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    Summary

    He’s been close enough to Dazai to know exactly what the man smells like-- earl grey and antiseptic-- and even closer still, has felt Dazai’s breath fan over his face whenever Kunikida gets fed up and feels the need to grab Dazai by the throat. He can see in his mind’s eye the way the man’s eyes always seem dark and never-ending up close, the way they dilate whenever Kunikida chokes him out, either in fear or some strange lust for death, can even imagine clearly his own reflection in those bottomless eyes.

    And then he can imagine taking it a step further pulling the man, finally, towards himself, letting his hands migrate from that scrawny neck to a soft cheek. Dazai would probably let him, he thinks, would let Kunikida guide his lips to his own. They’ve always looked soft, if not slightly bitten, but that’s one aspect of Dazai’s overall lack of self-care that Kunikida can find endearing, even if he’d never admit to it.

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