Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

* * *

Chuuya’s born on April 29^th, a tiny but loud, pink-cheeked bundled swathed in blankets. He kicks without force against the nurses that bring him over to his mother; he sucks at his mother’s thumb when she pats his face with loving wonder.

Chuuya’s father, the 43^rd Boss of Yokohama’s Port Mafia, drops by six hours after his birth, two feet separating him and his heir.

* * *

Chuuya spends his seventh birthday alternating between running and tripping inside the protected lawn’s spaces. There’s a formal party in the evening where he has to behave and impress people with alternating Japanese-French-English, but that’s a couple of hours away. He prefers to spend his days outside, warmed by the sun and cooled by the breeze, instead of being cooped up in the enormous library, instead of parrying blows in the underground training area.

Chuuya runs back to the porch when he catches a glimpse of his mother’s smile, rare in its softness. He notices a man beside his mother, but he’s wearing plain clothes, so it’s not his father. Chuuya runs faster, his arms waving in a frenzy. “Mother!”

Kouyou freezes for a second, her smile transforming into something more terribly familiar, gilded with firmness that’s a hallmark of power. But her embrace remains warm even if everything about her has turned cold, and Chuuya thinks that he’s happy like this.

* * *

A day before Chuuya’s birthday, he wakes up in the apartment that’s been their home ever since his mother had started expressing her desire for a more peaceful life, ever since Chuuya’s been unable to pass the game theory exams from his home tutor. This morning, he doesn’t wake up to the irregular cling-clang of pans against the kitchen counter, nor does he wake up to slightly-burnt food that tastes like home.

This morning, he wakes up to his bedroom door being kicked open by a bunch of men wearing all-black suits and black sunglasses to mask their faces. He recognizes the standard uniform of Port Mafia, which is why he doesn’t scream. But he huddles into his blankets, eyes wide with terror and confusion, as the men scour the small apartment.

Hirotsu-san, Father’s butler, makes an appearance after nearly thirty minutes of commotion. Chuuya doesn’t seek comfort from him the way he does with his mother; Hirotsu-san, in turn, makes things simple by stating that his mother has fled Yokohama with her new lover.

“Boss wants you back in the main house,” Hirotsu-san tells him, an order, not a suggestion. Some of the men in black start ransacking the closets and shoving their contents haphazardly into moving boxes.

Chuuya thinks about how his mother didn’t make any plans for tomorrow, not even to tease him about the food he’d like her to attempt to cook for his birthday.

* * *

Chuuya turns eight while inside his newest cage—well, it’s technically not new, since it used to be his room when he was much younger and when things were much happier. He doesn’t see his Father – Hirotsu-san tells him that Father is busy tracking down his mother because she has apparently taken something important from him.

He thinks that it’s impossible that she stole something of monetary value, because that’s just not her style. He keeps quiet though, keeps his head down.

There’s a small cake without any candles, delivered straight to his room. It’s a six by six tatami room, with an adjoining bathroom. He can stay inside the room and not come out until it’s time to die.

* * *

Chuuya’s allowed to roam the entire first floor as long as he’s accompanied by a bodyguard. Chuuya doesn’t tell Hirotsu-san that he knows it’s just a farce – or rather, they’re guarding the secrets inside some of the rooms, not Chuuya. He continues his studies, even as he fails most exams and needs a couple of tries before he meets the passing mark.

Lessons for martial arts and weapon-wielding didn’t resume when he returned to the main house. Chuuya’s heard the rumors that Father is looking for a more suitable heir, raiding orphanages for someone desperate enough to cling to a lifetime of blood, someone smart enough to survive against all odds.

Servants and guards all bow to him and call him ‘Young Master’, but Chuuya notices that their bows become lighter and less bent each passing day.

* * *

The moment Chuuya sees Father again, Chuuya knows the rumors are true. He doesn’t see any blood splatters on Father’s clothes, not on the long loop of the scarlet scarf, not on the pristine coat that doesn’t quite effectively curtail the other’s bloodthirsty aura. But Chuuya knows that death has been delivered as punishment; he hopes, but doesn’t expect too much, that his mother died quickly, mercifully.

He doesn’t cry or collapse to his knees—not until the young boy in front of him approaches in confident strides, hollow eyes peering into him as soon as they’re within an arm’s reach.

“You’re my brother?”

Chuuya’s never had a sibling before; he’s never had someone around his age to hang out with, because Elise looks at him with the same disdain as his Father’s, fitting for an Ability that belongs to him. He chokes, for a brief moment, because he’s not sure how to respond.

“Let’s go, Dazai-kun.” Father has never addressed Chuuya by his name, has never addressed him, period. But here he is, placing a gloved hand over his new son’s shoulder, drags him away.

