Chapter Text
“Go away. I don’t need you.”
“I am the only doctor in a ten-mile radius; we are stuck underground without a way out; I think you may have a concussion, and—oh right—you are currently impaled. So I would argue that yes, actually, you do need me.”
Chuuya tries to scowl, but it comes off as a stiff grimace instead. “I can handle it.”
You stare at him—a bloody mess leaning against a concrete wall—in utter exasperation. His dress shirt is soaked to the point where it blends into the black jacket wrapped around his shoulders. A foot-long jagged hunk of metal, dripping a sinewy red, juts out from the left side of his abdomen like some kind of sick accessory.
Chuuya’s breaths come in terrifyingly shallow beats, and his complexion is beginning to resemble that of a corpse. Despite his horrid (and visibly pained) state, he refuses you.
If it weren’t such a tense situation, you would probably roll your eyes.
“Stubborn fool. I’m not going to sit here and watch you bleed out. What kind of doctor do you take me for?” You kneel beside him and begin carefully examining the wound. Featherlight fingers trace the outline of his injury as you assess its severity. The feeling jolts him. You can tell by the twitch of his muscles and the way goosebumps rise from his flesh, prickling as skin meets skin.
Chuuya pulls back, despite the pain moving causes. It is an instinct. A defense mechanism structured to protect and force him as far away from your hands as he can get. He needs space—needs it from your touch, your scent, your voice… from your very existence. Any closer and the throbbing in his chest would soon override every other feeling coursing through his body.
“I told you to get away from me; I don’t want your—“
“If the word ‘pity’ even tries to come out of your mouth, I’ll jam this thing five inches deeper,” you warn.
Chuuya doesn’t reply at first. Instead, he turns his head towards the source of your threat and for the first time in hours; he looks you in the eyes. His gaze is half-lidded, but that doesn’t mask his spite. It also doesn’t entirely hide the flickers of emotions he desperately tries to quell. Luckily for Chuuya, you are too preoccupied with arguing with him to register the brewing sentiments reflected in his eyes.
Beads of sweat trickle down the side of his cheek—all the way down to the edge of his chin—until they fall flat onto the dirt-ridden, moss-infested ground, sinking deep within the earth until all that’s left is a darkened patch. The tension is thick as oil and abundantly apparent—in both his jaw and the air between you.
“I don’t want your fake compassion, Doctor. ” The redhead spits out that last part as if merely thinking the word fills his mouth with vile poison. Or at least something vividly similar.
You don’t let it show, but his words pierce the air and cut like a sword through your chest, cleaving your heart into halves during the process. It is a familiar sensation, a tangled mess of emotions that has been following you like a restless phantom since the moment you left—and inevitably betrayed—the Port Mafia.
Guilt. Frustration. A foreign and unpleasant sensation that you aren’t brave enough to put a name to.
“I don’t exactly care what you want. I refuse to watch someone die, knowing I could have changed the outcome.” You feign a quick cough, hoping it covers up the waver in your voice.
Chuuya does not believe you. He believes you would bleed him dry and leave him out to hang. He believes you are the sort of person that would enjoy watching him suffer—as you’ve caused him to do so many times in the past. He believes you to be the same type of scum as that idiot Dazai —a traitor who knows nothing of the meaning of loyalty. But at least Dazai had the decency not to toy with Chuuya’s heart and leave it a bitter, ragged mess. At least Dazai only left physical scars, not tainted marks hidden beneath the surface that are only perceivable to Chuuya and Chuuya alone.
You are lying. Chuuya thinks. You have been lying to me for years.
He almost speaks, a myriad of raw and acute thoughts on the edge of his lips, but stops himself just as quickly. Because voicing that thought will be the same as admitting he cares for your words and the weight they may hold. It would imply that you still occupy a place deep inside his heart, buried underneath the layers of dust and wounds, a weakness he cannot afford. So instead, Chuuya simply asks: “Will you leave me alone if I let you fix me?”
You sigh, and a hint of relief seeps out. “I might.”
What a big fat lie. If you don’t keep an eye on him there is a high chance of Chuuya sleeping himself into a coma, but lying is part of your nature and you will fabricate existence itself if doing so means helping him recover.
Chuuya tilts his head back until it gently rests against cold concrete, closing his eyes in acceptance of what you are about to do. Strangely it feels like he’s accepting you… if only for this one night.
In this damp and eerily empty space, the only perceivable sounds come from dripping water and the both of your breaths; his are much raspier than yours. You hope he doesn’t notice the erratic thudding coming from your chest as you inch closer and closer toward him; until you can feel his body’s warmth wash over you. Ignoring (or at the very least trying to) his overwhelming presence, you begin working.
