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Atsushi doesn’t know the first thing about how to take care of a sick person. Like a good little protege though, he’s loaded up a convenience store basket with medicine that he certainly cannot afford on his measly little salary.
Atsushi clenches the handle of the basket, remembering Dazai’s phone call from earlier.
“Good afternoon, Atsushi-kun,” Dazais voice rasped through the phone, followed by a cough. Atsushi tensed.
“Dazai-san? Are you okay?” Atsushi immediately asked, standing from his seat at Dazai’s desk to walk out of the office. He could feel Kunikida’s eyes on him, the skin on the back of his neck prickling, and very pointedly did not turn to look at him. Dazai had been missing for days, and Kunikida was sour because of it.
“Fine, fine,” Dazai dismissed, though the tremor in his voice followed by another cough made him sound anything but. “I’ve just come down with a little cold and wanted to see if I could guilt my favorite little protege into retrieving me some medicine.”
“Of course,” Atsushi said, far too eager and worried about his mentor. “Dazai-san — uh — it’s been a few days since you’ve been gone. Have you been sick this whole time? Are you alright?”
“Great, knew I could count on you,” Dazai simply said, cheerfully, and hung up.
And that’s how Atushi found himself in this predicament, looking lost in a convenience store, staring with confliction at the large array of medications sitting on the shelves and back at the ones in his basket.
What kind of cold does Dazai have? Does he have a fever? Should Atsushi grab nasal spray just in case? Or some cough drops? Maybe he should grab some soup too?
As Atsushi’s poor head swam with concerns and questions, he was unaware of the person suddenly standing beside him.
“Hey, kid.”
Atsushi jumps, turns swiftly and almost tumbles backwards when a hand grabs his forearm and steadies him.
“Jeez, I know we didn’t meet on the greatest of terms, but that’s a bit much,” Chuuya says calmly and lets go of Atsushi’s hand when he’s sure the other isn’t going to tumble over.
“Ch-Chuuya-san,” Atsushi stutters. Chuuya’s eyes observe the contents of Atsushi’s shopping basket, eyes calculating.
“You don’t look very sick.”
“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for — uh,” Atsushi’s lips twist in hesitation, unsure if he should reply honestly.
Chuuya’s stares at him expectantly.
“It’s for Dazai, isn’t it?”
—
Dazai doesn’t talk about his past openly. He does, however, drop little bread crumbs — indications of his life before the mafia. He says it the loudest in his behavior, the way he makes himself into a monster as a means to protect himself. Chuuya sees it the most through the smallest cracks in his facade; the emotionless, inhuman shell he’s grown into.
The most insight Chuuya ever receives is after a mission. It isn’t a difficult mission. A scuffle, some bloodshed, and a tiny USB that Mori decided was important.
“Why send us on a mission like this?” Chuuya asks as they walk through the alleys of the city outskirts, staring down at the USB pinched between his fingertips.
“Do you only want missions where you have to pulverize dozens of people?” Dazai asks blandly.
Chuuya side-eyes him.
“It just feels like busy work. I could be home right now and literally anyone else could be doing this.”
Dazai doesn’t respond, which Chuuya would typically be grateful for, if something hadn’t felt horribly off about Dazai the entire mission. The entire week, really.
Throughout the mission, Dazai had been uncharacteristically tame, reserved, quiet and the few remarks he has made have seemed forced.
Despite himself, worry needles Chuuya’s mind, which he does his best to ignore. Nothing good can come out of caring for Dazai. Not that Chuuya has a choice. He cares too much about everyone – even assholes like Dazai.
It’s a murky day and they’re deep in the slums of the city outskirts. Chuuya chances a look at his partner as they walk side by side down the sidewalk. Dazai has always been pale, but today, his skin looks clammy and drained of color. The circles under his eyes — though always there — are much more notable today.
It shouldn’t matter — the fact that Dazai clearly seems unwell. If he’s well enough to fight, that should be all that matters. It should be, anyway.
“Shouldn’t you kids be in school, or something?” A voice says. They look up boredly to see a group of men, all leaning against the walls of the alley they’re currently walking through.
There’s eight of them, all leaning menacingly against the gritty brick walls, toting weapons of some sort; nailed wooden bats, discarded pipes, a couple of knives.
Neither Dazai nor Chuuya retort -- a crowd like this is far too below their skill grade and not even worth humoring.
