AltSKK One Shot (Patreon)

FIRST OFF: I wanna start by saying all credits goes to Ellie (@blind_blossom on Twitter and @the_most_happy on AO3)
I am beyond grateful she decided to join me on the altSKK project and gift me (and all of us) this amazing piece. I could've never done it by myself; she managed to bring my characters to life and it's something I never imagined.
If this is well received, maybe we can work on more? 👀 That's up to her but one can only dream.
Please make sure to give us your honest feedback!! So any comment is greatly appreciated.
With that being said, I hope you enjoy!

———————————


The first thing Dazai exchanges with Nakahara Chuuya — a stranger at the time — is a kiss.
Not a greeting.
Not a name.
A kiss.

Everybody in Yokohama has at the very least heard of the King of The Sheep. The man is a legend. He became so thanks to his long copper hair, short stature and even shorter fuse — and people either whisper about his boisterous friendliness of unmerciful kicks.
No stranger to the underbelly of society, where cash flows free and men are killed over a handshake, Dazai has crossed paths with the King of the Sheep in the past.
At times, that is, and never sharing anything more than quick glances. They know each other’s names and the sound of each other’s voices, but they never learned them directly.
As the heir of the Port Mafia syndicate, the biggest organization taking over Kanto since the rise and fall of the Sumiyoshi-Kai, Dazai happened to walk into Chuuya in the corridors of his house. The occasions a Sheep delegation shows up for a meeting are rare and far between, but Chuuya isn’t the kind of man someone forgets.
Too bad that, if Mori is the Port Mafia king, Dazai may be considered the crowned prince.

And Chuuya—
Well.

(Chuuya is an enemy. Of course he is. Star crossed lovers and all: could it be any different?)

But, we were saying, Chuuya is in Dazai’s same club right now, heading right to him.
As he takes his time to compute that simple information, pressing himself against the back of the velvet sofa he’s sitting on, Dazai glitches. He honest-to-God malfunctions, hoping against hope that the flashing lights of the club will hide his wide eyes and puzzled expression.

What does he want from me, now? Flashes in his mind. Then, why is he even heading here?

(God, he’s beautiful.)

The music pounds from the bass into his eardrums, every vibration ricocheting in his marrow as he stares at Chuuya, and Chuuya keeps walking in his direction.
He keeps his shoulders straight (which might as well be the only damn straight thing in the man) and a high, proud chin.
He even walks like a king, the bastard.

Uneasy, Dazai wriggles in place. By his side, Kunikida straightens up and Atsushi gapes, but he doesn’t pay them any mind.
Every drop of his attention is consumed by the sight of a strong jawline and laughing eyes.
His eyes flicker from the belt choker around Chuuya’s neck to the rune-like tattoo on his cheek, almost black under the pumping lights of the club.
Dazai remembers it to be red.
And he is not sure about what he was expecting, as he registers Chuuya bending over him — a whiff of leather-and-mint perfume making his nostrils flare — but it surely wasn’t this.

As soon as he’s close enough, without waiting for him to put down his whisky, Chuuya catches Dazai’s chin between a strong thumb and an elegant index finger, and leans in. Silently, Dazai gasps.
None of it makes sense, he thinks, but Chuuya silences his brain as he plasters a kiss on his lips.
His lipstick is velvety, with a sweet taste that reminds him of spring, but his tongue is rough as it slips past Dazai’s teeth.

The new feeling of Chuuya’s tongue — rough and voracious and split — sends a thrilled jolt down his limbs. It makes him want to take his time playing with it, but Chuuya is pulling away already.

Why is he stopping already?

(Ah, right. They were never meant to kiss at all.)

“Hello, Port Mafia Princeling-San,” Chuuya purrs into his ear, pulling away just enough for Dazai to realize that his heart stopped beating. The featherlight brushing of Chuuya’s mouth against his own shots shivers down his spine. “Send the Sheep’s regards to your Boss.”

Of that first meeting, Dazai would remember black-painted-nails and smeared lipstick. Warm fingertips and warmer lips.

“What happened?” He asks, turning to Atsushi. The younger boy shakes his head.

“Hell if I know,” he says.

And Dazai— he really doesn’t mind, to be honest, if a king stole a kiss from him.
He’s drunk, and his friends laugh and he is too stunned to speak of it anymore.

Dazai barely ever bothers to remember anything or anyone, too caught up in his own demise to worry about the things happening outside his head, but that night? That kiss? They’ll come back to haunt him.

—

From: Atsushi

> What did you do to annoy Nakahara-san?

