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“Do you know why you’re here?”
That’s the first thing he hears, the moment he resurfaces back to consciousness. His whole body is heavy, and opening his eyes feels like an attempt to wade through dark mud. He anchors himself to the sound of that voice, affecting bland disinterest and sounding anything but.
The barely-restrained anger is surprising. Even before they’ve become Boss-and-Executive, Dazai’s emotions have always been more muted compared to others. He’s just like his bandages: soaking through his surroundings and acting depending on the situation, but is really quite the bland white slate that is untouched by most things.
Dazai’s only energetic when it comes to annoying him, or when waxing poetic about attaining his ideal of a cheerful, painless suicide. Any other time and he looks like he would fade away like stains washed off bandages, a noncommittal smile on his face.
Memories of their past always brings a certain twinge in his ribs. Like he’s lost something that he doesn’t even know he should own.
He must have grimaced, because Dazai speaks up again, from somewhere on his left. “Is it painful? It probably is.”
It actually isn’t all that painful, but his mouth is too dry, and his tongue too heavy to retort fully. He cranes his neck to the left, and continues trying to lift his eyelids.
Rather than sharp pain, it feels like his body is submerged in a still ocean of aches. It jostles underneath his skin, a reminder of its presence, but it doesn’t press further, as if knowing how to keep proper distance.
When he finally succeeds in opening his eyes, it’s to see Dazai with his arms crossed over his chest, a thunderous fury on his face. There are many wrinkles in his suit. There’s stubble on his jaw, dark hair that makes his face appear shadowed. His hair looks like it hasn’t seen water or a comb in days.
More importantly—
“Your eye isn’t bandaged,” he croaks out, throat dryer than bone. At the other’s relentless fury, he adds, “Boss.”
“Great, it seems that you’ve passed the vision test, at least.” Arms remain stubbornly crossed over his chest, his usual body language whenever he’s trying to seem more like a looming wraith.
Chuuya licks his lips and finds something vaguely salty over them. The air is cold, but sweat starts to dot the back of his neck. Since it seems that the other man isn’t going to volunteer the information, he clears his throat and asks, “…Are you okay?”
“After you’ve foolishly used your body to shield me from the blow?” Voice deep, like a rumbling growl of a predator stalking its trapped prey. “My physical condition is excellent.”
He briefly closes his eyes. Even if Dazai is the most irritating person in the whole world, he’s still relieved that he’s okay. After all, he’s Port Mafia’s Boss. He’s the one holding everything together, he’s the one leading the organization. It’s Chuuya’s job to protect him and make sure that no harm gets to him—at least until the moment comes when it’s him making sure he breathes his last.
But until then, Chuuya’s responsibility is to protect him with all his might.
“…You don’t have the right to feel relieved,” Dazai’s voice cuts into his thoughts. “You’ve failed in your duties.”
That makes him sit up rapidly, breaking through the limits of his current bedridden state. His back twinges and so does his torso, but he clings to the raised metal railings of the infirmary bed. “I thought you said you were fine!”
Dazai moves fast, unravelling faster than a spool of bandages left to tumble down from a great height. He’s by his side in a split-second, one arm moving to wrap around his shoulders, to ensure that he doesn’t topple off the bed.
Dazai freezes quickly too, as if realizing that he’s showing too much concern. He stiffens, then gives an awkward slap to his shoulder instead, palm pressing against a bruise.
“Stay down,” he then commands, his thawing reversed and rebuilt into a cold block of ice. “You are heavily injured everywhere.”
His job is to protect him. He grips the cool metal tightly. “What happened afterwards?”
An unreasonable, “Someone who is set to be bedridden for at least two weeks has no right to ask such things.”
“I’d be fine tomorrow,” he says, and it’s true. He’s been through worse. He heals fast, because of his body’s unique constitution. He’d be sore and he wouldn’t be able to take painkillers if he wants to avoid grogginess, but he can make it work. “There’s still that meeting with the mafia group from Karuizawa, right?”
