vessel’s otaku blog

published (ao3) works:

one-shots and/or otherwise completed fics

"Sweet how the words slip" (2025-09-03)

Type: One-shot Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs Pairing: Soukoku (Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya)

Synopsis: A sickfic oneshot where Chuuya is sick, and Dazai takes care of him (to the best of his abilities, anyway) Rating: Teen & up Additional tags: sickfic, fluff, (mild) hurt/comfort, canon-compliant, no established relationship Word count: 5,167

Original Tumblr post

⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆

"Call of the void" (2025-10-23) Type: One-shot Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs Pairing: Shin soukoku (Akutagawa Ryuunosuke/Nakajima Atsushi)

Synopsis: Dazai forces Atsushi & Akutagawa to go on a mission together. It ends… a little unexpectedly Rating: Explicit (🔞) Additional tags: smut, dubcon/noncon, bondage/shibari, rashomon shibari, oral sex, (mostly) canon-compliant, no established relationship Word count: 4,886

Original Tumblr post

update posts, writing snippets, wips, discontinued work (not on ao3)

"Que Sera Sera" (deleted 2025-09-07)

Type: Multi-Chapter Fandom: SK8 the Infinity Pairing(s): Kyan Reki/Hasegawa Langa, Sakurayashiki Kaoru ("Cherry Blossom")/Nanjo Kojiro ("Joe")

Synopsis: An angsty continuation of the Sk8 the Infinity anime where everyone's really gay and depressed Rating: Originally tagged as Explicit, should have been tagged as Mature Additional tags: angst, angst with a happy ending, canon compliant (mostly), friends to lovers, exes to lovers Word count: 29,636 (+ 2740 from unpublished/unfinished chapter)

Status: I've been very busy with school but I am currently editing and rewriting this

Chapter 3 Tumblr update post Chapter 4 WIP snippet (Tumblr) Chapter 4 Tumblr update post

⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆

It was like staring into the abyss, a void calling his name in sweet enticing whispers along the cold skin of his neck. Atsushi was gazing into pitch blackness; he felt the very essence of his soul being simultaneously pulled toward the dark, as if there were two supermassive black holes drawing him closer into an existence where not even light could even exist, and at the same time he felt repelled by the unknown, fearful of what he'd find in the dark reflections of himself staring back at him. Time had slowed down, pulled in by the force of the black hole, until there was nothing left of the world around him—that is, with one exception.

"Weretiger!"

Him. And that fucking nickname, it was practically barked at Atsushi's face. Cold and sharp, Akutagawa's voice felt like an ice pick, and the misty winter rain was a blizzard in the suddenly thick air. Reality was of no comfort for the detective.

Atsushi blinked, instinctually recoiling away from the pale face suddenly too-close to his. He opened his mouth to speak, unintentionally slow. Akutagawa had noticed and cut him off anyway.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Can't you stop zoning out?" he seethed, "Fucking useless. I don't know why Dazai-san insists on making you tag along with me on missions if you're going to act like this."

The wind had stopped and Atsushi focused his eyes to see the rain in the dim yellow-orange streetlamp in the distance. The only sounds that filled the misty night air now was the lapping of the ocean against the docks and quiet breathing. Akutagawa's black eyes hadn't stopped staring into him. Not once for the whole interaction. Atsushi snuck another glance at him and reframed his focus to Akutagawa's shoes. They walked silently, creeping closer to the warehouse in which the bomb was supposed to be.

Atsushi pressed his lips together. It's not like he wasn't used to people yelling at him to remind him of the ugly truth that he really was nothing more than a worthless waste of space—hell, the constant verbal onslaught was the only thing he could take for granted in his childhood—but for some reason, when Akutagawa pressed into him with that volatile temper of his, it never hit him like it did before. He couldn't bring himself to take it completely to heart; yet he still felt he had to prove himself to the man. It was a weird contradiction, and Atsushi wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

It had taken countless sleepless nights and days spent in his mind replaying events over and over again, but had finally Atsushi figured that Akutagawa's words didn't really hold much weight anymore after that battle on the boat with the Decay of Angels' "Kamui". He finally understood that Akutagawa's words were little more than not-so-sweet nothings in contrast to his actions; it seemed that he wasn't the sweet-talking sentimental type, anyway. It was just who he was, or had to be: cold, cruel, cutthroat, and callous—the perfect mafioso.

Plus, Atsushi couldn't forget that he kept his promise after all this time. He hadn't killed a single person since Atsushi had asked him not to. No matter how much of a total dick the man was, Atsushi begrudgingly had to respec his commitment to keeping his word. It was… charming, in a way.

"They're going to detonate in five minutes," Akutagawa whispered, his voice dropped low and his tone sounded raspy. The cold weather had this effect on him; his lungs were definitely going to feel this hit later. Atsushi shivered. But now, even in the bitter cold, his resolve burned red hot; there was a fire behind his eyes. His lips were practically touching the skin of Atsushi's ear, and his breath was warm on the icy extremity. "Now's the time to strike. You better be ready, weretiger."

Atsushi nodded, not bothering to waste precious time on words. He felt his body grow stronger; white and black fur materialized on his appendages, glistening in the moonlight. Peering into the window with the corner of his eye, the dirty glass almost opaque, Akutagawa paused before he held out three fingers in front of Atsushi.

"Three," he mouthed.

He put another pale, slender finger down. "Two."

Another finger down. "One."

Within a blink of an eye, between the milliseconds that passed after he'd put the last finger down, Akutagawa was gone, having already kicked down the door for Atsushi to go through. He'd then used Rashomon to propel himself onto the roof as the dust settled.

The strategy was simple enough. It was a pretty basic two-prong attack. Dazai had took it upon himself to lock them both in a room with a piece of paper explaining the mission and a whiteboard. It was "exercise in teamwork", he'd said with a bizarre smile that most definitely had some sort of agenda behind it. If Akutagawa hated working together, especially with the weretiger of all people, Atsushi was at his wit's end dealing with such a stuck-up asshole. He'd played along and contributed to the plan, sure, but he took it as an opportunity to act as rude as possible to Atsushi while Dazai wasn't looking. Shit, even when Dazai was explaining the task to them, Akutagawa had taken it upon himself to press the heel of his heavy boot as hard as he possibly could into Atsushi's foot.

Despite the initial hesitation to working as a team, they'd actually come up with a coherent plan. Hell, it was a pretty solid plan of action: Atsushi would serve both as the direct attacker and the decoy. He'd create enough commotion and disruption to allow the second prong of the attack. This is where Akutagawa came in. He'd already have gone in through the roof by this point, and he'd be hanging around the rafters. From above, he would use Rashomon to pick out any attackers near the bomb and the victim tied to it. Finally, they'd defuse the bomb.

It was an almost tediously rudimentary mission; there weren't any special abilities involved and the stakes were comparatively low compared to other missions. Atsushi wasn't particularly thrilled at saving a notoriously corrupt city politician, and Akutagawa had grumbled the whole time about how the Port Mafia was actually at a net loss from protecting this scumbag. But when that ransom letter was sent out, there was really nothing either of them could do. Of course, Dazai was thrilled, rambling on about 'teamwork' or some corny bullshit like that.

They took out the guards quickly like a well oiled machine. It almost felt like cheating to use their abilities because it was so easy. When the coast seemed clear, Akutagawa dropped down to the ground, and begun to help Atsushi defuse the bomb strapped to the politician.

"One minute and fourty seconds left," Akutagawa read, the red numbers on the bomb's clock ticked down lower and lower as the seconds passed. They weren't in any particular hurry. This was a very simple, primitive type of explosive. Typical of these little street gangs roleplaying as real terrorists. They were like packs of mice scurrying around the streets of Yokohama; they posed no real danger, and their little squeaks were annoying and utterly pathetic. "You could've been a little quicker with the attack. I'm disappointed, weretiger. Although I wasn't really expecting much from you," he grumbled. Akutagawa cut the final wire before remarking on the quality of the explosive device; he hummed, sardonic amusement lacing his voice like deadly poison in a bitter shot of absinthe, "at least this bomb appears to have been made by a primary school child, so it didn't take much time to undo."

Atsushi frowned. He tried his best to ignore the comment as he undid the gag and started on the ropes tying the hostage to the chair. And then he saw, for a split second, out of the corner of his eye the glint of a bright sliver of light refracting off of glossy black polymer.