The allegation is preposterous. That is, at least, what Kunikida would say.
The simple truth is that Dazai doesn’t know what to make of it, or of the kiss from seven days ago. Now that he’s sober, he must admit that it was slightly concerning.
Lannister-always-pay-their-debts, Hail-hydra kind of concerning.
Part of his brain is still trying to register exactly what happened the week before with Chuuya, and the implications of it.
Meanwhile, his friends decided to make his phone explode — and to doubt him and his good faith and the fact that he has nothing to do with Chuuya, while at it.
Which is fair.
Dazai has a tendency to mess up.

But, even though there’s nothing right about him daydreaming of mismatched eyes and fierce hair and a tattooed hand grasping his chin so rudely it made him moan — the feeling of it isn’t wrong, either. It’s a secret. It’s likely a betrayal of his people.

And yet he’d face utter destruction for another taste of Chuuya’s lips.

To: Atsushi

> Nothing! I swear. I don’t want to be murdered painfully, and that’s exactly what the Sheep does.
> I am *positive* it was a Judas’ kiss!
> Atsushi-kun, I’ll die :’(

And if he’s lucky, he’ll die before today. That wouldn’t be too bad.

From: Atsushi

> You can’t die yet!
> Aren’t you excited, Dazai-San?

Yeah. Excited is a way to put it.
He smiles to himself, somber.

To: Atsushi

> Chill out, Atsushi. It’s just a tattoo.

Glancing outside of the car’s window, staring at the street rolling by, Dazai sighs.

“Yo, driver-san~” he chirps, leaning in between the seats. His lean fingers look paler than snow against the black leather — like everything in the Port Mafia. Mafia black. Ink black. “You reckon we can turn around and disappear?”

“Young master, please be quiet.” The man sighs, gripping the steering wheel with gloved fingers. “You already tried to bribe me five times.”

“Did your answer change?”

The man swallows. “No.”

Ah, figures. Dazai pouts, boyishly crossing his arms over his black shirt. “I don’t understand why you won’t listen and just take me away already.”

“I can’t—“

“Come on. Just tell the tattoo parlor I never showed up? I told you, I’ll pay you! I’ll be nice and generous~”

“Boss would kill me,” the driver says, a slight tremor in his voice betraying who the man truly fears. Dazai can be quite intimidating, but Mori can still do worse.
That ‘would kill me’ is hardy a figure of speech, and yet Dazai can hardly empathize with the driver’s struggles when he’s trying to find a way out of his own.

If he only killed me too, once and for all, he thinks. Maybe he wouldn’t be forced to sit through months of work for a stupid inking down his back.

“Meanie,” he hums, mostly to himself

He leans his elbow against the car’s door, his forehead brushing the cold window pane, refusing to acknowledge the driver — or his phone, anyway. Which leaves him with nothing to do but look at the streets of Yokohama, wondering how the day will go.
The rain that starts tapping against the window seems to echo his awful mood.
Months for a stupid tattoo, huh? Ink and blood that will etch his loyalty to the mafia on his flesh? Ugh. That sounds so annoying Dazai could die.

Ah, what a bother.
He wishes the Port Mafia could just burn already.

—

“Welcome to The Book tattoos, please wait to be seated—”

It can’t be.
How many Gods in whichever pantheon hate him?

“Holy shit,” Dazai answers, in a croaked wheeze. His blood rushes in his ears.

Mismatched eyes — a blue right and a brown left, one obviously a contact lens even though Dazai can’t quite remember which one — glance at him from above the register.

For what feels like a lifetime, Dazai stares back at the person in front of him.

Behind the vinyl-black counter of the tattoo parlor, Chuuya seems tiny: an electric creature of a young man, with offendingly bright hair and bulging muscles (that’s a solid martial arts training regime and loads of cardio, right there) and always the same ‘you, me. In the back. Now.’ grin.
Technically, the redhead should be Yamasaki-sensei’s new employee, someone to take care of the smaller designs and piercing requests while the tattoo artist worries about the elaborate designs of the Yakuza clientele.
Dazai knew they were hiring.

(He didn’t know they were hiring the enemy.)

Practically, though, said redhead is the last person he expected to see working for an underworld-affiliated tattoo artisan.

Wetting his dry mouth, Dazai drinks in the sight and counts his blessings and his miseries.
Funny how they seem to converge into the same thing, right now.
Black lipstick, red eyeliner.
A belt choker wrapped around a thin, sinewy neck that seemed made for Dazai to press his fingers into the soft windpipe.

And this is the moment where Dazai Osamu — heir of the Port Mafia and obviously the most unlucky person on the planet — realizes he fucked up big time.

Because the man in front of him is not a stranger at all. He’s—

“Chuuya,” he says.

