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Dazai Osamu has never liked touch.
He doesn’t like the feeling of fingers searing into his overly-sensitive skin; skin that only gets more sensitive the longer it stays hidden from the world. Touch grosses him out. It makes him squirm and ignites a need within to scratch his own flesh raw until he’s destroyed the nerve endings. That’s the reason he began wearing the bandages in the first place. Five-year-old Dazai Osamu, overstimulated with skin raw from scratching away all feeling, frantically searching to find something that could create a barrier between his skin and the outside world. Bandages were the result. Rummaging through the cabinets of a dirty unkempt bathroom in an apartment he habituated by himself, he came across an old roll of bandages that his wise-beyond-years brain decided was good enough for now. The rough texture of the fabric provided a stark contrast to the smooth skin he was used to feeling.
Little did he know that those bandages would become a part of him for the next seventeen years of his life. Little did he know they would soon serve a secondary purpose of covering the marks that he carved into himself as punishment, and eventually the marks that the cruel world would carve into him, too.
For all his disgust with touch, it’s ironic that he would be gifted with an ability that requires it.
It’s almost as if the universe has crafted Dazai Osamu in such a way that his entire existence is ironic. The man who hates physical contact has an ability activated by touch alone. The one desperately wanting to end his own life witnessed his best friend succeed in that area—one Dazai himself continues to fail in. The man who hates pain and suffering can’t help but hurt himself as punishment for the disconnect between his mind and his body.
How ironic that the boy he met at fifteen that he swore he’d hate until his death is who he’s curled up next to in bed at twenty-two. In a bed big enough for the two of them to go the whole night without touching, they are resting in the center, together, keeping as little distance between them as possible. Arms and legs so intricately entwined you can’t tell where one begins and the other ends. Chests pressed so closely together that their heartbeats reverberate off of each other. Fingers grasping the fabric of loose t-shirts as if they fear the other might run away if they let go.
How ironic that when Dazai is with him, touch is no longer something that causes him pain, but provides him comfort and security.
Awake during the early hours of the night, Dazai sits in silence and feels the steady rhythm of Chuuya’s heart as he sleeps. For Dazai, sleep has never been something that comes naturally to him. Not when his hours of rest are continuously disturbed by the horrors he witnessed as a child working for an illegal organization. Even after five years, his sick brain still loves to replay the moment his life changed forever (for worse or better, he still doesn’t know). All too easily he can recall all the details of that evening: the night Odasaku died. The dreams are too real, too similar to a recreation of that night. He can smell the scent of his blood, distinct from the bloodshed he was so used to being surrounded by. He could still hear the scratchiness of his friend’s voice as he uses his dying breath to tell Dazai he’ll never truly find what he was searching for. He can feel the body in his arms get heavier as the muscles relax and life slips away. He can still feel the warm blood soaking into his bandages; violating his only source of protection from the outside world.
It’s all too real, too disturbing, even for someone like Dazai Osamu to succumb to night after night. With time, Dazai found other ways to spend his nights. He discovered recently that his favorite is curling up next to a short redhead and simply reveling in his presence.
Restless from laying in one position for hours now, Dazai wiggles out of the smaller one’s grasp just enough for him to prop his elbow up and rest his head on his hand, looking down at the face below him. The dim moonlight doesn’t do much to provide light, but years of working with an organization that thrives in the dark teaches one how to see in it. He looks at Chuuya, admiring his natural and unguarded beauty. His face seems to glow in the moonlight—long lashes resting on cheeks, lips slightly parted with breaths coming and going in a steady pattern. He looks peaceful.
Dazai can’t resist the sudden urge to reach out and trace his fingers delicately over the redhead’s features. He grazes his forehead, touching just barely enough to feel the skin under his fingertips. Chuuya’s skin is rough, as is everything else about him. He’s brash and abrasive in almost everything he does, the few exceptions to this standard being the soft and tender moments he shares with his beloved partner. Dazai’s sensitive skin has always preferred rough to smooth, a stark contrast to his characteristic style of accomplishing anything in life.
Another instance of irony that makes up the man that is Dazai Osamu.
The brunet continues to touch his partner’s face, praying silently that he won’t wake him up. Chuuya is a deep sleeper, as deep as they come, but he still worries and keeps his touch featherlight. Even upon the slightest touch, Dazai’s fingertips are greeted by the warmth of Tainted, the torturous ability that pulses through his partner’s veins. But, as with everything Dazai touches, the feeling soon disappears when the cold numbness of his ability kills the being beneath. Almost like he’s touching the surface of a pond and the ripples from his finger carry away the wildlife living underneath.
