Chapter Text
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"I didn't know you could braid."
Chuuya's voice was soft, almost wondering, as he sat on the floor at the foot of their bed. Dazai sat behind him, legs bracketing Chuuya's smaller frame, fingers working through copper-red hair that had grown long over the months—falling past shoulder blades now, silken and thick.
Dazai hummed, making another section, twisting it deftly with fingers that remembered patterns his eyes could no longer see. "I don't remember knowing how to braid," he admitted, voice low and intimate in the quiet of their bedroom. "I just... know that I can. It's not that hard if you try."
Chuuya leaned back into his lap, trusting completely, and Dazai felt the weight of that trust settle in his chest like a warm stone. "Feels nice," Chuuya murmured. "Your hands."
"Mm. Your hair's gotten long."
"Been lazy about cutting it."
"Don't," Dazai said, perhaps too quickly. He softened his voice, fingers pausing their work. "I mean... if you want to keep it long, I like it. Gives me something to do with my hands."
Chuuya laughed, the vibration traveling through his back into Dazai's chest. "You're ridiculous."
"Your ridiculous, Chu~ya."
"My ridiculous," Chuuya agreed, and Dazai could hear the smile in his voice.
They sat like that for a while longer, Dazai finishing the braid—loose and imperfect but serviceable—then simply running his fingers through the remaining unbound strands, memorizing the texture, the weight, the way it caught the light he could no longer see.
"So," Chuuya said eventually, breaking the comfortable silence. "Grocery shopping today. You still want to come?"
Dazai's hands stilled. It had been months since he'd ventured outside their apartment for anything other than medical appointments. The world beyond their door had become vast and threatening in his mind—a labyrinth of obstacles and strangers and sounds he couldn't place, dangers he couldn't see coming.
But he was tired of being caged. Tired of being protected.
"Yes," he said firmly. "I want to go."
Chuuya twisted around to look at him—Dazai could feel the movement, the shift of air. "You're sure? It's been... it's been a while, Dazai. The store gets crowded. People are careless."
"I know," Dazai said, and he made his voice gentle but unyielding. "But I need to do this. I need to remember that the world isn't just... just our apartment. That I can still exist in it."
Chuuya was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, the sound fond and worried and resigned all at once. "Okay. But you have to promise me something."
"What?"
"If it gets too much—if you need to leave, if you feel overwhelmed—you tell me. Immediately. No pride, no stubbornness. You say the word and we're gone. Understood?"
Dazai smiled, reaching out to find Chuuya's face, cupping his cheek. "Understood."
Chuuya turned his head to press a kiss into Dazai's palm. "Then get dressed, lazy. We leave in twenty."
The world outside was overwhelming in its complexity.
Dazai had forgotten, somehow, in the months of seclusion, how loud the city was. Car horns and construction and a thousand footsteps and voices layered over each other in a cacophony that made orientation difficult. The sun was warm on his face, too warm, and the air smelled of exhaust and food carts and rain that hadn't fallen yet.
But Chuuya's hand was in his, warm and calloused and steady, and that anchored him.
"Step down," Chuuya murmured, guiding him off the curb. "Cobblestones here, uneven. Take it slow."
Dazai followed his lead, trusting the guidance, counting steps in his head. Fifteen to the corner. Turn right. Twenty more to the bus stop. The rhythm of it was almost meditative, Chuuya's voice a constant low narration of their surroundings.
"Bus is here," Chuuya said. "Three steps up. I've got you."
They settled into seats near the back, Chuuya taking the window side without comment—he knew Dazai preferred the aisle, where he wouldn't feel trapped, where he could stand quickly if he needed to.
The ride was jostling, disorienting. Dazai closed his eyes—redundant, perhaps, but it helped him focus on the sounds, the sensations. Chuuya's thigh pressed against his, solid and real. The rumble of the engine. The stop-start lurch of traffic.
"Almost there," Chuuya said, squeezing his hand. "Two more stops."