He doesn’t cry, but he does collapse to his knees, the rumors and murmurs growing in volume around him.

* * *

Chuuya fails yet another exam, five points short of the passing mark. Aizawa-sensei tells him that he’s never going to meet the standards of regular middle school at the rate things are going. He sighs deeply and thinks about how easier things would be if everyone is just strong enough to get what they want, protect what they need, strong enough to find happiness in whatever they have, instead of thinking about war strategies and careful manipulation.

Dazai is quiet, one seat away from him, his marks all green and perfect even though he’s been in an orphanage without any home tutors for the past five years.

He doesn’t want to stare, but he ends up doing so. Dazai catches his gaze and smirks at him. Chuuya thinks that it’s probably not made in malice, but he doesn’t know how to react either.

* * *

Chuuya’s allowed to roam the entire estate as long as Dazai’s with him. It doesn’t happen all that often, given that Dazai – despite being a twelve-year-old like him – is mostly out with the Boss during some inspections, some deals.

There are more rumors now, that Dazai’s suggested plan during one of the skirmishes in the border was actually implemented and it had worked like a charm. Chuuya knows that two weeks from now, Dazai will be going out on his own to broker a deal with some mercenaries in the South.

Today, Chuuya doesn’t frown when the servants they pass by bow down to Dazai and call him ‘Young Master Dazai’, all while politely dismissing Chuuya. Most of their time together is spent with Chuuya protesting at being delegated to a life-sized pillow or a convenient lap, since Dazai has this strange habit of locking the two of them inside the estate’s library, reading books and more books with his head on Chuuya’s lap.

Dazai doesn’t refer to him as a brother ever since their first meeting. He’s the only one who calls Chuuya by name anymore. Sometimes, Chuuya wonders if he’ll end up forgetting his own name if not for Dazai reminding him about it, calling him Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya each time they’re together.

Dazai shakes his head against his thighs, fanning his hair all over his lap. His eyes lose their hollow darkness whenever they’re together. It makes Chuuya happy, because he hasn’t been successful in chasing the hollow coldness in his mother’s eyes before, so she ended up running away from everything. “Can you read this, Chuuya?”

“It’s in…” Chuuya squints at the words, doesn’t recognize them as familiar. “Some weird bullshit language.”

Dazai laughs, delighted at Chuuya’s failures as always. “It’s in Russian, dummy.”

“Why the hell are you reading in Russian?” To his knowledge, they don’t have any business with any Russian gangs or mafiya. Dazai never does anything without reason, even if the reason sometimes is just because it will annoy Chuuya.

“Mm, why do you think?”

“You plan to make a backdoor deal with some Russian mafiya,” Chuuya glares at the person on his lap, who only smirks in satisfaction at being understood so well.

“If only you applied your brain cells to your studies too.”

Dazai always says words that are tinged with cruelty. Chuuya reacts to them with his best estimation of healthy banter, even though he flounders a lot of times, unsure whether he should let the sharp words sting his heart more than they should.

“I’m not interested in The Art of War.” He much prefers practical applications, but any sort of physical or hands-on lessons remain off the table for him. “I’d much prefer martial arts.”

“All brawn, no brains,” Dazai teases him but softens the blow by flicking Chuuya’s nose.

They spend the rest of the day inside the library, only to go separate ways for dinner, because Chuuya’s food is always delivered to his room, while Dazai’s night is spent schmoozing with Port Mafia contacts.

* * *

“I cannot fucking believe you,” Chuuya grouses at the person lounging on his bed, feet hanging off the frame. “Why do I have to cram?!”

There’s no point. Each day, every day, Dazai moves closer to being the proper heir, the next Boss. There’s no need for Chuuya to acquire knowledge and power needed to be the Boss.

“I refuse to spend time at some stupid school without my chewtoy~~~♪”

It isn’t a metaphor or a petname – Dazai, recently, has favored biting Chuuya’s neck and forearms whenever they’re alone. It’s a relief to his skin that they’re rarely afforded time alone together, with how divergent their paths have become.

“So now you’re forcing me to pass all these tests?” Chuuya’s not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed that Dazai seems to be harboring the misconception that he’s somehow smart enough to pass the tests for the best high school in the city with just a week to prepare. “How fucking inconsiderate can you be?!”

“I already know all of the lessons.” Dazai’s whining is irritating – mostly because he’s just being factual. “If I become bored… do you really want me to be bored, while surrounded by so many innocent sheep, Chuuya?”

“I don’t really care,” Chuuya declares, though he’s a bit… worried. Not because he’s particularly attached to people he doesn’t know, to common people who lived a life unlike his own. Dazai’s just a teenager like him—he acts like it, but he doesn’t actually own the world. It’s too easy, too easy, to imagine Dazai being caught in the tangle of legalities, of prison, of the government’s special division for Ability-users.

