Happenstance

Small, breathless gasps escape him as he moves beneath the dim lights, music thrumming in his ears and pounding in his chest, amplifying the hammering of his own heart as a pair of lips brushes the junction between his jaw and his ear. His back arches instinctively, shoulder blades pressing against the solid figure at his back as he raises his arms and searches desperately for something, anything he can use to pull himself closer. His fingers find straight, soft strands of hair, velvet beneath his fingertips as he collects them by the fistful and gives them a gentle tug, a deep moan ripping from his lips as teeth close around the lobe of his ear, his knees weakening fractionally and his hands float weightlessly back to his sides.

A chuckle, a breath against the shell of his ear and then the figure straightens, placing a hand on each of his hips to hold him steady.

Letting his head tilt back, he rests the top of it squarely in the center of his partner's chest, still swaying to the beat as his eyes focus on the features of the man who stands behind him. He finds himself staring into a face that is all harsh angles, beautiful in its sharp edges like nothing else could be, eyes a bright and attentive hazel behind round wire frames. Sucking in a deep breath through his teeth he wills his limp arms to rise and settles his hands squarely on the other man's cheeks, coaxing him to dip his head down.

In the newfound closeness the prominent beauty mark above the other man's upper lip catches his eye, and he stops to press small, soft kisses around it before meshing their lips together as earnestly as he can, smiling as he feels the urgency behind his partner's motions, pressing in further, asking permission with his tongue, wanting nothing more than to leave this remarkable stranger in the same breathless state he finds himself in.

The moments fly by as they rock together, exploring new territory until they are both gasping and sputtering, leaning away for a moment to catch their breaths before pressing back in, resting their foreheads together as if at any moment they could be snatched away from each other, never to meet again.



The blaring of Nakahara Chuuya's alarm clock rips him from the searing heat of his dream the way a lifeguard would tear a drowning man from the sea, chasing away all traces of remnant heat and bliss and leaving him laying on his back, glaring at the ceiling as he tries to determine exactly why the sheets are ridiculously twisted around his body. A frustrated grunt escapes him as he flings out an arm and flails it, fingers coming dangerously close to knocking against the glass of water beside his lamp before he's finally able to location the snooze button atop the alarm clock, silencing it for now. Pulling his arm back, he drags it across his forehead and finds himself pushing back curls drenched with sweat before continuing down his face, finding his cheeks and chin equally as clammy. He brings both hands to his face and rubs his eyes with his palms, exhaling sharply as a pair of hazel orbs flashes across his vision behind his eyelids.

Shit. That dream. God, how long has it even been since he's set foot in a club, let alone danced with a stranger? He isn't entirely sure what brought it on, but damn he wishes he did; he wouldn't mind if it became a recurring thing.

The clock begins its incessant blare once again and he presses the back of his head into his pillow with an audible groan before slinging his legs over the side of the bed, tangled sheets following suit and falling to the floor as he grasps the alarm clock in both hands and pulls, tearing the chord out of the wall socket and silencing the damn thing once and for all. He leans over his knees and stares down at the dark screen between his hands before letting it drop to the floor and heaving off of the bed with a sigh, vertebrae cracking as he rolls his shoulders and raises his arms in a lazy stretch.

He needs to shower, no doubts about that. Snagging his phone from its place beside his pillow, he taps it, lighting the screen and studying the time illuminated against the picture that serves as his background, six faces grinning widely back at him.

6:45. If he's going to shower, he needs to be quick about it, or he'll be late. And if there's one thing he'd rather not be, it's late again, the thought of having to sit through another lecture about punctuality being a pillar of police integrity enough to spur him in to action with a harsh roll of his eyes, quickly forgetting about the dream and the man in it as he gathers his uniform and rushes into the bathroom.



For the most part, he enjoys his job. Whether it's genuine enjoyment or his own sense of duty taking over, he can't always tell. But whatever the case, most days it brings him satisfaction and the occasional touch of pride.

Today is not one of those days. Then again, none of his days wasted hunting down yakuza thugs and scum ever are.

Especially when it's personal.

The wail of his bike's siren is all he can focus on as he speeds down the highway, darting between cars that are either too boxed in to move or too ignorant to register the flashing red and blaring tone as that of a cop in pursuit. Either way, he has very little space to maneuver through in some spots and comes dangerously close to clipping his elbow against a few side mirrors.

"Fuck." It's past his lips and into the mic of his headset before he can think about it and a snicker comes through his earpiece in response; the floodgates have been opened and his squadmates are all too eager to chime in.

"What's the matter, Nakahara? You lose him?" Yosano Akiko. Light, a lilting tease to the tone, Chuuya can almost see her lips turning up and curling at the edges, eyes crinkling as she waves a dismissive hand at him.

"No, it's fine. I'm fine." His lip curls around the words, throat grating as he tries to contain the snarl he knows the mic will amplify for everyone on the radio frequency to hear. "I've got eyes on him, just got tripped up by this damn traffic. But it looks like he's getting off.

