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Strolling into the chibi’s house to find the living room in shambles is not something Dazai expects when he plans his infiltration to his ex-partner’s flat.
Poking around, there are plenty of things more noteworthy than that. It’s a weekday, which are especially action-packed in the Mafia, so Chuuya should be at work, but the small, familiar shoes outside on Chuuya’s porch is an indication otherwise. Furthermore, Dazai spots several bottles of medicines (he lifts one and reads ‘cough and cold’… how interesting), and there’s the whirring of the kettle in the too-large kitchen around the corner.
So, it’s only natural that he comes to the solution that Chuuya’s bedridden. There’s only one place the redhead can be, then, and it isn’t hard to figure that out, regardless of Dazai’s intelligence.
“Chibi~!” He singsongs, stepping down the hallway towards the line of doors on one side of the wall. There’s a muffled curse from within Chuuya’s bedroom, and Dazai’s lips lift in amusement.
“Leave me the fuck alone!” Is the tired-sounding answer, and Dazai decidedly doesn’t heed the warning. He turns the doorknob to Chuuya’s room in blatant ignorance, pushing the door open.
The room is in better condition than the living room, that’s for sure. Nothing seems out of place, but the most notable thing is the otherwise tiny lump hidden within the blankets on the Alaskan king-sized bed.
“Is Chuuya hiding from me?” Dazai hums, adding a spring to his step as he approaches. From within the covers, an ungloved hand pops out, ineloquently displaying a middle finger.
“I’m not in the mood to deal with your bullshit,” Chuuya’s muffled voice growls, but it sounds nasally and rough.
“Since when were you ever?” Dazai chirps, stopping at the foot of the bed. It admittedly doesn’t give him as good of a view as he wishes, but he supposes it’ll have to do.
“You’re exactly right. You’re even more unwelcomed now.”
“To not have been kicking me out of the house already… Chuuya really has come down with something, hm?”
“…Gloat all you want, just get out of my sight to do it.”
“Ehh?! So it’s true? I thought Chuuya was physically incapable of getting sick!”
With that, Chuuya finally pops his head out from under the covers, sending him a sharp glare. “If you don’t have anything helpful to contribute to this conversation, get the hell out of my house!”
Dazai blinks. Chuuya continues to glare. Oh.
Chuuya looks… terrible, for better or for worse. His usually fiery, well-maintained and bouncy curls seem to have deflated, looking dull in comparison. His eyes are vaguely bloodshot, and his nose is a concerning shade of red. He looks like he’s lost weight, too.
“Wow,” Dazai states blankly. “You look like shit.”
The glare sharpens, and Dazai retracts a few steps in his head. Well, that absolutely wasn’t what he meant to say.
“Thanks for the clarification,” Chuuya grumbles uncharacteristically, rolling back under his covers. A part of Dazai thinks that it looks… almost cute. There are a few beats of silence as Dazai continues to stare at him, calculating, before Chuuya speaks again.
“Why are you still here?”
Dazai takes a moment to ponder the question. A solution quickly surfaces in his mind.
“I guess it’s my duty to take care of Chuuya!” He claps his hands together, and his ex-partner noticeably freezes. “See, he’s even too tired to swear at me properly!”
Chuuya turns around to face him again, hair tousled. He looks tired, and Dazai can’t tell if it’s a result of the illness or just Dazai’s presence.
“Dazai,” he says testily, voice quiet but firm. “I’m going to sleep, and if you’re still here when I wake up, I’m going to strangle you to death.”
It turns out that Dazai does not, in fact, listen to Chuuya’s warning. Whether it’s because the appeal of death is that alluring or if it’s just to infuriate the redhead is unknown, but Chuuya wakes up three hours later to the unnecessarily loud clanging of pots outside of his bedroom.
Groaning, he thinks it might not be too late to leave from the confines of his bed and yank Dazai outside by the ear. It’s unbelievably tempting, and Dazai would have no choice but to follow with his flimsy limbs.
He tries to yell, but his throat seems to have clogged up enough that nothing comes out other than an unintelligible garble. Groaning again, he pushes his face into his pillow, counting to ten, before rolling out of bed.
At which point he notices a glass of water and pills on his bedside.
