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“Chuuya.”
There’s no response. Red hair stays sprawled across the dirt and dust, matching the pool of blood that lay underneath it. His breathing is scarily slow, heart beating, but barely. Dazai sneaks a thin arm under Chuuya’s shoulders, lifting his head off the ground just barely in the process.
“Chuuya.”
He tries again. The response is the same - he’s once again greeted with the quiet, silence filled only with the bustling of the passing cars. One of them is probably Port Mafia led, ordered by Mori to pick up Double Black after he’d probably heard the news of Chuuya letting Arahabaki loose over a mission that was supposed to be simple, a quick interrogation with maybe a few casualties that were stupid enough to cross Chuuya’s path.
“Chuuya.”
That’s not what happened. Dazai realised a second too late that it was a trap, a hefty one at that, and that they’d played right into the hands of a rival crime organisation that seemed to have hid half of its best squads via a hologram ability of some sort. Ah, illusion abilities - Dazai’s least favorite.
It was Dazai’s fault, he’ll admit. Underestimating the enemy was as bad as overestimating them.
Nevertheless, Dazai survived without a scratch and technically got even more of the job done than originally planned. The organisation could never go on with this many dead members, the stench of their bodies making Dazai’s nose scrunch up in disgust.
Of course he made it out without so much as a bullet wound. He was always safe as long as he had his dog with him. When would their enemies learn that killing Double Black was an impossible feat, because they always came as a package deal?
Speaking of his dog,
“Chuuya.”
This time, a weak cough punches its way out of Chuuya’s lungs, and Dazai turns his head to the side as the boy continues coughing up splutters of blood onto the floor. Once he runs out of anything to cough up, his head rolls back to where it originally was, as if nothing happened.
Dazai has the overwhelming urge to kick him that is only suppressed by the image of Mori in his head, medical lessons that were forced into his brain at fifteen swimming around in his memory. Get to your senses, stupid dog. You’ll live. You’ll live.
“…Dazai. Just…” Chuuya’s arm weakly twitches, like he’s trying to reach for Dazai who is right there but seems miles away. “…take me home.”
“Ah, all you had to do was ask, slug!” Dazai keeps his voice high and cheery in the way he knows gives Chuuya a headache as he snakes another arm under his knees and slowly lifts him off the ground. Chuuya groans as much as his aching throat will let him, his matted hair peeling off the ground and carrying equal part dry and fresh blood with him. It drips on the ground below him as Dazai carefully maneuvers him in his arms so his coat stays unstained.
The effort is in vain; the minute they start moving, Chuuya squirms and lays his head on Dazai’s upper arm. If Dazai’s heart softens with the gesture instead of irritating him like it should, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He walks out of the warehouse, dust rising with every heavy step, eyeing the black car with tinted windows parked outside.
His suspicions are shut down when the passenger door opens and reveals Hirotsu, who doesn’t even bother acknowledging them. He opens the back door silently, and Dazai doesn’t bother with greetings, simply bending down so he can sit inside and lay Chuuya down with unusual caution as the boy coughs blood on his white button-up.
It’s bad, Dazai thinks as the whirring of the engine fills his ears. Chuuya is barely breathing, if you could even call those rasps he lets out every few seconds breathing, and Dazai doesn’t know if it’s the cigarettes, broken ribs or a mixture of both. His nose is bleeding, there’s blood in his mouth, on his face, hands, neck, every bit of exposed skin that’s meant to be pale is colored red, and Dazai senses an uneasy feeling bubbling in his stomach when he realises he doesn’t know whose blood that even is. He just can’t wait to drop Chuuya off at Mori’s and sleep everything off, even if he dreams of red eyes and graviton bombs.
“What happened?” Hirotsu curtly asks, eyes shifting upwards to meet Dazai’s in the rearview mirror. Dazai’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. Chuuya, who Dazai presumed to be asleep, grabs a fistful of Dazai’s coat as he coughs again.
