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— Chuuya - 18 years old / Present —
There were many times Chuuya pretended not to see the vulnerability in Dazai, growing up together as teens.
The keyword, there, is simply one: teens.
Teenagers, no matter how angry, wild, smart (or genius), lonely, or disturbed they are, go through the same changes inside. It’s hormones doing the job most of the time — some other times, it’s the environment that shapes their behavior, thoughts, and boundaries.
In Chuuya and Dazai’s cases, they grew up in an unfitting reality, an adult world with demons and traumas much deeper than reachable. But they pushed past the most difficult years, playing pretend grown-ups and fooling around with violence – death always a step behind their tails; through time, they created their own world and became one another’s armor and safety net, without admitting it out loud, but through intricated banters and gorey threats.
It wasn’t exactly healthy; more often than not, they were nothing but toxic; they hurt each other on purpose, but that’s what teenagers do. Despite this, they knew the other was always going to be there no matter what. Once they became partners, they somehow knew it was forever.
Now, all Chuuya believed had been cemented in his short but intense life feels like it’s slipping away through his fingers. And it scares him.
---
— Dazai and Chuuya - the mafia years —
When Chuuya first found out that Dazai lived in an abandoned container, his guts twisted in disgust and pity, even though his mouth barked insults and cunning jokes. It was a slow process, one he initiated while barely conscious of his own intentions, of luring Dazai out of that place to spend the nights in the apartment Mori assigned Chuuya after he joined the organization; it was too big for a single teenager, after all.
He never even had a place he could call home, something he could consider his, where he could recognize himself. A safe space.
Chuuya never slept alone since he’d been taken in by the Sheeps, so it was hard to fall asleep at night in a place he didn’t really know. That’s what he kept telling himself, at least, especially when he had to physically pull Dazai out of the container during freezing cold nights in winter.
“Ita—Itai. Itai, ITAI!!”
“Stop whining like a baby, oh my God,” Chuuya pinched his nose, dragging Dazai through the door of his suite one night. “I won’t risk our next mission to go balls-up only because you decided to catch a cold or get killed in your sleep!”
“Chuuya is a brute!” Dazai threw himself on the couch once free from the other’s grip. “Chuuya manhandles me all the time! He’s supposed to be a loyal dog but only looks like an angry Chyuuhuahua!”
He cradled his legs and childishly hugged a pillow, proceeding then to show his tongue at the redhead for good measure.
“HAH?! I should have left your skinny ass to freeze in that shithole of a container, shitty-Dazai!”
“So heartless!! And Chuuya should learn more vocabularies!”
The soft glow of Tainted circled his flustered partner, causing Dazai to become more and more amused by the second, and the redhead knew he was once again playing the bastard’s game. He hated it.
“Fuck you.” Chuuya gritted his teeth, fists clenching as he took a deep, calming breath. “Don’t touch my stuff, and take off your damn shoes!”
Dazai ended up sleeping on the couch with his shoes on for days.
Eventually, Dazai stopped being too difficult.
His presence at Chuuya’s place became consistent. Dazai’s things began to be scattered here and there, and that started to have an impact on the small apartment: a toothbrush Chuuya bought on the bathroom sink, a shampoo Chuuya chose for Dazai’s hair, canned crab piled on the kitchenette counter that Chuuya added to the grocery list.
Dazai didn’t possess anything to bring with him if not for a stupid suicide guidebook that Chuuya tried to burn twice and a single change of bandages.
Piece after piece, the basic items were collected and provided by Chuuya as their weird living arrangement began. It was a silent process Dazai never fought, though sometimes he would offer rare signs of gratitude; occasional things like folding his blanket on top of the couch every now and then instead of leaving everything around as if a hurricane had just passed by, or washing the dishes – only to complain after that his bandages got all wet around his wrists and were, now, ruined.
After weeks of sharing the same place and with the bathroom filled with stocks of fresh gauze provided by Mori, Chuuya decided it was time to pry – not in a bad way, just a little bit to satiate his curiosity and try to understand his partner better.
He’s always seen Dazai wear bandages. At first, he thought those were injuries from missions Mori had sent him on by himself, or the result of sheer clumsiness and distraction since Dazai often faked falling or hitting walls just to be overdramatic. But the day Chuuya found out Dazai had a perfectly functioning eye under that head bandage he always wore, his perspective changed.
At first, he felt angry, betrayed. Over a year of Chuuya thinking his partner was blind in an eye made him feel like a fool because he even adjusted their dynamics to make sure Dazai’s right side was always covered – why would someone decide not to use a healthy eye during difficult missions that were potentially deadly?
Slowly, anger morphed into something different: Chuuya started to observe his partner more closely. He would try to spy on him during the rare times Dazai fully bathed, but he was always caught. His partner made those situations turn into a pure, deep embarrassment for Chuuya.
(“Chuuya should just ask if he wants to see my dick!”)
When Chuuya had enough and couldn’t bring himself to drop his morbid curiosity, he directly confronted Dazai. It took a few tries, but eventually, he managed to hear some sort of truth in his partner’s words.
“Why the fuck do you still cover that eye?! You could get us killed!”
“You know, it’s not true. Chuuya always covers my blind spot and takes care of me, because I have to pull him out of the mess!”
“Hah? It’s me pulling you out of the mess you always make, bastard!”