When they finally arrived at the grocery store, Dazai was already exhausted, nerves frayed by the sensory input. But he refused to show it, refused to validate Chuuya's worries with his weakness. He let Chuuya guide him through the automatic doors, into the cool air and the overwhelming smell of produce and cleaning products.
"Cart," Chuuya said, pressing the handle into Dazai's hands. "I'll guide, you push. Slow pace."
"Yes, sir," Dazai teased, but he was grateful for the structure, the clear role.
They moved through the aisles like that—Chuuya reading labels, tossing items into the cart, describing their surroundings in low murmurs only Dazai could hear. It was almost peaceful, almost normal. Dazai found himself relaxing into it, letting the familiarity of Chuuya's presence soothe his frayed nerves.
"Need to check something," Chuuya said, stopping abruptly. Dazai felt the cart halt, Chuuya's hand leaving his. "Jam. They might have that apricot kind you like. Wait here—I'll be right back. Just going to the end of this aisle."
"Okay," Dazai said, and he tried to make his voice confident, unworried.
He heard Chuuya's footsteps retreating, light and quick, the faint jingle of that ridiculous bell he still wore on his wrist even in public. Then silence, or what passed for silence in a grocery store—the hum of refrigerators, distant chatter, the soft Muzak playing from overhead speakers.
Dazai stood still, gripping the cart handle, staring down at the floor. He'd learned early in his blindness that looking down was safest—it prevented the uncomfortable misunderstandings where people thought he was staring at them, where they questioned why his eyes didn't quite focus, didn't quite track. Looking down made him invisible in a way, unremarkable.
He listened to the sounds around him, trying to pick out Chuuya's footsteps returning. There were so many—hard soles on tile, squeaking carts, the rustle of bags. He filtered through them, searching for the particular rhythm he knew, the particular weight of Chuuya's stride.
There. Footsteps approaching, stopping directly in front of him.
Dazai smiled, sliding the cart forward slightly. "Chuuya? You got the flavor, hm?"
Silence. Then a soft laugh, deeper than Chuuya's, unfamiliar.
"Oh, hey there, beautiful," a voice said—male, smooth, tinged with amusement. "Looking for someone? I'm not your Chuuya. You mistook me."
Dazai's breath hitched, a cold shock running down his spine. He stepped back, bumping against the shelf behind him, cans rattling. "I'm sorry," he said quickly, already feeling his face heat with embarrassment. "I didn't know."
"Well," the stranger said, and Dazai heard him move, heard the cart slide away, felt the shift of air as the man stepped closer. "Apology accepted. But you took my time, you know? I could have already left here if it weren't for you interrupting me."
Dazai's hands found the shelf behind him, gripping the metal edge. "I thought you were my—I thought you were Chuuya. My boyfriend."
"Yeah?" The voice was closer now, too close. Dazai could smell cologne, something sharp and citrusy. "Well, I'm not him. Why don't you make up for interrupting my shopping? Stay still, okay? It won't take long."
"What—"
Hands on his wrists, sudden and hard, pinning them against the shelf at his sides. Dazai went rigid, shock freezing him in place. He heard the man move, felt the heat of a body crowding into his personal space, too close, too close—
"Wait—" Dazai started, but then there was a mouth on his, harsh and demanding, teeth clicking against his in the clumsy violence of the kiss.
He tried to pull back, tried to turn his head, but the hand on his jaw held him still, fingers digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks. The other hand had released his wrist, moving to grip his hip, pulling him flush against a body that was all wrong—all wrong height, all wrong smell, all wrong everything.
Dazai made a sound against the intrusion, humiliation and fear flooding his system. He pushed at the man's chest, but the angle was bad, leverage nonexistent. He could struggle harder, could scream, but the shelf behind him was precarious—he could feel the cans teetering, could hear the plastic wrappers crinkling. If he fought too violently, he'd bring the whole display down. In a crowded store. Blind and helpless and—
Chuuya.
Where was Chuuya?
The kiss was wet and invasive, the stranger's tongue pushing past his lips, and Dazai felt tears prick at his eyes, felt his stomach twist with revulsion. He went still, submitting to it, waiting for it to end, because fighting only made it worse, because he was trapped, because—
"Get your fucking hands off him."