“You can assume. Why?” He doesn’t bother veiling his suspicion.
“Boss ordered you report to me, and I’ll report back to him. You’re to go home instead of Boss’ office, and due to Nakahara’s condition, he has the next two days off, and you have tomorrow only.” Hirotsu recites, words quick and practiced.
“Nakahara’s condition is precisely why we should be en route to Mori’s office right now.”
“He’s capable of taking care of himself by now.” Sounds like something Mori told him to say.
“Turn around, look at him and tell me if he’s capable of taking care of himself .” Dazai says, voice as sharp as his gaze. The car swerves from one lane to another. Hirotsu doesn’t look back.
“Boss’ orders.” The response has him rolling his eyes.
“Have you ever tried thinking with your own head? It’ll do you wonders.” He doesn’t bother biting his tongue. The night has stretched out far too long, along with his patience.
“What happened?” is the only response he gets, Hirotsu forever a man of greater patience. Dazai huffs in annoyance and shifts in his seat, watching Chuuya with careful eyes who shifts onto his side and then with a painful whimper goes back to his previous position on his back. His hand goes loose and eventually moves away from Dazai’s coat, probably from lack of energy. He’s almost asleep, soaking the expensive seats in blood and sweat and dirt and dust. Dazai doesn’t bother asking himself how Chuuya will even make it to his apartment because he already knows the answer to that question. Leave it to Mori to make him clean up after his dog.
“We were set up. I didn’t see it coming, because I thought they were nothing to worry about. Mori told us to interrogate them about the stolen weapons from yesterday - I’d do the talking, Chuuya would scare them, the usual. We were supposed to get them to tell us where they hid the weapons, then get a few underlings to pick them up and blow the warehouse up for good measure. Turns out they were expecting us.” Hirotsu’s eyes meet his, finally.
“They had a few cards up their sleeve. We showed up, knocked out the guards, two guys were there. I started talking, they wouldn’t say anything, and I noticed something was up. It was an ambush - I’m guessing they tried to get Chuuya and I alone to eliminate us, lured the mafia in with those weapons as a front. Mori didn’t send backup ‘cause he assumed we wouldn’t need any, we’d call after the mission to have the weapons sorted. One of the guys had an invisibility ability, or one of those illusion abilities. The moment Chuuya moved, he let it down and their squads appeared.”
At the mention of his name, Chuuya stirs.
“They tried shooting. Obviously a stupid move, Chuuya fired the bullets back. That knocked out the non-ability users, the invisibility guy just turned the rest of them invisible and I’m guessing none of them got hit. They had some pretty good abilities - earth manipulation got a few good hits on Chuuya while invisible, and blood manipulation was… interesting. I managed to sense the invisibility guy and nullified him, Chuuya killed him. That’s when they went all out, and even more of their guys started showing up. Shit hit the fan when telekinesis girl showed up. She had Tainted Sorrow but leveled up to the maximum. Shame she had to die, could’ve been useful to the mafia.” Dazai sighs.
“Anyways, it was getting really bad, we had to. It was over in under a minute. All of them dead. We don’t know where the weapons are. I don’t think they were planning on telling us, anyway. Have our men check the warehouse again, though. I saw a poor attempt of a hidden basement door in the top left corner.”
Hirotsu nods, looking away from him with a blank expression as the car slows down to a stop.
“Nakahara’s stop.” He announces, turning to look at Chuuya who seems vaguely aware that his name was mentioned by the way he turns his head away from the voice, far too loud for his current state. Dazai sighs, pulling Chuuya towards him by the ankle, placing a firm arm below his shoulder blades and gripping his left shoulder as he carefully opens the door with his free hand.
“My stop, too.” He says in a tone that’s final and irritated, almost offended, in a tone that he hopes tells Hirotsu to mention this to Mori. To tell him that Dazai’s playing nurse for the umpteenth time when that was never what he signed up for.
