Work Text:
— — — — —
Without opening the box, Schrodinger doesn’t know if the cat inside is dead or alive. Of course, that is assuming that the box is suspended somewhere that cannot be touched, and that there are no other observations that could be made about its weight, and whether someone could shake the box to rouse the creature inside.
Similarly, nobody dares to breathe near the box that he has been occupying for an extended amount of time. Four dark walls propped up to keep the ceiling from embracing the floor, a futon that seems to melt against the frame underneath it, a small bathroom that doesn’t have a privacy partition, some odd congregation of clothes.
Perhaps it’s more apt to say that he’s inside Pandora’s Box, stuffed to the brim with all the evils of the world. Reality is nothing that dramatic. For one, there’s no such thing as hope at the bottom of this box. There’s only a floor covered in marks of crudely-scratched iterations of a seven-stroke name, with one stroke made for each hour ever since he has last breathed the same air as his partner.
It has been 34700 hours since he has last felt sunshine. There are 4957 iterations of [中也] carpeting the floors, encasing the walls, haunting the air, burning his lungs. He’s running out of space to write it down, even as he starts the first stroke of the other’s name.
It could be said that luck is a type of strength. His luck could be said to be extremely lucky at times, even if he feels as if Lady Luck often acts like a women scorned when it comes to dealing with him. But today, it seems that after a long, long time of darkness, he can see the light again.
On his phone, there’s a message that blinks at him: [Armed Detective Agency Member Nakahara Chuuya has been captured for interrogation.]
For the first time in a long, long time, his lips twitch into a semblance of a smile.
“Oh Chuuya,” he sighs, air fluttering inside his lungs, as his fingertips tingle with electricity. His smile would probably be called terrible or frightening if anyone is around to look at him. “I can finally see you again.”
— — —
It’s been a really long time since he has last stepped out of his box-like room. It’s a lot like donning on his clothes, the cold radiating from the tips of his hair to the edge of his coat that flutters with each step.
The interrogation room is also located underground, but it’s separated from the other quarters by thick cement and several layers of titanium. Strong enough that it could withstand nuclear bombardment, but it probably isn’t sturdy enough to contain a rampaging dog.
Over the years of his refusal to exist in a world without light, he has occasionally busied himself with supplying experimental products to the mafia. A terrorist with a flair for experiments has been recruited to the fold, and aside from his obsession with lemons, he possesses a creative mind that could create all sorts of gadgets.
A chain imbued with a nullification ability is one of them.
“What a lovely view.” His breath slides out of him, as he stands at the top of concrete stairs, looking in the cavernous maw that is the biggest interrogation room in Yokohama’s underbelly. He feels himself rooted in the moment, an ancient tree with heavy branches and deep-reaching roots, and he could siphon in all of the carbon dioxide in the room and not be the slightest bit light-headed. “Worthy of being a ten-billion masterpiece, don’t you agree, Chuuya?”
He can’t help it, caressing the syllables of the other’s name using his tongue. In the 34700 hours that they’ve been apart, he has carved the other’s name as a reminder for 4957 times. Nothing compares to occupying the same plane of existence as him once again. As if the other’s presence exudes so much vitality that it could fertilize withered roots into blooming spring, into ripening fruit.
Once, he has longed for a cheerful double suicide. Instead, he has been struck still in that certain time, and his heart and mind have been whisked away by gravitational force, held hostage by Chuuya’s hands.
Hands that are currently not wearing gloves.
Something surges inside him, hastening his footsteps.
(A faint reminder of a meeting, seven years ago. Of the colorful glass windows that seem to be a church’s blessing upon their meeting, marched together by their elders, complete with an inconsequential brat serving as a woeful ‘flower girl’. Seeing Chuuya in mafia-black and finding him blindingly bright still, as bright as the surge of discontent at having his dog ripped away from being a subordinate he could conveniently use as an armrest. Back then, he has found himself running forward, the quickest he could ever remember moving, just so he could yell directly at the other’s face.)
Something similar happens now, but they’re both twenty-two, and there’s no witness to their reunion, for he has already cut off the line that would loop the recordings back to the mafia’s servers.
Oh, he would surely peruse this later, replay their meeting until he could taste the other’s presence at the backs of his eyelids, but nobody else deserves to lay eyes upon his wayward dog.
“Chuuya,” he says, the silk sliding off the steel in his tone. “You’re actually showing off your hands now? Are you trying to show off how much you have changed?” He could feel himself trembling with discontent; it’s like discovering that his dog has gone out to chew his own collar so he could take it off, while wearing someone else’s mark on them. Loathsome is too-light a word to describe it. “It’s not very convincing. Your height is the same pitiful one it’s been.”
From where he stands, the tips of his shoes are 0.03 millimeters away from touching the leathers of Chuuya’s Oxfords. A lot of restraint in that it’s all-black, with no decorative patterns, aside from the laces colored in oxblood. A similar style to what he’s favored before, a brand that’s not a constant invitee to European fashion shows, showing some creases but ultimately still shiny. Yet another recipient of his dog’s careful handling of things he considers as his belongings. Dazai so very badly wants to step on them and bury them in dirt.