The voice was barely recognizable, torn from somewhere primal and violent. Suddenly the pressure was gone, the stranger yanked backward with a startled grunt.
Dazai gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, trembling against the shelf. He heard sounds—meat hitting meat, a body crashing into something hard, the metallic rattle of the cart being shoved aside.
"You piece of shit," Chuuya snarled, and there was nothing human in it. "You touched him. You put your mouth on him—"
"Hey, hey, he came onto me!" the stranger protested, but his voice was high now, panicked. "He was waiting there, he thought I was you—"
"And that makes it okay?" Chuuya's voice dropped, deadly quiet. "That makes it okay to assault a blind man who can't see you? Who can't defend himself?"
"I didn't know he was blind—"
"Liar," Chuuya hissed. "You knew. I saw your face when you realized. I saw you look around, check if anyone was watching. You knew."
Dazai heard movement, heard the wet sound of a fist connecting with flesh, a pained cry. Then another impact, and another, rhythmic and terrible.
"Chuuya," Dazai said, his voice shaking. "Chuuya, stop—"
But Chuuya wasn't stopping. The sounds continued—grunts of effort, the crunch of something breaking, the wet slap of violence. Dazai could smell blood now, copper and salt, mixing with the citrus cologne.
"Chuuya!" he shouted, pushing off the shelf, moving toward the sounds with his hands outstretched. "Chuuya, please—"
He found them by sound, by the heat of bodies in conflict. His hands found Chuuya's shoulders, gripping tight, feeling the trembling rage there, the coiled violence barely restrained.
"Stop," Dazai whispered. "Please. Stop. He's not worth it. I'm here. I'm okay. Please, Chuuya, stop."
For a moment, Chuuya remained rigid beneath his hands, muscles bunched and ready to strike again. Then, slowly, the tension bled out of him. He turned, wrapping his arms around Dazai, pulling him close with a desperation that hurt.
"I'm sorry," Chuuya choked out, burying his face in Dazai's neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I left you, I shouldn't have left you, I knew, I knew something would happen—"
"Not your fault," Dazai said, but his voice was hollow, distant. He could feel the wetness on his lips still, could taste the stranger's mouth, and his stomach rolled with nausea. "Not your fault."
"Is he dead?" someone asked—a bystander, distant, afraid.
"He better hope he is," Chuuya snarled, but he didn't move to finish it. He just held Dazai tighter, shaking with the aftermath of adrenaline. "Call the police. And an ambulance. This piece of shit assaulted my boyfriend."
"Sir, I think you broke his nose—"
"Good," Chuuya spat. "I should have broken his fucking neck."
Dazai said nothing, just let Chuuya hold him, let the warmth seep into him, trying to chase away the cold that had settled in his bones. He could hear the stranger groaning, crying, begging for someone to help him, and he felt nothing. No satisfaction, no pity—just emptiness, and the distant, humiliating knowledge that he hadn't fought back, that he'd let it happen, that he'd been too afraid of knocking over a shelf to defend himself.
"Take me home," he whispered into Chuuya's shoulder. "Please. I want to go home."
"Yeah," Chuuya said, and his voice was broken, shattered. "Yeah, okay. Let's go home."
They left the cart, left the groceries, left the bleeding man on the floor. Chuuya guided Dazai through the store with hands that wouldn't stop shaking, past whispering crowds and staring eyes, out into the too-bright afternoon.
On the bus ride home, Dazai scrubbed at his mouth until his lips were raw, but he couldn't get the taste out. Couldn't erase the memory of hands on him, of being trapped, of the moment he'd realized that no one was coming, that he was alone in the dark with a predator.
Chuuya held his hand the whole way, thumb tracing circles on his palm, but neither of them spoke. There were no words for this.
When they finally reached their apartment, Dazai went straight to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He ran the water hot, scorching, and scrubbed his face, his mouth, his hands, trying to wash away the violation, the helplessness, the shame.
