E PERDONERAI.

The gallery was always vacant come this time of day.

It was the point of the evening where dusk and night collided in a burst of vivid oranges and violet splattered against the sky. People flooded into nearby train stations to commute from a long shift at work, all with their own stories, someone dear waiting for their return.

Perhaps that was why nobody sat on the bench beside the only spectator of this particular piece as he contemplated on its beauty. The pale white wall behind its canvas threw the whole painting into awe-inspiring focus.

THE LAMENT FOR ICARUS Herbert J. Draper Oil on canvas, 1898

"Beautiful piece," His sudden company mused when he took a seat near the edge of the bench. "Isn't it?"

Dazai Osamu didn't take his eyes away from the painting when he answered, voice light, "It is. A heart-breaking story painted so magnificently."

"Perhaps that's why it has a whole wall to itself."

"I wonder . . . "

Dazai turned to regard the stranger at his side. A poor description; no one was really a stranger to him in Yokohama. Except, this immaculate man who wore a suit of white and had hair akin to an ebony waterfall was no man regular to this city.

"You surely have come a long way to admire the artwork." He said to him through a lopsided grin.

The stranger mirrored his smile; a mischievous little upturn of his lips that hid everything he was feeling. "For a masterpiece like this? Why, I'd walk the globe to see it."

"Even for a facsimile? I hear the original is on display in Britain."

"And I heard the exhibition in Yokohama was truly an experience." Was the stranger's enigmatic reply.

"The Lament for Icarus," Dazai began to recount what he knew of the story. "A tale of a captured son and his father. In order to escape, the father came up with the idea to create wings of feathers and wax. Although he warned his son not to fly too close to the sun as they escaped, the son could not help his wonder," A pause. Heavy with thought. "Icarus flew too close to the sun despite his father's warning and suffered the consequences for it. His wings of wax melted into a heap that could no longer hold his weight any more, and he went plummeting to the earth."

"A sad story." His company commented.

"A moral which teaches human beings not to spoil righteousness with what they have, by desiring what they have not."

"Is that what you think?" The man asked him. His eyes were a bottomless colour of deep brown—so deep they almost looked black, when he turned around to Dazai with an urging hum. "I think of it as a love story."

Dazai's eyebrow raised. "Oh?"

"Icarus was so enthralled by the sight of the sun that he ignored his father's warnings and flew too close," The stranger's voice dipped, as if speaking about something grave. "His wings of wax were no match for the heat, but he did so, any way. Pushing closer until it eventually led to his end."

Dazai continued to regard the man by his side. He had an aura of mystery and an accent thick with routes of the west. "A love story doomed to calamity, hmm? How awful it is to be fallen for, then."

A pregnant moment. Then, a spark, an unsheathing of the metaphorical blade.

"I am no man to question another's limits when it comes to following their interests, but the art of Yokohama is not why you came here," The stranger steered his attention away from the art when Dazai said the next words slowly, "Respected Guild Member, Robert Frost."

"Are you always so sure of yourself?" The man; Frost, asked him, but there was a tremor in his voice that spoke of hidden amusement.

"No human is sure of themselves," Dazai mused. "But have the capability to convince themselves that they are."

"You speak as if you are not a human being."

"Now, that is a funny observation."

The painting depicted a grand angel with wings of burnt orange and brown, laying in the arms of those who sung his heart-breaking lament as he was swept away to the underworld. Quiet hung thick in the air; simply two men who didn't have the highest opinion of each other to an innocent by-stander. But the conversation was already taking place. One which used the shattering silence as its catalyst.

"Why [Name]?" Dazai asked him after a long moment. "Surely, the Guild can execute their plan using Atsushi-kun alone. A woman with an uncontrollable ability is bound to be too messy, even for you, to ensue chaos on the city."

"Ah, so that mind of yours is wicked, after all." Frost said through a breath of peculiar awe. "Is it difficult? To be cursed with such knowledge?"

Dazai chuckled at the question, parrying. The twinkle left his eyes, turning them a matte coffee under the sparkling gallery lights. "The mind is a curse. I would have thought the Guild had their fill placing a bounty over the head of Atsushi-kun. And now they wish to take yet another member of the Agency into their ranks. Allure for broken things is not their style," A pause. Realisation suddenly crackled in his mind. "Unless an operative of the Guild is not acting on standard protocol?"

Frost's hands, hidden behind gloves of white, came up in an open gesture of defeat. "You were not the first to break lovely [Name] out of my ability for no reason. Indeed, I sought her out purely on my own accord. The rumours of the lady with a broken ability were just too attractive not to buy into."

"That doesn't seem to be the case," Dazai cut him off with a lazy shrug of his shoulders. "While I do accredit those who would travel the world for something they are interested in, travelling all the way to a foreign land relying on a simple rumour is not a risk the Guild would take." Frost looked to him, and when he did, he noticed that the colour of the Agent's hair was rather similar to those painted on the angel laying dead in the picture. Dazai lifted a hand hidden in bandages and traced something in the air, as if drawing his incomprehensible thoughts into focus. "No. It is not a risk someone attempting to stop the Guild would take."

At that, the pinpoint accuracy he has said those words in, emotion betrayed the cracks of Frost's face. Dark eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Well, you would be no fun trapped in my ability!" He said through a disbelieved scoff. "It would be over before I even blink."

"Are you complimenting me?" Dazai chuckled. His eyes had tugged at the sides when he smiled. An unreadable one that could hold a light to Frost's own.

"You told me that the mind is a curse." Frost pushed.

"It is. And yet, it is that curse which will come together and fight to protect this city. It is also that curse which wonders why you have decided to betray your organisation, and why you believe our [Name] could be the one to stop them."

Frost turned away from Dazai's coy smile to admire the painting, suddenly contemplative under a passive expression.

"The Guild was magnificent, once," He reminisced, his mind drifting to someplace far away. "An organisation that promised of community and prosperity. That was why many of us were attracted to its membership in the first place. And then," Frost paused, eyes fluttering to the top of the staff he carried. "It was cursed. With ideas of greed and calamity. It's magnificence dulled by the want for power, territory and mostly—for prized trinkets."

"Prized trinkets." Dazai repeated, turning back to the painting. "Is Atsushi-kun what they think of as a prized trinket? Miss [Name], too?"

"No, but the city in which they live in is. At least, according to our Leader. And in order to obtain such a trinket, one must eradicate the forces that protect it."

"Ah, so pit the Armed Detective Agency against the Port Mafia in order to remove both organisations from the city?" Dazai's voice had an airy, impressed tone. "It's not bad."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it is what I would have done."

"During your time as a Port Mafia Executive, I'm sure."

Slowly, Dazai turned back to look at the man sitting next to him. The stranger to Yokohama who dropped by uninvited. Frost didn't take his gaze away from the artwork to see the dangerously probing look Dazai had to his eyes. Instead, his lips lifted into a smile.

"My ability, Mountain Interval, shows people the lives that they could have lived. Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?" Frost didn't give Dazai a breath to answer. "Everyone makes choices. But nobody knows what choices have the capability to change their entire fate. And when somebody is trapped in Mountain Interval, it is as if they are living a completely different life to the life they would have lived if they didn't make that choice. Of course, the only way to break Mountain Interval, is to realise what choice that was."

Quiet. Perilous, teeth-baring. Frost took delight in the way Dazai's body had gone completely still with realisation, and went on.

"Through a probability of fate, lovely [Name] found herself assigned to a board of Port Mafia Executives in the middle of a perilous mission for wealth. It took her quite some time to figure out what choice she had made in order to bring her there. Although," Finally, his attention drifted from the piece to look directly at Dazai. "I'm sure you have already guessed what that choice was within the second I spoke of it. As, at the heart of it all, there seems to be you."

If Dazai did come to guess what choice his subordinate had made trapped in a world that showed her his Port Mafia past, he didn't show it. He didn't show any emotion on his face as he turned to look ahead and went silent. He looked just like he did when Frost approached him before they had this conversation—all the secrets of the world locked up in his head and his emotions so tightly restrained it was inhuman.

Frost wondered, just for a second, as he regarded the enigmatic Agent of the Armed Detective Agency, if there was a person in this world that he would let the reins on those emotions loose for. If the woman he had trapped in his Ability could ever have the possibility to be that important to him.

"Perhaps the leader of the Guild is akin to Icarus," Dazai suddenly said when Frost moved to get up. "Yokohama is the sun he can't have, but he'll attempt to fly towards it, any way. Casting the entire organisation into flames amidst the process."

Frost cocked a brow from where he stood; a step or two away from the bench. "You say humans are never sure of themselves, but you speak as if you are."

"And you say you would like to betray your organisation, but there is a vacant look to your eyes that tell me good is not the only thing you wish to do."

The conversation ended at the final tone in Dazai's voice. Frost closed his eyes and began to walk away—the sound of his shuffling steps and the constant clicking of his walking stick echoing against the walls of the gallery.

