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"Tell me, again, how many of my men you sacrificed in your mission."
"Fourteen. The enemy's firepower wasn't accurately reported. We were outgunned."
"And, yet, you don't bear a single scratch."
"Are you disappointed that I survived?"
"Quite the opposite. In fact, shouldn't we celebrate your survival? Show off just how untouchable you are?"
"I don't believe that's necessary."
"And I say it is. Fourteen casualties, you say?"
"... Yes."
"Then we'll say fourteen days of allowing everyone here to see the Demon Prodigy without his covering."
"Mori—"
"It's only two weeks. Are you telling me you can't withstand such a short time?"
"... Of course not. My apologies."
"Good. Now, pass over your bandages. You may have them back when the time is up."
<><><> <><><> <><><>
Stretches of sunset reach into the room behind Chuuya when he finally cracks open the metal box casing Dazai taught himself to call home. The fading light follows him inside, taunting him and the darkness with the illusion of warmth.
Chuuya pauses in the mouth of the cavern— the shipping container, a place that reeks of rot and desperation. He hardly ever comes here without a good reason. Typically, the boss sends him; it's the only excuse Dazai would ever allow.
But no one's seen Dazai in the past three days, and Chuuya's here with nothing more than a tinge of fear and a first aid kit in his hand. If there's anything Chuuya's learned from the past, it's that Dazai has a bad habit of tossing out his medical supplies whenever he really wants one of his attempts to work.
As he takes a step forward, though, his first thought is that, at least, it doesn't smell like blood. It doesn't even smell like alcohol or vomit. Still, there are other ways for Dazai to hurt himself.
Chuuya walks deeper into the container, using his ability to keep his steps light lest he wake a sleeping beast. He grimaces as he's forced deeper into darkness, wondering how the hell Dazai manages to live in the shadows so easily. He's half tempted to crack a hole in the ceiling to get some damn sun in here, but his goal is to help, not harm.
And when he finds Dazai curled in the corner of his one-room living area, he knows Dazai's already been harmed enough.
He's mostly undressed, shuddering on the floor in only his underwear. His shirt's gone. His pants, his socks, his shoes—
His bandages.
He's not wholly indecent, a torn shirt wrapped half around his torso— one he grips to him with a white-knuckled hold. His other hand digs into the skin of his thigh, nails leaving red crescents behind as he twitches his way up and down his leg. He stares into nothingness and Chuuya scans him over. Just like he thought; there's no blood.
Somehow, though, this feels worse.
He lowers himself to a crouch beside the shaking figure— a figure because his mind can't reconcile this as Dazai, can't take this trembling thing and place it upon the memory of the man who hardly blinks at the sight of his own blood, who goes through life like a ghost waiting for the rest of the world to realize he's already passed. Chuuya knows how to handle a Dazai who's slit his wrists— he brought needle and thread just for that— but he doesn't know how to handle one who seems afraid of his own shadow.
"Dazai?"
Dazai jolts, head slamming back against the metal wall with an echoing Thump. Chuuya's hand darts out— an instinct, nothing more— but Dazai turns his face before Chuuya can reach him.
"You shouldn't be here." Gods, Dazai hardly sounds like himself— sounds like he had to pluck letters from separate words and fit them together, like there are still jagged edges around the torn shapes and he's swallowing blood after each breath. He keeps half his face in the shadows, his shoulders turned away.
It's the side of his face, Chuuya realizes, that he typically keeps covered up. Chuuya may not understand why Dazai bandages himself so tightly— his scars heal well beneath Mori's surgical hands, and he sees just fine from both eyes— but there's still something horrifically wrong about seeing Dazai so bare.
Chuuya's mouth is dry when he speaks. "You missed a meeting."
Dazai smiles like the shape of it is being carved into his face, a jack-o-lantern with its guts forcibly removed to make way for a semblance of light. "I always miss meetings."
Yeah, but he doesn't always ignore Chuuya's calls, either.