Within a fraction of a second, a deafening crack rang out in the silence. The smell of gunpowder began to diffuse around the room, and time seemed to move in slow motion and at light speed at the same time. The bullet had already fired.

It had all been going according to plan. Maybe the stakes were too low, the mission too simplistic at surface level, for Akutagawa to notice that they'd forgotten about one of the guards. He'd gotten away, survived the injury that Atsushi's claws dealt to him and crawled away; he hid himself behind a shipping container, but not without leaving a trail of blood in his wake. The man was aiming the barrel of his gun straight into the back of Akutagawa's head.

Atsushi moved as if his body was acting on his own, like he was possesed. The neural impulses didn't have enough time to reach the rational parts of his brain when he'd shoved Akutagawa out of the way. He didn't even have enough time to completely change into his weretiger form. It was a blur: everything felt unreal until the front of his shirt was warm and wet; he looked down and his fingers were bright red. The sound of his heartbeat filled his ringing ears. Far away somewhere in the distance, he swore he'd heard a faint voice screaming the word "weretiger". Atsushi collapsed, falling to his knees.

Beginning to heal himself, he watched as Rashomon grabbed the shooter and threw him out the window with a certainly lethal force. He saw Akutagawa, who'd moved up in front of him, look at him for a second. Atsushi hoped he was working up the words to say something cheesy about how grateful he was that Atsushi took a bullet for him.

Akutagawa just shrugged. "Okay, look. You can't get me for that. I didn't technically kill that asshole. The impact with the ground did. Plus, he was practically on death's door from your attack. Even if I did, he had it coming."

Atsushi finished healing the bullet wound, although he was completely covered in blood and in a mild state of shock. He just stared. Breathing raggedly, he stared at Akutagawa with wide eyes. The void stared back, his lips had slightly parted.

Someone cleared their throat. "Untie me, would 'ya?"

Both Akutagawa and Atsushi turned to look at the politician.

"Oh, right. Sorry," Atsushi mumbled as he got up. He began untying the last knots tying him to the chair.

"Should've never undone your damn gag," Akutagawa muttered under his breath. The politician didn't hear it.

Just as Atsushi had finished untying him, Akutagawa stabbed a finger square into the man's chest. "Your cronies are on their way here right now. We're done here." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling a cell phone out and dropping it down onto the man's lap. Turning around, Akutagawa began to walk in the direction of the door. There was another streetlamp in front of the front window; from where Atsushi was standing, Akutagawa's figure eclipsed the light. The light tips of his black hair were glowing, a halo of light shrouded the outline of his body and only for that moment he looked like some strange sort of angel. "Come, weretiger," he beckoned coldly, not even bothering to turn his head.

Atsushi wasn't completely sure what this feeling was. It definitely felt like anger, boiling hot anger, but it was nothing like any other time he'd felt like this. He felt wronged on a deep, metaphysical level when Akutagawa treated him like this—like Atsushi was nothing but human garbage to him, utter scum that wasn't worth his time. Atsushi had just taken a bullet for the man and he still kept up with his complete disdain for him. Atsushi tried. He really fucking tried to understand Akutagawa. To empathize with him, rationalize his disposition as just how he had to act to survive in the mafia. But now, as he stood covered in his own blood facing Akutagawa's back, his patience had worn thin. The last straw had finally snapped.

The dust settled in the still air, gently falling like snowflakes to the ground. Atsushi had given up on untying the knots; he opted to cut the remaining rope with a pocketknife. The politician had remained in his chair, resigned; he stared dead ahead with a weary expression. Akutagawa had been standing in front of the window for a few minutes, watching the rain fall. In the corner of the window, the dirtied glass lit up with the glow of car headlights. The mafioso turned around to look back at the captive, but his focus fell slightly short of the man's direction. Although, the distance and the darkness of the room had made it so it seemed that Akutagawa was looking straight into the man's soul. He just had that effect on people, it seemed.

"Hey, you. Your ride is here."

The politician scurried away. Akutagawa made a disgusted face, like a pest had crawled into his personal space, when the man got close to him on his way out. Atsushi found his misanthropy a little repulsive, if he was being honest. He didn't particularly like this guy either, but he wasn't so blasé about hiding it it like Akutagawa was. He obviously wasn't a good man, but he was still human; he had a wife and kids… probably. Even if he didn't, he was still worthy of a little respect because he was still a human!

Soon, the door slammed shut, and the man was gone; the room fell silent, the tension between the two of them deafening. It was there, in that contemplatively heavy stillness that Atsushi could no longer keep his composure. Akutagawa had turned around to face the window again, watching the pouring rain as he traced his finger over the rim of the sunglasses he'd pulled out of his pocket to keep his hands busy. Atsushi creeped closer to him with a catlike stealth, trying to keep his breath as quiet has he could. He gritted his teeth hard, his jaw muscles tensed so tight it bordered on painful. He was an arms length from Akutagawa now, and the mafioso hadn't shown any sign that he'd noticed that Atsushi was behind him; his attention was still nonchalantly fixed onto the rain and the moonlight rippling on the black waves past the docks.

Atsushi's muscles tensed, ready to pin Akutagawa to the wall. He wanted nothing more than to knock Akutagawa's teeth out with inhuman strength and he wanted to leave claw marks bleeding all over the fucker's skin until he too was covered in his own blood. A strange sort of fire burned under Atsushi's skin; he felt it in the pit of his stomach and in between the fast heartbeats against the inside of this chest. He bit his lip, subconsciously attempting to restrain himself.

"What do you want?" the mafioso's cold voice shattered the silence. Atsushi didn't say anything. "I can see you in the window's reflection, by the way."

Shit. He forgot about that part. But Atsushi got closer. Akutagawa didn't move. He'd pactically cornered the other man against the dirty glass now. He turned around to face Atsushi now, brows tensed.

"Weretiger," he grumbled, grabbing the collar of Atsushi's shirt. His tone suddenly got cold, voice dropping down to a growl; "Answer. Me."

Atsushi pushed his head into Akutagawa's. The suddenness of the motion had taken the seasoned killer by surprise; he recoiled, hitting the back of his head against the window pane. Atsushi took advantage of this temporary moment of weakness, pinning Akutagawa's hands to the wall and gripping his wrists with a force that he hoped would hurt him.

"So you want an answer from me, huh?" Atsushi snarled, his canines looked like fangs as he grit his teeth and stared into Akutagawa's face. He couldn't quite make out the expression on it; was he annoyed, or could he possibly be unimpressed? Atsushi corrected himself: "No. You think I owe you an answer."

"You're not as dumb as I thought. Yeah, I do," he replied back, his anger poorly veiled under this almost unnervingly uncharacteristic calmness. "Does the little kitty want a treat for getting that right?" he hissed.

"You think you don't owe me anything?" Atsushi asked.

"What are you implying? Just say it instead of doing all of this dramatic bullshit."

Atsushi paused, his grip on Akutagawa's wrist tightened. He wanted to grip so hard the blood flow to Akutagawa's hands could stop.

"I took a literal fucking bullet for you, and you can't even be bothered to pretend to be grateful. I don't expect anything crazy, I just ask that you don't act like there's always a stick up your ass for once. Even if you have a million sticks up your ass, stop acting like it's my fault—like I shoved them up there!"

Akutagawa had to bite the inside of his mouth to stop himself from bursting out laughing.

"Let's get one thing straight, weretiger," he began, his harsh tone unable to persist, breaking under the pressure of the twisted amusement coursing through his body right now. "Between the two of us, the only one putting stuff up anyone's ass is me."

Atsushi let his grip of Akutagawa's wrists falter for a second as he recoiled from the fact he just heard Ryuunosuke-motherfucking-Akutagawa say… that. In all complete and sincere irony, it was actually kind of funny in how unexpected that was.

And so he'd let his guard down for just a second. Akutagawa had found his opportunity to strike.

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, Akutagawa had switched the both of them in one solid motion so that Atsushi's mind had just begun to be able to process that he'd been moved only when the back of his head hit the cinderblock wall behind him. Atsushi felt his eyes burn from the tears building in the corners of his eyes. He tried to cry out in pain, but Akutagawa had already gripped a slender hand with an unsuspecting amount of crushing force around his neck.

