Thread by @asvndre

There is a point where Dazai slips away for a few moments while everyone is crowding into an ice cream shop for dessert. There’s a convenience store not even a block away, and he ducks in to buy a pack of cigarettes.

It’s been a /long/ time since he’s smoked regularly, but it’s

been a /stressful/ day, so he deserves a little stress relief.

Besides, he’s fairly certain Oda still smokes, and it’s a good excuse to catch up with him. They haven’t really talked since Dazai pointed a gun at him, and while he’s sure there won’t be any hard feelings— it’s far

from the /first/ time they’ve held a gun to each other’s heads— he’s sure Oda will be /less/ happy that he indirectly threatened Kouyou.

The man takes his job seriously. If Dazai were anyone else, his existence would’ve been wiped from the planet by now. Oda might not be /cruel/

but he is protective, loyal to a fault.

He's also in /love/, and Dazai can understand the sentiment. There isn't much he wouldn't do to keep Chuuya safe and happy.

When he returns, only Chuuya seems to have noticed he slipped away for a few minutes. He beams at him, his

happiness all the more tangible and obvious when he's surrounded by the people he loves.

Dazai takes his place next to him easily, dropping an arm over his shoulders. Chuuya offers him a bite of his ice cream-- dark cherry chocolate-- and even though it's Dazai's least favorite

flavor, he still leans down and obediently opens his mouth.

The sweetness of chocolate has nothing on how sweet Chuuya's smile makes him feel.

After that, the group spends a little while roaming the local shopping mall, taking in all the sights. Dazai hasn't been to a smaller

cities in a while, and there’s something… homey about it’s simpler charms. It’s not as /loud/ as the big cities are, and not so bright.

Quieter, in a way that makes Dazai feel like he might belong if he decided to make a home here.

His arm squeezes over Chuuya’s shoulders. If

/they/ decide to make a home here, he silently amends himself, secure in his secret thoughts.

He won’t put words to it yet but—

Maybe someday. Maybe if he’s lucky enough.

Despite the /awkwardness/ of the initial meeting, Dazai actually gets along pretty well with the group.

There’s still lingering tension between him and Kouyou, but Oda is as deadpan-funny as he always is. Rimbaud is /suspicious/ of Dazai, but he’s friendly enough. Kyouka is rebellious and /sneaky/ and she has this way of inciting chaos just to watch the world burn that is funny.

Chuuya is not the /greatest/ of peace-makers—he gets into a heated fight with Kyouka about how Xbox is /way/ better than PlayStation for at least ten minutes—but there’s something about his loud exuberance that’s contagious.

All in all, the first evening goes great. Dazai waves

goodbye to Kyouka as they make their way out of the mall. She got a hotel nearby, and she’s eager to duck out in a way that speaks of someone or something waiting for her there.

Unfortunately, Dazai didn’t find anything to get Chuuya for his birthday at the stores, but he

already has a few things that he ordered online and another few ideas that he’ll complete once they get back home.

After all, it’s his /first/ birthday they’re going to celebrate together, and Dazai doesn’t want to do anything by half. After the year his chibi has had, he

deserves to be spoiled.

Not that he isn't already-- a fact Chuuya would /argue/ against-- but it's his birthday, and a little extra spoiling is good.

When they arrive back at Rimbaud's place, Kouyou and Chuuya head inside with their father. Dazai settles on the cramped front

porch to give them some private time, extracting the pack of cigarettes he'd stashed in his pocket.

Packing the tobacco with a few slaps of the pack on the palm of his hand, opening it up and bringing one to his lips is a long-forgotten habit that feels as familiar as it does

new.

"So," a teasing voice interrupts, "You survived your first day. How's it feel?"

Dazai looks up but as Oda comes to a stop on the porch, leaning against a pillar. He looks relaxed and happy, a playful grin on his face his hands shoved in his pockets.

Rolling his eyes,

Dazai tosses the pack at him. Oda catches it easily, hoping up to sit on the railway framing the porch. It doesn’t look strong enough to hold someone like him, but that doesn’t seem to bother him.

“Stressful,” Dazai mutters, taking a long drag and feeling a low buzz begin to

grow in his veins. Nicotine highs are such a /strange/ one to him, a high that makes his body feel hollow but his mind clear.

“Mm,” Oda hums, taking out a cigarette and cupping his hands around his mouth to light the end. The brief flash of the lighter makes his eyes flare in

the dimming twilight. Sunset has passed long ago. "To be fair, you did a lot better than I thought you would. He /cried/ when he met me. Something about his kids being all grown up now."

Unbidden, Dazai's lips twitch with amusement. The mental image of that is hilarious. "I'm

surprised he didn't run me out, especially after the--"

He shuts his mouth before he brings up the /daddy/ thing, because going through it was already bad enough, and relieving the visceral embarrassment of it might put him in an early grave.

Oda laughs though, knowing exactly

what he's talking about even if he doesn't /say/ it. He doesn't know why /he's/ laughing, because he distinctly remembers making awkward eye contact with Kouyou during that, not that he's going to think too deeply on why she looked up.

"Nah. He likes you," he says confidently,

like he doesn’t even have to think about that.

Dazai… doubts that. There have been very, /very/ few people that have actually liked him. Maybe temporarily, maybe in the context of a situation—

But /truly/ liked him? Only a handful of people have ever done that, not that he’s

ever gone out of his way to be liked.

It’s fine. He’s gotten used to it over the years.

When Dazai snorts disbelievingly, Oda kicks a booted foot out at him. “It’s true,” he insists. “The man only wants what’s best for his kids, and he’s have to be blind to not see how much

you love Chuuya. Or he loves you.”

That’s true. Dazai’s lips curl into a small smile around his cigarette. There are very few things he’s done right in his life, but Chuuya will always be one of them.

He’s not perfect by any means, but he’ll try his best.

He hopes Oda is

right, because Dazai doesn't have a /lot/ of practice in making himself more palatable for others but he does want Chuuya's family to like him. They're important to him, and thus, they're important to Dazai.

"You deserve to be liked, Osamu," Oda says suddenly, with a intensity

that he rarely gets, only when he /means/ it. "I know we've all done bad things, and I know you've been hurt a lot, but--" he shrugs helplessly, taking another drag, "--you deserve to be liked. You deserve to be loved."

Dazai blinks at his old friend, torn between shrugging the

odd proclamation off by ignoring it or denying it the way his gut makes him want to.

Pain is a dull, familiar friend,and it only hurts worse if you start to realize you don't deserve it.

Before he can decide, the front door is opening up again and two redheads are stepping out.

One of them-- the taller of the two-- goes immediately to Oda, reaching up to grab his jaw, perfectly manicured nails digging slightly into his cheeks. "I thought you quit smoking," Kouyou says, voice soft despite the imperiousness of her words.

Oda's smile is garbled with how

she's squishing his cheeks, but it's genuine all the same. "I did."

He leans forward, obviously trying to go for a kiss, but Kouyou pushes him back. "You're not kissing me with that ashtray for a mouth," she denies, patting him on the cheek. "We're leaving, get in the car."

It

should be embarrassing how quickly Oda hops up to follow orders, but Dazai's attention is eclipsed by something /far/ more important to him:

Chuuya, beaming like the sun when he spots Dazai on the chair, padding over to him.

There's something so /domestic/ and wonderfully

familiar about how easily Chuuya approaches him, sliding into his lap with one knee on either side of his hips. It speaks to how comfortable he is with him, that he doesn't even hesitate before touching him.

"Hi," he says, like the few minutes they were seperated from each other

was a distance worthy enough to be greeted again now that he's returned.

Dazai's smile is big, unable to contain the overflowing affection in his chest. He lifts his hand, moving the still-lit cigarette downwind so none of the smoke gets in Chuuya's face. "Hello."

Kouyou clears

her throat awkwardly, looking like she wants to say something but isn’t quite sure what.Hesitance isn’t something that settles naturally on her shoulders, but it’s been something that’s been showing up more often now.

Their relationship— both Kouyou’s with Chuuya and with Dazai—

has been understandably /strained/ ever since the… /incident/, as Chuuya likes to refer to it. None of them really know where they stand with eachother, and Chuuya has been working through a lot of anger and betrayal Kouyou’s secrets have brought in him.

He’s better now, but

there are parts of him that will never be the same. There’s a defensive anger that flares up more easily and hotly than ever before, and there are still some nights he can’t bear to have the lights off.

They’ll work through it with time, Dazai’s sure, and he does his best to

encourage Chuuya to reach out but—

He has his /own/ issues with Kouyou to work through, and it’s not like she’s ever liked him either. Truth be told, it’s awkward for everyone.

