Chapter Text
Dazai’s grip on human emotion was limited, in his humble opinion.
He understood perfectly well the objective danger of negative emotions and the thoughts resulting from them - how they could be put into action to hurt or maim. Most days, he simply failed to understand why it mattered. Everyday people became slaves to a system they weren't always aware was in place, and everyday they made the choice to play into it, whether it be arrogance, ignorance or something completely different. Why would choice matter? It was the freedom to make the choice that mattered, not necessarily the choice itself, yet the two were confused quite often. If those choices didn't matter, why did the feelings behind them matter at all?
The rush of fear, for example, having walked in front of a car - shock, fear, and the immediate aftermath, maybe anger would override logical thought. Those negative emotions meant very little in the face of a life-or-death situation. Why would they matter if you were dead? The logical conclusion to draw if you survived would be to avoid the situation to avoid the fear.
The other logical conclusion to derive from the larger debate is that humans simply search for distractions from fear, even if the moment is fleeting, every other moment simple apathy. Avoidance due to fear only served to prolong a painful existence, and most humans put animals down for that reason out of respect. Could he not respect his own need to rest? Apparently not. Nor could other people, though the gestures were welcomed far more kindly than years past. No biting or scratching or threats to kill the person who 'helped' him. Something in his gut told him that the ADA wouldn’t respond as well as Chuuya had to his fifteen - or sixteen - year old post-attempt behaviours.
However morbid, they were great opportunities to observe the slug’s reactions. One could say it was inappropriate, but Dazai needn't point out that he and Chuuya, and anyone who grew up in the Port Mafia, were not raised for considerations like that. In a world of kill-or-be-killed, Double Black were a source of violence, and that violence would forever be a part of them, regardless of whether the blood spilled was someone else's or their own. Dazai's attempts were an affront to the redhead's senses, but he knew that Chuuya could understand him much better now than before. Back then, Chuuya was rarely in any consolable mood, his face cycling through the five stages of grief upon the realisation of what was happening. It'd been a long time since then, and he imagined that the panic would remain - it was simply in Chuuya's nature to want to preserve life, and Dazai had always thought he was meant for the light - yet he wouldn't condemn his old mafia partner the same way, Dazai liked to think.
A matter of speaking - liked. Watching his partner struggle for breath, looking so small despite usually taking up so much space was not something he liked. Those were the times he imagined Chuuya would rather be dead. Dazai's body responded to the wrongness of it all - he was unable to untrain his body releasing adrenaline, and his heart was not his concern whilst running to make sure he made it on time. It was intense enough as it was without the added pressure of being later than he meant to be and seeing the consequences of that. He could tolerate things not going to plan. He’d been trained to adapt. He didn’t particularly appreciate it.
~*~*~*
He’s sauntering towards the door, home-free after another day of arriving late and dragging out his lunch break when he receives the call.
It was an unknown number, which already narrows it down. There were very few people who could know this number, he didn’t exactly write it down anywhere. Members of the Agency, certain members of government in their various divisions, and a few select members of the Port Mafia. Considering he had all those numbers saved, the answer was quite clear. It was a burner phone, and of those people who had his number, very few of them would remember his number off the top of their head. Not to mention most of them were in the office he was leaving, and all it would take was a shout and he’d hear them. Turning around to address them was a different story, but that was because he was an asshole, not for any personal reason.
So. Port Mafia burner phone.
He could just ignore it. It was somewhat of a habit. It had been for a little while, come to think of it. He left most calls on his work phone unanswered, already predicting with high accuracy that a drunk Mafia executive was on the other end. He couldn't see any reason for bad blood in that respect - they had their phones, after all. The Mafia ones. The phone that Dazai kept out of sight with a single number saved. He remembered everyone else’s anyway if he was desperate. Those were saved for the work phone. He didn’t get messages on their phone anymore, he hadn’t for a good while now. It made the message pretty clear.
He could ignore it like it was any other drunk dial, which saved the energy dedicated to forgetting about the tiny hatrack and all the colourful ways he could express his hatred and despair - though there was no way in any form of hell in any world religion that Chuuya would admit to the second part. His anger and bitterness could be loud and quiet and everything in between, but the silence between words screamed 'I know you better.' Dazai heard every question loud and clear; every silent plea from a man who believed himself a monster to be validated in how he was feeling, and to have someone, even the subject of his hatred, tell him with or without words that feeling betrayed was justified. That he was human.