"You really want to know why I hate you so much?"

"Yes," Atsushi mouthed.

Akutagawa got closer to Atsushi's face until the tips of his eyelashes were almost brushing the skin of Atsushi's face. Warm breath on cold skin felt feverish, and Akutagawa just held him there for some time, staring into Atsushi's bloodshot eyes. And then he moved in even closer, closing the gap between them, crashing onto Atsushi's lips, tingling from the asphyxiation. He kissed hungrily, with a force that seemed almost angry with the way he pressed his tongue into Atushi's mouth and the way his teeth bit at Atsushi's lips until the kiss tasted like the sanguine richness and saccharine saltiness of fresh blood. Atsushi's heart was going haywire, beating at a million miles an hour. The oxygen deprivation to top it all off made it all feel unreal. The crotch of his pants suddenly felt tight; Akutagawa could definitely feel it too. The mafioso's lips curled up into a smirk against Atsushi's.

Finally, when he'd had his fill, he released the grip on Atsushi's throat, body falling to the cold concrete floor like a rag doll. Air, glorious, succulent air felt borderline orgasmic as Atsushi gasped mouthfuls of it down into his aching lungs. He felt lightheaded and like his body was going into some sort of feral rogue state; Atsushi wanted more. No. He needed more. More of Akutagawa. More of the sickeningly intoxicating hatred for this man. More angry kisses sloppily slick with the metallic tang of blood and more feeling high on the taste of pain. More of him. He'd never felt like this before, like this wasn't who he really was. This primal urge had possessed Atsushi, all his hang-ups and inhibitions had gone up in flames. Only one thing rang clear in this lustful haze: he wanted more.

For some reason, he felt himself laughing. Breathlessly laughing. Blood mixed with both his and Akutagawa's saliva dripped from his bitten lips onto the floor. His vision was still blurry, but when his eyes landed on the fuzzy outline of Akutagawa's darkly shrouded figure, Atsushi couldn't help himself from crawling over.

It felt weird. Dreamlike, almost. Like the bullet had actually killed him and he was now stuck in some sort of comatose wet dream. It'd been tearing at him for a while, now, actually. Atsushi had been convinced his feelings for Akutagawa were purely repressed psychosexual urges stemming from an inferiority complex with the other man, or some sort of manifestation of some inner conflict or trauma—something subconscious, Freudian possibly; the only comfort that Atsushi could give to himself was that these desires, these feelings, all of the sick, carnal thoughts weren't him.

But they were. They were him, and with that kiss, he'd just been reduced to a drooling, begging pathetic mess at their feet.

"God, you are so fucking pathetic," Akutagawa mused. "I can't seem to figure out why Dazai-san keeps your sorry ass around." He walked closer to Atsushi until he could look straight down into Atsushi's eyes.

Akutagawa grabbed a fistful of Atsushi's hair. the silky strands were soft on his scarred, calloused hands; the white color of his hair looked like soft cotton or gauze, especially when contrasted with the dark blood staining some of it. He lifted Atsushi's face up, cupping his jaw with an uncharacteristic softness. He gave the other a look of contempt tangled up with lust before shoving two of his fingers into Atsushi's mouth without any warning.

He wasn't expecting this—but it wasn't necessarily unwelcome. Atsushi looked up with an undefinable expression, something between scorn and cockiness, as he licked the rough skin of Akutagawa's fingers. He grasped at the other man's wrist, pushing the fingers deeper down into his throat with a daring expression. Akutagawa's demeanor had derailed completely in the direction of confusion as he witnessed Atsushi's compliance. He was just expecting a little more… resistance.

Akutagawa had seemed to regret his wish the second the thought had crossed his mind as Atsushi had suddenly bit down on the digits hard, even more blood dripped down his face. The mafioso had let in a sharp inhale at the sudden impact, but he hadn't bothered to jerk his hand away. Atsushi had kept his grip on Akutagawa's hand steady for the whole time it'd been in his mouth, but after getting his fill of the blood he finally pushed it away from his face.

"You fucking—" Akutagawa cursed under his breath.

"Who's really the pathetic one, Akutagawa? Me, or the idiot that can't figure out whether he likes me or hates me?"

Akutagawa scoffed. "Oh, don't get it twisted, weretiger. Let's get one thing straight: I fucking hate you more than you could ever imagine. Nothing will change that."

"Didn't really seem like it when you were over there kissing me just a minute ago."

"I could fuck you right here, right now, and I'd still hate your worthless ass."

"I'd like to see you try. Plus, I prefer the term 'making love'," Atsushi retorted.

Akutagawa grabbed Atsushi by the neck again, manhandling him back to the wall. He threw Atsushi's body like it was a sack of potatoes against the brick before undoing the buttons and zipper on his pants. Atsushi's heart was about to fly out of his chest. His vision had gone a little blurry for a second, but he felt a force binding his hands together, and wrapping around his arms and chest like a slick rope.

Without hesitating for a second, Akutagawa picked Atsushi up by the hair to bring his face up high enough for Akutagawa to stick his thumb into Atsushi's mouth to pry his mouth open. He shoved his length into Atsushi's open mouth, releasing an exhale when the warmth enveloped him. Atsushi had never thought of pain as something that could feel quite like this. Being thrown against the wall and tied up like this—he never thought these things would make his brain go crazy with excitement. The grip of Akutagawa's big hand on his hair seemed to tighten simultaneously as Rashomon tightened the intricate webbing of twisting and knotting around Atsushi's body. He couldn't help but let a muffled sound escape as Akutagawa was still inside his mouth.

Atsushi felt an unstable energy coursing through his veins, excitement building up in the pit of his stomach; his brain felt fried, only able to beg for more and more of this. Pressure built in his pants, he was more hard than he'd ever been in his entire lie. Grinding against Akutagawa's shoe could only provide him so much relief.

Atsushi jerked his head back, saliva and precum dribbling down his chin and swollen lips glistening and flushed a reddish pink, for a strained and desperate breath. He went back in without any prodding, making sure to flick his tongue across the slit. Akutagawa couldn't suppress a choked moan, pushing Atsushi's head further down.

He knew he was getting close. Atsushi seemed to understand too, feeling the thrusts against the back of his head get faster, more forceful. He wished he could use his hands to give his aching cock some hope at release, but dry humping on Akutagawa's foot was the best he could do. It was strangely more erotic; the action was so disgustingly primal, animalistic in a way.

He leaned forward into Akutagawa's hips, desperately craving more; the entire bottom half of his face was sloppily wet and he was on the verge of throwing up, and yet he was riding that high like he was hopelessly addicted to the taste, drunk on the pure essence of Akutagawa. Atsushi sucked hungrily, as if he couldn't possibly get enough of the man even if his dick was halfway down his throat and his ability was intricately tied around him like a python. More than anything, he wanted Akutagawa to tie him up so that he was completely immobile to do whatever the mafioso's sick mind so pleased. It was his darkest fantasy: a forbidden garden that his sinful wandering mind would stray to when he was stuck in a boring meeting; something that he felt was so shameful he'd have to excuse himself to the restroom to dry heave and wash his face in utter shame.

And here he was, tears welling in his eyes as he was stuffed full of that forbidden fruit. Akutagawa bucked his hips forward, pushing Atsushi close. His body tensed, and his mouth contorted as he tried to suppress the broken sounds, the staccato syllables of Atsushi's name spilling out of his mouth intermingled with velvety sharp curses and moans. Atsushi felt twitching in his mouth as his throat was engulfed in sudden warmth. Akutagawa gave one final thrust. The forbidden fruit's sweet nectar slipped past his lips and down his face, a few tears slid down alongside it.

Rashomon had undone its hold on Atushi's body, intricate net-like knots and twistings releasing simultaneously as Akutagawa had orgasmed. Atsushi pulled his head back, collapsing his body into itself as Akutagawa relaxed his grip on him, hair tousled and bangs falling into his face. His breaths were shaky; Akutagawa lifted Atsushi's head up and wordlessly wiped Atsushi's chin with his thumb. Atsushi looked up, eyes wide and painfully innocent as he gazed up at Akutagawa with a look that was just begging to understand. To understand what this meant, what they were now. To understand why he was suddenly so gentle when he'd just touched Atsushi's face. To understand him, just him, in all his dizzying complexity.

