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Chuuya thinks he has cracked ribs, a possible fracture in his right arm, a head injury that’s dripping blood into his right eye, and a thousand more gashes and scrapes that he can’t take stock of yet because he’s so dizzy it’s hard to stand.
Next to him, Dazai groans, and Chuuya shoves down the concern that rises in his chest. The only thing he should be concerned about is how much Dazai is about to complain because he didn’t die properly. He didn’t die thanks to Chuuya diving off a cliff after him to protect him. He could be thankful, but he never will be.
Chuuya sighs, wipes blood out of his face, and offers Dazai his good arm. “Get up, bastard, we need to get back up this cliff.”
Dazai takes his hand, and barely manages to stagger to his feet without complaint - shocking to Chuuya. “Why?” he slurs, leaning heavily against Chuuya now that he’s upright.
Chuuya doesn’t like the close contact. It’s uncomfortable, more so in the state he’s in. But it seems like Dazai might not be able to stand without help, so he’ll have to deal with it. “You need medical attention,” he mutters, and then he scoops Dazai up bridal style. Not without a lot of regrets, but most of the regrets will be had later. For now, Dazai’s layers of clothing will protect Chuuya from No Longer Human.
He activates For the Tainted Sorrow and leaps upward, jogging up along the side of the cliff as fast as he dares with his ribs protesting every movement. His ability can’t make carrying Dazai any easier, so it’s a good thing that he’s infinitely stronger than the mackerel, and tougher, since he’s possibly carrying him with a broken arm.
Reaching the top of the cliff only takes a minute, and then Chuuya carries Dazai through the trees towards where their car is supposed to be waiting for them.
An explosion goes off behind them in the distance. Chuuya ignores it. It’s an everyday occurrence - and besides, this explosion is their work. The work of Double Black.
He deposits Dazai in the car and then climbs in himself, and they’re off, hopefully to get medical attention.
______________________________________________________________________
Chuuya finds himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if Dazai is doing all right.
They’d said he had a bad concussion, worse than Chuuya’s mild one, and maybe some broken bones as well. So despite Chuuya taking the leap to save him, he hadn’t been in good shape.
Chuuya growls at himself, and then at the fact that he can’t even roll over in bed because his ribs hurt too badly. He resorts to clinging to a pillow, feeling childish, and… wondering again if Dazai is doing all right. Fuck.
He knows he’s supposed to be resting, and knows it well, but he still shoves himself upright and wanders into the kitchen, finding himself heating water for tea. Chuuya isn’t much of a tea person, really, but considering the influence Kouyou has had on his life, he’s surprised he isn’t more of one. But when it comes to the important moments, he does turn to tea.
A few minutes later, Chuuya has a cup of lemon balm tea and has curled up in his window seat looking out over the city, leaning against the cool glass of his window. Fall has had some time to set in, and the temperature outside is much cooler at night now. He likes it. Summer is nice, but the heat gets to him after a while.
He takes a small sip of his tea as he looks out at the city lights, and finds that his mind wanders to Dazai again. He probably has less appreciation for views like this - he only appreciates the quick death they can give him, should the glass of the window not be in his way.
He’s Dazai, though… Chuuya thinks, at this point, that his desire for death is just a part of him. He certainly doesn’t think that he’ll be able to change Dazai’s outlook on life.
Although, it would be nice, he thinks, if he could.
Wait, what?
Chuuya stifles a startled cough and quickly takes another sip of tea to wash the urge away, only to find that it builds in his throat instead, ignoring all his attempts to hold it back. He finally bursts out coughing, hunching inward and fighting for air as his ribs protest.
There’s a strange lump in his throat, and Chuuya coughs and coughs until finally the feeling is gone and something flutters into his lap.
He looks down. It’s flower petals. Rhododendron, he thinks - he actually owes his knowledge of flowers to Ane-san, too - but knowing what flower the petals are from doesn’t explain how they ended up in his throat. They weren’t in the tea; he would have noticed them. And no one puts entire rhododendron flowers in tea, anyway.