“Mm, so you say,” Dazai murmurs slyly, nudging Chuuya’s hand. “Now go ahead and study, Chuuya~~~”

* * *

Chuuya’s fifteen when he enters high school with Dazai. They’re on different classes, because Dazai’s scores tops the national results while Chuuya’s records had to be tampered with. Dazai introduces himself without speaking about his relationship with the other transfer student; Chuuya only mentions his first name and bows down in front of his class.

Chuuya’s PE happens at the same time as Dazai’s Advanced Mathematics; he almost fails to land the soccer goal from the self-consciousness at being stared at by Dazai from the third-floor window.

They have lunch together every other day—finding spots that are hidden from view of their classmates as well as Dazai’s bodyguards. Breakfast and lunch is courtesy of Chuuya, because Dazai’s never been a morning person, even on days that he doesn’t have Port Mafia business that runs deep into the night before. Dinner is always take-out of Dazai’s choice, even though there are a lot of times that the man who bought them is out on some business by dinnertime.

Chuuya’s grades for English, Literature and PE are above Dazai’s; Dazai uses this as an excuse to coax Chuuya into wearing reading glasses and teaching him about poetry and languages. Dazai always leaves his notes and homework answers available for Chuuya to copy—not that Chuuya’s ever taken advantage of it.

They live together in an apartment a few minutes’ walk away from their school, for convenience. Without guardians to overlook their actions, Dazai can practice independence and responsibility. Chuuya’s just glad to be out of his fancy cage of a house.

There are two single beds in the bedroom.

Only one is used with frequency—the other becomes a dump for books and games and snacks.

* * *

Throughout it all, Chuuya doesn’t harbor any illusions about his fate.

Chuuya’s aware of the rumors, ever since his mother fled from the mafia, ever since his father brought back a second son after chasing her down. Everyone says that Dazai is the better choice for the heir, since he has inherited the Boss’s cruelty and cunning, while the first son has only inherited beauty from his mother.

Chuuya’s aware of their plans to assassinate him during his coming-of-age ceremony so that the proper heir can be welcomed.

Chuuya’s aware of the fact that they’re planning to install Dazai as the new heir by having him deliver the killing blow to Chuuya himself.

On the evening of his sixteenth birthday, Chuuya wears an all-black suit more fitting for a funeral. He knows his fate and he’d rather not broadcast his own blood splatter with lighter fabrics. He slices into his food and sips into his sparkling water, surprised with each moment that he retains lucidity.

At the end of dinner, he remains at the head of the long table opposite the Boss, his seat pushed back slightly so that people can have room to kneel before him and offer their loyalty.

Chuuya’s aware that this should be the day he dies.

Which is why he’s beyond surprised when Dazai strides towards him resolutely, kneels in front of him, bows deep enough that his lips are pressed to the tip of Chuuya’s shiny leather shoes. He’s frozen into place, trembling slightly, eyes wide and disbelieving as the people surrounding them burst into gasps and further chatter.

After a tense heartbeat, Dazai moves, liquid grace in his charcoal suit and crimson tie, shifts so that he’s not bent over Chuuya’s feet, moves his face and his mouth so that he’s practically sliding kisses up from Chuuya’s calf to his knees.

Dazai’s eyes aren’t hollow, when their gazes meet. Instead, it’s filled to the brim with amusement and something so intense it burns Chuuya’s mouth dry. Still speechless, as Dazai transfers the attentions of his lips from Chuuya’s clothed knees to his still-trembling hand. Chuuya hears the buzzing of the men behind the assassination plans, but they all fade into static when Dazai kisses each of his fingers, dropping soft touches over each knuckle, over each nailbed, over each fingertip.

Dazai finishes lavishing attention to all of his fingers, before he returns to Chuuya’s left ring finger—the place where the Family Ring should be, should he inherit the legacy of the Port Mafia. In place of a bulky obsidian ring with the crest of the Port Mafia engraved, Dazai sucks the ring finger into his mouth, bites viciously at the spot where rings usually rest, infinitely amused at how Chuuya shudders from how sensitive his hands are, given that he wears gloves nearly 24/7.

Chuuya feels the world around the two of them fade away, before it re-sharpens with startling clarity once he feels the glare of the Boss from across him. He opens his mouth, but he only ends up groaning Dazai’s name, much to his embarrassment.

Chuuya’s not expecting to live through his birthday dinner, which is why he’s surprised when Dazai pledges loyalty to him instead, opting to become his bodyguard and right-hand man.

“Congratulations on your coming-of-age ceremony, Young Master Chuuya.” Dazai murmurs, voice soft, but words clear, loud enough in a room that’s been shocked into silence. “I pledge my life, my loyalty, my everything to your cause. If you’d allow me, I’d gladly be your sword and your shield, for the rest of your life.”

