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Obviously, he’s only here so he can annoy a bedridden slug who can’t fight him off like usual.
A get-well-soon basket hangs from his arm, but of course it’s filled with bandages, snacks and drinks in flavors that are guaranteed to induce Chuuya to making all sorts of disgusted faces. He has even stashed a flower bouquet there, with the wrapping generously provided from his stash of used bandages, and the flowers being weeds that he’s plucked on the way here.
“Chuuya should be so happy to see me,” he murmurs to himself, feeling a burst of energy now that he’s far away from the headquarters, and from the mountain of paperwork awaiting him in the aftermath of Verlaine’s attack on them.
He thinks that if they’re going to have Verlaine in their basement anyway, he could do all the paperwork? Get him eased in into the life of someone slaving away in Yokohama? Of course, at this point, it wouldn’t surprise him if Mori-san has enough of a bad taste to promote that man right away as an Executive.
He shakes his head as he looks left and right the hallway. It’s a residential building in the fringes of Port Mafia territory. All of the residents here are relatively upstanding citizens, with jobs that can only be considered illegal with how boring and unexciting they are.
All of them, aside from the slug that he’s kindly visiting. It really is so much like Chuuya, trying to surround himself with as much facets of humanity as possible. Those in the dark and those in the light, it doesn’t matter where he’s placed, because he’d always be the smallest, brightest spark anyway.
Untainted despite everything, ready to fight with his life, ready to live to the fullest.
…Tsk, how annoying he really is.
The security in this area is lacking, but it’s not like anyone would think that he’s suspicious. There’s a bland, polite smile pasted on his face, and his hand movements are subtle enough to not be noticed. Lockpicking is an easy-enough skill to master. The lock on Chuuya’s apartment door surrenders after five seconds, putting up no fight at all.
He wrinkles his nose as he removes his shoes by the doorway. There’s a separate rack for a pair of indoor slippers for visitors. That slug actually is prepared to host visitors here? Is he even close enough with someone to invite to go here?
He hasn’t even begged his own master to visit, and yet he’s preparing for other people to potentially go here?
Just for that, he mentally tallies an additional prank in retaliation for his dog’s disrespect. He’s brought a pen with him, so he will definitely write out his name on the other’s arms, so that each time he insists on looking cool and folding his long sleeves, he’d just show off just whose dog he really is!
Grumbling under his breath, he resolves to snoop around first, before he goes to Chuuya’s bedside.
After all, even if he personally thinks that Mori-san has turned into working for an underground organization solely because his doctor skills are subpar—that man wouldn’t lie about the state of a powerful trump card for the mafia. If he says that Chuuya needs a week of bedrest to recover from using that power, then it’s one week of Dazai having free reign at annoying the other without care for immediate consequences, such as getting hanged from the ceiling.
He checks his phone to make sure it’s set to silent mode, so he can work uninterrupted. He decides to start rearranging the books in the first shelf in Chuuya’s living room—but before he can even touch the spine of the first book, he hears a groan.
It sounds like one belonging to a lumbering beast, so it must be coming from Chuuya. The apartment is small enough, befitting that of a tiny person. With the basket hanging from his arm, he skips towards the only other room that could be considered as the bedroom.
A mischievous grin is already on his face when he takes advantage of the ajar door, something teasing in his mouth ready to be set free. Something about how Chuuya’s finally given up and started talking in doggy language, if he can only groan nonsense.
He freezes, upon taking in the sight of the bedroom.
He wishes he could say it’s because of how it’s decorated—but it’s actually rather tamer than he’s expected. No posters of rock bands, no pictures of animals, no mountains of hats.
Instead, there’s Chuuya in the middle of his bed, covers kicked off him entirely. Most of his pillows have also taken refuge in the floor. The slug’s face is pale and sweaty, and his clothes are askew.
The bandages that he’s wearing around his waist and his limbs have been partially removed by all of his kicking around, revealing vast expanses of skin. Some of it are still red and purple, bruising from both internal and external injuries.
Presumably so he can be mummified easier, he’s only wearing a loose tank top and shorts. The unbandaged parts show off undeniable lines of lean muscle, proving that he truly is a shorty that has muscle for brains.
