The Lines

by Medicineforrobbers

Chuuya is surrounded by temptation, but there's only one person that makes him completely lose control. Chuuya/Dazai, Soukoku.

Author's note:

It feels like there was never a time that I wasn't writing this. I'm really glad that it's finished, but at the same time, I don't want to let it go. It's the longest story I've ever written, and it's caused me a lot of stress and sleepless nights, but I'm really fond of it all the same, because Bungou Stray Dogs means so much to me. I just hope that I did the series justice.

I do not own anything but the story itself. Bungou Stray Dogs belongs to Kafka Asagiri and Sango Harukawa.

A WARNING IN ADVANCE: There are some crude remarks in this story about self-harm and suicide. If you are sensitive to those topics, please don't hesitate in turning back.

"When I tell you I'll be fine,

I still want you by my side.

Please just try to read between the lines."

—Beartooth

Chuuya had found that he was attracted to things that might kill him. It was why he smoked, why he drank; why he loved his job so damn much, even when it pushed his head further under the knife. The adrenaline rush, combined with the brush of death, gave him a thrill close to a high. He loved the way his heart stopped and skittered in his chest; he loved how his mind went white and blank. He loved the way his stomach dropped when things went horribly wrong.

Danger was his favorite toy to play with. He liked to see how much he could mess with it before it broke.

Then, of course, there was him. The one thing in the world that was more formidable to him than himself, and the one habit Chuuya wanted to break but never could. He haunted him in every shadow of his mind, in the corner of every thought, always somewhere in his peripheral vision.

Dazai. Osamu Dazai.

The name sent Chuuya's teeth to the edge, and he must have made a noise because the attendant who was assisting him recoiled. When Chuuya looked at her, her dark eyes were staring glossy and wide at him, as if he were a wolf and she the sheep.

"Oh," he said, and forced the snarl on his face to soften. He forged a smile and dipped his head to her apologetically. "I'm sorry. I'm lost in thought."

"I-it's okay," she stammered. She cleared her throat and, with a shaky hand, reached up and pulled down one of the bottles from the top shelf. "I-is this the one you wanted?"

"Yes, it is." He took it from her and sunk into a bow. "Thank you very much."

She relaxed a little, returning it. "Of course," she insisted. When she straightened she stood at her full height, a good twelve centimeters over him. He had to crane his head back to meet her eyes. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

"You, too."

Chuuya turned and began toward the front of the store, the neck of the bottle cradled loosely through his fingers. Every step he took was sharp, like he was stomping on ants.

I hate being so short, he thought gingerly.

It had been a wonderfully shitty day. The Mafia had received a tip that an enemy cartel had been smuggling weapons through the port, storing them in a warehouse close to Yamate Station. The Black Lizard usually took care of those sort of jobs, and if not, the ideal person would have been Akutagawa; he was unpredictable, but his gift was versatile, effective at multiple different ranges, and befitting for mass slaughter. He would've gotten the job done quickly and efficiently. However, the Black Lizard had been dissected into groups and scattered across town to run different operations, and Akutagawa had run off again, the way he always did, and Chuuya had no idea where the hell he was. He had an impression of what he was up to, however, and the thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

As a result, Chuuya had been stuck with it, and he and a band of eight other members were sent off to disband the operation.

They'd run into a trap, of course. The enemy had confronted them with a frontal assault, rushing them like a human wave attack. They had underestimated the Mafia, assuming they could overtake them with brute force alone. Their formation was loose, their strategy obsolete, and they were easy to pick off. Chuuya had been aching for a fight; he'd wanted to brush his fingers against death and get away with it. He'd been prepared for a battle, or at least a decent opponent—but instead, he'd barely had to lift a finger. They'd cleaned the place up in less than fifteen minutes.

Now, Chuuya was pissed. All of the pent-up energy that was wired inside of him was starting to fray and spark. He needed an outlet. He was like a bomb, and the only way to get rid of his frustration was either to deactivate or blow up.

Without any good reason for the latter, he'd chosen the former.

As he walked, he slipped his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. It was open to a message from Higuchi.

Nothing so far.

He tapped out a reply with his free hand, his stride never breaking.

Keep me informed.

He approached one of the self-checkouts and set the wine down beside it. It was a nice bottle of Pinot Noir, one of his favorites. He loved the light body, the nuances of cherries and cranberries, and its aged, earthy flavor. He'd thought about cracking one of the bottles from his collection open, but went against it. He wanted to save those for special occasions, like holidays or when Dazai actually succeeded in offing himself.

He rang it up, then dug his hand into his pocket for his wallet. His fingers slid across emptiness.

What the hell? Chuuya smacked his pockets, desperately searching for it. Did I drop it? Is it in the car? No, I had it when I walked in. I know I did.

He ransacked every pocket he had. He dug up his phone, his keys, and his cigarettes, but his wallet was nowhere to be seen. The reality of the situation dropped down on him like the blade of a guillotine. With a cry of frustration, he smashed his foot into the side of the machine. His toes screamed in pain, and every customer in close proximity wheeled around to look at him, but Chuuya was too blind with fury to care.

This is just fucking peachy.

"Now, now, Chuuya. There's no need to throw a tantrum."

Chuuya had the impression of needles shooting across his skin. His stomach shriveled and curled into a ball.

"I know you have the body of a child, but that doesn't mean you have to act like one." He felt the shape of him against his back, looming over him, a creature creeping out from the dark. "Do you need a timeout?"

"Go die," he snapped.

"Oh my. Where did you learn such language?" He curved closer to his ear. "I think we need to wash that mouth of yours."

"Shut up, you suicidal freak!" He whipped around, his hand already curled into a fist and halfway to Dazai's jaw. Dazai caught it as easily as a baseball, and his fingers squeezed his knuckles until they began stinging in pain. Chuuya swallowed a hiss.

"What? Was that supposed to be a punch?" Dazai actually looked astounded. "Weren't you the one who criticized me for my close-combat skills not that long ago? You must be getting old."

"I'm not in the mood for this." Chuuya ripped his hand out of his grasp. It throbbed, but he refused to acknowledge the pain. "I don't have time to mess around with you."

"Chuuya, I'm hurt."

"Then go cut yourself," he spat, turning back to the self-checkout. "Send me some pictures when you do."

He patted his pockets again uselessly. Damn it. I don't even have a credit card on me. Shit. Where the hell is it?

As he was lost in thought, one bandaged hand reached up and touched his shoulder. Chuuya bit back the urge to flinch. His fingers crept over and onto his chest, brushing his collarbone.

"Here," he said, and slipped something out of his palm, offering it to him. When Chuuya looked, it was a five thousand yen note.

Chuuya recoiled. "What did you do to it?"

"Nothing."

"I don't want it. You've touched it."

"Stop being ridiculous," he berated, and stretched around him, feeding it into the machine. It whirred happily, then spat out the change. Dazai snatched it up, stuffing it inside of his pocket.

"What are you—" Chuuya began, but the question dropped as Dazai plucked the bottle up and began making his way toward the front of the store. "Oi! That's mine!"

"I don't think so," Dazai called back. His voice was sly, and Chuuya could hear the grin crawling up his face. "If I remember correctly, it was my money that paid for it."

"You just offered to buy it for me!"

"And you refused. So now it's mine."

"You have got to be—Give it back!" He stormed after him. For every step that Dazai took, he had to take two, and it made him want to grind him into the floor with a steamroller.

