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Dazai lays Oda's limp body on the ground, and pauses, head spinning. He looks to the doorway. He is not alone. Chuuya is there, watching him mournfully, eyebrows taut with things he'll never say. Chuuya removes his hat to rest it over his heart, in respect for the dead—for many more than just Oda.
"He wants me to save lives, Chuuya." His voice is soft, and almost bewildered. With more energy, he would laugh at the hypocrisy of his own statement.
Chuuya's sharp eyes search Dazai's hollow ones across the distance, before nodding, mouth set in a grim line. "Then that's what we'll do." Dazai searches Chuuya in turn.
If he were a different person, Dazai might have stumbled. But he is himself, he is Dazai, so he strides forward with light, detached steps, coming to a stop in front of Chuuya.
Chuuya rests a hand on Dazai's arm as if to ground him, although he's not swaying.
Dazai hums thoughtfully. "Is it cheating if I kill one more person first?"
It's a rare day that Mori gets much sleep, let alone in his own bed. But today was one of those days. Now, he shuffles out of his room, fully dressed, and carrying a strong, steaming hot cup of coffee.
On these rare occasions that Mori gets some decent sleep, he will rarely find someone already waiting in his office to speak with him. So, it's not a total surprise to hear activity around the corner, but what he finds is something he has not seen on any occasion. No, Mori Ougai, head of the mafia, is a man known for never flustering; a man known for unshakeable nerves, and for always having the element of surprise. But today, even the great Mori Ougai is well and truly shocked and thoroughly perplexed.
On his desk, he finds his two youngest executives engaged in what appears to be a heated, hormonal make out.
He'd had his suspicions about them of course, but here? On his desk? Papers strewn all across the floor, Dazai's coat flung over Mori's chair, tie hanging loose around his neck as he hungrily devours Chuuya, who's in even worse shape. Laid out flat along the length of the desk, shirt rucked up, one leg hiked over Dazai's shoulder, bent at the knee so the heel of his shiny black boots digs in to Dazai's back, gloved fingers coiling through brown hair. He moans languidly under Dazai, who is pawing shamelessly at the black denim between Chuuya's legs.
Mori clears his throat once, twice. Dazai finally tilts his head up just enough to glare at him over top Chuuya, one blood-red eye freezing the air between the two of them—prodigy and sensei.
"Really boys," Mori chides in his fatherly voice, feeling out their intentions, though they're nearly crystal. "I don't mind what you do in your private time, but perhaps you could use somewhere other than my office?"
"You took forever," Chuuya grouses, pushing himself upright.
"Got bored," Dazai adds, leaning aside for Chuuya to sit up. His voice is much too casual for the acid in his stare.
Mori sighs through his nose. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"Yes," Chuuya slides off the desk, adjusting his shirt, grinning with fangs, "there is." He tugs at the tips of his gloves.
"Ah. I see."
Dazai stands too—his single, unbandaged eye never relinquishing its grip on Mori.
Chuuya's gloves fall to the floor as the room begins to glow red. Mori is fast, whipping a scalpel out of his sleeve and into his hand in a heartbeat. But he's not faster than gravity.
His coffee mug hits the hardwood and shatters. The spilled coffee pools outward only a short distance before encountering a much larger pool of blood. The boundaries between the brown liquid and the red liquid blur as they mix.
Fabric rustles over the sound of panting. Chuuya mouths at Dazai's neck, while Dazai pushes the sleeves of Chuuya's shirt off his shoulders. Chuuya returns the favor, clever fingers dropping down the front of Dazai's shirt as each button comes undone. Chuuya moans as hands dance up his bare torso, blazing incandescent trails along his skin. He claims Dazai's mouth and all at once the kiss is hungry. They are hungry. They seek to consume each other in every way they can, inside and out, mind, body, and soul. And it's never enough.
"I can't decide how I want you," Dazai whispers in the kiss-warmed space between their mouths. "On the desk or under it."
"Oh?" Chuuya nips at Dazai's lower lip. "You think I'll let you top that easily?"
"I'm the boss now, Chuuya. I can't think of a better way to christen my new desk than to fuck my most prized possession bent over it."
Chuuya's lips slowly spread into that deadly Cheshire cat smirk, that one that slices Dazai's chest open, that one that gets Chuuya whatever he wants the moment he wants it.
"I can think of a better idea," he purrs against Dazai's lips while his hand trails low, dipping into Dazai's waistband, teasing sensitive skin before undoing the buckle and dragging the zipper down.
He draws Dazai up onto the desk, and Dazai willingly obeys, laying back when Chuuya pushes. His breath hitches as Chuuya pulls him out of his pants, and he gasps when Chuuya swallows him down. Fingers twist into fire-red hair. Obscene, wet sounds echo in the room.
Dazai can barely catch his breath when Chuuya pulls off, and watches with undisguised lust as Chuuya slips off the desk, and walks toward the corpse on the floor. Dazai's gut clenches when Chuuya bends down and dips his hands in the cooling blood. He shudders when Chuuya unzips himself and coats his own length in the dark, slick gore. His mouth falls apart with want as Chuuya gathers more blood on his hands and struts back toward the desk, one eyebrow quirked, askance.
"Yes," Dazai exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding, almost vibrating with heat as Chuuya sits back up on the desk and reaches between Dazai's legs. "I like your idea."
A half an hour later, Hirotsu knocks on the great mahogany doors for his usual morning briefing with the boss. The voice that rings out from the other side, "Come," is not the one he expected.
When he enters, he finds Dazai seated at Mori's desk, eye flicking disinterestedly over papers, daylight from the massive windows illuminating the work space. Chuuya is here as well, spread out comfortably across the red couch, looking unusually disheveled and almost unnervingly blissed.
"Ah, Hirotsu. Good," Dazai looks up with his standard, tight smile. "Please find someone to clean that up before it stains." He nods vaguely in the direction of Mori's corpse, the pool of sticky blood seeping into the floorboards.
Hirotsu takes a moment to observe the body, the situation in its entirety, before composing himself. "Of course," he says. "I will see to it, Boss."