He coughs again, winces as it hurts his ribs still more, and then coughs again and again and again. A few more rhododendron petals, and a single yellow flower that Chuuya doesn’t know. He picks it up and stares at it blankly. “What the hell,” he says out loud.
He’s too tired to deal with this. To anyone else, it might be terrifying, but then again, maybe Chuuya brushed against an ability user on the mission earlier who did this to him. He can sort it all out tomorrow, because it doesn’t seem to be doing much to him other than making him cough up flowers.
He takes another slow sip of his tea, which soothes his throat, and then finishes it off and forces himself to go back to bed. Despite himself, he spends the rest of his night restless and staring at the ceiling, wondering what’s going on.
When the morning comes, he goes to check in on Dazai, only to find that he - against what he was told to do - left extremely early, somewhere around 5:00 o’clock.
Chuuya doesn’t know where Dazai lives. Dazai knows where he is, not the other way around. Sometimes it frustrates Chuuya, but he deals with it - what use would he have for knowing where the waste of bandages lives, anyway?
Right now, though, he sort of regrets not knowing. Dazai leaving so early can’t mean anything good.
Chuuya turns around and heads home. He has one day off to rest and recover - the Port Mafia needs its executives there, and can afford them little time for resting. Chuuya is lucky to have any time at all.
He settles in on his couch, feeling restless, as he always does when he’s supposed to be resting, but the only thing he needs to go is write up a mission report, and that can wait an hour or so until he’s thinking more clearly.
He coughs weakly, and just a couple petals flutter into the air. Palest purple, they drift to the floor, where Chuuya leaves them, staring at them blankly.
He pulls out his phone, almost without thinking, and scrolls through his contacts to Dazai’s name.
He never calls Dazai, not unless it’s for a mission.
Chuuya’s fingers hover above the screen, and then he presses the call button.
He nearly hangs up immediately, but something halts his hand before he can press that red button on the screen. The phone rings once, twice… six times before Dazai picks up.
But he does pick up.
“Slug,” he says, and there’s exhaustion in his voice. “I don’t have time for you right now, stupid hatrack, I have better things to be doing. Like planning how I’m going to die.”
“I just saved you from that,” Chuuya complains, “can’t you give it a rest for even a few hours?”
Dazai laughs. He sounds like he’s out of breath, and then the laughing breaks off into a cough for just a couple seconds before he stops himself. “As if I’d stop for you, chibi.”
“You could consider it,” Chuuya growls. He regrets calling now. He wanted to make sure Dazai was all right, despite everything that told him to just leave the waste of bandages the hell alone, but clearly Dazai doesn’t care about being all right. He doesn’t care about Chuuya being all right, either. Chuuya can see that.
“Fuck you, I won’t bother calling again,” he snaps. Then he hangs up.
And he bursts out coughing again, petal after petal until finally a pair of fully grown rhododendron blooms burst from his mouth into his hands.
Chuuya stares at them. This shouldn’t be possible. But if Dazai’s being his usual bastard self, Chuuya won’t go to him about it - it doesn’t matter if Dazai could possibly nullify it or not. He doesn’t need him, or his help.
More coughing, and this time there’s a flurry of those strange yellow flowers. Chuuya’s throat hurts.
He gathers the blooms up in his hands and shoves most of them in the trash, carrying just a couple over to his computer. He can get that report done… and he can also see what these flowers are and if this has ever affected anyone before. Maybe there are records of this ability user, either in the Port Mafia database, or in the news.
His computer seems to take forever to boot up, and when it finally does, Chuuya is impatient, typing his password in with quick jabs at the keyboard. As if in protest, one of the keys gets stuck, and he has to carefully free it, another waste of time - although this time it is one he created all by himself.
Quick google searches of ‘yellow flowers’ does nothing for him - Chuuya gets lots of daffodils and sunflowers and marigolds. He sighs and tries ‘small round yellow flowers’.
This gets results almost immediately. All of the flowers look a lot more like the ones he coughed up, and Chuuya carefully clicks through the pictures with a flower in his other hand, trying to figure out exactly which one matches.
Tansy. It’s tansy.
