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Chuuya is undeniably, mind-numbingly bored.
Working for the Port Mafia has its perks — such as being able to afford his hats and a place to sleep — but on nights like this, where everyone else had gone home and Mori is off god knows where, he wills for someone to barge into the base and start shooting at him just for something to do.
Technically, he is supposed to be doing something — somewhere along the way of a smuggling operation, the package went missing and Chuuya has to clean up the mess. As an executive, he probably shouldn’t even be doing this, but Mori had slapped him with the task once he saw the rest of the base empty.
It’s getting late, though, or rather early, the buttery tones of the sunrise filtering through the stained glass windows in choppy shards of light. Chuuya gets up, yawning, kicking the chair into the table behind him.
He’s about to leave the room when his phone rings, disrupting the calm silence that hangs in the air. Chuuya pulls it out with a gloved hand and raises an eyebrow when he sees the caller ID.
He doesn’t even remember where he got Dazai’s number — all he knows is that they’ve never called each other, because why would they? The only time they interact is in the occasional accidental meetup. Whether it be them taking down a mutual enemy together or fighting each other , they bicker to no end. He picks up the phone out of sheer curiosity, wondering why on earth Dazai, of all people, would be calling him at six-thirty in the morning.
“Hey, mackerel,” Chuuya greets with a smirk on his face. “Finally decided to get on your knees and grovel?”
There’s silence on the other end of the line for a couple seconds, and then a wet, painful-sounding cough. Chuuya’s grin immediately drops.
“Yeah, hatrack,” Dazai responds, but it doesn’t sound right, there’s something wrong. “I’m here to beg for your forgiveness—” There’s another cough, and a sharp intake of breath from Dazai, a muttered curse.
“Dazai,” Chuuya begins, confusion and concern coloring his tone. “Are you okay?”
Dazai lets out a breathless little laugh. “Chuuya asking me if I’m okay,” he muses. “Depends on how you define okay.”
“Where are you right now?”
“I’m in — fuck,” Dazai swears, and there’s a loud thump. “I don’t know. That alley next to the coffee shop? Where you really like their lattes?”
Chuuya doesn’t know where he got that information, doesn’t remember ever telling him, but it’s unimportant. “I know the one. Do you want me to come over there?”
“Maybe,” Dazai replies, and it sounds so small and weak that it shocks Chuuya to his core. For all his years of knowing him, the suicidal maniac has always been the strongest person he knows. He doesn’t like to admit it, but Dazai is a serious match for him in their fights. So hearing the man speak like this now… it doesn’t sit right.
“I’ll come,” Chuuya says. “But why me?”
“Knew you’d be awake. Didn’t want to bother anyone else. You know me, I love to annoy you.” There’s humor in Dazai’s voice, but then Chuuya hears a pant of effort and another thump.
“Chuuya,” Dazai says, and for a second there’s genuine fear and desperation in his tone. “I can’t get up.”
“Shit,” Chuuya swears, and a knot of worry settles into his chest. “I’m coming.”
Running through the streets of Yokohama at top speed to save his absolute dumbass of an ex-partner was not how Chuuya expected to start his day, but it’s been worse.
He sets out for the coffee shop Dazai mentioned, letting his feet guide him and his mind wander. He realizes, halfway, that he’s an absolute idiot and he could’ve just taken a car, but for some reason, he can’t will his feet to stop.
Why is he in such a hurry? He literally dropped everything to rush to Dazai’s rescue — he had been holding journals in his hand and had thrown them on the floor after the call, bolting to the door — and can’t stop running for him, towards him.
Why? Chuuya asks himself, ignoring the startled gasps of the pedestrians he speeds around. You hate him. Just slow down and catch your breath, at least. Call a taxi.
Chuuya grits his teeth and pushes himself, full on sprinting now. He runs red lights on the rosswalk, blatantly ignoring the annoyed honks the cars give him. He’s started to sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, but all he knows is sheer panic at the thought of Dazai bleeding out in an alley somewhere.
I have to get to him, Chuuya thinks desperately. I hate him. I have to get to him.