"You didn't miss much with this one, anyway. I left early." He sits more comfortably, crossing his legs. He's not quite beside Dazai, but he's close enough that he could stretch out and touch Dazai's ankle with the toe of his shoe. "It's too cold in here to be tearing up your clothes."
Because that's what's become of the shirt, Chuuya realizes as his eyes adjust to the dark. The shirt that he had believed to be oversized and hanging on a malnourished frame has been torn into small strips of ribbon, haphazardly tied around Dazai's wrists and neck. Makeshift bandages, Chuuya thinks. An attempt at safety.
All at once, Chuuya thinks of Dazai's last solo mission, thinks of the meeting he had with Mori after. Pieces fall into place and he doesn't like the picture he's seeing.
"Maybe I just didn't like the shirt." The way Dazai says it, it could almost be true. He shifts, the leftover remnants of fabric slipping from his stomach— revealing pale skin caving in, more crescent marks from thoughtless nails near his hips. His voice lowers, but it's not a soft thing. It's gravel in the back of a corpse's throat, the dying groan of an animal waiting to be put out of its misery. "It itches."
Chuuya doesn't know where he's supposed to look, so he stares down at his own hands. Dazai's like a child without his security blanket, a toddler whose favorite stuffed toy has been taken away. Dazai without his bandages is Dazai without the one thing that makes him feel safe and Mori—
Mori will be lucky to live another fucking day once Chuuya's done with him
"Itches, huh?" Chuuya repeats, a whisper. Dazai curls further into himself as if hearing the statement said back to him is something shameful. Chuuya's fist finds the floor beside him, a sudden creak and crack echoing through the chamber as he snarls and forces a dent into the ground. He makes to stand, body trembling just as much as Dazai's. "Mori did this, didn't he? He can't fucking take bandages from someone! Listen, he won't say no to me once I—"
"Don't!"
Dazai's hand on Chuuya's pant leg, keeping him in place. A pained grimace on Dazai's face— two eyes pleading with him not to make matters worse.
He's not bleeding anywhere. He hasn't taken anything. Still, Chuuya's never seen him in so much pain. How is it fair that the first time Chuuya sees both eyes, it's when they're filled with tears?
He takes a breath, every fiber of him aching to rip Mori apart for knowing how well to disassemble Dazai's calculated facade. That's knowledge no one should have. If Chuuya could make sure no one could ever do this to Dazai, he would.
But Dazai's staring up at him, lips pressed together— and, gods, there's so much uncovered skin. Paler than the patches Dazai leaves uncovered. He's unevenly tanned with goosebumps across his body like a cat whose fur has stuck up in defense. Like this, Dazai's just a child. He's just scared.
Chuuya raises his eyes to the ceiling and takes another breath.
"Yeah," he whispers, just so only he could hear it. "Yeah, okay."
Dazai doesn't settle until Chuuya's released the tension from his body, lowering down once more. He's closer this time, and Dazai's eyes have a clumsy wariness in them as Chuuya reaches out. Chuuya doesn't touch him without permission, hand hovering over Dazai's wrist.
It's Dazai who makes the final decision, closing the gap between them, and pressing his arm into Chuuya's waiting hand.
"Damn, Dazai. You shouldn't tie this shit so tight." Even before this nearer look, Chuuya had noticed the redness around the torn pieces of fabric Dazai had wrapped around his wrists. Concern spikes in Chuuya's stomach, twisting into nausea at the sight of scratch marks up and down Dazai's arms. Again, not enough to break the skin, but more than enough to stain him red.
"It kept coming undone when I—" Dazai cuts off with a sharp breath. A hand raises to his neck— beneath the fabric there, right above his collarbone. Nails dig into the tender skin, scratching over what seems to be a rash— but it's not a rash, no, because it's too much like the marks on his arms, too much like the crescent marks across his body, too much like his own damn doing and, all at once, it suddenly makes sense.
Chuuya stares, unblinking, his eyes so dry they hurt. "It was never about the scars."
