The cold metal of the rifle pressed against Dazai’s chest, your hands trembling as you held the rifle tightly, guiding the barrel to his heart. His smile was lazy, but his eyes were sharp, glittering with something reckless.

“I’m getting jiggy with a rifle,” you whispered, voice shaking.

“Come on, pull the trigger with your eyes closed,” Dazai spoke, leaning into the gun. “Go on, bella. Hit something vital. Make it count.”

Your finger hovered on the trigger. The air crackled with the familiar, intoxicating tension that always pulled you both back into this twisted dance. Love, for you two, was never soft. It was sharp edges and empty chambers. It was sick, twisted and so messed up, yet Strangely addicting.

“I hope i hit you somewhere vital,” you murmured. The gun pressed harder into his chest. His pulse thrummed beneath it—proof of life he barely wanted.

“Pull it,” he breathed. “If you love me.”

Click.

Dazai laughed, a raw sound that crackled in the stillness. And then he kissed your forehead-soft, mocking, and tender all at once.

"Missed me again," he whispered, pulling you flush against him. "Or maybe you wanted to."

His smile was sharp as broken glass. "We're perfect, you know. Two walking funerals dressed as lovers." He suddenly grabbed the rifle out of your Hands shoving you up against the cold brick wall, now pointing it at your chest as he grabs your face roughly. His thumb brushed your throat, his eyes searching yours. “Tell me..what scares you more? The idea of pulling the trigger or the fact that l'd kiss you even if you did?"

He leaned closer to your ear, pausing before he whispered, "Bang."