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Chuuya lost track of time around the second day, when they upped the drug dose. He stopped being able to distinguish readily between hallucinations and reality a small eternity later, though he kept enough of himself, a core of willpower and rage, to refuse to talk at all.
“Didn’t you swear loyalty to me?” The Boss asked with the wide-eyed smile of his rare accesses of anger. “You promised to be the Organization’s slave, to breathe and bleed for the Mafia. Now you’re going to betray me like Dazai did? I expected more from you, Chuuya.”
“Chuuya…? What has gotten into you?” Kouyou prompted him, her elegant features hardened by a mixture of worry and irritation. “You’re home, foolish boy. You’re safe. Why are you acting like this?”
“We’re doing this for your own good,” the Boss assured sadly. “We need to return you to reason.”
Other faces came and went too – Hirotsu, Shirase, friends dead or alive or lost. Sometimes they tried coaxing; sometimes they were angry or scared; sometimes they threatened or begged. Sometimes they were convincing, while sometimes their words rang wrong enough that he could remember that it was all a damn lie.
Dazai came only when they’d just given Chuuya a new dose, the injection leaving him writhing in pain and delirious enough that his bastard of an ex-partner could slip through. He never recalled exactly the barbs that they exchanged – maybe there actually was none, just a leftover impression of anger and bitterness. His consciousness barely held together. They kept him from sleeping properly with bright lights and the occasional burst of noise. Though he was chained to the bed (“for your own sake,” the hallucinations claimed), the rest of the room was mimicking a hospital so as to further erode his grip on reality. Pain and dizziness were constant companions now, sapping his ability to focus.
And what of it? He held on. He’d keep doing so as long as he had to. If those scums thought that Mafia Executives were that weak, he’d be there to deliver their reality check. He wouldn’t break; he wouldn’t talk; he wouldn’t falter. He didn’t believe it; he knew it. He was Chuuya Nakahara, an Executive of the Port Mafia. He was Chuuya Nakahara, whose soul-carved Skill allowed him to bend gravity to his whims with just a touch. He was Chuuya Nakahara, host to a man-made god, a monster like only humans could be.
He was Chuuya Nakahara, and he’d endure it all, return home, and punch that bastard Dazai in his stupidly handsome face.
***
The effects of his last dose were starting to fade, restoring him to some semblance of sanity, when a man dressed in the garb of his “nurses” entered the room. Chuuya stared at him, instinctively looking for a weakness he could use, and blinked when he recognized the build, the pace, then the posture. Another hallucination? No. Perhaps. He had no idea how long he hadn’t been sleeping properly, how much the drugs had permeated his bloodstream. Even now, his mind was clearer but his head swam, edges softened by the pain buzzing in his system.
The man raised his gaze and grinned; the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. He was tall, gangly, gifted with a handsome face he absolutely did not deserve. The cap barely contained the wildness of his brown hair.
Chuuya forced himself to keep silent. He’d regained some clarity, but his mind was still slow and fragmented. He knew himself well enough to be aware that he made mistakes too easily when he was off his game.
“Ah, what a lovely view!” The man enthused in an unholy mix between his usual lazy drawl and Chuuya’s sharp intonations. “Not even ten billion of the greatest works of art could outclass it!”
Chuuya couldn’t remember when he’d said those words, but the bastard was definitely quoting him. He barely bit back a snarled reply, growling in frustration.
“Oh, no answer? Did they manage to turn you into a real dog?” Dazai chirped.
He’d reached the cupboard where they kept the drugs and had opened it. So it truly was a hallucination, huh? This was one of their men; he’d come to give Chuuya his usual injections now that the previous dosage had weakened. Normally, Chuuya only saw Dazai when he was at his worst, but his mind had decided to shake up the old routine.
“I’ll have to give them my thanks… Oh, Mori had this one in his private pharmacy! I tried it and was very disappointed. And this one...”
Chuuya closed his eyes, attempting to cut the chatter off. The real Dazai was enough of a pain without having to endure a fake one.
He couldn’t help but to listen anyway, though. He hated it, but he’d never been able to ignore Dazai. The other man had always been a thorn in his side, sharp and poisonous.
When they’d been partners, Chuuya had been the only one who could take him. He’d always thought it was the real reason that the Boss had paired them together; others were too scared of Dazai or, if they weren’t, they quickly started to be.
Chuuya wasn’t, hadn’t ever been. He’d met the dirty tricks, the taunts and the accidents with answering violence – nothing too visible, because Mori had been quite explicit about the fact that they weren’t to kill or impede each other, but enough that frustration didn’t swallow him whole.
Other people had feared them, he knew, not only because of the power they wielded together but because they couldn’t understand how they worked with each other – how they worked at all. They’d been called Twin Dark: two monsters and one unfathomable entity.
