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The fact that a battle with a sludge monstrosity was what triggered Dazai's nostalgia probably said something about his mental state. Admittedly, he'd never been all that healthy, but still. Surely feeling nostalgic after getting his face punched in by a sickly green tentacle was an all-time low.
The tree kid from the Guild (John, maybe? James? Dazai hadn't paid attention when Kunikida had shared what little they knew about the Guild operatives) was unconscious in the brush, and whatever remained of that sludge monster's corpselike body was pummeled six feet into the ground. Q was still in one piece, too. He slumped on the stairs, head lolled back, looking for all the world like a kid – not a coldblooded murderer.
At Dazai's feet laid the root of his internal struggle: one Chuuya Nakahara, his chest rising and falling shallowly.
Upon being told to “take me to the extraction point” by a barely conscious Chuuya, Dazai's first thought had been to abandon the other man and go about his merry way. Q was just a kid; carrying him would be easy. But now... second thoughts rattled around Dazai's head like balls in a bingo cage. They were irritating and loud as all hell, and despite his usually impeccable self-control, Dazai couldn't bring himself to walk away.
Many things could be said about Chuuya. He was efficient and deadly, especially when given space to do things his way. He was also incredibly sharp, though the uncanny acuity of their peers often outshone his practical logic. The fearsome reputation of a Port Mafia executive was one Chuuya had earned a thousand times over.
Yet all Dazai could think was that Chuuya looked... fragile.
Most people didn't see the carnage of the redhead's ability. Some, like Dazai, were blessed with nonexistent backlash – he could use his ability over and over and never tire.
Then there were people like Chuuya.
His fair skin had paled by several shades, making him look like a specter in the moonlight. His fingers and legs twitched intermittently, and his muscles were inevitably ravaged by Corruption's strain. Splotchy bruises and red marks wrapped around his limbs, marking all the places where veins of Corruption had seized Chuuya's body, or he'd received a hit. He was hardly invincible, after all.
Dazai knew he should walk away. Sentimentality was the poison of choice for men who believed loyalty meant something. Chuuya was a sentiment, a remnant of a past they'd once shared.
But Odasaku drifted around Dazai's head, his memories of the man jogged by the irresistible gravity of Upon the Tainted Sorrow. Damn it all, this was Chuuya. He looked even worse than usual, and that was saying something, given how many scraps they'd survived together.
Maybe if he'd grabbed Chuuya's wrist a few seconds earlier, he wouldn't be in such a bad state.
“You're a pain, you know that?” Dazai muttered aloud. Unsurprisingly, the redhead didn't respond. But as Dazai slung the shorter man over his shoulder and grabbed Q's forearm, he couldn't keep himself from conversing with his unconscious companion. “You always complained about me being the reckless one, but you're the one that leaps into everything without a plan. It's a miracle you survived after I left.”
Sentiment. That was all it was. Dazai's sentimental rambling, spoken for no one to hear. Chuuya rested heavy against his back, and for the first time in years, Dazai felt... warm. With each step, Chuuya's body heat chased away the perpetual chill in his veins.
He locked that realization in the deepest recesses of his mind as soon as it materialized. Dazai was just tired; that was all. As soon as he showered and slept, he wouldn't feel so... unstable.
Fifteen minutes later, Dazai stood at the edge of a small clearing. Q and the doll laid at his feet (yes, Dazai had dragged the kid along), and Chuuya still rested on his back. The executive was missing half his outfit, but Dazai had concluded that swiftness was more important than figuring out a way to bring all of Chuuya's belongings with them. If the redhead really cared about his precious trench coat so much, he could go back for them by himself.
Dazai had grabbed Chuuya's hat, though. He knew better than to leave the hat.
An unmarked helicopter arrived within minutes, and a group of Port Mafia agents dropped from the machine. Two headed directly for Dazai while the rest fanned out to scan the perimeter.
“Where's Q?” the taller of the grunts asked gruffly. Dazai nodded at the unconscious boy, and the two agents picked him up, the shorter one handling the doll with visible terror. Dazai almost pitied them. “We'll be right back for Chuuya-san.”