The man speaking to them -- the leader from the looks of it, and much larger than Dazai and Chuuya -- sneers, flipping out his blade and pointing it toward them.
“Hey! I’m talking to you.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes and scoffs a laugh, which only aids in aggravating the man more.
“Brats,” he hisses and begins stalking toward the pair. All the while, Chuuya’s eyes remain wholefully unfazed. The man’s blade comes up just before Chuuya’s neck. “Listen, kid. Drop anything valuable you have and we’ll let you walk the other way unharmed.” He nods towards Dazai. “Your friend already looks pretty banged up.”
Chuuya’s eyes flick over to Dazai. The bandages wrapped around Dazai’s face and body are nothing new. This new lethargy he’s exhibiting could be a detriment, but these are just common thugs -- it shouldn’t be a problem.
“Could you back up?” Chuuya grits through his teeth. “You smell like shit.”
The man’s face wrinkles, startled and affronted. No sooner is his blade thrusting toward Chuuya, who effortlessly dodges and has the man thrown down onto his back quicker than any of them can blink. The rest of his lackeys are quick to follow suit, all closing in on the pair, but Chuuya isn’t worried -- not until Dazai suddenly crumbles beside him.
“Dazai!” Chuuya shouts, uncaring of the men surrounding them as he begins to move toward his fallen partner only for a fist to make impact with his cheek.
Chuuya raises his hand to his cheek, blood dripping from a new split in his lip. He glares at the lot of their attackers, steps before Dazai and just like that, every single one of them begins moving toward him – and just like that, Chuuya has every single one of them on the ground, knocked unconscious.
“Dazai!” Chuuya shouts as he kneels down and rolls Dazai onto his back.
Dazai’s eyes are pinched in discomfort, his skin clammy and drained of color, save for the flush on his cheeks, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. One of Chuuya’s hands presses to Dazai’s forehead and he hisses at the heat radiating off him.
“Idiot!” he curses and leans down to pull Dazai upright. Dazai whines in protest, but Chuuya pays him no mind as he places one of Dazai’s arms across his back and forces him to his feet. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a fucking fever?” Chuuya demands. Dazai’s eyes screw shut tighter.
“Please stop yelling,” he whispers, voice uncharacteristically timid, so much so that Chuuya’s frustration is quickly replaced with concern. With Dazai’s body leaning so heavily against him for support, Chuuya can feel his whole body trembling. It isn’t cold out, not even a little.
“Okay,” Chuuya says, and the shaking lets up, if only a little. “Fuck. We can’t travel back to HQ with you like this.” Dazai can barely stand upright.
“It’s fine--”
“The hell it is! You can barely stand.” Dazai winces again, and Chuuya guiltily remembers to lower his voice. “There’s a motel down the street. It looks shady as fuck, but it should be fine for now.”
Dazai doesn’t respond, but Chuuya won’t take “no” for an answer regardless and begins helping Dazai out of the alley they’re in and down the street.
The motel is just as shady looking on the inside as it is on the outside. A man stands at the register and gives the pair an unfazed onceover.
Chuuya pulls out a wad of cash — not even a quarter of what he has on him; enough to sway the man from asking questions, but also little enough for him to raise the ante if he needs to.
“You haven’t seen anyone that looks like us, if anyone comes in here asking.”
The man flips through the cash, looks over it at Chuuya.
“Do you want your change?”
“Keep it.”
“Then as far as I'm concerned, you were never here.” He slides Chuuya a key and rattles off their room number.
The room isn’t terrible. It could be worse. It has one bed, which Chuuya exaggeratedly rolls his eyes at.
Chuuya flicks on the lights, which are a dull, unpleasant yellow and helps Dazai over to the bed. The moment Dazai hits the mattress he’s scrambling for the edge of the blanket and tugging it over himself.
“You should really take a shower first,” Chuuya advises, but Dazai simply nuzzles himself into the sheets and curls in on himself.
Chuuya presses his hand to Dazai’s temple once more and grits his teeth at the heat radiating off him.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone you were sick?”
Dazai cracks open his eyes just as a shiver wracks his form. He shrugs.
“You can’t do shit like this,” Chuuya says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He folds his hands in his lap, unsure what to do with himself when he feels a hand on his cheek -- Dazai’s hand.
Chuuya looks over at him as Dazai’s tired eyes roam his face. His thumb settles on Chuuya’s lip, where it was previously split and bleeding -- no doubt also bruised.