* * *

Chuuya’s not sure how he’s managed to survive that ceremony, when the Boss’s eyes are harder than diamonds, when nobody else aside from Dazai deigned to kneel before him and promise their loyalty. But he’s still alive—though maybe not for much longer.

“What the fuck was that,” Chuuya tries to inject more… venom, more indignation, but he’s just so rattled, shocked, tired.

“That’s what you call a wonderful marriage proposal,” Dazai answers him cheerily, looking self-satisfied, perched on top of Chuuya’s hips. “Don’t you agree?”

“Wonderful, my ass.” Chuuya might not be that attuned with the rest of society, but even he has enough common sense to know that it’s hardly something that can be called ‘wonderful’. Also, he’s not stupid enough to think that there’s no ulterior motive behind such showy defiance of the assassination plan against him. “…will you move? You’re much heavier than you think.”

Dazai grins, all sharp teeth as he grinds his hips down, creasing the lines of their tailored pants. “I can’t believe my lovely fiancé just called me fat!”

“I called you heavy,” Chuuya corrects with a long-suffering sigh, but doesn’t stop his body’s natural reaction – which is to encourage the friction between their hips.

“I noticed that you didn’t deny being my fiancé~”

“You wouldn’t have listened.”

Because Dazai is a jerk like that.

“Mm, see, you can be smart when you want to!”

Chuuya rolls his eyes at that, opts to deliver his retort directly against his new bodyguard’s mouth.

Chapter Text

* * *

Chuuya’s Tuesdays are relatively light, because there’s free period before and after lunch. He usually completes his readings and homework during the first free period, holed up in his seat at the rightmost corner, front row. A discreet pair of earphones blocks out most of the chatter from his classmates; only the bell manages to pierce through the cocoon afforded by the songs from his mp3 player.

Dazai doesn’t eat with him on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Chuuya’s heard of talk about how Dazai agrees to eat with whoever asks him out on those days; despite the guy’s blatant nihilism and all-around-bastardness, his face makes him popular enough to have a throng of girls from different classes lining up to get an hour in his presence. Chuuya knows all about this not only because his seatmate’s way too interested in Dazai, but also because Dazai delights in talking about himself.

Today’s the first Tuesday ever since Dazai has made that blatant and embarrassing declaration in front of the Port Mafia’s upper echelons though.

Chuuya’s starting to learn the benefits of expecting the unexpected, but nothing quite prepares him for the sudden bang of his classroom’s door sliding open with flourish. He jolts in his place, headphones dislodged. He nearly drops his bento, his chopsticks clack on top of his desk.

There’s a bevy of people, mostly girls in too-short summer skirts, by the doorway. His seatmate looks like she’s about to pass out, face extremely red. There’s probably a dozen interesting things happening at once, but Chuuya’s attention is arrested by the confident swagger of Dazai’s hips, something that he’s only seen in short intervals, glimpses in-between Port Mafia hallways.

“Why the fuck are you here,” he grouses, belatedly remembering that to the rest of his class, and school, he doesn’t have any relationship with Dazai whatsoever.

Dazai beams at him like they’re lifelong friends. “I wanted to eat lunch with you!”

“…you’ll spoil my food.”

Chuuya didn’t eat lunch with him yesterday, for he had to finish an essay that he didn’t manage to take care of during the hectic weekend (and Dazai’s clinging after the ceremony is the number one culprit, really). They didn’t see each other yesterday for dinner too, because Dazai has been summoned by the Boss, probably to get smacked in the head, in hopes of making him remember the plan to assassinate Chuuya.

“Nothing can ruin the taste of your food,” Dazai declares loyally, before snatching a flower-carrot from his bento. “You should make those cute octopus wieners tomorrow.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes when his seatmate stutters her response to Dazai asking if he can borrow the seat beside hers. Dazai then drags it so that he’s seated backwards in front of Chuuya, before taking over Chuuya’s chopsticks, picking up some of the fluffy scrambled eggs.

“Stop overriding my lunch menu.”

“Or maybe you can make omurice with a message for me?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Some tamago sushi sounds nice too…”

Chuuya sighs and rolls his eyes again, but Dazai simply grins at him, picking up a flower-carrot and feeding it to him. “…I didn’t know you liked eggs that much.”

Dazai shrugs, seemingly oblivious to the fact that everyone is watching them eat—and well, Dazai alternate between feeding Chuuya and stealing off Chuuya’s bento. It’s all an act though—there’s no way Dazai isn’t aware of the picture they’re painting for their onlookers. Chuuya’s pretty sure that this gossip will be all over school before the last bell. “I’ll eat anything you make.”

“I’ll catch some frogs and feed them to you raw.”

