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It’s not often that Dazai loses track of time, but there’s something about being held hostage that blurs the seconds and minutes for him. Even if it’s part of his plan, his estimates about the timeline of a mission only ever remain estimates.
And this time, he’s so far from the original plan that it's useless to try to calculate when he arrived and when he’ll leave.
They got him with a hit from behind, a mistake he’d made in anticipating their moves. They seemed to be the kind of group concerned with finesse, so he’d prepared himself for a needle to the neck or a damp cloth across his mouth. Instead, he stepped into the arranged meeting point and felt the back of his head explode before all went dark. Now, he sits with hands tied behind his back and a thick dark fabric tied across his eyes. Something streams slowly from his temple; no one caught him when he fell and he must have hit his head again after the attack.
Still, it’s not quite enough to dull his senses. He wakes without giving himself away, keeping his muscles lax and his breathing steady. He takes stock of all that he can— no wounds aside from the head, though he’ll have a terrible rope burn around his wrists after this since the bastards have cut away the bandages there. Probably expecting some sort of weapon or tracking device tucked away. He wishes he could have seen their faces when all they discovered were scars.
Okay, then. Not an impossible situation, just an undesirable one. He’d eaten before allowing himself to be caught, hoping to ease the strain of the drugs he’d been expecting, and his stomach still feels full. So he couldn’t have been out for too long. Good news— less chance for a more severe head injury. Bad news— once his captors realize he’s awake, they’ll no doubt try to beat mafia information out of him until Chuuya arrives to save the day.
Gods, Chuuya’s going to be pissed when he catches onto Dazai’s plan. He’s made it clear that he hates playing hero to Dazai’s damsel in distress, but it’s not Dazai’s fault if it’s what the situation calls for. Chuuya can throw all the fits he likes; his job is to follow along with Dazai’s schemes.
However, as footsteps thud from a place outside this room, Dazai can’t help but feel that something’s off.
Breathe, he tells himself. Relax. You’ve done this a dozen times before.
Inhale. Exhale.
Focus on what he knows.
The room’s so cold. A cellar or a basement or some place outside of the city limits. Most likely the last option, particularly if these men are the torturing type. Though, of course, Dazai’s not the screaming type unless he has a reason for it.
The footsteps pass this room by.
It doesn’t make sense.
He’s been awake for three minutes, and he’s a mafia executive. Someone should either be checking in by now or, at least, be on their way to do so. Is there already someone in the room, keeping watch? Have they been here the entire time— at his side as he slept, staring silently as he woke?
As though to answer his spiraling questions, he hears the door creak open. The footsteps that enter aren’t the same as before— the weight heavier, the gait steadier— and Dazai intends to keep up his sleeping facade, except—
Another door opens somewhere in this building, somewhere on this floor, somewhere close. There’s a strange popping sound as someone snarls and swears— and Dazai hardly has the time to recognize the voice, to feel the flutter of relief that comes whenever he hears that voice , not even thinking that it’s too soon, too fast, doesn’t make sense because—
A hoarse scream tears through the silence. It’s violent and it’s broken and Dazai’s body jerks at the sound, something deep in his chest dragging to life— forgetting all his strategies and schemes and perfect plans in favor of shouting one name in his head: Chuuya— they have Chuuya.
There’s blood in his mouth, his cheek torn open by careless teeth, but he’s more concerned with the static around his body, the buzzing in his mind as that scream plays on repeat.
ChuuyaChuuyaChuuyaChuuya—
“Letting that partner of yours play savior is a clever trick, but did you really think no one would catch on? Once we had you, it was only a matter of time until he came running.” The voice of the man Dazai was meant to meet, Jiro, some wannabe crime lord who’d openly threatened the mafia’s territory. From what Dazai remembers, he’s a sleazy man with a sleazier face, and his laughter is no better; he sounds like a grade school bully looking forward to the next kick he gets to give.
“You’re lying,” Dazai says— this asshole already knows he’s awake, and there’s no advantage to pretending. “There were no reports of ability users in your ranks and Chuuya—”
“You believe all the reports you read?” Jiro laughs again. “Let me tell you the one I got from a good friend of mine in the mafia— the gravity manipulator is susceptible to electricity. We got him down long enough to get an ability suppressant in his system. He’s ours.”
A mole. A traitor.
A dead man once Dazai gets his hands on him.
A dangerous popping fills the air— the burst of an electroshock weapon, and Dazai’s blood boils at the realization that this is the noise he heard before the scream, that this is what they’ve done to Chuuya.