"Get up."

"Huh?"

"Get up. We're leaving now." Akutagawa straightened his clothes out. He already appeared to be completely cool and composed again, save for the lingering pink flush on his cheeks.

Atsushi walked behind him almost sulkily, sliding into the passenger seat of Akutagawa's car. He stole a few glances in the dark reflection of the other man in the dark car window. Atsushi wanted to say something; desperate words bubbled up in his throat, clawing at his lips to be let out. Sighing, Atsushi leaned his head against the window. The tinted glass fogged as he breathed, watching the world pass by as Akutagawa sped down the highway.

"Akutagawa?" Atsushi asked in a small voice. He was almost embarassed of how weak he'd sounded. The mafioso only hummed in response, his eyes still fixed on the empty road.

"Did that… What did that mean?"

"I don't know," he answered coldly, almost exasperatedly. Out of the corner of his eye, Atsushi saw him nibble on the inside of his lip as he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel more times than normal.

Nakahara Chuuya was not weak. Not in any sense of the word. He was one of the youngest Port Mafia executives in the organization’s decorated history, a skilled fighter, and possessed one of the most powerful abilities currently known. He was certainly not one to be messed with.

But of course, he was still human. Mostly, anyways. 

Human. With all of the embarrassment, pitfalls, and messy vulnerabilities that come with the condition.

And that’s how the all-powerful Nakahara Chuuya had found himself reminded of his humanity: pathetically bedridden by nothing more than the flu. 

It had come on suddenly; the mildly annoying sore throat that creeped in during the evening had blossomed into a twisted amalgamation of the most irritating symptoms possible with only a night’s worth of sleep. It was truly a bummer; Chuuya hadn’t been able to sleep well before that at all for almost a week, and the one night he could only led to him waking up even worse in the morning.

Immediately upon waking up, he knew that something was wrong. His limbs felt heavy, and after lifting an arm that felt as though it was made of lead up to his forehead, Chuuya had found his skin feeling flush—feverishly hot against his ice-cold fingers. He sighed, exasperated. Of course this would happen when he least needed it to. As if his life couldn’t get any worse right now, his own body had caught in on the action. Reaching for his phone with the least possible movement he could, Chuuya swiped open the display with shaky fingers to a familiar contact.

“Hello? Chuuya-san?” a deep, monotone voice answered. 

“Akutagawa, hey,” Chuuya choked out, his voice painfully hoarse. Nasally, too. His heavy mouth breathing could definitely be heard over the line. He punctuated the greeting with a cacophony of coughing.

“Are you okay?,” his voice suddenly tensed, “is there an emergency? Where are you?”

“No, no…” Chuuya immediately reassured. The sudden reflexive response had taken a toll on his throat, it stung intensely and Chuuya’s face contorted. “I just… I need you to tell Mori that I’m out sick today.”

Akutagawa fell quiet. The only sound on both sides of the call was the buzz of static and Chuuya’s sniffles.

“That’s it?” his voice dropped, losing any hint of compassion it just had. He sounded angry, almost mocking.

Chuuya hummed in response, voice already fatigued.

“You called me at seven in the morning for… that?” Akutagawa asked, thinly veiled irateness peeking through even the gritty quality of the phone speaker. Chuuya had assumed Akutagawa would have more sympathy for him, given that the boy had his own frequent bouts of illness, but he was frigidly uncaring toward the circumstances of Chuuya’s current condition.

“Please. I really don’t think I can deal with him in this state.”

After an audible sigh from the other end, Chuuya had finally gotten a response from the boy. 

“Fine. But you owe me one,” Akutagawa muttered, hanging up the call before Chuuya could even begin to move his finger toward the red button.

Now with that matter taken care of, Chuuya finally had the blessing to spend the day at home recovering. Too sick to partake in his favorite vice, working, he settled for binge watching pointless sitcoms on his laptop. It made the time go by slightly better, the dumb jokes and repetitive plotlines blurring together into one amorphous haze as Chuuya periodically drifted in-and-out of a painful and somewhat hallucinogenic cough syrup and fever induced sleep. Two excruciating days passed, with absolutely no work done and two-going-on-three seasons of a show Chuuya couldn’t quite remember the name of under his belt. 

Chuuya hated being sick. It rarely happened, but when it did—it took its course on his body. This bout of the flu had left Chuuya helpless; shivering feverishly in delirium as hot tears, cold as they rolled down his scorching skin, filled his burning eyes. And the pain, the pain was the rotten cherry on top of the whole pile of garbage. 

Nobody in the mafia was a stranger to pain. That was just the nature of the job. But the aches that tore through Chuuya’s body were of another caliber—maybe it was just the state he was in to begin with, but the random yet constant pain in each and every inch of his body was mind-numbingly torturous. There was a base layer of dull ache that often faded into the background, but was always there to remind him when he thought the worst of it had died down. Then, the random shooting pains in random muscle groups at various parts of the day. Those were the worst, by far. Then, the headache—to be expected from the flu, but still unwelcome anyway. And finally, the burning buried deep into his core, a painful sensation lining the tubes of Chuuya’s lungs from all the violent coughing. This was second to the random muscle pains, but only by a small margin—the lung pain left Chuuya clutching at the bony wall of his chest after particularly bad coughing fits.

He didn’t even want to get started on the coughing. It could count as an exercise at this point. Chuuya was dead tired, drained and worn out from the coughing—rattling, deep, constant— that plagued him constantly. The cough medicine wasn’t very effective, neither were lozenges. And not only was his body tired of expending that much energy from the constant constricting of his chest, but his bronchial tubes, deep in the core of his body, were left in searing pain with each violent cough that pushed out of his weakened body.

How could a simple virus bring down such a man to his knees? It was a truly sick and twisted thing, the flu.

Two days had passed like that, with Chuuya spending the majority of the day agonizing in bed. As evening began to fall, Chuuya took another dosage of cold medicine for the night, before popping another cough drop as the lung pain grew unbearable. He choked down the dark liquid. Bitter and sickly sweet, it coated the membrane lining of his pharynx in such a way that he could finally suppress an oncoming cough threatening to rattle his already worn body. It was a nice relief. He lay back again, sinking his head into the head-shaped indent in his pillow, pulling the covers up as chills crashed over his feverish body like an icy wave crashing onto snowy shores. Chuuya was spent, dead tired as he drifted into sleep with a medicated ease.

In the middle of the night, Chuuya stirred awake, feeling his body freezing as he found himself shivering under layers upon layers of blankets. His throat was bone-dry—and when he tried to swallow, the little saliva that made its way down seared painfully. And his mouth had a faint aftertaste of the minty honey-lemon lozenge that had once been in his mouth when he was awake, now dissolved in his sleep. His mind felt hazy, tired from sleep and foggy from the medications he’d been choking down. Yet, he could make out wisps of sound from the foyer: someone fumbling with the front door. Finally, that familiar sound rang out in the air.

The front door had been opened.

But how? Chuuya had sworn he’d left it locked when he last came home, not to mention he always double-checked if it was locked before going to sleep. Was this another hallucination, or a legitimate threat?

Quickly, as if on instinct, Chuuya reached for the bedside table, sliding the top layer of lacquered wood on the rail. He’d opened a secret velvet-lined storage compartment. This nightstand was an amazing Facebook marketplace find, and an even better place to keep emergency weapons for situations like this. Chuuya chose a reliable pocket knife from the assortment of various small items in the compartment: an assortment of his valuables, important legal documents, a metal key on a string, a handgun, a small worn leather diary—and of course, the pocketknife. The rustling of furniture and items from Chuuya’s part had masked the sound of the footsteps getting closer and closer. They were certainly faint, as the intruder attempted to be as quiet as possible, but the creaking of Chuuya’s old floorboards had betrayed them.

The footstep sound had stopped, growing louder and louder in Chuuya’s congested ears until it had silenced. They should have been right in front of his bedroom door by now, if Chuuya’s somewhat impaired senses were to be trusted. He wanted to push himself up, and stand alongside the wall to ambush the attacker, but the adrenaline wasn’t working its usual magic. Chuuya was still bedbound by the fever, pain, and weakness that’d accompanied both. The time it’d take for him to move all his body weight would have put him in a vulnerable position. So the bed had become his fort, and he was set on defending it however he could.