Kouyou has been surprisingly civil for the entire trip, and even now she just blows her bangs out

her eyes. “See you two tomorrow?”

It’s /progress/, of sorts, that she includes Dazai instead of frostily ignoring his existence. Hell, he’s starting to feel welcomed.

Chuuya waves at her, his expression slightly stilted now that he doesn’t have company to distract him. “Yeah.”

Kouyou hesitates, looking like she wants to say /more/, but eventually let’s it go. She turns with her own wave goodbye, and heads down the drive.

“Say hi to Yosano for me,” Dazai calls after her, asking his cigarette. He takes another drag, carefully keeping his face turned so

none of the smoke gets in Chuuya's face. He might be a murderer, but he has /manners/.

It's Oda that acknowledges his words, raising a hand from where he's leaning against the driver side of their car waiting for Kouyou to get in. She does so without hesitating, murmuring

something over the roof of the car to him that makes him smile.

Then it's just him and Chuuya, alone for the first time since they arrived hours ago. Not /completely/ alone, because Rimbaud is in the house somewhere, possibly listening in or peeking out the window to make sure

Dazai isn't /corrupting/ his son or something like that.

He hadn't realized how spoiled he'd gotten with having Chuuya all to himself for most of the time until he had to share him. Part of him just wants to curl up with Chuuya and shamelessly beg for attention until he's all

warm and fuzzy inside.

"I didn't know you smoked," Chuuya says, shifting to get more comfortable on his lap. He's gained weight again, his recovery evident in how much healthier he looks, and Dazai cherishes every second of it.

He shrugs. "I don't, really. It was a bad habit I

kicked years ago. I haven't smoked in a while."

Chuuya looks at him, blue eyes seeming to look /through/ him, straight to his soul, reading between the lines. Before, it would've made Dazai /uncomfortable/, but now it just makes him feel...seen. Safe. Secure and known and loved.

"What made you start again?"

Dazai scrunches his nose at him. "Specifically the moment you mentioned Shuuji."

Chuuya /laughs/ at him, the little brat, sliding closer and giving him the doe-eyed innocent look that he knows he can't resist. "It wasn't /that/ bad," he teases, "You

survived, didn’t you?”

“Barely.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Chuuya snickers, reaching up and wrapping his fingers around Dazai’s wrist. He barely even tugs, but even the lightest pressure from him would have Dazai bending. “Dad might be intimidating, but he likes you.”

Guiding

his hand to his mouth, Chuuya finds the butt of the cigarette and takes a drag without ever pulling the stick out of his fingers.

He’s overzealous though, and takes a /big/ hit, clearly overestimating his abilities to handle the smoke. There’s a second where his eyes squeeze

shut, watering quickly.

Then Dazai has to take his hand back quickly as he launches into a series of hard coughs, hoarse.

“That’s,” he croaks between coughs, blinking away tears, “not what I remembered it was like.”

Ah, yes. Dazai remembers hearing all about the two weeks

Chuuya became a “rebel” during his last semester of highschool and spent his lunches chain smoking underneath the school bleachers. He even, he had boasted, ditched school once to go to an /arcade/, just because he could.

Cute. Dazai /likes/ the rebellious side of him, even if

he doesn’t indulge in it often.

“That was over a year ago,” he reminds him, unable to help his fond smile, “and these are menthols. They hit harder, at first.”

Recovered from his coughing fit, Chuuya makes a face at him. “Alright, cool guy,” he mutters, then makes grabby hands

at his cigarette again. “Give it back, it tasted good.”

Normally, Dazai would /share/, but Oda stole the pack from him when he left and he’s only had a few drags himself. The thrumming undercurrent of anxiety hasn’t subsided yet, and he doesn’t trust Chuuya not to accidentally

burn the whole thing down in his overeager pulls.

“I got a better idea,” he says, tilting his head back and bringing the cigarette to his own mouth.

This time, instead of letting the sharp-harsh smoke settle in his lungs, he lets it pool in his mouth. The taste of it is

somewhere between minty and ashy, fresh fire that burns clean and cold and low. It makes his tongue tingle, his head lightening with prolonged nicotine.

When he feels he has enough, he tilts his chin back down. With his free hand, he reaches up, thumb pressing gently to Chuuya’s

lower lip. It gives for him easily,mouth parting on an easy breath,blue-hot eyes locked on the thin trail of smoke escaping from the corner of Dazai's mouth like it's the only thing he can see.

With a slight smirk, Dazai tips his head to make the angle better and leans forward.

Close enough that their lips brush, and he can sense the vibrating energy in Chuuya, a desire to push forward and seek out what he wants.

Instead, Dazai /blows/, transferring the stream of smoke in a delicate, intimate exchange. He keeps his eyes half-lidded, open just enough to

watch as Chuuya's eyes drift shut. He inhales at the same time, and it's almost a perfect exchange. He doesn't cough this time, probably because he's bringing in air at the same time, dulling the burn of smoke.

His weight gets heavier in his lap as he leans forward, chasing

after the smoke for a kiss, one of his hands finding Dazai's shoulder and digging in like he's afraid he's going to slip away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.

Dazai lets their lips meet in an /achingly/ soft kiss, something that shouldn't feel so tender and loving when it's

tinged with the taste of acrid smoke.

They haven't kissed since they arrived hours earlier, and Dazai is surprised to see how much he /misses/ the ability to just kiss Chuuya whenever he feels like it. He's gotten spoiled,having his baby nearby at all times, for him to kiss and

hold and touch, whenever he wants.

But because they're at his /father's/ house, and Rimbaud /insisted/ on them staying the night, Dazai keeps the kiss short and light. He pulls back after a long moment, keeping Chuuya from chasing after him with the hand on his chin.

His thumb

smudges Chuuya’s growing pout, but it’s almost as devastatingly successful as it usually is.

“Better?” He asks before Chuuya can ask him to kiss him again—something Dazai /won’t/ deny him, but he’s trying to be /good/— and brings the cigarette back to his own lips. This time,

the smoke somehow manages to taste sweeter with the aftermath of their kiss.

Deciding to show off just a /bit/, Dazai takes a long pull and fills his mouth with smoke. He moves his tongue to the back of his mouth and rounds his lips, puffing out a tiny bit of smoke in a gentle

‘O’ that breaks apart after only a few minutes of floating on air.

Chuuya watches it, eyes sparkling with amazement. “I didn’t know you could do tricks.”

Dazai hums in answer, focusing on making the next ‘O’ a little bigger. He’d learned years ago, when he was still wandering

through the world after he left the mafia. He doesn’t remember a /lot/ of that time, but he does remember laying on a bed in a shitty hotel, hitting a stolen vape with the highest nicotine content he could find, his head spinning and spinning and spinning, the ceiling shrouded by

a layer of broken-apart smoke rings and his blurry eyesight. The overpowering taste of watermelon-lime, water vapor in his nose.

Chuuya doesn’t ask for another hit, seemingly content with watching him take another slow drag. He’s warm compared to the cooking air outside, the

sun-warmed skin on his cheeks pinker than usual. Dazai reminded him to put on sunscreen for the drive, but he didn't listen.

A new freckle has bloomed high on his cheek sometime in the last few weeks. Dazai adds it to his mental map of the natural-born constellations stretching

across his skin.

When Chuuya speaks up again, it's quieter, more hushed. Gone is the playful teasing from before, replaced by something more sentimental. "Thank you for coming. I know things like this are hard for you and you probably didn't want to anyway and it was awkward in

the middle but-- thanks for coming anyways."

Dazai slides his hand over to cup his cheek, swiping his thumb over the new freckle. "You don't have to thank me, little love. I'm happy you brought me home."

Chuuya hums, leaning into his hand. It's too dark to see properly, but his

eyes are filled with so much emotion they practically burn.

This time, when Dazai takes the final drag off the cigarette, he lets the smoke pool in his mouth again. It escapes his mouth in wispy tendrils,and he inhales them again through his nose, like a dragon.

Chuuya watches

him again, and /this/ time, there's a spark in his eyes that Dazai doesn't quite catch. He slides closer, wiggling further into his lap and draping his arms over his shoulders. "Are you ready for bed soon?"

An abrupt change of subject, but Dazai goes along with it easily. They

do have an early morning tomorrow— Rimbaud mentioned wanting to do something with Chuuya before they all met up together again for brunch. It was a long drive here, too, and the entire evening was filled with excitement.

He’s glad Chuuya brought it up, because he’s certain he

couldn’t mention the fact that /he/ was tired too without getting some comment about being an /old man/.

He’s already had enough of /that/ today.