Battlescars amidst someone still breathing: a testament to fighting off a godly power and winning.
Chuuya’s physical prowess has to be amongst the best in the entire city, but Dazai still finds himself running faster than he remembers ever moving, so he can peer down closer at the idiot who looks like he’s still stuck in a grand battle.
He also finds himself breathless by his action. Tsk, this is all Chuuya’s fault. Even though he didn’t fight as much, it’s not like he’s completely unscathed. He’s also still reeling from having to carry this heavy slug in his arms. He still hasn’t fully recovered from that exertion.
Thoughts of fatigue don’t last long. He kneels over the mattress and hears the unintelligible growling escape Chuuya’s mouth in a clearer fashion. Like the keening of a dying animal, like the distress of someone helpless to protect cubs he’s taken under his wing.
He shuffles closer, annoyed at how Chuuya’s probably… chibi enough to keep on rehashing the fates of Sheep and Flags, even in his dreams.
“Don’t think about them for too long,” he grumbles, and sets his palm over Chuuya’s sweaty forehead. “If you’re going to spend time being terrified of something, be very afraid of what I’m about to do to your room instead.”
It’s as if his voice has pierced through the terrors haunting Chuuya’s sleep. Furrowed brows start to smoothen out, and the tense line locking his jaw loosens. Limbs caught in a floundering fight start to slacken.
Dazai watches the transformation with giddy eyes, jotting it down inside his mental ‘pet observation manual’. As the saying goes, “know thy enemy”. In order to ensure that he’d always have an advantage over this silly dog, he has to make sure that he knows everything about him.
Right now, this is what he knows: Chuuya looks truly idiotic, especially when he’s relaxed in his sleep. His mouth falls open, a snuffling snore leaving his lips.
And then, because he really is such an annoying slug, he smacks his lips, then swings a fist towards Dazai’s face, all sleepy instincts.
“Shitty Dazai,” he groans out, as soon as his bare knuckle bumps into his chin. Then, he starts snoring once more, as if landing that forceless punch has already satisfied his instincts.
There’s no force behind the punch, especially once one considers just how much strength the other really possesses. There’s no force behind it, but Dazai still feels winded by it anyway, as if it has breached past his skin and directly went for his marrows.
“…As expected of a brute,” he says, keeping his hand pressed over the other’s forehead for a few seconds longer, as he tries to regulate his breathing into something less frantic.
His mind is busy with recalculations as to how he’s going to disturb Chuuya during his resting period.
One thing’s for sure: a major priority is making sure that there’s only one pair of indoor slippers remaining in this house. With how defenselessly Chuuya sleeps, if he ever has any visitors here, there’s a possibility that they’d also be subjected to this kind of scenario.
“And that’s really unpleasant,” he breathes out, eyes focused on the tiny, tiny man who’s now drooling into his bedsheets.
He moves away, lifting his hand off the other’s forehead. He thinks that the other’s sweatiness has somehow been transferred over to him, by virtue of being too close to each other. He makes plans to lay waste to the other’s toiletries as he uses his shower.
Before he can implement the first stage of using up the other’s shampoo, Chuuya starts groaning again.
“…I’m beginning to think that you’re doing this on purpose,” he accuses, interrupted once more. “Or is it that you’re such a good dog now, wanting your master by your side?”
Despite his words, he gently wraps his hand over the other’s wrist, a rabbity pulse against his thumb. The gentleness is self-serving, he tells himself. It’s only because he’s not sure how the other would react if he’s suddenly roused from his nightmare. He very much hates pain, after all, and he’s not looking forward to being greeted with a punch if he ends up inadvertently waking the other up wrong.
He rubs his thumb against that thrumming pulse point. “Rest already, Chuuya,” he says. “I still have to set up many pranks in your apartment.”
Similar to how the other has calmed down earlier, Chuuya reverts to a more peaceful slumber at his words.
“I knew it. You really want to be ordered around by me,” he concludes and nods to himself. He’s going to consider Chuuya’s lack of denial as his agreement, never mind the fact that he’s asleep.