It takes ten minutes of Chuuya running at top speed to reach the coffee shop. His chest is heaving, but he makes it, and he heads straight for the alley nearby. The strong smell of coffee hits him, and really does like the lattes here, but he shakes it off and keeps walking.
Chuuya briefly thinks that maybe later, he and Dazai can have a latte together, but he pushes the thought aside when color rises in his cheeks.
He finds Dazai curled up in a heap against the dirty wall of the alley, and Chuuya’s heart drops.
It’s bad. There’s blood dripping down his arm and thigh, a sticky puddle of it underneath him. He has cuts and bruises everywhere, blooming across his cheekbones and hands. He’s breathing shallowly, like every inhale is causing him pain, and Chuuya suspects that he broke a couple ribs.
“Jesus,” Chuuya says, and rushes to his side. “What the hell happened to you?”
Dazai groans. “Look at my face,” he whines. “My beautiful face. They ruined it, chibi.”
Chuuya, with shaking hands, takes out the gauze he remembered to grab on the way out of the Port Mafia base and, lifting Dazai’s injured arm, looks for the wound. He finds it, and Dazai hisses in pain — it’s a clean but deep cut, left by a knife, and he immediately applies firm pressure. He’s moving on autopilot, remembering his medical training, but he feels shaken to his core inside at seeing Dazai like this.
“Serves you right,” Chuuya responds, but it sounds wrong, panicked. The bleeding isn’t stopping, and he knows it takes ten minutes, but he’s still so worried.
Dazai’s going to die, he thinks, blood getting all over his hands. Dazai’s tan pants are dark red with blood, and Chuuya frantically rips apart the fabric on his thigh with the small knife he has hidden in his belt. He knows that if someone were to walk in the alley at that moment, seeing the blood everywhere and Chuuya undressing his ex-partner, there would have to be a lot of explaining to do, but he couldn’t care less.
“ Chuuya ,” Dazai drawls in a mock-scandalized tone, a smirk on his face. “Buy me dinner first.”
Chuuya’s stomach flops when he sees the stab wound in Dazai’s leg, and the amount of blood that’s rushing out.
“What the hell, you idiot,” Chuuya says weakly. He presses gauze to the knife wound, sweat dripping down his face. The bleeding from the cut on Dazai’s arm seems to have stopped, and Chuuya dresses it the best he can. They’re in a dirty alley, so he can’t do it properly, but it’ll keep Dazai from passing out before they can get to his apartment. “You’re going to need stitches. Who did this to you? What happened?”
“I barely know,” Dazai confesses. “Some bastard came after me and brought some friends along. He said — said I killed a family member? When I was with the Mafia—” his eyes squint and a look of exhaustion passes across his face. “Don’t even remember what I did. Anyways, he wanted his revenge. Said he’s been waiting years for this moment, or some bullshit.” He flaps his arm in a dismissive wave at this, but chokes when it shifts his body.
“Stay still,” Chuuya orders. “Shit, Dazai, why didn’t you take them out? You’re one of the most dangerous men here,” he admits, not seeing the way Dazai’s lips quirk up at the accidental compliment. “You could’ve easily piled their bodies in this alley and left unscathed.”
Dazai purses his lips and shrugs. He’s a mess of bandages and gauze and blood, and he looks so broken, like his pain and scars are threatening to eat him whole.
“Just… didn’t feel like it, I guess,” he says quietly, and a cold lump settles in Chuuya’s throat.
Chuuya knows that Dazai wants to die. For seven years, he’s known. But there’s always been a small part of him that hoped… that Dazai was joking. That he didn’t actually want to die. And maybe that’s the truth — maybe Dazai was still searching for a reason to live.
But Chuuya knows better. He’s heard of the bandaged man’s endless suicide attempts, hell, he’s even witnessed quite a few of them himself. The fact that none of them had ever been successful led Chuuya to hope that this was all some twisted, fucked-up method of self harm.
