Work Text:
"Chuuya~, russian mobsters have just entered. I know it's an ordinary infiltration mission but I'd be glad to see you take some bullets."
Dazai sinks his fleeting gratification on a swivel chair, the arched spine against the plastic backrest and the outstretched lower limbs, while run his eyes from one side to the other of a screen, guiding his partner with a headset and some soft-toned mockery.
Despite his bickering is becoming machiavellian he doesn't hesitate to carry on: "Maybe it's not the right evening for your new outift... as long as you don't want to pick up every guy present." The tone is dry, brushed by jealousy traits.
Attention must be turned to the target but the mind crawls into a flow of uncontrolled thoughts. Because control broke up with Dazai the previous day, when Chuuya turned seventeen and opted for a different outfit.
The elbows planted on a desk and the fingers intertwined into the realization of a paper plane that is coming to life thanks to a stockpile of untainted sheets, scattered on the wooden surface. To be honest, some of them had been used hours before, by him, but for futile purposes (scribbles with the name Chibikko and a stylized drawing of a dog). Just to provoke an high coloured reaction from Chuuya and have his fingers locked around his throat so as to perceive his breath yells against his clammy lips.
Normally, he'd be considered a sadist. A masochist. Or maybe both.
The truth is simple: he's in love.
Although love has peculiar aftermaths on him. He's possessive, and of course, this belongs to the emotional sphere of a normal crush, but for him there aren't butterflies fluttering in the rib cage or sentences sliced in embarrassment. No cheeks dabbed in candy pink. And affectionate talk? Oh, please.
Dazai is the antithesis of first crush or first love, or whatever.
He'd have been the type to ask for a double suicide during a date — which from his point of view is a romantic choice like the exchange of faiths —, approaching with a stink of fish and seaweed that flourish from under his armpits because apparently he has try to drowning into a river.
And with Chuuya he's not different.
His daily love routine is: A — shove aside Chibikko from anyone in Port Mafia who can be a worthy opponent of the demon prodigy, B — the dog-master relationship that flows into calling his partner in the dead of the night, ordering him to join his ass under the sheets, C — keep the distance from public places where the partner can show off his divine beauty and be surrounded by horny boys.
And the mission site of that evening is a second-hand warehouse outside the city. No clubs or crowded places, only a few mice to keep company and the flickering of industrial led lamps above their heads.
Lucky or not, Dazai just wants to finish the job and dart under the sheets to be cuddled by Chuuya.
But, obviously, things always goes wrong when it comes to soukoku.
Well, this time it's not Chibikko's fault and his incredible physical performance — best martial artist for a motive — enough to break through an apartment wall with a punch during a reconnaissance job because gravity has taken possession of his mental faculties and goodbye plan.
No, the problem is called Dazai.
It's not a difficult task assigned to him and yet Dazai manages to make even the rudimental of duties laborious.
Making sure that Chuuya is hired for the job of one-use mercenary that rival mobsters are proposing to teenagers and to scrutinize the image of the russian leader, who wants to orchestrate the trafficking of the Yokohama Mafia in collaboration with other organizations, and his two henchmen who flank him like bastions of flesh and bones.
What can be so difficult for a criminal genius, if not that one of the guys competing for the work tries to flirt with Chuuya? Octopus arms, wolfish gaze, head tilted to sway into the sea of his blue eyes.
It's enough.
The paper crumbles under the weight of his fist — r.i.p. paper plan — his lips lace into a hard line and his breath grinds repressed anger. "Get that jerk away and focus on the boss, we don't have time for him."
The partner turns on his heels swinging his hips, his eyeline facing the camera anchored to a corner of the ceiling. The russians obviously doesn't know that the security sistem is sabotaged hours earlier and that the spectator is the youngest Port Mafia executive.
Chuuya is at stake and provokes him.
A winking look; a defiant look.
And that damned outfit that distracts him. Once again.
Fuck.
Chuuya has already worn a leather jacket during his fifteen years, when he was a member of the Sheep, but what he wears now is an expensive and refined matte black from epaulets to cuffs.
A cotton blouse peeks out framed by a crimson tie while the jeans, always the color of the night, are tight enough to look like a second skin.
The hair, like soft waves floating in the current of air, has become longer. He takes more care of it, surely, like the rest of his body. Sometimes he remains closed in the bathroom for hours and comes out smelling like a cloud of vanilla.
And the skin is silk.
God, how much he'd like to touch him instead of having his hand kneaded on a sheet of paper.
Besides, Chuuya seems to appreciate the boy's presence as he tries to cheat the mob boss. He almost seems a typical seventeen, apart from the fact that he attends bad companies. And maybe Chuuya needs someone like him. Someone that doesn't consider him a property.
Dazai inhales air and exhales frustration. He's a knot of knotted nerves and contracted muscles. And the skin is a fire of anger. "You can't entrust a plan to a dog. What can a dog do apart from barking?" he curls his hand on the ink coat that embraces the chair, propping it on his shoulder blades like a respectable Mafia executive and rakes his fingers through his hair, trying not to make it look like a crow's nest.
He'd never have turned his back on a workstation and cocked up a mission for a superficial reason, but this isn't the case. Reclaim his Chibi from the clutches of a teenager in the midst of a hormonal storm isn't superficial. It's a fucking emergency!
With an entry worthy to a Marvel superhero in a blaze of lights, Dazai approaches Chuuya and his fancy outfit.
He clinches his partner's shoulder with a hand, pivoting him and intrudes into a conversation in which he isn't invited, barely hearing Chuuya barking thefuckareyoudoing and, before his lips end his reproach, he has already snapped his mouth on his and inspired fear in the random-guy.
Well, not that Dazai can't inspire fear if he wants, but the demon prodigy is known in the business. For this reason, he was cast out by the boss Mori to game master of the mission. The russian mafia, the round of bribes for single jobs that young criminals pick up like crumbs. And even that guy who now trembles from tiptoe to ears obviously recognizes Dazai.
The random guy staggers without looking away from him, as if he was sure Dazai would get rid of him as soon as he swivels his backbone.
He can, in fact.
The gun waits impatiently at the back of the belt, rubbing against his boxers with each abrupt movement. But he doesn't need it. His piercing dark eyes tear him apart, the tongue claims Chuuya's jaws and every inch of his partner's body vibrates in a dance of the senses, the fingers fly tugging a mop of sunset hair and the other hand — oh, naughty — raises the middle finger, directed to his rival.
He knows he has to run as long as he has breath in his lungs and until his knees break with fatigue, otherwise that place would have been his grave and his tombstone would have continued to tremble with dread even after his death.
Chuuya abruptly interrupts the kiss and ruffles a fist into his already wrinkled shirt. "What happened? You ruined the plan!" but what he encounters is the murderous expression of someone who has just win back his love from an unknown suitor. Few times he has witnessed this. His gaze as penetrating as a knife blade and as dangerous as shark fangs.
And Chuuya — he wouldn't but — falters.
Sure, Dazai is an apathetic and crooked teenager but Chuuya loves to see him in action as he fights for him. Like a knight in devilish armor.
His mouth rushes back to Dazai's, but not before his fingers fan out on his partner's shirt and his knuckles shatter against his cheek for failing the mission.
Needless to say, Double Black are surrounded by mobsters who sniffed out trouble as soon as Dazai Osamu has entered the warehouse door.
They know they have Port Mafia in front of them: loaded rifles and sparkling teeth as they prepare for the fight like soldiers in check.
What they don't know that the trump card has always been in the room with them since the beginning.
Chuuya releases Dazai in order to sparkle with his ability and ignite his outfit of vermilion red.
Chibi ... Clean it all up.