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dazai's eyes sting. there's lingering wetness in the corners, gathering in his tear ducts - he's been staring too long without blinking.
he lifts his hand to trace the lines of fire that chuuya's hair makes against the pillow case and the apples of his cheeks before tucking the strands behind chuuya's ears. his fingertips trace the curve of an abalone ear before moving to gently caress a smooth, marble jaw, marveling how different it looks when not clenched in frustrated agitation. even now, in the epicenter of the shadows of the bed, chuuya gleams with the fire of the rising sun. he glows like an ember lingering in the nest of coals, burning hot.
ironic, dazai thinks, considering the human body temperature is supposed to cool down in slumber.
dazai snorts softly to himself. he’s been rambling like a fool to himself tonight, longer than he has any right to be. how can dazai even compare chuuya to the rest of the masses. when has chuuya ever been human? chuuya is bold. he is boisterous. he is beautiful. chuuya is brilliant; dazai doesn’t understand how people don’t see it. even the blind could be in chuuya’s space and know they’re in the presence of a god despite chuuya’s human skin. and that’s just it - the more chuuya tries to be more human, tries his hand at mortality, the more he stands out, the more he shines. humans are good at knowing when there is an odd one out among them and it’s so easy to tell that there’s something divine about chuuya.
chuuya burns so brightly, what else could he be but a celestial star, a sun, a supernova.
and perhaps, it is his brilliance that makes him human all the more, a lamp burning through its oil, a candle melting through its wax, temporal.
there are faded bruises on chuuya's arms, black and blue remnants of corruption splashed across a porcelain canvas. they're accompanied by patches of red, skin inflamed and irritated where chuuya had scrubbed off the layer of epidermis in the bath, sweat, dirt and blood swirling down the drain with it.
it's odd to see chuuya so quiet, so peaceful even. chuuya's presence demands attention even when he is silent, his praetorian posture demands respect and his beauty demands awe. there is not one single person that would deprive chuuya of this, that should. just because dazai doesn't follow the rules doesn't mean he doesn't know them. he's suicidal not stupid.
it’s such a shame and a relief that chuuya sees himself as the sacrifice when really, he is the temple; the altar, the god who all prostrate to.
chuuya breathes vivid and vibrant colors into life, shatters the looming silence with the dulcets of his tones, voice loud and boisterous, voice soft and smooth. the wines that he drinks are as sensual as he is and dazai is in pain with how much he wants. dazai’s never wanted before, it’s a serrated dagger being swiftly stabbed in and slowly drawn out of his chest.
dazai doesn't know what to do, what action to take next for the first time in a long time. the plan all those years ago was to seduce chuuya to the port mafia; a soft smile here, an encouraging touch there, hook, line, and sinker. dazai could have predicted many outcomes, all of them with a different ending, but he never expected this one.
he's never been glad to be so wrong before in his life.
dazai's thumb brushes chuuya's bottom lip, the petal pink of his mouth youthful and sweet in a way that chuuya was never allowed to be. dazai wants to make that mouth a bright red, devour chuuya as chuuya seems to devour him, his thoughts, his sanity, endlessly. if all of his observations and tested hypotheses were to be believed, then chuuya truly doesn' know what he does to dazai, what he inspires in dazai. chuuya is dangerous in a way that dazai never foresaw.
dazai's left reeling and really, the only way left to go is forward now.
dazai stares down at chuuya, fingers still softly tangled in his hair. dazai silently snarls at down at him, the malice, the frustration beating steadily within his chest. dazai wants to hide what chuuya means to him away, lock it up in the deepest, darkest compartment of his black heart. dazai wants to lock chuuya up in the deepest, darkest compartment of his black heart just for himself too.
dazai gnashes his teeth together. how can chuuya be such an exception to all his rules so completely and utterly?
he's infuriating.
dazai adores him.
dazai didn't think all his planning and plotting and scheming would have him end up here. he never thought he would ever have someone who could understand him so deeply, would understand his mind, his tricks - all of him. all he wanted was fun entertainment - what better way to entertain himself than to train a wild, feral dog into his own personal pet?
he didn't expect to gain a partner.
dazai swallows. he's on a cliff now - he can feel it. on the edge of a precipice, an epiphany and it's completely his choice on what happens next. he can step back and stay in the safety of familiarity or he can move forward and fall into the waiting abyss. dazai thinks back to the time he gave chuuya the ultimatum at the cliffside all those years ago, remembers himself backing chuuya into the smallest corner he could, making all his little sheep turn on him, leaving him with an offer he couldn't deny. chuuya skidded off the cliff right into dazai's waiting arms, and yet in the end, dazai is the one who was caught.
dazai laughs. he should have known his fall was inevitable.
and so dazai does the only thing he can: he steps forward willingly over the edge. he reaches out a single, pale, starving hand, grasps the fruit and counts the seeds, and eats.