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“Good riddance,” Dazai thinks, as he feels the heat radiating from the flames that now obscure the ruins of the prison formerly known as Meursault. Nevertheless, the clouds of smoke, the raining ash, and even the unknown locations of Dostoevsky and his comrades are not enough to grab his attention. All of it is fixed on the man laying in his lap, the man who had still not woken up.
He’s been religiously checking Chuuya’s vitals for the past hour, and yet there is still no sign of consciousness. Dazai’s brows are knit with worry, though he supposes the situation is quite unprecedented. He’s familiar with Chuuya’s usual course of recovery from Corruption, but who knows what effect the vampire curse has had on his body, let alone the exposure to heavy water. He chews on his lip so much that it bleeds. He doesn’t notice the taste.
Finally, finally, he’s blessed with the sight of the other man’s eyes slowly fluttering open. He’s relieved to see that the irises are clear and blue and lovely once again, clouded only by exhaustion.
“Well good morning, sleeping beauty! Nice of you to finally join us!” he lilts, unable to keep the relieved grin off of his face.
Chuuya mumbles something unintelligible in response.
That’s fine for now. At least he’s awake. At this point, anything he says will be music to Dazai’s ears.
Even if the first thing he manages to get out is, “What the hell happened?”
Dazai hums, one hand absentmindedly resting on Chuuya’s chest. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
The other man’s face scrunches in concentration. “I was in my apartment–and then all of a sudden I was drowning–” he stops to catch his breath, “while you were yelling at me through a fucking loudspeaker– and now I’m here,” he sighs. “And I feel fucking awful.”
“Well, you used Corruption-”
“No.” Chuuya cuts him off. “This is different.”
Dazai closes his eyes as a deep sigh escapes him. This is the part he’s been dreading. He had hoped Chuuya might have remembered more, might have even been conscious of the past few weeks of his life. But that was apparently too much to hope for. “You’ve missed a lot, slug.”
Chuuya doesn’t so much as bristle at the nickname, and instead stares up at him with wide eyes, eagerly anticipating the explanation Dazai is so hesitant to give. Begrudgingly, he relents. As gently and slowly as he can, he attempts to somehow kindly deliver the news that “Surprise! You were turned into a vampire against your will and then I had to pretend to drown you in heavy water so you could activate Corruption in order to break the curse! Hope that clears things up!”
Even Dazai can’t twist those words into anything good, and Chuuya’s already pale face seems to grow even whiter the more of the story he hears. His expression twists into something resembling dread or maybe shock, both of which are extremely concerning to his partner as Chuuya has seen and experienced far too much to ever truly feel “shock” anymore.
But the expression is there.
When he reaches the end of the condensed narrative of his partner’s misfortunes, it takes Chuuya a few minutes to respond.
“Damn it,” he finally whispers. His voice breaks.
This immediately catches Dazai’s attention because his voice sounds unmistakably pained. He sounds like he’s about to cry. He’s seen Chuuya cry before– the physical pain of his ability ensured that– but it was always soundless, always out of necessity, never out of emotion. They never mentioned it afterwards. This is new and it’s scaring him.
“What’s wrong, Chuuya?”
A pained, feeble gasp escapes from his partner in response. “It hurts… more than usual… everything hurts, everything’s sore… breathing hurts…” he’s hyperventilating now, talking faster and faster, panic seemingly setting in to escalate the already debilitating physical pain.
“Shhhh,” Dazai finds himself saying, despite himself. He may not be a man known for his nurturing demeanor, but to refrain from providing comfort at this moment would seem reprehensible. He shifts Chuuya in his lap slightly to allow him to breathe more easily and begins carding his fingers through his partner’s hair in a slow, soothing motion. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. There’s medical supplies if we need them. Do you want some water?”
His attempts at distraction prove to be futile as Chuuya ignores him altogether, instead electing to stare directly upwards. At least he seems to be breathing now. “I’m so fucking sick of this,” he finally sighs, still looking up at the sky.
“Of what, Chuuya?”
“THIS,” he gestures with his hands emphatically, “of never knowing what the hell is going on! I mean, come on, there’s fucking VAMPIRES now? I was turned into a fucking VAMPIRE? What even is that?”
