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The apartment is cold and warm all at once: chilled by Yokohama's night, warmed by the heady flush of mouths pressed together, the mesh of tongues and teeth.
Chuuya shudders.
Dazai kisses him like a man possessed, like he's starving. He always has, because that's what he is.
A boy always starving for something softer, only to crush it bloody between his fingers, because he doesn't know what else to do with it once he has it.
Chuuya should have thrown the man back out on his ass as soon as he laid eyes on him.
He shouldn't have left his door unlocked in the first place. Not that it would have stopped the vermin from getting in, but Chuuya didn't have to make it into an invitation.
He still can't help himself, even now.
Even now, letting Dazai into his space ends like this.
With Dazai trying to swallow him whole, devour him down to the bone, the marrow, the very fibers of his being.
Starving, starving boy.
Ravenous and unsure, searching for softness. Chuuya won't give it to him, won't have his bones broken.
He bites back, unsurprised when the other man's jaw goes lax under him, a groan spilling from his throat for Chuuya to swallow down, warm and heavy in his gut.
Dazai has him pressed to the wall, legs slotted together, his hands circling Chuuya's hips.
Chuuya's own hands are fisted into the lapels of his coat, still stuck between the motions of shoving Dazai away or trying to pull him impossibly closer.
Ripping and tearing, merging and consuming. It's all so cyclical with them.
He'd only just stepped out of the shower when he'd been accosted. Traversing from the bathroom to the kitchen in search of a glass of wine before bed, when he'd halted at the sight of a brown and beige blob curled up on his couch.
It was a familiar, albeit brighter shape, one he'd caught sight of several times in his youth.
He hadn't been sure that he'd see it tonight.
An unlocked door--an invitation, a hope, maybe. A request, pathetic and revealing as it might be.
Though, this time, it was enough. For once.
There had been no hello, no barrage of insults. Chuuya had barely managed a what the fuck are you doing here, before Dazai recognized he was in the room and was already moving towards him, eyes wide like he was frightened.
The audacity to step into an angry, wounded hound's pen of your own free will, and then act afraid.
Chuuya is only half-dressed, an oversized t-shirt and a pair of boxers being the only thing sparing his pride.
Not that he's indecent for a man in his own home, ready for bed, but it's apparently enough for Dazai, whose hands are easily thumbing beneath his waistband to dig into his hip bones. Chuuya's thigh glides up along the inside of Dazai's, and the brunet's hips reflexively give a little twitch in response, eliciting a gasp.
It shouldn't--It really shouldn't, but it does send a vicious surge of satisfaction through Chuuya's system.
When Dazai came at him, he wasn't sure what to expect. A fight, an argument, a scheme. It stings, not knowing. Not being sure, like he once was.
This, at least, he still knows. This is still his.
Too bad that he doesn't want it.
(So he tells himself, over and over, even as he claws at Dazai's shoulders, lets Dazai eat his fill.
He doesn’t want it. Not like this.)
Dazai pushes into him with a desperation that turns him to glass under Chuuya's hands. He pushes and pushes until he breaks, and Chuuya has no choice but to hold on, to keep the shattered pieces together in the form of a man.
He could just let them drop. He could.
He twists his head away to break the kiss, unable to pull back without melding into the wall itself at this point.
Dazai chases his lips with a strangled whine, a breathless Chuuya rasped against the corner of his mouth.
Chuuya hisses, keeping one hand firmly against the other's chest to force him back. It doesn't stop Dazai entirely, the man accepting what he can get in the form of teeth sinking softly into the flesh of his cheek. Still, he's unsatisfied, pressing himself up further against his ex-partner, wedging his way in between Chuuya's legs, practically lifting him up off of the ground, until Chuuya has to hike them over Dazai's hips to keep from dangling.
Dazai settles into the new position easily--almost like he planned it this way, the bastard--using the support of the wall to help him shoulder Chuuya's weight.
Weak, sad little noodly-armed man.
The added height also shifts Chuuya so that there's a lightswitch digging directly into the back of his ribs. He grunts uncomfortably, curling his fingers into Dazai's hair and pulling to dislodge him from his newfound home in the crook of Chuuya's neck.
He barely groans a complaint, somehow thinking that it's a compromise when he moves his mouth up to bite at Chuuya's jaw instead.
"Fucking--Shitty asshole.”
Dazai hums in agreement.
He tugs again.
"Dazai."
"Hm."
“Osamu,” he tries again.
Wrong move.
Dazai shudders violently, something like a sob getting stuck in his throat. There's a hand on Chuuya's cheek, turning his head back, Dazai's pleading mouth searching for his again.
