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A cacophonous roar, followed by a blinding flash of light, crashes through the forest. Blistering heat floods outwards as if the planet herself was set ablaze. Every blade of grass presses flat against the earth, an explosive wave of pressure ripping each and every leaf from the trees’ grasp.
And then, the world falls still. Silent, motionless, dead.
Nobody dares even breathe. Staring up at the indistinguishable figure in the sky, heaving and bloody, but alive, victory slowly becomes apparent. Cries and cheers alike erupt from the scattered grunts.
Arahabaki's wings dissipate from his back, and with a final battlecry more akin to a sob, the limp figure of Nakahara Chuuya begins his plummet.
That is, until he’s caught in his partner’s waiting arms.
Every single bone in Chuuya’s body feels as if it’s been broken apart and poorly reformed by a preschooler, stuck haphazardly back together with scotch tape and glitter glue. Just the slightest jostle as he’s gently lowered to the ground nearly brings tears to his eyes. But, they never fall. Not today. Not in front of this bastard.
Despite his convictions, the desire to let the red hot burning behind his lids slip away grows astronomically as his tired legs make contact with the forest floor. He swears he can feel each and every artery burning just beneath his skin, burning just beneath the ugly red runes staining his body, just beneath the fiery snakes quickly dissipating as shitty Dazai’s shitty ability works its magic.
Settling Chuuya’s head against his shoulder, Dazai looks down at him with a look of infuriating glee. Chuuya would punch him if he had the strength. “Good work, Chuuya.”
Chuuya attempts to reply– a snide remark, or perhaps a “Shut the fuck up, and kill youself while you’re at it,” but he quickly decides otherwise as his throat wails in protest.
Dazai continues, blissfully unaware of his turmoil. “You’re lucky I forgot to bring my fountain pen, or else you’d have doodles all over your face.”
Chuuya musters up a groan, his body promptly retching up a glob of blood in retaliation. Dazai giggles, a sardonic gleam in his eye as he wipes the red from Chuuya’s chin. “How messy,” he laughs. “Whatever will I do with you…”
Chuuya frowns, an argument on the tip of his tongue, but with his ability nullified, his consciousness follows close behind.
His ears ring. His chest aches. Dazai’s still spouting some nonsensical bullshit, which any other time would get at least three items ticked off the revenge list, but Chuuya can’t manage to process any of it.
Dazai looks down at him eventually, staring at him with a look far too open, far too sincere, far too fond. “The enemy’s defeated,” he soothes. "You can rest, Chuuya."
That look is the last thing Chuuya sees before his eyes slip shut.
Chuuya feels as if he got hit by a freight train’s worth of bricks. Actually, that may be an understatement.
Correction: Chuuya feels like he got body slammed to the ground by the collective mass of the solar system before getting pummeled by Godzilla with brass knuckles until he was no more than a reddish smear on the pavement. And then he got hit by a freight train’s worth of bricks.
That's a bit closer.
Every inch of his body throbs in harsh reminiscence, burning painful blows just beneath his flesh. And, if that wasn’t enough, an indistinct pressure fills his sinuses to the brim, making his head feel like it's on the precipice of bursting.
He's sick, probably. His head throbs at the realization.
He tries desperately to grasp onto the fleeting hints of sleep, anything so he doesn’t have to face the state of his body, but it cruelly evades him. Defeatedly, he gives up and takes inventory. He can tell he's in a bed– his bed judging by the familiar thread count– and a wettened rag sits, resting comfortably against his forehead. How considerate of whatever grunt was tasked with dragging his unconscious ass back here. Examining further, his right leg is set in a splint, and bandages span over nearly everywhere else.
I fucked myself up, huh.
He should probably take a peek at his surroundings, make sure he truly is in his apartment, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes. Not quite yet. He doesn’t want to take in the world– he’s not ready to take in the world. After all, doing so would only serve as confirmation that it wasn’t all a dream, that it was real, that it all happened.
Chuuya doesn’t know if he’s ready for that reality. He doesn’t know if he ever will be, really.
He recalls Kouyou discussing with him on the topic of grief sometime prior, likely far more recently than it feels. It was soon after he joined the mafia, soon after she had taken him under her wing. It had been over tea, if he remembers correctly, spoken in soft words unbefitting of how ironclad she had seemed for the past weeks. She had spoken of a man, a man she believed would be her way out, a man she loved, a man who was dead. She’d said after the years she’d come to a state of acceptance, a state of peace, but not compliance. Never compliance. She’d instructed Chuuya to do the same.