Dazai shrugs. He side-eyes him, a cunning smirk on his lips.
“Yet not denying you care enough to always be at my side like a loyal dog, Chuu—ya.”
Chuuya grits his teeth, starting to doubt all his life choices. But at the lack of response, Dazai adds, with a much softer tone: “You’re stuck with me, anyway.”
Frowning, Chuuya’s tongue clicks, annoyed.
“You had that shit around your head from the first time we saw each other, don’t bullshit me.”
“Ah,” Dazai preens. “Let’s call it a habit, then! The thrill of hoping I could be wrong and getting shot. What a chance to take, to be liberated from this pantomime at last.”
Chuuya’s hand smacked him in the head with a growl.
“Enjoy the thrill of this then!”
But, as time passed by, and Chuuya witnessed Dazai’s rituals with bandages every single day from afar, those words started to take on a different connotation. Detachment – from himself, and from the world around him. It became obvious that Dazai’s obsession with covering every inch of possibly visible skin wasn’t just a tantrum, but a way to separate himself physically from everything else.
At seventeen, Chuuya had spent enough time and shared near-death experiences with Dazai to know a lot more about his partner.
When he first spotted the irregular scarred patch of skin around his neck, one time when the bandages were falling loose on their way back from a mission, he didn’t comment, even though the image stained something in him. After that, everything else came with little surprise and a lot more sadness. He couldn’t be sure Dazai was aware he knew what was secluded under the bandages, but they never spoke about it. Chuuya never told Dazai, and there were never interactions or questions about all the scars littering his partner’s body, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew what it meant. And Dazai was the genius in the duo, so Chuuya supposed they were silently sharing a secret, somehow.
After the first time Chuuya got a glimpse of Dazai’s arms, he went to see Mori about it out of concern, thinking he could find a way to help; it wasn’t helpful, though.
The boss didn’t seem too surprised, nor did he act like he cared much. He callously advised Chuuya to leave Dazai be and let him do whatever he wanted: if hurting himself was his way to keep himself alive, then his suicide attempts would have stayed as such – just attempts.
Living knowing that, at any given time Dazai was not in his sight, he could have been hurting himself was unbearable for Chuuya, but he never really spoke to Dazai about his issues because it wasn’t his place, and he didn’t care that much; at least, that was what he tried to convince himself of. So time passed by, and they kept growing together with so much left unsaid.
At some point, though, things started going in a different, weird direction from their usual dynamic.
During a particularly nasty mission, Dazai’s coat caught on fire by accident. At the sound of his shouts and cries – maybe the first genuine and raw sounds Chuuya had ever heard from him, he rushed to his partner to help. But he wasn’t fast enough.
Dazai ended up burned, the aftermath of that accident still marking his side and legs under layers of bandages.
---
— Dazai and Chuuya - 18 years old / Present —
Chuuya can’t say exactly what it is that’s suddenly punching him in the stomach when Dazai shows up at the apartment’s door tonight, after two whole days of being nowhere to be found.
For a second, Chuuya struggles to recognize him.
Two days of unanswered calls and text messages after a few weeks of odd behavior and then making himself scarce.
Two days of not hearing a single thing about his whereabouts – of people not telling him anything; not even their Boss has been reachable, and that struck Chuuya as a giant, bright red flag.
But, now, Chuuya is standing there in front of this young man who looks so different from the boy he’s grown up with. Head bandage not in sight, both of his partner’s eyes are staring back at him, so deep, so black, that Dazai seems empty. He looks defeated, aged, and, at the same time, so much younger. It’s like they’re fifteen again, and Chuuya is just meeting this guy who talks like a child and carries himself with an invisible, ancient weight on his shoulders.
Chuuya is about to speak, and his lips part to ask, ‘Where the hell have you been?’, but Dazai beats him, lifting his hands with a fake, side-looped grin on his mouth, although his eyes don’t change at all. The redhead blinks in confusion when he registers the blood staining his partner’s hands up to the once-white cuffs of the dress shirt, poking from his coat that has started to get too small on his long, growing limbs. Traces of blood are also staining his neck bandages and his face as if he’s passed his dirty hands all over himself.
“I’m home!” Dazai chirps in a high-pitched tone. His voice is trained to sound petulant, used to deceive his interlocutors, but Chuuya isn’t fooled by his blatant act this time. “Will Chuuya be a loyal dog and help me change my bandages? I have things to do—!”
---
— Dazai and Chuuya - A year before —
The cleaning squad is charging at the mess they made, and Chuuya is kneeling next to Dazai to attend to his partner’s injury as they await their extraction from the conflict site.
The smell of blood and burned flesh is intense, and there’s heavy smoke still lingering in the area without a hint of wind to wipe it away.
When Chuuya tries to help Dazai get rid of the shred of fabric and bandages that seem glued to the burned side of his thigh, the boy pushes him away, snarling at Chuuya not to touch him. His face is contorted, and his voice sounds fearful. Dazai is obviously in agony, lacking complete control of his emotions and actions.
Chuuya can’t just keep his hands to himself in this situation: if he had learned anything about Dazai, it is the way he dreads pain.
“Let me help you, idiot,” Chuuya insists, dragging his knees closer to his partner once again to grab his leg. “If we take this off now when is fresh, it’s gonna hurt less later!”