Dazai is disappointed at how short-lived the feeling is; he always is. He would never tell his Chuuya for fear of burdening him, but he loves the way Tainted feels under his fingertips. Of course, Dazai Osamu would love the one thing that makes his partner’s life a living hell. He loves the way it offers a unique warmth to combat his ever-present coldness, both physically and emotionally. A warmth that, unlike any other person’s touch, Dazai craves. He loves how inhumanly human it feels. He loves how it rages with emotions felt at maximum intensity, something he has never experienced.
Sometimes he wonders if those seconds of firsthand contact with raw emotion are the closest he’ll ever get to feeling human, himself.
To this day Dazai is still unsure what compelled him to forego his tendency to nullify through clothing when he first met Chuuya, but he is eternally grateful for his own mistake. One little incident opened up a new world of feeling for Dazai and immediately he got drunk on it; drunk on the short-lived intensity of emotions that raged underneath the boy’s skin.
Dazai could always feel the ability beneath the human during every instance of nullification, but no ability had ever felt like this before. Nothing had ever felt this strong. Most abilities, while not sentient, were still beings within each ability user, and most ability users seemed to have a symbiotic relationship with their ability. They helped each other, they worked together. Except for Dazai, of course. (Always the odd one out, he is). Dazai never felt anything strong from the abilities he nullified. He only ever felt the numbness of No Longer Human as it held the opponent’s ability hostage.
Until he met Chuuya. Chuuya was the first person Dazai found to have a turbulent relationship with his ability. He was the first person to provide something, (resistance perhaps?) when No Longer Human did its work. The first person to flood Dazai’s body with an intense, unfamiliar emotion.
Immediately, the brunet was fascinated. For the first time, he found himself wanting, craving something more, and more, and more. The bliss that came from whatever it was flowing through the redhead disappeared within seconds of contact, and Dazai had to stop himself from retracting his hand just so he could repeat the touch and feel It again. That was the first time Dazai had touched someone’s skin and not had the knee-jerk reaction to pull away and scratch away the feeling; the first time his natural numbing solution wasn’t immediately welcomed.
If the fifteen-year-old brunet learned one thing upon his first meeting with Chuuya, it was that he would never find any substance that could reproduce the feeling he gave him.
In the comfort of their dark bedroom, Dazai continues to trace Chuuya’s features, brushing his fingers over well-groomed eyebrows with a touch so delicate it’s like he’s afraid of breaking it. He brushes over the rough patches of his skin and the little scars created by stray bullets or knives his gravity manipulator failed to stop. His fingers dance down his face to his nose, connecting the dots of freckles that litter his partner’s face. If only he had a fountain pen he could use to create drawings out of them. Dazai smiles softly, reimagining all the scenarios in which Chuuya awoke to that exact situation. All the insults that were thrown his way. The grumbles and curses spewed from his foul mouth as he frantically tried to wipe it off with a rag, only until Dazai got his wits together and calmly cleans Chuuya himself. He imagines all the empty threats his fiery redhead spewed about never sleeping together again and denying Dazai his side of Chuuya’s comfortable bed.
“Pull that shit again and you’re sleeping on the couch for the rest of your goddamn life,” his mind hears him say.
“Hm. No, we can’t have that” Dazai whispers in response to his imaginary Chuuya.
So, rather than drawing with a pen, he ever so delicately connects the dots littering his face with a finger. He attempts to count the freckles as he traces the constellations, but they appear in such an abundance that he loses track easily. The pad of his pointer finger barely even grazes the rough skin below, but the contact is still enough to feel the touch and go of Tainted as he paints his masterpiece.
Chuuya reflexively scrunches his nose at the light touch tickling his face. Dazai pauses, desperately hoping he didn’t wake the man up. They’re both bad about getting proper sleep, Dazai with his insomnia and Chuuya with his irregular mafia hours. Dazai would hate to have ruined one of the few moments his partner was getting a full night of sleep. That’s what he tells himself, at least. In reality, the selfish part of Dazai wanted his partner to stay asleep for his own benefit. If Chuuya were to wake, Dazai’s plan to unabashedly revel in his partner’s presence would be ruined and the moment would end. His mask would inevitably slip back on and his walls would go up because who is Dazai Osamu if not a man destined to fall back into old habits? Chuuya has worked so hard to break down those walls. How disappointed he would be to see Dazai’s put them back up from a single moment’s slip. If his partner were to wake, Dazai would have to end his conversation with Tainted; the numbness would return and he would once again become a lifeless shell. Things would resume as they always do. So, Dazai selfishly hopes that he stays asleep, at least for a little while longer.
Thankfully, the twitching stops. Chuuya is still deep in his slumber.
I’m glad you’re getting sleep, Dazai thinks, letting out a slow breath. He’s always taking so much from Chuuya—the comfort from his ability, his time, his patience, his unwavering devotion—he didn’t want to take this moment too.
