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The night is quiet.
Or, as quiet as it can be, considering a city such as Yokohama never truly rests. Still, the scarce sounds of the streets below are swallowed by the wind howling past Chuuya’s ears as he swings through the air.
He reaches out a hand, web shooting out to connect to the next building and propelling him forward. The motion is shaky, unbalanced, far from his usual elegance now that he cradles his other arm close to his chest. It’s not broken, thankfully, but his left side is bruised to all hell and back, and stretching out his arm right now seems like a from of torture Chuuya would rather avoid.
A grunt catches in the back of his throat as his next swing launches him harder than intended, flying aimlessly above rooftops before he can shoot out his next web. The eyes on his suit narrow into near slits as he tries to locate the building he’s looking for; hidden away between the rows of skyscrapers he soars past.
He knows the route there better than he knows most things, but his body and mind are tired, aching and bleeding, one of his eyes swollen half shut from a particularly nasty blow. His vision is blurred, struggling to see despite the night vision and the shaky movements of his one-handed swings.
It feels like an eternity passes before he finally recognizes the street he’s been hunting for, slinging a web onto the edge of an office building, using it to turn the corner. His momentum catapults him forward with ease, speed picking up with his destination in sight.
One final swing, and the dark, nondescript roof of a complex barely a few stories high is within his reach.
Despite trying to slow his fall, Chuuya’s landing leaves much to be desired. He lands, hard, shifting into a roll that favours his left side.
“Fuck,” he splutters, pain shooting through his right shoulder now as the consequence. Chuuya takes a moment to sit on the hard concrete, tipping his head back to look at the sky. There’s not much to see, the city’s light pollution hiding most of the stars behind a thick blanket of fog, but Chuuya is able to make out a few of the brightest lights, the ones that shine through the murky atmosphere.
He stays for a few minutes more, just catching his breath, the bruised skin above his ribs aching with every other exhale. Finally, Chuuya drags himself upward, taking the few steps over to the edge of the roof and peering down. The street below is devoid of any moving cars this late — or early, depending on how you look at it — in the day, street lamps casting long shadows that stretch across the sidewalk.
Dropping to all fours, Chuuya crawls down the side of the building. Third floor, eighth window from the right; he finds his way around easily. It doesn’t exactly surprise him to see the dim, blue-ish light that glows from within the room he’s heading toward, but relief floods him all the same. He positions himself so his arm rests on the narrow windowsill, biting back a wince as he lifts his left hand to tap at the glass with his knuckles.
Four quick taps. Two slow ones. A pause. Two slow ones.
Sure enough, the figure hunched over the desk straightens up, drawing closer until they can open the latch on the window and shove it upwards.
The blank face of one Dazai Osamu stares down at him. His hair is mussed up, a few strands sticking up in different directions, the circles under his eyes prominent from lack of sleep and his pretty, pink bottom lip jutting out into a mild pout.
“You’re late,” is the first thing the younger says.
“Yeah, well,” Chuuya pushes up his mask to reveal his face, silently thankful for the fresh air as it hits his lungs. “Was a tough fight.”
Dazai’s face scrunches up in distaste. “You look like shit,” he mutters. And with that, disappears back into his room.
Chuuya resists the urge to roll his eyes, if only to avoid further pain with his injury, and hops up into the room. He lands with a gentle thud on the tatami floor, using his right hand to pull the window pane shut behind him. Flicking down the hood of his suit, Chuuya pads over to the bed in the corner, finally able to remove his mask completely.
His hair is slightly greasy from the sweat and being plastered under the tight fabric for so long, a little blood caked into his scalp. Chuuya grimaces at the feel of it even through his gloves.
He slumps down on the mattress, grateful that the academy offers dorm rooms with western style beds instead of the traditional futon.
Careful not to let himself fall back onto the plush surface knowing Dazai will only force him to sit up again later, Chuuya leans his weight onto his thighs as he listens to the younger shuffle around in the en-suite bathroom.
Chuuya watches the streak of light that stretches across the floor of the dorm, bathroom door left ajar. It’s not the only source of light in the room, however, and Chuuya finds himself lifting his gaze to flicker towards Dazai’s desk. His laptop is still set up, screen bright in the darkness of the room. Chuuya has to squint to read the words displayed there.
