Forgive me with tulips, forget me with lilies.
Remember my kisses as bluebells and cherries.
Dream me in lavender, violet, and white.
Trust me with tulips, and love me with lilies.
“Excuse me!”
A young man—barely more than a boy—was rapping on the door of a garden shop well after closing time.
An older woman came to the other side of the glass door, adjusting the ‘closed’ sign pointedly.
“Excuse me!” The boy insisted again. “It’s urgent!”
“We’re closed.”
“I can pay cash.”
The boy produced an enticingly thick wad of bills from within his oversized, dark coat.
From the other side of the glass, the shopkeeper scrutinized him for another moment. It was raining lightly out, and yet the boy was soaked, dripping from the cuffs of his coat (several sizes too large) and from the tufts of his hair. One of his dark eyes was half-covered by soaked bandages slipping off his head.
She only looked back and forth between the sorry image the boy made and the wad of cash in his hand once more before unlocking the door.
As she pulled it open for the boy, she turned over her shoulder and called, “Tousan! We’ve got a customer!”
A rickety old man hobbled out from the back room, wiping his hands on the knees of his long apron.
“At this hour?” He asked, flicking on the lights.
“Yes,” the boy started, stepping in and letting the woman close the front door behind him. She shuffled behind the counter to get a towel for the boy, draping it around his shoulders. “I apologize for the time, but it’s very important.”
“Oh?” The woman crooked her head, dabbing his wet hair with the towel. “And what is it that’s so important?”
Slowly, the boy lifted his hand and opened it to reveal the contents under the light.
There was a single branch in his hand—a thin length with a few unopened buds and one half-bloomed cherry blossom.
“I need to propagate this.”
“Propagate?” The man asked. “You don’t have to do that. We’ve got a fine selection growing in the nursery, and we can order anything you—”
“No. It can’t be a different plant.”
“Well, it would be difficult to do with the cutting you have there,” the woman tried. “What tree is it from? Maybe we can—”
“No,” the boy insisted. “It has to be this piece.”
His bony frame was all but swallowed up in the coat he wore, but he radiated determination.
“I don’t mind if it’s difficult,” he continued. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“But propagating a branch,” the man wrung his hands, “even in the best conditions, requires daily attention and constant monitoring. If it’s too wet or too dry or too hot or too cold, or even if you do everything correctly, it might not survive.”
“No.”
The boy’s eyes darkened.
“I’ll do whatever it takes, but this branch must survive.”
The two shopkeepers exchanged a look.
“Very well,” the man nodded.
They loaded the boy up with a planter filled with sphagnum moss, a mister, rooting hormone concentrate, a full-spectrum plant lamp, bonsai fertilizer, a kokedama tray, a cut paste (to prevent any more sap from leaking), and a three-in-one meter for measuring soil pH, moisture, and temperature.
They never asked why this cutting was so important to him, nor why the stakes were so high, but they were rewarded for their time with a lump of cash larger than they made most weeks, and one very loyal customer.
Dazai Osamu loves flowers.
"Dazai-san?"
Dazai smiles softly at Atsushi’s voice, although his gaze never leaves the resplendent cherry trees blooming in the park across the street.
"The sakura blossoms are beautiful today, don't you think?"
"Oh?" Atsushi pauses, taking them in for the first time that day. "Yes. Yes they really are."
It was a well-known fact throughout the agency.
Once, Atsushi had even spotted a small bonsai in Dazai's windowsill.
“I didn't know you had a bonsai,” he'd inquired.
“Yes I do! It's a truly relaxing hobby,” Dazai had smiled, wide and sunny. “Almost as peaceful as drifting down the river!”
Atsushi had only sighed, knowing his foray had gotten him nowhere.
However, no one expected the chaos that would unfold when a simple bouquet was left at the agency's front desk, with a simple note left attached to a string.
“Dazai-san?” Atsushi asks. “What does it say? Is it addressed to you?”
Dazai thumbs open the card, eyes flicking over the text, a private smile blooming on his lips.
“Would you like to see?” Dazai asks, eyeing Atsushi with a hint of mischief.
Eyes wide, Atsushi nods.
When Dazai passes the card over to him, Atsushi's eyes widen even more.
It reads “My beloved Osamu” in clean, neat, almost fancy handwriting.
A simple note, attached by a string to a simple, beautiful bouquet of white tulips and white roses.
“Oh! Do you have a girlfriend?” Atsushi stutters, cheeks pink. “Or, or an admirer?”
But Dazai only smiles, taking the card back and pocketing it along with the rest of his secrets.
White Tulip - Forgiveness
White Rose - New Beginnings
The water was cold, gradually seeping the warmth from Dazai’s chest and stomach until it ached with chill. His limbs grew numb. The street lamps only cast a faint pool of light on the surface of the river, and the deeper Dazai sank, the fainter it became.
Finally, he let his eyes drift closed. Bubbles trailed out of his nose for what he hoped would be the last time…
When Dazai next blinked his eyes open, lashes heavy with drops of water, he woke to an ethereal sight.
A winter sakura bloomed overhead, branches swooning with the weight of their blossoms, speckled with raindrops. Soft, yellow light from somewhere filtered through the pink petals, catching on the raindrops and twinkling like fireflies.
It was so beautiful it was almost enough to make him glad he survived.
"Well you gave it your best shot, but you lived."
Dazai turned his head, soft grass rustling beneath him, to find Chuuya sitting on the ground leaning against the tree trunk a short distance away.
The rain had let up to a soft pitter-patter, but Chuuya was soaked through, bangs plastered to his forehead, whacking water out of his shoes. And perhaps it was only the near-death experience, but Dazai could've sworn there was a sort of glow, an otherworldly halo glistening over him. It made the highlights in his hair sparkle and the depths of his eyes mesmerizing.
Chuuya…
Chuuya had saved him.
He must have dived into the river in the middle of the night, during a storm, to retrieve Dazai’s worthless body.
And the question buzzed in Dazai’s chest until it overwhelmed him, until he couldn’t help but ask.
"Why?" Dazai rasped, voice waterlogged.
"Why what?" Chuuya deadpanned, wiping water off his lips with the back of his hand. "Why did you live? f*ck if I know, since you clearly weren't trying."
"No. Why did you save me?"
Chuuya fell still, silent. His gaze drifted over the grass.
Then a drop of water slid down the slope of one of his loose curls, hanging off the end for only a second before falling to the ground.
“You were right about the Sheep,” Chuuya said at last. “They were gonna kick me out eventually, one way or another. I lost their trust, and I didn't even see it.”
This is his answer? Dazai thought, lips parting slightly in shock. He saved me as a way of repaying me?
“In the end, you saved them—saved them from themselves,” Chuuya paused, eyes cold and haunted, “saved them from me."
He did. He thinks he owes me.
And Dazai couldn’t let him go on thinking that.
“So you don't want to kill me anymore?" He teased.
"I didn't say that!" Chuuya grumbled. "Letting you drown isn't the same. I'll kill you one day, though. But it's gotta be right or I'll never get over it."
"Chuuya…” Dazai pushed himself upright so Chuuya would look at him.
“I love you."
"Wh-what?!” Chuuya started to splutter. “Don't just say sh*t like that."
"I mean it,” Dazai insisted, gaze steady. “I've wanted you from the first moment I saw you. I've loved you ever since that day at the arcade, when I saw you were just as alone and used as I am, but you couldn't see it.”
