"Drink it." he ordered, already halfway through the bottle on his own.

Akutagawa thought to refuse, the amber liquid had a foul, oaky smell that was strong enough he couldn't stop his nose from wrinkling at it. Still... There was a sense of warmth, of camaraderie, of approval in being offered the swill.

"Come on," his superior crooned, lengthening the words to emphasize his point, "Don't fucking waste it. Either do what I tell you or hand it back; quit looking at me like you're stupid."

The alcohol burned against his tongue, making him cough and gag on the taste as it settled like ash in his stomach; and Dazai laughed, filling the glass again, this time with twice as much as before.

"So?" he prompted, downing a swig from the neck of the bottle. "What do you think?"

"It's bitter." his subordinate managed, still sputtering as the glass was once again pushed into his palm.

This time, Akutagawa hesitates, clutching the glass as if he intends to shatter it between his fingers. Staring at his own reflection in the honey-colored spirit in some childish hope he'll wake from this like nothing but an odd daydream, or that he won't have to drink it. Dazai taps the bottom of the overfilled tumbler, knocking a splash over the edge and onto Akutagawa's sleeve; a silent continuation of his earlier demands.

Just pretend it's barley tea.

Dutifully, the contents disappear down his throat. He all but slams the glass down next to the bottle, purposefully passing Dazai's waiting hand and leaving it set upside down, the closest thing to a clear refusal he can muster at the moment. The slight shift in his mentor's eye is as unreadable as ever and it makes his blood cool several degrees but he stands by the defiance.

Then Dazai smiles- that cruel, thin smile he's so gracefully skilled at; the one that means something has amused him, that it's going exactly as he's guessed it would.

And all at once he has to reorient himself, suddenly dizzy.

The floor is out from under him, his hands instinctively grabbing fistfuls of Dazai's coat to stabilize himself against his shoulders. Dazai's arms are tightly and uncomfortably around Akutagawa's waist, one tucked under his thighs to lift him into the air and the other pressed against his hips to keep him from completely toppling over. His mentor uncharacteristically presses a bandaged cheek against his ribs, saying something under his breath Akutagawa can't make out- something about his heartbeat.

"Dazai-san..."

He had to focus to get the words out in order, and he isn't sure if it's from the whisky or pure nerves.

"Put me down."

Dazai deposits him awkwardly onto the edge of the counter, keeping him arms wrapped around him so he's pinched between the wooden frame and the other boy's body. In such close proximity, it's obvious to him that while Dazai isn't that much bigger than him, the two year difference between them has granted him at least twice the muscle by comparison; though with their wiry builds it doesn't say much.

"This isn't what I meant." he spits, quieter and smaller than he means to say it.

Dazai hums, not listening to him. Instead, he runs his hands lazily up and down Akutagawa's spine.

"What are you doing?"

He tried to wriggle free but all it did was grant Dazai an opening to press further against him. He reached vainly against his better judgement for Rashōmon in an attempt to move using it, but as expected, Dazai's own ability prevents him from his and the comforting tension of transmogrified fabric unwound and fizzled in his palm.

"Shh," Dazai mumbles, his chin against Akutagawa's shoulder and his breath against his ear. The softness is a rarely seen but still familiar shift and Akutagawa would be grateful for it if not for the strangeness of the moment.

None of it feels real, muffled through the haze of his own confusion. One moment Dazai's lips are against his skin, teeth ghosting against his earlobe before he trails lazily across his cheek. The next Dazai's knuckles are curled under his chin, thumb pressed to his lower lip. It feels practiced, just a step off from the numerous times he's lifted Akutagawa's gaze to his throughout his training. He doesn't dare to speak. Even if he wanted to, his tongue is a stone behind his teeth. All he can do is search that vacant expression for some sign and come up empty.

"Your face is so red, Aku-kun."

The sudden nickname catches him off guard, any of his typical rehearsed dissent is cut off in a startled yelp as Dazai's whisky coated mouth collides with his.

At first he's frozen, unable to process the reality of it. There must be some horrible mix up. Some trick his mind is playing on him that will end any moment. Dazai pulls back from him, just enough to speak against his lips and his voice is so achingly pitiful it doesn't sound like his mentor at all.

