#evermore writes

"Chuuya can I talk to you"

Murase had taken Chuuya in almost a month ago, the teen adjusted surprisingly quickly from his old mafia lifestyle to a new domestic one. Aside from finding it dull sometimes.

Murase knew Chuuya was a child raised in bloodshed, he'd always crave it But this wasn't about that. (im adding more here)

"What is it?" Is the response he gets.

Snappy and blunt, Chuuya always was with adults. It was rude of course but his sentences got straight to the point and held a respectable honesty.

They could work on it together later, not now though. This was much more important.

For a moment Chuuya stares at him.

Tired eyes and red hair, freckles and scars.

A child who needed to grow to survive.

God, and Chuuya was a child.

He's sixteen and Murase has to sit him down and explain to him why he shouldn't sleep with people twice his age.

Its nauseating to say the least.

Murase stands up and moves past chuuya leading him into the living room. His hands are trembling as he sits opposite to the boy.

"Chuuya-" He starts. "I'm sure.. you know what this is about."

The boy in front of him isn't the one he dragged from the mafia, nor is it the starved desperate boy he saw in a photo a year ago at his station.

Chuuya isn't an up-and-coming Mafioso any more and he's certainly not a kid trying to keep the only form of identity he has close with desperate famished hands, he's a child plucked from a war and placed in a warm home trying his hardest to adapt like he always had. Except for once he's not adapting to some new threat or danger.

So of course Chuuya doesn't know how to act right yet.

Of course Chuuya would have looked for any affection he could on those streets. Any validation he could in the mafia.

Of course those habits wouldn't just vanish.

Of course just like Chuuya still holds his body like a gun ready to fire he'd still hold his tenderness like a cheap reward.

Murase puts his hands on his lap.

Where Chuuya can see them, they have to be in his sight because if not they could be wrapped around the grip of a gun, or the hilt of a knife or any other weapon he could win against but hopefully doesn't want to.

For if Chuuya doesn't want to fight it could mean maybe the smallest part of him has become attached to the detective and maybe a smaller part of him doesn't want to let that go.

There's light in the living room. Covering every object, every inch of the room.

Fingers pushing into his hips, teeth on his lips hands under his shirt, a tongue down his throat.

Anything, everything and nothing all at once. Cigarette smoke and rubber. Warm eyes. Watching eyes.

Touch and pleasure.

Pain.

Things Chuuya lived for, things he equally needed to live.

Little acts of humanity and life to cement himself as another person walking among people.

Little things he needed to feel like a person at all.

Affection he craved.

Human connection.

An ache in his limbs, bruises on his skin, fog in his mind, small bits of love scattered on his body, someone did that to him, someone wanted him, anyone wanted him and then anyone wanted to leave a sign behind.

Adults didn't watch unruly kids and they certainly didn't care for them, didn't give them attention, affection or love. Well Chuuya was an unruly kid so he got ignored too. Tossed into the endless sinking pile of children with circumstances that left them lacking, lonely, vulnerable and pathetic.

But adults liked sex, liked to look and feel. Liked to watch and teach.

Unruly kids didn't get love but pretty ones did.

Tossed into a mattress sinking into the sheets. Pushed against a wall sinking into hands. Being complimented being cherished. Drowning in it all.

Chuuya knew everything about love at the age of 15. He knew how it felt, how it tasted, how he could use it. And in the mafia love was no different to the streets, dispensable for service, a tool to use, something to finish a mission. Some way to recover his mind.

He can't admit any dependance on it, because he doesn't have one. things like dependency and addiction made you weak. things like dependency and addiction would leave you as just another body on the floor of Suribachi's streets.

Not yet a corpse but far from alive and further from useful.

He didn't need to feel useful either. because need bled into want and want led to indulgence and indulgence fed into dependency and dependency turns to addiction and addiction ended on the streets of suribachi half dead and useless and Chuuya chose willingly to ignore the cycle in that sentiment.

Dazai, He soon realised however, knew nothing about love. He went as far as to bandage wrap himself, limiting contact. Keeping himself locked away.

Chuuya didn't understand and he didn't care either.

Dazai was weird and nothing but an obstacle in his life and if Dazai didn't need love in his edgy plate of requirements then he wouldn't get it.

But dazai in his entirety basked in over indulgence, and by the pipeline found himself privy to uselessness to. which was fine.

Chuuya could do things by himself, he can do them by himself he has before and he will undoubtedly again.

Chuuya doesn't care. him and Dazai clash all the time it's no wonder they would have different opinions on something as basic and human as this.