After a second, the door opened quietly, although the old wood had still creaked despite the intruder’s cautiousness. Chuuya swallowed a cough away, desperately trying to keep silent. He gripped tighter to the knife, still hiding under the covers.

The side of a head peeked through the doorway, staring intensely at him—fixed onto Chuuya’s wide eyes and terrified yet determined expression peeking through the sheets. The intruder’s features couldn’t be made out in the faint lights peeking through the window from the city street below.

“Don’t come any closer if you want to live,” Chuuya warned, the threat coming out far weaker than he’d hoped. His voice was strained, gravelly—almost gone. 

After a second of silence, a voice rang out in the eerie stillness. Chuuya was convinced he had fully lost it when he heard that familiar din. This wasn’t just a fever dream—it was a fever nightmare.

“You’re awake? How unusual!” a rather cheerful voice rang out, closing the door behind them as their figure came into view. So tall. The shadows had made the slender figure look even more disproportionate. If this shadow-figure didn’t possess the one voice Chuuya was more than painfully familiar with, then he was certain it was some nightmare hallucination manifested from diphenhydramine overuse. 

Of course, seeing Dazai as a shadow lurking in the corner of his room could definitely count as a waking nightmare. 

Chuuya pulled the covers over his head, trying to keep his burning eyes closed so he could go back to sleep and hopefully end this fever dream. The fever had manifested his defected partner a couple of other times, too—amongst other things. It wasn’t the most improbable thing that this was just another episode of his brain being cooked into delirium, but for some reason this just felt so much more real than every other time.

*****

Dazai was shocked that Chuuya hadn’t replaced the locks to his apartment. He wasn’t necessarily opposed to the idea of climbing up the fire escape, as he usually did to check on his ex-partner through the window, but this saved him the trouble of climbing the often wet corrugated iron in the dark. 

But it was still kind of surprising. Chuuya wasn’t lazy, nor was he careless. After almost two years of Dazai being a traitor, Chuuya hadn’t bothered to replace the front door lock that he’d given Dazai the spare key to. And Chuuya should’ve been well aware that Dazai had possessed a spare key after all the random visits he’d received during their partnership. Plus, Chuuya had the spare key to Dazai’s apartment—he’d moved out a while ago for the Armed Detective Agency dorms, but Dazai assumed Chuuya still had the key hidden somewhere, even despite being aware that Dazai had found himself a new gig as a detective. Dazai figured he’d probably taunt or chide him about it, seeing it as a massive downgrade from the decorated position of executive in one of the most elusively notable underground organizations in not only Japan—but the world as a whole. 

Regardless, Dazai saw his still-working key as a sort of unspoken invitation. Why else would Chuuya refuse to change the lock if he didn’t still want Dazai to find his way through the front door at some point? He would never admit that kind of thing out loud with words like a normal person, Dazai figured, it was through his actions that he expressed himself—albeit cryptically.

Now, face-to-face with the man himself, Dazai found himself taken aback at the abject terror in his face as he shivered, mostly shrouded in blankets. His face bore an  expression that was clearly not mocking, not anger… but fear.

He’d heard that Chuuya was sick, but he wasn’t expecting it to be so bad that he was nowhere near in his right mind.

Dazai licked his lips, and apprehensively walked toward Chuuya. He let the little glimpse of streetlight from the window fall onto his face so that Chuuya could see that it wasn’t anyone besides his other half in the room with him. 

“Don’t you recognize me, chibi?” Dazai cooed with an irritatingly fake sympathetic tone. He was finding this amusing. Chuuya covered his ears under the blanket, curling up into a ball with the knife still grasped in his fingertips. He did, unfortunately, recognize him. Chuuya could be in a coma, and his heart rate would still go up when he’d sensed that chaotic presence in his vicinity. Of course, Dazai kept talking. “I heard from a little birdie that you were sick, and of course, I wanted to see for myself!”

Dazai crept closer, placing his tan-colored coat onto the back of Chuuya’s desk chair before sitting down on the bed. The mattress sank under his weight. Chuuya peeked, one eye peering out from the blanket. “Wh-What are you talking about?” he stopped to cough, “Who?”

“I saw some of your cute little subordinates yesterday, so I obviously was curious as to where their big important executive was,” Dazai mused, blasé about the whole deal and mockingly aggrandising when referring to Chuuya’s title.

The implication was that there was some altercation with the mafia and the agency. Chuuya understood it in some part, instinctively frowning at the thought. Yesterday should’ve been Thursday, owing to whatever lucid part of Chuuya’s mind being able to find the scraps of clarity needed to correctly remember what day it was. That meant that he would’ve been out on a deal at the port. Akutagawa had texted him that evening, mentioning how the mission had fallen through—and it was a cruel twist of the knife that irony cruelly presents itself as that right here in front of him was the culprit of the failed mission—what was supposed to be his mission—sitting pretty on the foot of his bed. Watching him in his pitiful state. Mocking him with his sarcastic words and a gaze that only barely disguised his amusement. 

Chuuya felt the weight shift closer to him on the big bed as Dazai crept closer. He curled himself under the blanket until the skin of his knees brushed up against his cheek, still shaking from how cold he felt.

“Get…” Chuuya weakly called out, “get the hell away from me.”

A coughing fit overcame him, the searing pain in his lungs only encouraging his body more, the dry coughs began to turn into wheezing until he lay back limp on the bed. Everything hurt.

“You’ve gotta stop smoking, slug. You’ve been doing it more, recently. It’s no good for you, especially with your asthma and all,” Dazai chided, his tone lighthearted; but deep down, the message was sincere. “I don’t want you dying on me anytime soon, chibi. If you’re gone, then who’s gonna be my wingman to pick up pretty ladies for a romantic double-suicide date night?”

Chuuya wanted to protest, argue back, but his mind was too tired to think of anything to retort back. Plus, he’d just end up hacking up another lung before he got out what he wanted to say. 

But Dazai was right, though. It was a bad habit he had; he’d gone from an occasional social smoker to making it a near daily ritual. Losing his partner in crime had only put more stress upon him as the number of executives available to take care of all the Port Mafia’s mountains of work had been knocked down a peg thanks to their defector dearest. The newfound vice was his solace, the momentary calm in the storm in the whirlwind of chaos and stress from his job.

But that wasn’t on Chuuya’s mind. Nowhere near it. The only thing that was processing was the immense physical discomfort coursing through his body and the disorientation of whatever waking dream was going on around him.

The worst part about fever dreams is that they always felt so painfully real, all of the distorted mirages—acid trip colors and spinning skies—could have been as realistic and detailed as a recent notable memory from just days before. Not to mention they were always about the one thing that was on your mind before you fell asleep. Chuuya had found himself, years ago, sick and falling asleep to a Minecraft playthrough, only to awake in a dream world that felt awfully real where he was trapped in a loopy, horrifically scary acid-shader version of the game. It was so oddly terrifying it turned him off of the game for months after that dream. Tonight’s dream revolving around Dazai was not unexpected, but certainly unwelcome.

Yet the rush of cold air hitting Chuuya’s skin felt real, awfully so. Dazai had pulled the blankets only slightly so he could take a look at Chuuya’s face, covered in part by Chuuya’s ice-block fingers. Dazai felt his breath catch in his throat, and he swallowed as he collected his shock. Even under the covers of darkness, it was obvious that Chuuya was seriously ill—his skin had taken a sickly pallor, and his body was covered in a glimmering sheen of sweat despite the fact that he was shivering like he was trapped outside in the middle of a snowstorm. 

Reaching out his hand, Dazai placed his fingertips on Chuuya’s forehead—pushing strands of soft hair stuck to his forehead from sweat aside. 

“My God…” Dazai’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Chuuya, you’re burning up,”  Too astounded by the sudden sensation of searing heat hitting his fingertips, he hadn’t even added a nickname or anything silly or condescending; nothing but concern was on his mind in that moment. It was no fun to banter with Chuuya when he was too incapacitated to retort.

Chuuya groaned in response. He lifted his hand limply, trying to push Dazai’s freezing digits off of his face, not able to muster up enough energy to meaningfully move them off of him. Dazai lifted his hand up off him, getting up off the bed and walking out of the room. 

