefully as his fingers sink into him slowly and relentlessly. Every gasp, every flutter of his eyelashes, every twitch and tremble gets carefully
observed. His face feels on fire, and Chuuya can't tell it that's from the stimulation or from the way Dazai is /looking/ at him, like a delicious meal being prepared right in front of him, like he's starving and about to /devour/ him.

His fingers press in to the knuckle on one,
deliciously long slide. It's slow enough that his body has time to adjust, but he doesn't stop. Not until he's buried in as deeply as his fingers will go.

The heel of his palm presses against his balls, almost-painfully. It makes his trapped erection jerk, releasing another drop
of pre-cum into the lace. A wet spot is rapidly forming, something that /should/ be embarrassing, but Chuuya isn't even thinking about that.

He's only thinking about how it feels to /finally/ have three long, thick fingers buried inside him. What it feels like as they flex and
curl inside him, finding his most sensitive spots and pressing against them relentlessly.

What it feels like to be one step closer to having what he /really/ wants inside him. His body is eager for it, muscles practically melting around Dazai's every push, bending so easily to
his will. Taking what's given to him easily and silently begging for more.

"You take me so /well/," Dazai murmurs, fingers flexing. His grip on the leash loosens, giving himself enough room to drop down to his chest. His fingers find his nipple through the lace, pinching it with
almost cruel intensity. His nail digs in, until Chuuya is wavering somewhere between pleasure and pain. The texture of the lace just adds /more/ sensation on top of that. "It's like you were /made/ for me, little doll."

With the way he's purring those words, Chuuya can't help
but agree. There's a /pull/ between them, like they're meant for each other. Like he was /born/ to be here, shaped perfectly to take everything of Dazai, like he was meant to be in his lap and in his arms.

He arches, grinding down onto his hand and into the fingers pinching at
his nipple. "Yes," he gasps, agreement or beg for more, he doesn't know.

It doesn't seem to matter anyways, because his voice is earning him another twist of his nipple and the fingers inside him spreading wide. His fingertips slide over his prostate, bracketing the very edges
of it and teasing him with direct stimulation.

"Oh? You think you were made for me?" Dazai asks. His voice has slipped into something low and hypnotic, throbbing. It wraps around him, playing over his nerves like clever fingers.

When Chuuya nods breathlessly, the loose chain
slides over his chest. It's still slightly cool, barely starting to warm up to skin temperature. The coolness in contradiction to how /hot/ his body feels make him shiver in response.

"Made for my hands? My fingers?"

At the same time his fingers twist again inside him, the
hand on his chest slides to the other side. Fingers tug the lingerie down just enough to expose his nipple.

When he rolls it between two fingers, it's without the lace barrier. It's pure, electric sensation, pushed into him with sharp nails and rough fingertips. It's carelessly
good, like Dazai doesn't /care/ if he's being rough with him.

"Made for my /cock/?"

/God/, whenever Dazai curses, filthy words dripping from his lips like divine sin, it's almost as good as being touched. Like the rumbling of his voice is translated directly into subtle
vibrations along every one of his nerve endings.

He keens, his only answer as Dazai's fingers begin to slide out slowly. He keeps them splayed, stretching his rim to it's limits and sparking painful-pleasurable zings of electricity up his spine and down his thighs.

"I think so
too, lovely," Dazai agrees, once again tightening his grip on the leash so Chuuya doesn't jerk or move as his fingers slide out the the last knuckle. "Let's prove it, shall we?"

/How/? How is Chuuya supposed to do /that/? He can't think, can barely /breathe/ past the feeling of
Dazai all over him, under him, /in/ him--

With one last tug, his fingers are slipping out of him entirely, leaving him devastatingly empty. Dazai's voie doesn't have the right to sound as /sweet/ as it does as he says, "On the floor, baby. Hands and knees."

Slightly confused,
Chuuya blinks at him. That's not what he was expecting at /all/. He was expecting to be dragged closer, to ride him in the chair. Being told to get /off/ him makes his foggy brain stall out.

When he doesn't move immediately, Dazai is flipping around his hand, making the leather
strip at the end slap his thigh. It makes a sharp noise, more loud than painful. The sound itself is enough to startle Chuuya into action.

He's given enough slack to slide off his lap and onto the floor. His knees hit the floor first, harder than he intended. There's not enough
room at first, so he slides back slightly.

When his hands come down, he makes sure to arch his back temptingly, letting his ass sway in the air. The lube smeared over his ass and starting to drip down his thighs is cold when exposed to the air of the room.

"Good boy," Dazai
says, rolling to his feet. He's /huge/ from this angle,towering over him like a giant. Chuuya is level with his knees,the toes of his shoes stepping perilously close to his fingers.

"But I think I want you /lower/, sweetheart. You'd look /beautiful/ with your face on the floor."
Chuuya hesitates again, this time a moment too long.

When Dazai's foot comes up, he's instinctively leaning backwards to avoid it. The leash tightens immediately, taking away his escape route.

All he can do is watch--and safeword, if he wants, he knows that's an option, but he
doesn't /want/ to-- as the toe of his shoe finds his shoulder and begins to press /down/.

"Down, boy," Dazai commands, searing. The inherent degradation of being talked to like /that/,like he's some sort of trained beast, like he exists to take orders--

It has his face flushing
in embarrassment and shame. His arms buckle underneath the weight,his face turning so his cheek presses against the cool wood of the floor.

Once he's in position, the shoe lifts off him. The leash loosens again, and Dazai moves around the side of him. Like he's taking a /stroll/
and admiring the view.

And Chuuya does have to admit--

This /does/ feel raw. Animalistic. Face down and ass-up on the floor, like he doesn't even get a /bed/. He's collared and leashed, being talked to like a dumb, cute animal, being told he's a /good boy/--

The /feralness/ of
it all, like their human civility has been stripped away and all that's left is pure animal instinct, the throbbing need to fight and /breed/ and bite, has Chuuya's head turning foggy. His back falls even lower on instinct, presenting his ass even /better/, in the hopes that
Dazai will /hurry/.

He wants it. He needs it. He's /ready/ for it.

There's a rustle of clothing as Dazai kneels behind him. He's warm, radiating heat even though he hasn't undressed at all.

A hand finds his ass,palming over soft skin and lacy underwear. He squeezes one cheek,
hand large enough that he can take nearly the entire thing in his hand.

With his movement, the back of his underwear had slid back into place. Chuuya shudders when a finger hooks around the strap and moves it aside again, just enough to give Dazai access.

Behind him, there's
another rustle,the achingly familiar sound of a zipper slowly being tugged down.

"Made to take my cock, hm?" Dazai says, almost to himself. Another shuffle, and his cock presses against Chuuya's ass. It's hot, hard, /huge/, and Chuuya is nearly /drooling/ for it. It's so /close/
to where he wants it, only a few inches away.

"Let's find out."

Then the head of Dazai's cock is pressing against his entrance, pushing inside.

Three fingers is not /exactly/ enough. Really, he needs four and without that--

The stretch is /obscene/. Dazai must've slicked up
his cock at some point, because there's absolutely no friction. Just a relentless, deep pleasant burning sensation as Dazai buries himself deeper,centimeter by centimeter.

It's not like Chuuya can forget, but it's times and positions like this that remind him how /big/ Dazai is.
Every inch of him feels alive, pulsing with heat and carving out a space for himself in Chuuya's body. He's half-convinced he can't even /take/ it, because it feels like he can't even take a /breath/ without feeling Dazai burning a hot line of satisfaction into his body--

But he
/can/ take it. He was /made/ to take it, like Dazai said.

By the time Dazai's hips meet his ass, cock buried to the base inside him, Chuuya feels mindless with it. There's incredible pressure, everywhere. The floor is hard beneath him, cool against his cheek, and he swears he
can feel Dazai in his /throat/. He swears he can feel him /pulsing/ inside him, sliding against his prostate on his way in.

One of Dazai's hands, the one with the leash still wrapped around it, comes to brace himself on Chuuya's shoulder. The weight makes him crumble underneath
further, thighs spreading and spine falling.

There's not an ounce of resistance left inside him. No more bratty attitude, no rebellion, no frustration, nothing. Just pure, pleasurable acceptance, giving everything he is up to Dazai.

He doesn't need to /think/, he just needs to
feel. And all he can feel is pressure and pleasure and heat and electricity and--

"You're right, baby," Dazai groans, hips rocking forward like he's trying to get even /deeper/ inside him. "You /were/ made for me. Feel so good around me, hot and wet and /perfect/ for me."

The
words make Chuuya shiver, breath catching in his throat. Praise from Dazai feels like it settles in his chest, a warm glow like sunlight filling every empty spot inside him. Like every speck of anxiety or insecurity is being replaced, slowly but surely.

His body contracts on the
resulting rush of pleasure, tightening up until he's pulling another pleased hiss from Dazai.

He's barely given a few moments to adjust before Dazai is pulling out and starting up a rhythm. It's slow at first, rocks of his hips that send shards of pleasure spiraling through
him.

Each thrust pulls back a little farther, slams back in a little /harder/. Chuuya's fingers claw at the floor,fighting to ground himself, fighting for /anything/ to hang on to as Dazai fucks him harder, faster, /better/--

He can hear Dazai groaning and muttering to himself
above him, like he's so far gone he can't control himself or what he says anymore. The rough, low growls send another round of arousal thrilling up Chuuya's spine, spilling into his lungs like smoke and making him dizzy with it.

It's /good/, so good Chuuya feels like he's
free-falling, spiraling endlessly deeper into a liquid-burning pool of pleasure. Every /slam/ of Dazai's hips against him makes him hammer into his prostate mercilessly before sliding past, burying himself to the base. The burning stretch has faded away, leaving only a pleasant
fullness that he can't escape from.

It doesn't hurt, it's not too /much/, it's exactly what he needs.

There's only one problem:

As /ecstatic/ as being fucked like this is, face down on the floor like an animal--

It's starting to /hurt/.

The floor is unforgiving on his
knees, digging into the joint painfully. With how ruthlessly Dazai is fucking him, his knees slip forward and back a few centimeters on every thrust, giving him the beginnings of friction burn.

To keep him from moving too much, Dazai is pinning him roughly by bracing his weight
over his shoulders, dragging him back into every slam of his hips. The man is /heavy/, pushing on Chuuya's neck until it's forced to bend almost too far.

He tries to relax into it, let the pleasure override the discomfort. Tries adjusting his position slightly, shuffling his
knees forward. He pushes up with his arms, taking the weight off his back but he can't hold it for long enough, and he keeps losing his balance.

It /hurts/ and not in a good way. In a way that's slowly starting to ruin the pleasure, in a way that he has to /endure/. He doesn't
want to /stop/ but--

He can't continue like /this/. They need to change positions, or Dazai needs to stop /crushing/ him, or /something/.

It takes some concentration to gather enough breath, trying to stifle his moans long enough to speak. He licks his lips, gasping out, "Red."
It's the first time he's ever stopped their sex for any reason, and there /is/ a slight sense of shame and embarrassment in that, like he's wimping out--

But the way Dazai stops near-instantly, stilling completely and drawing back, soothes that sense of inadequacy. Plus, the way
his weight leaves him and the pressure disappears to allow him to take an easy, unobstructed breath, is nothing short of relieving.

"What happened?" Dazai asks, the breathlessness of exertion still in his tone, accentuated by /concern/. "Are you alright?"

Chuuya groans softly,
rising to his elbows and stretching out his neck. It's only a little sore,nothing that will linger. "I'm fine," he mutters, "but you were crushing me. And my knees hurt."

It feels kind of ridiculous to be complaining of joint pain to someone who is almost twice his age, but here
he is. His knees have always been a bit achy compared to most people his age.

"Oh," Dazai says, sounding immensely relieved. He begins the process of pulling out slowly, hands relocating to his hips to keep him in place. It also takes some weight off his knees. "Is that it?"
"Yeah," Chuuya responds, shivering when Dazai slides out of him completely. It leaves him feeling empty and hollowed out. The rampaging arousal inside of him has lessened but it's not /satisfied/.

There's a rustling behind him as Dazai climbs to his feet-- accentuated by the
crack and pop of his own knees, which makes Chuuya huff in amusement-- and then arms are wrapping around his waist and picking him up effortlessly. "Let's move this to the bed then."

It's only a few steps to the bed, where Dazai sets him on his back. His hands are gentle as they
sweep down his hips and thighs. He supports the weight of his leg as Chuuya stretches out his lower legs, flexing his knees and ankles until all the lingering pain has vanished.

It wasn't so much the /position/ that made it hurt, but the fact that he was kneeling on something
hard and unforgiving. He can keep /going/, if Dazai wants to keep fucking him doggy-style.

"Better?" Dazai murmurs, and the image he makes-- fully dressed but with all his clothes askew, cock out and still rock hard and glistening with lube, hair wild-- is so contrasted with how
concerned and caring he sounds that it almost makes Chuuya laugh.

He nods, taking advantage of their positioning to hook his ankle behind Dazai's thigh and tug him closer. The move makes Dazai stumble closer, arms flying out to either side to catch his weight.

"Do you need a
break?" He asks, a small smirk curving his lips. He's leaning over him, blocking out the light. Blocking out the rest of the world. "Or do you want to keep going?"

Instead of responding verbally, Chuuya flashes him a teasing grin and flips over onto his belly. He wiggles up onto
his knees, smiling to himself when Dazai automatically moves to give him enough room.

The softness of the bed is /perfect/, cradling his knees and head as he stretches out, face down and ass up, perfect for the taking.

There's a sharp inhale behind him. A hand finds his ass,
palming one cheek, long fingers digging in to give an indulgent squeeze.

Chuuya holds his breath, anticipation boiling up inside him as he waits for Dazai to fuck back inside him--

"I have a different idea," Dazai says suddenly, the hand on his ass giving him a light spank.
"Move up."

Chuuya crawls forward, moving to the middle of the bed. There's a dip in the mattress behind him as Dazai climbs onto the bed after him.

Instead of following Chuuya or moving him at all, Dazai stretches out lengthwise along the bed. His back gets propped up against
the headrest, cushioned by a few pillows. With swift fingers, he unbuttons his shirt to expose the length of his torso, and shoves his pants down a little farther.

Chuuya watches him over his shoulder, wondering what the hell he's planning.

When he's ready, Dazai reaches out
and wraps his fingers around his ankle, tugging gently. "Come here, sweetheart. You're gonna ride me."

Oh. Yes, Chuuya /likes/ that idea. That's probably one of his favorite positions so far. Granted, that might be because he's only ridden him /once/ and that time was /beyond/
good.

Eager, he crawls over and goes to throw his leg over Dazai's hips--

A hand on his knee stops him. He looks up, confused.

Dazai has an impish grin on his face. "Not like that," he says, gently guiding Chuuya into the position he wants. "Like this."

Chuuya goes easily,
following the subtle pushes of his hands as he guides him into turning around and then throwing his leg over him.

When Chuuya settles down, thighs spread wide to fit Dazai in between, he's straddling him--

But /backwards/, facing his feet. Chuuya didn't even know it was
/possible/ to ride someone like this, and the idea of it is a little daunting. Plus, the idea of his ass in Dazai's face as he rides him feels /exposed/.

He doesn't know why. Dazai has seen his ass in plenty of positions, and he's /always/ liked the sight of it.

Luckily,
Dazai seems to sense his hesitation, and smoothly takes control of the situation. "Sit up, baby. I want to /watch/."

A hand under his ass encourages him to lift up, giving Dazai enough room to reach underneath him and grip the base of his cock. He lines himself up, pressing the
head against his rim and holding it steady.

"Down, baby," he says, a gentler, more /sensual/ version of the command from earlier. His thumb is hooked in the back of his underwear, holding it out of the way.

Shuddering, Chuuya begins the slow sink downward. He feels /massive/ in
this position, but with all the prep and how he was already being fucked--

It's a long, smooth slide all the way down to the base, letting out a shuddering exhale of satisfaction when his ass comes to rest against his hips.

He stays there for a moment, reveling in the feeling
of being /full/, so full he feels /complete/, overflowing. The insides of his knees rub against against Dazai's slacks, the fabric slightly abrading against his skin.

One of Dazai's hand coasts over his hips and lower back, thumbing at sensitive skin and snapping the straps over
his hips with his fingertips.

The sting makes Chuuya hiss, but the /slap/ of the leather strip on the end of the leash slapping his ass makes him yelp.

"Move," Dazai says. No, /orders/, and when Chuuya doesn't immediately start riding him, he spanks him with the leash leather
again. It doesn't /hurt/, not as much as his hand does--probably because he's using less force-- but it does leave stinging tingles behind, heat rushing to the surface.

He /likes/ it. Almost wants to just sit here and make Dazai spank him until he's satisfied, until his ass is a
series of stinging-hot marks, pretty and /red/, physical marks that Dazai has left on him.

But he /also/ wants the pleasure of being fucked. Being full is nice, but it just teases the bottomless well of unsatisfied arousal inside him. His cock has come back to full, aching
life, still trapped in the lacey underwear.

Taking a deep breath, he rises up a little and sinks back down. Riding like this is more difficult than the other way around, because the solidness of Dazai's lower stomach against his ass makes it easy to lose his momentum.

It takes
a few tries for him to start to fall into a rhythm. He tries bracing himself on Dazai's thighs, but that angle misses his prostate. Straight up and down is good, but it's /hell/ on his thighs, and it's not something he can keep up for long.

When he sinks back down and the head
of his cock just /barely/ misses his prostate, Chuuya can't help but make a frustrated noise. He's /so/ close to rapture he can almost /taste/ it, and he just feels like he's teasing /himself/ now.

His only warning is a metallic rustle of the chain before his leash tightens
/hard/. He gets yanked backwards with a yelp, hands flying back to catch himself.

"Struggling, baby?" Dazai asks, sounding so /damn/ smug it almost makes Chuuya mad.

Almost. Because he's discovering that this angle, slightly leaned back and braced on Dazai's chest, is the
/right/ angle he needs. It makes Dazai's cock slide deliciously good inside him, adding pressure to his prostate. If he circles his hips just right, he can practically milk the pleasure out of himself.

"Let me help you with that," Dazai offers, a purr in his voice. His free hand
finds his opposite hip, wrapping around it firmly.

His hips jerk up suddenly, bouncing Chuuya /up/. His hand pushes him at the same time, helping him to use the momentum to carry himself up to the top. He hovers there for a moment, the ridge of his cock holding him inside--
Then he's yanking him back down again, using the leash as leverage to make him crash back down. It has the full weight of his body behind it, and it pulls out a shocked noise out of him, mouth dropping open.

Before he can adjust to the searing pleasure of /that/, Dazai is urging
him back up again.

Thighs trembling, he chases the rhythm. Every bounce up is thick with anticipation, every drop down feels like heaven. The exertion in his thighs is nothing compared to the tension as it /finally/ begins to tighten in his stomach, spurred on by every ounce of
pleasure beginning to pump through his veins.

Every so often, Dazai will yank on the leash on the downstroke, making him crash back down hard. And when he smacks the leather against his ass hard enough to pull out a sharp /smack/ and a resulting load moan--

He starts to mix
them up, alternating between pulling on his leash like he's being /bad/ and spanking him with it until Chuuya can /feel/ the marks start to form on delicate skin.

It's hot, so hot, pleasure and stinging pain melting together, pushing him to the boiling point. Sweat drips down
his face, makes his body even more slick. He picks up the pace somehow, the coil in his stomach urging him on faster, harder, /more/.

He bounces frantically, switching to short, desperate thrusts on the first few inches of Dazai's cock. It applies direct, constant pressure on
his prostate, sending white-hot pulses of ecstasy racing through him.

"/Fuck/," he whimpers on a particularly hard smack on his ass. The sting makes him lose his rhythm, stuttering to a halt. His thighs burn with exertion, and his every muscle aches.

There's a low noise behind
him, something that borders on a /snarl/--

A hand wraps around his throat from behind, pulling him back until his arm is buckling under the pressure and he's crashing back against Dazai's chest with a yelp.

Before he can catch his breath or do anything more than /blink/ in
surprise, Dazai's legs come up. His feet brace on the bed, knees bent and forcing Chuuya's thighs to spread wider.

The hand on his throat tips his chin back, the back of his head finding Dazai's shoulder. Even laying down, the height difference is so big that Dazai still has to
bend his head forwards to reach him.

His teeth scrape over his ear first, followed by the hot rush of his breath. The briefest, teasing touch of his tongue that makes Chuuya's breath stall in his chest--

"Since you asked so /nicely/," Dazai whispers directly into his ear,
a pleased smirk in his voice. His hand tightens on his neck, tipping his head back so his mouth is as close to Dazai's ear as it can get--

In the next instant, Dazai is /fucking/ him. Hard,short, jackhammer slams of his hips that bury his cock deeply. He draws back just as fast,
only to slam back in with all of his strength, over and over and over again.

It's fast, /hard/, brutally and relentlessly good. It makes Chuuya choke on a wail, moans spilling out of him with increasing volume.

The louder /he/ gets, the more riled up Dazai seems to get. His
hand is unwavering on his throat, pressing the metal heart into his skin until he's sure there's going to be an imprint left behind. His other hand is sliding downwards, finding the back of his knee and pulling his leg upwards. He's /lucky/ he's so flexible, otherwise it might
hurt as Dazai pulls his knee all the way to his chest.

It opens him up wider, lets Dazai get in /deeper/, fuck him better,/harder/,pounding into his prostate with every savage thrust.

Chuuya bucks, unable to /handle/ it, driven out of his mind with sheer ecstatic electricity,
turned thoughtless. Pure sensation rockets through him, growing quickly,pressure coiling tightly in his stomach, so tight he can barely breathe around the soaring need.

He's /so/ close, getting closer with every thrust, clenching down instinctively as his orgasm begins to rise.
"Fuck, fuck, /fuck/, oh god," he whines, eyes rolling back in his head. He's hanging onto Dazai's forearm with all his strength, digging his nails in as he fights to ground himself as he feels like he's being fucked /out/ of his body entirely, and into a whole new realm of
pleasure entirely.

"So /eloquent/," Dazai teases in his ear, breath coming hotter and faster. He's groaning into his ear, and every noise he utters is /delicious/. "Come on, Chuuya, sing for me."

And he /does/, letting the pitch and volume of his moans bounce with each thrust.
The texture of the lace against his cock is /maddening/. He's twitching in his underwear, leaking with every brutal thrust. It's just enough to add an edge to the pleasure, slightly rough, one that makes him climb impossibly higher.

"God, /please/," he whimpers, "I-- /close/."
One of his hands is dropping down instinctually, finding the bulge of his erection trapped in his underwear and pressing his palm over it. For once, Dazai allows him without muttering even a word of protest. In fact, he's--

"Touch yourself, lovely," he rumbles in his ear, his
hips /somehow/ speeding up and changing into short, pointed thrusts directly aimed at the places that make Chuuya moan the loudest. "I want to see you cum for me."

The tension winds tighter and tighter, nearing it's breaking point. Nearing /his/ breaking point.

"Wanna see you
get those pretty, pretty underwear /all/ dirty." His tongue slips out on the last syllable, tracing the shell of his ear. The metal ball of his piercing slides wetly over his skin, ticklish.

"Wanna see you /ruin/ them."

Chuuya /almost/ doesn't want to, because he /likes/ the
lingerie. Likes the way he feels in them, likes the way he /looks/ in them, likes the way Dazai seems to be /wild/ with him when he's wearing them--

A hard jerk of Dazai's hips upwards makes his palm press hard against his erection, hard enough that his vision goes white. One
more thrust, cockhead pounding into his prostate relentlessly and Chuuya is /gone/.

His orgasm overtakes him like a thundering wave, drenching him in sheer sensation. Pleasure pulses through him, pushed higher and higher with every thrust of Dazai's still-moving hips. It's /so/
good, it feels like his body can't even handle it.

With the way he's being held-- hand around his throat locking his head into place, knee to his chest-- means he can't even /move/. He's forced to just lie there, shuddering, as Dazai drives his farther and farther. Tears are
gathering at the corner of his eyes, spilling down his temples.

The lace underwear is hot and wet now, filled with sticky cum. The feeling makes him pant, eyes squeezing shut.

"Fuck, /Chuuya/," Dazai groans into his ear. He's resorted to short grinds inside him, unable to move
properly with how hard Chuuya is clenching down and rippling around him. He's throbbing inside him, practically pulsing, clearly on the edge of orgasm himself--

Breathless, Chuuya grinds /down/ to meet him, deliberately tightening as hard as he can, /needing/ Dazai to come with
him. Wanting the primal satisfaction of being /full/ while he's still coming down.

With a guttural noise, Dazai presses up as far as he can and comes.

For a few long moments, there's just the ragged sound of their breathing. Dazai moves intermittently, milking himself through
his orgasm. His cum is searing hot and wet, slowly beginning to drip out of him every time he pulls back.

Eventually Dazai stills, buried inside him as he slowly begins to soften. The hand holding his knee lets go, finally letting his leg drop into a more comfortable position.
The hand on his throat lightens it’s grip, changing from a commanding, inescapable hold to light fingers stroking over the length of his neck.

After a moment,Dazai turns his head and presses a kiss to his cheek, long and lingering. His breath is still coming fast, washing coolly
over the sweat on his face.

Chuuya leans into him, accepting the comfort eagerly. He can already feel the trembles beginning to start in his limbs, the after effect of overstimulation. He feels wrung out, but in a /good/ way, every ounce of pleasure pulled out of him and leaving
him limp and satiated in the aftermath.

“Pretty boy,” Dazai croons to him, achingly gentle and sweet. The contrast being the /dominating/ Dazai and the /sweet/ Dazai is profound. It’s like he’s almost an entirely different person. “You did /so/ well, so pretty and perfect.”
Shivering pleasantly, Chuuya curls closer. Dazai lets him tuck his head under his chin, nose finding his neck.

They’re gross and sweaty, and sticky. Chuuya’s pretty sure /both/ of their clothes are ruined by cum and lube.

But it’s also warm. Not just in a physical way, but in
an internal way. One that fills up his chest with sun glow and firelight, making him feel light as air.

One that makes it impossible to fight back a fond smile as Dazai eventually urges him up as cleans him off. One that takes note of the achingly gentle way Dazai peels the
lingerie off him, and the careful way he unclips the leash.

One that feels like it /soars/ when Dazai brings him lunch on the balcony and the book he needs to read for class, so he can study and eat while soaking up the sun.

A warmth and gentle affection that feels like it
found a matched pair in the softness hidden in Dazai’s touch and his expression.

(Love is a slow-growing thing. Like a flower, watered with trust and desire, bathed in attention like sunlight.

If you let it grow, it will grow fierce and wild—

But if one person cuts it short?
One person will always be left with the rotting remains. It’s a wound that will fester for weeks, if allowed.

Chuuya would let it fester for /years/, if needed, because he’s never willing to let go.

Even if Dazai lets him go first.)

——— +
Admittedly, Chuuya has a /few/ flaws. He’s messy, too loud. Sometimes he forgets to turn all the lights off before going to sleep, because the light doesn’t bother him. He curses a lot, he’s too loyal, he angers too easily.

But the one /other/ people will say is his worst flaw
is that he absolutely refuses to ask for help, even when he needs it.

/Especially/ when he’s feeling under the weather. He’s gotten so used to hiding every ache and sore spot from his hypochondriac father that even /mentioning/ that he’s starting to feel bad feels out of the
question. It doesn’t even cross his mind.

So when he wakes up with a sore throat two days after he returns to his dorm, he figures he’ll just drink some tea and some extra water today, and he’ll be fine.

It’s mid-September now, and the weather is starting to turn cold. He’s
feeling the chill extra today, so he pulls on a thin jacket over his clothes and makes sure he has a hot cup of coffee in his hands at all times.

It’s been about a week since the /Shuuji incident/, as he likes to refer to it. He’s fallen only a little bit behind in his work, and
missed only two classes. Dazai drove him to the campus and back for his classes for the rest of the week, which was /nice/, but it was a burden. He could tell Dazai was getting busy with work again, and he didn’t want to add onto it.

Not that the man /wanted/ to let him go, and
the look he gave Chuuya when he mentioned going back to the dorm was that of a kicked puppy.

But Chuuya has /lots/ of work to catch up on. Midterms are coming up /quickly/, and if he’s going to stay on top of his class ranking then he needs to study, and study /hard/. There’s
study groups at odd hours in the library, and tutoring sessions, and extra classes provided by his professors. Unfortunately it’s just more /convenient/ to stay at the dorm, even if the bed is hard and cold compared to the one at Dazai’s house.

He forgets to eat that day. He
doesn’t have an appetite to remind him, and he’s too busy catching up on all his work to remember. He just chugs coffee and water the entire day.

The next day when he wakes up, he feels even /worse/. Irritable, slightly sore all over, and there’s a headache slowly growing at his
his temples. His throat is even worse today, scraped raw and stinging with every swallow.

Quite frankly, he feels like shit.

Worse than that is when he forces himself to eat a small muffin for breakfast, he throws it back up less than twenty minutes later. His stomach feels
hollow with hunger, but the thought of eating /anything/ or even drinking makes him feel nauseous.

It’s fine, he tells himself, pushing through the exhaustion. It’s Thursday today, which means he has an easy day, and then a full day of classes tomorrow. He just needs to push
through until the weekend, and then he can rest. He can’t afford to miss more classes so early on in the semester, and there’s a test in his last class tomorrow.

Thursday passes in a hazy blur, like he’s walking through fog. He barely remembers the lectures, but at least he
remembers to record the lesson.

The times that he isn’t in class or forcing himself to study, he spends sleeping.

It never feels like enough. Somehow he manages to wake up feeling more exhausted than he fell asleep.

He tries intermittently to eat something, but the nausea is
relentless. Eventually he gives it up and tries to rest.

He wakes up twice in the middle of the night to throw up until he’s dry-heaving, stomach completely empty.

Nikolai isn’t around for some reason. Dazai has been texting him, but Chuuya is too tired to answer him.

Friday
dawns cold and awful.

He feels like he got ran over by a /truck/, like he’s flattened underneath the misery of existing. He barely feels like he got any sleep, and even the smell of food is enough to have him wrenching.

Worse still is the /dizziness/. Every time he stands up
or moves, it feels like his body is disconnected from his mind. Like his head is three times too heavy, and he keeps wobbling and swaying.

By now, it’s been nearly 48 hours since he last ate anything of substance, not that he’s keeping track.

Stubborn, he pushes through his
first two classes. Those ones are easy, mostly reviewing material before the midterm.

He must look miserable enough that his professors shoot him concerned looks and let him half-doze slumped over his desk while his phone records everything they say.

Then the last class of the
day comes. This one is /important/, because he has a test. He tries to rouse some clarity in himself by pressing his hot forehead to the cool desk and taking deep breaths.

It’s no use though. When he gets the packet, the words keep blurring in front of his eyes. The questions
just don’t /compute/ with him, and he spends half the time scribbling down his best guess and the other half frantically trying to remember /anything/ from his studies.

It’s like his head is full of cotton and fluff,making him feel exhausted and woozy.

By the time he gets out
he’s so goddamn frustrated and miserable that he’s immediately dialing Dazai’s number.

He is the type of person to get emotional over his classwork, but not like /this/. Usually he just gets /angry/ at himself, and more motivated. Pushing himself to study harder, do more extra
credit work, do whatever it took to get better grades.

It usually doesn’t have him damn near sobbing and fighting back the urge to hyperventilate— it’s so hard to /breathe/, it feels like his chest is full of gunk, blocking his airways, and the air never seems to be enough to
make the dizziness go away— as he waits for Dazai to pick up.

He wants his boyfriend /so bad/. He’s miserable and by now he’s certain he’s sick, and he just wants his boyfriend.

Apparently he picked a good time to call because it only takes two rings before the line clicks.
“/Hello/, baby,” Dazai greets, voice warm and overflowing with affection, enough to make Chuuya tear up in emotional reaction. “How are you?”

Staggering out of the building, Chuuya presses a hand to his eye. The light outside hurts, makes the migraine feel like it’s shredding
pieces of his brain. “I—,” he sniffs, feeling so ridiculous but also like he’s breaking apart underneath all the /misery/ of the past three days. “I’m pretty sure I just failed my test.”

Something in Dazai’s voice changes immediately when he hears Chuuya’s tone. “Oh no, baby,
that sounds terrible— but I’m sure it’s not /that/ bad. You always study so hard and you’re /so/ smart. I’m sure you did better than you think you did.”

All the other students are giving him concerned looks, but Chuuya doesn’t seem them. His vision is locked on his feet because
his vision is swimming. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the tears or the dizziness, but he’s fighting to keep himself upright and steady. “You don’t understand,” he mumbles, voice thick and breaking a few times, “I knew /nothing/ on that test.”

Not because he wasn’t prepared,
because he /was/, he was ready for the test, but because his /stupid brain/ wouldn’t function.

“It’ll be alright, Chuuya. Maybe you can talk to your professor about it and they’ll let you take a retake. You’re a good student, baby.”

There /is/ a retake system, but he doesn’t
want to waste his /one/ retake chance on a test he /should’ve/ aced. He lets a single, miserable sniff be his answer.

It’s getting harder to breathe. Honestly, it feels more like he’s /running/ more than just stumbling across campus. He’s burning up with heat. Even the tears
on his face feel more like boiling water.

“Where are you? Are you okay? You sound...off.” Dazai’s wording is delicate but his tone is filled with concern. There’s some shuffling on the other side, like he’s getting up and getting ready.

And that, that question—

It’s enough
to have Chuuya /breaking/.

Because no, he’s /not/ alright, not even a little bit. He feels like he’s on the verge of /death/, he feels like a failure of a student, he’s emotional and needy and he wants to go /home/.

Not to the dorm. To /Dazai’s/ home, which honestly has started
to feel more like his /real/ home than anything else.

“No, I’m /not/ okay, I’m—,” he starts, before making the mistake of taking a too big inhale.

That starts off a round of coughing, and each one makes the pressure in his head increase. Each sway of his body makes the
dizziness worse, and when he /finally/ stops coughing, he’s—

“Chuuya?”

He realizes it with a distant clarity. He’s going to faint. He can’t stop it.

“Chuuya?!”

His vision goes black. His phone clatters to the floor, followed shortly by his unconscious body.

——— +
Dazai is not used to feeling fear. He’s used to /inspiring/ fear in others. There was a time, when he was younger, when he watched grown men snivel and beg for mercy—

And he only thought it was all very /pathetic/.

He thinks he understands them now, because the way his stomach
lurches and his heart freezes in his chest when he hears Chuuya’s phone call to the floor, followed shortly by the thump of heavy and limp—

God, it’s /terrifying/. More petrifying than having a gun held to his face, scarier than the phone call he got from Sasaki telling him she
was pregnant.

He understands kneeling and begging now, because the only coherent thought he has is—

/ He’s hurt. Chuuya’s hurt, and I’m not there. /

The reality that /anything/ could happen when he’s not there to make sure his safe is /gut-wrenching/. He always knew that
it was logically possible—

But seeing it? /Hearing/ it, while being kilometers away and helpless to stop it?

It’s like every beat of his heart is a sickening, awful percussion in his chest, hollowing him out. Anxiety and /fear/ race through his veins like poison.

He doesn’t
remember throwing on his shoes or locking the door in his rush to get out of the house. All he knows is a frantic, panicked need to get there /now/.

It's probably the fastest he's ever driven to the college campus. He doesn't follow a /single/ speed limit, and he puts his skills
to the test as he drifts around corners and roars through the red lights. He's not stopping for /anything/.

It's a dozen agonizingly long minutes before the college campus comes into view. He picks the closest parking lot there is to Chuuya's dorm, parking the car on the
damn /sidewalk/.

He unlocks his phone as he throws himself out of the car. There's a tracking app he installed on it recently, which he's /thankful/ for, because it points exactly where Chuuya's phone is located.

Hopefully Chuuya is still there. Hopefully it's not /serious/.
He takes off at a dead run, carelessly pushing past students in his way. Every so often he checks the green tracking dot on his phone and adjusts his direction.

His breath comes in harsh, agonized pants.

/Please be okay. Please be there. Please don't be hurt./

As he gets
closer, he notices a crowd gathered in a rough circle. It's in the same direction as Chuuya's phone, so he pokets his own phone and bolts over there.

There's a few offended gasps and shocked cries as he shoves his way through, but he doesn't care for that. All he cares about is
/him/, where is he, where is he, where /is he/--

/There/.

In the middle, with a pair of students crouched beside him, is Chuuya. They seem to be urging him to stay /down/, while Chuuya is arguing faintly with them. His phone is in one of their hands, held securely.

"Chuuya?!"
He calls, rushing over and dropping to his knees beside him. The two students edge out of his way as he leans over to look Chuuya over.

The first thing he notices, with relief, is that there's no /blood/.

The second thing he notices is how /terrible/ Chuuya looks. Frightfully
pale, his face drawn and thin. His hair is a /mess/, pulled up in a tangled bun. He's wearing a jacket and shivering visibly, even though it's not cold outside.

When he leans over, Chuuya's eyes focus in on him. Well, /focus/ might be too generous considering his eyes look
bleary and unfocused.

"Oh, you're here, Dazai," he mutters, voice wobbling slightly but clear.

All in all, he seems /mostly/ okay-- or at least it's not as terrible as his imagination was picturing. He was preparing himself for a /gunshot/ wound or a stabbing, or something
equally as life-threatening.

"Of course I'm here," he mutters back, reaching forward to lay the back of his hand over Chuuya's forehead. He hisses when he feels how /hot/ his skin is, almost boiling in its intensity.

He's /sick/ then. Raging with fever and collapsed. That
explains the coughing.

Reaching to cup the back of his head, he gently pulls him up into a sitting position. Chuuya lets him, heavy-limp in his grip, though he does squeeze his eyes shut in response. He looks pained, and the way he grips at Dazai's forearm is /weak/.

"How do
you feel? Does your head hurt?" He asks, holding him upright to make sure he doesn't fall over as he grabs his bag with his other hand.

He's /definitely/ taking him to hospital this time. No matter how much Chuuya protests or tries to say he's okay. He's not getting out of it.
"I don't feel so good," Chuuya mutters, swaying forward slightly. His expression is rapidly turning green, like he's going to vomit.

Dazai swipes Chuuya's phone from the student with a muttered "Thanks, I'll handle this." before shoving it in his pocket.

Carefully, he slips
both arms underneath Chuuya's body, careful to keep as much of him supported as possible as he picks him up. He's /awfully/ light, much lighter than the /last/ time Dazai picked him up.

The worry ratchets higher, beginning to crest again. He must be /really/ sick.

Chuuya's head
finds his shoulder, searing hot forehead pressing against the side of his neck. His breath is sickeningly hot and humid, puffed out in uneven breaths.

"Let's go," Dazai tells him, carefully keeping him steady as he turns around and starts to head back to the car. The students
move out of his way easily, murmuring to each other. Some of them sound /scandalized/, like the recognize him from the infernal Snapchat that was going around.

He doesn't care, not right now. All his focus is on the too-light, too-warm body in his arms and getting him to a
hospital as quickly as possible.

"'azai," Chuuya mutters into his neck, wincing when Dazai has to twist him sideways to lower him into the car. His hand draped over his shoulder seems to want to hold on, keep him close, but he's not strong enough to keep him there.

Dazai
crouches beside him, reaching around to buckle him in. "Hi, sweetheart," he answers, stroking his fingers over his cheek to let him know he's here.Chuuya's eyes are squeezed shut, and he's tucking his head to avoid the sunlight spilling through the windshield. "What do you need?"
"Cold," he mumbles, curling himself into a tighter ball after the seatbelt clicks into place. Dazai flips the visor down, trying to angle it to shield him from the sun.

"Alright. I got you," he reassures him. He's not wearing a jacket that he can drape over him, but he can turn
on the seat warmers and the heater for him. He shoves his bag in the back seat before easing the door shut.

He's not as careful with his own door, yanking it open so he can slide in. With one hand he starts the door and puts it in drive, and with the other he turns on the seat
warmers and the heaters, pushing all the vents so they're directed at Chuuya.

He's much more careful pulling out than he was driving in, because he doesn't want to bother Chuuya's nausea, or make him uncomfortable. The redhead looks so /tiny/ curled up in the seat, but he's
finally starting to relax. The shivering is still present, but slowing down.

There's a hospital only a few minutes from campus. He's sure that was built into the city planning, because college kids are accident-prone. He's driven past it enough that he doesn't need directions.
"Are you taking me home?"

Dazai ignores the warm,squirming feeling he gets in his chest at the sound of Chuuya calling his house /home/. He would've never thought something so /simple/ would make him so happy, but here he is, giddiness bubbling up beneath the lingering anxiety.
He's only willingly opened his home for a few people, so to see Chuuya settling in so nicely, to see him comfortable and happy and /safe/ there--

Well, he can think about /that/ and the resulting rush of feelings later.

"No, I'm taking you to the hospital," Dazai answers,
preparing himself for an /argument/. Chuuya is probably one of the few people who is even /more/ stubborn than he is,and he's historically been against going to see a doctor even when he /should have/. Dazai's /not/ letting him get out of it this time, though.

"Oh," Chuuya says,
sounding small and shocked. "Okay."

He falls silent then, bringing his knees to his chest and curling up against the door miserably.

If Dazai thought hearing him rasp out words and be in clear misery was bad--

It has /nothing/ on the terror inspired by the silence and the way
he goes completely and utterly still. Like he's /dead/.

His foot presses harder on the gas,accelerating.

It's Friday afternoon, so the traffic is congested and makes everything /slow/. He takes every shortcut he can and breaks a few laws to get to the hospital quicker, but it's
still over twenty minutes before the building is looming up in front of him.

He parks in the first spot he sees, uncaring if it's meant for patients or not. Any fines or tickets or even having his car towed can be easily paid off.

When he opens Chuuya's door again, his baby
reaches up for him, looking for all the world like he just wants to be /held/. Like he's miserable and he wants to be comforted and taken care of. His eyes are watery, like he's on the verge of tears.

Dazai makes a soothing noise at him, carefully picking him up. This time he
lets his legs hook on either side of his hips, with his hands supporting his thighs. Chuuya tucks his forehead into the crook of his neck to shield himself from the light, arms slung limply over his shoulders.

The only thing of Chuuya's he takes with him is his wallet. The
hospital will probably need to see some ID at some point. His bag,he leaves in the car.

Thankfully, it's only a short walk into the waiting room. Dazai's long legs eat up the distance quickly.

When he enters, the first thing Dazai registers is the lingering smell of antiseptic.
His nostrils flare, fighting back the instinctive panic reaction.

Mori's office always smelled like this. Like bleach and scrubbed-away blood, the lingering ghost of pain.

The insides of his wrists itch, suddenly, a buzzing that wants to overtake his mind.

Pushing it away,
Dazai heads into the waiting room. It's still the afternoon and the lounge is nearly empty, so it looks like they've beaten the evening rush of injuries.

Good. The faster Chuuya gets checked out, the better.

There's a soft cushioned chair placed by a wall. Dazai sets him down
there, guiding him to lean up against the wall so he doesn't have to hold up his own weight.

"I'll be right back," he tells him, taking the time to drop a reassuring kiss on his forehead. "I'm going to check you in."

There's a noise that /might/ be acknowledgement or might be
just a sniff of misery, but Chuuya doesn't protest as Dazai pulls away.

The floor is made of cheap carpet, muffling his footsteps as he makes his way over to the reception desk. There's music playing faintly in the background.

Dazai hates it. This is an /emergency/ room, why
are they playing /Mozart/? It feels wrong.

"Hello," he says to the girl at the reception desk. He doesn't have the willpower to smile at her right now, not when he feels strained and pulled into a dozen different directions. "I need to check someone in."

The girl, hair dyed
blonde and eyes lined thickly with mascara,looks him up and down. "Relationship to the patient?" She asks him, sounding very impatient with her job.

Dazai hesitates here. Technically, he doesn't need to be related or legally attached to Chuuya to check him in or even stay in the
room with him but--

Sensitive information won't be disclosed to him, and if it's something /serious/, there's every chance he'll be kicked out in favor of calling someone from Chuuya's family.

The thought of that fills him with anxiety.

He flashes a strained smile. "Fiancé."
It's a lie, but a benign one. He's sure Chuuya won't be angry at him for it. He might even think it's /funny/.

The girl-- her nametag says her name is Hara-- eyes him up for another moment before shrugging. Reaching down onto the desk, she pulls out a packet of paper and a
clipboard with an attached pen. "Fill this out. Bring it back when you're done."

Dazai takes it without another word, spinning around to head back to Chuuya. Every second he's out of his sight fills him with itching, crawling paranoia. Like if he takes his eyes off him for even
a second, he might get /hurt/.

Chuuya is exactly where he left him, slumped up against the wall. His eyes are shut, breathing slightly shaky. He looks like he might be asleep, and judging by the bags under his eyes, he needs as much rest as he can get.

Dazai sits down next to
him, trying not to jostle him--

Blue eyes crack open blearily at the movement, and when Chuuya sees that it's /him/, he's moving. Instead of leaning against the wall, he's now slumped against Dazai, cheek pressed against his arm. His grip, when he finds Dazai's hand and
interlaces their fingers together, is weak and trembling.

But Dazai doesn't let go, gently squeezing his hand and letting him use him as a body rest. He starts to fill out the paperwork with his other hand, as quickly as possible.

Most of the information is basic. Name, date of
birth, sex, weight, height. Dazai does his best, casting through his memory for all the information he'd dug up on Chuuya early on in their relationship.

For the address he puts his /own/ home address, and he puts his own insurance information down. From what he's been told,
Chuuya's family is not wealthy. He's making the assumption that their insurance isn't that great because of it, and Dazai wants /no/ expense spared.

It's easy enough to hack into the insurance database and add Chuuya's information on there. Rokuzou is a surprsingly good
teacher and Dazai has picked up a few tricks from him.

When he gets to the family history and the symptoms section, he fills it out as best as he can before he has to jostle Chuuya into alertness.

"Are you nauseous, dizzy, lightheaded, confused?"

"Um," Chuuya says, clearly
struggling to think it over. "Yes."