“You got hit.”
“Yeah, well. No thanks to you passing out.”
Dazai’s hand drops from his face.
“Sorry,” Dazai says, and the genuineness in the apology nearly gives Chuuya whiplash with how quickly he looks at Dazai. “You wouldn’t have gotten hit if I wasn’t sick.”
Chuuya blinks at him, startled by the apology. Heat takes to his cheeks, and he quickly looks away. Dazai clearly becomes delusional when he’s sick.
Dazai never apologizes. He never curls in on himself and makes himself smaller, never says things like “please” or “sorry” unless he’s being cheeky.
Chuuya doesn’t know a lot about Dazai’s life before the mafia, in fact he knows close to nothing. It’s moments like these that reveal little bits and pieces.
Chuuya doesn’t know what Dazai’s life was like before the mafia, but he can say one thing for certain; it wasn’t good.
—
Atsushi tenses. Chuuya sighs, appearing almost … sad?
“Let me have that,” Chuuya says and reaches for the basket. Though confused, Atsushi allows him to take it.
“That mackerel called you to bring him medicine?” Chuuya asks as he begins placing certain things back on the shelf and replacing others.
“Uh—yes.”
“How long has he been sick?”
“Well, he only called me today but … he’s been out of work for a couple of days now.”
Chuuya sucks his teeth, shakes his head and looks … worried?
“What a moron,” he says, not to Atsushi, but to himself.
Atsushi hovers beside Chuuya in the checkout line, much like a child with their parent. When they reach the register, Atsushi is very prepared to drain his bank account for his mentor when Chuuya thoughtlessly swipes his card — not even bothering to read the price.
“Come on. That asshole is probably knocking at death's door. He doesn’t have a clue when it comes to taking care of himself.”
Atsushi stares, then nods and catches up to Chuuya.
They walk together in silence for the most part, Chuuya tapping quickly into his phone.
“Hey — uh — Chuuya-san?”
“Hmm?”
“…Why are you over this way? The Port Mafia isn’t really local to this area and — well it’s really close to the agency.”
Chuuya finishes whatever he was doing on his phone and puts it in his pocket.
“Believe it or not, I had the nagging suspicion that your mentor was up to no good so I decided to check in. Turns out I was right.”
Atsushi blinks as he comprehends, then stops dead in his tracks when he understands.
“Oh! You were worried about Dazai-san!” he exclaims.
Chuuya’s face heats up and for a moment, Atsushi fears for his life.
“Yeah, well,” Chuuya continues walking, “maybe I wouldn’t have to if that asshole would actually take care of himself. I spent three fucking years taking care of that idiot, it’s not an easy habit to kick,” Chuuya rambles, and Atsushi finds his lips curling ever so slightly up into a grin.
“Sorry — I didn’t mean to sound like I was teasing. It’s just nice to hear that someone else cares about him, that’s all.”
Chuuya stares at Atsushi critically, then looks away with a sigh.
“You are a really cute kid, I'll give him that.” Chuuya mutters offhandedly, as though not talking to Atsushi at all . Atsushi blushes, startled, both by the odd compliment and by the implication that Dazai and Chuuya talk on a regular basis, no less about him.
“I — what?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Chuuya says offhandedly and waves his hand dismissively.
—
It’s hard for Chuuya to know what to do with himself with Dazai lying sick next to him in some crummy motel. Dazai is knocked out, gone to the world, curled under sheets Chuuya hopes are actually clean. Even so, Chuuya can’t deny how inviting the spot beside Dazai looks. Anything would look inviting with the day he’s having.
Chuuya sighs to himself.
Except he needs to get Dazai medicine. Not before he showers though.
As Chuuya stands from the bed, he feels warm fingers wrap urgently around his wrist and pull. Dazai stares up at him, disoriented.
“Don’t leave,” he pleads, voice a mere whisper.
Chuuya’s throat feels dry as Dazai stares up at him -- unsure how to respond to this sort of behavior from Dazai. The desperate, scared expression on his face is enough to make him look like an entirely different person.
“I’m just taking a shower,” Chuuya says. Dazai stares at Chuuya with glossy eyes, then drops his wrist.
“Okay. Just don’t leave.” His head hits the pillow, and just like that he’s falling back asleep.
All Chuuya can do is stare at him for a moment, confused and concerned. He turns and quietly readies the shower, tying his layered hair up the best he can.