Chuuya wasn’t the kind of person to dwell on those bad things everyday, not like Dazai. It was a bad night here or a chance (chance) meeting there that threw the man, but with people relying on him practically every second of his life, waking or sleeping, the redhead was unwavering in his commitment to them. His work was his lover, well and truly. He did what needed to be done, not necessarily what he wanted, and it struck Dazai somedays sitting in the Agency office, looking up expecting to see fiery hair and blue eyes and instead finding Kunikida. The universe certainly had a sense of humour, if it could be called that.
Working for both the Mafia and the Agency, the fickle nature of life was constantly brought into question. One’s greatest strength could easily turn to their fatal flaw. Kunikida’s commitment to his morals closed as many doors as it opened. Yosano’s commitment to preserving life could prove to be an endless, painful nightmare. Ranpo’s genius could only be his downfall. Atsushi and Kenji naivety would be taken advantage of, Naomi and Junichirou could be torn apart - and in a very simple example, a necessary evil, the President himself ignored many of Mori’s shortcomings during their own partnership and now beyond, assisting in keeping him in power, even indirectly. He had to. Fukuzawa-sensei understood the importance of a strong leader in the Underworld as much as Dazai did. Regardless of Dazai’s admiration for the people he knew, they were as easily defeated as they were spurred on by their internal beliefs. Kouyou’s grace was born from necessity and polished out of choice. Hirotsu’s loyalty was a choice. Akutagawa and Gin were similarly exploited, given a home in the Mafia. Chuuya was given a home there.
Nakahara Chuuya - who looked after a group of street rats, protected them for nothing in return but a sense of belonging that was torn away the minute he put himself first. He was the perfect little soldier for Mori but he certainly wasn't without his own free thought. Self-willed and headstrong - he was pig-headed and stubborn. The mafioso's commitment to his work would be the death of him. He wasn’t the kind of person to sit around when the end of the world came. He’d be out protecting those he cared about, as opposed to the brunet who’d melt into the flames provided he died instantly, or maybe he’d pick a nice spot to view the chaos before the inevitable end. Such thoughts made him wonder if anyone would truly be with him in the end. Perhaps the perfect suicide would be executed amongst the chaos with no-one to worry about him, no-one to burden with the clean-up. Sometimes Dazai figured Chuuya would do a much better job fulfilling Odasaku’s wish than he could ever do.
It seemed early for the dog to start drinking - wrong, almost. Wrong was subjective though. Dazai would say hiding Kunikida's notebook for some spontaneity was a thoughtful gift, alas the blond would fume and choke him until he gave up its whereabouts, complaining about setting him behind schedule. Passing his paperwork off to Atsushi was an opportunity for exposure, not laziness. Taking Kyouka out for lunch more often than not? No, he wasn’t trying to become her favourite, simply introducing her to the smaller, kinder, nicer things in life. Not like him buying Chuuya shitty red to swirl around pretentiously - a terrible gift for his least favourite person. Fun, Dazai would say. Enabler, others could call him. Leaving slugs in his desk drawer. Hilarious, and a beautiful opportunity presented, all thanks to him, for the redhead to clean the drawers he insisted he was going to a hundred times. Calling him a dog. Amusing to him, disrespectful to others.
Every time. They were right. Dazai was wrong. Dazai would argue that choking someone could be wrong; overworking someone they knew was suicidal could be wrong; Chuuya’s annoying drunk dials spilling his guts could be wrong. Speaking of which, the call was ringing out. He couldn't help but think he was awfully stuck in his head, more than he thought. The office had a way of distracting him from it, and two years later it was no less disconcerting a realisation.
If it wasn't a drunk dial, then... a favour, perhaps. The brunet couldn't help but hope - Chuuya hated asking him for anything, and he was currently on a mission. He knew because he checked the mafioso's schedule that morning, planning to drop in sometime later that night. This ought to be interesting. “Ah, a tiny slug is calling me. This better be-"
The rest of the sentence was lost to screams and wails that echoed in his ears as if in a tunnel. Dazai froze in place, hand twitching only to move the phone slightly further from his ear. His face felt plastic, as if he’d have to morph his features by hand. He felt like a doll, needing an outside influence to act on him. The sound was unmistakable - hearing it was like smelling it; like seeing it; watching the carnage, something inhuman, incredible, never to be replicated - never the same twice, never tiring of watching it.
Yet he wasn't watching it.