Chuuya sits back for a second, and then leans forward again to check for news about an ability user who can make people cough up flowers. He accidentally hits a link, though, and gets redirected to a website about tansy and its uses. His eyes catch not on some old-fashioned medicinal purpose of the plant, however, but one sentence - ‘The flower sometimes represents hostile thoughts or anger.’
Chuuya laughs quietly, a dry laugh filled with contempt, but also frustration. It’s not wrong. He’s been feeling pretty hostile lately, especially around that damn Dazai.
He pauses as he’s about to search for the ability user, feeling sudden, possibly foolish curiosity. Chuuya types into the searchbar, ‘meaning of rhododendron flowers’.
Rhododendron flowers are known for their beauty, and planted in many gardens simply on looks alone. When used in an arrangement, however, and based on the oldest uses of the flower, it stands for danger and the need to flee. This can be interpreted in many ways depending upon other flowers that the rhododendron, but it is most often used to warn the receiver that they are in a dangerous situation.
Oh, the irony. Chuuya already knows he lives a dangerous life filled with dangerous people.
He goes looking for the ability user next, but finds absolutely nothing about such an ability. If he had access to government files, maybe he could find whoever it is, but as it is, he seems to stand no chance, especially since they may have been blown to pieces in the explosion Dazai and Chuuya set off last night.
Chuuya shoves his chair away from his desk and stands, sighing. This was a wild goose chase. There’s nothing to find, and he’s wasted precious time he could have used to rest or work on a mission report. And now he doesn’t feel like working on that at all. He wants to call Dazai back up and give him a piece of his mind.
He bursts out coughing out of the blue, tansy flowers tumbling into his hands.
When he lifts his hands to stare at them - there are far more flowers than there were last night, or earlier today - he sees that this time the petals are flecked with blood.
Fuck.
______________________________________________________________________
Dazai cradles a single pink carnation in his hands, staring intently at the petals as if they will tell him all the secrets of the world.
Or perhaps the secrets of his own mind. That would be nice.
How is this happening? Abilities don’t affect him, so it can’t be an ability. But what other explanation is there for this sudden illness where he’s coughing out flowers? His lungs ache, his throat hurts, and the muscles in his back feel overworked from sharp bursts of coughing.
Dazai pulls the blankets up closer around his nose. Why did Chuuya have to call him right when he was in the middle of coughing? He had to swallow down the coughs, try to hide them. Based on Chuuya’s annoyance, he managed it. There would have been more worry in the hatrack’s tone if he had heard Dazai coughing.
He had gotten off the phone and coughed hard enough to create a small pile of flowers, and had been too busy gasping for air at the end of it to worry about how all those flowers had fit in his throat, lungs, wherever they were coming from.
His head hurts. He wants to go to sleep; he wasn’t allowed to all night because the doctors at the Port Mafia-owned hospital wanted to make sure his concussion wasn’t bad enough to cause permanent damage, or worse. He had left as soon as he could. He didn’t like doctors.
Dazai closes his eyes tightly and presses his face into a pillow, not allowing himself to panic. Panic is unnecessary and only impairs his decision making.
He’s coughing out flowers, and he needs to find out why.
He sits up, the movement accompanied by another few coughs, and grabs his phone to google ‘coughing up flowers’.
The results are all about ‘hanahaki disease’. Dazai’s never heard of it before, but the idea of it being a disease - something that needs treating - makes him shudder.
He still clicks the first webpage despite himself, skimming the contents with tired eyes that quickly get less tired when he reads about ‘unrequited love’ and ‘the flowers will eventually completely fill the victim’s lungs, should they not cure the disease’.
There are two cures. Finding the love your heart cries out for - your soulmate, according to most of the sources, and to people who love such romantic thoughts; the flowers match with their soulmark - or having a surgery that completely removes the blossoms and vines and roots... and leaves you without the ability to love.
Dazai wouldn’t mind that second option. He doesn’t need to love, not in the mafia. He doesn’t like the idea of a surgery, though. Being completely at the mercy of whoever is operating on him… if it were Mori, the boss would probably do plenty of things to Dazai that Dazai didn’t want, in the name of helping him.