He chased him all the way outside. Evening was falling, the sky burning up with orange and red. The last rays of daylight shot across the parking lot, which was just starting to empty out, quieting as rush hour came to an end. Dazai cast a shadow on the sidewalk, the tails of his coat flicking back as if caught on a breeze.

Chuuya shot his arm out, ready to snatch the bottle. Dazai whirled out of his way, and Chuuya grasped empty air. He gritted his teeth as Dazai laughed.

"Why are you even here?" Chuuya demanded. "Did you come here just to antagonize me?"

"We're only a block away from the Agency," he informed him, tilting his head. "I thought I'd get something to eat before I called it a day, but then I ran into you."

Chuuya glared at him. "You didn't 'run into' anything, asshole. You walked right up and started harassing me."

"As far as I'm concerned, you're harassing me." Dazai donned a portrait of innocence, one that made Chuuya consider punting him into a wall. "I just want to go home and drink this bottle of wine."

"I am going to kill you."

"I believe you tried that already—and failed, I might add. Miserably."

"You!" The last threads of Chuuya's temper finally snapped. He lashed forward, and his fist brushed the edge of Dazai's jaw before he ducked. Chuuya continued his attack, aiming for his exposed ribs. Dazai danced away, the leer on his face stretching like a scar.

Chuuya set his jaw. He drove his knee up. Dazai used his free hand as a target, slipping it in front of his stomach just before it would collide. Chuuya slashed at his head, and Dazai wormed away, his fingers brushing the strands of his hair.

He's not fighting, he thought with a flare of irritation. Why isn't he fighting back?!

He whipped his leg forward, driving Dazai back. Chuuya saw the moment his foot slipped, and his breath caught in his throat.

There!

Chuuya wasted no time. He leaped forward, his arm curled for another punch. This time he made contact, his knuckles smashing into his lip. Dazai recovered his balance, spitting blood from his mouth. Chuuya charged, turning into a roundhouse kick and sending his foot flying toward Dazai's side. Dazai blocked his leg, but Chuuya countered. He spun, coiling his body before twisting into a bolley kick, his foot crashing into the side of his face with a sound like crunching gravel.

Dazai soared. He smashed into the side of the store and the wall cracked under the force. Dazai slumped in the rubble, coughing and moaning. The sound was music to Chuuya's ears.

He stormed forward. He stooped down and knotted his fingers into the roots of Dazai's hair, cracking it against the wall. Dazai cried out, but it tapered off, morphing into something completely different.

Laughter. Chuuya ogled at him in disgust.

"Why are you laughing, you fucking lunatic?" he demanded.

Dazai's scratchy cackle turned into chuckling. He stared up at Chuuya, and through the snarls of his hair and the blood trickling down his forehead, he saw his eyes. They were laden with amusement, dark and salacious. They turned his heart to ice.

"Are you satisfied?" Dazai asked. His voice made the words sound like something irresistible.

"Not nearly," Chuuya growled.

"Then perhaps I can help with that."

Before Chuuya could react, Dazai snatched his collar and wrenched him forward, his other arm—the one that had still been holding the wine—snaking around and pinning him to his body. Chuuya thrashed against him, but Dazai's grip was unbreakable. The bottle of wine clunked to the ground and rolled away.

"Let me go!" Chuuya roared. "I swear to god, I will castrate you."

"Chuuya," Dazai purred. Chuuya's blood curdled. "My beloved Chuuya."

"Are you drunk?" he demanded. "Stoned? Did you overdose again? Please tell me that you did."

Dazai laughed. "You say such horrible things." His thumb traced the outline of Chuuya's jaw. "You always try so hard to make it seem like you hate me."

"I do hate you, you miserable bastard."

"Oh, no," Dazai concurred, his eyes widening. "No, you don't hate me." He yanked on Chuuya's collar, dragging him closer. "As a matter of fact, you're barely resisting me right now, aren't you?"

"I'm barely resisting the urge to rip your tongue out of your throat."

"So cruel." Dazai pressed his lips close enough for Chuuya to feel the shape of them. "But you of all people should know that my tongue can do so much more than talk."

He was so close. His heady breath surrounded Chuuya like a cloud of opium. All he could see was the shape of Dazai's mouth, the bow-like curve of his upper lip, and the sight of it was making his heart try to strangle itself. He tried to remain composed, but memories were beginning to resurface—tangled things made of lust that were stirring him in ways that he didn't like.

Dazai did not pull away.

A flicker caught Chuuya's eye. He turned his head slightly, and their lips brushed. Static crackled across his mouth and down his arms. A small crowd had congregated in front of the store, some on their way in and some on their way out. All of them stared—at the rubble, at the web of cracks on the wall, at the two of them, conjoined—like they were a natural disaster, both fascinating and terrifying.

"Dazai," Chuuya whispered. Dazai made a noise in the bottom of his throat. "Everyone is staring at us."

"Then let's take this somewhere more private."

xXx

They were silent as they drove. Chuuya stared straight ahead, his grip on the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were popping out of his hands. He managed to drive straight despite the civil war in his head; lines had been drawn and guns were firing and everywhere, everywhere there was screaming.

What are you doing? one side hollered. You shouldn't be doing this. You need to turn around!

The other side, however, was preoccupied. He shot a glance over at Dazai; he was sitting complacently in the passenger seat. Chuuya's eyes rested on the curve of his mouth, the abstracted part of his lips. Then he saw Chuuya shift and returned his gaze.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. Chuuya looked away and pretended he hadn't noticed it.

"Here," Dazai said suddenly. He pointed out the windshield at a building impending in the distance.

Chuuya retaliated with silence. He turned into the parking lot, wending through it until he found an open spot in the very back. He slid in, shifted it to park, and then sat there, motionless. The sky had faded to an inky purple, only a few shades away from becoming night.

Chuuya did not move. Neither did Dazai.

At last, Dazai unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned his way. "Do you want to come in with me, or wait until I'm in the room?"

Chuuya bristled. He wished Dazai would lean away; his proximity was causing malfunctions involving coherent thinking and normal heart rhythms. Also, he was still extremely irritated, both with Dazai and with himself. Going in with him would be the most incriminating, but trying to hide it would make it worse—and besides, his pride was so badly wounded, he doubted it would feel another bruise.

He huffed and ripped the keys out of the ignition. "No," he muttered. "I'll just come in."

Dazai smirked and got out of the car.

He followed him inside, and the moment the doors opened his eyes began to flicker around, skirting the perimeter. It was astonishingly Balinese: open and organic, thatched roofing, teak wood and woven bamboo. The lobby was dyed in a russet glow. From somewhere on the floor, karaoke music drifted toward them, accompanied by boisterous laughter and a noise that could have been a screaming baboon or someone's attempt at a singing voice. The front desk was consumed by knickknacks in a rainbow of colors, and the awning was low enough that Dazai, conversing with the woman behind it, had to stoop to meet her eyes.

He pointed to himself, then behind him in the general direction of Chuuya. The woman followed his finger and stared at him as if he were an extinct species.

Chuuya did not know whether to smile or to snarl, so he glared back, one eyebrow quirked in a question mark. Eventually, she looked away.

Dazai collected the keycard from her and took off for the elevator. Chuuya shadowed him. He did not permit himself to speak, and Dazai, sensing the tension, did not pry him to. They rode the elevator up in the same kind of quiet that comes when someone has a knife at your throat or a gun in your side.