He looked up—redundant, reflexive—toward the mirror he knew was there. Toward his reflection he couldn't see.
You're broken, something whispered. You're weak. You let him. You didn't fight. You just stood there and let him.
The tears came then, sudden and overwhelming, and Dazai slid down to the floor, pressing his face against his knees, shaking with silent sobs.
He didn't hear the lock click, didn't hear the door open, but suddenly Chuuya was there, wrapping around him from behind, holding him together as he fell apart.
"I killed him," Chuuya whispered against his hair. "In my head. I killed him a thousand times. I should have killed him for real."
"Don't," Dazai gasped out. "Don't say that. Don't—"
"He hurt you," Chuuya said, and his voice was thick with tears. "He touched what was mine, he put his hands on you, his mouth—"
"I'm not yours," Dazai said, but it came out wrong, broken. "I'm not—I'm not property, Chuuya. I'm not something you own."
"That's not what I meant—"
"I know," Dazai whispered. "I know. I'm sorry. I just... I couldn't see him. I didn't know. I thought it was you, and then it wasn't, and I couldn't—I couldn't—"
He turned, burying his face in Chuuya's chest, clutching at his shirt. "I couldn't stop him. I was too scared to fight. Too scared to knock over the cans. I just... I just let him. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I'm like this. I'm sorry you have to—to deal with this, with me, with this broken—"
"Don't," Chuuya interrupted fiercely, gripping Dazai's face, forcing him to look up even though Dazai couldn't meet his eyes. "Don't you dare apologize for being blind. Don't you dare apologize for being assaulted. This is not your fault, Dazai. None of this is your fault."
"He kissed me," Dazai said, and the words tasted like ash. "He put his mouth on me and I couldn't—I couldn't push him away. I just stood there."
"Because you were protecting yourself," Chuuya said, fierce and certain. "Because you were assessing the danger, because you were trying not to make things worse. That's not weakness, Dazai. That's survival."
"I feel weak," Dazai admitted, the words barely audible. "I feel so weak."
"I know," Chuuya whispered, pulling him close again, rocking him gently. "I know. But you're not. You're the strongest person I know. You walk through darkness every day and you don't complain. You adapt. You survive. You live. And what happened today... that doesn't change that. It doesn't make you less."
Dazai wanted to believe him. Wanted to soak in the words and let them heal the wound that had been torn open. But he could still feel the stranger's hands, still taste the violation, and the darkness felt less like a companion now and more like a prison.
"I don't want to go outside again," Dazai admitted, small and ashamed. "Not for a while."
"Okay," Chuuya said immediately. "Then we won't. We'll stay here. I'll bring the world to you. Whatever you need."
"I need you to not treat me like glass," Dazai said, clutching tighter. "But also... also I need you to hold me. For a long time. Please."
"I can do that," Chuuya promised. "I can do both. I can be whatever you need."
They stayed on the bathroom floor for hours, until the water ran cold and their legs went numb. Chuuya didn't let go, not once, and eventually Dazai's tears ran dry, leaving him hollow but clean, exhausted but somehow lighter.
When they finally moved to the bedroom, Chuuya helped Dazai undress, helped him wash properly, helped him into soft pajamas that smelled like home. He braided Dazai's hair this time—loose and messy, nothing like Dazai's careful work from that morning—and then climbed into bed beside him, curling around him like a shield.
"I love you," Chuuya whispered in the dark. "I love you so much it scares me."
"I love you too," Dazai replied, and he meant it, even through the fear, even through the shame. "Thank you. For coming back. For stopping him. For... for seeing."
"Always," Chuuya promised. "I'll always see for you. I'll always come back. I'll always stop them."
Dazai closed his eyes—redundant, perhaps, but comforting—and let the darkness take him. Not the terrifying darkness of the store, of helplessness, but the safe darkness of their bedroom, of Chuuya's arms, of home.
It would take time. Time to feel safe again, time to trust his own judgment, time to forgive himself for being vulnerable. But Chuuya would be there, patient and fierce and loving, and that was enough.
That had to be enough.
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