Like a flash of lightning, protectiveness flashed through Dazai's chest. It was illogical and irrational, and it would cause nothing but problems. But Chuuya suddenly felt a little warmer. His shuddering breaths heaved against Dazai's back, and Dazai knew from experience that Chuuya would have no time to heal. He'd be thrown right back into the war, still bloody and bruised.
“No need,” Dazai said lightly, ignoring the warning alarms blaring in his head. “Chuuya isn't being picked up here. I'll take care of him.”
The taller grunt paused, and he shot Dazai a baffled look. “I was told we'd be picking up the kid and Chuuya-san.”
Dazai smiled sweetly. “I said,” he intoned, and a rush of cold amusement swept through his chest as both grunts recoiled, “I'll take care of Chuuya. Don't worry, I'm not going to kidnap him. He's not much use to anyone like this. If Mori-san has a problem, he can take it up with me later.”
The grunts hurried away. Dazai had always prided himself on his “I'm going to kill you!” smile, and it seemed like the years away from the Port Mafia hadn't dulled its potency in the slightest. Once Q was loaded in the helicopter, it rose back into the night sky, hovering for just a moment before flying off towards the ocean.
During his preliminary reconnaissance of the surrounding area, Dazai had spotted a parking lot attached to a campsite, two miles away from Q's prison. He adjusted his grip on Chuuya's legs, then started into the woods.
He was setting himself up for disaster. Chuuya was not being picked up elsewhere, so Dazai either had to deliver the executive to the Port Mafia and explain why he'd lied to the extraction agents or house the man for the night. Both were ridiculous options, with the former likely to get him in trouble with Mori and the latter likely to get him in trouble with Fukuzawa. Gods, why hadn't he handed Chuuya off like he was supposed to? This detour had ruined his plans for a peaceful evening away from the Guild and the Port Mafia and-
“Dazai?” Chuuya mumbled.
Dazai froze, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. Chuuya was usually unconscious for a solid hour after using Corruption.
“Dazai... it's chasing me.”
Chuuya went limp, and he clutched at Dazai's trench coat with shaking hands. The shorter man then muttered something about dogs, which made it clear he wasn't actually coherent, but worry squeezed Dazai's chest nonetheless. Chuuya hadn't been so out of it in a long time. He really should have stopped Corruption sooner.
Chuuya finally got a hold of his trench coat and clung to it. Dazai picked up his pace.
I could be having a nice evening right now, Dazai griped as he reached the parking lot and began searching for an older model.
I should have given him back to the Port Mafia, he thought, carefully setting Chuuya on the ground and getting to work on the old Toyota's door lock.
Where am I even going? he wondered as they sped down the mountain, the removed piece of the dashboard tumbling around in the backseat.
Dazai knew the answer to the last question. After they crossed city limits, he would abandon the stolen car somewhere near the docks (he didn't need to bring any legal trouble to the Agency's door), then take Chuuya back to his apartment. Well, not his actual apartment – the apartment a few blocks away from Atsushi's, which Dazai had lived in for the better part of two years. Once they got there...
He hadn't thought that far ahead. Most likely scenario, Chuuya would wake up and storm out, and that would be that. Dazai wouldn't have changed anything; in fact, he probably would have worsened Chuuya's recovery by forcing the man to get back to the Port Mafia while injured.
Dazai didn't even slow down as they passed the Port Mafia's headquarters.
After a brief stop to buy food, he abandoned the car by the harbor and hailed a taxi. For once, the late hour worked in their favor, and Dazai easily explained away Chuuya's incapacitation. (“Ah, he's a lightweight,” he told the driver cheerfully. The woman chuckled and pulled away from the curb without further questioning.) Ten minutes later, he dragged Chuuya out of the car, graciously tipped the driver, and hauled them both into his apartment.