They stopped on the seventh floor. Dazai led the way down the hall, past bouquets of flowers sprayed in vases and busts of various guardian deities. From this far above, the hotel felt spacious and deserted. Chuuya's footsteps were heavy, and the hollow boom of them rippled through the floorboards.

Dazai paused at a seemingly random door. "This one," he reported. He slid the card in the slot; Chuuya's pulse skittered in his throat as he pushed open the door.

Dazai held it open for him, his smile coiled like a whip. Chuuya strode past him, clinging on to the last threads of his dignity.

He stopped; he gaped.

The room was decedent. It was bigger than his apartment, softly lit, warm and elegant. A Hollywood twin bed with a white canopy and bedspread was pushed up against the southern wall; a sofa spread itself out on the adjacent side, a bottle of wine chilling in ice on the coffee table. A wide-screen television and a massage chair accentuated it, and on the eastern wall was a sliding glass door. Through it, Chuuya could see a wide deck with a private outdoor bath. The water shimmered in the fairy lights, speckled with pink Cooktown orchids.

Just standing there in the entryway, Chuuya felt castigated, a piece of garbage that had blown into a meadow.

"Dazai," he breathed, because he didn't know what else to say. He stepped deeper into the room.

Dazai shut the door behind them. "Nice, isn't it?"

"It's..." He caught himself being impressed and shook out of it, dulling the tone of his voice. "It's all right."

Dazai snickered. Chuuya slung off his coat and removed his hat, tossing them on the couch and moving closer to the window. The view was blotted by the fence that surrounded the deck, but Chuuya knew that even if it weren't there, he wouldn't be able to see any stars through all of the city lights that polluted the night sky. He stared at it until he heard Dazai's footsteps advancing his back. He felt his presence radiate through him and the rest of the room.

Dazai's hands crept around his waist. His fingers prowled to the buttons on his vest, and they submitted to him easily, sliding free. Dazai slipped the garment off and then moved on to his shirt, plucking the buttons in a neat little row.

Chuuya didn't move.

Dazai's hands slid across his abdomen, his touch fizzling all of the strength in Chuuya's body. He swam with the overpowering urge to curve into him, to let his back press into his chest.

"Chuuya." It did not sound like a question, even though it was—and it was not just one question, but many. They were tangled inside of a web, spun with a simple word.

Chuuya heard all of them.

He understood that he was not being held here against his will; he understood that all it would take to leave was intention. There was nothing physical to prevent him from walking out the door—but his feet wouldn't move. Dazai's arms were a cage, but Chuuya was the one keeping himself prisoner.

Night had completely fallen. The room was draped in darkness, the overhead light warring against the black creeping in. The outside lamps did little but sputter, flickering like fireflies. It was hidden inside of the shadows, where no one else could see, that Chuuya turned and pushed up on his toes, the distance between them fading along with the light.

Kissing Dazai was a lot like breathing: it was impossible to forget once you realized you were doing it.

It was a flutter of his heartbeat, the bottom of his stomach lifting off, the prickle of stubble against his chin and the rough terrace of Dazai's lips. It was fingers dug deep enough to cut and limbs pressed tight enough to hurt. It was the feel of Dazai's cheekbones between his hands and the fragile bones of his face bumping against him every time they turned their heads.

It spread through him like a sickness.

Dazai kissed with a mouth full of teeth. His arms were locked around Chuuya's back, the sharp edges of his rib cage drilling into his stomach. Then in one swoop, Dazai lifted him into the air and Chuuya's legs climbed around his waist. Dazai's hands scraped down his back, leaving a trail of blistering red. Chuuya leaned into him so much that Dazai staggered; he backpedaled, throwing himself onto the mattress with Chuuya still curled around him. The comforter exploded beneath them, white as innocence against the dark river of Dazai's hair.

Chuuya devoured him. He yanked at his bolo tie until it caved in and tore free. He pushed the collar of his jacket down and dove into his neck, kissing the skin beneath his jaw. It was vulnerable and hot underneath his lips, and Dazai bowed back, his breathing heavy and his voice inaudible. He clenched Chuuya to him, his fingers curled into claws.

They tore at each other until they were both recalescent, ripping at clothes and throwing them away, where they puddled on the floor, desolate and forgotten. The hunger escalated to starvation. Dazai rolled them so Chuuya was pinned underneath, naked skin pressing into naked skin, hip bones jutting into hip bones. It was wet between Chuuya's legs, and the feel of their erections rubbing against each other was sending him skyward, his head fuzzy and white.

Dazai broke away. Chuuya gasped frantically for breath, waiting for him to speak, but Dazai said nothing. When Chuuya caught his eyes, his puzzlement faded into terror.

Dazai's smirk was insidious. "Chuuya," he purred.

"No."

"I told you, didn't I?" He scrubbed a hand down Chuuya's body, lingering achingly close to Chuuya's dick. Chuuya shuddered. "Turn over for me."

"You're really going to—"

"Yes."

Chuuya's stomach was on a trapeze, swinging and flipping back and forth inside of him. Dazai hovered above, holding himself up, giving him room. With a strange, defaced form of reluctance, Chuuya turned over, propping himself on his knees and mashing his face into the pillow.

Dazai marked his back with kisses, slinking down to his butt. Chuuya clenched; he was tangled inside of razor wire, and one move would be deadly. The anticipation was killing him more than the actual event, bracing himself for the total loss of control.

Dazai's hand cupped his balls. Chuuya choked into the pillow.

He massaged them gently, his other hand rubbing over the back of his thighs. His touch was cold enough to burn. Chuuya flinched against it, gnawing on his lip to keep himself from moaning. Dazai's fingers slid down and up his shaft, sticky from cum, his breath hot on his cheeks. The ends of his hair tickled his skin; every part of him was so erect, they felt like needles.

Dazai continued to stroke him until he was slippery and wet. Chuuya heard him chuckle just before his tongue licked across his hole, and everything became static.

"Dazai!" Chuuya gasped. His heartbeat was a bass, pulsing through his body. He curled deeper into the mattress. "Oh, god."

Dazai laughed. He spread Chuuya's cheeks wide and kissed across the sides, then around to his hole again, dragging his tongue over it with agonizing slowness. Chuuya's nerve endings crackled and he groaned into the pillow; the pleasure trembled through him, enough to make him shake but not enough to crumble. Dazai's lips pressed against his dick, his fingers dancing across—wicked things that tempted and teased— before he swirled back in a trail of heat, his breath fanning the back of his thighs.

Then his tongue slipped inside.

Chuuya buckled. He must have edged forward, because Dazai's grip sliced into his hips and yanked him back, his hands clamped around him like iron bars. His tongue delved deeper, thrusting in and out, raking across the edges, sucking on the muscle until a cry exploded from Chuuya's chest.

More, he tried to scream, but his voice had been swept away.

Dazai squeezed his cheeks, pulling them further apart. He wedged his tongue around the rim before diving back inside, a rumble building in his throat that Chuuya felt in his bones. His body was surrendering to him, every inch of skin wet and wanting. His pride had chipped away completely. All he could focus on was the feel of Dazai's tongue, the way it caressed the tender, dark places inside of him, made them come alive and burn.

Dazai pulled out, kissing his way up before resting his chin on Chuuya's backside. Chuuya craned his head back to look at him, his breath coming in bursts, and saw the smirk that was carved into his face.

The fire in his veins turned to ice.