But he knows that Dazai has his bad days. Everyone has their limits. No matter how many friends he surrounds himself with, how many good things there are in life, Dazai fights this battle alone. He faces his demons everyday, and sometimes, they win.
Chuuya just wishes that he could fight them with him.
“You need to stop with this suicide shit,” Chuuya growls, wrapping the stab wound with bandages now that the blood has clotted. “People actually want you to live, dumbass.”
He leans back to inspect his work. It’s messy, but it’ll hold for now. What he really needs to do is get them on their feet and away from this place.
Chuuya feels the other man’s eyes on him, and brushing his hair out of his eyes, he turns to look at Dazai. He isn’t prepared for the intense stare that Dazai is giving him. It’s heavy, and Chuuya shivers without meaning to.
“Like you?” Dazai asks, and the dark bruises spreading on his cheekbones contrast with his fair skin in a way that’s almost beautiful. It takes Chuuya’s breath away for a moment.
“No,” Chuuya responds, but it sounds fake, voice cracking, even to his own ears. “I pray every night that someday you’ll just die and leave me in peace.”
Dazai bites his lip. “Then why are you here?” It’s soft, and he’s still staring. His eyelashes are long, Chuuya realizes, and then he flushes.
He needs to focus on getting out of here, not sitting across from a traitor and swooning like some girl from a cheesy romance.
He gets on his feet, brushing the dust from his pants. “Can you walk?”
Dazai shakes his head, trying to stand. He half manages it, but he has to lean against the wall, shaking. “Sorry,” he half laughs, half coughs.
Chuuya sighs. “Don’t apologize ,” he mutters, leaning down to sling Dazai’s arm over his shoulders. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Together, they start hobbling forward. It’s slow, and Dazai’s breaths are coming short and fast, but Chuuya grips tight onto the other man’s body as if it’s going to be ripped away from him at any second.
I won’t let you go , he thinks. You’re not getting away from me that easily.
They stumble into Dazai’s apartment after forty minutes of inching through the streets. They had gotten weird looks and declarations of calling the police and an ambulance, so they went for the longer, but more empty route.
Dazai has gone white, and each step seems to be causing him serious pain, so Chuuya is relieved when the key turns in the lock with a satisfying click. The door swings open, and Dazai almost falls forward.
Chuuya catches him just in time. “God, you really are useless,” he says, kicking the door shut behind him. “Where’s the bedroom?”
Dazai lifts a lazy finger to the room on the right, and they head for it.
“You know,” Dazai hums, a shit-eating grin on his face. “I’ve imagined you saying those words hundreds of times, but under completely different circumstances.”
Chuuya lets out an exasperated huff, but he can feel his face going hot. “Will you shut up for one minute?”
Dazai collapses on his bed, shoes and coat and ruined pants still on. He’ll need to take them off soon, but Chuuya lets him rest for a little while, going into the bathroom to look for more bandages.
“What are you doing?” Dazai calls out sleepily, pillow muffling his voice.
Chuuya opens a drawer, rummaging around for supplies. His fingers brush past multiple bottles of pills, making him frown, before landing on a first-aid kit. “You need stitches, dickhead,” he says. “And then I need to properly dress your wounds. I did a shit job back there. There’s nothing I can do about your ribs, though. You just gotta bear it for a while.”
Dazai’s head turns towards him, eyebrows furrowing. “You’re staying?” he asks, and he sounds so lost that it makes Chuuya release a surprised bark of laughter.
“Obviously. You couldn’t even walk here,” Chuuya explains. “Can’t just leave you here all by yourself.”
“Thought you hated me, chibi.”
“I can still hate you and not want you to starve to death because you can’t get to the kitchen by yourself.” Chuuya gets Dazai to sit up as gently as he can, but it must still be a little rough on his injuries because Dazai’s face screws up.
“You’re right. I’d probably need help bathing, too.” Dazai throws him a wink. “Mind helping me?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. “How you manage to be a pain in the ass while you’re bleeding out, I’ll never know. Now take off your coat.”