The desperation on Dazai’s face as he asked Chuuya not to leave embeds itself into Chuuya’s mind. So, Dazai’s clingy when he’s sick, as it turns out. A lot of people are. That’s what Chuuya tells himself anyway, as uneasiness settles in his gut.
Regardless, Dazai still needs medicine.
When Chuuya finishes his shower, he makes sure to keep quiet as he exits the motel -- what Dazai doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Chuuya will be in and out, and Dazai will never know he was gone.
—
“Good afternoon Atsu -- shi …” Dazai’s voice falters. He gapes at the scene before him, Chuuya standing with a grocery bag slung over his shoulder and Atsushi standing awkwardly beside him.
Chuuya peers behind Dazai, takes one look at his disorderly apartment and rolls his eyes.
“Go lay down, moron,” he says and grabs Dazai’s wrist. Dazai’s face twists with conflict as he’s tugged along behind Chuuya. Atsushi hesitates a moment, then steps in and shuts the door behind himself. Chuuya glances at him out of the corner of his eye as he brings Dazai over to his tiny bedroom.
“Atsushi-kun, why don’t you head out. Believe it or not, Chuuya makes for a great maid,” Dazai says reassuringly with just the right amount of teasing to make him appear his typical self.
Chuuya’s eye twitches in irritation, appearing angry enough that Atsushi has to question his mentor’s statement. “Really, Atsushi. I’ll be fine.” Dazai’s voice is much more sincere then, and Chuuya can tell he doesn’t want the young man to worry. Atsushi flicks his gaze between Chuuya and Dazai, then nods, because he knows that if Chuuya wanted either of them dead, they would be by now.
“Okay. Let me know if I can help–”
“You’ve helped plenty, kid,” Chuuya interrupts, approaching the boy to begin ushering him out the door. “Thanks to you, this moron can take some medicine, get some rest and live to see another day. Now go take the change I put in your pocket and get yourself some lunch.”
“Change?” Atsushi asks, surprised, then digs around in his pocket. Lo and behold, there would appear to be money there -- only, the sheer value of it makes Atsushi balk.
“This is change for you?” he says, just as the door shuts.
Chuuya turns to Dazai and looks past him at the tiny disorderly apartment, then makes a decision.
“Yeah. We’re going back to my place.”
—
Chuuya arrives back at the motel, pharmacy bag in hand. As quietly as he can manage, he opens the door and steps inside. Dazai is still lying on the bed, a lump beneath the covers, undisturbed. Chuuya inwardly sighs in relief.
He quietly makes his way over to Dazai’s side and place’s the bag down on the nightstand. Just as Chuuya is about to begin rummaging through the bag when a hand wraps urgently around his wrist.
“You left,” Dazai whispers. Frustration brews beneath Chuuya’s skin. He’s ready to reprimand Dazai, tell him to stop being so pathetic, that he needs medicine, but when Chuuya’s eyes land on Dazai’s, his voice dies in his throat.
Dazai’s eyes are glossy, bloodshot, shoulders trembling. The realization overcomes Chuuya like an ice cold wave; Dazai had been crying.
“I asked you not to,” Dazai’s voice trembles.
“You need medicine, idiot,” Chuuya whispers, though his voice is gentle.
Dazai’s hand trembles around his wrist. He doesn’t look angry, but frightened, small betrayed.
“Don’t leave me like this. Please,” Dazai says, delirious and hushed, shaking. Chuuya moves on instinct when his arms wrap around Dazai, a natural and instinctive reaction after years of caring for other kids, some of which were far too young and scared to be without a proper guardian so Chuuya made himself a pillar for them, and he supposes that he never really stopped doing that.
“You need medicine. I had to go,” Chuuya says, resolve strong.
Dazai’s breathing is labored against him.
“Please don’t leave again,” Dazai says into the nape of Chuuya’s neck, hands coming up to grip Chuuya’s jacket.
“I won’t. Now, stop freaking out. You’re fine, okay? Everything is fine.”
“You’re going to take care of me?” Dazai asks, voice small.
“Don’t I always?” Chuuya says, then adds, because he feels like he needs to, “nothing is going to happen to you.”
“Because you’ll keep me safe?”
Chuuya’s breath stutters. He wonders why Dazai would even ask. He nods, tightens his hold around Dazai.