Was that the last of it—of him—that Chuuya had to see tonight? Could he fall back asleep, and when he did, would he wake up in reality or trapped in another feverish nightmare? He closed his eyes, stinging from the heat burning inside his body, and placed a hand over his eyes. The cold skin making contact with his face had made his body automatically try to contort further into itself, trying to warm himself up. 

No, of course it wouldn’t be the last of him that Chuuya was going to see tonight. The door creaked open again, and the footsteps got louder until there was a person-sized mass crawling on the bed next to him. He was ruffling through a box, too. He was talking, albeit quietly. Yet every noise in the room felt annoyingly loud. Was there any part of Dazai Osamu that wasn’t obnoxious? Chuuya wondered.

Before Chuuya could answer ‘no’ to his own complaint/question, he felt cold fingertips snaking their way under his chin, pressing up against his throat. The cold stabbed into his skin, prickling and making him shiver even more. Dazai held Chuuya’s face up in the palm of his hand. His hands were so big, Chuuya’s face fit into them perfectly like two puzzle pieces conjoining into perfect alignment.

And if it couldn’t get worse, Dazai’s thumb slid up to Chuuya’s mouth, opening his pale, chapped lips slightly before he shoved something inside Chuuya’s mouth. He fiddled with the cool plastic and metal stick as he tried to get it positioned comfortably under Chuuya’s tongue. After he was satisfied with where he’d placed the thermometer, Dazai waited, unable to take his eyes off the shivering body that lay next to him.

It was an awkward silence, just Dazai’s quiet breathing and the sound of Chuuya’s labored snivelling breaths filled the air until the thermometer broke the silence with beeping. Dazai turned on the bedside lamp so he could read the number. Chuuya covered his eyes with the blanket again, the warmly dim lighting feeling overbearing on his senses.

“39.6,” Dazai recited, voice dropping into a low, monotone tone. His usual bounciness had completely deflated, being fully replaced with serious concern as he reread the numbers over and over again in his head. It was an awfully high fever.

Dazai had noticed the knife lying on the bed by Chuuya’s hand. He placed it onto the table. Then he got to work, digging through the box again to fish out a bottle of something. The shaky shaking of the little pills against the plastic walls of their container was just so loud in Chuuya’s mind. He tried to bury his head under the pillow. Dazai had noticed, muttering an apology before scurrying off the bed and out of the room again. 

It was finally quiet, although the lamp was still on. But that wasn’t that big of a concern to Chuuya, who found himself drifting back into something that was almost sleep but fell too short of the mark—delirium. An uncomfortable, surreal feeling washed over him, the room spinning around his closed eyes. Chuuya muttered something under his breath, the exact words inaudible. He wasn’t too sure what he’d said either, it had just escaped. It could have been anything: a cry for help, for mercy, a prayer, or just some exclamation of suffering. He didn’t know, and didn’t really care at this point.

Dazai had come back to the room, placing a glass or porcelain object with some heaviness to it onto the lacquered antique wood surface of the nightstand before climbing back into the bed and fiddling with that loud container of pills again.

“Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice was strangely soft as it broke the stillness of the nighttime air. If Chuuya was fully lucid right now, he’d be pissed about being patronized. But in his incapacitated state, he could only give a weary ‘ mmmh’ in response.

Dazai moved the pillow from Chuuya’s face, and supported his weight as he helped Chuuya sit up against the bedframe. Vision blurry, Chuuya watched as Dazai held up a small pill to his face.

“It’s a fever reducer and painkiller,” he explained, handing Chuuya the tiny cylinder. Chuuya looked at it, analyzing it as best he could; it seemed like generic paracetamol upon further inspection. Apprehensively placing it in his mouth with shaky fingers, Dazai grabbed the cup of water off the table, and placed it in Chuuya’s hands. 

Chuuya whimpered, the glass was so damn cold against his feverish skin. Dazai whispered apologies. Despite the discomfort, Chuuya took a sip anyway, the room-temperature water feeling like a glacial river as it coursed down his throat. It felt strange against the soreness. He wasn’t quite sure if it was a good or bad sensation.  

Placing the glass back onto the nightstand, Chuuya sank further into the shroud of blankets wrapping him. Still so cold, it would only be a matter of time before the medicine would kick in again. Chuuya shuddered, looking through a bleary gaze—watery eyes threatening to cry—at Dazai, who looked more concerned and confused than anything else.

“I’m so c-cold…” Chuuya choked out, mouthing it more than speaking. He knew what he wanted, even if subconsciously. Dazai must have understood too, turning the lights off as he slipped himself into the cocoon that covered Chuuya. He wrapped his arms around the smaller body, becoming another layer in the shroud.

Chuuya sank into his touch, pressing his face into Dazai’s chest. Despite the apparent coldness of his extremities, Dazai’s body was warm; he’d become a space heater, and Chuuya could finally stop shivering so violently once he was securely in Dazai’s embrace. It just felt good to be held like this, the solid physical form surrounding Chuuya—with his face pressed up to a wall of warm skin with a living, beating heart underneath it—it had brought a primal sense of security to him.

Dazai ran his fingers through Chuuya’s hair. It was still soft, albeit slightly tangled from a sick Chuuya neglecting it. 

He’d missed this, the closeness. The sharp contrast to being around Chuuya all the time to only catching glimpses of him on the opposite side of the street, or through his bedroom window—it was torture. It was as though he’d left half of himself behind when he’d left the mafia. If there was one thing he actually missed about that godforsaken organization, it was the short-tempered executive that’d begrudgingly never left his side. Nothing else. Nothing more. 

He’d certainly taken Chuuya and his companionship for granted, that’s for sure. That was one of his biggest regrets—even out of Dazai’s long list of regretful decisions.

It was as if Chuuya had read his mind from his touch alone, as he murmured into Dazai’s chest: “I missed you.”

Heart sinking, Dazai moved his mouth down near Chuuya’s ear, unable to help himself from leaving little butterfly kisses on the side of his neck. “I missed you too. More than you could ever imagine.”

After a second of comfortable silence, Chuuya worked up the energy to lift his face up, unexpectedly. Dazai looked down in surprise, his honey-brown eyes going wide before softening. They’d both found each other being pulled to each other without even trying to by a force that felt like gravity. Chuuya’s hot lips melted into Dazai’s, kissing him hungrily in spite of the fatigue that’d overtaken him. Dazai took in the taste of him, the faint taste of bittersweet cough syrup and the numbing buzz of honey-lemon cough drop aftertaste lingering on his tongue. It was inebriating, intoxicating—neither wanted to pull away. 

Chuuya had to break the kiss first, pulling off Dazai's face for breath and sliding back down into the comfort of his chest. He was dead tired, and the medication had finally started to kick in enough so that the fever was starting to break as his body was on the verge of giving out. He’d fallen asleep so fast that it was akin to passing out.

“Wow, chibi—you’re not half-bad looking when you’re sleeping peacefully without that awful expression that’s always on your face,” Dazai teased, brushing his fingers through the knots of Chuuya’s silky hair. “I just know you’d kill me if I was still here in the morning.” 

*****

Chuuya had woken up sweaty, hot under the layers upon layers of blankets. The wisps of early morning sunlight poured through the translucent curtains, and Chuuya blinked his tired eyes open to find himself where he’d remembered falling asleep last night. The fever had broken, and he was feeling slightly better, now—finally able to lift himself up, and rub the tiredness out of his eyes. The memory of the night’s events had flashed through his mind, and quickly dissipated like a firework; the only traces of it left in his now-clear mind was nothing more than a faint afterimage of a strange fever dream he couldn’t quite remember fully—the ash settled into nothingness, becoming one with the darkness. 

Did that really happen? Chuuya wondered, trying to salvage the scraps of memory slipping out of his mind like sand. He looked around the room; nothing seemed out of place. No tan trench coat hanging on the desk chair, no box of medicine and first aid supplies on the side of the bed, nothing. No evidence that anything out of the ordinary had happened during the nighttime. Chuuya sank back into bed, rolling his head to the side to get into a more comfortable position. The movement had felt much easier than before, his muscle aches were definitely going away—although he was still annoyingly fatigued. 

He couldn’t escape shitty Dazai, not even in his sleep.

