Chapter Text
Dazai is something akin to an angel; ethereal and effortlessly beautiful, a godsend no one deserves.
Everyone knows this, and yet they keep trying; trying to get his approval, capture his attention, turn those shining eyes on them.
Not many have succeeded, but those that do barely get a taste of him and yet they keep wanting more and more. But that's alright, because they'll take something over nothing anyday.
~~~~~~
Chuuya has admired him for as long as he could remember.
He'd never admit it, of course, not even to himself, but seeing if he could be better than Dazai and pass him is something he's being doing from the start; not exactly looking for attention nor approval, but for confirmation that he can, indeed, be better than Dazai at something his partner is good at.
He admires his beauty, too, from afar.
One of the few good things he can admit about Dazai is that the younger is beautiful; everyone knows, hell, even Dazai himself knows it, and Chuuya would be an idiot not to know it.
It's just that, it's so hard to stay mad at Dazai for long when he's got that triumphant smirk on his soft, reddish lips, and whenever he mockingly bats his long eyelashes at Chuuya the martial artist feels his heart stop for a moment. His beauty is as frustrating as it is addicting, and Chuuya would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the less-than-platonic moments he often shared with his partner.
As Dazai stalks over and sits down on the couch next to Chuuya, he immediately pulls the brunette into a tight kiss, swallowing his quiet gasp and relishing in the soft press of Dazai's blood-bitten lips against his smoother ones.
On good days, Dazai tastes like a combination of whiskey and mint.
On bad days, Dazai tastes like smoke and blood.
He could tell that it was a bad day today just from that, and he can feel Dazai pressing his body tightly against Chuuya's smaller one, desperate for some comfort and a way to relieve his stress. The faintest pangs of blood fall on Chuuya's tongue, and his partner still smells like smoke and salt even as he gets smothered by the redhead's passionate efforts.
Sometimes, Chuuya is bitter on how he's so much like a favorite toy to Dazai, getting played and toyed with over and over again and neither of them getting tired of it.
But in these times, he's glad to deliver.
As he presses inside of Dazai, the younger boy already a hazardous mess beneath him, flushed oh-so-prettily and panting, gazing up at him with half-lidded eyes, Chuuya succumbs to the pleasure and to the knowledge of having something most people couldn't dream to have.
~~~~~~
Dazai is his god.
Fyodor knew that fact better than he knew himself, dug up from his silent musings as he watched Dazai's face shift in the moonlight, unsmiling yet looking so at peace as he slumbered next to the Devil himself.
He knew that he would give the prodigal mafioso anything he pleased, whether it was his heart or the world, and Dazai would give back in the form of pleasure, letting Fyodor worship his body as he threw his head back and moaned.
And truly, Fyodor wanted nothing more than him, his ethereal beauty an overwhelming sight and the mere sound of his voice like music to his ears. Dazai's hair was as soft as a pillow and tucked behind his ears perfectly. His smile was as sweet as passionfruit, and his eyes glittered and shone with a hidden purpose in the light.
His hands were Fyodor's favorite part of him. They were perfect; callused and lined with barely visible scars, the most noticeable one a white line trailing up from the edge of his palm to the tip of his left pinky, and yet their warmth and gentleness was everything the Russian man had ever longed for.
Dazai was not like other gods; he was unique, a true, perfect manifestation of stardust and planetary gold, a primordial in his prime. Fyodor may have been a god, but even gods cower at the feet of primordials, and he was more than glad to bow and kiss the ground.
And after each night of worship, each second filled with moans and soft gasps as the bed creaked beneath them, a sign of their sinful activities, Fyodor worships each precious moment spent with his god.
~~~~~~
Ranpo is smart.
Smart enough to know that he does not have an ability, smart enough to know that he would be like any ordinary citizen, smart enough to know that he is more than that.
He does not linger on the last one, because he is smart enough to know that an ordinary person stays ordinary unless they stop being so.
Ranpo is perceptive enough to notice Dazai's sharp intelligence, hidden beneath layers of fake cheer and playful mischief, sparkling eyes filled with life going blank whenever someone took an eye off of him for just one second.
