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Chuuya is coming to kill him, Fyodor said. And Chuuya, apparently, is a vampire.
Dazai can't pretend he isn't a little curious to see it. Of course, most of that is because he hasn't had a chance to examine vampire fangs up close, and he half hopes Chuuya's method of murder will be to drain the blood from his body.
However, the smaller piece of his fascination comes from something as simple as a hunch. A theory he won't let his mind whisper even in the deepest corners of his skull in fear the universe will take it as a challenge. It's a thought that scares him as much as it thrills him— something that has him begging for Chuuya to stay away and for him to come closer all at once.
Still, he has nothing to do but look down the hallway and await the answer to all his questions.
It starts with footsteps from the shadows, evenly paced— no rushed or heavy steps. Sure of their target, guided by the command Fyodor had spoken— put Dazai down— and Dazai's heart pounds in his chest. He doesn't dare blink, doesn't dare look away. If he's wrong— if he's got this wrong, then—
Then, the last thing he'll ever see is an utter lack of consciousness in eyes that used to be so human. Vaguely, he wonders if such a paradoxical sight would be enough to kill him before Chuuya's hands can.
Chuuya pauses in the opening of this hallway, still shrouded in the shadows. It's only a silhouette, but Dazai knows that figure anywhere— knows how much Chuuya's hair has grown since they last spoke and where he bought that particular jacket and why he picked it.
But he's never known Chuuya to stand so still.
For a terrible moment, Dazai's more afraid than he's been in a long time. A cold fear seeps through his skin the longer Chuuya simply stands there. More frightened than he had been when the ground gave way beneath him in that cell, dropping him into this twisted game of escape. More scared than when he stood in a watch room and heard Chuuya's desperate gurgles for air, his own chest tightening as he begged, prayed, for the universe not to take another person from him. More terrified than when the elevator had suddenly dropped— and that was a terror that had only lasted a moment because, as he fell and shut his eyes and waited for the plunge to end, the elevator stopped. It slowed. As if some benevolent god had reached out and guided the end of its descent.
Or, as if a certain someone with gravity at his fingertips toyed with fate and pulled Dazai from that death he so craves.
Of course, it hadn't been a smooth save. The elevator had jarred to a stop, tossing Dazai into the metal casing enough to shatter bone and cut through skin. But he had lived. Impossibly, he had lived .
And Dazai can only ever do the impossible when one other person is on his side.
So, can't he hope? Can't he believe?
His breaths stop when Chuuya steps into the light. He peers at Dazai through reddened eyes, a hand on his hip while the other hangs loosely at his side. Fangs peek out from behind his lips, and there's blood staining his clothes— the remnants of the guards he killed.
But
He stops before Dazai. Looks down at him. His lips curl ever so slightly-- a twist between a smirk and scowl, the thing Dazai sees each time Chuuya says his name.
It could be meaningless. It could be a vampiric snarl, a distaste for the easy prey before him.
But Dazai's breath leaves him in a rush. His shoulders drop and he can't help but choke out a low string of laughter— one he contorts into a shaky breath, if only for the cameras.
He knows Chuuya.
And all it takes is one look for him to know that Chuuya's not what he seems to be right now. Not a vampire. Not Fyodor's pawn. Certainly, not the hand of Dazai's death.
No. He's so much more threatening than all of those.
He's Dazai's other half, the split section of his soul that stands between the dark and light.
The second Chuuya stepped into this facility, Double Black had taken the case. Perhaps that's why, beneath the chaos and madness, Dazai's felt so serene.
Fyodor lost before he ever made his first move.
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"Oi, are you sleeping?"
Chuuya looks down at Dazai, curled on the floor, and squints his left eye in an attempt to clear up the contact in that one. Dazai keeps still for a second longer— and, then, utterly predictably, he laughs.
The sound of it shouldn't make Chuuya feel so flustered but, fuck it, it's Dazai and he just let Chuuya shoot a bullet at his head without any certainty that Chuuya was in control of that moment and, maybe, Chuuya was afraid it was one of Dazai's stupid suicide schemes— like that fucking elevator trick— and, maybe , after so much blood and pain and screaming, he's a little happy to hear something so light in Dazai's voice.
Still shaking with laughter, Dazai pushes himself to a seated position, leaning against the wall once more. Chuuya scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, prepared to chastise him for jostling his own injuries so much, but—
But Dazai looks up at him, and Chuuya forgets everything he intended to say.