His gaze drifts down to the other’s unraveling bandages. Something hot wells in his throat, like he’s in dire need of a glass of water. Or ten.
As a connoisseur when it comes to wearing bandages, he’s probably just flabbergasted as to how someone can fail so badly at wearing them.
He gulps down air greedily. “It’s because this is such an offense to my eyes,” he says, voice hoarse. “You should be thankful that I’m showing you how to do this properly.”
Thankfully, he’s brought his own set of bandages. His fingers tremble a bit as he fully unravels the white strips of cloth from his dog. He’s probably just not used to touching slugs directly. The times that they’ve deliberately touched each other’s bare skin are reserved for life-or-death scenarios, after all.
He starts off with the other’s legs. There’s less bandaged parts there, since most of the damage on Chuuya’s body is on his upper half. There are scattered bruises over his calves and knees, but his thighs are smooth and unblemished. The clog in his throat thickens.
He attempts to dissipate the strange, jittery energy in his fingertips by rubbing them against the edges of the bandages on the other’s legs. Drifting higher to touch his thighs directly. He makes a mental note to tease the slug about being so hairless, even at sixteen.
…Well, that might backfire, if Chuuya ever retaliates by touching his bare legs for himself. That would be such a horrible scenario—though he might be able to prank the chibi about knowing a Top Secret way to have lengthy legs like him…
He shakes his head to dispel such thoughts. It’s probably the result of the fumes from this room. Spending a too-long time in the slug’s proximity is bound to erode his mind.
He’s a bit shaky as he re-wraps Chuuya’s legs. When he moves up to his torso and his arms, he takes a very long time. Not only does he have to do it with enough care to not wake the idiot slug up, he also doesn’t want to worsen the other’s injuries.
…Not because he’s particularly concerned for his wellbeing.
He takes great effort to carefully bandage the other’s forearms, mottled bruises from the true form of his ability painting an eerie landscape over his skin. It’s because he plans on foisting his paperwork to Chuuya. He needs to have functional hands for that. He also plans to wheedle a homecooked meal from his dog, because he’s seen some grocery coupons stashed in the living room.
It would be unconscionable if someone else gets to taste the fruits of his dog’s cooking attempts before the master manages to do so, after all. Chuuya needs to be less injured for him to become his personal chef.
That’s all there is to it, really.
Getting to touch a sweaty, sticky slug is such a horrendous experience that he ends up sweating over it too. He erases it from his mind, because he doesn’t want to have a nightmare about his thumbs brushing against the other’s chest, or about how his fingernails lingered over the lines that define the other’s abs.
He’s finally done with his handiwork after two hours. So much time has been wasted, but at least Chuuya is now mummified as he deserves.
With shaky legs, he stands up and sets the basket on the bedside table. He’s probably in dire need of a shower, and also two liters of water, and the entirety of the pantry.
It’s not like him to have such faulty control over his limbs, but he ends up accidentally knocking off Chuuya’s phone to the floor. A dull thud, as it’s made of sturdier stuff.
A louder gasp, as Chuuya suddenly sits up. There’s a manic energy on him, like a wild, frenzied beast is clawing against its trappings. His eyes are wide open, but they’re also blank and lifeless, to the point that the blues appear gray. Garbled words gush out of his mouth.
He’s seen him with those wings that has made him appear like a dark, vengeful angel—but this one is probably the most inhuman he’s ever seen him.
He hates Chuuya for many things that are too much to list out, unable to be finished even if he takes an entire year. He hates Chuuya a lot, and one of the reasons is because of how startlingly, genuinely human he is. Such a foul-tempered, foul-mouthed shorty has somehow managed to squeeze in so much humanity in every fiber of his being, that it even overflows out of him.
And so, while there’s interest in seeing another facet of him—it always is nice to have an additional entry in his mental ‘pet observation manual’—it also makes his chest hurt.
He’s someone who very much hates pain.
“Go back to rest,” he says, but Chuuya barely acknowledges his presence now.
In fact, the chibi seemingly forgets about himself entirely. A strange screech claws out of his throat, and it takes Dazai several moments to realize that it’s Chuuya’s dry throat letting out a bloodcurdling sob. Chuuya’s hands form into fists and he moves to punch himself in the chest, as if to stop the pain.