Dazai shuts off his phone and slowly sets it down off to the side, staring at a wall. Who could he love, anyway? It’s like he just told himself - he has no use for the love, no need of it, and has no one to be in love with. Not here. Maybe not ever, not anywhere.
There aren’t even many people he’s close to. Odasaku is the only person he can really think of, with Ango being there as well, if not trusted quite so completely.
Chuuya. Against everything Dazai tries for, the avoidance of trusting relationships that might end up stabbing him in the back, he trusts his tiny red-haired partner more than he will say. Likes him, even, and likes teasing him, not that he’ll tell him that. Dazai knows that Chuuya sees him as a pain in the ass and nothing else. Certainly not a friend.
So why is Chuuya the one who makes him worry right now?
Dazai tenses, and then coughs send him into spasms, leaving him gasping and flopping backwards to lie down again. Pink carnation petals drift through the air and scatter themselves across the blanket.
Dazai breathes heavily, trying to get air back into his lungs, but they feel clogged and useless. He stumbles out of bed to go get a glass of water, hoping it will somehow fix him. He can’t have this. He can’t do this.
The water clears his throat slightly, but not his lungs. He wonders if Chuuya would laugh at him right now, for wanting to die, but being so afraid of death.
He coughs, and then half-staggers into the bathroom just in time to retch, throwing up flower petals into the sink. They’re still pink, but they’re red, as well - from blood. Dazai can only stare, wide-eyed, and hope he’s dreaming.
He wants someone to hold onto. He wants someone to stabilize him and tell him to get his act together, he’ll be fine, just the way he always has.
He can’t afford to think these things.
Dazai drags himself back to bed and goes back to sleep.
______________________________________________________________________
Chuuya feels more exhausted and weighed down every day. He can’t let anyone see that he’s weakened with no idea of how to cure whatever is ailing him, so whenever the urge to cough strikes, he steps away from anyone else around him. He’s started to be able to tell when he’ll cough up the most petals, and he tries to make his way to the bathroom when that happens.
There’s more and more blood each day, mixed in with the flowers. Chuuya can feel them clogging his lungs, making it harder and harder for him to breathe. Every time he passes Dazai in the hall and hears a teasing comment, he feels a little more weighed down.
And then it happens. He gets caught up in a discussion with Dazai, and then in the middle of it he feels the urge to cough, stronger than ever. He can’t just turn and run from Dazai; he’ll be suspicious, at best. But if he sees Chuuya cough up flowers…
Chuuya freezes, caught between a rock and a hard place and not knowing which is the better option to take.
Freezing is what does him in, because he bursts out coughing in front of Dazai, and he can’t stop. The flowers just keep coming, yellow and gold and palest purple-pink.
Somewhere in the middle of the coughing, Dazai’s hands find their way to Chuuya’s chest and back, holding him still and steady. The coughing slows, and Chuuya gasps frantically for air, starting off another burst of coughing. Dazai’s hand starts to rub steady circles into his back, hesitant at first, and then more determinedly.
The coughs finally slow to a stop. The floor around Chuuya’s feet is strewn with flowers and petals, and he’s been left crouched close to the ground, Dazai close beside him.
Why would Dazai have done this, stayed with him? His hands are still pressed against Chuuya, one cool fingertip against Chuuya’s collarbone where it’s uncovered by his shirt, his gaze unreadable in the one eye that Chuuya can see.
Chuuya wants him to be closer.
Fuck, no, wait, why would he want that?
But he does, almost against his will, he does. He wants Dazai to be close enough that he can lean against his chest and tug Dazai to the ground so he can rest, so he can breathe, so he can know that Dazai is here.
Chuuya somehow manages to get back on his feet, Dazai beside him, pulling his hands away. Chuuya almost begs him to leave them where they are, but bites the inside of his cheek and stays silent as Dazai looks at the flowers surrounding them.
And then Dazai opens his mouth, probably to ask Chuuya a question, and Chuuya bolts.
He slams into the nearest bathroom and locks the door behind him, only to start coughing again. He thinks he hears someone banging on the door for a moment, but then gets completely lost in hacking his lungs out until he’s seeing stars.