Now, Chuuya almost questions her words. His friends, the detective, Adam– the loss seems more so like the type one never comes to peace with, the type one must simply adapt to handle. Luckily, Chuuya's quite good at adapting. He's done it before, he could do it again.
But… His headache throbs. I don’t want t–
A series of clangs erupt from somewhere off to his right, stopping his train of thought in its tracks. His eyes snap open.
Scanning his surroundings, nothing pops out as particularly worrying. He's in his room, it's dark, and all his belongings are the same as he’d left who knows how many days ago. He shifts, reaching cautiously for the gun hidden away at his bedside.
An intruder is unlikely, he reasons. He lives on the second to top floor of one of the mafia’s own apartment buildings, guarded and secured by their very best. Someone breaking in is near impossible.
Near, his brain kindly highlights.
Chuuya frowns.
Another clang can be heard, this time followed by a yelp.
Oh. Recognition twists his face into a scowl.
“Dazai,” he groans. “Fuck off out of my kitchen before I put a hole in your head.”
A gasp can be heard before the culprit, a disheveled mass of brown curls, donning eyebags worse than Chuuya’d last seen, pokes his head around the wall. “He speaks!”
“Yeah, I do,” Chuuya drawls. “And I’m telling you to fuck off.”
Dazai frowns, instead making himself comfortable on the foot of Chuuya’s bed. He considers kicking him off, but his damaged muscles wail in complaint at the mere notion.
“That’s no way to treat the generous soul who’s been taking care of you for the past few days, y’know.” Dazai lifts the rag off of Chuuya’s head, setting it down on the bedside table. Chuuya’s headache very much disagrees with this.
“Pfft,” Chuuya scoffs. “Take your generosity and shove it up your a– wait, days?!” He sits up, ignoring his spine’s protest. “How long have I been out for?”
“Just under a week,” Dazai says.
“Shit.”
“Shit indeed, sluggy dearest,” Dazai hums, returning to his feet and stretching out his arms. “Not to worry, though! Like the lovely partner I am, I brought you all your due paperwork!” He gestures to a teetering pile right next to Chuuya’s TV. He’s not sure how he missed that on his initial inspection.
“And,” Dazai continues, “I must say, after the Guivre situation, there is a lot.”
Chuuya swallows, laying back down against his pillows. There’s no way in hell he’s dealing with this right now. It’s far too early. He looks over to his clock. 23:08. It’s far too late, then.
Albatross should be getting home soon, his mind traitorously provides.
Chuuya knows damn well Albatross wouldn't be stepping into his apartment once the clock struck midnight. He wouldn't be stepping into his apartment ever again, actually. But, some foolish part of himself still remains insistent on otherwise. Some meager part of him is still awaiting the harsh thuds of his friend's footsteps upon arrival, awaiting the irritated elevator ride to go shut him up, awaiting his half assed excuses which make Chuuya want to pitch him off the balcony.
Old habits die hard, someone had once told him.
He didn't think it would be this hard.
But, it was; and he'd need to adapt sooner or later. Preferably sooner, if possible.
His eyes sting. He suppresses a sniffle.
"Is Chuuya broken?" Dazai asks, setting down a cup filled with clear liquid at Chuuya's bedside.
Water, he recognizes, it's a glass of water.
He sighs. It's been a long couple of days.
Chuuya hums, taking the glass and raising it to his nose. He sniffs it. Not poisoned. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and takes a tentative sip. "No more broken than your bones will be if you don't piss off already."
"How brutish!" Dazai gasps, splaying an offended hand across his chest. "I should've let you fall out of the sky and hit your face."
"I wish you would've." Chuuya takes another sip of water, scowling as Dazai takes a seat next to him. "Woulda saved me from havin' to deal with your fishy ass."
Dazai pouts. "Meanie."
Chuuya smirks, sticking out his tongue in lieu of a reply.
"Regardless, you should really thank me for my outstanding kindness." Dazai jostles, shifting the bed underneath him for a moment before retrieving a thermometer from who knows where. "But, Nevermind that. I know Chuuya isn’t one for manners. Say 'ah!'"
"Ew–" Chuuya scowls. "No. I'm not some kid."
Dazai frowns, repeating his words with slightly more force. "Say 'ah.'"
"No."
"But Chuuya–!"
"I'm not fucking doing it!"
Dazai pouts, mustering a thin sheen of tears across his lower lids.