The worry spikes a little harder, and the pen nearly shreds the paper with how hard he's pressing. "Any bleeding, or sleeping issues?"

"No bleeding but I'm /exhausted/."

Poor thing, he /sounds/ exhausted.

"Does your family have any medical
history? Illnesses, diseases? Do you have any illnesses or medical history?

Chuuya slumps against him further, like the conversation is tiring him out even faster. "Family doesn't. I was born too early though, so I've been sick a lot."

'Born premature' isn't an option that
Dazai sees, but he scribbles in the “other” box, just in case. He’s not sure it matters, considering Chuuya is now a fully grown adult, but every bit of information helps.

In the box asking for other injuries he writes out RECENT HEAD TRAUMA.

That’s the most terrifying thing
about the whole situation because—

What if he’s /not/ sick? What if it’s a brain injury? Dazai knows some injuries don’t present right away. What if it’s one of those times?

What if Chuuya had a— a /brain bleed/ or something similar, that has been growing and getting worse this
entire time?

And Dazai has been fucking him and pulling him around by his leash and—

What if he made it /worse/?

What if this is his fault, because he was stupid and careless and didn’t care of Chuuya the way he needed?

God, he hopes it’s just the flu. It is flu season
after all, and he did hear one or two other students coughing on the campus.

It’s just /terrifying/ because most of the symptoms of the flu, and the ones Chuuya is experiencing— headache, nausea, dizziness— are also symptoms of /concussions/.

When he’s filled out the forms, he
nudges Chuuya back into leaning against the wall. “Be right back,” he mutters, and then goes to turn in the forms.

Hara doesn’t look particularly impressed with him when he hands over the clipboard, but she silently glances over the paperwork and nods.

With nothing left to do,
goes back to Chuuya. This time, when he sits next to him, he pulls him into his lap to hold him.

Beyond the driving need to make sure Chuuya is okay, there’s also a deeper, desperate need to comfort /himself/. He wants, no, /needs/, to hold him and reassure himself that he’s
still okay. Still breathing, still /alive/. Safe and secure in his arms while they wait for the doctor to call them back.

Honestly, Dazai was prepared to wait an hour or even longer to get called back. Yokohama General Hospital isn’t known for it’s /speedy/ work, but it’s the
closest hospital. They see thousands of patients a day, probably.

Which is why it’s surprising that they only wait twenty minutes before a door leading to the rest of the hospital is opening up. “Nakahara Chuuya?”

Dazai nudges Chuuya with his shoulder, urging him up. “Come on,
you gotta walk now.”

Chuuya grumbles incoherently, but manages to get his feet under himself.

Dazai follows closely behind as he staggers over to the nurse holding the door open for them. He’s probably hovering, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Chuuya collapse
/again/.

Not when he can be there to catch him.

The nurse eyes him as he walks past. She’s not unkind as she asks, “Would you like a wheelchair?”

Chuuya grunts as he passes by, trudging in the quieter, colder hallways in the back. “No, I got it.”

Fucking /stubborn/.
Dazai swears there is /nothing/ so frustrating than seeing someone /close/ to you stubbornly and ardently refuse help for /no/ reason, /especially/ when they clearly need it. He could tear his own hair out.

“Alright, then,” the nurse says, carefully neutral as she leads them
into a nearby room.

It’s climate controlled back here, carefully maintained so it’s neither cold nor hot— but Dazai can already see the shivers starting to start back up in Chuuya’s frame.

The room they’re shown into looks like a typical doctors office. There’s an examination
bed, and a pair of chairs. A computer and a series of tools hanging up on the wall near the examination bed.

The room is cleanly cold. Sterile.

Chuuya drops down on the examination bed like he’s too exhausted to do it elegantly. He braces himself with one hand on the bed
behind him as the nurse starts to take his vitals.

As she’s wrapping the pressure cuff around his bicep, she asks, “What brings you in today?”

It’s casual conversation, but it makes Dazai’s teeth clench together. They already filled out the forms, why do they have to go through
this /again/, but verbally.

“Think I’m sick,” Chuuya sighs, offering up his finger when she brings out the clip that records temperature. “I fainted.”

Dazai says nothing, sitting in the chair along the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, watching like a hawk as she
records all his vitals into the computer.

“Alright,” she says when she’s done, “the neurologist will be with you soon.”

Dazai’s stomach plummets. The /neurologist/?

Chuuya watches her go, letting himself fall backwards and lay down when she’s gone. “That doesn’t sound good.”
No. No it does not.

“Isn’t that a brain doctor or something?” Chuuya asks. He’s curling up now, facing Dazai. One of his hands is cupped over the side of his face, shielding his eyes from the harsh glow of the fluorescent lights. “Why are they calling a brain doctor if I’m just
sick?”

Because what if he’s /not/ sick? What if he’s /hurt/?

Dazai exhales slowly, unable to find the exact words underneath the mess of anxiety and fear coating his tongue. “We’ll find out soon.”

He doesn’t want to say the words ‘what if’ out loud. Doesn’t want to put a
/name/ to all the things that could be going wrong, doesn’t want to put a possibility to all /serious/ complications, doesn’t want to jinx himself or Chuuya.

Doesn’t want to say any of it out loud, because that means making it real. Taking it from nightmare thoughts to hellish
reality.

And it /is/ soon. It’s a little over ten, cold, quiet minutes before there’s a knock on the door.

It opens before either of them can call out. A tall, silver-haired man steps through, a chart in hand. He’s wearing slacks and a dress shirt, but the sleeves of his
lab coat and shirt are rolled up to reveal corded forearms.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Gide, one of the neurologists at Yokohama General. Which one of you is Nakahara Chuuya?” He greets, laying his clipboard on the counter. His voice is smooth and low, lightly accented.

Chuuya pulls
himself into a sitting position. His eyes are squinted against the light, and he’s starting to look green again. “That’s me.”

Gide looks over at Dazai. “That must make you the fiancé, Dazai?”

Chuuya throws him a look. Subtly, Dazai gives him a signal that urges him to go with
it. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Lovely,” Gide says, approaching Chuuya. Taking the pressure cuff off the wall, he wraps it around Chuuya’s arm again. “Heard you hit your head the other day. Can you tell me what happened?”

It’s a gentle, probing question. Not /demanding/ or frightening,
but clearly prompts Chuuya to explain.

“I was... play-fighting with a friend,” he starts, wobbling a bit on the explanation. He’s probably not trying to get Shuuji in /trouble/, because if he just comes out and say Shuuji tried to /kill/ him, it would open up a police
investigation. “I tripped and fell backwards, and hit my head on the table. It wasn’t that bad though. Just had a headache for a few hours. Didn’t have a concussion or anything.”

Gide pulls out a penlight from his coat pocket, flashing the light in each of Chuuya’s eyes to test
light reactivity. “When was this?”

Chuuya seems to think about it hard, eyebrows drawing together. He winced at the light but doesn’t move away or close his eyes. “Six days ago?”

“No,” Dazai interrupts, concern spiking. That’s not /right/. “It was /eight/ days ago.”

Gide
looks over his shoulder at him. He’s very professional, expression calm and neutral. “You’re sure?”

Dazai nods. He wouldn’t forget that day, /ever/. He’s not sure why Chuuya got the days wrong. It’s still fresh and new, so why didn’t he remember?

“Did you see a doctor for
that? Follow my finger please,” Gide continues, turning back to Chuuya. He holds his index finger up, moving it back and forth in front of his vision.

“No, but it really wasn’t that bad, I swear. I’ve had a concussion before and it was nowhere near that.”

When he’s satisfied
with that exercise, Gide pulls his hand back. “When did your symptoms start, Chuuya?”

“Um...three days ago, but it only got bad yesterday. I woke up with a sore throat on Wednesday,” he answers, watching the doctor as he moves back to his computer and starts to enter in all the
new information.

Then, Dazai can’t hold himself back anymore. He’s been /patient/ and quiet, but with each test the neurologist has done, he’s gotten more and more anxious. He has to /know/. “Do you think it’s something serious with his head?”

Gide hums, not looking away from
the computer. “In all likelihood, he’s probably just sick. It’s long enough after the trauma that I’m not /terribly/ concerned. However, because his symptoms /do/ line up with those of neurological trauma, I’d like to keep him to do some tests. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
Dazai lets out a breath. If the neurologist isn’t concerned, then he shouldn’t be either, right?

(On the examination bed, Chuuya winces and puts his hands his temples. His head is /pounding/. He can feel the throb of his pulse with every heart beat and the lights are /agony/.)
“What kind of tests?”

Not that Dazai will protest or actually even know what Gide is talking about, but he feels so /helpless/. This is a problem he can’t even begin to solve, and the idea of that is making him very frustrated. He feels worthless, almost. A bystander, regulated
to watching and waiting.

“I’d like to order a CT scan, just to make sure there’s nothing going wrong up there. Possibly an x-ray as well. I’ll keep you updated on the plan once we get him admitted.”

Alright, that doesn’t sound /too/ bad. “Okay. Oh, I wanted to mention— he’s
lost a lot of weight. I can’t give you a number, but it’s a noticeable difference between three days ago.”

Gide nods, finishing up his notes. “Alright, I’ll put that in the chart. Is there anything else you’d like to tell me before I go?”

“My head hurts,” Chuuya whimpers. He’s
hunched over his lap, hands pressed to the sides of his head. His voice is thick with tears.

Gide frowns. His eyes, reddish in the light, have sharpened. “Alright. I’ll let the nurse know so she can prescribe you some pain medication—.”

“/No/, it’s— My head /hurts/,” Chuuya
repeats, sounding like he’s desperate for them to believe them. “Feels like it’s gonna /explode/. It’s—.”

He pauses there, but not because he’s done speaking.

It’s because he’s going rigid, the breath leaving him on a pained exhale. His eyes are rolling back in his head, and
his jaw clamps shut with an audible click. He jerks once, twice, /three times/—

And for the first time in his life, Dazai freezes. All he can do is /watch/, blood like ice water in his veins, as Gide jumps over to catch Chuuya before he falls as—

As he has a /seizure/.
There is something so... viscerally terrifying and gut-wrenching about watching someone have a seizure. The movies and the medical dramas don’t do it any justice.

It fills the air with a sense of /wrongness/, of pure, instinctual terror because—

Chuuya should /not/ be moving
like that, like someone or /something/ has grabbed him by the spine and is /yanking/ on him. It’s uncoordinated, unnatural, limbs flailing and jerking in odd rhythms.

It’s like watching the death throes of an animal.

Like watching someone get possessed, if you believe in God.
In this moment, in /this/ exact moment, frozen like a rabbit under the incoming car tire, helpless and hopeless, Dazai decides—

He does not believe.

Because what kind of God would allow something like /this/?

“Dazai, I need you to hit the red button on the wall behind you,”
Gide tells him, and he has /no/ fucking right to sound so damn /calm/ right now. He even /looks/ calm, hands holding Chuuya’s shoulders. He’s not pinning him so much as he’s making sure that Chuuya doesn’t fall off the bed as he jerks and writhes like an air-stricken fish.
Dazai can’t look away. The hair on the back of his neck is standing straight up.

It’s /awful/, like he’s watching an incoming funeral. How is /anyone/ supposed to survive this?

“Dazai! The /button/!” Gide snaps, irritation seeping into his tone. His voice is sharp, like a
cutting knife.

It’s enough to have Dazai startling back to life, panic receding for a moment.

Turning, he smashes the button with his fist, uncaring that he damn near breaks the electronic box. The side of his hand stings from the force, but it barely registers.

There’s
nothing worse than feeling completely and utterly /helpless/. Dazai can handle gunshots. Stan wounds. Broken bones, burns, CPR. He’s /not/ helpless.

But he is, in the face of this.

All he can do is drown in his own horror as the seizure slowly stutters out and slows down.
It’s his torso that stops jerking first, and then there’s sharp, wet inhale that’s tinged with a sob.

Could he even /breathe/ when he’s like that?

Then most of Chuuya goes limp. His hands and feet twitch intermittently, but nothing like the seizure.

“Hey, Chuuya— can I call
you Chuuya?” Gide says soothingly, the calm in the storm. He keeps one hand on his shoulder grounding him. “Can you hear me?”

There’s a second of tension before Gide is breaking it again with, “That’s okay. You don’t need to speak. I just need to know if you can hear me.”
There’s a low, pained noise, like a muffled sob. Like he can’t /speak/.

“That’s good, Chuuya. I’m glad you can hear me. That must’ve been very scary, but I want you to try to keep calm, okay? I’m gonna help you. I’m going to figure out what’s wrong, and try to fix it, alright?”
The door opens then, and a pair of nurses falls inside, looking alert. Outside, there’s a patient bed, pushed up against the wall and waiting to be used.

Gide backs off then, looking at one of the nurses. “I need an emergency CT scan on him. Put my name on it, and tell Tachihara
to bump it up, or he’s gonna answer to me.”

So it’s /serious/, then. Serious enough to have the neurologist using his /privileges/.

Chuuya’s head tilts then. It looks more like he’s too exhausted to keep his head upright anymore than actively moving but—

His eyes find Dazai.
His eyes look simultaneously filled with /agony/ and terror, and also—

Gone. Like /Chuuya/ isn’t really there anymore, it’s just his /body/. Like the seizure put him through so much pain that he’s not /there/ anymore.

Dazai’s heart /breaks/ for him.

Too late, he realizes
he didn’t wipe the horror off his expression, the sheer /terror/ and panic—

Chuuya’s eyes fill with tears. Either reaction to him, or reaction to the situation, or just pure reflex.

Dazai doesn’t know.

He’s moving before he realizes it, crossing over to the examination bed.
His hands are trembling, but the stroke he gives to Chuuya’s cheek is achingly gentle.

“Shh, baby, you’re gonna be alright,” Dazai reassured him mindlessly, unsure of what to /say/ to make this okay. To make /any/ of this look less petrifying and horrifying than it is. “I’m
right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chuuya makes a noise, hand twitching like he wants to grab Dazai by the wrist, wants to keep him /close/. Like he’s terrified to let go.

“Alright, Chuuya, we’re going to move you now,” Gide announces, moving back to the bed. He moves like
he’s going to pick Chuuya up—

And then seems to change his mind, looking at Dazai instead and arching his eyebrow in question. An invitation to do it himself.

Dazai takes it gratefully, sliding his hands carefully underneath Chuuya’s body. It’s harder than it usually is,
because Chuuya is /completely/ limp and he wants to be sure he supports his head—

But he manages it.

Every step he takes is /so/ careful,trying his /hardest/ not to jostle Chuuya in the /slightest/.

He feels fragile in his arms.Too light,too hot,too hurt. Like he might break.
Setting him down on the stretcher feels like giving a part of himself away. Like he’s leaving the most vulnerable and most /precious/ part of himself in the care of someone /else/ and hoping it comes back whole and healed.

Hoping Chuuya comes back whole and healed.
He holds onto his leg for as long as possible, before letting his fingers slip away.

The nurses aren't nearly as careful with him, jogging lightly down the hallway and pushing the stretcher in front of them. Dazai watches them go, heart in his throat.

Gide steps up beside him.
His hands are busy pulling his long, shining silver hair into a messy ponytail. His expression is stern.

"What do you think is wrong with him?" Dazai asks. His lips feel strangely numb. His body feels simetaneously electrified and so /distant/. Like this is a dream.

Gide turns
to him,and all of that soft, steady concern that he showed Chuuya is /gone/. Now he's just /stern/, like a soldier. "It's too early to tell. Could be a subdural bleed that's been building, could be a clot that was knocked loose from the fall today. Could be undiagnosed epilepsy."
Logically, Dazai knows that the situation /just/ started, and it's unreasonable to expect an answer right away but--

It's /frustrating/ for a medical professional to say he /doesn't know/. It's frustrating to be told he has to /wait/.

"The point is," Gide continues, folding his
arms over his chest. His forearms are thick, dusted with silver-gray hair. Flat-footed, he can look Dazai in the eye, which is something not a lot of men can claim. "I won't know what's going on until I get up there and take a look at his brain. And while I do that, I need you to
get your shit together."

Dazai blinks, a bit shocked at the sight of a professional cursing at him in a hospital hallway.

"I recognize that this is scary for you to witness, and it's hard to watch-- but that is /nothing/ compared to the terror and pain Chuuya is feeling right
now. He needs you to be strong right now."

It's /harsh/, probably too harsh, but it's the truth. There was a long moment in there when Dazai just /froze/. He wasn't expecting it, and it was understandable--

But showing how /affected/ he was to Chuuya was a rookie mistake.
It was cruel, even.

For Chuuya to come looking for support and strength, and only finding /horror/--

His poor /baby/. He must've been so scared.

Taking a deep breath, Dazai steels himself. He can deal with his own emotions later. Right now he needs to be Chuuya's /boyfriend/.
Needs to be his support system, while they all figure out what's going on with him.

He nods, and Gide flashes a grim smirk at him.

"I'll send a nurse to you with his room information when he's admitted. It's gonna be a long night, Dazai-san. Hope you like coffee."
Gide leaves him to wait in the room as he jogs off, heading in the same direction the nurses took Chuuya.

And then there's just... waiting. Leaning against the door frame and hoping that each nurse that passes by is the one that's looking for him. Waiting to be lead into
Chuuya's room. Waiting to be told he's /okay/.

Waiting, waiting, waiting, his whole existence hanging in the balance.

Waiting for something to /change/.

Eventually, a nurse /does/ come for him. She's friendly, making casual conversation that he doesn't really respond to as
he follows her to the room Chuuya's been admitted to. Fifth floor, A wing, room 158.

He's half-hoping that Chuuya is /there/ when he walks in, but he isn't. The bed is missing, but there's a full array of equipment along the wall ready to be used.

The chairs here are much more
comfortable than the ones in the waiting room. Dazai drops into one heavily, hunching over and holding his forehead with his heels of his hands.

He resigns himself to the wait.

Time passes strangely in a hospital. Too fast and too slow all at the same time, like a separate
reality. A reality that works directly /against/ you, because when you want time to go by /faster/, it slows to a sluggish crawl, each endless tick of the clock stretching out farther and farther.

And just when you're asking for /more/ time--

It's taken away from you. Snatched
from your hands before you're ready, no matter how hard you cling onto it.

He's not sure how long it's been when there's a bustle of activity outside, and Chuuya gets wheeled in on the bed.

Dazai looks up, eyes strained. He looks so /tiny/ in the bed, weak and small and pale.
His eyes are mostly closed, breathing deep. He almost looks asleep, but he moves sluggishly every so often.

Sedated?

Gide comes in shortly after him,watching over the nurses as they start an IV line on him.He waves Dazai over. "I got good news, and I have bad news. Let's talk."
Dazai loathes the idea of leaving Chuuya in here alone, but his baby is /exhausted/ and he doesn’t want to scare or disturb him with medical talk.

He stands to follow Gide out of the room, taking the time to find Chuuya’s hand and squeeze it reassuringly. The feel of his hand in
his is both reassuring and scary. Reassuring because he’s /here/, not being rushed off into emergency surgery or seizing again or whatever Dazai’s terrible imagination can come up with.

Scary, because his hand is clammy and completely limp. Unresponsive.

Leaving the nurse to
get Chuuya hooked up to the various machines, Dazai follows Gide out into the hallway.

He’s lost his lab coat at some point, leaving him in a smart suit. He’s /broad/ and well-toned for a doctor, shirt straining over his shoulders as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

The
room Gide directs him into is halfway down the hallway. It looks like a conference room, or maybe a break room. There’s a large, round table surrounded by chairs and a coffee machine set up near the back wall.

Two people are already sitting at the table, chatting over their cups
of coffee. They look like doctors or nurses, in pale blue scrubs with name tags dangling from the collar.

The girls look up when they enter, and their eyes go wide when they see Gide.

“Go back to work, interns. I need this room,” he says, stern, making shooing motions at them.
The interns scramble out of the room like he threatened their livelihoods.

“Take a seat. Want a cup?” Gide invites, headed straight to the coffee machine. He’s changed his hair at some point, from a messy ponytail to an even messier bun that leaves strands dangling around his
shoulders and face. There’s a symbol tattooed on the back of his neck, but Dazai can’t make it out from this angle.

He sits, stretching out his legs under the table. Nerves make his leg bounce anxiously. “Sure. Black, please.”

“Good choice. The cream here sucks.”

Watching him
make coffee while Chuuya is in his room looking like he’s on deaths door feels /absurd/. It’s like he’s /stalling/.

Dazai’s never been in this situation. He’s never had anyone who was close to him be /sick/ like this. He doesn’t know the protocol.

Should he wait for Gide to
start or does he demand answers or does he start /breaking/ things like his temper is telling him?

/Is/ there even a protocol for these types of things or is everyone just winging it?

Before Dazai can decide, a cup of coffee is being placed in front of him. He takes it in hand
gratefully,eyeing Gide as he settles in a nearby chair.

“So, the CT scans came back clear,” the neurologist says,taking a sip of his coffee and making a disappointed face. He doesn’t stop drinking it though. “I didn’t see any unusual bleeding or clotting, or anything like that.”
The relief is marred by frustration, because that doesn’t explain /anything/. Obviously there’s still something wrong with Chuuya, and if it wasn’t the fall then what /is/ it?

“That’s a good thing, right? That they were clear?” Dazai asks, taking a sip of his own coffee. It
tastes like crap, burnt and cheap. Typical hospital coffee.

Gide makes a face, like he doesn’t agree with that. “It mostly means we have to keep looking. He did start to panic when he was coming out of the machine. He showed some signs of delirium,” he says, raising a hand to
his jaw. There’s a red mark there, starkly visible because of how pale the man is. “Your little fiancé packs quite the punch.”

Despite everything, that makes Dazai’s lips pull into a small smile. That’s his /baby/, fierce even when he’s feeling bad.

“I’ve got him sedated to
keep him calm. He’s scheduled for an MRI as well. That’ll give me a clearer picture of what’s going on. It’s possible there’s some smaller bleeds,clots, maybe encephalitis or abnormal swelling. He should be going up sometime soon,” he continues, looking at the watch on his wrist.
“What if the MRI doesn’t show anything either?” Dazai asks, grip tightening around his cup until it threatens to break.

That’s his worst fear, the one he’s been steadily beating back ever since Chuuya was admitted. Because—

What if it’s not simple? What if it’s something that
/doesn’t/ havé an easy fix, or something that can’t be cured entirely?

What if this is a major turning point in Chuuya’s life? In his health?

“The next step will be an EEG. There are some tests after that that can be done, and we’ll keep going from there,” Gide answers. His
eyes are locked on his face, unwavering. It’s not /kindness/ in them, per se, but an unswerving and indomitable strength. Like Dazai can take comfort in the idea that Gide /won’t/ give up on Chuuya.

He lets out another breath, taking another sip of the godawful coffee to give
himself a moment to recover.

When he’s collected and controlled again, negative thoughts carefully stored away, he says, “So you don’t know what’s happening to him?”

A shrug of a broad shoulder, a large coming to rest on the table. “I know what’s /not/ happening to him,” he
answers. “As for what /is/ happening...”

He leans forward then, closing the distance between them. His eyes are /sharp/, and Dazai can practically see the wealth of knowledge stored there.

Dazai is smart, but he’s mostly smart regarding /people/. He’s instinctual, and he can
suss out motives and reactions to predict people accurately.

On the other hand, /Gide/ looks like he has a textbook of the most complicated,fragile, /important/ piece of the human body memorized.

“That’s where you come in. You’re going to tell me everything you know about him.”
Well, /shit/. It’s not like Dazai’s completely clueless—he /has/ had a few conversations with Chuuya, and he did look up his medical history once— but he’s not an /expert/. This question would probably be much better answered by his father.

But saying /that/ gives up the ruse of
pretending to be his fiancé, and will probably get him kicked out of the building. The idea of /not/ knowing what’s happening with Chuuya at /all/ makes him want to scream so—

“I’ll do my best.” He has a good memory. He can point Gide in the right direction.

“Lovely,” Gide
says, leaning back in his chair, balancing it on the back two legs effortlessly, “Has Chuuya ever had a seizure before?”

“He had one when he was eleven. Said he got pneumonia pretty badly, and his fever spiked.” Dazai didn’t even /know/ fevers could cause seizures, let alone
/pneumonia/.

When Chuuya had described it, it had been... /detached/. Like it happened to someone else, or something he barely remembered and didn’t affect him. Dazai had been sympathetic, but he really hadn’t known how /traumatizing/ a situation like that would be.

Now he’s
beginning to understand. He can’t even imagine what it would’ve been like for his /father/, to watch his child become frail and helpless and terrifyingly sick.

Gide considers that, taking another sip of coffee. “Has he shown any signs of epileptic activity before? Uncontrollable
twitching, odd confusion, staring spells, fainting?”

Dazai shakes his head. “No. As far as I’ve seen, he’s been a normal college student. Besides the fainting today.”

“Has any of his family been diagnosed with epilepsy or any autoimmune diseases?”

Admittedly, Dazai doesn’t
know /that/ much about his family. He’s been surprisingly reticent about talking about them, and mostly just mentions them in odd stories as “my father” or “my sisters”. He just figured it was a case of the oversheltered child finally getting to experience freedom and. It wanting
to talk about his family.

Dazai understood. He didn’t talk about his family either.

“Not that I’m aware of. He did mention his dad has high blood pressure though.”

“Does hé drink or do drugs?”

“No drugs,” Dazai answers, shaking his head. Chuuya had never seem /opposed/ to
drugs on a moral level, he just never seem interested in them. “He drinks a glass or two of wine a night, but nothing excessive.”

Mostly because Dazai doesn’t /let/ it become excessive. Chuuya would drink a bottle for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if he let them.

Gide leans
forward again, eyes piercing. “There’s a new drug floating around the colleges lately, doesn’t show up on normal tox screens. I think it’s called DOA, or something? Is there any chance he’s taken that?”

There’s something familiar about that name, like a rat itching at his brain.
Chuuya’s never /mentioned/ it though, so either he doesn’t know about it—

Or he was hiding it from Dazai.

“I highly doubt it. He’s never been interested in drugs before.”

Gide squints at him, like he’s trying to tell if he’s /lying/. “Has he been acting erratic the past few
days?”

That’s hard to answer. Dazai hasn’t seen him since he went back to his dorm, and Chuuya /has/ been unusually quiet and distant—

But that could also just be because he was starting to feel bad. It’s normal to lose social energy when you’re getting sick.

Dazai narrows
his eyes at him. “Why? Does his symptoms line up with the drug?”

“We haven’t pinned down an exact symptom list,” Gide shrugs, “but /some/ have shown neurological symptoms like confusion, fainting. A case like his could be signs of an—“

Dazai cuts him off. “An overdose.”
Even /saying/ that word makes Dazai’s veins flash with numbing warmth, remembered pain. He ignores it, scratching absently at the skin of his inner wrist. He’s lucky he wore his bandages today— he’s gotten almost used to not wearing them around Chuuya— but they make his scars
/itch/.

Sometimes, anyway.

He refocuses. “Is that what you think it is? You think it’s an overdose?”

Gide pushes back from the table, taking his empty cup with him. He gestures to Dazai’s cup, silently asking if he wants a refill.

Dazai shakes his head. Honestly, he’d
rather go downstairs and drink some /Starbucks/ than drink any more of that crap.

Starting to refill his cup, Gide answers, “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying it’s a /possibility/ that I need to be aware of. I’m not ruling anything out or favoring any reason yet.”
All these ‘it could be /this/ or /that/ or maybe—‘ is setting Dazai’s teeth on edge. He hates not having answers.

“Have you tested him?”

Gide shakes his head, turning to lean back against the coffee desk. When he brings his cup to his mouth, his shirt pulls tightly across his
chest. The first button is undone, revealing his throat. “Not yet. I have to take blood for that, and I’m /hesitant/ to draw blood when the kid looks like he hasn’t had a bite to eat or a drop of water in two days. That alone could push him into another seizure, or cause other
problems. The plan is to wait for the MRI results,and if the scans are clean, then I’ll go about testing him.”

God, /more/ waiting.Dazai understands that this visit has probably been comparatively quick compared to most hospital visits, but it’s /agony/ just waiting for results.
It’s been, what— he checks the time on his phone— almost /three/ hours since they checked in.

Not only do they /not/ have answers, they actually just have more questions.

Gide continues his questioning, completely changing the topic. “Has he travelled lately?”

This is
starting to feel like an interrogation more than anything else. “We went to Osaka... almost a month ago, for five days.”

God, it feels like so /long/ ago now. So much has happened since then, and so much of their relationship has changed.

Dazai wishes they could go /back/.
Wishes he could rewind time and just—

Not come back. Stay in that hotel forever, where everything was easy and nice and /fun/. No Sasaki to worry about, no Shuuji, no gang issues, no hospital visits.

Just him and Chuuya.

Gide nods, looking thoughtful. Has he visited the
countryside lately?”

“No, but his family lives in,” Dazai stalls out because he doesn’t actually /remember/ where his father lives. He’s not sure if Chuuya ever mentioned it, and when he was snooping around his background, he was more interested in /Chuuya’s/ info and not his
family’s. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember. It’s a rural city though.”

“Any complaints of bug bites or anything bothering him before the past few days?”

“No,” Dazai sighs, resting his cheek on his hand. “He was perfectly fine up until yesterday.”

That’s another terrifying
realization. How /fast/ this all went.

Chuuya was /fine/ up until yesterday. Or, at least he /seemed/ fine.

And now he’s in a hospital, having seizures and getting his brain scanned.

The realization of how /easy/ it is for the center of Dazai’s happiness to be shaken up and
even taken away from him is—

He doesn’t have words, other than mind-numbingly terrifying. He /just/ found Chuuya and no matter how hard he tries to keep him safe, he might be losing him just as quickly.

Everything he could ever want is inevitably lost. /Always/.

Just then, the
door to the conference room opens up. Dazai and Gide look over at the same time.

A redhead is leaning against the doorframe, hair messy. He doesn’t exactly /look/ like a nurse with all the ear piercings and the notch in his eyebrow— but he’s wearing scrubs and holding up a
orange postage envelope.

“Brought you those MRI images you ordered. I know you like to have them /hand-delivered/,” the guy drawls, a hint of a scoff in his voice.

Gide’s face melts into a beaming smile, turning him from stern neurologist to charming man. “Merci beaucoup, mon
amour,” he practically /purrs/, gesturing for the redhead to come over. “You always know /exactly/ what I like.”

Dazai turns back to his coffee, fighting back a snort as Gide blatantly flirts with the nurse.

Maybe Grey’s Anatomy wasn’t so ridiculous, after all.

There’s a
fondly irritated sigh, and then the redhead is padding over to hand him the envelope.

Gide takes it with a charmingly grateful smile, tilting his head to the coffee bar in question.

The redhead huffs. “I know you think you’re /special/, but I’ve got four more MRI’s this hour.
Im not sticking around to /chat/.”

Gide sighs in disappointment, his gaze /clearly/ fixed on an /interesting/ part of the redhead’s anatomy as he turns around and heads back to the door. “I’ve got the best hands in this building, Tachihara, you know that.”

There’s a /clear/
innuendo there that has Dazai taking a sip of his coffee loudly. He is /not/ involved in this case of sexual harassment, whether it’s consensual or not.

“I’m /very/ special, and you wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t.”

“Whatever you say, Gide,” the redhead calls out, waving a hand
as he exits.

“I’ll visit you later, give you my thanks for the rush order,” Gide says loudly after him. Putting his coffee down, he goes about opening the envelope.

Dazai arches a disbelieving eyebrow at him, amused by the /audacity/ of that while scene.

“Don’t judge me,”
the neurologist huffs, pulling out a paper thin sheet of black translucent paper, “/you’ve/ got a fiancé who is eighteen years old, and I know /damn/ well you’re nowhere your teens.”

Dazai puts his eyebrow away. Yeah, he’s got him there.

Gide holds the images up to the light.
Dazai can see through the back of them, and he can make out the shapes of what has to be Chuuya’s /brain/.

It just looks like organized noodles to him, but it’s /fascinating/ that something so small and fragile is the center of human existence. How everything in the /world/
somehow comes back to that small mound of electric jello. The brain invented /everything/ and even though it is fragile and needs to be taken care of—

It’s also surprisingly resilient.

Dazai watches, anxiety building, as Gide tilts the images back and forth, comparing the
half-dozen images on the paper. There’s a slight frown growing between his eyebrows, making him nervous.

If he doesn’t see what’s wrong, that can’t be good, right? If he’s not /finding/ anything then that means they still don’t know what’s going on.

Raising his hand, Gide
uses the end of his pinkie to compare something on two different parts of the brain.

Then his frown breaks on a grin.

“Ah, there it is,” he says, using his other hand to pull out the phone in his pocket.

Dazai leans forward, heart rate spiking. “What?”

Gide waves him off
with the MRI images, speed-dialing a number on his phone. When it starts to ring, he puts it to his ear.

“Yes, hello— it /is/ me, I’m so glad you recognized my voice. Do me a favor, love, and start A5158 on a round of Acyclovir. Cortisone too, please. Thank you /so/ much, Hara,
I knew I could count on you.”

The /moment/ he hangs up, Dazai is snapping, “What? What is it?”

“Encephalitis. Pretty bad case of it too. I’m surprised the CT didn’t pick it up,” Gide says, carefully sliding the image sheet back into its envelope. “Poor kid. No wonder his head
hurt.”

What the fuck is /encephalitis/? It sounds like an /STD/?!

Gide must see his confusion because he explains. “Basically his brain is swelling. He didn’t have any more room in his skull, so his brain was starting to crush itself under the pressure. I haven’t seen a case
this bad since— well, med school.”

Finally, /finally/, Dazai feels like he can take an unobstructed breath. The lingering panic and anxiety cinched around his chest finally begins to ease.

God, he’s going to be /okay/. Chuuya’s going to be /okay/.

“I just ordered him an
anti-inflammatory and an anti-viral. That will ease the swelling in his brain and hopefully knock out whatever is causing the swelling.”

Dazai could /kiss/ him right now, and if he wasn’t happily taken, he might have actually done so.

“So it was just a virus that caused it?”
Gide makes a /face/ again. “Well, the tricky thing with encephalitis is that /most/ of the time, we don’t know what caused it. Viral encephalitis is the most common, so the anti-viral is the common treatment. If that doesn’t work, then we will move onto the other treatments until
we find the one that /does/.”

How do you go to medical school for /ten/ years, and not know what makes a brain swell to bursting? That doesn’t make /any/ sense to Dazai, and the ‘we’ll just keep trying treatments!’ sounds /risky/.

But he’s not a neurologist, so he doesn’t
argue. He does have two more questions though. “So it wasn’t the fall the caused it?”

Out of /all/ the fear he’s experienced today— and he’s experienced a /lot/, much more than he even knew was possible— that was the most insidious one.

That this was /his/ fault and that this
could’ve all been avoided if he’d just—

If he’s been smarter. If he’s been /better/. If he’s listened to his /instincts/ and forced Chuuya to get checked out that day.

“My professional medical opinion is that you should always see a doctor after any sort of head trauma,” Gide
recites, like it’s a line that’s been drilled into his head, then hesitates.

When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Kinder, more understanding. Sympathetic. “But my /personal/ opinion is that it was probably a good thing he hadn’t been seen yet. If he had and trauma had been
ruled out, he could’ve been diagnosed with the flu and sent home. It would’ve taken much longer for me to get his case, because the nurses would not have thought it was neurological. He could’ve gotten a lot worse in that time.”

That... does make Dazai feel better, a little bit.
Even if it’s /unintentional/, he did help Chuuya in a way.

“Besides, there’s a /lot/ of reasons this could’ve happened. I don’t think it’s directly related to the fall— so don’t feel too bad, alright? You did the best you could.”

Dazai nods, forcing himself to take some heart
from that. It’s hard to feel /okay/ when there’s a roiling, writhing ball of emotion in his chest— a lot of which feels like /guilt/— but he’s starting to. A little.

And then his next question, the most important one:

“Chuuya’s going to okay, right? He’s going to recover fine?”
The silence after that question is long and pained. Gide stares at him for a long moment,arms crossed over his chest.

His expression has returned to professional blankness, a bad omen.

"It's too early to say. He's young and in good health, so the /hope/ is that he will recover
easily and quickly, with no lingering after effects."

That sounds good-- so why does Gide look so /grim/?

"However," he continues, voice slowing, "There /has/ been cognitive dysfunction in some cases. Particularly the severe ones."

He said Chuuya's case was the most severe
he'd seen since med school so that would mean--

"What /kind/ of cognitive dysfunction?" He can't help but ask, morbid curiosity welling up. He doesn't /want/ to know, but he feels like he /has/ to.

He owes it to Chuuya to be prepared if--

If he's going to be /cognitively
impaired/.

"Again, I want to stress that it is /too soon/ to tell. It hasn't even been an hour yet, and behavioral changes immediately after is normal."

When Dazai's gaze doesn't waver, Gide sighs and continues:

"Things that mood changes, speech impairment, memory issues and
other issues have all been recorded."

Dazai's head drops into his hands. Every fucking time he gets a /little/ hope, it just gets taken away from him again. To think that Chuuya might be irrevocably changed by this is--

"I don't want you to think about that. Right now, what you
both need to focus on is his recovery. We'll keep him overnight for observation and if his symptoms have improved enough by discharge tomorrow, then you can take him home."

So /soon/? Shouldn't he be kept in the hospital for a few days, at least? He just had a /seizure/ and
encephalitis.

"When you get back into his room, he'll probably be asleep. That's normal. Unless you have any other questions, I'll come check on him tomorrow morning," Gide says, pushing himself off the coffee table to stand fully.

At the moment, Dazai's head is so full with
news and diagnoses and information and /emotion/, that he can't really think past the driving need to see Chuuya again.

To see him with his own eyes, to verify his health for himself. Hopefully, to watch him get /better/.

He's sure he'll have questions later but not right now.
Right /now/, he just wants his baby.

"I'll have some for you later," Dazai says, shaking his head. He stands up, disposing of his half-empty coffee cup into the trash near the coffee table.

Gide looks at his watch again. It's heavy and silver, a complement to his hair. He
probably has other appointments and patients to get to. He seems like a busy man.

"Alright-- if you need anything, just let the nurse know. They'll help you out, or they'll come find me," Gide says, pushing off the table and following behind him as he leaves the conference room.
Dazai waves a hand in acknowledgement. "Thank you."

There's /so/ much he feels he should be thanking the doctor for. Taking Chuuya's symptoms seriously, working quickly to figure out what was going on, keeping Dazai informed. He knows this is his job but--

Chuuya is /important/
to him, and Gide helped him when Dazai couldn't.

"No problem," Gide says, clapping a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "Now go to him."

That is no hardship.

Thankfully, Chuuya's room isn't far away, just down the hall. Dazai nearly jogs down there, heart beating in his
throat.

There’s a part of Dazai— likely always /will/ be a part of him, trauma memories entangled so deeply inside him he’ll be able to separate /him/ from what happened to him— that is fully convinced that Chuuya will disappear the moment he takes his eyes off him. Like he’s a
ghost that only exists because Dazai is looking at him, or something fragile that is only safe when it’s at the center of his attention.

Like his parents, who were there one minute—

And forever gone the next.

It’s like a paranoid itching at the back of his mind, a constant
voice in the back of his head, like the scratching nails of a child on a door. / Where is he, where is he, where IS HE—?/

Dazai’s gotten pretty adept at pushing down the reactions he /doesn’t/ like, the thoughts he doesn’t enjoy. It’s more forceful ignorance than a real coping
method but it /works/ for him. At least enough that he can function well above it, like he’s not traumatized at all.

Still, it never goes away. And it’s only /soothed/ when Chuuya comes back into view.

Leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, Dazai just...watches him for a
while.

He’s /small/ in the bed, fragile and pale. His eyes are closed firmly, and his breath is even, so he’s probably asleep just like Gide said. His hair is spread out on the pillow, and Dazai can see the tangles from here.

At some point, he’d changed into a hospital gown.
It’s big on him, and the collar is sliding off his shoulder. His collarbone looks more sharply defined than usual, sparking another flash of concern.

He loses weight so /quickly/, and he’s been on a steady downhill ever since Dazai’s met him. It’s like the stress of college and
life is just slowly draining him, no matter how much Dazai feeds him.

There’s an IV pole standing beside his bed, sporting three different bags. The medicine Gide ordered, and assumingly a bag of saline or nutrients.

They’re being fed into an IV that is taped to Chuuya’s
hand.

The sight makes Dazai wince. The hand ones /always/ hurt. He had one once, when he was recovering from another attempt in Mori’s infirmary, and Mori couldn’t find a vein in his arm.

It felt like ice was being slowly pumped into the bones of his hand, painfully cold.
Even he, someone who had deliberately pushed his pain threshold to it’s limits /many/ times, was irritated and uncomfortable by it.

He moves to his side, drawn in by his presence, moth to loving flame. The chairs by the wall aren’t secured to the floor, so he drags one over to
his bedside. Most of the equipment is settled on the left, closer to the door, so Dazai settles in on the right.

He’s careful as he slides his hand under Chuuya’s. This one doesn’t have an IV, but it’s still limp and pale. A little clammy. So /small/ compared to his, fingers
short and delicate. His nails /were/ filed and clean, but they’ve become a little worse for wear over the past few days.

Chuuya stirs when Dazai squeezes his hand lightly, eyebrows drawing down in a frown.

Dazai holds his breath, waiting to see if he’s going to wake up—
He doesn’t.

Instead, he lets out a tiny, irritated huff and turns his face away.

Dazai smiles at that. For a morning person, he’s always been adorably grumpy when he’s waking up. Always huffing and pouting and pulling at Dazai if he tries to get up.

By now, it’s almost dark.
He can see the sunset vaguely through the window, spilling orange-red rays of light into the room.

Something occurs to him then, so he pulls out his phone with his free hand. Opening up the messaging app, he shoots the neighbor girl, Naomi, a text asking if she can let the dogs
outside and feed them dinner. He doesn’t want to leave Chuuya’s side, but he also doesn’t want to force Yoko and Kozo to go hungry for the night.

It’s a Friday, so hopefully she won’t be too busy. She’s still in high school, and her parents are strict, so he doesn’t expect her
to be out at a party or something.

Ten minutes later, he gets a text in agreement. Awesome. He thanks her, giving her the location of the house key he stores outside. He changes the location every week, just in case.

Then, with nothing left to do but wait until Chuuya wakes up
— even if Dazai /was/ tired, which he’s not, he’s actually /wired/, hopped up on lingering adrenaline and even if his insomnia would let him sleep, there’s no way his survival instincts would let him sleep in such a public and defenseless place— Dazai starts to comb through
Chuuya’s hair with his fingers.

He’s always been very particular about his hair. Doesn’t like when it’s tangled or when it’s frizzy. Which is kind of a /problem/ considering how damn thick it is, and how easy it is for the curls to get tangled together.

He /also/ doesn’t like
to wash it too often or use a comb on it when it’s not wet. Dazai’s watched him brush through his hair for an /hour/ rather than just pick up a comb and ruin the shape of the curls.

It’s tangled now, knotted to the back of his head.Probably from the seizure and the panic attack.
Honestly, Dazai doesn't get it. His own hair is washed nearly every day, and it hasn't been long enough to need a comb in a long while.

But he /does/ respect that Chuuya likes his hair a certain way, and it gives him something to do so--

He pulls all the knots out slowly. He's
careful never to pull too hard, and whenever his fingers get caught, he pulls them out and slowly pulls the knot free. It takes a long while, slowly working his way up from the bottom and teasing the tangles out.

Chuuya must've washed his hair recently. It's soft, plush with
volume and shiny. It's almost /alive/, playful curls wrapping around his fingers, looking like fire in the light.

The sight makes him smile. There's some things about Chuuya that just seem /otherworldly/.

Time passes like that, cradling Chuuya's hand in one hand and
absentmindedly coming through his hair with the other. With the rhythmic beeps of the machines, it's easy to get lost in the flow of things. Hours slip by, and the hospital doesn't change.

Then Chuuya moves.

Dazai looks up, blinking himself back into alertness. He'd been mostly
zoned out, eyes locked on the doorway, turning the situation over in his head again and again.

Chuuya stirs again, eyebrows bunching together in a frown. His head tosses, eyes squeezed shut. A muffled whimper escapes him, strained and low.

Nightmare? Or is he in pain again?
Should he call the nurse? Chuuya still doesn't look like he's waking up and he /is/ prone to nightmares so--

He'll try something else first.

Climbing into the bed with him is a careful process. He has to avoid pulling on all the tubes and wires connected to him as he slides his
arm under his head.

Instinctually, or perhaps because he recognizes him even in his sleep, Chuuya curls into him. His head finds his chest, leaning into him and using his frame to block out the harsh lighting. The hand that Dazai was holding is now resting on his stomach.

It's
uncomfortable for Dazai. He has to curl up his legs awkwardly to fit on the bed, and there's only /one/ pillow which is already being used by Chuuya, so his back has no support whatsoever as he curls over Chuuya.

But Chuuya quiets down, and the frown on his face melts away. It's
replaced by a peaceful smile, small and light.

It's worth every second of discomfort.

At some point, a nurse comes in to check on Chuuya. She eyes Dazai disapprovingly, but doesn't say anything as she silently takes down his vitals.

She doesn't seem too concerned and leaves
quickly, so that must be a good sign, right? If she's not scrambling or calling the other nurses, then Chuuya is doing better, right?

It's so /hard/ to just wait and draw conclusions from the barest hints of what he's seeing and hearing.

But he's still sleeping, and it's been
hours since he was sedated and the medicine was administered, so--

That's good, right?

Not having any answers at all is terrifying in itself; but having the answers and waiting to see if the solution is working is anxiety inducing. Like waiting for the results of the most
important test of your life.

Dazai tucks his arm along Chuuya's back, tugging him close into the curve of his body. It feels like the fever has gone down somewhat. He's /warm/ against him, but not blisteringly hot anymore.

The sheet on the hospital is light and scratchy, but
Dazai draws it up anyways,tucking it tightly underneath Chuuya's arm. His hand has to stay out of the blanket, but he makes sure to cover the rest of him.