He has to stare at it for a moment, half-convinced that it’s a hallucination his mind brought out. He knows every bottle in his medicine cabinet, and knows for a fact that these suspiciously-colored pills laid on the napkin next to his bed is not from said medicine cabinet.
Chuuya decides not to mess with the pills, because if it’s Dazai’s doing (which it most likely is), it’s a sure-fire way to end up on the toilet for five hours. The water, though… he picks it up gingerly, eyeing the clear liquid. It doesn’t smell off, but given that his nose is spectacularly clogged, that doesn’t make a difference. Though, this particular glass is one made specifically to distill unwanted contents, created by Kajii himself… he takes a small sip, and it’s enough to figure that it’s safe, because he doesn’t drop dead on his carpet.
Alright, that’s one thing done right. However, the clanging outside doesn’t get any quieter.
Muttering curses under his breath, he throws on a random hoodie lying draped across his bed. Which he doesn’t remember being there before, and is a bit big on him, but it’s the first and easiest article of clothing to access.
Leaving his room is an ordeal in itself. His living room is a mess, and he grimaces when he sees a pile of shattered glass in the corner that he knows is from when he lost control of his Ability earlier. Being sick gives ammunition to the god within him to wreck even more havoc, and it’s difficult to contain when he can’t even think properly through his feverish haze.
It’s gotten quieter in the kitchen, and Chuuya desperately hopes that Dazai didn’t break anything.
“Is Chuuya awake?” Speak of the devil. Chuuya exhales slowly, and braces himself for the inevitable sight of his kitchen in ruins, solely because he doesn’t trust his own voice now.
It’s surprisingly… not destroyed?
He doesn’t have a moment to respond, though, because the mackerel whistles. “You look even worse now, Chibi!” He remarks cheerfully. Chuuya glowers at him.
“Shut the fuck up,” he insists, but it’s deflated to a rough growl. That works, he supposes.
Dazai has an amused smile playing on his lips, but doesn’t push it. Instead, he leans against the counter, giving Chuuya a view of the kitchen table behind him.
“Is that…” Chuuya’s almost afraid to ask. “Is that food?”
“No, it’s obviously poison.”
“Don’t mock me, asshole!”
“I’m not mocking! I’m making a point, there’s a difference~”
“Shut up. Just. Shut up.”
“Well,” Dazai drawls, lips curling even more. “I took it upon myself to cook you a nice meal because I’m such a nice person. You should be thanking me, really.”
“It wouldn’t do you any good to just order some takeout, rather than cook me a very-possibly inedible meal?” Chuuya argues, disgruntled. Dazai sighs, crossing his arms.
“The takeout you eat is all unhealthy.” Like Dazai’s food is any better— wait, why the hell does Dazai know where he gets takeout?!— “And, I had to give a call to my dear Agency doctor for a twenty-minute lesson about nutrition, so the least you could do is be grateful.”
Chuuya squints in suspicion. And why would Dazai think to do that…?
Chuuya would snort if he could, but the only thing he gives Dazai the satisfaction of is a sniffle. He rubs his itchy nose, and eyes the food on the table. It looks surprisingly edible, but it’s Dazai’s creation, and he doesn’t know how much he trusts it. Though, the idea of drinking some warm soup is really, really tempting…
“How do I know you didn’t poison the soup?” Chuuya asks dryly. Dazai gives him an unimpressed look.
“Poisoning someone when they can’t taste it is beneath me!” He whines. This time, it’s Chuuya’s turn to give him the unimpressed look.
“That’s exactly up your alley,” he argues, which dissolves into coughs. Dazai stares.
“You sound like Akutagawa-kun, you know.”
He graces the taller man with another middle finger.
“If I eat, will you finally leave me alone?” He huffs. At this point, maybe it’d be better to drop dead. He doesn’t think he can stand Dazai’s presence any longer.
There’s a small hum, and that’s enough to get him to take a seat at the table. Thankfully for his sanity, Dazai doesn’t seem intent on bothering him any longer.
Now, if only Dazai would leave his house. Which, Chuuya knows, he won’t.
Chuuya glares at Dazai. “You are not making me eat that.”
Dazai holds up one of the suspiciously colored pills from earlier, waving it around like a toy. “Yosano-sensei prescribed it, though.”
