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“I used Corruption because I trusted you.”
The fist that knocks against Dazai’s chest is weak, but it connects nonetheless. Dazai rocks back at the contact and knuckles brush against his waistcoat before Chuuya’s hand falls to the dirt between them, fingers digging in as though it’ll help keep him conscious. They both know it’ll only delay the inevitable. Chuuya’s breathing is laboured, his voice rough with the abuse of Corruption, each word sounding like a struggle as he drags it out from between clenched teeth.
“You... better get me to the extraction point.” It’s not a threat, it’s not even a request. They both know Dazai will leave him on the battle field, coat, gloves and hat placed neatly beside him. But just like the entire evening has been a return to past partnerships and old tactics, it’s a pattern they’ve always followed.
Finally running out of steam, Chuuya collapses, only barely managing to tilt his body away from Dazai to land with a thud in the dirt, thoroughly unconscious. He somehow looks even smaller like that, curled up and dead to the world as he sleeps off Corruption’s influence.
It’s always surprising, just how much space Chuuya’s personality helps him take up. Without it he almost looks delicate, like he’ll crumble if someone looks at him the wrong way, and it takes all of Dazai’s not inconsiderable self-control not to brush his fingers across a sharp cheekbone. Instead he chuckles, wry grin stretching across his face as he fishes Chuuya’s phone out of his coat pocket and sends a message to the extraction team. It’s not necessary, they know where their executive is, but it has been four years since Chuuya last used Corruption.
Four years since he last had to deal with the physical realities of using Corruption. The least Dazai can do is give Chuuya a head start on recovery. Before Dazai left the Port Mafia, using Corruption was at least a semi regular occurrence, and while the recovery period was never glamourous, at least it was expected, prepared for. Chuuya developed a system that worked for him, and he followed it religiously after every mission. This, Dazai knows. He also knows the basics of that system, the rough steps and expected timeline for recovery and how it changes depending on how long he lets Corruption run rampant in Chuuya’s system.
He also knows that this last fight is one of the longest Chuuya’s had. Would have still been even if Dazai hadn’t let it go on just a bit too long.
He tells himself the twinge in his chest is just the ache of bruises forming under skin.
--
Dazai’s always been good at identifying his own motivations for the things he does but standing outside his ex-partner’s apartment door, he can’t quite manage to identify a single, clear reason for being there. It’s surely not concern for the angry mafioso – after all, Chuuya’s recovered from far worse injuries than the ones his own ability gives him, multiple times over. Maybe curiosity?
I used Corruption because I trusted you
That seems more likely. Just a morbid curiosity. After all, it has been four years since Chuuya’s experienced the full aftermath of his ability. Was he prepared for it? Or had four years without it made him more susceptible to the aches and pains?
It’s no work at all to make his way into Chuuya’s apartment, bypassing the alarm completely and stepping over the threshold with quiet purpose. It’s already been three days, so the worst of the aftermath should be over, Chuuya’s body healing slowly while he sleeps for almost a solid 42 hours.
By now, the executive should be limping around the apartment, crawling at the walls in an attempt to pacify his endless energy, well and truly done with sitting still but not well enough to head straight back into the fight.
Instead, the apartment is quiet, and stiflingly hot to boot. The heat’s turned all the way up and it feels like walking into a sauna, but Dazai continues, closing the door with a quiet snick and toeing off his shoes. There’s an annoyingly familiar hat and coat sitting on the entryway table, folded just as they were when he left them next to Chuuya’s prone form, dust still clinging to the soft fabric, and Dazai does his best not to think to hard on why they haven’t yet been washed. He dumps his own coat on top of the pile and steps into the hallway.
There’s the muffled sound of a television program coming from the living room, so Dazai makes his way in, stepping softly enough not to wake Chuuya if he’s sleeping, but enough to let him know the apartments no longer empty.