The air between them is charged, of burning rotten eggs and of brimstone, of lightning about to strike. A sharp intake of breath, followed by a soft huffed-out laughter, humor absent in the curve of those lips. “And you haven’t changed at all, still clutching at those childish insults.”
“You haven’t changed at all,” he insists. “You’re still the annoying shorty of a dog like before.”
If only he could use his hands and encase the man in front of him in amber, to forever preserve him in place, so he could never move, never speak, never leave him ever again. The outside air is filled with too much light, and it has tanned Chuuya by a half-shade, the brim of his favorite hat not wide enough to fully hide him away from sunlight’s chase. It has caused his shoulders to lift by 0.02 degrees higher than before, but that could be due to him not parading around in that dark overcoat that Dazai would always think is a homage to him as the dog’s owner.
He sways forward, takes a deep breath. Chuuya smells a bit different from what he remembers. Gone is the lingering mint from his favorite cigarettes, and so is the scent of his once-favorite tub of body butter flavored with oatmeal and vanilla. His shampoo and conditioner are not those fancy products gifted to him by Kouyou-san.
The one thing that remains the same is the undercurrent of iron.
His eyes narrow when he spots the reddish spot on the right edge of his lips. The skin on his right cheek is faintly discolored, and Dazai finds himself pushing his entire weight against Chuuya, two hands clutching at the other’s face like he wants to wrench it off so he could investigate it under a glass slide, magnified 520 times so he could see every single pore and cell that makes up the physical barrier that separates his insides from the rest of the world.
“Someone punched you,” he says, breathing growing disordered. “You allowed someone to lay their hands on you,” and his chest grows tight with emotion.
How dare anyone come here and hurt his dog?
How dare anyone come here and punish his dog before he could lay his own eyes on him?
He has four years’ worth of interrogation and payback to deliver, and yet someone has dared to jump the queue?
“What’s the point of getting mad over such a thing?” Chuuya tilts his head to the right, showing off the line of his neck that’s interrupted by the small black snake of his choker. Despite being chained so that his waist is cinched by black metal, his arms raised and legs kept together and pointed down: he acts as if he’s just being mildly inconvenienced, instead of captured in the mafia’s underground torture chambers. It’s not something as mundane as bravery; it’s just Chuuya’s refusal to bend to common sense, set in his ways to stand out even when he’s so small. Right now, his lashes flutter, and it’s not even an intentional seduction. “It’s not as if you have the ability to deliver a punch that’s stronger than a massage.”
A goading that has no hints of subtlety. It’s effective, in the same way the other favors simplistic approaches over plans that branch out like canopies that could cover the sky.
“…Ah, you truly are a dog that needs to be disciplined.”
He has been stilted by the other’s presence, to the point that he has temporarily lost sight of what’s important.
He lets his right hand drift down, choreographing his intent to strip the other away of any weapons he might have stashed in his person. He raises his eyebrow at the lack of anything in those pockets, aside from his phone and his wallet. He makes a show of taking them and stashing them in his own pockets, because one’s phone is one’s constant companion. Even through the layers, he could feel the warmth that Chuuya has used to hold that unfeeling metal.
Chuuya’s breath is also warm against his face, his words igniting anger as always. “Is the mafia in trouble?” His concern sounds genuine. “Can’t they afford to pay you, to the point that you’re resorting to robbing civilians of their personal belongings?”
He could quip something about how Chuuya’s not in the mafia anymore, therefore any concern of his is misplaced. He ends up with a poison-sweet, “But you belong to me, Chuuya.” He punctuates this with his hands wrapping around that neck. A tight squeeze that has the other’s pulse thrumming against his thumbs, as redness climbs up to color his cheeks. Out of anger, out of breathlessness.
Emotions are always vividly painted on the other’s face, more expressive than gaudy neon signs. And yet, why is it that his departure did not come with any semblance of foreshadowing? Is it because his right eye had just been recently liberated from its confines, at that time? Is it because he had been too busy with finding the perfect spot to bury OdaSaku, that he didn’t have an extra eye to keep track of his dog?
He’s had four years and no concrete answers.
“Why did you leave,” he asks now, dipping his thumbs deeper into the other’s skin.
A hard swallow, the motion fluttering against his hold. “You’re supposed to be the best torture specialist.” Chuuya’s such a genuine, honest idiot, but when it comes to dealing with him, his compliments carry corrosive charm. “You should be asking why I’m here.”
When it comes to a straightforward brawl, there’s nobody in the mafia who could defeat Chuuya. He’s unanimously considered as the top martial artist, even more than that old geezer Colonel. Of course, reality isn’t as easy to split into black-and-white. Despite his lack of muscle tone compared to the musclehead brute, there are ways to gain an advantage.