A deep rumble crackled through the phone’s speaker, which would only mean one thing. There was no time. All the above considerations went out the window.
–- -- --
For what had been a slow but productive day, all excitement had passed as the office approached its closing hours. Most members were preparing to leave for the dorms while Kunikida remained holed away with Fukuzawa. Yosano was behind her closed door to finalise paperwork she'd been behind on. Ranpo didn't seem to be making any move to leave, lying on a desk with a leg hanging lazily over the edge, phone held above his face and lollipop stick twirling in his mouth.
A calm day was like such was rare at the office. Dazai had only been choked twice by Kunikida today, only had his request for help with paperwork declined by Atsushi once (he’d left for his lunch break shortly after), which made for a quiet corner of the office for once. Junichirou and Kenji were out for most of the day, Ranpo leaving quite early in the morning and arriving back later than usual, earning a wink from Yosano that he responded to with a petulant sticking out of his tongue.
The banging up the stairs seemed to be just the excitement the ADA had been missing. It didn’t take Ranpo’s deduction skills to recognise the footfalls or the urgency. Something was wrong. First thing to note, Dazai returning upstairs without having left. He rarely re-entered when he was asked, let alone of his own accord. Second thing, amendment to the first note- he ran upstairs.
The silence was interrupted by numerous yelps of surprise as the tan-coat clad detective sped to his desk and pulled up his laptop screen with a very forceful movement, clutching his phone with a white-knuckled grip. The whirlwind ceased only for a few moments as the brunet seemed to process that he needed to put the phone down in order to type. It dropped to the desk only a few seconds later with a clatter. The noises drew the Agency's doctor out of her infirmary, eyeing swift hands and oddly disjointed movements. Ranpo was staring directly at her, and with a quick survey of the office, most members were now looking between the three of them, trying to figure out what was going on. Dazai’s typing was, frankly, not as bad as he tried to lead Kunikida to believe, so the fact that it was full of random pauses, frantic bursts dispersed between pauses, something was very wrong for Dazai to drop all pretense of his incompetence.
Atsushi’s timid inquiry as to what his mentor was doing yielded no answer. Dazai’s eyes were trained on the screen. It took the mantiger a moment to recognise the wild look in his eyes, and… it didn’t look like he’d blinked yet. In fact, he couldn’t identify what Dazai’s expression was at all. His nostrils were flaring slightly, the only indication that he was breathing at all, otherwise his posture was unnaturally stiff, lips pursed so much they were pale.
Ranpo shook his head when Atsushi's eyes landed on him. That was a good enough indication that no-one should approach. As per usual, Yosano pushed the boundary and walked closer.
He didn’t respond to her presence immediately, then, in one go, he swept towards her and snatched the keys quite cruelly from her - and only her keys, clipped onto a lanyard, from which they’d been unclipped in a single motion. He was spinning and running out the room in the same flowing movement before anyone had any time to declare outrage. Like it was simply a dance, and Dazai was a professional.
Despite there being multiple files under one arm and a water bottle hanging from the other hand, the doctor didn’t spare a glance towards the other Agency members who were watching with wide eyes or gaping mouths or both, dropping what was in her hands and darting out of the office in pursuit as quickly as she could.
She caught the tail-end of Dazai throwing himself into the driver’s seat, so she swung herself with equal fervor into the passenger side, slamming the door barely quick enough before the detective pulled out of her parking spot. Whatever it was, whatever this was, there was no room for failure. That much was obvious.
-- -- --
Stupid.
Stupid. 27 seconds into the office he’d just left. 19 seconds for the laptop to boot up. 4 seconds to enter the password, 6 seconds for it to finish loading. 5 seconds to find the location tab he was looking for, 8 seconds looking for the cable, 3 second fumbling to plug it in. Another 3 seconds to plug it into the laptop and 8 seconds for the application to actually work.
7 seconds originally, turning to nearly 20 when he realised he couldn’t focus on counting and locating the rough area and mapping out how to get there. 3 seconds cursing how rusty he was, having to resort to tapping out the seconds, a practised movement that had a double knock every five so he could keep track of the seconds. Something practised, something old, something of a habit.
4 seconds to think about and summon Yosano- 5 seconds wasted thinking about how unfamiliar the name felt on his tongue for some damn reason, a further 4 seconds remembering that it didn’t matter right now and realising that he was already booking it out of the office. The only thing he’d done right so far was not stop to check if he was being followed. Through the wind seemingly bellowing in his ears, her footsteps behind him were loud enough to identify.