"I was pleased to meet you here, Dazai Osamu. Give my respects to lovely [Name]," Then, right before he exited the place through the quiet automatic doors, he promised, "I do hope I meet her again, very soon!"

The sound of his staff reduced to nothing and Dazai Osamu was once again, alone in the gallery. Nothing save for the silence that made his mind all the more deafening and the haunting angel-song of the painting that whispered throughout the air.

If someone were to tell you, days before your world was thrown upside down, that you would be relieved to be in the middle of the mess that was Dazai Osamu’s apartment, you would have laughed straight in their face. But now here you were, admiring the dust against his table-tops, the blinds you took an entire afternoon of your life to put back together and the empty mackerel tins like you had just stepped into a small corner of heaven.

Because you were home. This was your home. Every crack in the floorboards and dirty coffee cups were a reminder of the man that you shared it with.

But after what you had saw—that Ability Guild Member Robert Frost trapped you inside . . .

You grumbled, shutting your eyes as if to dull an ache, and sunk into the hot water a bit more. He had a deep bath in his apartment, which was one of the few things you were grateful for amidst all the clutter. Bunking with your colleague was not easy. Bunking with your colleague who you were unrequitedly in love with was definitely not easy—but there were reprieves. The warm water seeped into your muscles and threatened to send you to sleep as you tilted your head back, thinking.

Dazai should be back soon. He had promised not to leave for too long, heading out to do God knows what on a Sunday afternoon. You were wise not to keep tabs on your superior's endeavours—but the way you reacted when he shrugged on his jacket; the short stab of panic through your chest. You had not expected it, but he had seen it. And the way his eyes twinkled with mirth told you he thought you were finally putting you both out of your misery and inviting him to bed.

If only he knew, what you had saw. What you knew. Taste the panic on your tongue that screamed at you when he wasn’t there; what if he leaves, this Dazai Osamu you were falling so hard for, and you were back in that Ability? That you hadn’t really broken out, after all?

Business with a mysterious individual. I won't be too long, Dazai brushed you off before spinning on his heel and out the door.

A Port Mafia Executive.

Dazai Osamu was a ruthless Port Mafia Executive before he crossed paths with you.

It was the fact that took all of your attention. Of course it did, because it was the most startling. There were a lot of things you thought Dazai worked as before coming to the Agency, but hell—the Agency's enemy never dared to cross your mind. And you hadn't been able to tell him, were afraid. There wasn't really a fitting way that you could drop a bomb like that in the middle of a conversation and not expect it to explode back up in your face. But the more this information sat on your shoulders, the more it threatened to eat you whole with a burning need to know.

You couldn’t even tell him you were in love with him—how the hell were you meant to tell him that?

You placed your arms back into the water with a sigh. What were you meant to do with this? Some of it was so surprising that you weren't aware of how important it could be; Yosano, with a tether to the Port Mafia's Boss; Chuuya, with an ability he couldn't control and the possible key to yours; Dazai, with a life you wanted to believe wasn't a part of him, any more. You were still in the process of digesting it that you hadn't even thought about how to act, let alone who to speak to, first. Or why the city you called home somehow felt foreboding all of a sudden.

As if shadows lurked in the walls and waited to come out. Or, as if an evil bigger than all of you loomed at the horizon and threatened to throw the city into upheaved terror.

You didn't have the chance to be swept up by the sea of your overthinking—a distraction barged into the bathroom, uninvited.

Quite literally.

A startled gasp bubbled from your throat when Dazai closed the door behind him and turned around. You didn’t even hear him come in!—he always did walk with those weightless steps, erasing himself from existence everywhere he went. But now, standing there, he was a calamity. Something was swelling beneath the surface, you could tell, but your shock won out first, quickly chased by hot mortification.

“Oh my God—Dazai!” You shrieked, dipping down into the water so it reached your burning cheeks. “What the fuck!”

He didn't answer you, which gave you immediate warning signals that something was wrong, very wrong. His eyes held you for a moment; flickered to the bath you were attempting to sink into as far as you could with your arms clamped against your chest, thinking.

His thinking stopped when he came to a decision and started shedding his coat off of his shoulders.

"What the fuck are you—?" You watched as he bent to take off his shoes. Anticipation and nerves were a punching force in your throat. "Dazai." No answer as he attacked his other lace. You barked his name, "Osamu!”

He finally looked up to you after throwing his shoes somewhere without a care in the world.

"Hmm? I'm undressing to take a bath." Both hands came to undo his waistcoat when he straightened, his fingers making quick work of the buttons holding it in place. "What do you think I'm doing, love?”

Love. Red washed over your skin at the two ideas attacking your mind right then, all at once. One; seeing Dazai—your superior, your roommate, the man of your most intimate desires—without his clothes on, and two; having you—hopeless romantic, desperately pining—with him in a small bathtub where you also don’t have your clothes on.

Fucking say something!

"N-No," You said, but your voice was a little strained. Dazai locked eyes with you as he undone the first button of his shirt, and you had to fight before the intense deep brown of them drowned you whole. "No, no, no!”

"No?" He opened another button. "Whatever do you mean?"

The part of you that roiled in bed at night, imagining your fluttering fingers on your body as his own was screaming at you. It was begging you to let him join, to see all of that clothed skin you craved so desperately, to explore it wet and bare. But this was so quick, so out of the blue. You had been in love with this man for months; you weren’t ready for something to happen so suddenly. There was something wrong. You knew your superior a lot better than he gave you credit for—and that unhinged emotion in his eyes you couldn’t place, it frightened you. For him.

“What the hell is your problem? You’re not getting into the bath with me!” You protested, but your mouth was dry and it came out a little weaker than you would have liked.

Suddenly, his fingers paused on the third button of his shirt at your denial. "Are you saying that you won't let me bathe with you if I remove all of my clothes?"

Love. Remove all of his clothes. Your heart was slamming against your ribcage. “Yes! Get out!”

Three quick steps that you only had to blink to miss and he was already at the edge of the bath and swinging his leg into the water.

What is he—! You shrieked his name, but he didn't heed. Not until he took both of his legs that still had his pants on, for God's sake, and sat in the water on the other side of the bath. Liquid sloshed over the sides at the added weight. He adjusted himself—legs awkwardly shoved beside your body that you plastered against the bath wall and arms on each ledge.

You were so speechless that it took you a moment to find any coherent words.

And they were;

"Are you nuts?!"

He grinned. It was oddly forced, only you could notice. "Rude. What do you think?"

"You just," Your eyebrows crashed together, eyes flying from his face to his body rapidly. Anger and shock kept ebbing on the surface of your face—neither one staying for long enough. “You just—what the hell, you're still in your clothes."

"You told me that you would not let me in if I had no clothes on," He rested his head against the back of the bath. His neck muscles moved underneath his bandages when he drawled, "But said nothing against me having them on."

You tried to meld yourself against the cold ledge, snarling. Stupid brunet and his talent to reason himself to correction, every single time. You hated him, you loved him; they eddy together into a colour you can’t explain. Part of you wants to give him a kick and scream bloody murder—how dare he invade your privacy so obtusely? But that other part; that damned complicated part, it somehow relaxed at the thought of your superior seeing you this vulnerable. As if the leap in your relationship would open some metaphorical new door.

Stupid girl—what was he even doing, really? Trying to kill you? Is that what he was doing?

"I had an interesting meeting today," He suddenly spoke up, his voice tight and blunt. Less musical than you know him for. "We shared a similar appreciation in art."

"Did you?" You asked him, your own voice so embarrassed it was hoarse. "Did he tell you to try and ruin the bath of the closest woman you could find, too?"

"No, but he did tell me a peculiar story of a woman he trapped in his Ability—of a life she could have possibly lived."

Snared.

Caught.

He knew.

You cleared your throat, taking a moment to form the words, “He didn't happen to have two soul-sucking eyes, a white suit and a bird sitting on top of his head, did he?"

"The suit and eyes? Yes. The bird?" Dazai raised a brow. "Unfortunately, no."

"Damn. The bird was the only redeeming thing about him," You muttered. Then, took a deep breath. "Dazai, I was going to tell you—"

"Were you?" He sang, but it wasn’t playful, it was the start of a lament.

“I just didn't know how—"

"Were you scared?"

It was enough to force your own words back into your mouth, the way he had said such a thing. It was like a whip, quick and impactful.

Were you scared?

Of me?

It suddenly fell into place.

The urgency, the barging in uninvited, the dark storm underneath the surface of his composed expression. He was always the joker—he wore a smile so bright it was too perfect to be real when he teased Atsushi during work hours or flirted with the waitress in the Agency Café. But you could see the fissures, you always picked out the tells he thought no one else could. And this little episode of his, it wasn’t you he should be asking that question to.

It was him.