Dazai stills— a deer in headlights— and his hand falls into his lap. "It's just an accident. Just because I don't have my bandages. I don't— It's not like I can't control it. It just happens sometimes, that's all."
Just happens. Just sometimes.
It just happens that Dazai tears at his skin with his own nails because his mind's overworking or his emotions are out of control. Just sometimes that he'll sit and not notice the damage he's doing to himself— not care about the damage, really, unless it's somewhere someone could see it as a weakness.
Just sometimes. It just happens.
And Mori would know, wouldn't he? Mori would know, and still—
"Doesn't matter if it's only sometimes," Chuuya says because if he doesn't say something he'll end up screaming. "Something doesn't have to be an always in order for it to hurt you."
Bit by bit, he undoes the careless ties Dazai had made. He sets the strips aside, but he doesn't let go of Dazai for long, hands returning to gently massage the newly revealed skin— bruised, wrinkled. Dazai twitches in his hold, but he doesn't move away.
"Don't act like it changes anything."
"I've dragged you out of rivers and ditches. How could this be any different?"
"Because at least I have control when that happens. I'm aware of it. With this… once I start, I can't stop."
"The bandages stop you." Chuuya takes a deep breath. How could he have gone so long without noticing? Were there ever any tells? A scratch at his wrist beneath the bandages? A thoughtless reach towards his neck that Chuuya never questioned? Dazai needs more help than the Mafia could give. "And your eye?"
"You've seen enough already. I'm sure you can imagine."
Chuuya can imagine, but he never imagined he'd find Dazai like this. If he doesn't know, how can he help? "Dazai—"
"I don't notice it!" Dazai snaps. "I can't help it, okay? And it only happened once. Once before I even met Mori and I was tired and I couldn't sleep no matter what I did. I was just rubbing my eyes, okay? Just rubbing my eyes, but, then, I couldn't stop. Couldn't stop and I didn't notice until it was already bad. But it hasn't happened again, so don't look at me like I'm gonna rip my eye out of my skull just because you say the wrong thing!"
Dazai turns, ripping his arms from Chuuya's grasp. Chuuya doesn't chase after him; he hardly breathes, listening instead to Dazai's panting.
Sorry he wants to say, but Dazai would only see it as pity. It would only make things worse.
So, he does the one thing he knew he could do when he first set out on his search for Dazai.
He grabs the first aid kit he'd set aside and pulls out the little roll of gauze.
"Here," he says, holding it out. "It's better than wrapping yourself in unwashed shirts, anyway. Do you want—"
A strange expression crosses Dazai's face as he jerks away. "It's only two weeks."
Chuuya studies him, the offering still held out between them. Dazai stares at the gauze like he can't figure out if it's friend or foe; his frustration at his own confusion shows plainly in his eyes.
"Right now, it's only two weeks," Dazai continues in a broken voice. "But if Mori finds out that I gave up, it'll be longer."
"Idiot, it's not giving up," Chuuya interrupts before Dazai's even finished. "Besides, aren't you supposed to be the smart one here? There's always a way around Mori's words."
"What?" Dazai blinks at Chuuya. A hand twitches against his side; Chuuya reaches out and rests his fingertips against the skin, just enough to keep unsettled nails from digging into vulnerable flesh.
"Based on how your typical mess of mummy supplies is missing around here, I'm guessing the asshole said you couldn't use your bandages, right?" He can't help his smirk, feeling incredibly clever as he explains. "He never said you couldn't use mine."
Dazai stares openly, eyes widening. "That's stupid. It's not what he meant—"
"To hell with what he meant," Chuuya says. "And it's not like he's gonna find out, right? Use them when you're here and there's nothing around to distract you. It's not much, but if you space it out, you can make it last until you get yours back."
Because Dazai has a certain type of bandages he likes. Thick and self-adhesive, tight and near impossible to rip off without complete focus. Cheap and bought in bulk, a stark white beneath a black suit. Chuuya's sets are nicer, softer— light and easy to change out when the old ones get contaminated. Better for actual wound care— probably not as good for whatever it is Dazai's looking for.