“Get out, shitty Dazai.” The words are subdued, muffled by the copious layers of blankets and pillows obstructing Chuuya’s face. He’s made himself a nest on the couch despite the heater going full blast, and it looks like removing himself from it would be more trouble than it’s worth. Dazai leans against the doorway and grins, feeling secure enough in his current distance from the volatile redhead. The familiar words and the sight of blue eyes glaring at him from under the cover of wild copper curls is enough to relax the rubber band that had wound itself around Dazai’s chest when he entered the apartment.
There’s a quip hovering just on the tip of his tongue, but the thin skin under Chuuya’s eyes looks bruised, and his hair hangs in lank waves. He looks like absolute shit, and Dazai makes a decision he doesn’t think he would have if there wasn’t four years of distance between them.
“I didn’t come to antagonize you, for once. Not to mention that you look like you couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone land a hit on me right now.” The words are delivered without their usual taunting rhythm, and Dazai carefully as Chuuya’s eyes flare in anger at the comment before he catches up with the tone behind it.
Chuuya may be temperamental, but he’s no slouch, and he’s always been capable of translating Dazai’s non-verbal ques. They always did work well together, despite their rivalry, and a lot of that was thanks to Chuuya’s ability to accurately interpret Dazai’s intentions in the moment, much to his annoyance.
“So you came to do what, instead? Talk? Hah.”
“Actually, I came to... make amends.” He very carefully doesn’t say apologize, because that would be an untruth and Chuuya has no patience for baldfaced lies.
One eyebrow twitches and Chuuya stares him down, before relaxing slightly into the mound of pillows at his back. Taking it as the go ahead it is, Dazai steps into the living room. The closer he gets, the more he notices just how unwell Chuuya looks. His skin is sallow and he’s shivering despite the heat and the sweat on his brow, hair sticking to his cheeks.
“We were partners, once. And then, we were again, temporarily. We were partners.” A deep breath, “You put your life in my hands, and I–”
“– Left me passed out in a crater covered in my own blood after I saved your sorry ass? Yeah, that’s some real team spirit.”
“I knowingly let you push your limits out of spite and then left you to deal with the consequences of my decision by yourself, yes. It was wrong of me to abandon you like that, no matter how our previous partnership ended.” Dazai speaks over him, hand raised as though to stem the tide of angery he knows he’s tempting. Chuuya stares at him, speechless for once, eyes widening almost comically before narrowing in fury.
“Why the fuck – How can you – You broke into my apartment after leaving me passed out and now you’re, what, apologizing? Where the fuck do you get off, huh? You never used to give a shit, don’t pretend just because you left the Mafia that suddenly you’re some compassionate bleeding-heart type.”
“Oh no, not at all, we both know that’s more your style, Chuuya.” The grin that spreads across Dazai’s lips is bitter enough to have Chuuya closing his mouth, teeth snapping shut on another volley of insults.
“But you trusted in my predictions, in me, and I left you in the dirt.” He winces, “I haven’t changed, not really, but four years changes somethings, just a little. I abused your trust.” He doesn’t know how to make Chuuya understand, doesn’t quite understand himself. Emotions aren’t something he’s familiar enough with to know how to manage.
“So? You’ve done that shit constantly since we were fifteen. Infuriatingly enough, I’m used to it.” The look on Chuuya’s face is a twisted mix of confusion and anger, but even as he continues to speak it becomes apparent maintaining that level of emotion is exhausting, and he tips his head back with a sigh.
Biting his lip and worrying at the dry skin his finds there, Dazai mulls over his next words.
“Things... are going to get worse.” That catches Chuuya’s attention right quick, head snapping back up at the words. “Maybe not immediately, but you didn’t think they’d let us get away with reinstating Double Black only once, now that they know we can still work together without killing each other? With a ceasefire between the Agency and the Port Mafia, it’s a given they’ll take advantage of this.” Dazai’s hand waves between the two of them. The anger in Chuuya’s gaze has lessened to a simmer, mind turning over the information presented, albeit slower than normal. A slim arm wrestles its way out of the blankets and he runs a hand through his hair with a wince.
