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1. fifteen
“Chuuya, it hurts!”
The whine pierces through the air, popping the quiet bubble that this walk back had been so far. Dazai feels Chuuya’s grip on his legs tighten as he groans in annoyance.
“I don’t care,” the redhead spits, “should’ve just fuckin’ dodged, then.”
(He couldn’t have, actually, since he was surrounded from most sides. Dazai’s skilled, but not that skilled.)
The wound isn’t even that bad, a stab in the abdomen that seems to have just about missed his vital organs. A pity, really. Nevertheless, it hurts. Chuuya’s entire job is to make sure Dazai’s not hurt.
“It’s not my job to dodge,” Dazai bites back, attempting to kick Chuuya’s knee. Considering their position and his status, it’s futile. “Chuuya’s a useless guard dog for not defending me properly.”
Chuuya comes to a sudden stop and Dazai yelps as a result.
“If I’m so useless, I could just drop you here and leave you to bleed out. Is that what you want?” Chuuya suggests, throwing his head back and knocking it against Dazai’s forehead. “Bastard.”
The pain rings around Dazai’s head as if the striking heat from his abdomen isn’t enough. “Chuuya’s cruel,” he wails, “that would be terribly painful! Chuuya can’t let me die painfully!”
He hears Chuuya scoff. “I can and I will if you don’t shut the fuck up.”
Dazai clamps his mouth shut, a pout settling on his lips. Chuuya’s terribly mean to him. He’s just been stabbed! He deserves at least some sympathy. Chuuya hoists him up higher on his back as he continues walking, inevitably, towards headquarters.
Where Dazai really doesn’t want to go right now. An injury like this, not to mention a calculation failure in the mission and inability to patch himself up as he should will lead to consequences. He feels dizzy even thinking about it. Although, that may be the blood loss…
“Chuuya!” He whines again, and he can feel Chuuya’s patience thinning.
“What,” Chuuya grumbles out after a deep breath.
When Dazai stays silent, Chuuya asks again, firmer this time. “What, Dazai?”
Dazai considers not telling him. In fact, every instinct in his body is yelling at him to not tell him. Chances are Chuuya would just tell him to suck it up anyway, and it’d just be giving more weaknesses for the redhead to terribly exploit. But, he supposes, it’s worth a try.
“I don’t wanna go to Mori,” he complains, his grip on Chuuya’s shoulders tightening slightly. “He’ll be annoying about it.”
An understatement.
Chuuya doesn’t say anything for a moment, then huffs. “Tough shit, can’t exactly bring you to a hospital.”
True enough. They can’t be treated at any normal hospital without adult permission, and mafia-owned hospitals will immediately notify Mori if they see either one of them walk in. Other black-market doctors are an option, but Dazai doesn’t feel like giving away his organs today. Either way, Mori has to know or he can’t be treated. Dazai groans.
“Chuuya could do it,” he suggests tentatively. Chuuya, predictably, explodes with protests.
“Hah?! I’m not doin’ shit for you. Bandage yourself ya literal bandage-waster.”
Dazai sighs, expecting the response. His body loses all fight and he stops holding on to Chuuya as tightly, content to simply fall off. “Just leave me here to die, then.”
Chuuya snorts, pushing him back up stubbornly. “And to think that just a second ago you were complainin’ about me doing just that.”
“It’s better than seeing Mori,” Dazai sneers, fully ready to wrestle himself out of Chuuya’s grip. Naturally, Chuuya only holds him tighter, having none of it. Curse Chuuya’s stupid strength.
Chuuya makes a clicking sound with his tongue that sounds vaguely like disapproval but says nothing more, simply holding Dazai and walking forward.
Dazai sighs again, resigning to his fate. He needs to mentally prepare to see Mori for an injury like this. He looks forward as Chuuya turns corner after corner and…
The opposite way than to headquarters.
Dazai frowns, unsure where the chibi is leading them. “Chuuya?”
Chuuya’s response is quiet and practically seethed, but Dazai hears it anyway.
“Not a word.”
Dazai wants to argue further, question the redhead about where they’re going, but decides against it. After all, no matter where they’re actually heading, it’s not the Mafia headquarters. So, he leaves it be. Chuuya hums appreciatively.
After a few more random turns and shortcuts that Dazai’s never seen in his life, he realises where they’re headed.
“Chuuya’s apartment?” He wonders aloud, looking up at the complex.
Chuuya snorts. “Why d’ya sound so surprised? Where else would we be goin’?”
“Headquarters,” Dazai says, sarcasm lacing his voice.
Chuuya, to his credit, doesn’t react to the tone.
“Nah,” he says, albeit quietly. “I don’t feel like seein’ the boss, either.”
Dazai snorts as his head falls forward, face buried in Chuuya’s nape, the red curls brushing against his nose.
“If Chuuya says so.”
“Yeah,” Chuuya huffs, “I say so. Now shut up.”
Dazai, for once, has no qualms with complying. His eyelids suddenly feel ten times heavier, shutting on him without a second of hesitation. Mixed with the prolonged dizziness, it’s not long before unconsciousness entirely overtakes him.
It doesn’t take long for Chuuya to tread to his apartment, even with Dazai dead asleep on his back. Sighing, he unlocks his door, slamming it closed behind him with his leg. He wouldn’t, usually, but his arms are rather preoccupied.
He walks over to his couch, unceremoniously placing the sleeping mackerel on it. Dazai’s features are slack and his expression peaceful, yet it still feels like he’s taunting Chuuya somehow just by bleeding on his couch.
Chuuya clicks his tongue, going to fetch the required medical supplies from the nearby first-aid kit. He’d insisted there was one always filled in his apartment, just for situations like these. Dazai had laughed at him, then, but look where they are now.
Taking a roll of bandages, scissors and a bottle of disinfectant, he makes his way back to the couch and crouches next to his sleeping partner. With slow and practised movements, he begins to cut through Dazai’s clothes, getting blood on his hands in the process. Curse this bastard, making him do the dirty work.
Peeling off layer by layer, he finally reaches the finale; a layer made of nothing but firm gauze, its usual white colour replaced with a crimson red spreading from the stab wound.
“Ugh,” he groans, wincing at the sight. It’s not that he hasn’t seen wounds before, but the way it stains the old and sweaty bandages is downright pitiful.
Shaking his head, he dives in with the scissors again, sliding them under the bandages; then he freezes.
Should he be doing this?
He’s never seen under Dazai’s bandages before and said boy seems adamant that no one ever does. He always considered it odd, but everything about Dazai is. Eventually, he just came to accept it. The bandages were just part of Dazai, at this point. Biting his lip, he glances back up at Dazai’s sleeping expression, still blissfully unaware.
Chuuya hesitates.
He needs to treat the wound, the bandages need to be replaced to avoid infection. As much as Chuuya hates the bastard, he’s useful, and having him out of commission, temporarily or not, would be a hindrance.
And yet…
He curses.