Being chained up renders Chuuya immobile, and therefore easier to manhandle. Dazai raises his arms a bit, so he could lift Chuuya by his throat, placing their line of sight closer to being equal.
Manipulation done by this shorty has always been reserved for gravity and those curtained in its crimson glow. It’s effective on making him ask now, “Then, if you would be forthcoming to admitting why you’re here, go ahead and tell me, Chuuya.”
Blue eyes burn at him. “It’s because the mafia has put a hit out on Atsushi.”
—It’s all instinct.
His punch lands on the taut stomach, the sound of rattling chains reverberating inside his ears.
Dazai Osamu: the youngest Executive in Port Mafia’s long, bloody history, the feared Demon Prodigy, the mind behind its revamped intelligence network, the terrifying torture technician who is guaranteed to extract intel from all of his prisoners, the person infamous for his plans and logical approach. Acting solely on instinct, without a single thought firing from his neurons, is unthinkable.
He doesn’t think now, as he instead grips the long locks on the other’s left side, while his other hand grabs the other’s face, dull nails etching over the lingering bloodstains on his lips.
“You’re mine, Chuuya. You’re my dog. You lost to me in that arcade, so you belong to me. You scuttled away and hid under Kouyou-san’s care, when you should have been my subordinate, working to the bone just so I could throw you a bone of my attention. You were supposed to scratch my back whenever I wanted you to, and you were supposed to show me and me alone your insides. You were supposed to cry in front of me, and you were supposed to look at me like I was your sole reason to exist, after all that debacle with N. You were supposed to help me bury OdaSaku and run away with me so you could continue serving as my dog, and instead what do you do?”
He takes in a ragged breath, trembling all the while, throat scorching from all those words spilling out of him.
Hateful, hateful, hateful.
Chuuya is so hateful.
He could only squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, because it would be so much better if he could just take the other away and devour him, to ensure that he couldn’t do unpleasant things anymore.
“You’re talking to me, saying another person’s name so casually, without any honorifics, when you won’t even say my name!”
He hates pain. Therefore, most of the suicide methods that he has attempted are ones where it wouldn’t sting so physically. He has not tried gargling broken glass, nor has he tried drinking hydrochloric acid. However, he has a feeling that what he’s experiencing now is those two things, compounded by the sensation of swallowing lava.
Amidst the pain, there’s a long, low sigh, “Shitty Dazai.” A palm curves over his cheek. A feverish warmth, pulsing with vitality. “Crying doesn’t actually look good on you, you know?”
He turns his head so he can bite the other’s wrist, add redness to the line left by the shackles, shackles that have been broken by the other’s sheer physical strength. He savors the taste of the other’s skin, the swell of the broken capillaries, the sound of his name. Then, he sneers and takes several steps back, so he could retrieve a wheeled cart that’s parked near the entrance.
It’s been years since he has personally administered a hands-on interrogation session. But his arrangements remain intact: all interrogation chambers include a wheeled cart where there are various implements for his use. Most of it are present for the sake of striking fear, presenting a promise of a surgical theater that could peel off one’s skin. A lot of it are tools from Mori-san’s connections as a doctor.
Dazai’s methods are surgical without the need for scalpel or forceps. He’s gifted with the capability of using words to slice all the way to one’s marrow, of using mind games to perform a full-body autopsy to someone still drawing breath.
Chuuya’s not someone who would succumb due to physical torture.
He eyes the remains of the shackles that used to hold Chuuya’s right wrist. A reminder from the other that his strength cannot be underestimated. He takes another deep breath to center himself.
He’s Dazai Osamu, and he has so many methods in his disposal to make Chuuya sing out the information that he needs from him.
He picks up a pair of medical gloves in the same color as his bandages. Amongst the tools in that cart is a syringe, as well as a cocktail that can be best described as an effective truth serum. He has overseen its development, through screens and video calls over the years.
“You’ve always liked being honest, right, Chuuya?” His tone is casual, like they’re back to being fifteen and bickering over what video game they’d play next. He has just been temporarily unmoored by the other’s sudden presence, but now he feels more like himself, more tethered even if he’s not the one chained up. “This shouldn’t be so different from your usual candidness,” he says, as he easily finds the other’s vein, like there’s a homing signal from the other’s body that attracts his hands.
Chuuya only lets out a token struggle, no panic in his eyes. “You’ve tried and failed to poison me before. There’s no way you’d succeed now.”
“I’ll measure my success myself.” While waiting for the truth serum to take effect, he shrugs off his coat and takes out a dagger. When he spots the blue gaze honing on it, he tilts it up for the other’s perusal. “Remember this? I made sure to retrieve your favorite dagger. It has accompanied me nicely over the years, Chuuya.”
