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The truce between the ADA and the PM has been…tenuous, at best. They’re able to amicably complete missions when assigned to both organizations, their partnership functional when necessary. But they’ve never called Chuuya in. Sure, Ranpo has his contact information (when is anyone ever able to hide anything from Green-Eyes?) but to be called down to the Agency? It sets off blaring alarm bells, but he drives on, focusing on the other vehicles and turns. Seeing as it was a call made specifically to him, he wonders what the reason behind it is.
Dazai…should be fine. Last he saw them this morning, they’d eaten a few bites for breakfast—more than their usual—left in normal spirits, making jokes at his height on their way out, as per usual. Nothing seemed amiss, nothing out of the ordinary. And Chuuya would certainly know, nothing gets past him when it pertains to his partner, especially now.
The red brick building comes into view as he parks his car wherever free. The building remains intact, no enemies to be wary of. Making his way inside, everyone’s seemingly doing their jobs as normal, until he notices their great detective missing from his desk, Atsushi’s brow furrowed as he chews on a pen, and Kunikida absentmindedly doing his work. An unrelieved strain remains in the air, each worker breathing it in, suffocating on each inhale. Kunikida’s eyes do a double-take at Chuuya’s appearance by the door.
He’s on his feet, “Finally, Nakahara. Follow me.” Kunikida disappears down the hall towards the meeting room—an area deemed neutral enough by both opposing organizations, thus their designated place of meeting. Chuuya’s on his heels, stopping right before the door Kunikida has paused in front of. He looks over his shoulder, “You’re the only one who can help them. Trust me, I’ve…tried.” A dejected note strikes his voice, momentarily confusing Chuuya, before he turns the knob, entering the room.
“…walked in just fine.”
“Something triggered them on their assignment.” Two voices, the two people Dazai has gotten quite close to—as close as they allow, after their past friendships—but Chuuya’s focus is taken elsewhere.
Dazai is entirely out of it, merely sprawled on one of the chairs surrounding the table. Chuuya rushes to his side, discarding his long-coat along the way. He takes Dazai’s face between his gloved palms, his face unresponsive, a mockery of a smile frozen across his features. Chuuya gently brings their heads together, his thumbs soothingly stroking his partner’s cheeks. Chuuya’s been around these detectives for enough time to no longer care if they witness his affections—as if they haven’t seen enough as it is…
Dazai has retreated into the recesses of his mind. He has a terrifying amount of control over his body, able to dissociate at will whenever he deems it necessary (and even times it really fucking isn’t). But this? To do it for a prolonged period of time, when he didn’t bury his conscious thought on purpose? Green-Eyes wasn’t wrong. Whatever assignment they went on, Dazai was confronted with something.
Yosano sits on the chair across from them, her eyes locked on Dazai, “I would’ve taken them into my office, but we know how they feel about even getting close to the area.” Best choice of action. If Dazai had somehow come to, it would’ve worsened the situation, memories left buried rising from the grave within his mind.
Kunikida crosses his arms, exhaling tiredly, “During our assignment, we separated to expand our search area…then I found him in this state. He was uncharacteristically silent the whole way back, and once they got in their chair, they were unresponsive. Ranpo-san immediately alerted you.”
Keeping his eyes on his partner, Chuuya questions, “What was this assignment?”
“An ability-user gone rogue. Their ability, as far as we know, allows them to shapeshift. From humans to animals. Great ability for con artists, terrible for us.” Yosano explains. Slamming a hand onto the table, Ranpo’s narrowed viridian gaze cuts into Dazai’s catatonic form, “Based on a person’s memories.”
Chuuya’s head snaps up, releasing his hold on his partner, the others stirring at the information, “What? And you sent Dazai on that assignment? I’m assuming the user doesn’t need to touch you to use it. Do I have that right?” The ground trembles beneath them, Chuuya’s body coming to a boil as Tainted thrums to life, his eyes threatening to demolish the world at his feet.
Kunikida removes his glasses, kneading the bridge of his nose, “We weren’t aware…until after the fact. Ranpo-san wasn’t here at the time, and it wasn’t in our given intel.” Ranpo roams about the room, chewing idly on the Pocky in his mouth—Chuuya restrains the urge to snap at every crunch. “Chuuya.” Chuuya reluctantly switches his attention to him.
“He saw a dead man walking.” The floor beneath his feet may as well vanish—he’s lost all sense of footing, his ability just about the only thing keeping him upright.