He was scared—under all that bravado. Your superior was scared of what you had saw in an Ability world which showed you his past. What life would have been in the present if he had stayed with the Port Mafia; how cruel and wicked and empty he would have become, because of it.

It broke you. It emboldened you, all at once.

Slosh, slosh.

Dazai felt the water shift, lapping up against the sides. Rarely did the man not know what he was doing. His mind was honed like a whip, a dangerous blade, once used to destroy and decimate. But you knew— you had been shown who he really was by that Ability. He had never meant to keep his crimes from you—but, perhaps, he had grown comfortable. With the snide comments, the gentle jabs, the drinks you shared from his dirty glasses.

He had grown comfortable to the peace of you—you stilled his mind, you made him forget.

But now, the little charade was up. You had seen how broken and dirty he was. You’d throw him away like everybody else; a filthy, too-used rag.

Slosh, the water moved again, but this time with added weight. Then, a presence, a warmth. Dazai’s eyes flickered open, only to dart to your hands suddenly outstretched—reaching for him. They didn’t stop and he didn’t make any moves to deter them, letting you shift closer until both your hands rested on his damp shoulders.

You were moving towards him in the bath. Overcome with the desire to touch him, to ground him. It was entirely not like you and borderline mad to lift your body out from the water, to show this man your most vulnerable state when you swore you’d always keep this love for him buried, never to be said. And yet, you found yourself willing to do anything to make him smile, to reassure him that he wasn’t the mirage you saw—that you knew he had become a new man, a better man.

You were in too deep, already.

Dazai’s unreadable eyes darted to yours when you moved to straddle him underneath the water; soft skin against his wet clothes. They held questions, so many questions, the light twinkled back into them a little bit more.

You worried your lip between your teeth and his eyes flickered down, fixated there.

Maybe he was in too deep already, too.

“I don’t think,” You whispered, voice low and feathery. Fingers curled into his wet shirt. “I don’t think I could ever be afraid of you, Osamu.”

Osamu. He stared at you, and stared, and stared. As if looking at an art piece from the gallery, as if you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He didn’t let his eyes fall lower to your naked torso, nor did he bring his hands to cradle your hips as you sat in his lap.

He had to know. “What if I said you should be?”

You quirked a small ghostly grin. “. . . Then I’d say, when have I ever taken orders from you, my shitty superior?”

He couldn’t understand you—he never could, right from the day you took your entrance exam. Dazai couldn’t predict how you thought. Perhaps, that’s what made you so exhilarating, like an honest breath of fresh air. He felt the anxiety ease in his chest; the embers stayed, glowing, ready to consume him. But your fingers held onto his shoulders so tightly and your eyes wouldn’t stray from his own no matter how red your cheeks had become.

Right now, he didn’t ask questions.

Slosh. He swayed his body forward, completely on instinct.

And stopped, right before your lips—letting you pull away, asking, begging. Dazai could feel how your breathing hitched so softly, coming out in puffs of air against his mouth.

"You do not want me." He said, and it almost shattered your naked heart. His eyes were hooded and heavy. "Do not be fooled; that person you saw, he is still with me. I am still him. Nothing can erase the stains on my soul."

Your hands moved from his shoulders to fist into the hair on his temples. "You are not that mirage. Your past does not define you, Osamu. I have seen all the good you have done for the Agency—that is not something a person incapable of change would do."

"Tell me to pull away." His lips were so close to yours, you could taste the bite of cigarette smoke. Liar. He told you he would quit. But perhaps addiction was all this was; making your mind eddy of all coherency and rationale.

Kiss me.

Kiss me until I can't breathe.

"Are you sure you want me to?" You challenged, the air charging. Hot. Electrifying. The type of surge you could feel when he caught you staring in the Agency offices, and didn't look away. "You are human, after all. What is that bullshit you always say?" His hands twitched, shoulders wound as tight as a bowstring. When you smiled, it was lopsided—a stupidly lovesick expression. "That humans are never really sure of themselves?"

His ochre eyes flickered across your face. He was trying to read you. You begged him for once, for once, to let you in. To peek through the fissures you could see so expertly and glimpse who he was at the—

Dazai surged forward, crashing his lips onto yours.

It was cataclysmic—he moved like he needed you, the bath water lapping up and over onto the tiles as you joined. His kiss was so sudden that you froze, gasping against his mouth, the air squeezing from your lungs. You felt his hands grasping for you, desperate, almost clawing. They gripped the small of your back just where you straddled him and pulled you so impossibly close.

Holy shit.

This was happening.

The match has been struck—and you both caught flame, burned, like two tragic, collapsing stars.

Dazai must have felt your spine snap taut at the intensity of his pursual. He had rushed you like a starving man, after all, gasping for that tiny morsel of air. He softened around you, letting you go just so, but still keeping you encircled around the waist. He had pinned you down like a hunter would a butterfly by her wings, afraid, terrified you'd flap and fly away.

Parting your mouths. Waiting. Eyes colliding, bodies swaying forward to kiss again. And again. There were so many things you both left unsaid—but that did not matter. Right now, Dazai felt as if he was as close to dying as he would ever feel, that if his lips were off of yours for more than a second, this reality would collapse in and unto itself.

“Miss [Name].” He rasped between breaths. Before completely stepping off the cliff. “Please, tell me to stop.”

You fisted your hand into the back of his hair—pulling so his head would crane to look at you. You were done denying this thing between you, it was too far gone. The both of you were too far gone, and you did not fucking care.

“For once, Osamu, shut your mouth.”

You came crashing down on-top of his infuriating little smirk.

Mouths and teeth clashed together, some parts a snarl, some parts a feral bark of relief. You moaned into the kiss, feeling a pool of heat punching desperately low in your gut. Especially when Dazai tilted his head, slipping his tongue shamelessly between your teeth and invading your mouth so delightfully. He lapped and kissed at you, intent to taste every single inch of you. You felt his hand cradling the back of your neck, rubbing soothing circles, easing the tension from your shoulders and making you melt into him.

Holy God, he was good at this. You didn’t have the time to wonder how many women he had taken to bed to learn all of his tricks—and you did not want to. Not now. Not when your naked core rubbed against his wet pants under the water.

He noticed your hips attempting to move. The water was sloshing and lapping with your ministrations. His hum was like honey across your skin, invading the cavern of your mouth and dancing down your spine. Fuck, you were so, so hot. You did not know if it was from the bath, or the steam, or the way every single nerve fibre ignited like a crackling firework. You were completely at his mercy. It was mortifying, really, how easily you bent your spine into him, how you keened.

Dazai seemed pleased by how soft you had become in his hand. Good girl, you wanted him to praise you, and almost slapped yourself for thinking something so depraved.

But then, he planted a firm grasp on the wet skin of your hip, guiding you to grind down against him. Hard. And all self-bereavement went flying out the window.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, you gasped, maybe you said it. Like your own lament before you sunk into death; yes, Osamu, yes, yes, oh my God—!

Teeth biting. Fingers digging, scratching, pulling each other so achingly close to relieve the months of agony you had put yourself through. You almost cried with pleasure when he raised his hips to meet your intensifying grinding, the stiff seam of his zipper hitting against your clit every single thrust.

“Osamu—fuck . . .” You snarled. There was a dreadfully playful look to his eyes; pupils blown wide as he watched you grind against him. “You—I—!”

“I think I remember you telling me to shut my mouth.” He purred, voice like treacle. He reached around with his other hand to grope at your slick breast—kneading, working you like a divine harp only he could play.

The bandages, the friction.

You were about to loose your fucking mind.

“Now, why would I deny such a pretty lady’s request?”

You hinged your mouth open when the coil in your belly tightened, tightened, pulled so taut you were very sure you were about to implode.

And just when you got there, tittering on the knife’s edge, did he slow his ministrations underneath you.

You could have bitten his gods damned fingers off.

Protests flew to the tip of your tongue—hot and caustic—but the words died when you felt a different kind of pressure there, instead. The hand on your hip has disappeared underneath the water and between your legs—massaging, thrumming, your clit so overly sensitive that you couldn’t really parse what he was doing, but just knew that it felt so damn good.

This man; he was going to be your undoing. You had signed your death warrant now, but you didn’t care.

His lips came to your ear—the air sending shivers down your spine when he whispered, “Tell me what you need, [Name]. My beautiful [Name]."

Oh, he was going to make you beg. You hated him. You would burn everything that attempted to take him away from you.

“I—ah—I need . . . !” He switched his pace, using his thumb to rub circles over your clit while his index slid against you, curling, teasing.

“Hmm?”

“Shit!”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s right.”

“Fuck you, Osamu.” You gasped. He increased the speed of his fingers. “Fuck you! I’ve always fucking needed you! Please, let me—!”