That was in the past, though. Now, Dazai had betrayed the mafia and left. Now, he was pretending to be a goodie-two-shoes detective, one of the good guys, and he was surrounded by colleagues and friends who somehow believed it. Chuuya hated the hypocrisy of it. Chuuya hated everything about it.
Chuuya hated Dazai, always had, and it was mutual, always had been.
The man who looked like Dazai stopped his commentating review of the drug cabinet and walked over to the bed. Chuuya stared at him in spite of his best resolve, unable to leave his guard that open.
His vision blurred. He gnashed his teeth, trying to will his body back into shape. Dazai’s laughter reached him, insufferably true to life.
“Wow, you’re a wreck! How satisfying – for once, I feel something close to happiness when looking at you. Should we mark the date as an auspicious one?”
There were metallic noises, and a pull on the restraints which held Chuuya's wrists. Was he being untied?
“Now, don’t hit me,” the man said.
The cuffs opened. Obviously, Chuuya instantly tried to hit him.
Of course, he missed. The other parried with Dazai-like ease and instantly launched into complaints.
“I don’t know why I even thought that being drugged out of your mind would make you less insufferable! I’m rescuing you, you dumb slug. Can’t you behave even in these circumstances? If you have to be incoherent, at least stay limp and transportable.”
Chuuya attempted to sit up and managed it with only a small exertion of willpower. His head swam; he stopped and tried to breathe it away.
His legs were freed. The man stepped away before he could kick him.
“Can you stand up? I don’t want to carry you.”
Chuuya got up slowly, grinding his teeth when the movement sent pressure crashing down on his brain. He reflexively used his Skill to lighten the sensation and found himself stuck to the ceiling. Dazai burst out laughing. Chuuya glared at him and tried to float gently to the floor. He almost fell instead. It had been a long time since he’d felt that weak and that unmoored.
“Wow, you really can’t control it, huh?” Dazai asked. “If that’s what it’s like when you’re getting down from the high, it must have been quite entertaining when you were fully drugged… How many men did they lose trying to find the right dosage?”
Not enough. Chuuya glared at him and stumbled forward. The other didn’t move. His lips were twisted in an insufferable smirk that had, for once, reached his eyes. He’d grown even taller since their Mafia days, a good twenty centimetres more than Chuuya. All the best to strike him in the solar plexus.
Dazai’s bandages felt familiar under Chuuya’s fingers, soft and thick. The Armed Detective Agency’s doctor’s Skill could heal any wounds, but Dazai’s touch cancelled all skills whether he wanted it or not. Chuuya could remember having to carry him to Mafia-sponsored clinics more than once during their partnership. Dazai wasn’t that great at fighting, didn’t wield supernatural strength or offensive Skills, but he certainly didn’t behave like it. Back in the Mafia, it’d helped cement his reputation as a demon in human shape. It'd also meant more than a few trips to underground doctors.
Above the bandages, Dazai’s skin was warmer than his own. It was usually the opposite, but Chuuya was in a bad enough state that it wasn’t impossible.
He dragged his fingers higher, seeking Dazai’s pulse, and found it far too slow for a normal man. Dazai grinned and tilted his head aside, leaving him better access.
Dazai's pulse changed its pace, stopping briefly, starting again, quickening and decelerating in turn. Chuuya scowled and drew back.
Chuuya could only "touch" or "smell" spontaneous hallucinations when he'd been freshly dosed, which wasn't the case. Externally induced ones – those who tried to pry for information with more coherence and insidiousness than the ghosts his feverish mind conjured – always affected all his senses, but that was because they were either puppets or henchmen veiled in illusion: they could only imitate the superficial appearance of their target. The look was convincing, but the scent was wrong and they couldn’t use knowledge that only the original and Chuuya shared, which was why his captors had been alternating the two methods to try to confuse him.
Only Dazai and Chuuya – and perhaps Dazai’s colleagues, by now – were aware that he could change his heartbeat at will, and thus his pulse. It was one of the tells they’d decided on if they ever had to deal with shapeshifting or illusion-related Skills.
In other words, this was, sadly, the real Dazai, which meant he wouldn't have the pleasure to punch that smarmy smile for now.
“What the hell are you doing here, Dazai?”
“Did you forget that we are allies?” Dazai asked with a dramatic sigh. “Since you were careless enough to get captured, I generously came to help –”
“You got me caught, you bastard!” Chuuya roared, lunging at him – Dazai avoided the blow, of course, which only added to his frustration.
He'd known instantly. A joint assault with the Armed Detective Agency that somehow ended in his capture? That was no coincidence. He couldn't comprehend Dazai’s twisted, inhumanly clever mind; no one could. But he understood enough of him, years of partnership tying them closer than both of them had ever wanted, to feel when the pieces aligned.