"I'm not!"
"Okay…" Dazai sighs, his head drooping in disappointment. "I guess I'll have to go trash Chuuya's dog calendar collection, then…"
Chuuya's eyes widen. "You wouldn't."
Dazai smirks. "I would."
"Fucker– fine." Chuuya grimaces, opening his mouth in defeat.
"You're not saying 'ah!!'"
"F'hck ah–" Chuuya frowns. "Fuck off," he clarifies.
Dazai hums. "I wonder how many of your calendars I can tear at once…"
"God–" Chuuya snarls. "Fine, jackass.” He sighs, an embarrassing shade of pink tinting his cheeks, “ Aah–"
Dazai smirks, slipping the thermometer beneath Chuuya's tongue. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
Chuuya waits until the thermometer is retracted before biting out an irritated reply. "I hope your shipping container gets bulldozed."
"How cruel!"
"Uh huh,” Chuuya agrees. “Deserved, though."
"Chuuya's so mean to me…"
"You can deal with it."
"Hmph… Ah–" Dazai's gaze flicks downwards towards the thermometer before looking back up at Chuuya with a confusing stare– the void-like infinity of his eyes giving way for something close to relief. But, not even a second later, it's gone. Chuuya frowns. He must be seeing things. "Your fever's improving,” Dazai states, holding up the thermometer for Chuuya to see. If 40 degrees celsius is an improvement, Chuuya doesn’t think he wants to know what it was before. “Maybe you won't actually succumb to illness…" Dazai pouts. "A shame..."
Chuuya kicks at him from under the blankets. "God, shut it! I could say the same for you, y'know."
"Touché," Dazai hums, a playful smirk dancing across his lips.
Flopping back downwards, Chuuya lets out an exhausted sigh. “I’m gonna go back to sleep, and once I wake up your ass better be long gone. Got that?”
Dazai bolts upward in a salute. “Loud n’ clear!”
“Good.” Chuuya rolls over, shutting his eyes. He shoots the occasional suspicious peak over his shoulder, each time seeing Dazai in an even more exaggerated, suspiciously-unsuspicious, position. Chuuya bites down an insult, or a laugh, maybe both, and focuses on the plush mattress beneath him.
At some point, he stirs to the sensation of a newly winged rag being placed upon his forehead. There’s a weight next to him. A tender hand cards pleasantly against his scalp, gently removing the tips of stray hairs from his mouth. He ushers himself back to sleep before he dares think about it too hard.
The second time Chuuya wakes, the bandages are gone, slowly being rewrapped from his wrists upward. He cracks open an eye, revealing to himself the sight of Dazai, again, hunched over his arm, making sure each revolution lies flat against his skin. His tongue’s caught between his teeth in the midst of his concentration, a sight which almost makes Chuuya let out an awed cackle.
Almost.
“Oi–” Dazai looks up from his work, his focused expression shifting to a smug grin the instant he notices Chuuya awake. “I thought I told ya to piss off.”
Dazai smirks, wrapping the bandage a few more iterations before tying it off. “Chuuya knows I’m bad at keeping promises.”
“Uh huh,” Chuuya scoffs. “I think you’re pretty good at keeping them, you just like being a pain in the ass. My ass, specifically”
Dazai hums. “That’s also certainly a significant factor…”
"I figured," Chuuya huffs. He sits up, examining the spiraling gauze obscuring his limbs. "How bad are they?"
"A lot better. The bleeding stopped, for the most part." Dazai sits up, scoots back his chair– one which was clearly stolen from Chuuya's dining room – and deposits the old, pink-tinted bandages in the trash. "It's a slow process though… For a slug, you're quite the restless sleeper, y'know?" Dazai lets out an exaggerant sigh. "Kept reopening your wounds… Chibi's idiocy never ceases to astound…"
"Oi," Chuuya spits. "Shut the fuck up. I can't see how my intellect is even slightly related to how I sleep– And, for that matter, why the hell were you watching me sleep?!"
"I wasn't! I’d never!" Dazai grimaces, gagging at the mere notion. "I'd rather watch six of Hirotsu's old-timey romances than watch Chuuya sleep."
Chuuya scoffs. "Then what were you doing?!"
"Damage control," Dazai states matter-of-factly.
"How generous. What could I ever do to repay you." Chuuya's tone is anything but thankful.