Chuuya was gaping at him, jaw slack and blue eyes wide.
“I didn't want to tell you, because…” Dazai paused, eyes dropping, smile soft and a little abashed. “...what could the love of something so inhuman as I possibly offer you? What could I ever hope to entice you with?"
He looked back up slowly, watching Chuuya for the subtlest twitch or cue.
“You…God, you're serious?”
Dazai nodded. “Utterly.”
“Well you've got a funny way of showing it.”
“I'll prove it to you, Chuuya. Whatever it takes, for as long as it takes. I'll prove it to you.”
“What? No you won't! Knowing you, you'll try to humiliate both of us in front of all our subordinates.”
“I won't. Not if that isn't what Chuuya wants.”
Chuuya squinted at him, still skeptical. Yet, he'd never seen Dazai look so earnest, so adamant, so true.
“Fine. Do whatever you want,” Chuuya shrugged, stuffing his foot into one of his wet shoes. “I don't care.”
And Dazai was determined not to let Chuuya regret those words.
Chuuya arrives at his office with a silly schoolboy’s smile on his lips, wondering if Dazai has seen his ‘message’ by now. It was a decision he almost made a dozen times before on drunken, lonely nights. But when he finally placed the order, he was sober and wide-awake.
It’s a decision he doesn’t regret.
He sits down at his desk and taps on his laptop. Then when he pulls open a desk drawer to get a pen…
He finds the contents sprinkled in pastel pink sakura petals.
A grin creeps across his face.
“Game on, mackerel.”
Dazai slips through the Agency’s front door to find a tall, resplendent bouquet on his desk. A central spire of lavender is interwoven with layers of delicate irises and white chrysanthemums like a fairy queen’s tower.
“Daaazaaai!” Kunikida growls. “What the hell is this? It was delivered specifically for you over an hour ago.”
“How should I know? Do you think I order bouquets for myself and have them delivered to my place of work?”
Kunikida narrows his eyes murderously.
“I don’t know what this is, but it had better not get in the way of your work.”
“Of course not,” Dazai puts his hands up, placating.
Kunikida sighs, already massaging his temples (and it’s only ten in the morning!)
“Fine. Just don’t cause trouble for anyone. And get to work already, will you?” He marches off to his desk with the weariness of a soldier returning from battle.
“Ah, poor Kunikida-san,” Atsushi says. “Maybe you can actually try to do some work today, Dazai-san?”
But Dazai doesn’t appear to hear him, instead examining the bouquet on his desk with a fond smile on his lips. Atsushi isn’t sure he’s ever seen his mentor’s eyes look quite so soft.
“So this is what you want from me…” Dazai murmurs to himself.
“Dazai-san?” Atsushi asks.
“Oh, was I running my mouth?” Dazai teases, then presses a finger to his lips in a silent request for secrecy. Then he strolls around to his desk chair, stretching his arms overhead, “Work, work, work! So much work to do! I’d better get a head-start on my nap if I’m going to have enough energy to do ~allll this work!”
Atsushi only shakes his head and wonders if old dogs can learn new tricks.
Lavender - Faithfulness
Iris - Loyalty
White Chrysanthemum - Truth
The wind whips through Chuuya’s hair as he rides his bike back to his apartment.
He’s had the kind of long, gray day that makes his bones ache. Then he went and overdid it in the gym trying to work the stress out, and found his stress remained, merely joined by a side helping of physical exhaustion.
As he pulls into the parking garage and starts the long elevator ride up to his apartment, he sets his heart on takeout and cheap wine—he’s not going to waste a good vintage on a miserable night like this one.
He keys into his apartment, hangs his coat up, kicks his shoes off, and heads for the kitchen to grab a bottle of something he won’t feel guilty for chugging.
And that’s when he notices something amiss.
A shape, an outline in the dark, one shadow layered on top of another on his dining room table.
One hand drops to the knife strapped to his thigh. The other hand reaches for the lightswitch.
Flick.
The chandelier comes on, illuminating a simple, but strikingly elegant bouquet placed at the end of his dining table.
Bluebells, lazily ringing their blooms like wind chimes over a bed of gardenias, and two, feathery sagisō, perching amongst the bluebells like little white lovebirds.
A smile tugs at his lips as his hand relaxes away from his knife. He tugs off one glove and brings a single finger up to feel the sagisō’s delicate petals.
It makes a warm, fuzzy feeling buzz in his chest, and he grins, wide and smitten.
“You sappy bastard,” he purrs.
Maybe he’ll have the good wine tonight, after all.
Bluebells - Gratitude
Gardenia - Secret Love
Sagisō - “I’ll be thinking of you even in my dreams”
“Ah… Ah… HAHCHOO!”
The explosive sound marks Kunikida’s sixth sneeze in half as many minutes.
“Good grief, Kunikida-kun,” Yosano chides. “Are you certain you aren’t sick?”
“Yes, yes I’m quite certain,” Kunikida sniffs. “I have no idea what it is, but something in this building has caused this reaction.”
Yosano sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can ask the cleaning staff if they’ve started using any new products, but other than that I don’t have any ideas.”
It’s then that one Dazai Osamu strolls in, late and unhurried as usual.
“GAHCHOO!”
“Ne, Kunikida-kun,” Yosano muses. “Maybe you have an allergy to lazy coworkers.”
“Wouldn’t that be beautiful?” Dazai smiles, bright and sunny.
“It would most certainly not,” Kunikida growls, wiping his nose with one of his fancy, aloe-infused tissues.
“We should test it!” Dazai declares. “I’ll leave for the rest of the day so we can see if Kunikida’s sneezing goes away!”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”
“Suit yourself,” Dazai shrugs, smug. “Ne, Atsushi-kun?”
“Uh, yes?” Atsushi pipes up.
“I have a very special job for you! Come, come~”
Dazai motions for Atsushi to follow him away from the desks and into the little consultation booth.
“Now, Atsushi-kun, I want you to use that sensitive tiger-nose of yours and see if you smell anything unusual.”
“Unusual? Like what?”
Dazai hums, performatively considering the question. “Any strange smells or fragrances, maybe a scented cleaning product or air freshener, something artificial, or maybe…” Dazai pauses, mischief twinkling in his eyes, “...floral?”
It’s a strange request, but certainly not the strangest thing his mentor has ever asked him.
Atsushi closes his eyes and puts his nose to work, and to his surprise, he does notice a smell. Something green… Botanical…
He leads Dazai through the office and into the little hallway where the detective’s personal lockers are kept.
“I think,” Atsushi pauses, sniffing the air. “I think it’s coming from your locker.”
“Oh?” Dazai lights up. “By all means, let’s have a look then.”
Dazai slithers up to his locker with ravenous curiosity, unlatching it with silent fingers.
Atsushi can’t see what’s inside from where he’s standing, but his mentor looks inordinately pleased.
“Ne, Atsushi-kun?”
“...Yes?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
The way Dazai observes him out of the corner of his eye makes Atsushi think this would be a dangerous secret to spill.
Slowly, he nods.
Dazai sneakily gestures for Atsushi to come closer, and when he does, he sees Dazai’s locker contains another tall, ornate bouquet.
A peachy dahlia blooms from a bed of white spider lilies, framed on either side by a tall fan of lilies of the valley, dripping their snow-drop blooms.
“Wow, that’s beautiful,” Atsushi starts, eyes wide, “but, why is it a secret?”
Dazai hums thoughtfully.