They were alone. Dazai was alone then, they’ve isolated themself now. To search for Dazai in the maze within his mind? A more taxing task than the Agency would know what to do with. Chuuya has experience, years of it by now. It never makes it easy, the aftermath worse, at times. But he really will be the only one to know how to handle this.
Slowly nodding, Chuuya pulls his partner out of the chair by the arm, Dazai pliantly moving with him—he feels bile rise in his throat. “I’ll take him home, then.” Not that they could stop him, but they resigned themselves, moving out of his way. Nearing the door, Yosano stops him with a calming hand on his shoulder. “Alert us once they come back, or you’re handing over your wine stash.” Chuuya’s lips twitch, “Got it, Sensei.”
He quickly removes him and his partner from the premises, before anyone could realize what has happened to their resilient tactician. A person they would never once believe could be beaten in such a distinct way—the deepest crevices of their mind split open for outsiders to dig their unforgiving knives into. Chuuya watches Dazai’s back as much as he can, but the damage has been done, he wasn’t there.
Gods, come back to me, Osamu…
⇺⇻
Grounding Dazai was the easy part…compared to the rest. From past experiences, it could result in either a complete shut off—Dazai running off to far off reaches where even Chuuya couldn’t find him—or in destructive tendencies returning in unpredictable forms—by the time you’ve found him, he’d already be ragged and bloody, the taste of a hellish euphoria already on his tongue, and Dazai is an addict at his core.
Chuuya can only hope—a goddamn fool’s errand if he’s ever heard one—Dazai’s walls have melted enough to allow Chuuya to break through, to cup the darkest pieces within their being, and painstakingly sew them back together. That they won’t run this time.
He sits his partner down on their shared bed, pausing in his movements for a moment. Shutting his eyes, he recollects himself, pushing down the dread filling the pit in his stomach. Every glance at Dazai’s face, the smile stretched over his features, turns his stomach. But this isn’t about him, he can handle this.
I always have.
Back at the Agency, he had forgotten himself, his immediate reaction was out of pure instinct. To touch his partner, assure himself they're here, alive, and breathing—a momentary rush of panic. But he’s returned to his senses, he can think properly again. Dazai isn’t conscious, the controls handed over to whomever desires them, a trained response that has always sent Chuuya into a blinding rage. Touching him while he’s not of sound mind, and knowing his aversion to it, is a breach of his trust. And Chuuya refuses to shatter theirs.
Carefully, staying within Dazai’s safe zones, Chuuya removes their coat, shoes, and pendant, using Tainted to throw them in the hamper. He exhales through his mouth, rubbing his forehead in a fruitless attempt in making his oncoming headache subside, “Dazai, lay down.” They blink once, before promptly laying down. Chuuya lifts the covers, soft and plush and weighted, bringing them up to their chin.
Dazai slowly turns his head, eyes wide—a child’s naive, guiltless eyes—and unseeing, his voice small and still, “I won’t…be punished, today?” Chuuya feels his eyes burn, a lump in his throat suffocating him. He resists the urge to brush his fingers through their hair, to smother them in sweet kisses, until they’re flushed and warm.
Instead, he hesitantly pats the blanket over their stomach, “No, Osamu. You’ve been…good.” Dazai’s eyes grow wider, his mouth slightly parting, “I’ve been…good?”
Chuuya smiles at him, watery and full of desperation, despite Dazai being unable to truly see him, “Yes, Osamu. You’ve been so…so good. So come back to me, alright?” He watches as their eyes flutter, growing heavier each second, the weighted blanket doing heavenly things to him. “If Chuu…says so…” A gloved hand tightly grips the blanket in its hold. Chuuya trembles in his attempt to keep himself together.
He leans over Dazai, their faces inches apart, a whisper closing the infinitesimal space between them, “Come back to me.”
⇺⇻
“Dazai?!” Dazai snapped at attention, surveying his surroundings. His partner sounded normal, simply unsure of Dazai’s whereabouts. But their culprit was still in hiding, the abandoned building much too quiet to be aware of their location. Making certain they’re alone, they trill back, “Relax, Kunikida-kun! Your throat will surely hurt from screaming like that!” A warning flits between their words, and Kunikida is sure to understand.
Gun in hand, Dazai passes through lone hallways, no sign of life in sight. Until the sound of gentle footsteps reaches his ears. They’re unhurried, leisurely strolling through the halls. Dazai ducks into the nearest room, his back to the wall beside the door. The person comes nearer, then they stop, Dazai holding his breath along with them.