“Shouldn’t that be more of a reason for me to not take it?!” If that woman can intimidate Kouyou-anesan and convince Dazai to tag along in her nutrition lesson, Chuuya thinks he’s right to be wary.
Dazai sighs. Chuuya turns his head away. He’s already had to suffer through one of Dazai’s mysterious concoctions (which was actually infuriatingly tasty despite his dulled senses, but he’s never admitting to it), and it took far too much willpower for him to do just that. Add some random medicine from a woman he hardly knows, and that’s a recipe for disaster.
When he looks up again, Dazai’s leveling him with a stare, laced with some weird… emotion. But Dazai Osamu is not an emotional person. He must be seeing things wrong.
“…Oh, whatever,” Chuuya grumbles, snatching the pill. To hell with it, he guesses. “You eat one, too. Maybe it’s a matter of survival of the fittest, and you’ll be taken out first.”
That, and he just can’t stand seeing Dazai look like a kicked puppy. That’s it.
Instantly, Dazai brightens. “Chuuya! Are you offering to do a double-suicide with me?”
Chuuya promptly thwacks the side of Dazai’s head with his free hand.
Chuuya refuses to admit it. He won’t, and he’ll take the secret to the grave. But, by some miracle, come night time, he’s feeling significantly better, and he knows it must be the work of a certain bandaged bastard. Who is also still being an annoying thorn in his side, because said bastard is clinging to his arm as they watch terrible action movies on his couch, despite the possible consequences of becoming sick himself.
Chuuya sniffles, plugging a tissue back up his nose. He can finally inhale without the feeling of his nose being clogged, but now with the consequence of a runny nose. And, maybe the movie they’re watching tugs a bit at his heartstrings, but that’s for him to know and him alone… even if Dazai not-so-subtly gives him knowing looks here and there.
“Oh, quit that,” Chuuya finally mutters, throwing another tissue into the trash. Dazai giggles (holy shit, he giggled?), but doesn’t make a move to unlatch himself from Chuuya’s arm.
“Stop what?” He asks, deviously sweet.
“…If you don’t let go, I’m going to fall asleep on the couch, and I’m going to be very angry when I wake up,” Chuuya warns tersely.
Dazai hums in approval. “Is Chibi saying that it’s so comfortable with me here that you could fall asleep just like this?”
Chuuya lets out a frustrated noise, running a hand down his face. Heat rises to his cheeks, but he instantly wills it down.
“No! Who in their right mind would be comfortable around you?”
“You, apparently.”
Chuuya swears under his breath. “Okay, you asked for it.”
With that, he goes limp in Dazai’s grip. Dazai seems to be marginally surprised, but relaxes as well, which is not how Chuuya wanted that to go.
“…My arm is getting sore,” Chuuya finally says, five minutes later. Dazai hums noncommittally, and, as expected, doesn’t move. Instead, he presses himself closer to Chuuya, and Chuuya grumbles in protest.
It’s strange, in many ways. He doesn’t think he’s had anyone this close to him in years— not since Dazai and his utterly annoying clinginess left the Port Mafia— and it opens up a new possibility to Chuuya. One that brings heat to his cheeks, and he chases the stirrings of an idea away.
Despite his own words, Chuuya ends up falling asleep in that exact position mere minutes later, because it’s far more comfortable here than it really should be, with Dazai’s warm breaths fanning over his cheek and the angle Chuuya’s neck is tilted at.
(There’s a feeling of lingering warmth when Chuuya wakes up, which directly contrasts the annoying and uncomfortable crick in his neck. He groans as he stretches, hissing when he knocks his knee against the coffee table. A splash of liquid hits his bare leg, and he pries his eyes open.
When he refocuses, he sees a cup of water and two pills on the table, just like he remembers at his nightstand when he woke up in his bed yesterday afternoon. The only difference is that he doesn’t remember it being on the coffee table the night before.
Memories flit back into his head slowly, and he notes with a reluctantly growing sense of appreciation when he realizes that his cough comes up empty. His head feels surprisingly clear, nothing like the foggy feeling that lied within him the previous day.
Chuuya becomes basically immobile whenever he comes down with any sort of sickness. It might be the influence of the god within him, or his Ability that weighs him down whenever he tries to help himself— he doesn’t know for sure, but it’s one of the reasons he works so hard not to contract any sort of disease or illness. He loses control of his Ability, and the results are always visible, in the state of his house, or in direct correlation to fresh bruises on his body.