42 seconds to get to Yosano’s car. Swinging into the driver’s seat, 6 seconds to turn it on and note that he somehow had her keys in his hand. Driving.
Some would call it impulsive, odd, to count the seconds, to keep track of the time so closely. It was the difference. Dazai was the difference.
Nearly 3 minutes. Difference. Chuuya's location was meant to be twenty minutes from the office. Twenty-three minutes.
Twenty-three. Fucking. Minutes.
“Yosano-sensei.”
His voice was oddly strained, forced. It was one thing to know that Dazai spent his life masquerading as his cheerful persona, it was a whole other thing watching him grasp at whatever was left of it. She fell silent within the first few minutes in the car, realising that Dazai was somewhere else and likely unable to answer her.
He didn’t look over, so he didn’t see her slightly widened eyes zeroed in on his hands on the wheel, clearly noting the minute shaking. She wouldn’t mention how often Dazai would take a breath and hold the air in his lungs either. She wasn’t sure if he was aware he was doing it, whether it was a reaction or a way to keep himself grounded. She wasn’t Ranpo. She couldn’t read people like he could, but she and Dazai were victims of a similar disease.
His reactions - the subtleties in his movements, the silent punishments, his eyes were practically popping out of his head in the office, whereas his face was blank. A careful, cautious, practised blank - something entirely unnatural, like putty that you could stick your hand into and the indent would stay there. Disturbing. It reeked of him.
She wasn’t an idiot. Needing a location was a giveaway. There’s only one person Dazai would keep track of that incessantly. “Nakahara-san,” she said quietly, careful not to send violent waves into the calm. Even gentle ripples were risky. They travelled in silence for a little while before there was any indication of a coming response.
The brunet flexed his hands on the steering wheel, phalanges cracking. “You’ve never seen the full extent of Chuuya’s ability, have you?” He said, more like a statement than a genuine question. Monotonous, like the effort of putting any emotion into his voice was too much, too great. It matched the dead look she’d only seen a few times. Matched like a bullet in a gun. She shook her head, even though it really wasn’t a requirement. Not like Dazai would look, not like Dazai didn’t already know she hadn’t. The question felt more like a courtesy, like playing pretend.
“If the Agency knew...” he muttered to himself, eyes darting left and right before flooring it through a red light. He didn’t finish his sentence, nor did Yosano wish for him to. Nakahara was dangerous anyway. His ability and fighting skills were deadly. It was difficult to imagine just what Dazai was talking about. How could that ability get any more impressive than it already was? If the Agency knew? If we knew what?
All he knew was he needed to drive. At that moment, it was his only reason. He did just steal her car. Technically she was in it, but she had no idea what was going on. Not the extent, at least. He really should be telling her. She didn’t have to come. Especially knowing it was Chuuya. ‘Double Black’ wasn’t her time, and she owed nothing to the Mafia, but she was there anyway. And he should really open his mouth but he could feel himself coming undone, a failure Mori would’ve surely punished him for.
Staying away from Chuuya was to deny his past, to leave it all behind, but his presence did things to Dazai. Memories of missions, the fights where his partner didn’t pull punches, and the moments in between, stealing the hat that didn’t look half as bad as he made out. It quite suited him actually. He’d grown into it, he only teased to see his reactions. He had a reason to bother Chuuya back then, and he had a new reason these days, away from the Mafia. They both knew it was different now, that had to have been the reason the phone calls stopped. He had no reason to answer the phone and neither did Dazai. But he did, and the bolo tie rarely felt so much like a noose as it did right now.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel, teeth worrying his bottom lip. He was past caring about Yosano’s reaction. She could yell at him afterwards, she was just being nice. He couldn’t escape the thought that Mori finally exhausted him of use, regardless of how unrealistic that was. What if this mission wasn’t a mistake? What if Mori sent Chuuya with false intel, with-?
No. Just get there before Chuuya succumbed to the effects Corruption had on his body - tearing it apart at the seams, leaving the insides to leak out, blood from his eyes, nose, mouth, ears, anywhere the skin could tear. Arahabaki’s punishment would persist afterwards, leaving him coughing up as much red as it leached from him while he was under its influence.
Chuuya’s body would rebel against its supposed ‘purpose’, the true host pushing back against its vessel, only to be seen as a failure for being unable to contain the singularity on his own. The failure was the rebellion itself, one Chuuya didn’t choose first but fought for all the same, not wanting to perish while his consciousness was tucked away somewhere unreachable. His awakening each time was a mercy only Dazai could provide.