He tries to make Dazai listen to reason, but the look in his partner’s eyes is wild, nothing like Chuuya has ever seen. With the way he’s baring his teeth at him, it resembles a terrified stray dog trying to defend himself from an attacker.
“Don’t touch me.” Dazai shakes his head, eyes widened and cheeks pale. His forehead is shining with cold sweat, and his expression seems more terrified than hurt. It’s like the sole idea of being touched when he has his defenses down and his senses dulled by physical pain is even scarier than the pain itself.
“Fine.” The redhead frowns, taking back his hands with a pissed huff. “But I need to carry you out of this shithole if you can’t walk.”
“I can—” Dazai grits his teeth, scrambling to the side to push himself up against the wall behind them. “I can walk.”
Chuuya doesn’t comment, although unconvinced, and observes Dazai struggle to stand on his two feet, as stubborn as he can be. “See?! C-Chuuya’s brain is t-too—” Dazai groans, pushing himself off the wall. “Too chibi-sized to even— AHH! FUCK SHIT— fuck!”
Chuuya moves to grab him before he can hit the floor, seeing his partner begin to fall in slow motion.
Dazai’s burned leg has given up under the weight of the first step forward, too weakened by the injury and by his frying nerves.
“Let go—”
“Shut the fuck up now!” Chuuya yells, muscles straining to force Dazai’s arm around his shoulders. “We gotta go!”
With a frustrated whimper, Dazai has no other option but to suck it up and grasp at Chuuya’s jacket when the redhead keeps hissing a string of insults against his protests, and holds him up for good. But they’re still hunched forward, and their stance is too unstable to walk. Chuuya needs to have a better grip on him if they want to get out of there.
“It’s gonna hurt,” he warns before wrapping his arm around Dazai’s waist to secure him tight – and he hates every second of it, grimacing at the strained shout that rings in his ear when his hand dives into the burned mess of clothes and bandages still covering Dazai’s flesh. It’s disgusting, wet with blood and bodily liquids that make it slippery, but Chuuya does his best to ignore it.
The pain must be too intense for Dazai even to complain, but he stares ahead, breathing in and out like a madman and, by the time they make it to their rescue vehicle, his eyes are fogged, so red and dry that they seem about to pop out of their sockets.
Dazai shuts himself down completely once they settle in the car. He’s curved on his non-injured side, leg outstretched to try to ease the pain. He’s shoulder to shoulder with Chuuya, half curled and spasming, and he almost seems passed out after a few minutes, if not for his seldom whimpers of pain. His neck is failing to keep his head up, and it hits Chuuya’s shoulders a few times as the car makes turns and speeds through the road.
Chuuya stares at him, worried and feeling powerless. His hands hitch to move, but he doesn’t know what to do with them. Witnessing Dazai in such a state is so new for him that for a long moment he gets so lost in his own thoughts that he almost misses the way his partner’s lament starts to shape in the form of words.
“What?” Chuuya asks, leaning closer to hear better. His fingers tingle with the need to brush Dazai’s hair out of his face, to do anything that could offer comfort, but he doesn’t move.
“…Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it—”
Chuuya’s guts into a tight knot, nausea hitting him hard upon hearing the unhinged pleads escaping Dazai’s grimacing mouth.
“Don’t we have a fucking first aid kit in here?!” He shouts to the driver, grasping the front seat’s headrest to prop himself to the front, checking the car. Chuuya knows there must be one, and once he’s handed a medical box, he starts rummaging into it and scattering all the useless content all around, silently begging to find morphine in it.
“Make it stop. Make it stop— Chuuya—”
“I’m trying, okay?!” Chuuya snaps, so on edge that his vision falters a few times while checking the labels of everything that comes into his hand. When he finally finds a vial of morphine, he’s almost tearing it open with his teeth before realizing he has to inject it into Dazai to make it work.
“Shit,” he groans, glancing at Dazai and at one of the syringes that fell in his lap. “Shit. Shit—”
He had never done something like that, but how hard could it be? It’s just an injection; he had countless injections done to him like they were nothing.
“Make it stop—!”
Chuuya bites his lower lip so hard it almost splits. He opens the syringe and the lid of the vial, trying to imitate what he’s always seen Mori do in the past. By the time he fills the syringe, his hands are shaking with adrenaline as he pushes the bottom to expel extra air from it without spilling too much morphine.
“Okay,” he groans to himself, turning toward his partner with determination. “I got it. Give me your arm.”
In response, Dazai only curls himself tighter, hugging his arms around his chest, and Chuuya’s rage risks seeping through the bars of that inner self-control cage he’s trying to hold it in.
“Give me your fucking arm, Dazai!” Chuuya doesn’t try to be gentle this time, grabbing the boy’s arm forcefully and pulling it toward himself.
Dazai’s whole body twitches in response, but he doesn’t pull it back. The noise that escapes his mouth is pitiful, making Chuuya halt for a moment to notice how Dazai is shaking – how tight his fist is clenched. His heart aches.
“I know you don’t want me to touch you. Chuuya forces his tone to be steady, speaking as gently as he can. “But I’m trying to help you. Just stay still, okay?”
Lifting the coat and shirt’s sleeves from his partner’s arm is the easy part. The bandages around his forearm now aren’t as tight as when they are newly wrapped, with all the moving around and thrashing, so Chuuya is relieved that at least he doesn’t have to unravel them for good – he hates the idea of forcing that on Dazai. He can’t even begin to comprehend what his partner must be feeling at this point, how dark that space in his head must have become, and tries to ignore the bile rising up his throat.
