Chapter Text
“How long has the little slug been hiding in here, hm? I’ve been looking everywhere.”
No. He hadn’t.
The brunette had dragged the word ‘everywhere’ out into what Chuuya assumed was now a lofty pout. Not to mention the fact that he’d said ‘here’ like an accusation, like Chuuya had been anywhere else for the past five months — drawn to the room as he was, like a moth to light and just as useful. To the room that still smelt clinical, undeniably so, and only vaguely of sweet lemon.
Honestly? He wished he hated it more. Wished he hadn’t become as used to it as he was, a desensitization in motion even before they’d been brought here. He had Dazai to thank for that, the boy now hovering by the open curtains, looking altogether much too chipper to be in a medical setting now that he wasn’t the one bound to the bed with belt restraints.
But… he was exaggerating, obviously. Chuuya spent as much time here as he possibly could, true, but he still had his responsibilities and duties to fulfill, still had his actual job to do. It was only when he wasn’t doing that that he retreated back here, back seeking solace in the gentle whirring of the machines keeping his friends alive. He’d sincerely hoped that at some point the comforting white noise would follow him back to his apartment — on those evenings that he conceded it was time to sleep.
It hadn’t.
Not that he’d expected it to. Hope was to be used sparingly after all.
When he wasn’t working, visiting the ward, or deluding himself into thinking he was resting, he spent sporadic hours here and there being coaxed into ane-san’s office for tea, gifting her as much time as he could spare to adequately pick apart his worn appearance.
Chuuya only had the patience to glance up.
Even partially hidden by his oversized suit, Chuuya could tell that there were more bandages than last time. Some were old enough now to need changing again.
“Mori sent me for you,” the boy continued, “he said it’s time you stopped moping and made yourself useful by helping with our report.”
Case in point. The boss had been here not even ten minutes ago, about an hour after Hirotsu had left.
The redhead chose not to play along by remaining silent instead. His eyes fixed on Piano Man’s chest, rising and falling, his face looking oddly small, just like Iceman’s had, now that he was unencumbered by a mask.
He’d managed to take a breath on his own only a week ago. It was probably the most obvious sign of progress they’d seen yet, and Chuuya had latched onto it like a child crawling into their parent’s bed after a bad dream.
He’d tried to push down the overwhelming sting of disappointment that he hadn’t been there to see it for himself.
“You’re right, I was just making it up.” Dazai continued, as if the conversation so far had been anything other than one-sided. Then, determinedly light, “I came to help Chuuya feel better!”
Without waiting for a response, the brunette noisily dragged a chair to sit a few feet away from Chuuya, one dark eye darting to a pair of brown ones every few seconds or so.
After about a minute, Chuuya returned the gesture, more out of curiosity than anything else, only to find the uncovered eye now fixed on his, narrowed in calculation. Clearly attempting to take a read on him.
Fat chance, he barely knew himself anymore. The question of ‘how long’ was still bugging him, but even he had to admit that it had taken the backseat a while ago.
He wasn’t sure exactly when.
“Oi, talk to me.”
Chuuya felt his eyebrows arch before furrowing into a small frown. It was only then that he remembered he still hadn’t said a word. Talk to me. He assumed Dazai had meant it literally, despite the delivery being more candid than he’d expected. Sincere even. Something in Dazai’s expression said that he’d recognised his mistake.
The funny thing was, it wasn’t even like he was keeping his mouth shut just to piss off Dazai anymore, it was much bigger than that. The problem being that it was too big. Thoughts too dense, and words too bulky for his tongue to manage.
Yet both so undeniably loud in his chest that they were simply stuck there.
Ready to burst.
Chuuya opened his mouth exactly once, tsk’ed, then abruptly closed it. Dazai snorted but didn’t interject.
“V’got nothing to say,” Chuuya eventually found himself grunt, shifting his weight to swap the leg he had crossed.
“Apparently so,” the brunette hummed, picking the corner of his arm bandage where it had already started to fray. “Sure there’s nothing going on in that overworked little brain of yours?”
.
.