When it comes to weapons, he has always preferred his words and plans, and of course, his sheepdog. If not those, then a gun would be most preferable, for its speed and range. But amongst Chuuya’s belongings, there’s only this dagger left behind. Serrated, with a smooth handle that speaks of someone caring for it well. Dazai has personally used this dagger to slice away at the paperwork that has remained in Chuuya’s office, at the memorandum Mori-san issued to him so he wouldn’t pursue the betrayal of an Executive.
He has used this dagger to cut his hair over the years. With his eyes closed, he could envision Chuuya gnawing at his hair to act as an ineffective barber.
He uses the dagger’s tip to lightly trace a path from that choker, all the way down to the other’s navel. A thin slice that doesn’t break skin, but breaks apart the other’s clothes.
“What have you done, over the past four years?” He lets the dagger’s tip kiss its way back up to the other’s sleeves, separating the cloth until they fall away, like Chuuya’s shedding white feathers.
There’s no embarrassment elicited from his actions. Chuuya’s always been the sort to not mind going shirtless while exercising. It’s not even flaunting his assets; it’s simply him being confident in his own skin that he doesn’t care if people look at him. It’s the same now. “What, suddenly interested in small-talk?”
“Fitting for someone as small as you,” comes to him automatically. Then, he almost bites his tongue, to serve as a reminder to stay on track. “Answer my question, Chuuya.”
A raised eyebrow, coupled with the slight raise of his freed arm, rising in a shrug. “You want to know what I’ve done over the past four years?”
“Every. Single. Detail.”
“Were you not keeping track of my movements, the entire time?” One eyebrow nearly disappears to his hairline. “Somehow, I find that really hard to believe.”
Contradicting each other is wired into his bones. “I had better things to do, aside from keeping a close eye on someone so small that it’s a pain to look at.”
As the person behind the revamped intelligence network for the mafia, it’s inevitable that all information eventually reaches his ears. There’s no corner of the city that he doesn’t have feelers on, and the entire map is covered by his net. That said, there’s a marked difference between numbers and code, between reports of sightings, between a film reel spliced from traffic cameras, surveillance systems, hearsay, candid shots on the background of someone else’s social media post. The Nakahara Chuuya that he has greedily followed with his eyes is separated from him by something thicker than a computer screen; the Nakahara Chuuya in front of him now is only separated from him by a barrier of flesh.
“I can’t remember everything I did,” and it’s followed by a sharp tick to the other’s lips, teeth bared at him. “I spent the early days thinking about how nice it is that I don’t have to smell your fishiness. But then, after a while, I never thought of you at all.”
It’s a lie.
He knows it’s a lie.
He knows it should be a lie, which means that the truth serum that he has developed has been defeated by Chuuya, but it must be a lie, because what his partner is saying is impossible. It’s just payback, he knows, because Chuuya’s concept has always been to give a tenfold payback. It’s a lie. He knows it in his bones, but he still drives forward and stops the lie from the source, stops it from propagating and corrupting the air between them.
Even though it must be four years since Chuuya has last consumed vintage wine, notes of blackberry and boysenberry linger on his tongue. He’s sweet, in the way arsenic must be, and Dazai feels like he could eventually be turned to a vampire who’d want no other prey but this man, because even his blood is addictive to his senses.
‘Soukoku’ has redefined the concept of a partnership so strong and tacit that they could defeat everyone and everything. It’s not surprising that they end up redefining ‘kissing’—it’s closer to the gnawing of a starved dog, biting and licking until he could be sure that he has devoured everything in front of him.
Despite his earlier play at disinterest, Chuuya has never been passive, and he doesn’t start now. Only one of his arms has been freed, and the uneven weights of the nullification chains must strain his shoulders, but one wouldn’t know it from the way that he’s clawing down his back. There’s no gentleness at all, and it’s the sort of pain that warms his belly, especially since the other’s nails dig hard enough that he could feel it on his spine.
He hasn’t upgraded his wardrobe in a long time, and perhaps that has weakened the fibers of his clothes, enough that there’s a slight ripping sound. Not that he could pay further attention to it, not when he’s busy attempting to swallow the other’s tongue. Without it, Chuuya wouldn’t be able to infuriate him with lies. Without it, Chuuya wouldn’t be able to form words guaranteed to undo the scabs over the rotten flesh of his necrotic heart, poking at it mercilessly to wound it freshly anew.
Four years ago, his heart has been seized, ceased in its vitality from two blows landing one after another. His best friend has died in the crossroads between two organizations. And in the aftermath, in the moments before he contacts someone from the Special Abilities Division, his phone rings with news of the disappearance of a Port Mafia Executive who is not him.
Right now, he has the opportunity to make sure that never happens again.
He takes a slight step back, sees a silver wire dangling between their lips, ducks back in to drink that as well, to make sure that he could devour everything that belongs to his dog. He squeezes the other’s chin, puckering his shiny lips, and considers. “Your physical constitution as Arahabaki’s vessel has made your body more susceptible to poisons and chemicals. It’s why your love for wine could never be reciprocated: you will always fail to stay sober long enough to appreciate anything more than a glass.” He smears the blood off those lips, blood that is a mix between theirs, thanks to them biting each other. “The truth serum should have worked wonders on you, Chuuya.”