“Dazai,” he hisses, shoving the brunette’s shoulder in an attempt to wake him up. “Get up, ya lazy bastard. I need to talk to you.”
Dazai stirs slightly, movements slow and obviously still hazy from sleep. “Wha’?” He slurs, blinking rapidly. His pupils are blown, Chuuya notes, likely from blood loss.
Chuuya doesn’t say anything, waiting for Dazai to notice his presence. After a few moments, brown eyes find blue and shine with vague recognition.
“Chuuya,” Dazai states matter-of-factly. His eyes examine Chuuya’s face, clearly looking for something in the redhead’s expression.
“Yeah,” Chuuya agrees, “no shit, bastard. Who else?”
Dazai continues wordlessly staring, Chuuya’s expression morphing into a scowl. “Okay, stop starin’ at me, you creep.”
Dazai either gives up or finds what he’s looking for because his features once again go slack as he leans back against the pillow with a groan. Chuuya laughs.
“That’s what ya get, bitch,” he says, amused. “Don’t get stabbed next time.”
Dazai only groans again in return. “What does Chuuya want? He didn’t wake his master up for no reason did he?”
“Fuck you,” Chuuya bites back on instinct, his laughter subsiding as he tenses. Right, the bandages.
“Well,” he starts, unsure, “the stab wound…”
Dazai raises an eyebrow, sitting up slightly to get a better view of the wound and wincing in the process.
“Hey, hey,” Chuuya says, frowning. “Chill. I don’t wanna hear your whinin’ just cause you’re hurtin’ yourself.”
Dazai ignores him.
“What about the stab wound?” He asks, his usually calculating gaze slightly hazy as it lands on Chuuya again.
Chuuya swallows. “It’s gonna get infected if it’s not treated and re-wrapped.”
“And?” Dazai interrupts.
“And, if you’d let me finish,” Chuuya sneers, “to re-wrap the bandages, I need to un-wrap them first.”
As soon as the words come out of his mouth, the air seems to get twenty times thicker. Dazai stares at him, blinking slowly. Chuuya can practically see the cogs turning in his brain, slowed by the lack of blood cells.
The silence stretches, Dazai’s expression unchanging from its carefully blank mask. Nevertheless, Chuuya waits for Dazai to put the pieces together, if he hasn’t already. His gaze lazily falls to the wound, monitoring the blood loss. He might be patient, but a stab wound definitely isn’t. Dazai doesn’t have forever to think this through.
After what feels like an eternity, Dazai nods.
“‘Kay,” is all he says, resting his head back against the pillow again. Chuuya blinks at him.
“‘Kay?” He repeats, the question hanging in the air. So I can do it?
“Just don’t ask questions,” Dazai snaps, words suddenly clipped. The harmed animal act from earlier is gone in an instant, replaced with that of one befitting the title of Demon Prodigy.
No matter how hazy it is, Dazai’s glare is not something to be taken lightly. To say Chuuya is scared of it would be an exaggeration, he’d never be afraid of the bastard- but the glare doesn’t exactly bode well.
His tone leaves no room for argument, rebuttal, or anything of the sort. It’s borderline infuriating, but it’s what he does best.
Chuuya nods. “Whatever. Not like you’d answer them even if I did. I don’t care what ya have under there.”
He pauses, a frown forming on his face.
“And don’t threaten me, bastard.”
“That wasn’t a threat, Chuuya.”
“Cut the shit, I heard it.”
Dazai hums in response, not gracing the redhead with another answer. Chuuya scoffs, leaning over him to once again proceed with cutting through the layers of bandages.
He glances at Dazai one last time as if to make sure the action is allowed. What he finds is not what he expected; Dazai has closed his eyes, actively not looking at what Chuuya is doing. He’s not monitoring.
Something pools in Chuuya’s stomach at the strange show of vulnerability. He would have never expected this sort of trustful gesture from the brunette a mere six months ago. Back then, Dazai had been hesitant to even turn his back to him fully outside of battle.
It was odd, but they were both like that. They trusted each other with their lives in battle, but as soon as the battle was over, only a shadow of that trust really remained.
But now?
Chuuya huffs, turning back to where his scissors have slid under the bandages. Hands oddly steady, he snips away strip by strip of blood-stained gauze, the amount of red overwhelming the white the more he does.
He can’t help the wince that blooms on his face as the last piece of the material falls away. That is a nasty stab wound, the sheer luck that it missed any vital organs is insane. No wonder the mackerel was whining so much.
Sighing, he sets aside the scissors, picks up a cloth and the disinfectant and gets to work. He bites his tongue as he wipes away as much blood as he can from around the wound. Dazai lets out a few quiet hisses, but nothing major, so Chuuya works swiftly and efficiently.
The more blood he wipes away, the more Dazai’s clean skin reveals. Chuuya’s eyes sweep over burn marks, peeling skin, white scar tissue, healed cuts, bruises… everything.
His breath leaves him in one fell swoop and Dazai tenses, likely understanding what Chuuya had seen.
But Chuuya’s gaze doesn’t linger, his eyes forcibly shutting closed as he reaches for the fresh roll of bandages. What’s under Dazai’s bandages is Dazai’s business.
Curiosity be damned, he doesn’t really care. He said he wouldn’t ask questions, and unlike someone, he keeps his word. He ignores the uneasy feeling growing in his gut at the thought. If Dazai doesn’t tell him, it’s not for him to know.
The action seems to put Dazai at ease too, the tension fleeing his body.
Chuuya focuses on re-wrapping the bandages all around Dazai’s abdomen, the scarred skin once again trapped in a cage of white gauze. Once he’s happy with his work, he turns back to the brunette.
“There,” he snaps, though his voice is uncharacteristically soft. He places the extra bandages on the floor. “You’re welcome, you ass.”
Dazai doesn’t respond and his eyes remain closed. He’s sleeping, is Chuuya’s first thought.
Which is quickly followed by a harsher, no he’s fuckin’ not.
“Oi,” Chuuya growls, “I know you’re awake. Don’t make me punch you.”
When Dazai continues to avoid replying, Chuuya lightly punches his arm. A warning. Dazai stirs.
“...Chuuya’s cruel.”
“Chuuya just fuckin’ helped your sorry ass. And Chuuya is starting to regret it.”
“I should send you back to the pound, you yap too much…”
“One more dog joke and you’re sleeping on the cold, dead concrete.”
“Ah,” Dazai says, inching away from Chuuya. “Chuuya wouldn’t.”
Chuuya snickers. “Chuuya so would.”
Dazai shuts up after that, so Chuuya takes it as a win. With a huff, he stands up, picking up the bloody bandages as he does so. He turns to leave but stops in his tracks momentarily.
“You can sleep there for the night. But if I hear you doing anythin’ at night or if I, god forbid, find my wine out of place in the morning I will–”
“Kill me, yes, yes,” Dazai interrupts with a wave of his hand. “Now shoo, chibi, your barking is making my head hurt.”