He snapped his fingers up into you, hot and hard. His hips canted, pressing you into all his sturdy lines—your nipples, your skin, all rubbing and grinding and his mouth was on yours again, and—

He bit down hard on your lip, and you saw white.

A spine-shattering orgasm ripped through your body. You bowed forward into him, and he held you close, breathing in all the sighs and shouts that tore from your throat for him. Broken, wounded versions of his name. You were so, so beautiful. He touched you like he would the petal of a flower but with enough force to never let you go. Dazai felt you tighten, fluttering around his long fingers so hard he knew how intense the orgasm had been. Then, you relaxed. Collapsing into him as if someone had cut your strings.

You breathed hot and heavy into your superior's neck. Into the damp bandages and soft curls of mahogany hair. There was foggy bliss for a moment. Nothing existed, nothing else mattered except the pulsing flutters of an orgasm settling all over your sweating skin. You felt like you were glowing with a fine layer of starlight, of pure, smouldering sparks.

A rock hit the bottom of your stomach when you came to—realising what had happened, who had happened. You straightened up to straddle your current superior—fuck, fuck, your mind started reeling, your breasts rising and falling rapidly when you realised you had walked right over the edge. The professional boundary was crossed. You would never go back, never return to just those heated looks across the Agency floor as co-workers, roommates, and nothing more.

You waited for the panic to come. The fumbling of your legs as you jolted out of the bathtub, never looking him in the eye again.

But it didn't.

Sharing a thousand unsaid confessions, you and Dazai stared at each other. It was the most disorientated you had ever seen your superior; his lips a little raw, eyes leaping with an untamed heat that you felt in your stomach. Breaths, in and out, in and out, a shared thing between you both. A secret. Some messy, dangerous formation of a promise.

Air caught in the back of your throat—and suddenly, it was laughter. Fucking hell, you were giggling. Like a damn schoolgirl. And it didn't stop. Tiny hikes and hitches of your laughs filled the bathroom air. You brought a hand up to cover your mouth, abashed.

You did not catch it—how could you, so caught up in what had happened and how mortified you would feel about it—but the sound of your peal of perfect giggles brought mirth to Dazai's dark eyes. You were sunshine, cradled here on his lap, covering your blushing cheeks with ashamed fingers. Always so bright, blinding, something he wanted to pocket in a small jar and keep on his nightstand.

He wanted you all for himself—he would stain you. He would eclipse the radiance that almost made it painful for him to touch you.

What an awful thing he was, then. A true rejection from humankind. He didn't care. Right now, he knew he'd corrupt you, and still, reached out to brush a strand of your wet hair behind an ear.

You peaked up at him, surprised. There was a warm expression softening all the lines of your superiors' face. It reminded you that he was still only a young man.

"You have such a beautiful laugh." Dazai said, his eyes unfocused. Elsewhere. "Have I ever told you about the first time I heard it?"

"No . . . " You answered. Curious as to where he was leading. "Humour me."

He chuckled. "Clever. It was during your first week, when we had all gathered to get to know you better after the Entrance Exam. Kunikida-kun had embarked on a lengthy explanation of what he expected from an ideal wife. All fifty eight points, I believe!" A pause, his lips curving impishly. "I remember how you allowed him to finish, listening with rapt attention—before completely laughing in his face."

The memory was distant now, months and months into the past. You remembered thinking how absurd the Idealist had sounded with his demands of a perfect woman that would have the honour of being his wife. Shock had winded you so bad that you have barked out laughing right in your new colleagues face only on your second day.

Dazai's expression beamed. "It was glorious, Miss [Name], to see how red his face became. I think that could have been the moment where I fell madly in love with you, you know?"

He was teasing you. But the words set off a riot of butterflies in your chest, regardless. A silly part of you wanted to immortalise his voice saying those words and play it over and over again, to listen it so much that the dangerous four letter word made little sense.

You smirked, pushing at him playfully. "Liar. You're just stingy because I never laughed at your stupid jokes."

"You were a serious nut to crack! I honestly thought you would hate me forever, for no reason! Ah, but I sliced through you valiantly, in the end. Who knew you had a soft spot for toilet humour?"

"That's because you made a poop joke while we were in the middle of a critical government meeting and Kunikida-san cracked his pen in two."

"You! Still! Laughed!"

"Whatever, idiot." You scoffed, rolling your eyes. The banter settled, fizzled into something pregnant. Golden and vulnerable.

" . . . Osamu." You corrected, voice so soft it was like the beat of a butterfly wing.

Dazai didn't bother to hide how he reacted to his name shaped from your mouth. It made him rear up with possessive pride. Osamu, spoken like an angel's song. Only for your voice. He had to manufacture up a reaction for how that made him feel, in the future. But right now, it was just you, and him. A man and a woman. A bathtub, suspended in time.

If only you could both stay here, basking in the innocence of this moment, forever.

He had indulged himself, perhaps too much.

It was time to step back into reality. He was good, however, at dressing it up in ribbons and bows.

"What's this?" Dazai looked behind you suddenly with a slack-jaw. He gasped, over-grandiose. "Is that a vessel coming our way? One which could crash into us if we don't dive now!"

Your eyebrows dipped. What—?

He was quick to suddenly grab your ankles and yank! until you were slid onto your back, splashing suds and soap all over the bathroom floor.

"You must go underwater, beautiful siren, or they'll see you!"

"Osamu!" Your arms shot out to brace yourself. You were laughing deeply because of how stupid he was being. "Hey, stop!"

The water sloshed about as he braced himself over you. He brought your faces close, his lashes long at this level and his voice a dark whisper. "I'll protect you, don't worry. They'll never see you~"

You pushed at his chest. "Get off of me, you big moron."

He gasped. "You'd push the man risking his life to save you? How cruel!"

"Not when the man is trying to drown me in his bathtub!"

"I'm doing no such thing!"

"You're so goddamn heavy I think you might!"

His eyes cast up. "Ah, Belladonna. Your beautiful voice has attracted them. Quick! Take me under the water while you dive. I'd gladly die a watery death with you."

You laughed again, high and stomach-aching, when he tried to bring you under the water, once more. Slapping your hands about and catching him in the face at one point. His bathroom surely was soaked by the end of it, and so was he. But you were laughing too hard to care and there was so much bath water in his hair he looked like a soaked puppy.

Perhaps it was a trick of the water when your ears became logged by the end, but you were very sure you heard the deep throng of his laughter, too.

The rare one you didn't hear a lot of the time.

His heart-shatteringly real laughter.

note: it was so fun to revisit this fic. it was a canon-divergent fic where reader became an armed detective agent and ended up living with dazai (because fuck company policy, i guess LMAO). jk atsushi took the last dorm so she was housing with her superior for a little while. i am a big fan of robert frost and his poetry, he became a character in part two of this fic series, but ofc he was a real author as is the bsd characters and his ability mountain interval is based on his collection of poems published in 1916. as described, he trapped the reader in a divergent life she could have lived if she didn't make that choice which changed the entire trajectory of her life (and Dazai's!). lmk if you guys would like to see more of this fic series or snippets of it. its v fun to see how much your writing evolves over the years and breathing life back into something u love so much !!

Simple meals served between stints of scheming in his office; convoluted stories discussed amongst infrequent breaks in your living room. Both of you were aware that a relationship would not be easy, but you made it work. It wasn't for lack of trying on his part; however, you knew he disguised his desire to be close underneath a mask of perfection, pretending it was solely for your benefit. Sure.

So, to your surprise, a pamphlet appeared on your nightstand. You scanned the cover with scrambled thoughts—its glossed sheen describing the wonders of Rome—and when you inevitably arrived in his office to question its sudden appearance, he simply stated that he 'required a visit to the country' and that he knew you'd be interested in joining him.

To most, he's an enigma, but you read him like an open book. There was no use in pointing out his scheme, so instead, you settled into the idea of a vacation, joyfully assisting in any help he needed booking the trip—you had been to the city before and often spoke of your wish to return someday, which had seemingly caught his notice. He placed you in charge of specific details of the itinerary—smaller stops on your preset route, the transportation, restaurants for lunch—though he noticeably had already planned many of the larger events. 

And that's how you arrived here. Rome, Italy. It was as luminous as you left it. You traded in your everyday attire for breathy linen and flowy cotton, allowing the Mediterranean sun to dance across your skin. Your ebony-haired lover was not far behind in fashion, a stark difference from the heavy wools and flannels of his motherland, which you had forced him to leave back in Yokohama so as not to worsen his already weakened constitution. 

The brilliant city held a beauty incomparable, its streets nestled with centuries of history that went beyond books, laid to rest underneath soil and entombed in stone. Even Fyodor, with many years of travel under his belt, couldn't help but admire the manmade structures of a bygone era, which reached like beacons of human ingenuity into the firmament. 