“I never bothered to think of you, or wonder about how you’re doing, over the time I was away.” Disdainful. “Why, you can’t accept that that’s the truth?”
“A dog can’t lie to his master.” He dips his thumb in, and gets the other’s incisor sinking to his flesh for his troubles. He doesn’t flinch, not even when his skin breaks. Why should he, when this means that his blood is going to sit on the other’s tongue, slide down his throat, and end up in his belly? He’d be the iron that would rust the other’s steel determination, tainting him from the inside. He uses his spit-slick bloodied thumb to draw sweeping strokes of his name over the other’s nose, the bow over his lip, the furrow between his eyebrows. “I know your heartbeat, your very breath. Naturally, I know it when you lie to me, Chuuya.”
“And yet you’ve kept me here to be interrogated, even injecting me with your so-called truth serum.” Chuuya’s sneer has been universally agreed to be the harbinger of destruction, seen by the scant few who could manage to survive in a brawl against gravity. “A lazy bastard like you should act like someone lazy and stop doing extra work. If you already know everything you need to know, there’s no merit to keeping me imprisoned here.”
There truly is no merit to it. There’s a tripartite system in place, to balance the forces in the city. To make an enemy out of the Armed Detective Agency would be to foolishly waste resources, especially since those same resources could be used to investigate the force behind the seven-billion bounty instead. Someone with that much capital is bound to be troublesome, if they’re already flaunting their money in this manner. Despite defecting from the mafia, there has been no order or bounty sent out to harvest the head of this wayward Executive. Even if he proposes a kill order or a hunting permit, it will be vetoed by Kouyou-san and Verlaine-san, before it could even reach Mori-san’s table.
Doing anything beyond keeping him imprisoned for several hours will do more harm than good, if one considers the equilibrium of the city’s forces.
…But, what does that matter?
Four years ago, his heart has suffered a blow so devastating that he’s been carrying this infarction, nursing it inside a lightless box, because a world without Chuuya does not deserve to be seen. OdaSaku has left him with a prediction of his continued hollowness, and he has been prepared to show him that he could live somewhere in the light, only for the light to disappear without word.
And not even can a cheerful double suicide save him.
Without word from Chuuya, how could he know if he’s somewhere where he would end up using Corruption again in the future? If he’s dead, then that would mean free reign for Arahabaki to steal his dog’s sanity away. If he’s dead, then there’d be nobody around to discipline his dog.
So he could only stay in that box, waiting, longing, biding his time—
“You must have become stupider, if you think that I’m going to let you go that easily, Chuuya.”
There’s a saying, about how cornered animals and desperate people manage great feats, thanks to their bodies’ natural restrictions being unlocked by a surge of adrenaline. It’s not a corner, but he traps Chuuya against the wall, drawing to his full height so he could emphasize the difference in their builds. Chuuya may be a regular to physical exercise, but his muscles are lean and not at all helpful to giving him a stocky form. He’s petite compared to him, and it’s easy to swallow him up in the embrace of his arms.
He uses the wall for leverage, pushing Chuuya against it, and sliding him higher, until they’re eye-level without neck strain on his part. This means that Chuuya’s toes are far from the ground, even if he does his best to stretch them to a ballet’s pose.
It doesn’t matter if the truth serum doesn’t work on him.
“How about I fuck the answers out of you instead?” He asks, when Chuuya simply sneers at him, refusing to bend down to his provocation. “Let’s see how honest your body can really be, yes, Chuuya?”
“You can’t even punch hard enough for me to feel it.” He doesn’t look bothered, even if it’s not possible for him to have gone to anyone else. He shouldn’t be experienced in this regard, but he still acts as if he’s unruffled by his threats. “I’m sure that I’d barely feel you fuck me too.”
Something that would never change between them, no matter the occasion: the gritty push-and-pull, the refusal to surrender.
Dazai tries, despite the odds. He flicks the dagger back, and makes quick work of the other’s pants, ignoring the hiss about the state of his clothes. It’s fine if it’s in tatters—that just means that it’d be so much harder for Chuuya to slip away in the aftermath.
After that, it’s easy to slide their bodies together. He thrusts up, and feels the other’s warmth against his clothes. He drops the dagger and kicks it away, so Chuuya can’t wrestle it out of him. One arm squeezes the slim waist, and another delves between the other’s cheeks, without bothering to disguise his true intent. He rubs his thumb over the puckered opening, tests it by dipping in just his fingertip. “Chuuya, it’d be too late for you to regret it,” he singsongs in the tune of a funeral knell.
“I don’t do things I regret,” is the casual answer.
The implication that he doesn’t feel the smidgen of regret over his decision to leave—it makes Dazai snarl and plunge his thumb, knowing that the other’s not been stretched beforehand by any means. And yet, Chuuya still accepts him easily, his firm and unyielding form hiding this accommodating part. Like a tiny cactus thriving in the sun, covered in spines, while hiding a succulent flesh underneath.