It had been the wrong time to zone out, he’d admit. He wasn’t sure how far he’d retreated within himself before he registered a single hand waving in front of his face.
“Helloooo, earth to Chuu~ya?”
He slapped the offending hand away and at the same time felt his jaw suddenly unstick.
“Fuck off all right? It’s like I said, I’ve got nothin—“
“To say,” Dazai drawled, putting on a voice far deeper than his own. “Right, gotcha.”
Chuuya was relieved that he’d made himself clear enough, and assumed that that would be the end of it. Except…
“Except-”
…assuming anything with Dazai was utter folly, he’d scorned others for doing the exact same thing. He should have known better.
“-what kind of owner would I be if I just ignored my doggy in his time of need, hmm?“
Time of need… the bastard could be astute sometimes, he’d give him that. But what was it that he needed?
If he couldn’t answer that for himself, then how the hell was Dazai supposed to figure it out for him?
Besides, assumption or not, he had made himself clear the first time. The waste of bandages needed to learn to live with silence for once.
“What have you got against leaving people the fuck alone when they ask?”
Shouldn’t he have been used to silence a million times over already? The shipping container had been a choice for a reason.
“But you didn’t ask.” The smile said he was having fun prodding at technicalities, and Chuuya should have known he’d play the explicit game if the goalposts had been left even the slightest bit open.
“Come on chibi, just pretend I’m one of them.” He gestured vaguely at the room. At the five motionless bodies at different corners of the ward. The gesture made Chuuya feel sick to his stomach, not least because Dazai wasn’t even on the same planet, let alone the same league as the others. He wasn’t someone he could just ‘talk to’.
Kouyou, maybe, but as much as she tried to hide it with makeup, worry was written all over her face these days. And that was all based on what he didn’t say.
“Ok, fine, I’ll guess then. Let me see…” The brunette tapped his chin in faux concentration, drawing Chuuya’s gaze despite himself. “You’re wondering how to tell Mori he needs to wash his hair?”
Fucking rich.
.
.
…funny though.
Chuuya shook his head, turning to check on Lippmann over his shoulder so he could grin in peace.
“Not that, hm? So then… you’re still trying to figure out which grunt threw Iceman’s lighter in the trash?”
He… wasn’t wrong. He’d been livid about that, and still hadn’t found out which one of them had done it. If it had been anything else he could have easily forgiven it being construed as junk but… not that. Without a culprit he’d rained hell onto the lot of them, regretting it almost instantly after.
There were only a handful of people now, namely the grunts with iron stomachs, who came to clean the ward at all. Not that Chuuya minded, putting elbow grease into keeping shit clean and presentable was second nature. He could do it on his own, if need be.
“I handled it.”
Something in Chuuya’s eyes must have warned him not to pursue the topic further, because the brunette shifted slightly in his chair, his one eye still trained on Chuuya, before quickly moving on.
“Well then, is the chibi wondering if Hirotsu has a fancy monocle for special occasions?”
A sudden image flashed through Chuuya’s mind of a monocle shaped like a bauble and he had the fleeting urge to laugh. His gaze strayed to the Christmas tree in the corner of the room, decorated with an obscene amount of them, as many as he could find in and out of headquarters. Really, he was the only one who could enjoy them, that and the fucking tinsel.
The thought brought him back to earth in an even worse mood than before.
“Be real, for fucking once in your life,” he spat, any lightness evaporating as quickly as it had come.
Something in the brunette’s demeanor changed after that, as if he’d followed Chuuya’s train of thought alongside his gaze, and was guilty about where it had taken the redhead. Dazai didn’t do guilt. Instead, his eye seemed to glow devilishly, and Chuuya was sure many an enemy had seen the very same just before death.
“Ok then, you want real talk? Fine, no skin off my back.”
Dazai suddenly grabbed the legs of Chuuya’s chair, spinning him around to face him. The cheap metal screeched against the solid floor and Chuuya found his hands jumping up to his ears, “but don’t say I didn’t give you the chance to talk first.”