Time was slipping away.
Chuuya’s presence, the detective realised, had become its own mercy. Playing video games when they were kids as a way to connect, a way for two teenagers to be kids in a world that was unforgiving, one that reeked of iron and cigarettes, with cold winds and colder shoulders, darkened hallways and glass stained red.
Even now, the red-stained glass remained but came in a different form. In a fancy glass with his old partner’s favourite wine, his own hand with a glass of whiskey. Connection between two adults who were once equally fucked up kids, chasing connection they’d achieved against the odds.
He sat behind a steering wheel, completely detached from reality. Any positive memory was instantly tarnished. He already knew what a long bout of Corruption looked like on the redhead. He already knew, he kept telling himself as though that would stop the flashes behind his eyes. He could already feel the weight of his head in his hands, one that was too heavy to be held up on its own.
Dazai’s hands needed to be there. It was his hands that were meant to hold it up. It was his that did.
His next swallow was painful. The bandages on his neck were irritating, they were stopping the physical action of swallowing back these emotions. How uncharacteristic of him to want to drop the damn act in front of an Agency member, but he wanted nothing more than to rip it off and wanted nothing more than to drive.
It didn’t matter. He could see Arahabaki’s dark stare. He could see It slowing down, the body stuttering in mid-air, breaking down-
- broken.
The same face that greeted him most days in the Mafia. A time passed now, where he’d suffered in the dark, he laughed in the light.
It didn’t feel that way right now. Everything was dark, desaturated. The light wasn’t there. He was in the light, but at what cost?
He had a reason to drive. He’d drive for as long as it took, so long as Chuuya was fucking alive-
The closer they got, the more composure he was losing. He knew it. Yosano would’ve seen it. He accelerated through a place he couldn’t recognise from recent memory. It reminded him of somewhere else, someplace else, the sun, a weight on his chest, his sun - Chuuya.
No. No. Not right now. He couldn’t afford to be that careless.
The area they were driving through - its ground had become uneven, he had no choice but to focus. He didn’t think to shoot a glance to Yosano, to say anything about what had created the craters they were coming up to and passing by. He didn’t even think about warning her about how violently he was about to hit the brakes.
He didn’t remember putting his seatbelt on, but he wrestled with it like his life depended on it. Not his.
Yes, his.
Did he close the door? Couldn’t remember, his eyes scanned the crack-filled road ahead. It wasn’t flat enough for the car, no-one at the Agency would have - six seconds wasted wondering if someone else’s car would’ve handled the terrain, if it could’ve brought them there faster.
He trusted Yosano. He truly did. He didn’t have time to think about what that meant. So he ran without looking back.
This wasn’t the first time a city was levelled by this god. Would it be the first and last, or was a section of Yokohama going to mimic the Suribachi dust bowl?
If there had been a building there, as the rest of the landscape hinted, it was flattened. It was gone. He could hear it. It was all he could hear. The laughter, tearing through a raw, burning throat. He should get Kouyou’s tea-
- he vaguely recognised the voice yelling to be his. Hoped he said something like Stay there or Stay back - it's not as though Yosano could survive against Arahabaki. Dazai knew better than anyone that dodging could only work for so long, had watched battlefields decimated by the god that was using Chuuya’s body.
No time to think about that now.
Closer, closer.
He needed to be closer.
Heneededtogetcloser
Once upon a time, he’d caught Chuuya after he fell. He was thankful, thankful, that he wasn’t dealing with his airbourne body this time, regardless of how divine he looked, so far above everyone and everything else.
There would never be another like Chuuya, truly.
He met the pin-prick pupils of the god, and the laughter didn’t stop. Dazai couldn’t even see any bodies - how bad had it been? How far had he moved from the activation area? Was he moving steadily towards civilisation?
How long after had Chuuya activated before he called? Why did he let it ring-? No time to check his phone for how long it’d been. No time.
He’d never been so damn grateful for his ability. He could barely recall a time when he could say that, admit that, whatever - if it ever happened, it was surely in regards to Chuuya.
He reached for him. Reached with the desperation of someone with everything to lose, what a terrifying feeling.
The brunet tried to speak, to reassure, but his own mouth was dry, throat cold, hands numb, legs shaking beneath him. The air in his lungs rattled through him, he forced the air in and out. He was so unbelievably angry, he could feel that now, but it was all in a second that it occurred, because he could only focus on catching Chuuya as he fell forward, not even a groan leaving the man as his full weight collided with the detective’s chest.