“… Dazai?” The air is taken from their lungs, their body suddenly unresponsive. They will themself to move, to remain attentive, to finish their job. Instead, every function in his body shuts down on him, the gun slipping from his fingers. His legs move of their own accord, leading him out the doorway.
A coat, sandy tan—his own coat a slight variation of the color—gun holsters, weapons filled with bullets that refuse to take their price in souls, dark russet hair, and eyes of still blue lakes.
Their knees tremble, threatening to buckle beneath their weight. “Oda…saku?” Their voice seems to come from somewhere else, no longer their own—it couldn’t possibly be theirs. It was a naive child’s cry, desperately clinging to a parent they were never given, a love they never felt.
Never deserved.
His foot moves one step closer, his mind screaming to run, to catch Oda before he falls.
Please, don’t leave me again-
His eyes glance downward.
Red…redredred-
Something clogs his throat, the room spinning around them, “Odasaku, you’re…” Oda falls to his knees, his body convulsing as blood drips from his lips, from old bullet wounds—scarlet rivers that have no place on this plane of reality. “Odasaku!” He uselessly drops to his knees, steadying his friend by the shoulders, tremors wracking his body, his hands constantly losing their grip. Oda’s head sags forward, a smile—jagged…and wrong—
So wrong, it’s all wrong-
—carves out its home upon his face, crimson filling his mouth. The words they always dreaded, always knew to be true in the darkest pits of their soul, were rasped into existence, “You…failed.” The body collapses, crumpling into itself—a cadaver, emptied of soul, emptied of life.
⇺⇻
Leisurely sipping his wine—whichever one he saw first, he couldn’t bring himself to care—making sure to pace himself, Chuuya lounges on the couch, the door to the bedroom left cracked open. It could’ve been hours since Chuuya left Dazai in bed, sound asleep. His own mind unfocused, his heart abandoned in the room along with his partner.
He should’ve been there. Logically, he’s more than aware that it isn’t possible, he works for an opposing, criminal syndicate. Chuuya couldn’t have been there, he wasn’t Dazai’s partner for the job. They aren’t partners who watch each other's sixes for stray bullets and knives anymore. Someone else has taken his place.
And yet, you let him fall, you let him take a hit.
The wine left in the glass sloshes, the gloved hand holding it unsteady, uselessly shaking on its own. Until the glass is shattered against the wall to his right, sanguine rivulets trickling onto the floor. He digs the palm of his hands into his eyes, the pressure in his chest becoming increasingly overwhelming.
He just wants it to stop, for something to finally fall into place. But it never does. There will always be spaces left unfinished, holes he never anticipates—and sometimes, he falls. But he catches himself; gravity has never been a problem for him. This time…this time it wasn’t him who fell. Chuuya jumped in after them, but time will tell if he caught them in time.
Fuck…
A broken sob, choked in misery and grief, hits his ears, his body stilling. He slowly straightens his back, waiting, until another one breaks the silence, the air overcome with Dazai’s buried emotions. Chuuya jumps to his feet, practically ripping the door off its hinges as he runs to his partner’s side.
“Osamu?” He whispers, nervous he’ll shatter this moment of openness with Dazai. They might think they’re alone, able to release his tears and the sentiments held inside along with them—he might push Chuuya away, leaving himself stranded, drowning in his mind’s tumultuous waters.
Dazai’s breath hitches, his face buried in the silk pillow beneath his head, his fingers tightly clutching the blanket, “Chuuya?” The murmur is hesitant, unsure of itself; his voice raggedly torn.
Kneeling beside them, Chuuya places his hand near them, freely given, “Yeah, Osamu. It’s me.” They slowly turn their head—red-rimmed eyes brimming with tears meet Chuuya’s gaze, and Chuuya could never be prepared for this. Sorrow for his partner lumps in his throat, the need to take their sadness from them rippling through him in waves, “Oh, love…”
Dazai reaches out, his hand taking hold of Chuuya’s. From his eyes alone, Chuuya understands. He rises, Dazai scooching back, making enough room for him. Removing his gloves, Chuuya sits beside Dazai, laid back just enough—his body language open and endlessly affectionate. Dazai immediately clings to him, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle, face nuzzling into his neck.
Chuuya simply holds him, gently carding his fingers through their hair, their body trembling in his arms, constantly sniffling. “You wanna talk about it?” Their communication has matured by leaps and bounds, their tacit understanding of one another never wavering. But openly admitting to their deepest and darkest emotions has never come easy to either of them, not to themselves nor to one another.