“Fuck off,” Chuuya snaps back, “you’re in my apartment, shithead. I can still kick you out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t uh-huh me!”
Chuuya hears Dazai snicker as he walks out of the room, grateful to be away from the bastard at least for the night.
Dealing with Dazai in the morning is tomorrow’s problem.
***
Dazai snickers as he places the sticky note on Chuuya’s bedside table. The shorter boy is still peacefully asleep, unaware of the horrors that await him.
With one last glance, he glides out of the apartment.
***
Thank you.
P.S. I hid your wines. I hope you find them before the next time I come over or I’ll move them again :P
-Dazai
2. sixteen
“Is there a reason you called me here, Ane-san?”
Chuuya bows politely as he enters the executive’s office, immediately being hit with a strong scent of lavender tea. Kouyou looks up from her tea set at his entrance, giving him an equally polite smile.
“Sit, Chuuya, I have something I want to discuss with you,” she says, gesturing to the pillow laid out on the other side of the tea set. Chuuya nods, stepping forward and closing the door behind him.
He must look nervous because Kouyou chuckles into her sleeve.
“No need to be so tense lad, you’re not in any trouble.”
“‘M not tense,” Chuuya defends, but his shoulders admittedly sag with released tension as he lowers himself onto the pillow.
“Mhm,” Kouyou hums in amusement, but thankfully doesn’t tease him further.
Glancing at the tea set in front of him, Chuuya swallows. He watches as Kouyou fills the cup on his side with hot tea, giving a grateful nod. As she puts the teapot back down, her smile fades slightly.
“Ane-san?” Chuuya questions, picking up on the change in atmosphere. He’s not in trouble, apparently, so what’s this about?
“Ah, lad,” she says, placing her hands on her lap. “How do I phrase this without agitating you…”
Chuuya frowns. “Agitating me? I don’t think there’s anything you do that would agitate me, Ane-san.”
Kouyou shakes her head. “No, no, it’s not about me.” She sighs. Chuuya grows even more curious, tilting his head in return.
Eventually, she gives in.
“Have you been in touch with Dazai lately?” She spits his name like venom, yet her tone remains majorly soft.
Chuuya suddenly tenses astronomically. What’s the bastard got to do with this?
“The mackerel?” He asks. “Sure. Saw him about an hour ago. It’s hard to get rid of him, recently, to be honest. We keep getting sent on mission after mission after mission by the boss, and then the bastard dares to stick around like–”
Kouyou raises a hand, cutting him off. Chuuya goes silent. He takes a breath, starting again.
“Yes,” he says, calmer, “I think he went home. What about him?”
Kouyou’s expression sours and she takes a tentative sip of her tea.
“I’m afraid it’s his home that I’m concerned about,” she admits, searching Chuuya’s expression carefully. Chuuya can only stare back in confusion.
“I’m… not understanding,” he says, unsure, “doesn’t he live in a regular mafia apartment?”
Kouyou doesn’t answer, only lifting her teacup to her lips once more. Chuuya’s eyes widen. The silence speaks volumes.
Dazai doesn’t live in a mafia apartment, and by Kouyou’s reaction, it’s not better than a mafia apartment. Therefore, it’s worse. Something inside Chuuya twists.
“Ane-san,” he says, carefully. “Where does Dazai live?”
Kouyou only glares at him and he’s suddenly made aware that he’d raised his voice at the end. He bows his head in apology.
“Sorry,” he grumbles out, his fists clenching. “But…”
Kouyou sighs, placing her cup down with a shake of her head.
“Don’t twist my next words, Chuuya,” she warns, “I’m convinced that boy is demon spawn in the making. He is a mini Mori-dono, whether he accepts it or doesn’t. He’s cunning and he’s clever. I’d rather not be near him if all possible.”
Chuuya tenses further, but says nothing.
“But,” Kouyou continues, “he is still a child, same as you. And as… dark as he is, he doesn’t deserve…”
Kouyou takes a deep breath and Chuuya’s jaw clenches. He has a strong feeling he won’t like the answer he’s seeking.
“Dazai currently resides in a shipping container near the west of the Port,” she spits as if the words hurt to say. “He’s been reported going back and forth from the abandoned site there.”
Chuuya sucks in a breath as something akin to anger boils in his gut. His eyes widen.
“So, the rumours about…” He swallows. “About the… monster, living there. That’s…”
“About Dazai, likely, yes,” Kouyou confirms unhappily.
Chuuya feels a sharp pain in his palms as his nails dig into the skin there, his fists clenching tighter.
“And he…” He croaks, eyes darting back and forth. “How long…?”
Kouyou shakes her head regretfully. “I do not know, lad. I cannot read Dazai any better than you can, I fear. But I have no recollection of the lad living anywhere else, either.”
Chuuya inhales sharply. If Dazai has been returning ‘home’ to a goddamn shipping container almost every damn night since they’ve met and possibly longer? That’s…
Kouyou’s got a point. He may not like the bastard, he’s the absolute epitome of the worst, but he doesn’t deserve… that.
Not for the first nor the last time, Chuuya feels guilt bubbling up his throat. He should’ve noticed. Dazai uses his shower every chance he gets. He steals Chuuya’s blankets. He spends hours at a time in Chuuya’s apartment for what always felt like no reason. He steals Chuuya’s food. He keeps any loose clothes Chuuya gives him.
“Shit,” Chuuya curses, on his feet in less than a second. “I gotta…”
He struggles to continue the sentence, struggles to justify himself further. His limbs feel jittery, he might be sweating, and his stomach is twisting in ways he does not like. He needs to leave. Panicked, he looks at Kouyou, who only nods at him.
“I get it, lad. You’re dismissed.”
With a jerky nod, Chuuya’s out of that office faster than he’s ever been in his life.
Of course, it has to be lashing rain.
Chuuya curses every divine being, including the one inside him, for this situation as he zooms around the west Port. Water droplets hover around him with a red glow as he checks container after container, slightly shivering from the cold.
Damn it, bastard, where is your pathetic ass?
The more containers he searches through the tighter the coil in his stomach gets. These do not look very sturdy, waterproof, or cold-proof. His jaw clenches as he goes faster.
Eventually, he stops by a container that’s slightly different. It has sealed holes scattered around it, and the opening to it is almost bolted shut. Biting down on his lip, Chuuya stops in front of it soundlessly.
He listens, but the loud pattering of the downpour on the metal of the container is way too loud for him to hear anything. He raises a fist, banging on the steel three times. He hopes it’s loud enough to be heard over this obnoxious rain.
Chuuya waits and waits, but there’s no response. He grits his teeth.
Despite the weather, his body feels like it’s on fire from anxiety as he pushes the ‘door’ of the container open, peeking his head inside.
And…
“Dazai?” He asks into the quiet, dark space. There’s no response, but Chuuya can see a Dazai-shaped figure on the single futon.