Dazai hums, pondering the offer nonetheless. "Maybe run me a nice warm bath so I can rid myself of all Chuuya's icky slug slime…" He crouches next to the bed, resting his chin atop folded arms. "Taking care of you is quite taxing to one's hygiene, y’know."
"You–"
"Also maybe cook me some fresh crab while you're at it… you're quite the energy depleter, as well."
Chuuya clenches his fist against the comforter. "Die."
"Ah!" Dazai beams. "That was my next request! How did you know?"
Chuuya hoists himself up onto his elbows, landing a punch against Dazai's side. It's not his best, judging by the ensuing giggle.
"I hope y–" A wet cough cuts him off, racking his insides as if God himself was using his spine as a jump rope. His vision blurs, his ears ring, his throat aches. Metal fills his mouth. When he comes to, red's spattered everywhere it can reach. Dazai's gone. Another series of coughs rack Chuuya's ribs. Once the second subsides, there's something cold, something wet, pressed to the corner of Chuuya's mouth. The damp rag from before, he recognizes. Dazai sits back in his chair, brow twisted inwards. Chuuya's woozy mind produces a strangely appealing urge to reach out and smooth the produced wrinkles beneath his thumb. He tries to, but his arm remains stubbornly in his lap. His head spins.
"Chuuya needs to be more careful," Dazai tuts. "It would be a bit pathetic if you managed to kick the bucket before the suicide enthusiast." Despite his words, the concerned look in his eyes doesn't subside.
Concerned? Chuuya leans into the chill, overwhelmingly pleasant against his burning skin. That can't be right.
Once the blood is cleared from his face, Dazai helps him back down against the pillows. He retracts the rag. Chuuya mourns the loss.
"Get some rest, Slug." Dazai leans against his abdomen, looking up at him through his lashes. "I'd really hate getting saddled with your paperwork if you were to cough up your organs and die."
Chuuya frowns, but before he can muster up a reply, unconsciousness overtakes him once more.
The third time Chuuya wakes, it isn’t nearly as pleasant as the last time, nor the time before, for that matter. Chuuya’s surprised at that. It’s no low bar, after all. This time, though, is different. Even in his sluggish state, it’s blaringly apparent he’s no longer in his apartment.
The mattress, for one, is far stiffer than the one he has at home. The baneful chill of fluorescent lights itches at retinas, even though the protection of his closed eyes. The blanket above him feels scratchy, cheap, and does little to mask the frigid atmosphere of the room. As well, he can feel the familiar pinch of an IV embedded in his forearm. The mafia's infirmary, he recognizes with solemn distaste.
Images of visiting Doc during work hours, of seeing how many syringes Albatross could balance atop his nose, bombard his mind. He scowls.
He needs to get his shit together. He presses the base of his palms against closed eyes. Now, preferably.
He bites back a sigh, instead opening his eyes; and, upon doing so, his suspicions are proven correct.
Cool lights beam down on him, nondescript floral patterning coats the walls, featureless white bombards his vision, and the smell of artificial lavender assaults his senses. He’d had few experiences here, in this very bed. None of them were pleasant, and all of them left his clothes smelling like antiseptic for weeks after. The last time he was here, as a patient, at least, was after an absent mention to Kouyou about his lack of a vaccination history. It wasn’t easy to come by medical care while in the Sheep, after all. Due to this, however, not even a week later he found himself pinned down to a bed, identical to the one housing him now, two doctors on either side, and four needles embedded in each leg. Needless to say, it was far from his favorite spot.
A soft murmur sounds from somewhere further down the bed, just shy of his knee. Upon further inspection, the source appears to be the mop of unruly chestnut curls, hunched atop folded forearms, resting at the very edge of the mattress.
That bastard just doesn’t know when to quit, Chuuya gripes.
Chuuya shifts his leg, knocking his knee lightly against Dazai’s head. He jostles, stirring slightly, alas, he slumps back into his arms. Chuuya knees him again. And again, and again, and again, and again, and a– He sits up with a jolt.
Finally.
“Huh?” he mumbles, blinking away bleary confusion. He looks to Chuuya. “Oh.” Realization settles over his features. “Oh…” He grimaces. “Ew.”
Chuuya scowls. “Fuck you mean ‘ew?!’”
“I mean ‘ew,’” Dazai reiterates. He pushes away from the bed, letting his chair roll across the slickly tiled floor before crashing unceremoniously into some sort of medical device Chuuya wouldn’t be able to identify if there was a gun to his head. Dazai stands, undeterred, and brushes off imaginary grime from his shirt. “It’s a reasonable reaction to the atrocious sight of Chuuya with bedhead.”