Chuuya shakes his head, pressing his lips together.
"God, just--Can you give me a second?”
“No.”
"I'm serious, Dazai."
He must sound stern enough, because Dazai pauses at the corner of his mouth again.
For a long moment, he just breathes.
Then, wordlessly, he sighs. The tip of his nose trails from Chuuya's cheek to his ear, down his neck, until his forehead is resting against the smaller man's shoulder.
Close. Needy. Desperate.
But still.
Chuuya lets his head fall back against the wall with a thunk, grimacing at the dull pain that throbs through his skull.
It grounds him, lets him wrangle his stampeding thoughts. His chest heaves in rhythm with Dazai's.
A harsh chuckle sounds next to his ear.
"I'm surprised you let me get this far."
Dazai's words are lightless and mournful, like he's already lost something.
No—like he's just lost it, Chuuya corrects himself. Dazai lost it-- this --a long time ago. He has no right to mourn anything.
"You're a shit kisser," Chuuya grumbles. "Took me off guard, is all."
"Give me a break," Dazai counters, and it almost sounds playful. "I'm four years out of practice."
"You did that to yourself," Chuuya snaps, because he's still floundering after everything, and sharpness is all they know, sometimes.
But instead of a taunt or a cold rebuttal, Dazai–
Flinches.
There's a tension between them, both of their bodies still wired and finely tuned to the other. Holding each other up as much as they're weighing each other down.
Chuuya's hand is still in Dazai's hair. He's angry, but the way his fingers wind through the curls is instinctual.
Unavoidable.
Dazai nuzzles against Chuuya's neck again, inhaling deeply. He slides his palm up over the redhead's hip to the small of his back, cold fingers slithering under Chuuya's shirt. They dip into the divots of Chuuya's spine, making him shiver.
A flush crawls up Chuuya's neck, making his face burn in indignation, hating the way that arousal pools in his stomach against his own will.
Damn him. Damn them both.
Before he can deliver a good few punches to Dazai's back for ignoring him in favor of his own dick, the fingers still, curled sweetly over the space between Chuuya's shoulder blades.
It's simple. A series of quick, distinguishable taps against Chuuya's vertebrae, behind his heart.
I miss you.
It's not an apology.
That would require Dazai to regret anything he did--which he doesn’t, and he would do it all again if he had to.
Besides, Chuuya wouldn't accept it, even if he did.
So no, it's not an apology--but it is an admission.
Dazai may not even have the balls to say it out loud--and Chuuya deserves that, God, he deserves to be told he's missed and wanted and that he deserves better. He deserves so much better --but…
It's more than Chuuya ever thought he would get.
It's enough.
He tries to cling to his anger, to the hurt, to the sharp feelings.
But Dazai's hands tremble where they're pressed to his cheek, to his spine, trying to be soft, to hold something that he craves. That he starves for.
Like Chuuya is something precious, and Dazai is trying.
He holds him close and firm, but somehow Chuuya knows that he's waiting for the slightest sign to let go.
Chuuya tries to hate him for it, which is easy, but…
I miss you.
He sighs, letting his shoulders drop.
The tension bleeds from his body, leaving him to sag against the wall.
Dazai grunts when he's suddenly faced with the full weight of Chuuya in his arms, and Chuuya huffs a laugh that he only half-feels, brown curls tickling his nose.
Serves him right.
"Fucking idiot," he mutters, digging a heel into Dazai's lower back. "If I never saw your ugly mug again, it'd be too soon."
Dazai's shoulders tense for a moment, but only a moment, before Chuuya feels him laugh. It's faint, and a little wobbly around the edges, but it's there.
"All because I'm a bad kisser?" he snorts. "Chibi's so cruel."
“Oi,” Chuuya barks, "Don't push it."
Dazai hums, but surprisingly, seems content to stay silent. Instead, he pressed another tentative, chaste kiss to Chuuya's shoulder again, testing the waters. When Chuuya doesn't immediately start to skin him alive, he slowly lifts his head. Just enough so that Chuuya can see one round, brown eye peeking out at him from beneath his fringe.
Dazai blinks at him. "Should I leave, then?"
"You gonna actually leave if I say yes?"
He doesn't answer.
Chuuya scoffs, though he anticipated no other response. Meanly, he tugs at Dazai's hair once more, turning so that their faces are close enough to breathe each other in.
Dazai tastes like mist and leather on his tongue, and his teeth ache.
"Then make yourself useful and kiss me again."
And like any two scared, starving boys, they do.
Again, and again, and again.