He’s nervous when his fingers slide into the crook of Dazai’s forearm, pulling at the bandages to loosen up around the elbow so he can expose the tender skin and access his veins. But what he finds isn’t tender skin: the arm under the bandages is so scarred, covered in thick lines, that even that delicate part is hardly unmarked. Chuuya grimaces, fighting his brain to not focus on it while he has other priorities.
At least, Dazai’s paleness is useful for finding his veins. With a little prodding, Chuuya is confident enough that he’s not going to turn him into a colander with the syringe needle.
“Try not to move,” Chuuya warns, and even if Dazai doesn’t acknowledge it, he takes a deep breath and goes in.
He needs to draw blood first to make sure he got the vein, so when at the first attempt nothing happens, Chuuya’s head pulses with frustration. He takes the needle out, earning a whimper from Dazai, but no other reaction if not him squeezing his eyes even harder.
“Fuck— sorry,” Chuuya groans, inhaling deeply and poking Dazai’s arm once again, trying to make completely sure this time that he’s going to do it right. He’s on the verge of panic – and he’s also consciously ignoring that he can’t know if the dose of morphine will be enough or too much. He can’t know but doesn’t have anything else to make it stop: he can’t bear to have Dazai in so much pain.
The next attempt works. Chuuya chuckles with a note of hysteria as he exhales and carefully starts to inject morphine into Dazai’s system. The effect is almost instantaneous: Dazai releases the deadly clenched fist from Chuuya’s lap, and his tremors ease down. Tension seems to leave his body within a few seconds after the syringe is emptied and the needle is pulled out.
He’s not on the verge of hyperventilation anymore, and Chuuya’s shoulders relax as well, drawing a long breath after what feels like a lifetime. He knew the painkiller would have worked fast – morphine always does – but it exceeded his best wishes. What he didn’t expect, though, was for Dazai to drag himself closer to him and rest his head on Chuuya’s shoulder.
At first, Chuuya freezes.
Sure, he’s been in Dazai’s close proximity countless times – he carried him, manhandled him and punched him— but never this. The contact feels intimate, and it’s way too cuddly for anything they’ve been used to. Is Dazai even conscious of what he’s doing? It’s his way to thank him or—
Chuuya’s head hurts, and his eyes sting a little – although he refuses to admit it to himself – but the idea that Dazai, this vulnerable and hurt, is seeking shelter within him is heart-wrenching.
He’s still in a great deal of pain.
Chuuya can tell by the way his body quivers and the quiet whimpers that escape his mouth from time to time, but it’s definitely more bearable than before, so Dazai's instincts must be leading his actions, rather than rationality. He’s heavy on his shoulder, and Chuuya carefully helps him to settle on his good side, guiding him to lie down on his lap instead, in a more comfortable position. Through the process, the redhead keeps staring ahead of him as if trying to detach himself from what he’s doing, but with little success.
Dazai doesn’t complain; instead, he presses his nose into Chuuya’s thigh and tries to curl more on himself. The movement must make the pain spike because the boy cries out, muffled against the redhead’s trousers.
“Shh…” Chuuya doesn’t really know what to do at this point. Soothing Dazai through it is the easiest response to panic he can fathom. He’s all Dazai’s got at this moment, and he wants to make it be worth it. “Don’t move much, Shitty-Zai.”
Silence falls in the car.
Only the sound of the light traffic keeps them company as they enter the city, and it feels surreal. Dazai’s weight on Chuuya’s lap is real, though. He’s a warm, shivering mess, and somehow, one of his hands has closed around the redhead’s kneecap: it squeezes him once in a while when the waves of pain get too intense.
Chuuya’s hands unconsciously slip on his partner’s head while staring outside the window. His fingers are combing through his hair, slow, gently untying small knots to help him decompress from all the stress, and it feels nice.
When he realizes what he’s doing, his hands stop for a second, embarrassed. But when Chuuya notices how Dazai’s expression isn’t as contorted with pain as before – how his nose scrunches up adorably when the gentle massage on his scalp stops – he can’t do anything else but resume his activity.
“You’re gonna be okay.” Chuuya hears himself whisper, maybe more for himself than for Dazai. “We’re going home.”
Back then, Chuuya had no idea that the word home meant nothing to Dazai.
---
— Dazai and Chuuya - 18 years old / Present —
“Is this your blood, Mackerel?”
Chuuya is following Dazai through the apartment, picking up his coat and jacket off the trails he’s leaving on the floor while heading to the bathroom, a frown so deep it starts making his headache.
He didn’t step into any fight with his partner after pulling him inside, even if Dazai is refusing to utter any further word, not answering his questions. There is something wrong, and Chuuya won’t play their usual game only to have Dazai get what he wants: detachment, distraction, physical pain. He needs to have Dazai present, aware, and rational – as much as he can, at least.
Once in the bathroom, Chuuya shoves the dirty clothes in the laundry bag and then grunts, need surging for the other to say something.
“Oi—”
“No,” Dazai finally answers as the light bulb in the bathroom flickers to life. “It’s not. I’m fine.”
“We both know you are not fine,” Chuuya says, but he’s careful not to make his voice bite.