“Why do you even care?” He growled through bared teeth, jaw still locked against the hideous noise.
”Me? I don’t.”
Chuuya almost ripped a chunk of hair out in frustration, except the brunette probably would have found some sick satisfaction in that.
“Then leave,” it was almost a plea. He’d felt himself come close to an answer, close enough to touch — but the other boy had startled the idea before it could reveal itself, and all Chuuya could do now was watch it shrink away again.
”You know I can’t do that until I have an answer, it's the principle. Besides, I already know, I just want to see if I’m right.”
”Principle?” Chuuya heard himself groan, “surprised you even know the word.”
“I know a lot, dear chibi,” he tapped a finger to his head, and Chuuya fought the urge to break it. “And it’s like I said, I already know. I also know that it’s been bugging you for a while now.”
The air in Chuuya’s lungs vanished for a split second, pupils contracting like they’d been strangled in disbelief.
Still bugging him.
Wasn’t that ironic?
“And how would you know?” Not in the mood. “You have to be human to have feelings.”
Maybe he’d struck a nerve, because Dazai’s cheeks flushed the palest pink. The brown eye, lightened by the lamps above, turned suddenly dark again as he lowered his face.
But the flicker of hurt was apparently short lived. The brunette seemed to push it down, as a moment later he was gazing back at Chuuya, expression even brighter. Chuuya had seen that one-eighty before, countless times, and associated it with the single second that it took his partner to decide to change tact.
“Well then, I can tell you what the question isn’t.”
The unwelcome guilt made Chuuya’s skin itch, so he decided to throw the guy a bone, nodding, go on.
“What you want to know isn’t how long it’ll be until they wake up, it isn’t even if — you and I both know it's only a matter of time.”
“Says the sixteen year old medical prodigy.”
“Seventeen.”
“Oh, my mistake,” Chuuya drawled, making the brunette pout with lips tight shut.
They sat in silence for several seconds more. White flags on standby. Slowly, the tension in Dazai’s shoulders seemed to dissipate, until he shimmied deeper into the chair, slouching like any other boy his age.
“They’re not gonna die, Chuuya,” he waved a bandaged arm in front of his face like the idea was absurd. “Quit acting like that’s the problem.”
He wasn’t acting, that’s not—
Chuuya found himself rising to his feet, absentmindedly yanking at his leather choker to slot two fingers underneath. He needed air.
“Whatever.”
He wasn’t really sure what he was doing or planning, all he knew was that getting more air meant putting some space between himself and Dazai. He eventually situated himself at the foot of Tross’ bed, his hands wrapped around the metal frame.
“Whatever” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else, aware that exactly one eye was following his every move, enjoying the spectacle.
He straightened up, turning to face Dazai and willing his heartbeat to calm itself, before pushing a breath out. “Enlighten me then, ‘Samu-fucking-Freud. What is my problem exactly?”
The brunette took a second to consider before reclining fully in his chair, making himself even shorter than Chuuya, who was still standing. His elbows rested against the uncomfortable plastic arms, contradictorily looking the very picture of ease. “Apart from your height and nasty little temper?”
Chuuya felt his teeth clench again as he bit back an icy retort, far more invested in what Dazai had to say than he cared to acknowledge. Dazai must have cottoned on, because one look at Chuuya had been enough for his lips to curl. The boy sighed deeply. Fakely.
“It's simple. You want to know why.”
Chuuya blinked, stumped. “Excuse me?”
“You want to know why they did it I mean. Or, more specifically, whether or not you…” he pointed, relishing in Chuuya’s renewed silence “…were worth it.”
It was like he’d swallowed a medicine ball. Something that felt like humiliation, stripped bare and exposed, plummeted heavy through Chuuya’s stomach as his head bowed involuntarily, his gaze meeting his knuckles.
Was I…
Dazai was absolutely right. The why he could fathom, if he thought about it — he’d have done the same in their shoes, almost wished he’d been given the chance to in place of them. But going deeper…
Was I worth it?