It’s not a greeting per se since, apparently, they don’t do greetings in the way normal people would exchange; it’s a recognition.

The man shoots him a quick glance before returning with his head lowered to the register.
Nakahara Chuuya is going to die and enter hell as he deserves: head-high and in triumph, kicking Satan in the balls. The little shit is going to dethrone the Devil himself.
Because, as Dazai learned the night of their first meeting kiss, Chuuya is badass.
Which is something he himself is… still working towards, not going to lie.

“Yeah?”

“…”

“Oi? Are you an idiot?”

Dazai looks at him, a little dumbstruck and a little awed by the way the redhead can be tiny and well-built at the same time. He certainly has a thing for showing skin, too. Not that Dazai minds. “Why?”

“You’ve been staring at me for ages. Do I know you?”

Dazai’s jaw slacks. Chuuya has kissed him, for heaven’s sake! Is he a monster? Is that the skill of a professional torturer?
Because — with those pink lips and rattlesnake attitude, like he could either kiss his enemy or stab them in the back — Chuuya certainly looks like he could make grown men drop to their knees and beg.

“You have my name in the booking in front of you?”

“Dazai?” He echoes. “Dazai Osamu?”

If a man could die of frustration, Dazai would have been dead thrice over. But, god, the way Chuuya says his name; it makes him want to learn if the redhead can moan it, too. “Yes. That’s correct.”

“Hm, nope, doesn’t ring a bell…”

“Chuuya~!”

Throwing his head back, Chuuya explodes in a chuckle. It’s harsh, and it sounds like sand. Scorching-hot sand. “I’m joking, I’m joking.” He motions to the back. “Come on in, Port Mafia-Prince-san. Boss’s not in today, but I was getting ready for ya.”

And there is something about Chuuya getting ready for him that makes Dazai’s brain take flight, but he’s not going to admit it.
He’d die before admitting his mouth is drying out, and that his eye fell on Chuuya’s hips — his tailbone, his ass. Instinctively he stretches his fingers, wondering what it would feel like to touch the tender expanse of skin, so cruelly constricted in the cage of Chuuya’s leather pants.

Damn, he thinks.
Look at him; checking out an enemy of his own organization in broad daylight. Fantasizing about things that are not his to want and that, surely, Chuuya will never hand him willingly.

But that ass, so mercilessly exposed in front of him as Chuuya guides him to the back of the tattoo parlor, swaying his hips as if he knows he’s tempting the hell out of Dazai—

Ah.
Maybe he really should drop dead.

Before Chuuya kills him, that is.

—

“The ol’ man is not in today,I already told you, so no inking done. Today is about prepping — and for your information, we start from the sleeve, then the chest, until we work our way down your back. But for today we will just go over the design, and see if there are any changes needed and how to divide the sessions in the future. But I might need you to take off your shirt, at some point, so we can check the sketches against your skin and see how it all will look.”

Although Dazai lets out a low hmm, he is not actually listening to Chuuya. In fact, he’d rather ignore the redhead as much as possible, focusing instead on a spiderweb spreading across the north corner of the room.
The second Chuuya throws in the hypothesis of getting rid of clothes, Dazai’s mind automatically runs for all the possible emergency exits — and the less conventional ways to dip, too. The window might do.
There’s not a chance in heaven that he’s going to be shirtless around this man.
For now, though, he’s leaning against the purple walls of what is said to be room #15 (that, at least, according to the brass number glued on the door. What kind of shop has over fifteen rooms?!), arms crossed over his chest, following Chuuya’s movements as the other spreads a printed sheet on the table.
He knows the specs already. Mori talked him through some of them: a kirin, a carp, and a demon mask.

“Shit,” Chuuya hums, under his breath, as his fingers quickly skid over the paper. “Is this what you’re gonna get done? It’s massive. This stuff is going to take months.”

Fantastic. “I suppose so.”

Chuuya’s chuckle sounds more like a growl. A feral sound. “Oi, now,” he calls, throwing him a glance. “Don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“I have nothing to be enthusiastic about.”

“Did you contribute to the design at all?”

Dazai’s head dips to the side. “Huh? What do you mean?”

Chuuya scrunches his nose, hesitating for a moment. He seems taken aback by the question, the light in his eyes darkening.
“The tattoo,” he clarifies, eventually. He measures every word. “It’s going to be on your body. So that bears the question: Is it something you want, or has someone else decided it for you?”

“Why do you ask?” He volleys back. Funny how all he really wants to say is: ‘do I look like someone who has control over their life?’

“Did anybody else ask before?”

Ah, fuck his life. Chuuya has no right to be handsome and sharp-witted. “Answer my question and maybe I’ll answer yours,” Dazai answers.