Dazai's presence confirmed his suspicion. The Mafia’s assassins were perfectly capable of an infiltration mission and Mori wouldn’t risk a useless debt just to ensure Chuuya’s retrieval – nor would he send Dazai on his own if the man had simply volunteered for it; that waste of bandages worked best with muscles at his side.
Dazai had wanted the two of them alone in the enemy’s headquarters and had planned for it. Once Chuuya had been captured, Dazai had probably manipulated the situation so the Agency would volunteer him for a rescue mission – he never asked directly for what he wanted: he manipulated others into having ideas in his stead – whereupon he had nobly objected that he preferred going on his own rather than mingle with lowly Mafia men, or whatever nonsense he excelled at coming up with. Mori had certainly suspected that everything had been part of his plan, but he’d let him do as he wished because the Boss was still dangerously – inexplicably – fond of Dazai and the partnership he’d shared with Chuuya.
Familiar rage rose in Chuuya, soon accompanied by dizziness. He was going to strangle Dazai with his own two hands as soon as they got out of this.
His ex-partner gave him a soulless grin.
“We both know you could take it. I had other candidates in mind, but they couldn’t have withstood the experience. You had the endurance and the power.”
Chuuya grit his teeth, trying to ignore his weakness long enough to properly glare at Dazai.
“Anyway,” Dazai continued, “they gave you quite a nasty cocktail. The cameras of this room are being fed a loop of you asleep, so we have some time. I’m going to check on your vitals.”
“Huh? No need. I can stand. I’m good to go.”
If Dazai hadn’t brought anyone else in his little expedition, it could only mean one thing: he planned on them being the only survivors.
Corruption. The ultimate form of Chuuya’s Skill, the purest expression of the godlike chunk of power trapped in his body. Gravity unleashed against the world, destroying men and building like crumpling sheets of paper. In this berserker state, Chuuya – or, rather, what inhabited his flesh in these moments – didn’t distinguish between friends or foes.
Only Dazai could stop him. Only Dazai could save him, as Chuuya would rampage until his body gave out unless his Skill was cancelled by his partner’s – ex-partner’s – touch. Corruption left Chuuya drained, hurt, and often cursing Dazai for one reason or another.
No matter. If it was Dazai’s plan, it was the optimal one, however annoying it was to have to admit it. Maybe Chuuya couldn’t control his Skill right now, but he’d never needed control when it came to Corruption. The only unknown was whether Dazai would leave him behind or not afterwards. The last time Chuuya had had to use it, he’d fully expected to wake up alone in the middle of the rubble, but Dazai had somehow been decent enough to drag him away – not that Chuuya thought too much about it.
He trusted Dazai with Corruption, leaving him full power over his life and death; he trusted his ex-partner's strategies, his twisted mind, and perhaps even the fact that Dazai was playing on the “good side” for now. In any other matter, he fully expected him to be a devious nuisance. Whenever Chuuya had the displeasure of dealing with Dazai, he always braced for the worst and welcomed the man’s rare and unnerving shows of decency as anomalies not worth dwelling upon – not unless he wanted to get disillusioned later.
“We’re not doing Corruption unless I’m sure you can take it,” Dazai stated.
He sounded serious. What was with him? Unease sank into Chuuya’s bones.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dazai. I was worse off the first time I did it. It’s the simplest solution.”
“Chuuya.”
He hated that part of him still stopped and listened when he heard his name said by that voice in this tone.
“I hope you don’t believe I’m doing this for you?” Dazai asked, his smile dripping with mock pity. “That would be sooo embarrassing! I’m checking on you because it’s strictly necessary for our current objective. Do you really think I can’t plan for an optimal course of action if I don’t use Corruption?”
That was better. That was frustrating, irritation buzzing through Chuuya’s veins. He sat back on his bed and ignored the relief he felt. He was so damn weak right now; he hated it.
They barely spoke. Dazai checked his vitals and took his blood for a quick test – for some reason, he’d brought some small gadget to that end, because, of course, Dazai would know that their opponents would try to drug and brainwash Chuuya rather than just kill him or chop bits off. That had also been Chuuya’s deduction – the sole reason why he hadn’t just used his gravity as soon as he'd woken up tied and drugged out of his mind, accepting the risk of his own Skill making the ceiling collapse over him; it was safer to take it and wait for his rescue, as humiliating as it was.
Dazai frowned when he read the numbers on his machine.
“You should be writhing on the floor right now!” He whined. “You’re so disappointing, Chuuya. I really hoped to see your crying face...”
He was perfectly aware that Chuuya could and had steeled himself through worse: he just wanted to be a pain and he was succeeding. Chuuya could recognize his ex-partner's attempts at provocation, but it sadly didn’t prevent them from getting under his skin.