Again, Chuuya doesn’t know who Dazai was before the mafia. All he knows is that people are shaped by their past, and as Dazai shakes in his arms, head tucked under his chin and sharp nails digging into his back, gripping Chuuya like a lifeline, he knows it wasn’t good.
“Because I'll keep you safe.”
—
“You should have told me, moron,” Chuuya says as he settles beside Dazai on his bed. “You know I would have shown up.”
Dazai sighs, mumbles something into Chuuya’s pillow.
Chuuya rolls his eyes and flicks the back of Dazai’s head. “Speak up, you big baby.”
“I didn’t want to be an inconvenience,” Dazai mutters, turning his head to the side.
“Since when do you give a shit about inconveniencing others?” Chuuya snorts.
Dazai looks up at Chuuya, quiet.
“Sorry,” Chuuya says with a sigh. “Sorry. I forgot, you got a heart now, or something.”
Dazai smiles sadly, his hand raising to cup Chuuya’s cheek.
“Or something,” he confirms. Chuuya holds Dazai’s hand in his own.
“Tell me next time.”
“Does Chuuya worry about me?” Dazai asks, voice lilting with amusement.
“Shut your mouth.” Chuuya says, ever the tsundere. “You hate being alone when you’re sick, so just accept the fucking help.”
“Maybe. If Chuuya admits that he doesn’t like leaving me alone when I’m sick.”
Chuuya rolls his eyes and stands from the bed.
“Why the hell else would I still be here?” Chuuya says, standing from the bed. “I still got your fucking ring on my finger, don’t I?”
He does, and has since they were both eighteen and drunk enough in France to say some vows and sign some papers.
Dazai smirks and watches Chuuya leave the room to make dinner. His own fingers raise to trace the ring he has hanging from a dainty chain around his neck, tucked just beneath his shirt.
—
They spend two days like that; Chuuya staying by Dazai’s side. He orders take out, gives Dazai medicine, makes sure he’s drinking water.
Chuuya doesn’t know how Dazai’s head came to rest in his lap the final night, or how they both fell asleep like that. All he knows is that he’s sore in the morning and when he wakes up Dazai is standing, shrugging on his coat.
“We should head out,” he says, casually, as if the last two nights hadn’t happened. Chuuya studies the back of his head.
He doesn’t expect for Dazai to face what happened, not really. In fact, in a sense, he’s glad they’re both playing pretend -- that way both of them can preserve their invulnerability.
“Right,” Chuuya says, and stands to begin gathering his things.
They act like nothing happened.
Chuuya doesn’t hold it over Dazai’s head — not even when this happens a second and third time, a fourth, fifth. Every time Dazai gets sick, he stumbles into Chuuya’s apartment, and every time Dazai gets better and the two act like nothing happened — as if Chuuya never held Dazai in his arms as he shook, he never stocked his cabinets up with cold medicine for the days where he dragged Dazai back to his apartment.
It never happened.
Being vulnerable is never easy, but especially when that vulnerability could cost you your status, your comfort, your life.
So, Chuuya is alright with it never having happened.
---
“You’re so pathetic,” Chuuya says, but his voice is as gentle as the movements of his hand as he tangles it through Dazai’s hair. Dazai simply sighs comfortably with his head in Chuuya’s lap. “Seriously. Such a baby.” But Dazai doesn’t mind him, gone to the world and oh so content under Chuuya’s attention.
Chuuya sighs, admits to himself that he does care for this man, against all reason and rationale. But this Dazai, snoring in his lap, is much easier to admit that about. This Dazai is trying, in his own complicated, nonsensical way. The Dazai Chuuya knew four years ago? Facing his love for that Dazai felt as foolish as denying the sky is blue and as painful as driving a dagger into his own heart.
“Chuuya?” Dazai calls weakly, his eyes half open to gaze up at Chuuya.
“What?”
“Are you staying here? With me?”
“Yes, moron. I’m staying with you. You don’t know the first thing about how to take care of yourself on a good day, nevermind when you turn into a pathetic little sickling.”
Dazai sighs contently and drops his head atop Chuuya’s lap.
“You don’t have to,” he claims, despite the death grip he has on Chuuya’s sweater.
Chuuya snorts.
“Yes I do,” he says as his hand combs through Dazai’s hair. He pushes back the hair from Dazai’s forehead and leans down to press a lingering kiss there, pulling a dreamy sigh from Dazai. The light from the window casts a gentle glow over them, and a shimmer reflects off of the gold band on Chuuya’s finger.
How could he not?