“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”
“Huh?”
Dazai closes up his locker thoroughly and spins around to head back to his desk with a spring in his step.
“HAHCHOO! UGH!” Kunikida glowers, tossing another tissue into his alarmingly full trashcan.
Dazai giggles to himself as he takes a seat at his desk.
There is one thing in the whole, entire world to which Kunikida Doppo is allergic.
One, single flower.
And there are a dozen of them in Dazai’s locker.
Dahlia - Good Taste
Lily of the Valley - Sweet
White Spider Lily - New Beginnings
Chuuya hums a victorious little tune to himself as he strolls into Le Cigare Volant, one of Yokohama’s finest restaurants. It takes months to get a reservation here, unless you’re a mafia executive. But even then it takes a pretty penny to swing a private table. He’s been looking forward to this meal for a week.
“Right this way, Nakahara-dono,” the maitre d’ bows, escorting Chuuya to his table even though he already knows the way.
He slides into his exquisitely comfortable seat and takes off his hat.
“Your waiter will be with you in a moment, sir.”
“Thank you,” Chuuya smiles, content just to enjoy the view out the tall, spotless windows.
The Yokohama Eye is lit up and glowing beautifully this time of night, and the easy waves in the harbor sparkle with its reflection.
Even more exciting, Dazai has undoubtedly discovered Chuuya’s surprise by now. Chuuya snuck it into the mackerel’s locker in the dead of night. Take that, bastard! Dazai isn’t the only one who can be stealthy.
That’s when Chuuya takes note of the floral arrangement on the table.
It’s typical for establishments like these to have fine bouquets on every table, but this one has Chuuya scrunching his brows in thought.
Ruffly yellow primroses, friendly orange zinnias—he recognizes both of those (Kouyou talks about Ikebana and Hanakotoba enough that Chuuya knows all the flowers pretty well). But the third flower is a four-petaled, white blossom with the faintest dusting of blush in the center that he doesn’t recognize.
It’s such a sticking point that Chuuya pulls out his cellphone, snaps a photo, and searches the web for it.
While he’s looking, the waiter slips in.
“Good evening, sir. May I show you the wine menu for this—”
“f*ckING DOGWOOD?” Chuuya pounds his fist on the table, making the silverware clatter. “These are f*cking DOGWOOD FLOWERS?”
“Uh, sir?” The waiter pales.
“They don’t even GROW in Japan! That sh*tTY MACKEREL!” Chuuya seethes. “Who put these here?”
“I-I don’t know, sir.”
“Get these f*ckING FLOWERS out of my sight!”
“Of course, sir. Immediately, sir.”
The waiter hustles to get the offending bouquet off the table and out of the room.
“I can’t f*cking believe this,” Chuuya sighs, slumping back into his seat. “That goddamn bastard…”
He shakes his head incredulously. Loath as he is to admit it, finding out where he had a reservation and sneaking a bouquet onto his private table was a pretty slick move.
Chuuya snags his menu off the table to start looking at his dinner options. He came here to relax and enjoy some exceptional food, after all. He isn’t going to let that sh*tty bastard ruin the entire night.
But when he opens the menu, sakura petals fall out all over his lap.
His eyes go wide, unblinking. His brain is a disbelieving buzz.
“That goddamn bastard,” he sighs again, this time a tender smile spreading across his face.
He picks up each and every petal and tucks them away in his pocket.
Primrose - Desperate
Zinnia - Loyalty
Dogwood - C’mon, this one is obvious…
It’s a blessedly sneeze-less morning.
The sun is shining brightly through the agency’s spotless windows.
Kunikida is on-schedule to the second, and he even managed to wring some hard-won paperwork out of his useless partner, Dazai.
In fact, he just finished balancing the agency’s books, and the budget is absolutely perfect.
It’s a perfect, uneventful morning.
Kunikida smiles to himself as he updates his notebook, marking off his budget revisions as complete.
Then a shadow starts to creep over his notebook…
A winding, serpentine mess of shadows…
Writhing across the entirety of his desk until the whole room is cast in shadow.
“Damn it all,” he sighs, looking to the window.
A mass of vines is growing denser and denser until almost no light gets through the windows at all.
“What is that?!” Atsushi jumps up.
“Hm, fritillaria camschatcensis, I think,” Dazai muses.
“What?!”
“Let’s go outside and take a look,” Kunikida says, heading for the door.
The three of them take the stairs down to the front of the building, where they find an old woman standing with her hands in a mound of dirt smushed up against the building. Her garden gloves are glowing bright green, as well as the flowering vines rocketing up from the dirt and climbing the brick walls.
“Excuse me!” Kunikida runs up to her. “Excuse me, ma’am, what are you doing?”
“Hm?” The old woman straightens, dusting the dirt off her gloves. The glow dissipates, and the plants stop climbing the building. “This is the building that ordered my services, right?”
“Ordered your services?” Kunikida quirks an eyebrow.
“Yes, yes, the young man on the phone was very insistent. He even sent me a photo of the building to be certain.”
She pulls a few papers out of the pocket of her apron, showing that one indeed depicts the agency building.
“But,” Atsushi starts. “You said you were hired by someone? What do you do?”
“Mostly I’m a florist,” she smiles, wide and wrinkly. “But my ability lets me make any plant grow rapidly—even from a seed—as long as I have enough water and fertilizer. So every now and then folks will hire me to grow a large display quickly, for parks or floats or festivals. Things like that.”
“And, I’m sorry,” Kunikida interrupts Atsushi’s line of inquiry. “Who hired you?”
“I didn’t get a name. The lad was very private about the whole thing, but he said he was willing to pay very well for the job.”
Dazai laughs through his nose, “I’ll bet he was.”
“What are these flowers?” Atsushi asks.
“They’re kamchatka lilies, dear,” she says. “But I’ve always called them chocolate tulips.”
“And you were hired to make them grow all over the building?” Kunikida reiterates.
“Indeed. Oh I hope I haven’t made a mistake.”
“No, no, not at all, ma’am,” Kunikida says. “But we have quite a bit of cleaning to do before we get fined by the city’s urban planning committee.” Then he turns to Atsushi. “Go get Kenji-kun and Yosano-sensei.”
“Yes, sir!” Atsushi nods very seriously before taking off into the building.
“And Dazai…”
Kunikida turns to find Dazai, but already the bastard has vanished without a trace, likely sensing the physical labor in his near future.
“Damn it, Dazai!”
Chocolate Tulips - “A curse upon you”
Chuuya spontaneously bursts into laughter for the eleventy-billionth time today.
The footage from the camera he set up in the building across from the agency’s office had him bent in half laughing all day—borderline hysterical. Just thinking about it sends him into a fit of chuckles even now.
Those detectives were out there hacking and weeding for hours. That doctor-lady even took her goddamn cleaver to the overgrowth. Then they had to bag it all up and cart it off to the dump. And of course, his useless ex-partner was nowhere to be found.
He doesn’t even mind the strange looks he gets every time he stifles a snicker. It’s f*cking worth it. In fact, he’ll probably head home and laugh at the footage again over dinner.
Chuuya snags his coat off the back of his desk chair and bids his secretary good night. He’s got a goddamn spring in his step as he takes the elevator down to the parking garage, strolling only a short distance to his executive parking spot where he left his bike this morning.
He slips his hand into the pocket of his coat for his keys, and feels something soft.
“What the f*ck?” He murmurs.