“Chuuya is thinking too hard.”
Dazai sounds just as hollow as his eyes look. Now, he’s even avoiding glancing at Chuuya as he opens the water in the sink and starts scrubbing his hands. His eyes, from a distance, keep being so dark and bottomless that the lack of light and the gestures only makes the redhead worry more.
Gritting his teeth, Chuuya swallows his tongue. Not bothering to wait for explanations, he walks to the cabinet to fish for clean bandages and pins, trying to wait patiently for his partner to undress.
It’s not the first time they have done this together.
Dazai never openly asked to help him like he did tonight but since that accident, Chuuya has helped wrap bandages around his body more times than he can count. Sometimes, he could see fresh cuts or new bruises that weren’t the result of a messy mission, and yet Chuuya never inquired about it: he’s not stupid and doesn’t need a detailed explanation. Chuuya doesn’t even need reasons, not with how close he has been to Dazai in the past couple of years, observing and learning just how deep the roots of his depression are – how anxiety can wreck him when he doesn’t keep himself busy, and how loud it must get in his head when he’s left alone with his thoughts.
Dazai’s only way out from the hurt he has inside has always been finding a way to hurt outside.
How can someone so intent on a death wish be so keen on feeling physical pain to escape the monsters inside him, connecting himself to life with a much deeper link than just existing? Chuuya wondered many times if Dazai ever realized that hurting himself made him more human than most: desperate and so in need to feel.
To really feel something besides the torment and emptiness that usually keeps him company.
When he turns again to his partner, hands full and mind even fuller, he finds him leaning on the sink, water still running while staring at his reflection in the mirror. Dazai’s hands are clenched around the ceramic, fingers slightly spasming with how forceful the hold seems to be.
“…Dazai,” Chuuya frowns, stepping closer. He balances the bandage rolls against his chest and carefully reaches out to stop the water. “Dazai.”
“Huh,” the other turns his head, blinking in confusion for a split second. “Yeah, I thought I heard a puppy bark—”
Well, at least he’s talking, Chuuya considers with a roll of eyes.
“Cut your crap and take off that shirt, idiot,” he grunts, setting the rolls of bandages in his arms on the sink’s counter.
Dazai hums, and his face morphs so suddenly that Chuuya almost recoils.
The void expression turns into such exhaustion that it’s gut-wrenching. His hands noticeably shake while undoing the buttons of his shirt, and his shoulders are low; he’s hunched forward as if too tired even to fight gravity.
“What the hell happened to you?”
Once again, the question comes out of Chuuya unexpectedly. He huffs, shaking his head in regret, afraid that Dazai will once again shut himself out, but he’s proven wrong – and he regrets it instantly.
Because Dazai shrugs, a grimace turning the corners of his lips down, and the answer is simple and yet so heartfelt it’s terrifying.
“I want to die.”
If most jokes Dazai made about his suicide attempts never being successful, how he hates the act of living, and all his dramatic shenanigans – which are part of him – were obviously over-dramatic acts and a call for attention before, this time it feels too real.
There’s a sadness in his voice that Chuuya can’t ignore: it’s raw, clear, and so incredibly deep that can’t be anything else but genuine. It’s a real confession; it sounds like a plea.
Chuuya goes rigid, brain working a thousand miles to find a good retort – anything that can lighten the mood, take Dazai out of that hole, even if temporarily.
“Flash news, you can’t,” Chuuya spats, grabbing one of Dazai’s hands to start unwrapping the bandages around his wrist himself, impatient and suddenly very nervous. “We’re Double Black. Double, because we’re two. You can’t fucking go and let me do all the job, you ass.”
“Hm,” Dazai offers a small, upset grin. “Chuuya is right.”
“Am I, huh?” The redhead scoffs, hating how his chest tightens. “I need to write this day down on my calend—”
“I can’t die,” Dazai interrupts him with an incredibly tired sigh. “Who’d bring Chuuya back from Corruption if I’m gone?”
Chuuya’s head whips up, staring at him with widened eyes. He’s taken aback, confused for a second, and shocked right after.
How did that come up in his mind first? Why does it suddenly feels terrifying the idea of Dazai offing himself and leaving him alone with such a monster inside? If Arahabaki ever wakes without Dazai around, it would be Chuuya’s end, so how could he not worry about himself first?
“Don’t be a bastard—”
“Chuuya doesn’t need to worry,” Dazai murmurs, shaking his head. His hand wraps around Chuuya’s wrist; the hold is gentle and almost comforting. Chuuya doesn’t know what is really going on in his partner’s head at this moment, and it frustrates him. “I’d never abandon my precious dog.”
“Fuck you.” Chuuya’s eyes narrow, but he goes back to unwrap his bandages, not even noticing how his hands froze in place. “Why should I trust you, hah?”
Dazai falls silent for a long moment, enough for Chuuya to glance up at his face again to try and read his expression. What he finds, this time is something more like determination – the dullness in his eyes is still there, but the blackness has faded, leaving space for that warmer shade of brown that Chuuya’s more used to.
It’s astonishing how transparent Dazai can be at times. And it’s even more incredible how quickly his expressions change, how real they look. How, for the first time ever, the small smile that blossoms on his lips seems to be real. It’s tiny, and Chuuya couldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t standing right in his partner’s space, but it’s there.
“Because I found a reason to live.”