Dazai’s eyes are half-filled with amusement, like he’s enjoying how Chuuya’s trying to chase him away with prickliness. “Mm, will you use your hands to feed me?”

“In your dreams.”

“That’s true,” Dazai concedes with a dreamy sigh.

Chuuya’s seatmate falls off her chair.

* * *

“We should get to know each other better,” Dazai proposes in a tone that suggests that he already has at least ten different plans as to how to proceed. It’s the Friday before their final exams—in just a few days, the two of them are free from the confines of high school.

Of course, because Dazai’s smart enough to be one of the Five Executives before graduation—all of his plans yielding perfect results despite being executed by grunts, all of his blackmail material instrumental in securing cooperation of their business partners—he doesn’t really devote time to studying.

That’s not to say that Chuuya’s transformed to a bookworm, mostly because he’s pretty certain that even if he fails his exams, he’ll still get the diploma, his protests against the blatant manipulation of his records useless against Dazai’s persistence. Also because he’s thinking about taking up a sports scholarship offered to him by the local college—no, rather, he’s dreaming about it, because he knows there’s no space for college for him. He’ll either be prepared to become Boss, or Boss will take over the plans to assassinate him, since Dazai’s being a stubborn fool.

“…and I’m going to humor your boredom, because…?”

Seated on Chuuya’s bed (he refuses to think of it as their bed, if only because it’s important to remind Dazai that it’s his fault that his bed is a dumpster overflowing with video games and a trickle of new-flavor junk food), Dazai’s unbuttoning his shirt slowly, unveiling the swathes of bandages acting as his second skin. “Since my life is yours to handle, shouldn’t you have a better grasp of me…?”

“See, I’m not even looking at you, but I just know you’re leering at me.”

Dazai shrugs, the leer remaining on his face. “Why don’t you look at me to confirm your suspicions?”

“There’s no need.” Chuuya keeps his eyes on his desk, doesn’t give in to the temptation of turning so he can face his own bed and its leering occupant. There have been kisses exchanged, warmth shared, between the two of them, but it’s still, still so new and fragile to him. Even though they’ve dutifully skipped their prom to roll around the apartment floor, it’s still something that flushes Chuuya’s insides with tingling electricity.

“Chuuya’s very confident he can read me well…”

“I’ve been stuck with you for nearly ten years now,” Chuuya reasons, losing himself to the steady swish of his pen over his paper. That’s why he startles a little bit, his shoulders jerking his arms halfway to a punching stance, when Dazai drapes his upper body all over him, a chin resting on top of his head.

“We should get to know each other better,” Dazai repeats, this time against an earlobe, hot breath upon his skin making him lose his concentration.

—But not enough to make him lose sight of what’s important.

“What happened during last night’s meeting?” It’s not just his imagination that there’s an additional layer of bandages on Dazai’s forearms, that there’s a sallow tint beneath the other’s eyes. “Did the Boss order you to finally become his official heir?”

The arms hanging by his sides crush their bodies together tighter.

So, he hits bulls-eye. Or something uncomfortably close, at least.

“…Chuuya.”

It’s his name, the one that Dazai doesn’t tire of using, even when his classmates refer to him as a ‘loner freak’, even when girls from other classes accuse him of ‘stealing Dazai’, even when his teachers address him by his fake surname that distances him from Father, even when the people supposed to serve him don’t even meet his eyes anymore.

It’s his name, just his name, and that seals the deal for him.

Chuuya leans back, presses back against the person holding him so tightly, like he’s about to float away, like it doesn’t matter if he breaks, as long as they’re together.

* * *

Of course, like all things Dazai, Chuuya ends up harboring that creeping feeling of embarrassment and regret all too soon. And of course, it’s too late for him to resist—Dazai didn’t take long to ensure that Chuuya can’t really change his mind.

Instead of studying textbooks, Dazai lays Chuuya out carefully on their shared bed, his crimson tie looped over Chuuya’s eyes.

“Deprivation of one sense is said to heighten all the other senses,” Dazai murmurs against the dip of Chuuya’s neck, the vibrations of his words thrumming over his skin. “I’m doing this to help you out, Chuuya.”

“Whatever,” he tries to reply as flippantly as he can, because Dazai finds satisfaction in seeing him squirm. He’s not about to yield so easily.

Dazai slowly unbuttons Chuuya’s own clothes, lets the slide of buttons whistle softly in the air, lets the drag of fabric linger over skin. He moves on to unbutton Chuuya’s pants, squatting over his legs, ensuring that there’s no body contact between them aside from his hands. He doesn’t drag them off completely, though he hums an outline with his fingers over the rapidly-tightening boxers underneath.

Chuuya bites his lips as he hears Dazai undress completely, his mind’s eye supplying him with his memory of what Dazai was wearing just a few minutes ago, imagines them sliding off one by one.