Swallowing, he closes the door behind him, quietening the rain further. He tunes it out, focusing on Dazai instead. Sure enough, there’s a noise beyond the pattering of the rain.
Chuuya freezes as he realises it’s crying.
It’s faint, muffled, barely audible- but there.
Dazai’s crying.
Chuuya’s a seasoned mafioso. He’s killed people. He’s seen Dazai torture people until their very last begging breath. He’s spilt more blood than a crowd of people have in their bodies. He thought he was prepared for anything.
He was not prepared for this.
He never thought he’d see the day he’d see Dazai Osamu crying. He’s seen this man walk out of torture without batting an eye. He’s seen him literally scream his throat raw from anger, once. He’s seen him go cold, go silent. He’s seen Dazai’s dangerous, dangerous anger. But none of these ever evoked tears.
Just about holding himself upright, Chuuya takes a breath and a step forward.
“Dazai?”
And he’s sure the brunette heard him this time because Dazai flinches.
He flinches.
That emotion simmering under Chuuya’s skin is easily identifiable as anger, now. Dazai doesn’t flinch.
Chuuya freezes in his advances. Every part of his brain screams at him to run, that this is wrong, that he shouldn’t be here. He ignores it.
“Dazai?” He tries again, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. This is extremely unfamiliar territory that he’s not sure he likes.
Dazai doesn’t flinch this time, but he doesn’t move, either. The sound of crying has subsided, but Chuuya can just about make out the slight shake of the boy’s shoulders.
“Chuuya,” Dazai says, voice somehow almost perfectly normal. It’s cut and clear, an acknowledgement of Chuuya’s presence there. Chuuya takes it as a sign to step forward again, now directly in front of the futon.
Now that he’s closer, he can fully make Dazai out. He’s sitting wrapped in a blanket, one of Chuuya’s, and he’s decisively facing away from Chuuya, choosing to face the blank wall instead.
“Did you need something?” Dazai asks, his voice still devoid of any tone at all. It’s carefully blank. He makes no move to face Chuuya, either.
Chuuya steadies himself. “Yes, actually,” he says, nodding despite not being looked at.
Dazai makes a noise to indicate he’s listening, likely expecting an actual request or job.
All he receives in return is Chuuya taking a seat next to him on the futon, not a word to be heard. Chuuya’s no good at comforting words, especially not to Dazai. But he can stay, he can be a presence.
It’s not like Dazai has tried to kick him out yet, right?
So he sits there, silently, by Dazai’s side. He pointedly avoids looking directly at Dazai, knowing how shameful it feels to be seen when you’re vulnerable. They sit in wordless silence for a while, the only sound being the quiet patter of continued rain.
“...How’d you find this place?” Dazai asks, eventually, voice quiet. “I could’ve sworn I was careful…”
Chuuya hums. “Ane-san told me,” he admits, leaning his head back. “Don’t ask me how she knew, I dunno either.”
Dazai seems to accept the answer and Chuuya sees him nod from the corner of his eye.
“This place is shit,” Chuuya says, not a hint of shame in his voice. He feels Dazai tense next to him.
“Don’t call my house shit, Chuuya,” Dazai retorts, almost too quickly.
“This ain’t your house, bastard,” Chuuya all but seethes. This isn’t a house at all, for that matter. It’s not a place anyone should be living, not even scum like Dazai. Hell, he and Dazai are basically the same rank. Why does he get a borderline luxurious apartment while Dazai gets this shithole?
He feels the familiar boiling feeling rise in his body as he spirals, trying to figure out a single reason why Dazai would even consider living here.
Then he dares to actually look at Dazai, and the realisation hits him like a hammer on the head.
Dazai’s suicidal.
And it's something that always flies over his damn head.
He stays here. On purpose.
Maybe he didn't choose this, but he doesn't make any move to leave this place, either. It's likely a form of self-punishment, of sorts.
Chuuya grits his teeth.
Dazai doesn't see anything inherently wrong, here. He likely thinks he deserves this space as a house.
Chuuya’s gaze doesn't linger on Dazai for long, but it's enough. Dazai is nothing short of a mess.
The lighting in the container is terrible, but Chuuya can still make out the painfully dishevelled hair and sunken cheeks. It's a sight that's almost pitiful.
Almost.
Sighing, Chuuya stands up.
“Alright, get the fuck up, mackerel,” he says, Dazai curiously glancing in his direction. “C’mon, you ass, we're leaving.”
Dazai tilts his head. “We?”
“Yes, we,” Chuuya confirms, “did ya not hear what I said?”
Dazai only stares at him, blinking owlishly. Chuuya stares back, tapping his foot impatiently. “Well?”
After a few moments, Dazai sighs, looking away. “Don’t feel like it.”
“Ha-ha,” Chuuya deadpans, tugging on the collar of Dazai’s shirt. “Very funny. Ya don’t have a choice, dumbass. Up.”
“I don’t wanna.”
“And I just said you don’t have a choice. Get up or I’ll fuckin’ pick you up.”
Dazai groans and continues not to move. Chuuya clicks his tongue. Fucking bastard.
“Fine, then.”
In a few swift movements, Chuuya has both arms looped under Dazai’s upper body and legs and is lifting the younger boy up. He snorts at the brunette’s squeak of surprise.
Dazai glares at him.
“What? I warned you.”
Dazai glares harder. “Chuuya dropped my blanket.”
Chuuya frowns with an exasperated shake of his head. “It ain’t even your blanket, you shithead, it’s mine. And I have plenty of better, cleaner ones back at my apartment. Where we’re going.”
Dazai looks like he wants to argue further, but ultimately doesn’t and Chuuya takes that as a win.
3. seventeen
“Fuck are you doin’?” Chuuya asks and immediately winces at how rough his own voice sounds. He knew his post-Corruption states were bad, but fuck.
Dazai turns to look at him like a deer in headlights, lifting his arms in faux surrender from where they were bandaging Chuuya’s own arm. “Hi, Chuuya,” he says, toneless.
“Hi,” Chuuya replies automatically before frowning. “What are you doing?” He asks again and Dazai’s lip quirks up slightly.
“Playing nurse, apparently,” he says, smile growing, “Chuuya’s very demanding about being taken care of after screaming his throat raw…”
Chuuya immediately frowns deeper, using his free hand to grab a pillow and smack his partner with it. “Shut up, you weirdo.”
“Hey!” Dazai exclaims, moving back to dodge the pillow. He does not look ashamed of himself in the slightest. “I’m telling the truth! Arahabaki is very loud.”
Chuuya scoffs. He knows this already. He doesn’t need to remember his Corruption states to know that the God inside of him makes as many inhuman noises as possible. It’s part of what makes Arahabaki so annoying.
“You didn’t have to say it like that,” Chuuya scolds anyway, lifting his head up and immediately regretting it as a spike of pain rushed through him.