There’s no ashtray outside, probably because Rimbaud doesn’t smoke. Dazai has to settle for stubbing out the last of the cherry on

the wooden windowsill to his left. Rude, perhaps, but once he brushes the ashes away, there’s barely a mark left behind.

The butt, he sticks in his pocket to throw away later. With both of his hands newly free, he cups Chuuya’s face and leans him backwards to steal a kiss from

him, quick and fleeting.

It's only a few hours until his birthday.

"Let's go inside," he murmurs, nudging Chuuya's cheek with his nose, "I need a shower before I go to bed."

Chuuya smirks up at him. "Can I join you?"

Normally Dazai would /love/ to have Chuuya join him in

the shower but not /this/ time. They're in his /fathers/ house, and Dazai is keeping his hands to himself at all costs. "No."

Chuuya's eyes go /big/ and round--

"Don't pout at me, brat."

-- then his expression is falling into a scowl, the same one he /always/ gets whenever

Dazai manages to deny him something. It doesn’t happen /nearly/ as often as it should but what can he say?

He likes spoiling him.

Chuuya leads the way into the house, shooting hopeful glances over his shoulder at Dazai like he might change his mind if he looks pitiful enough.

It almost works, and Dazai has to /look away/ when his resolve starts to waver.

It’s not like he /wants/ to tell him no on his birthday, but they’re literally sleeping in the /same/ hallway as his /father/. If they were at a /hotel/— like Dazai originally suggested for the trip—

then he would’ve been /happy/ to let Chuuya ring in his birthday with an orgasm /but/—

They’re not at a hotel. Sucks for both of them.

While Dazai takes a shower, Chuuya goes off into the bedroom. He even makes sure to lock the door so the bratty little chibi can’t sneak in

and take advantage of him while he’s naked and vulnerable.

The shower isn’t as good as the one he has at home— there’s only /one/ shower head and the pressure is abysmal, and the hot water starts to run out quickly— so he doesn’t take long. He skips conditioning his hair

completely, deciding to let it dry unruly and curly, and uses a clean washcloth with the body wash they brought with them.

It’s onl’y fifteen minutes before Dazai is heading into their appointed bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s not in the habit of bringing his

clothes into the bathroom with him, so he forgot. It’s lucky Rimbaud went to sleep about an hour ago.

Chuuya’s childhood bedroom is… pretty much what he imagined it might be, actually. The walls are crowded with posters from bands—a decent amount of them from hard rock bands

doesn’t recognize— along with amateur pieces of art in vibrant colors. A string of orange lights line the junction between the ceiling and the walls, lighting up the space pleasantly.

The room is small, so there’s really only room for a full-sized bed shoved against the window,

a small dresser decorated with a dozen little figurines and things that look like the prizes from old-school arcades, and a computer desk with an outdated desktop on it.

It's cute. Completely the opposite of Dazai's near-minimalism aesthetic, with every square inch of space

filled with things. Even the /ceiling/ has Judo medals taped all over it, interspersed with those glow-in-the-dark star stickers.

It's a room full of history. /Chuuya's/ history, his home for years, a veritable shrine to his happiness and health and growth. Dazai's glad he got

to see it, even though he's not sure how sleeping on a full-sized bed is going to work out for him. Sleeping with his feet hanging off the bed is only comfortable if he /chooses/ it.

Speaking of, Chuuya is stretched out along the bed-- green covers and sheets, which is slightly

funny because Dazai always took him for a /red/ kind of guy-- and he's /watching/ him, his eyes fixed on the droplets of water sliding down his chest in a look he recognizes very well.

Digging out briefs from his suitcase, Dazai points an accusing finger at him. "Stop that. I

know what you're doing. You're /objectifying/ me."

Chuuya's smile widens, unrepentant. "I'm just /looking/. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Some people might call that sexual harassment," he points out with a sniff, pulling his underwear up his legs and following it with the

pair of gray sweats he brought to sleep in. "Keep your eyes to yourself."

Chuuya pillows his cheeks on his hands, grinning without looking away. "But there's so much to /look/ at."

He rolls his eyes at that one, even though he /is/ secretly pleased at the compliment. Ever since

he started dating Chuuya, he hasn't been spending as much time exercising. He still keeps a routine, but it isn't as strenuous or often as it was before.

Between that and the way Chuuya /insists/ on him eating full meals three times a day, and plying him with those candies he

likes, Dazai's gained some weight. His stomach is a little softer, his thighs squisher, his arms less defined than they were six months ago.

Initially he was worried that he lost some appeal-- but Chuuya has responded to his newfound softness with an enthusiasm that is doing

wonders for his ego. It's hard to feel anything /but/ appealing when Chuuya is practically drooling after him at all hours of the day.

He /especially/ likes it when Dazai shows off that he's /still/ just as strong as he's ever been when he bounces him up and down on his--

/No/.

No sex thoughts. Dazai will /not/ be tempted.

Normally he sleeps without a shirt, but he's not giving Chuuya the opportunity to tempt him. He pulls one on, sticking his tongue out at Chuuya. "Yeah, yeah. It's off-limits tonight, though," he pauses for a second, and continues

under his breath in a /slightly/ vindictive tone, "you /hussy/."

That makes him laugh, turning his face into the sheets while his shoulders shake. Dazai can't help his responding smile,walking over to the bed.

He pushes at his side, scooting him over. "Come on, make room. Bed's

barely big enough for the two of us even without your habit of taking up the entire thing."

"I do not!" Chuuya gasps at him, offended, but rolls over anyways, scooting close to the wall. "You're the one who takes up the entire bed, you giant."

"Is that why I always wake up in

the middle of the night with you clutching onto me like I’m going to escape?”

Chuuya /sniffs/, refusing to answer.

And really, Dazai should’ve /known/ it was a trap, because as soon as he gets comfortable and stretched out on the side of the bed that will be his for the night,

Chuuya is rolling over and on /top/ of him.

Hé perches over his hips, ass /deliberately/ wiggling over him until he’s comfortable. With most of the lights off—save for the sickly yellow-orange-glow from the years-old LED’s along the ceiling— Chuuya’s mostly a shadow hovering

over him. He can't make out his features, and he's forced to rely on the more intimate sense of touch to detect where Chuuya is moving.

However, he doesn't need to /see/ him to pick up on the teasing tone of his words. "You know, I kinda /like/ it when you call me a slut."

/Does he now/? Dazai's imagination immediately fixates on that, conjuring up a dozen different scenarios where he's got Chuuya bent over, spread on his back, face-down, calling him a--

/No/. Dazai resolutely turns his thoughts away from that, focusing on--

The economy, or

something. Milk's been pretty expensive lately, it's getting out of hand. Someone should do something about that. Maybe the prime minister.

Unbidden, his hands find Chuuya's hips. The /intention/ is to stop him from grinding or wiggling against him anymore, but in reality, his

thumbs just press into his hips hard enough to bruise. "I know what you're doing."

He can /hear/ Chuuya's grin. "I'm not doing anything. I just want a goodnight kiss, is that so bad?"

Yes. It's never just /one/ kiss.

Still, denying him something so simple and sweet costs more

strength than Dazai has. Especially so when it's barely an hour until his birthday, and when it's been such a /good/ day.

"Come here, then," he murmurs, the hushed quality of his voice adding to the intimacy of the darkened room. Like this, it's only them, warm heavy heat

pressing down on him, the cherished sounds of breathing, a smile he can't see but knows is there anyways.

He tugs at his hips, but doesn't reach up or guide him down, content to let himself be kissed. If Chuuya wants him, he knows exactly where to find him. He'll always be here

waiting for him.

With another amused huff, Chuuya leans down. His hand braces his weight by Dazai's head, propping him up.

Because of how dark it is, his lips find Dazai's cheek first, a little ways off from the corner of his mouth. The miss isn't awkward, the way it might've

been if it were earlier in their relationship.

Instead, it’s /sweet/, feeling the gentle huff of his breath as he slowly drags his lips over his cheek toward his mouth. Unable to fight a smile coming to his own face and feeling a responding smile form against his skin. A dozen

tiny kisses smeared over his skin on his way to the real destination, a raining of pure affection that has Dazai tipping his head to meet him with a sigh.

Despite all of Dazai’s reservations, the kiss isn’t /inherently/ provocative. It’s sweet, a gentle press of lips that

feels full of soft, warm feelings that have already been spoken about and are reaffirmed with every touch. Chuuya’s breath tastes like his toothpaste, a familiar mint, and there’s a content little hum building somewhere in his chest.He’s smiling still, probably gloating about his

victory over Dazai. He’s always been /smug/ like that, practically breaking out the pompoms whenever he wears Dazai down.