"Like that, did you?" Dazai asked. His voice was as innocent as a snake.

Chuuya roiled. He dove into a roll, his left leg whipping up and slashing at Dazai's face. Dazai snatched his ankle and stared down at him, his eyes crinkled with amusement.

"That," he declared, "was impressive."

"It'll be even more impressive when I bash your skull in."

"Chuuya," Dazai admonished, his voice rising into a laugh. He kissed his calf, and despite himself, Chuuya flinched. "You are so," he continued, trailing his way up his leg. "So." He buried his face in the inside of Chuuya's thigh. "Troublesome."

Chuuya arced back. The touch of his lips was electric, shivering up his spine. "Then just—" He gasped when Dazai took a bite of his skin. "Give up on me...already."

"Over my dead body."

"That can be arra—" But Dazai cut him off, pushing up and swallowing the word with a kiss.

Heat emanated from every pore. Chuuya curled himself around him, his leg scraping up Dazai's side, his fingers lost in his hair. Dazai was devouring him completely, every part of him consumed by his tongue, his hands, his body. He murmured something against Chuuya's lips—something that he didn't catch—and his voice was dark and delicious. It came over Chuuya like an ocean wave.

Dazai cradled him and flipped them over. Chuuya's hair slipped free, veiling his face, and Dazai was on it in an instant, tucking it behind his ear. His fingers brushed it tenderly, carefully, while his other hand raked down his back, his thumb rubbing against Chuuya's hole. Chuuya tensed; his breath lodged in his throat. His stomach became a flurry of nerves. He stomped down on it, bowing his head into Dazai's shoulder as his fingers drove inside of him.

Chuuya let out a soft cry, clenching as the shock wave rippled through. Dazai kissed his temple and pushed his fingers in deeper, stretching him, pressing against the resistance. Chuuya struggled not to let go, to not let himself submit to him again, even as the pleasure flared through him, bright and hot, building and burning without any place for the smoke to release.

"Chuuya," Dazai murmured. He tipped his head to his ear, sliding a third finger in and pulling the muscle taught. This time Chuuya could not resist and gasped aloud, constricting around the fingers and thrusting back on them with despairing need.

"Dazai," he returned. His voice was a shell. "God. Just...just do it already."

"Ride me."

"What?"

"I want you to ride me," he purred, nibbling on the lobe of Chuuya's ear. "Make me want to cum so much I'll die."

"Oh, so that's what you were going for?" Chuuya demanded. "Is this another suicide attempt?"

"Chuuya."

"I knew you were kinky, but this is just—" Dazai twisted his hand. Chuuya inhaled a sharp breath. "Fuck," he moaned.

"Are you going to, or not?"

Chuuya waited for his vision to clear, his breathing to steady. He let out a breath as big as a typhoon. "All right," he relented. "Move."

Dazai's fingers slipped out, leaving a peculiar emptiness in their wake. Chuuya hoisted himself up, sliding down until he was straddling his hips. Dazai leaned back on the pillows, watching, his eyes hooded but alert.

Chuuya let a hand roam down his body, tracing his bandages, discovering the exposed skin that made Dazai gasp whenever he touched it. He savored the sound for a moment, relishing the quiet exhale of his voice, the way he trembled underneath his touch. At last, he found Dazai's dick; he stroked up the shaft, raising himself up, his stomach folding inside-out as he pushed down.

There was barely any resistance as it slid inside; Chuuya's body embraced it, welcomed Dazai back in. Chuuya let out a sharp breath, riding out the stinging pain for the time it took his body to relax. Dazai was tense underneath him, either forgetting how to breathe or choosing not to. Chuuya thrust harder, deeper, and it was only then that Dazai moved. He tilted his head back, his eyes scrunched shut.

"God," he groaned. "You feel amazing."

"Mm," was all Chuuya could reply.

He began to move, rocking to a rhythm, his fingertips digging into Dazai's arms. The pleasure was sharp, slicing into Chuuya's blood until his entire body was running on it, his heartbeat thundering with adrenaline. He arched back and moaned through his teeth as he shoved Dazai to the root, the sensation so overpowering he thought it'd break him.

Dazai writhed when he tightened around him, a strangled groan escaping his lips. His fingernails were slicing into the bed. Mischief swelled in Chuuya's chest, and he slammed himself down, clenching on Dazai's erection, and Dazai cracked back as if he'd been struck, gasping for breath.

"Chuuya," he exclaimed.

Stars erupted in front of Chuuya's eyes. He drove himself faster, concentrating on Dazai's face even as his body contracted, every thrust ripping through him and threatening to blow him away. Dazai reached up for him, scrabbling for purchase; Chuuya grasped his hand and squeezed it tight.

"Chuuya," Dazai breathed. "I can't—" He paused, suppressing a shudder. "I'm going to—"

Dazai grabbed his hips and thrust upward, digging as deep as he could go, and Chuuya cried out into the night. It was a feeling similar to when he was Corrupted: uncontrollable, the pressure building until it became too much to bear. In a couple more thrusts he was gone, his orgasm tearing through him as Dazai's pulsed through his body.

He became soaked in bliss. The heavy calm draped over him, hugging his shoulders. His chest shuddered as he fought for air, his conscious returning to his mind. After a moment he slipped off of him, tossing himself on the right side of the bed and curling up, not daring to so much as glance at Dazai's face. His thoughts felt like a sinking ship.

Dazai rolled over and wrapped his arms around him, dragging him into his chest. His body rose and fell in bursts as he regained his breath. "Chuuya, are you pouting?"

"I can't believe you came inside of me."

"Oh no. What if you get pregnant?"

Chuuya smacked him. Dazai snickered into the back of Chuuya's neck.

They were silent for a minute. Chuuya tilted his head to look at him. "Are you going to fall asleep?"

"Mm," he mumbled. "Probably."

"Lazy bastard," Chuuya griped, but his bite was brittle. Dazai snuggled his cheek against Chuuya's shoulder, and Chuuya closed his eyes and let him.

xXx

The night aged. Chuuya must have dozed, because when he opened his eyes, he couldn't remember falling asleep. Dazai was wrapped around him, tendrils of his hair sticking to Chuuya's skin. He was snoring softly in Chuuya's ear.

He couldn't remember what had roused him until he glanced around and saw his phone lighting up from inside his pants pocket. Moving carefully, he unslung himself from Dazai's grasp, tiptoeing across the room. He fished it out, retrieving his hat and his shirt as he went.

It was from Higuchi.

I found him. He was at the art museum.

He's okay.

A weight that had been sitting on his chest dispelled in a sigh of relief. He wrote back immediately.

All right. Thank you for your help.

He returned to the bed, perching on the edge of the mattress while he buttoned up his shirt. He almost had it finished when something snatched him from behind.

"What the—Dazai!" Chuuya lashed against his barricade. "Let me go!"

"Who were you texting?" He asked, his voice saturated with sleep.

"Higuchi."

"Akutagawa's assistant?" Dazai dragged himself up. He propped his chin on Chuuya's shoulder, his expression puzzled. "Why?"

"None of your business." He pried Dazai's arm far enough away to fasten the last button on his shirt.

Dazai considered this, and then in retaliation, scooped Chuuya's hat off of his head. Chuuya's temper flared.

"Give that back!" He whipped around, but Dazai warded him off. Chuuya fought for a moment before all of the spirit drained out of him. "Jeez. You're such a pain in the ass."