Chuuya shrugs the remark away, as if he hasn’t just unveiled the misery of Dazai’s entire life. “There’s really no particular reason. But it doesn’t seem like something you’d pick, considering what people say about you.” He gestures at the sketches before Dazai can point out that no one is saying anything about him. He’s forgettable. “Look, a demon is cool. I’m all for demons and No theatre masks and whatnot. But a fish— a koi carp? Fuckin’ hell. That looks like a Mackerel to me.”

“It’s a beautiful piece of art,” Dazai replies, half-heartedly.

“I never said it was ugly. I’m just saying it’s dumb.”

And there are certainly a lot, lot of dumb things going on, Dazai thinks.
Like how Chuuya’s mere proximity makes him feel, for example, stealing his breath and blurring his senses. He wants to taste those lips again.
Every inch of the King of the Sheep’s inked, exposed skin makes him want to scream ‘fuck the rules and fuck me’.

Even as he makes a joke out of the tradition that keeps the Port Mafia at the very apex of the chain of command, the rogue king is unfairly tempting.

He walks over to Chuuya, taking his chin in between two fingers. His touch is more delicate than how Chuuya’s rough fingers felt as the redhead gripped his jaw and stole a kiss from him.
He feels the boy tremble under his grip, and it’s a nice change of pacing from the conversation so far. Chuuya is not the only one who can play the power game, as it seems — and the so-called King of the Sheep is not the only one who can make a man’s head go blank.

As he breathes in, taking his sweet time with Chuuya’s chin trapped between his thumb and index, Dazai’s lips twitch up.

“You certainly have a lot of opinions, don’t you, King of the Sheep?” His eyes gleam as Chuuya’s pupils widen. “What makes you think you can speak so freely?”

It takes a heartbeat for Chuuya to recoil. Then, he smirks— fierce and fiery.

“The fact that you like it.”

“Oh, do I?”

“I think you do, yes, just like you agree that the design over there is a presumptuous piece of shit, just like your organization. But you—” He leans forward, relaxing in Dazai’s grip. “You hate this circus as much as I do. You would run away, if you could. You just get cold feet every fuckin’ time, am I right?”

Ah, shit.
There are a lot of things Dazai hates about the Port Mafia, and he has a feeling Chuuya could pry each and every one of them out of his limp, fucked-out-of-his-brains hands. Because Chuuya doesn’t know him, yet he can flip through the pages of Dazai’s soul like a book.

“You’re getting it all wrong, Chibi,” he still lies. “I do not hate my life or my organization. And I don’t appreciate people trying to read my intentions and making assumptions.”

“Bullshit.”

“Careful, lamb,” Dazai purrs, moving closer.

His grin twitches up. “Or what? Has anyone ever spoken to you as I do, Dazai?”

No.
They don’t and they wouldn’t dare. But Chuuya-/ Jesus Christ, Chuuya is either a reckless idiot or the bravest man Dazai has ever met. He genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.
And suddenly Dazai’s skin feels so raw and so naked under Chuuya’s scrutiny, and he loathes it. He hates the way the other man can peek at his vulnerability, buried deep under twenty-two years of play-pretend perfection.
Chuuya sees him. He sees his ugliness and he sees his weakness.

They are scum, both of them. Garbage.
And everyone knows that garbage burns exceptionally well.

Still grinning, a mad glint in his eyes and a crazy idea blooming in his head, Dazai pushes forward. “I changed my mind,” he drawls, voice thick, a breath away from Chuuya’s mouth. He can dream about kissing him again. “Forget the tattoo. Do something you like.”

Brand me like a bruise. Bite me and draw blood. I dare you.

“Oh?” Even though he smiles, the way Chuuya bats his eyelashes is everything but sweet. It’s sardonic, and it cuts deep. “Is the mafia princeling trusting a commoner?”

Slowly, Dazai’s gaze travels down Chuuya’s body. Then, his fingertips follow — oh so languid, a feathery touch down the redhead’s arms. He traces the ink, the designs, the art that is Chuuya’s body, and wishes it could belong to him. He leans forward, forcing the other to backtrack until he’s caging the redhead between his body and the black wall of the tattoo parlor.

“In a way. We can call it an experiment of sorts,” he agrees, head dipping to the side.

“Why? What are you scheming?”

“Nothing. I want to demonstrate something to myself, and something tells me you have good taste.”

“Why? Just because for some ill-advised reason, you think I like you?”

“I think you do.”

“Hah, sure.”

It takes Dazai’s entire self-restraint not to step back and call it quits. “Yet you haven’t pushed me away. You bark a lot but you’re obviously not the kind of dog that bites — and you do like me, for the record.”