You make no fucking sense.
Chuuya frowns even more but doesn’t say that out loud. Instead, he glares at him one last time before clicking his tongue and returning to undo the bandages around his arms. He tries to focus on the task at hand to steady himself.
This Dazai is weirder than ever, and he’s not sure he likes such a version of his partner.
“A reason, huh?” He asks after a moment, both curious and in need of keeping Dazai talking to him. “And what is it, this time? A new video game?”
Dazai chuckles softly, relaxing under Chuuya’s gentle hands and surrendering to him, bandages unraveling and falling on the bathroom tiles.
“I’ll show Chuuya, one day,” he murmurs. And it’s almost a whisper – almost a secret.
Chuuya doesn’t ask any other questions. Dazai doesn’t offer any other answer.
They just coexist for half an hour in the same space, closed in a small, intimate bubble that they aren’t even aware they created through time. And when Dazai’s arms, chest, and neck are tightly wrapped with bandages again, shielded from view and bringing Dazai back behind an imaginary wall of detachment from the outside, they’re still not talking.
When they settle on the couch, they don’t agree to grab the console’s controllers to play; they just do it. It’s comfortable, and it’s a habit. When they grab snacks and stolen alcohol to share, they do it with complicity and without the need for words.
And when they end up falling asleep one next to the other, their shoulders pressing together and their heads abandoned upon each other, Chuuya has no idea that upon waking up in the morning, he won’t find his partner there with him.
That he won’t be able to find him for four long years.
---
— Canon era - Dazai and Chuuya - Post Meursault —
“We will be landing at headquarters in about twenty minutes.”
The pilot’s announcement stirs Chuuya from the restless sleep he keeps falling in and out of throughout the flight back to Japan.
He’s returning to Yokohama with Dazai on a relatively small Port Mafia private jet, only them and two other subordinates in the cabin, who are standing next to each of the aircraft side’s doors, giving the Executive and the fugitive their backs.
Keeping his eyes barely open, Chuuya inhales deeply, trying to wake himself up. He’s tired, and everything aches – those stupid fake fangs glued into his mouth keep getting caught into his lips, splitting them and filling his mouth with the taste of blood. He simply can’t wait to take those things off his teeth and drown himself in a warm bath, even if that means delaying the mission report: Mori can wait this time around; it was a damn suicide mission of international relevance. He must have the main details already.
Main details, which remind him…
Due to the injuries suffered through his break-out, Dazai has been heavily drugged with painkillers and sedatives before the departure after injecting Nikolai’s antidotes in his veins; it has been an attempt to ease the pain and the fatigue of carrying his broken bones during the commotion – to lessen the terrific headache that having your skull being pierced by a bullet inevitably implies – and that has knocked him out for good.
They have been flying through half the globe for around ten hours.
When they boarded, Chuuya helped Dazai lay down and offered to stay close for the take-off to ensure he was safely strapped to the couch and not risk falling from it. But once the aircraft stabilized and Chuuya removed the belts he had to wrap uncomfortably around his ex-partner, exhaustion took over, and he fell asleep in no time.
After that, Chuuya had no business moving anymore. He woke up and fell asleep several times through the hours, but never rational or with enough energy to connect his brain and decide to move away or lay down himself. His batteries had completely emptied.
Yet, between naps and occasional snacks, the couch he and Dazai are still sharing seems to be getting smaller and smaller.
Looking down at his lap, his chest squeezes a little at the view.
Dazai is fast asleep, lying on the couch beside him. The man’s head is resting against his thigh, head tilted up, and nose pressed into Chuuya’s hip. However, he’s sure that earlier, through the flight, Dazai had been lying down at a considerable distance from him: he must have sensed the redhead’s warmth and crawled even closer, considering how he’s tightly wrapped in the blanket covering his body.
Chuuya’s hands itch.
This moment brings back memories – a reminiscence from their shared past, a time that seems both so far and so close behind.
But when Chuuya allows his fingers to tangle with his ex-partner’s matted mop of hair, a pleasant shiver runs down his back. His muscles relax, and he allows himself to enjoy the contact, even if they’re dirty from head to toe, and there’s dried blood on their clothes and skin. But Chuuya doesn’t get formal about it and, instead, he gently adjusts Dazai’s head with a more comfortable angle, properly pillowing him with his thigh.
Back between the walls of Meursault, when he slapped Dazai to revive him after the shot and dropped the act, the other felt cold under his hands. Chuuya didn’t pay much attention to that, then, too busy working as fast as possible to arrange a splint around Dazai’s broken leg and stop the blood from coming out of his wounds, so that they could get out of there fast.
Now, though, when Chuuya’s fingers skim over his forehead, Dazai is burning up. Of course, he’s come down with a fever.
After spending weeks in jail, being poisoned, almost drowning, falling through a dozen floors in an elevator, and being shot, Chuuya is surprised Dazai even came out of Meursault functioning at all.
“Such a menace you are…”
The comment slips past his lips with fondness. He observes Dazai without hurry, slowly waking up for good himself and starting to dread what will come for them once they land.
Dazai is extremely vulnerable at this moment, in every possible way; it hurts, somehow, because Chuuya has never been used to seeing his ex-partner this broken.