He slinks an arm under Chuuya’s knees again, almost too used to carrying him like this, and steps onto the quiet street of Chuuya’s block where tiny raindrops fall on the cement, the oncoming storm brooding and quiet but undeniably there, announcing its presence. Dazai kicks the door closed harsher than it needed to be. He feels like kicking the tires out of anger ‘til his shoes split open at the seams and his foot bleeds just to feel like his anger means something, but he doesn’t even get to talk himself out of it before the car is speeding off. He stands on the sidewalk, holding a bleeding boy and it’s the first time ever that he thinks he feels like crying.
That’s scary. It’s a scary thought. He watches his tears hit Chuuya’s freckled face. He almost drops him before realising they’re raindrops. His eyes are dry. He’s alright.
Dazai crosses the street with his head raised and tilted high, staring straight into the murky, clouded sky, without a single star in sight, hoping a car hits them both. He makes it across the street unharmed and to say it’s disappointing is an understatement.
“Chuuya, I’m gonna need your keys.” Dazai moves next to the door so neither of them get hit by the oncoming rain, even though a shower is inevitable once they’re finally inside. For somebody who drowns themselves in luxury to avoid facing his own vanity or the multitude of his flaws, Chuuya’s building sure is old, Dazai thinks, his eyes tracing the cracks in the tinted glass and the peeling fake silver color of the handle. A miracle the many earthquakes of Yokohama haven’t levelled it with the ground, yet.
Chuuya doesn’t seem to register the words, let alone be in any type of state to respond to them. Dazai lets out what seems to be his millionth sigh of the night and starts tapping around Chuuya’s pockets, trying to get a feel for where his keys are. If his memory serves him right, Chuuya slipped his keys out of his coat pocket into the left front pocket of his pants approximately ten minutes before they infiltrated the warehouse. He’d planned it to be a quick, in-and-out job. Dazai’s stomach turns.
His hand finally lands on something vaguely sharp and metal in Chuuya’s left pocket - like he expected - and his slim fingers rush to slide inside and grab them but Chuuya suddenly awakens, slapping his hand away and groaning absentmindedly, like there’s curses on the tip of his tongue but he can’t quite verbalise them.
“…zai… go away…” he murmurs. It’s subconscious, instinctual to push Dazai away, and annoyance washes over Dazai in cold waves, cancelling out all the care he put into Chuuya so far like his ability. It takes him seemingly all the patience in the world not to drop and leave him in the entryway of the building like an abandoned baby.
“I’d much prefer killing you myself, but I’ll gladly leave you here to bleed out and die if that’s what you want.” His tone is cold and ungracious in the way it always is when he’s letting Chuuya know he’s getting on his very last nerve. That’s usually when his dog stops baring his teeth and quiets down because it’s never good when the ever present thin veil of airiness is lifted from Dazai’s voice.
“…no.” It’s almost comical, the way he relaxes in Dazai’s arms and lets him fish the keys out of his pocket. Comical. Dazai’s tired of predicting everything, tired of knowing him, tired of this practiced dynamic, tired of Chuuya being hurt.
Does it ever stop , Dazai thinks as the door hinges creak upon being opened and he stands there, waiting for the elevator to come down. Does it ever stop? Can he imagine a life where he grows old and the mafia is a thing of the past? Can he imagine a life where Chuuya is nothing but a distant memory, Mori nothing but an old employer? He’s never thought about next week, let alone years and decades.
He lays in bed and prays he doesn’t live to see next Monday. He goes to work. He tries to kill himself. He lives. He goes to work. Chuuya dies in his arms. He goes to work. I wish I were you , he whispers to the corpses. I wish I were you , he whispers to the blood on the soles of his shoes. He goes to work. Death is the only way out. He’s in this forever. If he doesn’t put a knife to Mori’s throat, the man will feed on his insides until there’s nothing left. He goes to work. He walks into Death’s hands, yet it doesn’t seem to want him.