Quickly, Chuuya’s split tongue darts out to lick his lips. And oh, how Dazai wants that tongue on him. It’s a need. “That’s ridiculous. I despise shitty hypocrites like you.”

“Does Chuuya eye-fuck all the people he despises, then?”

“Oh, screw you,” Chuuya answers — he laughs harshly, a raucous sound that comes straight from his belly. Still, he doesn’t correct Dazai. “I kissed you once, and I did it because it was fun and I was drunk. What makes you think I would do anything like that again?”

Slowly, Dazai lets out a husky hmm from the back of his throat. “Call it a hunch,” he says.

This time, let it be known that it was Dazai to kiss Nakahara Chuuya; King of the Shrimp, Thief of Kisses. Despite all the rational signs behind his gesture, half of his brain still has the audacity to be surprised when the other doesn’t shove him away cursing his name.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

The feeling of Chuuya’s silk-soft skin under him sends warm, golden sparks from Dazai’s spine to his fingertips — one hand cradling Chuuya’s nape, open over the redhead’s back.

He’s not entirely prepared when Chuuya fists the collar of his shirt to close the non-existent distance, greedy for something he already owns. Dazai parts his mouth for him— welcoming his swollen, velvety lips and split tongue. The bifurcation makes him smile like a child against the redhead’s lips as he gently pushes the tip of his tongue against Chuuya’s split tips.
With a pleased growl, Chuuya nibbles at his bottom lip and twists the fabric around his knuckles.
The gesture yanks Dazai even closer, swallowing him in a kiss that is nothing but intertwined tongues and nicks and undiluted need.

“Ya know— I always hated your kin,” Chuuya eventually mumbles against his mouth, tugging at the fabric with pent-up frustration.

His voice sounds rough, gravely, each word lost between bites and tiny sighs. With a husky ‘h’m’ to signal that he’s listening, Dazai kisses the man’s cheek. And his jaw. Unexpectedly, the redhead’s sensitive body jolts when Dazai’s mouth brushes against the pale column of his neck, which is undoubtedly a reaction to remember.

“And I’ve always wanted to give you head,” Dazai hums, not untruly.

“I mean it,” Chuuya insists. “Even now, you’re just ordering me around.”

It sounds a lot like ‘but I can’t bring myself to hate this, or hate you, although Dazai won’t make assumptions.
He wants Chuuya to admit it.
He wants Chuuya to moan it.

For now, he allows himself a victorious smirk.

“You sure look like you hate me ordering you around, yes,” he croons, lifting his head back to level his mouth with Chuuya’s. He locks their lips together again without waiting for an answer because, after all, the shivers running down the redhead’s body are telling him everything he needs to know. “So, Chuuya?” He pulls away again, and he swears Chuuya growls a ‘stay’. He kisses his nose. “Yes?” The corner of his lips. “Or no?”

Chuuya doesn’t comment, tugging him in and kissing back with raw need. His thumb brushes Dazai’s jaw, stroking it.
His fingers are always warm, while Dazai’s are always cold — and there is a beautiful symmetry in there, a sense of contrast that coaxes a smile out of him.
This man, he realizes, could be his soulmate or his very worst enemy.
Maybe he’s both.

And, if he thinks about it, Dazai supposes he has a right to be scared.
Fucking things up now terrifies him — and it’s a weirdly human sensation, one that catches him off-guard.
It’s not his first kiss, but god forbid an adult ever explained to him anything about healthy relationships.

Then, Chuuya nibbles at his swollen lips, the tip of his cut tongue pale against his messy lipstick. The cutest blush colors his face. “So will you be a good boy and let me do anything I want?”

“That’s what I said,” Dazai breathes out, with Chuuya’s breath fanning over his skin and hands deep in auburn locks.
He tastes all kinds of sweets, Chuuya. He never knew what sunlight tasted like before he savored it on the redhead’s lips on a rainy day.
It tastes like fire, and it paints the world red. And Chuuya looks like a daydream, with his lips glossy and hair tousled just so—

God, he’s gorgeous.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

In hindsight, maybe Dazai shouldn’t have said that. Not because he doesn’t trust Chuuya — ah, he is dying to be a good boy for him — but because the other pushes him away with a sharp grin stretching his lips. Suddenly alert, his body turns rigid.

He’s about to amend that statement, but the smirk Chuuya flashes at him is alluring enough to silence his worries.
His lipstick is smudged at the corners of his mouth as he licks his lips, and his mismatched eyes shine with mirth.

“Take a seat, Mackerel,” he says, with a happy skip in his voice. “Ya getting pierced today.”