He pulls the contents out to find a sunny little freesia in his pocket, somewhat mushy after waiting some time inside his coat.
Suspicious now, he reaches into his other pocket, and finds the teeny-f*cking-tiniest narcissus he’s ever f*cking seen.
“Bastard!” He shrieks, and the word echoes a hundred times off the concrete of the parking garage.
Even more suspicious now, he sidles up to his bike with his eyes narrowed. Dazai put those flowers in his pockets sometime today, knowing that Chuuya wouldn’t find them until he next reached for his keys, i.e. the next time he drove his bike. He wouldn’t put it past the f*cker to hide another ‘surprise’ somewhere on his bike…potentially the explosive kind.
He searches every pipe, compartment, nook, and cranny of his bike, almost turning the contraption inside out for a single speck of powder or residue—anything to indicate the bastard’s left an explosive for him to find. But luckily, it looks like his bike is clean.
“f*cking mackerel piece of sh*t,” Chuuya mutters, swinging a leg over his bike and settling in.
Then he grabs his helmet off the handles and flips it onto his head…
…only to see a shower of sakura petals fluttering down past his face.
He blinks once, twice, gaping.
Then Chuuya spontaneously bursts into laughter for the eleventy-billionth time today.
Freesia - Childish, Immature
Narcissus - Self Esteem
“Ne, Atsushi-kun?” Yosano drawls, sending a shiver of fear down the boy’s spine. He’s only just returned to the office from an errand and already trouble has found him.
“Uh, yes?” He glances uncertainly between her and the other detectives gathered—Ranpo, Kenji, Kyouka, Jun’ichiro.
“Do you care to place a bet?” Yosano asks.
Ranpo blows a raspberry at her. “You can’t place a bet without any odds.”
“You’re no fun,” she pouts. “Can’t you just give us a hint?”
“Tch, you know I don’t work for free,” Ranpo scoffs, straightening out the funny pages of the newspaper.
“Sorry, but, what are we talking about?” Atsushi interjects.
“Dazai-san’s mystery lover!” Kenji pipes up merrily.
“Possible mystery lover,” Yosano corrects. “To be specific, we’re trying to determine the identity of the person who sent Dazai all those flowers. Any guesses?”
“I guess a lover would make the most sense,” Atsushi starts. “Since they’re sending him flowers, after all.”
“He must’ve angered her then,” Jun’ichiro muses, “given the huge display she ordered. You know what those flowers mean, right? I looked them up, and—”
“Yes, they can represent a curse,” Yosano waves him off. “But they can also represent love. No doubt the dual meaning was intentional.”
The detectives marinate in constipated silence, punctuated only by the sound of Ranpo turning the page of his newspaper.
“It could be a man,” Kyouka suggests. “The florist who grew all those flowers said it was a young man who hired her, after all.”
“You’re right,” Yosano nods seriously, holding her chin in thought. “It could be a man.”
“What could be a man?” Dazai asks, arriving late as usual.
“Your mystery lover,” she says, unflinchingly.
“I have a mystery lover?” Dazai lights up. “Really? I wish someone would’ve told me sooner!”
“Tch, playing coy,” she gripes.
“Finally! Someone to join me in a romantic double suicide!”
Atsushi deflates, “Ugh, not this again.”
Suddenly, the peal of a motorcycle buzzes so loudly they can hear it through the closed windows.
The detectives rush to the window just as the peal crescendos to a roar. A thin blur of black zooms down the street and toward the agency faster than the eye can see.
Ranpo drops his newspaper, shoulders sagging, and groans, “Shiiit.”
A projectile soars toward the windows with a trail of smoke behind it.
“Everyone!” Yosano shouts. “Get down!”
The windows shatter, and smoke fills the room.
Dazai shields his eyes and tries to wave the smoke away as he listens to his coworkers coughing.
“At least it’s not knockout gas,” Yosano sputters.
When the smoke starts to thin, Dazai spots flashes of color.
“Are…are these…” Atsushi starts. “Are these more flowers?!”
Sure enough, the more the room clears, the more flowers come into view.
The entire office has been inundated with orange flowers, as though a flower-bomb went off, or a flower-pinata burst.
Dazai stifles a giggle, lips twitching against his will.
Chuuya drove by on his motorcycle…
And threw a smoke bomb through the window…
Followed by a whole truck-load of orange lilies.
Dazai can’t help an undignified snort.
Chuuya’s speeding away on his motorcycle right now…
After having just zoomed past the agency to pull off a hanakotoba hit-and-run.
Dazai really can’t help it.
The laugh bursts out of him. He clutches his stomach as the hysterics siphon all the air out of his lungs.
“Dazai…san?”
He can’t even stop it now.
And in the middle of it all, at his feet, lays a bouquet of the most abnormally gigantic narcissus flowers he’s ever seen.
Orange Lily - Hatred, Revenge
“Fine. Do whatever you want.”
And Dazai did.
Chuuya started finding petals everywhere he went (and always hidden only where he would find them). Pressed sakura petals slipped out from between the pages of a report on his desk. He’d reach a hand into the pocket of his coat for a lighter and come up with a handful of petals. He’d come home from work to find a sprinkling of petals in his genkan.
There were petals in his desk drawers, petals in his wine glasses, petals in the glovebox of his car. There were petals on the keys of his laptop, petals on the shelves of his favorite bookstore, petals in the pocket of his brand-new suit the day he picked it up from the tailor (who seemed just as surprised as Chuuya).
After months of this, Chuuya had accrued quite the collection of petals, keeping them in his pockets throughout the day and dumping them in a vase when he got home each night.
And then one evening, Chuuya sat down on his couch with a glass of good Bordeaux and settled in to read his favorite book of poetry. He was only a few pages in, when he noticed a shape distorting the smoothness of the paper.
He let the pages fall open of their own accord, until the object causing the bump was revealed—a single, perfect sakura blossom on a spindly-thin branch, pressed between the pages of the book like a secret love letter.
He carefully lifted the blossom off the page to examine it, and then his eyes fell on the text beneath the petals:
The fire can’t touch me,
for I have burned one too many times,
and the sea can’t harm me,
for I’ve been drowning all my life.
Oh but you could rip my heart open, darling,
for I have never known love before.
Just a few days later, Dazai received a message in the form of a bouquet. It was made of white chrysanthemums for sincerity, forget-me-nots for true love, a white camellia for waiting, and twenty-two sakura blossoms that of course only Dazai would understand as a time and a place.
"If you're sincere, I'm waiting for you where you confessed."
Dazai arrived at the sakura tree soaked from the waist down.
“Did you swim all the way here?” Chuuya asked, smirking down at him from the high branch he was perched on, looking rather amused and decidedly dry.
“Well it was either that or throw myself over the railing and fall twenty meters,” Dazai shrugged. “Not all of us can float, Chibi.”
The grove was pleasantly sequestered, but it was consequently difficult to access.
Chuuya laughed through his nose, taking in the pitiful sight with undeniable fondness.
“I found something interesting in one of my books the other day,” Chuuya started, revealing the pressed sakura blossom from the folds of his coat. He examined it anew with a curious twinkle in his eye. “I looked it up, just to be sure, but in hanakotoba, sakura means kindness, gentleness. Its rapid bloom and decay represents the transience of life.”
Dazai watched, spellbound, through his one unbandaged eye as the pressed flower began to glow with For the Tainted Sorrow. Now lined in red, the blossom floated out of Chuuya’s hand and down to Dazai, who extended a palm to cradle his little messenger with a soft smile.