“Like what?” Dazai asks innocently and Chuuya has a larger-than-usual urge to deck his face in. An urge that he subsequently gives into, only for his fist to easily be stopped by Dazai who clicks his tongue.
“Bad dog,” Dazai reprimands, shaking his head. “More training needed, clearly.”
Chuuya almost spits at him. “I’m not your fuckin’ dog. Get lost.”
“Oh, how I’d love to,” Dazai replies and Chuuya stares at him, eyes narrowing as he realises just how shit the other boy looks. “Unfortunately, the minute I step out Mori will try talking to me and I’m not giving him a full report with a busted ankle.”
Chuuya reels back, eyes bouncing around the dim room for the first time. This isn’t their apartment, despite the pillows and soft material underneath him. It’s the office. It’s their office. At headquarters.
“Wait,” he grounds out, gaze darting back to Dazai as the rest of the sentence registers. “You’re hurt?”
“Astute observation,” Dazai drawls, rolling his eyes.
“Shut up, shithead,” Chuuya barks, “what happened?”
“Chuuya crushed me like the tiny cannonball he is,” Dazai says, making a pinching motion with his fingers. Chuuya slaps the hand away, growling.
“Fine, fine.” Dazai sighs. “A piece of rubble fell on it. It’s just fractured. I’ll live, unfortunately.”
Chuuya eyes him critically. “Any other injuries?”
“Average cuts and bruises,” Dazai dismisses, “now lay back down, slug. I’m not finished.” He waves the roll of gauze in his hand around impatiently.
“Fuck’s sake,” Chuuya hisses, doing the exact opposite and sitting up fully. At Dazai’s dry and unimpressed look, he adds, “I’m fine. You lay down, bastard.”
Dazai glares at him. “You’re hurt, dog. Lay down. I’m not paying the veterinary bills.”
“Not your dog,” Chuuya growls and stands up from the couch he was placed on and immediately understands why he was on it. His entire vision spins, another sharp jolt of pain ringing through his head. He curses before being pushed back down onto the soft pillows.
“I told you,” Dazai says, still unimpressed. “Lay. Down.”
Chuuya glares but begrudgingly lays back down. He’s not going anywhere in this state. Even so, he snatches the roll of bandages from Dazai’s hand. He’s not just going to let the bastard order him around without compensation, after all.
“Hey,” Dazai protests but doesn’t try to take it back. The corner of Chuuya’s lip lifts.
“I can wrap it myself,” Chuuya says, lifting his head a little. He pats the side of the couch with his other hand. “Sit. I know damn well you haven’t treated that ankle.”
Dazai clicks his tongue again. “Such a bossy dog.”
“Can it,” Chuuya hisses, impatiently pulling Dazai down. Dazai yelps as he lands almost face first on the array of pillows. He catches himself on his elbow as Chuuya laughs.
“Ha-ha.” Dazai deadpans, sitting up properly. “Keep that up and you’ll be giving Mori the report yourself.”
“Uh-huh, sure,” Chuuya replies, smug. He sits up straight, slowly. “Just give me your ankle, fucker.”
Dazai stares at him for a moment before pouting and turning away with a ‘hmph’. Chuuya just about stops his eye from twitching. Brat. Sighing, he reaches for Dazai’s leg himself, grabbing it and spinning Dazai around until the leg in question is sprawled across Chuuya’s lap.
Dazai whines in what sounds like pain, but a glance at his face reveals that he’s completely fine. Chuuya rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t even touch your ankle, idiot,” he says, flicking Dazai’s shin. “Shut up.”
“Chuuya’s too into manhandling me,” Dazai complains, throwing his head back on the armrest of the couch.
“Shut up,” Chuuya hisses, pressing down on the brunette’s ankle on purpose and grinning when Dazai yelps in pain. He ignores Dazai’s following mumblings of ‘Chuuya’s so mean,’ and starts wrapping his own arm in bandages.
“Mori’s gonna have to check that out,” he tells Dazai, “y’know that, right? Shit needs a cast or whatever.”
“Ankle brace.”
“Whatever.”
Dazai sighs. “Let me live in ignorance of Mori-san for a while, will you? Stop yapping.”
Chuuya glares, hand hovering over Dazai’s ankle in threat. “Don’t be a little bitch.”
Dazai doesn’t reply, so Chuuya just continues wrapping his scar-covered arms in silence. The scars are a very new thing, inadvertently caused by Corruption. He’s not the biggest fan of them, but they don’t really hurt, so he’ll be alright.
After a few minutes, the silence starts getting to him. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that Dazai had fallen asleep.
But he does know better.
“Hey,” he says, knowing that Dazai’s listening even if the moron doesn’t actually reply. “Next time, take care of your own damn broken ankle first, shithead.”
“Chuuya after Corruption comes first,” Dazai replies without missing a beat, and Chuuya can’t deny that his heart skips a beat at that. He barks out a surprised laugh.
“Since when do you care?” He asks.
Dazai lifts his head to stare at him. “Don’t be stupid. Finding a new dog would be a hassle.”
“If you’re not careful I’ll break the rest of your leg.”
“You’re explaining that to Mori.”
Chuuya scoffs. “God, I hate you.”
“I’m not particularly fond of you, either.”
Chuuya hits Dazai’s ankle.
“Chuuya!”
4. eighteen
“Chuuya?”
Osamu’s voice rings out and reverbarates around the small bathroom. Chuuya huffs, looking away from where he was stacking up the medkit. He was under the impression that Osamu was held back at a meeting with the boss– he wasn’t expecting him back for another hour, at least.
Curse Osamu for being scarily efficient with everything.
“What, bastard?” He starts, but the rest of his sentence is lost as he fully faces Osamu and takes his state in.
His partner is leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom’s entrance, looking exhausted. His hair is even more of a mess than usual, his cheeks are sunken, he’s missing his coat, and– he’s bandage-less. Wrists bare, neck bandages nowhere in sight, and–
Oh.
Chuuya blinks a few times as those two brown eyes stare him down. His breath leaves him in one fell swoop.
“Hey,” he says, the heat from his voice entirely absent. He doesn’t move a muscle, either. This is unfamiliar territory, even to him. Sure, he’s seen some parts of Osamu without bandages before, but not all at once. Not like this. Osamu’s tense body language doesn’t ease his nerves, either.
The brunette swallows, gaze locked on Chuuya. Chuuya tilts his head, determinedly patient. After a few long moments, Osamu just shakes his head. Can’t.
Chuuya sighs, clenching and unclenching his fists.
“Okay,” he says, “okay. C’mere.”
He moves aside, gesturing to the toilet in the middle of the room. He has a feeling he won’t like the next few hours at all, but it’ll certainly be easier if Osamu is back in his bandages.
Osamu shoots a glance to where Chuuya is gesturing and steps forward. However, instead of taking a seat on the toilet as Chuuya expected, Osamu beelines straight for him.
The wind is knocked out of him for the second time in five minutes as Osamu attaches to him like an octopus. Osamu buries his face in Chuuya’s shoulder, his hands clutching the back of Chuuya’s shirt like a lifeline. Wow. Okay.