It’s cute, and if Dazai sometimes puts on a show of rejection just go watch the victorious little grin he gets when he eventually gives in—

That’s between

him.

With a pleased sigh, Chuuya drops to his elbows. He braces himself on either side of his head, wiggling his fingers through his hair. He takes a light grip, tugging slightly and running his nails through the newly-trimmed undercut just to feel Dazai shiver underneath him.

His entire body is pressing down on him, but he /is/ behaving. No more wiggling or grinding, or teasing words.

Just the feeling of his fingers in his hair as he kisses him over and over and over again, like this is the only thing in the world that he ever needs. Like he’s only

content to breathe air that comes directly from Dazai's lungs.

Dazai lets himself relax into it, head tilting to the side to better the angle. The air between them heats up quickly, every heady breath lingering in the meager space. Chuuya is equal and opposite to him in rhythm,

breathing in when he breathes out, his lips sliding over his gently and without hesitation.

It's only when Chuuya shifts, tilting his head until he can take Dazai's bottom lip between his and suck it leisurely into his mouth that Dazai realizes it's a /trap/. He's been lulled

into a false sense of security, tricked into letting his guard down.

Because the way Chuuya sucks on his lip is /sinful/, the pressure exactly the way Dazai likes it. He even nibbles a little, setting his teeth into his flesh and pulling just enough to sting, only to soothe the

pain with a slow swipe of his tongue.

He still doesn’t move, but he doesn’t /need/ to, because Dazai’s hands are tightening on his hips already. His head feels foggy, pleasure and need stirring deep inside his veins. His heart seems to beat with the same rhythm as his kiss.

Slow, sluggish with molten heat, spiking when Chuuya gives another slow, relentless suck.

Tightening his hands again, he pushes on his hips—

But Chuuya’s got him in his grip, hands in his hair and teeth in his lip, and he’s pressing the /advantage/.

(Really, Dazai knew it

was bad luck when he came home to Chuuya reading the Art of War a few weeks ago.)

“Chuuya,” he /means/ to growl, but it comes out a little breathless and hushed, a whisper falling between them.

Chuuya hums back at him, using the grip on his hair to keep him in place as he

finally lets go of his lip. It pops back into place, lightly throbbing in time with his heartbeat. It feels swollen and sensitive, the brush of cool air enticing.

Chuuya slides slightly to the left, his mouth making a slow, wandering path over his cheek towards his jawline. He

shaved just this morning, so his skin is more sensitive than it usually is. He can feel every centimeter of skin tingling in Chuuya's wake.

"/Osamu/," he murmurs back to him, sinking his teeth lightly into his jawline, and /oh/,that is a treat. Chuuya rarely uses his given name,

obviously preferring to call him daddy or /Dazai/ or a dozen other nicknames he's come up with for him.

Not that Dazai doesn't /like/ those--god, he does--, but there's something so /intimate/ about hearing his name like that. Soft and heated and /hushed/, clearly meant for him

and him alone. Murmured into the skin of his jaw like a treasured secret just between them.

Dazai swallows hard against the lump in his throat. His mouth feels dry, all of a sudden. With the air conditioner on, it’s cool in the room, but he feels like he’s overheating.

Chuuya

takes advantage of his indecision, his mouth wandering down until he finds the spot just beneath the hinge of Dazai’s jaw that always makes him weak. He settles there, scraping his teeth and sucking until Dazai can practically feel his heart beating in his mouth.

There will be

a mark there by tomorrow, Dazai knows. He can already feel it forming, and the only way he’ll be able to cover something /that/ high is if he uses foundation or wraps his /entire/ neck in bandages.

Everyone will know anyways. They already /do/ because of the marks Dazai left on

Chuuya’s collarbone four days ago so—

Why is he resisting again? There was a /reason/, it just doesn’t seem to matter anymore in the face of how heavy and /hot/ Chuuya is on top of him.

“Chuuya,” he starts again, trying to get his thoughts in line.

“If you want me to stop,”

he breathes into his neck, the movement of his lips hot-electric over wet skin, "then tell me to stop."

And that's the thing--because Dazai doesn't /want/ him to stop. They /should/ stop, they /shouldn't/ do this here and now--

But it's also Chuuya's /birthday/ in a matter of a

few hours, and Dazai is /weak/. Watching and feeling as Chuuya gets more confident in his desires, more /assertive/, watching him use how well he knows Dazai to his advantage by teasing and taunting and seducing him--

How is he ever supposed to say no to that? He doesn't /want/

to say no, he's just struggling because they /shouldn't/.

That has it's own appeal though, the inherent illicit edge in doing something /wrong/. Something dangerous. It's hot, like a drug, makes adrenaline and the rare touch of fear swirl headily in his veins.

It makes his

body twitch, arch, the rise of his chest sudden after a harsh inhale. Chuuya meets him halfway,pressing down with his full weight, pinning him down carelessly.He knows Dazai doesn’t want to escape him, not truly.

Dazai practically watches as the last shreds of his self-restraint

fizzle away. He's always been a weak man at heart, beholden to a few stubborn vices, and /this/-- Chuuya, confident and assured and wanting, using his weakness for dangerous sexual games against him-- has grown to be the worst of them.

He says nothing, and digs his fingers into

his hips, hard enough to bruise. Not hard enough to dissuade him, of course, and not hard enough to /stop/ him, but hard enough that he can feel the bones of his hips moving underneath the skin.

Chuuya lets out a shuddering breath, giving that little adorable wiggle of victory

that he always does when he wins something over on Dazai. It’s a lot less adorable when it grinds his ass against Dazai’s crotch,but based on the smug little smirk being hidden in the crook of his neck, that’s probably on /purpose/.

Chuuya knows /exactly/ what he’s doing to him,

and Dazai revels in the thrill of being known so intimately, so /well/, that all of his weaknesses are used effortlessly against him. It combines with the heat of Chuuya’s hips rocking slowly against him, a heady sense of intoxication swirling through his veins.

“Osamu,” is

murmured against his neck, a siren call, “don’t you /want/ me?”

Of course he does. Of /course/ he does, and Chuuya doesn’t /really/ doubt that, he’s just toying with him. Using that whining, raspy tone that drives him mad, breathing the syllables into the sensitive skin of his

skin so he can feel the heat.

Dazai says nothing, glad that Chuuya can’t see the twitch of his lips from this angle. The game isn’t about /refusing/ anymore— no, Chuuya has won that already—, and now it’s about being /quiet/. Keeping himself quiet and restrained, even as his

hips start matching the rhythm, rocking up to meet Chuuya’s circular grind down.

It’s one of their /favorite/ games. Chuuya has always been louder than he is, and he always delights in cracking Dazai’s composure to get to the filthy words that lie beneath. He loves teasing and

taunting him until he gets what he wants out of him.

And Dazai /loves/ to deny him.

The next kiss is more of a bite, teeth sinking roughly into the curve between his neck and shoulder. It‘s just shy of painful, sending an electric shock skittering down his spine. Heat curls

in his stomach, flares hottest in the spaces between their bodies.

It’s hard to think with how /hot/ it feels in the room suddenly, with how he can feel every pound of his pulse in the skin between Chuuya’s teeth, with every breath that presses their chests together for the

briefest of moments, with every subtle rock of Chuuya’s hips.

It doesn’t even feel intentional, it just feels inevitable. Like Dazai was always meant to be here, in Chuuya’s home and in his bed, just as much as Chuuya was always meant to be in his home and in his bed.

On thé

next roll of his hips, Dazai meets him halfway, rocking up. He has to spread his legs a little further to get the leverage for it, which forces Chuuya’s thighs wider to fit around his hips.

This time, there’s the slightest breath of a moan smothered against his neck. He’s

trying to be quiet, which never really works out for him— Chuuya is /loud/, delightfully so, and Dazai always enjoys pushing him to his limits.

With a smug grin that Chuuya can’t see from this angle, the game quickly changes— now it’s not about resisting, it’s about making

him cry for it, making him scream.

If Chuuya wants to play, then Dazai plays to /win/.

Even though Dazai has already silently given in, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t even move, barely tilts his head back to give Chuuya more room and rocks his hips subtly. He’s going to make

him do all the work, since he wanted it so badly he couldn’t wait.

Besides, there’s something thrilling about watching Chuuya take what he wants from him. He gets delightfully frustrated whenever he doesn’t get a big enough response, biting down harder and switching up the

grinding rhythm of his hips, like he might shock Dazai into reacting. Then he’ll get distracted when the pleasure starts to get to him, using Dazai for his own needs—a hot enough idea that does it for him— before remembering that he’s supposed to be /enticing/ him, not just using

him.