"What does that mean to you?" Chuuya asked.
"Hm?"
"The flower. Sakura blossoms,” he clarified. “What does it mean to you?"
"Ah. It means I love Chuuya,” Dazai carefully closed his fingers around the flower to protect it from the breeze. “It means that I will do anything he asks of me, anything he needs, anything he desires."
Chuuya watched him for a moment, feeling an openness and warmth in his chest that he didn’t know was clear in his eyes.
He slipped off his branch and dropped out of the tree, landing softly in the tall grass.
"And do you mean it?” He pressed. “Honestly?"
"Yes,” Dazai nodded. “I don't know if I'm capable of love, but whatever I'm capable of, it's yours."
“You really wanna prove it to me?”
“Yes.”
“And you'll do whatever it takes?”
“Yes.”
Chuuya squared himself in front of Dazai and looked him dead in the eye.
“Then don't try to kill yourself for six months.”
He poked Dazai in the chest.
“Not even a little bit.”
Dazai's gaze darkened, but he nodded again.
Then, Chuuya looked up into the tree, bereft of blossoms now in the winter, head craning this way and that as he searched for just the right branch.
“Hmm, here.”
He snapped off a thin section and held it out to Dazai.
“Ane-san told me you can propagate sakura trees from cuttings. So, do that with this piece. Keep it alive for the next six months, and I'll meet you here again.”
They made a trade. Chuuya took the pressed flower back, and Dazai took the branch reverently, with conviction, and they parted ways without another word.
Six months later, to the day, Chuuya texted Dazai only one sentence:
Meet you there tonight.
Dazai carefully packed up his bonsai—his potted love—and brought it to the sakura tree to show Chuuya. By now, it had rooted deep into the soil, sprouted several small branches, each with a few buds. One full, beautiful blossom had bloomed at the top of the bonsai’s trunk.
“It’s beautiful,” Chuuya whispered.
His eyes were wide. He brought his hands up around the bonsai reverently.
“This is really it? This is the one I gave you?”
Dazai nodded and gave the softest laugh.
“It was a terrible lot of work, too,” he said, although his complaint was undercut by the smile on his face. “So many meters and chemicals to monitor. Sometimes I felt like a proper botanist.”
Chuuya looked up at Dazai, traces of awe glimmering in his eyes.
“So you meant it, then?”
“Yes,” Dazai’s smile widened.
“You love me?”
“Yes.”
One of Chuuya’s hands came to rest on Dazai’s wrist, still holding the bonsai carefully. The other went up to cup Dazai’s cheek. Then, slowly, at a pace born not of hesitance, but of peace, Chuuya leaned in and kissed him.
Dazai’s heart raced even as his body melted. It was delicious and perfect and everything he had ever dared hope it would be and yet somehow more.
He held the bonsai in his hands, and held Chuuya’s kiss on his lips, and felt certain that he held the whole, wide world.
Life was bliss for a while, with tentative kisses becoming steamy makeouts becoming handsy tumbles in bed.
Dazai tucked a sakura blossom behind Chuuya’s ear, and declared its true meaning, "Dazai loves Chuuya.”
"Osamu," Chuuya corrected him. "Osamu loves Chuuya."
It became their secret code. Dazai continued to leave pressed blooms all over for Chuuya to find. And every night Chuuya would reward him with kisses and whispers.
"May I call you my love? My beloved?" Dazai asked, nuzzled deep into Chuuya’s embrace.
"Only when it's the two of us," Chuuya replied, fingers tracing sensual filigree over the bare skin of Dazai’s back.
“My beloved,” Dazai purred, and Chuuya tucked his contentment into a kiss that he placed on top of Dazai’s head.
The next time Dazai met Oda at Lupin, he was almost bursting with the desire to share his good fortune.
“Ne, Odasaku?”
“Hm?”
“I had a dream once,” Dazai murmured, tapping at the ball of ice in his whiskey, “that I was drifting peacefully down a river, when the river became a bed of forget-me-nots. I fell asleep and woke up under a blooming sakura tree.”
He paused with what he imagined must have been a very silly look on his face as he remembered.
“Then a little fairy flitted out of the tree and kissed me. And for a moment, I was finally content.”
“Finally content?”
“Indeed. It was such a marvelous feeling I could’ve cried.”
Oda’s eyes were warm and wistful as he listened to his friend.
“That sounds like a wonderful dream.”
“Do you think it means anything?” Dazai chirped. “Like one of those psychological tests from that book of yours?”
Oda hummed thoughtfully. “I can’t really say, but if I had to guess, I’d say maybe there’s a part of you that thinks you can be content someday.”
Dazai smiled to himself.
“And, what if I told you my dream had somehow come true?”
Oda smiled back.
“For your sake, I most certainly hope it did.”
Indeed, life was almost perfect bliss, marred only by the moments he couldn’t be ensconced in his little fairy’s embrace.
But slowly, the old pain returned, and this time with a vengeance.
It was small things at first.
The hot water of a shower was still relaxing on his skin, but not as restorative as it had been.
The recoil of his pistol and the spray of blood when his bullets pierced a body only left him hollow.
The growth of his bonsai still gave him a sense of accomplishment, pride, but the hope he once felt now tasted stale.
And then it was larger things.
Chuuya’s kiss was still just as sweet on his lips. But the thrill was dampened.
Morning coffee in bed with Chuuya was still delicious, but didn’t warm him as deeply.
Drinking with Odasaku and Ango still took some of the weight off his shoulders, but the whiskey didn’t sparkle quite so brightly as it once did.
And the river began to call to him again.
Then Dazai trudged home one day soaked in the blood of his only friend.
Odasaku, the one person Dazai told about his secret love, was killed tragically and brutally…and Dazai realized he had hope.
Odasaku believed in him, believed Dazai could become a better person—a person deserving of Chuuya's love, and who could truly love and care for Chuuya in turn. But he would never become the person he wanted to be where he was. The Mafia left no room for love and care.
Dazai had to leave, or accept suicide. He had to learn to use his wings, or drown, losing Chuuya forever.
"My love, can you ever forgive me?"
Chuuya sighed out the smog of a long day. He was looking forward to driving home and burying himself in Dazai’s embrace until the stress seeped out of his body.
His car beeped as it unlocked, doors automatically folding up and out like a pair of wings. He slipped into the driver’s seat and closed the doors. The car thrummed beautifully when he turned the key.
That's when he noticed the bouquet in the back seat, reflected in the rearview mirror. He smiled softly at the reflection, until he realized it wasn't an arrangement of the sakura blossoms he’d grown to love.
In a low, glass vase on the upholstery, red spider lilies sprouted their spindly petals. Atop the thicket woven by the spiny lilies, a crown of red camellias bloomed, with a fanfare of white tulips trumpeting up above.
Chuuya squinted at them in his mirror, trying to decode the machinations of his lover's mind.
Red camellias — passion, love, sorrow, perishing with grace
Was Dazai planning something? Was he saying he was going to hurt himself despite everything they had together?
Red spider lilies — never to meet again, lost memory, abandonment
Surely that's not what he meant, right?
But tulips… white tulips…
Chuuya racked his admittedly hazy memory to recall their meaning.
He was, in fact, so deep in thought that he didn't hear the subtle tick, tick, tick, until it was almost too late.
“sh*t!”
For the Tainted Sorrow came to his defense, wrapping around him just as the explosives detonated.