You're supposed to keep someone with a fever warm, right? Dazai has never actually taken care of someone ho was sick before.
He’s only taken care of /himself/— and his method of care was to just pop a hydrocodone and disassociate until he felt better.

Yosano got the flu once when they were in the Mafia, and he showed up with a bottle of liquor to ‘cure her’. She tried to break it over his head.
Needless to say, Dazai is completely and utterly out of his depth. He’s assuming, based on the way Gide was talking, that Chuuya will need quite a bit of care and support so he can recover from this successfully.

Chuuya can’t be trusted to take care of /himself/ the way he needs
to be, so Dazai will make sure he does.

He likes the idea of taking care of him.Makes a drop of warmth swell up inside him.

He might be out of his league and unprepared—

But he’s resourceful, he’s /smart/ and he has access to the most valuable resource on the planet:

Google.
Does the act of googling “how to care for a sick person” and “how to lower a fever” and “encephalitis after care” and “how to help nausea” make him feel a little stupid?

Absolutely.

But it’s also 2am so he can’t text Yosano for advice without pissing her off. It isn’t an
emergency so he can’t call Gide. The neurologist probably wouldn’t appreciate getting drilled with aftercare questions in the middle of the night. He’ll ask when he comes to check on Chuuya in the morning.

Right now, all Dazai has himself and his access to the internet. He’s
determined to make sure Chuuya recovers without any lasting negative affects.

He’ll do whatever it takes.

Chuuya /will/ be safe and he /will/ be perfectly healthy.

(He won’t.)

—————— +

If you asked Nikolai how he got to this point in life, he would not be able to answer.
He could give you the sequence of /events/:

He’s the second son of a mid-class family in Moscow. His mother is a teacher and a midwife; his father works for the Russian Bratva.

So does his elder brother. Or /did/, anyways.

Nikolai himself was a small child, always hovering
on the edge of bad health, and never serious. He never needed to be, because he was the second son, and so he was considered the /spare/.

It was Sigma who needed to make the family proud, to bring them honor and money. Nikolai was expected to follow in his fathers footsteps, but
it wasn’t /necessary/.

So as he grew up and he decided he wanted to go to college instead of joining the Bratva, it was a shock to his family.

But it wasn’t /terrible/. His mother understood. His father was /mean/, but well—

That man was always mean. It didn’t matter what the
reason was, he always found a reason to be angry about something.

Then Sigma and his father died. His mother was stricken with grief and spent many days mourning her lost son and husband. And Nikolai—

Well, he was the man of the house now, and it wasn’t a shock to learn that
his father had racked up quite the debt with the Bratva during drinking games.

There was only one option left: join the Bratva or leave his mother to waste away in the cold, grieving and hungry.

In the end, he /did/ go to college—

But it’s a pretense. A /cover/. A /job/.
It was supposed to be easy. Being placed in the college, near the center of Mafia territory, and just soak up all the information he could find to relate back to Fyodor.

Become friends with Shuuji.

He rolls the pills in hand, purple-black. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
The problem was he /liked/ Chuuya. Genuinely liked him.

He was kind, and understanding, and he never made Nikolai feel strange or weird. He never pried too deeply into his life, respecting Nikolai’s boundaries in a way he hasn’t really expected before.

Once, some of the other
students had been making fun of Nikolai’s accented Japanese, and Chuuya had nearly started a /brawl/ in the campus courtyard in defending him.

Nikolai liked Yuan too, and Shuuji was his /job/, but Chuuya—

Chuuya was never supposed to be involved. Chuuya was his /friend/.
Naturally, with Nikolai’s luck, that ended up with Chuuya somehow getting /romantically/ and emotionally involved with probably the worst person Nikolai could imagine. He’d /tried/ to warn him off without revealing too much of his /job/— because if Chuuya knew about that, then a
whole other slew of problems would be created— but the guy was /stubborn/ and blind when it came to Dazai.

And then Fyodor had found out, somehow. Nikolai had /barely/ escaped punishment by claiming he hadn’t /known/ about the relationship—

But he did know. That was the first
time he’d lied to Fyodor /ever/.

And then his job became to watch /Chuuya/.

It was hard because it wasn’t like he had the /option/ of refusing or lying. Fyodor could kill him if he wanted, and then his mother would have no one.

But every scrap of information he gave to him
about Chuuya felt like betrayal.

He was glad when Chuuya disappeared for days or a week at a time, because that meant he didn’t /know/ what was happening. He could tell Fyodor he hadn’t seen or spoken to him, not for lack of trying, and that was it.

And then the order came.
Fyodor wanted him to /dose/ Chuuya with the drug he was manufacturing, without his knowledge.

Nikolai didn’t know what the pills did. It wasn’t his place to know. All he knew was that it was probably going to according to Fyodor’s plan because the boss had been in a /very/ good
mood lately.

He’d fucked him /twice/ this week, which is completely out of character. Falling into bed with the boss was a /privilege/, and he treated it like one. He only let the /prettiest/ people or the subordinates he was /most/ pleased with get a taste of his cock.
And Nikolai had to admit—

It /worked/.

Because after being fucked on a luxurious bed covered in ten thousand Yen notes, the imprint of rings left on his body for /days/, all he wanted was more.

After being restrained in yards of red silken rope, anchored to the ceiling in
the shape of tangled wings, each knot a display of Fyodor’s power, his /vision/, his skill, hanging from the ceiling with no leverage as Fyodor did whatever he wanted to him—

He would do almost anything to experience mind-numbing pleasure like that again.

If Dazai was a demon,
then Fyodor was the /devil/, and he fucked like it too. Entangling you in his ropes and showing you by /example/ what sin and pleasure really felt like.

It was impossible not to give into that sharp smile, even knowing that he’d take your soul—

Because he made every /second/
worth it. Made you want to come back again and again, giving up everything you had and everything you were—

Just so you would be /his/ for a few hours.

Fyodor got new ropes for everyone he played with, so just knowing that there was a neatly knotted wall of silk with
/Nikolai’s/ name on it, for /Nikolai/, and the only people to have touched it were him and Fyodor, and /only/ ever them—

It was /intoxicating/. His addiction, packaged up neatly and ready to be given to him whenever he earned it. His and his alone.

So when the order came, he—
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do that to his friend, one of the first /genuine/ ones he’s had in a while.

God, he /wanted/ to, and that made the guilt so much /worse/.

Was he really so pathetic that he was /almost/ willing to drug his friend non-consensually with a drug that
had been sending people to the /hospital/ for /sex/?

Really, really, /really/ good sex but still.

Besides, when Chuuya had come back from his impromptu get away with light bruising on his throat— probably because of Shuuji and his temper, but /possibly/ from Dazai— and already
complaining of a headache, how was Nikolai supposed to just take /advantage/ of his friends ailing health and make it /worse/?

Chuuya had defended him, had offered him nothing but kindness and friendship, and Nikolai was supposed to just /spit/ on that?

So he lied. Again.
Told Fyodor that he /did/ it when all he really did was take a pill and flush it down the toilet, and was fully expecting to be punished.

Fully expected to die, even, for lying. If Chuuya never showed symptoms then the boss would /know/.

And Nikolai would confess if asked.
Like a sinner to his god, on his knees and ready to receive whatever would be given to him in return.

Except Chuuya /did/ show symptoms of /something/. He’d collapsed at campus a few hours ago, and the gossip vine was /buzzing/ with the information that some tall, dark, handsome
man came to swoop him up and—

Fyodor and Dazai look similar enough that it could be either one of them. Chuuya could’ve gotten the pills /elsewhere/— Nikolai isn’t the /only/ one selling them on campus and some people share their purchases— and maybe he took some and then
Fyodor came to pick him up—

All Nikolai knows that is Chuuya isn’t responding to his texts and his location, which he’s sharing with the friend group chat, says he’s at the hospital.

He hopes he’s okay. Hopes that he’ll /be/ okay, eventually.

But he also knows that he can’t
keep hovering between the two sides anymore. He can’t protect Chuuya /and/ be a part of the Bratva. He can’t keep his friend safe and his mother safe at the same time.

He has to choose.

Dazai has to protect Chuuya now, because Nikolai can’t do it anymore. He’s done his best.
[ UNKNOWN ]: good boy, kolya.

The next makes Nikolai shiver. He can practically /taste/ the nickname rolling off Fyodor’s tongue.

[ UNKNOWN ]: there’s a car waiting for you outside

It feels wrong to be /rewarded/ when Nikolai hasn’t done anything at all, but refusing would
mean that he had to explain, and reveal that he didn’t actually do anything at all, so—

So he goes.

The car is black, with completely tinted windows, and the driver is someone Nikolai has never met before. It takes him to the building where Fyodor makes his office, a tall glass
building in the center of town. The brand name of the outside of it is something completely unrelated to what /really/ goes on in the building. It’s just a clever cover.

Nikolai /does/ get nervous on the elevator ride up because—

What if Fyodor knows he lied? What if he’s about
to get /punished/ instead of rewarded?

Nikolai doesn’t know how he’d know— he was /secretive/ about tossing the pill, and Chuuya is clearly sick with /something/— but Fyodor is resourceful. He might’ve found out somehow.

The office, when he steps inside, is surprisingly dark,
with most of the light coming from the sun outside pouring through the multiple windows.

Fyodor is sitting at his desk, casually nursing a bottle of vodka. There’s a shot glass in front of him, freshly wet.

Woven between his fingers is /rope/. Red rope, /Nikolai’s/ rope. He’d
recognize that color anywhere, and the sight of it alone has his heart speeding up.

Violet eyes look up at him as he enters, nearly glowing in the light. Fyodor’s lips pull into a satisfied smile, red and shiny. He looks kissable.

“Come in, Kolya,” he says, nearly purring with
invitation. “Close the door behind you and come here.”

It’s not in Nikolai to refuse a direct order when he’s being stared at like /that/ so—

He comes.

Fyodor doesn’t move from his spot lounging in his office chair, like a leopard sated from the hunt and stretched out
magnificently across it’s resting place. Casually dangerous.

When Fyodor gestures to the floor next to him, Nikolai falls to his knees easily.

With a flick of his wrist, the rope in Fyodor’s hands is spun out and dropped around the back of his neck. A noise he would /willingly/
put his neck into, and a pull he does not fight as Fyodor tugs him closer.

“You did well,” he praises him, and the pride that wells up in him feels like it would burn him alive. Even if he has no right to feel that way.

Still, he lets Fyodor manhandle him, eyes going half-
lidded at the pressure. He wants Fyodor to kiss him.

“And now I have another job for you,” he murmurs, and Nikolai is subtly leaning on, leaning /up/, aching to be put out of his mind so he can stop thinking for just a little bit. So he can stop feeling /guilty/ about the things
he didn’t do and the things he has yet to do.

Soft lips brush against his own as Fyodor speaks again. “I want you to bring me Nakahara Chuuya.”

Nikolai’s eyes squeeze shut at the same time Fyodor /finally/ kisses him.

No one told him this, but life should not be this hard.

—+
Hospitals start their work early. Not early compared to Dazai's standards-- he's usually awake before the sunrise, mostly because his insomnia is a rampant, vicious foe-- but to /Chuuya's/ standards, definitely. Little brat thinks waking up before 10 in the morning is /obscene/,
and that's when he's feeling /good/. Now that he's /sick/, Dazai has no doubt that adorable grumpiness is even more dramatic than usual.

He does what he can, letting Chuuya bury his face in his chest to hide from the light and lightly cupping his hand over his ear to help block
out the sound of the hospital coming to life.

A nurse comes in to check on him early, once again taking down all of Chuuya's vital signs. She's respectfully quiet, humming lightly to herself as she writes down all the information. As she leaves, she turns to Dazai and whispers,
"The neurologist will be in to see you soon."

'Soon' ends up being nearly half an hour lately. Chuuya is still stubbornly clinging to sleep, but it's clear that he's slowly starting to wake up.

Dazai hopes it's not a bad sign that he's so exhausted. He knows his body needs rest
to recover--

But he'd do anything to see those blue eyes open up again. He misses the sight of them, and he feels like the only way he'll be able to tell if Chuuya is /alright/ is if he sees them again. If he wakes up and /looks/.

"You do realize that the hospital beds are for
patients and not for their fiancés, right?" Gide's voice comes from the doorway,faintly amused.

Dazai looks over, blinking the strain out of his eyes. It's been a long night, longer than usual.

Gide's dressed in a different suit today. The labcoat and suitcoat is missing again,
and the shirt today is a silver-grey that compliments his shiny hair. It's down this morning, falling to mid-back, with his bangs pulled back in a handful of small braids along his temples. He looks elegant, sleek, regal.

"He sleeps better when I'm here," Dazai explains,
shrugging lightly. It's true, he's much more easily settled when Dazai is at least in bed with him, even if he's not sleeping himself.

Dazai takes that moment to slide out from underneath Chuuya, slowly getting to his feet. Chuuya makes a grumbling noise in protest as he leaves,
much more clear than anything else he's mumbled thus far. He must be close to waking up now.

Dazai raises his arms above his head, stretching out his spine until it pops loudly. His back aches mercilessly, particularly his lower back.

While he works out the kinks in his body,
Gide grabs the chart and starts to flip through it. His expression is calm but focused, red-tinted eyes taking in all the information easily. He doesn't look /concerned/, so Dazai takes that as a good sign.

There's another small grumble, a sound of strain and a rustle of the
bedsheets and pillow on the bed and then--

"What happened?"

He's /awake/.

He sounds hoarse and /grumpy/ but when Dazai looks over, heart leaping in his chest--

Chuuya's already looking, eyes bleary and half-lidded but /clear/ and fixed on him.

Dazai could cry with relief.
Almost /does/, actually, and it takes a surprising amount of strength to rein in his reactions--

But he doesn't want to /frighten/ him again. It must be disorientating to wake up after everything that happened, and he doesn't want to startle him again.

Meanwhile, Gide snaps the
chart in his hands closed. "Good morning, Chuuya," he greets, cheerfully. "I'm glad to see you're awake."

With his hands, Chuuya struggles to push himself into an upright position. He hisses in pain when the IV in his hand is jostled, drawing his hand to his chest.

There's
buttons on the edge of the bed, letting it be moved up and down. Dazai presses the one that moves the top of the bed into a more inclined position, letting Chuuya 'sit up' without having to strain himself or hold himself up.

He gets a grateful look in response, his free hand
creeping across the bed to find Dazai's, instinctively reaching out for comfort. Their fingers intertwine lightly.

Dazai squeezes his hand gently as he drops into the chair he'd left by his bedside, careful not to hurt him but also /so/ relieved he's awake and talking. He brings
his hand to his lips, dropping a reverent kiss there. His skin is still too warm, but it's not /burning/ hot anymore, and he squeezes his fingers in return.

"How do you feel?" Gide asks, leaning back against the doorframe. The breadth of his shoulders blocks the sight of the
hallway beyond, making it seem like the room is closed off and secure.

"Uh," Chuuya starts, seeming like he's struggling to find the exact words he wants to say. He touches his temple with his other hand once, wincing lightly. "Like shit-- but better, I think?"

He's still
showing signs of light sensitivity, and he's slumped back into the bed like he's exhausted, but he's talking clearly--

That's a good sign, right?

"That's good to hear. You've shown signs of improvement throughout the night. Your fever has gone down, and so has your blood
pressure. I'm scheduling you for an MRI to check on the swelling, but it seems to me that you've responded well to the medication."

The smile that grows on Chuuya's face is small and wobbly, but it's /brilliant/ to Dazai. Possibly his favorite smile /ever/, because he wasn't
sure if he was going to see it again.

"So what happened to me?"

"You had something called encephalitis. It means your brain was swelling, and the pressure was too much. That's what caused the seizure, and the rest of your symptoms. I'm not completely certain what was causing
the swelling, but the important part is that you're responding to medication. If your MRI results are good, you'll be able to discharged today," Gide answers. Even though he's giving /good/ information, he still looks stern and professional. His arms are crossed over his chest.
Chuuya takes a moment to process that, squeezing Dazai's hand. He seems to be taking this remarkably well, and even now a smile is growing on his face, slowly growing bigger.

"So when will I be able to go back to school? I'm enrolled at Keio."

The air goes completely still.
"About that," Gide starts, pushing off the wall and walking closer. He stands at the foot of the bed, and his gaze is stern enough on Chuuya that Dazai is stiffening automatically, "Even /if/ your recovery goes perfectly-- you won't be able to return this semester."
Chuuya /gapes/ at him. "What do you mean? You said I'm recovering!"

"Yes, but that doesn't mean you're /fine/. You suffered a brain injury, one that could still have lingering aftereffects. You need lots of rest and care, as well as medication. Bed rest, for six weeks minimum
and then /slow/ transition back into normal life."

"Six WEEKS?" Chuuya repeats, sounding /appalled/. Anger must be giving him energy because he's sitting up straighter, pinning Gide with a glare. "You can't /make/ me not go, not if I start to feel better. Just give me a note for
two weeks, and I'll be fine."

He is the most /stubborn/ fucking person Dazai has /ever/ met--

But he's met his match with Gide. Because /Gide/ doesn't have emotional attachment to him, doesn't want to see him happy above all else and wouldn't give into him just to make him
smile.

Gide only has /one/ goal-- get Chuuya healthy-- and he won't give in on that.

"I'll be giving /Dazai/ your note for the next /three/ months," Gide answers, steady and calm in the face of Chuuya's rising irritation, "And you're right, I can't make you take care of
yourself. But if you're going to take /that/ route, I might as well take the IV out of your hand right now. We'll all sit here and watch as the pressure in your head grows and grows. Eventually, you'll seize again."

Chuuya looks pale, and his hand is beginning to tremble. His
lips are pressed together so tightly they're nearly white with bloodlessness.

"You wanna know what comes after that? Eventually the pressure in your head gets so much that I have to /cut/ into it. I'll drill out a piece of your skull, sew it into your abdomen to keep it alive,
and leave the hole in your head open to relieve pressure."

Chuuya /recoils/,pressing himself back in the bed, and even Dazai feels vaguely uncomfortable with the description of that. He's unfortunately /glad/ that Gide is being so /ruthless/, because it finally seems that Chuuya
is /getting/ it. This isn't a flu or a sickness he's just going to bounce back from.

He doesn't get to pretend that he's /okay/ after all this, because he's not. And if he doesn't take care of himself, he might never be.

"Oh? You don't like that?" Gide's smile is edging on
/mean/. "You must be going after the /brain damage/, then, right?"

He doesn't let Chuuya get in a word otherwise as he brings his hand to his chin, pretending to think. "Let's see-- I know a guy, can't remember a damn thing. Has a memory so shot he can't remember anything past a
few /hours/. Totally forgot his /husband/, by the way. He can never live a normal life again. He needs a /babysitter/ to make sure he doesn't get himself lost. You want that to happen? You want to do that to yourself? To him?" He gestures to Dazai then, and he /hates/ being used
against Chuuya like this but--

But he can't /imagine/ a life like that. A life with a /helpless/ Chuuya, who doesn't even know who he /is/.

Dazai doesn't know how he would handle that. If he /could/ handle that.

"You want to live your life day by day, never knowing what came
before? Having to have /notes/ in your kitchen because you don't know where the /bowls/ are? Not knowing where you /live/? Not--."

Dazai cuts him off there, leveling a glare at Gide. "Stop. You're scaring him."

And Chuuya /is/ scared. He's pressed back against the bed like he's
trying to /escape/. Eyes wide and filled with moisture, locked on Gide like he can't look away.

"He /should/ be scared," Gide huffs, shrugging his shoulders like he doesn't care. "Brains are complicated, fragile things, and all of my help and knowledge will mean /shit/ if he
doesn't take care of himself. He could end up losing /everything/ if he doesn't let his body rest and recuperate."

"Okay," Chuuya chokes out, turning his head away and squeezing his eyes shut. "Okay, I /get/ it. So just-- just /stop/, please."

Gide lets out a breath, some of
the tension leaving his shoulders. "Okay. I didn't mean to frighten you-- but something like this can turn very serious very quickly, and the fact that it's /not/ serious yet is a good thing. You were lucky, Chuuya, but luck won't hold out forever. So follow your care
instructions, and you can go back to a normal life as quickly as your body will allow."

Speaking of, that's /exactly/ the question Dazai wanted to ask. "What /are/ his aftercare instructions?"

Gide pulls out a phone from his pocket, the same one Dazai saw yesterday. He thought
hospitals had like...

Pagers, or whatever, not /phones/.

"Now, this is /all/ depending on his MRI results, because those will determine if he's discharged today or not. If he is, I will be prescribing him an antiviral and an anticonvulsant. The antiviral will need to be taken
for the next... sixty days, to be sure. You'll need a refill at thirty days. As for the anti-convulsant, I'm going to give you a ten day script, just in case. Take one a day for the next three days, then only if you need them. They'll make you tired, but you /must/ take them if
you feel a seizure coming on. I'm sure you know what that feels like."

Mouth twisting down in a frown, Chuuya nods. His face is paling, and he's gone limp again, like all the fight has drained out of him. Like he's too tired to even be angry or upset anymore.

Dazai /aches/ for
him. He can't imagine what it'd be like to work so /hard/ for something, just to have it taken from you by circumstances out of your control.

Colleges aren't /supposed/ to discriminate by medical conditions-- but Dazai's /sure/ they do. The more prestigious ones, especially,
make it so /hard/ for anyone who's not in /perfect/ health to survive the classes. They're /merciless/, never giving an inch or adjusting due dates for someone who might need it. Every accommodation must be /fought/ for with tooth and nail.

Even if Chuuya does have a note for
medical leave, when-- /if/-- he returns to class, he'll be /behind/. An entire semester behind, and even if he /can/ keep up with the workload again, he might overwhelm himself again trying to catch up.

It's a shitty, shitty situation, and Dazai feels for him.

"I suggest
you start a regimen of anti-inflammatories--like Tylenol-- to help with the headache and the swelling. Make sure to follow the instructions, though."

This time, Gide levels a stern look at /Dazai/, which he's more than okay with.

"Other than that, I'm prescribing /lots/ of
rest, water and care. Do either of you have any questions?"

Dazai doesn't /think/ so, and if he comes up with any more questions he can always call Yosano. As long as it's a /reasonable/ time--she swears she's getting /old/ now and is in bed before midnight, which is /insulting/
considering that she is /two years/ younger than he is-- then she'll answer him. She might be /nosy/ about it, but she's always given him good advice.

He shakes his head. Chuuya makes a vague 'no' noise, still looking away.

"Alright," Gide says, rapping his knuckles on the
metal frame of the bed, "The nurses should be coming to get you for an MRI soon. If you come up with any questions while I'm gone, let one of them know. Otherwise, I'll see you again when the scans come back."

He turns without another word, long legs carrying him out of the room
easily. He's gone in only a few moments, leaving them alone to process what just happened.

It's rare for Dazai to feel out of his element. He's been trained to pick up the details of any situation and blend in, to use everything he can to his advantage.

There is no advantage
here. There's just Chuuya, staring at the wall with his expression forcibly blank, like he can't bear to reveal what he's feeling.

Dazai's never been /good/ with emotions, in any capacity, so this is especially hard for him. He doesn't know what to /do/, but he has to do
/something/. He can't just /sit/ here.

"Are...you okay?" He asks, and he /knows/ it's a stupid question, but he doesn't know where to start.

There's a long silence, and although Chuuya hasn't let /go/ of his hand, he's no longer squeezing it. He's just letting Dazai hold his
hand, fingers limp.

"No," Chuuya eventually croaks, and Dazai is /just/ about to jump up and call a nurse or something--

When Chuuya continues, "I worked /so/ hard to get into Keio. I gave it /everything/ I had, and now it's /gone/."

His voice cracks the last word, wobbling.
Poor /thing/. He must be feeling so lost right now, so helpless.

Gently, Dazai reaches out and brushes his fingertips over his cheek. Trying to show his care and support without /pushing/ him. "It's not /gone/, baby," he murmurs, wishing he had the works to /fix/ this, to make
it all seem /okay/. "You just... need to take a little break, that's all. You can go back next semester."

But for someone like /Chuuya/, who has been very obviously frustrated with his health over /years/ and refuses to give himself even the smallest of breaks-- it probably
seems like the end of the world. For someone who is /determined/ to push through every little pain or setback with a clenched jaw, the idea of being /forced/ to relax must be hard to handle.

It seems that Chuuya is too tired to argue anymore, because he just turns his face into
his hand and blindly accepts the comfort that's being given to him.

Dazai hopes they release him from the hospital soon, because the beds and equipment in here make it /really/ difficult to comfort Chuuya the way he wants to. Helping him sleep was one thing, but he wants to
/hold/ him.

Eventually a pair of nurses come into the room to take Chuuya for his test. They make small talk as they prepare to wheel Chuuya out, but Chuuya is understandably quiet.

Dazai is /nervous/ watching him leave, but he doesn't protest. He can't follow, so he's once
again left alone to wait in the room.

He gathers all their things while he waits. Chuuya's clothes and everything else he was wearing had been packed into a clear plastic bag. His collar is in there, light pink and metal shining underneath the light.

Dazai traces his finger
over the shape of it, something in him aching at how /empty/ it looks. How bare Chuuya's neck looked without it.

While he's there, he shoves Chuuya's phone and wallet in the bag with his clothes. He's probably wondering where they are, and Dazai's ass is numb from laying on
them all night.

He wishes he'd thought of getting Chuuya clean clothes for discharge, but it seems too late now. He can't make it to his house--Chuuya has a few outfits hanging in his closet, a sight that makes him feel warm and bubbly inside-- and back by the time he's
discharged.

If the scans don't go well and he ends up having to stay another night, then he'll make the trip to get him something comfortable to wear. If not, Chuuya will have to be okay with the jeans and sweater he wore yesterday. It'll only be for a little while anyways,
because Dazai intends to get him straight home and into bed as soon as he's released.

Half an hour later, Chuuya gets pushed back into the room. He looks more exhausted than ever, but the IV has been removed from his hand. That has to be a good sign, right?

Dazai greets him
with a gentle kiss dropped on the back of his hand, but otherwise lets him doze as they both wait for results.

‘Results’ come in the form of Gide waltzing into the room like he owns it nearly another half an hour later. His hair has been pulled up into another messy ponytail
on top of his head. Honestly, Dazai doesn’t understand why he just doesn’t cut his hair if it’s such a problem, or even start the day with his hair up.

He’s actually got his lab coat on this time, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms. In his hands is another brown
package envelope, like the ones that were holding his scans yesterday.

Dazai sits up straighter, waiting to hear if he can /finally/ bring his baby home or if they'll be in for another long night of waiting. Gide doesn't /look/ particularly concerned or happy, but he's been
irritatingly hard to read so far. Professional in /some/ moments, and swinging into something resembling a heartless drill sergeant the next.

"Good news," he starts, grabbing the chart on the end of Chuuya's bed. He flips to the back page, taking a pen out of his pocket. "Your
scans came back with good results. You've shown enough progress that you can go home today."

He signs the page with a flourish, before flipping the chart closed and tucking it underneath his arm.

Dazai lets out a breath of relief, slumping back in his seat. Relief is flooding
through him quickly, /finally/ washing away the lingering, sticky threads of emotion that have been clinging to his lungs like tar. It feels like he can finally /breathe/ again, and the air tastes clean and fresh again.

Even though the hard part is /just/ beginning.

Chuuya
doesn't look nearly as pleased-- in fact, he looks just exhaustively accepting, face blank-- but he nods and starts to pull himself into a sitting position.

Dazai slides over the bag of his clothes, not /offering/ to help him get dressed because he's sure that will just
frustrate him even more and he's not even sure if he /needs/ it.

Gide waves him closer, eyeing Chuuya's hunched frame as he tears open the bag and digs out his jeans.

"Keep an eye on him. Depression can be common," he murmurs to him, quiet enough to not be heard. Then, louder
he says, "You'll need an appointment in thirty days, just as a checkup. If anything /concerning/ happens between then,--like seizures or fainting or anything else-- go to the emergency room and ask them to page me directly. If there's nothing else, I'll leave you to it."

Chuuya
looks up then, and his eyes are clear, if drawn with exhaustion. "No, I think that's it. Thanks. For taking care of me."

Gide smiles at him, expression dissolving into mild happiness. For the first time he doesn't look like a professional force to be in this situation-- he looks
like a man who loves his job and is pleased when things go /well/. "You're welcome, Chuuya," he responds, caring and warm. "Now, take care of yourself. I don't want to see you again,even if you /are/ a better view than most of my patients these days."

He flashes a teasing smile
at him, one that manages to pull out an amused huff out of Chuuya /and/ a rising blush on his cheeks.

Dazai is torn between thinking 'is he really flirting with my fiance in front of me??' and 'yeah, Chuuya /is/ very pretty, thank you' and 'why the hell is he blushing at that?'.
And over that is a hot, possessive thought of 'do NOT touch'.

Before Dazai can decide if he's overreacting or if he should be /displeased/, Gide is clapping a hand on his shoulder. Maybe it's /harder/ than it should be, but the squeeze is friendly enough--

And then he's gone.
Leaving him with a boyfriend that /needs/ his help, even if he won't admit it, that he really has no idea /how/ to help.

"So," Chuuya says, reaching down to pull the ends of his jeans over his ankles. Then he stands up and Dazai is watching warily to make sure he doesn't fall--
"Fiance, huh?" He continues, and /oh/, Dazai /likes/ the way he says that, likes the little twinkle of amusement in his eyes, the teasing curl of his lips.

Like it's a /secret/ between them, something sacred tying them together.

Digging into the bag, Dazai carefully pulls out
the collar and moves over to him. He waits until Chuuya carefully pulls his hair on top of his head in silent permission before gently sliding the leather around his neck.

"It was the only way they'd let me back here with you," he murmurs, making sure Chuuya has enough room to
breathe before buckling the collar. "And I couldn't just /leave/ you here alone."

The hospital gown is slightly large on him, exposing a section of his shoulders. His skin is pale, freckles darker than ever.

It's /tempting/, though, one Dazai can't resist. So he leans down,
brushing his lips over one of the constellations of markings.

Chuuya tilts his head to give him better access, sighing. He leans back slightly, letting Dazai take his weight.

He takes advantage of that action to slide his arms around his waist and pull him back, wrapping him in
a warm, solid embrace.

Chuuya feels comfortingly real in his arms, if still slightly fragile and too-thin. But he's breathing, he's getting /better/, his fever is coming down, and Dazai gets to take him home again.

He hates hospitals.

"Mm," Chuuya hums, leaning back into him
more firmly. His hands find Dazai's forearms, squeezing lightly. Then--

"Ah, shit, do you think they called my dad?"

Dazai blinks, pausing in his self-given mission of adorning every one of Chuuya's freckles with a kiss. Neither Gide or any of the nurses /mentioned/ calling his
father, but they probably aren't /required/ to mention that. Plus, even though Dazai was here and they all believed he was Chuuya's fiance, he still wasn't his emergency contact.

"I don't know," he mutters, rising up to give Chuuya one last adoring kiss on the cheek. "No one
told me if they did, and I don't think he's called yet."

Chuuya's phone is on the dregs of it's battery, almost dead, but Dazai doesn't remember an incoming call at all last night.

"Dammit," Chuuya sighs, motioning for Dazai to untie the laces holding the gown together in the
back. He does so easily, handing Chuuya his shirt when the gown starts to fall off of him. "He's going to be a pain to deal with."

He already looks irritated and exhausted by the concept, tugging his shirt over his head.

Dazai touches the middle of his back briefly. "I'll help
you," he reassures him, supportive.

Of course, the /next/ problem is one that Dazai can't help him with. In fact, in Chuuya's eyes, he's probably a /traitor/ for thinking it's a good idea.

Because when the nurse arrives with his discharge papers, she brings a /wheelchair/ with.
Chuuya eyes the contraption disdainfully. "I'm not getting in that," he announces stubbornly. "I can walk. I'm /fine/."

The nurse opens her mouth to argue, probably something about hospital policy, but Dazai is much more versed in arguing with Chuuya, so he takes this one for
the team.

He takes the handlebars from the nurse, giving Chuuya his brightest smile. "Come on, I'll push you. It'll be fun."

Chuuya's eyes flash at him as he signs the discharge papers and hands them back. "If you think its so fun, why don't you get in it, old man?"

/Ow/.
Dazai has to fight back a smile because even though that was /completely/ uncalled for, it’s a good thing that Chuuya is showing attitude. It means he’s feeling /better/, at least enough to feel snarky.

It’s also good that Dazai can’t /punish/ him for bratty behavior, which he’s
sure Chuuya will take /full/ advantage of in the coming days. He’ll have to get creative.

“Chibi is /so/ mean to me,” he pouts, dramatically holding a hand to his chest and internally snickering when Chuuya’s eyes flash again. He hates that nickname. “There’s no need to be like
that, baby,” he teases, flashing him the smile that /usually/ means he’s in trouble.

Dazai pushes the wheelchair forward, arching an eyebrow at Chuuya. “Sit,” he tells him, casually authoritative.

Like always, Chuuya crumbles under the tone, grumbling under his breath to
himself as he grudgingly trudges over and collapses into the wheelchair.

“I hate this,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

The nurse hands Dazai the papers for his prescriptions. He’ll have to get them later today, but Chuuya should be good for today. They already
gave him his meds for today, earlier this morning.

“Personally,” Dazai muses to himself loudly as he follows the nurse down the hallway, pushing Chuuya in front. “I’m having /lots/ of fun.”

“Just you wait. I’m gonna run /your/ wheelchair into a parked car, when you need one.”
The words themselves are harsh, but Chuuya is tilting his head to brush his temple over Dazai’s fingers wrapped around the handles so the sting is soothed away.

It’s a good thing Chuuya can’t see his smile from this angle. “I suppose that’s better than a /moving/ car,” he says,
pushing Chuuya into the elevator when the door opens. “But you’re gonna have to wait a /long/ time for that.”

Chuuya turns his nose up. “That’s fine. I can wait.I’m patient. I can hold a /grudge/.”

Little /liar/. He’s /far/ from patient.

Even the nurse is fighting a smile now.
Dazaj would never admit it to anyone else but the idea of Chuuya sticking around that long is—

/Very/ nice. Natural, even, like they’re both settling into something that was just /meant/ to be, a future Dazai can finally envision for himself.

He’s never dreamed about the
future about. Viciously forced himself /not/ to think about it, because he hated the idea of it, the idea of /still/ being here despite that he’d promised himself so many times that he /wouldn’t/ be anymore.

But you know what? A future with Chuuya sounds pretty damn good.
“I’ll be counting on it,” he says in response, tapping Chuuya on the back of his head lightly with his fingers. “Don’t let me down, little brat.”

(He can’t see it, but Chuuya sticks his tongue out at that. The nurse does though, and the amusement she’s been fighting finally
breaks through.)

“You two are very cute,” she tells them, leading them past the reception desk on the first floor. The lobby is already starting to fill up with patients, even though it’s still early on a Saturday. “How long have you been together?”

Dazai beams at her,
answering before Chuuya can. “Almost six months,” he says, not wanting to pick a time that lands /before/ Chuuya’s 18th birthday, just in case she knows his age. “It’s quick, but... when you know, you know, right?”

The nurse ‘aww’s’, clasping her hands together. “That’s so
/romantic/! Like a movie! Everyone must be so happy for you two.”

“Oh yeah, /ecstatic/,” Chuuya says, amused, “His son, in particular, /loved/ getting the news.”

Dazai flicks him in the back of the head again, wishing he hadn’t brought /that/ up. Dazai’s trying to cheer him
/up/, and trying to cover their story. He’s making it /difficult/.

Chuuya gets parked on the sidewalk just outside of the doors. The nurse— Naomi, her upside-down name tag reads— waits with him while Dazai goes to get the car.

Thankfully, his car /hasn’t/ been towed or fined
while they were in the hospital, though there is a sticky note slapped onto the hood with a scribbled “>:(“ face on it.

Whatever. He crumples the note up, shoving it into his pocket to throw away later, starting the car.

When he parks next to Chuuya on the street, he looks
/giddy/. Dazai squints at him through the side window as he reaches over to unlock the door.

He’s up to something.

Chuuya, stubborn as always, doesn’t wait to be picked up or moved into the car himself. When Dazai gets out and comes around to open the door for him, he’s
pushing up out of the wheelchair with a cheery wave.

Naomi waves back at him, grinning. Before Dazai can shut the door, she’s calling out, “Bye! Good luck. Feel better. Oh— tell your son I hope he has a good first day at Kindergarten!”

Dazai /chokes/. Chuuya smirks.
Shutting the door with a strained smile, Dazai says, “I will, thank you. Goodbye.”

When he slides back into the drivers seat,he looks at Chuuya with disbelief. “You told her he was in /kindergarten/?” He hisses quietly, so she doesn’t hear.

Chuuya shrugs. “What? I’m justified.”
When Dazai doesn’t answer immediately, smoothly pulling out into traffic instead, Chuuya continues, “He’s an ass. Besides, it was funny.”

Alright, Dazai /does/ have to give him that one, it was pretty damn funny. Especially when he imagines Shuuji’s indignant reaction if he
ever found out a /girl/— a pretty one too, not that Dazai would ever admit that because Chuuya is /jealous/, but he does still have eyes. Not that she even comes close to Chuuya though— thought he was a baby that still cried and needed to be tucked in at night—

Yeah, it’s funny.
Plus, the fact that Chuuya feels good enough to be joking around at all— even though it seems to have taken most of his energy, because now he’s slumped against his seat with his head tipped back and his eyes closed— feels like a good sign.

It doesn’t ease the worry gnawing at
Dazai’s insides. In fact, it seems to just give it more to chew on, taking every scrap of ‘good’ news and reminding him that it’s not /enough/.

Maybe that feeling will never go away.

Sliding one hand across the center console, he offers it to Chuuya. Cold, slender fingers
interlace with his own.

"Are you hungry?" He asks gently, hoping he has an appetite. The meager breakfast the nurses brought him in the hospital was rejected with an upturned nose, and he didn't eat last night either. Probably hasn't eaten in a while now, and even if the IV's
/did/ give him some sustenance and nutrients, he needs something to /eat/. Something solid in his stomach.

"Yes," Chuuya mumbles, curling up sideways in the seat so his back is pressed against the door and his temple is resting against the headrest. "But I just wanna go home."
Dazai hopes he's talking about /his/ home that way, like it's the source of his comfort and the only thing he wants right now.

"Alright," he murmurs, "I'll take you home."

On the straightaway, he presses his knee against the underside of the steering wheel, taking control. It's
not exactly /safe/ to drive with his knees, but it allows him to use his other hand to reach underneath himself and pull out his phone from his back pocket.

Keeping the car carefully in the center of the lane, he offers his phone to Chuuya. "Do you want to order something?
Anything. It should be almost ready by the time we get home."

Chuuya takes the phone with a sigh. He enters in the passcode when Dazai gives it to him, and navigates to the food delivery apps.

Dazai's not worried about him finding anything incriminating. That phone is clean,
not at all attached to his work. He only uses it for legal activities.

Though, Chuuya /might/ be concerned if he sees how many pictures Dazai has taken of him sleeping or unawares.

Chuuya scrolls for a while, making a face every once in a while. Dazai leaves him to it, keeping
his eyes on the road. He's not /rushing/ home but he's not taking his time either.

"I got ramen from the place we usually order from," Chuuya says, getting his attention. "You want your usual?"

The fact that Chuuya /knows/ what his usual is and can order without him having to
tell him makes him feel /warm/. Likes he's being known and accepted.

"Yes," he murmurs back, squeezing his hand gratefully. He hasn't eaten either, since about lunch yesterday. His stomach hasn't started protesting yet, but he's sure it will soon.

"Okay."

A few moments later
and his phone is falling to Chuuya's seat, now that it's use is over. Chuuya tucks it under his butt to keep it from moving, but otherwise just curls tighter into the seat.

By the time they finally arrive home, Chuuya is nearly asleep in the passenger seat. He looks like he's
fighting it, head bobbing up every so often as he blinks himself awake, but it's clear that he can't resist it for long.

The last few days have taken a lot out of him, and the anti-convulsants they gave him, in particular, are making him drowsy. On a normal day, he might be able
to push through it and function well, but when he's fresh out of the hospital and exhausted--

It's a wonder he's not asleep yet. He'll probably sleep the rest of the day away, and maybe even most of tomorrow.

Dazai parks the car in spot outside the house, giving himself enough
room to maneuver Chuuya out of the car. Even if he insists on walking, Dazai won't let him. Not when he looks mostly asleep.

Though, this time, when Dazai opens his door for him, it seems like he's finally accepted his limits. Instead of trying to get out or start walking, he
just raises his arms, Dazai's phone in hand.

He's /light/, but solid in Dazai's hold, his arms slinging over his shoulder.He tucks his nose into his neck, hiding his face from the world as Dazai starts to bring him inside.

"Food's almost on the way," he mumbles, shaking Dazai's
phone in example.

"Alright," Dazai responds, shifting his weight to one hand so he can unlock the front door. He braces himself as it swings open, because even though it's past breakfast time for them--

The dogs are still /much/ more excited to see Chuuya. As soon as the door
opens wide enough, Yoko and Kozo are jumping around his heels, each of them trying to get a good look at Chuuya.

Yoko even rears up on her hind legs and places her front paws on Dazai's hip as a balancing point as she sticks her nose into Chuuya's chest.

"Down, mutt," Dazai
mutters, but his words are soundly ignored when Chuuya drops a hand down and starts petting over Yoko's head. She pushes into it as much as she can, ears perking up at the attention. "You're encouraging her."

"I /missed/ her," Chuuya corrects sleepily, though he stops petting
her and allows Dazai to maneuver him through the door and up the stairs.

The dogs, at least, still have manners on the stairs, but he's resigned to the idea that /some/ of their bad habits have been encouraged to the point where he can't punish them anymore.

For example, Yoko
races them into the bedroom and leaps onto the bed. She's whining with excitement,tail whipping and knocking everything off the bedside table as she hops from foot to foot.

His clean black bedsheets are a thing of the past, apparently. At least Chuuya's smile makes it worth it.
With a sigh, he places Chuuya on the bed. “Be careful with him,” he warns Yoko sternly, but she ignores him in favor of crowding up to Chuuya and trying to lick his face.

There’s sweatpants and comfy sweaters in a section of the closet that has /slowly/ and subtly become
/Chuuya’s/ side of the closet. Dazai pulls out his favorites and brings them over.

Kneeling in front of him, he takes off his shoes and socks, making sure he doesn’t tug too hard. It’s not /sexual/, like most undressing is between them, but it’s infused with a level of care
that Dazai hasn’t shown anyone else before.

It comes...surprisingly naturally.For a long time he was convinced that /caring/ was just not something he was capable of doing. When Shuuji moved in and Dazai didn’t immediately bond with him, it felt like confirmation of that theory.
Like there was something so deeply /wrong/ with him, like some essential part of him had been /stolen/ from him as child, that’s he’d never be /normal/ again.

Like he’d always be the leftover ghost of the Demon Prodigy, too lucky to die.

And maybe he never will be normal.
He’s starting to discover that maybe that’s /okay/ because he has Chuuya and that’s enough for him.

He has someone that leans on him as he tugs the sweats up his slender legs until they’re snug on his hips.

He has someone that needs him, and maybe that’s all he really needs.
Dazai’s phone, tosses on the bed earlier and forgotten, pings with a notification alert.

“That’s probably the food,” Chuuya mumbles, crossing his legs. Yoko takes that as her invitation to prove she’s a lap dog and climbs right on. He winces when her paws land heavily on his
thighs, but he doesn’t stop her or push her away.

Yoko’s big enough that when she sits—awkwardly, with her butt on his legs and her front legs on the bed— that the only thing Dazai can see of Chuuya is his arms wrapping around her and hugging her close.

Kozo, meanwhile, has
taken to sniffing Chuuya’s shoes and making little growling sounds at whatever he smells.

These dogs were born, bred and /trained/ to be weapons, but put them in a room with Chuuya and they become loving house pets. It’s endearing.

“Don’t let her crush you,” he sighs, reaching
past him to get his phone. The notification, when he clicks on it, says the delivery driver is only a few streets away.

"Worth it," Chuuya mumbles, dragging Yoko closer, "Right, Yoko?"

Her answer is a big doggy smile, panting happily.

Downstairs, there's a knock on the door.
Leaving the dogs to smother Chuuya in their love, he heads downstairs. He brings his keys with him because he still needs to get the rest of Chuuya's stuff out of his car and move it into the garage.

On second thought, maybe he should keep his school stuff in the car? Maybe
seeing it so soon after he got the news that he wouldn't be returning this semester would be upsetting? He already has to go about the process of withdrawing, so maybe Dazai shouldn't shove a reminder under his nose?

Eh, he'll just leave his bag in his office. Somewhere /mostly/
hidden so he doesn't have to see it, but still easily accessible.

Another knock at the door, this one slightly louder than the last. They must be getting impatient.

Glad the dogs are upstairs-- they've always /hated/ delivery drivers, for good reason -- he opens the door.
Standing just outside the door on the second step is a young kid, holding the bags of food in his hands. As soon as the door is opened, he's pushing it into Dazai's hands with a big grin. Too friendly, even.

Dazai takes it easily, bobbing his head in thanks. Reminding himself to
send the kid a generous tip on the app-- his wallet is upstairs, and he doesn't want him to stick around to wait-- he shuts the door with a little wave.

Normally he doesn't eat in his bedroom. It reminds him too much of the times where his depression got /really/ bad and his
bedroom was a sea of dirty dishes, empty sake bottles and dirty laundry for /months/.

These days, he keeps his house--and his room especially-- religiously clean, but today he can make an exception. He's not going to make Chuuya come down to eat.

Balancing two bowls and the
little chocolate dessert Chuuya ordered on a tray-- even though it's barely lunchtime--, he brings the food up.

When he pushes the door open with his hip, Chuuya is exactly where he left him. He's leaning even harder against Yoko, like she's the only one holding him upright.
Unfortunately, Yoko /does/ have to get off the bed for this. She's an opportunistic eater, and if Chuuya puts a bowl of ramen under her nose, she'll end up eating it all.