It's a mindless routine, a dance he performs every day without even thinking of the moves, much like how it’s routine to step in the elevator and press the number 17 until it blinks red and they start moving. It’s routine, holding a dying boy that never seems to die, his shaking hand gripping you like you’re his lifeline. Maybe you are.
The elevator speeds up and slows down at random times, matching the way Chuuya is twitching and whimpering as he bathes in red hue for a few milliseconds before it goes away again, canceled out by No Longer Human. This usually happens after Corruption, Dazai isn’t surprised; Chuuya loses control of his ability for a little while, sporadically turning it on and off without realizing. Arahabaki somehow manages to push through for less than a blink even in Dazai’s arms, which is, without question, extremely impressive, but nothing No Longer Human can’t handle. He steps to the side to cut off Chuuya’s contact with the elevator wall so he stops messing with gravity just as it dings, announcing their arrival to Chuuya’s floor. Dazai barely manages to balance Chuuya with one hand like a toddler, but he manages nonetheless as the boy wraps his arms around his neck and holds tight as Dazai opens the elevator door.
“You’re a pain, slug.” Dazai murmurs in annoyance as Chuuya wraps his legs around his waist as well, hanging onto him like a koala as Dazai loops one arm around his lower back, in case he accidentally lets go. Dazai doesn’t like touch and Chuuya is close. Too close.
He knows he’s going to have to send his coat to the dry cleaners once again when Chuuya lays his blood covered head on his shoulder, and Dazai chooses to focus on that thought and other similar things, such as the color of Chuuya’s apartment door, the tiles beneath his feet, the other key he dug out of Chuuya’s pocket instead of the fact that the warm breath on his neck is giving him goosebumps all over, Chuuya’s body warming him up like a portable heater, red wine and cologne and cigarettes and Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya .
It’s making him feel cold all over. The touch, the intimacy - it’s far too much for him. As he opens the apartment door and bathes in new layers of sweat, he feels too small, too weak to take any of this. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but Chuuya is close, and he’s touching him everywhere , and Dazai doesn’t know what he’s feeling for the first time in forever and he wants that to stop.
So it does. The moment they step into the cold apartment and the door is closed behind them, Dazai makes a beeline for his living room and lowers him down, Chuuya’s arms and legs untangling around Dazai’s bandaged self and the redhead hits the couch with a soft thud, groaning as he probably hits a few bruises. Dazai doesn’t have the heart to apologise when he doesn’t mean it.
He’s away from Chuuya, now. Safe and sound in the doorway of his living room as the boy tries to readjust his position, arm dangerously shaking under his weight until it gives out, and he’s back in his previous position with a thud and a low groan.
He’s away from the touch. That’s good. In theory. It takes a couple seconds for Dazai to realise he wants more. He wants to hold him again - in the span of a disturbing and terrifying few seconds, he realises he wants to pull Chuuya apart and put him together again.
It’s a thought scary enough to drive him back to the front door on autopilot.
And then,
“Dazai.” It comes out from somewhere in the back of Chuuya’s throat, gravelly and rough, much like the rest of him. His hand pauses on the doorknob. He runs over the pros and cons of staying versus leaving in his head silently, but logic is thrown out of the window when his brain starts screaming at him to leave, just leave. Anything you would never want to lose will be lost.
“Where you goin’?” Dazai’s hand drops from the doorknob almost automatically, like his body responds to Chuuya and who is he to fight back? The heart wants what it wants, in spite of Dazai preferring to act as if it doesn’t exist at all.
He’s not going anywhere. Chuuya has wrapped red strings around his throat, nice and tight and threatening to split it in half at any second, and Dazai has no choice but to stumble back to him every time whenever Chuuya tugs.
That thought kills him inside. When’d it go from Dazai and Chuuya to Double Black, when had they become a package deal instead of individuals? That’s not who Dazai was. Bonding with people is pointless when it’s bound to be broken by one side or the other. Why waste time building something that will always crumble?