“I do not have–” Chuuya sits up, leveling him with a frightened glower. “I don’t, do I?”
Dazai hums, holding out his phone set to the front camera for Chuuya to see. “Judge for yourself.”
“This…” Chuuya frowns. “This is how my hair normally looks..?”
“Oh, is it?” Dazai retracts his phone, addressing Chuuya with theatrical shock. “My mistake! It’s so hard to tell when Chuuya looks so atrocious day to day…”
Chuuya throws his ill-stuffed pillow, scowling at the comment. “You have no room to talk, you fuckin’ mummy.”
“Ah-ah! Girls love a good mummy. Not that Chuuya would know, of course…” Dazai smirks.
“Hey–”
“Though, if you ever get too lonely, I’m sure I could set something up!” he offers, eyes glistening with false-pity. “Although! I might not be able to afford the no doubt hefty bribes needed to do so… And, it would be truly criminal of me to subject another to the horrors of someone such as yourself…”
“Fucker–”
He sighs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I suppose I’ll have to stick with Chuuya for now then… How troublesome…”
“Dazai–!!”
Dazai blinks, slipping seamlessly into an innocent façade. “Yes?”
“First off, send my condolences to any girl shouldered with the misfortune of you–”
“Mean!”
“Secondly, I wouldn’t know, because you’re fucking lying!”
“‘M not..”
“And thirdly,” Chuuya spits, the cheap fabric of his blanket on the precipice of tearing beneath his clenched fists. “I’d rather eat burning charcoal than have you of all people ‘stick with me.’”
Dazai pouts. “Ungrateful… Chuuya’s sooo ungrateful…”
“No,” Chuuya argues, “ Chuuya’s just fed up with your shit.”
“Ungrateful!!” Dazai insists, slumping back into the chair. “Chuuya’s so mean, and rude, and cruel, and awful, and terrible, and gross, and yucky, and–” He kicks at the floor, spinning about in slow circles. “You’re so… Chuuya.”
Chuuya scoffs. “The hell does that mean? Of course I am, dumbass.”
“It’s a bad thing,” Dazai clarifies.
“You’re a bad thing,” Chuuya counters.
“My point, exactly,” Dazai whines. “So mean… So mean to little ol’ me…”
Chuuya rolls his eyes. “You better shut the fuck up before I reopen several wounds from beating the shit out of you.”
“Please don’t…”
Chuuya frees his legs from the bed, wincing as his bare feet make contact with the cold tile. The splint on his right shin creaks at the sudden movement. “I’ll do it.”
“Ugh, fine!” Dazai pouts, halting his spin. “Chuuya wins… this time, at least.”
Chuuya smirks, a victorious glint reigning bright in his eye. “Speaking of, though, what’s with the change in location?”
“Ah–” Dazai rolls over to the desk, busying his hands with a stray pen, disassembling and reassembling it with practiced efficiency. “Last night, your vitals were fluctuating. It wasn’t bad at first, but they got… worrisome.” He sits in silence for a moment, eyes going vacant mid pen reassembly. Chuuya always found Dazai’s thinking face rather intriguing. Some called it scary, he knows, but to him it's just weird. His brow furrows, his nose slightly scrunches, his eyes grow distant, and Chuuya’s favorite, (as in, his favorite to make fun of) is the sliver of tongue he sticks out between pinched teeth. Seeing him like that always makes Chuuya question his renowned reputation as the Demon Prodigy. It seems nothing less than illogical.
Dazai blinks. His face comes back to life, instantly cracking a smile– one rating a solid 8/10 on Chuuya’s punchability meter. Maybe even an 8.5, not quite a 9, though. “And then! I called Mori-san and he took Chuuya here. The end!” He discards the half-assembled pen, letting the disconnected parts skid independently outwards across the table.
“Okay,” Chuuya hums. “Why are you here, then?”
“To take care of my dog, of course,” Dazai states as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Scratch his earlier rating, Chuuya’s raising his infuriating smile to a solid 10/10.
“Hey–” Chuuya points to the fallen pillow, laying idly at Dazai’s feet. “Could you hand me that real quick?”
Dazai quirks his eyebrow. “Why…?”
“No reason. Just need that pillow.” Chuuya holds out his palm in wait.
“Okay…” Dazai reaches over, tentatively lifting it from the floor. “You’re not going to hit me with it, are you?”