The tension seeps out of Chuuya’s shoulders as he slowly places his hands on Osamu’s back. “Someone’s clingy.”
Osamu squeezes him tighter. Not a good sign. Not a good sign, at all.
Chuuya sighs. “Alright. Will you sit down if I hold your hand?”
It’s a bold request, Chuuya knows. When Osamu gets clingy, he gets clingy. A small part of Chuuya starts to already resign to just staying still in this position for the next few hours.
It takes a long moment but Osamu eventually nods, barely noticeable. Chuuya hums approvingly in response.
“Okay. C’mon.”
True to his word, he holds his partner’s hand tight as Osamu detaches from him and sits down on the toilet lid. He looks miserable. Chuuya’s heart clenches as he steps directly in front of him.
Osamu’s avoiding his eyes, so Chuuya just reaches for a roll bandages with his free hand. He won’t ask, for now. If Osamu wants to talk, he’ll talk. Chuuya’s first thought is that something happened to the brunette, but that’s not it. Osamu isn’t hurt. Chuuya can see that.
Just a bad day, then? He wonders, starting to hum quietly as he carefully extracts his hand from Osamu’s and unwraps the roll of gauze. Osamu’s gaze snaps to his hands but he doesn’t protest, so Chuuya continues. He manages to wrap half of Osamu’s right arm before any sort of voice rings out.
“Chuuya’s slow,” is all Osamu says and Chuuya’s head snaps up to glare at him. He throws all his plans of cooking a nice dinner out the window. What a bastard.
“My bad,” Chuuya says, voice dripping with sarcasm. He pulls on the bandage he’s wrapping with more force than before. “If you wanted it done quicker, you should’ve done it yourself.”
Osamu hums dismissively, unbothered by Chuuya’s movements. Chuuya huffs in annoyance. At least he’s not silent, anymore.
“Bad day?” He asks, not looking up from Osamu’s arm. Osamu sighs and in the next moment, Chuuya feels a pressure on his head. He spares a glance up and sees that Osamu has resorted to fiddling with Chuuya’s hair. He snorts.
“Okay then,” he says at the sight before going back to wrapping. Then, in a less amused tone, he adds, “don’t fuck up my hair, though, Osamu.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m serious, bastard, I don’t wanna fix it.”
Despite all his warnings, Osamu definitely ends up messing up his hair. Chuuya can feel it in the way the other’s fingers card through the red strands, the way they scratch at his scalp. Strangely, he finds that he doesn’t really care much, in the end.
When he eventually finishes wrapping both of Osamu’s arms, he looks up, subsequently forcing Osamu to let go of his hair. Dismissing Osamu’s whine, he raises an eyebrow.
“D’you want them around the eye, too? Or the neck?” He shakes the roll of bandages in his hand. He glances between both of Osamu’s eyes. He notes that his right eye is slightly lighter in shade than the other. Huh. He’s seen Osamu’s other eye before, but it was always either at night where he could not see it clearly or too briefly for him to ponder its slight colour difference.
To his minute surprise, Osamu shakes his head.
“No,” he says, then pauses. “... Maybe later.”
Chuuya hums, accepting the answer, and begins putting the bandages away. Despite the nonchalance, though, he can’t help the small smile that graces his features. Osamu’s blatant shows of trust are always nice, of course, but he knows just how comfortable his boyfriend must feel with Chuuya to say that.
The word usage washes over him like a bucket of cold water. Boyfriend.
They’ve certainly been more than friends for quite a while now, if not always. But they have yet to have any kind of conversation about labels beyond partner. So, to say the least, his own thoughts surprise even him.
Because even if partner will forever be the perfect word for them, he finds that boyfriend suits just fine, too. For now.
“Okay,” Chuuya says, standing up straight. Osamu looks up at him, curious. “C’mon, mackerel. Bedtime.”
Osamu snorts. “Are we five?”
Chuuya stares, unimpressed. “Five seconds away from punching you, maybe. Move your ass, you look exhausted.”
Osamu smiles at him. Chuuya does not like the implications of that smile.
“Carry me.”
“Absolutely not. Go fuck yourself.”
Chuuya carries him, anyway.
5. twenty-two, part one
Chuuya hums happily, placing the vinyl securely on top of the player. Extending the arm out, he places it down and soft music is quick to fill the room. Despite the scratchy beginning, it’s a sound that’s soothing. It’s not loud- it never is, not during nights like these. It’s gentle, it’s just enough to be heard. It’s perfect.
Osamu had teased him about the pieces of vinyl before, calling them impractical, laughing at how out-of-date Chuuya’s taste in everything was. Not that Chuuya cared much, of course, but it was still so satisfying to see the brunette’s eyes light up the second he actually heard one play from Chuuya’s player.
It was a sight that he’d pay to see again, back then.
Now, it’s something he sees almost every night. It’s mesmerizing.
He huffs as he steps away from the player, his feet naturally taking steps that have been engraved in his mind since sixteen. At that age, he never thought he would enjoy dancing, but Ane-san was quick to prove him wrong. When a mission required him to go undercover, to dance, to make his body match the rhythm- she was quick to teach him.
And gods, he loved it.
The way his body learned to react to the beats and flows of the music was nothing short of magical. It was enticing, something new, something so painfully gentle.
Chuuya never thought he was capable of being gentle.
Years later, every step is about as gentle as stepping on a cloud, even without the use of a single speck of his ability. Every thump, note and whistle of the song soars deep into his bones, taking control of his every molecule.
Dancing can be perfected even without a partner to lead you- or to lead, Ane-san had said. You just need to find your rhythm, lad.
He still prefers dancing with people, even now. Only recently had he explored the joys and the bliss of gliding solo.
He slides along the floor with a delicate push, his upper body swaying with the lull of the music. At some point, he registers his lips moving, his chest and throat ringing with the soft buzz of his voice.
He’s singing.
Not particularly unusual, of course, but it’s rare that he gets so lost in the music that he doesn’t notice starting to sing. Even so, the words flow out of his mouth almost too easily, every single word in sync with every step he takes.
Unlike Osamu, who loves silence and what he can do with it, Chuuya just about hates it. It’s not something he would ever claim to like- it’s almost always a sign of something being wrong or out of place.
Every little thing Chuuya does fills the silence. Whether it be soft humming, singing, or tapping his fingers on the table… nothing is ever truly silent when he’s around. Some like it, some don’t.
Osamu does. He finds it comforting, he says, despite being silence’s number one advocate. Silence is strange with Chuuya, he’d whisper if the redhead ever did go silent. I don’t like it.
His thoughts end there, a soft thump coming from the kitchen followed by the sound of panicked shuffling and Chuuya is suddenly very aware that Osamu is home.
He huffs, wondering how he could forget. He came in here for the sole purpose of making a nice atmosphere because of his husband’s happiness the past day. Chuuya believed it deserved to be celebrated, even in small ways.