“You’re such an idiot,” Dazai scolds him, holding his newly-bandaged wrists. “Now that we know the limits are your ability, I’ll be able to devise the perfect plans from now on. So you don’t need to feel sad about losing anyone again. Idiot. Dumbass. Shorty.”
Chuuya is too busy being trapped in his nightmare to appreciate his words.
What an annoying dog, trashing his body about and undoing Dazai’s hard work in bandaging him.
“Chuuya,” he says with the most commanding tone he can muster, “you’ve already taken care of the enemy. You can rest.”
Because he’s dealing with someone who’s never failed to irritate him, Chuuya continues thrashing about, not heeding his words, dislodging the grip over his wrists without much effort.
He sucks in his breath, then tackles the chibi back to bed. “You’re human, Chuuya, stop acting like a beast,” he says, embracing his dog tightly.
It’s really tiring, trying to pin the other down and stop his limbs from waving about and inadvertently hurting himself. Even without consciousness, Chuuya is too powerful. He hugs him with the ferocity of how he can sometimes imagine death squeezing his neck.
Right now, there are no thoughts about suicide.
His senses are too overloaded with the scent of Chuuya’s sweat and unshed tears, of his laundry detergent, of his body wash, of his shampoo, of the blood and bruise underneath his skin. The pounding of the other’s heartbeat between their chests, slowing down in increments the longer he’s held. Their limbs intertwined in order to keep the chibi from bucking him off. The sound of Chuuya’s breath waning from ragged to slow, being eclipsed by soft sighs that are too close to his ears.
They stay like that, him acting as a makeshift blanket over the slug. Eventually, Chuuya’s breath evens out, and he starts snoring softly against his cheek.
…It’s really tiring.
He’s also still very thirsty, the lump in his throat refusing to leave. He shifts his face a bit, until he’s nosing into the other’s neck. Before he can second-guess himself, he takes a lick over the hollow of his collarbones.
…As expected, the slug tastes quite salty.
But, if he can’t leave and take a drink from the fridge, this would have to do.
He takes another lick. Five. Ten.
Eventually, Chuuya’s slumber starts to encroach upon him too. “This is your fault for tiring me out,” he complains, even as he feels his eyelids drifting shut.
As expected of a dog disrespectful to his master, Chuuya only answers him with a snore.
He’s used to taking a long time to fall asleep, his thoughts refusing to simmer down. He’s used to sleeping lightly, roused out of the brief unconsciousness with the slightest whisper of movement.
Maybe he’s being infected by his dog.
When he resurfaces to consciousness, it’s many hours later, to Chuuya trying to untangle their limbs. Compared to his sickly pallor earlier, his cheeks are now suffused with color.
He doesn’t have to exaggerate the sleepiness in his tone when he asks, “Nngh? What are you doing, chibikko?”
“That should be my question, mackerel bastard,” but a lot of its usual heat is shaved off, transferred to the points of contact between their bodies. “What the hell are you doing here?”
With how close they are, it’d be easy to take one of the pillows and slap Chuuya’s face with it. It’d also be easy for the chibi to extend his arm and punch him in the jaw. They do neither of these things.
“You should be politer to me,” he says with a sniff. “I very kindly made time in my busy schedule so I can visit my lonely dog. You should be groveling in front of me in delight, and excited to pay me back for my generosity!”
Chuuya gives him an odd look. “Did you hit your head during the fight? I don’t think I understood a word you said.”
“Alas, such is the affliction of low-level organisms.” He lifts the hand that has somehow spent a long time rubbing his dog’s waist, and wipes it over his face in an expression of dismay. “Language comprehension is too difficult for you, I see. Should I use smaller words?”
A heavy eyeroll. “You’re probably saddled with too much paperwork, so you found a way to sneak out of headquarters and annoy me instead.”
…Tsk, the other’s animal instincts really can’t be defeated. “Well, since you understand, you can do the paperwork in my stead!”
A bewildered, “That has absolutely nothing to do with it?!”
“I’ve undergone so much hardship here, you know? The least you can do is cry tears of joy at being able to pay me back by doing all of my work!”