“It’s just the two of us against everyone,” Dazai insists. It’s true, but instead of sounding as resigned as Chuuya feels, he sounds certain, spirited even. If Chuuya’s less charitable, he’d call it arrogance.

Chuuya must have made some noise of agreement, because Dazai continues: “So we have to make sure we know each other completely.”

It sounds like bullshit, but Chuuya… allows it, doesn’t bite the thumb that presses against his lower lip.

“Shall we start?” Dazai asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply, before shoving his thumb fully inside Chuuya’s mouth, presses it against his inner cheek. “That’s my left thumb.”

“And then…” Dazai takes his thumb out and replaces it with his left index finger-and the next-and the next, caresses his teeth lightly, presses his fingerprint into Chuuya’s tongue, lets Chuuya taste the gunpowder and blood that never quite leaves the imprints of his hands.

Chuuya… isn’t sure why Dazai is doing such a thing now, though he has some ideas. This is either a final goodbye, a way for both of them to memorize each other inside-out before someone pushes Chuuya’s jaw open over a slab of concrete, three shots to the back of his head. Or—this could be the curtains rising over a chapter of their lives, where Dazai throws away the bloody future that’s being handed to him in a silver platter.

But Chuuya allows it to continue, lets his mouth drift over Dazai’s temples, sucks at the apples of the other’s cheeks, nibbles his way to map the other’s face using his own. His hands trace the contours of muscles wrapped around the other’s frame, traces the lines that forms the other’s structure, scratches at the shadows that hides underneath.

Dazai devours him in return: brackets his teeth over the junction of his neck and shoulder, indents his teethmarks over the lines of his spine, pinches the swell of his ass with too-wet bites. Dazai bestows a choker in pinkish-red upon his throat, brands rosettes against his inner thigh. Dazai sucks out tiny pinpricks of blood from his calf after a too-enthusiastic bite, the pressure hot and heavy like he’s a starving vampire. Dazai drinks each drop of sweat that slides down Chuuya’s quivering limbs, drinks each drop of tears that leak out of Chuuya’s eyes that are closed from overstimulation, drinks each drop of precum from a too-full cock, like he’s a thirsty animal that has finally found an oasis.

Chuuya writhes and trembles, the makeshift blindfold sliding off his face from the motion.

It’s all too much, but Chuuya only manages to shudder through his orgasm once he gets the strength to open his eyes, to meet a too-bright fever gaze belonging to Dazai. His cock pulses inside Dazai’s mouth, hot and warm and wet and welcoming, in sharp contrast against the man’s severe words that break most of the people around him. Dazai hums, the vibration skittering all over Chuuya’s nerves and he kicks out, in order to get away because it’s too much, but of course Dazai’s expecting that, hands forming makeshift manacles over Chuuya’s ankles so that Dazai can swallow every drop without interruption.

“Let… me go,” Chuuya finally says after taking a few moments to catch his breath, regain his bearings. Dazai’s hands releases his ankles, travels upwards in slow procession with his blunt nails digging red lines over his calves, around his kneecaps, forms ten crescent moons orbiting his thighs. Dazai pops Chuuya’s cock out of his mouth, shiny and slick, just as Dazai nudges him to spread his spent limbs wider, tilts his hips higher as he leans further down and—

Chuuya shudders again, fatigue weighing him down just as too-intense pleasure jackknifes through him, a wet tongue mapping the path between his balls and his asshole, spit-slicked fingers pressing against his perineum, teases slow circles over and around his hole. “You—!”

He doesn’t get the chance to yell about how dirty he is, because Dazai’s opening him up with quick flicks of his tongue, one of his thumbs hooking over his rim to keep him open in-between hot breaths. He wants—so very badly, he wants, and an unintelligible string of words escape his lips, and he spares a thought about hopefully not mindlessly babbling the line to activate his Ability in the heat of the moment. The thought evolves into a hazy imagination of him activating gravity manipulation right here, right now—then he thinks about Dazai’s Ability to cancel anyone else’s, so he can’t escape, can’t run away from this relentless assault on his senses.

“I’m making sure I know your insides too,” Dazai murmurs over his sweat-slicked skin, sounding like an insane bastard—or someone who patronizes strange romance paperbacks. There’s a long moment where the only sounds are Dazai’s fingers exploring the folds inside him, squelching sounds making Chuuya lose his mind.

Chuuya has a strange feeling that Dazai would love to get a chance to crack his ribs open with his bare hands, rearrange his internal organs to make room for him to settle inside, before stitching his skin back closed, him fully inside, penetrating any and all barriers between them. It shouldn’t, but it’s that thought that burns a second, more insistent arousal through him, his cock filling up again and dripping over his stomach.