—

So… that’s indeed what Chuuya said. The thing is, they got sidetracked.
An hour later, Chuuya has barely seen a needle, or a piercing, or anything but the depth of Dazai laughing, gorgeous golden irises.

With the mother of all storms raging outside and a thunderstorm of chaotic feelings inside, Dazai is not sure how that happened.
Chuuya might even get in trouble, if anyone sees him straddling a client’s lap, hands deep in hickory-brown curls and matte black lipstick smeared all over his cheek. They hide all the warm shades of brown, Dazai’s curls — caramel and coffee and cocoa. On his skin lingers the subtlest trace of cinnamon, but his kisses feel like syrup over Chuuya’s reeling senses. Thick, intoxicating. He might get addicted surprisingly fast.
And he forgot all about what he was going to do — Ah. Piercing. Right. —, which is never a good sign.

Still sitting on Dazai’s lap, putting some distance is an exercise in self-control.
He combs a handful of Dazai’s curls back, pushing them away from his forehead.
Fuck, he thinks, his irises are tinged with gold. What in the Midas hell is this man, looking like he has a right to put beauty itself to shame?
How can he part his lips just so, flashing dimples, as if it doesn’t dynamite the hell out of Chuuya’s self-control?

“Are you still sure about this, Mr. Mafia Boss?” He drawls, his voice hoarse from the kissing as he takes a good look at Dazai’s face. “You’ll get in trouble with your family.”

Dazai beams in lieu of a reply, hooking his hands around Chuuya’s waist and pressing him closer to his lap, clashing their lips back together.
Ah, fuck.
Chuuya might act cool, but his head is spinning.
Who would have thought? The cutesy Mafia princeling knows how to kiss. They are fierce, Dazai’s kisses, and fearless.
Chuuya chuckles against his lips. He yields under the contact, angling his head to let Dazai’s tongue in his mouth — to suck on Dazai’s bottom lip and nibble at it, dragging a low moan out of the brunette.
How sweet this mouth could taste.

“Seriously,” Chuuya says, pushing him away. Which is an exercise in futility, since he’s on Dazai’s lap. “I’m not gonna do it if it’ll get you killed or something.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m always in trouble with my family, and I can handle them.”

“Are you? Good to know, then. I didn’t imagine you’d be such a reckless idiot,” Chuuya growls, hands sinking in Dazai’s tousled hair as he kisses him again. And again.
He already sucked a bruise at the base of Chuuya’s neck, savoring every inch of warm flesh. He bites like a rabid dog, Dazai, and tastes like strawberries, leather and menthol cigarettes.
In passing, Chuuya considers that it’s about time he introduces the Mafia princeling to some real smokes. Shit for grown-ups, and all that.

“Hm. I don’t really care if they get mad,” Dazai hums, against his mouth. “Not now.”
With a scoff, Chuuya tries to laugh off the feeling that Dazai genuinely doesn’t care about life or death. “It’s quite hard to think about anything but you kissing me.”

Ah, what a smooth talker. “Idiot.”

“Chibi,” Dazai breathes out, speaking against his lips.

The purring drawl in his voice tells Chuuya that the bastard is enjoying the shiver that he stole from him.
He hates the nickname, he really does.
But the tone — as if Dazai could fuck the animosity out of him with just those long fingers and thick voice of his… that isn’t that bad.

Roughly, he tugs at Dazai’s hair, thighs caging the other’s body with just enough strength to hurt.

“Don’t call me short,” he hisses, exposing Dazai’s throat to bite it. “Asshole.”

“Sure, Chibi.”

“Bastard.”

“Ne, Chuuya,” Dazai hums, drowsy, and Chuuya can feel the vibration of his vocal cords as the man speaks. “Can I ask you something?”

A little flabbergasted, a tch rolls out of his lips. He pecks the soft skin under Dazai’s jaw. “You already are.”

“Your eyes. Are they…”

Chuuya’s interest darts to Dazai, his shoulders turning rigid as he moves away. “Are ya asking me if my eyes are lenses or if I’m a weirdo?”

He’s heard that same question a thousand times before. Mismatched eyes, red hair, freckles? If he were born in the Middle Ages, he would have been burned at the stake practically everywhere in the world for a thousand different reasons. Weirdo. Ugly.
One doesn’t end up leading the Sheep by staying on the right end of the tracks.

But Dazai seems surprised, as he adjusts under him — chest against chest, his body solid under Chuuya’s weight.
“I was just wondering how I should imagine Chuuya in the morning.”

