Do you love me? They don’t ask it in words.
Saruhiko asks in the curve of his mouth, a bitter-tasting smile Yata swallows down in a kiss.
Misaki asks with hesitant hands before Saruhiko grips him hard enough to make him wince. He doesn’t wince, he surges up into the embrace to more easily devour each other mouths and skin in hunger.
Do you love me? An arrested hand, an open mouth, those wide eyes wondering as Saruhiko pauses before turning his back.
Do you love me? A fierce grin, demanding words and sword to draw Misaki’s attention.
Yata wasn’t normally the fastest in picking up on conversation around him in the bar, but today he seemed particularly out of it.
“Are you all right?” Kamamoto asked.
He only got a mumbled reply, barely intelligible with Yata’s mouth buried in his arms on the counter.
“What’s wrong, Yata?” Kusanagi asked.
Yata looked up, blushed bright red. “What do you do when someone kisses you?”
The bar went quiet.
He blushed harder, buried his entire face.
“It depends,” Kusanagi answered. “Either you say you’re not interested or you kiss them back.”
“It’s gotta be Fushimi.”
Wanting Misaki like this was a discovery, unpleasant and unwelcome burning in his belly. It was easier when they were friends, then when they were enemies, easier than looking at Misaki’s cheerful face and realizing he wasn’t content to be friends again, even best friends.
“Saru! Pay attention!”
Saruhiko didn’t really need to pay that much attention to win the video game, but it would be helpful to think a little less about how distracting Misaki was and more on winning against him.
He didn’t. He leaned over, shoved the controller out of a startled Misaki’s hands, and kissed him.
She’d scrupulously avoided the mistletoe. Seri was pleased with the Captain as her King and liked him well enough when he chose to mingle during holiday parties, such as at Christmas, but not well enough to let him kiss her for spirit or tradition. The one subordinate who’d suggested she’d yet to try the mistletoe had visibly wilted under her unamused stare.
It was well after HOMRA’s party by the time she went over, everyone cleared out or asleep except Kusanagi.
“Here for your free drink?”
“No.” She paused under the mistletoe.
He stared, surprised, but didn’t keep her waiting.
Ide’a stared long enough that Mihzät finally turned around with an exasperated sigh and demanded, “What?”
“You got your ears pierced,” Ide’a said, gaze flitting between Mihzät’s ears and his face, a flat, almost unreadable expression on his own.
But Ide’a wasn’t truly unreadable, not to Mihzät. There was a little wonder there, surprised faint pleasure.
Mihzät blushed, suddenly conscious that he was finally wearing the earrings Ide’a had given him a year ago and of what such a gift actually meant. “Yeah.”
Ide’a leaned over and kissed him softly just behind his ear, making Mihzät shiver. “I like them.”
The last time Dazai kisses Chuuya is at the end of the world, Corruption unleashed in all its power, Chuuya’s head thrown back in laughter. Red light paints Yokohama with destructive glow.
It’s beautiful, terrifying, perfect—a double suicide neither of them had planned but neither regret.
Because destruction can save, and they’re stopping the end of the world. This is for everyone else, one last sacrifice.
The last moments are theirs, Dazai tasting the blood of Corruption in his mouth as he holds Chuuya and sees the light in his eyes one last time before everything crumbles to dust.
“Chuuya.” Dazai’s voice was warm and husky, the syllables of his name curling around him like a tangible thing. Dazai’s mouth was on his neck, even warmer, and Chuuya wasn’t exactly trying to free himself from being backed up against a wall.
But this wasn’t what he wanted. It’s what he told himself as Dazai kissed him, reminded his body despite times he’d imagined things like this. His partner didn’t actually care about Chuuya, and Chuuya wanted more than a warm body and mock intimacy.
He pushed back.
Dazai blinked at him, surprise slowly filtering through the lust.
Saruhiko had almost completely forgotten what it felt like to be taken care of, so it came as a bit of surprise, both unfamiliar and familiar at once, the way Misaki hung around on his return from the hospital.
“How many stitches?” Misaki asked as he frowned at Saruhiko’s limp.
How many stab wounds was more like it, Saruhiko thought with a scowl. And how many pints of blood did he have to get, how many hours passed out unconscious, how many days stuck in the hospital, surprised at how many people came to visit and how long they stayed. Misaki stayed the longest, stubbornly sleeping on the ugly couch in the corner of the room until they’d released Saruhiko to finish recovering at home.
Zuko was the first boy to dump her in a lake. He was trying to be helpful, and she knew that. He was trying to put out the flaming apple on her head, and she knew that too. But for a firebender, he sure picked the most embarrassing, awkward, inefficient way to do it.
Sometimes Misaki counts his knives.
He doesn’t touch them, Saruhiko notices, just drops his head down to note them under a piece of furniture or gently shakes the harness out of the laundry, numbers mouthed noiselessly. If a knife is missing, he shakes the uniform again.
It’s not that Misaki wasn’t there, didn’t know Saruhiko always had knives, or even that he didn’t benefit when they faced down an enemy together.
Sometimes, his fingers rub over a scar just below his right shoulder, something noiseless on his lips.
Saruhiko leans over, glad that Misaki allows him to kiss it away.