Dazai breathes heavily. He can’t afford to think emotionally right now— can’t let him remember Chuuya in N’s lab, the scars seared across his skin after such a small body was flooded with so much electricity, the way Dazai teased and pretended being late was part of the plan when, really, he lost sleep for the way he miscalculated those few minutes—
The way he miscalculated this.
“It won’t work forever,” Dazai says, forcing his voice to remain calm. “We’ll get out of here, and you’ll understand the punishment of the mafia.”
Jiro’s quiet for a second before scoffing. “Yeah, we’ll see about that. Hey! Bring the brat in here!”
A scuffle, feet kicking uselessly against the ground. More swears, rougher than before. Chuuya’s heavy breaths as he’s dragged down a hallway— another thump and a pained exhale; they’ve tossed him to the ground again.
Is he tied the way Dazai is? Blindfolded, too? Is the shock all they’ve administered, or was he wounded when they brought him in? Dazai bites hard on his tongue, uncaring of causing more damage to his mouth when he can’t see.
“Dazai?” Chuuya breathes, and a pathetic sound catches in the back of Dazai’s throat, just barely muffled by the sudden shutting of his lips. “Dazai, damn it, what—”
Dazai hears the blow someone gives to his partner, his Chuuya, his . Copper fills Dazai’s mouth as if in sympathy; he’s bitten through his tongue this time, trying not to cry out as he hears Chuuya’s pained grunt.
Why does he sound so hurt? What have they done already? Dazai thought he was only out for a bit but if Chuuya already came for him, was it longer than that? Did they hurt Chuuya while Dazai was unconscious, Chuuya shouting for him and screaming while Dazai was unaware?
Dazai strains against the ropes.
“This one does nothing but yap, does he? All bark and no bite.” Jori chuckles, suddenly at Dazai’s side. It’s like he’s kneeling by him, the stench of sweat and unwashed breath invading Dazai’s space. Thankfully, he doesn't touch him. “Just like a pup.”
Chuuya’s breath hitches and Jori gives instructions as Dazai listens— “You already got him there, how about lower, no, wait, what seems most sensitive”— and it’s like a joke to this man, like he’s waiting for the right moment to deliver the punchline.
He doesn’t stop until there’s a barely present whine in Chuuya’s breath, something fearful. Wherever they’ve placed the weapon— something like a modified cattle prod based on how Jiro’s been talking about it, higher voltage and greater pain— it’s somewhere Chuuya’s afraid to have it strike. The wounds N left behind, perhaps? His throat? His face?
Dazai’s breaths match Chuuya’s, only a fraction more controlled. His mind races with ways to get them out of this. There must be something Jiro wants, something Dazai can bargain with. He just needs a chance to figure things out and he’ll owe Chuuya— fine, yes, he’ll owe him because Chuuya hates these plans but Chuuya was never meant to be in it with Dazai like this.
“The way I see it, you’re gonna tell me everything I need to know to topple Mori Ougai’s little empire. If you say it nicely, nothing else is gonna happen to you or your friend. Would hate to ruin such nice hands, after all.”
“Dazai, you can’t—” Chuuya’s cut off with what sounds like another hit. The way he sucks in air and the sound of his body falling back makes Dazai envision a kick.
There’s blood around Dazai’s wrists from his straining against the rope, a fight he doesn’t remember starting. There are cuts across his lips and tongue, his teeth digging into tender flesh with each weak curse from Chuuya’s voice.
“You’ve done so much to make me trust you’ll keep your promise,” Dazai says once he’s regained a semblance of control within his lungs. Chuuya scoffs— cut off short, punctuated by a snarl and a thud of flesh against flesh. Why do they keep hurting him if it’s Dazai they want?
Chuuya should have never been here, Dazai realizes. Dazai should have verified the facts, considered the possibility of a mole, should have done a hundred things before rushing in half-blind and half-hopeful Chuuya wouldn’t make it in time.
“Do you need more incentive?” Jori asks. He barks out another order, one Dazai hardly hears after the sudden buzz of the cattle prod— Chuuya’s bitten back whimper, a sound Dazai’s sure he wasn’t meant to hear— and his mind goes blank.
His hands His hands His hands Jori said they’re going for his hands
And Chuuya’s hands are so goddamn sensitive from hiding under gloves all the time. So unused to the cold or the heat, a degree removed from the world. All Dazai can see is the way Chuuya trembles when Dazai’s lucky enough to trace the lines on his palms, massaging the aches out of the bones after Corruption. He’s one of the only people in the world afforded the right to touch something so precious, and these beasts— these monsters, these inhuman worms— think they can laugh and taunt and damage it?