It had been ages since you explored the streets, and it was better now that you had a partner to hold your hand, hopping from place to place as you took in every destination with a new perspective. And in your exploration, you prayed Fyodor would find a connection with some kind of sight, with anything at all. He was a man so distant from mankind that you couldn't help but fret over his self-made isolation.

You were both exhausted—you had been on your feet for hours, and even though he tried to conceal it, you'd be foolish not to notice the slouch of his back as he tried to fight off sleep. He struck you with a knowing look whenever you cooed at him, forcing you to advert your eyes straight out onto the road as you scanned for the vehicle that was supposed to take you to the hotel.

Half an hour passed—nothing. You started to get worried.

"We've been scammed," he said, beating you to the punch as he stood from his seat on the sidewalk. You filled in his place, slumping against a wall as you hid your face in shame—one of the few tasks he had charged you with, and you had managed to mess it up!

He let out a breathy chuckle, patting the back of your head like he were comforting a scolded child. "We'll simply get a taxi."

You groaned, your stomach twisting at the sensation of your own incompetency, before allowing yourself to peek between your fingers to look out into the open world—and that was when you spotted it. A quaint shop with a flickering sign and a handful of mopeds slumped over outside. Fyodor's gaze followed yours, his brows furrowing as he found the target of your ire.

"Absolutely not."

But you had already grabbed onto his hand and pulled him out into the street, with surprisingly little resistance from him as he allowed himself to surrender to your will.

"You haven't experienced everything Rome has to offer," you hummed with a noticeable smirk, tilting your head to gaze at him between your lashes in a mocking attempt to sway his favor. "Come onnnn, Федечка."

He huffed, although his normal stoicism held an unmistakable look of fondness. "Ты маленькая гадюка."

You didn't need a translator to understand the meaning behind his words, heart filled with an almost sadistic joy as you approached the older gentleman that was running the shop. He seemed equally as amused as you were once he deciphered the situation, trading cash for keys as you skipped out the door.

Fyodor had planted himself onto the Vespa's seat without complaint, though you could not help his striking resemblance to a child on a bike that was far too small for them. He had his legs propped at an awkward angle to keep them from scraping against the ground, and the subtle twitch of his brow told you everything you needed to know.

You, on the other hand, were more than comfortable enough to settle between his legs, leaning against his chest as you reveled in the rare domesticality of the moment. That was until two arms decided to slither around your waist, a span of warm breath prickling your skin.

"You're quite brazen for someone that fell right within my grasp," he cooed, his voice dropping into that velvety, sadistically sweet tone that never failed to make you melt. 

The bastard had planned this on purpose—he had reviewed your travel plans beforehand, including the transportation company. Much like you could read him, he knew your story from cover to cover, often reading over every page like his favorite novel. And he knew the best ways to make you squirm, his hand snaking up your side, brushing the sensitive divots of exposed skin as it made its way around your throat, giving the slightest but most lingering of squeezes.

That was until you unintentionally floored the gas pedal, propelling you both onto the street—luckily, there wasn't too much traffic at this hour. Despite the rush of the sudden acceleration, you had found that your heart returned to its normal pace as you moved with a rhythm within the twists and turns. You zipped past various sights, most of which were the most enjoyable, in your opinion—a glimpse into the lives of those who occupied these homes. There was a comfort in the consistency. People had passed and left, but the atmosphere remained the same, passed with care through every generation.

And then, your eyes caught onto something, and the muscles of your fingers instinctively flexed against the handlebars. The arms around your waist squeezed you when you began to tilt the moped steadily to the right.

"Don't—"

But you chose to do it anyway, slipping into a narrow sidestreet. You tried not to burst out in laughter at Fyodor's dumbstruck expression through the wing mirror, wishing to capture this moment in a frame somehow. Who knew that all it took to shut the mouth of the destructive mastermind Demon Fyodor Dostoevsky was a trip on a potentially dangerous vehicle? 

You had recognized the pathway as a detour to an infamous part of the city—a perfect view of the Tiber River. It was difficult not to divert your path straight into the water when you funneled out into the road, the setting sun drawing a picturesque scene that could not be replicated, even if you returned to the same spot at the same time. There would never be another moment like this again. That sweet breeze parted the sky, both cradling and revitalizing you. 

You crept onto a safe spot to park the moped and jumped off to rush to the edge of a bridge that overlooked the entire river, leaning against the railing while being careful not to tip your body over the side. The water sparkled and flickered from the rays of the dying light, twinkling as creatures rested underneath its surface. It enveloped you in an atmosphere of complete calm as if you and Fyodor were the only ones to exist in the world.

Speaking of.

His eyes had drifted toward a view completely different from yours, at least in aspects of physicality. You may have admired a sunset as the peak of fleeting beauty, but you seemed completely unaware that you encompassed every aspect of such a celestial entity, yet in such a strikingly ethereal way. He had seen many sunsets many times, much like he had seen many humans—unique and fascinating in their own way, but not always beautiful. But then, you crashed into his life, and he knew it was always intended for you to remain at his side. Much rarer than a sunset, much more precious.

He would take your life into his hands, ones stained in blood and sin, and unlike all the others he held within his grasp, he would nurture it—cherish it. Like a blossoming flower, he intended to care for you, an invaluable treasure.

He had already found the sight he had been searching for.

"Look!" you exclaimed, practically bouncing as you pointed toward the swaths of fluffed clouds that embellished the sky. "Isn't it gorgeous!"

You didn't even notice the slip of his mask as he joined by your side, brushing a kiss against your temple as he eyed the blooming excitement on your cheeks with your grin. The wind swept through in another attempt to swaddle you, letting the fresh smell of water brush through the folds of your clothes and the tresses of your hair. You turned your gaze to Fyodor, laughter caught in your throat as your eyes peered into his—locked onto you with an almost unnoticeable but most genuine of smiles.

"It truly is."

федечка = fedechka ты маленькая гадюка = you little viper

TAGLIST: @aureatchi @betweensinners @lovedazai @osameowdazai @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @ajaxism @himikoslove @little-miss-chaoss @justcallmesakira

prologue , revisited : ( the absence ) of dreams , the absence of what could have been.

alhaitham remembers little of his childhood ; ask him of his origins and he will remember seldom through first-hand experience. they won't question it, not too much-- because oh, well-- it's hard to remember those things when you're so young, and they'll leave it at that because that's normal, isn't it? to be forgetful of a time where you knew so little, knew only how to rely on others and how to breathe and live and survive through the hand that feeds.

they'll leave it at that, but even if they didn't, he doesn't think he would mind. perhaps there is a distant sadness that survives in the crevices of the heart, never learning to fade in years past, and maybe that's just part of the human equation. he doesn't think about it much. no need to, after all.

yes, they'll leave it at that, blame the lack of memories in youth from age. they won't know that he lost his parents too early, lost something he never quite had, because can you really say you had something when it slipped out of your grasp so quickly and so soon? alhaitham finds some semblance of logic in that, but maybe that's selfish. of course he had his parents. he is sure that he loved them and he is sure that they loved him. maybe it is easier to cope somehow with these thoughts, even if there may be some cruelty in it.

perhaps he does miss his parents, after all, even if he understands that sometimes, it is hard to miss what you never had.

chapter one : the first dream.

it's an ordinary sunday and the room is white. look out the window and there's sunlight to be found, and what a beautiful sight it is, but what a frightening realization it is : it reaches and reaches, begging, but it never reaches the room, obstructed by the glass.

alhaitham doesn't know what it means. he doesn't know how he remembers that it's sunday, doesn't know why this place is familiar. it's cold. he doesn't think he's afraid, but this feeling that creeps up his spine deems an unrest, but he'll call it uncertainty, because there's always an explanation for everything, but even he cannot find the answers to what lies before him.

it is a vast space, endless, but he continues anyway. the path is tiresome, progress indistinguishable in the white. the sunlight stays, too. there is something to be found here. liminal space or not, he continues forth. the unrest brews. something in him trembles, but he walks, anyway.

endless. unforgiving. endless. unfamiliar. an undesired forever, the tiring of self, the burning in one's limbs, the extinction of energy, then --

a faint orange and yellow. alhaitham glances at the windows now, finds that the sunlight has found its way to the place where it belongs. he walks again. the orange and yellow hues grow with each step ; the cold slowly dissipates, and in his trek, it is almost like he is unearthing a life. he doesn't run, no, but part of him wants to, because there is something to be found here, but he doesn't. not yet.

the colors flood in. the white becomes something unforgotten, summons everything else in its absence. there is something that lies at the end -- he can see it -- it is something so terribly familiar but not known, so he runs and he runs and he runs until he becomes of close proximity, then he stops.

there is something to be found : a memory, a happiness, a sorrow.

it is almost a vision of some sort-- a strange sight, the image of himself. he doesn't move, frozen in place. he wonders what sort of expression he wields.

because before him, there is a happy family. a mother and father, one with the same shade of gray hair, another with the same shade of green eyes. it's a tranquil scene, and he cannot make out what is being said, but there are smiles on their faces as they look down at the child the mother holds.

he swallows hard. he does not know what to make of this. he takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, almost smiles at the sound of distant laughter, and wonders if this is a dream. if it is, then this is not reality -- so he can find distance from this, somehow, and release himself from the fear and confusion of the unknown.

yes, perhaps this is a dream. maybe this is a memory of when his parents first brought him home.

his eyes feel heavy. he opens them anyway, witnesses the blooming of a newfound love and joy. he smiles a bittersweet smile and wonders if he will remember this when he wakes.

chapter one , aftermath : the first dream.

alhaitham wakes with a racing heart. he blinks, stares absentmindedly at the ceiling. he remembers bits and pieces of something; it lingers on the tip of his tongue, threatens to be forgotten. he should remember. he knows it was something very dear to him.

his heart slows eventually. he doesn't move. he has to remember, but the pillow under his head and the warmth of your body slowly lull him back to slumber, threaten to bring him under and free him of a lost memory on the verge of discovery.