It’s almost an eternity later before Dazai finally lets him go, pushing just the head of his cock over his puffy hole, the hot, sticky liquid painting over his inner walls. Chuuya makes an attempt to wipe the line of drool on his cheeks, but his arms are boneless, heavy with sated tiredness. He tries to rub his face against the pillows instead, but Dazai makes a sound that almost feels like a snarl, his face pressing back to his ass and suddenly, there’s a sticky hand wrapped around his cock as Dazai retrieves his own release.

“…Make sure you clean us up,” Chuuya ends up whispering, wrecked beyond all belief. He sort of hates Dazai for distracting him like this, devouring him completely that it feels like there’s nothing else left behind. He sort of likes Dazai for this, because it’s freeing, in a way, to think of nothing else—not the high possibility of his death by the hands of people who should have been his family, not the exams that he’ll probably fail because he’s never been meant for this kind of life—but the infuriating man.

Dazai presses soft, butterfly kisses over his thighs, seemingly content in making kitten-licks at the sweat and musk at Chuuya’s groin. “Leave it to me, Chuuya.”

Most of the time, Chuuya will never leave anything to Dazai, because he’s all too aware of the other’s propensity for mind-boggling shenanigans, but for now. For now. Chuuya succumbs to slumber, their bodies a parenthesis that encloses over their tiny world.

Chapter Text

* * *

It should be impossible, but here it is: Dazai becomes even more insufferable over the next couple of weeks.

They’re practically conjoined by their hips—and because of their height difference, a lot of times, it ends up with Dazai making too-loud overtures about carrying him instead, or tugging him by the waist and seating him over the other’s lap. Dazai skips his exams so he can watch Chuuya take his—and Chuuya smudges the ink with his sweaty fingers, a strange sort of pressure draped over him. Whenever possible—and even during times when it shouldn’t be—Dazai takes his hand, his elbow, his shoulder, his waist.

It’s honestly more annoying than anything else, because Chuuya’s used to brisk walking and having an octopus attached to him isn’t helping. Nobody dares to meet his eyes, just as there aren’t any pointed comments about two guys being so publicly affectionate, but that’s probably because Chuuya’s eyes are focused on whatever Dazai’s doing, which involves stonily glaring at the people around them, effectively nipping any ill reactions in the bud.

It’s just really, really annoying, but that’s par for the course, because he’s always known that Dazai’s an insufferable bastard.

* * *

Chuuya overhears the summons. It’s not something that Dazai has taken into consideration in his calculations, he can tell, because Dazai’s eyes go dark and empty as soon as their gazes meet, the encrypted satellite phone still pressed against the other’s ear.

Chuuya’s supposed to be blissfully knocked-out right now; the only reason he’s up and about is because his throat is a bit itchy and sore, Dazai too rough on him tonight. He usually passes out until it’s time for his breakfast duties, Dazai’s methods of wearing him out all too effective, but not tonight.

And tonight, someone high up in the Port Mafia ladder—an Executive, Hirotsu-san, Boss himself—is calling in to deliver unpleasant news.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dazai tells him as soon as the call ends, the distance between them rendered non-existent with three large strides. “I’ll make sure your sleep is undisturbed.”

Chuuya thinks about the all-black outfit he’s prepared a few years ago. He didn’t exactly grow since then, so he can probably still use the outfit without it being an awkward fit, but. Sartorial choices aside, he’s not sure if he even wants to just take this lying down. If not for the Boss, he wouldn’t have been born; if not for the Boss, he wouldn’t have been born to a life like this. An overwhelming part of him is resigned to the fate that’s been set in stone for him, but a sliver of… something, not-quite bright light, unfurls inside him, protests about losing this tiny world that he’s made with Dazai.

“…they plan on killing me tonight?”

“They’ll try,” Dazai insists, his eyes deep-set charcoal. There’s a spark inside them though – something that Chuuya’s not entirely prepared to see, so he ducks down and allows Dazai to fold his entire self over and around him instead. Dazai’s heartbeat is steady and calm underneath Chuuya’s ears, even as he speaks of murder: “I’ll make sure they’ll regret even thinking about it.”

* * *

Chuuya frets as he’s left inside their shared apartment. He imagines wearing down the shine of their floorboards with the soles of his feet. There’s a game locked in checkmate right on top of their coffee table in the living room; it’s a game by Dazai, but when Chuuya looks at it, he reads the happenings of the past couple of years, the tug-of-war over his own life and death.

Dazai’s promise of eternal loyalty to him places him on the king’s throne, the most important piece in the board, but also the weakest. Chuuya thinks that it’s half true at least—he’s not deserving of being the most important. He doesn’t want to be the weakest, but—he doesn’t have much choice, does he?

Dazai doesn’t tell him about his plan, but it’s obvious. He plans on taking on Boss on the headquarters. He plans on ruining his future for Chuuya’s sake.