Chuuya is silent during the whole ordeal. As you peel the rest of the fabric away from the wound and examine it in its entirety, the only hint of discomfort he gives is a barely audible hitch in his breath.
You procure sanitizing wipes from the medical kit that sits skewed on your hip and then swipe them across his skin to sterilize the wound and prep for the next—and most crucial—step: extracting the metal.
“What I’m about to do… it will—”
Chuuya’s voice cuts you off. It's softer this time, perhaps from exhaustion. “Hurt. I’m well aware. This isn’t the first time, remember?”
You do. The amount of times Chuuya had walked into the infirmary with something needing fixed couldn’t be counted on the hands of a dozen people. Back when you still worked undercover at the Port Mafia as their head doctor, half your time would be consumed by Chuuya and his medical incidents. Most of those occurrences were for minor injuries that probably would have gone away with a band-aid or a few hours of rest, but you always suspected he used the petty cuts and bruises as an excuse to see you. You feel your lips lift up in a small smile at the nostalgic memory, back when your relationship with Chuuya was much, much simpler.
Chuuya sneezes, then groans from the motion. It snaps you from your stupor and you start to rip open the left side of your shirt, hurrying as you ignore the onslaught of echoes of the past.
Chuuya’s eyes bug out to the size of saucers.
“What do y—what are you doing?!” He sputters, voice rising an octave with every word. Colour seems to have returned to his cheeks as he frantically averts his gaze away from you.
The left sleeve falls off your bare shoulder as you struggle with tearing off the bottom. “I don’t have any bandages that are big enough. Plus, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“That time was an accident! ”
The threads finally break loose as you give a final yank. “You ‘accidentally’ walked in on my private bath?”
“Dazai switched the signs. That prick,” Chuuya mutters, face still turned away from you.
His exasperation makes you laugh—a short, sharp huff that draws his attention to yours once more.
Your laugh falters as his eyes meet yours once again. They shine with something foreign, yet so very familiar. Chuuya loathes you. You know it. He knows it. The whole world knows it. So why does he look at you like a world like that could never exist? It is a terrible and false hope his expression ignites—one that pours poison into your eyes and blinds you to the truth. Hope is the worst kind of temptation—devilry hiding behind the mask of something pure—but it is also the only thing keeping you sane in this moment.
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Focus.
The heat is making you dizzy, or perhaps it's the tight proximity between you and the man who has taken up almost every waking thought of yours in the last two years.
Definitely the latter.
“I don’t have any numbing agents. But here, open your mouth.”
He does as you say, though hesitantly, and you place a makeshift gag between his lips and motion for him to bite down.
“I am really, really sorry,” you whisper.
Chuuya’s groans, even muffled by the cloth, are loud. They echo and bounce off the tunnel walls until finally fading into the distance. It is a long and arduous operation, but he calms down significantly when you successfully remove the source of his pain.
“That was…” He blows out a sharp breath, “that was rough.”
Chuuya is less hostile now. You’re not sure if that’s a sign to be relieved or worried.
“I’m going to stitch you up now, okay?” Your voice comes out low, as if trying to pacify a frightened wild animal.
A curt nod is the only answer you get. At least Chuuya’s no longer trying to pull away or argue, though it’s probably because the night’s fatigue has finally taken hold of him.
You begin to patch him up and pretend his muscles don’t tense every time the needle pushes through.
Always pretending to be okay, even in the direst of situations.
It’s one of the traits he shares with you—an incredible stubbornness that frequently breeds trouble… and a whole lot of grief.
As you finish bandaging Chuuya’s torso, you sneak a glance at him. He is considerably more relaxed, but more importantly, he is staring straight at you.
“What? Something on my face?” You tease, with zero expectation of an answer.
So imagine your surprise when he scoffs and replies with: “I wish. Unfortunately, I find my sight gravitating to your face more often than not. It’s fucking annoying.”
What? Your head spins as his blunt admission sends your equilibrium askew and it takes a second longer for you to completely process his words, and their underlying implication. What does he mean by it? Is it an impulse fueled by his hatred for you? Or does it mean something else entirely… something that gives rise to flickering rays of hope.
“Are you done?” Chuuya’s raspy voice breaks your train of thought once again and grounds you back to reality.
“Almost. I need to double-check something,” you respond.
You spend the next couple of minutes rattling off questions and monitoring his condition. After checking him over once more and finding no sign of a concussion, you let out a sigh of relief and take a seat beside him against the wall.