The motion irritates his still-swollen eye, forcing him to give up after the first sentence or two, blinking in discomfort.
He’s staring at the floor when a pair of black sock-clad feet enter his line of vision.
Dazai sets down a small first aid box next to him on the bed and then tilts up Chuuya’s face with a soft touch to his chin.
It’s always a little disorienting, how gentle Dazai is when they’re like this. When the world outside is quiet, hidden in shadows, and Dazai tends to Chuuya’s wounds with little to no fuss, all his edges dulled.
Chuuya is used to Dazai as sharp, his tongue cut-throat and his wit cunning. Always one step ahead, if not five, mind cluttered with thoughts that whir at alarming speed. He doesn’t hold back his insults, the taunt in his voice often loud and obnoxious. Dazai in the light of day can be a lot; annoying, arrogant, a brat.
That Dazai feels far removed from this one. And yet, they are one of the same.
Chuuya is used to this Dazai too; the one that brushes his fingers featherlight over Chuuya’s skin, whose voice is tuned down to a lull, who no longer bares his teeth in a kiss but instead brushes their lips together with careful intention. Still, a part of Chuuya will always marvel at the change.
“Chuuya’s thoughts are awfully loud tonight. Are you sure your brain won’t overheat, Chibi?” Dazai speaks, the sound just above a whisper, as he dabs a cotton ball into antiseptic to start cleaning off the worst of the gashes above Chuuya’s eye.
Huffing, Chuuya pinches him in the side. His lips pull into a smile as Dazai tries to squirm away while still focused on his task. Unfortunately, the action causes the dried over scab on his bottom lip to reopen, and Chuuya can feel wetness gather near his chin.
Picking up a fresh piece of cloth, Dazai is quick to stem the bleeding. “Dummy,” the brunette says, and Chuuya just smiles again because maybe he’s a little right. The villain had gotten a good hit on the back of his head, and Chuuya’s not entirely sure he isn’t sporting a concussion.
“Oh dear,” Dazai wears a comical frown as he scrutinises Chuuya’s face. He shifts to hold Chuuya’s jaw steady in one hand as he reaches for his phone with another and suddenly Chuuya is being blinded by a bright light.
“Argh,” Chuuya tries to swat the offending device away as he squints, but is reminded of the bruise on his shoulder as he does.
“Hold still.” Blinking, Chuuya leans back as far as he can as the light sways from side to side, Dazai’s shadowy face poking out from behind the phone. The redhead could easily shove Dazai away if he really wanted to, his strength exceeding the others by more than tenfold. Instead, the most he does is fidget uncomfortably as Dazai continues to inspect him.
Green and yellow spots swim in his vision as the device is finally turned off, eyes adjusting slowly to the gentle light that streams in from the city streets, and the glowing backdrop to Dazai’s figure courtesy of the bathroom door that remains cracked open.
“Definitely a concussion,” Dazai announces as he returns to cleaning off Chuuya’s flesh wounds. He sighs. “You know this means I’m going to have to stay up the whole night to make sure you don’t have a seizure, right?”
Humming, Chuuya lifts one hand up to rest on Dazai’s hip. He slips his fingers under the hem of his hoodie, thumbing over the skin there. Right where he’d pinched him. Dazai shudders just a little as he presses a butterfly stitch to the largest gash on Chuuya’s face.
“Not like you were planning on getting much sleep anyways. . .”
On Dazai’s desk sit three cans of Monster energy drinks, and Chuuya is certain at least two of them are completely empty. The screen of the laptop finally turns to black just then, but even with Dazai’s face shrouded in near total darkness now, Chuuya can tell he’s smiling.
The room is quiet for the next few minutes as Dazai continues his work, patching up the worst of Chuuya’s injuries. It’s a little funny that for once Chuuya seems to be covered in more bandages than even Dazai is. Then again, this isn’t exactly a rare occurrence considering Chuuya’s job. Though it’s usually not quite this bad.
As if having read his thoughts, Dazai chooses this exact moment to comment.