“I won’t hit you with it,” Chuuya assures.
“Promise?” Dazai grasps the pillow to his chest.
“Yeah, promise, just give me the pillow.”
Dazai bites his lip, handing the pillow off with visible anxiety.
“I’m not going to hit you with it,” Chuuya reiterates.
“I feel like you are.”
“I won’t.”
Dazai frowns, eyes squinted skeptically. “If Chuuya says so…”
“And I do say so.” He clutches the pillow to his chest, gesturing for Dazai to come closer. “On an unrelated note, c’mere.”
“Why…?”
Chuuya rolls his eyes. “Gotta tell you a secret.”
Dazai shuffles closer.
“Okay, dipshit.” Chuuya latches an ironclad grip against his collar, pulling him downwards and over his lap. Securing his squirming legs with one arm, with the other he presses the pillow over his face, smothering him with all the weight he can muster.
“You promised!” Dazai yelps, the words muffled as the pillow is pressed harder against his face.
Chuuya lifts the pillow, landing a solid flick against his forehead. “All’s fair in love and war.”
Dazai goes still, looking up at Chuuya with wide, unblinking eyes. “Chuuya’s in love with m– mph–?!”
He gets hit with the pillow again.
The fourth time Chuuya wakes up, he’s crying.
Opening his eyes, he spots a very shell-shocked Dazai at his side, staring at him as if he’d just grown two heads. “...Is that a normal thing for you…?”
Chuuya blinks himself to full consciousness, wiping away a handful of stray tears which dared fall. He sits up, massaging roughly at his temple. The headache’s back. “Is what a normal thing?” He has to fight to keep his voice steady.
“That.”
“Unhelpful.”
“Crying in your sleep,” Dazai finally clarifies. “Why do you do that?”
“Must be allergic to your fishy ass stench,” Chuuya remarks, stifling a sob. “I dunno.”
Dazai ignores him. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“I don’t do that,” Chuuya replies bitterly.
“You… don’t have bad dreams?”
“No,” Chuuya spits. “I don’t dream.”
“Oh.” Dazai wrings out his hands in front of him, painfully obviously unaware of what to do with himself. “...Skill issue.”
A chuckle rips free of Chuuya’s throat, the sound wet and miserable. “You’re a prick, y’know that?”
Dazai hums, but makes no attempt to deny the claim.
“Why are we back here?” Chuuya asks, looking around his room. The easy redirection is appreciated, and, while he's certainly not upset about the change, he is curious nonetheless.
“Mori discharged you this morning,” Dazai replies. “We tried waking you up, but Chuuya’s quite the heavy sleeper. Had to drag you all the way back here.” He smiles, masking away his still lingering discomfort. “Y’know, for someone so eensy tiny you’re rather heavy.”
“Oh shut the fuck up,” Chuuya retorts, scrubbing at his eye. “That’s just because I have an actual meal once in a while, unlike someone I happen to know.”
Dazai snorts. “Canned crab is an actual meal! Chuuya’s just as tasteless with his food as he is with his fashion.”
“Says you.”
“Uh huh,” Dazai confirms. “Says me.”
Chuuya snorts, but says nothing more. Instead, he turns his focus downwards to the underside hem of his sheets, running his fingernail along the peaking threads. His headache throbs, and, in perfect, traitorous unison, another round of tears wells up, threatening to spill. He sniffles. He doesn’t really care if Dazai hears him at this point, not really. He’d already witnessed him crying like a baby in his sleep. It can’t really get much worse than that.
"I miss them," Chuuya admits after a while, straining to mask the instability of his voice. It's far beyond him why he's speaking to Dazai of all people about this. He's beyond positive he'll regret this later.
Dazai hums, half in recognition and half in realization. "The Young Bloods, right?"
Chuuya nods. He doesn't trust himself to reply out loud.
"I'm…" Dazai breaths, staring intently at his hands folded in his lap. His brow furrows. "I'll give you some time alone, if you'd like."
"Yeah," Chuuya replies, his voice shaking. He forces it steady. "Sure."
Dazai nods, rising to his feet. He disappears down the hall, but Chuuya never detects the distinct sound of his apartment's door slipping shut. The bastard's probably taking the opportunity to wreck his place. Irritating, but Chuuya can't bring himself to care all too much. Not now, anyway.