It’s cute. And hot. Dazai loves it.

Loves him, practically vibrates with the intensity of it.

One of Chuuya’s hands slides under his shirt, palming over his stomach on its way up to his chest. Ever since the stories behind his tattoos came out, he’s had a mild fascination

with tracing the lines of them, pressing down with his fingers until blood blooms to the surface, until faded red ink is overlaid by faint red fingertips. Until the history inked into his skin is covered by the present.

“I’m gonna ride you,” Chuuya mumbles into his collarbone,

using his other hand to tug down the collar of his shirt until the threads threaten to break. He says it like it’s a /threat/, pressing down with his hips like Dazai has to be convinced.

He doesn’t.

“Go on, then,” he says, deliberately low and calm, striving for an

almost-bored tone. He rolls his hips upward slowly,a smug thrill shooting through him as Chuuya’s hands tighten over his flexing abs. “Show me how bad you want it.”

That seems to be the breaking point, because a small choking sound escapes him. In the next moment, nimble fingers

are sliding back down his chest and hooking into the waistband of his sweats.

Dazai— having attempted to be an upstanding guest, if he says so himself— is appropriately wearing underwear under his sweats. When Chuuya notices, he makes a disgruntled sound like he’s /offended/,

and yanks them down with his sweats.

It means he has to let go of his neck, shuffling up on his knees to get enough room between them. The orange lighting washes over Chuuya’s face, casting his eyes into dark fathoms and pooling in the curve of his collarbone. He’s wearing one

of Dazai’s shirts, he notices now, and it’s too-big on him in a perfect way. The collar keeps sliding off one shoulder and the hems gather at Chuuya’s hips and hide his thighs beneath. His hair, recently trimmed with an undercut to match Dazai’s own, falls around his chin in a

riotous fall of orange. He looks good, gilded with lust and impatience as he wrestles both Dazai’s pants off and then his own shorts.

Their shirts stay on— because Dazai isn’t /uncivilized/, he won’t get completely naked in someone else’s home and Chuuya looks too good in his

shirt to even think about taking it off— but Dazai’s shirt gets shoved up around his armpits.

Dazai’s hands fall naturally to Chuuya’s thighs as he settles back on top of him, newly naked from the waist down. He pets over his skin, runs his fingers up and down to admire the play

of muscle beneath soft skin. His fingers disappear underneath the hem of his shirt, an illicit thrill running up his spine.

There’s no one in the room with them and the lighting is low, but there’s an inherent rush in touching in hidden places, where his hands can’t be seen.

Doing something he’s not supposed to, something that’s /wrong/.

When Chuuya leans forward, he expects a kiss. Tips his chin up for it even, letting his eyes go half-lidded. His thumb digs into his inner thigh, right in one of the spots that he commonly leaves sore after he’s

done with Chuuya. His leg trembles in response.

Instead, smirking smugly right into Dazai’s eyes, Chuuya braces himself with one hand by his shoulder. The other slips underneath the unoccupied pillow, fingers searching over the sheets.

When he finds his prize, he holds it up

triumphantly.

Dazai doesn’t need the light to know what he’s holding. He can tell by the shape and smell of it alone. It’s /lube/, one of their recent favorite ones. “You planned this,” he accuses Chuuya, unable to keep the fond lilt out of his voice.

Chuuya’s grin glints in

the light, sweetly mischievous. He’s never been good at playing innocent, not that he tries very often.

Dazai digs his fingers into his thighs until they’re sure to bruise. Chuuya is hot and tempting above him, his erection sliding against his own as he wiggles in

self-satisfaction.

The lube gets opened with a soft /crack/, the normally quiet sound sounding overly loud in the silence of the room. Heat blooms in Dazai’s face.

“/Menace/,” he hisses lowly, “Am I really that easy?”

Chuuya doesn’t even bother to respond to that one, which

is as clear a /yes/ as he could probably give.

Maybe he should start telling Chuuya no sometimes. Clearly his baby is too used to getting whatever he wants, whenever he wants. He’s /spoiled/.

“I know you,” Chuuya murmurs instead of answering, and in the darkness of the room,

with the scent of artificial cherry—Chuuya got tired of strawberry flavored lube and demanded they try out new flavors— in the air, and the quiet sounds of sleeping suburbs outside, it feels more like a /confession/ than jt does a statement.

Some emotion wells up in his chest,

something too big and too warm to name—

He hisses when Chuuya’s hand, newly wet with lube he sneakily poured on his fingertips, closes over his cock. The lube is cold and slick, and makes his skin tingle intoxicatingly.

“I know you can’t resist me,” Chuuya says, and that is

absolutely true, especially when he's dragging his hand up his shaft so slowly that he swears he can feel every line of his palm. "I know you want me."

He does, he /does/, he always does, and now he's struggling between the mounting need to flip them over to pin Chuuya against

the bed to /take/ what he wants, or continue playing this game of pretend nonchalance, struggling between the knowledge that they need to be quiet and how little he's starting to care--

Chuuya plants his free hand on his shoulder, firmly doing away with any ideas of sitting up

or flipping them over. If he wants it like this-- Dazai flat on his back with his hands pushing up the hems of his shirt so he can catch glimpses of the soft shadows collecting between his thighs-- then he'll get it like this.

When he deems Dazai slick enough, he shuffles upward

to arrange himself into place. He switches his grip, reaching behind him and between his legs to hold Dazai steady.

When he starts to press /down/, his hands fly to his hips and keeps him from sinking down. Unless he missed it, Chuuya hasn’t even taken a single finger in prep

and as much as Dazai loves some rough not-enough-prep sex, he doesn’t /actually/ want to hurt Chuuya.

Chuuya jerks in his grip, forcibly rocking down until the head presses in.

It’s too easy of a slide, his body easily accepting the intrusion. He barely even has to push for

Dazai to sink another inch inside of him. The head pops in, and Dazai feels like a man remade.

“You—“ he starts, hands clenching when Chuuya drops down halfway in one sharp movement. The words fall apart in his mouth.

Chuuya smirks down at him, radiating smugness. “Me,” he

agrees, rising up in one short, teasing bounce before falling back down all the way. His ass meets his hips with a soft noise which sounds way too loud at this time of night.

Dazai clutches at his hips, fingers tangled in his shirt, feeling like he’s losing his /mind/. He

must've prepped himself while he was in the shower, and the image that realization brings to mind-- Chuuya, sneaking their lube into his luggage and taking it out, fingering himself quickly, mouth pressed into the sheets to silence himself because he only has limited time and he

can't get caught-- sends a bolt of heat through him.

Fuck, this is good, and it's even better because it /shouldn't/ be this good.

Chuuya sets up a rhythm, slow and deep, grinding in his lap without lifting up an inch. He milks the pleasure out of them both, circling his hips

until he finds the best angle and keeping it. Between the low lighting and the shirt, his form is hidden and hazy, shades of orange catching on the cotton and casting moving shadows.

But Dazai /knows/ him, and he doesn't need to see him to know how the muscles in his stomach

are flexing rhythmically, the bones of his hips moving like waves beneath his skin. Doesn't need to be kissing him to know the heat of his breath, doesn't need to be touching him to know how fast his heart is racing, doesn't need to be stroking him to know how hard he is.

Dazai

knows him inside and out, would know him by touch alone. Has seen him in hundreds of situations, and this play at secretive and hidden is setting Dazai on fire.

For once, he doesn't have anything to say. It's rare that he can't speak, but now he can't even think beyond the roar

of flames in his mind, the chant of /Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya/ and /fuck/ and /god, it's good/.

Unbidden, his hips twitch upwards, turning the next grind into a half-thrust. Chuuya's pace stutters, thrown off-rhythm, and his head drops back on a hitched breath. The next rock is

harder in response, an echo of their usual roughness.

Dazai has to let go off one hip to reach upwards, the shirt tumbling back down. When his fingers brush Chuuya's chin,he looks back down.

Firm, Dazai covers his mouth with his palm, because he /knows/ he's going to get louder

from here on out. Even his gasping breath is too loud, and every shift of the bed makes Dazai cringe internally.

"You have to be quiet," he breathes, digging his fingers into his cheekbones and his jaw, until Chuuya can't escape his hold. His breath is hot from his nose, gusting

over the back of his hand. He can feel his tiny smile, the movement of his lips dragging across the palm of his hand.

Chuuya clenches down on him, hips moving in maddening waves. The pleasure is coursing through him like smoke, curling inside of him and filling him up until even

the brush of Chuuya's calf over his thigh feels electric. He reaches for it, because the name of this game isn't /endurance/, it's being fast and quick and dirty, getting what they need as fast as possible.