There's no reason for this moment to do anything to Chuuya's brain chemistry. He's seen Dazai in better positions— and, hell, he's seen him in worse— and it's never ticked any boxes other than "pretty bastard who knows he's pretty." He acknowledges Dazai's good looks, seethes over it, and moves on.
But, with messy hair overgrown since the last time Chuuya saw him, dressed in a damp and loose prison uniform that looks more like pajamas than anything else, Dazai's eyes shine. He stares up at Chuuya, a brilliant streak of pride in that deep brown gaze, and his lips part in an exhilarated grin. Bloodied and pale, he hardly looks like someone who's been dragged through hell and back— he hardly seems like he's aware of the ordeal he's been through.
Right now, right here, he seems only to be aware of Chuuya.
And, oh . All at once, Chuuya understands where this fluttering in his chest is coming from. It's not a Dazai who's pretty or handsome or flirting or trying to be charming.
In a single glance, he sees a Dazai who has put all his faith in Chuuya, trusting him with everything he has— his plan, his agency, his world, his life. Dazai looks at Chuuya, and Chuuya suddenly understands that Dazai knew the truth. Dazai knew about Chuuya's disguise— he doesn't know when he figured it out, he doesn't know how— and his only scheme was to trust that Chuuya wouldn't hurt him.
Chuuya clears his throat, kneeling in front of Dazai. Crushed bullets lay scattered around them, and Chuuya brushes them aside so he can move closer.
"Almost had me worried my dog had gotten lost chasing after rats," Dazai says— still smiling, grinning like he'll never stop. "The fangs are a good look, though."
"Don't be stupid," Chuuya says, and he doesn't know which part of that he's referring to. Either way, it's fondness that spreads through his body as he reaches for Dazai's leg— a fond familiarity that guides his hands into pulling aside bloody clothing, undoing bandages to reach his wounds. He starts with the gunshot in his shoulder— partly because the blood loss is more critical than the broken leg, and partly because it was his fault. Dazai moves only to lean closer to Chuuya but, otherwise, he keeps still and allows Chuuya to work— gifting him with an impossible and infinite trust that Chuuya's just beginning to see the depth of.
"This is gonna hurt like a bitch, but you're a big boy." Chuuya talks over his own thoughts because if he thinks too much about the way Dazai looks at him, they'll never catch up to Fyodor. "We'll grab you a clean shirt on the way so this doesn't get infected. You know, if you knew it was me, we could have done without you getting shot that first time. Could have done without the drowning, too."
"I didn't know until I saw you." It's a quiet confession, at odds with the smile Dazai had just worn. Chuuya doesn't pause in his ministrations over Dazai's wounds, years of practice keeping his hands steady— but it's that practice that allows him to look up, knowing every cell of Dazai's body without needing to look as he wraps careful bandages around his shoulder. Dazai's looking back at him, eyes as tender as though they're fifteen— sixteen, seventeen, everything between the then and the now all over again, on repeat, just them. It's only when he speaks again that Dazai draws his eyes away, gesturing to the prison with his good arm. "Things get blurry here. Even if it wasn't so long, it was a lot of just me and that demon running in endless loops over and over until I couldn't tell which way was up and which way was down. And, then, playing through that clown's game— it's easy to forget who you are when no one around you cares."
Chuuya swallows, his voice thick. "You don't need other people to remind you who you are, Dazai. You're just fine as you are without them. I mean, you saved that other guy for no better reason than saving him, right? Sigma, was it? You didn't need anyone to tell you to do that."
Dazai hums, allowing Chuuya's words to properly press into the air, the minute space between them.
"Maybe," he says, tilting his head to the side and fixing Chuuya in place with another piercing gaze. "Or maybe it was your gravity that tethered me back to who I am."
Chuuya blinks at him. This time, he nearly does drop his hands from Dazai's injury. Does Dazai even know what he's saying? Has the shock and pain gotten him so deeply?
It's unfair, though, to mistrust Dazai's words here.
"Idiot," Chuuya mutters, tying off the bandage and moving onto the leg. He'll need to pry some beams from the wall to make a proper brace but that won't be a problem. "My gravity doesn't work on you."
But Dazai smiles and rests his head back against the wall. His eyes seem fixed on some point Chuuya can't see; if he didn't know better, he'd say Dazai's staring at the place Chuuya stood, the place the barrel of the gun smoked in the air as that bullet was released.
"Who's being stupid now?" Dazai mutters, in a voice that was made only for them. "From the first day we met, gravity has never felt the same."
And what can Chuuya do other than grin and whisper back: "I know exactly what you mean."