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The room is dark, with blue hues lingering on the polished furniture and trinkets Chuuya loves to collect. The light of the lampposts doesn’t reach the top floor of the skyscraper.
Speaking of Chuuya, he’s leaning against the door that leads to the terrace outside, smoking his vintage cigarettes. Not even Dazai knows where he finds those, as outdated as they are. Perks of being a mafia top executive, he supposes.
Smoke whirls gently around the shadowy figure standing there, the light pollution illuminating the sky behind him outlines his body, the gentle dips of the shoulders and muscles, the soft curls of the hair.
With a quick whip of his arm, he throws the butt of the cigarette on the terrace floor outside. His hand fishes the pack and lighter from the pocket and fingers pick one cigarette, bringing it to his lips.
It’s white and stubby, even more so as Chuuya holds one of them in his slender, gloved fingers. Chuuya lights it up and Dazai can finally see his features bathed in the yellow, dim light of the flame.
“Chibi is smoking a bit too much, isn’t he? Are you trying to kill yourself too?”
Seven steady steps and Chuuya is in front of him. Dazai is sitting on his leather couch, the man can’t possibly tower over him despite being the only one standing, but there’s a sense of authority in his stance.
“It’s because you’re here, on my couch, annoying the fuck out of me about my habits.” Chuuya takes another drag as his eyes fix on Dazai’s.
“You didn’t even offer one, rude ~ ”
Chuuya frowns at that remark. “Do you really want it? You’re not a smoker.”
“Why would I even ask if I didn’t want it?”
Fair enough. Chuuya indulges him on the spot or Dazai would find another way to bother him until he gets what he wants, he knows the mackerel bastard’s thought patterns.
“Do you know how to smoke, in theory at least?”
“I don’t.”
That’s clearly a lie. His mischievous, little plan stinks to high heaven and Chuuya has started smelling it since he appeared in his apartment ten minutes ago. A defeated sigh escapes his lips. He could bet on Dazai knowing how to smoke, because there’s nothing that idiot can’t do. Except try to be a sane person, that is.
“Just stay there, then.”
With careful movements, he places both knees on the couch near Dazai’s sides to straddle him. He probably should feel more embarrassed about this but it’s Dazai, they left shame outside the door long ago.
Dazai’s eyes bore holes into his skull, the gaze piercing and attentive, focused on his every move, curious and eager.
Chuuya’s hand lands on the sides of his ex-partner’s neck, gloved fingers dragging along the skin and tangling the hair on his nape. Dazai shivers slightly under him as the cold leather touches him. The hand stays there, where it’s warm; Chuuya pulls him closer, deliberately slowly, as he takes another drag.
Dazai’s nose is only a few centimetres away from the burning end of the stick, completely unbothered by it and still watching, waiting. Chuuya finds a more comfortable position, his full weight resting on the man and keeping Dazai’s arms between the sides of their legs, effectively locking him in place. Doesn’t look like he wants to run anyway.
Dazai watches the lips letting out a tiny puff of smoke, only to quickly breathe it in again; the push behind his neck can be felt again.
Chuuya doesn’t speak, he can’t let the smoke run away from his mouth, but there’s no need for words: Dazai opens up slightly, following a silent order.
Both hands are now cupping his face, palms resting against the corners of their lips to close any opening. In a resemblance of an open-mouthed, almost lazy kiss, Chuuya blows warm vapor in his mouth.
It’s intoxicating, and Dazai isn’t sure if it’s the taste of the smoke itself or the overwhelming, all-embracing sensation of his lips brushing against Chuuya’s.
Whoever makes those cigarettes — Dazai ponders in the haze of that surreal situation — it’s a blatant liar.
Sweet and mild , the pack says. Nothing in those cigarettes is mild, it’s harsh inside the mouth and down the throat but the sweet aftertaste is a caress against the tender skin. It‘s a dirty, gritty tobacco, heavy and not for the faint of heart. It is said that it tastes way better if it’s smoked while enjoying a cup of hot coffee, but hindering the flavour would be such a pity. Moreover, there’s no flavour that could possibly water down Chuuya’s.
The aroma lingers in his nostril and on his tongue, the temptation to lick it off both is hard to resist but, somehow, he manages.
With his eyes closed, his senses are heightened and he can smell and hear the stub getting crushed in Chuuya’s closed fist; both hands return to his neck, the ashes are uncomfortably hot. Chuuya seems to realise, the knuckles of his left hand brush the skin in a halfhearted attempt to clean or soothe it, Dazai can’t really say.
“Happy now?”
Despite the state he is in, floating several inches from the floor and out of breath, with lungs heavy in his chest, Dazai is quick to reply.
“No, Chuuya did a terrible job and I couldn’t taste anything! He should try again, methinks.”
A raspy laugh bubbles up from Chuuya’s chest at Dazai’s whiny tone. He lights up another cigarette.