And then it caught his eye. A glass of water on the nightstand. His stomach dropped, and a creeping feeling of uneasiness had placed a twisting, big hand on his shoulder. Chuuya didn’t remember placing it—but it was such an ordinary item. It meant nothing, he tried to assure himself. He’d placed it there himself and had just forgotten about it. 

‘It happens. It just means nothing’ , he reminded himself silently. It meant nothing. It meant nothing at all.

*****

“Kunikida-kun,” Dazai whined into the phone microphone, his bright voice sounding unusually flat.

“Good morning, Dazai,” Kunikida’s stern voice responded. He was already late to work.

Dazai coughed loudly into the microphone. Kunikida shoved the phone away from his ear, as if on instinct. Ranpo glanced over at the sudden noise before getting distracted by the happy beeping of the microwave; his breakfast was ready!

Kunikida took a deep breath, leaning against the back of his swivelly office chair as he braced himself to hear the rest of this call. He took a sip of black coffee. Bitterly hot, it was a reliable comfort on irritating mornings like this.

“Kunikida-kuuun,” Dazai began again, “I’m siiiick!”

Sighing, Kunikida opened his notebook. Flipping to a page bookmarked with a small colored tab sticking out of the page, he glanced at the writing before pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He could hear sniffling through the line.

“Dazai…” he said, sighing. “You’ve already used up all of your sick leave for the year.”

“You’re kidding,” Dazai complained, a newfound congested sound peeking through his usual tone of voice. “It’s only March!”

“Should’ve thought of that when you used up all of your leave when you weren’t actually sick.”

“Kunikida-kun is so mean!” 

“See you in…” Kunikida checked his watch, “...twenty minutes.”

★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★

It was truly a pitiful sight to behold, sitting slumped over on the bench, shuddering as sobs came choking out of his throat. The man, standing a smidge taller than six foot with his massive body with such defined musculature it was almost vulgar, had been reduced to nothing more than a pathetic emotional wreck, curled up and crying in the dingy locker room.

How ironic. 

The Heartbreak Kid had just been heartbroken.

And to make it even worse, it was by someone he wasn’t even dating.

Shawn wiped the tears from his stubbled face with the neckline of his t-shirt. Still breathing heavily, he shakily got up from the bench. Hand steady on the wall of the lockerbank, Shawn felt the shock and sadness morph into something twisted.

Anger. Red, hot, burning. It boiled in his arteries as hatred spewed from his heart, coursing through his body with each pump of the cardiac walls. The adrenaline had given him just enough raw strength so that he could swing his thick, muscular leg back. He kicked the locker hard, pain seeping into his toes. The impact had made a loud thud that echoed through the lockered walls, but there was nobody there to hear the repercussions of his anger. Although Shawn definitely regretted doing that immediately. The second he realized that he just stubbed every single one of the five toes on his left foot, he found that he was not only mad at Bret, but at himself too.

It was a text that’d done it. That nail in the coffin, the final push off the cliff. It was nothing more than a few texts, poorly punctuated and scattered with spelling errors.

Shawn should have connected the dots earlier, that his and Bret’s relationship was nothing more than what it was. That the sex and whatever came after it was nothing more than just for Bret to get off, no strings attached. That it was just friends with benefits arrangement, not that Shawn was more-than-a-friend with benefits. He was so fucking dumb deluding himself, getting his hopes up that Bret saw him as someone special. Because Shawn foolishly thought that maybe in Bret’s arms in Bret’s bed, the countless sweet-nothings that he’d whisper in Shawn’s ear each night they were together could’ve been sweet-somethings that actually meant something to him.

It was probably the brain damage from the countless concussions he’d sustained in his too-many years spent pummeling and being pummeled in the ring.

Shawn grabbed his duffel bag off the floor, placing it on the bench as he pulled a hoodie over his head. Placing his sunglasses on, hiding the puffy redness on his face from crying his eyes out, he was out of the locker room and walking down the quiet hallways. The parking lot wasn’t far. He just had to hold his composure until he got to the car. 

Step by step, Shawn kept walking as he tried to keep a stone face. He’d never felt so strongly for someone. Never for any of the women he’d slept with—nor did he ever feel this attached to anyone he’d dated, for that matter.

Bret was more than just a friend, or just a lover. He started out as a bitter rival, the sworn enemy who ended every match with him fighting for his life, even if he’d ended up winning that round. And God, did Shawn hate that guy’s guts.

That is, until a seemingly unremarkable high-end hotel room had become the backdrop of their story. 

---

Wrestlemania. The twelfth one, to be exact. It was ages ago, like coming up on almost twenty years. It was in Anaheim, and Shawn was dead tired when he got off the plane at LAX. The original plan was for a direct flight, landing nicely in Santa Ana, but things never work out that nicely. No, the weather just had to go and fuck it up for Shawn. So now it had to be rescheduled to a considerably worse alternative. After a 10 hour layover in Denver, which had one of the most frustratingly confusing floor plans an airport could have, Shawn could finally undertake the last leg of the journey. 

First class would’ve been nice. It was what he was supposed to get on the direct flight, anyway. 

Instead, he’d ended up, middle seat in the depths of the economy section. Of course, no plane trip was complete without a baby screaming its head off for the whole thing, and this jet’s baby just had to be located right behind Shawn’s seat.

Finally able to get out of that tin can, Shawn’s last hurdle was an hour-long shuttle ride from LA to Anaheim. Just what he needed. 

Finally departing at the hotel, Shawn checked in and began his final journey up to the presidential suite. Waiting on the elevator, Shawn checked himself out in the decorative mirror that hung on the wall above an antique wooden table with golden adornments and a vase full of fresh flowers resting on it. 

Oh god, he looked awful. Thanks to that baby and the godawful economy seats, Shawn looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Not to mention that his long hair was so messy it started to mat in the back; his pretty golden-brown loose ringlets were all deformed and greasy. Not to mention how disheveled he looked by now: the low ponytail he’d put it up had almost come out, too; and he’d worn some ratty sweats and an old t-shirt here too. He most definitely looked like a hobo when he stepped foot inside this fancy hotel, looking more at place in a Holiday Inn or a scrappy Motel-6—but the looks that the snooty rich patrons of this lavish lodging were giving him meant that they probably thought he’d be right at home sleeping under a cardboard box in a dirty alleyway. 

Shawn pushed his lower lip up, into a sort of scowl and smirk. What’d those rich classy fucks know about him, anyway? The paycheck he was going to receive after this Wrestlemania was going to have more zeroes than they’d ever seen in their god-damned pathetic lives. It was truly fuck-you money in the most literal sense of the term. Not to mention that he was going to be on live TV, whole nations of adoring fans in his fingertips; they would cheer for him, look up to him, all because they loved him. That’s what mattered more than stupid shit, like looking ‘presentable’ to idiots that had more balance in their bank accounts than sense in their heads.

Finally, the elevator comes down to the ground floor. With a ding, a crowd of designer people in designer clothing flood out, giving Shawn nasty looks as they walk past him. When they dissipate, Shawn could finally get into the elevator. Sighing as the door closed on him, alone, he leaned against the marble wall and gold-plated stainless steel railing. His head spun as the elevator rose, body swaying slightly like a pendulum of muscle. 

He used the last of his remaining strength to walk up to the room door, and unlock it. Plopping down his bag, Shawn wasted no time getting to look at the lavishly decorated room before he beelined it to the bathroom. He needed a shower like the water coming from the faucet was vital oxygen. He’d get some clothes once he was out of the shower. That just wasn’t his problem, right now. Plus, he was going to be alone in the hotel room, anyway. He could walk out naked if he really wanted, it wouldn’t be a problem.

Fiddling with the unnecessarily complicated shower, Shawn just pulled random levers until he could get a steady stream of hot water coming out of the showerhead. Stripping down until he was bare, the exposed tan skin of his body exposed to the warm, steamy air, Shawn stretched out a little before he stepped through the grand glass shower door.

The hot water felt heavenly as it flowed down his skin, releasing the tension in his muscles. Steam fogged up the air, frosting the mirror. Letting it wash over his head, Shawn pumped out a handful of shampoo. He spread the milky pink liquid through his wet hair, the smell filling the air. It smelled generically ‘clean’, but had a faint base note of cherry almond. His hair felt like silk in his hands as he rinsed the shampoo out, softening up even further into a buttery soft flowing river of dark golden strands as he added the conditioner in. 