“Shut up!” He barked at Dazai. “Anyway, are you done playing doctor? What do we do now?”
“Mm-mm. We can’t use Corruption.”
“We can,” Chuuya retorted. “I can take it. Just drag me to Support afterwards, this time.”
Care made him uneasy when it came from his friends; from Dazai, it felt downright unnatural. They’d never done careful. Dazai used Chuuya to his limits and Chuuya expected nothing less.
“Chuuya,” Dazai said patiently. “When have my strategies ever failed?”
“I hate when it seems like you care,” Chuuya snapped.
He regretted it as soon as he said it. It sounded wrong, not at all what he’d meant.
Dazai blinked and laughed, as irritatingly relaxed as if he had been discussing tea flavours in a salon.
“See? The drugs clearly made you delirious. We’re doing Ivy On The Branch.”
Shame burned Chuuya’s cheeks.
“Okay, fine,” he growled, too embarrassed to protest further.
They’d named their various tricks and tactics as a means of convenience: it allowed for strategizing on the fly and the enemy couldn't guess their intent. They'd rarely used Ivy On The Branch, as it could only apply if Chuuya had been weakened and might lose control of his Skill. The core principle was that they would advance together, Dazai remaining close enough to neutralize his wayward abilities at a moment’s notice.
“By the way,” Dazai pointed out, “I would have suggested a rest to anyone else, but since it’s you, Chuuya, I didn’t.”
He smiled smugly. Chuuya clicked his tongue at him.
“I’d have refused anyway!”
“Good, because we're leaving now! Don’t slow me down, hmm?”
Chuuya barely had time to blink; Dazai had already hurried to open the door, ready to run toward his doom if his human shield didn’t catch up to him.
“Wait up, you imbecile!” He snapped.
Getting up made him feel like his heart was sinking down to his stomach, but he gritted his teeth and powered through it. He managed to reach the cabinet, opened it and grabbed a few bottles as munitions. Dazai actually had the rare common sense to wait for him as he stumbled dizzily after his ex-partner. Chuuya’s vision was getting too blurry to see his exact expression, but he could distinguish a wide smile on the idiot’s face.
“I’m so glad I came!” Dazai chirped.
“Go die!” Chuuya growled.
Why had Mori allowed that waste of space to save him? Next time, he was just unleashing his out-of-control Skill, consequences be damned.
***
It quickly turned out that staying upright would be the hard part of the plan. Usually, Chuuya would have used gravity to make himself float while he fought. Right now, though, the remnants of the drugs scouring through his system disrupted his control over his Skill and any attempt might have sent the hallways crashing down on them.
“Hey, Dazai,” he whispered.
“Mm?”
“You brought something to help with the drugs, right?”
Dazai wouldn’t infiltrate an enemy base without a stimulant of some sort to fight off the symptoms of whatever had been pumped into Chuuya’s veins. Obviously, though, he wouldn’t offer it spontaneously: he would make Chuuya request it first so he could deny responsibility once the secondary effects kicked in.
“I did!” Dazai confirmed cheerfully. “However, I won’t give it to you.”
“Why?” Chuuya snarled, disbelieving.
“It’s just far too enjoyable to watch you stumble around!”
“Listen here, you needlessly elongated waste of space –”
“I can feel that you’re slightly peeved, my poor wounded pipsqueak. You know what? I will respect your resolve. I’ll relinquish it to you if you can beat me at arm wrestling right here and now.”
“I hope you strangle yourself the next time you tie your bandages,” Chuuya growled.
“And I hope that the next gust of wind finally blows you away.”
“And I hope –”
“A new playmate’s approaching.”
A guard turned the corner as soon as Dazai stopped talking. He froze upon seeing them. Chuuya needed a bit more concentration than usual, so he remained silent as he threw one of the bottles he’d grabbed.
The theory was simple: even a fruit could kill if launched with enough celerity, so Chuuya just took any object and manipulated gravity to send it at high speed toward his target. It made for nice improvised bullets.
He felt his Skill waver before it even left his hand, adjusted the output –
The bottle blew away the man’s right arm and traversed the wall after that. Dazai hastily grabbed Chuuya’s shoulder; there was a distant sound of impact as the projectile lost its supernatural impetus at the next obstacle. The guard screamed. Chuuya rolled his eyes and staggered forward. His vision was blurring again, and worse than before, but he just had to head for the cries.
“That was a horrible shot,” Dazai informed him.
“Wow, I’d never have guessed. I’m getting blind, by the way. Are you sure you don’t want to let me have the stimulant?”
“You’re not tall enough for this ride, my petite mafia.”
“You…!”