When Chuuya’s vision clears, he looks into the sink to see delicate white petals, and, in the center of them all, a single blood-speckled flower.
It’s pure white, with well-shaped petals. Chuuya studies it for a moment, holding it in his gloved hands, and then closes his eyes and stumbles backwards to lean against the door. It’s a single gardenia. And the irony of the situation, of his wanting Dazai to be close, of him- of him…
The irony of him loving Dazai.
The irony is that he knows the meaning of gardenia flowers all too well - hidden love.
He didn’t ask for this. He doesn’t want to love Dazai. Who the hell said it was okay for him to love that stupid waste of bandages?
...his heart. He couldn’t control what it said, and it had spoken.
Chuuya slides downwards, back still against the door, to crumple to the ground with the flower still in his hands. He wants this gone. He wants to breathe freely again, wants to clear Dazai completely from his heart and mind. This isn’t supposed to happen. Chuuya is supposed to meet his soulmate and love them and then be free of Dazai forever.
The door suddenly clicks open, and Chuuya gets shoved to the side. Dazai pushes into the small room, and he immediately looks down at Chuuya, who is now gracelessly sprawled across the floor, half-heartedly glaring up at Dazai.
“Why didn’t you say you had hanahaki?” Dazai demands.
“H-hana… what?”
“It’s a sickness,” Dazai says, “and it’s why you’re coughing flowers, and you should have said something about it, stupid hatrack. Your hat really has eaten your brain.”
“Shut up,” Chuuya snarls breathlessly. Dazai drops down into a crouch in front of him, and Chuuya flinches backwards.
Dazai snaps his head to the side and coughs into his elbow suddenly, and looks back to Chuuya with a handful of pink petals, and a vivid red rose. “I have it too,” he says softly.
Chuuya thinks it’s the most intentionally vulnerable Dazai has ever been around him.
Dazai sighs heavily and sits back. He hesitates, and then says softly, “Don’t tell Mori.”
Chuuya tilts his head. “What, why?”
“He… he’ll try to do a surgery. Get rid of the problem. But…” Dazai’s voice cracks, and he sits there for a second. Chuuya thinks he’s trying to compose himself. When he continues, he sounds a little calmer. “But if you do that, you lose… you lose something important. I don’t want to lose it.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “There are ways to last longer, until you can find the real cure for the disease. We should both start taking some medicines. We’ll be fine.”
“Last longer? How long? Does this kill you?” Chuuya stares at Dazai incredulously, and then coughs again, sending white and yellow flowers flying. He shoves them into the nearby garbage can.
Dazai blinks slowly. “Yes. It eventually completely ruins your lungs. But you can last a long time, if you play your cards right. Years, even. And that’s… that’s plenty of time, to find a real cure.”
Chuuya breathes slowly, as if every breath might be his last. Maybe it could be.
“Years,” he says softly. “And Mori can’t know.”
Dazai nods, and then lets his shoulders relax. It’s like he knows Chuuya has made up his mind even before Chuuya knows, himself.
“Okay,” Chuuya breathes. “Fine.”
He doesn’t know why he let himself agree.
______________________________________________________________________
The day Dazai leaves the Port Mafia, only a couple months after he and Chuuya have their discussion about hanahaki disease, Chuuya starts to cough up red carnations alongside gardenias and tansy. The rhododendron is long gone. Chuuya knew he was in a dangerous situation, but he chose to disregard it.
His car is blown up the same day. Chuuya knows exactly who it was. He pretends that it’s okay. He answers every question that Mori asks him. He swears his loyalty to the mafia all over again with every word.
When he finally goes home, it’s in the early hours of the morning. He was told to take a day, since he was kept up so long. Chuuya thinks he’ll go in to work anyway. It’s a good way to remind everyone that yes, he is still part of the mafia, not like his traitor partner, and he’s run on less sleep before.
He brings a bottle of wine up out of his wine cellar, though, and stares at it and the single glass with it in silence for a few minutes. And then he pours himself a glass, and then it’s gone, and then almost the entire bottle is gone.