“So much hard work,” is full of sarcasm, as Chuuya reaches out and touches the side of his mouth, uncaring for how the motion makes him freeze. “You’re even drooling in your sleep.”
He leans his face against the warm palm, wipes off any lingering stickiness there. “That drool is from you,” he denies, because drooling is for slugs who are carelessly allowing themselves to be hugged to sleep.
“How the hell would it transfer to you—?!” As soon as Chuuya asks that, he screeches into a halt, eyes wide in horror. He looks like he’s overheating with the implication of how can drool be transferred to another person. Without another word, he lets out a garbled battlecry and starts hitting his face with a pillow.
He scoffs as he fights back by tickling the other’s waist, “You’re really such a violent chibi! There’s nothing but fighting in your tiny brain! You even fight even while you’re dreaming!”
It’s almost comical, how that makes Chuuya stop, his hands still raised while holding onto the poor pillow. There’s utter confusion in his face. Much like a lost puppy, really. “Ha? I don’t… I don’t dream though.”
It’s the most uncertain he’s ever heard the slug. It gives him allergies, he thinks, because one of the things he can always trust Chuuya to be is to this confident, brazen, ridiculously strong idiot. Even without a solid plan and backup plan, he can face death, stare it down and spit in its face.
He plucks the pillow out of the other’s hold, and uses it to smack the other in the nose. “It’s my win,” he declares, even if they haven’t actually talked about how to achieve victory in this bout of theirs. “Dream, nightmare, night terror, whatever,” he adds, breezy.
With the both of them half-kneeling over the mattress, Dazai is satisfied to note that their height difference only keeps on growing over the years. It means that he can raise his chin and self-importantly claim, “You’ve been crying for me to hug you.”
He has zero compunctions whatsoever in lying to disgust the slug.
Chuuya does make a disgusted face at that, even moving as if he’s about to barf. “Now, I know that you’re really concussed. I think you need to have your head checked, if you’re saying such weird things.”
“Aw, is this finally my dog showing concern for his master?” He raises his hands to his lips, making exaggerated cooing sounds. “Fufufu, Chuuya, I’m glad you’re finally accepting it!”
Another odd look. Chuuya reaches out to touch his waist, palm warm even over the layers of his shirt and his bandages. He hisses out a breath, when Chuuya holds him firmly, thumb pressing down over a tender bruise. “Oi, bastard, don’t tell me you didn’t even notice that you also have injuries?”
He’s probably infected by the slug once again, because he can feel himself copying the comical freezing from earlier.
He… really hasn’t noticed it. It’s not a dire injury. It’s just that, he’s been so busy watching Chuuya fight, busy catching him in his arms, busy lamenting his lack of pen to doodle on his face, busy with all other more important matters.
Chuuya reads his silence well, and scolds him again. “Dumbass,” he says, but it’s almost fond. “I’m sure you brought a bunch of bandages, so just grab the first-aid kit on the drawer,” a gesture towards his bedside table, “and I’ll help patch you up.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Does an idiot slug even know how to use bandages properly?”
Chuuya slowly looks down at his body. Lopsided bandages with uneven thickness, mostly all loosened up because Dazai did not dare wrapping them too tightly and hurting the other earlier. Because he didn’t want to wake up, not because he’s worried and he’s taken to acting gentler.
“I’m pretty sure I can do a better job than you,” is said with the usual blustery confidence. “How do you even fail this hard at bandaging someone? It’s like you’re too wimpy to even tighten it—oh.”
Blue eyes are wide, once again. He looks like his life just flashed before his eyes, finding meaning in certain things.
It’s annoying, because a simpleton will undoubtedly reach incorrect conclusions. Out of the goodness of his heart, Dazai corrects him preemptively, “It’s because you’re already too small, what if you end up shrinking if I squeezed you too tightly? Then I won’t have a dog who’ll do my paperwork and cook crab for me!”
“Oi, oi, oi, why the hell did you just casually add in cooking there?!” Chuuya points his middle finger towards his forehead. “Plus, you’re the one who was hugging me too tightly earlier! I couldn’t breathe!”
