Archive of Our Own ^beta

It started, as most of Atsushi’s misfortunes did, with Dazai casually leaning against his desk with that too-innocent smile.

“Atsushi-kun,” Dazai began, voice lilting like he was offering a cup of tea and not a trap, “how do you feel about… letting loose tonight?”

Atsushi paused mid-paperwork, pen hovering. “Letting loose? We just finished a triple case week. I was planning to sleep. For the next twelve hours.”

Dazai’s smile widened. “All the more reason to celebrate! A little… gathering. Very small. Very lowkey.”

That word. Lowkey. Coming from Dazai, it was already suspicious. “Lowkey as in… two or three people? Or lowkey as in you invite the entire city and three rival organizations?”

Dazai waved a hand. “Exaggeration doesn’t suit you, Atsushi-kun. Just some friends, a bit of food, maybe a card game or two. You’ll love it.”

Atsushi sighed, trying to gauge whether “friends” meant “people who wouldn’t threaten his life on sight.”
“Who’s going to be there?”

“Oh, you know… the usual suspects.” That answer was no answer at all. “I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear something… neutral. You look too much like a good boy otherwise.”

By the time Dazai was strolling away humming to himself, Atsushi had the sinking feeling that sleep was off the table.

At eight sharp, Dazai appeared at the door to Atsushi’s apartment, grin intact. They took a short walk — well, short in Dazai’s definition — and ended up outside a cozy, dimly lit apartment building on the edge of Yokohama’s entertainment district.

The moment they stepped in, Atsushi realized “lowkey” had been a lie. Again.

The air was warm with the mingling scents of food and alcohol. Music played low but steady from a speaker in the corner. And gathered in mismatched chairs, on couches, and leaning against counters were faces Atsushi both recognized and wished he didn’t see outside of work.

Kunikida was there, frowning at a cup of soda like it had personally insulted him. Yosano lounged with a wine glass, looking far too entertained. Even Akutagawa was perched stiffly on an armchair, pretending not to be there while clearly waiting for an excuse to complain.

And then there was Chuuya.

He was leaning against the kitchen doorway, dressed in black jeans and a loose shirt, wine glass in hand. His hat was nowhere in sight, his hair falling in loose waves over his brow. When his blue eyes flicked toward Atsushi, there was the briefest up-and-down glance before Chuuya smirked.

Atsushi quickly looked away.

“This is… not what I thought you meant by small gathering,” Atsushi muttered to Dazai, who only chuckled and disappeared into the crowd.

Despite his initial nerves, Atsushi found the atmosphere… tolerable. There were snacks — actual good ones, not just Dazai’s questionable convenience store “meals.” The music was just loud enough to fill awkward silences, and people seemed more interested in their own conversations than in bothering him.

For the first hour, Atsushi floated between groups, occasionally getting pulled into light banter. At one point, Yosano roped him into a snack-tasting debate. Another time, Ranpo leaned over from the couch to whisper that the chips “definitely had hidden codes in their salt distribution,” which Atsushi still didn’t understand.

Dazai kept vanishing and reappearing, often with suspiciously pleased expressions — which usually meant trouble was brewing.

It started when someone — Atsushi later learned it was Yosano — loudly declared that the party needed “something spicier” to liven things up.

“Cards are boring. Charades is boring,” she said, swirling her wine. “We need something… with stakes.”

“What kind of stakes?” Kunikida asked warily.

“The fun kind,” she replied, smiling sweetly. “Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

The room reacted instantly. Some groaned, some laughed, some pretended not to hear. Dazai, of course, clapped his hands like she’d just announced a national holiday.

“I like it! Let’s make things interesting,” Dazai said. “No refusals unless you’re already dead or missing in action.”

“That’s ridiculous—” Kunikida started, but was immediately drowned out by chatter and teasing.

A bottle was produced, set in the middle of the coffee table. People gathered around in a loose circle, curiosity winning out over dignity.

Atsushi tried to slip toward the kitchen, but Dazai caught him by the shoulder. “Oh no you don’t, Atsushi-kun. You’re in.”

The bottle spun for a few rounds, landing on various pairs to the amusement of the crowd. Some went in with smug grins, others came out red-faced. Atsushi managed to avoid being picked — until fate, and possibly Dazai’s subtle interference, decided otherwise.

The bottle clinked to a stop, its neck pointing directly between Atsushi and—

Chuuya.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Chuuya’s mouth curved into the kind of smirk that made Atsushi’s stomach twist. “Well, look at that. Luck’s on my side tonight.”

Atsushi’s face heated instantly. “I… uh… maybe we should spin again—”

“Nope,” Yosano said cheerfully, already pushing him forward. “Rules are rules.”

The chanting started. “Closet, closet, closet!”

Before Atsushi could protest further, he found himself being steered toward a small hall closet. Chuuya followed at an easy pace, clearly enjoying the scene. The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Inside, it was dim and narrow, shadows pooling between the shapes of coats hanging along the walls.

Atsushi shifted awkwardly, his back brushing a jacket sleeve. The air in here felt thick, carrying the faint scent of cedar from the wooden door, a hint of laundry soap from the coats… and Chuuya’s cologne.