“So much for the amazing Spiderman,” he muses, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. Chuuya makes sure to keep his fingers on the younger’s skin, hooking his thumb into the waistband of his sweatpants.
“You really got your ass handed to you this time, didn’t you, Chuuya?”
The redhead has half a mind to grumble at the question that is more a statement than anything, but then a hand brushes through his hair and he quiets. Fingernails scratch softly at his scalp, uncaring of the traces of blood.
Chuuya melts into the touch, turning his head to the side to rest on the soft surface of Dazai’s stomach as the younger closes in to stand between his knees. He fights the urge to let his eyes flutter shut, instead lifting Dazai’s hoodie just enough so he can angle his face and press a tender kiss to his skin in silent gratitude.
The next breath Dazai takes is long, and Chuuya is content to feel his chest expand and deflate beneath his cheek.
“So,” Chuuya’s voice sounds rougher now, but he doesn’t clear his throat, “University of Tokyo, huh?”
Dazai pauses his ministrations for a moment before he resumes. It’s likely he hadn’t known Chuuya had been able to read the words on his computer screen.
“Yes,” Dazai says, “The dates for entrance exams are coming up and the academy is urging us to make a decision. I’m thinking of taking one for Todai, Keio and Waseda. The others don’t really interest me. . .”
Eyelids at half-mast, Chuuya feels the rumble of Dazai’s voice against his ear. It’s a pleasant sound.
“Figures you would only choose universities in the countries’ top ten.”
Humming, Dazai moves his hand lower to scratch at the shorter hairs on Chuuya’s nape, and the older nuzzles closer not unlike a cat. “Does Chuuya not think me capable?”
Chuuya snorts, the noise muffled into Dazai’s hoodie. “Of course I do, idiot. You’re a genius.”
“That’s quite the contradictory statement, Chibi.”
“Shut up, you know what I mean.”
When Dazai’s hands move to fist in his hair and gently pull him away, Chuuya whines in protest. He glares up at Dazai when the younger comes into view, though he supposes it falls short of its usual force when one of his eyes can’t even open all the way.
“Have you thought about it?”
“Thought about what?”
Even in the dark, Chuuya clearly sees Dazai’s eye roll. “Which entrance exams you’re taking, stupid.”
Chuuya ignores the insult in favour of wrapping his arms around Dazai’s waist and hiding his face in the soft fabric of his hoodie once more. He’s being a lot clingier than usual, he’s aware, but if anything he’ll blame it on his concussion. And the fact that Dazai smells like a heavenly mix of lavender, the slightly clinical scent of his bandages and something so very Dazai that Chuuya has no way of describing it.
It shouldn’t be heavenly, really, but Chuuya breathes it in like it’s his favourite fragrance anyways.
If Dazai thinks his behaviour is odd, he doesn’t comment on it, though he does get impatient when Chuuya goes another minute without replying. He tugs at a strand of Chuuya’s hair, still not as harshly as he normally would, and Chuuya lets out a groan.
“Why are you even asking?” Chuuya mumbles eventually, voice muffled into Dazai’s stomach. “You already know there’s only one place I wanna get into. . .”
He can feel the way Dazai’s lungs expand and contract once again as he huffs out another breath. “Right. Tokyo University of Science. Chibi’s always had a one-track mind like that, hasn’t he? Never one to explore all the options. . .” Dazai peters off, his tone light and teasing.
Chuuya’s exhaustion quickly washes away the surge of annoyance in his chest at the subtle jab, instead resorting to pinching Dazai’s skin once more. Lower this time, through the thin fabric of his pyjama pants.
A soft sigh sounds out above him, and then the feeling of hands in his hair returns as Dazai begins to pet through his strands in earnest. It’ll have his hair looking absolute shit come morning, Chuuya knows, but in the moment it brings him nothing but peace, practically melting into his boyfriend’s hold.
“Hmm, you know, Tokyo University of Science is only about a fifteen to twenty minute subway ride away from Todai or Keio if I were to choose either of those,” Dazai muses as his fingers continue to card through Chuuya’s waves. The redhead startles slightly at the sound, well on his way to passing out at this point, and forces himself to open his eyes so that he can try and follow the words. “Waseda would also only be thirty minutes away at most, so we could meet up for lunch or between lectures on most days. Or, you could always just . . .”
