The Dog That Doesn't Cower

Most people in their line of work have a statement piece— something uniquely them about their masks.

Dazai has his bandages, mapping across his arms, neck and face. Kouyou has her traditional Japanese kimonos and her flashy lipstick, wrapped beautifully. Mori has that red scarf, passed down through generations of bosses. Hell, even Tachihara has a plaster on his face.

Chuuya has his choker.

It's a beautiful, sleek black piece with a silver buckle. It really is a top-tier choker.

Dazai teases him for it, but Dazai teases him for everything. From his height to his hair, his loudness to his politeness and from his kind inclination to his swearing issue.

Yet, Dazai got him it— 15th birthday, if he remembers. Might've been Christmas.

"Sheepdog," Dazai had called, utterly monotonous and his eyes shimmered and twirled with a strange light, "I have a gift!"

"Eh? A gift for me?" Chuuya has scoffed loudly, already considerably drunk. He makes an unintelligible gesture with his hands, grunting.

Dazai holds up a sleek black box, tied with a red ribbon and displaying a seductive kiss mark on the bottom corner— it's the company's logo.

He chucks it carelessly into Chuuya's arms, and the ginger frets to unwrap it, tearing the ribbon off with excitement, almost childlike.

After a few minutes of drunken fumbling with the bits of tape, Dazai snatches it back, ignoring the whiny complaints and opens it himself, presenting the elegant, now open, box to Chuuya like a wedding ring.

It's a pretty, velvet choker with a pure silver buckle. He looks at it in awe.

He knows the intention of this gift must be something dirty or teasing, but… it really is just such a lovely little thing.

“Does my dog like it?” Dazai questions, face oddly blank with something less hot than lust pooling in his big, red eyes, “Now everyone knows we’re together.”

“Together?” Chuuya slurs, face heating slightly.

Dazai grips the box tightly, “I am you— you are me. Can I put it on you?”

There’s an almost obsessive light glaring in his eyes, a wonder of beauty and mercy— because Chuuya wouldn’t be Chuuya if he was not merciful and beautiful.

And because Chuuya is merciful and beautiful, he nods softly and tilts his head up to allow Dazai to put the choker delicately on his refined neck.

Pale, trembling hands reach around Chuuya’s neck and pull the velvet onto his skin, taking the utmost care not to touch him with bare hands.

The silver buckle slides perfectly into place and fits snugly around Chuuya’s neck. Not so loose it falls, not so tight it hurts.

It's a perfect fit— what could that symbolize?

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