He’s tired of being indecisive. Tired of his heart and brain working as two separate entities instead of a team. Becoming a slave to his emotions was the last thing Dazai wanted, but self control is slipping through his fingers like fine sand.
He hears clothes rumble behind him, rubbing across the velvet cushion as Chuuya bleeds all over his furniture, and he knows he can’t just leave him like that. Despite everything in his body screaming at him to leave, he turns around and hangs his coat on the peg rail next to Chuuya’s door in silence.
“Chuuya is useless and can’t take care of himself, so somebody has to.” he opts to say instead of answering his question. He leaves the redhead grunting on the couch as he heads towards the well polished, tiled bathroom.
The entire bathroom is spotless; trust Chuuya to have the cleanest apartment known to man despite not being able to hire any cleaners out of fear they’d find stashes of drugs or weapons in the apartment. Not that it’d usually be a problem for a Mafia executive, but it’s Chuuya - he is a self admitted killer, but his quasi-morals do make him avoid murder where it can be avoided.
It’s covered in black and white tiles, with a huge sink and a mirror cabinet mounted right above it. It’d look like an IKEA bathroom ready for a photoshoot for a furniture magazine made to appeal exclusively to middle aged women if it wasn’t for the little knick knacks that make it personal, human; on the sink a cup with two toothbrushes (an almost untouched black one, specifically for post-Corruption purposes when Dazai is too tired to go back to his own tiny place, and a red one that is almost entirely ruined because Chuuya’s system of effective teeth brushing boils down to attempting to file down his teeth with the toothbrush until his gums bleed) and basic black hair ties with stray red hairs still stuck to them, in the cupboard a half empty tube of gel for pain relief, a wad of clean bandages, plasters with various Disney princesses on them (courtesy of Elise), needles and syringes, and a bottle of lube that Dazai has asked numerous times about and never got a single answer.
Opposite the sink is the washing machine and dryer, which Chuuya barely uses because he says it’ll ruin “the fine leather of his gloves and pants” and “shrink his coat” and he just can’t have that. Needless to say, a well placed joke about throwing Chuuya in the washing machine along with his clothes so he shrinks along with them (“if it’s even possible for Chuuya to be any shorter than he already is! You afraid your coat will shrink to a youth size?”) got Dazai kicked out through the window.
And finally, at the end of the obscenely large bathroom is a fairly normal looking toilet, a huge shower that can probably fit ten horizontally placed Chuuyas with a shower head with ten different settings, and a bathtub.
The bathtub isn’t too big - you’d expect it to be huge in proportion to how big Chuuya insisted his bathroom to be, but it’s fairly normal sized and painfully clean.
(Still big enough for two people to fit inside comfortably. A hypothesis made upon the purchase of the apartment, proven right via Dazai’s own experiment that he won’t share the details of.)
On the bracket shelves mounted onto the black and white tiles are carefully arranged bath products, ranging from exotic bath salts to chamomile bath oil to a bubble bath in a champagne bottle (Dazai snorted) to three different types of exquisite French conditioner and shampoo. Dazai grabs the bathtub plug from the shelf and quickly plugs the drain, turning on the water and letting it slowly fill as he walks back out, returning to the living room where Chuuya is now sitting, seemingly hyper aware of the sweat and blood and grime that covers him as he lifts his arm slowly, trying to check where he’s bleeding but he’s far too sore and far too out of it to keep it in the air. Dazai can see his eyes unfocus despite his best efforts to concentrate, drifting in and out of his weird hazy state.
Dazai rolls up the sleeves of his button up, loosening his tie just a bit to make himself more comfortable before he picks Chuuya up once again, who lets out a surprised yelp. There’s a little more life inside of him - he’s not exactly half asleep anymore, he’s aware that Dazai is carrying him and he’s stable enough that he’s able to tense a few muscles, but that’s about as much energy that’s left in his body, and it shows in the way he doesn’t fight Dazai at all. He’s pliant, content with not having the upper hand for once, trusting Dazai to take the wheel and nurse him back to health to the best of his abilities, despite knowing the boy has every opportunity to ruin him when he’s at his weakest.