Dazai laughs, but it’s cut off by a pained groan as his sleeves rub against the knife cut on his arm. Chuuya takes the bloodstained coat and throws it on the floor behind him. Dazai’s still wearing three layers, so this will take a while.
“You need to go to the hospital,” Chuuya scolds while he takes off Dazai’s shoes. It’s weird, taking care of the other man like this, especially with the weird history they have behind them. The fact that Chuuya doesn’t actually mind too much makes his ears turn pink.
Dazai shakes his head no, taking off his vest as best as he can. “No hospital.”
Chuuya sits back, incredulous. “Why?” he thinks he might know, but Dazai doesn’t really think that he can get away with still trying to kill himself, does he?
The other man doesn’t respond, which is enough of an answer.
A flare of white hot anger races through Chuuya, immediately followed by crushing grief at the idea of Dazai finally succeeding at one of his stupid suicide attempts.
“Don’t tell me,” Chuuya says fiercely, voice shaking with something he doesn’t know how to describe, “that after all this, you’re still hoping that you’re going to die?”
Dazai swallows and averts his eyes, picking at the buttons of his shirt. Chuuya wants to hit him. He wants to hold him close to his chest and never let go.
He doesn’t fully know why the idea of Dazai not being in this world is too painful to think about, but he’s starting to understand. Somewhere along the way, he’s started to think of Dazai’s fucking annoying comments as endearing. He’s started to notice little things he didn’t realize before, like how the other man smiles warmly when Atsushi does a good job. How his eyes turn the color of chocolate in the sunlight. How on his bad days, when his shoulders are hunched and his jokes fall flat, he picks at his bandages.
He doesn’t know when it started. Maybe when they found each other again. Maybe before then, when they were both teenagers and reckless.
All he knows is that his world would not be as bright without Dazai in it. The idea of never seeing him again, with all of his stupid jokes and his ego and his annoying personality, never being able to fight with him again — it makes his chest clench so tightly it’s hard to breathe.
“Dazai,” Chuuya begins, and the air suddenly feels thick with tension. He looks up from the floor, locking eyes with him. “Listen to me for once in your goddamn life.”
Dazai goes very still, discarded shirt still in his frozen hands. He’s shirtless, now, and it makes Chuuya flush — they’re built the same way, lithe but strong, all lean muscle and hard edges. Half of his body is covered with bandages, some coming undone, and Chuuya frowns at how so much of him is hidden from the world, locked away so no one can see his weaknesses.
“You’re… important to people,” Chuuya begins, and Dazai snorts. “Shut up, you waste of bandages, I’m being nice for once. Don’t know why you can’t get that through your thick skull. I don’t know why or how, but you did what all of us in the Mafia can’t — you turned your life around. You decided to help people.”
Chuuya looks down at his hands, still clutching the contents of the first aid kit. “I know I’ve called you weak for it before. You’re a fucking traitor and you know it. But you were strong enough to make that decision, one that I know I’m not able to do.” He swallows, suddenly becoming uncomfortable with the sentimental turn of events. He had just wanted to patch Dazai up and that’s it — Chuuya had never intended to start spouting the feelings that he had been too stubborn to properly think about.
“Some people would miss you if you disappeared,” Chuuya continues, refusing to meet Dazai’s eyes, which he can feel on him. “You matter to the Agency. You matter to—” he sucks in a deep breath. “Fuck it. You matter to me. As much as I hate it.”
Chuuya forces himself to look at Dazai. The other man looks completely shocked, eyes so wide it looks comical.
Chuuya swallows hard, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. “So don’t be a selfish prick and leave all of us empty because you decided to not get the right medical care you clearly need,” he finishes lamely.
There’s silence, and Chuuya winces. Fuck. He’s not good with these kind of things, talking about feelings and (god forbid) crushes . He doesn’t know how to convey how terrified he is, that one day Dazai is going to disappear.
“Chuuya…” Dazai says, seemingly at a loss for words.
“Why did you leave?” Chuuya cuts him off, a shock of anger coursing through him. He’s been wondering this for years , goddamn it. He deserves to know.