Chuuya stirs when he sets the tray down on the bedside table, blinking heavily at him. When he sees the food
he nudges Yoko with his head. "Down, girl," he orders, pushing her lightly.

After a moment, she goes. She's reluctant and curls up right underneath his feet, but she follows instructions like a good girl.

Dazai hands him his bowl, keeping an eye on him as he slowly begins to
eat. It's more mechanical than anything, without any of the usual enjoyment, but it /is/ eating, so Dazai will take it. He'll make him something for dinner later, maybe he'll like that more. He's always liked homecooked meals better than takeout.

Chuuya manages half of his ramen
and two bites of his dessert before he's pushing it away.

"Tired," he mutters, crawling underneath the blankets. He looks tiny underneath the comforter, curled into a ball with a pillow pulled to his chest. Only the ends of his hair sticks out.

After finishing his own bowl,
Dazai places the entire tray high up on the bedside table where the dogs can't reach it. He'll keep an eye on it to make sure they don't get into it and make a mess, but his /main/ goal right now is sliding underneath the blankets and finding Chuuya. Wrapping his arms around his
waist and bringing him into his chest, curling around him.

"It's too early for you to sleep," he mumbles in protest, though he's arching into his hold and wiggling to get more comfortable. One of his feet slides between Dazai's legs, hooking around the back of his calf.

Dazai
presses a smile against his hair, holding him tightly. "It's never too early for naptime."

But Dazai doesn't let himself nap. He gives himself an hour to just /enjoy/ and bask in the sensation of Chuuya sleep-warm and safe in his arms.

Lets the residual anxiety and worry work
through him in waves, counteracted every time Chuuya mumbles to himself in his sleep or curls up tighter into him.

/Loss/ is an emotion Dazai is familiar with, empty and hollowing, carving out pieces of him and filling them with a strange, endless grief. A grief that doesn’t
/sting/ anymore, it just slowly rots and festers, forgotten.

To think he almost felt it /again/, with Chuuya is—

It’s awful. He hates it. And even though Chuuya is still here, still warm and breathing and safe, Dazai can’t help but think—

/ What if? What if I actually lost
him? What if it was /my/ fault? /

It’s a thought that doesn’t go away.

Eventually, Dazai manages to pull himself away. He still has to get his prescriptions because he’ll need them tomorrow morning. It’s still early on Saturday, so this is a perfect time, when Chuuya is
sleeping and won’t need him.

Giving the dogs the command to guard him and feeling reassured when Yoko hops up to take his place in the bed while Kozo lays across the floor blocking the entrance, Dazai leaves.

He makes sure to put Chuuya’s phone in easy reach, and turns his own
phone onto the highest notification noise possible. If Chuuya needs him he’ll call, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

There’s a pharmacy inside one of the general stores not too far from his house. He goes there because it’s the closest.

The pharmacist takes the prescriptions
from him and advises him that it’ll be a twenty minute wait before they can be filled.

Dazai spends that time wandering the aisles and picking out all the things Chuuya might like while he’s recovering. Most of the medical stuff— like heat pads and Tylenol— Dazai already has
but things like candy— Chuuya has a /love/ for dark chocolate that Dazai will simply never understand and an obsession with sour candies— an extra soft blanket, a face mask or two, never /hurt/.

Besides, he’s pretty sure at least /one/ of his medications require absolutely no
alcohol intake for the foreseeable future so—

He’s going to need a /bribe/ when he tells him that he can’t even take a /sip/ of wine for the next few weeks. A /good/ bribe, one that will stop him from biting him in retaliation or something equally bratty.

When the twenty
minutes are up and his handheld cart is filled to the brim with things for Chuuya, he goes to get his medication.

The pharmacist is nice, explains everything about how the medicine should be taken. Dazai listens intently, memorizing all the information, but doesn’t stay for
small talk. He’s already getting antsy being away for Chuuya this long.

Abandonment issues have /always/ haunted Dazai but now he’s starting to suspect he’s delving straight into /separation anxiety/. Like a dog or something.

When he gets back to the house, he parks the car in
the garage where it belongs. Without Shuuji driving the other car, it’s easy to get all of his vehicles perfectly lined up and parked.

At the last second, he remembers Chuuya’s bag and slings it over his shoulder to bring inside.

Neither of the dogs greet him when he gets
inside. Expected, because they /should/ still be guarding Chuuya.

First, he puts the chocolate in the fridge and the candy in the pantry. The medications he’ll take upstairs to put in his bathroom, same with the new chibi-sized fluffy blanket.

He can vaguely hear someone
talking upstairs; it /sounds/ like Chuuya, but it’s hard to tell.

Maybe he woke up and turned the TV on to watch something? If he’s awake he should eat some more. He’s too /thin/, Dazai doesn’t like how sharp his collarbones have gotten lately. It’s worrying.

He heads upstairs.
Dropping Chuuya’s bag into the corner of his office, he makes his way into the bedroom, medication in hand.

“— daddy?”

Perking up, figuring that Chuuya is talking to /him/, Dazai pushes open the door and steps over Kozo in the doorway—

To find Chuuya on the phone, looking
exasperated. He’s sitting up with Yoko sprawled across his lap, blankets bunched up between them.

When he sees Dazai, he motions to the phone and mouths, “It’s my dad.”

Oh.

Well at least /that/ mix up happened when his father /wasn’t/ in the room, otherwise that might’ve
been awkward for Chuuya.

Giving them a chance to talk, Dazai puts the medications in the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. They’re the only medications in there, the only ones Dazai trusts himself to keep in easy reach.

Then he pads back into the bedroom, going over to drop a
kiss on Chuuya’s forehead before heading downstairs to make him something to eat—

A hand on his arm stops him in his tracks.

Chuuya holds the phone out to him. “He wants to talk to you.”

Dazai blinks at him. “He wants to what?” He repeats, figuring he heard wrong or—
But no:

"I said he wants to talk to you."

Ah. Well, that's /awkward/ for Dazai.

He's never spoken to the parents of his partners before. He's always been careful never to let it get /that/ far, and most of sexual partners wouldn't think he was 'meet the parents' material.
Well,he /did/ talk to Sasaki's father once, but that was when he was /sixteen/ and that entire conversation consisted entirely of putting his phone on speaker and letting him scream obscenities at him while Dazai silently played a racing video game.

That probably doesn't count.
But Chuuya's looking at him /expectantly/ and it's already been several seconds since he said it and--

And Dazai /really/ wants this relationship to go well, and he knows that Chuuya thinks a lot of his father, despite their somewhat complicated relationship. He can't just say
/no/, it would be rude so--

He takes the phone, unreasonably nervous, and brings it to his ear. "Hello?"

The voice on the other side of the call sounds /harried/, frayed at the edges with worry. Also /irritated/. "It's Dazai, right?"

Honestly, it's a little /surreal/ to be
talking to man who is /probably/ close to his age (the age difference between him and Chuuya is something he chooses not to think about too hard or too often) and /far/ less powerful than him in terms of economic status and power, as some sort of respected figure. Like a father
in law.

"Yes," he responds, keeping his expression neutral. "And you're Rimbaud."

God, he's so /bad/ at this. Chuuya's staring right at him, expecting him to impress his father, and Dazai's mind is /blank/.

"How long have you been dating my son?"

Here's the tricky part: Dazai
doesn't actually /know/ what Chuuya told his father. He doesn't know if there's a /lie/ he's supposed to collaborate on, or a story that's /already/ been told--

He's /winging/ it.

"Uh," he starts, hoping Chuuya went with the /truth/. "About six weeks...?

The response he gets
isn't /immediately/ aggressive or angry, so it seems he made the right choice. "I don't mean to be rude, you must understand-- it's just a /shock/ to hear that my /son/ is dating someone for six weeks and didn't tell me. Not to /mention/ that he's sick enough to warrant /dropping
out/. I'm sure you can understand my concern."

Slightly hysterical, Dazai thinks about responding with 'yes, as a father, I /completely/ understand' just to see what would happen.

"I do," he mutters instead, sinking down to sit on the bed. "But I can assure you that I'm going
to take care of him and he's going to get better soon."

There's an aggravated sigh, the sounds of papers rustling on the other side of the phone. "For your sake, I hope so. It's too soon for you two to be living together, so I really think he should return home, but he's being
/stubborn/."

That is something they haven't discussed yet. Dazai was under the impression that the silent agreement was that Chuuya would stay with /him/,but they should talk about it. He would understand if Chuuya wanted to go home, but he hopes he stays here with him. It would
make him feel a /lot/ more secure and comfortable with him still in sight and under his protection--

But he's not going to say /no/ if Chuuya wants to go home.

"With all due respect, sir," Dazai grits out, his natural rebellion against authority rearing it's head, "your son is
an adult and he can make his own choices. He's welcome to stay here as long as he likes."

He makes eye contact with Chuuya on the last sentence, making sure to get his point across to him clearly.

He means it. He's more than welcome to stay here. Forever, if he wanted to.
Another sigh. "I guess you're right," Rimbaud concedes begrudgingly, though he doesn't sound /happy/ about it, "Though I do wish he wouldn't. Nothing personal, I'm just not sure who /you/ are. How do I know you're treating him fairly?"

How,indeed.

"I suppose you could ask him,"
he says dryly.

"Well-- let's just say that you /better/ treat him right, because I have some friends in some /very/ high places."

/ Oh, yeah? Well, I have a /gun/, so now what? /

Naturally, he doesn't actually say that, tucking his irritation away. He's always hated
overprotective parents for this exact reason. They threaten and posture, instead of teaching their children how to protect themselves and recognize red flags.

"I understand," he sighs, even though he's /curious/ as to what he means by 'friends in high places'.

Personally, Dazai
has friends in /low/ places, which he finds are often more /effective/, but his father doesn't need to know that.

"I'll keep in touch," Rimbaud sniffs, and Dazai /almost/ reflexively asks him if that's a /threat/ before he reigns it in. "I want to know more about the man my son
is dating."

Lovely, now Dazai has to come up with /another/ cover story that won't be questioned by Chuuya. "Right. Is there anything else you would like to talk about or...?"

"Not right now. I'll have some questions for you later, but I would like to talk to Chuuya again."
Feeling like he dodged a bullet with this impromptu conversation-- which sounds impromptu on /both/ sides, so he's sure there will be an /interrogation/ the next time they talk-- he hands the phone back over.

Chuuya takes it with an irritated. "Are you happy now, Daddy?"

Dazai
winces. He /really/ wishes he didn't call him that, especially when he's /right/ here.

Because--

His /mind/ is telling him that it's innocent and /inappropriate/ to think of it any other way, not to mention that it illustrates how /young/ Chuuya is.

His /libido/ on the other
hand is looking with both eyes /wide/ open, and it feels /wrong/, oh god, it feels /so/ wrong--

Which is probably why he /likes/ it so much.

Why does Chuuya still call his dad that? /Especially/ after calling /Dazai/ daddy? Isn't there some one-daddy-only rule or--

"I /will/,
I promise," Chuuya says, rolling his eyes in a clear sign that he's not /actually/ going to.

Good for him.

"/Yes/, Daddy."

Dazai covers his face with his hands, sighing. When will this call be over?

"I'm /hanging/ up now, okay? /No/. Goodbye-- Yes, /okay/, now /goodbye/."
With an exasperated grunt, Chuuya slams the ‘end call’ button and throws his phone into the bed. His face drops into his hands a moment later, letting out a long groan.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “I tried to tell him no, but he’s stubborn as fuck.”

So it’s /genetic/, huh? Runs in
the family.

“No problem, baby,” Dazai reassures him, reaching out one hand and finding his knee. He squeezes it gently. “It didn’t bother me. It was... /interesting/ to meet him.”

Interesting is one word for it.

“Thanks,” he mumbles back. “Sounded like he liked you though.”
Well, he basically threatened him, which probably counts for /something/.

He shrugs.

“He did give me some advice on how to start withdrawing from school, though. I’ll have to go in on Monday, talk to administration.”

That makes sense. Dazai nods, giving his knee another
squeeze. He’ll probably have to move all his stuff out of his dorm as well.

Maybe he’ll move it into Dazai’s room instead? There’s plenty of room here, everything will fit—

That’s a conversation they’ll have /soon/ but not right now. Right now he needs support for this.
“Okay, I’ll take you in,” he says. “I’ll help you pack too, if you need it.”

Per doctors orders, he /will/ need it, but he doesn’t want to force it on him. There’s a fine line between being /supportive/ and overbearing. It has to seem like it’s Chuuya’s choice.

Chuuya’s
voice wobbles a little as he asks, “Will you help me email my professors?”

Dazai isn’t sure they even /need/ to be emailed about this, but if Chuuya wants to do it and feels it’s necessary, then of course he’ll help. “Yeah.”

Some people, when they feel overloaded, immediately
start to show signs of it. They cry, they yell, they vent, they scream. Arguably, it’s a much healthier way of dealing with their problems.

But some people bottle things up. They hold it in and let it fester. Let it eat away at them, slowly growing bigger and bigger. Slowly
filling them up until it’s a struggle to hold themselves together around the weight of it.

Sometimes it’s the /small/ things that are the straw that breaks the camels back.

In the end, it’s not emailing his professors that makes Chuuya /crack/—

It’s a scratch at the window.
By now, it's evening. Right about the time where Dazai usually feeds the dogs right before making his own dinner. Chuuya's been snacking ever since the phone call ended, so he can only hope that he'll /actually/ eat dinner.

Of course, Dazai has /recently/ taken to feeding one
other being at dinnertime--

The /cat/.

It's routine enough that the stray has started to show up regularly at this time. Dazai wasn't here to feed him yesterday, and so he probably didn't get to eat. Now, Dazai is running a /little/ behind on schedule, and the cat has decided
that he's going to express his disappointment and irritation--

By climbing up to the balcony-- somehow-- and scratching at the window while meowing loudly.

"He keeps on coming back," Chuuya mutters, and Dazai isn't looking at him, so he doesn't see his lip start to wobble.
"Yeah. He's just hungry. He'll go away once he eats, probably."

The cat usually sticks around for attention if Chuuya is dishing it out, but if they ignore him, he eventually wanders off.

"He's /hungry/--" Chuuya's voice cracks here, and here is where Dazai starts to realize
something is /wrong/. "--and he's /homeless/ and he's probably /cold/ and--"

He cuts himself off there with a loud,shuddering inhale like he's trying to hold back the wave of emotion he's experiencing.

Turning his head, Dazai stares at him in concern. He's always been emotional
over the stray, sure, but not enough to have tears pooling in his eyes like that.

What does he /say/?

"He'll probably be adopted soon," he soothes, even though he's not too sure. That cat has been a stray for almost as long as Dazai has lived here. He's not sure anyone else in
the neighborhood wants him or even pays attention to him. His best chance is probably getting picked up by animal control. "And then someone will take him home and love him."

That is the wrong thing to say.

Chuuya's face crumples immediately. "But /I/ love him!" he wails.
And then he does what is, in Dazai’s opinion, probably the /worst/ possible reaction ever:

He bursts into tears.Loud, gasping sobs that wrack his entire body and make him shake. His hands come up to cover his face, but that does nothing to lessen the sheer /force/ of his crying.
Dazai feels like he’s watching his life flash before his eyes, nearly stupid with fear because—

He doesn’t know what to /do/. What happened? How does he make it better, get him to stop /sobbing/ like his heart is being torn out of his chest?

“It’s gonna be okay, baby,” he
soothes mindlessly, reaching out to him.

That’s an even /worse/ thing to say,apparently.

“No, it’s /not/!” Chuuya cries, voice thick and wet. “I have to drop out of school because of my stupid brain and, and—I might have to go /home/ and I don’t want to, and the cat is HUNGRY!”
Dazai hasn’t ever /seen/ Chuuya like this. He’s been emotional sometimes, sure, but it usually gets displayed in shows of irritation or anger.

He’s never seen him /sob/ like this, and it’s shocking, even if he can logically understand why he’s breaking down.

Instead of trying
to talk him down again—because /clearly/ Dazai just makes it worse when he opens his mouth—, he scoots closer and drapes an arm across his shoulders.

He’s not sure if Chuuya would mind between restrained with a hug right now, so he’s testing the waters first.

Chuuya doesn’t
exactly fight him but neither does he really lean into the comfort as he continues to spiral.

“I worked /so/ fucking hard to get into Keio and, and— now it’s /over/ and my /life/ is over and now i’m /behind/ everyone else so I’m never going to get a /good job/ and I’m gonna be
/homeless/ and work at— work at a /convience store/ forever!”

Okay, so he’s /clearly/ not thinking logically right now, because /that/ is a very big conclusion to make just because he has to take a semester off.

Dazai doesn’t /tell/ him that, of course, because even if he’s
being /dramatic/, that doesn’t mean his emotions aren’t valid. Or that he doesn’t have a right to be breaking down right now.

He shushes him, chest aching for him, pulling him closer in an effort to calm him down.

“I’ve always wanted a cat and I’m never gonna have one because
my dad hates them and I’m gonna grow up to be a /failure/!”

Poor thing. Sets such impossibly high standards for himself that he really thinks his life is over at /eighteen/ because he got sick for a few weeks.

Now, Dazai /could/ try to talk him down or just wait until this
wave of emotions passes and they can have an actual conversation about this—

But there is a simple solution to at least /one/ of those problems.

Getting up, he walks over to the balcony door. The cat stares at him as he approaches, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

It’s not like
Dazai /hates/ cats, he just doesn’t prefer them. And if it’ll make Chuuya happy— and give him a reason to stay— and make his recovery easier, then as far as he’s concerned, the cat is already his.

When he opens the door, the orange cat trots inside with it’s tail held high and
waving smugly like he’s saying ‘took you long enough’.

Yoko and Kozo watch from the floor with interest, but the cat ignores them with the arrogance a cat can have, trotting up to the bed easily.

“There,” Dazai announces, shutting the door again. “Now you have a cat.”
Chuuya strangles back another sob, looking up. His face is a /wreck/, face splotchy and tears running down his cheeks. The blue of his eyes looks even more intense with how /red/ they are.

“What?” He chokes out, furiously trying to wipe his face clean. It’s clear he’s not
/done/ yet, but he’s trying to get himself back under control.

The cat, after looking around cautiously, hops up onto the bed.

“I told you earlier, Chuuya,” Dazai reminds him gently, smiling softly, “if you want it, it’s yours. If you want /him/, he’s yours.”

Chuuya looks at
him like he’s lost his /mind/. “You can’t just give me a /cat/, Dazai, what the hell is wrong with you? What if he has /fleas/?”

Even the cat looks offended at that one.

Dazai scratches the back of his head awkwardly, feeling /so/ out of place. “So... you don’t want him?”
“No, I—,” Chuuya lets out a strangled noise at that one, half sob and half angry scream, “You’re /shit/ at this. You’re not supposed to just /stare/ at me! You’re supposed to /hold/ me! Compliment me! Make me feel better. Not give me a /cat/!”

“Oh,” Dazai says, blinking. Now
that he has /instruction/, the task of comforting him feels /much/ less daunting. “Right. Okay.”

He crosses back over to the bed, dropping down beside him and dragging Chuuya into his arms. Chuuya goes willingly, burying his face into his shoulder with a hiccup.

He arranges
him with his legs crossed underneath them, making a seat for Chuuya. His legs are slung on either side of his hips, tucked underneath himself.

Chuuya clings to him this time as the sobs die down but the tears start up again. He’s at /least/ less hysterical, but he’s still
/affected/.

“Baby,” Dazai starts, cupping his face and tilting it back and upwards so he can see. Even with his face red and splotchy, he’s still one of the most beautiful people Dazai has ever seen.

His thumbs brush his cheeks, wiping away tears. “You’re /not/ going to be a
failure.”

Chuuya sniffs miserably up at him, but at least he’s listening.

“You are /so/ smart,” Dazai tells him, leaning down to seal the words with a adoring kiss on his cheek. “And hard-working.” Another kiss.

“Kind.” Another.

“And /beautiful.” Another.

“You’ve worked
/so/ hard to get where you are, and I know it’s... frustrating and upsetting to think that it’s all been taken away from you— but it hasn’t. You can go back next semester, and try again. You’re top /ten/ in your year at Keio— anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Chuuya shivers,
swallowing hard. The tears are slowing now, but maybe that’s just because Dazai is kissing them away as soon as they come.

“And next semester will be /easy/ for you, sweetheart. You’ll already know what to expect, /and/ you’ll be ahead of all the kids in the class because you
already took half of it. You’ll /ace/ it. And— you’ll have /me/.”

That makes Chuuya’s eyes widen briefly, hands tightening on his shoulders. When he speaks, it’s something between hopeful and confused. “What do you mean?”

“Let me help you, Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs, pressing a
smile to his cheek. "Let me take /care/ of you. You can stay here as long as you want, as long as you need. I'll take care of you /so/ good, baby, you'll never need to worry about anything other than acing your classes."

Is it wrong to /tempt/ him like this when he's coming down
from an emotional episode like this? Probably.

But Dazai has never fought /fair/, and if he can tempt Chuuya into staying with /him/ instead of going home to recover, then he'll whisper whatever sweet--and dirty-- promises into his ear that he needs to.

Chuuya presses up into
the comfort willingly, his arms slinging around Dazai's neck and pulling him in close. His breath in slowing into a more stable rhythm now, and the tears have almost completely stopped.

Seems he's coming out of it, now that Dazai has figured out how to /help/.

"Do you really
mean that?" He mutters, voice wobbly. "I don't wanna be-- like a /burden/ or anything, and I know we haven't been dating for long, and it was unexpected so--"

Dazai shushes him again, sliding his hands back into his hair. It's messy again, but not too tangled. "Of course I mean
it," he says, trailing his lips down until they find the corner of his mouth and pressing a kiss there. "You're not a burden, Chuuya. Not at all, not /ever/."

That seems to get through to him, because in the next moment he's letting out a shuddering sigh and turning his head to
catch him in a kiss.

It’s achingly slow and soft. No sense of urgency behind it, just the reassurance of /comfort/ and affection. Every slide of their lips together is a reiteration of how far they’ve come, how much they mean to eachother.

Eventually Chuuya pulls back again,
breaking the kiss. His hands slide away from Dazai’s shoulders, finding the tearstains on his cheeks and trying to rub them away.

“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat and trying to sound /upbeat/, “alright, I’m good now. Everything just...became too much for a second.”

Dazai
can understand that, using his fingertips to tuck Chuuya’s bangs behind his ear. “I know you’ve been stressed and that’s perfectly reasonable,” he says gently, “Do you feel better now though?”

“Yeah,” he answers, sounding a /little/ surprised, but also worn out. Emotionally and
physically.

Understandable. It’s been a very emotional day for him, considering everything, and physically his body is still recuperating. It doesn’t take much to wear him out.

An indignant meow interrupts them, followed by an insistent headbutt to Chuuya’s elbow from the cat.
The action draws out a tired laugh from Chuuya and a few sniffles. “Sorry, kitty,” he mutters, reaching out to scratch him under the chin to greet him.

The purrs start up nearly immediately, loud and pleased. The cat leans into it wholeheartedly, stepping up on Chuuya’s thigh
with its front paws to get closer.

“Can I still keep him though?” Chuuya asks, not looking at Dazai directly. “I know I said—.”

Dazai interrupts him, not needing an explanation. “Yes, you can have him. Though you’ll need to give him a /bath/.”

The cat isn’t excessively
dirty, but he is dusty and he’s been living on the streets for at least a couple years. He could use a bath, even if he doesn’t have fleas like Chuuya said.

The thanks he gets in return for that is an excited wiggle from Chuuya, leaning in to rest more fully against him.
After a long, peaceful moment of Chuuya pressed up against him and soaking up the warmth of affection while the cat paces shortly back and forth to get scratches all over the best parts of him, Chuuya speaks up again. “Sorry I said you were shit at this. I didn’t mean it.”

That
pulls a lopsided smile from Dazai. “No, you were right. I was pretty shit at it,” he huffs,amused.

Reaching down, he offers his fingers to the cat to rub up against, and is promptly ignored. Obviously he has a /favorite/.

“Yeah, you were,” Chuuya says, then bursts into giggles.
Dazai lets him laugh at him for a while, warmth bubbling up inside his chest. At least he’s feeling better, enough to snicker at him for a few minutes.

Eventually Kozo comes to interrupt, propping his chin up on the bed so he can sniff at the cat. When he looks at Dazai, he lets
out a few whines to remind him that it’s /past/ dinner time now.

Like Kozo would ever let him forget. The dog is an eating /machine/, and Dazai’s convinced his only goal in life is to get fat.

Squeezing Chuuya, he says, “I gotta go downstairs and feed the pets and make you
something to eat. Do you wanna come with, or you wanna stay up here?”

Chuuya snuggles closer, slinging the hand that was petting the cat back over Dazai’s shoulder. “Take me with,” he mumbles, letting out a surprised yelp when Dazai hefts him up higher in his arms.

The stairs
are tricky to navigate when there’s a cat determined to get under Dazai’s feet and yowling up at him like he’s personally offended /he’s/ not being carried down the stairs.

They have yet to get an actual food bowl for the cat, so he has to make do with a repurposed Tupperware
placed in the middle of the dining table to keep the dogs from getting to it.

Chuuya perches beside him on the table, one leg swinging beneath the table as he scrolls on his phone and occasionally reaches over to stroke the cat on the back until another ferocious set of purrs
starts up.

Making dinner is peaceful, /homey/. Chuuya is his dedicated taste taster, taking every bite Dazai offers him and making approving noises. They make small talk, carefully avoiding the subject of Chuuya’s prescribed bed rest—

But it’s not /awkward/.

After a while,
the dogs come back inside. Chuuya spends half his time teasing Yoko by wiggling his fingers just out of reach of her nose, and the other half brushing his toes over Kozo’s belly, who has rolled onto his back beneath him.

The cat takes one look at them and turns his back on them,
stretching out on his side along the table.

It feels like /family/. Like love and /home/ and care.

Dazai hasn’t had a family in a long time. Not one that he /felt/ was his family, at least, not one that ever made him feel like /this/.

He doesn’t know what to do with the
building emotion in his chest, so thick and warm he’s half-convinced he’ll get a sunburn just from the brightness of Chuuya’s presence.

He can’t stop touching him, feeding him little test bites and kissing away the extra sauce left on the corner of his lip. Keeping a hand on
his thigh as they eat, thumb rubbing over his inner thigh and defending his bowl from a /very/ interested cat with his other hand.

Carrying him back up the stairs as Chuuya starts to crash with exhaustion again, curling up in bed with him even though Dazai himself isn’t tired.
His entire world, held in the spaces between Chuuya’s breath. The spinning of the universe spurred on by the steady beats of his heart, a precious rhythm Dazai doesn’t know how he ever lived without.

When Dazai eventually does fall asleep, hours later, he wakes up in the middle
of the night to find that the cat had wiggled his way between then at some point, pushing his butt into Dazai’s face as he curls over Chuuya’s head.

Dazai debates kicking him out, because he’s taking up /his/ cuddle time—

But Chuuya looks blissfully and peacefully asleep, a
tiny smile on his face, so—

Dazai huffs into the cats fur and endures.

Sunday is the calm before the storm. The day dawns clear and warm, rays of sunshine collecting underneath the curtains shielding the balcony.

Dazai is up much earlier before Chuuya is, but he luxuriates
in the warmth and comfort of bed until Chuuya starts to stir.

Then it’s time to make breakfast and give Chuuya his first round of medications. The combination of food and medicine makes him drowsy again, so he spends another few hours caught between dozing in bed and lazily
scrolling on his phone.

(Dazai spends that time starting the information hunt about this ‘DOA’ drug, because there’s something /very/ fishy about it.

The Port Mafia has never been huge on drugs. They have a stranglehold on that business and they /do/ deal with drugs, but their
main source of revenue is international trade and security.

The college campus is firmly on Mafia territory, and Dazai does /not/ see a logical reason as to why the Mafia would be pushing a drug that causes such obvious and negative side effects.

It’s like they’re /asking/ for
the government to get involved and start an investigation.

It’s like they’re asking for the tentative willful ignorance between the underground and the upper echelons of the /law/ to come to an end.

It’s like they’re asking to be taken /down/ and dismantled.)

When Chuuya
finally does get out of bed, it’s early afternoon. Dazai wants to check on him, but he’s in the middle of a call.

Once he hears the water start up in the bathroom,and the sounds of the tub filling,he smiles.

When Dazai /does/ get free again,he goes to check on him only to find—
Chuuya, luxuriating in the bath with his hair tired on top of his head and the face mask Dazai bought yesterday layered over his skin and—

The /cat/, showing the signs of a recent washing, fur wet and spiky. Chuuya is repurposing one of the tubs Dazai usually stores towels in,
turning it into a makeshift boat for the cat to lay in and float in the bath with him.

For a cat that /should/ hate water, the damn thing looks /blissfully/ content as he crouches in the plastic boat and floats.

Dazai can’t keep the smile out of his voice. “What are you doing?”
Chuuya doesn’t even open his eyes or tilt his head to the side as he answers, “Taking a bath.”

“With the cat?”

A twitch of his lips, a smile quickly smothered but Dazai sees it. “You said he needed one. Besides,” Chuuya reaches out with his toes, gently pushing the boat so it
goes cruising down to the edge of the tub, bounces off the wall gently and slowly starts to make its way back, “he likes it.”

Dazai’s pretty sure it’s not the /bath/ he likes, but the sheer fact of being close to Chuuya. The cat is in love with his tiny redhead.

Dazai crosses
over, bracing his hands on the edge of the tub and leaning over him. He stares down at him, and when he speaks, his voice is as thick with affection as the air is with steam. “You’re ridiculous.”

Blue eyes crack open, amusement shining from them like stars. “I’m /practical/,”
he corrects, a grin going on his face.

Dipping his hand into the wall of bubbles stacked near the edges of the tub, Dazai puts a blob on the end of Chuuya’s nose and chuckles when he goes cross-eyed trying to look at it.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?” He asks, knowing
that he probably /does/ want to wash all the hospital grime out of it, but isn't feeling up for the task.

Chuuya sighs, stretching out further in the tub. His feet don't come close to touching the edge. "Yes, please," he mumbles.

It's the only time he's given permission for
him to wash his hair-- he's /overprotective/ and picky with his hair-- and Dazai makes sure to do it with the care it deserves.

Cupping his hand underneath the back of his head and holding him as he gets his hair wet. Carefully lathering shampoo into the roots of his hair,
focusing on the spots near his temples when it makes Chuuya sigh pleasantly. Rinsing his hair out again, then working conditioner through all the way to the ends. Taking a comb and carefully untangling every knot until it's smooth.

Chuuya relaxes into his care, letting him
manipulate his head and move his body any way he needs to.

It's peaceful, like time is frozen outside of this room.

(It will not last.)

------ +

In Chuuya's humble opinion, the ordeal of medically withdrawing from college is a /hassle/. Not only does he have to seek approval
from /all/ of his course instructors-- which seems unnecessary and like a /very/ easy way to have the entire process drawn out for an obscenely long time-- and then he has to take all that approval into the administration to get /that/ approved. Then he has to sign a whole bunch
of papers agreeing that him withdrawing means that all his courses for the semester are /incomplete/, he has to return all the funds given to him by his scholarships and financial aid, he has to vacate the dorm, and so on and so forth until Chuuya just feels /numb/.

He didn't
choose this. He didn't /want/ this.

And even though he has a /stack/ of doctors notes saying that he /can't/ be in class without negative repercussions, it feels like he's being /punished/.

He doesn't even get Dazai's support in the office, because Chuuya wanted to do this
/alone/. Dazai looked apprehensive, but he couldn't exactly /argue/, and when Chuuya pointed out that it was probably best if he got a head start on packing up his dorm--

He agreed. That's where he is now, picking up all the things Chuuya owns and packing them away for moving.
(It takes Dazai a few minutes to find where Chuuya's dorm is. He gave him directions, but without any idea as to where to /go/, it takes the help of the directional signs for him to find it.

Using the key Chuuya gave him, he steps inside.

Nikolai is there when he enters, and he
looks /terrified/ when he looks up and sees him standing in the doorway, freezing in place.

Chuuya must not have told him that Dazai was going to help move his dorm out. He can imagine that being /awkward/, considering that Nikolai has been friends with Shuuji for a while.
Unfortunately that means that /Dazai/ has to deal with the awkwardness himself.

Nikolai’s a nice kid— Dazai has done /several/ background checks on him and found nothing out of the ordinary, besides a father that died of alcoholism and a brother that followed soon after— so he
forces a friendly smile.

“I’m here to help Chuuya move all his stuff,” he says, rocking back on his heels a little. “I’m assuming that’s his side of the room.”

He tilts his head to the other side of the room that Nikolai isn’t sitting on, and gets a wide-eyed nod in response.
Great.

It doesn’t look like Chuuya /owns/ a lot of things, because his side of the room is mostly bare. A blessing, because Dazai only has so much room in his car. He doesn’t mind extra trips, but he wants to get this over as soon as possible because he knows it’s going to
upset Chuuya the longer they’re on the campus.

It’s also kind of /sad/, because he’s come to realize that Chuuya is a /nester/ and even though he’s only been staying with Dazai the past two weeks, the bedside table on his side of the bed has already started to fill up with all
the knickknacks and little charms Dazai buys him whenever they go out.

So to see a place for Chuuya that is so /empty/, when he obviously prefers it not to be if he has the option—

Sad. Very sad.

Something occurs to him as he’s carefully folding all of Chuuya’s clothes and
packing them away into a box:

The calls Dazai had made about the DOA drug had turned up little to no information. Chuuya said he didn’t know anything about it when he asked.

But Nikolai has been on campus more consistently than Chuuya has in the past few weeks, so it’s possible
that he knows more.

Looking at Nikolai over his shoulder, he says, “Hey, I wanted to ask—I’ve been hearing all sorts of things about this new drug going around? Think it’s called DOA.Know anything about it?”

Nikolai pales.)

When Chuuya /finally/ gets out of the administration
building, he feels limp and irritable with exhaustion. When Gide told him that he'd be on bed rest, he didn't know it meant he'd be tired out by even the most mundane things.

He's been sleeping so /much/ lately, almost the entire morning yesterday and even part of the evening,
so it feels like a crime that he's already dreaming of going back to bed.

He's hungry too, even though he had breakfast only a couple hours ago.

There's a small cafe between the offices and the dorms, and he makes his way there slowly. The sun pours down on him, warm and
energizing. It's Monday morning, and the campus is as crowded as it usually is. All the students that have class or work today are drawn in by the wafting smell of coffee.

Chuuya joins the crowd, choosing to sit at one of the available outside benches. He needs a cup of coffee
to wake himself up, but he doesn't have any money himself. Using the allowance his father gives him feels /wrong/ now,because he's not in /college/ anymore.

He's not too worried, he'll just text Dazai and ask him to come over and pay--

Someone slides into the seat opposite him.
Chuuya looks up, curious, automatically painting a smile on his face because he's assuming it's one of his friends wondering why he's not in class anymore, already preparing his story in response--

It's not one of friends. In fact, it's not anyone he recognizes at all.

A man,
dark-haired and with a pair of dark violet eyes that seem to /glow/ against the backdrop of the sun. His smile is friendly, the flash of sharp teeth behind it subtle.

He's dressed impeccably well, with a dark purple shirt that matches his eyes. Over it, he has a dark jacket that
/oozes/ luxury, with threads that practically /shine/ silver.

His hair is up in a messy bun on top of his head, secured with what looks like a short piece of red rope.

Interesting.

Chuuya tilts his head, lowering his phone before he can text Dazai. "Can I help you?"

The man
smiles at him. "I think you can."

The way he's /looking/ at him makes him think that he means more than just what he's saying,eyes locked on target like a predator about to /pounce/.

It makes the hair on the back of Chuuya's neck stand up. He shifts,fighting the urge to /run/.
Then the man flips over the menu the cafe leaves chained to the outside tables, opening it. "I haven't come here before;can you tell me what you would recommend to order? I'm /very/ picky with my food, but you look like you have good taste."

Oh. Well, Chuuya can understand that.
He wouldn't want to order something gross either.

"Well, personally, I really like their Americano's and the spinach wrap, but if you like a sweeter coffee, then I suggest a caramel latte. They make theirs with a few pumps of vanilla too, and it's really good."

The smile grows.
"Lovely, solnyshko" the man says. The foreign word makes Chuuya blink in surprise. It sounds /vaguely/ familiar,like a language he's heard before but doesn't understand.

The waving down one of the waitresses who works here. She's a student, someone that Chuuya vaguely recognizes
from some of his classes. She looks /engrossed/ by the man, smiling eagerly at him.

"Can I get a caramel latte, an americano and a spinach wrap, please?" The man asks, lacing his fingers together and staring up at the waitress unwaveringly. There's a tattoo around his wrist that
gets exposed when his sleeve slides up.

It almost looks like a /noose/ wrapped around his wrist, the knot inked into the fragile skin of his inner wrist. It descends further down his arm where the sleeve covers up, blocking him from seeing the entirety of it.

The waitress nods,
scribbling down his order before walking away.

"You must need coffee pretty badly if you're ordering two at a time, and at a place you've never been to, uh--," Chuuya jokes, before realizing that he doesn't actually know this person's name.

The man seems to pick up on that,
offering him another smile. He wets his lips by licking them, tongue sliding deliciously slow over his bottom lip and--

Is that /two/ tongue piercings, one on each side? Chuuya's never seen /that/ before.

"You can call me Fyodor, solnyshko," he offers. "And the Americano is for
you. It would be rude not to offer you something in payment after you've been so /kind/ to me, no?"

He doesn't think that offering his advice on food is worth buying him something to eat, but it's not like he's going to turn down free food. Besides, this way he won't have to
bother Dazai for a while longer. Or go back to his dorm before he's ready to see the thing he's worked so hard for be taken away.

He can eat, have a quick snack with /Fyodor/ before making his way up to his dorm.

"Thank you," he says, giving him a grateful smile. "So if you've
never been to this cafe before, then you must not go here. What brings you to the campus?"

The cafe, nameless as it is, is the most popular one on the campus. Every student, teacher and even office administrators drops by here at least sometimes. If Fyodor were here on business,
then he would know that, right? The cafe is practically a campus staple so--

He must be here on /personal/ business.

"Oh, I'm just visiting an old friend," Fyodor sighs, leaning back in his seat. He's /tall/, almost as tall as Dazai is, and just as broad. He takes up the entire
seat, legs crowding Chuuya's under the table even though his knees are spread wide in a casual display and dominance.

And Chuuya will be honest--

If he wasn't /with/ Dazai, infatuated and very much happy with him, he would be eyeing up Fyodor. With that posture, it's like he's
/asking/ him to stare at the bulge of his crotch.

Chuuya won't, but if he /could/, he might've.

"You see, he's stopped answering my calls recently. Very disheartening, because we are business partners-- but I also thought we were /friends/. So I've come to see why he won't talk
to me anymore," Fyodor continues, and he almost sounds like he's /pouting/.

The waitress comes back then, placing his order in front of him. It isn't Chuuya's imagination acting up when he sees the way Fyodor deliberately brushes his fingers over the back of her hand as he
accepts his drink.

"Thank you," Fyodor says to her warmly, taking a sip. He sighs into his drink when he tastes it, smiling flirtatiously over the rim at the waitress. "Simply /divine/."

Chuuya's Americano nearly gets spilled with how hard her hands are trembling, and he
narrowly avoids getting his spinach wrap dumped onto his lap.

Chuuya can't exactly be /mad/ at her, because Fyodor is /staring her down/,with a smug,satisfied look on his face like he knows /exactly/ what he's doing to her.

Eventually she goes scampering back into the building,
face bright red.

"That sounds terrible. I'd be upset if one of my friends stopped talking to me too," Chuuya says, sympathetic. His spinach wrap, when he takes a bite out of it, is delightfully fresh. "Do you think he'll show up here, or are you buying time until you can find
him?"

Chuuya might think he's procrastinating, but somehow, he doesn't seem the type.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll show up at some point. I've got something he /wants/."

That sounds... slightly ominous, especially with the way Fyodors's grinning hugely at him. Like he has a /secret/.
Chuuya takes a bite out of his food to give himself some time to mull that over. It's normal for friends to exchange things like clothing or house items, stuff like that.

But Fyodor is speaking like he means something /important/.

"In the meantime, solnyshko, would you like to
hear a story?" Fyodor asks, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. His latte is almost entirely gone already, the remains of caramel on the edges of his cup.

Taking a sip of his own Americano--it's stronger than usual, the bitterness more overpowering-- Chuuya shrugs.
Sure, why not? He likes stories as well as anything else, and he's not quite ready to go back to his dorm yet.

He's pretty sure Dazai won't let him lift a finger to help pack anyways, so there's really no point in going back early just to stand there and watch as his entire
college career is packed away into a handful of depressingly small boxes.

He came here with only one box. He's probably only leaving with /two/.

"Sure. What's it about?"

Fyodor leans his cheek in his palm, eyes looking very far away. "Have you heard of the campus fire that
happened a little over eighteen years ago?"

Chuuya tilts his head frowning. "The one the memorial was made for? I thought that was twenty years ago?"

Devil-sharp teeth flash at him in amusement. "Nope. It was eighteen-- though closer to nineteen years now."

"Wasn't that just
a small fire that got out of hand?"

That's what the stories online had said, at least. They'd traced it back to a couple of kids who'd been smoking illegally in their dorm, and when carpet started to smolder because of a cherry that had fallen, it went unnoticed.

By the time
the kids had noticed it and were ready to out themselves by reporting it,it was already too late.

The entire floor and the two below it had been ravaged by flames.

"Well, what if I told you that it was /meant/ to get out of hand?"

Chuuya arches an eyebrow at him, disbelieving
but amused. What's with everyone trying to turn regular, every day tragedies into this /horror/ story? It's already terrifying and upsetting enough, there's no need to spin it into something else entire.

First Yuan,and then Nikolai. Now /Fyodor/.

"What do you mean?"

Fyodor's
hand leaves the table, dipping into his pocket. He pulls out a short piece of rope that doesn't seem to serve any purpose other than keeping his hand busy as he speaks again. "Have you heard of the Port Mafia?"

Chuuya shoots him an unimpressed look, taking his last sip of his
coffee. It doesn't seem to have worked to wake him up.

In fact, he feels almost more tired than he did before drinking it, his eyes heavy and begging to close.

"Yeah, obviously. I do live here, after all," he confirms, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

Fyodor tsks at him
in reprimand, threading the rope through his fingers over and over again, an unending pattern that Chuuya finds himself fascinated by. "No need to be /sassy/, solnyshko, I was just asking a question."

A question that had an obvious answer to whoever has been living in Yokohama
for any length of time--

But Chuuya supposes Fyodor doesn't actually know anything about him, so maybe his reaction was unnecessary.

He smiles at him apologetically. "Sorry. It's been a rough week for me. Yes, I do know about them."

This time, when he takes another bite of
his wrap, Fyodor's eyes watch his movements closely. When he notices that Chuuya has noticed,he smiles widely.

"Now you can't tell anyone this, because it's a /secret/, but the /real/ story is that the Mafia was involved with that fire," Fyodor says, leaning forward and lowering
his voice like he's sharing a secret.

"If that was true, why wouldn't it be mentioned in the news stories or be otherwise connected to them? I looked up the news articles, and no mention of the Yakuza was made."

Granted, Chuuya only has access to /publicized/ news, which
is obviously biased and scrubbed clean of too many details but--

If the government and news outlets had the /chance/ to garner public outcry from the citizens against the Yakuza, Chuuya doesn't see why they /wouldn't/.

"For the same reason a lot of crimes committed by the Mafia
get covered up, solnyshko-- money. Lots of it. /Someone/ doesn't want that story to be told."

That does make sense.

It's Monday on campus, barely mid-day with students coming and going all over the place--

But suddenly the air is starting to feel cold.

Chuuya's head hurts.
It's not bad--yet-- but he's regretting not taking the Tylenol Dazai offered him earlier this morning. He'd insisted he wouldn't need it because they wouldn't be out /that/ long, but now he's regretting that.

"And what story would that be?" He asks, rubbing his temple to stave
off the growing migraine.

"The story of an adopted son, rebelling against his tyrant father," Fyodor says,with a wicked grin like it's a scary story or some sort of legend to be told over a campfire.

When he notices Chuuya's grimace, his expression fades into a concerned frown.
"What's wrong, little love? Did my story make you lose your appetite?"

The pet name, said in a voice like /that/, all smooth silk nd honey,makes a shiver crawl up Chuuya's spine, and he's /used/ to hearing things like that.

"No," he grumbles, blowing out a breath, "I just have
a headache."

Fyodor makes a sympathetic noise. "Maybe eating more will help? Or I can get you some water? I have some pain pills in my car, but you'd have to come with me to get them."

Paranoia itches at the back of his mind.

"No, I'll just finish my wrap and text my
boyfriend," Chuuya mutters, taking out his phone and opening it. It only takes a few taps on the screen to pull up his messages with Dazai, shooting off a message asking him to come get him and his location.

The last few bites of his wrap taste... sour, almost. Like chemicals.
But--

The ends of these things /always/ take a little funny, don't they?

"Oh, you have a boyfriend?" Fyodor latches onto that piece of information, leaning forward across the table. His hand slides close to the jacket Chuuya had taken off earlier, draped across the edge of the
table.

His fingers dip inside the pocket without Chuuya noticing.

"What's he like?"

Chuuya opens his mouth to answer, but just as he does, a large, /broad/ shadow falls over them both. When he looks up, it's Dazai, looking angrier and paler than he's ever seen before.
"/Fedya/," he practically /snarls/, crossing his arms over his chest. He's vibrating with tension, eyebrows lowered thunderously over his eyebrows.

He doesn't even look at Chuuya, snapping something in a foreign, guttural language that's so /aggressive/ that it makes Chuuya
blink in surprise.

He sounds /angry/. Angrier than Chuuya's ever heard him.

Fyodor leans back in his chair, taking his hands back and folding them behind his head confidently. "Come now, /besy/," he says, flashing a charming smile, "Don't you know it's /rude/ to speak when the
company can't understand you? You don't want to leave this pretty little thing in the /dark/, now do you?"

