[ Beckoned forward by nothing more than the guiding pull upon his bolo, Dazai gives no hint of refusal as he obliges the unspoken call for him to step into Chuuya's personal space. Small as Chuuya is, he's nothing near to slight. The carefully hidden muscular stature neatly dressed beneath well-tailored attire is powerful enough to command whenever the whim strikes him. Even if Dazai hadn't wanted to, escaping what must feel like a near gravitational pull, would necessitate more than a little maneuvering or even a struggle on his part. But that's only if he didn't. A non-issue, considering how he tumbles into Chuuya's orbit as though he's free-falling. Not a breath of resistance is to be found the instant he knows Chuuya wants him, there or anyplace of his desiring.
The beachy scent of ocean waves and sand should be overridden by the unmistakable metallic coppery tang of his fast-drying blood. Instead all he can perceive is Chuuya filling up his senses; from the cologne handmade and concocted with himself as model-muse, mingling with shampoo, sweat and something decidedly forged from nothing but Chuuya himself. He wants to drown himself in it. ]
How gracious of you.
[ They're nonsense words, mentioned without bite or malice, even if Chuuya may read too much into them. But he needs a crutch to keep himself upon equal footing, so to speak, instead of falling into an unsettling silence which would read even more antagonist than the off-handed words he busies the air around them with holding.
The item he's passed doesn't succumb to it's intended usage. His hands are clean, thankfully due to resisting an earlier urge to fiddle with his wound. Which means the kerchief is pristine; left in mint condition as he discreetly ushers it away into an inner pocket of his coat while Chuuya's eyes fall elsewhere. As for the issue of his injuries, Dazai brushes his mouth upon a sleeve for the purpose of making himself more presentable. Same difference, and all that. This way if Chuuya wishes to hold him in contempt, then it's for the sake of some small sliver of Chuuya that's worth the spite. ]
If it would have kept you safe- [ Spoken softly, under the weight of it's honesty. ] My life is a small price to pay.
[ There's a power imbalance here with how the grip upon his tie roots Dazai into place, as if his partner runs even the slightest risk of Dazai slipping away and leaving his company. Surely it's that want to level the field and not the clear as day tremble of shoulders as a precursor to a cry, which ushers Dazai's heart into acting in the place of staying stock still on his side of Chuuya's personal bubble.
He doesn't know what's permitted between them. The rules change on the daily, depending on the location of contact and all the infinite minute of recent goings on. But it never changes his want for it. None of that dampers the pull to reach across the space that always feels too far between them, eons or light years away, to settle his palm against the soft curve of Chuuya's cheek.
His thumb drags over the space where unshed tears have yet to fall, stroking as though gathering up a wetness that isn't there. Dazai holds his breath all the while, still and silent, waiting for the moment to pass and for Chuuya to decide how that contact should be received. ]
no subject
The beachy scent of ocean waves and sand should be overridden by the unmistakable metallic coppery tang of his fast-drying blood. Instead all he can perceive is Chuuya filling up his senses; from the cologne handmade and concocted with himself as model-muse, mingling with shampoo, sweat and something decidedly forged from nothing but Chuuya himself. He wants to drown himself in it. ]
How gracious of you.
[ They're nonsense words, mentioned without bite or malice, even if Chuuya may read too much into them. But he needs a crutch to keep himself upon equal footing, so to speak, instead of falling into an unsettling silence which would read even more antagonist than the off-handed words he busies the air around them with holding.
The item he's passed doesn't succumb to it's intended usage. His hands are clean, thankfully due to resisting an earlier urge to fiddle with his wound. Which means the kerchief is pristine; left in mint condition as he discreetly ushers it away into an inner pocket of his coat while Chuuya's eyes fall elsewhere. As for the issue of his injuries, Dazai brushes his mouth upon a sleeve for the purpose of making himself more presentable. Same difference, and all that. This way if Chuuya wishes to hold him in contempt, then it's for the sake of some small sliver of Chuuya that's worth the spite. ]
If it would have kept you safe- [ Spoken softly, under the weight of it's honesty. ] My life is a small price to pay.
[ There's a power imbalance here with how the grip upon his tie roots Dazai into place, as if his partner runs even the slightest risk of Dazai slipping away and leaving his company. Surely it's that want to level the field and not the clear as day tremble of shoulders as a precursor to a cry, which ushers Dazai's heart into acting in the place of staying stock still on his side of Chuuya's personal bubble.
He doesn't know what's permitted between them. The rules change on the daily, depending on the location of contact and all the infinite minute of recent goings on. But it never changes his want for it. None of that dampers the pull to reach across the space that always feels too far between them, eons or light years away, to settle his palm against the soft curve of Chuuya's cheek.
His thumb drags over the space where unshed tears have yet to fall, stroking as though gathering up a wetness that isn't there. Dazai holds his breath all the while, still and silent, waiting for the moment to pass and for Chuuya to decide how that contact should be received. ]
I'd gladly die if it meant you'd live.