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“…Is that a gun, or are you just really happy to see me?”
Instinct is something that’s honed by years of living in Death’s shadow. As the leader of an organization that thrives in the darkness, his instinct for danger is second only to short-tempered bloodhounds.
Chuuya is even shorter than usual now, opting to lie down instead of jumping around and attempting to draw to his maximum height whenever he’s stomping around and striking the fear of ill-tempered gods into the hearts of men. Flat on his back atop the table that’s now free of paperwork, Chuuya wears his choker, his indomitable pride and nothing else.
Beside Dazai’s office desk, there’s the rolling metal table that usually delivers torture implements in the interrogation room. Only this time, it poses a different sort of threat, in the form of what appears to be components of a healthy, homecooked meal.
Dazai shifts so that he’s not gripping the gun hidden in his pockets so tightly. He pulls it out and juggles it like a parlor trick, punctuating his sashay forward with the steady click of his leathers. Everything is a performance made for the eyes of the people in this mundane world.
But in this case, it’s Chuuya who’s flaunting a performance.
There’s no shame or discomfort in his bones. He even cocks an eyebrow as he watches his approach, like this is all something that happens on a day-to-day basis.
There are many… pfft, shortcomings when it comes to Chuuya’s physique and personality—but he does possess a lot of grace and power in his petite frame. His bare body is an exhibit of pure artistry, one that is usually kept tightly under wraps with his layers of clothes.
Dazai reaches his table. Their eye contact has never wavered, and it’s Dazai who draws his gaze away so he can follow the line traversed by the muzzle of his gun.
It slides down from Chuuya’s chin, to the jut of his Adam’s apple, to the apple sliced into rabbits perched over his collarbones. He doesn’t pick up the fruits, and instead continues the exploration down this ‘human table’ that has proffered himself to him like a living sacrifice.
Chuuya’s calm breathing doesn’t change when the muzzle lingers over the top left of his chest, bypassing the carrot petals that surround his nipples like he has planted enticing flowers atop his skin. His pectoral and abdominal muscles undulate like gentle waves, dragging one’s attention to the dips and shadows.
Dazai applies a little more force to the gun, as if to test the elasticity of the other’s skin, as if to inspect if the other man would be as delicious as pudding. The things scattered over his skin wouldn’t usually spark his appetite on a normal day, but they look extra appetizing now.
Slabs of glistening pink salmon and ootoro sashimi are arranged artfully over Chuuya’s abs. The spread continues down the rest of his body, with his legs paired with various cuts and slices of vegetables and fresh sashimi.
One particularly delicious meat stands out in the middle of Chuuya’s groin: pale, pink and soft. It rests a little over to the left with its curve, growing out from a nest of wiry red hair. The sight of it does make Dazai’s mouth water, and he sways forward and down, eager to taste it and the hole hidden further down.
“No can do,” Chuuya tells him imperiously, with the bearings of a king even when he’s naked and in quite the ridiculous position. He doesn’t wag his finger, but it’s close. “That’s for when you’re done with the rest of the meal, Boss.”
He raises his eyebrows. “So you still do remember that I’m your Boss. Yet, you dare to order me around?”
“My job is to be the Executive and right-hand man to Port Mafia’s Boss,” Chuuya agrees with a lazy shrug that somehow doesn’t topple over the food from his body, as if these ingredients are all kept in place by their natural desire to stick close to Chuuya’s skin. “And I only see a brat here, one that’s childishly refusing to eat his veggies.”
Subsisting wholly on energy drinks is no different than pouring liquid poison into one’s veins. It’s not his preferred form of demise, especially now that he has a plan that has phases that must be accomplished. Even so, he knows his body well. His empty stomach doesn’t even send out pangs to remind him to eat. In fact, even before he has chanced upon the knowledge about the Book—and then, after he knows about the parallel worlds, he knows that it’s the same for him on each and every world—his appetite has been as absent as his desire to continue living.
Whenever he eats, it’s mostly to satisfy the need for social conformity. He eats not because he is hungry and not because he yearns to fill his tongue with flavor, but because every human around him does so, and being dubbed ‘no longer human’ isn’t in his immediate plans.
Crabs are his nominal favorite: available in cheap cans and expensive buffets, something ubiquitous in a country surrounded by water, a common-enough answer in surveys amongst Yokohama citizens. He likes its taste well enough, he thinks, but he likes it even more when he can inconvenience Chuuya into removing the delicate meat from the sturdy shell, all done at his behest.
So it’s not particularly because he dislikes vegetables. He does dislike that they’re nutritious enough, designed to help keep one’s life long. But it’s not because of some childish reason.
“So you’ve taken it upon yourself to nag me into eating?” A humorless laugh. “This is a new way of barking that you’ve developed, Chuuya.”