"that's not sleeping."

he snaps from his train of thought at your mumbling. you don't think much of it at first; alhaitham is such a light sleeper that the smallest movement would wake him, but there is something different about his countenance that piques your curiosity.

"you okay?"

he looks at you, almost uncertain-- an expression you rarely see from your lover, but he nods before his gaze returns to the ceiling. he looks more perplexed than anything, deep in thought, and you almost want to press the issue, but you don't.

"i dreamt."

the knowing of dreams is no longer a shocking revelation nowadays, but even so, the restoration of them is a celebration. you do not remember yours too often, but when you do, you write them down, knowing that the recovery of such a vision should be cherished. you wonder if this is the first time he remembers his.

you wonder if it was peaceful. you wonder what it is that brings him uncertainty : the dream itself, or the ability to dream once again.

"was it a good one?" your voice is quiet. careful.

silence. the wind is a gentle breeze outside, barely heard. alhaitham inhales deeply, turns on his side to face you. it's almost instinct that your hands meet, palm against palm, and he smiles gently when he compares his hands to yours.

"it was." he laces his fingers with yours. "i dreamt of my parents."

even in the moonlit darkness, you feel the kindness in his gaze. you squeeze his hand, feel that lump in your throat when you remember his past hardships.

"i'm glad." your lips brush against his knuckles, grateful. "i hope you dream of them again."

chapter two : the second dream.

it's an ordinary sunday and the room is already filled with sunlight. alhaitham recognizes this, surrounded by rays of tenderness and warmth, and knows this to be yet another dream. he wonders if it will be different than before. he is reminded of that endless loop of dreams, understands them to be both wanted and unwanted, but he recalls the first dream, knows that to relive such a sight would be most welcome.

he walks. the path is vast once again, but there is hope in his stride. this time, there is a familiar shade of green and white that fills his vision. distant figures. he walks, anyway.

before him there are two people. one wields that same shade of gray, but this time, it is through age, and the other--

alhaitham suddenly feels an ache. the other is a young child. the other is him, an orphan, an outcast. he sits next to his grandmother, bright curiosity and intrigue in his eyes as she reads to him. a day like any other, he remembers, but special, nonetheless.

dreams are not always beautiful, and even if this one hurts, it still is.

he swallows hard, takes a deep breath, closes his eyes. somewhere in the distance, he hears his grandmother's laughter when his younger self asks for yet another story.

one more, she'll say, he imagines, and she does.

he smiles. something aches so terribly.

he should wake soon.

chapter two , aftermath : the second dream.

"alhaitham?"

alhaitham wakes with a racing heart. there is something wrong-- there must be with the way you look at him, eyes wide and filled with worry. your fingers linger on his wrist, frantic pulse known by your touch. he doesn't quite understand, slumber weakly holding onto consciousness, and it is only when he feels something trail down his face that he truly wakes.

rare is it that he sheds tears. in truth, he remembers the last time he cried, dressed in all black, vision blurred. a burial site. words of comfort unheard, muffled. forgotten.

how many apologies did he hear until they meant nothing?

"love--" you grab his wrist, gentle, slowly ease him back to the present. "are you--" you pause, take a deep breath, ease the tension from your shoulders. there are only so many times you can ask someone if they're okay, so you don't. another deep breath. "i'm here with you."

you have never seen alhaitham in such a state, never seen him cry. although he may not actively be distressed, the baffled countenance he fails to keep at bay says more than enough. with a soothing touch, you wipe the tears away, notice how quick they are to stop. alhaitham doesn't say much, tells you that he's alright, thanks you for your comfort.

you don't ask what he dreamt of, but there is something very lonely in the way he holds you that night.

he is afraid to fall asleep. he does not know if he desires yet another memory in slumber.

what a very selfish thought to have. he is sorry.

chapter three : the third dream.

it's a special sunday and the room is white, but already is it filled with warmth and daylight. he recognizes this place, knows it to be one of many celebrations. there is no journey, no endless trek. he is right where he needs to be. the scene is different this time. he is not a spectator ; instead, he is here, now, in this moment.

around him, there is endless chatter. he imagines he would enjoy the quiet more, but this time is different -- it almost brings relief to his heart, brings a lightness to it. around him are familiar companions-- a certain forest ranger, a known eremite-- ah, there's kaveh, crying and mumbling a thousand congratulations that aren't quite coherent.

and right before him, there is you ; your hands in his, both adorned with silver bands. you look beautiful, is his first thought, and he wonders if he said it out loud, given the way you smile so brightly at him.

this is a dream. it is a beautiful one, and it is one that he hopes will come true one day.

alhaitham smiles back, kisses you with all the love in the world.

he will wake up soon. he wishes he could hold onto this dream for a little bit longer, but that's okay, because when he wakes, you'll be at his side.

chapter three , aftermath : the third dream.

"i dreamt of you."

your normal routine goes this way : annoying alarm, the impending doom of the workday, and the useless means of avoidance by burying yourself deeper into the sheets until alhaitham drags you out of bed. sometimes he kisses your head in a silent greeting, sometimes he wishes you a good morning.

this, you think, is very much new, and probably the fastest way he's ever woken you up.

"oh." you stare at the ceiling before you roll over and look at him. "good morning to you, too."

worry is your first instinct-- given the nature of his previous dreams, you do not know what to expect. the visions the dreamscape blesses him with are both nostalgic and gut-wrenching, sorrow laced with catharsis.

"good morning." like clockwork, he raises his hand, lips curling faintly when you press yours against his.

"gonna share with the class?"

"the class should practice patience." he chuckles at your mildly annoyed expression, wonders how you will react to his thoughts. "i dreamt that we got married."

you freeze at those words, eyes wide, brows knit ever so slightly as you try to comprehend the words. he says it so casually, the topic of marriage. dream or not, the mere thought of a future together for the rest of your lives brings a sense of serenity, though your expression doesn't quite reflect it at the moment.

alhaitham finds it endearing.

"i would like to remember that dream for a long time."

you shake yourself out of stupor, ignore the way your face practically feels like it's the sun itself.

"tell me more about it."

"kaveh was crying."

"okay, and?"

he hums, thoughtful.

"you looked beautiful."

"oh? sounds like a good dream."

your response is nonchalant, though it is betrayed by the blithe smile that graces your lips at the thought of what that day would be like. alhaitham's gaze is filled with an incredible fondness as he looks at you, wonders when that day will come.

"yes, it was. i'd like to make it real."

oh. you wonder how he can manage to say such a thing so casually-- one would almost think he was discussing the weather. you blink, speechless. you almost want to ask if he's joking , though you know he's entirely serious when he says that, but still--

"okay." there is no hesitation in your words. "i'll marry you, alhaitham."

he almost seems surprised himself-- a spark of shock that quickly dies down into mild relief buried in amusement.

"that isn't my official proposal."

you lace your fingers together, press a kiss against his knuckles.

"i know." your words are barely above a whisper now, almost sacred, but he hears them loud and clear. "but whenever or however you do it, i'll say yes, you know."

of course he knows. always has. he squeezes your hand before pulling you closer, lips meeting in quiet euphoria and promise.

somewhere, there is a place where dreams are deemed part of one's soul once more, unraveling and uncovering the most vulnerable parts of the spirit. in this place, alhaitham dreams once more, memories revived and revisited.

ACT ONE.

You were too young when you first learned what loss of a loved one looked like, when you’d seen firsthand what it means for a body to be devoid of a life. What it means for grief, a concept that is abstract in nature, to take shape and manifest into something that felt tangible, something that felt real.

Though you could always point to where it hurts the most, despite its lack of concrete form, but there you can trace a shape of absence. Not so much as a void as how you've heard most people describe it, there's weight to its vast emptiness and you always felt like you could make out its outline. So maybe, you think, it's more like a speck of stain on a cloth instead, or more like an unidentified new organ manifested in the body and less like an unwelcomed tumor. Sometimes it shrinks, contained. But sometimes, it grows too, swallows, its shape becomes yours.

