Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chuuya already knows who’s at the door as soon as he blinks his eyes open and is immediately assaulted with the sound of insistent knocking. He groans, burying his face into his soft pillow as the knocking continues.

“I’m coming!” Chuuya finally screams, fighting his way out of bed, almost tripping when his blanket catches around his leg.

“Shitty fucking mackerel waking me up at fuck-o’clock—” Chuuya grumbles to himself as he stomps down the hallway, nearly running into a table in the dark, and finally swings his door open.

He has an insult on the tip of his tongue, a tumble of swearing and yelling nearly past his teeth, but then he looks at Dazai properly.

His face is pale and he’s soaked from head to toe and shivering nearly violently. There’s snow in his chocolate brown hair, little snowflakes catching on the strands. There’s tears in his pants, and the oversized dark coat hanging from his shoulders looks tattered and waterlogged. The bandages on his face are missing, the uncovered skin slightly paler than the rest of his face.

Chuuya doesn’t have much time to dwell on the fact this is the first time he’s ever seen Dazai’s full face because he can feel panic seeping slowly into his bones. 

Something is wrong. 

He might not like Dazai (a lie, something traitorous in him hisses), but he knows his partner despite that. And Dazai looks exhausted and scared and Chuuya never sees that bastard scared. It makes his own sort of dread and fear make his chest go cold, just from seeing Dazai’s expression.

“What’s wrong?” Chuuya immediately blurts, tensing and taking subtle looks over Dazai’s shoulder. Dazai isn’t stupid enough to trail someone to Chuuya’s apartment, but Dazai obviously isn’t in good shape right now, and even stupid genius idiots like him make mistakes. 

(Also, he needs to make sure he can protect Dazai if someone is behind him, but Chuuya refuses to think about that.)

Dazai tries to smile, but nothing more than a shaky, aborted upturn of his lips makes its way onto his face. His teeth sink into his bottom lip instead, making the already bitten raw skin go red and bead with blood.

“I—I just—” Dazai croaks, and then seems to wince at the sound of his own voice. Chuuya tries to ignore the worry he can feel building inside of him no matter how hard he tries to stamp it down.

“Come on.” Chuuya sighs, stepping out of the doorway, looking at Dazai expectantly. He looks at Chuuya in surprise for a moment, but reluctantly shuffles in when all he receives is a raised brow.

Dazai is limping slightly, even if Chuuya knows he’s trying to hide it. The tears in his pants, at the bottom of his pants leg and at his belt, don’t look as if they’re from any sort of wound. They look more as if someone had pulled on them too hard and ripped them. Chuuya swallows harshly.

“Go sit down.” He mumbles, and scurries off into the kitchen before he can receive an answer. He can still hear Dazai shuffling around his living room, followed by the slight squeak of one of his leather couches as Dazai presumably sits down and follows Chuuya’s orders for once.

Chuuya slumps forward onto his kitchen counter and tries to arrange his thoughts in a way that doesn't feel like a panicked, adrenaline fueled mess. Mostly, he just prays to any god that will listen that whatever he thinks has happened is just one big misconception. God, how he hopes he’s wrong.

And if he’s not, then he’s going to have to help, as much as he can. Chuuya is not heartless, and no matter how much he claims to (untruthfully) hate Dazai’s guts, the thought of throwing him out of his apartment nearly makes him feel dizzy with nausea.

He grabs Dazai’s favorite mug (a calico cat shaped one with a tail as its handle), and Dazai’s favorite tea, and gets to work. He doesn’t think about the fact he has things in his apartment that are Dazai’s favorites. 

He fixes himself some tea too, more so that he has something warm to hold and focus on rather than actually wanting it, and walks back into his living room.

Dazai is sitting on his couch, devoid of his coat and wrapped in one of Chuuya’s throw blankets. Dazai seems to refuse to get any of his own, and Chuuya is nearly convinced that half of the time he insists on invading his apartment is only so that he can steal all of Chuuya’s blankets. The blanket itself is tiger print, and in Dazai’s humble opinion, a claimed monstrosity. That apparently does not mean he is dissuaded from cuddling with it, though.

He hands Dazai his mug, and Dazai stares at it blearily for a moment before reaching for it with long, stiff fingers that look almost blue in the dim light. Even with the only light reaching Dazai being a small lamp on an accent table next to one of Chuuya’s chairs, he still looks horrible. His face is drained of color and his eyes look nearly bruised with exhaustion, lips bloody and torn. 

Chuuya’s eyes catch on the bandages around Dazai’s neck, and they look as if they have haphazardly been wrapped back in place. They’re nearly completely loose, sagging slightly at Dazai’s throat. Chuuya chews nervously at his bottom lip.

Chuuya watches as Dazai cradles the mug, taking a seat in the chair on Dazai’s right. He doesn’t drink it, but Chuuya is just hopeful that somehow the warmth of the drink will seep into Dazai’s expression and put something more normal there. Right now, his face is blank and dead and his eyes aren’t focused on anything, like he’s not even in Chuuya’s apartment at all.

Chuuya has seen Dazai in his bad moments, but they’ve never quite been like this. Dazai is prone to bouts of manic highs followed by depressive lows, and Chuuya has been with Dazai through various episodes, but he has still never looked like this before. He looks as dead as Dazai always says he wants to be. Chuuya doesn’t like it.

“You should drink some of that.” Chuuya suggests, sipping at his own tea himself, like he’s trying to set some sort of example. “It’ll help warm you up.”