It makes Chuuya feel guilty.

Desired.

Guilty about being desired.

But…

Chuuya looks out the window.

Chess is all about capturing the king.

In that case—

It’s good that Dazai isn’t here to be caught in the crossfire.

Chuuya sees the glint of the sniper’s scope seconds before gunshots rain down on him.

* * *

Chuuya blinks, not quite understanding the sight in front of him.

Dozens of bullets are suspended mid-air, before they fall down on the ruined floorboards. There’s another round of gunshots, but no bullets reach him. Chuuya raises an arm, his hand cautiously touching one of the suspended bullets. Almost as if the bullet itself is scared of Chuuya’s touch, it’s repelled strongly, sending the bullet back to the same trajectory it came from.

It’s—

It doesn’t make sense.

But there’s only one explanation for this.

Chuuya has awakened his Ability.

* * *

Chuuya feels his breath leave him as soon as Dazai arrives, Dazai’s arm rivalling a vice’s grip as it twists around Chuuya’s waist. Dazai’s muttering in quick succession—Chuuya’s not even sure what language Dazai is using. He catches snippets of worry and Chuuya.

Chuuya supposes that it’s not that hard to guess what the hell is Dazai saying.

As soon as Dazai slackens his grip the slightest bit, Chuuya whispers, “…you knew?”

Dazai trembles around Chuuya. “Yes and no.”

“You can drop your mystery-man act now,” Chuuya says as he rearranges them to a more graceful lump on the floor. He wrinkles his nose when his left knee lands on one of the dead bullets. “I actually need an actual, useful answer.”

“I knew that you have an Ability.”

“How?”

It’s one of the unspoken reasons why Boss is dissatisfied with him as an heir, after all. Even before his mother left, the fact that he’s normal, painfully so, has already been one of the nails to his coffin.

Dazai’s answer has full conviction, which is rare for the man. “I just knew. Because it’s you.”

“That doesn’t make a lick of sense, goddamnit.”

“I’ll lick you instead.”

“Don’t derail this conversation!” Chuuya tilts his neck just a little bit though. Dazai immediately accepts the invitation to suck the sweat there, from the anxiety, the exertion.

“I knew—I had faith that you have an Ability. I didn’t know what it was or when it’d manifest.” Dazai’s laughter vibrates from his chest to his mouth. “I hoped that it’d awaken because of me.”

“Your hopes are answered,” Chuuya replies, but he hides his face on Dazai’s neck, feels it burn with warmth.

Dazai goes stock-still, which makes Chuuya feel like there’s suddenly a statue on his lap. A good-looking but extremely annoying statue, but a statue nevertheless.

It’s almost a minor miracle to find Dazai speechless, at a loss. Chuuya’s not sure how he can afford obtaining this kind of miracles for himself, especially since the cost is his own embarrassment and shame.

“Y-You.”

“Yes, me.” Chuuya murmurs with a smile, his cheeks still suffused with warmth. “I was thinking of you, just before the bullets hit.”

I didn’t use to care about my fate, is unsaid, but understood by both of them. I didn’t need an Ability before. Before you.

Dazai takes a deep breath and separates the two of them – far enough so that they’re both kneeling on their own spaces on the floor, not far enough that Chuuya feels mildly alarmed by how chilled he is by their scant distance. The expression on Dazai’s face reminds him of his coming-of-age ceremony—and Dazai generally makes that face only when he’s about to say something insane.

Dazai takes both of Chuuya’s hands, removes both of his gloves with his teeth so that he can brand his words directly on Chuuya’s upturned palms. They lock gazes.

“Congratulations on awakening your Ability, my beloved Chuuya.”

Chuuya feels his heart squeeze at those words, the air in their destroyed apartment not enough.

Dazai continues, because of course he isn’t satisfied with simply causing a heart attack. “As in the past, as in the present, as in the future: I pledge my life, my loyalty, my everything to your cause. Please allow me to be your sword and your shield, for the rest of your life.”

Just as Chuuya feels his hands tremble from that pledge, Dazai carries on with his assault on Chuuya’s sanity.

“I need you, Chuuya, to be my everything, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”

Without waiting for Chuuya’s reply, Dazai slides on a ring – the Family Ring – on Chuuya’s ring finger. “I will now kiss you, Chuuya.”

And again, still without waiting for Chuuya’s reply, Dazai presses their bodies close together, steals all sanity and logic from Chuuya’s body, replaces it with the sweet swell of love and affection—no, this isn’t something as simple as those. This is an addiction, possession. It’s even better that way.

Chuuya doesn’t dare ask if this means that Dazai has killed the Boss—or if this means that he’s stolen the Family Ring right under their noses. Not now, at least.

Now, they have to spend their wedding night accordingly.