It’s really hateful.
So many people in this world would like to have a cactus in their care, for how notoriously easy it is to grow, able to survive the harshest conditions, to the point that he can’t even bear it, staying in the mafia where he has an owner willing to drown him in water and attention.
It’s really, really hateful.
“There’s always a first time for everything.” And that includes the first time he’s going to breach the other’s defenses, the first time he’s going to make him sob while pleading for leniency. He wouldn’t give in, of course, unless Chuuya swears fealty and commits to being his dog for a lifetime, no takebacks.
Chuuya’s eyebrows twitch, but he doesn’t show any indication of hurt, aside from the brief grimace. It goads him on, to slowly fuck the other’s hole using his thumb, rotating it over the rim to stimulate the nerves, to coax it to flutter open more easily for him. It’s slow work, given that there’s no other lubrication, but that’s fine with him.
He has spent 34700 hours without the person in front of him, so any extension of this moment is just him collecting compounded interest.
Between the two of them, it’s Chuuya who is more forthcoming about his impatience. He squirms against him, his breathing slightly more labored than when they’ve started. “Are you trying to lull me to sleep, huh?”
“Bored?” He takes his thumb out, wipes it over the other’s tailbone, and shifts so that he’s instead fucking the other’s mouth using his clean fingers. He tries to pull the other’s tongue, and gets bitten instead. “Between the two of us, it’s me who’s the prodigy when it comes to interrogation, remember? I have my own tactics in squeezing the answers I want out of you.”
A huff of humorless laughter, accompanied by a spit targeted towards his cheek. “Between the two of us, you’re the delusional bastard too.”
He gathers the spit on his face, and transfers it to the other’s hole, slicking it up. “If you wanted me to fuck you faster, you could have just said so, Chuuya.”
“Ha! You’re the one who has no other recourse but to sleep with a prisoner. All those women that you’ve flirted with, and you can’t even find anyone to trick into sleeping with you?”
Maybe it’s true, that a dog’s saliva is poisonous. He must have been infected with something worse than rabies, eroding his mental faculties, because he finds his mouth saying, “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to sleep with, Chuuya.”
Perhaps the heart that has stopped beating four years ago has also stopped beating now. All of his thoughts grind to a halt, until there’s only blinding white light engulfing everything in its tracks.
By the time he regains his senses, it’s to his cheeks squished tight by a firm grip, There’s an equally firm lock around his waist, courtesy of a pair of legs wrapped around him like a persistent koala. A part of him isn’t surprised that Chuuya’s managed to break free from his restraints purely out of physical power. A part of him reels at how the just-freed Chuuya has chosen to stay, even if he’s wound around him like a snake ready to eat his next meal.
“I told you, shitty Dazai,” and it’s punctuated by the other man squeezing his waist tighter. “Crying doesn’t actually look good on you, you know? You always scam me to doing unbelievable things when you look all sad like some kicked puppy.”
The four years, the seven-billion bounty, the two organizations that they now belong to: none of that matters anymore. Despite the dim lighting in this room, Chuuya’s eyes shine as if it possesses the hope at the bottom of Pandora’s Box.
“Then you must agree to be forever mine,” he breathes out, and breathes that sentiment into the other’s mouth.
With renewed strength, he pushes them back against the wall. Even without the chains holding Chuuya up, he hefts him up there, setting him against the concrete while he fumbles with unbuckling and unzipping. He’s fully wired and a wretched sound is wrenched out of his throat once he finally sinks his cock into Chuuya. He could only put in less than half of it, and the stretch already burns.
“You’re mine,” he says, babbling like all of his senses have been disconnected and rewired all wrong. “See, you’re taking me in so well now? You’re meant for me, Chuuya. You can’t leave me again, or else I’ll just fuck you here and nail you to the wall so you can’t leave.”
Chuuya knocks his head back against the wall, exposing the line of his throat. Sweat beads on his forehead as he says, “You’re fucking crazy, that’s what you are.”
And yet, he stays there.
Without the chains—even with the chains—he definitely is capable of escaping.
And yet, he stays.
An animalistic noise escapes him, as he presses them tighter together. He widens his stance a bit, so he could fuck deeper and harder, his hips relentless in pursuing that promise to really nail Chuuya to the wall. With each thrust he goes deeper, until he’s bottoming out with every fuck, drawing back to leave the tip in, before plunging back inside.
He holds the other by the waist, and lifts him higher, fucks him until his fingerprints leave marks over his skin, until his legs slide away from his waist from the pleasure. He watches the flush conquer Chuuya’s face, all the way to his neck and collarbones. His cock swells prettily too, reddened and swollen where it curves against his belly, leaking like it’s also crying from bliss. Chuuya’s mouth is partially open, and he’s tempted to suffocate him with his tongue.