I…
The question was a reflection on him specifically. The worth of the rest of the Flags was obvious to Chuuya. Human lives were inherently worth some of the greatest acts of sacrifice. But… was Chuuya?
Of course, the Flags didn’t know, hadn’t had the chance to find out yet. Perhaps they’d fought for him under false pretences.
His mind wandered to the lab, to his twin with kinder eyes, eyes that had probably never seen a Christmas. His had been a life he’d tried desperately to save without even humouring the question of worth. But that had been different, it hadn’t been an exchange then — the Flags had given their lives, practically, in exchange for Chuuya’s, so it wasn’t the same.
And besides, the attempt had been futile. His twin had died. All that remained of his existence was the question that Chuuya didn’t want to matter, but couldn’t help thinking that it did.
Who was the clone? And who was the one worthy of his friends’ sacrifice, in the end?
Chuuya noticed his arms shaking, his grip on the bed frame tight enough to have left indentations in the metal, even without the telltale glow of red.
If there was the slightest chance he wasn’t human, wasn’t the very thing they tried so hard to prove...
And wasn’t the fact that they had tried so hard to prove it in the first place, not proof that they had cared about the answer too? It had been dressed up as a gift, a thing friends do for other friends, but even then Chuuya had found it hard to believe a group of people would go so far.
And that wasn’t even counting what had occurred after.
Fuck. It was too much. They’d done too much for him.
When all was said and done, would they still think it was worth it? That he was worth it?
That small doubt had grown over months. It had been a tiny niggle at first, a niggle that poked sharply at his chest, but one that he could largely ignore. But over time, the niggle had developed into a vague idea, and each time he entertained it the prodding in his chest grew more frequent, grew harder, until it was not only impossible to ignore but downright painful.
After visiting them for the first time, the idea had bloomed into an all-consuming thought, a burning question, his chest now bruised and the skin there softened, paper thin. The removal of his bandages had come too soon, surely, because it still hurt. And it was getting more and more excruciating. He was surprised he was even breathing.
What had started as daily visits to ensure their continued existence had suddenly turned into an apology. As if dutifully sitting by their bedsides could cancel it out.
What would it be like when they woke up?
Chuuya didn’t know if he’d be able to take another loss. If that were to happen, well then… that second instance of loss would feel far more permanent than comas or even death would be.
Wouldn’t it? Loss by choice?
Loss by… resentment?
He couldn’t take it.
He just needed a sign. An indication one way or the other. The question of ‘how long’ wouldn’t feel like such a torment if another, far more important question didn’t hang onto the end of it. If he could just… crack into their skulls a little. Just a peek. Fuck, Tross’ had already been halfway there.
“Well… was I?” It was a question more to Tross than anyone else. To the rest of the Flags that Chuuya took his time to acknowledge in turn, glancing to each of their beds, still clinging to Tross’ with one hand. He’d almost forgotten about Dazai.
Until the brunette finally broke the silence.
“You’re acting like you owe them, you don’t.”
Tainted kept Chuuya upright, but only just. His knuckles tightened even further around the cold metal frame as he fought to keep his knees locked, all while his face remained as determinedly impassive as it was possible to be.
“Shut up.” The words came out thick, probably a mumbled grunt given the way his head hung level with his shoulders. “Not everyone lives like you, you know? Selfish brat.”
The brunette remained quiet, a static kind of quiet that Chuuya could sense was on the brink of being filled. But if the other boy was even the slightest bit uncomfortable, Chuuya would have already spotted the signs out of the corner of his eye.
Lack of discomfort in this circumstance could easily be interpreted as confidence, Chuuya guessed. Which made sense, Dazai wouldn’t usually make such a statement without something more to add.
The brunette took a short inhale before adding it.
“You don’t think what they did wasn’t totally selfish?”
Chuuya felt his mouth fall open.
Selfish?
Of course, he was used to Dazai toeing the boundary of absurdity. Used to the brunette launching outlandish remarks into the open, like verbal grenades, just to see the damage splattered across the other person’s face. But this?
The two maintained firm eye contact for a full minute, neither daring to glance away, before Chuuya finally managed to splutter a hoarse, “you’re cracked.”