And that’s the true beauty of their partnership, the thin thread that binds them together and makes them as vigorous and revered as they are. Thin, but strong nonetheless - the trust that has no end, the ability to hold the other and say, “I do not love you, but you will be loved when you need it most”.
(Or maybe I do love you. I love you, I love you, I love you , Dazai wants to scream when he feels the sleeping pills settle in his stomach, in sick harmony with the whiskey. I love you, I love you, I love you, do I not? I don’t know what to do about it. If I love you, you love me - what does that make us? )
He carefully sets him down atop of the washing machine, looking him in the eyes for what feels like the first time in forever, blue meeting brown illuminated by the white of the LED lightbulbs on the ceiling. Chuuya’s eyes are duller than usual, decorated by wet eyelashes and fiery red hair and their colors are far too bright compared to the pale blue of his eyes, the life sucked out of them at the hands of a god he can’t manage.
Chuuya winces a little when Dazai moves to turn the water off and his eyes meet the bright light, squinting lightly - blink and you’ll miss the quiet hiss of pain, but Dazai doesn’t miss those things. It tells him three things - Chuuya has a headache, Chuuya’s been awake for too long, and Chuuya most definitely has a head injury.
Lithe, bony fingers run along the sides of his head, threading through his hair gently, looking for injuries until they land on a particularly sticky patch of hair next to his temple, and they dip into the wound lightly, making Chuuya hiss once again. His leg flinches upwards out of reflex, but his arm doesn’t lift to punch Dazai away. He must be really tired, Dazai muses to himself.
He turns on the sink and rinses the blood-covered tips of his fingers quickly, wiping them on a nearby towel and making his way over to the bedroom. Chuuya’s bed is pristinely made, as always, but Dazai doesn’t even spare it a glance. He lands on his knees next to the bed, ducking under and pulling out the first-aid kit. He’s stopped questioning why Chuuya keeps it hidden under his bed instead of the bathroom around the time when he stopped asking about the lube and the DVD copy of a romcom signed by the lead actor that sits next to the TV.
He returns to the bathroom quietly, watching as Chuuya returns to vehemently fighting sleep, his left arm supporting most of his body weight. Dazai sets the first aid kit down on the washing machine next to him and clicks it open, pulling out a clean strip of gauze. He grabs the back of Chuuya’s head and tilts it to get a better view of the wound (even though it’s impossible to do thanks to Chuuya’s thick hair) before putting the gauze on and applying slight pressure.
Chuuya winces and grabs Dazai’s arm but makes no move to actually pull it away, far more sensitive to pain post-Corruption. Dazai pulls away after a few seconds, seeing the gauze turn a dark red, before recklessly throwing it on the floor and pulling out a fresh strip, repeating the process. When the bleeding finally stops, Dazai runs his thumb over the wound once more at which Chuuya only tenses, and the taller watches in amusement as the hairs on Chuuya’s arms stand up. He’s ticklish everywhere, including random parts of his face and head, and also incredibly touch starved, so naturally Dazai’s touch gives him goosebumps over and over again, even though he’s tending to his wounds.
Dazai pinches at his hip teasingly and Chuuya jumps, shoving him with his elbow and a dissatisfied grunt as Dazai laughs.
“Oi, quit it.” Chuuya rasps out, voice gone with Arahabaki’s abuse of his vocal chords, and it only makes Dazai laugh harder. All the bite in Chuuya’s voice is long gone, repressed by hurt and spilt blood and the sting of a worn throat, and he’s got no choice but to surrender himself to Dazai and let him work his magic, whether he likes it or not.
Thankfully, as much as Dazai likes to act emo and behave like a fucking menace, he does have a soft spot for Chuuya that he’d never admit in a million years, so he takes care of Chuuya in the best way that his emotionally constipated self knows.