As expected, Chuuya nags at him, looking beautifully naked in the process. “The idiot who stumbled over the carpet yesterday—wasn’t that you?”
He did lose his balance for a bit yesterday, but it hasn’t been anything more than a split-second. He narrows his eyes. “You’re paying such good attention to my movements. Should I be concerned about having an obsessive dog?”
“The Port Mafia needs a Boss worthy of its might. I sure as hell ain’t serving someone who’s such a useless twig he’d trip over thin air, and all because he won’t eat shit.” Being scolded by someone naked, with nipples pebbling under the central air conditioning’s might, is quite the experience. Dazai savors it as one would a spoonful of exquisite sea urchin, or perhaps a spoonful of the most expensive caviar.
The realization that Chuuya is doing this because he wants to goad him into eating is… not exactly unpleasant, but it’s quite strange. Chuuya has always been straightforward, and he wields his honesty like a scythe that harvests the hearts of his colleagues. He’s action-oriented to the point of ignoring the need to spend second, third, seventh thoughts over certain matters. It’s not surprising that he’d leap right into action, and directly over Dazai’s desk so he could use himself as leverage.
The fact that Chuuya doesn’t even have calculations in his mind, and yet somehow landing on this solution that does do its job in spiking Dazai’s appetite is—very unpleasant. Chuuya’s too short, with a mind too small, and yet he’s able to instinctively devise a plan guaranteed to snare Dazai’s attention and cooperation.
It’s really, really unpleasant.
And yet, despite it being unpleasant—because it really is unpleasant—Dazai finds himself biting the obvious bait.
He nudges the base of Chuuya’s cock using the muzzle. He wouldn’t shoot, but it’s still quite annoying that Chuuya doesn’t even flinch from the caress of the cold weapon. It’s even more annoying that he remains soft, like being examined like this doesn’t get his blood going.
Dazai has to shift his weight between his feet, but he doesn’t do something so crude as to adjust himself in his pants. He’s achingly hard, but Chuuya’s eyes don’t even flicker down to where he’s tenting his pants. In this angle, those blues look like silver lightning, ready to strike him where he stands.
Still, he’s not someone so easily satisfied. Dazai draws lazy circles over the kneecaps adorned by thinly-sliced steamed lotus roots. “Shouldn’t you be coaxing me to eat all these things, Chuuya?”
“I got myself naked atop your desk and you’re still not satisfied?” The furrow between those eyebrows grows deeper. “Shouldn’t you know that one can’t be too annoying in a negotiation lest it fail spectacularly?”
Compartmentalization is a skill that he has perfected. He ignores the blatant dissatisfaction rolling off Chuuya in waves. He doesn’t make a move to lift any of the ingredients from Chuuya’s skin. “Handfeeding me should be included in your steps.”
“If you would continue insisting on not eating nothing but the hot air that comes out of your mouth,” here, Chuuya pauses, like he truly finds it incomprehensible, “then I wouldn’t insist.”
It’s so uncharacteristic of Chuuya to back down so easily. Something stings inside him. Him changing because of circumstances is unavoidable. Chuuya changing is unacceptable. Across the many universes out there, there are certain things that are etched in stone. His longing for death is one. His innate lack of appetite is another. His inseparable connection with a stubborn dog who would persist even when the world explodes into dust is always there.
So, he squints and undoes the safety of the gun, before he slides it back up until he’s snaking the muzzle to the space between Chuuya’s neck and his choker. “It’s rare to see you this obedient. Have you finally accepted that you’re my dog?”
“It’s a shame for all this food that I prepared too, and I wouldn’t want to put them to waste.” Thick lashes flutter at him, like butterfly wings flapping at one corner of the Earth and causing hurricanes on the opposite hemisphere: small movements that are seemingly harmless, but capable of so much destruction. “I’m sure that there’d be some squad members around who’d help me make sure these aren’t wasted.”
—Bang.
“…Tsk.”
A light puff of breath, as Chuuya shows off the metal caught between his teeth. His face is flushed red, but it’s not the same redness as his gravity manipulation, as if to declare that he could catch a bullet point-blank without the assistance of his Ability.
Clink.
Chuuya stops kissing the bullet and lets it fall down to the table. The entire time, his breathing remains calm, and the food displayed atop his body are barely jostled out of their positions.
“See that, Boss?” Full of fire and feisty sarcasm, even when he deliberately uses a respectful form of address. “If you didn’t insist on eating nothing but air, I’m sure your marksmanship wouldn’t be this pathetic.”
He blinks, and his gaze shifts away from the wetness glistening on the fallen bullet. Lately, his dreams have been full of wetness: of tears unshed, of blood unwashed, of fates foretold. Sometimes, he envies the Chuuya of other worlds, the ones who claim that he doesn’t dream.