It’s not anger that sears down Dazai’s spine, not rage or revenge that takes hold of his body as he tosses himself forward; it’s nothing but a white-hot fear that has him lunging forward, risking the fall to his face if it means he can save Chuuya the pain.
“You’re wasting your time with us! Mori doesn’t trust us with information like that. There’s nothing we can tell you that you don’t already know, so—”
His words have no effect. When Jori tells his lackey to carry out the threat, Dazai’s scream is louder than Chuuya’s.
It feels like it goes on forever, and he can picture Chuuya thrashing and fighting, the tears in his eyes as some stranger holds his hands out and another presses the prod into his palms, everyone laughing as skin sears and scars.
My fault my fault my fault— I reacted too quickly, too strongly. I said the wrong thing, I gave away that I cared, I led Chuuya here he shouldn’t fucking be here—
Dazai doesn’t know whose breath it is he’s hearing, harsh pants through gritted teeth— if it’s himself or Chuuya or both.
Through the thrumming of his pulse in his ears, Dazai can hear the mocking voice of their captors.
“— think I won’t do more than that? Think it’s beyond me to break a few bones or cut his tongue from his mouth? Think you’re smart enough to stop me? All you’ve got right now is the information that I want, and that’s your only bet. Or do you want to look at your partner’s fucked up scars years from now and know you could have prevented it? Or how about his grave, huh? Is that what you’re waiting for?”
“I— I don’t—” Gods, Dazai can’t think, can’t speak— it’s all just Chuuya’s screams, Chuuya’s voice, Chuuya’s pain as palpable in the air as if it was Dazai’s own. His breaths come unevenly, his chest tightening. “I can’t—”
Jori hums. “I see. If that’s the case…”
Dazai braces himself for another scream, another strike against Chuuya. But there’s a chill in the air as Jori moves away, a sudden tension that wraps around Dazai’s throat and tightens.
“We’ve been going soft,” Jori says to someone else. “Here. Take my gun.”
“Dazai.” Chuuya sounds confused. “What’s the plan?”
Not this, never this
“If this little bastard doesn’t answer my questions—”
“Dazai?”
Chuuya sounds hurt.
“—I want you to put a bullet somewhere in that one.”
“Dazai!”
Chuuya sounds scared.
“Let’s start. What’s the location of Mori Ougai’s safe houses?”
“It’s going to be okay,” Dazai says— the only sentence he can force out, and the least truthful thing he’s said today. “I’ll figure it out. You’re going to be fine, yeah? Just trust me like always, we’re going to be—”
BANG
It’s so loud, so close, Dazai’s sure the bullet went through him. It’d be easier that way, simpler to manage. He almost hopes that’s the case— but—
But Chuuya screams and wails and it’s a wet sound, and Dazai doesn’t know if it’s tears or blood— if he’s crying or bleeding out.
And the worst part is that Dazai would make it stop if he could. He’d give away all of Mori’s secrets, slit his throat himself if it meant he’d never have to hear Chuuya like that again. But Mori’s never trusted him, has only ever seen him as the one who’ll one day kill him in his sleep, and he’s kept all of his cards close to his chest.
Dazai’s the last person who would ever know the answers to this man’s questions.
And, now, Chuuya—
Chuuya whimpers. Whines. It sounds like he’s crying.
“Kid’s never gonna walk the same again after that hit,” Jori laughs. “You ever see someone get shot in the pelvis before? Fucks them up, man.”
It’s not logic or wit or rationale in Dazai’s mind at Jori’s words. When he forces his legs beneath himself and launches towards the sound of the man, it’s nothing but animalistic rage. Even with his hands bound behind his back, Dazai can barrel into him with a wordless cry, crashing into his gut and taking him to the ground. Jori swears loudly as he falls, Dazai atop him, and there’s the sound of a bone cracking. Jori swears again and says something about his wrist, but it’s not enough— not nearly enough.
Dazai could take the man’s throat out with his teeth. He could bash his skull against Jori’s face until it’s nothing but blood and gore. Would that be enough to fix what’s been done? Would that absolve Dazai of his sins?
Behind him, Chuuya’s gone silent, but Dazai can still hear his shattered voice echoing through his mind. He’ll kill Jori and his men— he’ll burn this place to the ground if he has to. He wants no evidence of what happened, doesn’t want anyone to know how terribly he’s failed Chuuya, how awfully—
“I'll put the next one in his fucking head!” Jori snaps— but another noise cuts him off. A crashing through a door. Heavy steps.
Bullets fire from an upstairs area, but they never seem to reach their target. There’s a brief second of silence, and then the collapse of a dozen bodies.
Dazai stills. Something doesn’t make sense.