‘In the morning and in my bed’ goes unsaid, but Chuuya hears it loud enough. The implication steals a grin out of him.
The audacity, really.
As if he ever promised the little Mafia prince they’ll ever be anything more than a stolen kiss in a tattoo parlor.

“Oh? Why would you ever get to see me when I’m just awake? Daydreaming much?”

Dazai’s eyes narrow. Pools of amber and gold, glossy with lust; and it angers Chuuya beyond reason, how the idiot acts as if he’s uncaring or unaware that he has treasures wedged in the masterpiece of his face. “I don’t have to spell out what’s going on here, do I?”

“Hm’m. So the big bad wolf would welcome a Sheep in his bed?”

“I’d hardly ever let you leave.”

Chuuya’s heart hiccups at the possessiveness in Dazai’s dragged-out cadence. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway. Why I should let someone from your sordid organization fuck me?”

“Last I checked, you liked it enough how someone from my—” His mouth hovers over Chuuya’s in an almost kiss that leaves him secretly begging for more. “—Sordid organization kissed you.”

Cornered, Chuuya sucks in a short breath.
He allows himself a moment to drown in the implications, in the enticing warmth of Dazai’s breath fanning over his face.
But that’s enough chit-chat.
God knows what he’ll end up doing if he allows Dazai to talk him into a place of what if’s and maybe’s. There’s nothing more dangerous than careless daydreaming.
So Chuuya leans away from Dazai, his right hand reaching for the needle he’ll need to pierce. He can’t believe Dazai decided to pierce his cheeks, right above his dimples — ah, those damn adorable dimples.
‘Maybe it’ll encourage you to smile more, Mackerel,’ Chuuya teased him. ‘You’ve got a nice one. Smile,  I mean.’
See? He’s an idiot and a rotten coward.

And, like the scaredy cat that he is, Chuuya quickly recoils and diverges the subject.

“To answer your question, Mackerel, my eyes are none of your business,” he says, with a sardonic skip, but there’s less bite than he planned. “Now, be a good boy for me and relax.” For what feels like an eternity, he’s left waiting for an answer that never comes. “Oi, Dazai. Everything ok? You look–” Chuuya’s eyes narrow, “---pale.”

“Please don’t be nonsensical.”

So he says; and yet, for a moment, as he side-glances at the piercer, Dazai licks his lips. All the color has been sucked from his cheeks, and he seems on the verge of backing out, pupils shrinking only just as he assesses the needle that is going to pierce his skin.
Although Chuuya’s not going to call him out on it, he squirms. “That thing looks big.”

Chuuya snorts. “That’s my line.”

He hoped the joke would thaw some of Dazai’s sudden stillness, but the side-eye that the boy gives him is everything but relaxed. “I’m serious.”

“And I’m seriously not gonna do it if you’re gonna cry on me.”

“No, no. It’s just— will it hurt?”

“Who knows.” Chuuya flashes him a mirthful grin before leaning forward. His lips brush Dazai’s ear shell, teeth scraping the soft skin as he nibbles at the tip of his ear, and a ripple shoots down his back when Dazai’s hands rest on the small of his back. “It’ll bleed,” he breathes out, though, just for the sake of feeling Dazai flinch and melt under his hands and lips. “Stay still for me, Osamu. Behave like a brave little soldier, and I might even kiss it better later.”

—

“Hi, I’m back. Please tell me we have wine.”

It is necessary to notice that, to say that, Chuuya didn’t breathe. He also almost ran right into his best friend’s chest because his feet suddenly forgot how to fucking brake.
Pressing himself against the door of the apartment they share, Albatross allows Chuuya to bullet his way inside and across the living room. He forgot to take off his shoes, too, and all he needs is a leveling glance from Albatross (his mother. Seriously.) to do a 150 and stomp back to toe off his combat boots.
When he drops his bag next to the couch, boneless and exhausted, Chuuya can still feel the other’s gaze on him.
Now, moving in together right after high school seemed the right thing to do for two almost-broke best friends, and most days Chuuya likes everything about their life together. With Chuuya acting as the leader of the Sheep and Albatross’ free trading across organizations, not minding who’s doing what business as long as cash flows in, it’s much nicer when they can just go over work issues in their own living room and with a glass of wine.
However, having Albatross trying to read him like a magazine after the longest workday ever is something he would have gladly avoided.
He can still feel Dazai in his system. His name has been etched like a cut on Chuuya’s lips — a knife wound, a sear.

“Huh, hello to you too? Long time no see.”

“I had a long shift at work.”

“And was it so traumatizing? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Albatross volleys back, although he doesn’t sound that sympathetic.