"Some back-up would be fantastic."

"Are you asking?" Deep, full of authority, but welcoming at the same time. Kunikida Doppo. Chuuya can see him, in his mind's eye, seated beside Yosano in their cruiser, lips pursed and eyes scanning the street before them for the slightest hint of trouble.

"No, I'm telling. Unless you want to lose this guy to the wind."

"Roger. What exit? We'll start rolling." The sound of an engine roaring to life followed by the stark whir of a squad car siren nearly drowns out the soft, steady drawl of Oda Sakunosuke's words.

A huff followed by the sound of shifting fabric against leather. Dazai Osamu has decided it's a decent idea to put on his seatbelt; Chuuya smirks as he pictures him gripping on to the handle of the passenger side door as Oda flies down the street, still fearing for his own life despite the numerous closer calls he's had with death.

They make a ragtag team, always had, probably always will. But on the good days, they make one hell of a squad. Chuuya revs the engine and shifts his weight, pursuing his target down the exit and crossing every mental finger he has that today would be a decent day.

Once free of the confines of the narrow freeway lanes, Chuuya finds himself even with the other rider for two brief beats, but as he swerves in an attempt to cut in front, the bike makes a right turn that's close enough to be considered a ninety degree angle, shooting a curb and flying down the sidewalk, knocking pedestrians to the ground as it goes.

Chuuya slams on his brakes, tires squealing at the hard correction, his engine sputtering once, twice before resuming its purr.

"What's happening?" Kunikida sounds as if he's been holding his breath and just now remembered to take in some air.

"He's attempting to get away up the sidewalk, heading west, gimme a sec, and I'll be back in pursuit." Kicking the bike back a few feet, Chuuya revs up before darting forward, hoping the momentum is enough to hop the curb, the yellow bike all but gone from his line of sight, at this point.

"We're close, I'm parking here, see if we can't take him out at the knees." Oda cuts his siren and Chuuya finds himself wishing he hadn't when he hears Dazai clear his throat.

"If Chuuya would stop being such a slug and put those wheels of his to use, we might be in a better situation right now." Dazai's voice is annoyingly composed as his taunt comes through the headset and Chuuya curses, leaning back to counterbalance himself as he clears the curb and attempts to dart up the sidewalk in the general direction the yellow bike had chosen, his speed dropping as the civilians scatter and scurry on the pavement, their density and confusion slowing him to a crawl before they finally part, giving him the space he needs to zip past, making up for lost time by cranking his gears as high as they will go, not caring to think about what would happen should he take a dive.

"I've got an idea, you bastard, quit sitting on your ass taking notes in the passenger seat and go get lost pursuing him on foot, since the only thing you're capable of is standing by while your partner does all the work--"

"Enough." Kunikida's voice is gruff as he breaks in, tone forceful enough to rattle Chuuya's brain inside his skull. "How about you two don't start bickering and we all focus on the task at hand and maybe we won't lose another one and have to run back to Chief Ozaki with our tails between our legs."

A hum of agreement from Oda, a low chuckle from Yosano, the clack of a keyboard as Dazai punches in line after line of information, Kunikida's deep, steady breaths. All of it collides against his ear drums as he flies, closer and closer to his target, but never close enough.

Letting his reflexes take over, he focuses on his breaths, eyes trained on the flash of yellow that makes up the body of the motorcycle just within his line of sight, lets himself entertain the thought of wrenching his gun from his holster and leveling his arm, of watching the bullet glide through the air and burrow itself through layers of leather and cotton until it reaches flesh and bone.

He thinks, long and hard, about the man on the other bike, about the drugs he's likely carrying, about the dark intentions buried in his mind and in his heart, about the innocent blood on his hands and the fucks he doesn't give about them.

Mostly, he thinks about the face of his former partner, pale as the moon at its fullest, blood spilling from his parted lips, from the wound between his sixth and seventh ribs, from the bullet holes in his neck, the yellow bike peeling away with a squeal of its tires, and he recalls the feeling of helplessness as Oda wrenches his gun away, as Kunikida holds him back by his shoulders, as Dazai coos into his ear, going on about justice and how it's a weapon, while Yosano yells for him to stop moving because he's bleeding from his leg and she needs to examine it...

A gunshot ripples through the air, ripping through the memory, the concerned cries of the others pulling him back to the present.

"Nakahara!"

"Shit. Whose fire is that?"

"Goddamnit, Nakahara, are you sure he was heading west? Because I'm pretty sure we would have seen him coming by now. Did he change direction?"

"Earth to Chuuya. What the hell is happening?"

Fuck. Shit. He shakes his head, feels the helmet shift against his hair, twisting the controls on his handlebars and slowing down by a fraction so he can get his bearings. How long had he been spaced out?

It couldn't have been more than sixty seconds, could it? He doesn't know, doesn't really care to find out, because it doesn't matter.

What matters is that the yellow bike is nowhere to be seen.