He was so angry. He was shaking.
He ought to be kinder, man to monster, so the monster knelt, cradling Man to his chest as he dropped in tow.
There were darkened tracks on his face, their existence signalling tears. It was almost more gruesome to see than it would’ve been had his entire face been stained red. Signalled suffering, signalled pain, pain that was very real and the kind that no-one else would ever experience.
Something pulled at him, an oddly normal thought, one he often ignored, one that would turn his life into a nightmare if he ever acknowledged the question properly.
Why?
Why? What did Chuuya, the most human person he knew, do to deserve the pain of dehumanisation?
Why should he be exempt from it? Why shouldn’t he be?
His head lulled to the side, pressing against Dazai’s hand. His hand would come away slick with blood, akin to his own second skin that created a film he didn’t allow others to see, but this was Chuuya’s, Chuuya’s blood that should only be wiped away, should come away easily, its steady flow coming to a gradual stop by itself without compression or pointed attention.
He’d pull his hand away if it wasn’t for the fact that he couldn’t tell if the beat against his fingers was Chuuya’s or his own, thrumming in his ears, pulsing through him quickly, painfully.
You fucker. Don’t you fucking leave me.
He leaned closer, leaving his third and fourth finger on the pulse point, using his thumb to scrub gently at the red running down his face. His cheeks were stained, his hairline as well. He couldn’t clean with his finger or his hand, he’d smear it, he’d make it worse. Chuuya’s canvas wasn’t his to paint.
It isn’t Arahabaki’s, either, his mind provides. Not Mori’s, not Man’s, not monster’s, not a god’s.
The air filled with chokes, and Dazai’s eyes widened, trying to twist the small man into a position to get air into his lungs. On his back. No air. Clogged airway.
Leaning his head down, positioning his body away from him, holding his jaw, face down, and the choking only continued. No long draws, no inhales for air, only scratchy, wet stutters escaping his throat. Turning him around again to see his face.
Auburn locks covered his neck, stuck to it, Dazai couldn’t move to check for neck trauma. As if the man in his arms had been holding onto a semblance of consciousness, the body went completely limp in his arms and Dazai’s mind went…
- blank.
Neck trauma.
10 seconds wasted. There was no sound.
He knew he needed to make sure the air was getting through. He turned Chuuya’s head again, feeling up and down his neck, no hesitation when he stuck his fingers in his mouth, first to empty the blood that ran and soaked the edge of his own bandages from his mouth. He pressed them further back, Chuuya had a gag reflex, he knew, he teased him so bad when they were partners.
He waited for anything, he needed to empty his throat of the blockages, Yosano’s ability wouldn’t work - how would it work with Arahabaki’s presence?
It had to work.
Where was she?
The head he held jolted, a disgusting sound leaving his throat, snapping back without the proper support and going limp again. He turned his head to the side again, an open mouth emptying red and lumps this time, let that be good.
He listened again. Faint breaths. Faint, there- he’s there, he’s in there, keep him there-
… please.
The body was pried from his grasp far too soon, and he almost lunged to tear them apart before catching sight of white and-
A hand rested on his shoulder. He stared. Chuuya was still covered in blood. He still looked- he was still, was still-
He fell back, now his legs gave way beneath him. He was pulled up again after a few seconds? Minutes? How long? Manoeuvred into her side. He knew that’s what she was doing, he didn’t really… feel it. It was all blurry.
His vision was blurry. He hadn’t blinked. So he did. He blinked, and Chuuya was still there. Still covered in blood. But he was no longer straining to see the rise and fall of his chest. It was there.
There was still blood. There was an itch in his hand now, energy renewed for a moment but gone as quick as it came. That was his job, right? To clear away the blood?
He was slumped into her side. He needed to move now. His job wasn’t finished.
Not. Finished.
Unfinished business.
No guarantee of his state upon waking. Yosano would tell him right away if there was something, if it went wrong.
He looked up at her. She was staring at the executive too, looking on with a somber expression, before she glanced down at him, gaze softening with a subtle nod. He’s fine.
The mission. Chuuya’s story. Mori’s. Kouyou. Thanking Yosano, explaining to the Agency, Chuuya-
- telling Chuuya he survived, reciting his best record yet.
Twenty-three. Fucking. Minutes.