(if you ask him about it, he’ll sputter out something well practiced along the lines of “As the owner of my dog, I have to take care of him. Vets are far too expensive these days!” or “Mori would kill me if I let Chuuya die. After all, his tiny brain is good for fighting, and the mafia needs people like that.”)
“Well, you’re not bleeding anymore, but I will need to clean it up.” With that, he harshly tugs at Chuuya’s arm that he feels might’ve fallen off if he pulled any harder and the boy almost falls to his knees but his feet stick to the ground due to Dazai’s strong grip. Black spots dance before his vision as Dazai shoves his head into the sink and lets a light streak of water hit it.
Chuuya instinctively flinches, what from the water temperature and what from the water hitting right inside of his wound, and his head flies upwards, temple meeting the metal of the faucet. It lands back into the sink with a thud and a groan that he can’t help from escaping. Dazai tsks, seemingly unaware of his lack of expertise in nursing.
“Slug is so stupid.” He murmurs, but he moves the faucet nonetheless so the water hits right above his wound, washing out the blood in the process. It lightly trickles down Chuuya’s jaw and lands on the white porcelain before disappearing down the drain.
Chuuya is displeased with his current predicament, the rest of his hair getting wet in the process as well as some of the red water landing in his already tired and bloodshot eyes, but he lets it all happen.
The water suddenly stops running, prompting Chuuya to open the one eye he had shut in protection. Dazai stands above him, careful fingers brushing his hair away in favor of getting a closer look at the wound, an oddly focused expression on his face that prompts Chuuya to keep staring. It’s rare Dazai lets his actual emotions show, even if they were mindless ones like curiousity or anger.
Dazai runs a thumb over the flesh before silently moving the faucet so Chuuya can safely pull his head out. He reluctantly does so, and stands awkwardly as Dazai gets another strip of gauze and taps away at the wound until it’s as dry as can be with wet hair surrounding it.
“It doesn’t even hurt much.” Chuuya says, feeling like he owes an excuse to Dazai. Dazai keeps his observation that Chuuya most definitely needs stitches to himself.
“What does?”
“I dunno, everything, Dazai. Just let me sleep .” Dazai stares at him with an amused smile as Chuuya supports himself on the washing machine behind him, water dripping down his neck and into his button up. Chuuya whining is an incredibly rare sight but it satiates some sort of hunger deep inside Dazai that wants Chuuya to take everything from him without asking, to wring him dry. No, - to ask , and to be given.
“Ah, ah, none of that, Chibi! We can’t have your dirty self ruining your bougeé sheets.” He replies cheerily, and then unclasps his choker, following up by unbuttoning the vest. He doesn’t seem very aware of what’s going on, but Dazai still warns, “Stay still.”
That Chuuya does, only moving his weak arms when Dazai has to pull the sleeves off them. Another white shirt ruined beyond repair is crumpled up and expertly chucked into the bin next to the toilet. Yellowed patches of skin that will soon turn purple cover Chuuya head to toe, more prominent around the ribs and thighs. A rough scratch that looks like it could scar stretches out from his shoulder to around his 7th rib, but he knows Chuuya doesn’t mind - after all, it’s one of many. Other than that, he has a few cuts on his knees where his pants had ripped and a rather deep cut on the back of his left thigh, and he hisses when Dazai pulls his tight pants down and leather brushes against it. Dazai gives him his usual lecture disguised as a quip about how his terrible fashion sense affects his health and is happy when he receives a half-hearted shove to his forehead.
Dazai strips himself of his clothes much quicker and with far less care, letting them land on the pile on the floor, and tries to ignore the way Chuuya’s eyes slightly peel open to watch him take his bandages off.
“Ne, Chuuya, did anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to stare when people strip? Someone’s a pervert.” Dazai comments with a carefree tone that somewhat successfully masks his uneasiness. It’s not that he’s naked in front of Chuuya - they’ve done this too many times, but he’s either not fully naked (i.e wearing his bandages) or Chuuya doesn’t watch the process because he doesn’t care enough about the contents underneath.