It was at that point that Dazai realized he had no idea what he was doing. He was standing in his living room with an injured Chuuya leaning on his shoulder, and he'd dropped them both off the map for no reason other than, what? He didn't trust the Port Mafia to take care of Chuuya?
...no, that couldn't be it.
Dazai ran through the motions as if no time had passed. He laid Chuuya on his bed and tended to the redhead's visible injuries. Chuuya's chest and back were undoubtedly littered with more wounds, but removing a sleeping man's clothes toed a line that Dazai wasn't willing to cross. He contented himself with removing Chuuya's vest and shoes and setting both aside, placing the hat on the top of the pile.
All the while, Chuuya remained unconscious. His eyelids twitched now and then, but the shaky rise and fall of his chest was slow. Even when Dazai cleaned a deep cut on Chuuya's forearm, the shorter man didn't stir.
By the time Dazai finished tending to Chuuya's many cuts and bruises, his hands were trembling. Years of experience with emotional repression kept him from feeling anything too strongly, but he was a chronic over-thinker. The thoughts started when Dazai left his apartment to throw away the bloodied tissues and swabs.
What was the point? Q had probably made it back to the Port Mafia's headquarters, and soon, the boss would start questioning why Chuuya wasn't with him. When news got around that Dazai had hauled him off into the forest, the finger of blame would swing around to the Agency, despite his assurances that he wasn't kidnapping Chuuya.
Stupid. Stupid, sentimental, irrational.
Dazai dumped his trash into the neighbor's bin, then pulled his phone from his pocket. He speed-dialed the first number and settled himself against the chainlink fence enclosing the property, tamping down the unruly coil of emotions in his stomach.
Fukuzawa picked up on the second ring. “Where are you?”
“If Mori-san asks where I took Chuuya, tell him that I went rogue, and you had nothing to do with it,” Dazai said, completely avoiding the opening question.
“He hasn't called. What did you do?”
As moral as Fukuzawa was, he had an exceptional “danger” voice.
Dazai mentally braced himself, then admitted, “I took Chuuya with me.”
A beat.
“Why?”
If I had an answer, I'd tell you, Dazai thought dryly. “A gut feeling,” he said aloud, and Fukuzawa's low hum made him wince. “Don't worry, Fukuzawa-san. I'm not going to do anything with him. He's in bad shape; he just needs to rest for the night, and he'll be good as new.”
Another beat, but this one seemed longer, heavier.
“You're taking care of Nakahara.”
It was a statement, not a question, and the conversation needed to end before Dazai said something he couldn't take back. “I'll be in the office bright and early,” Dazai said brightly, plastering his “happy” voice over the uncertainty roiling in his mind. “Goodnight, boss.”
He hung up before Fukuzawa could say anything else.
The president was right, of course. Dazai had patched Chuuya up, and after he returned to his apartment, he took up a vigil at the shorter man's side. Both actions more or less fit the definition of “taking care of.” All the while, that insufferable question floated around Dazai's head, stealing any peace that the silent night provided.
Why?
Why, why, why? They'd had plenty of run-ins over the years, and each had been characterized by frosty glares and too-big grins from Chuuya and varying insults from Dazai. That was their new rhythm. It was the way the world worked; actions produced results. Dazai had quit the Port Mafia, so their... relationship had adjusted accordingly.
But tonight had been different. Tonight, Double Black had stood together once again, and Chuuya had placed his life in Dazai's hands. Yes, they'd lacked any better options, but Chuuya hadn't even fought back. He'd just sighed and pulled off his gloves.
Dazai hadn't hated his time in the Port Mafia, exactly. Though he'd never been happy, he wasn't happy anywhere. Two people had been anomalies, bright spots in the otherwise gray world Dazai wandered through.
The first had been Odasaku – the best man Dazai had had the pleasure of knowing.
The second had been- was- Chuuya. Loud, temperamental, skilled Chuuya. Dazai's rival and partner, enemy and friend. They'd spent a few too many bleak nights together for Dazai not to hold the redhead in some degree of fondness.
Chuuya coughed.
