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Summary
Moments like these, hidden behind bars and veiled in the shadows are few and far between. Chuuya’s older now. His skin, despite however careful he is, is littered with more scarring than the Double Black period. His hair is longer, sweaty and tangled over his shoulder from the sheer heat of the car’s back seat and the breathy exchanges between them. When he reaches up to slide his hands from Dazai’s hair to his cheeks, his jaw, they’re a little rougher, calloused from self-defence and gruelling hard work, but they’re the same shape and the same weight as they used to be when they’d linger in bed, tangled, until morning’s first light, or nights spent in the back of a van in stakeout missions. They cup his skin, soft and pliant, achingly familiar with Dazai’s sharp features.