Chuuya already has the right idea, the rock of his hips quickening. One

of his hands comes up, fingers wrapping around Dazai's arm.

He doesn't try to pull him off or move his hand. In fact, he holds his arm in place with a surprising amount of strength, fingertips digging into his forearm like he wants to feel the strength in his arm.

His breath

is speeding up, partly because he's going /faster/ now, chasing his pleasure, but also because his breathing is restricted now. He can't breath through his mouth with his palm over it, and the harsh inhales through his nose pick up hot, twice-breathed air.

Dazai grins, not

giving him even a second of relief. Chuuya loves his breathing being restricted anyways-- he pratically melts whenever he gets a firm hand around his throat.

This is a different form of restriction, one they haven't played with before. It's effective all the same, based on the

way his thighs are starting to tremble.

Using the grip he has, Dazai drags him closer. He wants to kiss him, but he'd have to let /go/ for that, so he settles for pulling him down until he can make eye contact.

Chuuya's eyes are huge, nearly completely black in the darkness.

They're wet, desperate, and they lock onto Dazai with a silent sort of begging.

Dazai doesn't do anything that he /probably/ wants him to do, like flip them over or pin him, or even start fucking up into him. Chuuya always wants it /harder/ than he can get himself.

Instead, he

pulls him down a little farther, until the only thing he can see is him. With his other hand, he finds his hip again and forces him into a faster pace, ignoring the muffled whine Chuuya gives.

"Come on," he breathes into the scant space between them, quiet enough that the wet

sounds of their bodies coming together aren't covered up. "You wanted it-- so /take/ it."

Chuuya makes a choked noise, nodding. He picks up the pace even more, adding short little bounces when he can and rocking frantically in his lap whenever his thighs get too tired to lift.

The shirt falls completely off his shoulder, revealing the flushed and sweaty skin of his shoulder and neck.

"Slut," Dazai says absentmindedly, voice far too fond for the inherent shaming of the word. He watches voraciously as Chuuya works,reminding himself that he /can't/ move,

no matter what the burning need in his stomach is telling him to do, because it's going to be too /loud/.

There's a certain satisfaction and pleasure in restraining himself, in fighting against his desires and /winning/. It adds to the pleasure, the tight heat of Chuuya's body,

the animal enjoyment of hot and /wet/, of using and being used, the rebel of pleasure found in someone else’s body.

Chuuya’s next breath is even shakier than the one before, shuddering out over his hand. His body jerks in reaction, rippling around Dazai’s cock like the sweetest

reward. Underneath the shirt, there’s a moving shadow, his own erection twitching as the pleasure builds up. He’s always liked the sweet shame in being gently and lovingly degraded.

He /loves/ being Daddy’s little slut.

After another few minutes of this, watching as Chuuya

gets increasingly desperate writhing on top of him, Dazai finally decides to take some mercy on him.

Raising his free hand to his mouth, he licks a wet stripe down his mouth. If he wanted, he could go for the lube but that means he’d have to let go of Chuuya’s mouth, and that’s

not a good idea. He’ll get them caught, with how loud he is.

As it is, he almost gets them caught /anyway/, with the loud whine he makes when Dazai’s spit-slick hand sneaks underneath his shirt and wraps around his cock.

They both freeze, hearts pounding loud enough that it’s

hard to hear anything else in the house. Dazai can’t tell if the creak he just heard was the bed moving or the house settling or someone walking through the hallway, but he and Chuuya stare at eachother, eyes wide and faces only inches apart, as they wait to see if they’re about

to be interrupted.

God, fuck, Dazai is /way/ too old for this, but he's also never done this, and it makes him feel recklessly young, like he's so infatuated with his first love that he can't keep his hands off him.

When nothing happens for a long moment, Chuuya lets out a

shuddering breath. That seems to be the signal to start moving again, slow rocks of his hips.

Dazai doesn't know how long it's been-- probably not /that/ long, especially compared to how long they usually take-- but every moment feels stretched out and syrupy-thin, stretching

ever longer and a dangerous tension beginning to build as it threatens to break under it’s own weight.

When Chuuya lifts himself—slowly, so agonizingly slowly that Dazai can feel every centimeter of himself that slips free—, he rolls upwards to meet him. Fiery pleasure races

through him, as heavy as if the sun were burning in his chest.

He sets his own pace, digging his fingers into Chuuya’s face and holding him in place until he gets the clue and hovers over top of him. It’s not as fast or as hard as either of them would like— every time he braces

his feet on the bed, it creaks alarmingly, and every time their bodies come together it’s /obscenely/ loud— so he has to settle for a fast, shallow rhythm, pulling out only an inch or two just to plunge back in.

Chuuya’s panting again, and he’s nearly deadweight on top of him,

strung out between his knees on the mattress and his face in Dazai’s palm. He’s trembling all over, body clenching down in waves, hips tilting down like if he presents himself better, he might get fucked harder.

He’s close. He can tell by the faraway look in his eyes, like he’s

so focused on his pleasure that the rest of the world fades away. Dazai speeds up the hand on his cock, stroking him just the way he likes—fast and hard, a little too rough.

Chuuya shudders, and muffles another sound into his hand. His lips are moving against his skin, trying in

vain to say something. His name, probably, or /Daddy/, begging the best way he knows how.

Dazai gives it to him, driving him up to the edge as quickly as possible and shoving him over. There’s a moment where Chuuya arches in his arms, spine taut and eyes wet, where he thinks he

might /scream/.

“Shh,” he murmurs frantically, dragging him down to whisper in his ear. He can’t /stop/ himself, not when it feels so good as Chuuya shivers and ripples around him, and he’s so /close/, he can’t stop now—

Painted fingernails dig into his forearm hard enough to

hurt. He hisses, repays Chuuya for his kindness with a harder thrust that he /knows/ rides the electric edge between pleasure and pain. He can feel the effects of overstimulation in his body, Chuuya fighting to get away and to get closer at the same time.

Somehow, Chuuya manages

to open his mouth wide enough to sink his teeth into the webbing between Dazai’s thumb and forefinger. He bites down hard, scraping his free hand down his chest as the tears in his eyes finally spill over.

It’s too much, it’s too /much/, Chuuya clenching around him in hot waves,

the wetness of his hand, feeling Chuuya gasp and shake above him, knowing he has to be /quiet/, but also not /caring/ anymore because he’s close, he’s /so/ close, who cares if the bed is creaking a bit too louder and his palm is slipping off Chuuya’s mouth and his choked-off

gasps and whimpers are starting to fill the room, but it’s okay because he’s /close/,and he’s dragging Chuuya down and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to taste the way he gasps in response and his body tenses, and Dazai feels like he can’t /breathe/, he’s so close, it feels

so /good/—

His orgasm crashes into him like a wave of relief, the tension winding as tight as possible for a split second before splitting open. Pleasure pulses down his thighs and up his spine, dizzying in its strength. It goes on forever, prolonged by the way his hips can’t

stop twitching and Chuuya can’t seem to stop grinding down to meet him.

When he finally finds the self-control to let go of Chuuya’s lip— he can already tell it will be swollen and bruised tomorrow, probably with the imprint of his teeth lingering on the soft inside— that is

the last point of tension holding Chuuya together.

With a sigh, he collapses on top of him, going completely limp and burying his nose in Dazai’s neck to catch his breath. He’s trembling all over, still, but the humming noise he makes in the back of his throat makes it obvious

that he’s very satisfied.

As he should be. The little gremlin got exactly as he wanted and what he planned for.

Dazai hugs him close, propping his chin up on the top of his head and letting one hand slide under his shirt to stroke gentle rhythms up and down his spine. He’s

tired; even though it isn’t too late, it was a long drive here and with all the excitement and planning, he hasn’t been able to get as much sleep as usual.

He settles in, squeezing Chuuya to his chest like his own personal stuffed animal, letting his eyes close and the gentle

waves of exhaustion lap at him and start to pull him under—

Which is, naturally, when Chuuya starts wiggling.

“Where are you going?” He grumbles, trying in vain to hold on as he wriggles out of his grip.

Chuuya huffs at him. “To clean /up/, dummy.”

Come to think of it, that

is a good idea— he can already feel himself slipping out of Chuuya, and the satisfying wet collecting between his thighs— but they have wet-wipes in here, and surely that would be enough for now, right?

He’s comfortable and /sleepy/ and he doesn’t want his little chibi to leave.

“Just use the wipes,” he grumbles, turning on his side and watching forlornly as Chuuya slides off the bed and pulls on a ratty pair of shorts with a slight grimace. If they were home, he’d just go without pants but they’re not, so.