Dazai froze, catching the knife he'd been twirling. Chuuya coughed again, a harsh, rattling sound, and Dazai leaped to his feet, hurrying into the kitchen and pouring a glass of water. He returned to Chuuya and placed the cup at the shorter man's shoulder.
Sure enough, when Chuuya's brilliant eyes fluttered open, he reached for the exact spot where Dazai had left the glass. The redhead struggled upright, clutching his ribs as he sipped the water.
Dazai watched from a few steps away, petrified. His face was blank thanks to his great talent for acting, but hesitation gripped his body in a vice. Moment of truth. If Chuuya decided to kill him, Dazai almost thought he deserved it.
After all, there was no logical explanation for his behavior.
Eventually, Chuuya's coughing fit subsided. He rested the glass against his leg, then stiffened, clearly realizing that he was not in his apartment. The redhead looked around for a moment, tension edging his body. Finally, his gaze landed on Dazai, and suspicion flickered through his eyes.
“Did someone ambush us?” Chuuya demanded.
“Good morning to you, too,” Dazai returned airily. Chuuya snarled, and ah, this was more familiar. Dazai cracked a lazy smile and settled on the couch, never breaking Chuuya's stare. “No, we finished the mission. I'm not going to kill you, either, so you can take your hand away from that knife.”
Chuuya's right hand slowly emerged from beneath the covers. “Where are we?” he asked, but his voice no longer carried a defensive edge. Instead, he sounded confused – reasonably so.
“My apartment. You were in terrible shape.”
Chuuya scowled. But he took another sip of water, and that was proof enough of his trust. If you were in a hostile environment, you ate nothing and drank nothing.
Dazai swallowed a fresh wave of uncomfortable emotions.
The redhead downed the last of the water, then leaned back against the wall, placing the glass next to him. “Everything hurts,” he muttered. “What happened? Why'd we miss the extraction point?” Chuuya suddenly sat up straight, horror flashing across his face. “Don't tell me Q's here with us. I don't want to be anywhere near that deranged little bastard.”
“No, Q's on his way back to the Port Mafia,” Dazai assured. “He probably already arrived. It's been a couple of hours.”
Chuuya frowned. “A couple of hours? What time is it?”
“Man, you're just full of questions tonight.” Chuuya's glare was lethal, but Dazai ignored the look, pulling his phone out of his pocket and tapping the screen. “12:39,” he answered.
“So, if Q isn't here,” Chuuya said slowly, “why am I?”
Oh, how nice it would be to have an easy answer. If Dazai admitted to not having a surefire reason, Chuuya would probably get mad. If he made up a reason, Chuuya would see through him, and they'd be back to square one. If Dazai shared the tangled knot of emotions in his chest, which ranged from melancholy to relieved...
Well, that was out of the question.
“I told you,” Dazai said simply. “You looked terrible. I couldn't send you back to the Port Mafia. They would have put you back in the field without any downtime.”
Alright, that was far too close to the truth for comfort.
Luckily, Chuuya didn't question the (admittedly bizarre) explanation. He dropped his gaze to his arms and patted the bandages absently, taking in Dazai's handiwork. Eventually, he touched his ribs, and he hissed in pain.
“What, you decided to ignore these?” the redhead asked heatedly, pointing a rigid finger at his chest.
Dazai blinked. “Did you want me to undress you while you were unconscious?”
Silence.
Chuuya huffed and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing pale skin, too many scars to count, and a horrible patchwork of bruises and surface abrasions. There weren't any odd protrusions, so, hopefully, the shorter man had escaped without a broken rib. Still, he looked worse for wear.
“Give me whatever bandages and ice packs you have,” Chuuya demanded, breaking Dazai from his silent examination. “I'll do it myself.”
“Alright, alright,” Dazai said archly. He snagged the first aid kit from the table and strode over to Chuuya. But just before he offered the box, a stupid impulse grabbed him in a headlock. It was a truly idiotic notion, and even in the best outcome, he'd end up with a broken nose.