Chuuya has not been /unaware/ that Fyodor has been flirty with him. He didn't comment on it because he assumed that it was just in his nature-- the incident with the
waitress was pretty damning-- but now he feels like he's being /fought/ over.

Dazai bristling with hostility, Fyodor smug and cocky leaning back in his seat...

It's like watching dogs fight over a bone, except the bone is /him/.

"What the /fuck/ do you want, Fedya?" This time
its Japanese that Dazai speaks in, harsh and cutting and /rude/.

Chuuya shoots him a look, wondering what the /hell/ the attitude is about but--

Clearly these two know each other. Clearly, they have /history/ that Chuuya knows nothing about, and he doesn't know enough to step
in between them.

He only wishes Dazai wasn't so /loud/, because people are starting to stare.

"Me?" Fyodor asks, spreading his hands in front of him innocently, eyes wide, "I don't want anything. I was just telling Chuuya over here a story."

"A /story/?" Dazai repeats,
disbelieving. "A story about /what/?"

Chuuya pipes up, hoping to dispel the tension by making a /joke/. "About some ancient demon prodigy who apparently caused trouble a /really/ long time ago."

Dazai looks like he just got /kicked/, whipping his head around to stare at him.
At least Fyodor seems to think he's funny, bursting into loud laughter.

Dazai gives him a look like Chuuya has /personally/ betrayed him, moving his hand in a 'what the fuck?' gesture.

Chuuya gestures back, wondering what the hell his problem is.

'Me, what the fuck? YOU, what
the fuck?'

"No, he's right," Fyodor wheezes, barely containing himself. "He's /so/ old. Ancient. Decrepit. Probably can't even get it up anymore--."

Dazai cuts him off there, letting out a /loud/ sigh. "I get it. Is that all you wanted?"

He's still stiff with tension, and he's
standing almost /between/ them, like he's trying to block Fyodor's view.

It takes quite a few moments for Fyodor to reign himself back in, wiping a tear from under his eye. The faint eyeliner he's wearing--subtle, but noticeable that Chuuya is actually /looking/-- doesn't get
smudged with how carefully he pats his eye dry.

"Actually, I came to see /you/, besy. You haven't been returning my calls lately, and it's getting very frustrating. I'm starting to get my /feelings/ hurt, and you know how I get when I'm /emotional/," Fyodor responds, blinking up
him with wide eyes.

Without looking away from Dazai, he takes the final sip of his latte, sighing contently. When he wipes his mouth clean of foam, his bottom lip moves and reveals something /black/ on the inside.

What /is/ that? He didn't eat anything black, so it couldn't
be food or anything like that and--

And it almost looks like /ink/.

Curious and forgetting his manners, Chuuya blurts out, "What's that on your lip?"

Violet eyes glance over,flaring with something like teasing, smug heat.

Without looking away, one of Fyodor's hands comes up.
The tips of his fingers hook into his bottom lip, folding it down to reveal the soft pink inside.

And there, written in black ink on the inside of his lip is 'SINNER'.

Chuuya's eyes are /wide/. Doesn't that /hurt/? He can't imagine sitting there getting an /inner lip/ tattoo.
The pain threshold and the /discipline/ it would take to get that done is--

Well, it's /hot/.

Taking his fingers out,Fyodor lets his lip pop back into place. "Lip tattoos fade after a year or so. When I need to get it touched up, I switch between 'sinner' and 'saint'," he says,
then licks his lip slowly. "But no matter what, the tongue remains the same."

He pairs /that/ with an obvious, saucy wink and even though Chuuya is /taken/, he can't help that he's /blushing/.

Dazai bristles, damn near sending the table crashing over as he steps even /closer/.
"There are /better/ ways to get a hold of me," he seethes, jaw clenched.

It clicks for Chuuya, suddenly. He's /jealous/.

"Sure, but how could I /possibly/ give up the chance to meet this /lovely/ partner of yours? You've told me /so/ much about him, it's like I know him
/already/."

(And poor Chuuya.He really does know /nothing/, so he's completely unaware that he just had lunch with a /predator/ that Dazai has been trying /very/ hard to keep him from.)

Chuuya blinks, surprised. If they know each other, that explains why Fyodor knows his /name/
even though Chuuya never told him.

Does that mean he was looking for Chuuya? Or was it a coincidence that he found him sitting at the cafe and came to say hello?

Was this /planned/, an elaborate ruse to trick Dazai into talking to him again?

"Chuuya, are you finished?" Dazai
asks, not looking away from Fyodor for even a second.

Well, yes, he is, and he /does/ want to go home because his head is starting to /throb/ and he really wants a nap--

But it feels rude to just /leave/ Fyodor like this, and so suddenly?

"Uh, yeah," he mutters, stacking his
empty cup on top of his plate. "Is my dorm--"

Dazai interrupts him a clipped "Yep, it's done," and reaches down to urge him out of his seat. He's not /harsh/, but he's clearly urging him to hurry, fingers pressing into his arm.

Fyodor watches with a satisfied look, not saying
anything until Dazai is practically /herding/ him away, pushing him in the direction of where Dazai parked the car.

"Good night, Chuuya," he calls, a hint of /something/ in his tone, something secretive and /smug/.

Chuuya nearly stumbles at that because it's /mid-morning/, what
the hell does he /mean/, 'good night'? That doesn't make /any/ sort of sense?

When they get out of sight, Dazai gets fed up with Chuuya's shorter legs and takes him by the arm. His grip isn't /bruising/, but it is firm and he's practically dragging Chuuya along, forcing him to
awkwardly jog to keep up.

"What is /wrong/ with you?" Chuuya snaps, jerking on his arm. It's no use; Dazai's grip is unyielding.

At no point does it hurt or does Chuuya feel in danger, but it's /frustrating/ and upsetting to be dragged around like an errant child.

Especially
with how /gently/ and affectionately he's been treating him the last few days.

All that care seems to have /evaporated/ right now.

"Do you have /any/ idea how much danger you were just in?" Dazai /hisses/. He sounds /livid/, but at least he's slowing down a little bit, so it's
easier to keep up.

His words make Chuuya gape, because--

/Danger/? Really? Fyodor seemed /sweet/. A little too flirty, maybe, and there was obviously some bad blood between them, but he was /nice/.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Chuuya snaps, throwing his most
cutting glare at the side of his head. People are starting to /stare/ now, whispering to each other as they pass, and it's /embarrassing/.

The car isn't far off now. Chuuya can see it, looming out of the distance.

Dazai pounces on that sentence quickly. "/Exactly/," he bites
out, quickly crossing the distance to the car. "You have /no idea/, so /trust/ me when I say that man is /dangerous/."

Before he can come up with a response to that, they've reached the car. Dazai reaches down to open the passenger door for him, looming over him until Chuuya
gives in with an annoyed huff and climbs in.

The backseat has three small boxes in it. The entirety of Chuuya's college career.

He glares at Dazai through the windshield as he crosses across the front of the car in a handful of long, powerful, quick strides.

The driver door is
/yanked/ open, and Dazai drops inside.

Chuuya greets him with a /snarl/, "Or, instead of asking me to /trust you/, you could /tell me/ what the fuck you mean by that. How is he dangerous? He seemed /normal/ to me!"

Dazai's expression twists into something like angry disbelief,
jamming the start button until the car roars to life. He peels out of the parking lot in livid silence, jaw clenched so hard Chuuya can /see/ the muscle bunched up there.

After a long moment of this--something that feels /almost/ like the silent treatment--, Chuuya loses his
patience. He's /tired/, his head hurts, he's /sad/ because he had to drop out, he's /stressed out/--

And now Dazai is being un-fucking-reasonable.

"You don't get to just be an /asshole/ for no reason and expect me to just /believe you/!" He nearly shouts, twisting in his seat.
"You don't get to just-- to just /say/ things, without any explanation and expect me to /understand/?! Tell me what the hell you're talking about."

Dazai nearly causes an /accident/ when he floors it out of the parking lot, silent. It's the most /reckless/ he's ever driven with
Chuuya in the car, and that just makes him /angrier/, because Chuuya /barely/ got his seatbelt on in time before he got thrown face-first into the dashboard.

Silent. Painful, writhing, /wrathful/ silence, filling the car like a bomb getting ready to burst--

"Oh, so /you/ get to
reprimand /me/ for being 'incapable of communicating' but when I ask /you/ to communicate, you treat me like-- like I'm throwing a /temper tantrum/!"

There's a shout, something that sounds like a /snarl/, and the palm of Dazai's hand /slams/ into the steering wheel loudly.
Chuuya didn't think he was the type to /hit/ things when he was angry, but apparently he was wrong.

"I /CAN'T/!" Dazai roars back, shaking the steering wheel like he wishes it was Chuuya he was shaking some sense into. His grip is so tight his knuckles are turning white, and
they're at least /twenty/ miles over the speed light, flooring it up the hills to Dazai's house.

Chuuya gapes at him. "What the fuck do you /mean/ 'you can't'? If he was dangerous to me, I have a /right/ to know! What if he hurts someone on campus?!"

"Yes, you /do/ have a right
to know," Dazai seethes, taking a turn so fast that Chuuya can feel one of the tires lift off the ground. "But /I/ have a right to disclose my trauma when it is comfortable to /me/ and not when it's convenient to /you/!"

That makes Chuuya pause, fists clenches and jaw working.
Because, as /angry/ as Chuuya is and as /much/ as he wants to sink his teeth into Dazai and tear him into pieces--

He does have a point with the trauma part.

It /hurts/ to admit, because he thought Dazai /trusted/ him. At least enough to tell him things.

But it's also pretty
clear that Fyodor and Dazai do have /history/ between them, and apparently that means a lot of bad blood as well.

Chuuya didn't /want/ to push Dazai into a corner and make him feel like he /has/ to divulge sensitive, painful information, he just wanted to know what he /meant/.
It also doesn't feel /fair/ for Dazai to be yelling at him and making Chuuya feel like a /bad/ person when he started this whole thing. This argument would've never happened if Dazai hadn't been such a /dick/.

Fuming and unsure of what to say that doesn't make the situation
worse or make him seem like the bad guy, Chuuya crosses his arms over his chest and glares out the window silently.

When they finally get home--ten minutes quicker than they usually would-- Chuuya is the first one out of the car and storming inside without even looking at Dazai.
Yoko and the cat-- who Chuuya is debating on naming Mochi but something about the name just doesn't fit-- greet him at the door, and he gives them minimum pets as he pushes his way to the backyard.

He doesn't want to be inside right now. He doesn't even want to /look/ at Dazai
right now, not until he can figure out what he's feeling.

It's all tangled up inside, hurt with anger and sadness and physical pain and depression and--

It's just /so/ much it makes Chuuya want to /scream/.

Dropping heavily into one of the chairs at the outside table, he puts
his head in his heads and just--

Endures.

It's a struggle to calm down when his chest feels tighter than a wire about to snap, but he manages it after a while with careful breathing. He sheds a few tears, wetness collecting in his palms, but at least he isn't embarrassingly
sobbing like he was the day before.

His head hurts even more now, the aftereffects of the yelling.

Eventually the anger just cools down into /misery/,and it just makes Chuuya want to go /straight/ to bed,to forget any of this ever happened,forget the whole day--

"Can we talk?"
Chuuya sniffs, picking his head up and finding Dazai lurking in the doorway between the living room and the backyard. He looks remorseful and slightly awkward, hands pushed into his pockets.

How long has he been standing there?

"About what?" Chuuya asks miserably, wiping the
tears from his face.

The first thing Dazai says isn't what he's expecting it to be. Chuuya's half-tense,prepared for a continuation of their argument, but instead--

"I'm sorry."

Chuuya blinks at him, which makes Dazai's face soften with regret even more.

"I'm sorry; I didn't
mean to yell at you. I was /scared/ and upset, but I shouldn't have taken that out on you. I shouldn't have made you scared or yelled at you for it."

He looks so /genuine/, eyes big and clear, mouth turned down into a slight frown, that Chuuya can't help but believe him.

The
knot in his chest loosens a bit.

"I don't know why you were so /angry/. You were the one who made me worried in the first place. I just wanted to know what you meant," Chuuya says, drawing his knees up to his chest.

Dazai lets out a sigh. "I know, baby, I know," he murmurs,
coming closer. He doesn't touch Chuuya, but he does crouch down beside him so they can have a conversation that's closer to face-to-face.

It's hard to feel /equal/ when Dazai naturally looms over him, but like this, Chuuya feels a little more like he's on even ground. Equals.
"That man," Dazai starts, looking thoughtful and almost-pained, like he's trying to decide exactly what to say, "is not a good man. He has hurt dozens of people in every way you could imagine, and he does it all to further his own goals. If he thought that hurting /you/ would get
to me, I have no doubt that he would do that."

That doesn't explain anything, not really. It's so /vague/, and even if Chuuya's mind immediately jumps into the worst scenario possible, that doesn't mean that scenario is /true/. He doesn't /understand/.

"So you guys are...
business partners? Friends?" Chuuya doesn't know any friends that would treat each other like /that/ and still be considered friends, but he can't exactly judge.

"We're rivals, of a sort. We've done business together for a very long time, even if I didn't necessarily /want/ to
work with him," Dazai tells him, looking up at him with an expression that's begging him to believe him and--

Chuuya /does/ believe him. He's never seen Dazai /that/ affected before, so he does believe him, it just--

There's so many details that are missing that it doesn't make
sense to him.

He hazards a guess. "And you're not going to tell me why he makes you so upset or what he did to you?"

"I--," Dazai stops there, blowing out a breath. He looks so /frustrated/ with himself, but also scared. Uncomfortable. "I /want/ to, and it's not just what /he/
did to me, it's-- it's more of a long story of my childhood, and I /want/ to tell you, but it's /hard/ and it's scary."

Today is the first time Chuuya has ever heard Dazai ever admit to being afraid. The man has never so much as /flinched/ at anything else before--besides his
hospital visit, but that would scare anyone-- so to see him so obviously affected and admitting to his fear--

It's sobering. It makes Chuuya's chest pang with sympathy, sadness bubbling up inside him.

Tentatively, he reaches out, brushing his fingers over his cheekbone softly.
He's half-expecting him to flinch away or be stiff under his hands, but Dazai leans into the touch easily, pressing his cheek into his palm.

"You know you can tell me, right? You don't have to be afraid, or think that I'll judge you or anything. You can tell me anything, Osamu."
The thing with fear is that it's not always rational. You can explain it away, you can put it into simple and easy terms, you can dissect it with logic until it's all pretty squares, easily tucked away.

But that doesn't mean it will ever go away, not if you're not ready to let
it go.

Chuuya can see, from the desperate, cold look in Dazai's eyes, from the way he leans into his hand like he's afraid Chuuya will let go, from the way his fingers subtly tremble--

Dazai isn't ready to let it go yet.

Part of Chuuya wants to be angry about that. He's told
him things that he's never told anyone else, and it feels /unfair/ for Dazai to still be hiding parts of himself away.

But he can't force it, and if he tries, he will only be proving him right. He'll just be proving himself untrustworthy and--

Chuuya /wants/ to be trustworthy.
He wants to be the holder of all his secrets. He wants to know Dazai's dreams and wishes and nightmares, and everything about him.

He wants /everything/ and to get everything from him--

He has to be a little patient. They've only been dating for a little over six weeks. He's in
no rush. He can be patient.

They've got forever, right?

(Right?)

"I will tell you," Dazai promises earnestly, eyes shining as he looks up at him. "I will, I just-- I need a little more time, okay?"

Chuuya can give him that. He brushes his thumb over his cheek, trying to
soothe away the lingering pain and anxiety he can sense in him. "Okay."

His acceptance makes Dazai relax, shuddering slightly.

There's a long peaceful moment, and then long fingers are sliding up Chuuya's shins.

"Can I have a hug?" Dazai asks, sounding almost pitiful.
He doesn't /pressure/ him, he just wraps his fingers around his calf and waits for his response, staring up at him.

How can Chuuya /ever/ tell him no? When he looks like that?

Nodding, he lets his feet fall to the floor and leans forward to wrap his arms around Dazai's neck.
Dazai sinks into him with a sigh, burying his nose into Chuuya's shoulder and soaking up all the affection. His arms come up, wrapping low around his waist, pulling him to the edge of the chair.

It's warm. Makes all the tension in Chuuya's chest simmer down and loosen, drifting
away with every exhale like petals on the wind.

Eventually Dazai stirs, mumbling something about dinner, and getting Chuuya his medicine.

The headache has gone away now, mostly. It throbs lightly in the back of his head, but he does accept the Tylenol Dazai puts into his palm.
(And when Chuuya follows Dazai inside the house, his hands slide into the pockets of his jacket and he finds a note that wasn't there before.

A tiny piece of folded paper with ten digits printed on it.

A phone number.

More specifically, /Fyodor's/ phone number.)

------- +
It has been a week.

A very /long/ week, but not in a bad way. In fact, Chuuya would say it was a good week, if adjusting to his new schedule wasn't so hard.

Dazai is ceaselessly doting in a way that makes Chuuya's every want and need feel obsolete. He makes breakfast in the
morning before giving Chuuya his morning round of meds. Those usually put him out of commission for a few hours, making him incredibly drowsy until lunch time is coming around.

Now that he's off the anti-convulsants-- except for on a need-to-take basis, which he thankfully
hasn't needed to because he has yet to feel another seizure coming on-- that's getting better, but his body /is/ still recovering. He's never /needed/ to take a nap in the middle of the day before, and now he needs at /least/ one if he wants to avoid sleeping for fourteen hours
every night.

Lunch and dinner are similarly done, big meals that Dazai cooks for him. Chuuya can understand /why/ Dazai piles his plate high with food every time-- he can see his collarbone sharply in the mirror, and the beginnings of ribs-- it's still /hard/ to handle because
his appetite has yet to return, and if he eats too much he gets drowsy again.

Dazai tries to keep him entertained, watching movies with him and relaxing in the backyard, occasionally taking the dogs to the local park but--

There's only /so/ much they can do when Chuuya is
easily exhausted and practically chained to the medicine cabinet.

He needs his meds twice a day, and he's still on a regimen of Tylenol to keep his headache down.

He is getting better, he knows that. Every day he has more energy, his naps are shorter, his head hurts less. His
attitude is perking up, and he's /slowly/ starting to gain weight again.

It's just frustrating, because he wants to be better /now/ and not in five more weeks. It's /horrible/ going from what he would consider healthy, to essentially being locked in the house.

That's not the
only frustrating thing.

The /most/ frustrating thing is that Dazai has /still/ not talked to him about Fyodor or his 'trauma' at all.

Chuuya doesn't want to /push/ him into it, and he understands a week isn't /that/ long, but it seems to him like Dazai is avoiding the
conversation /entirely/. Not easing himself into it, or revealing little pieces at a time, or testing the waters.

Straight up avoiding it. Any time Chuuya brings up Fyodor or the campus or his own childhood--trying to nudge Dazai into talking about it--, Dazai just clams up.
Says he has to make a call, or let the dogs out, or that he's trying to watch the movie, or literally /anything/ to get himself out of the conversation.

It's not like Dazai has a /due/ date to tell him by, but Chuuya is not naïve enough to believe that he's going to wake up one
day and just /magically/ be okay with telling Chuuya everything.

It takes progress, effort and /time/, and Chuuya is willing to work with him--

But Dazai doesn't seem willing to work at all.

There's a subtle tension in the air now, vibrating between them constantly. Dazai
either doesn't feel it or he's actively avoiding it, because he's been acting /obnoxiously/ upbeat and talkative.

And there's another thing:

Chuuya hasn't thrown away the number he found in his jacket pocket, after he met Fyodor. He hasn't inputted it into his phone or done
anything else with it but--

He hasn't thrown it away.

It feels almost /wrong/ that he hasn't tossed it. Like he's /cheating/ or /consorting/ with Dazai's abuser, or otherwise being a /terrible/ person but--

He's not, is he? Dazai said it wasn't that something that /Fyodor/ did
to him, it was about his /childhood/. Which implies that Fyodor was involved with his childhood, which would mean--

He would know what Dazai is talking about.

For /days/ he wrestles between a terrible, morbid curiosity, and /guilt/. He doesn't want to go behind Dazai's back,
of course, but--

Dazai has /always/ been withdrawn. Even though he's known him for /months/, has been unofficially living with him for two weeks and officially for one.

Chuuya still doesn't even know what he does for his job. His parents names. If they're alive or dead. If he
went to college. If he /didn't/ go to college. How he met Sasaki.

There are /so/ many things about Dazai that he /refuses/ to tell Chuuya and--

At some point, you stop expecting people to do what they say they will when they never follow up. They might /say/ they'll tell you
everything,but will they really?

It's not /fair/ that Dazai practically knows everything about him,while Chuuya only knows the basic scraps and pieces that don't fit together.

And at some point,you start to realize that if you want answers?

You have to go digging for yourself.
Chuuya waits until Dazai goes grocery shopping to restock the kitchen. It feels like a /cheating/ move because it's the first time Dazai has left him alone for any length of time since his diagnoses and he had to /convince/ him that he would be okay alone for an hour or two.
Dazai only goes after nearly half an hour of kisses and reassurances that he'll come back with Chuuya's favorite candy, and /please/ call if you need me at all, for anything--

Really, it makes Chuuya feel /guilty/,because he's essentially playing him.Getting him out of the house
so he can make a /phone call/.

He wastes the first twenty minutes of alone time by pacing back and forth in their bedroom-- /their/ bedroom now, which makes butterflies cascade through his chest, and it's even worse when Dazai calls it /their/ bedroom-- with his phone clutched
to his chest.

He shouldn't. Logically, he knows that and feels /terrible/ about the fact that he wants to but--

It's been months and Dazai has given him nothing.

It's--

It's only fair, right?

Dazai never has to /know/. It'll be his little secret.

His fingers shake as he
inputs the number. He has to backtrack twice to fix a mistake, and has to squint at the paper to see if that's the symbol for 2 or /3/.

Once he has it entered, he almost doesn't do it.

Thinks to himself, /why/ am I doing this--

And then hits call before he can psych himself
out of it for any longer.

He /almost/ hangs up when he hears the dial tone start up, guilt and anxiety flashing up so strongly his heart feels it might burst in his chest--

He promises to hang up on the third ring. He'll take that as /fate/ that he wasn't meant to talk to
Fyodor.

If something stops him at all, he'll take that as a sign, and he won't try again. If he's not /meant/ to know, the call won't go through.

One ring....

An agonizingly long pause.

Two rings, somehow feeling longer than the first...

Pause.

Thr--

"Hello?"
Oh /shit/, he actually answered.

Chuuya didn't actually think this /through/, he has no idea what to say or what he wants to talk about. In his mind, Fyodor just told him this wild regaling story of his and Dazai's childhood, but Chuuya forgot he had to actually have a
/conversation/ with the man.

"Uh, hi," he squeaks, ducking out of their bedroom and onto the balcony. This way he'll see if Dazai comes home before he's expected to, and at least he'll get some sun as he paces back and forth. "It's Chuuya. You know, from the cafe a week ago? You
left your number in my jacket and I was just..."

He trails off there, feeling stupid. He's rambling, trying to cover up his nerves by sheer amount of conversation.

"Ah, yes, I remember you, solnyshko," Fyodor purrs from the other side of the line. His voice is deeper on the
voice, raspier. More /inviting/. "I'm surprised to see you call. Dazai not able to keep up with you anymore?"

Chuuya automatically scowls at that, because this is /not/ a call for an /affair/ or anything. He just wanted answers, and as far as he knew, Fyodor is the only one who
had them. "/No/, it's just-- I was calling because..."

How does he say it without sounding crazy or /invasive/?

This was a mistake. He shouldn't have called.

"Let me guess, love: you want to hear a story, right? But this time about /Dazai/," Fyodor says. The other side of the
line is eerily quiet, like he was expecting a call or he just happened to be in a quiet place.

"Yeah," Chuuya mutters, wrapping his free arm around his middle. "I just... I realized I don't know anything /about/ him, and I didn't know who else to ask. He basically won't tell me
anything at all. You're the only one I've /ever/ met who seems to have known Dazai before this year."

"Ah," comes the answer, but the /next/ words are what makes Chuuya's heart stop:

"He's always been like that with his victims."

/Victims?/ What the fuck does /that/ mean?
It's sunny outside, and the warmth of the sun is enough to keep him from needing a jacket--

Or at least he thought, because he /shivers/.

"What--," Chuuya asks, licking his lips because his mouth feels suddenly dry, "What do you mean by that?"

There's a sigh on the other line.
"You might need a drink for this, solnyshko."

Jokes on him, because Chuuya isn't allowed to have even a /sip/ of alcohol. Dazai has even taken all the wine /and/ whiskey bottles out of the house and locked them in a safe Chuuya doesn't have the combination to.

"Just tell me."
He just needs to know if this was all--

All a /lie/. If their entire relationship has been a /ruse/.

"Well, solnyshko, I should start by saying that Dazai is not a /good/ man. I'm sure he's said the same about me-- and I won't say that I'm /perfect/, but compared to a man like
Dazai, I'm practically squeaky clean."

/Again/, with the vague details and the half-truths. Why does no one ever just /say/ what's actually going on?

"What do you mean by /that/?"

"You remember what I told you about the Demon Prodigy? I assume you've heard more as well,"
Fyodor asks. There's a sipping noise that breaks his speech midway through, like he's drinking something.

Chuuya makes a vaguely assenting noise, turning on his heel to pace back the other way.

"Well, Dazai /is/ the Demon Prodigy. He's been one of the bloodiest people in
Yokohama ever since he was, oh.... fourteen? Fifteen, if I'm being generous."

He's...

He's /what/?

And as much as Chuuya would /love/ to dispute what Fyodor is saying, would love to just hang up and forget this entire conversation ever happened--

It makes sense. It /fits/.
The 'personal protection' business that Chuuya knows nothing about. The guard dogs. The fact that Dazai doesn't seem to have /any/ friends or coworkers. The tattoos.

The secrecy about his life and the /lies/.

It all makes sense. Makes so much fucking sense that Chuuya doesn't
know how he didn't see it /before/.

How could he be so /stupid/?

(Naturally,Chuuya has no way of knowing this, but he's fallen /right/ into Fyodor's trap.

He didn't need to drug anyone, beyond what he told Nikolai to do. He didn't need to force anyone's hand.

All he needed to
do was drive a wedge between them, /tease/ Chuuya with answers--

And wait.

Poor Chuuya will never know he's being manipulated and fed lies until it's too late.)

(Time set: 1 hour, 30 mins.

Tik. Tok.)

"And the /victims/? Those are the people he's-- the people he /killed/?"
His answer is a considerate hum, like Fyodor is debating exactly what to say.

Yoko and Baki-- he decided on a name this week. Arahabaki for /destruction/, because the cat /always/ knocks over his water bowl--stare out the window as Chuuya makes another lap along the rail of the
balcony. When Baki notices him looking, he stands up to put his front paws on the window pleadingly.

"It was, at first. But more recently, Dazai has had a /disturbing/ habit of finding sweet, innocent people like you and /corrupting/ them. Normally, I wouldn't say that's a
/problem/-- but somehow they always end up /dying/."

(Lie.)

Chuuya's heart skips a beat, freezing in his chest. /Dying/? As in--

"He /kills/ them?"

Fyodor makes a hitched grunting noise, like he's trying to cover up a noise he didn't intend to make. "I'm not sure. All I know
is that they disappear. Has he ever spoken to you about any past partners?"

No, not even /one/. Besides Sasaki, that is.

(On the other end of the line, Fyodor fists his hand in a mop of short brown hair, biting back irritation. Green eyes stare up at him teasingly, mouth opened
/wide/ to take in the girth of his cock and--

They /know/ he's trying to conduct /business/ and can't punish them.

Yet.

Brat, he thinks fondly, pulling on hair until it hurts, and daring them to make a noise.)

"No, he hasn't. But I just assumed that was because he hadn't had
any," Chuuya mutters. There were /some/ instances where Dazai seemed just as inexperienced as he was, so he didn't think much of it.

"Would you tell your future victim about your last ones?"

That...

That makes his blood run cold again.

He doesn't want to believe him. He
doesn't want it to make sense. But it does, it fucking does.

Except for one thing:

"Why would you tell me all of this? Dazai said you were /dangerous/, so why should I trust anything you say? What if you're lying to me? Dazai said you two weren't /friends/ anymore, so you
could be /lying/ to sabotage him, or something."

Chuuya is searching for /any/ reason not to believe him. Dazai has been /so/ nice to him, for so long. It makes his heart hurt to even /think/ about it being a trick.

It's not like they teach you in school how to recognize a
predator.

Chuuya's /always/ had good instincts though, and Dazai's never set off a single one. He's /good/, right, he's /so/ good to him--

"I could be lying, little love. I can't /prove/ myself to you. But the question shouldn't be if I'm lying. It should be that if you're
willing to /risk/ it," Fyodor responds. He sounds smug, a little /too/ casual, if you ask Chuuya.

And that is the crux of the matter, isn't it? Who he wants to believe.

Dazai, who has never treated him unkindly, but has always been veiled in a shroud of mystery. Never giving up
any information about himself, always giving himself an escape route carved with money or knowledge.

Or Fyodor, who he has no /reason/ to trust, but has been the first one to actually answer any of his questions. The first one to willingly share information, and the only person
that he knows of that actually /knows/ Dazai.

It's an impossible choice.

And one he doesn't have time to make because--

Dazai's black car is coming up the road, at a steady pace. Chuuya watches as he parks, and exits the car with a paper bag.

"I have to go," he mutters into
the phone, hanging up without waiting for an answer.

(That's fine.Rude,but fine.

Fyodor already has his man in place for the fallout.)

Chuuya watches Dazai enter the front door, heart huge and sick in his throat.

He has questions, and Dazai's going to /answer/ them this time.
Chuuya doesn’t go down to greet him. He does move back into the bedroom, but he doesn’t go back downstairs.

He sits on the bed and waits, trying to cool the trembling in his fingers, trying to calm his racing heart.

Yoko sniffs worriedly at his hands, but he pushes her away
gently. He doesn’t—

Hé /can’t/ deal with that right now. His mind is at war with his heart.

His /heart/ is telling him that Dazai has only ever cared for him. He’s never pushed him, even when Chuuya /wanted/ him to, and he’s always treated him in a way that makes him feel
/treasured/. Cherished. Important.

Loved, in a way that doesn’t need words yet.

However, his mind is /screaming/ that that’s exactly what a /psycho/ would do. A psycho would trick him into falling head-first, wait until every single brick of his defensive walls had fallen—
And /then/ strike. They’d give nothing of /themselves/ while taking everything from Chuuya.

And isn’t that what Dazai’s doing?

Footsteps on the stairs. Quick and loud, like Dazai is /bounding/ up the stairs.

Anxiety /spikes/.

Does he know? Did—

Did Fyodor tell him?
Does he have a /tracker/ on his phone or something? Is that a thing?

Oh god, if he /knows/, then is he gonna—

Is he gonna /kill him right now/?

Is this it?

Chuuya can barely /breathe/, torn between what he knows and how he /feels/.

The door flies open in the next moment,
making Chuuya flinch hard.

“Baby!” Dazai crows, looking /so/ excited with a big grin. The steps he takes closer seem more like /skipping/, like an enthusiastic child. “I /missed/ you.”

Chuuya shakily smiles back at him.

“Look what I got for you,” he continues, pulling his
hands behind his back and—

It’s not a gun or a weapon or anything else Chuuya’s half-hysterical mind would be thinking but—

A bag of candy. A /big/ bag of candy, and it’s his /ultra/ favorite.

Mostly because it’s limited edition and stores don’t sell it that often.

“The
/big/ bag,” Dazai states, sounding /so/ damn pleased with himself, “This one should last you like a week with how quickly you eat them /but/ I got a few extra bags too, ‘cause I know how much you like them. They’re downstairs in the garage.”

He bought him /multiple/ giant bags
of his favorite candy for him, without being asked to. Chuuya didn’t even know they were in /stock/ right now, and he’s only mentioned them a handful of times /maybe/.

“The shop owner said he probably wouldn’t be able to order them again because there’s not much desire for them,
but I’m pretty sure I can wear him down with enough time and money. What do you think?”

He—

He has to know. He can’t bear to look at how excited and /pleased/ Dazai and just—

Let it go. He /has/ to know.

“Dazai,” he says, taking a deep inhale for strength. Dazai seems to
finally realize something is wrong because his smile is dimming. “Are you the Demon Prodigy?”

It’s a chance. He’s giving him a chance. Because if he /lies/ to him then—

Chuuya can’t handle that.

Those last words make Dazai recoil like he’s been /hit/, flinching away and his
eyes widening like it’s a /shock/.

It probably is, because he never intended to /tell/ Chuuya, did he?

Watching all the warmth and happiness drain from Dazai’s expression and be replaced with stricken-cold shock shouldn’t be physically painful.

It is. Chuuya’s chest /burns/.
“I—,” Dazai starts, licking his lips. He’s retreated almost entirely now, back pressed against the wall like he’s /afraid/.

(Fear response: Never expose your back. Protect yourself at all costs.)

“Who told you that?”

Chuuya stares at him. It’s not a /no/, and he’s acting
like it’s a /yes/, but he’s trying to evade the question. Trying to turn the argument /against/ him.

But unlike Dazai, Chuuya /won’t/ lie right now. “Fyodor did. I called him.”

Dazai’s expression goes slack with shock, eyes filling with /betrayal/. “You /talked/ to him? You
said you wouldn’t!”

“No,” Chuuya replies, folding his hands in his lap to cover up the trembling. “I never said that.”

It’s true. He hadn’t /explicitly/ said that, ever. It had been the implicit, silent understanding—

But he’d never /said/ he wouldn’t.

“You didn’t answer
the question though,” he continues, staring up at Dazai with narrowed eyes. “Are you, or aren’t you?”

“/No/,” Dazai says vehemently, /desperately/, like he’s trying to convince himself and Chuuya at the same time.

Chuuya’s heart sinks into his stomach. He really thought Dazai
respected him enough to at least not /lie/ to him when he’s been caught in a lie. “You’re /lying/.”

“No, I’m /not/, I—,” Dazai looks /frustrated/, pained, eyes unblinking and posture stiff. “/I’m/ not— I was, as a /kid/, but /I’m/ not. It’s not me, I never /wanted/ it to be me.”
(Fear response: Do not look away from the thing that hurts you. It hurts worse when you’re not expecting it.)

Here’s another of Chuuya’s conundrums:

Even if Dazai doesn’t have any plans of hurting him, is he really okay with knowing, dating, loving a man that is a /murderer/?
Is he okay with knowing that the man who buys him candy and flowers used to set fires to college campuses and has /blood/ on his hands?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks, morbidly curious. Honestly, he wants to /stop/ talking. He can almost feel them both splitting open the
longer this conversation goes on, pain spilling hot and ugly between them, filling up a space that /used/ to be warm and soft. “I told you /everything/ about me.”

“Chuuya, I—,” this is the first time that Chuuya’s seen him so /obviously/ shook, not knowing what to say, words
fumbling out of his grip like he doesn’t know how to speak anymore, “Look, I /respect/ you,and I know you had a hard childhood,and losing your mother was terrible. I’m /sympathetic/ to that—but you are not a /murderer/. You did not have a childhood of pain and blood and violence.
You are not on Japan’s most wanted list. You are not alive for the sole reason that your body won’t let you /die/.”

The pain in that last sentence is /immeasurable/. Dazai’s never spoken about his attempt, but he’s never /hidden/ it either. It’s like he views it as something
so essential and such a part of himself that he’s not /ashamed/ or embarrassed by it anymore. It just /is/.

(Hi, I’m Dazai Osamu. I have brown hair and brown eyes, and I want to die more than I’ve ever wanted to be alive.

Would you like to commit a double suicide with me?)
“Just because you trusted me with your pain, doesn’t make mine any easier to handle. Doesn’t make /talking/ about it any easier.”

Chuuya presses his hands to his eyes, fighting back the growing headache. He wants to cry. Watching Dazai like /this/, hurt and angry and /scared/
because of him /hurts/.

He never wanted /this/.

“Why did you give me all those speeches about /communication/ when you were hiding something so big from me? Were you /ever/ going to tell me?”

Dazai’s hands come up, and Chuuya is flinching back automatically, unsure of what
to expect when Dazai is clearly so upset and—

Dazai looks /stricken/, staring at Chuuya like he’s in /agony/ or he’s angry at /himself/, every emotion that Chuuya can think of that somehow translates to pain and betrayal and disbelief.

“Baby— Chuuya—,” hearing him correct
himself from the pet name he’s been using for /months/ is like a blow straight to Chuuya’s chest. “I’m /trying/. Please believe me. I am trying /so/ hard, and I would give you /anything/, I just— it /hurts/, and I didn’t want to /lose/ you.”

His hands finish the journey upwards,
fingers carding through his hair and /pulling/, hard, like he can’t get through this conversation without hurting himself at least a little.

Chuuya... regrets.

He shouldn’t have done it like this. He shouldn’t have caused him /pain/ like this, but how was he supposed to /know/?
He got so caught up in his own fear and instinctive panic that he didn’t think of /Dazai/. He didn’t remember that Dazai has /feelings/ and he deserved for Chuuya to be /considerate/ of them instead of jumping him with a question like /that/.

He just wanted to bring him candy.
And now he looks like he’s going to /cry/ or have a panic attack.

Chuuya wishes he could take it /all/ back.

“I’m /sorry/,” he says, looking directly at Dazai even if seeing his wide, unseeing eyes and knotted hair and twisted frown /hurts/. He has to /believe/ him. “It’s just
that Fyodor said...”

He trails off, not sure if he should bring it up—

But Dazai picks up on that, the heels of his hands pressed over his temples like he’s trying to hold himself together. “What? What did he tell you?”

He stares for a long, terrible moment. He doesn’t want
to /say/ it, because he’s pretty sure it won’t help, but—

He’s not a /liar/.

“He said you... had /victims/ that you manipulated, implied you killed them and that I was /next/.”

The silence is heartbreaking.

“And you /believed/ him?”

Chuuya doesn’t answer that, but his
silence is answer enough.

(He should’ve lied. Because this—)

Fear response: Never let anything affect you. Cut it out. Be heartless.

For a moment, Dazai just stares at him like he can’t believe what he did to him. Like the betrayal he’s experiencing is so /painful/ and
shocking that he doesn’t even have /words/.

(Because this? This is the end.)

Then he’s taking a slow, steady inhale, nodding slightly to himself. His hands are dropping away from his head, falling limp by his sides. His shoulders are squaring, but it’s a fragile sort of
strength, one deliberately cultivated to hide the fragility underneath.

And his eyes—

They’re /empty/. Cold, like whiskey ice, heartless and frozen. Like the Dazai /Chuuya/ knows is gone, and all that’s left is his body.

Like everything he knew about Dazai— all the ridiculous
jokes and the goofy smiles, and the early mornings and soft warmth— is /gone/.

Because it’s not for him anymore.

“Right,” Dazai says, and he sounds surprisingly clear compared to before but /disconnecting/, “In that case— I think it’s time for you to go.”

/No/. Panic opens
like a pit in his stomach, drowning him in cold-electric nausea. No, no, no, /please/ no.

“I’m /sorry/,” Chuuya gasps out again, the tears finally welling up in his eyes. He stumbles up off the bed,tripping towards Dazai, hoping he’ll reach out for him, hoping he’ll /catch/ him—
He does neither. He just /watches/, expression totally blank.

“I’m /sorry,” he repeats, “I didn’t /mean/ it, I was just scared and confused and— please, I’m so sorry.”

When Dazai speaks, it’s with this /flat/ monotone, expressionless. “Maybe you didn’t mean it, but I did.
It’s time for you to go home, /Nakahara/.”

That word— that /name/— cuts through him like a /knife/. A dull one, that tears him up to the bone, shredding his soul into tiny, agonized pieces.

Dazai has /never/ called him that. It’s always been Chuuya or baby or doll or sweetheart
or literally /anything/ else. Never /that/, never so cold, never so hurtful.

“But—,” Chuuya’s tears spill over, sliding down his cheeks. Dazai’s eyes watch them go, unflinching, “but I /love/ you.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. Never would have wanted to say it like this.
It’s the first time he’s ever told a boy that loves him. The first time the thought has even /crossed/ his mind. The first time he’s ever felt like this, and he knows this is supposed to be a happy moment—

But it’s not. It’s like trying to fit a bandaid over a bullet wound,
like trying to fix a broken heart with words that should’ve been said sometime else.

It seems to shock something awake in Dazai, because he’s /blinking/ now, and his eyes aren’t dead-black anymore. More of a faded brown, that grows weaker when he sees how close Chuuya is to
/sobbing/.

/ Please, I didn’t /mean/ it. I know I fucked up, but please let me /fix/ it. /

“No, you don’t,” Dazai says, taking Chuuya’s heart in hand and /shredding/ it with cold, emotionless words, “You’re too young to know what that word means.”

People say that their
hearts break when something tragic happens. Some, the dramatic ones, say their hearts shatter.

Personally, Chuuya thinks /shatter/ is too kind of a word. It implies that things can be mended. The pieces will cut your fingers when you pick them up, but if you get all of them,
you can be whole again. Even if you get /most/ of them, you’ll be okay.

Chuuya’s heart does not shatter. That is not a strong enough word for how he feels.

It’s like a /black hole/ has opened up somewhere inside him, with gravity strong enough to shred planets, and is sucking
every fiber of Chuuya’s being inside of it and /destroying/ it. It’s /awful/, like little strips are being peeled off at a time, leaving him raw, exposed, /crying/.

And just like Dazai has always done, since the first time they met, he takes everything that Chuuya is—

“And
even if you did, someone who /loved/ me wouldn’t do this to me.”

— and /escalates/ it.

Chuuya is shaking. He can recognize that in the back of his head, faintly, but he’s too preoccupied with the fact that his chest and throat feel like they’re on /fire/.

God, it hurts.
Hurts much more than breaking his arm during Judo practice, much more than falling the last three steps of his childhood home, much more than seizing out in the hospital with his brain feeling like it’s frying itself with electricity.

It’s /agony/, visceral, hot-blooded agony
that he can barely /see/ past, because it feels like a living thing determined to take all of Chuuya down with it.

“I—,” he gasps, reaching out to grab Dazai. Dazai let’s him, but he doesn’t move into or away from his grip on his shirt.

It’s like he doesn’t /care/ what Chuuya
does anymore. Like he’s so utterly indifferent that he doesn’t even bother to push him off.

“I can come back, right? Tomorrow? Please, I know I messed up, but let me /fix/ it.”

There’s a moment where Chuuya dares to have hope. His vision is blurry through the tears but he’s
close enough that he can see the emotionless mask Dazai is wearing start to fracture.

/Please/, let me come back tomorrow, he thinks desperately, hand fisted in his shirt.

Then the mask /twists/, and whatever hope Chuuya had is once again being used to cut him wide open.
“Why would you want to come back? Aren’t you afraid I’ll /kill you/?”

It’s /seething/, a glimpse into the roiling hurt and anger Dazai must be feeling.

It hurts enough to send Chuuya stumbling backwards again, feeling like his hand was /burned/.

He—

He can’t do this
anymore. He can’t—

Maybe he deserves it, but he didn’t know what else to /do/ and Dazai wouldn’t talk to him, and now he’s begging him not to—

Not to /break up/ with him.

But they did, didn’t they? Dazai basically told him to leave and /never/ come back.

It’s over. It’s
all over.

His life, his college career, his future, his /relationship/. All of it, gone.

And it’s all his fault, isn’t it?

He needs to leave. He can’t even /look/ at Dazai right now without feeling the threads of his self-control and restraint start to shred.

He’s going
to break down and he doesn’t want Dazai to /watch/, but first—

He pulls his hands up, fumbling at the buckle of his collar. He’s not used to taking it off— Dazai usually does it before and after his showers, and he never takes it off for long— and his fingers are shaking so
badly he can barely get a grip on it. He nearly loses impatience and /rips/ it off but—

He loves it. He /treasures/ the damn thing, and even if he doesn’t have the right to wear it anymore, that doesn’t mean he wants to /break/ it.

Eventually the buckle slides free, and the
collar comes off.

Dazai still doesn’t look like he wants to touch him, so Chuuya has no where else to throw it but the floor between them, the burning of the last bridge.

“I’m gonna go to my sisters,” Chuuya mumbles miserably, trying to wipe his eyes so he can at least see.
Every tear that he manages to wipe away is quickly replaced to another. “I’ll, uh, get my stuff later, I guess.”

That’s an agony Chuuya has never experienced before. Giving back all the gifts he was given, digging out all his things out of Dazai’s closet. Taking everything that
is /his/ out of the place he had started to consider /home/.

Dazai eyes drop to the collar lying on the floor between them, and his expression starts to crack. His eyes flare with something like /pain/.

"I'll drive you," he says, moving like he's going to shove off the wall--
"No!" Chuuya nearly /shouts/, because he /can't/ handle that. He can't hold himself together for /that/ long, and he doesn't want Dazai to watch as he breaks apart agonizingly at the seams.

It also /started/ with a ride home, and the idea of ending it with one is too much.
"No, I'll call my sister and have her pick me up."

Dazai hesitates at that, and looks like he wants to argue--

But he can't. So eventually he nods, and his eyes feel like a searing burn on his back as Chuuya turns around and stumbles out of the bedroom.

Navigating the stairs
is /hard/ when he's nearly blind with tears and he's starting to feel lightheaded, but he manages it without falling.

And just when Chuuya thought it couldn't get /worse/--

Yoko is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, her ears flattened with anxiety and her head
tilting back and forth curiously. She whines at him as he comes closer, tail thumping hesitantly on the ground.

Oh, god, /Yoko/. He's never going to see her again. Maybe once when he comes to get his stuff, but this is /goodbye/.

He practically falls to his knees beside her,
flinging his arms around her neck and burying his face into her fur. She's more subdued than she usually is, leaning into him solidly as he smothers a heartbroken sob into her neck.

"I'm /sorry/," he chokes out again, even though he knows she doesn't really understand what's
going on. All she knows is that there's something /wrong/ and that he's upset.