“Chuuya?” He whispers at the same time that Jori takes advantage to shove him aside, Dazai collapsing onto his back with a stunned breath.
“I’ll take care of it myself!” Jori shouts. The click of a gun. Chuuya’s gasp.
“Dazai— He’s going to—”
A gunshot.
But it’s Jori who gurgles on his next breath. It’s Jori’s body that crashes to the ground.
Dazai doesn’t dare move. He listens, holding his breath.
Familiar steps approach Dazai, and familiar hands touch his shoulders, helping him to a seated position. They gently touch his body, checking for injuries. There’s an upset scoff when they brush across bare skin, feeling the lack of bandages, before reaching his wrists and undoing the ropes.
The hands are gloved, Dazai realizes. But, if they were electrocuting his hands, wouldn’t they have taken those off?
It’s not Chuuya. They tortured Chuuya. Suppressed his ability.
They shot Chuuya.
Dazai’s limp, allowing… whatever this is… to continue their check. Sighing at bruises, tsking at scratches.
Is it back up? Did Mori discover that Double Black had been taken down and send someone to retrieve them? Did Mori give orders to save Dazai and leave Chuuya to die? It’s the only explanation Dazai can give for what’s going on.
“Chuuya needs immediate attention,” Dazai says, turning his head as hands try to reach for the blindfold. He doesn’t want to see until he knows what’s waiting for him. If it’s too late or worse than he expects. It’s selfish, but he doesn’t know how to survive if reality matches what’s in his head.
“You’re not making any sense, Mackerel.”
Dazai’s breath hitches without his permission, and his next exhale is an uneven breath bordering on a sob.
Not real not real not real not real
But he stays still as those hands return to his face and lift the fabric away. Dazai keeps his eyes shut, and nobody pressures him to open them. There’s just a hand on his, holding on until Dazai can bring himself to look.
He sees red, but it’s not blood or scars or anything other than the warm shade of Chuuya’s hair. Carefully tucked beneath his favorite hat, eyes shining with concern as they stare at Dazai. He’s unmarked, untouched, unharmed— breathing, whole, alive.
Dazai doesn’t allow himself much. But here? Now? After everything? He allows himself the chance to collapse against Chuuya, hands gripping Chuuya’s jacket as if he could still be taken away. He holds on, holds him close, breathes in his scent, and doesn’t care how he trembles against him. In his head, he can still hear those awful cries, those horrifying sounds of pain.
“They had you,” Dazai whispers. “I heard it. Every second of it. They were…”
He can’t bring himself to finish, and Chuuya doesn’t ask him to. A hand touches Dazai’s back, grounding him.
“The boss caught a traitor in our midst and the little rat told us about their leader’s ability. A trick to make people hear whatever he wants them to hear,” Chuuya explains with an uncharacteristically soft tone. “Must’ve been him.”
Maybe. Dazai thinks of how Chuuya went silent after Dazai tackled Jori to the ground— of how the cries started up again once Jori shoved him aside. Had he been so distraught he hadn’t noticed No Longer Human’s nullification?
It doesn’t matter. How can anything matter when Chuuya’s heart is beating so close to him?
His legs are weak when Chuuya helps him to stand, murmuring about getting away from the corpses, and neither of them says anything about it as Dazai leans into Chuuya for support. Dazai keeps an arm around Chuuya's side so his fingers can brush his hip— the place Jori had claimed he’d been shot.
“You were late again,” Dazai says as they reach the stairs. It’s a lie; Chuuya showed up just in time. If it weren’t for Jori’s ability, things would have gone as they always do. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting better at this?”
Chuuya sounds more bitter than usual when he scoffs.
“I told you I hate these types of plans. They never work out as well as you think,” he says.
Dazai grins weakly. “You took out all their members on your way to me, right?”
“Yeah,” Chuuya says. “But I always find you worse than you were when you left.”
That doesn’t matter, Dazai wants to say— but he thinks of how he felt when he thought these people were hurting Chuuya, thinks of the fear and rage and helplessness that went through him at the thought of failing his partner so spectacularly.
Does Chuuya feel that, too, when he has to rescue Dazai from torture and capture? It’s never felt like something someone should worry about.
But Chuuya pulls him closer as they step outside of the old shack Dazai had been kept in. He guides him to a car and lets Dazai rest his head in his lap as Hirotsu drives them back. He brushes his fingers through Dazai’s hair and calls him an idiot in a fond voice when he finds the dried blood against his temple.
Stop getting hurt for stupid things , Chuuya says without words.
And Dazai presses into Chuuya’s touch, responding in kind:
I understand now.
But I’ll always put myself in the line of fire if it means I get to protect you.