“You should get some rest for now, your body needs it. I’ll keep watch and see if we can get a signal and call for help,” you inform, already turning on your phone and checking the service. There’s one bar ( thank god ), and you begin dialing.
Chuuya doesn’t respond until after you’ve called for backup. “I’ll watch. You sleep.” His tone is flat. Final. No room for discussion.
You shake your head, incredulous. “I’m the one who wasn’t bleeding out a minute ago. You sleep.”
Chuuya’s features contort into an expression of annoyance. “No.”
No? No?
You try a nicer tone—a polite one—a tone you use with your more obstinate patients. “Chuuya, your body needs rest. I promise nothing will happen and I’ll wake you when help arrives. Then I’ll get out of your hair and you’ll never have to see me again. I promise. ”
He only stares at you like you’ve suggested disembowelment. It makes your left eye twitch. Just a little.
“I said no,” he argues.
You sigh again. “Chuuya plea–”
“I’m not fucking sleeping.”
You explode.
“God, why are you so hard headed? I’m telling you to rest, not cut off a limb! For fucks sake, Chuuya it’s not that big of an ask!” Your chest—much like your anger—rises as you draw in deep breaths.
“And I told you: I. Don’t. Need. It.” Chuuya grits out.
You glare at each other for a rigid minute before the exhaustion of the night takes over and pulls you to the ground, a fair distance away from Chuuya. You stay silent for a beat before voicing your thoughts out softly and wearily. “Why must you keep fighting me?”
A long and hollow silence fills the dark space around you. Not a single sound other than those set by the environment is heard. You quickly realize he has no intention to answer the question posed.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
“I can’t.”
You jerk and practically keel over from the sudden response, but steady yourself just in time to cock your head and ask: “Can’t keep fighting me?”
Chuuya spares you a glance—it has ‘ you are an idiot’ written all over it.
“I cannot sleep.” He enunciates each word as if he was attempting to explain quantum mechanics to a toddler.
What an ass.
You swallow down the insults bubbling up your throat (because you are a good person who exercises patience) and shift your body until you position yourself directly across from him. Toe-to-toe, face-to-face.
“Insomnia?”
One simple word; generally it carries minimal significance, and yet it has Chuuya freezing as soon as it is mentioned.
He hesitates and eventually: “...Yes.”
“Medications? Any therapeutic remedies?” You’re in full doctor-mode, poking and prodding in an effort to procure an empirical diagnosis.
“Didn’t work. Any of it,” he huffs.
“How long?”
He turns away from you and drops his head slightly, as if preparing for his answer. “November.”
November? Why would that month be such—oh. Oh.
Shit.
Chuuya turns to look at you and frowns upon seeing your expression.
“Don’t. It’s not—“
“My fault?” Your voice comes out shakier than before, but it’s nothing compared to how rattled you are from the realization that Chuuya can’t sleep anymore because of you. Because of what you did to him.
“It’s not,” he assures. His eyes are still fixated on you, and for the first time tonight he’s the one looking worried.
You can only shake your head, afraid of your voice breaking along with what’s left of your resilience.
“It’s not your fault I’m weak,” he murmurs.
That has you snapping your head towards him. Chuuya? Weak? He may be a lot of things, but weak would never come close to being an adjective that describes Chuuya.
“You… you’re kidding, right?”
He must hear the disbelief in your tone because he laughs—albeit sardonically.
“Please. If I wasn’t, do you really think I would have let you walk out of there alive that night?”
You suck in a sharp breath. He’s referring to the night you left the Port Mafia for good. Even after all this time,
the image of Chuuya’s expression as you turned your back and walked away with the Agency members is still freshly ingrained into your mind—furious, disappointed, gutted.
“It was my job, Chuuya,” you whisper.
His next question knocks all of the air out of your lungs.
“Was I just a job to you then?”
No. Hell no. Never.
But you can’t say that. So you do what you do best; you lie.
“Yes. You were just a job, nothing more.”
Chuuya bursts out into short laughter, except it sounds too hysterical for it to be genuine. It winds down to a weary sigh as he drops his head into his head, his signature hat falling onto the dirt beside him.
He mumbles something, but his position and your distance makes it ineligible.
“Sorry?” You scooch closer until your thighs almost press up against his, craning your neck in an attempt to hear.
“I said..” He looks up, and you find yourself staring into his eyes for the millionth time today. Long lashes partially conceal his pupils as he repeats what he said.
“You are very cruel to me.”
It is the last thing he says to you before the sound of sirens burst from the tunnel's collapsed entrance.