Being well acquainted with the accusation, Dazai snorted, before suddenly uprighting himself in his seat. “What? You think they did that just… because?” The boy leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them only slightly, “it was their choice, Chuuya. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘there’s no such thing as a selfless good deed’?”
”You’re talking shit.”
A challenge, twisted grin in tow.
“Am I though?”
The statement had had the unwanted effect of dragging every single decision Chuuya had ever made, the ones where he believed he’d removed consideration of himself completely, to the forefront of his mind.
Chuuya was no stranger to mercy, and in each instance of mercy he’d created in his living memory, he hadn’t once considered himself in any conscious capacity. The Sheep had stabbed him in the back for it, and it was still to be seen whether there’d be any repercussions for the mercy given to the man now hidden in the Port Mafia’s basement — officially the worst kept secret in the organisation. Would the Flags feel the ghost of a stab wound in their backs, once they found out? He hadn’t done it for himself, that mercy had been for the recipients alone.
So why had he done it? Answering that would bring him one step closer to seeing the bigger picture that Dazai was so obnoxiously hinting at.
Why?
He’d understood them, he guessed. Perhaps seen himself in them. Not exactly selfless, then.
Yet by keeping them safe he was also protecting the facets of himself that he saw within them, the familiar faces that stared back at him as kindred souls through a haunted mirror.
Self-preservation? Was that it?
Each thought chased the next in an endless, unsatisfying loop. What angle was he missing?
Did Dazai actually have a point?
The thought made him shudder.
If Chuuya had died for them, surgically removing himself from the picture entirely, wouldn’t that have been selfless by definition? So then…
“What about sacrifice?”
Dazai leaned back again with a grin, kicking his legs up to rest atop Piano Man’s bed. Chuuya was too preoccupied to notice.
“Exactly. What about sacrifice, slug?”
Had he sat with them day after day, for purely selfish reasons? He guessed? To replace sin with redemption, perhaps, or to at least start paying back the interest.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
“The chibi’s getting warmer, or he would be if he wasn’t such an overthinker.”
“Just— shut up a sec.”
Chuuya listened to the out of sync chorus of beeps filling the silence, all talking over each other to get ahead. He wasn’t surprised, this was the very same set of assholes who’d start a war to win a shitty game of billiards, after all.
Tross’ raced ahead. Chuuya expected nothing less from a guy whose body was ninety-nine percent adrenaline and caffeine — he didn’t imagine the one percent that was now metal plate changing things all that much.
Iceman’s lagged behind, even in a coma his body perfectly trained to remain as composed as was achievable.
They’d almost died for Chuuya, but they hadn’t, so technically it wasn’t sacrifice. So then, by Dazai’s logic, it was selfish wasn’t it? Was living the line?
To cross the line, to the other side as it were, was sacrifice, to toe it was selfish. Is that what he’d meant?
Regardless, if they’d truly left him behind how would that have made things better for him? They wouldn’t have to deal with it for the rest of their lives. Their eternal rest would have come at a price for Chuuya, who’d then have to live with that unrest, that grief — because that’s what it was — for the rest of his life.
Because he loved them, obviously…
Oh.
Oh.
Dazai yawned loudly, just as Chuuya felt his face flush a deep red and his grip on the bed slacken.
Bigger picture.
He supposed the bigger picture was always going to be something quite simple, in the end.
.
.
.
Chuuya only realised that Dazai was standing beside him when he felt his hat suddenly leave his head, smiling like he was a goddamn genius.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”
“The chibi sure thinks a lot, I thought maybe there was another brain in his tacky hat,” he made a point of peering inside, running his finger along the inside seam and tutting when it came back empty, “nope, just dandruff.”
“Give it back!”
When the brunette didn’t immediately hand it over, he took a quick swipe. A futile attempt given the lanky bastard managed to tiptoe out of reach at the last second.
“So does Chuuya feel better yet?”
He launched himself at the brunette again but Dazai easily pivoted, spinning on one foot and holding his free arm out to press his hand into Chuuya’s face.