Dazai had never been deterred by the threat of pain or injury. He sank to the ground in front of Chuuya, nimbly crossing his legs and grabbing a roll of bandages from the first aid kit. Chuuya watched him with blatant suspicion. But he said nothing, so Dazai didn't respond to the silent questioning.
Why? he wondered as he pressed ice packs to Chuuya's worst bruises and wrapped bandages around the ones that would heal by themselves. Why am I doing this?
...maybe he was only human, too. Maybe, beneath the sheet of ice protecting the remains of his heart, leaving his partner behind had taken an inexplicable toll on him.
Maybe Chuuya was still a special case, even after all these years.
Finally, Dazai sat back on his haunches and took stock of the redhead's various injuries, both on his chest and back. Corruption had torn a few veins on Chuuya's back, all of which seemed to have been old wounds. Dazai stifled a worried frown as he ghosted his fingers over a reopened scar, which he'd protected with a sterile bandage. Had Chuuya never let it heal properly? Or was it simply the price he paid for using Corruption?
Whatever. If he hadn't explained when they were partners, he certainly wouldn't now.
“That's all of them,” Dazai reported, standing with the kit in hand. Chuuya watched him with an emotion Dazai couldn't quite identify, so instead of addressing it, he walked away. “There's a bagel on the table if you're hungry.”
The rustle of Chuuya putting his shirt back on, followed by the sound of paper tearing. Dazai slipped the first aid kit back under the sink and steadfastly kept his back turned, even when Chuuya spoke again.
“This is my favorite.”
“Oh, is it? I didn't know,” Dazai said lightly, lying through his teeth.
“And this is the spread I always use.”
No easy way out of that. One was a coincidence, two was suspicious, and three was the final nail in the coffin. At least there wasn't a “three” to seal Dazai's fate.
“...this is from the bakery I always go to.”
Shit.
Dazai hadn't consciously planned to get Chuuya's favorites. He'd passed a grocery store on the drive back and realized that he didn't have any food in case Chuuya woke up hungry, so he'd driven to a 24-hour bakery he always frequented and ordered bagels.
How had he forgotten that he and Chuuya were both regulars?
Dazai steeled his nerve, then spun on his heel, inhaling to offer some stupid excuse about grocery store hours and how the bakery was a godsend for staying open late. Anything was better than letting the horrible silence filling his apartment stagnate. But when Dazai turned, he found Chuuya already looking at him. The redhead's brilliant blue eyes reflected the moonlight streaming through the window.
“What are you doing?” Chuuya asked, quieter than before.
What, indeed.
The answer to Chuuya's question was buried somewhere beneath years of companionship, late nights spent in alleys and narrow hallways, and the silence of Yokohama evenings. The answer was an unfinished blanket made from threads of all colors, weaving together in a pattern that Dazai had never let himself appreciate or even acknowledge. The answer was a death trap to men like them.
I was worried about you.
And he couldn't say that aloud. God only knew that Chuuya had always been the more temperamental between them, the more easily provoked – but in some ways, he'd always been more professional, too.
“I-” Words didn't come. Dazai's silver tongue faltered, leaving him to crash and burn under Chuuya's piercing gaze. “Ah-”
Nothing. No bright justifications, no clever plans, nothing to get him out of this situation. Dazai's habit of planning ahead had shut off the moment he'd decided to hold onto Chuuya rather than release him into the hands of the Port Mafia, and oh, that was probably worth addressing. In the four years since his departure, Dazai had severed his mental ties to the Port Mafia. An ex-mafioso he might be, but now, he was a member of the Armed Detective Agency, through and through.
So what excuse did he have for protecting a Port Mafia executive from nonexistent danger?
Chuuya grumbled incomprehensibly, and Dazai snapped from his spiral. The redhead was munching on his bagel, the bakery bag and a plastic knife discarded next to him.
“Get over here,” Chuuya ordered. “You left your bagel in the bag.”
Bad idea, such a bad idea.