Fuck. It’s the Petrus. He meant to save that, it’s rare and expensive, and Chuuya didn’t mean to waste it on an occasion when he just wanted to be drunk. It was supposed to be for… a celebration or something. When he met his soulmate, or something like that.
He curls his hand around his left wrist, thumb brushing over the image there of a single blue morning glory and some scattered red petals. He has a soulmate, somewhere out there. Maybe outside of the mafia.
He sighs and he leans his head back against the couch, and then he tucks his knees up to his chest, curls himself inward, and coughs until he spirals into blackness.
It’s been four years, and for all four of them Dazai has been taking the strongest medications possible to hide the fact that he has hanahaki.
Externally, he looks fine, most of the time. But internally, everything is wrong. Dazai can barely breathe. Every moment of his life is a fight for strength and control.
He wonders if it’s the same for Chuuya, or if he found the person he loves a long time ago now. He probably handled the problem once Dazai was gone; he’s a silly chibi, but not oblivious enough to be unable to see who he loves.
Dazai always handles his problems, even if he doesn’t necessarily face them.
Chuuya… Chuuya is the one problem he’s never handled.
He hates to say it, even to himself, but he never wants to think that Chuuya found that person he loves. Because Dazai… even four years later, Dazai still aches for him. He loves the hatrack, and he hates that he loves him.
It’s been four long years of having flowers growing in his lungs. Dazai coughs up roses still, in red, and in darkest crimson, mingled with blue morning glory petals. Those remind him of Chuuya’s eyes. He wants to scream.
On days when he’s coughing too hard, Dazai just stays home. The Agency is used to him not showing up sometimes. It annoys Kunikida, but his new partner knows there’s no way for him to stop it from happening. Dazai can think of only one person who might have figured out what’s really going on, and sometimes, surprisingly, Ranpo can keep his mouth shut.
It’s not really the right time for Dazai to be taking days off, though, because the Guild is actually a genuine threat to everyone in Yokohama. So, cough or no cough, Dazai hauls himself around to do what needs to be done.
Which means going to retrieve Q when the Guild gets ahold of him.
Dazai sees the red glow of a familiar ability that night, and he almost bolts.
Maybe when he finds his real soulmate, these flowers that bloom for Chuuya will fade away.
But when the fighting is over that night, and Chuuya tells Dazai he’d better get him out of there now that he’s used Corruption… Dazai bursts into a series of the worst coughs he’s had in some time.
Roses and camellias, three separate shades of red, scattered on the ground all around them.
Dazai’s plan was to leave Chuuya here. But now… he doesn’t know if he can do that.
Somehow, through superhuman efforts, Dazai gets Q the hell out of there, and then, instead of heading back to the Agency immediately, he makes a return trip to the place he left Chuuya.
Chuuya still sleeps on the ground, snoring softly, some streaks of blood on his face. He would look innocent, almost, if not for that. His coat, gloves and hat sit neatly next to him where Dazai left them.
Dazai sighs, and then, with a fair bit of effort on his part, some staggering as he tries to adjust to Chuuya’s weight - how is someone so small so heavy? - and a few stifled coughs, he tugs Chuuya onto his back.
He carries Chuuya out of there, even though Dazai is far from being the strongest person out there, or even the stronger of the two of them. That has always been Chuuya. But something inside him refuses to leave Chuuya on the ground.
Dazai brings Chuuya to his apartment, despite his better judgement. Atsushi and the others need him, but he has time. Just enough time. He already spoke to Ranpo about this.
His instincts say to leave Chuuya on the sofa. His heart tells him to set Chuuya down on the bed, even if it’s small and probably far from Chuuya’s standards… wait, why does he care?
Dazai closes his eyes and sighs. Chuuya is too heavy to keep carrying. He stumbles over to the bed and sets Chuuya down carefully, then gently tugs a blanket over him without really thinking.
Chuuya shifts slightly, mumbling something in his sleep. Dazai, curious, leans in over him, trying to hear it.
Chuuya’s eyes open halfway. Dazai freezes.
“Mmph…” Chuuya blinks slowly. “Dazai…?”