Yet, he sought Chuuya in his sleep, dragging his battered body – even if through a ridiculously small distance – to be close to him. He did that while unconscious, making the redhead feel connected to him again after a very long time. Chuuya feels needed, acknowledged, and he’s still bewildered by the raw, insane, and totally irrational trust Dazai put on him during the entire plan.
Their chances were low from the beginning.
There were too many factors that could have played wrong – too many people involved and so much pain to be endured by someone who was never able to deal with being hurt. The only string linking all the steps of the plan together was a product of Dazai’s mind and his trust in Chuuya.
When Mori outlined the mission to him, weeks before, the executive almost refused: it felt like serving his and Dazai’s death to their enemies on a silver plate, even if the world was about to end.
Chuuya is guilty of not believing in Dazai as deeply as his ex-partner believed in him, and that’s a heavy truth that weighs on him.
And, yes, he unleashed corruption again twice after Dazai showed up in his life after four years, and he did that without complaints. Yes, he trusted Dazai to bring him back from it, even while everyone thought he was dead and lost inside a fucking dragon; but back then, Chuuya knew that the asshole had orchestrated the whole sequence of events, so there was no way he could have been dead for real. (He was right; a fool, but right.)
This?
This was so different. Even Dazai didn’t see it coming when he was arrested. How could Chuuya believe that Dazai had the power and means to pull out an escape plan from the most secure facility for ability users in the whole world, and even work out a solution for the incoming global conflict? As an inmate, on top of it.
But here they are.
The plan worked; they’re out and returning to their city. He’s alive, and Dazai is alive. The world is saved – yet again.
Chuuya didn’t trust Dazai enough, and probably he didn’t trust himself enough either: playing with bullets into his ex-partner’s skull had been a hobby when they were teenagers. But pulling that stunt again after so long…? Chuuya hesitated. He knows Dazai noticed too, and those words he was throwing out at him—
“You and I are destined to—”
Chuuya couldn’t hear the end of that sentence. He didn’t want to, not until he could be sure they’d both make it out of there alive.
Dazai’s trust in him, instead, never wavered. He’s been sure of the outcome from the beginning, and Chuuya doesn’t know how he feels about it. His ex-partner’s antics and suicidal manners anger him immensely, like only Dazai is able to. They make his guts twist and want to punch the mackerel in the face, but It also makes him all fuzzy and warm, and… God, he missed Dazai. So. Fucking. Much.
“…The things you make me do,” Chuuya murmurs, biting his lower lip.
He lifts his head, forcing his eyes to break away from Dazai’s sleeping face, and stares at the back of one of his subordinates.
“Hey, you.” Chuuya inhales, deciding to ignore the mess he’s about to jump into. “Tell the pilot we’re not landing at the headquarters.”
The guy blinks in surprise, then frowns.
“But, Nakahara-san, the boss’ orders—”
“You’re gonna follow my order now.” Chuuya’s eyes narrow; he grabs his phone from the abandoned bag beside him, quickly tapping on the screen. “And you’re going to tell the pilot there’s a change of plan; the address is on your phone—” The subordinate’s phone rings right then. “—And to call that number for instructions on the landing.”
His eyes are hard and determined, and when the guy tries to argue again, Mori’s shadow hovering over him, Chuuya lifts his bare hand, the one not busy combing through Dazai’s hair.
“Your only answer is about to be ‘yes, Sir’,” he says with a low, menacing growl. “Or I swear to you, I will reroute this jet myself and end you before you take your next breath. Am I clear?”
The guy gulps, hand clenching around his phone. Then he nods, lowering his head in respect.
“Yes, Sir.”
Chuuya can already foresee the excruciating headache he’ll have to suffer when Mori gets his hands on him again.
And yet, when his eyes lower again to look at the sleeping man on his lap, he can’t bring himself to care at all.
---
— Two years later - Dazai and Chuuya —
Dazai has always been a light sleeper.
When the sun rises, no matter the unholy hour when he fell asleep, his body wakes, and his eyes peek at the new day lazily – a huff usually escaping his mouth upon realizing he’s awake once again.
It’s always been a gloomy experience to find himself alive and forced to go through another day, while growing up; perhaps he wished for too long to find a forever peaceful sleep.
Today, though, Dazai isn’t disappointed. He’s not been disappointed for quite some time, at this point.
How could anyone be upset upon waking up with the sight of a sleeping Chuuya sprawled at their side, the warm, cozy blankets tangled in his limbs, and a halo of fire spread on the dark satin of their pillows?
Sometimes, when Dazai is really, really, lucky, he wakes up with Chuuya wrapped around him, with red hair in his mouth and a puddle of drool darkening his sleeping shirt.
So, all in all, Dazai doesn’t dread living another day anymore since he and Chuuya reunited and finally gave in to their toxic but inevitable and necessary need to never stray from one another anymore.
They had a long, frustrating adjustment time before finding peace.
Trust, the most intimate one, has been hard to rebuild, and Dazai didn’t blame his partner for not believing his promises. It took time and a lot of arguing – a lot of punches Dazai could have avoided but let Chuuya win instead. He made himself a martyr and a saint because Chuuya’s faith had to be rebuilt from scratch.
Eventually, they made it there.
Dazai is absolutely certain, though, that if he betrays Chuuya’s trust ever again, his life partner will kill him for good, and he will happily succumb to the hands of the love of his life. After all, he gave all of himself to Chuuya, and to betray him would mean he’d be betraying himself.