There’s a pause. One second. Two.
“Swing by, of course.”
It takes a moment for the terrible attempt at a joke to register in Chuuya’s brain, still awfully sluggish But when it does — he laughs.
Normally, Dazai would have gotten a deadpan glare or a groan or Chuuya’s signature Oh-my-god-Dazai-you’re-an-idiot eye-roll. But now, Chuuya can’t even hope to fight back the chuckle that breaks past his lips.
(If this moment is ever brought up again, Chuuya will insist it was the combination of concussion and lack of sleep.
In reality he knows it likely has more to do with the warmth that blossoms in his chest at the realisation that Dazai has thought, in detail, about their shared future. To the point where he knows how much time it would take to get from each of his top choice universities to Chuuya’s own.
God. Chuuya is so in love with him that it hurts.)
Finally peeping out from the hiding spot he’s made of Dazai’s stomach, Chuuya looks up at the younger, blinking as he readjusts to the golden light that frames Dazai’s head from behind like a halo. He’s aware he must look less than stellar, with his face littered in bruises and cuts and his hair a matted, way-ward mess, but he can’t bring himself to care much. Not when Dazai’s hands shift to cradle his jaw, staring down at him with so much softness in his eyes it’s almost too much to bear.
To anyone else, Dazai’s expression might look blank, emotionless. But Chuuya sees love written all over his face, etched into his features like it’s always belonged there.
He lets the ends of his mouth curve upwards as he speaks, “You’re talking like you’re already sure we’ll get in.”
Dazai doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course, we are. I may hate to admit it, but Chuuya’s pretty smart, too.”
Chuuya feels his smile grow wider. The cut on his bottom lip stings with the force of it. “Woah, woah, wait. Am I hearing this right? The Dazai Osamu admitting I’m smart?” He sits up a little straighter in his amusement, pulling back. Dazai’s hands follow the motion, keeping them close together. “Can you say that again? I need to record it this time.”
“You’re so stupid, chibi.” Dazai pouts at him, but Chuuya still sees the smile that he fights to hold back, his lips wobbling ever so gently.
“You just called me smart.”
A grimace contorts Dazai’s face then, and he turns away, acting haughty. Chuuya knows it’s just because he’s trying to hide his grin. “My mistake. I’ll never do it again.”
Chuuya lets loose another quiet chuckle. He couldn’t care less about Dazai’s attempts at being an annoying little shit. The utter confidence and trust that Dazai places in him settling happily and warm at the base of his stomach.
Just then, a yawn forces his jaw open, and he feels his exhaustion return in full force, eyelids drooping in earnest.
Dazai turns back to face him. “You should sleep.”
Chuuya doesn’t protest.
He lets Dazai help him strip out of his suit, lifts and moves his limbs accordingly as Dazai changes him into one of his old t-shirts that reaches the redhead’s thighs and a fresh pair of boxers, only wincing occasionally when a movement jostles his wounds. If he were any more lucid, he’d insist on a shower.
As is, Chuuya settles under the covers on Dazai’s bed with remnants of dirt and blood still clinging to his body. The sheets will smell of grime and copper the next day, and Dazai will whine about it until Chuuya agrees to wash them for him (as if Chuuya hadn’t already been planning on doing it regardless).
For now, Dazai offers no complaint as Chuuya draws up the blanket, nuzzling his bloodstained face and grimy hair into the pillow. Instead, he joins Chuuya on the mattress, propping himself up with a pillow of his own tucked under one arm.
Chuuya can barely keep his eyes open, only catching sight of Dazai’s face through slow, intermittent blinks that get less and less frequent.
“You gonna stay up to make sure I don’t die . . . ?” Chuuya slurs as he recalls Dazai’s comment from earlier, hanging onto his waking consciousness by a thin thread.
He very faintly hears Dazai hum an affirmative. A hand reaches for him, and gentle, slightly cold fingers tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear.
“Rest now, Chuuya,” Dazai says.
So, he does.