Dazai rolls his eyes. “Yes, hatrack, it’s me. Now I have to be going, so just stay put until you feel like you can move-”
Chuuya starts coughing, rough and painful sounding coughs. Dazai jolts, staring at him as Chuuya coughs out flowers.
He still has hanahaki. How has he even survived? Well, he’s in the mafia, he may have access to medicines for the disease even stronger than what Dazai can get. But… this means that he hasn’t found whoever he loves.
Dazai has to stop his heart from leaping in his chest. That shouldn’t be a positive thing.
“Geez, get me… some water… stupid mackerel…”
Dazai hesitates, then goes to grab a glass of water. When he returns and presses it into Chuuya’s hands, Chuuya gulps down half of it before he manages to talk. “So is this… your apartment?”
Dazai rolls his eyes. “No, I just brought you to some random apartment. I have no idea who owns it.”
“Fuck you,” Chuuya says, rolling his eyes. There’s anger in his tone, but it’s dulled by exhaustion and pain. Dazai wants to take the pain away. He has for over four years now.
Dazai plays it off lightly, though. “Maybe later,” he says teasingly, and then he turns, heading for the door.
“Wait,” Chuuya rasps suddenly. Dazai turns around, despite knowing that doing so is akin to showing Chuuya all his weaknesses.
Chuuya is staring after him. “Wait,” he says again, softer now that Dazai has stopped. “I- you can’t just-”
Dazai walks back over to him. “Can’t just what?”
He immediately regrets saying that, because he can see that pain in Chuuya’s eyes - pain from using Corruption, sure, but also pain that Dazai has caused when all he wants is to ease it. He never has been good at doing that, though. He is cunning, and he can outsmart half an army if given the chance; he and Chuuya together can take down an entire organization in a night. But Dazai is not an emotions person in any way, shape, or form.
Chuuya lifts his hand. “You don’t get to just… just vanish again-” he’s cut off by his own coughing.
Dazai can’t stop himself from moving to press a hand to Chuuya’s back, holding him steady. He remembers this, from so long ago. He remembers standing in an office somewhere, trying to hold Chuuya up as his coughing threatened to force him to his knees.
Dazai has to hold back coughs of his own, feeling them burning inside him. Morning glory and camellia petals tickle his throat.
Chuuya twists, turning his face into Dazai’s chest. There’s blood running from the corner of his mouth again, bloody flower petals all over the bed. “Stay,” he gasps out, struggling for air. “Stay with me.”
If Chuuya’d had the courage, if he and Dazai hadn’t both been, honestly, different people back then four years ago - would he have asked Dazai that then? Would he have wanted him to stay?
Does it matter? He does now.
Dazai curls his arms around Chuuya, living only in the moment, feeling every single one of Chuuya’s shuddering breaths and every cough that shakes his small frame.
Chuuya is dying.
He has been four years, thanks to the disease, but now… Corruption and hanahaki have both taken their toll on him, and his body can’t handle it. The coughing is aggravating the damage from Corruption, and before long there’s going to be internal bleeding.
More blood trickles from the corner of Chuuya’s lips. Dazai brushes it away, as if that can protect Chuuya from all of his injuries.
Chuuya coughs up more flower petals. With a start, Dazai recognizes them. There are still the white flowers, gardenias, from four years ago, but the small yellow flowers with them have been joined by red camellia petals. Strange, that he and Chuuya should both be coughing up those flowers.
Chuuya presses his head into Dazai’s shoulder, and Dazai holds him, until Chuuya’s coughs shake him so badly that just a few coughs of his own slip out, accompanied by a few flower petals, blue as Chuuya’s eyes.
“I’m staying,” he murmurs to Chuuya. “This time, I’m staying.”
He’s going to regret this.
He leans down and presses the smallest, gentlest of kisses to Chuuya’s lips.
The kiss tastes of blood and something bitter. But Dazai pulls away and feels more clearheaded than he has in a long time.
Chuuya’s breathing steadies out all of a sudden, and he shifts in Dazai’s arms to stare up at him with wide eyes. “What was that?” he says.