Feeling himself begin to fully relax for the first time in over twenty-four hours, Shawn thought about what he was going to do next. Definitely sleep. Room service in bed—while watching TV—before that though. There was definitely going to be a huge bed with a billion pillows, a plush yet supportive mattress, and a soft comforter all waiting for him behind the door. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it yet, but he knew deep down that this was gonna be a good night.

If only he was right. If only his hope had manifested itself a little harder, then maybe there was a chance he could actually have had a relaxing night.

When he’d had his fill of the jets of hot water soaking his body in warmth, the suds all long gone down the drain, Shawn turned the shower off. He grabbed a clean towel off the towel warmer, covering himself in the warm and soft material as he wiped his body to an acceptably dry state.

He opened the door, towel tied loosely around his hips, the bones sticking out nicely with the ridges of muscle breaking up the smooth surface of his skin. The air in the rest of the hotel room was considerably cooler than in the bathroom. It made the water dripping down his torso grow cold.

Of course, the real shiver that was cascading down his spine was caused by… something else. 

Someone else.

In his hotel room, in his bed.

Shawn’s jaw went slack, staring daggers at the man longing in his bed; the guy on the bed was also looking at Shawn back, albeit his expression read more amused than mad.

“Is that… Oh my god. Bret?! What the fuck are you doing here? Get out of my room!” Shawn spat. 

“Well actually—it’s my room, too,” Bret mused casually, completely unaffected by the anger radiating from Shawn. “So did they forget to tell you… or…? Oh wow. That’s bad… Even for them… Anyways, we’ve gotta share now. The whole plane delay thing: it was a total mess. Well, I’m not too surprised they forgot to tell you in all the chaos, though.”

Shawn frowned, scrunching up his nose. “I don’t believe you.”

“I can call management. I’m not shitting you. That’d just be mean; plus, you look so cute right now, with your wet hair and your face all confused—I just can’t bring myself to be mean to someone so adorable.”

Bret had a way to make Shawn feel like shit with all the condescending he did. It was infuriating. Shawn wanted to beat the shit out of Bret right now until the pristine white bedsheets were stained red by Bret’s blood. But he’d just have to wait until their match.

Speaking of the bed, the presidential suite only appeared to have one bed—and Shawn was really not interested in going to sleep on the couch tonight. Not after such a shitty day of traveling. 

Oh right. The other glaring issue: Shawn was totally naked under the towel, and he hadn’t even begun to unpack.

Noticing Shawn eyeing his unopened suitcase, Bret took initiative to be condescending again. “You haven’t unpacked? Tsk tsk.”

“What’s your problem, man? Just shut up and leave the room or something while I find a change of clothes. Don’t make it weird.”

They’d shared locker rooms for almost a decade. They’d been undressed in the same vicinity countless times, and had seen each other in various states of undress semi-regularly for years—but this was just… fundamentally different. 

Shawn felt more vulnerable now as Bret, lounging fully clothed on the bed, eyed his dripping body like a tiger stalking its prey; that asshole wasn’t gonna let this go for years. 

Bret sighed, combing a hand through his brown hair as he got down off the bed. He was wearing a half-unbuttoned dress shirt and boxers, his defined chest peeking through. It was a bizarre outfit for sure. But the weirdest part was that Bret went to the dresser and dug through it, finding a t-shirt, pair of sweatpants, and boxers. He walked straight up to Shawn, standing at eye-level with him, almost uncomfortably close. Shawn could smell the same familiar cologne Bret had been loyally spritzing on himself for a better part of ten years, and Bret could definitely smell the generic hotel shower gel and conditioner on Shawn. Bret swore he noticed Shawn’s nostrils flare when he got close.

Bret placed the bundle of clothing into Shawn’s arms. Shawn looked at him perplexed. Was this a rare act of kindness, or was there some sort of ulterior motive?

“It’s fine, you don’t have to give me your clothes. I can just dig through my suitcase and find something,” Shawn murmured awkwardly. 

“Don’t worry about unpacking tonight. You’ve had a long day,” Bret placed his hand on Shawn’s shoulder. Warm, dry, calloused. Shawn didn’t move away from the touch. “Just relax, then you can unpack after. You need to save your energy for our match.”

“Oh, thanks,” Shawn answered, flustered. “That’s really nice of you, actually.”

It was too nice. It was weird. Bret had always been the one to mess with him—hiding his clothes when he’d come out of the locker room showers later than Bret, and pulling any other practical joke he could come up with. So why—when given a golden opportunity like this—would Bret Hart, of all people, choose to play nice right now?

Shawn made his way back inside the bathroom. After shutting the door, locking himself inside with all the remaining steam and water condensation on the tiled surface, he slipped the clothes on. Bret’s clothes fit him perfectly, slightly less loose than they typically would fit on the other man, but still comfortable and reasonably sized. Shawn could only hope there wasn’t anthrax, or something like that, hidden in the folds of the fabric.

But weirdly enough, it was just fine. And the whole evening was spent being “just fine”. There was room service ordered and quietly eaten as Bret and Shawn silently kept to themselves on opposite sides of the room, watching various sitcoms airing on some random channel that night.

Shawn was the first to fall asleep. He lay unconscious on the loveseat, head resting at an awkward angle on the armrest. Inevitably, that was gonna hurt in the morning. Or before that, anyway. Shawn woke up a few hours later, his view of the digital clock blurry, but the first number was comfortably in the two-digits, so he could assume it was late but not too late. The lamplight on Bret’s side of the room was still on. Bleary-eyed and absentmindedly, Shawn hobbled his way over to the bed, clutching the blanket that’d been somehow draped over him while he was asleep and climbing onto the mattress.

Bret looked over to the ruffling of the bedsheets next to him.

“Was the couch uncomfortable?” he asked, his tone thick with concern so poorly feigned that it was uncomfortably obvious he was just being a dick. Shawn grunted in response, rubbing his eyes to look at Bret holding a small paperback in his big hands, glasses resting on his sloped nose bridge.

“The bed is massive, even for two people. Can you just put a pillow down the middle and call it a night. Good compromise? I’m too tired to deal with you right now.”

Bret placed his book down on the table, not taking any care to mark the page he was on. He certainly looked different with the glasses. They made him look nicer than he actually was. How cruelly deceptive.

“Good idea,” Bret mumbled, taking a long pillow out from behind him and placing it down between the two of them. “Goodnight, I guess.” He mumbled, tugging the lamp chain down, engulfing the room in darkness.

Shawn woke up, sunlight streaming through the big curtained penthouse windows, although he hadn’t actually opened his eyes yet. He was lucid, barely. The pillow he’d slept on was warm from his body heat, and nicely firm. It was way better than the old abominations he’d been procrastinating on replacing at home. That is, until he actually opened his eyes and all he saw was Bret Hart and that man’s massive body in his field of view. 

Shawn reflexively tried to jump back, horrified at the idea that he, Shawn Michaels, had found himself doing this weird nasty bullshit. Let alone, with another man. And to make it worse, it wasn’t just any man: it was Bret fucking Hart!

Of course, Shawn couldn’t escape the sins of his unconscious body that easily. Bret’s arm put Shawn’s head in a chokehold, bringing Shawn’s body crashing back down onto Bret’s warm skin. Bret was still deep in sleep. He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing right now, but his conviction seemed strong even subconsciously—Shawn was struggling to get out of this grip.

Bret mumbled something, and Shawn went quiet when he realized that he was actually saying words:

“Don’t go…” he mumbled, pulling Shawn even tighter. Shawn struggled to fill his lungs with air as he pressed up further against the walls of Bret’s muscled chest. “Don’t leave me, Shawn.”

Shawn’s blood ran cold, his heart rate going through the roof. If Bret wasn’t apparently asleep right now, he could definitely feel it through the walls of bone and muscle that separated Shawn from becoming one with Bret.

That’s how it started. A terrible mix up that led to nothing but heartbreak. A ten-something year love affair that left Shawn feeling more alone than ever. It brought him comfort to think about the fact that Bret had fallen first—but it only made him sick to his stomach to then remember that he’d fallen harder, way after Bret’d moved on, too.