“Oh, if only you stopped breathing entirely,” he says with a moue of dismay.
“You bastard—!!!”
Normally, this would cause Chuuya to flip out and start hitting him again. However, his recovery is probably addling his actions. It makes his dog more unpredictable than usual.
Oh, Chuuya does charge at him, seemingly ready to start brawling. Just as he dodges the wide swing of the other’s arm, Chuuya shifts so that they’re instead barreling towards each other.
Petite he may be, Chuuya’s heavy and forceful. The motion knocks the breath out of him, and they topple off the bed together.
“You idiot chibi,” he hisses, as he tries to roll them over so that he’s the one who’d take the brunt of their fall. It’s his mind swiftly calculating that it’d be more troublesome if Chuuya gets further injured, that they still don’t know if there are any lingering side-effects to opening that gate to unleash Arahabaki’s power—
Chuuya’s an idiot through and through, and attempts to roll them over again so that it’s his tiny back who’d hit the floor first.
It’s just a few seconds, and the result of this bout is a draw. They land on their sides, but Chuuya’s hand protectively holds the light injury over his waist. His hand is covering the worst of the bruises on Chuuya’s forearm.
“You idiot chibi,” he repeats, eyebrows twitching at this recklessness. He should have known that dogs really are too wild, but this is too much! “Are you trying to coast in your job, huh? Trying to injure yourself further? You still haven’t recovered from using the true form of your ability, and you still haven’t done my paperwork, and you still—mmph!!!”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“Oi, you look like you just got a heart attack,” Chuuya observes, blinking at him with huge blue eyes. “It’s pretty funny.”
“Did you just bite my cheek,” he asks faintly, feeling like he’s really been concussed.
“You were being so noisy,” is huffed at him.
Coming from someone who likes to blast rock music wherever he goes, this is utter, unacceptable slander, but he still is trying to think about how his dog really acts like a dog, biting him like that.
“Thanks for earlier,” sends him further into shock, as Chuuya’s face flushes once again. “You must have been so boring that it calmed me down in my sleep, or something. Plus, you’re really so worried for me, so…”
“Ha? You’re calling me boring?! And worried for you?!”
“Of course?! Is there anyone else who hugged me earlier?!”
He sits up immediately, and reaches for the basket that he’s brought with him. He upends its contents over Chuuya’s stupid head. Because the bandages have been used up in trying to mummify the slug, the only remaining things are the snacks, drinks and the bouquet of weeds.
Chuuya sputters in indignation, gaze zeroing in on the snacks with flavors that he absolutely despises. “See! You’re even buying these weird flavors! You’re very boring!”
“As expected of a slug, you don’t even know proper vocabulary!”
A punch to his shoulder. “AAARGH! Shut up already! You’re so annoying! I’m taking my thanks back!”
“That’s not how it works!” He clamps his fingers hard on the other’s neck. “You’re supposed to bandage me too, you can’t take that back either!”
They end up yelling at each other for a good half-hour, before trying to shove each other to the door when one of Chuuya’s neighbors knock and politely ask them to pipe down.
This has them elbowing each other past the doorway, in order to buy more bandages because Chuuya doesn’t have any. They fight in the convenience store too, competing to fill the shopping basket with snacks of their choosing.
If they end up buying a vase for that bouquet of weeds that he’s painstakingly collected—
If they end up going to the supermarket so they can buy fresh crabs—
If they end up returning to Chuuya’s apartment and playing video games while waiting for the crabs to be cooked—
If they end up taking showers in turns, and bandaging each other in turns—
If they end up sleeping side-by-side once again—
Well, that’s just part of the recovery process.
(Because he’s a genius, he’s also managed to sneak in his biggest prank yet: making a duplicate copy of the key to Chuuya’s apartment, and planting bugs all over the place so he can be sure that he’d be the only visitor ever.
Moreover, even if Chuuya’s successfully broken all of his pens, in order to stop him from drawing on his face, Dazai has managed to use his fingernails to trace his name in a loop over Chuuya’s nape, while he snored defenselessly in his arms. He vows that next time, he’ll be able to etch his ownership more permanently.)
-
end