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The cloth rips later than he would have like.
He ignores how his hands shake.
Coat entrusted to humid winds and the muddy alley, the striped shirt clings to him in sweat, blood and nausea.
It’s been too long since he had to patch himself up.
Wincing with every move, he wraps the makeshift gauze around his middle. Or—it slips. Or, he tries to. It slithers like a dead snake from his crimson fingers.
Dazai whines: Low pitched, guttural.
He has to get the gash on his abdomen first so that he can wrap up his leg. And stop his nose from bleeding. And worry about the bruise kissing its way down from his cheekbone.
And, and, and—he threads sobs into looped cusses.
He has to call him.
The revelation comes temperature dropping. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dazai wants his phone to disappear.
But it shakes in his hands.
The number isn’t saved. But what kind of a partner he’d be if he couldn’t type it in worse conditions?
It rings once.
Twice.
Three times,
Four,
Chuuya picks up. Dazai’s heart drops.
“G—guh –get my location from the phone. I can’t stop the bleeding.”
He dutifully ignores the hitching breath:
“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”
Time becomes personal. The cat in the alley feels ten minutes tick away. Dazai ages an eternity.
But if asked, he’d still say the motorcycle dropped from the side of the building just in time.
Chuuya hurries in the slow way only worried people can.
“What did you get yourself into?”
No answer. Dazai just groans as his shirt is ripped more. One for the gash on his stomach, one for his leg.
Strong arms lift him up. It burns too bad to cling onto consciousness.
After all, it wouldn’t be the first time his eyes close in Chuuya’s arms.
When he wakes, it is from under a river. And short lived. He huffs, feels his eyes roll close.
He ends up sleeping hours and hours more.
When he really wakes, there’s another body heat next to him. Dazai blinks, turns his head.
Chuuya is in comfortable clothes, back propped up the bedpost, a book propped up in his lap. His hair is in a braid.
Dazai wants to touch it.
“Chuuya?”
Blue turns to him quietly.
“You slept a lot. How are you now?”
He sits up slowly in the familiar bed. “Tired,” Rolls his shoulders experimentally. “Aching,” The stitches tug. “Sort of dizzy.”
There is a momentary silence before Chuuya moves with the breath he sucks in. He chuckles slowly. “Sounds about right. You were looking rough.”
Dazai doesn’t recall lifting his hand up but his partner meets him halfway. Slips his fingers between his.
“Thank you.”
Chuuya replies by kissing each knuckle. There are grazes Dazai hadn’t noticed before.
“Anytime you need, Osamu.”
Dazai lets his eyes close, courtesy of the smile. Air feels golden in his lungs then, gratitude a powder raining inside the room.
He could stay here—he should stay. Stay after he’s healed too. Lay down with Chuuya and listen to him breathe words, trying to sculpt his poems. They should—
Oh god, he remembers. With an inhale too fast, Dazai opens his eyes.
“Chuuya—my nose was bleeding. Was it broken? Is it crooked now? How do I look?”
The redhead blinks. Throws his head back and laughs. Dazai thinks this is how the gates of heavens creak, to the exact sound of Chuuya’s happiness.
“No, wasn’t broken. You’re still irritatingly handsome.”