Chuuya went flying as the car exploded, skidding on his ass across the cement. He shielded his face with both arms, squinting through the barrier to see his car going up in flames.
And in between the flickers of fire, deep in the belly of the blaze, he saw the last remnants of the bouquet burning to a crisp.
Forgiveness.
He remembered.
White tulips.
They represented forgiveness.
Dazai’s message was clear to him now.
It was the last message Dazai left his lover before he deserted the mafia, a bouquet that burned to a crisp inside Chuuya's car, and eradicating any evidence of his love.
But on their anniversary each year, Dazai had flowers delivered to Chuuya's increasingly luxe apartments. Gardenias - secret love. Yellow camellias - longing. Lotus - far from the one he loves. Sagisō - thinking of you even in my dreams. Lily of the Incas - such strong connection that language is limited when trying to explain it. And of course, sakura blossoms.
No matter how stealthily Chuuya purchased and moved apartments, Dazai always had the flowers delivered to the right address.
“Osamu loves Chuuya.”
Chuuya could never quite decide if it was a cruel joke or a sad, lonely truth. But if it was the truth, it had a mate in the sad, lonely spark of hope that bloomed in Chuuya’s chest every year as he waited for Dazai’s bouquet.
“You used Corruption trusting in me? That’s so beautiful I could cry.”
Chuuya had forgotten how much Corruption hurt. But at least he had anticipated that.
What he hadn't anticipated was how good it would feel to fall asleep on Dazai again.
After all these years, his heart still ached with what he couldn't have.
He pushed himself upright weakly and swallowed his disappointment at waking up alone. Chuuya wasn't foolish enough to think Dazai would be there when he awoke, but the bitter taste of abandonment lingered anyway.
Dazai hadn't changed.
That's when he spotted his hat beside him, resting on top of his coat, which was neatly folded. How Dazai managed to find them every time was beyond him, especially amid the ruins of Mukurotoride.
No, Chuuya didn't regret it. If he had to do it again right now, he'd still jump out of that plane to fight that bigass, goddamn dragon. Even if only to punch Dazai in his stupid face again.
He sighed and reached for his hat, ignoring the screaming burn in his muscles.
But when he picked his hat up, what should he find beneath it but a little pile of sakura petals.
Dried. Pressed. They weren't in season. Dazai must've saved them for the occasion.
A soft breeze stirred the petals, picking up just two and carrying them aloft into the air—setting sail for places unknown.
Chuuya scooped up a handful of petals before they could be whisked away, and brought them close to his face, cradling them in his palm.
“Osamu loves Chuuya.”
It rang sweet and crystal-clear in his mind as though Dazai had said it only yesterday.
“Is that so?” Chuuya murmured.
He couldn’t help the spark of hesitant hope that bloomed in his chest.
Dazai hadn't changed. But at least Chuuya had anticipated that.
What he hadn’t anticipated was that Dazai’s unchanging nature might not be the bad omen he thought it was.
Three, full days have gone by since the hanakotoba hit-and-run, and the detectives are beginning to suspect that the floral warfare is finally over. This is a great relief to some (Kunikida) and a great disappointment to others (everyone else).
Yosano still hasn’t managed to wring a single clue out of Ranpo or Dazai, but after all those orange lilies, she has to agree with Jun’ichiro that whoever Dazai’s significant other is, they are probably a little upset with him (at least).
A paper airplane sails onto Atsushi’s desk, making the boy sigh.
“Dazai-san, please stop playing with your paperwork and do your job.”
“A child’s work is to play~” Dazai replies, already folding up another page.
“Dazai-san?” This time it’s Haruno calling him. “There’s a delivery for you.”
Instantly the whole office is on high alert.
“Oh?” Dazai smiles, getting up from his desk to greet the delivery driver at the door.
Unsurprisingly, it’s another bouquet, this time white chrysanthemums and white camellias speckled with sweet blue forget-me-nots all interwoven around blossoming sakura flowers.
Dazai gently places the vase on his desk, turning it this way and that as he looks it over.
“Sixteen, seventeen…” he counts softly.
“Are you counting the flowers?” Yosano asks incredulously, hand on her hip.
“Twenty…” Dazai pauses, brows furrowed in concentration. “Only twenty? Goodness, I’m going to be late!”
He takes off for the door in a mad dash.
“Dazai!” Kunikida shouts. “Where do you think you’re going?! There’s still an hour left before closing!”
But Dazai is already out the door and flying down the hall. He has a long swim ahead of him, after all, (though not until he makes a quick stop at his apartment…)
Chuuya celebrated his successful flower-bombing of the agency by taking some of his subordinates out drinking. When he arrived home that night, it was late and he was completely hammered, crashing into bed and blacking out peacefully.
Morning greeted him with soft, dove-gray light through his window, and a brutal hangover. He groaned as he rolled over in the blankets, head already pounding, and it was then that he spied a sprinkling of color on the pillow beside him.
Sakura petals, scattered across his silk pillowcase, like a trail leading to a little treasure on his nightstand.
Chuuya propped himself up with one arm and reached out to take the tiny clipping Dazai left for him. It was a sprig of sakura, just a small twig with a single, luxurious bloom on it.
And beside it was a glass of water and two tablets of alka-seltzer.
A silly, bubbly warmth filled his heart so full he didn’t even notice his headache anymore.
Dazai sloshes his way up the riverbank, soaked to the waist.
“Took the scenic route again?” Chuuya smirks down at him, looking very comfortable (and dry) from his seat in the sakura tree.
“Not all of us can float, Chibi,” Dazai smiles.
Chuuya slides down out of the tree with a chuckle, looking up at Dazai with unmistakable fondness.
They stand like that for a moment, sizing each other up in the silence in their secret, wordless language—the language their two souls have always spoken. It’s the language that makes them Soukoku.
“Thanks for the alka-seltzer,” Chuuya says.
“Thanks for the entertainment,” Dazai replies. “I can’t remember the last time I saw Kunikida so red in the face! But,” he pauses wistfully, “I’m sure you didn’t call me here just to thank me.”
Chuuya’s smile falls, replaced with a thoughtful expression that Dazai alone recognizes as fear.
"Why did you leave without even saying goodbye?" Chuuya asks finally.
Dazai knew the question was coming, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
"Because you are happy in the mafia. I couldn't ask you to leave, to choose. Not when I had so little to offer."
"You didn't think to let me make that choice by myself?"
"If you'd said yes, if you'd left with me, and we hid in a tiny apartment for two years... would you have been happy?"
"I might have! You don't know!"
"I don't know. It's true,” Dazai nods. “But it's what I believed then, and what I believe now. Chuuya, I lived off of you—off of your love—like a parasite. I wanted to become someone who could give, not just take."
"And, now? Do you think you can give?"
Dazai pauses, shadows in his eyes. "I'm afraid to lose you. To take from you and hurt you until we're both broken and there's nothing left."
"Tch. Like you could break me,” Chuuya scoffs. “Osamu, I don't know who you are or, or what you are. I don't know if you can give, or if you really take as much as you think you do. And I don't care. You go ahead and try it, and if somehow you do break me, I'll beat your ass."
"Promise?"
"You know it,” he nods, fire in his eyes. “And I swear to God if you leave me again I will hunt you down and break you. I will break every goddamn bone in your goddamn body and keep you tied down to the bed."
"Ooh, kinky."
"Shut the f*ck up and kiss me, you bastard."