After a moment, Dazai’s fingers continue their journey, tracing delicately over the outline of Chuuya’s lips—the part of his face Dazai loves the most. He loves the insults that spewed out frequently when they were both young and angry at the world. The taunts and ridicules that his redhead has crafted specifically for him. The softness of them when they are pressed against his own. The way they are shaped so perfectly and the natural way they slot against his own. How they can be rough and gentle at the same time, changing from one moment to the next.
He loves the way they sound when he says his given name, always has, and always will. He recently learned he loves the shape they take when he says “I love you.” The sounds that slip past them when their bodies are intertwined in the most intimate ways. The way they explore his body and the red and purple marks they leave behind. Marks that a deep part of him wants people to see—a message to let everyone know that he is deserving of love.
Everything about Chuuya’s lips and his mouth, Dazai adores.
Nakahara Chuuya, what have you done to me?
“Ngh- ‘Samu” a barely comprehensible Chuuya mumbles, snapping Dazai out of his wandering thoughts. “Get your shitty hands off me”
“Sorry.” Dazai freezes for a moment before he pulls his hand away slowly, feeling slightly embarrassed and ashamed that his imperfect hands dared to touch such natural beauty.
Chuuya, foggy mind quickly realizing his partner wasn’t in the mood for teasing, opens his eyes and looks at the face above him. Without a word, he grabs the hand Dazai just retracted and brings it back to his lips, kissing his fingers gently.
“I’m sorry for waking you” Dazai whispers.
“It's okay.” He intertwines their fingers together and gives the back of Dazai’s hand one final kiss. “Are you okay?” Chuuya asks, slight concern lacing his voice.
He can feel the mask of being unbothered slowly slipping back on despite how hard he's trying to stop it.
“I’m okay” Dazai returns, voice soft. “Just… can’t sleep. The usual.”
Chuuya’s eyes trace over the brunet’s face, searching for any hint of a lie that could be given away in his face. The darkness of the room shrouding him does nothing to help him discern, but over the years he’s learned how to pick up on his partner’s subtleties, so he’s almost sure there’s something he isn’t saying. Dazai and his genius brain never rest; they are always thinking about something. But that’s okay. Chuuya isn’t going to make him talk about anything he doesn’t want to. Instead, he’ll just do his best to reassure his partner that he is safe and loved and that if he feels the need to speak, Chuuya will listen with intent.
Taking the free hand that isn’t holding Dazai’s, Chuuya intertwines his fingers in the brown locks at the base of his partner’s neck and pulls his face down so their lips are inches apart.
Dazai lets his head be maneuvered easily, always eager to bend to the whims of his Chuuya.
Their lips connect and Chuuya hopes that he’s conveying the unspoken message he’s trying to send in soft reassurances with every press of his lips. Letting Dazai know that no matter what his overactive brain may be thinking right now, good or bad, he doesn’t have to think through it alone. He is never alone. Chuuya will be by his side, always.
If Dazai got drunk on Chuuya just by touching him, then kissing him felt like the greatest high of his life. He will never, can never, get tired of it. The resurgence of intense emotion coming and going between each separation and reconnection of their lips as they moved—be it languid or fast and rough. The one time in which the brunet’s mind turns off and he’s able to just feel for a moment. It’s one of the only moments he doesn’t have to perform who he is, he can just feel. Even when his ability takes over and destroys the emotion, he still feels. He feels Chuuya, all over and around. He feels claimed and loved, and he hopes he conveys his love back to Chuuya. But, Dazai, as untrusting as he is when it comes to his humanity, would argue that the only reason this can happen is because of how overpowering Chuuya is. He’d say he’s only reflecting the feelings that his partner is expressing, completely incapable of feeling such things himself.
Chuuya, however, if he knew this, would argue to hell that Dazai is wrong. For Chuuya, this is one of his only chances to feel stupidly human. It was in these moments he was reassured that he was not just a string of code manufactured in a lab. His mind reaches record-breaking levels of silence. The only thing he hears in his brain is Dazai Dazai Dazai Dazai; a mantra being repeated over and over again, reminding him that devotion of this level can only be a human attribute. A string of code could never love and be loved this intensely by another human being.
“I love you” Chuuya whispers, pulling away ever so slightly.
The redhead tries to go in for another kiss but his lips are met with hair, as Dazai drops his head, hiding his face in Chuuya’s neck.
“Chuuuuuya. You can’t just say things like that unprompted” He grumbles.
Chuuya laughs. “We’ve been dating for a month now, and you and I both know that’s not the first time those words have been said, so why are you so embarrassed now?”
“I wasn’t prepared” Dazai whines, turning his head so his nose is pressed against his partner’s neck.
“Who would’ve thought that the cocky detective that’s never been surprised a day in his life could be brought down with just three little words? And from an enemy, nonetheless. Shameless” Chuuya mocks
“…Yeah, well. You’re the exception for a lot of things when it comes to me.”