But first, his attention is caught by the way Chuuya’s abdominal muscles heave, shining with sweat. And that trembling travels all the way down, to the shaking of his hips whenever his prostate meets friction, to the way his thighs tense when he’s left empty save for the tip. When he grinds his cock against the other’s insides, he could see the way Chuuya’s toes strain and curl, his instinct to kick out meeting nothing but air since he’s suspended against the wall with only Dazai’s cock for leverage.
“It’s all your fault,” he places the blame where it should be. This is only happening because of Chuuya, after all.
“You really haven’t changed,” Chuuya grumbles, but it’s all broken syllables. “You’re still blaming me for all sorts of things.”
He digs his fingernails deep, as he fucks him quickly, deeply, until he’s spilling inside of him. Liquid warmth splashes all over Chuuya’s insides, coating his still-hard cock in thick come. He buries himself inside so that his come wouldn’t drip down, but there’s so much liquid that some of it squelches out anyway, despite his best efforts.
He slinks a hand between them so he could swiftly jack Chuuya off, but just as he’s about to come, he stops fisting the shroom-like head. Against a reddened earlobe, he asks, “Why did you leave me, Chuuya?”
Angered laughter meets his ears. “Is this your grand plan? Me getting to come in exchange for intel?” Chuuya kicks his knee. There’s a wet splotching sound of something hitting the floor, presumably his come. “Figures that you can’t even do well in fucking the answers out of me.”
When it comes to losing against Chuuya, there’s no such thing as refractory periods. “You’re really such an undisciplined dog,” he says, and resumes fucking Chuuya against the wall.
This time, his thrusts are more erratic, more slippery. Come squelches out with each thrust, and it’s a delight, seeing his own come smeared on his cock whenever he pulls out. Thick white foams on the other’s entrance, and each slap of their flesh resonates in his ears.
This time, he makes sure to kiss Chuuya as he comes inside him, all while furiously fisting the other’s cock so that they’d come together. “Why did you leave me,” he asks again, only to be rebuffed with a heavy eyeroll.
He resolves to make the other’s blues roll for a different reason altogether. He’s a lot less impatient now, so he could savor the slow, deep penetration, still hefting Chuuya up against the wall. There’s white pooled under them, a trail of evidence leading from Chuuya’s puffy hole, down to his reddened thighs, to his trembling calves, to his straining toes. Dazai scoops up the come that has splattered against their chins, courtesy of Chuuya coming earlier, and fingers it inside Chuuya whenever he pulls out. It takes some maneuvering, but he does manage to establish a rhythm, of ensuring that Chuuya is never left empty. He either has a cock so deep that it makes his lower belly swell, or he has come-soaked fingers that prod his prostate.
Despite his superhuman feats, Chuuya is human, after all. And humans feel pleasure whenever their nerves are stimulated right, the rush of bliss making him more pliant, more malleable in his hold.
“You’re, so, annoying,” spills out of his mouth, but so does drool from his open-mouthed panting. And even his seething sounds softer, especially since they’re interspersed with panting and moaning. “I really! Really! Urgh, faster, come on, hate you, so damn, fuck! Fuck me harder, oi!”
Following Chuuya’s orders is hateful, but he fucks him harder anyway.
Until his legs are trembling and threatening to give out, to the point that as soon as he comes inside Chuuya for the third time, he’s also slumping against him as they slide sideways to the floor. He makes sure that they land right on top of the pool of fluids that have dripped out of Chuuya’s hole, and he relishes the way Chuuya snarls at him, even if a bit half-hearted.
“It doesn’t matter why you left me,” he says, as he slides back in as soon as he slips out. His palms knead Chuuya’s ass, clutching at it and massaging it while he slowly jostles them together. “I’ll just make sure you can’t do it again.”
He buries his head against the other’s neck. For a moment, he thinks that he’d just get rebuffed again.
But then, Chuuya says, “I didn’t betray the mafia.”
Even if he’s a bit spent—the energy he used in manhandling Chuuya earlier now reasserting to claim interest in the form of bone-deep fatigue—his mind starts to work in overdrive. Before he could flip through several possibilities—secret mission, planted spy, a long con—Chuuya adds, “I didn’t betray you. Because that would require me being loyal to you to begin with, shitty mackerel bastard.”
With that kind of response, isn’t he just asking to be fucked again?
“Ah, we still have a lot of time together.” This time, he keeps his thumb inside while he fucks into Chuuya, with the purpose of bloating him so full of come that he couldn’t breathe without leaking out. “I’ll make sure to fuck those annoying words out of you too, Chuuya.”
With shining eyes, messy hair and sweat-soaked skin, Chuuya is an otherworldly vision, someone who couldn’t be restrained, defiant against the mere idea of being possessed. He cocks his chin at him, full of challenge, as if occupying his heart for four years is simply an appetizer. “Bring it on, shitty Dazai.”
—After four long years, light has reached him once again.