"Why were you texting Higuchi?" he demanded. He settled the hat on his own head, twisting the brim, and with a stab of irony, Chuuya realized that it actually looked good on him.

"I asked her to help me find Akutagawa," he told him. "He's been gone for the past couple of days, and I wanted to know where he was. Are you happy now?"

"Why?"

"Because she was the only one who cared."

"That's not what I meant," Dazai said. "I'm asking why you care."

"He's my subordinate."

"So?" he argued. "Akutagawa goes off on his own all of the time. He always comes back. He can take care of himself."

That's what you think.

Shaking his head, Chuuya stood. He swiped his hat back from Dazai and moved across the room, collecting the rest of his clothes. "You don't understand."

"Then enlighten me."

"Like I told you, it's not any of your business." Acid leaked into his voice. "So just shut up."

He stuffed himself into his pants and slipped on his vest. He was pulling on his jacket when Dazai's voice rose up from the bed.

"Are you seeing him?"

It was quiet, collected, but Chuuya knew Dazai well enough to recognize the calm before the storm. He tried to subdue the tension with a laugh. "Akutagawa?" he exclaimed. "That guy has the sex drive of a gnat."

"Chuuya."

"No, I'm not seeing him," he answered. He tugged on his gloves, then flexed his fingers.

There was a creak as Dazai shifted his weight. "Are you leaving?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I have to get to work."

"It's five in the morning."

"And?" He moved toward the door. He had only just started to open it when a hand snapped out and smashed it back into its frame.

Dazai loomed over Chuuya's back like a storm cloud. The air was still around them, the walls trembling from the impact. Chuuya's fingers were limp on the door handle.

He hadn't even heard him move.

"Why are you doing this?" Dazai asked softly.

Chuuya scoffed. "Me? What am I doing?"

"Running away."

"It's your smell," he said. "It's making my eyes water."

"It didn't seem to bother you last night." He used his left hand to cradle the back of Chuuya's neck; his thumb slipped underneath his collar, rubbing along his spine. He took another step forward. "Stay," he pleaded.

Chuuya's desire cinched around him, a knot pulling tighter and tighter. He bit his lip, closed his eyes, and swatted Dazai's hand away.

"Don't," he told him.

"Why can't I touch you?" Dazai demanded. His fury was cold, a sheet of ice spreading across a lake. His arm dropped to his side. "Why do you always leave?"

"Shut up."

"No, Chuuya." Dazai snatched his wrist, and Chuuya barely had time to gasp for breath before he was whirled around and slammed back into the door.

Chuuya thrashed against his hold. "Let go of me, ass—"

Dazai's lips crashed into his, cutting off his words as well as his air. It was more of a punch than a kiss, knocking into him with the force of a hurricane. Chuuya's shoulders dug into the door and Dazai's fingers tore into his arms, clamping down like the teeth of a bear trap. Chuuya finally managed to shove him back, and as Dazai stumbled, Chuuya whipped his hand out and cracked it across his face.

It echoed like a gunshot. Dazai's cheek was turned to him, a starburst of red blooming on his skin.

"If you ever force yourself on me again, I will cut your stomach open and hang you with your intestines."

Dazai licked his tongue over his lip—there was a drop of blood lingering at the corner of his mouth. Chuuya spun around to leave, but Dazai's words stopped him in his tracks.

"How can you do this to me?"

Quiet spread like the plague through the room. Chuuya's grip tightened around the handle, and as his pulse pounded in his ears, he pulled his lips back over his teeth.

"What did you just say?"

"I said—"

Chuuya wheeled. In one punch, Dazai was hurled into the air and thrown across the room, crashing into the wall. It exploded under his weight, falling apart as easily as driftwood. The room trembled, bits of the ceiling flaking off and drifting to the floor.

Dazai lay curled in the rubble, coughing. Blood dribbled from his mouth.

"How can I do that to you?" Chuuya exclaimed. His gift roared to life, crawling across his skin, wrapping around him in tendrils as he relinquished his control. "Do you know who you're talking to?"

Dazai didn't respond. His shoulders rose and fell unsteadily as if he were catching his breath.

"Do you know how many times I've tried to stop caring about you?" Chuuya growled, stalking toward him. "Can you even comprehend how much I wish I could?" Pieces of plaster were beginning to float, writhing through the air in a swarm. "Do you realize how many nights I was kept awake because I was scared to death that you would kill yourself the moment my back was turned?"

Chuuya stopped in front of him. The shrapnel glittered around them, hovering, waiting for the command to strike. Dazai's head was bowed; his hair was dusted with white.

"What are you trying to say?" he whispered.

"You didn't just leave the Mafia, you fucking idiot."

At this, Dazai finally snapped his head up and looked at him. His eyes were wide, and it seemed like he was looking, really looking at Chuuya, absorbing every contour of his face, every line and curve that shaped Chuuya Nakahara into who he was.

The plaster began to quiver.

"You left us," he exclaimed. "You abandoned us without a second thought! You..." A shudder tore through his chest. "You just..."

His emotions were welling up, and without enough room to contain them, they began to overflow. Chuuya dug his fingernails into his palms, trying to cling to his rage, but it was waning little by little. His eyelids prickled.

Something solid and warm wrapped around his wrist. The moment Dazai's skin met his, his power was sapped, and all of the shrapnel clattered to the floor, sending up plumes of smoke. When it cleared, Dazai yanked him forward, and Chuuya fell into his arms.

Dazai crushed Chuuya's body to him tight, and Chuuya felt like a doll in his embrace, small and porcelain and easy to break. His eyes were wet, but he didn't permit any tears to fall. He felt drained, like Dazai had sucked all of the spirit out of him and left only a shell.

Dazai's hand cradled the back of Chuuya's head. "You couldn't have come with me."

"Why not?" he demanded.

"Because you wouldn't have, even if I asked."

"You didn't give me a choice."

"I didn't want to put you through that," he asserted. "I would rather you hate me than to make you feel guilty for something that wasn't even your fault."

Chuuya knocked his forehead into Dazai's shoulder, exhaling. He felt steadier, more in control. "It's not like...," he began. "It's not like I don't get it. Why you left, I mean."

"Do you?"

"Maybe not entirely. I don't know what happened to change your mind, but...if something isn't working for you, then..."

He didn't know how to complete his thought. Dazai began rubbing the back of Chuuya's neck, fishing through his curls.

"You know," Chuuya said, "sometimes I think I really understand you."

"Hm?" Dazai slipped his finger around a strand of Chuuya's hair, rolling it against his thumb. "How so?"

"Every time I look at you I want to kill myself."

Dazai laughed; Chuuya smiled.

"God," Dazai exclaimed. "You're horrible. Do you even realize what you do to me?"

"What, do I make you want to die, too?"

"No—worse." He pressed his lips against Chuuya's ear. "You make me want to live."

Something scraped the bottom of Chuuya's heart. His entire body went rigid, and Dazai squeezed him tighter, his chin resting on Chuuya's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Dazai whispered. "For not saying goodbye."

God damn it. Chuuya's chest was pressurized and ready to burst. He pulled away from Dazai and caught his gaze for a moment, and then he was falling back, his head turning, lips sliding over lips.

This was a gentle kiss, hesitant, as if they were stepping onto unsteady ground, afraid of it caving in at any moment. Gradually it deepened, Dazai's hands sinking to his waist and then scraping under his shirt, Chuuya's fingers drumming over his collarbone, his skin turning pink under his touch. There was nothing frantic about it, no desperation, only the comfort that comes from knowing each other's bodies, like the words of a book that's been read over and over again. Chuuya was attuned to every point of contact, every intake of breath that they shared when they came up for air. They were two instruments tuned to each other's frequency, reverberating in time.