Slowly, Dazai crossed the room and sat next to Chuuya's legs. The shorter man immediately held out a bagel already covered in butter, and Dazai accepted the napkin gingerly. Chuuya didn't look up at him, didn't discuss their odd ceasefire.
Dazai glanced at his midnight snack. Just the right amount of butter.
He started eating without a word.
The next fifteen minutes passed in silence. They both finished their snacks, and at Chuuya's disgruntled look, Dazai searched his kitchen for something else to eat. To his great surprise, he discovered a pack of crackers tucked into his otherwise barren cabinet and returned to Chuuya's side with his prize. They ate those silently, too. Every so often, their hands or knees bumped.
It shouldn't have been so comforting to be in the presence of an enemy. Of course, Chuuya wasn't an enemy, despite their constant animosity. It was... familiar.
A few minutes before 1 AM, their quiet moment was shattered by the rattle of the front door. Dazai instantly stiffened. Chuuya drew his knife once again, and they sat together, silent. An idiot burglar? Or something much more serious?
The door burst open, welcoming a hailstorm of bullets and the cacophonous TA-TA-TA of a machine gun.
A knife landed in Dazai's left hand, and he launched it toward the intruder with only a second spent to aim. It whistled past the oncoming bullets (all of which floated in the air, their momentum negated by Chuuya's raised hand) and plunged into their attacker's chest. The gunman coughed, gagged, and keeled over backward, landing a few rounds in the ceiling as he fell. A perfect throw.
For a moment, neither Dazai nor Chuuya moved. Then Dazai's brain kicked back into action, and he heaved a heavy sigh. The wall of bullets hovering before them dropped to the wood with tinny clatters.
“That's going to be a pain to fix,” Dazai muttered, squinting up at the new bullet holes in his ceiling. Thankfully, he didn't have upstairs neighbors, so no one would call the police. “Hey, Chuuya, did you have a tail when you went to Q's shack?”
Chuuya shot him a dirty look. “Of course not! This has nothing to do with me.”
“Mm. I disagree, because this never happens when you aren't here.”
“I'd beat you to death for killing one of the Port Mafia if he hadn't tried to kill me, too! I don't-”
Dazai pulled his phone from his pocket, tuning out the rest of Chuuya's tirade. He dialed Fukuzawa's number once again and mentally resolved to bring the boss coffee to make up for calling him at 12:58 in the morning. The poor man deserved a break from his bullshit.
This time, Fukuzawa picked up on the first ring. “What?”
“I just got an unexpected visitor,” Dazai said mildly, examining the gunman sprawled across his front doorstep. “They're Port Mafia. Mori-san must think I kidnapped Chuuya.”
“I could kill you and get out of here whenever I want!” Chuuya snapped. Driven by sheer habit, Dazai planted a finger against the redhead's lips to silence him. He ignored both the indignant noise he got in response and the string of “???????” circling his mind at his own out-of-character boldness.
“Did you not kidnap him?”
Dazai frowned, affronted. “Didn't you hear him? Chuuya could kill me and get out of here whenever he wants.”
A knife pressed against Dazai's ribcage. He ignored the unspoken threat, too.
“Was there only one agent?”
“Yeah.”
“Then the mission was not extermination, but reconnaissance or retrieval. Nakahara likely has some kind of tracker on his person, or the Port Mafia tracked you to your apartment. They now know where you live and that Nakahara is still alive.”
Dazai eyed his ceiling a second time, then glanced at the gunman on the ground. Now that he was paying attention, the dark silhouette of a bodycam clearly protruded from the assailant's vest. “You're right,” he sighed aloud. “I should have been more careful. Man, moving is going to take so long.”
“We'll find you somewhere new in the morning. Tell Nakahara he should leave your apartment as soon as possible, so the two of you don't cause any more problems.”
Fukuzawa ended the call before Dazai could relay the message in real-time. He sighed again, then shoved his phone back into his pocket and turned to Chuuya.
“Fukuzawa-san says you should leave as soon as possible,” he recited dutifully. Chuuya's eyes flashed, and Dazai held his hands up defensively. “Don't get mad at me. It's not my fault that Mori-san sent someone out here to see where I live.”