Dazai can’t help the smile that breaks out across his face.
But he takes his time leaning in, bringing one hand up to cup Chuuya’s face. He savors each extra inch of closeness as the space is erased between them. Then he lets his eyes drift closed, and finally, their lips meet.
They kiss sticky and slow, bodies incrementally reconnecting and fitting against one another the way they once did—a sensual “welcome home.”
Dazai brings one hand to Chuuya’s waist, relishing the firm curves of his trim little torso. Then Chuuya reaches up to grab Dazai’s lapels. For one moment, he pulls him closer. And in the next moment, he holds Dazai still as he draws back. But it’s not to push him away. No, Chuuya snakes his arms up around Dazai’s neck and pulls him into a lingering embrace.
Bodies pressed together, limbs entwined, hearts beating against one another again after so, so long apart—Dazai feels as though his lungs haven’t truly filled all the way up until just now. Always he’s lived with half a lung, but now oxygen floods his veins only by the grace of his god.
They’ve been apart for too long. He sees that now. He was starving himself, and perhaps even depriving Chuuya, too. Finally, finally, they’re connected again. And he’s determined not to screw it up this time.
Then, Chuuya threads his fingers into Dazai’s hair and yanks him down, claiming his mouth again. Dazai moans and squeezes Chuuya’s waist, drawing his hips close.
Before, Chuuya’s kisses said “hello” and “I missed you.” But now they’re faster, hotter, meaner, saying “want” and “take” and “more.”
Dazai keens when Chuuya’s tongue hits the right spot in his mouth, tickling and enticing. Chuuya’s hands knead at the back of Dazai’s neck and tug at his hair. It’s too much, and too good, and too fast, and Dazai’s melting so quickly he’s going to be a puddle at Chuuya’s feet in seconds if they don’t—
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Chuuya purrs into the heated space between their lips. “Don’t tell me I got your tongue in a twist already?”
Dazai’s weak for the sweet talk, and they both know it. Nothing has him pliant and gooey faster than pet names and praise from Chuuya’s lips.
“Don’t worry, sh*tty Dazai,” Chuuya says, brushing a thumb over Dazai’s cheek. “I’m not gonna take it too fast.”
Breathless, Dazai only manages a bratty, “Fast? I didn’t even know we had started.”
Chuuya pats his cheek a little extra rough for that comment.
"You're taking me out to dinner first."
"I am? This wouldn't happen to be one of the very fancy, very expensive places Chuuya frequents?"
"Fancy, but not too expensive. Relax. I'm not out to punish you just yet."
Chuuya had enough foresight to bring a rope ladder so they don’t have to trudge back through the river. Dazai declares that he, too, had some foresight, proudly revealing a plastic bag from inside his coat containing spare slacks and socks.
Dinner is intimate (and delicious), and Dazai realizes how much he's craved their banter all these years. Kunikida just smacks him down, like a spiky, brick wall. But Chuuya can send the ball back into Dazai's court.
“So you planned ahead enough to bring dry pants and socks, but not enough to bring your own rope ladder?”
“You could say the thought occurred to me, but I made quite the romantic picture all sopping wet and valiant, didn’t I?”
Their hearts dance around each other in a tentative reacquainting.
One-step, two-step.
Foxtrot. Tango.
“I see Chuuya still likes his terrible wines.”
“I’m not the only one who hasn’t changed much…sweetheart.”
Ballroom. Swing.
Jazz. Flamenco.
After dinner, they walk side by side through the city, enjoying the night air—and each other.
“Chuuya, where are we going?”
“Back to my place,” Chuuya answers glibly, glancing at Dazai out of the corner of his eye. “Unless you have other plans?”
They’re barely through the door before they tumble into Chuuya’s bed, clawing at each other and kissing like anything less would kill them. But even so, they take their time, teasing, caressing, undressing. Touch is the main event.
“Can I have this?” Dazai whispers, fervently, between their lips.
“Of course,” Chuuya kisses him, warm and sure. “I’m offering, aren’t I?”
But they both know what he really means.
“Can I have this without ruining it?”
Chuuya draws him close and kisses his forehead, “I’ll protect you.” He murmurs against Dazai’s brow, while reverent hands press against his naked chest. “I’ll protect both of us. As long as you love me, that is my promise to you.”
Dazai falls silent, and at first, Chuuya fears he’s said the wrong thing. Until Dazai whispers something Chuuya hasn’t dared even fantasized about for years.
"Chuuya, I want you to be on top."
"Are, are you sure?” He stutters. “Have you ever done this before?"
"Yes, by myself...thinking of you."
Chuuya's entire body jolts with arousal.
"f*ck," he swears, shaking his head to clear the fog of surging hormones. "Warn me next time."
Dazai smirks at him, coy and decidedly unapologetic, and Chuuya determines to wipe that smug smile off his face.
He grabs the lube off the nightstand while lifting one of Dazai’s legs up onto his shoulder, bringing the side of Dazai’s knee to his lips to kiss the soft, sensitive skin on the inner side. Then, looking Dazai straight in the eyes, he licks a long stripe down the inside of his thigh. It makes Dazai bite his lip and whine very prettily.
Slicked up, Chuuya circles a finger around Dazai’s hole before slipping in, eliciting a sweet, soft gasp. Very sweet, and very pretty, but Chuuya remembers his lover, knows him too well. Dazai always used to put on something of a performance before really losing himself in the pleasure.
Chuuya won’t call him on it, won’t put him under a microscope for it. No, he’ll guide his lover through it, unravel his body nerve by nerve until he’s so delirious with pleasure he won’t be able to put a sentence together, much less put on a performance.
And to that end, Chuuya slips in another finger, gently starting to scissor as he leans in to kiss the life out of Dazai. He tongues around Dazai’s mouth, tickling and teasing and working him up to three fingers until that busy brain of his finally turns to sensuous static.
“Hng, Chuuya,” Dazai keens around Chuuya’s tongue.
“Yeah?”
“Nn, Chuu, I’m, ah.”
“Mm, you are,” Chuuya purrs between demanding kisses, fingers swirling around Dazai’s prostate.
“Chuuya,” Dazai gasps. “S-slow down. Ah! I’m, I’m not—”
Chuuya stills his fingers and draws back just enough to catch those pretty, cloudy eyes.
“Oh?” Chuuya teases, pressing the pad of his clean thumb into the plush of Dazai’s lower lip and reveling in just how debauched his lover looks. Then he pushes his thumb into Dazai’s mouth, caressing the glossy tip of his tongue before slipping his index finger in to stroke the roof of his mouth.
Dazai’s eyes are completely hazy, panting around Chuuya’s fingers.
“You’re not what, pretty boy?”
Dazai whines pitifully.
“Not gonna last?”
Somehow Dazai manages to nod with fingers in his mouth and even manages a bratty little pout. Chuuya snickers fondly before pulling his fingers out and tapping the bottom of Dazai’s chin.
“You think you’re ready then?”
“Yes,” Dazai nods again, breathless.
“Oh f*ck, you’re gorgeous,” Chuuya croons, kissing him full and sloppy.
Then he finally, finally lines himself up and eases into Dazai’s heat with excruciating self-control.
“f*ck, f*ck, you’re tight, baby.”
Dazai hears the implied “I thought you said you'd done this before.”
“Well,” Dazai manages, breathless with exquisite sensation. “Chuuya's a bit bigger than any of my toys.”
…Or maybe a lot bigger.