Dazai’s arm wrapped around his side. He reflexively elbowed him and felt petty satisfaction when he heard him grunt. What a wimp.
“Let go of me!”
“I’m guiding you,” Dazai protested with the loftiness of a wounded martyr. “We’re switching to the Creeping Ivy And The Reed.”
They rarely used Crawling Ivy – few things could hurt Chuuya to begin with, much less harm the connection between him and his Skill – but Creeping Ivy And The Reed meant Chuuya was so badly wounded that he needed Dazai to direct his strikes.
“Don’t be stupid,” Chuuya snarled. “You won’t unhand me fast enough when enemies arrive.”
They had reached the screaming vigil. Dazai hadn’t let go of Chuuya; his grip was too tight, though it had the unexpected effect of making it easier for Chuuya to walk on legs that tried their hardest to turn to mush. It was probably an accident, or he'd release Chuuya at some inopportune moment just to make him fall.
The wounded guard didn’t react when Chuuya grabbed his gun. A bullet through the skull ended his screams.
“Were we supposed to stay discreet?” Chuuya asked Dazai, more rhetorically than out of worry.
Dazai shrugged. He'd been looking behind them, perhaps being cautious for once.
“The place is surrounded. Any fugitive will be swiftly apprehended.”
Chuuya didn’t need any more questions to understand their job: to sow maximum chaos and thin the enemy ranks, possibly even capture their leader. Fine by him. It was just vexing to be so diminished.
“Couldn’t you get here sooner?” He complained.
“We did our best, but we had to arrange a few pieces to optimize the situation. I have to say, it was quite entertaining to see them try to remain discreet and transport you safely.”
Chuuya grinned, a bit consoled from his current vexation.
“Of course,” Dazai added, “it was quite a waste to get such a big plane for such a small cargo…”
Chuuya kicked him in the leg.
***
Dazai had only ever created Crawling Ivy as a theoretical emergency measure, something as unlikely to occur as them actually getting along. Still, despite the novelty, and even with years of separation between them, it was easy to put it into practice. It’d always been that way between them, for as much as they hated each other’s sight: they fell into synch just as naturally as they traded barbs. If Chuuya hadn't gotten a partner after Dazai's departure, it hadn't been for lack of trying: it was just too frustrating to miss that high, that thrill, that perfect satisfaction. No one could compare to Dazai. In the end, Chuuya had given up.
It was insulting to be reminded of how well they worked together. As soon as a target appeared, Dazai unhanded him with a touch calculated to indicate the exact angle. It felt obvious enough that Chuuya hadn’t missed once. He had a frustrating feeling that it was another one of those things where the Boss would smile with quiet satisfaction and ask him again whether he really didn’t miss working with Dazai, Hirotsu would cough politely before speaking about the unique synergy of two strong minds who’d grown up together, and Kouyou would pretend to sympathize while throwing him knowing glances which set his nerves on edge.
(Obviously, he missed the ease with which they caught each other’s logic, the grim satisfaction of seeing Dazai’s plan fall into place, the thrill of being able to indulge or rage or both while knowing Dazai had accounted for everything –)
(He didn’t miss Dazai. It wasn’t a big deal if he’d never met someone who could properly use him in combat after his betrayal. He’d drunk an entire bottle of his best wine to celebrate Dazai’s departure from the Mafia. He was fine.)
“You know, part of these drugs were supposed to sap your ability to use your Skill,” Dazai said after Chuuya had pulverized a few guards by throwing a fire extinguisher at them.
Only Dazai’s touch had kept the projectile from breaking more than two walls. It’d have been unfortunate if they’d hit one of their allies outside.
Chuuya scowled. He’d shielded Dazai from a few shots, but one of them had actually gone through his shoulder. The others had been stopped – gravity crushing them at the very first touch – yet less efficiently than usual; he felt sore, dizzy and increasingly murderous.
“It worked.”
“I think they intended for it to weaken your ability, not make you destroy more than you wanted to... Ah, well. We’re almost there – Chuuya, would you mind delicately tapping that door?”
Chuuya kicked it as ordered. The steel tore like paper under the weight of a gravity-powered blow. He staggered back, dark sparks dancing behind his eyes.
“Good dog,” Dazai said, grabbing him by the arm before he fell.
“Go curl up in a ditch and die,” Chuuya answered, straightening away from his grasp.
“I compliment you and that’s how you reply? – Ah, great, Mister President, you’re here! And the door didn’t catch you on its way in! What a relief.”
The president, a pale-faced man who was sweating enough to darken his expensive white suit, gaped at them. There were only two guards with him. Had he been so confident that a mere steel door could protect him? Pathetic. Dazai grinned, clapping his hands together.