That last one was sharp and warm at the same time — like black pepper and something citrus underneath — and it filled the small space until Atsushi was sure he could taste it.

Chuuya didn’t say anything at first. He leaned against the opposite wall, one hand in his pocket, eyes tracking Atsushi like he was trying to decide how best to toy with him. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate.

Atsushi cleared his throat. “So… seven minutes.”

Chuuya smirked. “You’re counting already?”

“I’m just saying—”

“—that you’re nervous.” Chuuya’s tone was light, but there was something in his eyes — a spark of amusement, maybe curiosity. “That’s okay. It’s cute.”

Atsushi bristled. “I’m not nervous. Just… wondering what we’re supposed to do in here.”

Chuuya tilted his head, stepping closer. “Well… it’s called Seven Minutes in Heaven. There’s a reason for that.”

The words landed like a weight in the air between them. Atsushi could feel the heat rising in his face, and when he instinctively backed up a step, his shoulders hit the wall.

Chuuya’s mouth curved into a knowing grin. “Cornered already? I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“That’s not—” Atsushi started, but the protest faded when Chuuya closed the last bit of distance between them, close enough that Atsushi could feel the warmth radiating from him.

Chuuya braced one hand against the wall beside Atsushi’s head, his arm caging him in without touching. His other hand stayed loose at his side, but the line of his body was close enough that every shift in breath made Atsushi hyper-aware of it.

“You’re jumpy,” Chuuya murmured, leaning in just enough that his voice brushed Atsushi’s ear. “Cute, and jumpy. Dangerous combination.”

Atsushi swallowed hard. “You keep saying that word.”

“Cute?” Chuuya pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, the smirk still playing at his lips. “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t—” Atsushi’s voice faltered when Chuuya’s gaze dropped to his mouth for the briefest second, then lifted again.

The pause stretched, and Atsushi’s breath felt too loud in his own ears. The rest of the room — the party, the laughter, even the fact that people were waiting outside — faded into something distant and unimportant.

Then Chuuya’s hand came up, fingertips brushing Atsushi’s jaw in a light, testing touch. Atsushi tensed at the contact, not because it was unwelcome, but because of how much it wasn’t.

“You’ve got that look,” Chuuya said quietly.

“What look?”

“The one people get when they’re deciding whether to kiss back or run away.”

Atsushi tried to answer, but Chuuya didn’t give him the chance.

He leaned in, closing the space between them, and his mouth pressed against Atsushi’s — warm, sure, unhurried.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t a grab-and-go kind of kiss. It was deliberate, like Chuuya was taking his time to map the shape of Atsushi’s lips, to feel the hesitant way Atsushi responded at first.

Atsushi froze for half a second before something in him loosened, and he kissed back — clumsily at first, then more certain when Chuuya made a small, approving sound in the back of his throat.

When they broke apart, Atsushi was breathing faster than before.

“Not bad,” Chuuya said, eyes glinting. “You’ve got potential.”

Atsushi scowled — or tried to. “You’re acting like this is some kind of lesson.”

“Maybe it is.” Chuuya stepped back half a pace, only to lean forward again, this time tilting his head to kiss him deeper. Atsushi’s back pressed into the wall, his hands twitching at his sides like he couldn’t decide whether to push Chuuya away or pull him closer.

Chuuya’s hand slid from Atsushi’s jaw to the side of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his collarbone. The touch was light but firm, the kind of casual possessiveness that made Atsushi’s chest tighten.

“You’re thinking too much,” Chuuya murmured against his mouth.

“I’m not—”

“You are. Stop.”

Another kiss, slower this time, lingering just long enough to make Atsushi’s head swim. When Chuuya finally pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded, the smirk softer now but still there.

“How much time’s left?” Atsushi asked, his voice lower than he meant it to be.

Chuuya chuckled. “Plenty. Don’t tell me you’re in a hurry to get out.”

Atsushi hesitated. “I didn’t say that.”

“Good.” Chuuya’s hand slid down to rest briefly at Atsushi’s waist, his thumb brushing over the fabric there before he leaned in again, close enough that their noses almost touched. “Because I’ve got at least three more things I want to try before the timer’s up.”

Atsushi’s breath caught. “Like what?”

“You’ll see.”

And then Chuuya kissed him again — and again, each one different, a little experiment in pressure, angle, and patience, until Atsushi was dizzy with it.

The knock on the door when the seven minutes were up felt abrupt, almost intrusive.

When the door swung open, Atsushi stumbled out, lips tingling, hair slightly mussed. Chuuya followed with that same infuriating smirk, looking for all the world like someone who’d just won a bet.

The room erupted the second the closet door opened.

Wolf-whistles. Groans. A few theatrical “ooooooh”s from Dazai, who was leaning casually against the arm of the couch like he’d been waiting for the grand reveal.

Atsushi’s face burned as he stepped out, trying to smooth down his hair and avoid everyone’s eyes. Chuuya strolled behind him, maddeningly composed, as if they’d just been discussing weather patterns in there.

“Someone had fun.” Yosano sing-songed, sipping her wine.