He is perceptive enough to realize that Dazai is not like them; perceptive enough to know that he is more than just the annoying slacker who kept the agency together, perceptive enough to know that Dazai hides behind a cheerful mask to hide from the shadows of his dark past.
Ranpo doesn't take long to figure it out; Dazai is either a former secret government worker or a runaway criminal leaving his sins behind. He knows that the second one is more likely, judging by the bandages that cover his friend's body littered with scars he's too ashamed too look at and the way he goes still whenever he doesn't expect a touch.
When Ranpo unravels those bandages, when Dazai trusts him enough not to judge what's underneath them, he does not flinch.
He does not cower at the horrifying sight of Dazai's dozens of scars and marks, he does not recoil in disgust at the sight of the traces of dark blood and jagged lines, and he does not show an ounce of emotion.
Instead, Ranpo raises one of Dazai's hands to his lips and places a kiss to one of his scars, taking in the younger brunette's soft gasp of surprise. He waits, and when Dazai does nothing to stop him, Ranpo continues.
He places the softest of kisses down his arms, and then leans down to deliver the same treatment to his lover's chest, trailing down his collarbones and to his chest, playfully nibbling at a pink nub along the way.
When Ranpo finally enters him, no words are spoken. Just the whimpers and gasps of a broken man and the groans of another willing to help.
~~~~~~
All his life, all Akutagawa ever wanted was approval.
He longed for the warmth of a hand on his head, patting his hair and praising him a job well done, he longed for someone to smile at him and tell him that he was strong, longed for someone to finally notice and acknowledge his strength and willpower.
When he was placed under Dazai's care, he had high hopes that his effortlessly powerful and undeniably beautiful mentor would acknowledge him.
And yet he never did. Day after day, week after week, month after month, training session after training session, Dazai never acknowledged him, never noticed him over more than a glance and a snarky sentence, never recognized his strength.
And yet Akutagawa worked even harder, chest welling up in a dangerous combination of hate and admiration for his mentor. Years passed, Dazai left the mafia after Oda's death, joined the Armed Detective Agency, was marked as a traitor, and yet Akutagawa never deterred.
‘Til one day, Dazai actually did.
He patted Akutagawa on the shoulder and told him with a soft smile– You've become really strong.
Akutagawa remembers shedding tears of shock before collapsing, hearing what he wanted, no, needed, to hear and out of absolute exhaustion from fighting the Guild's admittedly formidable leader.
When he woke up, it was to an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room in an unfamiliar house, surrounded by the soft and heady scent of lavender and petrichor, an odd yet intoxicating smell.
Akutagawa panics momentarily, sitting up as stiff as a board in the bed and scanning the room suspiciously, eyeing open windows and a glass sliding door leading to a small balcony off to the side. The door to the room opened, and Akutagawa snapped his eyes over, body tensed and guard up.
He then relaxed when he saw that it was just his old mentor, bumping in holding a tray filled with a plate of toast and a steaming hot cup of tea.
Then tensed up again, when he saw what Dazai was wearing.
The older man was dressed in a silk robe, thin fabric clinging to his sinfully long legs and folded collar pressing down to reveal the top of the brunette's chest, a smooth expanse of skin riddled with faint, tiny scars and a larger, white one.
Dazai had spotted Akutagawa and gave him a smile that made butterflies flutter in the younger man's belly, and stalked up to him, placing the tray down carefully on his former apprentice's blanket-covered lap.
Eat, was what Dazai had told him, gingerly sitting himself at the foot of the bed and folding the skirt of his robe to cover his legs. Akutagawa had eyed him warily but complied, feeding silently on buttered toast and sipping occasionally at what he assumed to either be passionflower or echinacea tea.
Dazai had observed him calmly and silently, a serene expression on his gentle face as he hummed a soft tune underneath his breath that subconsciously helped Akutagawa relax more.
When the younger ability user was finished with his small breakfast and had taken to brushing the side of the plate with his thumb, Dazai had stood up and taken the tray for him, leaving the room as Akutagawa stared up at the ceiling.