Dazai is still shaking, his normally steady hands making his drink rattle dangerously in his grip. But he looks down into it, like he’s trying to assess the safety of it. Eventually, he must decide it’s safe, or perhaps he decides that he just doesn’t care, because he takes a tentative gulp. The sight makes Chuuya feel far more accomplished than he truly should.

Dazai licks the excess liquid off his bottom lip, his thumb rubbing almost gently over the ceramic cat face on his mug.

Dazai’s shivering has abated slightly, and he sinks further into Chuuya’s couch. Chuuya doesn’t want to break the soft silence that’s settled over them, only interrupted by the quiet sound of Dazai’s nails tapping lightly at glass cat ears, but Chuuya knows things can’t just be left where they are just yet.

Reluctantly, Chuuya clears his throat, and Dazai’s eyes trail up to his. There’s no spark in them, none of Dazai’s typical cleverness, none of the seemingly irresistible mischievous glint that overtakes them when he’s around Chuuya. Instead, it’s replaced with something dark and distant, like a tornado that is only so far away that it does not touch you but you can still witness its carnage.

“Are you injured?” Chuuya asks first, and perhaps should have asked so sooner, but he’s allowed a bit of lagging when faced with something that he is so wholly unprepared to deal with.

Dazai shakes his head, fingers still running soothing patterns over his mug. They’ve seemed to gain color again, and Dazai’s face isn’t so pale anymore. Chuuya nods, exhaling out a quiet breath. For the most part, Chuuya is inclined to believe him. He hadn’t seen any blood, despite his slight limp, but he still can’t find himself relaxing.

“What—what happened? Why’d you come here?” He says quietly, although he almost doesn’t want to say anything. But he knows he has to, because he knows Dazai came here for a reason and he knows that if he doesn’t talk then Dazai surely never will.

Dazai’s lips twitch, but the smile never comes, “Chibi shouldn’t ask questions he doesn’t want to know the answer to.”

Chuuya shifts in his seat, “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know, asshole.”

Dazai huffs slightly at that, a thin, airy sound that could barely be considered a laugh.

“Well, I don’t expect much from a witless dog.” Dazai says, and Chuuya stubbornly doesn’t take the bait. As much as it’s satisfying to give back just as much as Dazai throws at him, it’s just as satisfying to not do what he so obviously wants; to deflect and pretend like none of this is even happening.

Dazai presses his lips tightly together, because he knows that Chuuya is refusing to respond in the way he wants. He looks away, and the fingers around his mug begin to tremble.

“Chuuya,” Dazai starts airily, “Would you kill Mori-san, if I asked?”

Chuuya jerks up in his seat, and feels something blisteringly cold drop into his chest. He can feel his nails biting into his palms as he tries to breathe.

“Why?” He says tightly, and feels as if something is closing heavily around his throat, leaving him on the verge of suffocating.

“Does it matter?” Dazai says quietly, and there’s something sad and bitter on his face, and his fingers clench harshly around his mug.

Chuuya breathes out raggedly, and his heartbeat is so loud in his ears that he feels as if he is only moments away from going deaf. 

“Did—did that bastard touch you—” Chuuya gets out between clenched teeth before Dazai hunches in on himself.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters! Dazai—”

“I said it doesn’t matter!” Dazai shouts, and when his head jerks up his eyes are terrifyingly glassy, and his face has gone white. He looks like he’s about to be sick.

Chuuya has to restrain the urge to flinch, startled by Dazai raising his voice. He has seen Dazai angry, but his anger is cold and cutting, something tightly restrained and reserved only up until he strikes. But he doesn’t yell, Dazai being someone who doesn’t give in easily to grand displays of emotion. Typically, Chuuya yells enough for the both of them. 

But right now, he doesn’t seem angry, not really. Right now, it looks more like he’s desperate.

“It doesn’t matter.” Dazai repeats, quieter, “There’s nothing either of us can do about it anyway.” He continues tersely, his anxious fingers returning to their gentle exploration of the tiny cat ears on his cup. 

Chuuya swallows, and knows that he’s probably right. Crossing someone like Mori would likely be accompanied by dire consequences, but somehow, that barely deters the anger bubbling up inside of him like something poisonous. Right now, he hardly cares who Mori is, only imagines what his throat would feel like as it concaves beneath his fingers.

“I would.”

“What?” Dazai murmurs, and his voice sounds small. He looks his age for once, just barely sixteen.

“I’d kill him, if you asked me to.” It feels like a promise, and he watches as Dazai’s eyes widen, as if he hadn’t expected Chuuya to even answer his question, let alone say yes.

And then he chuckles, light and scratchy but there’s something close to awe and amusement on his face, “Chuuya is ridiculous.”

“Not as ridiculous as you.” Chuuya grumbles, taking a drink of his cooling tea in hopes that it hides his building flush. Dazai looks far too smug for it to have worked.

Dazai takes a drink of his tea too, but his eyes are fixed on Chuuya’s face, like he’s trying to discern exactly what he sees there. Chuuya is mostly used to that look, the analytical quality of it, the feeling of being stripped bare before someone else’s eyes. Usually, Chuuya ignores him, but this time he meets his stare with his own.

“Do you want to stay here for the rest of the night?” It’s nearly two a.m. now, and Chuuya can still feel the last few dredges of sleep clouding his head. The both of them could use some sleep.

“Will you sleep at the end of the bed like a dog?”

“Fuck you.” Chuuya says without any heat, instead feeling amused despite himself. When Chuuya feels his lips twitch slightly, he sees something almost warm in Dazai’s face.

Sometimes, he forgets that the both of them are supposed to be children.

