Work Text:
“So, when did you arrive in Yokohama?” Dazai asked, settling into his seat at the bar. There were few people around, although a small group of drunk young people in a booth meant it was not quiet. Bassy music played softly from the speakers.
Fyodor turned to Dazai, his hat sat in his lap, long hair sweeping across his face. Dazai resisted the urge to push it back and away, “I’ve always been around, but now I show myself,” he responded with a smile that always contained a sneering edge and a voice where each word rolled across the tongue, sticky but smooth.
“Scheming, I suppose,” Dazai murmured, resting his cheek on his hand, “I hope your plans don’t involve me.”
Fyodor chuckled, a dark, reverberating sound that travelled down Dazai’s spine, “That depends,” he said, flicking his eyes up to look into Dazai’s, to bore inside of him, “On how much you care about that Armed Detective Agency.”
Dazai sighed and rolled his shoulders back, shuttling away the desire to jump immediately into interrogation. He knew Fyodor, his disposition so abject, his mind so beyond the conventions of humanity, that torture and mind games would not work on him. He turned to the bartender, ordered a whiskey on the rocks. The alcohol burned his throat, the ice cold on his lips.
“And I was hoping for a friendly catch up,” Dazai lamented, staring down at the large round ice cube that bobbed in his drink.
He flinched microscopically as a cool finger touched underneath his chin, guiding his gaze back to Fyodor next to him, who was watching him with dark eyes, a conniving smile on his lips, “When have we ever been friends?”
Dazai himself smiled at that. He felt himself fold into the dark shadows under Fyodor’s eyes and the permanent smell of ancient oak trees that permeated from his skin. Let himself be dragged forwards, his hand finally travelling upwards to tangle in Fyodor’s silky smooth hair. It fell away between his fingers, impossible to maintain a hold upon.
Their lips just brushed against each other, hot breaths merging and dissipating, Dazai grew immediately dizzy on the anticipation, and his breath caught in his throat sharply as Fyodor’s tongue flicked outwards, dampening his lips. And then Fyodor drew him in, lips firmly and wetly slotting together. The music faded into a drone, the laughter now mute. Dazai closed his eyes and let himself be absorbed into soft, delicate lips.
It was chaste, lasting just a few moments, Dazai leaning forwards to chase Fyodor down as he leaned back. Desperate and unashamed. Fyodor did not reward such actions.
He let go of Dazai’s chin, whilst Dazai’s hand fell dejectedly from where it had weaved through Fyodor’s hair. Skin now cold, a shiver that settled into his blood. “If you are going to keep playing detective, we’ll have to leave this behind us,” Fyodor said, turning away from Dazai, picking his hat up from his lap.
“I guess so,” Dazai mumbled, leaning back into his seat.
Fyodor stood up, and before he left he tucked a small piece of hair behind Dazai’s ear, “Our little secret,” he spoke softly, a hint of warning in his voice. Dazai stared up at him, narrowed his eyes but gave a nod of affirmation.
As Fyodor walked away, he did not twist in his chair to watch him leave.