“That works for /you/,” he says, shooting an

exasperated look at him. “But I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Noooo,” Dazai whines, but because he is in love with the meanest, most heartless chibi ever, Chuuya doesn’t even give him another glance before slipping out of the room.

He gives himself about ten seconds to mope

about the injustice of the situation, then sets about cleaning himself and the sheets up. All told, they were /relatively/ clean, so it doesn’t take that long to get everything clean enough to sleep on.

It is, incidentally, just enough time to finish and lay back down before he

hears the toilet flush in the bathroom and then Chuuya’s footsteps— he can tell he’s trying to be quiet but he’s always been a stompy little thing— coming down the hall, and Dazai starts to settle down—

A door opening loudly in the hall. “Chuuya? Is that you?”

Oh. Oh /no/.

“Oh!” Chuuya yelps in surprise,followed by a hasty chuckle that is completely suspicious. “Hey, Dad.What are you still doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. All the…noise and excitement from today,” Rimbaud answers dryly.

Dazai presses his palms to his eyes and wishes for a quick death.

Chuuya’s voice /immediately/ goes up an entire octave, and Dazai is unfortunately and viscerally reminded of the fact that no one ever taught him how to /play it cool/. “Right! Me too, ahaha. I brought some wine to my room but then I drank too much, and so I had to go to the

bathroom. But then I spilled some wine on my way out so I had to wash it off and that’s why my shorts are…wet. I know it’s hard to see ‘cause they’re black, ahaha, but that’s why.”

God, Rimbaud’s just going to let Chuuya go on /forever/, isn’t he?

Dazai despairs. “Shut up,

Chuuya,” he mumbles to the uncaring ceiling, feeling like his chances of making it out of this family reunion are lessening by the second. “Please just shut up.”

Miraculously, Chuuya /does/, but the godawful rambling is replaced by this horribly awkward silence, stretching so

long that even /Dazai/ starts to squirm and he’s not even /in/ the room being subjected to what is probably the most disbelieving stare in existence.

“Right,” Rimbaud says eventually, so dry Dazai can practically taste dust. Then, louder, “You should be more careful about the

things you do in your bed. Goodnight, Chuuya.”

Dazai is probably going to pass away on the spot if he ever makes eye contact with Rimbaud again.

Chuuya flees with his life, slipping back inside the room and pressing his back against the door. His face is red and his eyes are

wide. “Do you think he knows that we—?”

Oh my fucking /god/.

“I’m going to kill myself,” he announces without fanfare, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m never coming home again. I can never look your father in the eye. We are never having sex again. Ever. We’re becoming

nuns.”

“That’s a bit dramatic,” he responds with a roll of his eyes, picking his way across the room and sliding back into the bed. This time, he’s wearing clean and dry underwear. “He didn’t even /say/ anything.”

“Oh, he definitely said something,” Dazai mutters, wrapping his

arms around him again and squeezing him too tightly, in slight petty revenge. “You are a hazard to my health.”

The way Chuuya pats his side is indulgent, quietly sympathetic. “You’ll survive,” he says simply.

Well, who is Dazai to disobey him? He sighs, glad he has at least a

few hours to prepare himself for the morning.

He goes to sleep, warm and comfortable and half-draped over Chuuya to keep him pinned in place.

——

Breakfast is, for lack of a better word, a /complete/ nightmare. It’s filled with an awkward, lingering sort of tension.

Chuuya

keeps /talking/ about anything that comes to mind, from his friendship with Yuan to the fact that he plans to go back to college in the fall.

Rimbaud takes it all in with a placidly unchanging expression, systematically cleaning his place with long scrapes of his utensils. The

fact that he almost never looks at Dazai feels /very/ deliberate, and he never responds to anything he says.

It’s awkward. It’s so terribly, horrifically awkward.

And it gets even worse when Kouyou shows up to whisk Chuuya away to spend some time together. Dazai is invited

to go with them and he is /very/ tempted to do so but—

He promised himself he would do this before they had to leave. It’s now or never.

When he declines and says he wants to speak to Rimbaud alone, Chuuya—who has been mildly paranoid since his kidnapping— squints at him

suspiciously. He doesn’t look convinced about Dazai wanting to spend /quality time/ with his father.

Dazai shoos him out the front door with his hands on his shoulders and a kiss dropped on his forehead.

When the front door shuts it sounds ominously loud and final.

Pasting

a strained smile on his face, Dazai turns to Rimbaud.

The man stares at him and says nothing. He doesn’t need to; he already /knows/.

“I know,” Dazai starts, taking a deep breath for courage, “that you haven’t known me for long and I probably haven’t made the best impression—“

The flat stare Rimbaud gives him makes it abundantly clear that he has, in fact, definitely not made a good impression. Rimbaud lifts another bite of egg and rice to his mouth, chewing slowly.

Dazai is /sweating/. God, why did he want to do this /now/? He wanted to do this

/correctly/, he wanted to do it right and while he was already here, but now he’s rethinking it.

He could’ve asked /later/, he could’ve arranged another trip here, but he’s already started so he can’t stop /now/. “I know it’s—, it’s /early/, but I just wanted to ask your

permission to—.”

——— +

Araya Sora is tired.

This, in itself, is not a new concept. She is the last child of poor parents who could barely support themselves reliably, let alone their three children. She is the surviving widow of her high school sweetheart, a man who worked

himself to the bone despite his ever-decreasing health and the ever-growing pile of medical debt. She is the mother of two girls,both of whom are incredibly smart and always dreamed of going to the best college in the country.

Sora is always tired. She's been working two, three,

sometimes even four jobs when she could find the time, in between the trials of growing into adulthood, learning to support herself and her ailing husband, and then learning to support two young, rambunctious, squirrelly and deviously smart girls.

In some shape or form, Sora has

been exhausted her entire life.

It's been a new strain of exhaustion lately, though. She's landed a new, better job--a secretary for the Bureau of Special Investigations. It comes with paid vacation holidays, private health insurance that ensures she'll never have to avoid going

to the hospital again, and pays well enough that she no longer has to work two jobs just to keep her tiny apartment.

It's good. It's a good job. Her boss isn't always perfect, and sometimes he makes her work long hours, but it's the best thing she's had in... a long time. Maybe

the best thing she's ever had, if she's being honest.

But it's different now. Now Yuan has gone off to her first year of college. She stays in the dorms,and sometimes comes home for weekends,but their main mode of communication now is texts and infrequent calls. Elise is most of

the way through her double-major criminal justice and forensic psychology degrees,and so barely has time to eat, let alone come home for a visit.

Even Shirase, the poor orphan boy who has spent so much time bouncing between foster homes that he might as well have been homeless,

who ever called Sora's house his home, doesn't stop by much anymore.

Objectively, this is a good thing. They're busy, young adults,building their own lives. They're doing well for themselves, and Sora is proud of them all.

It's just...

She doesn't know what to /do/ now. For so

long, her life had been defined in terms things she /had/ to do. She had to work, because otherwise she wouldn't be able to eat. She had to take care of her babies, because her husband couldn't do it. She had to raise her children alone,because she was the only one left to do it.

And now that's not the case. Now she has time and money and no one left to coddle.

Now she can do what /she/ wants, but she doesn't know what she /does/ want. She barely even has any hobbies, and very few friends.

For the first time in her life, Sora is experiencing empty nest

syndrome, and she doesn't know what to do about it except--

Just keep /going/. Keep squirrelling away parts of her paycheck to pay for the girls tuition, even though Elise already has a paid internship on top of her scholarships, and Yuan gets money...somewhere. She says she has

a job, but Sora wasn't born yesterday-- Yuan has too many expensive things and never speaks about her work, so it can't be a /normal/ job.

Keep making meals for four, even though she's usually the only one at the dinner table. Sometimes she brings the leftovers to her coworkers,

and sometimes she drops them off at the homeless shelter fifteen minutes away, or gives them to the neighbors.

Keep scouring the web pages for a good job opening--just in /case/-- and keep watering Elise's plants so they don't die.

In this strange limbo she's found herself in,

there's nothing left for her to do except keep /going/.

Which is why, when there's a loud, frantic pounding on her door on a nameless,ordinary Tuesday evening, it gives her pause. She's not expecting anyone, and she hasn't had visitors for weeks now.Her neighbor across the hall,

whom she has tea with sometimes, is away on a business trip.

Living where she does, Sora knows very well that she should not open the door to someone she's not expecting. If it's important and the person knows her, they can call her. If not, they can leave a letter wedged in the

door.

She has every plan to leave whoever it is outside, but then--

Another round of knocks, and in the sudden silence that follows:

"Auntie Sora, are you home?"