That's the /worst/ part, because Chuuya can't tell her he's not coming back.She'll always be looking out for him and so /sad/ when he doesn't come back for her.

"I /love/ you, baby girl, I /promise.
Okay? I'm sorry. You just-- you just be a /good/ girl, and I'll miss you forever," he whispers into her fur, rising up to give her a wet kiss on the nose.

She licks him back, whining slightly.

After that, he /has/ to go, because he's nearing the breaking point, and if he holds
Yoko any longer, he's not going to be able to /let go/.

Baki is nowhere to be seen, thankfully,-- he runs when voices get too loud, so he's probably hiding somewhere-- because Chuuya can/not/ handle that.

He stumbles out the front door, shutting it behind him for the last time.
His phone is in his back pocket, and he wrestles it out of his jeans as he staggers down the driveway.

He's not thinking anything, he's just thinking he needs to get /away/, he needs to go /home/, he needs to /find/ home because he doesn't have one anymore, it hurts, it hurts,
it /hurts/.

It takes three tries for him to unlock his phone. Partly because of the way the sun is shining on the screen, so he makes his way to the bit of shade between the two houses, partly because his vision is blurry with tears, partly because his fingers are shaking.

It's
been a while since he's talked to Kouyou, so he has to go to his contacts page and scroll--

"Chuuya?"

Startled, Chuuya looks up. There, in the shadows of the alleyway, is someone he /knows/.

"Oh," he mutters, frantically trying to get a hold of himself and not wondering /why/
he would be here, outside like this, at this time. "Sorry, I didn't see you there--."

"I'm sorry, Chuuya."

A painful /slam/ against the back of his head, and Chuuya's world goes blissfully, utterly silent.

Darkness.

-------- +
Dazai is a firm believer in the idea that anything he could ever want will inevitably be lost. Not only because life has been a cruel mistress to him and taken /much/ more from him than she's ever given, leaving him hollow and riddled with teeth-sharp holes--

But also because
Dazai is a master of fulfilling his own prophecies.

It's like a sick cycle, because whatever he /anticipates/ somehow, inevitably, comes to pass and--

He just wants to stop /hurting/ all the time. He's done good, he's /been/ good for a long time, and he's done the best he can
with what he has and--

It's not /fair/ that he /always/ ends up cradling the empty, cavernous, /wrathful/ hole in his chest, where his heart would be if he were ever allowed to have one.

It's the collar that brings him back, eventually. He can't look away from it, lying limp
and discarded on the wooden floor.

It--

It shouldn't be like that. It should be taken /care/ of, should be /treasured/, because it's a symbol of their /bond/, and it should never be thrown away so carelessly.

He's halfway between here and nowhere, feeling horribly disconnected
from himself in a way that fills him with sick-numbness. Everything feels so distant and /visceral/ at the same time, a confusing mix. Everything he's feeling is like a tidal wave of anesthesia in his lungs, numbing him out and drowning him in equal measures.

It's been a long
time since he's felt anything like this, instinct-driven and defensive, so long he almost doesn't know how to find his way /back/. He knows he'll come back down eventually, but he doesn't /like/ it.

But the true thing to bring him back isn't the sight of the collar.

It's Baki.
It’s mid-afternoon now, just around the time where Chuuya usually settles down for his mid-day nap. It’s not scheduled or anything, but it usually works out that shortly after lunch Chuuya will hit a wall and will need a nap to recharge.

For Baki, that means it’s prime cuddle
time. Mostly because Dazai doesn’t dare to interrupt it.

They’ve been in a silent rivalship ever since Baki moved in, a tug-of-war of dominance to see who gets more of Chuuya. Baki /insists/ that because he’s a cute cat, that means he gets /all/ the cuddle time, the best spots
and /all/ the attention.

Meanwhile, /Dazai/ insists that /he/ gets the most attention because he was here first and it’s his house, his bed and his baby—

Not his baby anymore. The thought splinters through him agonizingly.

Anyways, mid-day nap is Baki time, and he’s come
looking for Chuuya. He can tell because the first thing the cat does is good on the bed and look vaguely offended that Chuuya isn’t already there waiting for him.

After a second of sniffing the blankets, he jumps back off the bed and heads into the closet, his questioning meow
echoing from inside.

A pause, and then a louder meow, like he’s calling out for Chuuya and wondering why he won’t answer him.

The next place he checks is the bathroom, and the meows are getting more frequent. Louder, with a hint of distress.

When he pads out again, his tail
is drooping low, a far cry from it’s usually waving in the air smugly.

This time he comes up to Dazai, rubbing against his shin and arching his back.His mew is softer, trailing off sadly, questioning.

That’s what breaks Dazai.Because it’s not him that Baki wants—

It’s Chuuya.
He knows that Dazai /always/ brings him up here. Sometimes Chuuya will fall asleep on the couch or in Dazai’s lap, and Dazai will have to bring him up to the bed so he can sleep well.

Baki knows that. He’s not asking for affection from Dazai, he’s asking him to /bring Chuuya/.
And that—

The realization of the fact that this was Chuuya’s /home/, and all of the pets know and love him, and they don’t understand why he’s not /here/—

That’s what breaks him.

His knees buckle first, his back crashing into the wall and sliding down as his body gives in.
His ass hits the floor hard, sending a shockwave of pain through him that feels insignificant compared to the pain in his chest.

“He’s—,” he sounds remarkably calm at first, but it’s only for a short moment, before everything catches up to him. “He’s not /here/, Baki.”

The
cat peers up at him, not comprehending. He meows again, arching his back and flicking his tail invitingly.

That’s the last straw.

“/Fuck/!” Dazai chokes out, slamming the back of his head into the wall as the tears finally come.

He’s a silent crier. A long ago defense
mechanism that was drilled into him, the idea that calling attention for himself or any weakness of his own would end in /pain/. It takes a /lot/ for him to cry, too, emotional response deadened by trauma after trauma—

But when he does cry, it /pours/.

His cheeks are drenched
in /seconds/, salt-water dripping from his chin onto his arms.

He lurches forward, snatching up Baki and the discarded collar in each hand. Baki lets out a surprised, shocked meow, but doesn't fight when he drags him into his chest to wrap him up in his arms.

The cat tolerates
it, limp in his grip and not fighting but not /loving/ it either.

Dazai buries his face into his fur, clinging onto one of the last pieces of Chuuya he has left. The collar in his other hand feels heavier than it ever has, nearly burning.

"I /fucked up/, Baki," he chokes out,
grief tearing through him like a riptide. Regret is hot on it's heels, filling every tear and scar inside of him.

What Chuuya did-- going behind his back and believing Fyodor over /him/, even though Dazai has never done anything to deliberately hurt him-- was such a /terrible/
thing to come back. Something so unexpected that he didn't know to /prepare/ for it, so when Chuuya /asked/, it--

It's like the words tore /straight/ into the deepest, darkest parts of his mind. The parts he doesn't think about, the emotions he doesn't let himself feel anymore,
the things he put to sleep years ago--

And woke them with a /vengeance/, starting a self-ravaging that leaves him breathless.

Dazai is his own victim, just as much as he is anyone else's. There's unique pain in tearing yourself apart from the inside out, the horror that lurks
inside your bones and calls itself by your name.

He--

He just wanted to give him /candy/ and tell him that he was /trying/ to get a regular stock of it so he wouldn't have to go months without it anymore.

It was like being /attacked/ and--

Dazai fought back. When his back
was against the wall, feeling like he had nowhere to go, he did /exactly/ what he said he would /never/ do--

He /hurt/ Chuuya. In ways he shouldn't have, in ways he didn't /deserve/ because--

Because he said he /loved/ him. It wasn't the right time, it wasn't on /purpose/, but
he could /see/ it there, swimming in Chuuya's eyes.

Could see it building in him ever since Osaka, soft warmth building in summer-blue eyes, like a cloud drifting on the sunrise. Dazai's personal little addiction, something he wanted to cup in his hands to keep it safe, breathe
it in like air.

He knew it was there. He /wanted/ it to be there.

And he /threw/ it away. Took Chuuya's confession-- his /first/ confession, ever-- and told him it meant /nothing/. Threw it to the ground like the collar had been thrown, crushing it underfoot.

It broke him.
He could see it, see the way that the trust Dazai has so /carefully/ cultivated and encouraged after he was treated /badly/ by Shuuji start to crack.

Worse than that, Chuuya /needs/ him. He's sick right now, barely ten days out from a serious medical condition. It may not /seem/
serious because he managed to avoid something like surgery or an extended hospital stay but it /is/ serious. He's supposed to be on mostly bed rest for /another/ five weeks.

Dazai promised to always be there for him. Promised to trust him and support him, and keep him safe and
happy and warm and /loved/ and--

And he didn't. As /soon/ as things had taken even a slight turn for the worse, he'd defaulted straight into the mindset he'd worked so hard to overcome:

Hurt /them/ before they can hurt you.

He's not /stupid/, either, he knows that the reason
went looking for answers is because Dazai wouldn't give him any. He was /avoiding/ it, because he was /petrified/ that Chuuya would--

That he would /leave/ and never come back, and Dazai would be alone again. He doesn't want to be alone anymore. He's gotten used to the sound and
comfort of someone else being here. Sleeping in his bed with him, eating meals with him, being in the house while Dazai was paying attention to something else upstairs.

He got used to not being alone anymore. He doesn't want to go /back/ there, to the coldness of an empty house.
Or the discomfort of a house with Shuuji in it, that silent tension of dislike and irritation infecting the whole house.

He was /scared/ to tell Chuuya because--

Because of /exactly/ what happened today. Miscommunication, mistranslation, the rearing of the ugly head of Dazai's
trauma and defensive responses, hurting each other, /crying/.

He never wanted to make Chuuya /cry/ like that.

And it's just--

God it's just /so/ much, in every way he looks at it, missteps and mistakes made by both of them. So much that he's smothering a fresh flood of tears
into Baki's fur, breath trembling.

How did it all go so wrong so /quickly/? How is it even possible that Dazai was happy and /excited/ barely an hour and a half ago, and now he feels like he's going to drown in his own grief and misery?

It's not /fair/. None of this is /fair/.
Chuuya wasn't fair to /him/, Dazai wasn't fair to Chuuya, it's just an entire fucking mess that ended up hurting them both.

He rubs his thumb over the metal of the heart in the collar, aching.

How are /either/ of them going to fix this? How are they going to be able to move
past this?

Is there a way to move past this, or is this just /it/, everything good they had going up in flames in the span of an hour.

The beeping of Dazai's phone in his back pocket startles him, making him flinch in surprise.

Baki takes that moment to escape his hold,
wiggling out of his arms and relocating to a spot a few yards away to give his ruffled fur quick, offended licks to smooth it back down.

The beeping on his phone is for a reminder to give Chuuya his mid-day dose of pain meds, so he doesn't get a headache later.

His /meds/.
He didn't take them /with/. He went to his sisters house /without his meds/.

The pharmacist said that a single missed dose was alright, but don't double up on doses and don't take them within twelve hours of eachother.

If--

If Chuuya doesn't come back tonight, he's going to
miss a dose. And if he doesn't come back before early tomorrow morning--

That's /two/ doses. When he's only /ten/ days out of the hospital, where his brain swelled so much he /seized/.

Is he going to have another seizure if he doesn't take his meds? Probably. It makes sense.
Panic floods through Dazai so quickly that he barely thinks before he’s calling Chuuya’s number and bringing his phone to his ear.

It’s okay if he’s angry or /hurt/ or he doesn’t want to see or talk to Dazai again—

But he /has/ to come get his meds. Or let Dazai drop them off.
He /can’t/ be hurt because Dazai’s such a fuck-up that healthy communication is basically impossible for him.

The call goes straight to voicemail. Maybe he’s so angry and hurt he turned his phone off?

“Baby—,” he gets most of the way through the word before he remembers he
may not be able to call him that anymore, “— /Chuuya/, I—,” he really hopes that the fact that he’s /obviously/ been crying makes it clear that he regrets what happened, because it’s not often that words fail him, but he has /no/ idea what to say right now. “I know you’re hurt
and you might not want to talk to me and— that’s okay, I just— I didn’t /mean/ it, okay?”

It feels /so/ hypocritical to use the same excuse Chuuya did, and hopes that he believes him.

“I shouldn’t have said those things to you, I was just /upset/, and hurt and surprised and—
I’m /sorry/, so just... at least come back for your meds, it’s only five hours until your next dose. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, and that’s okay, but just... come get your meds /please/, you need them.”

The silence of the voicemail box is oppressive.
Eventually, he has no choice but to hang up and /hope/.

Silent treatment has never really been Chuuya’s chosen mode of arguments— he /prefers/ yelling, which Dazai both loves and hates. Communication, even angry communication is nice, but the yelling itself makes Dazai’s
stomach squirm unpleasantly— so the fact that he didn’t answer is...

Surprising. Not /unwarranted/, because he wouldn’t want to talk someone like /himself/ either right now, but still unusual.

He balances his phone on his knee, turning the notification noise all the way in
case Chuuya decides to call. Or text.

/Please/ call or text.

In the meantime, he just sits on the floor, feeling too weak to pull himself up to his feet, turning the collar over and over in his hands.

They’ve had a /few/ discussions about what a collar meant to them both
and while they weren’t in a BDSM relationship with clear contracts, rules and boundaries—

The collar was supposed to be a symbol of care and commitment. Something that /both/ of them wanted, a sign that Chuuya was /wanted/ and Dazai would take /care/ of him.

But instead of
doing that, he’d been keeping secrets that could’ve put Chuuya in danger.

That’s when another thing occurs to him.

/Fyodor/.

He doesn’t exactly have a /reason/ to be interested in Chuuya, because the business between him and Dazai has been consistent and relatively peaceful.
Granted, he’s been /avoiding/ Fyodor for the last few weeks, but it’s not like the man doesn’t have his own information channels.

Dazai’s been avoiding the Mafia too, truthfully, and has deliberately not returned Oda’s calls.

It only took a few weeks with Chuya to realize how
/tired/ he was with this whole charade. Tired of playing unofficial king to the Mafia, tired of playing nice with the Rats, tired of threatening and scheming and everything.

He didn’t want to /do/ this anymore. He just wanted to be happy and /okay/, and every time he made
another business deal or hunted down another scrap of information, he just—

It felt /hollow/. Draining. Finding the ghost of who he used to be in the Mafia, and wearing it like a second skin. A mask that was sticky and horrible and didn’t want to come off.

Obviously Fyodor
had shown /some/ interest in him, because there was no reason for him to be on campus, and the /phone call/—

Which means Chuuya is in /danger/.

He calls again, anxiety pulsing as the dial tone starts up. It clicks immediately, and he sits up straighter, hope flaring as Chuuya’s
voice starts to filter through the speaker—

“Hey, it’s Chuuya! You missed me, so leave a message and I’ll call you back if it’s important!”

Oh. It’s just the voicemail again.

/Fuck/.

Okay, he’ll just—

He’ll give him an hour to calm down and cool off. He said he was going
to his sisters and he has no reason to believe that Fyodor is even /going/ to make a move on Chuuya. That fucker would probably just be happy reminding Dazai that he’s not /allowed/ to have anything for himself.

He’s probably safe. Yoko and Kozo would be freaking out if they
sensed anyone they didn’t know, and they’re pretty quiet downstairs. A quiet whine or too, sometimes, because they’re not used to /yelling/, but nothing alarming.

Even Baki, while clearly annoyed, has retreated to his favorite spot on the bed—Chuuya’s pillow— and is serenely
grooming himself.

Still, Dazai can't get over the feeling that something is /wrong/. It's a restless feeling, like electricity pooling in his stomach, driving him up and starting to pace back and forth.

He wishes he had Chuuya's sisters phone number. Or even just a /name/
because he's only spoken of her using 'ane-san'. Or Kyouka-chan, for the middle sister, but she still lives at his fathers house, so that's not where he's going.

He /could/ look her up with the background check he ran on Chuuya so long ago-- he's pretty sure he remembers her
name being Ozaki Nakahara--but he'll need to double-check to make sure...

Or he could check on the tracker he installed in Chuuya's phone.

It's /such/ a violation of privacy that he's avoided using it at all possible, and only glances at the map when he's feeling the seperation
anxiety pretty hard. He /tries/ to avoid using it whenever possible, and since they've been practically living together for the past two weeks, it hasn't been used much.

He--

He just needs to check to see if he's okay. If he's at his sister's house. If he knows where he is,
then he can calm down a little bit. It's been almost an hour, and Chuuya still hasn't answered, so--

He needs to know.He /has/ to know.

Opening his phone again, he hovers over Chuuya's contact before exiting out of the messaging app. The tracking app he uses is one specifically
designed and coded for him by Rokuzou. It's nameless, but it has a skin that makes it look like one of the food delivery apps. Almost unnoticeable unless you know what you're looking for.

He opens it, puts in Chuuya's contact number and waits for the map to load.

And waits.
It takes longer than it usually does, longer than it /should have/, and every second the loading image chases itself across the screen in endless circles, his anxiety ratchets higher and higher.

He wouldn't say he's normally a high-strung person, but now it feels like every
second takes a /year/, heart thundering in his chest--

LOCATION FOUND.

Letting out a relieved breath, he clicks on the map. He's hoping for a building with a street address that he can cross-reference with the owner to confirm his safety--

It's not.

It's /outside/.
Not outside in the city somewhere or even down the street a little bit, it's /right/ outside. Like Chuuya hasn't even left the house, he's just sitting outside on the steps.

Why wouldn't he answer the phone if he was so close? Dazai made sure it was charged before he left for
the grocery store, so there's no /reason/ for it to be off. And if he was waiting for his sister to pick him up, it wouldn't make sense for his phone to be turned off either.

He could just be rejecting his calls, but...

Something is /wrong/.

Baki startles when he /bolts/ out
of the room, taking the stairs two at a time and skipping the bottom half entirely with a massive leap.

He lands heavily, making Yoko and Kozo jerk to attention, but he ignores them both as he makes for the door. Kozo falls naturally into step at his side, ears alert and tail
stiff.

He's the first one out of the door when Dazai opens it, inspecting the steps of the front entrance.

Dazai is half-expecting to find Chuuya on his doorstep, or Fyodor /with/ Chuuya, but he's not expecting to find /nothing/. The yard is empty and the street is quiet.
There's nobody here. not that he can see.

But then...where is Chuuya's phone?

Ignoring the instincts that are starting to scream in his head, Dazai pulls up the map again, forcing it to refresh and zooming in as far as he can.

It's... right here.

It has to be a glitch, right?
Chuuya turned his phone off while he was still here and the tracker just hasn't updated.

It's like a desperate mantra in his head,using any and every excuse to believe that everything is /okay/ and /normal/, telling himself over and over again that there isn't a reason to worry,
that he's just overreacting and there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything that's happened that /isn't/ the fact that Chuuya has gotten /hurt/--

The pink collar, loosely wrapped twice around his wrist, feels like a hangman's noose made specifically for him.
Kozo trots down the steps, nose to the ground and snuffling. He's always had a better nose out of the two of them, and Dazai follows in his path, casting his eyes over the ground for any sort of clue.

The silence is oppressive, pressing on his ears until it feels like he's
underwater. Drowning.

Kozo leads him off the yard entirely, toward the little alleyway between his house and the neighbors.He chose this house specifically for that tiny alleyway, because it winds a cramped path between the houses on this street and the one behind it. It empties
out on the next street over, a street that directly connects to one of the several ways to climb down from the residential area back into the city.

Dazai chose it because it's an escape route if he needed it and now--

Now it's been used /against/ him because--

There, on the
ground, looking like it's been stomped on several times, is Chuuya's /phone/.

And this--

This is the moment where Dazai's heart feels like it just /stops/. Freezes in his chest, going numb with despair and /realization/.

(He's always been more effective when he's /cold/.)
His only thought is /no/. This can't be real, this can't be happening.

This is a nightmare. This is all just a nightmare, a fucked up dream concocted by his equally messed up brain to remind him that nothing is permanent. Nothing and /no one/ is safe.

His hands tremble as he
reaches down to pick it up off the ground. Kozo sniffs around the spot.

The screen is completely smashed, like someone stomped on it with their heel. The back of it is all scratched up from being ground into the gravel, and when he presses the power button on the side, half the
screen is completely black. The other half is a mess of glitches and color mistakes.

Chuuya's lock screen background /was/ a picture of them in Osaka. A selfie of them in bed, when Dazai was too drowsy to protest a picture being taken of him. Chuuya had been curled up against
his side, one arm thrown over his chest. His head had been tucked under Dazai's chin, a warm grin on his face and his eyes practically glowing with affection.

Dazai himself had been mostly asleep still, bedhead wild. The only sign he's awake at all is that he has one eye just
barely cracked open, a lazy and indulgent smile on his face.

It was, anyways. Now the screen is completely and utterly broken, and the only thing that can be seen is a sliver of the blanket bunched up at their sides.

A hint of Dazai’s smile, half-formed, broken and twisted.
This was not a mistake. This was not an accident.

Chuuya’s phone wouldn’t get /this/ damaged by accident, and he wouldn’t have left without it.

This was /purposeful/. His phone was broken so he /couldn’t use it anymore/.

Kozo makes a noise then, something between a low growl
and a snuffle.

The noise makes Dazai look up, anxiety rising like the tide.

Kozo is a few feet away, nose to the ground. Dazai paces over, hoping he’s found /something/ interesting. A clue, something Dazai can /use/.

It takes him a few moments to find it in the darkness of
the alleyway. It’s so easy to miss.

Blood. Tiny drops of it in a small patch, looking almost fresh. Not wet anymore but still /new/.

No, no, /no/.

His blood turns cold, aching in his veins, ice-water and numbing grief, hard to breathe.

Chuuya’s gone. He’s been /taken/.
—-+
The first thing that Chuuya registers is that his head /aches/. Pulsing agony centered in the back of his head that radiates down his neck and through the rest of his head. He can feel every beat of his heat, blood pulsing painfully in his head.

That’s what starts to bring him
up out of unconsciousness.

His second realization is how fucking /cold/ it is. An insidious type of cold, one that seeps into his bones to freeze him from the inside out. Like he’s never seen the touch of sun before, all the warmth he’s ever known faded away.

It’s also /wet/.
A disgusting, lingering damp kind of wet, like he's in a place that has never been truly dry. It layers grossly over his skin, making his clothes stick to him and adding another facet to the aching cold.

He opens his eyes, groaning lightly at the rhythmic pulse of pain through
his temples and--

Darkness. Uninterrupted, pure darkness, like it's pitch black in here without any light to speak of.

Why can't he see? He can't see /anything/ at all, even though his eyes are open. He blinks frantically, hoping to clear up whatever is blocking his vision--
But it doesn't go away. It doesn't clear up. He can't /see/.

Panic flashes through him, white-hot and incoherent, and a whimper slides out of his throat. He struggles briefly, trying to bring his hands up to check what's wrong with his eyes--

His hands are tied. He can feel
the rope digging into his wrists, harsh and burning. His fingers have long since gone numb.

It... feels like he’s in a chair? Upright but slumped forward, shoulders burning from the strain of supporting his body weight when his arms are secured behind him.

What the fuck
happened? Where the hell is he?

The last thing he remembers is fighting with Dazai— a pang of remembered breath shocks through his chest at the reminder— and then going outside to call Kouyou to come pick him up and then—

/Nikolai/. With a remorseful look on his face as he—
As he fucking /knocked him out/ with the butt of a /gun/.

And he’s not /stupid/, no one knocks him out and ties him to a chair to throw him a /surprise/ party. In fact, this is pretty much /exactly/ what happens in those movies about the Yakuza or any kidnapping.

A hoarse,
exhausted chuckle escapes him.

It’s not funny. It’s /really/ not funny, he knows that, it’s just so fucking /absurd/ that he can’t help snickering at the ridiculousness of it all.

He’s /only/ eighteen. Barely six months living away from home. He’s had a boyfriend, found out
he was attracted to /dad’s/, has a daddy kink, nearly got run over by a car, went to the hospital, dropped out of college, broke up with his boyfriend—

And now he’s here. Probably kidnapped. A /hostage/.

It’s just so goddamn /ridiculous/. If you had told Chuuya he’d end up
like /this/, he’d ask what movie plot you were describing.

Okay, it’s a /little/ funny. Maybe it’s the brain damage— or maybe the extra brain damage on top of his other brain damage— but it /is/ kind of funny.

He really cannot catch a /single/ break, can he? It’s just
like being strapped into a rollercoaster, and every time he comes back into the station thinking it’s over, someone tightens the seatbelts and sends him, screaming, onto an even /worse/ part of the ride with a kiss goodbye. It never /ends/.

“Ah, you are awake. That is good.”
Chuuya jerks, head whipping up so quickly his mind swims. He didn’t know there was anyone in the room with him until they /said/ something.

There is something uniquely, primally /terrifying/ about having one of your senses taken away from you. You never realize how much you
rely on things like sight and hearing and touch, taste, smell—

Until it’s taken away from you. Leaving you helpless and disoriented, struggling to adjust to a world you didn’t know before.

It’s a throwback to ancient times, before humans had dominated the planet and changed
the face of it to suit their needs. A time when the sun going down meant /danger/, it meant you couldn’t /see/, it meant all the things that could and /would/ kill you came out to play.

Unseen sharks in the water. Silent hunting cats creeping through the underbrush, a quick
glimpse of hellish, glowing eyes in the darkness. Tiny, unseen spiders finding your foot and crawling up, up, /up/—

Someone in the room with Chuuya, who he does not know or recognize. Someone he can’t see or /hear/, no matter how hard he strains his ears.

As he moves, the bag
over his head shifts. The darkness doesn’t let up, but at least there’s a /reason/ he can’t see.

(He couldn’t help but remember that conversation with Gide about /brain damage/. Instead of being the guy who forgot his own husband, maybe Chuuya would be the guy who lost his
vision.

Wouldn’t that be fan-fucking-tastic?)

Chuuya licks his lips nervously, panic spiking in his chest. “Who are you? Where am I?”

This time, when the voice comes, it sounds from /behind/ him, making him flinch in surprise. He didn’t hear the person move at /all/, didn’t
even feel so much as the shift of air currents,but now the person is /behind/ him.

“You’re six feet underground, boy,” the person sneers. Their Japanese is stilted, and their accent is heavy and vaguely familiar.Not a native speaker. “/Death’s/ number. You’re in your own grave.”
Chuuya takes it back. This isn’t funny at all. Not even a little bit.

He opens his mouth to ask again who this person—a /girl/ by the sounds of it, but with a rough and low voice— is, but he’s cut off when a hand finds his head and pushes it.

It’s /playful/, more than hurting,
like a cat batting around a captured bird with it’s paws, claws sheathed. A game for the predator,but /lethal/ for the prey.

Chuuya’s chair wobbles, two legs coming up off the ground briefly. It’s unstable, on uneven ground, and he holds his brief in preparation for the /fall/—
The hand that pushed him changes it's grip, latching onto his hair through the bag and dragging him back onto stable ground.

He winces as the hair over the bump on the back of his head is tugged harshly. It /burns/.

"That was your only question. I will ask them now," the girl
says to him, tapping long claw-like nails over his head.

Then she's /gone/, like she was never touching him at all, disappearing into the darkness of wherever Chuuya is right now. His breathing is oppressively loud in the bag, humidity sticking to his face.

"You are Nakahara
Chuuya, yes?" This time, the voice is slightly to his right, farther off. It echoes oddly off the walls, sounding strangely hollow. Like.. concrete, maybe? An empty room, with only them in it.

Now, Chuuya has a /major/ flaw: when he gets frightened, he doesn't turn into a crying
mess, or starts to beg, or goes silent. Not any of those things, not anything most people would consider a /normal/ response.

No, when he gets scared, he gets /mad/. And when he's mad, he gets /mouthy/.

"Sure am," he says, offering a carefree shrug like his heart isn't pounding
in his chest like a drumbeat calling for war. "What should I call you? I feel like we should be a first-name basis for whatever is about to happen."

"You know Dazai Osamu." The left again, accompanied by the ever-so-slight tinkle of something small and metal.

It's not so much a
question as a statement of fact, but it makes Chuuya's stomach sink.

Oh. That's what this is about. He's being questioned--maybe /tortured/, his brain is quick to remind him-- for information on Dazai.

This isn't about him at all. He didn't do anything wrong at all, except for
the crime of being involved with Dazai.

His silence is apparently answer enough, because there's a loud, screeching noise in the next moment, like something being dragged over concrete.

This time, next to his ear, a whisper as cold as the northern winds: "You will tell me about
him. Everything you know."

But Chuuya doesn't /know/ anything about him, not really. The last few hours-- even longer? He doesn't know what time it is or even what day it is anymore-- have shown him that.

Dazai's fed him nothing but lies of omission, and even if Chuuya was
wrong about the way he went about getting answers--he realizes that and can admit it-- that doesn't mean that Dazai did right by /him/ either.

And now he's paying the price for it. Because he /highly/ doubts that he can tell this girl that he doesn't know anything and she'll
just believe him and let him go. He's pretty sure saying that will just piss her off, actually,and get him into deeper shit.

"Uh, sure," he says, stalling a little bit, hoping his mind comes up with /anything/ useful for him right now, "His favorite color is green, and he really
likes those shitty medical dramas on TV. He usually sleeps from like 4a.m to 9, and he has two dogs. He also likes being called Daddy if that helps you out--ow!"

The bag deadens the blow when he's smacked across the face, but it still stings slightly. Not as much as he /expects/
it to hurt, but enough to startle him. Enough to have him quieting down.

"Where is the USB he has on the Rats? Where does he keep his blackmail?"

This time there's a /slosh/ of water next to the chair, and he's starting to get a really, /really/ bad feeling about this.
"I," his voice quavers in the middle of his sentence, and he has to bring it back under control. "I don't /know/, I don't even know who the Rats /are/."

It's the /truth/, he swears, he doesn't know /anything/. How does he make her believe that.

"I believe you," is his answer,
and for a moment, hope /soars/--

"But unfortunately, that is not enough for me. You know where he keeps his information, his papers. You know more than you think,and you will tell me. Where is his office?"

This time, it's not stupidity or stubbornness that keeps his mouth shut.
It's loyalty. Blind loyalty that urges him to keep Dazai's secrets, despite the fact that he's in a /very/ bad situation. Loyalty that urges him to protect Dazai, at a cost.

He's only allowed a minute of silence, before a hand is knotting in his hair over the bag and yanking his
head back.

He yelps, neck twinging at the sudden movement. His face is turned up now.

"Being stubborn will not help you. Cooperate and I will go easy on you. I will ask you again. Where does Dazai Osamu keep his information?"

He presses his lips together, squeezing his eyes
shut. He doesn't /know/, not for sure, though he thinks they might just be talking about Dazai's office, which is in his house--

It's a room that's /always/ locked unless he's in it, and the only one to see into it have been Chuuya and Shuuji.

There's a /pleased/ hum beside his
ear, like the girl is /happy/ that he's being silent. "You are stubborn. I like that. But I will break you of it, because I've--" another slosh of water, closer, /louder/, and he whimpers automatically. "I've come for /you/, Nakahara Chuuya."

Water pours down on his face.

----+
THREE DAYS AGO. MOSCOW, RUSSIA.

It is a cold year in Russia. Summer has been bleak and mild, and winter—

Winter has come early this year. It brings with it a bone-deep chill, an icy touch that deepens when the sun goes down.

The Moscow skyline is a beautiful sight at night,
the glow of the city lights dulled through a layer of frozen fog that hangs still in the air. Heat rises in the city, before it's trapped underneath the icy grips of the sky.

Taking a long drag of her cigarette, Nika adds to that fog, blowing out a stream of smoke that curls and
folds in on itself before floating away. It's too windy and cold to blow O's, but she thinks the trails of smoke look almost like snakes or dragons tails, which is almost better.

It's late. Half the city is sleeping, and the /other/ half--the half that dabbles in things best
left unseen in the cover of darkness, the half that /she/ commands-- is awake.

She's awake, waiting for the reports to come flooding back in. Resting recklessly on the ledge of the balcony, one leg hanging over the three-story drop, smoking a cigarette as she waits.

Inside,
there's the faint noise of someone peacefully in her bed. A girl that Nika had taken home a few hours earlier, to fuck and show her a good time.

The fresh scratches on her back and shoulders are still painful, but the brisk air cools the sting.

It's not out of a sense of
politeness or consideration that Nika has come out to the balcony-- she likes the cold. Prefers it, really, the way it turns everything sharp and clear, the way it sinks into her bones and brings her to life.

She gets it from her father, among other things.

While she waits, she
idly tries to match up the skyline tattooed on her foot to the skyline in front of her. It's not a perfect match, but it's a fun, silly game, and a reminder of where she comes from. The city that bred and raised and honed her skills to a lethal point, inked on her skin so she can
never forget where she came from.

Who she is.

She's expecting the phone call, screen lighting up the dark balcony with an electronic blue glow.

She is /not/ expecting who the caller is. Her father isn't supposed to check in on her progress for another four days, and it is
dreadfully late in Japan. Or early, depending on your view. The sun must be rising there,ending another night of work.

She clicks accept, bringing the phone to her ear. "Hello, papa," she greets, swinging her leg in the open air. She's not sure what kind of call this is, so it's
best to be /respectful/, at least in the beginning.

Her father is not a man that is to be /disrespected/, and the only man Nika would /ever/ submit or bow to. The only man who /deserves/ power, and has earned it, in her opinion.

The only man worth listening to. The only one
worth following.

"Hello, kroshka," her father responds warmly, affection clear and obvious in his tone. There's a faint twinge of an accent there, even though they are speaking his native language, a mark of him being too far from home for too long. "I trust you are doing well?"
Her father has never been an overtly /kind/ man, so she soaks up every ounce of affection like it's vodka in the wintertime.

"Da," she responds, sitting up straighter on the ledge. She wobbles slightly, rights herself quickly by placing her fingertips down for a moment. "My
assistant has been sending you email updates. Have you seen them?"

Really, her assistant is a lifesaver. Nika has no time or patience for technology or writing reports. Keeping communication between Russia and Japan is a lengthy process, and her time is better spent overseeing
this section of the Bratva.

Her father entrusted it to her, and she will /not/ fail.

"I have, but that's not what I'm calling about." There's an edge in his tone,something like /excitement/. "I have need of your services."

Oh? Her /services/-- namely assassination and torture
as well as /strategy/-- aren't usually useful to her father in particular. He trained her himself--the /only/ one to be trained by him, his heir and the only one to pick up the /family secrets/-- and he's notoriously self-reliant.

So for him to call on her, it must be a special
occasion. Or something he personally doesn't want to get his hands dirty with.

Twisting to the side, she hops off the ledge of the balcony.The tile is freezing cold under her feet, but her mind is focused and alert. "What can I help you with, papochka?"

There's a pleased hum on
the other side of the phone, the sound of ice clinking in a glass. Her father always drank before bed, to keep his sleep dreamless.

She’s picked up the habit from him.

“You remember what I told you about Dazai Osamu?”

Her lip automatically curls at the mention of his name.
Yes, she knows /all/ about the Demon Prodigy.

An intelligent man, manipulative and cunning. A /bloody/ one, someone who bathed Yokohama in blood ever since he was younger than she is now. Elusive, well-trained, /always/ knee-deep in the flow of information running through the
underground.

A man that has been causing her family trouble for /decades/. First by driving out a fledgling Bratva outpost in Yokohama when he was younger and now...

Causing havoc for the operation her father has worked so /hard/ to develop in the last year.

The /exact/ type
she /loathes/, because all of the blood he’s shed and the pain he causes isn’t for a /purpose/. It isn’t for a /reason/, or justifiable.

He’s the kind of man who proves himself superior by /crushing/ anyone who might oppose him, and then lords over their corpses like a skeleton
king. A man who proves himself better, smarter, faster, stronger, by tearing people apart.

A man /exactly/ like the man who killed her mother.

“Yes,” she mutters, padding back inside the room. “Is he causing you trouble again?”

Her clothes are scattered across the room,
discarded hastily in the heat of lust. She’s pretty sure her panties are half-kicked underneath the bed, but they’re also soaked and useless, so she heads for her leather pants near the doorway.

“Actually, he’s given us an /opportunity/,” her father says, sly smile evident in
his voice. “It’s come to my attention that he’s...romantically involved with the younger brother of the boss of the Port Mafia.

She pauses in tugging up her pants, phone held between her shoulder and ear.

Kouyou Ozaki, boss of the Port Mafia. Low-born, with no known connections
to the Mafia. She joined young, and climbed /quickly/, taking the throne from anyone else who may have wanted it.

Now /that/ is a woman Nika can respect and admire. Fearsome, deadly, /strong/, independent. Ruling with a manicured iron fist. /Beautiful/.

And also /very/
secretive. Most information about her has been wiped clean, and it’s only been after months of digging that they found out that she had a family at /all/.

A sister, a brother and a father. Names, ages, locations unknown.

At least until /now/.

“How do you know you found the
brother?” She asks, pulling her pants up the rest of the way and zipping them up. They cling tightly to her skin, and it takes a few wiggles of her hips for them to settle comfortably against her hips.

“I found a hacker who was /desperate/ for any information on the Azure King.
The best one in the country, and willing to do /anything/ to get the information I had. He’s confirmed it for me.”

She smiles. Her father has /always/ been resourceful and cunning. Using everything to his advantage to turn the tides.

Her shirt and corset are laying on the floor
near the balcony. It’s lucky she chose the one with the hooks, instead of her laced ones. They might’ve been torn off in the struggle to disrobe. “You think he knows about the Mafia and about the Demon?”

It’s /quite/ the coincidence for the younger brother to be dating the
ex-heir of the Mafia. Almost /too/ coincidental.

“Actually,” her father huffs in amusement, breath crackling loudly over the speaker, “I don’t think he knows anything at /all/. Nothing about Dazai, at least, which leads me to believe he’s /completely/ in the dark.”

Another
smile, this one crueler and meaner than the last.

Oh, her father is /so/ good to her.

People who know nothing are her /favorite/ targets. No one really knows /nothing/, and personal information on her enemies is /always/ a boon to have.

It requires /mind games/. Psychological
manipulation and torture. Asking them questions she /knows/ they can’t answer, punishing them when they can’t, and /just/ when they’re on the verge of breaking, desperate to give her what she wants—

She backs off, offers them “easy” questions. Things they don’t think twice
about answering, because they seem so /trivial/ compared to the earlier questions.

Sitting on the bed, she starts to lace up her boots. It’s a good thing she brought her motorcycle, because she’s sure her father will want her on the next flight to Japan. “Who will be in charge
while I’m gone?”

The Bratva can’t survive without /someone/ powerful in charge.

“I trust your judgement, kroshka. I will be returning to the homeland soon. I’ve been away for too long, and it’s time /you/ take the next step in your career. I’ll brief you when you get here. Do
you have any questions?”

Thinking, she finishes lacing up her boots. They’re tall, going all the way up to her knees, and they put her firmly over the two-meter height range.

“Not yet,” she says, standing up.

“Good,” her father says, and it’s clear the conversation is over.
“I will see you soon.”

She makes an assenting noise, giving her father kisses over the phone before hanging up.

She doesn’t say goodbye to her lover as she slips out into the night. She’s got a job to do.

Nika Dostoevsky is going to Japan.

—————— +
Ranpo has a.... a feeling. An itchy feeling that makes him feel...

Itchy.

It’s Tuesday, which one of his /least/ favorite days of the week, but he’s pretty sure that’s not the reason for his bad mood.

It /might/ be the fact that Shuuji has, apparently, taken his invitation
to stay the night when he was wasted as an invitation to stay /forever/. It’s been almost three weeks since he found him in that bar, and he hasn’t left his house yet.

Normally, Ranpo /would/ kick someone out but—

He overheard the phone conversation Shuuji had with his mother
the morning after. He couldn’t quite catch it all, because Shuuji had locked himself in the bathroom and even pressing his ear to the door didn’t make everything clear, but Ranpo got the basic gist of it:

Shuuji was on his own for housing, because his father didn’t want him and
his mother /insisted/ that she had no where to house him because she was hopping from hotel to hotel ‘like a beggar’.

Granted, Shuuji probably might be able to beg his way back into Dazai’s good graces, but Ranpo isn’t /heartless/.

The kid is stupid, stubborn, in college, has
no job and no skills for a job. Even if he /could/ get a job, there’s no way he could afford an apartment on his own. It’s too late in the year to apply for the college dorms, even if his scholarship covered it.

In short, Shuuji really has nowhere else to go.

And that makes
Ranpo sympathetic because—

He’s never had /nowhere/ to go. Even after his parents passed in the accident and he was little more than a raggedy street urchin, stubbornly sleeping on park benches and breaking into cars to sleep in the back seat, he always had /somewhere/ to go.
If he ever needed a bed, or a hot bowl of curry, or somewhere to lay low or someone to talk to—

He always had a place he could go to that would /always/ welcome him.

But while Oda is full of sympathy for misfortunate kids, he is /not/ sympathetic for idiot adults, so it’s not
like he can go /there/ either.

Besides he’s pretty sure Kouyou would skewer Shuuji if she ever found out he tried to run over her little brother, which would inevitably lead to her finding out Chuuya’s dating Dazai, which would lead to family drama of epic proportions. That
almost tempts him into doing it, but Shuuji would probably get his ass executed mafia-style and—

Ranpo kind of /likes/ Shuuji? He’s funny, sometimes. Like a really big, really /stupid/ puppy that doesn’t know how to play.

Except that he eats Ranpo’s candy. That, he /hates/.
The last time he caught him with his hands in Ranpo’s candy jar, he kicked his ass. He thought /that/ would work except Shuuji looked dazed and like he might come in his pants so—

Ranpo’s solution is to keep his candy at /work/ now, which would be okay except there’s a /candy
thief/ at work too.

Clues—or lack thereof— point to Fukuzawa. Which sucks, because he /respects/ Fukuzawa and he can’t be /angry/ at him for eating his candy.

So yes, Ranpo is grumpy. He’s got an intruder in his home—who is recently making noises that they should get a bigger
apartment /together/, which is such a strange thing to contemplate, but he can't say he wouldn't /appreciate/ more room because Shuuji keeps knocking over his trinkets stand which takes an /hour/ to fix-- he's got candy disappearing before he can eat, Kunikida is on some weird
kick with cold cases lately and is trying to bug Ranpo into looking into it, and it's /Tuesday/.

He hates Tuesday's.

He /almost/ makes it through the entire day without incident, too. Manages to shake Kunikida off by sending him on a wild hunt for clues that will eventually
lead him nowhere, he's been playing iMessage games with Shuuji all day and kicking his ass, and it's just--

It's /almost/ a pretty good day.

That is, of course, until /Dazai/, of all people, comes storming into the Agency with less than an hour before it closes. He damn near
/kicks/ the door in, storming in without so much as a hello.

Kunikida looks like he's witnessing the devil rise to earth when he looks up and sees the man he's been hunting for the past two years /storm/ into the Agency, face determined.

"Hey--!" He shouts, rising to his feet
and leaving the case file he was working on spread out all over his desk. "What the hell are you--?!"

Kunikida makes a mistake then, coming around his desk and reaching out for Dazai's shoulder. Probably to stop him from going any further, to hold him still so he can ask him
what he's doing or maybe to try to arrest him--

His hand doesn't even get close.

In a series of movements that's almost too fast for even Ranpo to keep up with, one of Dazai's hands is flying up and wrapping around Kunikida's wrist. Using the leverage, he jerks him forward,
making him stumble in shock. Then then arm closest to Kunikida is coming up--

His elbow /slams/ into his temple with brutal force, with a sharp /crack!/ that makes even Ranpo wince in sympathy.

"I'm not here for you," Dazai says, face expressionless as Kunikida goes limp.
Unconscious.

Dazai isn't exactly /careless/ but neither is he careful as he lets Kunikida drop to the floor. His head hits the wooden floor with another crack that will /probably/ keep him unconscious for a while longer.Or maybe give him a concussion.

The other employees watch
silently as Dazai advances further into the Agency. None of them dare to challenge him, because Kunikida is the second-best martial artist in the entire agency.

The /first/ is Ranpo, who is just silently watching Dazai approach with a raised eyebrow, crunching on his chips.
Dazai must mean business if he's come to the Agency. Coming here is a /risk/ for him, because he /could/ be arrested and taken into custody.

That, combined with the fact that he just /assaulted/ Kunikida--a minor offense, compared to his playbook, but still worth noting-- and
the cold, almost /dead/, expression on his face--

Something happened. Something /big/ happened.

There's a chair a few feet away from Ranpo's desk, and Dazai snags it as he passes,flipping it around so the back of it is facing Ranpo. He sinks into it in a smooth motion, propping
his elbows up on the wood along the back.

"I need your help," he says, without so much as a hello.

Ranpo /figured/,because there's only one reason Dazai would put himself on the Agency's radar like this,and that is if something happened that he couldn't solve himself.

Still,
Ranpo /is/ grumpy, and he /doesn't/ appreciate Dazai storming into the Agency like this when he's not even an hour away from being off the clock, so--

Without saying anything, he fishes out another large chip from his bag,shoving it into his mouth and crunching slowly. His other
hand gets flipped over, so he can glance down at his wrist.

He's not wearing a watch, but it feels like the /right/ tone of disrespectful, just to /remind/ Dazai that he isn't the king here. He doesn't get to barge in and demand help. If Ranpo helps him, it's because he's a
/nice/ person--which he doesn't really think he is, but he has his moments.

Besides, he's already dealing with /one/ of Dazai's messes, and is he getting any thanks for that? No.

When the tension builds to a breaking point and Dazai is /clearly/ about to snap, jaw bunching and
fists clenching--

Kicking his feet up on the desk and leaning dangerously far back in his chair, Ranpo flashes him an enigmatic smile. "What can the Agency help you with?"

The Agency. Not him. He doesn't want to get involved with whatever turf war or dominance fight Dazai has
gotten himself into. He's not a part of the underground, and he will not be utilized in the unseen war that's going on.

"Chuuya's been taken."

The words drop like an anvil between them, cold and heavy with weight. It costs Dazai something to say them, momentary anguish flashing
through his eyes before they settle back into cold, unfeeling darkness.