Despite not being lost in thought anymore, he continues singing. It’s a soft sound, more so than his usual rasp. He predicts Osamu will let curiosity get the better of him and come in when he’s ready to.
There’s no doubt in his mind that the brunette had been listening. It was oddly quiet.
A smile spreads across his face as he’s quickly proven right, Osamu showing up in the doorframe of the living room. Still not a single bandage in sight and a matching smile, if not softer, plastered on his face as his gaze locks on Chuuya.
Chuuya feels his face warm up as Osamu’s gaze follows nothing but his eyes, occasionally drifting slightly lower. Not a single second of eye contact is wasted. Neither of them speaks, but they don’t need to. They’ve never had to.
Chuuya’s smile widens, his eyes narrowing as his cheeks lift. He spins once, then twice, then three times, catching himself in a perfect last step as he extends his hand out towards Osamu.
He stays in that position for a few seconds, taking in his husband and how he blinks a few times before leaning away from the doorframe. Without a hint of hesitancy, Osamu takes his hand; and Chuuya doesn’t waste even a second. He pulls Osamu closer to him, gaining a quiet yelp from the taller man.
Pausing in his singing to snicker, he places his other hand on Osamu’s forearm. He feels his husband’s land around his waist in return. Just as easily as it did years ago when they were just learning.
Their gazes never leave the other’s as they sway to the beat together, Chuuya firmly but tenderly taking the lead. He receives a petty eye-roll from his husband, but no other objections, so he continues. Chuuya’s singing is quick to resume, a mellow melody filling the space left between them.
Chuuya guides them around as they follow the familiar steps, spinning, swaying and bending. He’s surprised to see Osamu not stumble or misstep a single time, despite having no proof that the brunette has kept up the art of dancing over the years.
He yelps as Osamu smirks and bends him over before pulling him back up again. He glares, but he can’t find the heat behind it anywhere in him.
Stop thinking so much, Osamu’s expression tells him, and he can’t help but roll his eyes.
Stop being annoying then, he tells him back, and Osamu’s returning head shake tells him he was understood.
Chuuya tightens his grip on Osamu’s arm as he goes back to leading, after that small stunt. They sway some more, and it’s not long before the music slowly starts fading out.
Chuuya closes his eyes, breaking the eye contact they’ve maintained for the entire dance, and sways his head lightly as it just about comes to a stop. Despite that, his singing continues to fill the silence.
And Osamu continues to dance with him.
It’s definitely a sight, dancing with no music and no rhythm except for Chuuya’s soft sounds. He can’t help but not want to leave the moment ever, and judging by Osamu’s movements, his husband doesn’t want to, either.
So he’s pleasantly surprised when he’s pulled even closer to Osamu, their bodies pressed together fully now. His eyes snap open to catch the brunette’s soft smile and half-lidded gaze before the man leans in.
Smiling almost indulgently, he meets Osamu in the middle, pressing their lips together, too.
“Chuuya’s sweet,” Osamu says after they pull away. “Was the mini performance for me?”
Chuuya snickers. “You wish, bastard,” he replies but his smile definitely betrays him.
Osamu, oddly, doesn’t tease him; instead opting to nudge his nose against Chuuya’s own with a matching grin.
“Thank you,” he says, quietly. Chuuya huffs indulgently. He doesn’t have to ask for what?
He knows.
Thank you for being here, Osamu’s smile is saying, thank you for staying. Thank you for being home. Thank you for praising the small things. Thank you for being proud of me. Thank you for taking care of me.
Chuuya decides that that’s quite enough silent gratitude and locks their lips together again. Osamu laughs against his lips but easily indulges in the kiss nonetheless.
+1. twenty-two, part two
Dazai holds back a giggle as he sneaks into his and Chuuya’s apartment. Normally he'd announce his presence immediately, but today is different. He’s gone slightly earlier than usual and his husband needs some surprises in his life.
So he steps into the apartment, the door closing behind him with a barely audible click. He shrugs off his coat and tosses it onto the coat rack, his shoes slipping off easily on the welcome mat.
That’s when the state of the apartment really hits him.
It's quiet.
Which isn't unusual for Chuuya by any means. Heaven knows the executive is fond of his quiet time.
Dazai smiles as he chalks it up to Chuuya either sleeping or reading. Either way, he's a prime victim for a surprise attack.
Quietly, with precise steps, he makes his way further into the apartment, gaze scanning for any signs of blazing red hair.
He barely makes it two metres before something catches his eye. Except it's not red hair and gentle freckles. It's Chuuya's hat.
On the floor.
And if there's one thing Dazai knows about his petite husband, it's that Chuuya would never purposefully leave his hat on the floor. He always leaves it on the literal hatrack.
…Which is on the other side of the room. Much too far for the hat to have just fallen off it. Multiple alarms suddenly sound in Dazai’s mind.
Because the only way Chuuya’s hat would've ended up on the floor is Chuuya being so upset by something that he didn't notice it falling off.
That, or drunk.
Or both.
His eyes dart around the apartment again, but there are no other signs of anything being off. There are no empty wine bottles anywhere, which is a plus. He exhales a small breath of relief.
Likely not drunk, then.
With one last glance around, he leans down and picks the hat up. He inspects it, twisting it in his hold.
Well, it's not damaged, he thinks. At least there's that.
He dusts it off almost comically before walking over to the wooden hatrack and placing it in it's rightful place. He huffs.
You're welcome, Chuuya.
His train of thought is rudely interrupted by a violent thump from the direction of their bedroom. If Dazai wasn't trained to not flinch around gunshots, he definitely would've jumped.
Right now, though, the only thing blaring through his head is shit. That was loud enough to be Chuuya.
He's running before he can even process moving his legs, practically slamming the door to the bedroom open.
He's about to yell, but the sight inside makes the sound catch on the tip of his tongue.
Chuuya is curled up against the wall, legs pushed up to his chest and his face hidden amidst them.
Dazai’s first thought is, thank god, he's not hurt.
Which is then followed by, wait, is he?
His gaze scans the room. The bedsheets aren't made, weird, the curtains are closed, also weird, Chuuya’s jacket is thrown lazily on the floor–
It's a mess.
And, from the looks of it, so is Chuuya.
With a quiet sigh, Dazai closes the door behind him and steps forward. That's when he notices the wall above Chuuya.
There's a hole.
He frowns at it momentarily, before it clicks.
That's what the thump was, his mind supplies, Chuuya punched the wall. Honestly, he’s surprised it didn’t shake the entire apartment.
The frown on his face melts into more of a wince as the information processes. He knows Chuuya has a habit of punching things like pillows, clothes and enemies when he's too upset. Sometimes he even weakly punches Dazai’s chest to let out frustration. However, Chuuya rarely punches anything actually breakable.
Therefore, Chuuya’s really upset.