There's only one person who calls her /auntie/. It's Shirase, and he sounds... frantic. Worried. Desperate. Like

he's in /trouble/.

Quickly, she sets aside the romance book she was reading and hustles over to the door. Her heart is pounding, the same way it always does whenever one of her children might be in trouble.

WHen she opens the door, she's not sure what she's expecting to see.

Tears, maybe some panicking. Blood, if she's unlucky.

She is /not/ expecting Shirase to be standing in the entranceway with the arm of an unknown boy slung over his shoulder. The boy is taller than him, and much skinnier. His dark hair is greasy and knotted, his bent head making

the strands fall over his face and obscure his features. He doesn't look overtly injured, but he also doesn't look up when the door opens.

She looks at Shirase, concerned. He smiles back at her, slightly strained. "Hey, auntie. We, uh...we need some help."

And like all good

mothers, when her children come asking her for help, no matter /what/ it is--

She lets them in. Checks the hall behind them to see if anyone saw them come in, and locks the door behind them. Ushers the boys to the kitchen table, while she goes to get the first aid kit stored in

the bathroom. Shirase has come to her with enough black eyes and split lips and bloody knuckles for her to have a routine down in situations like this.

The boy moves under his own power, walking where he's directed,but he doesn't do anything else. He sniffles intermittently, his

breathing wet from what could either be tears or a bloody nose.

Shirase sits him down and then.. stands there, looking a little awkward and a little panicked. Never been the best at handling emergency situations and making snap decisions, that one.

Sora hustles over, setting

the kit down on the table. “What happened?”

“Rokuzou started picking fights with some bad people ever since he came back from Europe,” Shirase shrugs, “Told him he should stop before he gets himself in trouble,but he doesn’t listen to me. I found him like this a couple of hours

ago. Won’t tell me what happened.”

“I don’t listen to you, /Buichirou/,” the boy—Rokuzou, assumingly— snarls, adding a sneer to Shirase’s name that makes it clear how little he thinks about /that/ statement. “I’m not part of your little after-school club, so don’t try to boss

me around like I am.Just fuck off and leave me alone.”

Shirase’s face twists with anger. “I’m not trying to /boss you around/, I’m trying to help you because we’re /friends/,you massive dickbag.”

Rokuzou’s head jerks up and he shoots such a scathing glare at the other boy that

even Sora feels singed by it. He opens his mouth to say something, probably something /mean/ and fueled by the obvious hurt and rage bubbling beneath his skin—

Sora steps in neatly, well-used to disrupting the arguments between two stubborn children. Nothing that will be said

right now will be helpful or conducive to the situation. “Alright, boys. Let’s not fight right now. I’m sure we can fix whatever happened, but let’s just cool off for a minute. Rokuzou, can I clean your face?”

There’s blood smeared underneath his nose and over his lip, and his

eyes look well on his way to blackening. There’s the faint shape of a knuckle bruised into his cheek. He must’ve taken a few punches.

“They /lied/ to me,” he hisses, all the rage of a hurting young boy spilling from his voice like an open wound. “They /knew/ what I wanted and

they /lied/ to me and they made me betray my /friend/.”

Sora doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but she doesn’t need to know that to wet the edge of a washcloth and start cleaning off the blood on his face. “They shouldn’t have done that to you,” she murmurs, holding his

chin so she can dab at the blood on his lip. “Is your friend okay?”

Rokuzou’s shoulders slump. “Probably but he’s definitely going to kill me now.”

She tuts at him, frowning when his lower lip starts to bleed under the attention. “Oh, I’m sure it’s not that bad. Boys like you

make mistakes all the time, it’s just part of being so young! You’ll make up again soon, and everything will be okay again, you’ll see.”

(Of course, she doesn’t know that the people he’s crossed might /actually/ kill him, if they wanted to.)

“Now,” Sora continues before he can

keep spiraling himself into a panic attack, “Would you like to talk about what happened? How did you get hurt?”

The smile that grows on his face is all wrong. It’s /mean/, blood still dripping off his teeth, and it looks much too sharp for a boy his age. It’s a hunting smile,

like the curve of a pulled bow, threat inherent. It doesn’t match up with the way his eyes are still watering. “It’s fine. I just needed to get some things, and I /did/, and now I’m going to make them pay.”

Sora has no idea what to say to /that/. She’s glad she only ever had

sweet, if slightly headstrong girls to raise. Elise and Yuan might’ve been handfuls growing up— and handfuls even now, no longer at home— but at least they never came home bloody and angry like this. Even Shirase, during the time he used to get into trouble with that little crowd

of friends that follows his every lead, was never quite like this.

"Alright," she says slowly, because even though she's a mother and a reasonable person--she doesn't actually /know/ this boy. She can't tell him what to do and expect to be respected. "Is there anything I can do?

Can I call your parents for you? I'm sure they're worried about."

It's meant to be soothing, a reassurance. Instead, the simple statement makes his expression crack open, heartbreaking sorrow and grief held in the reflexive twist of his mouth.

Oh. Oh /no/.

She hurries to keep

going, trying to brush over whatever pain her unthinking offer had brought up. "Or I can take you to the hospital? You should probably have your nose looked at."

Rokuzou shakes his head. "No hospitals. I'm fine. I've got it handled."

Despite his firm tone and the way he

stubbornly claims independence, he doesn't move to pull out of her grip. Doesn't even shuffle away or twitch like he's just bearing with it. If anything, he's leaning into her, subtly chasing the soft, caring touch of a parent.

Sora doesn't know anything about him, but she can't

help but think he must be so lonely.

She sighs at him, but puts away the washcloth so she can gently feel at his cheeks and nose. She's not a nurse, but she doesn't think anything is broken, and he doesn't flinch badly under her touch. "What about the police then? Whoever did

this to you should be brought to justice."

At their side, Shirase shifts in his place, leaning against the wall. Sora doesn't have to be looking at him to see the derisive look on his face. The boy has never liked the police, not since he was a little boy and stealing candy from

the stores so he had something to eat that day.

Rokuzou snorts lightly, and then grimaces when it dislodges a blood clot in his nose. "Like the police would do anything."

"I'll make sure they take you seriously. You know, I'm on good terms with the Bureau of Special

Investigations," Sora says, attempting a lighthearted joke to lighten the atmosphere.

It falls flat. Or, rather, it gets a response she's not quite expecting.

One of Rokuzou's hands slides into the pocket of his ratty jacket, clutching around something small. His eyes snap up

to meet hers, a sort of fevered intelligence sparking there. "You're a Special Investigator?"

"Oh, no, nothing that fancy," Sora laughs, delicately placing a butterfly bandage on the cut on his nose. Now that the boy is all cleaned up, he looks in much better shape than the one

he arrived in. A few scrapes, quite a few bruises, but altogether nothing truly harmful. He'll probably be fine in a week or two. "I just file their paperwork."

Rokuzou studies her as she packs the first aid kit back up and stows it underneath the kitchen sink again. There's a

keen judgement in his gaze, too shrewd and calculating for a boy his age.

He doesn't say anything immediately though, so Sora gets up to fuss over Shirase. It's been a while since she's seen him, and although he makes grumbling and groaning noises, she can tell he secretly

likes being doted on. Likes when she pinches his cheek and scolds him for not coming around sooner, likes having a bowl of food pushed into his hands because 'really, you're much too thin, have you even been eating?' before being ushered over to eat on the dining table. Likes

being reminded that, even though she may not be his mother, he has a place in this house and home.

Dinner is a bit awkward, with their new guest-- whom Sora isn't sure how to approach, now that he's quiet and the immediate danger is over-- but she's made enough for three, as she

always has.

Shirase and her talk quietly for a short while, of mostly mundane things. What he's been up to-- he's got a new job, working nightshift at the port docks--, if he's still trying to get into college-- no, but he's considering going to a trade school--, if he's talked

to Yuan or Elise lately-- yes and no, though he hasn't actually seen Yuan in a few weeks.

The whole time, Rokuzou stares into his bowl and chews on his lip,clearly thinking something through.

Eventually, she can't take it, and turns to him. "Is there anyone I can call for you?"

She doesn't bring up his parents explicitly, remembering his earlier reaction. It's not her place to dig into his personal life. She just wants to make sure he gets to somewhere safe, the same thing she'd do for any child.

The single, aggrieved shrug Rokuzou gives is answer

enough. It's the same response when she asked Shirase if he had anyone to call, the first time they met.

"Alright. Do you have somewhere to go?"

The response is slower this time, with Rokuzou wavering on the answer he wants to give. He shrugs lightly, then shakes his head.