Chuuya just smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Atsushi opened his mouth to protest — to say something, anything — but the words died when his gaze accidentally met Akutagawa’s.

The Port Mafia executive was sitting at the edge of the couch, hands clasped over his knees, staring at Atsushi like he’d just witnessed a personal betrayal. His dark eyes narrowed, scanning Atsushi up and down, lingering a fraction too long on his lips.

Atsushi took an involuntary step back.

Akutagawa’s voice was cool, measured, but there was a steel edge under it. “You played.”

“It wasn’t my idea, but yeah, i was with—” Atsushi said quickly.

“Chuuya, I know." Akutagawa finished flatly. His gaze flicked to Chuuya for a second — sharp, assessing, dismissive — before returning to Atsushi. “You're going to continue playing, correct?"

Atsushi’s ears were on fire, he felt the tension. “It’s a party game but—”

“—not something you would have agreed to with me?”

The question landed like a blade point-first.

Before Atsushi could find a reply, Akutagawa stood in one smooth motion, crossing the space between them in a few long strides. He stopped close — too close — his presence colder than Chuuya’s heat but just as impossible to ignore.

“If there is another round,” Akutagawa said quietly, low enough that only Atsushi could hear, “I want my turn.”

Atsushi blinked. “You— what?”

“Seven minutes.” His eyes didn’t waver. “With you. No interruptions.”

Somewhere behind them, the bottle clinked on the table as someone reset it for the next spin.

The next spins of the bottle passed in a blur — a few laughs, some groans, one short-lived argument between Kunikida and Ranpo about “game integrity.” Atsushi tried to stay out of it, quietly inching toward the edge of the circle, but every time he moved, he felt Akutagawa’s gaze on him like a weight.

He told himself he was imagining it.

He wasn’t.

When the bottle was set spinning again, Atsushi almost prayed it would land on anyone else. Anyone.
But the glass slowed, wobbling in its arc before stopping with its neck pointing straight at him… and its base at Akutagawa.

The circle fell into a hush.

Atsushi’s stomach dropped. “Oh no.”

Dazai perked up immediately. “Oh yes.”

Akutagawa stood without hesitation. “Move.”

Before Atsushi could even form an argument, the chanting started again — less gleeful than before, but tinged with curiosity. He felt a hand at his back (probably Yosano’s again) propelling him toward the closet.

Akutagawa was already there, holding the door open with a look that wasn’t exactly inviting, but definitely wasn’t optional.

The door shut with a definitive click.

Inside, the air was colder than before, or maybe it was just Akutagawa’s presence. He stood in front of the door, still as a statue, his dark coat brushing the frame.

Atsushi shifted uncomfortably. “…So.”

“So,” Akutagawa echoed, voice flat. “You let Chuuya Nakahara kiss you.”

Atsushi’s pulse jumped. “It was— I didn’t— it’s a game!”

Akutagawa stepped forward once, slow and deliberate, the sound of his boots soft against the floor. “Do you let every game end like that?”

Atsushi bristled. “No. And it’s none of your business.”

Akutagawa’s eyes narrowed. “It is if I decide it is.”

The space between them seemed to shrink with every second. Akutagawa’s hand lifted — not quite touching, just hovering near Atsushi’s chin — before dropping again, like he was restraining himself.

“Do you think I wouldn’t?” Akutagawa asked quietly.

“Wouldn’t… what?” Atsushi’s voice was tighter than he meant it to be.

“Do the same,” Akutagawa said, his gaze flicking — quick, but unmistakable — to Atsushi’s mouth.

The air felt heavier. Atsushi’s back found the wall again, not from being pushed, but because Akutagawa’s presence was relentless.

“Why?” Atsushi asked before he could stop himself.

Akutagawa’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dipped lower. “Because Chuuya Nakahara doesn’t deserve to be the only one who gets to.”

Atsushi’s breath caught. “That’s not—”

“—a request,” Akutagawa finished, closing the last bit of space.

He didn’t kiss him, not yet. Just stood there, close enough that Atsushi could feel the faint stir of his breath, close enough that the smallest movement would end the stalemate.

And then, with the same sharp decisiveness he carried into battle, Akutagawa leaned in.

The kiss was nothing like Chuuya’s. Where Chuuya had been smooth, testing, Akutagawa’s was firm, almost demanding — not rough, but filled with a coiled intensity that left Atsushi momentarily breathless.

Atsushi’s hands twitched at his sides, unsure where to go. Akutagawa didn’t touch him beyond the kiss, but his posture held an unspoken pressure, as if he was daring Atsushi to pull away.

When they broke apart, Akutagawa’s voice was even quieter than before. “You don’t get to forget this.”

The knock on the door came a moment later. Akutagawa stepped back, his face unreadable, and opened it without looking at the crowd outside.

Atsushi stumbled out again — this time even more flustered than before — to find Dazai leaning casually against the couch, one eyebrow arched.

“Two in one night, huh?” Dazai drawled. “Didn’t know you were so popular, atsushi-kun.”

Atsushi wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

From being distracted and flustered, he didnt notice Chuuya's not-so-subtle glare.