“Yeah, I—I want to stay here tonight.” Dazai whispers after a beat of silence, bringing his cat mug up to his chest protectively, like it’s somehow supposed to protect him from whatever Chuuya will say to that.

“Okay. Okay, good.” Chuuya breathes, feeling flustered and then feeling ridiculous because of it. He stands up unsurely, “You can take the bed, I’ll—”

“We can share.” Dazai blurts, and then flushes a brilliant cherry red. 

Chuuya’s lips part in surprise, his brows furrowing, “Are—are you sure—?”

“Yes.” Dazai breathes, “Yes—I just—just don’t—”

“It’s okay.” Chuuya interrupts, but for once it’s not unkindly, “You don’t have to explain.” Even though Chuuya wouldn’t mind hearing it, he doesn't really think Dazai is up for that right now. He can wait for any answers he desires for at least one night.

Dazai nods, hands clenching and face still flushed slightly as he chews at his bottom lip.

“You can shower first, if you want.” Chuuya offers, and when Dazai accepts, he leads him to his bathroom.

Nearly an hour later, Dazai walks into his bedroom in a pair of Chuuya’s oversized pajamas and wet hair that curls around his cheeks. Chuuya is already in bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. 

He doesn’t look up at Dazai until he’s slipping into bed, the mattress barely bowing under his weight. Once Dazai seems settled, Chuuya finally looks over at him. Dazai is already staring at him, caramel eyes that seem wide and confused but soft. Right now, he’s not the Port Mafia’s youngest executive or a cold-hearted killer, he’s just Dazai Osamu, whoever that may be. 

Chuuya finds that he desperately wants to know who that is.

Chuuya puts his phone down on his nightstand and turns onto his side, facing Dazai. They just look at each other for a few moments, and Chuuya suddenly notices that Dazai isn’t wearing his bandages. He’s ever seen this much bared skin on Dazai before, and briefly wonders if he should even be allowed to look.

He can’t make out much in the dark room, but he can see bruising on Dazai’s neck, stark against his pale skin.

 Chuuya’s gut roils and flips over uncomfortably.

“You would, if I ever asked you to?” Dazai whispers.

“Yes.” Chuuya admits immediately, not needing to ask for clarification on what he means. 

Dazai buries the side of his face into his pillow, and Chuuya pretends not to notice the glossy quality of Dazai’s eyes nor the slight burning of his own. Dazai is mostly confined to his side of the bed, but one of his arms lays limply between them.

Moonlight catches on the white of old scars and the purpling of a bruised wrist, marks shaped like fingertips. 

Chuuya places his arm next to his, close but not touching just yet. Chuuya’s pinky twitches, and Dazai wraps his own around it. It’s the only point in which they’re touching, but somehow it still manages to feel electrifying. Maybe Chuuya’s more tired than he had originally thought.

“Thank you.” Dazai says quietly, the sound nearly lost in the sound of cars on the road outside Chuuya’s apartment window, but Chuuya hears it anyway.

After that night, there is barely a moment where Dazai is alone in Mori’s office. Chuuya makes sure of it.

After every mission they are on together, Chuuya doesn’t skip out anymore to leave the talking to Dazai. He stands directly next to Dazai the whole time, not leaving his side for even a moment.

When Dazai is called to Mori’s office by himself, Chuuya tags along as well. He stays at the door and watches Mori with cold blue eyes that only leave him so that Chuuya can look at Dazai’s expression as that disgusting bastard talks.

Mori likely knows what Chuuya is doing, too smart not to, but thankfully he only seems vaguely amused by it so far. Even that pisses him off somehow, like the freak knows that if he truly wished to, he could have Dazai alone whether Chuuya liked it or not and didn’t seem to see the redhead as a threat. And if it ever came to that, Chuuya would rather die than let Dazai ever be alone in the same room as him ever again.

He even endures the “guard dog” comments he gets from Dazai every once in a while. It’s worth just that slight bit of humiliation for Dazai to feel safer. And Dazai does feel safer with Chuuya being in the room too, even if he would never admit to it.

Dazai still hasn’t asked yet, but Chuuya will always be there for when he does. 

It’s a promise.

Chapter Text

Chuuya can’t hear much over the sound of his own beating heart and harsh breathing in his ears.

His shoes click loudly against the floor as he stomps over to the elevator, but the sound barely registers. All he feels is frantic and terrified and angry. So unbelievably angry that his chest is hot with it, head clouded and limbs moving on their own without thought.

Today just might be the day that Mori dies.

Chuuya had just came back from a solo mission that had lasted about two days. Originally, it was supposed to be three, but Chuuya had managed to haul ass and make it so he returned earlier than intended. 

Chuuya had been pissed that he was sent off on his own in the first place, where he couldn’t keep an easy eye on Dazai, but he had to accept the orders that were given to him anyways. He had made sure Dazai texted him regularly, no matter how bad he was at it, and those two boring—stressful—hellish days were interrupted by brief bouts of relief that came in the form of a simple text from his partner.

An hour before Chuuya’s plane had landed back in Japan, Dazai had stopped answering his phone. 

And Chuuya had kept trying to call or text him every minute after that. The longer it went without Dazai answering, the more his heart felt like it was going to explode. Or he was going to somehow end up accidentally activating corruption. He sure felt angry enough that he was nearly convinced that it truly was a possibility.

A small part of him insists that he’s overreacting, that Dazai is likely only busy, or showering or sleeping— or something. But that thought does not appease him in the slightest, does not assuage the bundle of untamable emotions roiling just beneath his skin. Nothing less than seeing Dazai in the flesh will be enough to calm him.