— — — — —
PROLOGUE
The punch that hits his cheek isn’t a surprise, but the key that’s slipped to his palm makes his eyebrows rise. His intonation rises too, as he asks, “Are you sure about this? That shitty Dazai is going to be furious, you know.”
Four years has not eased up on Akutagawa’s gloom. In fact, he looks even more dispirited compared to four years ago. Chuuya kind of wants to shake someone by the shoulders and lecture them about the importance of taking care of one’s protégé. He also kind of wants to introduce Atsushi to him, in a less violent setting, because he would surely benefit from having some lighter influences to his life.
“Your disappearance has caused Dazai-san so much… sadness.” Akutagawa’s expression flickers as he settles for that word, which is hardly enough to contain the amount of nonsense that Dazai must have subjected everyone to. “However, I would also like to return the favor. You have returned now, so Dazai-san would be… happier.”
That makes his eyebrows climb higher. “Is this considered a return?” He palms the key, and slips it to his sleeves. “The Port Mafia has kindly abducted me.”
“You would not have been here if you did not wish for it.” Akutagawa bows down, posture rigid as always. “In the future, I shall be stronger than you, Chuuya-san. So that if Dazai-san wishes to see you, I would be able to drag you back using my own strength.”
He’s always been more indulgent of the younger subordinates, perhaps a leftover instinct from when he’s been with Sheep. In his opinion, a big chunk of Akutagawa’s abrasive personality can be blamed on having a mackerel for a mentor, so he doesn’t give him too much grief and lets him leave without much banter.
In the silence that follows, he could only stare at the walls that he hasn’t laid eyes on in four years. It has rolled by so quickly, that he could almost swear it’s just yesterday when he’s kneeling down on the carpet of Boss’ office, hat to his chest, head bowed down as he’s saying, “I have to leave, for the mafia’s sake.”
Four years ago, just as Port Mafia is handling the conflict with Mimic on Yokohama’s soil, Chuuya’s been out on an international mission, where he has accidentally gotten in contact with a foreign group searching for what they call a ‘Book’. One of the group members had an Ability that could project the future into the target’s mind.
No thanks to Nostradamus, he has seen the vague outlines of a murky future, where Yokohama is endangered and it would be up to the cooperation of three factions to save the city. And that his body would be controlled by some unknown means, and it would end with him using Corruption wantonly against his own allies.
Of course, it’s not as if he has completely believed such a vision without questioning it.
After all, how possible is it for someone to control and possess him that thoroughly? He could even resist Arahabaki taking over his body, so what kind of force would be enough to tempt him to unleash Corruption?
He has rushed back to Yokohama, in order to get Boss’ opinion. And perhaps, even Dazai’s.
But what he has seen instead is Dazai covered in blood, with the bandage over his eyes undone, and the expression of a child about to cry. It’s a sight that has attacked him directly, making his mind spin. Somehow, he wants to make sure to purge everything that has caused Dazai that much sadness, which is a terrifying concept in itself, given how much they hate each other.
It’s then that he understands that there are some things that can control him, things that are weaker and somehow stronger than a god’s corruption.
It’s then that he thinks about a future where if Corruption goes out of control, not only is the city he loves going to be endangered by him, but that there’s one person who would have to approach him when he’s not lucid, just so he could nullify it.
And it’s then that he tells Boss about his intention to leave the mafia for a bit, while he finds a solution that wouldn’t place them in harm’s way. And it’s then that Boss tells him that the President of the third faction in Yokohama’s tripartite defense, has the Ability to restrain the members’ abilities.
And it’s then that he stands in front of his office, and leaves behind his favorite dagger, something that he has bought because of how much Dazai snubbed it for looking too ‘try-hard at being cool’.
That dagger, that he has asked Aniki to modify, so that it’d contain a tracker and a sensor.
He hates Dazai, he truly does. He doesn’t want to see him or be with him at every moment of the day. Just the fact that he knows the other exists, somewhere in this world, is fine with him. Just the fact that he knows that the other still breathes, so that he’d still have a chance to kill him with his own hands, someday in the future, is fine with him.
So, he’d leave that dagger with Dazai, and if the bastard ever dares die away from him, he’d know it, so he could rush and make sure that nobody else kills him aside from him.
It’s an arrangement that he’s satisfied with.
Until he gets a new coworker who’s being targeted by the mafia because of a seven-billion bounty, and then he’s hearing gossip from the Black Lizard that they have two Executives holed up in underground basements.
Dazai Osamu, the guy who’d whine from boredom if he doesn’t have anything to do in a day? He’s willingly locking himself up and refusing to take a step outside? What the hell is going on?
—Akutagawa is right. He’s here because he wants to be here.
So, when Dazai arrives, with messy hair, deep eyebags, a shirt that nearly falls off his now-even-skinnier frame, and eyes shining with unshed tears of frustration and naked longing, Chuuya could only suck in a breath and think: this must be what it means for one’s heart to be seized.
— — — — —
the end