This brief display of rage provokes a relentless coughing fit that leaves him fighting for breath once again. Dazai hurriedly guides him into an upright sitting position, one steady hand on his back, the other holding onto his arm.
“Breathe for me, Chuuya,” he pleads, wincing at how rattled the sound is, at how it must feel in his lungs. The hand placed on Chuuya’s back begins to rub gentle circles into the skin, a hesitant attempt to seem reassuring. Finally, the coughing lets up and his head all but collapses back into Dazai’s shoulder.
Exhausted tears spill from his eyes onto the sleeve of the other man’s jumpsuit.
“Do you ever wish you were born without your Ability?” he whispers, voice almost completely muffled by Dazai’s shoulder.
He freezes. Then waits a minute before answering, trying to anticipate where Chuuya’s going with this. He can feel the other man’s breath beginning to even out from the soft exhales against his neck and the rise and fall of his chest, but there’s a tension in his body that has yet to dissipate.
He decides to simply answer honestly. “Yes,” he admits. “Do you?”
Chuuya’s response is noncommittal, feverish, and a bit incoherent. “It’s just. So much pain. But it’s all I’m worth to anyone anyways.”
“That’s not true.” Dazai cuts in, expression turning dark. The response is automatic, almost childish. He barely even realizes he’s saying it. It sounds out of place, coming from him.
Chuuya lets out a shaky breath. “Then explain to me why this keeps happening.”
“What?”
“This,” he hisses out, “Being used. Like a goddamn pawn. Just absolutely mindless.”
“I-”
“Dazai,” he continues, ignoring the attempted interjection, “this is the least human I’ve ever felt. I think that poor kid from the laboratory might have been the real one of us all along.”
He’s smiling bitterly, but his eyes are still swimming with misery.
Oh.
Dazai sucks in a breath.
They hadn’t talked about this in nearly six years. If Chuuya’s bringing it up now he must be really, really unraveling. Fuck.
His next words are carefully chosen and yet somehow still entirely reckless. Placing one hand under Chuuya’s jaw, he ever so delicately tilts his head up until the two are making eye contact, which the redhead frustratingly still manages to avoid.
“Chuuya, look at me please.”
The request is obeyed.
“Tell me, do you consider me to be a smart man?”
The only response he gets from the other man is a crinkled nose and a look of utter confusion.
“Chuuya. Answer the question,” he insists, then asks again, slowly, “Do you think I’m intelligent?”
“YES, asshole, I’m fully aware that you’re a genius, now why the hell-”
“So you trust my judgment?”
The air feels still for a few seconds. “Obviously,” comes the soft yet petulant response.
“Well then, tell me, would a ‘genius’ have such strong feelings toward a being made up of only a couple thousand lines of code?”
Chuuya is silent.
“You’re human, Chuuya. You’re the most human person I’ve ever met. That, I can promise you.” Dazai can’t help the smile that spreads to his face as he looks down at his partner with a look of pure, endearing affection.
“And what’s your reasoning?” Chuuya grumbles, still unconvinced, “you hate me so much that I have to be human? Is that it?”
The soft smile remains on Dazai’s face as he gently caresses Chuuya’s arm. “Something like that.”
A comfortable quiet ensues between them, which of course Dazai immediately ruins by continuing, “I hate you so much that I’m currently cradling you in my lap, playing with your hair, and tending to your wounds. AND I will most likely be spending the next few days or so fetching you medicine and those teas you like and massaging your sore muscles and making sure you’re alright. Because I just really hate you, Chuuya.”
It’s supposed to lighten the mood and come off as reassuring, but the joke doesn’t land. His partner’s face remains cold and obstinate.
“Sorry, there weren’t any,” he repeats, staring directly into the other’s eyes. He spits out the words with a surprising vehemence. It’s enough to make Dazai physically cringe when he hears his own words thrown back at him.
“C’mon, Chuuya,” he breathes out softly, “You know me better than that.”