And, yet, Dazai tentatively takes the roll from Chuuya's hand, holding it in his fingertips as though waiting for it to bite him.
"It'll work." Dazai looks back at Chuuya. There's an odd tone in his voice, but at least it doesn't sound half as lost as he did when Chuuya first arrived. There's still something hesitant in how he looks at him, though, and he reveals the reason when he speaks again. "Mori… He didn't send you, right? It's okay if he did."
"Mori?" Chuuya loathes the implications, the thought that Mori might have sent someone here before, testing and tempting Dazai. He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. "You really think I would have stormed off to beat that bastard if I was on some sick mission for him? Scratch that— you really think I'd do something like that to you?"
"Hmm." Dazai hums, looking down at his hands. Toying with the gauze seems to keep him calmer than before, and Chuuya's reminded of his initial analogy— truly, just a child with a blanket, hiding from monsters in any way he can. "It's the only reason I can think of why you'd pretend to care so much."
Chuuya's jaw drops. "Pretend?"
"Though, I suppose, if it were one of Mori's games, he'd give you more than this." Dazai smiles ruefully. "You're right that this is enough for when I'm alone, but he knows the real issue is what people would think if they saw. It's bad enough that you know; my reputation outside here will never recover once word gets around."
"Shut up," Chuuya says. "You think this is pretend? That I'm just doing this because I can? You fucking dick, I— You're worried about your reputation? Here. Does this prove anything to you?"
Chuuya doesn't sound half as angry as he'd like to. It's hard to sound like he's upset with Dazai when he's busy peeling off his gloves to pass over to him.
"Wear these whenever you need to leave here, alright?" He holds the gloves out to Dazai. His hands feel cold without them— oversensitive and exposed— but he doesn't second guess himself for a moment. "It may not stop the urge, but at least it'll keep you from scratching yourself raw when everyone else is looking."
What other people see and think is the least of Chuuya's concerns, and he hates that it's one of Dazai's. But if he can help with that just a bit— sacrifice something so he doesn't have to see raw marks on his partner's neck and arms, then—
"But— don't you need them more?"
"The way I see it, what you've got with this is just like what I've got with Corruption," Chuuya says, setting the gloves on the floor, leaving the choice in Dazai's hands. "I can't control what happens when I'm under, and I have no way out of it on my own. It's just me against myself— tearing my body apart without my mind's permission— and it's damn scary. Every time, it feels like the time I won't come out of it. And, some days, even if it's been months since the last time I used it, I still feel that craving under my skin— the knowledge that I have the power to rip out my own heart if given the chance. Part of me wants to try just to see if I can, and that part scares me half to death. I'm sure that, one day, I won't be able to stop that urge."
He sighs, shaking his head, and stands once more. He doesn't leave right away, though, standing over Dazai with a thoughtful expression on his face. He nods towards the gloves.
"You're the one who drags me out of it each time, Dazai," he says. "If I can't do the same for you, I've got no right calling myself your partner."
Chuuya turns, leaving both the gauze and the gloves behind. He hears Dazai move, but he doesn't look back. He won't force Dazai to choose right now, and he won't pressure him into feeling like he has to take whatever help Chuuya is offering. Whether he accepts or declines is totally up to him and what he needs. Chuuya has no right to push for anymore.
Still, a few days later, he finds Dazai as he walks into the meeting room. He still doesn't have his bandages, his sleeves buttoned tightly at the cuffs and a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. He sits at his regular place, sorting through papers.
"You're late," he says as Chuuya sits beside him.
"And you're overdressed," Chuuya says.
Dazai rolls his eyes and begins to explain what their next mission is meant to be.
Chuuya hardly listens, too distracted by the familiar pair of gloves holding onto Dazai's hands.
Softly, when Dazai isn't looking, he smiles.