It was Dazai's fault, of course. But he didn't need to admit that.
“I'm not leaving now,” Chuuya muttered, sheathing his second knife (which Dazai hadn't noticed strapped to his hip, apparently). “You're right. If I go back now, the boss will probably send me to deal with Q.” He flopped back on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head. “I'd rather get a few hours of sleep. Wake me up if someone else tries to kill you.”
It was such an odd situation, started by his own hand and rampant nostalgia. But as Chuuya closed his eyes and visibly relaxed, Dazai couldn't bring himself to regret his impromptu decision. Chuuya's wounds were treated, and in the pale moonlight, he looked a few years younger – a bit more like the friend Dazai had once had.
Sentiment. The poison of men who believed in loyalty.
Chuuya had always held great stock in loyalty.
Dazai shook himself and stood, hauling the gunman inside and firmly closing the door. Once the body was suitably hidden, Dazai snatched the bodycam and crushed it beneath his heel. With any luck, the footage would be indecipherable thanks to poor placement and explosive bursts of light from gunfire.
With any luck, Mori wouldn't be able to see Dazai and Chuuya sitting together, eating crackers.
It took a long time to fall asleep listening to Chuuya's slow breaths. Dazai knew the cadence better than he did his own.
By sunrise, Chuuya was up and ready to go. To Dazai's great surprise, the redhead offered to dispose of the body. He couldn't possibly fathom Chuuya's reasoning, but he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth. They stuffed the gunman into a trash bag, checked to ensure there were no soldiers waiting outside, then stepped into the faint morning sunlight.
“You should have just left me in that field,” Chuuya grumbled, hauling the body over Dazai's doorstep. “It would have been easier than dealing with all of this.”
Both true statements. Dazai still couldn't muster up any regret for his decision. “I'll see you in a few days,” he said in place of a proper farewell.
Chuuya hesitated.
“Dazai,” he began slowly.
Dazai waited. His heart twisted with an emotion he hadn't felt in years; he couldn't even put a name to it.
Chuuya closed his mouth and left, the trash bag thumping along behind him.
Dazai would be a liar if he said he wasn't disappointed to see the shorter man leave.
Three days later, he stood in front of an apartment complex a few blocks away from his previous one, a pile of boxes at his feet. The building was less rundown than the previous one, but Dazai hadn't wanted to move. Even with his minuscule possessions, unpacking was such a chore.
He heaved an exhausted sigh at the world in general, then pulled his keys from his pockets and unlocked the front door. The apartment was nice enough, just like the building. Clean floors, clean walls, and empty rooms. And, perched on the kitchen counter, was a lithe figure with his arms resting on his legs.
“I can't believe it took you that long to get your stuff over here,” Chuuya griped. Before Dazai could ask any questions (notably, “how did you find my new apartment?”), the redhead pointed at a red box sitting on the opposite counter – a first aid kid. “Consider it a housewarming gift,” Chuuya added, and a shit-eating grin touched his face. “And a reminder that that's what happened when you take me hostage.”
Dazai was not often speechless. He'd made a career out of always having something to say and knowing exactly when to say it. Staring at Chuuya, who had shed his trench coat and steel-toed boots, Dazai couldn't cobble together a single sentence.
Thankfully, Chuuya moved first. He sprung from the counter and strode past Dazai, knocking their shoulders together as they went.
“Come on!” the redhead called over his shoulder. “The Guild's still out there, and the Agency needs you. It's boring to get into fights knowing you won't swoop in to save your friends because you're unpacking."
Dazai stood there for a moment longer, dumbfounded.
Sentiment. Loyalty.
The poison of choice for better men than he.
Chuuya helped him haul the furniture inside once the moving truck arrived, and when lunch rolled around, the redhead went out to buy food. He returned with Dazai's favorite sandwich, down to the last ingredient and the amount of sauce.
Dazai didn't dare question it.
A remnant of a time past.
He would cling to whatever this was until it fell apart once again.