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“Hey,” Chuuya grunts, rolling over into his stomach, his thighs sore, “Old man—"
Dazai doesn’t move, and his breaths are still quick, punctuating the rise and fall of his chest. It’s only been a minute or so since they finished, but he has a smile on his face. “So mean,” Dazai pouts a little, dragging long, calloused fingers over Chuuya’s spine, drawing a slow shiver from the younger man, “couldn’t you find a nicer nickname?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes, but he still arches up against Dazai’a touch, like a cat being scratched behind the ears. “It’s descriptive. Accurate. Cuts down the ego a little. It works.”
Dazai frowns, cracking one eye open. “For someone who whines about it so much, I think you like my ego, brat.”
Chuuya hums under his breath, his eyes drifting over Dazai’s skin. Their room has a rooftop terrace, and from the railing, Chuuya can see the sea of lights swimming underneath them. They’re stretched out across a nest of blankets—but even so, if it wasn’t for the sweat cooling on Chuuya’s skin, he would have felt the cold.
“It’s probably my least favorite thing about you,” Chuuya counters softly, sliding forward until he’s laying across Dazai’s chest, propped up on his forearms so he can look the older man in the eye. His skin is bare—for him, only ever for him—and the scars Chuuya feels under his touch feel less startling now than they were a year ago.
Chuuya can’t say ‘that’s the thing about you I hate the most’ because even now, after all this time—
Chuuya hasn’t found something to hate about Dazai.
“Hmmm...” Dazai leans up, the muscles of his stomach flexing under Chuuya’s weight as he props himself up on his elbows, smiling wryly as he looks Chuuya in the eye. “Then what is it about me that you like best?”
“...” Chuuya purses his lips, his brow pinching with concentration as he gives the matter some thought. He shifts, slinging one leg around Dazai’s hip, and when the mafia boss decides to sit up completely, Chuuya is seated comfortably in his lap.
“C’mon,” Dazai chuckles under his breath, reaching to take one of Chuuya’s hands from where they’re resting against his chest, raising it to his lips to brush a kiss across the redhead’s knuckles. “Is it that hard to think of something?” He presses the back of Chuuya’s hand against his cheek, and he’s teasing—but there’s a hint of vulnerability there, however faint.
Chuuya flips his hand over in Dazai’s hold, pressing his palm to the mafia boss’s cheek. His jawline is achingly familiar under Chuuya's touch, and there's a hint of stubble from yesterday, scratching at his fingertips.
Chuuya would describe himself as a decent person who isn’t good at saying nice things. He’s gruff by nature. Giving a compliment—particularly to someone like Dazai—doesn’t come easily to him.
But there are so many things that Chuuya could say.
Dazai's bizarre love for the cheapest canned crab money can buy. The way the dimple in the right side of his mouth cuts into his cheek when he smiles. His smirk—the one that makes Chuuya feel like he’s on fire, even when he’s pissed off.
And god, his laugh, even when it’s at Chuuya’s own expense—it feels so good to hear it. Even the nicknames, the really embarrassing ones that Chuuya hates—he doesn’t really hate them at all.
Chuuya’s thumb brushes over Dazai’s bottom lip, and he silently marvels at the softness of it—it seems so far away now, to remember when the older man seemed to be made of nothing other than arrogance and rough edges.
“It would probably be the way you make me feel.”
It surprises both men—because neither of them expected Chuuya to actually answer.
“Really?” Dazai’s arms wrap around the small of Chuuya’s back, and the weight of them makes the redhead feel grounded. “And how do I make you feel?”
Happy. Wanted. Beautiful. Powerful. Intelligent. Capable. Comfortable. And it’s all too embarrassing for him to say, but—
“...Good.” Dazai hasn’t always been good at reading the subtext with Chuuya—but he’s learning, and he hears what Chuuya actually means loud and clear.
“You are,” he tugs his arms in, making Chuuya press forward until he’s flush against the older man’s chest.
“Mmm—“ Chuuya sighs against his lover’s lips, his arms sliding around his neck as he clings closer. “Back at you.”
Loved.
Dazai snorts, and it’s in the quiet space of a moment like this, tangled together on a balcony in the middle of the night, when he seems so human. “Romantic.”
Chuuya is grinning against him, his thighs tightening around Dazai’s hips when the mafia boss’s hands slide down. “Most romantic city in the world, right?”
“Supposedly,” Dazai’s fingers dig into Chuuya’s ass, a wicked grin spreading across his face when Chuuya throws his head back with a soft gasp. “Chuuya?”
Chuuya’s ears perk at the seriousness of Dazai’s tone, and he lowers his chin to meet the man's gaze. “What is it?”
He’s pulled in again—and this kiss is slow, like easing off of a ledge before you fall. Chuuya feels the pull of gravity of his gut, telling him he’s about to come crashing down.
“Happy Birthday, sweetheart.”
Chuuya’s been falling for so long, he doesn’t think he’s ever going to hit the bottom. Not when they’re like this. Being with Dazai feels like he’s being unfolded, desperately trying to hide the vulnerable parts of himself before they become exposed, and it all comes plummeting—
He whispers the words against Dazai’s lips, not for the first time—and he feels the older man shudder, flipping them over, pressing Chuuya into the blankets as he devotes himself to taking the redhead apart again.
And then, Dazai says them back.
Twenty years old. It’s supposed to be a special year. One where your entire life changes—
—and it’s already the best Birthday Chuuya has ever had.