“I did think we would find you in your panic room. I believe you might have discovered that your underground escape route has accidentally collapsed? An unfortunate stroke of bad luck, really.”
Chuuya had the pleasure of kicking Dazai out of the way as the security men tried to shoot. He got a few superficial wounds, but managed to reflect enough bullets to quickly exterminate that pesky problem.
“Seems like it's only you and us,” he smirked at the ashen-faced president, “and I still haven't thanked you for the hospitality!”
“I'm sorry –” The scum started before Chuuya's foot met his face.
Chuuya really didn't beat him up that much, focusing on staying conscious rather than truly indulging. It was out of the question that he would faint before his job was done, and he had to be careful not to accidentally use his Skill: killing the man here and now would be an act of kindness, and Chuuya wasn’t in a merciful mood.
Dazai hovered nearby, nonchalance carved into every line of his posture – inoffensive and genial and fake, every inch of him. He tied up their captive once Chuuya was done, letting the mafioso catch his breath against a wall.
Chuuya’s head felt like it was going to implode. He struggled to inhale, air heavy in his lungs. His blood seemed to crawl in his veins. The tip of his fingers and his toes burned.
“Small animals are always too aggressive for their own good,” Dazai sighed as if he was the slighted party in the whole affair.
“Shut up,” Chuuya gasped. “You’re carrying him.”
“What? But you’re the muscle!”
“How do you want me to carry him and neutralize the guards at the same time?”
“That sounds like a you problem, Chuuya.”
They bickered about who would do what until more men arrived, at which point Chuuya just disposed of them with the remnants of the door. Using his Skill was too natural to him to tire him out, as opposed to having to talk with the waste of bandages who was insisting that he carry their captive.
Obviously, Chuuya somehow ended up being goaded into doing it anyway. He hated working with Dazai so damn much.
***
Chuuya woke up on a futon. He felt clean; raw; empty, craving for something he couldn’t name. His skull pulsated painfully, but his wounds – from the bullets he'd failed to stop properly, and the torn flesh where he had pulled too hard on his restraints – didn’t hurt any more. He was wearing only a pair of pyjama trousers.
Dazai was sitting near him, his hand – not petting Chuuya’s hair, of course, but – playing with it? Probably so as to mess it up irremediably.
“Stop ruffling my hair. I’m awake.”
Dazai gave him an irritatingly bright smile.
“And you still look terrible!”
“Go to hell!” Chuuya cursed at him, batting his hand away.
The floor cracked. Dazai grabbed his wrist. Chuuya didn’t shake him off, understanding the problem at once.
“My Skill…?”
“Is currently quite lively. It started acting up a few hours ago, probably because you’re going through withdrawal. I’m glad I never tried to poison you that much when we were partners! That could have been dangerous.”
“What do you mean, that much?”
“Also, you’ve been healed by Doctor Yosano’s delicate touch! Don’t hesitate to thank me.”
“Thank you?” Chuuya exclaimed in outrage.
There were so many reasons not to – the fact that it was all Dazai’s fault in the first place; that Chuuya wouldn’t have fainted as soon as they had gotten out of the facility if he hadn’t been manipulated into carrying the president; that any assistance from Army Detective Agency members was probably part of the careful equilibrium of favours and equivalent exchanges that the Agency and the Port Mafia were currently crafting together – that he didn’t even know where to begin.
“I'm aware that acknowledging one’s debt of gratitude is hard for someone with your upbringing, so I won’t insist,” Dazai said graciously.
The hand that was holding Chuuya’s wrist slid along his arm, brushing over raw skin. Chuuya’s thought process was cut off by an unwelcome pang of lust.
“Dazai –” He growled.
“It’s more convenient to touch your hair than to hold your wrist and I can't break contact, so behave.”
Chuuya gritted his teeth, infuriated not to have a reasonable motive to refuse, and clicked his tongue.
“Do whatever you want!” He spat, closing his eyes and turning away.
This was a mistake. On the one hand, it was better than having to look at Dazai as his ex-partner touched him. On the other hand, it made the sensation more vivid: long, cold fingers brushing against his naked shoulder then over the line of his neck, never breaking contact. They seemed to slow on the curve of his jaw, slid up close to his ear and finally buried themselves in his hair. He forced himself not to shudder through the touch. The fake intimacy of it – the gentleness of it – made him want to hit and destroy.
He knew that Dazai was after something. There were too many things that didn’t add up: the refusal to use Corruption or to give him a stimulant, the fact that he was here now instead of pumping Chuuya full of enough soporifics to keep him unconscious until the worst of the withdrawal was over, and even his hand in Chuuya’s hair. From anyone else, Chuuya would have suspected guilt or at least care, but from Dazai? There was no way.