Dazai stares at him blankly.
“I thought we could be something.” Chuuya grits his teeth, letting his head fall forward. His hair brushes against his forehead, and Chuuya’s voice is embarrassingly shaky. If he cries, Dazai will never let him live it down. “I thought we could be — I thought we could be something. I thought we could rule Port Mafia together. Fuck, you were so annoying,” he laughs, but it’s bitter and humorless. “But we were a great team. We could’ve been greater. Together.”
“Together,” Dazai repeats, and he says it slowly, like his brain can’t fully comprehend what’s going on. Chuuya doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t know what he’s saying either. He’s exhausted, and sick of keeping these thoughts inside.
“Why did you leave ?” Chuuya asks again, and his voice breaks. “I was alone, you dickhead. I lost my partner. I thought — maybe it was something I did.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Fuck, I know that now , but you can’t just leave someone and expect everything to be fine and peachy.”
Dazai sighs, and Chuuya finally looks up. He has his head in his hands. There’s blood seeping through his bandages again, and Chuuya really needs to get him in the shower and stitch those up.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Chuuya snaps. “That was a while ago. I need to take off your bandages.”
At this, Dazai jerks his head up. A look of sheer panic crosses his face, and Chuuya raises his eyebrows.
“My… bandages?” Dazai says, and he sounds so scared it shakes Chuuya to his core.
Chuuya never understood the whole bandage thing. He’s heard rumors, though — whispers delivered between low-ranking members of the Mafia. His body is so blood-stained he keeps it under wraps. He’s not fully human, so he hides the parts of him he doesn’t want others to see. All bullshit. Personally, Chuuya thought that Dazai just really likes bandages.
But he’s not stupid. He knows what they represent. Dazai doesn’t want to be too vulnerable to the world, doesn’t want to get too attached to people. So he hides himself, refusing to just unwrap those fucking bandages and let people in.
There’s half a minute of silence between them, while Dazai breathes heavily and seems to be contemplating whether or not to trust Chuuya. His eyes seem very far away, void of all light, and Chuuya wants to drag him back from whatever hell he’s gone to.
“Dazai,” Chuuya says, very softly, as if speaking to a wounded animal. “I can go, if you want. But you need help. And you can trust me, okay? We can trust each other, right?”
Dazai blinks, bites his lip, and, without a word, extends his arm to Chuuya. He averts his eyes, instead looking to the wall while Chuuya skims his fingers over the bandages.
Chuuya’s scared. There’s no point in hiding it. He doesn’t know what he’ll find, or if things will ever be the same between them after this. Probably not.
Chuuya takes the plunge, and pulls a strip of bandage loose.
It’s a long process. Dazai has layered on the bandages pretty thick, and unwrapping each one takes time. But Chuuya doesn’t want to rush it — it’s intimate, heavy with tension, and it feels like something very important is about to happen.
There’s one layer of bandages left, and Chuuya slides them off easily. Dazai’s breath hitches, and Chuuya’s throat squeezes when he sees what’s under the bandages.
It’s littered with scars.
There are rows of raised, healed cuts on his forearm, and Chuuya thinks he can feel his heart break.
“Is it like this on the other arm, too?” Chuuya asks quietly, and Dazai nods.
“I hate this,” Dazai says, and Chuuya looks up in surprise. “Hate that you have to see me like this.” Dazai runs his fingers over his forearm absentmindedly, muttering, “I look weak.”
Chuuya is hit by anger so forcefully it almost bowls him over. He lurches forward, scaring the shit out of Dazai, and grips the other man’s hands tightly.
“That’s bullshit,” Chuuya snarls. “Fuck, Dazai. You’re the strongest man I know. The fact that you’ve been to hell and back and are still fighting… I don’t know anyone who can do that. Myself included.”
Chuuya releases Dazai’s hands, suddenly embarrassed. There’s a small smile growing on Dazai’s face, the one that he uses specifically for teasing Chuuya, but at least there’s warmth in his eyes again, so Chuuya doesn’t mind.