"Ryūnosuke, kiss me. Please."

He doesn't have the heart to deny him. He never does with Dazai. Not for long. Fighting the current is easy, but it's the calm sea that drowns him.

It's messy and awkward, a clumsy affair of bumped tongues and clacked teeth. Dazai moves a hand to run his fingers experimentally against the light, white fabric of Akutagawa's shirt. Akutagawa catches Dazai's lip between his canines and is treated to an approving hiss when he draws blood. It taints his spit red when he breaks the kiss to drag his tongue over Akutagawa's neck.

"You're shaking." Dazai notes, almost pleasantly and Akutagawa wants to accuse him of lying if only he could catch his breath.

He takes passing bites at his subordinate's jaw as he lazily pushes Akutagawa's coat off his shoulders.

"Dazai-"

"Just let me look at you."

Dazai wraps his lips around his carotid, incisors scraping skin as his hands trace lines down his ribs like a butcher marking the finest cuts of meat. It sends an erratic shiver up Akutagawa's spine and he grips the edge of the counter with enough force he imagines it splintering beneath his palms. Dazai pulls his wrist away from its anchor point, setting Akutagawa's hands against his own shoulders.

"Touch me."

The command is almost absentminded.

He curls his fingers into the fabric of his superior's clothes, wishing his nails would leave scars in the flesh beneath as Dazai leaves bruises the shape of fangs across his neck. Blindly fumbling, Dazai pulls apart the buttons of his shirt, pressing too warm hands against cool skin and pushing fabric out of his way.

His voice wouldn't cooperate, suddenly far away when he needs it most, leaving him gasping in an attempt to surface with any semblance of words on his lips as Dazai trails lower and lower, fingertips digging into the meat of his leg as if intending to crush bone.

All at once a cold sweat broke out across his skin and his mouth went dry.

Wait,

His throat clamped shut and nausea gnawed at the pit of his stomach.

Stop-

His body no longer felt like his own; it was just a thing, a shell he was trapped in, trying to retreat further into the center so the feeling of impatient hands wouldn't register, rendering his mind to a dim haze that would mute all memory of this moment into just the sick emptiness, like a bad dream or a high fever.

He tries to protest, he wants to, but he chokes around the characters; unable to make anything more coherent than a low, uncertain sound that only seems to encourage Dazai as he murmurs hollow, sour reassurances against the swell of his chest.

He vaguely registers wandering hands and lips, fingers and teeth too rushed, too rough, too demanding. The cotton edge of a bandaged wrist grazes suddenly bare thigh. He hears himself sounding far away, as if he were in a closed room across from his body, mewling as if it's been programmed into him to agree and yet stupidly expecting his nonexistent pleas for mercy to be heard in their place. The sound cuts off in a strangled whimper as Dazai's free hand winds tightly around his throat, mangling his airway while the other palms at him, pushing him into place so Dazai's hips meet his.

His body won't move. Every alarm is ringing through him, the instincts that kept him alive for so long- to fight, to bite, to run, to survive- all of them burn through his limbs but they won't move; all overwritten by the desire to please; to be approved of, to be wanted, to be useful, to be used. His ears thrum with the desperate hammering of his heart, pushing back against the attempts to cut off his blood flow. His vision blurs, the dim vignette from lack of oxygen mixing with the watery lens of uncontrolled tears and casting a caustic halo around the only thing left in focus- Dazai. His hands lose their grip, sliding off fabric and falling numbly to his sides. Dazai grants him a slightly loosened grip, waiting as he coughs and gulps in another full breath before tightening his chokehold.

Akutagawa isn't sure how long it goes on like that, paralyzed and fuzzy, only able to note the too tender way Dazai brushes his thumb against his jugular when he allows him to take another minuscule breath. Distantly, he feels some involuntary twitch, a spasm somewhere in the haze; and all at once the pressure is gone. He isn't sure if he sits up himself or if Dazai pulls him up, too busy drinking in the air like an all too precious commodity. He can't make out Dazai's words at first, slowly brought up from the bottom of the well he'd spiraled into by the unfamiliar pressure of Dazai rubbing his back, keeping him pressed gently against his chest as he pressed a single kiss against his dog's sweat plastered forehead.

"Good boy, Akutagawa-kun."