Dazai blinks. “It - um-”
“Not the- not that, although I’ve got questions, stupid mackerel. My lungs, they just…” Chuuya presses a hand against his chest. “They feel clear.”
Dazai experimentally inhales, a deeper breath than he’s taken in years, and blinks. “Oh. Mine too,” he says.
Chuuya blinks. “Wait, are you saying all this time - you loved me?”
Dazai manages, somehow, not to stumble over his words. “It wasn’t obvious to you, chibi?”
Chuuya says, “You clearly didn’t know I loved you either.”
Dazai lets out a startled breath. “You what?”
Chuuya’s eyes have fear in them, but he smirks. “Shouldn’t have said that,” he says tiredly. “I… shouldn’t have said that.”
Dazai grabs him, then loosens his grip, not wanting to hurt Chuuya. “Not possible,” he says, almost pleading with Chuuya to take it back. This isn’t something he can believe - he’s been hiding this from Chuuya for no reason? Chuuya has loved him?
Could Dazai have told him-
No. Not while he was in the mafia. Even if they hadn’t almost always been at odds, Mori would have used it against them. He would have manipulated them somehow, Dazai is sure of it.
Dazai hesitates for a moment, subconsciously moving his hand to rest over his heart, while the other hand remains curled into Chuuya’s vest, clinging to him as if Chuuya will drift away should he let go.
Chuuya turns his head away. “Besides,” he says softly, before wincing and reaching to wipe blood from the corner of his mouth, “it might mean nothing. You can love someone and… and still not be meant for them.”
Dazai lets go of Chuuya, who immediately turns back to look at him, but Dazai is tugging at the buttons of his own vest and shirt, pulling them aside to reveal the space over his heart and hesitating before moving the bandages there. “Maybe,” he murmurs, as red and blue petals imprinted into his skin come into view, “but maybe not, too.”
Chuuya stares blankly before turning his hand over, revealing a mark on his wrist that has always been covered by gloves.
It’s a morning glory, surrounded by fallen camellia petals. Dazai’s own soulmark is its exact opposite.
He lifts Chuuya’s hand to get a closer look at the mark, but then Chuuya twists his arm out of Dazai’s grasp and places his hand against Dazai’s chest.
His fingers are cold, probably from the blood loss caused by Corruption.
Dazai is still for a moment, and then he reaches out to pull Chuuya into his arms, pressing his face into Chuuya’s neck. Despite the awkward angle, it’s comfortable. Chuuya’s hand stays pressed against Dazai’s chest, and Dazai’s fingers curl around his wrist once again. It’s the farthest thing from logical, but Dazai’s mind tells him that they have to be touching, or else they’ll lose each other.
Dazai needs to go help the Agency, but maybe that can wait just one more moment while he finally holds his soulmate in his arms. It’s taken him so long to find him, after all - surely just a minute is allowable. It’s not even enough to say how sorry he is, for leaving Chuuya. He can, and does, whisper, “I shouldn’t have left you behind,” but it’s not enough. It’s just words. He would so much rather stay here, let Chuuya stay here, be safe just for a little while.
He can’t.
He wants to.
He can’t.
His face still pressed into Chuuya’s neck, Dazai murmurs, “I have to go. Will you… will you be here when I come back?” He lifts his head to make eye contact with Chuuya, eyes something between hopeful and fearful.
Chuuya smiles tiredly. “I’m not going to be like you,” he mutters. “I’m going to stay. I’ll be here.” Dazai thinks he’s only seen him this calm a few times before, and Chuuya has almost always been asleep when it’s happened. “As long as you promise you’re coming back too, mackerel.”
Dazai breathes. “I’ll come back,” he says.
And then he has to pull himself away from Chuuya, forgetting his coat in his rush out through the door.
Dazai returns hours later to find Chuuya where he left him, fast asleep and breathing easily and evenly - and with Dazai’s coat pulled over him like an extra blanket, Chuuya’s fingers curled into the fabric of the sleeve, his wrist still bare. Dazai trails his fingers gently over Chuuya’s soulmark, his face softening, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I came back,” he murmurs, “and I’m staying.”