Ranpo frowns at him. He's sure Chuuya is a nice kid and all, but it's not like Ranpo can do much without information. He's not a /psychic/. "Are you filing a missing persons report?"

He doesn't recommend
it. Missing persons cases are a /wreck/ to handle, especially for adults.

Technically, a person can’t even be reported as missing until they’ve been missing for over 24 hours. Only then can they be filed, and even once the police get a report, it’s never a /top/ priority.
There’s always homicides and assaults and violent crime that take a more immediate precedent. All too often, missing person cases get pushed off to the wayside.

And any good detective knows that the first 24 hours after a kidnapping or disappearance is /critical/.

“No,” Dazai
mutters. He’s leaning over the edge of the chair, like he’s trying to convince Ranpo to /hurry/ with the sheer weight of his presence. “I need to use the computer genius you have holed up here. I need to get into the city CCTV.”

Ranpo arches an eyebrow. Katai /is/ pretty smart,
he will admit, even if ‘genius’ /might/ a bit of an oversell. There’s only room for /one/ genius in the Agency, and that’s /Ranpo/. “Don’t you have someone better? What happened to that one kid? The one that Kunikida has been trying to get to sell you out.”

Dazai’s hands are
clenching open and closed, like he’s missing the weight of a gun in them. “He’s not answering me,” he says through clenched teeth, “and when I drove out to his place, the warehouse had been emptied.”

So he /ran/. That... doesn’t spell good for anyone, really, because Rokuzou
is the type of person that should be /monitored/. Left on his own or working for strangers could end up with /all/ their information leaked.

Kunikida’s going to be pissed. He was working hard on that kid, trying to recruit him into the Agency. Trying to give him a better life.
It's possible that he pushed too hard too soon, but Rokuzou disappearing so soon before Chuuya--who was relatively unknown and protected from the underground, all things considered-- is too much of a coincidence for Ranpo to overlook it.

Still, Katai is not the solution Dazai
thinks he is. "Even if I did introduce you, he's going to be terrified of you. He's useless when he's scared, practically hides in his futon like a child hiding from a monster. Plus, he has this annoying habit where he absolutely refuses to do /anything/ without a warrant."
That is, unless his boyfriend asks him personally, but considering that Kunikida is still passed out on the floor and unlikely to go out of his way to help Dazai--

Katai's a deadend.

Ranpo takes the last handful of chips and tosses them into his mouth before crushing the bag up
and tosses it into the trashcan near his desk. "Look, I am willing to help you because I don't think Chuuya should pay the price for your fuck ups. /However/, I can't help you without any information,and I don't have anyone to /get/ you information. So unless you get me something
to work with, then all you're doing is wasting time."

Time that Chuuya /doesn't/ have. The longer he's missing, the more likely it is that he'll never be found. The more likely he'll run the course of his usefulness, and be executed.

The longer he's missing, the more likely it
is they won't be finding /him/--

They'll be finding a body.

Besides, there's a /better/ organization that will be able to help Dazai, and one that has their /own/ desire to find Chuuya safe and sound.

The Port Mafia.

Dazai probably thinks they won't help him if he asks, or
that he'll have to /force/ them to help by taking control--

Little does he know, though. Ranpo is looking forward to /that/ realization, and he honestly wishes he could be there in the room when Dazai asks Kouyou for help locating her /missing little brother/.

The best drama
always happens when Ranpo can't /watch/, it's annoying. What's the point of knowing all this information if you don't get to /witness/ the fallout?

"Fuck," Dazai mutters, slapping his palm down on the desk. One of the other employees, a conservative girl, gasps in offense at his
language. "Fuck, /okay/, I'll-- If I get you the information you need, you'll help me find him?"

Ranpo shrugs, reaching down to pull out another bag of candy from within one of his desk drawers. "Yeah, sure. But you'll owe me, big. And I mean /big/, you don't even /know/ the
amount of trouble I've been going through because of you."

It's a testament to Dazai's desperation that he doesn't even flinch at the prospect of owing Ranpo a favor. A big one, even, that Ranpo will /surely/ collect at some point.

He just looks at him with a grim expression,
like he's preparing himself for what he has to do.Preparing to slide back into the version of himself that used to have the entire underground under his thumb and use that to get the information he needs.

Like he's letting go of Dazai Osamu and coming back for the Demon Prodigy.
Like he's willing to let go of everything he worked for, to let go of the person he's tried so hard to become--

All to get something /back/. Something so indescribably /important/ to him, he's willing to cross lines he hasn't crossed in years.

Love really does make you stupid,
Ranpo thinks to himself as he pulls out his phone to respond to Shuuji's latest turn on the game of Sea Battle they're playing. It really changes who you are as a person.

"Right," Dazai mutters, standing up.He's /tall/, intimidating with it, towering over everyone in the Agency.
"I'll call you then."

Ranpo frowns, sending off his turn in the game. A hit, taking down the last of Shuuji's tank's health bar. Another stunning win for him.

The Agency closes in less than an hour. They've been known to stay open longer in certain circumstances, but this
hardly counts as one. This isn't even a case that can officially go on the books.

So if Dazai calls the /Agency/, he's bound to just get them both in trouble, and he's not going to get an actual answer from anyone.

He /might/ have Ranpo's personal number, but Ranpo isn't
willing to just /put it out there/ that they plan on working together by just asking out loud. Dazai's already halfway to the door, bypassing Kunikida's passed out body without so much as a wince in sympathy.

Eh, he'll figure it out. The man is resourceful, and if he's /really/
so set on getting Ranpo's help--something he might change his mind about when he confronts Kouyou and realizes she's /just/ as invested in finding Chuuya-- then he'll find a way.

The front doors to the Agency close behind Dazai with a resounding, final sound. Harsh and loud.
The other employees finally let out their breaths when he's gone, relaxing. Unfortunately, people barging into the Agency like this /is/ a somewhat common occurrence, so no one is too broken up or stressed about what happened.

Just a slightly-irregular Tuesday in the Agency.
Eventually Kunikida stirs on the floor, heaving himself up onto his elbows. With a wince, he touches his temple. "What happened?"

Ranpo peers over his desk at him, fighting a smile. "Oh, not much. Just missed your chance catching one of Japan's most wanted, that's all."
His mouth /drops/. "What-- why didn't /you/ do anything? You watched him knock me out and just did /nothing/?"

"Well," Ranpo drawls, unwrapping another piece of candy, "something like /that/ requires a lot of paperwork, and /I/ have plans for dinner tonight. Better luck next
time, buddy."

Kunikida /screams/ in frustration.

Ranpo snickers, attention diverted when Shuuji sends /another/ invite to a game of Sea Battle.

He must really enjoy getting his ass kicked, Ranpo thinks, and sends off the opening shots.

------- +
Backsliding into something—/someone/— you used to be is like coming home. Giving up against the rising tides and finally just letting yourself sink.

The problem is, you never truly realize how much /better/ you’ve gotten until you throw that all away and return to where you
started from.

Looking at the high, soaring tower of Mori Corporation, Dazai feels completely and utterly numb. A /terrible/ sort of numb, one that feels inherently /wrong/. A numbness that leeches into every part of his being, and slowly claims every part of him for its own.
In these moments, Dazai doesn’t feel like a person. He doesn’t even feel like a child.

He’s cold and unfeeling, distant from his body, a machine that runs on oxygen and delivers bloody violence. A war machine, carefully built and cultivated by Mori Ougai, with all the things he
enjoyed or wanted being held against him.

Being numb was just a defensive reaction, but once Dazai realized how /good/ it felt just to feel nothing at /all/—

It was impossible to stop. Pain and sorrow were just things he had to painstakingly cut out of himself, a surgeon with
his own blood on his hands.

Beyond that, distantly, is anxiety. A driving heartbeat buried too deep in his chest to be his own heart, the driving force that urges him up the front steps and into the building.

He /will/ do what must be done. Whether that means toppling the
power structure of the Mafia, claiming what had always been /his/— not by birthright, but by /blood/, the seat of this empire built with the iron of his body—, killing anyone who stood in his way—

It doesn’t matter. He’s always been able to do what needed to be done, no matter
what the personal cost. The cost to himself was always negligible.

He doesn’t take the elevator. That would be foolish because it would give him away. There were cameras in the elevator, and he’s sure /someone/ is watching the feed.

Instead, he takes the stairs that empty out
into the lobby. Every building with more than a single story is required by safety regulations to have stairs that connect to every floor. The larger buildings have two sets of emergency stairs, one on each side of the building.

Mori Corporation is unique in that it has /three/
stairs. Two that are regulation standard, and /one/ that leads up to the highest floors.

The last one isn’t known by most of the legal employees— because Mori Corporation /does/ have a legal operation as a cover— and only a handful of the Mafia members know about it either.
It’s supposed to be a closely kept secret, an escape route known to only the highest members of the Mafia.

Being who he is, Dazai knows all about it.

He bounds up the first set of stairs, ignoring the handful of employees still lingering in the building. It’s getting dark by
now, and most of the legal employees are starting to head out for the night. They look at him oddly as he passes, whispering in his wake, but don’t try to stop him.

The Mafia won’t be in full operation for another hour yet. But the /boss/ should be here, preparing for the night,
and that’s all he needs right now.

Hé bounds up the first set of stairs, ignoring the burn in his thighs and lungs as he ascends high into the building.

He didn’t bring any of his weapons. Very purposefully, a last-ditch effort to avoid violence until the last possible
moment. A way to make sure that the only weapons he used belonged to someone else today.

He'd pulled on gloves before leaving his car parked a few streets down in a parking lot. Skin-tight latex, to make sure he doesn't leave fingerprints behind.

Just in case.

At the top of
the stairs, he has to cross the building and find a hidden doorway tucked into a small, obscure hallway. There's no guards here at the bottom, but he's sure there will be some at the top.

It's only four floors up to the penthouse floor, and he takes /these/ stairs slower. Ears
perked, alert for any movement or noise. His steps echo loudly in the stairwell, heavy boots eliminating any chance for a silent entrance.

Silent isn't what he's going for anyway.

He takes a deep, steadying breath at the top, collecting himself. His focus is razor-sharp,
the deadliest weapon he has in his arsenal. A weapon that had been shaped and honed for years.

Pausing just before the door at the top, he listens for movement outside. It's twilight hours, essentially dawn for the Mafia, so he's not surprised when he doesn't hear much beyond
the door. He's picked the perfect time, before most of the people who /would/ defy him have arrived--

Civilly, he opens the door. It's unlocked, a bad decision for them.

He's calm enough that the lone guard standing outside the door just looks at him for a moment, not
recognizing him for who he is or the threat he represents.

When he does finally move, thirty seconds after Dazai opened the door--

It's too late.

Whip-fast, Dazai snakes his hand toward his lower back, sliding under the guard's loose shirt and yanking out the gun tucked into
the waistband of his jeans.

He starts to shout, jerking forward to try to grab him by the forearm.

With a flick of his wrist, the gun is flipped around in his hand. He holds the barrel, raising it up and slamming the butt of it into the back of the guard's head with all of
his strength.

He reels, dazed, eyes squeezing shut and a stuttered grunt leaving his mouth. Shaking his head, he tries to stumble backwards,giving himself room to try to recover--

Dazai follows, hitting him again in the same spot, and watching with satisfaction as he goes limp.
The guards for this place have really gone downhill in quality. Mori would've /never/ let someone so unskilled and unalert stay in his guard rotation.

He doesn't bother to hide the body. He just lets the guard slump to the floor and steps over him.

The Boss's personal quarters
are in the far part of the floor, but there's a few rooms Dazai can check before he goes there.

The hallways are mostly empty as he stalks through, and the people that /do/ see him fall back when they see him, survival instincts flaring. They know when a more dangerous predator
is hunting, and they know when to stay out of the way.

He finds his target in the third room he checks, a conference room. He can tell it's been used much lately, because of the stacks of papers scattered on the table.

Sloppy, leaving information where it could be found.
And there, near the back of the room, is Kouyou Ozaki, boss of the Port Mafia. She's attended by Odasaku, like always, and it looks like she's having a /meeting/, because Ace, one of the executives if Dazai remembers correctly, is leaning back in a nearby chair.

They both look
irritated, frustrated at something or another. There's another stack of papers between them, and it almost looks like they're arguing over them.

Well, it's a good thing that Dazai's coming in with a /distraction/ then.

This time, he kicks the door in. His boots make a
satisfying /thud/ against the wood before it crashes in with a /crunch/ of snapping wood and metal.

All three people at the table jump, whirling around in their seats as he strolls in,offering them a sardonic smile.

Kouyou goes pale when she recognizes him, and Oda's expression
goes stormy. His hands are crossed over his chest, fingers twitching closer to the holsters under each arm.

"No need to stand up for me," Dazai starts, flashing a sharp smile. The stolen gun is still in his hand and he spins it around in his palm threateningly.

While Oda has
arguably had more training than him, and more practice--

Dazai has /always/ been the sharpshooter of the two, coldly lethal and deadly accurate. He learned to shoot a gun before he learned how to drive, before he even learned how to ride a bike or ride the train for himself.
The grip of the gun--while a fraction too small for his hands, obviously a generic version without any customization- feels like coming home again, to a house he never wanted to begin with.

"What are you doing here?" Kouyou's voice is flat, toneless. Her expression is /forcibly/
blank, like she's fighting off the urge to react. Trying to save face in front of her enemy.

Dazai's smile is /mean/, cutting. "It's time we do business, Boss of the Port Mafia," he says, snide and sneering, sarcasm thick on her title. He doesn't need to /speak/ the words to get
his disdain across.

Meanwhile, Ace, looks like he's having the time of his life, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded behind his back and grinning. He's always been /smug/, always too aware and too invested in the power struggles of the Boss chair.

Kouyou's eyes
narrow on him, folding her hands primly in front of her. Her spine is ramrod-straight, like she can /prove/ her worth by refusing to bend. "Why would I do business with you? Not only did you refuse my /last/ offer-- now you come barging in like you own the place."

Dazai's grin
grows. Technically, he /does/ own the building. Not officially, not legally, but it was always meant to be /his/. Mori destroyed more than a few families to ensure that.

"Because," he says, and he can /tell/ she thinks he's about to threaten her. Point the gun at her hand and
tell her that she has to give into his demands or he'll end her right then and there.

Dazai's not /that/ foolish. He's got a /better/ plan:

He settles the gun correctly in his palm, raising it up and slightly to the left--

Directly at Oda's head.

"If you don't," his tone is
still casually conversational, with just a hint of derision, "I'm going to take something very important to you."

It's not an idle threat. He /loves/ Odasaku but--

Everything he loves will inevitably be lost, right? And if he does not do /something/, if he doesn't get
what he /needs/, then he'll lose the most /important/ thing to him. And for /once/ in his life, he is willing to /fight/ for what he wants, what he loves.

He will do anything.

It's a calculated risk, a gamble. He's staked the odds in his favor-- Kouyou loves Odasaku, he doubts
she would let anything happen to him if she could stop it-- but sometimes, you just have to spin the wheel and /hope/.

There's a moment of tense silence. Odasaku is stock still, unmoving as always in the face of danger. His eyes are focused on the gun in Dazai's hand, mouth
tight and turned down into a frown.

He doesn't move. In fact, he's probably /relieved/ that the gun isn't pointed at Kouyou.

With a drum of her acrylic nails on the table, Kouyou calls his bluff, "You wouldn't dare. Sakunosuke is your friend too."

"I wouldn't?" Dazai repeats,
smile growing so big it makes him feel nauseous. His hand does not waver and his eyes do not leave hers as he pulls the trigger.

/BANG!/

Odasaku /shouts/, ducking, and a bullet buries itself in the wall barely a foot from where his head had been.

Kouyou flinches, going even
paler. There are splinters of wood and dust sticking to her pant suit.

"It would be /unwise/ to underestimate me right now," Dazai tells her, re-aiming the gun as he strolls around the side of the table. His boots make him almost /two/ inches taller, so he's the tallest person
in the room by far. Oda might be /broader/, but that fact is negligible when he's towering over them all and holding a gun to his head. "I have lost something /very/ important to me, and if you won't help me, I'm going to kill him, then Ace and then /you/. Do you understand?"
Violence and blood, it's--

It's not a second skin. It's not a mask Dazai can hide underneath, it's not something that can ever be taken off or put away when he no longer has need or want for it.

Some people, when put through years of trauma and hurt and anger, retreat. They
hide, become jittery, anxious messes, always looking for the knife behind a smile. Always on the edge of /running/.

And some people people choose /fight/ instead of flight. They absorb all that pain and rage, internalize it. They learn by example and when things get /hard/?
They /bite/.

Dazai is biting now. The defensive, instinctive /rage/ boiling up within him,demanding he hurt before /he/ is hurt,demanding he take control of this entire situation.

If he has to, he will take back what was originally his, by force. It won't be the first boss he's
killed on this floor, won't be the first blood of a friend that he has spilled.

Kouyou's lips press together, and her eyes are /hard/. Anyone can tell that she /doesn't/ want to give into him, that she'd /much/ rather tell him to /get lost/.

But she doesn't have that option.
"Fine," she bites out, expression twisting like even the idea of helping him is /horrible/. "What do you need?"

Relief, a tiny drop of dry land among the black raging tides, reigns briefly. "My boyfriend was kidnapped, I need the CCTV for the entire city and any recent movements
from the Rat's."

The information seems to /dumbfound/ Kouyou, because she just blinks at him. "You're... dating someone?"

(Oda is /rapidly/ coming to a realization, eyes widening as the pieces /finally/ come together.)

The question /hurts/, because the answer is /technically/
no, but he's not going to get into /that/ conversation. It's none of her business.

He nods shortly, kicking Ace out of his seat and ushering him out the door. He doesn't need to be here for this.

"What's his name? And what does he look like?"

"Name is Nakahara Chuuya and--"
The tension in the room skyrockets so quickly that the hairs on the back of Dazai's neck stand up.

"His name is fucking /what now/?" Kouyou's voice is /pure/ disbelief.

Dazai frowns, locking the door and turning back around to them.

Kouyou is leaning forward in her seat, palms
flat on the table. She's /glaring/ now.

Behind her, Oda is making a /face/ and gesturing with his hands near his neck, the silent and universal sign for 'please shut up right now'.

Dazai pauses, feeling like he stumbled upon /something/ he wasn't expecting. "Nakahara Chuuya?"
Kouyou just.... /stares/ at him, her face growing redder and redder. "If this is a /joke/," she seethes, "it /isn't/ funny."

That sends Dazai reeling, confused, because--

"Why the fuck would I /joke/ about my boyfriend being /kidnapped/?"

(Love makes you /stupid/, Ranpo once
again thinks to himself, /very/ reluctantly sharing his dessert with Shuuji, and /knowing/ that the drama he's been cultivating for /months/ is going down and he can't /watch it/.)

The silent, /awkward/ tension grows.

When Kouyou finally speaks, the mask of civility masks her
expressions, at first. "So you mean to tell me that not only are you dating my /little brother/--," her hands /slam/ down on the table then, and she's surging to her feet, voice climbing to a furious /yell/, "and you /LOST HIM/?!"

Her what?

Dazai stares at her, looks back at
Oda--is he /recording/ this?-- then back at Kouyou.

And in all his terrifying, near-legendary intelligence, his only response is:

"What?"

Kouyou /lunges/ at him, and she nearly gets entirely across the table before Oda tosses his phone down and catches her with arms around her
waist.

It finally clicks in Dazai's mind, all the pieces coming together. Oh, Kouyou is his /sister/. His /ane-san/.

In his defense, /how/ was he supposed to know? He never mentioned her by name, and both of their records were scrubbed clean and had different names. Kouyou has
been avoiding meeting with him and his calls for /months/, and Oda's, well, /forgetful/ sometimes, so--

How was /he/ supposed to know?

Awkwardly, Dazai scratches the back of his head. "He's gonna be pissed, I'm pretty sure he wanted to break the news himself..."

Of /all/ the
reactions he /could/ have, after the /hellish/ day he's had, that's the first one that comes to mind.

Well, that and--

"Surprise?"

Kouyou doesn't look like she /likes/ surprises, clawing at the air like she's envisioning his /face/. Her face is /red/, and she's making noises
about 'corrupting' and 'my innocent /brother/' and 'scoundrel motherfucker', and really it's all very dramatic but--

Dazai checks his phone. "Can you get over it already? I'm happy to let you yell at me /later/, but he's about to miss a dose of his meds and we need to find him
/soon/ because he can't miss /two/."

Kouyou pauses, the fight leaving her momentarily. "Meds for /what/?"

And--

Dazai, /assuming/ that Kouyou knows about Chuuya's hospital visit because his father knows and it's family common knowledge, casually answers, "His encephalitis."
Kouyou's mouth /drops/, and Dazai doesn't understand why she looks so /appalled/ until--

"You gave my brother /AN STD?!?/" She /roars/, struggling beginning anew.

Even Oda looks a bit shocked, looking over her shoulder at Dazai like he's an idiot.

"I--," Dazai sighs, pinching
the bridge of his nose. He can't exactly fault Kouyou for thinking that, because he thought that too at first. "It's not an /STD/, it's a brain thing. Means his brain is swelling, and he needs meds to keep it under control."

Kouyou thinks about that for a second, narrowing her
eyes like she suspects he's lying.

Isn't she in a polyamorous relationship with Yosano, a certified /emergency surgeon/? Shouldn't she be brushed up on her latin language roots or something?

"What the fuck happened to his brain? He was /fine/ two months ago!"

Actually, he was
messing around with /Shuuji/ at that time, which they can all probably agree that wasn't for the /best/, but she doesn't need to know that.

"Doctor said it was probably a virus," Dazai says, shrugging, "but that's not important right now. Are you going to help me find him or
not?"

Obviously, her only answer can be /yes/.

With a huff, she shakes Oda off, righting her pink pantsuit until it's pristine again. She's chosen /modern/ businesswoman today, which is ironic considering the traditional views of the Mafia.

(Meanwhile, Oda picks his phone up
and stops the recording.

He opens his messaging app.

[ ODA ]: You fucker

[ Candy Man ]: LMAOOOOOOOOOOOO VID???? GIVE IT TO ME.)

"Yes," she huffs, pulling out her own phone. Probably to get in contact with the part of the Mafia that handles technology like this. "But if we
find him and he's /hurt/,I'm going to /kill/ you."

Dazai considers that.Then his teeth flash in a lethal smile,putting his hands on the table and leaning forward. His eyes are flat black,menacing."If he's hurt, you will have to find me in the /graveyard/ I make of this city."

+
************ TW mentions of torture via waterboarding + psychological torture, medical trauma, etc **********

The scene ahead will not be HORRIBLY graphic with the torture, but it will be upsetting to those who are sensitive. Skip if needed, there will be a summary at the end <3
Most people say that drowning is peaceful. That, once you get over the initial pain and fear, it's exactly like sinking. Floating away into the endless darkness, as easy as falling asleep. As easy as letting go, the rope of your life slipping away from your hands, drifting away.
In Chuuya's experience, drowning is none of those things.

It's /horrible/. It's all raw, animalistic fear, I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't /breathe/.The /person/ that he is overtaken by the /instincts/ of his body, instincts that fight and fight and /fight/, no reason,
no thought, no /logic/. Just pure terror-fueled adrenaline, pooling in his body with nowhere to go, filling him with the need to get /away/--

But he's trapped.

It also /hurts/. His lungs /burn/, water choking him and searing a painful path down his sinuses and into his lungs.
If anything, drowning on dry land is the /opposite/ of peaceful. It fucking /sucks/.

Maybe that's because he's not /allowed/ to drown. Every time he gets close and his body starts to run out of oxygen and the fight drains out of him--

His head is tipped forward, so the wet
cloth sticking to his face and blocking his airways falls. Then he's left to choke and spit and sputter and desperately try to gather himself for the /next/ round.

There's always a next round.

The bag is so /wet/, but Chuuya can't even gather up the strength to be disgusted.
Whatever liquid the girl is pouring down on his fact smells and /tastes/ foul, like it's sea water scooped directly out of the port bay, full of bacteria and disgusting.

Chuuya's face is wet with water and snot and water-vomit, and it's just--

It's fucking awful.

The rest of
his body is wet too, clothes soaked and sticking to him terribly. The cold of the room is beginning to sink in, coating his bones in frostbite, and he's almost too exhausted to shiver.

He doesn't know how long it's been. Hours? Days?

All he knows is pitch-black, freezing
darkness, and wet-burning.

"You know," the girl says, dragging over another bucket of water. Just the scraping sound of metal dragging over concrete is enough to have an exhausted spike of fear running through him.

She's doing it on purpose. She can lift the bucket over his
head with barely even a grunt of exertion, so the fact that she's just /dragging/ the bucket slowly over the concrete is just another fear tactic.

It's working. His breath is already deepening, coming in wet-ragged gasps, trying to stock up on oxygen even though he knows it
doesn't work that way.

"I can keep this up all day. Forever. No breaks, no end. You will wish you won't survive, but you will," the girl continues, sickly sweet. It's a threat, meant to terrify Chuuya into compliance.

On one hand, it /works/. On the other--

He laughs.
Wet, painful, rasping heaves, something that sounds more like sobbing than it does like laughing. Hysterical.

It's not /loyalty/ that keeps his mouth shut. It's simple lack of answers. He can't actually give her what she wants, he's tried. His answers aren't good enough, and by
now, he would consider himself /broken/.

He'd do anything to keep his head out of the water now. Just the /thought/ of water makes his sanity strain, terror threatening to snap him into pieces.

That's not why he's laughing.

No, he's laughing because he /knows/, with a morbid,
dreadful certainty that he cannot survive this for much longer. It's not /giving in/ that makes him feel that way, it's just pure /facts/.

By now, he's surely missed at least one dose of his medicine. Maybe two, or even /three/, depending on how long it's been.

Time doesn't
have a meaning in this place, not anymore. His world is reduced to how many /breaths/ he can take.

Every time water is poured down on his face and he begins to horrific process of drowning on dry land--

He can feel the pressure in his head building.He has a /throbbing/ headache
now, fueled by lack of oxygen and his missed meds and the blunt trauma of being knocked out. His eyes feel like they pulse painfully with every beat of his heart, head feeling so /heavy/.

More than that, he can almost /feel/ a seizure beginning to gather in the background. It's
like an electrical storm, unseen but /felt/, static charges gathering in his body and building momentum. A metallic taste on the back of his tongue that has nothing to do with water or blood or fear. The overload of sensation in his body, the feeling of his mind beginning to
buckle and strain, stretching too thin and holding far too much.

Distantly, he wonders how long it'll take him to seize himself to death. How long it'll take for his brain to give in once the damage begins.

If it'll hurt as his brain swells and swells, crushing itself under
it's own pressure. If it'll hurt /more/ than drowning.

How long it'll take before the damage is too much to recover from. How long it'll be before /Chuuya/ will never be something that lives again, even if his body survives.

"No, I really won't," he wheezes, wishing he could
wipe the snot off his face, because it feels fucking /disgusting/.

Because these people, they forgot to include one little detail in their plans when they kidnapped him:

He's on a limited time frame. It's only a matter of time before his sickness kicks in and takes him away.
He doesn't face the idea of weeks or even months of torture. He doesn't need to hold out until he's rescued or something else like that.

He just needs to wait until his body devours itself whole, and leaves him burning down the path of no recovery.

It's not a /nice/ thought.
It's not a pleasant thought, really, but it does give him some sort of dreadful relief, because--

Because he's not sure if anyone is /looking/ for him.

Dazai and him broke up. Whatever the circumstances were and no matter who was right and who was /wrong/, Dazai basically told
him to get lost and never return. He didn't /want/ him to come back.

And Chuuya said he was going to Kouyou's, and Dazai has never /met/ Kouyou, so it's not like he could confirm that, /if/ he cared to check.

His father will eventually try to contact him, but other than that...
It might be /days/ before anyone realizes he's missing. He doesn't have any classes to be at, no job obligations, he's basically drifted away from all his friends, his sisters rarely talk to him anymore in any serious capacity.

It might be a /while/ before anyone comes looking
for him. Even longer for them to /find/ him and--

Chuuya can't stand much more of this.The idea of /days/ of this,drowning and choking and breathing and drowning and choking and--

He can't do it. He's not like those strong,fearless, stubborn, /indomitable/ heroes in the movies.
He's not--

He's not someone who can /do/ this. Maybe in another life, another story, another him...

It feels /wrong/ to be glad that his body is a ticking time bomb, slowly reaching the end of it's lifespan. It feels /wrong/ to be grateful that his shitty immune system, his
fucked-up body and his /stupid/ brain will give him one last gift--

The gift of /death/.

The scrape of the bucket against the concrete makes him flinch again, tears welling up and dropping to join the wet mess of cloth around his head.

He's so /cold/.

"I'm /disappointed/,"
the girl rasps, her voice sounding like she's in the middle of smoking a cigarette. It reeks too much for Chuuya to tell for certain. "I really thought you'd be more /cooperative/."

A slight spill of water drips on the back of his head, making his breath catch in his throat.
"I dont--," he whimpers out, cringing away from the touch of wet, "I don't /know/, I swear."

Another sigh by his ear, this one even more irritated than the last.

Chuuya is /fully/ expecting for his head to be yanked backwards, neck twinging painfully, taking huge breaths in
préparation, shivers dancing nauseatingly up his spine—

“I believe you.”

Relief bursts through him, and he slumps in reaction, shoulders twinging as even more of his weight settles on them. Thank /god/, she believes him, it’s over—

“So how about I ask you questions you /do/
know, hm?”

Chuuya is so /relieved/ by the idea of not having to go through that again, hope flaring sharp and painful in his chest, that he’s nodding before he even understands what she’s saying.

/ I’ll do anything, just /please/ don’t drown me again. /

This time, her voice
comes from in front and slightly below him, like she’s crouching right in front of him. There’s a touch of warmth near his ankles, body heat. “Do you have any siblings?”

/No, /not/ them./

Chuuya clenches his jaw shut, unwilling to give her /any/ information on his family—
But then there’s the metallic scrape of metal on concrete, the slosh of water, and the fear takes over.

“Yes,” he chokes out, cringing away from the noise. He can’t go far, but he has wet-friction burns on his wrists from struggling anyways.

His mind is whirring-blank, so full
of emotion and flash-fire thoughts, terror and adrenaline, instinct and /I can’t, I can’t, I can’t/, that he can’t even pick out a coherent /thought/ in the mess. Sightless,scentless, thoughtless, an animal in its death throes.

“What are their names?” The question is accompanied
by a light tap on his ankle, so much more painful because it’s /gentle/.

A reminder that he doesn’t /have/ to hurt, she doesn’t /have/ to make him suffer, as long as he gives her what she wants.

“Kyouka,” he mutters, feeling like he’s /betraying/ everyone he knows and loves,
but he can’t /help/ it. Not when he has a /sliver/ of hope, not when he’s facing what he thinks is his /death/, cold and painful and alone.

He’s so /young/, there’s so much he wants to /do/. He shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t end like this.

“And Kouyou,” he whispers, deflating.
(Meanwhile, Nika is feeling /two/ distinct feelings right now.

/Pride/, because she's getting /exactly/ what she wants right now. The goal was never to get Chuuya to cough up information on the Demon Prodigy. That is a goal too far, and even if they are /dating/, she doubts that
Dazai would be foolish enough to share sensitive information with this...

Child.

Really, he's not much younger than her. A little over six months, but she was /never/ this... /sheltered/. Never this naïve, never this weak, never this unprepared.

It's completely clear that
Nakahara Chuuya was completely and utterly unprepared for something like this.

Which leads to the second emotions she's feeling: /disappointment/.

It's not often she gets to /play/ with her victims. Father often prefers a quick, clean death when dealing with the Bratva, and
torturing victims was something he often considered above Nika's paygrade.

It's been a /while/ since she's been given free rein like this and it's always over too quick.

It's only been six hours. Six hours of /intensive/ work, granted, taking Nakahara's senses from him and
working him over, deliberately making sure he has no sense of time passing. Taking everything away from him that makes him /human/, leaving him a wounded animal desperate for relief.

Which serves her well /now/.

Offering him a shred of compassion, an escape route, and reaping
the benefits. Digging through his cracked-open mind, finding a weak point, and forcing it open.

Personal information is a valuable commodity in the criminal underworld. Most people--especially the more powerful ones--try to wipe everything about themselves from public knowledge.
No birthdays, no legal names, no family, no schools, no medical history, nothing.

They only want to be known on /their/ terms, because every scrap of knowledge that someone else knows can be used against them. Anything and everything is a weapon, when you're building a file on
someone.

Humans are pattern-oriented beasts. They form habits, follow schedules, make their passcodes the birthdays of their significant others. There are /very/ few parts of a person that aren't, in some way, connected to their personal lives. To information that they think
is safe, secret and secure.

Information they think only /they/ know, but because humans are pack animals and inevitably drawn to each other--

Once you know somebody's /pattern/, you know /them/. And nobody knows someone like their /family/, right?

Sibling bonds are such a
curious thing, too. Full of animosity and competition and /trust/.

No one knows Kouyou Ozaki better than her little brother.

And Nakahara Chuuya is going to tell Nika /everything/.

It's all patterns, and Nika is a /very/ good strategist.)

------ +
***** TW SCENE END FOR NOW *****

Summary: Nika questions Chuuya about his sister Kouyou. He answers the questions.
Kouyou watches Dazai pace with narrowed eyes. It's annoying, puts him on edge. Wants him want to pick a fight or /bite/, anything to dispel this restless energy building up inside him.

It's been eight hours since Chuuya went missing. Three since he needed his dose. Nine until he
needs the next one.

A short time, in comparison to many hostage situations-- Dazai himself was once held hostage for almost five days, once, a time he only unwillingly revisits in his nightmares-- but every minute ticks by with agonizing, dreadful slowness.

Tick. Tock.
Torture is not something anyone can really be prepared for. People, especially regular civilians, like to say that /they'd/ be the ones to hold out in the face of unimaginable agony. They wouldn't break. They wouldn't give up their secrets because /they/ are different.

It's
easy to say that when you're sitting on the couch watching TV, or reading a novel. It's easy to say that, until you're the one going under the knife.

It's easier to /prepare/ when you know what you're in for--

But Chuuya /doesn't/ know. Never knew. Kouyou was careful to keep it
from him, and so was Dazai. As far as he know, up until the hour or so before he was taken, everyone he knew was /normal/. He didn't know about the Mafia, or who Fyodor was, or the Yakuza.

He was just a normal college kid. That's what he was /supposed/ to be.

And now he's...
Gone. Being held hostage, /probably/ in the hands of Dazai's worst enemy.

At least, he hopes it's Fyodor because if it's /not/, then he has no clue who took him and /how/. At least they have a direction to look in.

A direction that has led them to dragging up the CCTV for the
streets surrounding his house. They're difficult, because Dazai had Rokozou set them onto a repeating three-day loop /ages/ ago, a loop that never included him or any of his possessions in the frames.

The real footage is sent to a storage facility, to be deleted along with all
the other old footage. Keeps the facilities from overflowing, and it's rare for footage from a year ago to be needed.

Kouyou called... someone Dazai has never met or heard of, to dig the real footage out of the digital dump. It's not a /quick/ process, and every minute it takes
/forever/.

Dazai turns on his heel, pacing back the way he came. His palms itch, aching for the weight of a gun.

The tension between all three of them--Kouyou, Odasaku and Dazai-- has been steadily growing for the past two hours. Odasaku has been soundly ignoring it, texting
someone on his phone and smothering huffs of laughter.

Dazai's been /trying/ to ignore it, but Kouyou has been glaring at him and watching him pace for the last hour or so, and he's quickly reaching his limit. His temper, when he's in this mindset, has never been the best.
Finally, she speaks up. "How long have you been dating my brother?"

She says 'my brother' with a possessive sort of jealousy, like she's staking a claim on Chuuya. She also says it /accusingly/, like she thinks Dazai might've done this on /purpose/.

Honestly, if he were still
the Demon Prodigy, it would've been a solid plan.

But he's not that person, not anymore.

At least, he /wasn't/. Now... he would be, if he needed to be.

"A little over a month," he mutters, not willing to go into the details of their relationship. They might have been
/officially/ dating for only six weeks, but Chuuya's been his for almost four months now.

Dazai's been /his/ for longer than that, infatuated since the day they met.

Red eyes narrow in on him, unhappy with his answer. "You seem pretty upset for someone who's only known Chuuya
for a few months."

The implication that Dazai is faking or /lying/, or any part of this situation was /coordinated/ by him, floors him.

He whirls around, nostrils flaring as he /tries/ to keep his voice in check. "Of /course/ I'm upset?! We're /dating/ and I--"

He barely
catches himself in time, jaw snapping shut around what he /almost/ said. Kouyou doesn't get to hear /those/ words first, and he doesn't get to say it now. Chuuya is the only one who is going to hear them.

/ I love him. /

He rolls the words around on his tongue, tasting them.
The weight of them in his mouth is like truth, like absolution, heavy and summer-sweet, ripe fruit bursting over his starved tongue and giving him a glimpse of heaven.

It feels like the thing he's been looking for, for all these years. The thing he didn't know he wanted or
/needed/.

He turns away from Kouyou, hiding his face as he savors the revelation.

It's probably /wrong/ and undeserved after what he said to Chuuya but--

After so long of being numb and empty, he really thought he didn't have the capacity to love anyone. It felt like he'd
snuffed those pieces of himself out, collateral damage in the war he'd been waging on himself for decades. He was so broken that the damage couldn't be fixed anymore, permanently etched into his being, even after he started the long, painfully-slow process of healing.

Trust
Chuuya to show him that even something he thought impossible /was/ possible,and as easy and inevitable as gravity.

Falling is weightless.

It feels wrong to enjoy it, to say the the words over and over again to himself— /I love him, I love him, I love him— considering everything
that’s happened between them, everything that’s happening right now, everything that can and has gone wrong—

But maybe it’s just fate that Dazai discovered love on a battlefield, and probably lost it before he ever realized he had it. Is in the process of losing it, probably.
Everything he wants will inevitably be lost.... but for now, he has a tiny little flame of warmth and affection, something he can cup his hands around and hope it doesn’t go out. Hope he gets to keep /this/, this tiny shred of love, and nurture it.

He’s not ready to give it up.
Not yet.

/Please/ not yet.

He starts pacing again, frustration bubbling up. This is taking so /long/, but they don't have a lead on what vehicle Chuuya was taken with. The downside of living in the residential area is that quite a few vehicles are always moving in and out of
the neighborhood.

Dazai can recognize quite a few of them, but he doesn't know /everyone/, and even his memory isn't perfect. There's still half a dozen cars that can't be excused away, and while that's less than what they started with, that's still /too many/. They can't track
/every/ vehicle, it would take too much time.

Every minute Chuuya spends in the hands of someone /else/ is too much. They need to find him /now/.

Dazai feels /useless/ here. All his skills and intelligence amount to nothing when he doesn't have a /direction/ to work in.

It's
safe to assume that Fyodor has him, but considering that the Rat's don't /have/ a confirmed headquarters that Dazai knows of,he could be hidden anywhere in the city. Fyodor has been /annoyingly/ insistent in crossing boundary lines with flagrant disrespect, offering meeting spots
on Mafia territory, on no-man's-land, on territory regularly patrolled by the police.

He's been /very/ deliberate about avoiding a pattern, so Dazai can't hazard a guess where his main building is. He knows where the /warehouse/ is, but that seems to obvious a place to be
hiding Chuuya. Especially if he was planning for... an /extended/ session.

Even thinking that makes him sick.

"So when are you going to realize that we /need/ help, and let Oda call him?" Dazai asks, shooting a hot glare at Kouyou before turning on his heel and pacing back the
other way.

"Last I checked you /already/ spoke to Ranpo, and he said he needed information. What more information do we have now than you did when you went to see him? Hardly anything. Akio is working his /hardest/, and he's narrowing down the suspects. When we have a /lead/, we
will call him, but you know as well as I do that calling him before that is just likely to piss him off. Do you want a pissed off Ranpo?"

No..... no, Dazai does not. Ranpo is /mean/.

(In the corner:

[ ODA ]: the girls are fiGHTTTINNGGGGG

[ ODA ]: is that the meme did i do it
right

[ CANDY MAN ]: yes yes gold star what are they fighting about

[ ODA ]: You. Dazai wants to call you, Kouyou wants to wait

[ CANDY MAN ]: LOL

[ CANDY MAN ]: 100 yen says dazai breaks and calls me himself
[ ODA ]: I know better than to bet against you.

[ CANDY MAN]: :( )
Dazai spins back around, letting out a sharp, frustrated noise. "/Why/ does it feel like I'm the only one taking this /seriously/?"

Everyone else is content to /wait/, while he paces himself into the ground, legs thrumming with the need to do /something/. It's impossible to sit
still and /wait/ for information.

Akio clears his throat, shrinking in his seat when Dazai's head swings toward him, pinning him in place with heated, /angry/ eyes. He's shaking lightly. Probably never expected to be in the same room as /three/ of the most powerful people in
Yokohama, the mediocre grunt that he is. Good enough to sit solidly in the middle of the power structure, but not good enough to earn himself an audience with the boss.

Until today, that is. With no one else to turn to, Rokuzou /missing/, all Kouyou has is /this/ guy.

He points
to the screen. "Do you recognize that car? It left right around the same time, and there's a blanket in the backseat that wasn't there when it arrived..."

Dazai looks, eyes narrowing on the screen. It's a grey four door, nothing too flashy or dingy. Just the exact right of
normal to pass by undetected by anyone at a glance. He doesn't recognize it at all.

"No. Did you check the plates on it? Are they registered to that vehicle?"

Akio looks briefly terrified. "I can't get into the government systems to check for sure,but I can..."

He trails off,
exiting out the camera feed and pulling up a regular, protected search engine. Painstakingly, he enters in "license plate number search", clicks on the first website and starts to enter in the numbers.

Dazai looks at Kouyou drolly, like 'Really? This is the best you've got?'.
'A man that can /google/?'.

Kouyou meets his stare head on, gesturing with her hands for Dazai to present anyone /better/, and looking damn smug when he lets out a frustrated huff and looks away again.

"The plates are registered to a car of that make and model...but not that
color. Color is registered as blue," Akio says. It's unnecessary because Dazai /can/ read the screen, thank you very much, but at least everyone is guaranteed to be on the same page now.

It's possible that the owner of the car got a paint job and has yet to report it to the
vehicle registry...

Or, it was never registered to that specific vehicle at /all/ and the plates are stolen.

He doesn’t bother asking if Akio can check for reports on missing plates, instead squinting at the screen to try to catch a glimpse of the driver. He doesn’t recognize
the name offhand, and he supposes they could cross-reference it with the names registered as owners on the nearby houses in the neighborhood—

But Dazai’s got a /hunch/. There’s something about that car and the way it drives /perfectly/ safely that makes it /suspicious/.
"Where do they go?" Dazai asks, gesturing for Akio to get to work with the equipment.

He does, although it takes /thrice/ as long as it would've taken Rokuzou, haphazardly following the vehicle's progress out of the suburbs and into the city using the trail of city cameras. He
makes a few mistakes, jumping to the wrong camera and having to fumble back to the correct one, but he manages the task.

At least until the tunnel systems. There's a section there where the cameras are placed a fraction too far apart, leaving a blind spot the length of a few
dozen cars. It's a fault in the system, and one that's taken advantage of--

Because when the vehicle exits, around the expected time, Dazai /almost/ doesn't catch that the driver is different and the blanket in the backseat looks flatter than before.

Driver switch. They moved
him. And without a /view/ of what happened, Chuuya could've been transferred to another car--any car that exits around the same time.

Their lead is /dust/.

"Now what?" Dazai asks meanly, turning his head to pin Kouyou with a glare. He was patient, he /waited/ while her
half-competent man did what he could, and now they've hit a wall. "You wanna manually check every vehicle for him?"

Sighing in frustration, Kouyou gestures to Oda. "Of course not," she snaps, aiming a dagger stare at him, "Now we can call him. Stop acting like you're the only
one who wants to find /my/ brother. Mishandling the search will just make it take longer."

The /tone/ in her voice, like she's /better/ than him, smarter than him, has more connection to Chuuya than he does, makes him /angry/. He might have no experience in /caring/ for people,
but that doesn’t make him less /worried/. Less capable.

His temper flares, more agitated than he ever remembers being, and he /almost/ lashes out. Almost takes out all his aggression and fear on her.

He bites it back at the last moment, clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt
as Oda dials a number.

It’s hard to /understand/ Kouyou, because she doesn’t have that same ruthlessness that he does. That Oda or Yosano do, a vicious survival instinct that’s been carved into them ever since they were young kids.

Oda chooses to be kind. That’s the kind of
person he is. He creates kindness and compassion, of his own volition.

Yosano can be just as sadistic and heartless as Dazai is, always the other half of Double Black. She’s simmered down as she’s gotten older, but there was a /time/ when she was the most accomplished /torturer/
of the Port Mafia. Skilled and /cruel/, able to carve out answers from any of their prisoners.

Dazai was the only one who could ever keep up with her.

But Kouyou? Kouyou had a /nice/ childhood. Maybe it was never /easy/, but she had a family who loved her. A father who made
mistakes, yes, but one who tried his /best/ to give his kids what they needed and what they wanted. A father who calls Chuuya at /least/ once a week, and he's guessing calls his other children about the same amount.

Cruelty is not innate to Kouyou, nor was it taught to her by
example. She stumbled upon the Mafia by chance, and rose up the ranks with luck and skill, but not by cruelty.

Dazai will admit that attitude is better for the Mafia in the long run--business has never been better for them and relations with the public are reaching a new level
of understanding and complacency-- but it's so /frustrating/ to feel like he's the only one willing to tear down the city to find Chuuya.

It makes him feel like he's a rabid dog, too dumb to understand how to get itself out of a trap, while everyone else is looking on in pity.
He's /not/ stupid. His intelligence is one of the few things that has never been taken away from him, and while he's /riled up/ and anxious right now, that doesn't mean he's /stupid/ or acting out of turn.