When he had called Kouyou, he immediately asked her where Dazai was. The moment Mori had left her mouth he was gone.  

Now, he’s in an elevator that feels far too slow as he effectively continues to blow Dazai’s phone up. It’s been about an hour and a half since Dazai last answered him, and Chuuya is squeezing his phone so hard in his grip that he can hear it creak in protest. 

The moment the elevator dings, Chuuya is rushing down the hallway. The men guarding Mori’s office immediately tense up, looking nervous in the face of a pissed off mafia executive. Good, that always makes these things easier for him.

“Let me in.” Chuuya demands, already trying to step in between them. 

The man on Chuuya’s left glances over at the other one, shifting on his feet anxiously. Neither of them seem to have an answer for each other.

“The boss said no one is allowed in—”

“It’s urgent.”

“But—”

“Let me in or I crush one of your skulls.” Chuuya threatens, and knows in that moment that he may actually follow through with it. That, or he’ll forcefully plow through Mori’s door until it’s nothing more than splintered wood. It’s an incredibly tempting thought, but Chuuya manages to control himself, if only just enough.

They both swallow, and finally step to the side, seemingly deciding it must not be worth it to deal with Chuuya’s wrath.

Chuuya slams his fist against the door, unbothered when the wood dents under his fist. The paint chips off and floats satisfyingly to the floor.

“Is Dazai in there?” He shouts, and when he receives no answer he only slams his fist down harder. 

Chuuya doesn’t stop for another forty seconds before Mori himself finally opens the door. His coat and scarf are missing, his white dress shirt rumpled and the first two buttons are undone. Chuuya grinds his teeth together.

“Did you need something, Chuuya-kun?” Mori asks pleasantly, but there’s something sharp in his voice. He’s annoyed. 

Good, Chuuya truly does aim to please.

“Kouyou-san needs to talk to Dazai.” He lies easily, meeting Mori’s stare with his own. He does not bother with anything intricate, not one to play Mori's word games. That sort of thing is reserved for Dazai who has the patience for it. Chuuya sticks with bluntness, straightforward and honest.

Mori smirks and Chuuya can feel his fingers clench around his phone, and he wishes it was bone cracking beneath his palm. Preferably Mori’s.

“Does she now?” He drawls, in that sickengly sweet tone of his that always sends Chuuya’s skin crawling.

“Yes.” He grits, and the phone in his hand finally gives way with a satisfying crack.

Mori gives the crushed phone in his grip an unimpressed look before he heaves a sigh.

“Very well. Tell her he’ll be with her in just a moment.”

“I’ll be out here waiting for him.” Chuuya says stubbornly, “If you don’t mind.” The words are accompanied by what must be an obviously forced grin, but lying has never been Chuuya’s specialty. Dazai lies enough for the both of them.

“Of course.” Mori says knowingly, but seems to not care enough to argue. It is moments like this where Chuuya is grateful he’s far too useful to the mafia to be punished over petty grievances. And, for the fact that Mori is fairly amused with Chuuya and Dazai’s antics when they’re not costing him his reputation.

That, and Ane-san might just have Mori’s head for hurting Chuuya. If Chuuya doesn’t get to him first, at least.

With one last beatific smile, Mori disappears behind his office doors. 

Chuuya stands there and waits, just as promised. He taps his foot restlessly the whole time, shifting and on the verge of pacing back and forth. The two guards at his sides shoot him wary looks, but stay blissfully silent. 

Finally, after a short eternity, the doors open again.

Chuuya’s eyes immediately find Dazai, pale and swallowed by his (Mori’s) dark coat.

Mori has a hand on Dazai’s shoulder, and when he leans in to murmur something in Dazai’s ear his lips brush against his skin. Chuuya can feel his fingers curling into fists, and if Mori hadn’t stepped back behind his doors Chuuya doesn’t know if he would have been able to restrain himself from punching something. If Chuuya had a say in it, Mori’s face would be the most likely target.

Dazai forces his way past him before Chuuya can even get a word out. Chuuya lets him, mostly because he’s not going to force him to talk just yet when he knows that they still have an audience. He does catch up to him however, lending a silent elbow because he notices Dazai’s subtle limp even if he is trying to hide it. Dazai accepts the help with a loud swallow and little more than a quick glance.

When the elevator doors finally close in front of them, Chuuya cuts through the quiet.

“What did he do?” He says carefully, trying to reign in his anger. He doesn’t want it to reach Dazai, especially since he isn’t the one that he’s actually angry with. He shoves his broken phone into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Nothing new.” Dazai answers lightly, the hand he still has on Chuuya’s bicep tightening. He hasn’t let go yet, and Chuuya lets Dazai soak in any sort of comfort the contact might be offering him.

Chuuya inhales slowly and releases it.

“Where do you want to go?” Chuuya doesn’t want to leave Dazai alone, but if he asks he knows that he wouldn’t be able to take that choice away from him. Still, he hopes that Dazai doesn’t try and push him away.

Dazai leans ever so slightly closer to him. 

“Wherever Chuuya wants.” He says quietly, and when Chuuya looks up at him he sees the dark rings under his eye, making the puffy red of it stand out more. 

Has he been crying? 

The thought makes his chest feel cold, like ice water has replaced the blood in his veins. 

Dazai’s hand is closed so tightly around him that it almost hurts. Chuuya says nothing about it. 

“Is my apartment fine?” He murmurs, knowing it is unlikely that Dazai should be going out somewhere. Likely, what he needs most is food and some place where he can rest. Perhaps afterwards they can go somewhere fun though, like the arcade or the park or really wherever Dazai would like—

Chuuya tucks the thought away for later.