“I will bring Atsushi-kun instead,” and it’s said with a finality that sinks all the way down to his stomach.
“What! Who the hell is that!”
“The White Reaper,” Dazai says, and there’s a little bit of thaw at the corner of his lips. “You’ve always been atrocious at remembering names.”
He is, especially of people he doesn’t really trust or work with often. He frowns, body shaking. “That greenhorn is still too soft, he can’t protect you well…”
“Coming from someone who has brainlessly sacrificed his body during a mission, earning himself two weeks of recuperation?” Dazai’s fists are shaking too. His voice is trembling with fury. “Being too thoughtless and self-sacrificial are not signs of being a good bodyguard and right-hand man.”
He grits his teeth, patience rapidly drying up. “If I didn’t shove you off, then there’d have been a goddamn steel bar bisecting you right now, Dazai!”
“I told you that I had a plan. Are you telling me that someone with a tiny head like you can think of better plans than me?” A disdainful laugh, chilling to the bone. “I’m the leader and you’re just a subordinate, Chuuya.”
As expected of the most irritating man in the world, he says a lot of vexing things that exhaust him, mentally and emotionally. It’s just that, the way he’s said his name… It’s full of desperation and fear. As if the reality of the matter is that Dazai has actually felt fear, upon seeing him injured.
It’s probably just the painkillers muddying his mind. Still, it makes honesty bubble out of his mouth. “I saw danger coming for you and I instinctively reacted.”
It’s not that he doesn’t understand Dazai’s apprehension about him simply throwing his body into things. As Port Mafia’s invincible sword and impenetrable shield, he cannot be out of commission for too long. He needs to be there, a solid presence standing behind the Boss, deterring everyone from even thinking of defiance.
He has to protect Dazai, but he can’t do it if he’s hurt.
It’s just that—
For some reason, it’s hard to bear thinking of the other man getting the slightest bit hurt.
“You should take this time to reflect on your failure,” Dazai tells him, expression an unreadable mask.
Since when has it been, that Chuuya’s unable to read the other man as well as before? Since when has it been, that Chuuya’s actually wanted to understand him fully?
“We’re partners,” he says, a long exhale leaving him. Before they’ve become Boss-and-Executive, they’ve been partners first. “My priority is to make sure that you’re safe.”
For a split-second, Dazai’s eyes widen.
In that moment, he almost seems to be back to how he was at fifteen, annoying shithead that cheerfully pranked him at all times. Gloomy and melancholic, but in a way that a lot of teenagers are, trying to find footholds in their world. So much lighter, unlike the Boss that he has become: a towering glacier where everything is submerged in dark waters.
But, it’s only for a moment.
Dazai’s mask remakes itself, as he coldly huffs and turns on his heel. His fists are still shaking as he says, “I have no need for a partner. What I need from you is to become my right-hand man who’d follow my orders, so that I can accomplish the plans I have set.”
Without another word, he sweeps out of the room, footsteps falling like funeral knells.
Chuuya looks at the spot that he’s vacated, before eventually letting out a deep sigh. Gingerly, he lies back down on the bed, but his eyes refuse to close.
The seat that Dazai has vacated still has an imprint of his body. To have it be etched that deeply, he must have sat there for so many hours, holding a vigil for him. He doesn’t sense any other presence in the room, aside from maybe the initial set of doctors and nurses that have stashed him here.
Dazai looks very unkempt. But Chuuya, despite the soreness and fatigue, feels very clean. Blood has been scrubbed out of his nails, and he doesn’t smell like someone who’s been nearly sliced into two and then trapped under a rubble.
“I have no need for a partner… tsk,” he grumbles. Even if he knows that it’s Dazai being Dazai and deliberately saying hurtful things, it still hurts the slightest bit. “If you’re going to say something like that, at least make sure you don’t look like a child about to cry as you say it, damn it.”
Chuuya manages to force his eyelids to drift back shut, suddenly feeling very tired. As expected, he may be the invincible sword and impenetrable shield, but there’s always been one person who’s been able to get under his skin and make him feel that pinch of pain from the inside.
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