Flipping him off out of sheer habit, Chuuya makes a beeline for the kitchen.
He hears Albatross chuckle as he follows suit, delighted to see that his best friend is still feisty enough to tell him to get lost, and—

Ah.
Feisty Chibi is something Dazai would call him.

Chuuya wills himself to ignore that wayfaring thought. When he opens his mouth nothing comes out; nothing but a strangled, pitiful sound as if his body is suggesting him to choke on his own spit.
Or on Dazai’s spit.
They exchanged so much of that that he’s not even sure who his bodily fluids belong to, at the moment.

He panicked.
He panicked because of a goddamn mackerel.

“…I kissed Dazai Osamu.”

Albatross sorts. “Hallelujah.”

“Don’t ’hallelujah’ me as if you expected it!”

“It was about damn time, and you have to admit it. I knew. Everybody knew it. The only ones who didn’t know it were you and the Port Mafia preppy boy, there.”

“It wasn’t so obvious—“

“It was exactly that obvious.”

“Ugh. If you’re gonna be like that, then I’d rather be left alone with my wine.”

Smartass that he is, Albatross shuts his mouth and pretends to zip it close and toss away the invisible key.
That gesture would normally make Chuuya laugh, but today? He is too focused on his own mess to allow himself to be even remotely amused.
With a quick gesture, barely glancing at the label at all, he plucks a bottle of cheap red wine from the pantry — and gets a glass for Albatross, too.
He is taking the bottle, because he fucking needs it.


Seeing Dazai to the door of the tattoo parlor (the bastard has an actual driver picking him up! Not a taxi, a driver!) gave him the butterflies.
A whole universe of butterflies that has taken over his stomach and lungs, their tiny little wings choking him with every breath.
With a heavy sigh Chuuya flops on a chair, bottle in hand.
He runs a hand through his hair, too, tugging at his scalp. Frustration simmers in him.

“This is bad,” he growls.

“How did it happen? What did you do?” Albatross asks. His voice is quiet as he takes the chair next to Chuuya’s and crosses his legs — as if he’s ready for a very long therapy session.

He doesn’t sound judgmental. However, what his best friend sounds like matters little when Chuuya is already judging himself and his lack of control.

“He came to the shop,” he starts, grinding out every word with abysmal difficulty. “For his yakuza tattoo. Some tacky shit his family imposed on him.”

“H’m,” is all Albatross says, more like an acknowledgment than an actual comment. Chuuya takes a swing of wine — and he makes it generous. The sooner he gets drunk, the better.

“And he looked so worried when he saw the blood—“

Panic flashes over Albatross’s face. “Blood?! Chuuya, he’s the heir of the biggest underground organization in the region?!”

“To be fair, I had just stabbed him…”

“What?!”

“I mean, with the needle for the piercing. I didn’t hurt him or anything,” he amends. Instantly, Albatross’s shoulders sag. The silent relief washing over his face is truly a reply in itself to the question: how dumb is Chuuya, from zero to one thousand? “To make a long story kind of short, he said he wanted something different from what his family asked — and so I pierced him. And kissed him. And we both know that shitty organization of his won’t be happy about either of those things.”

Looking up, his gaze meets Albatross’s narrowed eyes and scowling lips.
As he takes another sip, Chuuya tells himself that he can’t blame his best friend for being worried, really.

His heart drums in his chest as he looks up like a dog about to meet the heel of a boot. And he feels exactly like he is about to be kicked, too.
By Albatross.
By the Port Mafia.
His rakish, idiot face keeps colliding with a metaphorical shoe; Chuuya can never predict or stop the hit. “Say something,” he begs, croaked, looking for Albatross’s familiar face — letting his silver-bleached hair and straightforward advice calm him. “Tell me that I fucked up big time. That I risked my job, and the Sheep’s safety, for a pretty face — tell me that this guy is nothing but a sharp-tongued sack of bandages. Tell me that I’m an asshole. Anything.”

“Chuuya—“

“Tell me I fucked up.”

Albatross’s voice dips. “Look. This is cute and all, but you wouldn’t seriously catch feelings for a Port Mafia member, right?”

Well. Right.
Thinking about it, he liked it better when Albatross was not asking anything at all.
Without an answer, choking on his pride and idiocy, Chuuya allows his fingers to skim down the bottle.
He wants to kill all the butterflies in his stomach, and drown them in wine.
Yet, how can he? To hell with that dimwit Dazai. He certainly knew how to kiss, the bastard — and Chuuya didn’t mean to like it that much, yet he did.

Because Dazai looks like he’s a wanderer searching for the meaning of life, and Chuuya has always wanted to be someone’s reason.

And those eyes, so lost—

“Damn it,” he says. “Damn it. Damn it.”
——————————————

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