Dazai only nods at his suggestion, and Chuuya tries not to be put off by his nearly uncharacteristic silence. He almost wants Dazai to tease him, say something ridiculous and annoying that makes Chuuya yell at him but never truly get angry. 

The noise of the elevator moving down seems too loud in the space between them.

Almost as if he can read his mind, Dazai says, “I can always count on my guard dog to rescue me.” His smirk does not reach his eyes, does not light them up in the mischievous way that Chuuya craves, but it’s enough for now.

“Not your dog.” Chuuya gripes, mostly out of principle more than anything else. It’s comfortable, the near routine of it, the back-and-forth exchange.

“But you always act like one.” Dazai pouts, “Maybe I should start buying you treats or maybe a toy.”

“I’ll bite your hand off.” Chuuya growls, and Dazai laughs airily.

“Ahh I should get a better dog, you’re so mean to me.” Despite Dazai's sedated voice, he still brings his free hand up to his face and twists on his toes like he’s some sort of upset maiden.

And that's when Chuuya sees red. Under the bandages, dripping down his wrist, is the unmistakable stain of blood. 

Chuuya forces himself not to grab his arm to get a better look at it, repressing the knee-jerk reaction to reach out and make sure he’s okay.

“I thought you said there was nothing new.” He hisses, and the anger he feels swelling inside of him is directed more at Mori than anyone else, but Dazai still flinches. It’s nearly imperceptible, but Dazai’s hand is still on him and he’s standing so close that Chuuya can feel it. 

Something in his chest squeezes violently.

“Well, nothing new to me.” Dazai tugs his sleeve back down and looks at Chuuya with a face that is mock serene.

Chuuya’s heart beats heavily in his chest. “That—that has happened before?”

Dazai shifts on his feet, and his hand drops from Chuuya’s arm. Chuuya suddenly feels much colder than he was before.

“Don’t overreact.” Dazai scoffs, “It’s certainly not the worst thing he’s ever done to me.” 

Chuuya makes a strangled noise, deep and guttural and completely disbelieving.

And then the elevator stops and when the doors ding open, Dazai walks out in front of him without another word. Despite the limp, he seems intent on speed walking as far away from Chuuya as he can get. It doesn’t take much for Chuuya to catch up to him, but Dazai isn’t looking at him as they exit the building. Chuuya can feel his heart speed up, and his tongue go tacky in his mouth.

Before he can ask where Dazai is going, before the panic can properly begin to set in, Dazai stops resolutely in front of Chuuya’s motorcycle. Chuuya, despite his relatively quick wit, pauses for a moment. 

Dazai finally turns toward him, an expectant look on his face. 

“Well?” He urges impatiently, “Aren’t we going to your apartment?”

Chuuya jerks into motion, “Right.” He murmurs, and releases a relieved sigh that he stifles in the collar of his jacket. He doesn't know what he would have done if Dazai had decided to walk off without him.

He can feel Dazai slip onto the seat behind him, and when Chuuya hands him the only helmet he doesn’t complain about putting it on for once. He can feel Dazai’s arms wrap around him, and Chuuya ignores the warmth of him as he pulls out of the parking lot.

He almost speeds to get home, but decides that getting pulled over would be annoying to deal with, especially when he has a bleeding idiot attached to him. It is tempting, though, if only so Chuuya can get a good look at Dazai’s injuries more quickly. 

He wonders briefly if there is anything else that Dazai hasn’t told him about, and then promptly decides to veer his mind away from those kinds of thoughts. He’ll worry about it once they’re stopped and less likely to wreck due to Chuuya’s fluctuating temper.

The ride is mostly silent other than the wind whipping against his ears, and when he eventually slows to a stop neither of them move right away. The sun is beginning to set, bathing everything in soft oranges and yellows. Dazai feels small but warm pressed up against him, and Chuuya almost wants to sit there longer if he wasn’t worried about Dazai’s injuries.

Chuuya can feel Dazai’s arms tighten around him for a brief moment before the pressure is gone, almost as if it had never been there in the first place. Dazai steps off the bike carefully and shoves the helmet back into Chuuya’s hands.

Chuuya scoffs but Dazai just looks amused, the asshole. 

The walk to his apartment is quiet, but the fact that Dazai’s shoulder bumps against his every few seconds makes him think that he isn’t upset with him. When Chuuya unlocks his apartment door Dazai immediately sheds his coat, looking as if he’s been waiting to throw it off.

“Go sit at the dining table.” Chuuya says, gesturing towards the kitchen and not commenting on the crumpled lump of cloth that now lays near his door. 

(Somewhere in the back of his head he wants to buy Dazai a new one, something that isn’t attached to Mori.)

Dazai nods and Chuuya makes his way towards his bathroom.

He grabs his first aid kit, stocked with bandaids and bandages, antiseptic and the like. He looks at himself in the mirror for a moment, noticing that his hair frizzier than usual and the bags under his eyes are darker from nights spent filled with too much anxious energy to fall asleep. He sighs, and resolutely looks away.

When Chuuya returns, Dazai is sitting obediently where he had asked him to. He’s picking at his bandages, and Chuuya is slightly relieved to see there are no new stains, nor has the one he saw earlier grown any darker.

Still, “You could have told me you were injured.” He grumbles as he kneels in front of the chair Dazai’s sitting in. Chuuya holds an expectant hand out, and when Dazai only stares at him he wiggles his finger impatiently.

Reluctantly, Dazai places his bleeding wrist into Chuuya’s waiting hand.