And he does. He should. Obviously, taunting Chuuya was all part of the plan to ensure he regained consciousness, took control of his ability, etc, etc, etc. It wasn’t exactly anything new for them either. But seeing Chuuya like this, suffering and miserable and impossibly weak, anything short of worship and gentle caresses seems blasphemous.
It’s not often that Osamu Dazai feels regret.
It’s not often that he’s at a loss for words either.
But the only sounds now are the occasional winces of pain from Chuuya, and small insignificant words of comfort from the other. It remains like that for a long time.
Finally, desperate to distract Chuuya from his pain and himself from their previous conversation, he starts running his mouth.
“Hey,” he begins, no clue of where he’s going with this.
“What.”
“After all of this is over, I’m taking you to Italy.”
“What?” The redhead’s eyes open blearily at that, confused and a little annoyed.
“Haven’t you always wanted to visit?” Dazai continues, a slight smirk on his face.
Chuuya looks bewildered. “I guess, but-”
“Ooh I know! I’ll buy you a vineyard and you can walk around in little linen shirts and just spend your days doing things like ‘looking at the scenery’ and ‘reading French poetry’ or whatever god-awful boring thing you’re into these days.”
“Andddddd,” he continues, “you’ll only ever need to use your Ability in order to more efficiently harvest grapes.” He tilts his head, “Or we can just invest in a really tall ladder.”
He’s blushing at this point. Too much of his true meaning has bled through the words, which he only intended to be a distraction. Not a confession, or an apology, or whatever this has turned into now.
Graciously, Chuuya seems to ignore it, and attempts a weak laugh. “You’ll buy me a vineyard? With what salary?”
“I’m wounded!” Dazai gasps, artificial surprise seeping into the words. “But if you must ask, I was under the impression that it would be a combined expenditure, shared property and all.”
Chuuya groans dramatically. “Oh great, and you’re tagging along?”
“But of course! Someone has to keep you out of trouble!”
“You wouldn’t be happy. You’d get bored.” Chuuya’s voice sounds distant, sleepy. He looks like he’s drifting off, so Dazai adjusts their position so he’s laying down flat with his head resting on Dazai’s legs, then makes sure he’s comfortable before responding.
“Something tells me it would be quite difficult to get bored with you around.”
“What would you even do with yourself all day?” Chuuya questions, suspiciously.
“I figure it would take me at least a week or two to become fluent in Italian and then…” he considers, “I suppose I would simply spend the rest of my time thinking of ways to annoy you.”
Instead of bristling in response, Chuuya elects to half-consciously repeat his earlier words. “You wouldn’t like it.”
His tone is too serious for Dazai’s liking. “You underestimate me, Chuuya. It sounds rather nice, doesn’t it?”
There’s a small hum. “Can we get a dog?”
Dazai can’t help but burst out laughing at that. “I suppose I owe you that much,” he sighs.
Chuuya makes a contented sound and lets his eyes fall closed.
Dazai looks down at him and is instantly overcome with emotion. He’s seen Chuuya break, just a little, and if it’s within his power, he never wants to see it again. He vows to never let it happen again. Certainly never to be the source of it.
Once he’s sure he’s still at least sort of conscious, he leans down to whisper, “I’m sorry, Chuuya. I wouldn’t have forced this on you if I had better options, Fyodor caught me by surprise with you. This is the best I could do for now.”
It’s the truth. But it doesn’t seem to be enough.
Slowly, he leans down further to gently brush the bangs off his partner’s forehead.
“I didn’t mean it, you know, that there weren’t any,” he mumbles, hands cradling either side of Chuuya’s face.
“There are too many to count,” he breathes out, stunned at his own impetuous words.
“Thank you, for all of it. I’m very lucky to have had you by my side for so long.”
He places a soft, lingering kiss on his partner’s forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, mumbling the words into Chuuya’s hair.
Taking one of Chuuya’s hands, he laces their fingers together to rest atop his chest. Gratefully, he feels the light squeeze returned. Feebly, but perceptibly.
As his partner drifts off to sleep, Dazai is left only to sit and daydream. A quiet voice in the back of his head wonders where the whole “Italian countryside” fantasy had come from. It almost sounds nice. Maybe one day.