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Dazai has always considered their touch to be a lethal weapon.
Their hands are gifted at delivering death, quick to bring destruction. A brush of their fingers means that even the strongest ability user is left completely unarmed, naked before a person who has spent much of their life being described as a demon.
Dazai doesn’t feel like a demon, particularly, but neither do they feel that humanity is something that can be found within them. What are they, what do they do? They can’t say they’re sure.
Just as they can’t say they’re sure what they’re doing now, with Jouno lying to their right, the aftertaste of pleasure burning under their skin and their mouth dry.
Perhaps they seek self-destruction. Jouno’s kisses taste like metal. His skin burns under their fingers. There is little pleasure to be found, really, when at his touch they can feel the usual cold of No Longer Human and how Priceless Tears fades between their fingers like sand.
(They mentioned it to Jouno once, among those few times something real came out of either of their mouths. Ironic, he said in response without elaborating. Dazai didn’t ask what he meant.)
There’s no hugs or affection when they’re done. Not usually, at least. They tear each other apart and then both have to pick up the pieces, but reassembling themselves is a task they do alone. There is no real vulnerability between them except for the one they tear out of each other by force of claws and teeth, like wild animals looking for something to feed on. When Dazai touches him and can swear they press his core between their fingers until it evaporates, it is just a palpable sign of what they have built here.
To think that they have built something together is strange, but Dazai assumes that building and destroying are two sides of the same thing.
Jouno is strangely still. Quiet. Jouno is usually the first to get moving to collect whatever they scatter and leave before the after-effects of closeness allow them to even begin to consider honesty. Dazai usually wants to joke about it, comment about soldiers and wars and running away, but they tend to bite their tongue.
They don’t look at Jouno now. They look at the ceiling, feeling the warmth emanating from his skin, hearing the ragged sound of his breathing.
Then, after a moment, Dazai feels Jouno’s fingers brush against their wrist, pressing against their pulse point. The touch feels cold even through the bandages. He makes a conscious effort to relax their heartbeat even as their whole body tenses under his touch. Jouno exhales.
"Relax," he murmurs, his voice soft. Strangely soft. It makes Dazai’s skin crawl. They want to snatch their arm from his touch, but to shrink back would be to lose, and they’re not one to run from battles even if they’re disassembled to pieces.
This doesn’t feel like a battle, though. It is something different. Jouno’s touch is delicate, as if for once he has no intention of tearing their skin off. It’s unnatural, even, that those hands that are so good at snatching their breath away are good at touching them like this.
Dazai wants to bite his fingers off because their answer is always to fight. Jouno’s fingers wrap around their wrist gently. It feels like a challenge.
“I said relax,” Jouno repeats jadedly. Dazai laughs.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” they ask, because this is unusual. It makes them raise their guard as if Jouno will go for his jugular if they give him the chance. Knowing him, it’s possible.
“Shut up,” he mutters in response.
Dazai feels their stomach churn. Priceless Tears feels like sand between their fingers. When they turn to look at Jouno, he has his head tilted slightly to the left, eyes closed as usual.
“Your heart is beating fast,” he comments. “Like a cornered dog.”
Dazai feels like they’re cornered. They smile anyway.
“I didn’t know you were into aftercare. Cuddles in bed.”
Jouno scoffs. “As if.”
But his hand is still in contact with their skin. Jouno’s fingers move until they brush the back of Dazai’s hand. Dazai feels as if their mouth is full of dust.
“Jouno—”
“Your skill is curious,” he says calmly. “Are you always this cold?”
Dazai licks their lips. They try again, and this time they do succeed in calming their heart. Jouno chuckles as an answer. He knows what they’re doing, because of course he does.
They turn to the side only to bring their hand to Jouno’s neck. They press their thumb against his carotid pulse, under his chin. They don’t indulge him by being gentle with him the way Jouno has been with them, but instead Dazai takes it upon themself to press firmly, their hand almost encircling his neck.
Jouno does not react visibly, but his pulse is racing.
Dazai wants to make a comment. They want to talk about reflections in the mirror and looking for oneself in other people’s touches and the blood that is spilled out of spite and nothing else. However, they hum under his breath.
“Your pulse is racing too,” they say, and it’s the same as asking, who’s the dog now?
Jouno smiles. Dazai presses their grip on his neck a little tighter just to prove they’re capable.
(They don’t know in front of whom they’re trying to prove themself.)
“Are you going to kill me now, or is this your way of asking for a second round?” Jouno asks calmly, as if both ideas are equivalent. As if it makes no difference.
Dazai leans on his elbow to straighten up and leaves a kiss on his jaw. “Who knows,” they murmur as they cling to the distraction because this they’re familiar with, this they do know how to deal with. “Maybe both. It’ll be up to you.”