“It’s not that bad.” Dazai insists stubbornly, flexing his fingers nervously.

Chuuya pauses for a moment, looking up into Dazai’s petulant face. The arm in his hand feels thin, bone pressing up to meet him even through the gauze.

“Can I take these off?” He asks carefully, his thumb catching slightly on the bandages around Dazai’s arm.

Dazai’s lips part, but nothing escapes them other than a harsh breath. He can feel the muscles in Dazai’s arm shift and tense. 

“You can say no.” Chuuya tells him, and even if he’d feel most comforted if he can check it himself, he knows that Dazai’s comfort means more than his own right now.

Dazai shakes his head, brown curls bouncing slightly with the motion, “No—” he swallows, “No, it’s fine.” Dazai breathes out shakily, but he moves just a bit closer to him.

Chuuya keeps his eyes on him as he begins to unravel the wrappings slowly, starting at the palm of Dazai’s hand and working up. Dazai looks back at him, a single amber eye not once straying from his. It feels incredibly intimate, far more than it should, but Chuuya feels like he’s being entrusted with something important. Dazai does not trust easily, does not give up pieces of truth and vulnerability to just anyone.

Finally, when the last swathes of white have given way, Chuuya looks down.

The first thing he notices is that the cut truly isn’t that bad. It’s shallow and it’s already stopped bleeding, a careful slice that runs from the elbow down. It’s not enough to truly cause any sort fear of blood loss, perfect and straight. It looks as if it had been done with surgical pressision, a steady and purposeful hand. Chuuya swallows thickly.

And then he notices everything else. Dazai’s bicep is littered with bruises and burn marks, red circles that look like the shape of cigar or cigarette tips. Further down is the pale pink and white of old scars, cuts and slices that vary in severity all over his forearm. Some are horizontal, some vertical, and some are significantly newer than others. 

It’s the first time he’s seen them in the light, able to get a good look at them.

Chuuya says nothing and only wipes the blood away, gentle and careful not to brush any of the bruises that still look new and sore. He bites his tongue, and knows that Dazai doesn’t want him to mention them. Perhaps some day, but when he hears Dazai sigh quietly above him and essentially fall limp against the back of his chair as all the tension leaves him, he knows that he’s made the right choice. 

Dazai is silent when Chuuya rewraps his arm in clean bandages, but Chuuya can feel his eyes on him. It is not as unnerving as it used to be.

“Is there anything else I should know about?” He says casually, and Dazai does not pull his arm away. Chuuya presses his thumb lightly into the middle of Dazai’s palm, fingers curling around the back of his hand, and does not pull away either.

Dazai presses his lips together until they go white, “No. Just—just some bruising.” He says quietly, “And he—he didn’t—”

Dazai swallows and Chuuya waits patiently for him to continue, thumb rubbing soothing, nonsensical patterns into his skin.

“He didn’t—um—get very far today.” He mumbles, uncharacteristically ineloquent, “Mostly he just—” he shrugs, gesturing to his arm and leg. That explains the limp, at least. If he were to pull Dazai’s pants legs up, all he would likely see is a mottle of bruising.

Chuuya doesn’t know whether to be glad for that or not.

“Okay.” Chuuya whispers, unsure if he can get his voice to go any louder. And then he clears his throat, “Do you want me to?” He asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Dazai’s hand tightens around his, and there’s understanding in his single uncovered eye, “Not yet.”

Not yet. 

Chuuya still has to wait.

He nods but doesn’t argue, squeezing Dazai’s hand once more before he straightens up, “I’m going to get you something to eat.”

Dazai’s brow furrows and he looks on the verge of arguing before Chuuya swiftly says, “It’s crab.”

He immediately shuts his mouth, looking as close to excited as he is capable of at the moment. Chuuya smiles, just a bit, and turns away before Dazai can catch it.

Dinner does not take long to prepare. 

Chuuya is sitting across from Dazai, eating his own plate and sipping lightly at his favorite wine. Dazai has tea in his own mug, partially because he hates Chuuya’s taste in wine and partially because Chuuya would be hard pressed to give Dazai access to any kind of alcohol with the state that he’s in. Chuuya is aware he is not the perfect role model, but he can be a good influence every once in a while.

Dazai seems to enjoy his food, at least, and Chuuya is mostly just glad that he’s eating at all. Dazai has always been thin, but especially lately Chuuya has noticed just how underweight he is for his height and age. He feels like a mother hen with how much he’s been worrying after Dazai lately. He swears he’s already on the verge of growing grey hairs from stress.

And Dazai has also been staring at him for the past two minutes now, and with one last sip of his wine he finally gives in, “What?” He sighs, giving Dazai a look over the rim of his glass.

Dazai bites his lip and says, “Why?”

Chuuya shifts in his seat, “Why what?” He grumbles, leaning his elbow on the tabletop in front of him.

“Why are you… ” Dazai trails off, “Doing—doing all of this?” Dazai chuckles incredulously, sounding breathless.

Before Chuuya can even answer he continues, “I mean, I thought you hated me—”

“I don’t hate you, idiot.” Chuuya interrupts, and Dazai startles, blinking up at him. Chuuya feels distantly satisfied at causing Dazai Osamu to be struck speechless. But mostly he just feels a bit sad that Dazai has to question why Chuuya doesn’t want him hurt.

Chuuya doesn’t stop, “Sure, you’re a pain in my ass but I don’t hate you. Especially not enough to just leave you there with him.” The thought of Mori makes something light up hotly in his chest, but he tries to ignore it, to filter the anger out of his tone.