Dazai hadn’t changed. Every time Chuuya had to hear from Akutagawa about his ex-partner’s supposed reform, he had to restrain the urge to tear through his subordinate with sharp words or a few well-placed blows. Dazai didn’t feel, he faked. Right now, he’d decided to play the good guy – not that he had protested when Chuuya had killed in front of him. So what? One day, he would grow weary of this. He would leave it all, try to satiate the monster inside him with other toys and other methods.
It was wiser not to hold any hope for Dazai.
It was safer not to hold any hope for Dazai.
Chuuya hated that he didn’t, and yet came too dangerously close to caring anyway. He hated the moments when he couldn’t find any good explanation for Dazai’s behaviour except the impossible.
Maybe it was another form of harassment, a trick to make him waste his time in theories when the only rational answer was that sometimes, Dazai just didn’t make sense.
“Chuuya, are you trying to think again? You make the most ridiculous expression when you do.”
Chuuya snarled, eyes flying open to meet Dazai’s smarmy grin.
“Shut up! How long will I have to suffer your presence?”
“Give or take a whole day,” Dazai sighed heavily; a saint saddled with his burden to bear. “Oh, but it should get worse in the next few hours! You should look forward to it – I certainly will!”
I certainly will. Chuuya only needed a few seconds to understand part of the implications of that gleefulness. He rose, disregarding the way his whole body screamed at him for his boldness; Dazai’s hand left his hair and he felt himself start to float before his ex-partner grabbed his naked wrist.
“Chuuya? Ah!”
Ignoring the lanky imbecile’s protests, Chuuya straddled him. Dazai tried to stop him; it admittedly took far more effort than usual to subdue him, but it was truly pathetic how he didn’t even manage to win when Chuuya was that weakened.
It was dangerous, the thrill Chuuya got from wrestling him into powerlessness even for a brief, illusory second. He didn’t linger on it and frisked Dazai, ignoring his virtuous wails of “I’m not into men!” and “Help! Chuuya is molesting me!”
Chuuya quickly found the phone. The hidden camera was harder to spot, dissimulated in the lining of Dazai’s coat. His head was throbbing and heavy; he didn't mind the pain and dizziness, sheer malice pushing him forward.
“No! They’re expens – Chuuya, no!” Dazai protested, trying to protect his toys. “Chuuyaaa!”
Chuuya managed to break the camera, but Dazai succeeded in wrestling the phone away from him with the desperation unique to a man with a salary far, far inferior to his Mafia Executive’s heyday. Somewhere in the struggle, Chuuya ended up pinned to the futon, but he still felt triumphant.
“You’re awful,” Dazai panted, trying to keep him in place. “Is that how you treat your saviour?”
Chuuya grinned wildly at him. His head was killing him; his vision was getting blurry. It was worth it. If he had to end up wrecked anyway, he might at least get some happiness out of the whole experience.
“I hope that camera was worth months of salary.”
Dazai gave him a sweet smile.
“Don’t worry, you’ll pay for it.”
Chuuya was well aware that Dazai’s predictions always came true. At that moment, though, he couldn’t care less; he laughed in his face. Dazai’s expression twitched in irritation, his grin tightening at the edge.
“You really are a feral beast, Chuuya. I’m afraid I have no choice but to restrain you for your own good.”
Chuuya smirked at him.
“Oh yeah? Do your worst. I’m weakened enough that it’s finally your chance to win in a fight against me!”
Dazai took him at his word, obviously unable to pass up such an opportunity to gloat. Chuuya struggled back and almost prevailed, too, but he was on his last leg; eventually, his strength just gave out. He’d started shaking and sweating at some point. Dazai straddled his hips to keep him down, holding his wrists pinned with one hand like a poseur.
“Don’t look that proud,” Chuuya gasped. “For you to take so long to restrain a sick man – really, I’ve won.”
“Yet it feels like a victory,” Dazai retorted distractedly.
He'd pulled out the belt of his coat; he used it to tie Chuuya's wrists together. He surveyed his work, hummed in satisfaction and grabbed back his phone. Chuuya snarled, struggling fruitlessly to break free. Darkness was dancing behind his eyelids. He was so weak it was ridiculous.
“Don’t you dare!”
“I should have brought my pen to add some style to your face.”
“Go stumble in the river and drown!”
“How morbid. Have you thought about getting healthier hobbies?”
“You –”
“Smile for the camera, Chuuya!”
Chuuya tried to twist away, to no avail. He braced himself for the phone’s shutter; it didn’t come.
“What are you waiting for?” He snapped after a few seconds.
He was starting to feel seriously sick and he'd prefer that Dazai had his fun while he was conscious.
Dazai didn’t answer immediately. Chuuya stared at him. His ex-partner was looking at him with a relaxed smile, but his gaze was too weirdly focused and he wasn’t moving. What was his problem?