It's hard to /think/ when reactionary measures--at least in the present
tense, when reflexes could mean the difference between life and agonizing death-- have been drilled into him since before he graduated middle school.

But he also knows he doesn't have the power here. He gave up his power over the Mafia years ago, and even if he /wanted/ to take
over again, it's not an option now.

Kouyou isn't going to step down willingly, and if Dazai hurts her, Chuuya will /never/ forgive him. He's already screwed things up enough, he doesn't need to add harming his family to his crimes.

And after this, Dazai promises himself that he
won’t ever lie to Chuuya again. It’s probably too little, too late, and he’s under no illusions that it will be enough to solve their fight or earn his forgiveness but—

If Chuuya can forgive him, he’ll make it his life’s mission to make sure he never hurts him again. Dazai
has already forgiven him.

He didn’t give Chuuya a choice either way, and he should’ve known that his curious little baby would go looking for answers. He’s a /brat/ like that.

He just hopes it’s not too late.

On the other side of the room, Oda pulls his phone away from his
ear.

“He’s on his way up. Says everyone in the room owes him a favor, by the way, so I hope everyone is ready to pay up,” Oda informs them, shoving his phone in his pocket.

Behind them all, Akio gapes. “Even me?”

“Yep,” Oda says, popping the ‘p’. “As far as Ranpo is concerned,
everyone in here is ‘incompetent’ and he’s suffering the consequences for it. In his own words, he doesn’t suffer stupidity lightly.”

Kouyou frowns at him. “He called us all incompetent?”

“Well....no,” Oda draws out, shifting on his feet, “Incompetent is the polite form of
what he said.”

Unbidden, Dazai’s lips curl into a smile. Trust Ranpo to have the balls to call the most powerful people in Yokohama a room full of idiots.

“Who is Ranpo anyways?” Akio asks, leaning back in his chair. He seems to have gotten over his nerves and is now enjoying
the perks of being in the same room as them. He’s being eyeing up Kouyou in her modern suit, face turning pink.

He’s lucky that Oda isn’t a jealous man, otherwise he might find his /usefulness/ has quickly expired.

“Ranpo is a detective,” Kouyou explains, straightening from
her place leaning back against the table. She comes around to the front of the room, to where she was sitting before when Dazai barged in. With her long, pink-manicured nails,she begins to gather up all the papers that had been scattered over the table.

Akio’s eyebrows shoot up.
"He's a /dirty cop/? And you're just going to let a dirty cop talk to the Boss like that?"

The last part of the sentence is aimed at /Oda/, with just a hint of sarcasm and disbelief. Poor man has no idea who he's talking to.

Odasaku might /choose/ to be compassionate and kind,
but that doesn't make him less of a /threat/. That doesn't mean he's someone to take lightly.

The personal bodyguard and plaything to the Boss of the Port Mafia is not someone you should underestimate, no matter how unassuming he might act or look.

Dazai aims a smile at Akio,
taunting and condescending. "Why don't you ask him that when he gets up here?"

"A /cop/?" Akio asks, disbelief filtering over his features, "In the Mafia Headquarters?"

This is why the grunts and subordinates don't get sensitive information. They start making /opinions/ before
they even know what they're talking about. /Who/ they're talking about, or what that person is capable of.

This city runs the way it does because Ranpo doesn't care enough to turn them all in. Doesn't care enough to hunt them down and bring them all to justice. He knows enough
to bring all of them down and lock them up for life.

He doesn’t, though, partly because he’s a petty bastard that likes to hold that possibility over their heads to get what he wants, and partly because he understands /very/ well that an uncontrolled criminal underground often
causes more trouble than what it’s worth.

At least Kouyou keeps the drug runners, the prostitues, the illegal arms dealers in /check/. Without a top dog, the rest of the pack quickly becomes wild.

Ranpo must’ve been waiting for a call like this, because it only takes him
twenty minutes before he’s strolling into the room with the sort of casual confidence only he has, hands in his pockets.

“So,” he greets, mischievous glee in his tone, “how’d the family reunion go? Not good?”

Dazai’s eyes snap to him. “You /knew/?” He hisses, outraged.
Ranpo scoffs at him. “Of /course/ I knew? Who do you think I am?”

“And you didn’t /warn me/?” Dazai snaps, throwing his hands up. This entire situation could’ve gone over /much/ smoother if he had /known/ Kouyou was Chuuya’s sister. He wouldn’t have had to storm in here, guns
blazing, and offer to shoot the closest thing he has to a best friend in order to get his demands met. He could’ve just /asked/.

Kouyou crosses her arms over her chest, the imperiousness of her expression completely lost on Ranpo.

“Why would I just give you all the answers?
It's a /lot/ more fun this way," Ranpo says,beelining towards one of the chairs and dropping into it with all the confidence of a king.

"More fun for /you/," Kouyou grits out,looking like she's itching to pull out on of the weapons Dazai /knows/ she has stashed on her somewhere.
"My brother is /missing/."

Ranpo holds up a hand, tsking in annoyance. "That's not on me. I'm not the one who lost him--" Dazai feels the sting of disapproval, making his lip curl, "--and I'm also not the one who refused to prepare him for a possibility like this."

Kouyou
winces, expression closing off.

“Now, you can both choose to be pissy with me because you—“ he points to Kouyou, “are too stupid to think about and Dazai is a coward, in which case I will /happily/ leave to return to my date. Or you can let me have my fun and I’ll help you find
your little pet. Choose quickly.”

He’s in a worse mood than usual, Dazai muses. They must’ve interrupted something important.

With a calming breath, Kouyou gestures to the screen. The picture of the tunnel is frozen there. “We managed to track the car that took him to this
tunnel. After this, we’ve lost sight of him.”

Ranpo hums, rocking back in his seat dangerously far. He pushes his glasses up into his hair, exposing his forehead and piercing green eyes. “Show me the route.”

The silence and tension only grows as Akio painstakingly retraces the
path the car had made. He doesn’t make any mistakes this time, which is good because Ranpo might tear him a new one.

They end on the stillframe as before, a zoomed in view of the now-empty backseat and the different driver. Dazai still doesn’t recognize him, and it doesn’t look
like Ranpo does either, based on his expression.

He tilts his head, eyes unreadable. “Do you have an architectural map of the city? And the service tunnels?”

Kouyou nods, shooting a look at Oda. Her bodyguard disappears from the room without another word, coming back a
few minutes later with twin rolls of paper.

Oda unrolls then in front of Ranpo, weighing down each end with two of the /many/ knives he keeps on him at all times.

The lines of the city map are dark enough that they can be seen even with the tunnel map stacked on top, streets
lined up.

Humming, Ranpo traces the path the car took through the city, pausing when he gets to the tunnel. There's a service tunnel that connects there, but it's not helpful, considering the service tunnels themselves are winding, twisting maze.

"Dazai, you've met with
Fyodor, right?" Ranpo asks without looking up, his finger resting on the service entrance that connects with the main tunnel Chuuya was last seen in.

Dazai nods, pacing closer.

"Put the spots on the map," the detective orders, reaching into his coat and pulling out a /handful/
of tiny throwing knives from one of his many pockets. Makeshift thumb tacks.

It feels wrong to stab a knife into each spot of the map where he'd met with Fyodor, therefore ruining the map with holes, but who is he to argue? He doesn't care to ask for a pencil or something less
/permanent/.

When he's done marking out the dozen or so spots he's met with Fyodor, he leans back, gesturing to Ranpo to work his magic.

A long moment of contemplative silence as Ranpo examines the map with all it's information, green eyes sharp and not missing a single clue.
Then he makes a sharp noise, victorious, followed by a "gotcha".

Kouyou leans forward, hands braced on the table, expression fervent and focused. "You found him? You know where he is?"

It's /remarkable/, how Ranpo can be given /scraps/ of information, and manage to come up with
an answer. Even Dazai, who is considered a prodigy by /most/, wouldn't able to do something like that so quickly or easily.

"Well," Ranpo hedges, leaning back in his chair again. "I know where Fyodor's headquarters /probably/ are, and considering that he's the one that took him,
it's a good place to start."

"Where?" Kouyou demands.

Rampo folds his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here-- we still haven't discussed what's in it for /me/."

To their right, at the head of the table, Akio sucks in a shocked breath.
That seems to be the last straw for Kouyou, the final push that shoves her over the edge into /rage/. In a flash almost too quick to follow, her hand is diving underneath her skirt and whipping out the knife she had strapped to her thigh.

With a snarl, she drives it into the
table only a few centimeters from Ranpo's hand. "That is my /brother/," she hisses, voice hot and angry, "Not a /bargaining chip/."

Unimpressed, Ranpo raises an eyebrow, haughty. "It's going to take a lot more than /that/ butter knife to frighten me. Even if you /could/ use it
on me."

It's a subtle barb, a /pointed/ one, a reminder that Ranpo is probably one of the highest skilled martial artists in the /city/, and it'd take a lot more than Kouyou to take him down. Not even Oda or Dazai can best him regularly.

They don't have /time/ for this. "What
do you want?” Dazai snaps, uncaring that he’s being rude. He doubts Ranpo cares either, as long as he gets what he wants.

Right on cue, his eyes light up. “I’m so glad you asked,” he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. The code to unlock it is quickly
entered, and he presses on the screen a few times. When he finds the page he’s looking for, Ranpo places the phone on the table and slides it over to Dazai.

Curious, he picks it up. It’s an ad listing, for a high-rise apartment near the middle of Yokohama. Expensive, sleek,
newly listed, and /way/ above Ranpo’s pay grade.

“I want that apartment, fully paid for and in my name, by the end of the month,” the detective says, tone firm. He doesn’t sound like he’s in the mood for negotiating.

Dazai clicks through the pictures quickly, wondering why he
needs a new apartment on Dazai’s dime. Besides, letting Dazai know where he intends to live is highly valuable information.

When he gets to the end, he accidentally clicks out and the screen exits into a conversation on a messaging app. The contact name is just one of those
emojis, the one that looks like a dog being walked on a leash. There’s very little conversation that Dazai can see, mostly just Ranpo kicking whoever’s ass repeatedly at Sea Battle.

Whatever. Not his problem, not his concern, and something that he can do easily. “Fine,” he
agrees, sliding the phone back across the table. Ranpo snatches it up quickly, stuffing it back into his pocket.

The next person he speaks to is Kouyou. “I want guaranteed Mafia protection on that apartment, and I want it made /explicitly/ clear to anyone who ever even
considered committing a crime that that apartment is /protected/.”

Kouyou raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow, an expression so familiar that Dazai’s heart pangs with it. She looks so much like Chuuya, how did he miss it until this moment?

“You don’t need mafia protection,”
she points out, and it’s true. Ranpo’s never /needed/ protection.

“You’re right. I don’t need it. I want it. Same way you /want/ to find your little brother,” Ranpo fires back, the curve of his smug grin slightly malicious.

No one is under false impressions here. Ranpo might
be on the side of the “good” guys, and might be a representation of the law—

But if anyone thinks for even a moment that he’s /above/ letting someone die or be tortured in order to get what he wants or to prove a point, they’d be utterly wrong.

Kouyou stares him down for a
moment, evidently testing his resolve before she crumbles and gives him what he wants with an accepting wave of her hand. “Deal.”

Ranpo grins again, folding his hands behind his hand. “Oda,” he calls, louder than before, “I want the secret ingredient to that curry recipe.”

Oda
gapes at him, grumbling, “You cheating bastard, we had a /bet/ that you wouldn’t figure it out.”

“Guess I win that too,” Ranpo crows, victorious, shrugging lightly. “As for the silent guy in the back who thinks he’s escaped my notice, I’ll think of something. You owe me.”

Akio
snorts. He’s too cocky, now that he’s found some solid ground to stand on. “And what if I /refuse/?”

Shrugging, Ranpo turns his head to an almost unnatural degree, pinning the wannabe hacker with a look. “I’ll assume that you have no respect, and I’ll gladly teach it to you
firsthand. Or I could let some information /slip/ to the wrong people and /surprise!/, next thing you know you got government agents knocking on your door and asking to speak with your wife."

Akio goes pale, swallowing hard.

"Tan from the ring you usually wear on your finger,"
Ranpo informs him smugly, rocking back in his chair again.

Too late, Akio takes his hands back and hides them under the desk. "Fine," he mutters, sounding /reluctant/.

Whatever. That idiot isn't Dazai's responsibility to look after, and if he wants to test Ranpo, then let him
find out the hard way exactly why no one fucks with him. Every one finds out eventually.

"You got your deals, now tell us where Fedya's hiding," Dazai says, sharp and demanding. The devil may have gotten his dues but now it's time to /pay up/.

Tsking lightly, Ranpo reaches
for the knife Kouyou had stabbed into the table. He yanks it up, out of the table, moves it over a spot on the map and buries it back into the wood.

"This building, here, overlooks /all/ of those meeting spots in some degree, is in no territory that hasn't already been claimed.
More importantly, it's connected to the service tunnels. He could've easily been moved there, and it's more than likely that Fyodor is in that building. As far as I recall, it's rented space, not owned by any company in particular, which makes it perfect for his tastes."

Great.
That's all Dazai needed. A direction to go in, and the beginnings of a plan.

"I go high, you go low?" He offers, shooting a look at Odasaku and Kouyou. He's assuming Kouyou is up to speed on Odasaku's and his unique form of language, or that her boyfriend will bring her up to
speed.

Dazai will be bait, making a ruckus near the top of the building, where Fyodor will probably be making his office, while Odasaku and his team scour the service tunnels for Chuuya. It's not foolproof or even that great of a plan, but it's already the middle of the night.
Chuuya's been missing for /eight/ hours now. He's four past his scheduled dose, and only another eight until he misses another one.

Anything can happen in eight hours. A person can die in eight hours, they can be /tortured/ in eight hours, they can be /broken/ in eight hours.
The longer they wait, the more likely it is that Chuuya will outlive his /usefulness/, and wind up as a body somewhere in the tunnels.

The longer they wait, the less likely it is that /Chuuya/ will come back at all, and be /okay/.

They need to go work /now/, before Fyodor
gets it into his head to /move/ him.

If Chuuya is moved, then they might never find him again. Dazai will have lost--/again/-- the only thing he finds worth living for. He will have lost anything he wants and everything he loves.

"Yeah," Odasaku agrees, that friendly mask he
was wearing while he bantered with Ranpo dropping away. Instead of the friendly and approachable man that likes to provide housing for orphans, now he's the calm and lethal bodyguard, eyes like frozen ice chips. He crosses his arms over his chest, his dark gray silk shirt
tightening over his biceps.

The holsters under his arms are holding twin pairs of pistols.There's a knife strapped to his thigh as well, what looks like the twin to the one Kouyou had.

"Low and mean?" Oda asks, confirmation.

Asking if he should shoot to /kill/.

Lips peeling
back from his teeth, Dazai grins, sadistic. "You know it."

As far as he's concerned, everyone in that godforsaken building /deserves/ death for /touching/ Chuuya, for /hurting/ him, for even being /associated/ with the people that took him. They all deserve a /death/ sentence,
and Dazai is not afraid to give them one.

Chuuya might not be the /reason/ he left the mafia for a ‘normal’ life, he might not be the reason he first put down his guns—

But he’s the only thing that makes it all fucking /worth it/, and Dazai will rain /hell/ on anyone who
tries to take that away from him. He’ll burn this whole damn city to the ground, he doesn’t /care/.

“I’ll call,” he says, pushing off the table and stalking towards the exit. If he’s going to do this, if he’s going to storm into Fyodor’s office, he needs to be prepared. He
needs to go home first.

Ranpo watches him go, a thoughtful look in his eye.

(Sure, love might make you stupid— but it’s also one of the few things in this world that will make a man tear down his own limits. A driving force that burns hot and pure and vicious, a force that
will make it so /no/ price is too high, no deed too far, no limit unbreakable.

What was the saying? Demons run when a good man goes to war?

Ah, but even the devil himself trembles when a man in love picks up his discarded guns again.)

Dazai has to break quite a few traffic
rules to get home quickly, but he doesn’t even blink at blowing through /several/ red lights on his way there. If someone dares to pull him over because it—

Well, Yokohama will lose a dedicated policeman.

No one does though, and he’s able to screech to a stop outside the
house without a single delay, throwing the door open so he can storm inside.

Home is—

Empty. Painful.

Over the past month or so, he’s stopped thinking of it as /his/ home, and started thinking of it as /their/ home. His and Chuuya’s.

There were his shoes in the doorway,
joined by a few /much/ smaller pairs, lined up neatly. Chuuya’s jacket draped over the couch, his favorite cereal in the pantry, his /candy/ in the garage, his clothes in the right side of the closet, his pink toothbrush next to Dazai’s. A dozen— a /hundred/— tiny little things
that meant little in themselves, but added up to—

That made a /home/. Made it /their/ home.

Every where he steps as he heads upstairs is littered with signs of /Chuuya/, little pieces of settling in and comfort and /love/.

It all hurts. His chest aches for air that never
seems to come, sour and stale. Every beat of his heart feels like it /throbs/, squeezing painfully with earth-shattering pounds.

But the worst thing isn’t the candy or the shoes or the toothbrush. The /hardest/ thing to see are the /pets/.

Usually the dogs greet him as soon
as he walks in the door. Yoko is always the most excitable, but Kozo is diligent in giving him the sniff-over before he’s allowed to come further into the house.

Today... Yoko is nowhere to be found, and Kozo perks up when Dazai first comes in but when he’s not joined by someone
smaller and /brighter/, Kozo’s ears start to droop. He doesn’t come closer to greet Dazai,eyes morosely following his path up the stairs. Eventually the dog lets out a heavy sigh and lays his head on his paws again,gaze fixed on the door.

Waiting for someone /else/ to come home.
When he gets to the bedroom--/their/ bedroom, with /their/ bed, with Chuuya's side and his side, the pillows stacked on Chuuya's side because he's a /cuddler/-- he finds Baki perched on the mountain of pillows and /wailing/.

He's always been loud, and his first reaction tends to
/cry/ whenever he wants something or his food bowl gets a little too low for his tastes. The cat takes after Chuuya that way, loud and /needy/ and adorable.

He stops for a moment when Dazai barges in, but quickly starts up his cries when he doesn't see Chuuya follow him. It's
the middle of the night, the time when Baki is /usually/ cuddled up with Chuuya and peacefully snoring away. He's upset.

He knows something is /wrong/.

He's not the only one, either. Yoko is upset too, she's just /quieter/.

Chuuya is slightly messy, especially with his dirty
laundry. It usually means that the clothes that need to be washed end up as a pile in the back of the closet, one that grows until either one of them finally decides to do laundry.

A pile of clothes that Yoko is now curled up on, head on her paws with her ears drooping. Her
breathing has the slightest hint of a whine on the exhale, quietly whimpering to herself.

Dazai's heart /aches/ for her, because she doesn't /understand/. He, at least, knows what happened, and can rationalize it, even if it hurts.

Yoko can't do that. All she knows is that
Chuuya left /crying/ and upset, and he hasn't come back for /hours/. It's night time, and the schedule for the past few weeks means that Yoko expects them all to be curled up in bed and asleep.

Everything has changed now.

Dazai joins her in the back of the closet, pushing
past rows of hanging clothes. Sighing in sympathy, he crouches down beside her, giving her a few reassuring pets on her head.

She doesn't move, letting herself be petted but not searching for more herself.

"Don't worry, girl," he murmurs to her, "I'm gonna bring him back. I'm
gonna bring him back home to you.”

He /swears/ he will, if it’s the last thing he does. The people and things he loves are /counting/ on him, and he’s not going to let them down.

Not again. Not ever again.

——— +
There's a bad taste in his mouth. Metallic, stinging, like he's bitten down on a metal fork and his teeth are arching from it. Like blood, almost, except no matter how many times he swallows, it never goes away.

His head hurts, so much the pain has passed into dreadful, ominous
pressure that just builds and builds and builds.

At least Chuuya can breathe though. Small mercies, even if it smells /awful/, and he's started to shiver. It's cold in here, freezing all the way to the bone.

The girl-- he wishes he had a better name to refer to her by, but he
doesn't, and every time he's asked, it's lead to.. consequences--has been asking him questions the entire time and he doesn't understand /why/ any of the mundane answers matter, but he answers them anyway.

The searing guilt is better than having water poured over his head again.
He just wishes he could /warn/ his sisters, because this bitch is /sick/, and obviously focused on /them/, but he's pretty sure he's not going to get the chance.

His head feels like it's too heavy and too light at the same time, crackling with energy. It won't be long now, he
thinks. He can almost feel the end coming, the seizure building up momentum at the base of his skull.

The room is still relatively quiet, beyond the sound of him shaking in his chair, the intermittent sounds the girl makes as she drags the metal bucket over the ground to
intimidate him, the metallic clinks of tools that he doesn't /want/ to know clicking together, the slosh of water. It's hard to hear much past his own loud breathing in the wet bag.

But he /does/ hear the sound of a phone notification going off with a /ding!/, interrupting
whatever question she was about to ask. It's the first sound of the /outside/ world that he's heard so far, and for some reason, it makes a choked sob catch in his throat.

After a while, this place really did start to feel like his grave. Cold, wet, painful and /lonely/,
like the real world didn't exist anymore. He was in a place of suffering, of /death/, and nothing else existed anymore.

The girl pauses, and there's a hint of footsteps shortly afterward. When she speaks, she sounds farther away than she was before, and she speaks in a language
he doesn't /know/, but vaguely recognizes from Dazai's phone calls he sometimes overheard.

The memory of it makes him miserable and angry at once. Miserable, because his heart /still/ aches from their fight earlier and he stills feel guilty for going behind Dazai's back like he
did, still feels guilty for stomping on his trust like that--

But /furious/, because if /this/ was a possibility, if winding up in this exact situation was something that always a possibility, then he should've /known/. If he was going to get /hurt/ because of Dazai, then he
should've known. It's not fucking /fair/ that he has to suffer because Dazai is--

Well, because of who Dazai /is/.

If he had known this was a possibility...

Maybe he wouldn't have stayed. Maybe he would've chosen safety over his feelings. Maybe he would've chosen his /family/
over his relationship.

It's too fucking late now though, and because of /that/, because he wasn't given a /choice/, wasn't given a /chance/, there's /rage/ boiling behind the misery.

Honestly, /fuck/ Dazai.

The conversation his /torturer/ is having ends on a sharp, assenting
noise from her, followed by the sound of a phone being flipped shut. Must be a burner phone, because not many people Chuuya knows still have a flip phone in this day and age.

"It seems to be your lucky day," the girl sighs, sounding frustrated. This time, her footsteps are loud
and /aggressive/, like she's angry over something and stomping back over to him.

Personally, Chuuya would go on record to say this is probably one of his /worst/ days, but that's a matter of perspective, he guesses. It's not like he's being asked either, so he very /wisely/
keeps his opinion to himself.

It's a good thing too, because in the /next/ moment, there's something sharp and cold being pressed to his arm, and he's automatically tensing, thinking this is it, this is how it ends, that's a /knife/ right against my wrists, it's all over--

The
ropes holding his hands in place are sliced off, and he almost falls over when his arms flop back to his sides, completely numb from restricted blood flow.

What? What's going on? Why is he being untied? Don't they only let people go when they're about to /kill/ them? That's what
happens in the /movies/, and that's really all he has to go on right now, so.

"Move it," the girl snaps at him, one of her hands wrapping around Chuuya's upper arm and yanking him along.

She must be taller than him or she walks /very/ quickly, because she practically drags him
out of the room. Chuuya has no choice but to stumble after her, blind and freezing and near-deaf, arms numb with blood restriction and his feet so cold he can barely feel them, heart pounding in his throat.

"Where are we going?" He croaks, daring to speak up. It burns to speak,
throat sore from all the water forced down his nose, but it's an oversight compared to the throbbing in his temples.

There's a disapproving tsk, another pull on his arm. "You're going to meet someone /very/ important. I suggest you watch your manners, or I will beat them back
into you."

Sure. Chuuya's a nice guy, a /reasonable/ guy, he has no reason to be /rude/. Though, he doesn't want to meet 'someone important' if he had a say in it. He's had enough of 'important people' and he just wants to go /home/.

"Stairs," is his only quick warning before
his shoe hits a concrete step and he nearly falls on his face. Only her hand on his arm keeps him upright, and she's /surprisingly/ strong as she hauls him up the stairs.

He has to scramble to keep up, and it's /hard/ to navigate stairs when he can't see them and he doesn't have
a handrail to hold on to, and he's not allowed to take them at his own pace, but he somehow manages to keep himself from face planting and giving himself a broken nose on top of everything else.

He's not sure how long the stairs are, or the hallway that comes after them, but he
recognizes the sound of an elevator being called and the sound of the doors opening with a mechanical whir.

So they're going upstairs? To a different part of the building? He would /guess/ that there's a secret underground entrance somewhere, because they probably don't want to
/flaunt/ that they have an underground torture room. At least, that's what he's /assuming/, but he only has movies and /novels/ to go off of, so. He could be wrong.

He just hopes the bag gets taken off his head soon, because it's still wet and he has to lean forward to make sure
it doesn't stick to his mouth and nose, so that he can breathe. He can't see a damn thing, and being yanked around while he's defenseless makes him /nervous/.

Now that he's untied though, he could fight. He's not sure he could /win/, considering how off-balance he is and how
numb his hands are but--

He could. Maybe it'd land him nowhere except in more pain, but /fuck/. Is he really going to just stand here and take being /tortured/ when he has the ability to fight? When his hands were already tied when he woke up is a different story, but now...
He can /do/ something about it. /Wants/ to do something about it, because the idea of going down /nicely/, without a fight, makes him want to bare his teeth. This is the /reason/ he became a Judo champion, and as soon as he gets a little more feeling back into his hands, he's
/going/ to do something.

It's amazing, how much /life/ and fight he can get back, now that he's up and moving.

The elevator lurches upwards,and he tries to count the floors by how long the ascent takes, subtly flexing his fingers. They're so cold that it hurts to move it hands
because of how stiff they are, but it's warmer up here and the more he moves them, the easier it gets.

He does the same with his toes in his soaked sneakers, wiggling them and trying to get feeling back into them.

If the girl tries to shove him into another torture room or
tries to tie him up again, or anything along those lines, he's going down /swinging/.

It's a long ride up to the top, punctuated hilariously by the serene sounds of elevator music playing faintly in the background. The girl is quiet again, hand bruisingly tight on his arm but
otherwise quiet. That feels like an /ominous/ sign, like she's preparing herself for the next series of events.

Like /he/ should be preparing himself.

Then the elevator slows to a stop with a too-cheery /ding!/ and he tenses, fully expecting to be thrown out of the elevator or
for someone to reach /in/ and drag him out, anything--

But nothing happens except for the girl stepping forward herself and taking Chuuya with her.

Outside the elevator is /silence/. Pure utter silence that makes their every step echo too loudly, like it's a room full of
/nothing/.

Better a room full of nothing than a room full of /cruel/ things, right? Should this be a good sign? Should he be /glad/ that he doesn't hear anything or anyone? Not everyone is as /quiet/ as the girl is, and he's straining his ears so hard his head gives a twinge of
pain in protest, but he can't hear anyone else even breathing.

It sounds like they're alone again.

He feels the girl beside him lurch forward, reaching forward with her other arm, and then the sound of doors opening.

Before he can react, he's being /shoved/ forward, damn near
tossed on his /face/, and he yelps. His hands connect with the floor painfully, barely able to catch himself. Sharp pain rockets up his right wrist, arm nearly collapsing under his own weight.

Behind him, the doors shut again with a resounding slam.

He scrambles upward, right
arm held to his chest as he struggles to get back to his feet. His heart is pounding sickeningly in his chest, and his thoughts are /racing/, wondering where the next touch is coming from, wondering where the pain is going to come from, bracing himself.

Nothing happens, and he's
able to get to his feet without incident.

"You can take that off now," someone says, further in the room. The voice is /deeper/, more fluent in Japanese,the accent buried deeper. It's /familiar/, someone he's heard twice before.

Three times now. /Fyodor/.

Reaching up, Chuuya
grabs the wet cloth over his head and yanks it off. It feels disgusting against his hands, water dripping down his hands and wrists. His hair is dragged along with it, tangled, as he pulls it off completely.

Light bursts in his eyes, bright enough to make him wince and squint.
The relief of being able to /see/ almost makes him choke again, blinking rapidly to clear the too-bright stars from his eyes.

The cloth bag drops to the floor with a disgustingly wet slap.

When his vision finally clears, thirty seconds of agonizing terror where he's /still/
helpless, waiting for the /catch/, the sight he's greeted with is a well-furnished luxurious office, decked out in red's and blacks. The very picture of wealth and power, and at the head of it all, reclined confidently at a large desk, is Fyodor Dostoevsky himself, all sharp
smile and devils eyes, dark and dangerous.

"I underestimated you, Nakahara Chuuya," he greets, like that /means/ something. He takes a bottle perched on the edge of his desk, pulling out two shot glasses and placing them in front of him. Opening the bottle, he pours some of the
clear liquid in each glass, an exact equal amount in each one. "Drink?"

It's probably a /bad/ idea to take a drink from someone who had him /waterboarded/,but Chuuya could /use/ one. He comes closer slowly, eyeing Fyodor warily.

He's not sure what he means by /underestimating/
him, considering Chuuya spilled every little secret and piece of information he could come up with, but what does he know. Maybe he knew more than Fyodor expected him to.

He sinks into one of the offered chairs, grimacing slightly when his wet pants stick to his skin and squelch
disgustingly underneath him as he sits.

A shotglass is slid over the table at him, and Chuuya squints at it suspiciously. He saw it poured, and he saw the clean glasses, but he's not /completely/ sure if the alcohol can be trusted.

As if sensing his distrust, Fyodor raises his
own glass with a knowing smirk, and swallows it in one gulp.

And,well--

Chuuya isn't /supposed/ to be drinking right now. It's dangerous on /principle/ and he's not supposed to mix alcohol with his meds but--

Fuck it, right? He doesn't want to die /completely/ sober, and it's
not like anyone is /looking/ for him, and it's not like he can fight his way out of the entire building. He just /can't/, and you know, maybe he doesn't /deserve/ to after spilling all of his family's secrets like they were candy.

Sighing, he leans forward and takes the glass.
He gives it a cursory sniff, making a face at how strong it smells. Not surprising that Fyodor has the /good/ stuff.

Holding his breath, he downs it in two gulps. It burns going down, and hits his empty stomach hard. He's still not sure what time it is, but from what he can see
of the sky through the windows, it's dark. Judging by that and the rumbling of his stomach, it's /late/. Way past dinner time, probably about the time he'd be curled up in bed with Daz--

Swallowing hard, wishing he had something to chase it with, he dares to ask, "Why did you
take me?"

He's expecting...

Well, /hopefully/, a damn classic evil-villain monologue, where Fyodor lays out all his plans and gloats about his victory, all that nonsense. Or he'll laugh in Chuuya's face before telling him what he's about to do with him. That sort of thing.
He's not expecting for Fyodor to lean back in his chair with a heavy sigh as he pours himself another drink. Waving the bottle at Chuuya, he offers him another shot.

This one,he declines, already feeling uncomfortable heat roiling in his stomach.

"You're a special man, Chuuya,"
he says, swirling the vodka inside the glass. "Dazai, I can handle. Even the Port Mafia, I was prepared for. But the Armed Detective Agency? I wonder what makes /you/ so special that you can get nearly the entire city up in arms over /you/."

The speech makes his breath catch.
Because--

He didn't think he was /unloved/, but neither of his sisters knew where he is, and Dazai either didn't /care/ or he didn't know he was missing, and he just--

He just didn't /know/ that anyone was coming to look for him. He'd convinced himself that no one was coming,
that he was /alone/. That by the time anyone realized what was happening, it’d be too late for him.

The question slips out of him unconsciously, shock and relief too much to hold back entirely. “Dazai’s coming?”

A dark eyebrow, perfectly shaped, arches in response. “Did you
think he wouldn’t?”

Chuuya doesn’t answer, the lingering taste of alcohol turning sour on his tongue, because—

Because he really thought he /wouldn’t/. Not necessarily because he thought Dazai was a bad person, or that he wouldn’t care, but because Chuuya had broken his trust
so badly that he wouldn’t /save/ him. That this was sick karma for what Chuuya did— for what both of them did— and that he deserved this.

“Poor Dazai,” Fyodor sighs, shaking his head in disapproval, “No one ever has any /faith/ in that man. They’re always waiting for a reason
to suspect the knife behind his back. I barely had to say /anything/ to you to get you believe that... what was it? He was a serial killer that had targeted you? Very disappointing.”

Guilt drips down Chuuya’s spine, ice cold. It hurts because it’s /true/. It only took a fifteen
minute conversation for him to be questioning everything he knew about Dazai. Everything that Dazai has /showed/ him and told him, every caring act suddenly in question.

“Why are you telling me this?” Chuuya asks, not addressing that jab. “If Dazai’s coming for me then why are
we having a conversation instead of—“

He cuts himself off there because he /doesn’t/ want to give Fyodor the idea of killing him, or even remind him that that is an option. Judging by the way his sharp smile widens, though, he already knows.

“This is our last chance at
a conversation, figured I’d make the most of it,” Fyodor says, folding his hands over his stomach. Despite everything, there’s a calm, authoritative aura radiating from him.

Chuuya goes cold, his next breath catching in his throat. “Are you gonna—?”

He can’t even /say/ it.
When he was hopeless and convinced that there was nothing in store for him but /pain/, the idea of death was a relief. It was better than staying down there with the girl— who has disappeared now, nowhere to be seen— and he almost /wanted/ it.

But now he has /hope/, and he
doesn’t want to /actually/ die. He wants to go /home/, he wants—

He wants to see Dazai again. Things are complicated now and it hurts but he wants to see him again. Hug him, hold him, kiss him.

He’s not /ready/.

“Are you asking if I’m going to kill you?”

Chuuya stares at
him, trying not to show the fear that is rapidly rising in him.

“Tempting, but no. While the idea of teaching Dazai a lesson is /appealing/, I’m not willing to have all the work I’ve done here destroyed. I didn’t anticipate the Agency getting involved, and that’s a mistake I
can’t fix. So, lucky day for you. You get to go home today.”

Chuuya collapses backward in his seat, relief rushing through him so strongly he feels lightheaded from it.

He gets to go /home/. He gets to be /okay/, gets to see another sunrise and see Dazai again. See his sisters
again, see /Yoko/ and Baki again. See all his friends again.

Something occurs to him then. “Then why did you say that this is going to be our last chance at conversation? Not that I /want/ to talk to you, but if you’re still going to be working with Dazai then...?”

There’s a
sparkle in his eyes that makes Chuuya think he /finally/ asked the right question. “Considering just how many people I upset with this move, I’ll be going back home. I’ve done enough work here, and it’s time for my daughter to step up.”

Chuuya blinks. “You have a /daughter/?”
“Oh yes. You’ve met, though I don’t believe you liked her. She has that affect on some people.”

Oh. It clicks for him then. The similar accents, the stilted Japanese, the /questions/, the phone call.

It’s /her/, the girl who was bucket-happy with the water boarding. What a
/lovely/ family.

Of course, now that he knows Fyodor isn’t going to hurt or seriously maim him, Chuuya starts to get a little /bold/. His head is still pounding and it makes him /irritable/. “Isn’t that kind of cowardly? Leaving your daughter to deal with the fallout of what
/you/ did. Don’t you have a wife or something? Won’t /she/ be pissed that you’re putting her in danger?”

Fyodor scoffs, smile growing with amusement. He reaches up, brushing his black hair away from his face. The silver rings on his fingers shine in the light of the overhead
lamps. “Trust me, Nika is /more/ than capable of handling herself. She’s been /dying/ to get her hands on Dazai. More importantly, everyone knows that the Mafia has a soft spot for children.”

She’s a /child/? She can’t be much younger than himself, with how tall and strong she
was, but he can’t imagine any sort of /child/ doing /any/ of the things she did to him, let alone being in charge of a /gang/. That’s—

That’s /bad parenting/.

“No wife though, if you’re interested,” Fyodor continues, raking his eyes down Chuuya’s soaked and disheveled form
in a blatantly appraising look that makes him feel /dirty/.

“Then what about her /mom/? Why are you letting a /kid/ do... all of that stuff? I mean, don’t you /care/?”

Another tsk, a disapproving shake of his head. “Of course I care. But we aren’t /soft/ like you. Power is in
her /blood/. It’s her birthright, and the thing she’s been working towards since the day her mother died.”

Chuuya /can’t/ wrap his head around that, but he supposes he’s in no position to talk morals with a criminal who kidnapped and tortured him. A conversation like that won’t
end well in an agreement or end well for him at all.

Sure,Fyodor might’ve said he wouldn’t kill /him/,but he’s mentioned nothing about his /sisters/, so he should play nice until he can /warn/ them.

“Sorry for your loss,” he mutters, dipping his head. He wants this conversation
to be over with. Let Fyodor say what he wants to say, and then Chuuya will...

Walk outside and find a public phone, or something. He doesn’t have his, and he doesn’t know where he’s at either.

“Yes, it was very tragic. Killed by one of my rivals back in Moscow. Nika was very
young. Just a little girl, so precious,” Fyodor says, pouring himself /another/ drink and raising it up in a silent salute before he downs it. His eyes are still razor sharp and intent, even though he’s taken three shots—that Chuuya has seen— in the span of ten minutes. He must
have a hell of an alcohol tolerance.

“I’m sorry,” Chuuya repeats, unsure of what else to /say/. He’s not /glad/ that anyone died, and he can certainly empathize with the woman, but marrying a crime boss comes with it’s risks. Certainly— /hopefully/— she knew that.

(The irony
of /that/ line of thinking won’t hit him until later, when he’s lounging in an outdoor garden in France, only a mile away from a prestigious winery.)

“Oh, don’t be,” the Russian boss says, waving a hand with a charming smile. “She knew the risks. She knew what would happen if
her crime was discovered.”

The confusion must be written all over his face, because Fyodor continues with an impish, self-satisfied grin, “Annika was killed by her husband when he discovered that the daughter he had been raising was not his blood, but /mine/.”

Oh. That’s...
That’s certainly /interesting/. He’s not sure if /death/ is the acceptable punishment for cheating on your husband and having a child with another man but—

What does Chuuya know? He’s not /Russian/, he’s not rich or powerful, he’s not a gang boss. He’s just a normal, ordinary
guy who’s first reaction probably wouldn’t be /murder/, and instead would be...

Couples therapy? Divorce? Split custody arrangements?

“Right. That’s, uh... unfortunate,” Chuuya draws out, wondering what the /fuck/ he’s supposed to say to that.

Wondering what the hell he’s
supposed to say to /any/ of this, because he certainly wasn’t expecting a damn /conversation/ with his kidnapper. Is he supposed to be nice or just... sit here awkwardly?

“You must understand that if you tell Dazai /any/ of this, Nika will be /very/ upset. She’s not... very
understanding when it comes to things like this.”

Chuuya passes a hand over his face, confused as hell and on the verge of breaking into tears. “Why are you even telling me this if you’re just gonna tell me not to tell anyone? That doesn’t make any sense.”

He feels like a
rat in a /cage/, making his way through the maze to get the food and hoping he doesn’t get /shocked/ for it.

“Simple, solnyshko— I want to see how well you /obey/. You must be /very/ good for Dazai to be so infatuated with you,” is his answer, one that automatically makes his
nose wrinkle in response. The idea of Fyodor hitting on him might’ve been appealing /before/ but now it’s /not/. Now it makes him feel /cornered/, because he obviously can’t /tell/ the man to go take a dive off a balcony.

“Call it an insurance policy. You talk, Nika comes to
say hello.”

Right. That makes sense. Fine. That’s okay.

Fyodor sighs when he doesn’t go to answer, pouring himself /another/ drink. The dark purple of his shirt matches the dark color of his eyes. “You aren’t very talkative, are you?”

“Somehow,” Chuuya says, eyeing him, “I’m
not really feeling up for conversation.”

“Understandable— but at least make it /entertaining/ while we wait,” Fyodor responds, tone thick with disappointment. He sounds like a lecturing professor, sitting down with an antisocial student. Way too casual for /this/ kind of
situation.

“Wait for what?”

Just then, there’s /commotion/ outside the door Chuuya came in through, something that sounds like /shouting/ and a muffled gunshot. The noise makes him flinch, heart jumping in his chest.

Fyodor doesn’t seem surprised, head tilting. “For him.”
/Dazai/. Dazai’s /here/, he has to be here, he /came/ for him.

Heart pounding for a whole different reason, Chuuya twists in his seat to watch the door with wide eyes. Even though the noise outside is getting /louder/, and should be scary considering all he went through—

He
doesnt feel anything except /relief/, so visceral and overwhelming that tears are welling up in his eyes from it. The feeling of water on his face when they spill over makes a reactionary twinge of fear spark through him, but it’s easily ignored.

(For now.)

The noise outside
come to a sharp crescendo, with the sound of something that sounds like /glass/ being shattered.

After that, it stops completely, and Chuuya’s entire being feels like it’s hanging in the resulting silence, focus zeroed in on the door, vibrating with anticipation—

The door
opens with a /slam/, kicked in by one of the knee-high boots that Dazai is wearing. They look heavy, each step resoundingly loud as he stalks into the office.

/Finally/. The end is in sight.

Another round of tears is started, and these ones Chuuya has to reach up and wipe
away because the feeling of water trickling down his face makes him /itch/, in a bad way.

Dazai must not have been expecting him to be here, because his expression is tight with fury when he enters, black coat flaring behind him, and when his eyes find Chuuya in his seat—
They widen with surprise, mouth going slack as he takes him in. He looks /shocked/, relieved, concerned, so many emotions flashing over his face so quickly that Chuuya can’t keep up.

Just as quickly, his eyes are hardening again, turning flat black with anger, gaze snapping up
to find Fyodor behind him.

“I thought you knew better than to touch what belongs to /me/,” he hisses, half-feral, teeth sharp and possessive. He’s holding a pair of guns, one in each hand.

Chuuya’s never seen a /real/ gun before. He’s only seen them in the movies and the way
the black metal seems to eat all the light to leave a dark, lethal hole, it's--

It's /menacing/. More than the vicious tone in Dazai's voice, the dark possession in his words, more than the lingering smell of top-shelf vodka and oiled ropes.

For the first time, Chuuya is
seeing who Dazai /really/ is. What he is.

Not the charming father or the suave boyfriend, or the doting and caring partner. Not any of those other facets of Dazai that he has seen and known and /loved/.

This is not Dazai. This is the /Demon Prodigy/, laced and booted for war,
dangerous. The type of man that can, will and /has/ killed someone, and might again. The type of man that causes whispers of dread and fear in even powerful men.

The type of man that-- despite everything that happened, all the secrets and hurt feelings and mistakes, despite all
the mistakes and thelittle pieces of themselves that have been broken and damaged,despite the fact that Chuuya probably /shouldn't/--

Despite everything,he is /still/ the man that Chuuya goes to,when he slides one gun into a holster under the opposite arm and holds out his hand.
Pushing out of his chair feels as natural as breathing, stumbling towards him is inevitable as gravity. Chuuya doesn't /care/ about those other things right now. He can be upset later, but right now, he wants /Dazai/ and he wants to go home.

"Oh, come in, I'm not busy," is
Fyodor's response, followed by a slight shuffle of movement behind Chuuya.

In a flash,the gun in Dazai's non-dominant hand is coming up, pointed unerringly at Fyodor.

Chuuya freezes, caught between fear and the urge to drop to the floor and cover his head, thinking frantically

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Apr 10, 2023
thinking about how dazai changed his entire life after his friend died and chuuya's complicated feelings on it considering he lost his closest friends twice (thrice, if he includes dazai) and nothing changed
i dont think chuuya Hates being in the mafia, but he's also had very little control over his own life and he's lost a lot and he must know that mori would sacrifice him or anything he loved if it would benefit the mafia
and it must burn something terrible to watch dazai (apathetic, heartless dazai) lose one person important to him and go to drastic measures to make sure it never happened again, while chuuya wakes up every day and works for the organization that killed kids for his loyalty
Read 5 tweets
Apr 9, 2023
“You only want to go on dates with /me/?”

— was if he felt the same way.

The air in the room suddenly feels too thick to breathe. All the exhaustion from earlier has disappeared, replaced by buzzing nerves. Mouth dry, he nods.

Without looking away, Dazai places his
toothbrush back into it’s cup. In two long strides, he’s crowding into Chuuya’s space. One of his hands hooks behind the nape of Chuuya’s neck, grabbing him like he /owns/ him and holding him firmly in place.

“Good,” Dazai says, and his voice is dripping with self-satisfaction.
“You’re the only person I want and I’m the only one allowed to even /think/ about touching you. You’re /mine/.”

Before Chuuya can register what he just said, Dazai is using his grip on him to pull him into a forceful, all-consuming kiss. It was already hot in here, thanks to
Read 28 tweets
Mar 10, 2023
Thinking about…. Pacific rim + ada dazai/pm Chuuya au…
ALRIGHT so I’m thinking in this au that the ada is an offshoot branch of the government/military focused on kaiju defense and the mafia is an illegal underground organization that protects yokohama
The ADA and the mafia are in direct opposition because ALL jaeger tech is patented by the United military and all nonauthorized replications are highly illegal.

But it’s the end of the world, and the mafia is rich. They own the black market and sell every piece of every kaiju.
Read 6 tweets
Mar 10, 2023
Yosano is bluffing. The corner of her mouth always twitches when she’s bluffing, exposing just the golden tip of her right fang. She covers it up with a glare, eyes narrowed and focused viciously on his face.

Dazai stares back at her over his handful of cards, making sure to
keep the arrogant smile she hates on his face.

Between them, lay their prize:

An entire handful of cigarettes. Prison currency, the only thing between these concrete walls that holds any real value.

Dazai isn’t much of a smoker himself— he does smoke, but he finds it more
more useful in social situations than as an addiction to get stuck with— but Yosano is. She’s chewing on a toothpick now, going for the cool, casual air—

But Dazai knows. She wants to win, just as much as he does. If he wins, he’s going to get a haircut. She’s the only one in
Read 60 tweets

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