He can both hear and see Dazai swallow, his eye darting nervously away from Chuuya’s. His jaw flexes, brows furrowing like he’s thinking about what he wants to say next.

Dazai breathes in and it shakes, “I—do I—” Dazai closes his eye and Chuuya can’t help it when he leans forward slightly, as if he can reach across the table and comfort him. His fingers curl into the palm of his hand until it stings to keep his hands to himself.

“Chuuya,” Dazai starts quietly, refusing to look over at him, “Do you think that I—that I deserved it?”

For a moment, Chuuya thinks that he’s misheard him, that he’s just speaking too quietly for Chuuya to hear him properly. Somehow, he knows that he didn’t hear him wrong.

“No.” He breathes harshly, “God—Dazai no— why, why would you even think that?” His voice raises but he tries to restrain his voice, restraining himself from outright yelling.

Dazai chokes, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “I—I’m not good, Chuuya. Maybe—”

“Don’t—please don’t finish that.” Chuuya says, rubbing a hand across his face and trying to force the lump in his throat to go away, “There’s nothing you could have done to make what that bastard did to you deserved.”

Dazai looks at him, eyes glassy and red, “I didn’t fight back, Chuuya. I—I knew what he wanted and I just laid there—”

“That doesn’t mean you deserved it.” Chuuya says firmly, “That sick freak didn’t ask and you didn’t say yes.”

Dazai breathes out harshly, “But—”

“Osamu, there is no reason for you to justify what he did to you. It was wrong, and that’s the end of it.”

Dazai presses his lips together tightly and his fingers knot together. He chews on his lips, blinking rapidly in a stubborn attempt to keep his tears at bay.

“Okay.” He croaks quietly. He’s not looking at him.

Chuuya doesn’t know if Dazai even believes him, but he supposes that these things take time. Pressing on it right now doesn’t seem like a good idea, and Dazai not exactly disagreeing with him seems like victory enough at the moment. 

So Chuuya swallows the words he wants to say and accepts things as they are. He has time to push, moments where Dazai will be better prepared for this conversation, where he’ll be in a better headspace. 

Maybe Dazai just wanted to hear someone say that he was wrong.

Dazai doesn’t eat anything else after that, but Chuuya supposes he’s eaten enough already and puts his plate away without argument.

“Do you want to go to bed?” Chuuya asks softly, and Dazai nods, his hands clenching one last time around his mug before he gets up slowly.

Chuuya gives him some comfortable clothes to change into, and he watches as Dazai shifts on his feet. He picks at the oversized baby blue sweater in his hands.

“What is it?”

Dazai startles slightly, looking up at him with a single wide eye, “It’s just—just—” he breathes out heavily, “Can-you-shower-with-me?” He spits out in one quick rush.

Chuuya blinks, “You—what?”

Dazai chews on his lip and blurts, “Nothing, chibi, forget I said anything—”

“Oi, I didn’t say no— just, are you sure?” Chuuya’s brows furrow and he watches as Dazai fiddles nervously at the clothing in his hands.

“Yes.” Dazai breathes, his lips thinning like he’s still expecting Chuuya to refuse.

Chuuya nods, “Okay. Uh, sure.” He shrugs, trying to get rid of the tension in his shoulders. 

Dazai looks relieved, the expression slipping through the carefully crafted look of indifference on his face.

When they trail towards the bathroom, Chuuya expects it to be more awkward than it turns out to be. He strips, distantly listening to the faint shuffling as Dazai does so too. It’s silent, but not uncomfortable, and Chuuya looks no lower than Dazai’s protruding ribs. The sight makes him want to feed him more despite the fact that Dazai likely wouldn’t appreciate it.

But there was a new seafood restaurant that had opened up recently that Chuuya heard had a really good selection of crab related dishes… 

Chuuya quickly shakes the thought from his head, focusing instead on finding a water temperature that suits the both of them.

Once they step under the spray together they look at each other for a moment. It’s not awkward exactly, but Chuuya does feel a bit like he’s fumbling through something he doesn’t know how to do. 

He chews at his bottom lip, inexplicably finding himself wanting to laugh at how ridiculous he feels.

“What’s so funny?” Dazai pouts, trying to be playful but his tone comes out as anxious to Chuuya’s ears.

“Nothing.” Chuuya quickly reassures, “I just think I’m a bit—uh, nervous, I guess.”

“Chibi, nervous? Whatever for?” Dazai teases, “I won’t look, I promise.”

Chuuya scoffs, “You are such an ass. Turn around.”

Dazai pauses at that, shifting on his feet, “Why?”

“So I can wash your hair.” Chuuya says casually, grabbing his favorite bottle of shampoo. It’s one that smells like cherry blossoms, and Dazai glances at it with interest.

“Okay.” He agrees quietly, and turns around so his back is facing Chuuya. Dazai’s taller than him, something that infinitely annoys him of course, but not so much that he can’t easily reach him.

He lathers the soap into Dazai’s wet curls and he can already feel the other boy begin to relax under his fingers. It’s silent for a few more moments, broken only by the spray of water and the sound of Chuuya running his hands through dark, soapy hair.

Then, “It’s— good when it’s you.” Dazai says, and Chuuya’s hands slow in their movement. He hums, to show that he’s listening.

“I don’t know how to explain it, but when it’s you it feels like you can just—cover up all of the bad.” Dazai says, voice barely louder than the shower head, “I just—don’t want this to feel wrong because of him.”

Chuuya looks at the scars on Dazai’s arms, slices that overlap each other and run in various different directions, thinks of Dazai’s bandages, and can imagine that covering up bad things is usual Dazai behavior. 