When Dazai came back, the younger was back to laying on his back and dozing off, calmed by the taste of tea and Dazai's scent wafting around, engulfing him in a sense of serenity and security. The detective had smiled, taking a seat at the edge of the bed and stroking Akutagawa's forehead, uncharacteristically gentle with him as he watched his former apprentice doze off.
Akutagawa had grabbed his wrist weakly, looking up at him with tired, pleading eyes when Dazai made a move to leave.
Stay, was what he had whispered.
I want you, was what he wanted to say.
Dazai stayed, stroking Akutagawa's hair and looking at him with eyes so gentle he could cry, and as he fell asleep the mafioso felt the press of lips against his own, the bare taste of tea and mint lingering.
I'll be here when you awake, Dazai had hummed.
Akutagawa fell asleep and dreamt of himself and Dazai dancing to an old, sweet tune, smiling and laughing and having a good time.
~~~~~~
Oda and Dazai had been enamoured by each other for as long as they could remember.
They were good friends, even if both were shy to admit that at times, and were so incredibly happy being around each other that other people noticed.
Several were extremely jealous of Oda, who was the only human being on Earth to have Dazai Osamu harboring feelings for him, but the redheaded man never cared. Neither of them noticed the other's feelings, too shy to talk about it and had always settled for ghost touches and secret, hidden smiles.
It was clear that they loved each other even if it wasn't obvious to the two of them.
It was clear in how Dazai lit up whenever he saw Oda, clear in how he hovered around him on a daily basis and stared shamelessly with a small, rare smile on his face, clear on how he was adamant on praising and protecting his beloved friend as much as he could.
It was clear in how Oda would soften whenever Dazai was near, the ends of his mouth quirking just the slightest bit upwards as he occasionally reached down to fondly pat his friend on the head. It was clear in how Oda would pay rapt attention to Dazai, gaze shamelessly scanning the corners of his eyes and down to his lips.
It was clear that they loved each other, even if they didn't know it themselves.
Every laugh, smile, touch, murmur, whisper and hug shared was cherished between the two of them, precious moments locked and stored away in the deepest corners of their hearts and kept for later and forever.
Each bandage wrapped, ointment applied, bandaid smoothened, and each suicide stopped before it could start drew them even closer than the telling of stories and tales did, a silent safe space no one could take them out of.
Until, the day Oda died, of course.
Dazai had arrived a minute too late, coat flung into the pile of dead bodies as he shouted Oda's name, dropping down to his knees and attempting to stop the bleeding of his friend's wound, begging and pleading for him to hold on a little longer, Odasaku, help will come.
Oda had accepted his fate the moment he picked up the gun and tucked it away into his belt, and his fast-approaching death made him spill, spill all of the words he never got to say in fear of losing Dazai's friendship, his trust.
He told him to stray to the good side, become a better man, throw away all his crimes and turn over a new leaf. He told him all the words he never dreamed of saying to him, watched his gorgeous brown orbs sparkle and tear up and wondered just how lucky he was to see Dazai in this beautiful, vulnerable state, the setting sun casting rays of golden light upon his hair and warming his cold hand up.
And before he died in his love's arms, his soft hold, Oda faced up and looked at Dazai's face one last time, and murmured the words, I love you.
Dazai had cried, cried and cried and pressed his lips against Oda's cold ones, repeating those words over and over as his eyelids slipped closed, and promised him that he would do all that it took to become a better person, someone Oda would be undeniably proud of. He promised to stop killing and to protect every orphan he came across, and he promised, he swore to every god out there that he wouldn't let his love's death be in vain.
Dazai had taken Oda's jacket that day, laid him down on the cold hard ground and pressed one last kiss to his forehead, a brief stroke to his hair, and left with a bloodied coat clutched to his chest and tears streaming down his face, the bandages wrapped around his eye gone and clutched in the loose grip of Oda's fingers.
And it had been one kiss, one I love you, but Dazai cherished it, clutched it close to his chest and never let go of that one, vivid memory.
After all, something was better than nothing.
FIN.