Chuuya threw his foot down on top of Dazai’s, causing the younger boy to howl, but if anything the brunette’s grip only grew tighter and his determination even stronger. The yelp of pain was short lived, and soon replaced with high pitched chuckling.
After another round of tussling, they broke apart, both breathing heavily and sporting popped lips. It was impossible to say whether they’d been collateral damage in the skirmish or entirely self-inflicted.
Dazai still held onto the hat whilst Chuuya held onto his anger. It was only when both braced themselves for another go, that the brunette suddenly glanced at something over Chuuya’s shoulder, brow furrowing before his mouth fell open.
“Chuuya, look!” Dazai’s eye had even widened, almost comically.
Almost genuinely.
”Not falling for that.”
“I’m being serious, Chuuya look!”
”Quite playing around shit for brains!”
Chuuya made to swipe again but missed, and infuriatingly Dazai wasn’t even trying anymore. Instead his eye was still trained on whatever it was that was just past Chuuya’s shoulder.
“Dazai?!”
“For fuck sake idiot,” Dazai all but spun him whilst his arm was caught clawing at the brunette’s raised hand, revolving on the spot like they’d done this before — which, his mind helpfully reminded him, they had. “THERE!”
Thankfully there wasn’t any time to be embarrassed about it, because Dazai suddenly stopped him by clasping both hands around Chuuya’s ears, directing his gaze directly at Albatross’ bed.
“What?” Chuuya moaned, “Dazai, what the fuck are you do—“
And then he saw it.
The bedsheet.
Moved.
It was a miniscule shift around his best friend’s feet. A tiny, almost imperceptible movement that could easily have been missed had the brunette not been facing him the entire time.
Before he had a chance to doubt himself, it happened again, and Chuuya let out a half-wail despite himself.
Tross was wiggling his toes. That… bastard. That stupid, insufferable, not-to-be-ignored asshole was politely warning them to shut the fuck up.
.
.
.
Oh no.
.
Somewhere miles away he heard the soft, dull clap of his hat hitting the linoleum. But Chuuya paid no mind. Instead he was several feet away from Dazai before he knew what he was doing, ripping off the bottom section of the bed covers without any consideration for his friend’s privacy, all so that he could watch the performance up close.
And it was on the third wiggle that Chuuya suddenly burst into tears.
The shock from such an unexpected reaction made him choke and splutter even more, and yet he was powerless to stop the tears from crashing down his cheeks, his lungs at the mercy of the choked sobs that mimicked the rush of the tide. He’d even forgotten about Dazai, again. Not that he’d have been able to mask his reaction through shame alone — whatever this emotion was, was about a hundred times stronger than that.
He was… happy.
Chuuya only remembered that the Christmas wraith was even in the room when he felt something soft but firm hit the top of his head, falling clumsily over his eyes. Adjusting his hat properly, he just managed to spy a bandaged hand retreating back to its owner, who, for whatever reason, had chosen to remain silent.
Clearly awkward as fuck.
Clearly stumped at how to handle the situation.
He wasn’t sure when, but at some point Chuuya’s sobs combined with breathless waves of laughter so that he was a vision of giggles, snot and tears, until whatever had been keeping his legs from collapsing this whole time, also snapped.
His knees hit the tiles. Hard, it almost felt like the bruise was instantaneous. Chuuya might have noticed had he not been too busy clinging to the edge of Tross’ bed, and failing to pull himself back up.
And just like that, Chuuya found each subsequent toe wiggle now effortless to translate, as if he’d known what he’d been trying to say to him all along.
Maybe it was the new proximity.
Or maybe he’d lost his goddamn mind, because it really did seem like he was saying:
What? Did you really think we’d leave ya like that? You’ve got dumber since last time… the shit you’ve been talking man, I swear.
Realisation swept him up in a one armed hug, Tross’ signature greeting, and sobered him almost instantly.
“Dickhead,” Chuuya seethed through a hiccup, fighting the urge to toss the sheet back over his friend’s feet just to spite him. He pulled himself back into a standing position and wiped his face with his sleeve. Internal chaos shamelessly on display.