“Chuuya,” Dazai says, voice quiet and disarming. Chuuya tenses with a sharp inhale, which is never good.
He's tired, Dazai thinks sadly, and upset enough to not have even noticed me entering.
He waits patiently as Chuuya lifts his head, glaring up at Dazai through his bangs.
“Fuck off, Dazai,” he grounds out and takes a shaky breath. “I don't have the energy for this, right now.”
Dazai tilts his head and crouches down to Chuuya’s level.
“Chuuya,” he repeats, almost whispered. I'm not here to annoy you, his expression says.
Chuuya’s glare only sharpens for a moment before turning almost comically soft and resigned.
“Osamu,” he says back, a bit louder than last time. And this time, Dazai can hear the tears in his voice.
“Yeah,” Dazai agrees, nodding. He can't help but give Chuuya a small smile, either. “Can I…?”
He reaches his hand out, careful but not hesitant. Chuuya barely spares it a glance before he’s nodding, uncurling slowly. Dazai’s chest feels slightly lighter suddenly as he happily slides over and wraps Chuuya in a hug.
Chuuya’s quiet noise of surprise informs him that the hug was unexpected, but Chuuya’s returning arms on his back tell him it was definitely welcome.
“‘m sorry,” Chuuya says after a few quiet moments, voice definitely more stable now. Dazai slowly pulls away from the hug, sitting on his knees in front of his husband.
The husband he finally has a good view of. Chuuya looks wrecked.
His hair is out of place, sticking out in multiple directions like it'd been pulled at. Tear tracks decorate his face, dancing in between the array of freckles. Bright, colourful and mismatched eyes shine with a sheen of tears.
“Oh, Chuuya,” Dazai says gently, “you should've called.”
Chuuya immediately shakes his head. “You were workin’. Didn't wanna bother.”
Dazai huffs in disbelief. “Since when do I actually work at work?”
Chuuya snorts at that and the corner of Dazai's lip quirks up. Then Chuuya's expression turns confused.
“You're early,” he points out, and it's Dazai's turn to snort.
“Yeah,” he confirms, “wanted to surprise you. Looks like you surprised me, instead.”
Chuuya gives him a sad smile which he easily returns. At least Chuuya’s smiling.
“You punched the wall,” Dazai points out wisely, glancing up at the wall briefly. Chuuya nods.
“Sorry,” he says, bowing his head a little. “Got pissed.”
Dazai can't help but bark out a laugh at that. “I guessed, chibi. Wanna be a good dog and tell me what you're pissed at?”
Chuuya’s response is another glare, but it's much less effective when the redhead's eyes are still shining with tears.
“Stuff it, shithead, I ain't your dog,” he snaps before his tone turns more serious. “Bad mission.”
Dazai hums, signalling for him to continue, even though he can guess where this is going. Bad mission could mean many things, but to get Chuuya this upset, it must've been–
“We lost thirty-eight.” Chuuya swallows. “Thirty-eight, Dazai. Thirty-eight people under my command, my protection, that don't get to live another day. Thirty-eight people who could've lived if I hadn't been careless. Thirty-eight people with–”
Chuuya's voice cracks and Dazai can see his eyes gloss over.
“--with families. Families and friends that will have to suffer the loss. Thirty-eight people who will be going back to those families in body bags. Thirty-eight people who put their trust in me to protect them. Thirty-eight good souls. Gone. Fuck, Dazai–”
There's tears dripping down Chuuya’s chin as he chokes on a sob. Dazai’s throat feels awfully tight as he watches. Chuuya’s eyes are frantic, avoiding Dazai’s gaze entirely.
His own eyes widen slightly as Chuuya’s breathing turns more erratic, the brunette reaching for his partner’s hands almost on instinct.
“Chuuya! Love, breathe,” he pleads gently, taking a few deep breaths himself. Chuuya’s gaze snaps to him, wet and hazy.
Even so, Chuuya seems to hear him because he begins to copy Dazai’s breathing. It only takes a few moments for him to calm back down and Dazai is suddenly eternally thankful that they're not still teenagers.
Teenage him would be running from this situation and Chuuya’s teenage self would be throwing things, by now. If not at Dazai, then out the window.
He's thrown out of his thoughts by a soft hiss from Chuuya, whose arms tense.
Frowning, Dazai looks down, finding the issue.
Chuuya’s knuckles are bleeding. Then Dazai realises just how tight he's holding Chuuya’s hands.
“Ah,” he says, swiftly letting go of Chuuya’s hands. “My bad. Probably should've realised.”
You’re missing your gloves, Dazai’s mind screams, why?
He doesn’t voice the thoughts.
“S’alright,” Chuuya mutters back, blinking some tears away. “You can hold ‘em. Just… gently.”
“I have a better idea,” Dazai counters, a smile worming its way onto his face. “We can patch those up. Then we'll match!”
He throws his hands up in a jazz-hands motion to showcase the bandages there. Chuuya looks wholly unimpressed.
Dazai sighs, feigning defeat. “Tough crowd.”
Chuuya huffs a shameless laugh in his face. Dazai pouts.
Nevertheless, he stands up, nodding down at Chuuya. “I'll get the bandages. They're still in the top left drawer, right?”
Chuuya looks sceptical but nods, so Dazai turns to take his leave. He barely manages to open the door before Chuuya speaks from behind him.
“Thanks, by the way.”
Dazai doesn't turn around.
“For what?”
“Ya know for what, bastard,” Chuuya growls back and Dazai giggles as he exits the room.
He does know. He's no good at direct comfort, but he can distract Chuuya from his problems any day. He can listen. Even when Chuuya’s problems are a bit strange.
Chuuya deals with every death of a comrade the same way. As if they're close. As if they're friends.
Which isn't entirely untrue, he supposes. Chuuya is known for having friends amongst his subordinates. But every single one? Dazai doesn't understand it. People know what they get into when they join the mafia. It's the mafia.
Chuuya knows this. He's been told it many times.
It's the mafia. Anyone can die, at any point. As mafiosos, it's a truth we live with.
Chuuya may be insanely strong in every possible way, but he can't protect everyone.
It's a harsh truth. One Dazai has thrown in Chuuya's face many, many times during arguments.
You couldn't protect everyone. Why do you still try to?
You're only hurting yourself. Not saving anyone.
You've failed, before. You’ll fail again.
They're low blows, Dazai knows. But Chuuya's dug into his weak points too. That's the price they pay for knowing each other too well. Especially as teenagers in the mafia.
They've grown past that.
But the truth stays.
Dazai failed to protect who he loved, in the end. He mourned. It turned his life around, and he'd pay to never go through it again, even with all the positive outcomes.
Chuuya did too. Multiple times over. And yet, he still mourns everyone. Yet, he still cares a little too much. Yet, he keeps going.
But, he supposes, stepping back into the room with a roll of clean bandages and a disinfectant, it's part of what makes Chuuya, Chuuya.
It's what makes Chuuya so much stronger than him, in the end.