"Chuuya," Dazai murmured, as if he couldn't help it. The way he said his name made a shiver rush down Chuuya's spine. Dazai opened his mouth to say something else, but he was interrupted by the sound of a siren shrieking through the air.

Chuuya whipped back, his body locking instinctively. "Is that...?"

"Well," Dazai mused, his eyes rolled back toward the wall like he could see through it. "That's terribly inconvenient."

"Why are the police here?" Chuuya demanded, scrambling to his feet. Dazai sat forward and crossed his legs, his hands in his lap.

"It probably had something to do with the explosion."

"The explo—" Chuuya's eyes followed the fissure in the wall, which spread out and up like a spider web, and then the rubble at their feet. There was also a litter of glass from the chandelier that had met its fate on the hardwood floor. "Oh."

"See, Chuuya, this is why we don't break walls."

"Shut up and put on your fucking pants."

Dazai did as told, standing up and meandering across the room to where his clothes were still puddled on the floor. Chuuya monitored the balcony; red and blue lights were flickering across the glass.

"They must have heard the noise and instinctively called the police," Chuuya muttered, narrowing his eyes. "At the chance of a worst-case scenario."

"Looks like it," Dazai agreed. He was now only half-naked and was slipping on his jacket, his shirt and tie hung over his arm.

"We can't go through the lobby. There's the balcony, but they've probably got men stationed below..."

"It's our only chance," Dazai insisted. He gave Chuuya a look, one that screamed loud and clear.

I'm not killing anyone.

Chuuya gritted his teeth. "Yeah, I know." He marched over to the glass door and threw it wide; the sirens rushed up to meet him like a symphony. His eyes skirted the area, his mind whirring.

"We'll have to climb over the wall, but it's dark enough that it should provide us some cover and give us some time...It's a far drop, but if I use my gift..."

"Chuuya," Dazai admonished, his voice directly behind him. "Honestly."

"Wha—" Before he could get the word out, Dazai had snatched his hand and taken off at a run.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" he screamed, but Dazai wasn't listening. He careened left and then leaped into the air, one foot pushing off of a table, and in a second they had cleared the wall and were hurtling through the air.

Chuuya wanted to scream as they began to plummet, but his voice was ripped away by the wind. His stomach shot into his throat; his vision became a flurry of stars. Dazai pulled him close and shielded him with his body, twisting, curling himself underneath him just before they smashed into the mouth of an open dumpster.

The shock of the collision rippled through Chuuya's muscles, even though Dazai had blunted most of the blow. His senses were scattered in multiple directions, and it took him a moment to remember how to breathe. Then came the fury, erupting like an active volcano.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" He drove his fist through Dazai's chest. "We were on the seventh floor!"

Dazai was hacking, the wind completely blown out of him. "Easiest..." he wheezed, "way out."

"Idiot!" he hollered. "You stupid, suicidal idiot!"

"Calm...down, Chuuya." Dazai slowly pushed himself up. "Let's...get out of here...first."

They clambered out of the dumpster and charged down the alleyway. The sirens were still wailing in the distance, accompanied by the crackling of static as officers talked through their radios. Behind them, Chuuya heard the hotel go up in screams as commotion broke out across the lobby. A crooked grin shot up his face.

They reached the end of the alley and weaved right, running until the sirens began to fade. Dazai stopped to gasp for breath, propping himself up on the brick wall, and Chuuya stumbled in beside him.

"I'll tell you what," Dazai panted. "I sure as hell don't miss this."

"Really?" Chuuya countered, inhaling. "This is my favorite part."

"Of course it is."

"More importantly," Chuuya continued, letting out a huff. "What are we going to do about the hotel?"

"What do you mean?"

"Our names are in the register. They're going to tie it back to us eventually."

Dazai frowned. He stared at Chuuya as if he were a joke and he was waiting for the punch line.

"What?" Chuuya demanded.

"You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

Dazai sighed. "Oh, Chuuya."

"What?"

Dazai pointed his finger behind him. "That hotel," he said, "belongs to one of the Mafia's subordinate organizations."

Something fell on Chuuya's head—hard. "Wait, what?"

"In exchange for allowing them to work in the city, the Mafia receives a percentage of the profits and free access to any number of their businesses—including that hotel." Dazai flicked his head back, his hair swirling away from his face. "It appears like a love hotel on the surface, but underneath the lobby, it's a brothel. It's also the place where they cater most of their drugs, so it's kind of like a den. It's only a matter of time before they find it."

"What about the cameras? I saw them when we walked in."

"They're turned off," Dazai explained. "They pay for their security in muscle."

"Less incriminating evidence that way," Chuuya murmured. "If something goes wrong, all they have to do is kill them to keep them from talking."

"Exactly."

"Huh." Chuuya's brow furrowed. "So in other words, even if the police bother to remember why they were there in the first place, they've got their hands full with this bust and are going to make it their top priority."

"Pretty much."

"But wait," Chuuya said, narrowing his eyes. "You're not in the Mafia anymore."

"It didn't seem to matter much. And besides—" Dazai shot a pointed look at him. "You are."

Chuuya recalled the look the girl had given him before she'd handed Dazai the key. "Ah," he reflected. "Right."

"Honestly, Chuuya. Use your head a bit more."

"Shut up. You were always the tactician; I was just your dog."

"Yes, but you were a very good dog."

"Go die."

Dazai chuckled.

They stood in silence, listening to the night: the ocean rolling in the distance, music thumping from far away, the sounds of traffic as the city began to wake. It was so familiar and relaxing to Chuuya; it was his snow globe, his little bubble of paradise, as bloody and erratic as it may be. He knew that Dazai was right, that he would never have gone with him. Something inside of Dazai had switched, but Chuuya was the same: sharp and coarse and made of kerosene.

He loved the Mafia. He couldn't imagine a life without it.

Dazai turned to him, and Chuuya tilted his chin up to look at him. Dazai cupped the back of his head and pulled him up into one last, tantalizing kiss. It was hungry in a way that indicated he was starving for more, but he would wait until they met again.

When he broke away, he whispered, "I'd walk you back to your car, but I'm pretty sure you'd kick me for my trouble."

"You know me well."

"Better than anyone," he agreed. He brushed his thumb over Chuuya's lower lip, then stepped back. "I'll see you around."

"Yeah."

Dazai smiled. Then he turned on his heel and faded into the night. Chuuya watched him until his back had completely disappeared, and even then, he waited, suspecting—hoping—that he'd return.

When he didn't, he sighed and made his way down the street, walking in the other direction.

It took him a while to reach his car, tucked into the far corner of the hotel parking lot, and by the time he'd arrived it had mostly quieted down. Cops lingered about, blocking off the area in front of the main entrance. Staff and passersby were being interviewed, while junkies were being dragged around in handcuffs, stumbling over their own feet. He quickened his pace, dodging the flashing lights and sticking to the shadows.

When he opened his car door, he discovered that the driver's seat was already occupied. Nestled inside was a large black box, a note taped to the lid. Chuuya hadn't even unfolded it, but he knew who it was from, and his hands began to twitch with the urge to strangle something. He ripped it off, annoyance throbbing through him like a vein.