It’s not something that can be healed with any medicine or surgically removed with a knife. Not even the good old recipe of time could, not entirely, and not exactly permanently, at least.

That, you know for sure. Having tried different concoctions and ways to give yourself a fixing for about the past decade. From paid sessions to prescribed medications to alternative healings to alcohol and anything else you could get your hands on.

But nothing roots you into the temporary sense of rehabilitation more than the body of another. It brings you back to earth, here, there's a shape to you, you can feel, and you can be touched.

To be loved, however, was a different story. One that sounds more terrifying than wanted, complicated. With love implies the possibility of being reminded of loss, it's safer without. Without nothing to lose, what else on earth is there to hurt you?

It’s not that you’ve never heard declarations of love aimed towards you before, it’s simply that you’re not sure if they understood what it entails to love you. So you leave before they do, or they leave when the illusions of love have shattered.

He understood this well, too, but you didn’t know that yet. Not now, at least. For now you’re sitting across from him in the booth of a dive bar, with faint sounds of music and traces of tobacco in the air, the rhythmic tapping sounds of the pool table and chatters of the night's patrons act as a constant anchor in the background. For now, he's just another guy you talk to at some bar, maybe just another guy you wouldn't mind to be taken to bed with for one night.

"So," he said to resume the conversation as you both settled into the booth, "what brings a girl like you to a place like this?"

He gestures to the place you're in, as if it's an unthinkable place for you to be in. He was eyeing you then, intensely too, just for a moment before he took a sip of his second glass of beer that night, a dark and dry Irish stout.

"A terrible date," you said after taking your own sip of your drink. "It's actually the first one I've been on in a while since things ended with this last guy I was seeing."

"Oh? Sorry to hear that."

"About the date? Or about the breakup?"

"Hmm both, but more the breakup, I mean."

"Oh, it's no big deal, really. I mean, it was mutual, it was never going to work out anyway so we ended it amicably, kind of."

He raises an eyebrow and nods slightly, though he doesn't push further. Maybe he's trying not to pry, or maybe he's trying to get a read on you, you're not too sure which is which.

You were sure though that you liked talking to him, liked seeing his face, hair ravenous dark and a scar on his lip that paints him in a perpetual smirk. You also liked the way he's looking at you, liked the way his voice sounds, too.

"Hey," your fingers fiddle with the olive pick sitting on the lips of your glass, "what does that mean, anyway, a girl like me? What kind of girl do you even think I am?"

He laughs then, the second one that night, a hearty and deep-bellied one with a smirk of a grin that, to be honest, drive you a little crazy. "Well I mean you told me yourself earlier, apparently a princess like you is too good for a Guinness."

You gasped in a feign offense, "Oh I am not a princess and that is not what I said!"

"Sure."

Earlier in the night when you were still seated at the bar he’d offered you to try a sip of his beer and 'split the G', you somewhat politely declined, telling him "Do I look like I drink stout and can split the G?" before taking a sip from your glass of martini.

"Ugh, what I meant was I can't drink stout! I don't drink beer much anyway, maybe those fruity IPAs—you know those pale ales, those I can still stomach."

"Picky and particular. You know, you're not helping your case here, princess." He takes another sip, "Also, IPAs? I didn't take you to be into those, makes me think of those hipster home-brewed beer."

"Well you don't know anything about me now do you? Besides, please—you're—what—a middle aged guy like I'm pretty sure you have a buddy or two who has picked up a home-brewing hobby. Isn't that what guys your age do anyway when you're bored or having a crisis?"

"Ouch," he says while putting hand on his chest. "I am not middle-aged, not yet at least. But, point taken, I do have friends who dabbled here and there."

"See, and what—you don't?"

"Not really that big into alcohol if I'm being honest. This," he says as he lifts up his glass, "is just something I do once in a while to blow off steam, I don't drink that often."

You rest your chin on your hand, tipping your head sideways, "Huh, really?"

"Really," he says between sips, "why, does that surprise you?"

"Well you just seemed to be so familiar with the bartender, so I just thought you were a frequent flyer."

"Nope, just know the guy who owns the place. This is basically the only place I go to, for a drink, or two, sometimes more."

"Oh?"

"Well on the off chance that I end up finding myself in good company I'll order more so I can stay longer."

"Hmmm."

Maybe it's the liquid courage, or maybe you're just seeking for a little adrenaline rush to makeup for the previous less exciting encounter. But either way, you don't mind being the first to push the buttons.

"Okay, well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"In good company right now."

"Well, that depends on how the company's behaving the rest of the night." He says with a smile, voice punctuated slightly at the word behave you nearly missed it. But you caught enough of it that you shift slightly in your seat.

"Hmmm. Okay, fair. But that also depends on what you have to say," you pointed to the absence of ring on his finger with a nod, "I mean, what about you, what's your story? What's a guy like you, and no offense your age, doing talking to a girl like me?"

You learned that he was married, twice. Separated from the second, not so much detail on the first, somewhat dodged the topic, even.

He could've lied about it all, of course, isn't that what men often do anyway? Lying about the existence of a relationship and supposed-presence of a ring? But what you don't know is none of your concern, as long as you're told a guy is single, everything is fair game. What is truth and what isn't of another person's life, a stranger's no less, is none of your business.

⟢

The truth that you have yet to learn though, is this; that he is drinking out alone because it's been plaguing him again, she has been plaguing him again. Nearly two decades later and he could still make out her absence, which in turn pulled him into a reckoning of all the things he had done since, and all the things he had to live through before her.

He had a second chance, briefly, short-lived. Divorce wasn't too much of a surprise, all things considered, they had only been married because each of them were so lonely, so equally clueless in being a parent. But once the kids got older, there was nothing left that they had in common. As time moves and all love lost, separation became par for the course.

He held no hope out for any glimpse of the third. Not yet.

But another, different kind of truth is this; tonight wasn't the first time he'd seen you, though he wasn't sure if you actually remembered him, too. He was, genuinely surprised to see you there of all places. You looked like someone who wouldn't set foot in a place that doesn't at least have a wine selection older than the 1990s. But it was a welcomed surprise, he always liked seeing you, even then in passing, but especially tonight, earlier next to him at the bar, then across from him at the booth, and now pressed against the wall as he finally gets to kiss you.

It would also be a dishonesty to himself not to admit that he'd been thinking of kissing you since you entertained the thought of conversing with him. Wanting to kiss the space where your neck and shoulders meet when he saw the flimsy strap of your dress fall over as you tilt your neck sideways —was that on purpose?— liked the way your hair fell and cascade down then, too. Wanting to hear what other sounds your voice makes the moment he heard you speak, which turned out to be better than he could ever thought.

He kept kissing you, now tipsy and all giggly in his arms, legs all but liquefied since the moment he slid his foot back up your shin under the table, a response to the previous nudging of your toes onto his. Lost your composure even more than you thought possible when he placed his large hand over your knees in the cab, opening them slightly to run a hand up your thigh. He didn't move his hand up further, didn't need to, just held it there firmly, thumb slowly moving back and forth your inner thighs it was enough to make you feel like you had more to drink than you actually did.

You nearly laughed again then, feeling a nudge in your lower abdomen from where his body pressed onto yours with your back against the wall. But not before he pushed his knee between your legs, sliding up and pressing it to where you're soaking. He could feel you, your warmth, your dampness.

"Hmm, someone's excited." he says as he kisses along your jawline

"Hey, isn't that supposed to be my line?" you said between breaths, before you hear your own voice erupts into a moan as he kiss and licks the underside of your jaw.

"You never shut up, do you?"

"Hmm, no."

"Good, let me hear you," he said before biting the skin of the crook of your neck.

He chuckles at your moan, picks you up then and not a moment too soon, one hand hiking up the hem of your dress before snapping the band of your lace panties against your soft skin. But you, impatient as you always have been, instinctively grind yourself against him in response. He teases you then as he places you on the edge of the bed, said something about you and your greed, but all you could think about is how badly you want him to rip your clothes off by his teeth.

You moan and lift your head off the bed when you feel his hand palming you where you want him, fingers caressing where your desire has pooled, palm pressing down your clit. He could feel it, how bad you wanted him, could see the sheen of your slick spilled all the way down to your inner thighs.

He pulls it to the side, eyeing the translucent string where your panties and your core once connected.

"Christ," He muttered under his breath. "You're always this wet?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Why don't you find out yourself."

"Don't test me, kid."

"Hey, I'm not a k—oh fuck." He dipped his head then, tongue stubbornly pushes itself into your folds, desperate to taste you and all you could do was press the base of your palm into your eyes.