Chuuya thinks he understands, at least a little bit.

Chuuya’s nails trail gently over Dazai’s scalp, and he can feel him tremble. 

“I don’t know. I just don’t want to be alone, Chuuya.” He says, quieter than anything he had said before. But Chuuya hears him, and his heart gives a heavy beat in his chest.

“You’re not.” He says, just as quiet, “I’m here, whenever you need me.”

Dazai breathes out and the breath shakes, but he nods, “Okay.”

When they are finished, they slip into bed together. It feels almost natural, being together like this. More natural than Chuuya would have expected, but then again maybe he’s not all that surprised after all. They’ve always been strangely drawn towards each other, whether they liked it or not. Maybe it’s to be expected, that they are together even in this.

Dazai is missing all of his bandages other than the ones covering his right arm. Chuuya had redressed the wound there, even after Dazai’s insistence that it was fine.

(“Chuuya,” Dazai whines, “It’s not that bad.”)

When Dazai curls in on himself he looks so small, laid bare in the privacy of Chuuya’s bedroom. Moonlight makes his hair look softer, his fair skin nearly glowing in the light of it. 

He should have never left Dazai alone, should have fought harder to take an assignment that was at least still in Yokohama if he couldn’t get a mission with Dazai himself. Dazai had told him that he would be fine without Chuuya there, and Chuuya had been able to briefly trick himself into truly thinking that he actually would be. He should have never left, if he had been there he would have been able to stop it before anything could have happened.

Maybe he should have paid more attention to Dazai before he ever had to come to his apartment in the middle of the night. He knew that Mori looked at Dazai strangely, knew that Mori gave him a weird feeling ever since he joined the mafia. He should have never dismissed it as just him being paranoid. He should have—

“Chibi is thinking stupid things.” Dazai abruptly cuts through his thoughts, flicking his forehead. 

Chuuya winces, mostly out of surprise more than anything, and frowns, “I’m not.”

“You are.” Dazai says knowingly, “It’s not your fault.”

Chuuya swallows, and wonders when they started knowing each other so well.

“Well, it’s not your fault either.”

“Chuuya—”

Chuuya looks at him with a glint he must recognize that is impenetrably stubborn, and Dazai huffs a quiet laugh.

“Fine.” He mumbles, and presses his face into his pillow.

Chuuya smiles, satisfied, and puts his arm out between them. It’s an offering, not a demand, and like usual Dazai reaches his arm out slowly. He curls his hand around Chuuya’s, soft and warm and Chuuya thinks he could get addicted to the feeling of his hand on his. Covering up the bad with something good. 

“Thank you, Chuuya.” He whispers, and he pulls Chuuya’s hand closer to him. Their interlaced fingers rest just below Dazai’s chin.

“You don’t have to thank me, Osamu.” He says, a gentle whisper. Dazai’s lip trembles, and he pretends not to notice it.

When they wake the next morning, it’s warm.

They had moved closer sometime during the night, Chuuya curled closer with their hands cradled together between their bodies. Dazai is already awake, sleepy caramel eyes darting around Chuuya’s face.

“Hi.” Chuuya murmurs, and Dazai giggles. Giggles. Chuuya feels just a bit lightheaded.

“Hi.” Dazai returns softly, leaning forward so his chin rests on their interlaced fingers.

“You’re in a good mood.” 

“Well, my favorite dog has been so nice to me lately.” He sighs dreamily and Chuuya scoffs.

“Don’t think I won’t wring your neck, mackerel.”

“You like me too much to do that.” He pouts, but his hand squeezes Chuuya’s just a little bit tighter. 

Chuuya huffs, “Yeah.” He concedes, “Yeah, I guess I do.” His voice sounds softer than he means for it to, and Dazai makes an aborted motion that looks like he’s about to try and cover his face before he remembers that his hand is still attached to Chuuya’s.

“I like you too.” Dazai mumbles, face a vivid pink. Chuuya can practically feel the heat of it.

Chuuya’s face goes red too, from the words and seeing Dazai flustered himself. The asshole laughs at him, and Chuuya would be more annoyed if he didn't start laughing too.

He feels like he might know Dazai Osamu just a little bit more.

They don’t kiss, not that day, and not even for a while after that. Chuuya doesn’t mind, perfectly content with just Dazai’s hand in his as they eat breakfast. Dazai seems to like the simple touches, nothing more, nothing less, and Chuuya feels no desperate need to rush anything.

Dazai still hasn’t asked, and Chuuya knows there’s a chance that he’ll always be waiting, but the promise still stays. Dazai’s happiness is enough for him right now, because he is happier. 

He smiles, just a bit more, soft private things that only Chuuya ever sees. He takes his bandages off in Chuuya’s apartment more often, sleeps in Chuuya’s bed even if the only part of them touching sometimes is their fingers interlocked.

Some days Dazai doesn’t even want to be touched at all and Chuuya gives him space. They sit in Chuuya’s apartment and watch movies together until Dazai stops fidgeting, sitting close but no closer until Dazai closes the space himself.

Even when he never says thank you outright Dazai still looks grateful.

And Mori is still Mori—a manipulative bastard who Chuuya wants to pull apart piece by piece—but Chuuya controls himself. Dazai still hasn’t asked, after all.

But he does barely leave Dazai’s side afterwards, and all of their missions include the two of them together as a team. Somehow, he thinks that he has Ane-san to thank for that.

He resolves to make it up to her at one point, sometime after he’s finished trying to beat Dazai at every single game in the arcade.

(He never does beat him, but every time Dazai laughs at him, he finds that he doesn’t mind all that much.)