They name storms after people like you.

Love,

Dazai

Chuuya's fingers clenched the paper. He crumpled it into a ball and scooped up the box, throwing himself into the seat and slamming the door.

Tentatively he raised the lid, and his breath caught in his throat. He reached in and picked it up, twisting it by the brim.

It was a Panama hat, similar in size and shape to the one he was wearing, but not exact. The color was a deep, pure black, so dark that it didn't even catch the light thrown in from the windshield. The hatband was a spicy red, the overripe shade of berries needing to be picked, the rich color of red wine. Chuuya ran his thumb across it, and the white of his skin was blinding.

"Shit," Chuuya muttered. His eyes were beginning to burn again. "He remembered."

He made to replace it in the box, but then he noticed there was something else inside. He stared at it a moment before snapping his head back against the seat and bursting into a laughing fit, his body convulsing with the effort.

Sitting there, as innocent as a baby bird, was a wallet, faded and full of creases, the leather flaking away from use.

"You fucking—" Chuuya clamped a hand over his eyes, scraping it down his face. He could feel his fingers trembling. "You fucking bastard."

He folded over, his forehead knocking against the steering wheel. His hands wrapped around it, clutching it hard enough to break.

The first tear sat perilously on the edge of his eyelashes. It was hot as it fell, slipping down his cheek before hiding at the corner of his mouth.

"Someday, I am going to kill you."

xXx

There was something about big buildings when they were empty: they magnified everything, transforming footsteps into earthquakes, breath into storming wind.

Chuuya made his way through Port Mafia headquarters, his hat pulled low over his eyes. When he reached the elevator, he hadn't even pressed the button before the doors snapped open.

Chuuya glanced up, then immediately narrowed his eyes.

"So," he growled. "Finally decided to come crawling back, huh?"

Akutagawa's stare was like a shard of ice, cutting into the heart with just one look. He radiated darkness, the shadows around him stretching, becoming more opaque. There was this sense about him that all who came near would become lost, ate alive before they had the chance to scream.

Every piece of him was a hungry animal, waiting for his next meal.

Higuchi stood at his shoulder, and when she saw Chuuya, she bowed her head. Chuuya nodded at her in return.

"You guys just finished meeting with the boss, right?" he asked.

"Yes," she told him.

Chuuya's eyes skipped back to Akutagawa. "You know, the boss may go easy on you, but if it were me, I would've kicked your ass."

Akutagawa only blinked. Slowly, he stepped out of the elevator, skirting past Chuuya's form. Before he could get too far, Chuuya snatched his arm and froze him in place.

"I was worried about you," he whispered. "Idiot."

Akutagawa turned his eyes without replying.

"Next time, just let me know, okay?" He ripped his hand away and swept into the elevator, Higuchi climbing out in his wake. He punched the button for the top floor.

"Chuuya-san."

Chuuya snapped his head up, raising an eyebrow. Only Akutagawa's eyes were visible, and they met his through the doorway.

"Happy birthday."

Something fell into the bottom of Chuuya's stomach. He blinked, then laughed, throwing his hand between the double doors before they could close.

"Drinks," he said. "My place. Tonight. Got it?"

Akutagawa stared a moment, then turned his head away.

"Understood."

Satisfied, Chuuya pulled back, knocking the button again and letting the doors slide shut. He caught Higuchi's smile before she was lost from sight, and he threw one back at her in return.

xXx

When Dazai had walked away, he'd left behind a trail of broken glass—glass from the bottles Chuuya had shattered, one after another, as he'd drunk himself into a coma. The days had been blurred together and burned at the edges, a sea of confusion as Chuuya had been rocked between fury and desperation and numbness. He hadn't slept, and if he did, he couldn't remember if he had; there was only the journey to the bottom of the bottle, and when that one ran empty, another one to take its place.

He probably would've been lost in that state forever if Mori hadn't intervened.

"Chuuya," he said, "starting tomorrow, you'll be taking a leave of absence."

Chuuya stiffened in his seat; his heart plummeted into his stomach like a meteor. "Boss?"

"It'll only be for a couple of days," he assured him. He stirred his wine around in his glass absently. Chuuya's hands were empty; he clutched them around the armrests. "If you don't return in a more respectable state, it'll be even longer, and my measures will be more drastic."

He took a sip of his wine, and his lips came away as red as blood. He set his glass down on the table. "You are one of my most loyal subordinates," he told him. "But I have a hard time putting my faith in someone whose behavior is so uncivilized."

Chuuya hung his head, his lips fumbling as they fought for words. "Boss, I..."

"We have all been affected by Dazai's betrayal. It is time to move on."

Chuuya bit on his tongue. He closed his eyes and swallowed the rock in his throat. "Understood."

The sun had sunk low in the Pacific Ocean. From the Port Mafia headquarters, with its floor-to-ceiling windows, it painted everything a deep, blistering red. Even Mori's hair caught the light, tinting his pitch-black strands with crimson. Elise was curled up at his feet, dismembering her fashion dolls. Her quiet laugh was the only sound in the room.

"Is that all?" Chuuya prodded at length.

"Mm." Mori's brow sharpened. "There is one other thing."

"Yes?"

"Please let me know if you come across Akutagawa."

"Akutagawa?" Chuuya repeated. "The dog that Dazai dragged off of the streets? What has he done?"

"He has gone missing." Mori drummed his fingers. "He is a difficult one, but he has potential, and considering recent events..." His eyes grew dark. "I would hate to lose another one of my members."

The tone of his voice made Chuuya's stomach curdle. He took a long, deep breath. "I understand, Boss." He rose from his chair, clutching his hat to his chest as he swept into a bow. "I will make sure to keep you informed."

"Please do."

That night, as black crept over the sky, Chuuya was on his way back to his apartment. He was two blocks away when he caught the scent: the sweet, overripe stench of death, interlaced with the sharp tang of blood. It crashed over his senses and left him nearly on his knees.

What the hell is that? he thought, slapping a hand over his nose. Did someone run over a cat or something?

He glanced up then, as the echo of footsteps began to ring in the dark. Chuuya's muscles locked as he braced for the attack, but it never came.

Then the figure glided out of the dark. Chuuya straightened. "You."

In the low moonlight, Chuuya could just make out the rugged silhouette of Akutagawa. He came out of the night like a mist, like a reaper on his way to collect the dead. There was no sign of recognition; he continued walking toward him without breaking his stride.

"Where have you been?" Chuuya demanded. "The boss has been looking for you."

Still, Akutagawa did not respond. He swept by Chuuya without so much as a glance, and as he passed, Chuuya was crushed by that sickly, rotting smell, emanating from Akutagawa like a beacon.

"Hey!" He coughed as he struggled to breathe, and then, his temper igniting, he spun around and snatched a fistful of Akutagawa's sleeve.

Akutagawa's Rashōmon flared, rearing its head with a mouth full of fangs. It charged for Chuuya with its jaws gaping wide. Chuuya dodged, ducking underneath Rashōmon's reach, his knife flashing in his hand before he lodged it against Akutagawa's throat. His other hand began to glow as the pavement beneath them quaked, the earth caving in to his command. It rumbled a warning.

"Mind your place," he growled. "Dog."

Rashōmon flickered, writhing like a snake caught by its tail. His shoulders were rigid. Pressed against his back, Chuuya could tell that he was soaked, like he'd fallen into the harbor. Rashōmon hovered inches from Chuuya's throat, starving for flesh.