Yet with each wiggle he listened, he heard, like the blonde was sitting upright, talking his ear off.
Oi, oi, this is what you wanted wasn’t it? A sign? So cut the wailing, the noise is giving me a headache.
“I think that’s the head injury, actually,” he hissed, so Dazai couldn’t hear. Although it seemed like the brunette had already crept back to the shadows to give them some privacy.
“Tross?” Chuuya lowered his voice again so that it came out thinner than a whisper. He wouldn’t have said it in any other circumstance, but as it stood, everything he’d kept bottled up over the last few months was now spilling out and making a mess. Even if he’d wanted to stop himself, he couldn’t. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”
For you? Nah man, we did it for us, your partner was right. All that stuff you’re worried about, your humanity or whatever, that’s bullshit… or did you forget about Adam?
It took a lot not to sob again, so he really did flick him that time. Namely for calling Dazai his partner, even though he was technically correct, worse still for agreeing with him. He didn’t need that kind of negativity today, not from fucking Albatross.
Chuuya was still leaning in slightly, removing his thumb and forefinger from the scene of the crime, when he suddenly stifled a laugh through his nose, ruffling his best friend’s hair.
How long? To think there’d been a time he’d missed them.
In any case he should probably let Mori know the latest developments. He briefly wondered how the part time doctor would react, before remembering the deep rings of purple beneath the man’s eyes the night he’d pronounced them ‘stable’, the way his usually ramrod posture had been crumpled with fatigue. Chuuya couldn’t keep his small grin from widening.
He just hoped the blonde would perform again, even with the pressure of a larger audience.
“So…” Dazai was leaning against the open door, smirking. “Now does Chuuya feel better?”
The bandaged moron was really starting to piss him off again. Not least because of his I-told-you-so grin, but for the simple reason that he had, in fact, told him so.
If he thought about it, Dazai did everything to convince others that he only ever did anything if it was in his own interests, but… was that really always the case? If he was to return to that debate, the two minutes the brunette had gifted Chuuya on behalf of the fate of Yokohama could have ended as sacrifice by proxy, could it not? Would that not be a contradiction in Dazai’s own logic?
Chuuya supposed it didn’t mean much, since the guy had been on suicide watch since he was fourteen years old. Yet at the same time it meant a lot because it was Dazai.
And what had all that shit been about wanting Chuuya to feel better? Granted, the brunette had succeeded in his own fucked up way, but what was in it for Dazai whether he had or not?
Fuck if he knew. Did the dumb fillet realise that there was nothing holding them back from being stuck together more often, now? Chuuya suspected Mori had been giving him a small amount of grace during the Flags’ worst days, which had continued as time stretched further without significant improvement. But now?
Leaving their side would certainly be easier now.
As if reading his mind, a singular eye crinkled in triumph as Chuuya approached the double doors. The pained yelp that pierced the now quiet ward, as a gloved fist collided with a stack of ribs, was just the icing on a pretty good day.
That had been worth it too.
He guessed worth was entirely subjective. To measure it would be futile, like asking the length of a piece of string. One person’s idea of worth may look completely different to another’s, and with that in mind it almost didn’t matter whether Chuuya believed he‘d been worth saving or not, as long as they had.
‘How long’ was no longer a delusion but a certainty.
‘Was I worth it’ no longer a question, but somebody’s answer, hidden amongst words in the wrong order.
Chuuya couldn’t help but feel less worried about it either way.
Dazai had helped him to realise that, in the end. He’d buy him a coffee or something for his trouble. A punch to the stomach and an apology over a hot drink would surely be enough to pay him back for some surprisingly sound advice and a relentless determination to make him feel better — if that had even been the point.
Chuuya could only hope it had been something as simple, or even sincere, as that.
Dazai had led him to a bigger picture once, surely Chuuya could work this one out too, on his own if he tried. It would take time, he imagined, but he’d be willing to wait as long as he had to.
After all, some things were worth the wait.