When they move in to kiss him with their hand still on his neck, Jouno bites them so hard that blood begins to ooze from their lip, and Dazai tastes themself on the other’s lips as if this is the only closeness they can afford.
┉┉
Jouno’s hands are rough and as cold as Dazai’s own. His touch feels icy and Dazai’s skin burns anyway. Ice burns too, they remind themself as Jouno’s hands undress them and they let him undo the bandages on their torso. Just the ones on their torso. There is only so much exposure Dazai willingly submits to, and Jouno has accepted it well. For the most part.
Here’s the real problem:
Jouno reaches up a trembling hand and strokes Dazai’s cheek as they watch him from above, and his hand is so icy cold that Dazai feels goosebumps rise on their skin. Jouno cocks his head to the side and frowns, breathing through his mouth.
Dazai pauses as a deer caught in the headlights. They want to get rid of the uneasy feeling that comes over them by making a comment regarding tame dogs or fallen soldiers, but their stomach turns in such a way that they fear opening their mouth will make them have to run and vomit.
“Do you know why we’re here?” Jouno asks before Dazai can make up their mind on what to do about this newfound softness.
“Because we hate ourselves?” he ventures, trying to make a joke. They feel it falls flat. It feels too close to honesty. (Dazai doesn’t know how to want anything without letting it devour them inside out.)
Jouno smiles. He always smiles. His expression looks empty like a mask, as if it were a manufactured face. Dazai feels cold, cold, cold.
“Speak for yourself,” Jouno says, though Dazai knows there’s something behind it. They’ve always known it. The two of them have decided it’s easier to pretend not to notice.
The truth is, you don’t get wrapped up in a cycle like the one that drags them down if you’re not even a little bit out of love with your life. Not being as smart as they are, anyway.
“Why are you asking me that now?” Dazai says then. “You’re not so talkative, usually.”
Jouno raises his eyebrows, unimpressed.
“Do you know what it feels like when I disintegrate?”
Jouno’s hand is still on their cheek. He speaks in whispers, as if he’s telling them a secret. Dazai feels his honesty as a burden to deal with. Why has he decided to talk about this now, instead of just finishing this and leaving like they do every time?
“For dust thou art,” Dazai mutters. It sounds irrational, but Jouno’s smile widens.
“And unto dust shalt thou return.”
Dazai wants to burst out laughing. This is ridiculous. They bend down to kiss Jouno and get this over with, but Jouno’s free hand covers their mouth. Dazai pulls away just enough to bite him in retaliation and Jouno hisses lightly, but doesn’t pull away.
“Touching you feels like embracing death,” Jouno whispers behind that empty smile. Dazai presses their teeth harder. Jouno’s free hand tangles in their hair. “I always hoped death would find me whole.”
Dazai can’t understand what it feels like to disintegrate because they’ve never been whole, but when Jouno shifts positions and goes for the throat hard enough to break skin, Dazai thinks it must feel something like this.
┉┉
Atsushi has described No Longer Human as the feeling of something being taken away from him. Like being left alone in the cold. Dazai guesses that it’s because the tiger is a part of himself, because Atsushi has forgotten how it felt to live without it. He and the tiger are one and the same—at least they are now that Atsushi has learned that the ability laying within himself is not his enemy.
Chuuya has never told them how he feels after letting No Longer Human wash over them, but there are moments when they seek Dazai’s touch as if that’s all they need, moments when he allows himself to relax as soon as Dazai’s hands come into contact with his skin (always skin to skin, Dazai noticed at one point, skin and only skin keeping us apart), as if No Longer Human is the longed-for relief. Tanizaki flees from his touch, even the friendly one, the pats on the shoulder and the ruffle of hair. Akutagawa always hated his ability because losing Rashoumon always made him feel harmless, diminute, and always hated his touch because he has yet to know what it feels like to be touched without hidden intentions.
Priceless Tears feels like sand between his fingers.
Dazai asks Jouno how No Longer Human feels. Jouno replies, Like being whole.
Ironic, Dazai says without elaborating. Jouno asks no questions.
┉┉
The truth is that Dazai doesn’t know what it feels like to be whole, so when they bite and claw Jouno’s skin they do it as if they intend to collect a debt.
Blood is always blood no matter where it comes from. A dog’s blood and a demon’s blood may not be so different in the end, if they both taste the same; Dazai does not distinguish their taste in their tongue.
Destroying and creating are the two sides of the same thing. Breaking Jouno in half means touching him, and touching him means keeping him whole.
Jouno rests his hands on the pulse of Dazai’s neck as if to prove a point, and when Dazai leans in to kiss him, he receives it amid a whine. The ground is hard beneath their knees. Dazai, for the first time, touches Jouno and finds something warm. They dig their hands on it and it paints red.