Then it gradually receded, the tails of Akutagawa's coat flapping to his side.

Chuuya couldn't take it anymore; he hacked into the sleeve of his coat, the stench strangling his lungs. "For the love of..." he exclaimed, dropping his arm. "What did you do, bathe in a sewer?"

Very slowly, Akutagawa turned. There was enough light left for Chuuya to see his eyes.

All he said was, "Oh."

Chuuya had seen eyes more alive on a corpse. They were coal black, a sempiternal void, sunken into his face like bullet holes. The pallor of his skin was so white, Chuuya didn't know if it was skin or bone. It was hard to tell underneath all of the blood that spattered his face—and then he realized that it wasn't water that was seeping through his clothes.

"Mother of god." Chuuya's grip dug into the handle of his knife. "What did you do?"

Chuuya expected he wouldn't reply, but then he saw his lips twitch. His eyes finally seemed to register Chuuya's presence, and they sucked him in like a black hole.

"Dazai-san," he murmured.

"Eh?" Chuuya frowned. "No, I'm—"

"Dazai-san," he repeated. His voice was completely jaded. "Dazai-san is gone."

Oh. Shit. Panic wormed into Chuuya's stomach. He's completely lost it.

Chuuya had witnessed Akutagawa's wrath before; this was different. It was as if Akutagawa's sanity was deteriorating before his very eyes. It was not Akutagawa that was standing before him, but his body. There seemed to be no conscious thought, no scrap of humanity left to salvage him as a human being.

This, he realized. This is Akutagawa's grief.

Carefully, he stepped toward him. "Akutagawa," he said. "Are you listening to me?"

There was no answer.

"I'm taking you back to my apartment," he told him. "I can't let you wander around like this. It's only a couple of blocks."

Akutagawa stared at him. The chill crawling down Chuuya's spine grew colder.

"Akutagawa." He took another step. "This is not a request. This is an order. Do you understand?"

He latched on to the cuff of Akutagawa's coat. This time Akutagawa did not retaliate, and instead let himself be coaxed along.

Up in Chuuya's apartment, Chuuya tossed him some old sweats and stuffed all of his clothes into the washing machine. He watched as the water bubbled up red, the blood slowly leeching away. He slammed the top down and leaned against it, putting all of his weight into his hands.

What the hell am I doing? The question swirled around in his head. Why am I taking care of a brat like him?

In the other room, Akutagawa sat complacently on the edge of the sofa, gazing down at the floor. The sweats he'd borrowed were too small, so they were rolled up at the elbows and knees. Chuuya handed him a cup of tea and threw his jacket on the coffee table.

"You still have blood on your face," he told him.

Akutagawa was silent. He stared down into his tea, but did not drink it.

"Jeez." Chuuya stormed into the kitchen, collecting a towel and running it under the sink. "Am I your mother?"

He moved back around to the sofa and crouched in front of him, wiping a smear of blood on his chin. Akutagawa did not so much as flinch.

"You know, you're more interesting when you're pissed off," he said idly. What little color he had was slowly returning to Akutagawa's cheeks. "I hate seeing you like this."

There was some blood speckled underneath his eye; Chuuya carefully washed it away. He reached up and dabbed at his forehead.

"I know how you feel, though," he whispered. His fingers clenched, and water trickled down Akutagawa's face. "He left me, too."

Akutagawa's breath was sharp; Chuuya almost dropped the towel. Underneath his hand, Akutagawa was trembling, so faintly that he could've imagined it. Chuuya's hand fell to his side, and then he reached up and gently tousled his hair.

"You're strong." He pushed to his feet. "Stronger than most—but you're also extremely fragile. You need to learn how to be broken without letting the pain completely shatter you."

He stepped around the couch and moved back to the sink, rinsing the towel under hot water. Blood dribbled through his hands, staining them pink. He was so lost in thought, he almost didn't catch the sound of Akutagawa's voice underneath the rushing water.

"I only want...," he began. Chuuya twisted off the tap; in the silence, Akutagawa's voice pierced the room. "I only want Dazai-san to acknowledge my strength. That's all I have to live for."

"Is that so?" Chuuya mused. "Personally, I think that's bullshit."

Akutagawa snapped his head up so fast, Chuuya heard his neck crack "I—"

"You have plenty of other things to live for besides pleasing that insufferable bastard. You just haven't found them yet." Chuuya turned, lounging against the counter. He tossed Akutagawa a look. "Akutagawa."

Akutagawa stared, his expression stone.

"If you want Dazai's approval, I can't stop you—and even though I just saved your stupid ass, I don't expect you to feel obligated for anything. Just promise me this." Chuuya leaned forward, meeting Akutagawa's eyes. "Promise me that eventually, you'll find another reason to live."

Akutagawa's eyes were the color of coal, dusky and empty like a cloud of smoke—but for just an instant, Chuuya saw something flicker inside of them. It passed through like a meteor, there and then gone.

Chuuya sighed. He slipped his hat off of his head and scratched the back of his neck. "Akutagawa," he said. "Drink your tea."

Akutagawa glanced at it as if it were made of mud, but then, gradually, he brought it to his lips.

In the days that followed, the Mafia received a tip about the location of the remaining members of Mimic—the few that Oda hadn't assassinated. They had holed up in the west and were planning to build up their strength to launch a counterattack, scrapping together as many members as they could. When Chuuya and a heavy artillery of the guerrilla squad arrived on the scene to take them down, that was when they discovered the bodies.

It was a garden of severed limbs, flesh ripped from bone and eyes gouged from sockets, severed heads skewered on scraps of furniture. The walls were caked with blood, and the smell of decay was like a punch to the face. There were flies buzzing around them and maggots crawling out of their mouths, slowly chewing away what was left of the dead.

Chuuya stared down at their skin, which had yellowed and begun to shrivel, and realized where Akutagawa had been.

"You're ruthless, you know that?" he asked him later. They were in Chuuya's apartment, but this time Akutagawa was in full black regalia, his coat spilling over the front of the couch like an ink spill. He had an old book cracked open in his lap. Chuuya wasn't familiar with the title, but it was big enough to crack a skull.

"I will kill anyone who stands in my way," Akutagawa said flatly.

"At least the boss was happy." Chuuya twisted his glass between his fingers. "You won back your favor."

"I did not do it to please him."

Chuuya huffed. "Jeez," he muttered. "You're so difficult." He stooped down and retrieved his bottle, topping himself off. Across the table, Akutagawa's tea was steaming, practically untouched.

Akutagawa glanced up from his book. "Chuuya-san," he said. "Should you be drinking that?"

Chuuya stared into the glass. The wine was a lurid red, just dark enough that he could see the light glancing off of his eyes. He smiled at his reflection, sinking back into his seat.

"Yeah," he told him. "I'm all right."

Author's note:

Chuuya and Akutagawa only interact outside of the canon storyline (meaning Bungou Stray Dogs Wan and the drama CDs). Though the terms of their relationship are really fuzzy, Chuuya acts almost like a mother to him. (It's kind of adorable, honestly.) The consensus among the fandom is that after Dazai left, Chuuya was the one to look after Akutagawa, and that idea is what inspired the events in this fic.

I have a hard time believing that Akutagawa would refer to Chuuya as "Chuuya-san" and not "Nakahara-san", but because everyone else in the Port Mafia refers to him by his first name, I figured it was a safe bet.

That will be all. Thank you so much for reading!