Now, however, Chuuya’s eyes burn holes in his body even though he knows he probably won’t remember this by tomorrow. He sort of wants to jump out of his skin.
Chuuya, thankfully, takes his comment to heart and looks away, moving away from the washing machine and leaning on the tiled wall with his eyes closed once again. Dazai releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.
When he’s finally done and the bandages are in the bin too, he steps towards the bathtub, inspecting all of Chuuya’s fancy bath products. He grabs the epsom salts, skimming over the tiny letters on the packaging. He figures they’ll do, and dumps a handful. Next up is the chamomile bath oil, which smells nice and vaguely reminds him of how Chuuya smells when he’s not covered in blood, so he adds a few drops.
“Should we add this dumb bubble bath thing?” Dazai asks nobody in particular, eyeing the rose gold bottle like it’ll pounce on him. “Nah, it’ll be too much. You’ll smell like a unicorn.”
Without the slightest warning, Dazai picks him up bridal style once again and Chuuya is too sleepy to be taken aback, seemingly starting his nap while standing when Dazai decided to very rudely interrupt him.
Holding Chuuya in his arms, Dazai steps into the bathtub, lowering both himself and Chuuya until his back is resting against the cold porcelain and the top half of Chuuya’s back is against his chest, laying on his shoulder. Always much too loud, Chuuya lets out a moan as his body submerges into warm water, and Dazai is glad he’s enjoying himself but he would prefer if he didn’t do that while they’re naked and pressed against each other.
The bathtub can fit two people, after all, which means he could’ve easily placed Chuuya on the other end so they’re facing each other, but the water is up to Dazai’s collarbones which means it’s probably up to Chuuya’s nose, and he wouldn’t like for him to drown in his bathtub after he survived all that. After all, Dazai has been planning the best way to kill Chuuya for a long time, and this one would be lazy and just rather embarrassing for someone like him.
That’s the only reason.
He grips Chuuya by the waist, who is now much lighter in the water and seems already asleep, so he doesn’t fall inside.
Chuuya seems to have different plans, however, because he faces Dazai with those tired eyes of his and latches onto him once again, arms wrapping around his neck and chin resting on his shoulder, letting his body lay on top of Dazai’s.
And then the breathing next to Dazai’s ear slows. As if nothing had happened.
Dazai’s brain slows down to a halt for the first time in forever, but he wills it to work with him for once and slow his concerningly fast heartbeat. No dog-related jokes come to mind. He must be really taken aback.
“Chuuya,” Dazai sighs out, mostly to himself. He wraps an arm around Chuuya’s waist to keep him in place. “You’ll be the death of me. Who would’ve known you’d be the one to give me what I want?”
Chuuya is, thankfully, not enough in touch with his mind to ponder over those words. Instead he rubs his cheek against Dazai’s hair like a cat, and then,
“You stink, mackerel.”
Dazai almost laughs. It’s comical how the hatrack manages to be so idiotic even in the midst of Dazai’s internal crisis. It brings him back to earth, a little.
He runs a finger against the cut on the back of Chuuya’s thigh and massages the skin around it absentmindedly, enjoying the way Chuuya relaxes on top of him.
“You don’t exactly smell like roses, either.” The lack of reply, even a nonverbal one, tells him Chuuya is gone for good.
He sits in the bathtub with Chuuya for a while, hands massaging in places that he knows won’t wake him. Watches the sun rise through the tiny window in his bathroom as Chuuya dies and is reborn in his arms once again.
It’s not all so bad, he lies to himself as he scratches at the shriveled up tips of his fingers.
Once the bathroom is cleaned to the best of his abilities and new bandages wrap around his body, he puts a red towel over Chuuya’s white pillow and then carefully lays the boy’s head on it. He’ll wash his hair in the morning. Dazai doesn’t have the heart to do it right now, or to stay long enough to do it in the morning.
He leaves at breakfast time.
It’s not all so bad.