Molly's Fics Cause she Refuses to Read Them on Ao3

red

Tw/Tags: Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drunk Sex, Body Worship, Mildly Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
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When Dazai thinks of Chuuya, his thoughts are red .

The stain of red wine on Dazai's button down after Chuuya has drunk too much and spills the rest of his drink on him. The dark red of dried blood on walls and couches and carpet, droplets that reveal a story only the dead would be able to tell. Chuuya, with a hair-tie between his teeth, pulling his fiery hair back into a ponytail.

Red .

Tonight is one of the rare nights that Dazai has all of these things. Four empty bottles of wine rest on the coffee table next to Chuuya's blood soaked knife and when Dazai turns his head just a little bit, he can bury his nose into Chuuya's hair where the red meets the white of his scalp.

He kisses that spot and Chuuya groggily leans into it. For someone who drinks so much, Dazai always thought Chuuya should be better at holding his alcohol. Dazai swirls his whisky in the hand that's not pinned to the couch by Chuuya's body. He puts the glass to his lips and lets the burn of liquor warm his throat and chest.

Dazai had made it a habit lately. Each time Chuuya returned from a mission, he drowned himself in wine and self-loathing. And apparently those were the only two things Chuuya needed to reach out to Dazai.

And Dazai answered. Every time.

He showed up on Chuuya's doorstep, head low and hands in his coat pockets. Chuuya was almost always already drunk and, the first time it happened, Dazai forgot the kind of drunk Chuuya is. Which is to say–the handsy, crying type.

Chuuya's whole sharp edges and cold steel exterior thing he has going on shatters into a million pieces. There's not always tears, but there's always hands. Chuuya's hands climbing up under Dazai's shirt, pulling at Dazai's pantloops, pushing off Dazai's coat.

Dazai wishes he could say that whenever this happens he grabs Chuuya by the wrist and pulls him away. He wishes he could say that he helps Chuuya get in bed and then he, himself, leaves the apartment at a reasonable hour. He wishes he could say that he reaches for a glass of water for Chuuya instead of a glass of whisky for himself.

But the moment he sees Chuuya, with his red cheeks and warm body, midriff peeking out from under his shirt, there is no going back. There is no leaving the apartment without taking everything he can while he is there.

And tonight is no exception. When Dazai arrived, it had been Chuuya who had pulled him over the threshold and slammed the door behind them. It had been Chuuya who, even with his small frame, pushed Dazai up against the door and kissed him like it was his first meal in days. But it was Dazai who reached his hand up to the back of Chuuya's head and pulled him in close. And Dazai who had slipped his tongue into Chuuya's mouth and pushed him back onto the couch.

These visits and their kissing goes one of two ways: cuddling or sex. And Dazai isn't sure which one he is more ashamed of. It's no secret that Chuuya is hot as fuck and many men would kill to get in his bed. But there's something too intimate about having Chuuya, sleepy, wine drunk and curled up against Dazai's side. He's so vulnerable. More vulnerable than Dazai ever saw him while they were partners in the Port Mafia.

Dazai sets down the whisky glass he just emptied and wiggles his arm out from under Chuuya. Chuuya stirs and looks up at Dazai with big, shining gray eyes.

"Dazai," Chuuya says, slurred and sweet, "where are you going?"

"I'm taking you to bed."

He tucks one arm under Chuuya's head and the other behind Chuuya's knees, lifting him up to his chest. Chuuya turns his head and nuzzles into Dazai's chest. Dazai could melt right there into the floor.