⟢

Admittedly, though not so different than yourself, Toji had tasted more women than he had variations of alcohol. But he could've sworn there's something different with the way you taste, something about it that he likes more than he thinks he should.

Maybe it's how responsive you are to his touches, maybe it's the voices you make and how easy it is for him to coax them out from the depths of your throat, maybe it's how tight you're squeezing just his fingers alone, maybe just because it's you.

You knew that your dress will be crumpled in ways beyond fixing that night. Sweat slowly seeping through its fabric from being bunched up along your lower back, legs folded into mating press as he lose himself and his tongue on your taste.

He looked up then, fingers came to replace where his nose was, nudging your clit like a pinch, the pressure from either side making your head spin it made you stifle your moan.

But he only egged you on,

"Didn't I tell you, let me hear you."

He laps his tongue again then, but not before spitting where you're already wet. He drinks it up; your moans and the way your fingers tangled themselves in his hair, he moaned into you as he felt a tug, telling you not to let go.

Finally, he came up for the second time, kissing you on the mouth so you know how good you taste, too. Fingers tugging the hem of your dress saying, "Take this off, I want to know if you feel as good as you taste."

a/n initially I wanted it to be a long fic with three acts, but I hit a snag on the second plus I think it might've been a tad too long if I didn't...

⟢

Holding out his empty hand, he wiggled his fingers in faux impatience. You place yours inside of it, palm touching his, his thumb automatically moving to smooth over your knuckles and fingers, to remind himself that you are real and have been for all this time.

Opening his closed palm, he showed you what appeared to be, well, a ring. Gold banded, clearly Victorian in inspiration, with a marquise cut jewel in the middle of it.

“What is that?”

You knew the question was silly but couldn’t stop yourself before it bubbled out.

“It was my mom’s. Back when I couldn’t remember what happened, something told me to keep this even when times were bad enough I probably should’ve pawned it and when it all came back to me…” he trailed off slightly, dropping your hand and plucking the ring out of the palm of his own and holding it between his thumb and index finger.

The red stone of the ring glinted beneath the light, all of the memories of his mother encapsulated in one little piece of jewelry.

“You don’t have to give me that,” you immediately started, touched yet uncomfortable with the idea of being given the last piece of his mother he has.

“I want to give it to you…I’ve wanted to for a long time,” he started in defense of himself, sighing defeatedly. “But I wasn’t sure if you ever wanted to tie yourself to me in a way you couldn’t just walk away from.”

Feeling ashamed for making him doubt you even the slightest bit, you moved to wrap your hand around his forearm, squeezing it in a gesture of comfort.

“Stop it, Dante.”

For once, he didn’t chuckle or diffuse anything with a joke.

“I’m serious. It’s one thing to know somebody’s too good for you and to anticipate the day they realize it and leave. It’s another thing entirely to wonder if you’re a bad person for wanting to keep them even if you don’t deserve it.”

Emotion overwhelmed you, leading you to squeeze his arm a second time. “You’re the best person I’ve ever met.”

He shook his head in disagreement, his usual smirk twisted into something humble, maybe even a little fearful when you really looked at him.

“I don’t know about that. What I can tell you, though, is that I’ve always wanted you to be mine for as long as possible no matter how bad it might make me,” he shrugged, not quite apologetically, reaching for your hand and once again clasping it in his own. “So what do you say, will you make it official with me?”

Sniffling, you nodded, lips trembling too hard to do much else besides it as he slipped the ring onto your finger.

You were finally going to be Dante’s wife, not just his confidante or his better half or “those two idiots” as you’ve been called on more than one occasion.

“Now that’s a proposal,” you finally joked to lighten the mood, mouth no longer trembling, tears gliding down your cheeks, aware that the fun part of it all was only beginning.

And now you stand in front of the mirror, pulling your favorite lipstick across your lower lip wearing the dress you picked out just for the occasion.

In a few hours, you will be his inarguably. No loopholes, no wiggle room.

Joy washes over you and it doubles when he enters your bedroom, the same tiny space he’s occupied for so long and will forever if today goes as planned, his large hand.

“What’s on your mind?”

Across the years you’ve spent at his side, Dante has asked you this question in many formats but this time it feels heavier, like he’s still waiting for that other shoe to drop.

Being a runaway bride is far from your style yet it’s like he can’t believe it either, like this is a dream or a fantasy or some wicked spell he’s under that’s going to end if he blinks or breathes.

You’re real, though, he’s smoothing the wrinkles over your rear out of the back of your dress, while you’re attempting to look at him surreptitiously in the mirror. Legend says it’s bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other before they exchange their vows, which very well may be true although you’re both willing to risk it if it means getting to see one another at all.

He’s as handsome as can be in a black tuxedo, his hair brushed over his eyes alluringly.

“Oh, you know, just mulling over the entire history of us as one does,” is all you can manage to say, mouth a bit dry from both disuse while you’ve been focused on getting ready and getting a glimpse at the man who is about to be your husband.

“Are you having second thoughts?” Dante asks, standing at your side as he always has, wrapping his arm around your hip.

“No and you’re crazy for even saying that,” you tut, turning away from the mirror that reflected your primping back at you to face him, shifting your body gradually until you’re standing as close as you can possibly get in the small quarters.

“I’m having kind of a hard time believing that this day has finally come…” you trail off, struggling to find words succinct enough to describe the feelings rushing through your mind.

It would be easier to simply tell him the truth.

“You could’ve died at any time, Dante. Or just disappeared because you were fond of that for a while or I don’t know, met someone else, or even decided you didn’t want to be with me. I’m thrilled this is finally happening but you can’t get to this spot without waking past all of the other ones we’ve been in too, you know?”

It’s not the best time in the world to breathe life into your worst fears and insecurities but if you can’t voice them to your husband, who else is there? Thankfully his uncanny ability to ease you kicks in, almost supernaturally, and he lowers his voice to speak to the deepest and most fearful parts of you.

“Okay, I’ll own the disappearing but the dying? The leaving? Why would I do any of that?” He asks, reaching behind you to pick one of the small flowers off of your vanity to place in between strands of your perfectly coiffed hair.

“Because people change their minds and you aren’t exactly living a danger-free life,” you mutter softly, subconsciously leaning into his touch even after all this time.

The fear that has run through you wildly begins to dissipate, leaving little but that familiar feeling, the same one you had the first day you met him behind.

Today begins that forever you always wanted. You tilt your head downward slightly to hide the smile crossing your lips. Dante reaches to lift your chin with his thumb, chuckling slightly at his blushing bride.

“Don’t make me upset, it’s my wedding day,” he jokes. His tone is light as air, soft words drawing an exhaled giggle out of you.

There’s his girl, his life, his purpose, his, well, everything.

Dropping your chin, he plucks another flower off the vanity and oh-so-gently places it, tilting his head to make sure it looks good from all angles.

Nodding, he’s satisfied that you look perfect by your own standards, despite always being perfect by his.

Who else would love him the way that you do? The day he met you, he knew you were special. Different from other people, more giving and kindhearted than you’d ever let people comfortably say about you without a slight argument leaving your lips.

You have shown him that love can change a person’s life and even more than that, it can make you see your own as valuable once again.

The two of you should’ve done this years ago but there’s no changing the past so he only smiles down at you, bow tie hanging loosely around his neck.

“You’ve never changed your mind about me even if you probably should have many times,” he carries on in that low, honeyed voice that warms you from the inside out. His hands find their home on each of your arms, pulling you into his chest. You blink up at him, eyes clear and kind and beautiful as always, and for a moment he’s overcome with the emotion he tries so desperately to bury beneath all of his layers.

My god, he loves you more than anything. You’re the only one, human or demon or anything in between, who has ever allowed him to be just Dante. A lump forms in his throat and he attempts to clear it by swallowing though his voice still strains when he speaks.

“I’m the luckiest man alive.”

That sums everything he feels up pretty nicely. Shaking your head, you reach to cup his stubbly cheek, pushing his hair off of his face in a fluid, familiar motion.

“I’m the lucky one and always have been,” you argue lightheartedly, being exactly who he’s known you to be since that day that sealed both of your fates.

“Just accept the compliment, sweetheart. You aren’t going to outdo me today, not while you look like that.”

“Have you looked at yourself lately?”

“Hey,” he warns, even if it lacks bite. “Let me tell my wife how beautiful she is without any pushback, alright? Maybe how sweet and kind and how good she smells too. Is that allowed?”

“It is a special occasion so I’ll make an exception,” you mumble, a jumbled cross between a whisper and a giggle and a girlish sigh. “Because I’m so sweet and all.”

You have foolishly spent today worried that being husband and wife would change things drastically, aware that you’re late enough to the altar that most of your like-aged friends have already been with their spouses long enough to at least vocally dislike them.

Fortunately, standing in your room, bantering effortlessly as ever you realize that nothing will change except for a pair of rings on designated fingers.