Taken aback by the sudden shift from playful to serious, Chuuya just hums in acknowledgment, having mastered the craft of knowing what words are hidden in between everything his partner says. He knows that Dazai has a rough relationship with sleep and that he lies to everyone when asked about the ever-present dark circles under his eyes. He knows his relationship with life is even more difficult, and he disguises it behind humor. He’s aware that he uses confidence as a front for insecurity.
He also knows that Dazai has a weird relationship with physical contact. He remembers noticing the slight cringe that shook Dazai’s body every time he brushed up against someone or his deliberate pattern of only nullifying through one or more layers of clothing. He can even recall instances in which Dazai would brush up against someone and stiffen, the light in his eyes changing ever so slightly as if his brain was working overtime to keep his composure and not reveal any weakness. Most people wouldn’t notice these things, but Chuuya always did. Without even meaning to, he had become so accustomed to Dazai, learning everything about him.
Chuuya also knows that somehow, magically, he has always been the exception to his no-touch rule. Every time his partner nullified Tainted, or in worse situations, Corruption, he made sure their skins connected. He still doesn’t know why. He doesn’t understand how he’s any different; why someone with an ability so cool to the touch would want to feel his constantly burning skin. Why he would want to experience the few seconds of raging thoughts and feelings that plague the redhead’s mind daily?
Chuuya’s always loved how quiet No Longer Human is; how it’s quick to shut up the beast inside his mind. It rids him of the part of himself he finds inhuman—the part of him that was created as a result of a failed experiment. He wonders if Dazai’s genius brain knows that it quiets his mind and that’s why he makes the sacrifice to touch him all the time. He wonders if that’s one of Dazai's subtle ways of showing he cares and that he is willing to put himself second.
Chuuya may not understand why he’s the exception but he selfishly revels in it every time.
Part of him hopes that one day he might finally understand. Maybe if he knew why he’s different, he wouldn't feel so guilty about stealing that silence from him.
But, right here and now, in the middle of the night, consciousness slipping in and out as he lays here with Dazai on his chest, those questions aren’t bothering him. All he knows is that his partner is here, he loves and trusts him, and that’s all that matters for now.
The fingers still intertwined in the brunet’s hair begin to move and play with the dark brown locks. Long, slender fingers free from the usual leather covering of the gloves, running through his perfect mess of waves and working out tangles. The two of them lay in silence for god knows how long, Dazai humming every so often at the feeling of his lover’s fingers massaging his scalp. Part of Chuuya hopes the motion will relax his partner enough to rock him to sleep, but deep down he knows how unlikely that is.
“Ow,” Dazai suddenly grumbles in Chuuya’s neck as the redhead attempts to run through a particularly tangled section of hair.
“Sorry, but this probably wouldn’t be an issue if you just brushed your hair daily” He teases softly.
“Chuuya’s mean… it’s just bedhead”
“This is not just bedhead. When was the last time you brushed it?”
He’s met with silence.
“I hate you, you know” He finally mumbles, faux annoyance in his voice.
“And I love you so it balances out” Chuuya responds easily, kissing the top of his head.
“Chuuya. What have you done to me?”
Chuuya freezes for a moment, shocked by the realness in Dazai’s tone. It's not often that his partner willingly puts his walls down. Smiling to himself at the little victory, he hugs Dazai tighter to his body.
Little does Dazai know, Chuuya is just as affected by his partner as he is. Chuuya would never have imagined that the boy he repeatedly claimed to hate as a front for burying his feelings would be the one he loved and trusted the most. Little does he know that just as he spends hours marveling over Chuuya in his sleep, Chuuya spends several hours of the day marveling over him, too. Admiring his natural beauty, his body, his hair, his face, his humor, his skills for the most random things, and, most importantly, his strength. The strength he has to keep going day by day even though he doesn’t want to. And on the days when his strength falters, Chuuya marvels at his beautiful humanity and his willingness to be vulnerable. He reminds Dazai of all the instances of strength he’s taken note of and stored in his mental armory, using them as a weapon to restore that same strength to him. Little does he know that all of the things Dazai claims to love about him, he also loves about Dazai, in their own contrasting ways.
The two of them continue to lay in silence, Chuuya’s fingers still working their way through Dazai’s hair. Dazai doesn’t know how long it’s been when he notices Chuuya’s fingers moving slower and slower as he slips back into his slumber. Not long after, his hand stills completely and his breaths begin falling in deeper and steadier patterns.
“Goodnight, Chuuya. Thank you.” He says, pressing a light kiss to his neck.
Dazai knows he probably won’t fall asleep before his work alarm goes off in a few hours, but that’s okay. He doesn’t mind. He’s perfectly content just laying here, listening to his partner’s heartbeat and studying his breathing pattern as Chuuya gets rest for the both of them