“I’m glad I can see you like this, even,” Chuuya says, unwrapping the other arm. “I hate that you’ve gone through this. But at least you’re not hiding from me anymore. ‘Weak’ my ass ,” he mutters under his breath.
“Aw, chibi,” Dazai muses, but there’s so much fondness in his voice it makes Chuuya turn red. “Didn’t know you were such a softie. Maybe you do care.”
Chuuya slides the bandages off of Dazai’s arm, leaving both exposed. “Shut up, we were having a moment,” he retorts. The other arm is just as bad, and seeing the number of scars, how much pain Dazai was going through, how much he’s still going through — Chuuya feels helpless.
“I do care about you,” Chuuya says, embarrassed. “I don’t know where you got the fucked up idea that I don’t. I care about you.”
“Hm? But you say you hate me all the time?”
“That’s more of an automatic response.” Chuuya sighs. “I think… when you left, I hated you for a while. But I got over it. Like I said before, I don’t know why. I don’t understand. But it seems to make you happy, being with the Agency, so. I guess it’s okay.”
Dazai purses his lips, like he’s holding back laughter, and Chuuya glares at him.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” the shorter man huffs. “I’m never like this. I’m not good with feelings, so stop making fun of me, okay? I’m trying.”
Dazai lets out a chuckle, and then shakes his head. The sunlight streaming through the windows turns his eyes a beautiful shade of brown, and it feels like a punch to Chuuya’s stomach.
“No,” Dazai says, “no, it’s — you’re sweet, Chuuya. Thank you.”
“ Sweet ? Just because I’m being nice to you doesn’t mean I can’t still kick your ass, you idiot.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me! I’m injured!”
“Keep talking and find out,” Chuuya responds, but he’s smiling. He feels warm here, safe and comfortable. It’s been a while since he’s felt like this.
Chuuya reaches up and grasps the end of the bandages on Dazai’s neck. The other man stills, and the fear starts seeping back into his eyes.
“Can I?” Chuuya asks. “I’ll stop if you want me to.” And he will. If Dazai is uncomfortable, Chuuya will go.
“I trust you,” Dazai reassures him, but it’s more like he’s reassuring himself. “But it won’t be pretty.”
“It’s okay,” Chuuya says. He unwraps the bandages. “It’s okay.”
It’s not pretty.
The bandages fall from Dazai’s neck, and Chuuya has to bite his lip to keep from letting out a small gasp.
There’s a raised, puckered scar, going around his neck. It’s healed, like all the other scars, but it looks so painful Chuuya hisses.
Dazai slumps forward, hair falling in his eyes. “This one hurt,” he mutters. “I didn’t like being hung all that much.”
“Fuck, Dazai,” is all Chuuya says, all he can say.
Dazai looks up at him, and he looks hollow. “Sorry. I’m weirding you out.”
“Again with the apologizing. You’re not weirding me out, I just — I don’t like seeing you like this. I wish I could help.”
“You’re already helping.”
Chuuya reaches forward, hand landing on Dazai’s collarbone. Dazai shivers. Chuuya’s about to take his hand away, but then the other man shakes his head.
“Go on,” Dazai says, and his voice is hoarse.
Chuuya’s fingers skim up, feather-light, and trace the scar. He goes higher, until he’s touching Dazai’s jaw.
It feels dangerous. Irreversible. Chuuya knows that after this, they can never go back. He can’t deny his feelings anymore. But he also knows that he can’t walk out of this apartment without telling Dazai how he feels. He suspects Dazai feels the same way, but he has to be sure.
Chuuya steels himself, and slides his hand onto Dazai’s cheek. He brushes the bruises, and Dazai hisses.
“Sorry,” Chuuya whispers.
“Go on,” Dazai responds, voice tight.
Chuuya pushes his hand into Dazai’s hair, and it’s soft and fluffy. Chuuya scratches against Dazai’s scalp, carding through his locks, and Dazai’s putty in his hands.
“What did you think we could be?” Dazai asks, leaning against Chuuya’s hand and humming. He’s like a cat, and it makes Chuuya smile.