Chuuya groans so deep and gravelly it sends a shiver down Dazai's spine.
“f*ck. Still good, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” Dazai pants, baring down as best he can. But even now the pressure on his insides—that exquisite, slick caress as Chuuya slides in—has him so close he could cry.
“Oh sh*t,” Chuuya swears as he finally bottoms out. Dazai feels like a fever dream wrapped around him and sucking him in tight. Not to mention the goddamn view. His lover makes a pretty f*cking picture, debauched and mussed, blushing a tasty shade of sex-pink, lips plush and parted like they're just begging for more kisses, a thin sheen of sweat highlighting the dip of his throat and his collarbones.
Chuuya threads his clean fingers into Dazai's hair, and brushes it back to tuck behind one ear.
“There,” Chuuya purrs, “Perfect,” and enjoys the extra dash of red on Dazai's cheekbones as he squirms under the praise.
He looks like a goddamn prince now, all strung-out and needy and naked in Chuuya's bed.
“Chuuya,” Dazai pants, nerves electric and crackling and desperate for friction. “Chuuya please.”
And who is Chuuya to deny his pretty prince?
“Shh, I gotchu, doll.”
He gives just the gentlest grind of his hips, and Dazai f*cking keens, tossing his head.
“Aw sweetheart, it's alright,” Chuuya croons, cupping Dazai's cheek.
He rolls his hips again, and Dazai gasps, hiccups, and clutches Chuuya closer.
“Shh, I've gotchu Osamu. It's alright.”
He keeps rolling his hips in melty-slow, barely-there movements. Dazai's just so sensitive, Chuuya can hardly move without risking overstimulation. Gradually, one tiny thrust at a time, Dazai starts to acclimate to the pleasure.
Then Chuuya adds in a swivel, making Dazai's breath hitch.
He soothes his lover as best he can, petting his side in long strokes and molding his mouth to Dazai's neck for slow, sticky kisses. He's patient with his lover's sensitivity, moving with all the urgency of frozen honey. He's attentive, only deepening each swivel when Dazai can take it, when it makes him moan and shiver.
“Oh, f*ck, Chuuya!”
“Yeah baby?” Chuuya purrs in Dazai’s ear. “Too much?” He asks, half-serious and half-tease, hips stilling.
“No, no, don’t stop,” Dazai squirms.
“Are you sure?” Chuuya smirks. “It’s not too much for you, sweetheart?”
“Chuuya please, just, f*ck!”
He rolls his hips just a fraction harder, and Dazai’s answering moan is liquid sex, making every nerve in Chuuya’s body f*cking jolt.
“f*cking hell, you feel so good, Osamu.”
Dazai whimpers and claws Chuuya closer, nails digging into Chuuya’s back with a f*ck-yes-burn that has Chuuya’s head in the goddamn clouds.
God, how did he forget this? The way Dazai melts into a puddle of nonsense, pleasure-me goo that satisfies Chuuya to his f*cking bones. All those clever thoughts and too-dark smog and existential emptiness scatter under Chuuya’s touch and it drives him completely crazy. How did he go four f*cking years without hearing Dazai cry and whine and moan and beg under him? And that was just from hand-stuff. They’d talked about f*cking, but never worked up to it. This extra intimacy is going to ruin both of them.
Chuuya starts a harder pace, and the response is immediate.
Dazai tosses his head and keens, “Oh, yes, yes, please! Yes, Chuuya, f*ck me!”
And Chuuya f*cking vibrates with need. His dick is electric with sensation, and nothing does him in quite like this bastard crying out for him.
“f*ck, I’ll give you anything you want, baby. Any way you want it.”
“Please, please, please.”
He can’t take it anymore. He winds a hand into Dazai’s hair and jerks his head forward to claim those stupid lips with a kiss. And at the same time, he picks up the pace again, f*cking in and out faster and harder and always with a little upward grind to keep Dazai moaning and twisting under him.
“Chuu~ya!” Dazai cries, brokenly.
And that’s when Chuuya tastes the tears on Dazai’s face.
He swipes his thumb over slick cheeks and licks a trail up to weeping eyes.
“Please, Chuuya, please, just please, Chuuya.”
Dazai’s close now. Chuuya can feel it in the way his sweet little ass clenches around him, how his whines grow desperate and airy and wild, how he starts to hiccup as he tosses his head, how his limbs tense up like a coil all wrapped around Chuuya’s body.
“Gonna make you cum, sweetheart,” he growls into Dazai’s ear. “Gonna make you cum so f*cking hard.”
“Yes,” Dazai pants.
“Yeah, you wanna cum for me, baby? Wanna show me how much you like it when I take care of you?”
“Yes,” Dazai cries again.
“Oh sh*t! I’m gonna make it so good for you, baby.”
He picks up the pace again, pounding into Dazai until he’s seeing goddamn fireworks behind his eyes. And Dazai f*cking sobs, clawing Chuuya in so tight Chuuya almost can’t breathe. He wants to hold on until he makes Dazai cum, but each thrust is so f*cking mind-breaking he can’t keep his head clear any longer. So he reaches between them to find Dazai’s dick, squeezing it in his fist and stroking in time with his thrusts.
Chuuya’s hips become erratic just as Dazai’s legs start to shake around his waist. And that’s it. He can’t take it any more. His hips lock up and slam into Dazai as org*sm breaks over him, filling Dazai up with white-hot cum between sporadic thrusts.
Dazai cries out like something from a wet dream as Chuuya c*ms inside him. And then he falls silent, rigid under Chuuya, jaw dropping on ecstasy just before a broken scream of pleasure punches out of him.
“f*ck yes, baby,” Chuuya groans, sucking the corner between Dazai’s shoulder and neck.
Each stripe of Dazai’s cum feels like neon bliss hitting Chuuya’s abs, stringing out his own org*sm dramatically. He floats on painless, fluffy pleasure, soaking in the rise and fall of Dazai’s chest underneath him. They stay curled up like that, sweaty and sticky and breathing each other’s breaths, holding each other close because nothing else matters.
Chuuya drifts for a while, until he feels clever fingers tracing marvelous nonsense patterns over his bare shoulder. He blinks sleepy eyes open and finds his way to Dazai’s lips, kissing his mind back together.
“My beloved,” Dazai whispers.
“My beloved,” Chuuya grins and pecks the tip of his lover’s nose.
“Good morning everyone,” Dazai lilts, waltzing through the agency’s door.
“Morning?” Kunikida gripes. “It’s almost noon. Where have you been?”
“Ah, is that one of my petals?”
Dazai asked through a smile, looking at the dried sakura petal held between Chuuya’s fingers.
Chuuya pressed the petal to his lips, kissing it, before tucking it into the breast pocket of Dazai’s coat.
“Now it means Chuuya loves Osamu, too.”
A tender silence followed, and the two of them took each other in, wordlessly speaking that language that makes them Soukoku.
But it was only a mere moment before they were a tangle of limbs and kisses and want all over again.
So in short… that’s why Dazai’s late.
“I had a very important appointment with my florist,” Dazai finally replies.
Ranpo snorts, “Is that what the kids are calling it?”
Dazai only shrugs.
But later that day, one more bouquet arrives at the agency—white tulips, white roses, and sakura blossoms.
Forgive me with tulips, forget me with lilies.
Remember my kisses as bluebells and cherries.
Dream me in lavender, violet, and white.
Trust me with tulips, and love me with lilies.