“I’ve just realized that taking pics of a half-naked bound captive might land me in trouble with the authorities. You’re so small, they might make an honest mistake about your age…”
“Shut up!”
“Do you need to be shivering that much? You look obscene,” Dazai said judgmentally.
Heat sank through Chuuya’s limbs, disconcerting and sudden.
“Wha- pervert!” He spat. “First of all, I'm not shivering, I'm shaking, and secondly, I’m not obscene! Just take the damn photo and let me sleep!”
“Are you so eager to share your nudity with the world? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Listen, you miserable scum –”
They bickered until withdrawal started to really hit. At that point, Dazai’s bonds proved somewhat useful, because Chuuya was desperate enough to try to scratch his own skin off. Everything ached, itched, inside and outside. His nerves went haywire between numbness and oversensitiveness. His eyes, his mouth felt so dry they hurt. Dazai’s kept both hands on him now; one to hold his wrists and one useless and light on Chuuya’s chest, yet ridiculously efficient at anchoring him.
They continued to quarrel whenever Chuuya was coherent enough. The rest of the time, Dazai just aired his grievances or criticized his dress style: only shreds of sentences managed to penetrate Chuuya’s haze, but they irritated him too much to let him lose consciousness.
Dazai’s hand was too soft on Chuuya’s chest. At some point, it slid to his throat and finally cradled his cheek – or maybe he was imagining it, delirious and distracted by his partner’s inability not to be a damn nuisance.
Dazai’s touch felt cool. It felt soothing. Chuuya didn’t want to think about how much he clung to it to remain sane. He much preferred Dazai’s poisonous words: those were explainable, easy to take and dismiss.
He fell asleep at one point anyway, too exhausted from the pain and the strain; finally, his rest was empty and dreamless.
***
Chuuya woke up bathed in sunlight and smothered by Dazai’s weight. He was still drained, but the pain and the dizziness couldn’t hold a candle to before. His ex-partner was sprawled across his body, his face buried against Chuuya's shoulder, basically using him as a pillow.
“Get off!” He barked at Dazai, who grumbled and refused to move.
Chuuya tried to push him off and succeeded, much to his satisfaction. He sat up awkwardly – his wrists were still tied up, but at least his strength had recovered enough that he quickly undid the knots with his teeth.
“You monster,” Dazai groaned unhappily.
Chuuya glanced at him, caught off-guard. Surprisingly, the man did seem exhausted – he was pale and even lazier-looking than usual, with dark circles under his eyes.
“I remained awake all night to watch over you and your ability to accidentally raze this entire building and this is my reward?” Dazai complained.
Chuuya scowled, feeling a pang of undue guilt seize him – memories of cool hands on him, of something close enough to gentleness for him to detest it. Dazai glared at Chuuya as if he’d committed some great injustice, very clearly sulking.
“What do you want, Dazai?” Chuuya asked bemusedly, certain that this was leading up to some trick or another.
“This,” Dazai said sullenly.
His hand reached for Chuuya’s nape and pulled so slowly that he didn’t think about struggling: he just leaned down as Dazai wished, his mind empty from anything except fascinated anticipation.
The kiss was chaste, as first, far less so, once Chuuya felt the brush of Dazai’s tongue and answered in kind.
It had been years since they’d kissed. Back then, it’d meant nothing: sex and pleasure used for challenges, for competition, out of boredom or as another field to fight.
Right now –
Dazai’s hand slid to his hair, stroking unruly curls. The bastard kissed well enough that Chuuya felt desire stir beyond his current exhaustion, shortening his breath. Somehow, Dazai had gotten even better since their last time.
Dazai broke the kiss and grimaced.
“Wow, you taste horrible!”
– Right now, Chuuya was going to strangle him.
“I’ve been drugged for days, you idiot! What did you expect?”
“You're right; I was foolish to even hope. I remember our teenagerhood –”
“Go die in a ditch, Dazai! My breath was perfectly fine back then and it still is!”
“Let’s just say you were truly deserving of the title ‘king of the sheep’ –”
Chuuya grabbed Dazai by the collar and crushed their lips together, clenching one fist into his hair to force him into the kiss. This time it was a fight, Dazai struggling back against the press of Chuuya's tongue, trying to lead and tensing in frustration when he couldn’t.
“I hope it tasted gross,” Chuuya panted when they broke it off to breathe.
“Awful,” Dazai agreed with a grimace. “I refuse to believe it's usually better. You taste even worse than you look!”
“You –” Chuuya roared before Dazai pulled him down and started not only kissing, but also finally touching him.
As soon as he’d had two days and a pack of mints to recover, Chuuya was going to kiss that bastard as long as it’d take to corner him into honesty.