It takes everything in Dazai to avoid voicing the impulsive hiss of sympathy when he sees the mottled black blue and green of Chuuya’s arm. He distracts himself by continuing his impulsive little speech.
“But if we’re going to work together again, things are going to change. We’ve both changed, we can’t sustain the same partnership we had four years ago. It’ll get someone killed. Probably not us, but still.”
Chuuya’s smart enough to see the logic in this, Dazai knows. He might have been the tactician, but it takes more than strength and a propensity for violence to rise up in the ranks of the Port Mafia, and Chuuya’s ascent to Executive had been second only to his own in speed, after Dazai left. That sort of thing requires so small measure of intelligence and ruthlessness.
“So what d’you want from me, mackerel? My unquestioning obedience? My loyalty?” The bitterness is weak, even for an exhausted Chuuya, but the words strike something in Dazai and he can’t help but laugh.
“Oh Chibi. I already had that. After all, you used corruption trusting me to bring you back from the brink,” The smile vanishes as Dazai makes a point to look Chuuya in the eye, “But I didn’t know. And I can’t expect you to do that again if I make the same decision I made last time.” He eyes the bruises and the sallow skin pointedly.
It’s obvious this conversation is taking a toll on Chuuya’s weakened state, but he still looks like he wants to object, and Dazai knows without a doubt what his objection is.
“I know you’d never let personal issues prevent you from using Corruption if necessary, regardless of how much you dislike me, but even you have to admit it would be easier if we could actually rely on each other not just when it’s not a literal life or death situation.”
“Fine.”
Dazai definitely does not jump at the sudden acceptance, but it’s a close thing. He peers closely at Chuuya, who’s doing his utmost to bury himself back under the blankets and ignore his newly reinstated partner.
“You’re gonna make up for ditching me and making me use Corruption for longer than necessary. Then, when I’m good and ready, we can talk more about improving how much we ‘rely’ on each other outside of missions.” It’s as close to an acceptance as Dazai is likely to get, so he nods when Chuuya looks at him.
The poorly masked look of surprise and relief on Dazai’s face must really be something, because Chuuya manages to push himself into a sitting position amidst all his blankets. He’s still shaking, but he tosses off a couple of the thicker blankets and shoves a couple pillows to the floor. The simple actions make him look absolutely terrible, and Dazai takes a hesitant step forward. While he’s willing to start the process right now, Chuuya looks like he’s about to drop dead any second, and that would be more than a little problematic for Dazai’s future plans. When he doesn’t make a move past that first step, Chuuya scowls.
“Tch. Get your ass over here. You can start making it up to me by being my personal pillow until I get these damn shakes under control.” Right. Physical contact. Dazai remembers something about that from before. How Chuuya would be markedly more tactile in the days after Corruption, even after he’d been given the go ahead to enter the field again.
Only pausing long enough to divest himself of his vest, Dazai steps forward and settles himself into the corner of the couch where Chuuya had been lying just minutes before. Without waiting for him to get settled, the redhead tips back and to the side, leaning heavily on his shoulder for a moment before huffing and scooting further down on the couch so he can put his head squarely in Dazai’s lap. Gingerly, one bandaged arm comes down to rest across curved shoulders, and without hesitation Chuuya grabs his hand, tucking it in next to his breastbone with his own bruised digits. Dazai lets his other hand rest on top of damp copper curls, resigning himself to the position for the next few hours and thankful Chuuya had thought to put on subtitles for the television running reruns of an old sitcom quietly in the background.
“When I wake up,” Chuuya mumbles, “You’re gonna order – and pay for – dinner. And then you’re gonna run me a goddamn bath because I feel disgusting.”
And with that he’s out like a light, breaths evening out into something deep and calm, even as he keeps Dazai’s hand firmly clasped in his. Feeling an emotional exhaustion somewhere deep in his bones and unable to keep up the effort of reigning in his impulses, Dazai bends down and brushes his lips gently across Chuuya’s temple.
“Leave it to me, partner. I’ve got you.”