A second round of tears spill over, tracing glittering rivers down his cheeks. He hiccups, hushed sobs soon following. He doesn't know why he's crying, especially now, of all times . He didn't cry when he watched Lippmann's lifeless body spill out of a trunk, he didn't cry when a gate left long untouched inside him was forced ajar, he didn't cry when he had to hold Albatross' dying body in his arms, he didn't cry when his chances at joining the light were squandered right in front of him, he didn't cry when a boy identical to himself breathed his last breath, he didn't cry when he was fucking tortured, for Christ’s sake . So why, why is he crying now. He clenches his fists, the pinch of his nails digging into skin only piquing his frustration. He sniffles, roughly wiping fat tears away from his lids before they can fall. His eyes sting. His throat hurts.
He hates this. Frankly, he hates himself.
It’s his fault, after all, his fault all this happened, his fault that they’re all dead. Adam had said so. Perfectly cold and calculated, the blame had been attributed to him. But, Adam’s gone now. And, it too, was his fault. Another wrecked sob racks his body. He curls inwards. If it weren’t for him, if he never joined the mafia, if he never stumbled across Shirase, if he’d never been taken from the lab in the first place, his friends would still be here. All of them. Each and every one. Without him, sure, but here. Chuuya can’t think of anything he wants more.
Dazai soon reappears from who-knows-where, rudely interrupting his wallowing, wielding a clumsily overfilled glass of water. His attempts to not let the liquid slosh over the edge on his way over garners an inaudible chuckle on Chuuya’s part. "I got some water so Slug doesn't dry himself out," he states, offering it with just as much unease as before. He makes brief eye contact with Chuuya, no doubt seeing a disgraceful image, before hurriedly averting his gaze to his feet.
"Oh, fuck you," Chuuya scoffs in lieu of a thanks, taking the offered glass between shaking palms.
Dazai laughs, the sound dry and void of amusement. He settles back against his chair, eyeing Chuuya up and down as if he's a vase on the verge of shattering.
Maybe I am, Chuuya considers bitterly.
Chuuya wipes away stray tears on his sleeve, concluding the emotional display with a fleeting wet sniffle. “Sorry about that.” He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing, but looking at Dazai’s rigid posture, he simply can’t muster anything else.
“‘S fine,” Dazai replies, picking at his bandage’s edge. “Do you… uhm…” He coughs. “...Want to– like– talk about it..?”
Chuuya scowls. “Not really.”
“Right,” Dazai complies. “Got it.”
The two descend into a stiff silence.
“...You’re really bad at this,” Chuuya notes.
Dazai sighs, the sound melding into a groan. “I know.”
Chuuya laughs, slumping weakly against the headboard. He takes small, slow sips of his water. “Do you want to watch a movie?”
“A movie?” Dazai asks, blinking curiously.
“Yeah,” Chuuya confirms. “I’ve got some DVDs in the cabinet.”
Dazai nods, making his way over to the TV stand. He kneels, observing the collection closely. “Chuuya has Finding Nemo?”
“That–” Chuuya flusters, his brow twisting downwards into an irritated scowl. “It’s a good film, okay?!”
“I didn’t say otherwise,” Dazai replies, eyeing Chuuya with an amused grin. Chuuya can easily predict the contents of the bastard’s upcoming newsletter.
“Just choose whatever,” Chuuya scoffs. “Anything. Being bedridden is fuckin’ boring.”
Dazai hums, taking a few more moments to rifle through his options. Soon, he sits up, showing off his selection.
“The Little Mermaid?” Chuuya remarks. “Really?”
“It’s a good film,” Dazai mocks.
“Piss off.”
Dazai giggles, any lingering remains of tension easing out of his shoulders as he retrieves the disc, inserting it into the DVD player. The film’s intro plays as he returns to his seat.
“Get on the bed, dumbass.” Chuuya pats the vacant spot next to him. “Who watches a movie in a dining chair?”
Dazai gasps, eyeing Chuuya with an affronted distaste. “How forward! Scandalous!! Y’know, if this was all a ploy for Chuuya to get me in his bed, you could’ve just asked.”
“That’s– that’s not what I’m–” Chuuya grunts, averting his gaze towards his lap. “Fuck you. Sit on the floor, for all I care.”
“Too late!” Dazai chirps, collapsing face first over Chuuya’s lap.
“Oi– Oi!!” Chuuya swats at him. “Get offa me!”
“But Chuuya’s soo comfy…” Dazai whines. “I think I’ll just stay here.”
Chuuya grunts, shoving him off and to the side. “I don’t think you will, dipshit.”
