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Something wasn’t right.
The minute they dumped their hastily packed suitcases on the floor inside the hotel room, Dazai had dropped to his knees. Chuuya grasped his arm, tugging him to the bed. Dazai hissed at the contact, and Chuuya cursed at himself for grabbing his injured side. He gently pulled the beige coat off Dazai’s shoulders, hanging it on the metal hook by the door. It was still covered in splotches of dried blood. They’d have to have it cleaned to get the stains out.
‘Chuuya,’ Dazai said through his clenched jaw, ‘I’m fine.’ The small ‘shit’ that followed as Chuuya unwound the bandages on his neck said otherwise. The wound looked awful - a slight greenish tinge had taken over, pus oozing out, mixing with blood as it coated the bandages he was discarding.
Chuuya didn’t have to be a doctor to know it was infected. At this hour, few would be open, even fewer would see them without alerting the authorities - or even worse, the Port Mafia themselves. It had seemed beneficial to have ties to underground doctors, but now it made life ten times more challenging. A quick glance at the three gashes on his arm and the stab wound going straight through his hand told him all he needed to know - if Dazai didn’t get antibiotics, the infections could get worse. A lot worse.
He threw open the suitcases, searching for the small first-aid kit. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do for the time being. Dazai didn’t say much, quietly letting Chuuya clean the wounds the best he could and rewrap them. There were barely enough bandages to cover Dazai’s injuries, let alone replace them when they would need changing. Chuuya pushed his hair out of his face as he sat back to view his handiwork. The bandages weren’t perfect by any means, especially not when compared to Dazai’s years of practice, but they did the job. For now.
Handing the thermometer to Dazai to test for himself, Chuuya checked their remaining inventory. The first-aid kit would need refilling as soon as possible. He noticed Dazai had packed an unhealthy number of painkillers alongside his creased clothing. A small gun was concealed within a fake book, and a collection of throwing knives was tucked inside the suitcase itself. Not hidden enough to pass an inspection at an airport, but a cursory look over wouldn’t find anything suspicious. Chuuya’s own case was mostly the same, though he had bought cigarettes and a small flask of vodka - not his drink of choice, but in a pinch, it took the edge off. He had found his precious hat and tucked it safely inside, along with a spare pair of leather gloves.
The thermometer beeped. 37.7. Not technically past the threshold for counting as a fever, but it would be unwise to let it get any higher. ‘When was the last time you ate?’ Dazai shrugged in response. Chuuya tossed him two paracetamol tablets. He’d prefer Dazai eat before taking any, but his inevitable 1am trip to an underground doctor could take a while - it was better to try and treat it before it got worse, he assured himself.
Pulling on his coat, he tossed his spare phone on the bed, within reach of Dazai. ‘If you need anything, call me. I’ll try to keep you updated.’
The neighbourhood the hotel was in was unfamiliar to Chuuya. Just outside the Port Mafia’s reach - not far away enough for comfort, but considering Dazai’s condition, it was the first safe place they had stumbled upon. Quiet, quaint, unassuming.
Nearby lay a smaller building, looking equally unassuming. A sign advertising its curry was displayed outside. He stopped in his tracks. He had seen this building before. A hazy memory, almost like a dream, of being carried up its stairs, the scent of spices overwhelming. Kids voices changing from playful to concerned. A calmer voice assuring them it would be fine.
Dazai’s voice telling him he would be fine.
This was it. The curry restaurant where Oda’s adopted kids lived.
Waiting for a man who would never come home.
A man who had been a father to them. A best friend to Dazai. A man who joined the mafia with the intention of not killing a single soul, who ended up dying on behalf of a mons--man who had killed thousands. A man who would never see his dreams come true. Dreams whose only hope now lay with not just Dazai, but with Chuuya. Dazai had lost his brother-figure, Chuuya had turned away from his sister, his family, to see what lay ahead in the road the man had so desperately wanted to travel.
A man who would be alive if Chuuya hadn’t insisted on checking up on Dazai’s mission.
---
The door unlocked as Chuuya slipped off his shoes. Dazai was still in bed, asleep now, it seemed. His face was distorted, in pain, as he mumbled something. Chuuya drew closer, sitting down on the bed beside him as he took Dazai’s temperature again. It hadn’t changed.
The doctor had seemed skeptical when Chuuya had arrived, but gave him the antibiotics - at a price he was sure had been hiked up just for him . But it was a price he could easily afford, one he’d be willing to pay even if he couldn’t, if it meant helping Dazai.
‘Odasaku…’
Chuuya froze. Dazai tossed and turned, the bandages Chuuya had arranged a few hours beforehand loosening as he did so. His voice became distressed as he continued to call out Oda’s name, shortly followed by Chuuya’s own.
Chuuya cupped his uninjured hand, and as if on cue, Dazai’s eyes shot open, pushing himself up in bed. His body was shaking, his breathing erratic.
‘Osamu,’ Chuuya whispered. ‘It was a dream. You aren’t there now. You’re safe.’
His words seemed to have some effect, at least, as it wasn’t long until Dazai’s breathing had evened out. He took the pills Chuuya handed to him without questioning their origin, his eyes looking dull and weary. ‘Go back to sleep, Osamu. You need it. I’ll be here when you wake up.’ He nodded, pulling the covers over him before falling asleep again.
The tension in Chuuya released itself all at once, his mind straying from Dazai to one thing - cigarettes. When he didn’t have wine, they were the next best thing.
He slid open the door to the balcony of their little hotel room, perching on the wooden chair positioned outside, sliding the door back to keep the cool air out. He relaxed into the chair, taking in the view of the cold night sky above him. The sun wouldn’t rise for another four or five hours. He had time to take it in.
Time to take in the sky and the events of the past day.
---
Only one cigarette remained when the door slid open behind him. Chuuya turned to see Dazai, wrapped in a blanket. He still looked pale, but his eyes were more alert than they had been. ‘I heard you crying.’
Chuuya raised a hand to his face, pulling it back to see salty tears on his skin. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’ Dazai waved his hand in the air dismissively and sat in the chair opposite Chuuya. He extinguished the final cigarette in the glass bowl. ‘How are you feeling?’
Dazai pulled the blanket tighter around him. ‘A bit better. But you’re avoiding my question. Why are you crying?’ He holds up a hand before Chuuya can respond. ‘I told you - it was Odasaku’s decision. He…’ Dazai hesitated. ‘He didn’t...die immediately. He got to speak to me for a minute. That’s when he told me that stuff I mentioned in the apartment. He wouldn’t have forgiven me if I’d picked…’ He trailed off, the rest of his sentence better left unsaid.
‘He deserved better,’ Chuuya muttered. ‘He was a better man than I could ever hope to be. He found good even in the mafia.’
Dazai frowned. ‘Who made up a lullaby to help Kyouka sleep at night? Who takes care of me? Who takes the time to get to know every person he comes across?’ He shuffled closer, on the edge of his seat. ‘Sunshine, you’ve always been able to find good in the bleakest of places. Both of you.’ He tried to smile for Chuuya. ‘That’s why we have to keep on looking for the good in life for him.’
The good in life for him.
It was a better idea than living on the run, constantly in fear. Living not for themselves, but on behalf of someone who only wanted to help others. Doing what he would have done, what he wanted to do, what he never got the chance to do.
Chuuya nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan.’