Chapter Text
The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place that invited weary souls to drown themselves in cheap whiskey and half-hearted conversations. Chuuya sat at the counter, a half-empty glass cradled in his slender fingers, the amber liquid swirling lazily as he tilted his wrist. His other hand supported his cheek, elbow resting against the polished wood. The muffled chatter around him barely registered in his ears, a dull hum that did nothing to fill the void inside him. It had been four years since Dazai left the Mafia, four years since he had last seen him, heard his voice, felt his presence lingering like a ghost in the corners of his mind.
So when that familiar voice—one he had forced himself to forget—broke through the static, it was like a slap to the face.
“Hey, slug.”
Chuuya stiffened. His grip on the glass tightened, his nails pressing against the cool surface. His heartbeat, steady and indifferent moments ago, quickened against his ribs. He hadn’t turned around yet, but he didn’t need to. He knew that voice too well, every inflection, every teasing lilt. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling sharply before exhaling through his nose.
Fucking Dazai.
With slow, deliberate movements, Chuuya leaned back against the counter, allowing his body to stretch in a way that showed off the sharp lines of his fitted suit. He didn’t bother turning around, merely tilting his head slightly as if Dazai wasn’t worth his full attention.
“Shut up,” he muttered, voice low, almost breathless.
But Dazai wasn’t one to take hints. He never was. He moved closer, the warmth of his body a stark contrast against the bar’s cool atmosphere. Chuuya felt the barest brush of fingers against his own, hesitant at first, before they slid in fully, threading together like they belonged there.
“Long time no see,” Dazai murmured, his breath ghosting over Chuuya’s skin.
A shiver ran down Chuuya’s spine. He should have pulled away. Should have punched him square in the jaw for showing up like this, for speaking to him as if four years of silence meant nothing. And yet, he stayed still, fingers flexing slightly within Dazai’s hold, testing the weight of his touch.
The night bled into the early hours, the city outside humming with life even as the bar began to empty. They talked—half-truths and quiet admissions slipping through the cracks in their walls. Dazai teased, Chuuya bit back, but there was something beneath the banter, something raw and unresolved. It wasn’t long before they found themselves leaving together, the silence between them thick with unspoken things.
By the time they reached Chuuya’s penthouse, the air had changed. The tension, once playful, turned heavy, suffocating. Dazai’s hands found Chuuya’s waist the moment they stepped inside, pulling him close, pressing their bodies together like he was afraid to let go. Chuuya didn’t resist. He never could when it came to Dazai.
It was desperate. The way they touched, the way they moved. A frantic collision of mouths and hands, fingers tangled in hair, breaths stolen between kisses. Clothes discarded in a fevered rush, lips mapping familiar territory. They had done this before—four years ago, when everything was different, when they still fought on the same side. But this time, it wasn’t just lust. It was something else, something neither of them wanted to name.
And when it was over, when the echoes of their gasps had faded into the quiet of the room, they lay tangled in the sheets, limbs entwined as if trying to hold onto the moment for as long as they could.
Dazai shifted, pressing his face into the crook of Chuuya’s neck, his breath warm against his skin. “You’re still the same,” he murmured, his voice softer than Chuuya had ever heard it.
Chuuya exhaled, his fingers ghosting over Dazai’s bare back, tracing old scars with a touch so light it barely existed. “And you’re still a bastard,” he replied, though there was no real bite to his words.
Dazai chuckled, but it was quiet, almost bittersweet. His arms tightened around Chuuya, pulling him closer, as if he could sink into him, disappear within the warmth they shared. Chuuya let him, let himself believe—just for tonight—that this was something real, that Dazai wouldn’t slip through his fingers the moment morning came.
He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of faded cologne and something distinctly Dazai. “Don’t go,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if the words had actually left his lips or if he had only thought them.
Dazai didn’t answer.
Instead, he pressed a kiss to Chuuya’s temple, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
And for tonight, that was enough.