Chuuya would understand, begrudgingly, Dazai not wanting to tell him. What Ranpo had said was more than enough for Chuuya to connect the missing pieces. A dead man, a dead man who could affect Dazai this much? Only one person fits the slot.
Oda.
After a moment, Dazai nods into his neck, Chuuya blinking out of his thoughts, eyes wide. He continues to brush through their hair, easing Dazai into it. They quiveringly breathe in, “I didn’t see it coming, Chuuya. I didn’t think far enough ahead. And then…Odasaku found me.” Chuuya’s hand falters. It was something completely different to have it confirmed. Imagining Dazai seeing his late best friend alive, knowing it wasn’t truly him, shatters Chuuya’s heart.
They were alone.
Dazai continues, “He told me…what I knew to be true.”
“What would that be?” He felt something stir inside him, an apprehension to the following words at the brink of leaving his partner’s lips.
“I failed.”
Chuuya closes his eyes, reminding himself to breathe, to remain in the present, to keep his own emotions at bay.
Do not set them off.
“What did you fail at, Osamu?” Dazai tightens his hold on Chuuya, his breaths uneven once more.
“I don’t belong in the light, Chuuya. I’m not fit to be there, I don’t deserve it. I failed at saving people. I haven’t saved anyone, I could never save anyone. How could I have disillusioned myself?” His words are harshly spoken into the room, rushed and soaked with misery. Chuuya attempts to cut him off, only to feel something drip onto his neck.
Dazai’s body becomes wracked with tremors as he silently weeps, his grip on his emotions failing for once, and Chuuya can only hold him closer. “Osamu, you didn’t fail. Oda would never say that to you, you know that. He told you to live on the side of good, and you’re doing as he said, aren’t you?”
They shake their head, their voice faltering, “Ane-san was right, Chuuya. Flowers in the dark…bloom in darkness. We’re not made for the light.”
Chuuya kept himself in for as long as he could. He cups Dazai’s face in his hands, pulling back, their gazes locked together, “Osamu, you don’t kill anymore. You don’t torture anymore. Yeah, you’ll always be fucked up, manipulative, and all that shit. But you’re not the same person who would keep shooting at dead bodies, are you?”
Stunned honey brown eyes stare at him, glimmering tears left to pool in their amber seas. Then, they flutter to a close, Dazai leaning forward until their foreheads touch. “Chuuya…is very blunt. Such a slug…”
Chuuya exhales, their bodies melting together. Dazai holds his wrists, his hands trembling every now and then. They aren’t accustomed to feeling so much, the cool numbness so much more pleasant for them to fall into. Chuuya knows, damn well, those insecurities aren’t going to simply dissipate. They’ll continue to taint Dazai’s mind, poisoning his resolve.
But I’ll be there. Even if it fucking kills me.
Chuuya kisses his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his tired eyelids, and lastly, his quivering lips—chastely, warmly—and Dazai savors the taste. His face grows warm, tender pink rising to his cheeks, “Chuuya is the worst…”
“Yeah, yeah. Act like you don’t like it, you prissy princess.” Dazai gasps, eyes flying open, mock indignation riddling his features, “Who’s a princess? I am most certainly not a princess.”
Chuuya snorts, “Who chose to call himself Snow White, huh? Telling me a punch isn’t the way to wake him up.” Dazai pouts, “Well, it isn’t, Slug. You kiss Snow White awake.”
Chuuya shrugs, thumbs gently caressing soft cheeks, “Too bad. My Snow White needed to earn their kiss.” They sharply inhale, murmuring, “Did they earn it?”
Chuuya feels his lips settle into a smile, aching with tenderness for his partner, “Yeah. They’ve been so good. They earned it.” Dazai’s eyes grow wide, his lips parting as his breath stutters. He buries his face into Chuuya’s neck, Chuuya chuckling at his reaction. He plays with their hair, feeling them slowly being lulled into slumber once again.
Chuuya informed the Agency—better said Yosano, and consequently Ranpo—of Dazai’s state, and she told Chuuya to keep him away from work for a while, all too aware the following day would be worse on his mental state.
“Buy me a drink for covering for them, got it?” In reality, she sounded utterly relieved. Ranpo sent Dazai books to keep him occupied—some written by his American boyfriend. “Make sure their brain stays intact. I won’t go easy on them in our next game.”
Rolling his eyes, Chuuya disgruntledly smiles at their care for his partner.