Dazai pouts. “So heartless… And after I so caringly dabbed away your tears, no less!”
“You didn’t dab away shit,” Chuuya groans. “Now shut up and watch the movie.
Dazai sighs, wiggling his way into a sitting position at Chuuya’s side. “If you so insist…”
The movie’s intro concludes, leading into the meat of the film. It’s nothing Chuuya hasn’t seen before. Admittedly, he’s run through his stash of Disney movies far more times than he’d like to admit. The Little Mermaid isn’t his favorite by any means, but it’s fine. It’s pleasant. Dazai, on the other hand, seems to be finding it particularly offensive. Clenched into Chuuya’s side, wiping away tears he denies even exist on his shirt, Chuuya can’t tell if he’s genuinely never seen it before or is just a wimp. Perhaps a bit of both. Chuuya snickers at the thought.
Soon enough, though, the movie’s over. A puffy eyed Dazai returns to the DVD cabinet, this time retrieving Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.
“Really?” Chuuya scoffs.
“Really,” Dazai confirms. Once he’s settled back against Chuuya’s side, he hits play.
This movie goes similarly to the last. Although, luckily for them both, this time around there’s far less tears on Dazai’s part. Not far past the middle of the movie, however, Chuuya’s eyes begin to droop. He fights to stay awake, truly, he does; but his body, still worn from the Guivre fight hardly a week prior, deems otherwise. Slowly, he slumps, drooping against Dazai’s side. His eyes slip shut the moment his head hits Dazai’s shoulder. And, still captured within the precipice of conscious and not, he feels the careful press of pursed lips against his forehead.
“Couldn’t even make it through two,” a disembodied voice mocks. “You’re losing your skills.”
Chuuya grumbles something in response, unintelligible, he’s sure, before unconsciousness finally takes over. Despite the uncomfortable position, despite the dried tears caking his cheeks, despite the utterly dreamless slumber, he’s unable to recall ever having a more restful sleep.
The fifth time Chuuya wakes up, it’s quiet. Worryingly quiet. He opens his eyes. There’s no rustling amongst the cabinets, nobody tending to him by his side, nobody catching a nap in his own bed. In other words, there’s no Dazai. The realization provides far less comfort than Chuuya hoped would be the case.
Setting that confusion aside, he notices his headache has completely subsided. The bandages, too, are gone, as well as the splint. He feels better, not good per say, but better. He sits up, pressing an experimental foot to the floor. His bones don’t immediately protest. That’s a good sign.
Holding onto the bed, he slowly hoists himself to his feet with utmost caution. He stumbles slightly, but quickly regains balance and continues forward. Passing by his dresser, a photo of himself with the others catches his attention. It’s a framed collection of strips they got in a photo booth awhile back. They’d taken photo after photo until even Albatross was on the verge of complete and utter exhaustion, later splitting up the results in order to send each of them home with their respective favorites. Chuuya hadn’t cared– at least, he hadn’t at the time– so he’d been left with the remnants. He didn’t mind, not really, not even now. Their faces were all the same, their smiles were all the same, the light, the life in their eyes– it was all the same.
Chuuya bites his lip. The stinging in his eyes makes an unfortunate return. He opens a drawer, discarding the photos within it. He could deal with them later, with that later, but not now, not today.
Right now, a shower is what he needs. A long, hot shower that leaves his skin red and irritated. That sounds abso-fucking-lutely wonderful.
His newfound goal spurs him forward, away from the photos, away from the thoughts plaguing the outer corners of his mind, away from the memories threatening to seep forwards into focus. He halts at the bathroom door, a bright yellow sticky note grabbing his attention.
Had to get out of dodge. Bye bye! ♡
-Dazai
Chuuya pulls it off the surface, crumpling it and tossing it in the trash. “The bastard’s as cryptic as ever, I see,” he grumbles to no one but himself. He scrapes off the more stubborn glue residue still staining the door with his nail, and proceeds inside. And then he spots it. He stares at his mirror, stares at his reflection– in disbelief or disappointment, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he’s going to have to come up with some very clever excuses for the boss.
Scrawled across his face, in what better not be a permanent marker, is a slew of utterly indecipherable graffiti. Ranging from crudely drawn dog ears, to a series of misshapen snails trailing downwards from his cheek. And, to top it all off, in the messiest handwriting he’s ever had the misfortune of bearing witness to, is ‘I found one :3’ printed across his forehead.
He has to consciously resist the urge to break his mirror in two.
That fucker.