Come to think of it, does this world’s Chuuya operate under the same lack of dreams?
Come to think of it, when was the last time that he had actually spoken with Chuuya outside of giving him orders?
Not that he would want to speak dog, but there must have been a time once before, when he enjoyed showing off his wit against a pitiful small-brained little man.
“You are very strange today, Chuuya.” It’s extremely unpleasant. Nothing is allowed to affect the plans that he has already nailed in place. So why is it that Chuuya appears now, adamant to sway him? How truly vexing Chuuya is. He should just obediently follow his orders and do whatever he wants, all while exploding and making a fuss to entertain him.
Chuuya rises to his elbows and gestures at him with his chin. “You’re even weirder. Are you actually going to pass up eating expensive sashimi off me?”
No matter how strange Chuuya is acting today, it really would be a shame if he passes up on this opportunity. So, Dazai stands beside the table and puts his gun away, before unzipping so he could at least be more comfortable. He slowly eats Chuuya up, beginning his feast from those toes painted with sheer slices of radishes.
He divides his attention between meeting Chuuya’s eyes and eating these various things off his skin. If Chuuya refuses to handfeed him, he could also refuse to use his hands and directly use his mouth.
He lingers around the powerful calves and licks off the sweat that starts to bloom atop his skin. He polishes off the food from this makeshift platter, and he continues to move upwards with slow licks of his tongue.
Chuuya continues to watch him, and his cock fills just as slowly, as if he’d only reward Dazai with a full hardness if he truly finishes eating everything. This level of body control should be admirable on anyone else, but it just serves to vex Dazai now.
But it doesn’t matter. He could enjoy himself in his own way, his stomach slowly getting filled but his hunger only growing with each bite.
He moves up, up, up, collecting Chuuya’s sweat along the way.
This is the closest he’s been to taking stock of Chuuya’s insides, in a very long time. This is the closest he has allowed himself to be with another human being. This isn’t in his plans, but perhaps an occasional indulgence wouldn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, to seek the occasional comfort away from the calculations that tumble inside his mind. After all, everything is proceeding according to his plan, and these little indulgences shouldn’t skew the path forward too much.
And even if something dire really happens, isn’t that why he has ensured that Chuuya remains by his side? As long as the two of them put forth a united front, there is no enemy that they can’t defeat.
…Even if this shorty could be quite vexing when he’s nagging at him.
The unfamiliar feeling of hunger and the not-so-unfamiliar irritation at Chuuya being so Chuuya—they form a hurricane inside his ribs, one that’s big enough to obfuscate his vision and his instincts for danger.
It comes to the point that he’s too caught up with closing his teeth over the other’s collarbone when he feels a gentle pinch to the back of his neck. So gentle that it makes him shiver, and instinctively raise his head. Just in time to catch the tender expression on Chuuya’s face—so tender, like a divine being gazing at a sacrifice that has been laid out in front of his altar.
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“I used Corruption because I trusted you.”
It’s a sentiment that he has expressed too many times, uncountable by his hands, and by the mental tally that he keeps to track Dazai’s transgressions against him.
Countless times they have worked together, countless times they have fought while trusting each other.
But there’s only one Boss. Only one towering skyscraper. Only one jump separates life and death and beyond.
Back then, he should have trusted his instincts more. He should have known not to ignore the danger that sung inside his veins, the warning bells that rung like funeral knells. He should have not ignored the innocuous behaviors that Dazai did, the small movements that showed his utter neglect for continued survival.
—But it doesn’t matter.
No matter the reason behind him suddenly finding himself back months before That Day, he has always been someone who preferred to have his actions speak louder than his words.
He carries Dazai like a boneless bride, and oh-so-accidentally allows him to knock his head against the door knob. He wears nothing but a choker and Dazai’s teethmarks, and he’s never been freer.
With a sigh, he sets Dazai down on the bed of the only suite in the top floor of this headquarters.
“A tenfold payback,” he tells the unconscious man. It doesn’t matter if he couldn’t hear him now, because of the poison that he has included in the food and lathered over his skin.
Dazai wouldn’t have suspected foul poison, given how the food rested directly on his skin, but that’s part of his calculations. There are things that couldn’t be achieved without firm willpower, and without the willingness to shoulder some risks.
And if Dazai wants to wield his trust against him, then—
“Sleep well, Boss.” He places his palm over Dazai’s forehead, like he’s imprinting his words directly into his brain. “I’ll clean everything up and make sure that none of your plans and phases would be needed.”
After all, on That Day, Chuuya has already tasted despair, and he has no plans of tasting such an unpalatable thing again.
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end