The most recent, contracted two days before, was a surprise to him, because he didn’t expect it, and didn’t want Ane-san to sacrifice any of her time to nurse him back to health. That’s why he tried to sleep it off in his flat while on a leave for vacation. But, his plans were immediately thwarted by a certain detective’s presence.
Chuuya lays back on the couch, blinking up at the ceiling. Dazai… did he really do all of that for Chuuya? What would the bastard gain from helping him?
Nevertheless… Chuuya supposes that a thanks is in order, no matter how much he doesn’t want to give Dazai the satisfaction.
…Maybe he is grateful. And, maybe his heart skips a beat at the thought of Dazai being that willing to help. That’s not important, though.)
“Dazai-san!” Naomi calls. “You have a delivery!”
Dazai pops his head out from where he is in Yosano’s office, curious. “A delivery? From who?”
Naomi’s doubled-over, panting slightly with a bouquet of fresh flowers held tightly to her chest.
Dazai raises an eyebrow, amusement filling his features.
“Naomi-chan, is this your way of confessing to me?” He teases. She grimaces slightly, shaking her head furiously.
“N-no,” she manages. “I think Nakahara-san would kill me before I could even want a chance.”
“Nakahara-san? Why bring him up now?”
“Oh.” She flushes, holding up the bouquet. “This is from Nakahara-san. He requested that I deliver it for you.”
Dazai’s lip twitches in a futile attempt to stop himself from smiling. Camellias. They’re still in full bloom, and they’re rather beautiful, he’d say. Though, he has to wonder about the sentiment behind it, even if it’s obvious considering the state of things the past day. Chuuya rarely ever goes out of his way to actively try to impress Dazai with a gift out of nowhere.
“In that case, thank you, Naomi-chan,” he responds smoothly, stepping out of the office. “For the record, I’m not sure your brother would appreciate it much if you were to try confessing to me.”
The younger girl nods vigorously, handing off the bouquet. She leaves shortly, likely to find Tanizaki, but not before shooting Dazai a knowing smile. Dazai draws his full attention to the flowers, drinking in the beauty in his hands. Misplaced, because it’s too much in contrast to a being such as himself, but he does appreciate it. It warms his heart, seeing the blue wrapping of silk tied with the impossibly bluer ribbon, strangely enough. Chuuya really does know his taste.
“Oh? Is that from our lovely Mafia friend?” A voice echoes next to his ear, and he shifts his gaze to where Yosano peers over his shoulder. He turns away slightly, pouting.
“Ah, ah, Yosano-sensei. No peeking,” he chastises lightly. Yosano snorts, very adamantly demanding he show the present. Reluctantly, and because he knows the woman can make his life a living hell easily, he huffs, brandishing the flowers. She whistles, impressed.
“I should get myself a Mafia boyfriend. Maybe he’ll spoil me, too.”
“You have yourself a perfectly doting almost-Mafia-girlfriend.” Dazai pauses. “And, Chuuya isn’t my boyfriend.”
Yosano eyes him carefully, narrowing her eyes. “You say that, but…” she nods her head to the flowers. “Plus, I seem to remember a certain someone whining to me over the phone about a ‘sick and unresponsive chibi’.”
“It’s a ‘thank you’ gift from said chibi. Don’t look too much into it.”
“…Sure, if that’s what you think. You utter fool.”
Those are her parting words, as she sidles out of the door frame immediately after. It leaves Dazai to wither in his own thoughts, but a small card dangling off the stem of a flower catches his eye.
Ah. He hadn’t noticed that. Unfolding the tiny slip of paper, he observes the message.
“I don’t enjoy being in someone else’s debt, especially yours. 7pm, and if you’re late, I’m going to kick your ass right back out. If it’s an enticing enough offer, there’ll be crab.”
…
Before he knows it, there’s an unabashedly wide grin on Dazai’s face, one that seems unfamiliarly genuine. It’s not signed off with a name, but just the utterly unprofessional writing and the location of the note is enough for Dazai to know who wrote it.
Their relationship has been rocky since the emergence of the alliance, but slowly, a piece clicks back into place. Dazai thinks that he can definitely get used to this.