“What?”
“Before,” Dazai explains. “You said we could have been something. If I stayed with the Mafia. What did you have in mind?”
Chuuya flushes. “It doesn’t matter.”
Dazai stands up from the bed, suddenly towering over Chuuya. It makes the shorter man woozy, embarrassingly attracted to the way that Dazai crowds him. He’s always hated his height, but right now, he finds that he doesn’t mind it.
“I know you,” Dazai smiles. “What were you thinking?”
“I thought…” Chuuya averts his eyes. “It’s dumb. I thought that maybe we could be together.”
“Together?” Dazai repeats slowly, a smirk spreading on his face. Like a cat that got the canary.
“You know what I mean,” Chuuya grumbles. “I liked you, you know.”
Dazai leans forward hesitantly, pressing his forehead against Chuuya’s. Chuuya’s heart is hammering, and he really hoped Dazai can’t sense it. By the way that he’s smiling, he probably can, that prick.
“Do you still?” Dazai asks, and he’s smiling widely, but there’s a bit of hesitation and uncertainty in his voice.
“It doesn’t matter. There’s no chance, not when we’re enemies,” Chuuya responds, but the excuse sounds fake to his own ears.
“We don’t have to be enemies.”
“But the Agency — the Mafia—”
Dazai ducks and leans in further, lips brushing Chuuya’s cheekbone. He stays there, the warm press of his lips feeling like a shock. The smaller man trembles, finding it hard to stand.
“I hate you,” Chuuya says desperately, hands shaking. This is all he wants, but he’s scared. Scared that this will get him in trouble. Scared that one day Dazai’s going to die, and he’ll leave him again. “You left me and I hate you.”
Dazai’s mouth slides to Chuuya’s jaw, gently pressing soft kisses there. “No you don’t,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m never going to leave you again, love. I’m sorry.”
Chuuya feels tears welling up in his eyes, a dam of emotions and feelings that he’s pushed down falling apart. He’s tired of keeping it in, so he lets the tears fall, and Dazai kisses them away.
Chuuya finishes undressing Dazai in silence, but it’s not awkward — he feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his chest, and it’s comfortable. Dazai’s wounds still need to be cleaned, so they get in the shower together.
It’s nothing sexual — they take turns under the spray, and Chuuya makes sure that Dazai’s injuries are cleaned out properly. He’s bruised and bloodied, but so is Chuuya, and they match.
They barely bother to get dressed, throwing on some shorts, and they sit on Dazai’s bed while Chuuya stitches him up. Everytime Dazai winces in pain, Chuuya kisses his shoulder in sympathy, and by the end Dazai pretends to be hurt just to have Chuuya’s mouth on him.
Chuuya sees right through him, and it makes him smile, but he kisses him anyway.
Even though it’s early afternoon, they curl up in Dazai’s bed. Chuuya is exhausted, and he knows Dazai is too. He knows he has to get to work, and he’ll be in trouble later, but right now he doesn’t care.
Dazai closes his eyes immediately, but Chuuya keeps his open. He traces Dazai’s face, taking in his soft hair glowing in the sun, his long lashes, his slightly open mouth. He’s beautiful, and Chuuya can’t breathe.
Chuuya leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Dazai’s mouth, unable to help himself. Dazai’s eyes flutter open, and he shows a smile so genuine and bright that Chuuya wants to see it for the rest of his life.
“What was that for?” Dazai asks, pushing himself closer.
Chuuya grins. “Nothing. I love you.”
“Hm,” Dazai says, and he reaches forward to rub Chuuya’s hand. He hasn’t put his bandages back on, and his scars still squeeze Chuuya’s heart, but he’s open and vulnerable and he’s the sun. “Knew I’d win you over someday. I love you too.”
Chuuya laughs, and closes his eyes, letting himself relax into the mattress. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen from here on out. He doesn’t know if they’ll get married or if he’ll die tomorrow.
But as of right now, he’s sleeping under the sun with the man he’s loved for years, so he thinks everything will be okay.