If at first it felt terrifying, it has become liberating.
When they were teenagers, Dazai often reached out to Chuuya from afar. He did it subtly, from a darkness too deep for the other to notice every time, and yet Chuuya had stayed by his side without knowing that Dazai’s only wish was just that.
Dazai allowed Chuuya to pry under his bandages, and it felt like being able to breathe again after a long time when it didn’t hurt.
It became addicting and scary, and Dazai couldn’t get enough of having the gentle touch of Chuuya skim over his skin whenever bandages were unrolled or re-wrapped.
That insatiable feeling made Dazai yearn for something he couldn’t identify, back then, but it was warm – it was a seed of hope. It resisted strong and alive through all the years apart because, as Dazai realized at some point, it was a very piece of Chuuya that he kept inside of him.
Maybe it was because Chuuya had the power to always make him feel alive. It was a daily challenge, a surge of energy so strong and bright Dazai could not look away from it. Or, maybe, it was because Chuuya took him in his care like a pastor would welcome his lambs and did it without asking for anything in return, unlike anyone else around him always did. Selfless, golden-heart Chuuya, who opened the place he called home for him, even if he never even had a home before. Neither of them did.
Places never had a great deal of importance to Dazai. The slums and the shipping container, at first; hospitals, clinics, the Port Mafia headquarters… even his small, sad room back at the ADA’s dorm meant little to him. It’s the people, instead, who give importance to the surroundings and grab all his interest.
When Chuuya offered to let Dazai come to live at his place, a year before, everything became so much clearer. It was a loud request and, at the same time, a prayer. Yet once again, Chuuya was opening his heart to him, and this time Dazai had the right instruments to make it worth it, and had no intention of fucking up.
At eighteen, right before the great betrayal and his defection from the Port Mafia, Dazai promised he’d show Chuuya his newfound reason to live, one day. Dazai never believed to be able to become a better person – perhaps he isn’t, he’ll never be – but he put all his best efforts into making it happen. He did his very best to help others and do something meaningful.
He might never become a good person, but Dazai has no intention of getting off the path he’s been following.
He might never become a better person, but all his efforts will be spent to thrive and earn the trust and affection of the people he has learned to care about.
He won’t give up on any of those people.
He won’t give up on Chuuya – his partner, his lover. His real home.
So, no. Dazai doesn’t loathe waking up day after day anymore now that he feels complete.
“…You’re staring,” Chuuya grunts. His nose is pressed deeper into the pillow before he stretches his neck, eyes still closed and back cracking when he finally moves to lay properly on his side.
Dazai smiles at the sight, sliding an inch closer to move the wild strand of hairs from his face.
“That’s one of my favorite hobbies.” He preens when the redhead nuzzles into his hand. “Chuuya should know it by now.”
“Creepy.”
“Chuuya is so annoying. Don’t I get a good morning kiss?”
“I’ll punch you. Let me sleep—”
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP
“Oh, fucking hell,” Chuuya barks, turning quickly to the other side to grab his phone and shut the alarm. He groans like a wounded animal, hiding once again in the pillow and pulling the blanket over his head.
Dazai laughs, used by now at his boyfriend’s foul mouth and morning grogginess. He worms his way closer, wrapping an arm around Chuuya through the blanket and dragging him closer to press a kiss to his head.
“We could just not go to work, you know~”
With a muffled groan, Chuuya only wiggles closer and gently headbutts him under his chin.
“You’re an irresponsible prick,” the redhead murmurs, stroking his nose against Dazai’s neck. His words don’t bite, but his lips trace a small path of incredibly gentle kisses against the delicate skin covering his boyfriend’s jugular. He smirks when Dazai’s heart quickens its pace, blood rushing faster under his lips.
Dazai hums, one hand sneaking under the blankets to drag against Chuuya’s lower back with an obvious innuendo when it pokes into his boxer’s waistband.
“I just want to try making babies with Chuuya!”
“That’s low even for you,” Chuuya chuckles, pushing Dazai’s hand away from his ass and putting some distance between them.
Dazai resists but doesn’t put up much of a fight to keep him close.
“How about we practice some CPR—mph!”
Chuuya slaps a hand over his mouth, badly holding down a laugh in an attempt to glare at him. When Dazai gives him puppy eyes, he fails miserably.
“You’re insufferable,” he murmurs, sliding the hand away from his mouth to cup his cheek, closing the distance between their mouths.
Dazai whimpers in delight, welcoming his boyfriend’s morning kiss eagerly. It’s deep, slow, and intense, like everything Chuuya does, and it only makes it harder and harder to get out of bed a minute later, when his alarm blasts in their ears again.
“Chuuya and I should run away,” Dazai grumbles half an hour later. He’s sitting on the living room’s carpet, half-dressed and staring at Chuuya, closing the cuffs of his shirt while they’re getting ready to leave the house. “Quit work and buy a farm, a little intimate nest of love—”
“Can you fucking be done mummifying yourself so we can leave? I’m not giving you a ride if we’re late, idiot.”
Dazai pouts, playing with the roll of bandages in his hands instead of finishing the work around his forearms.
“Chuuya is so mean! Why can’t he just help me with it?!”
With a scoff, Chuuya rolls his eyes and finishes slipping his vest on before approaching him and kneeling on the carpet.
“It’s the same story every morning. Don’t you ever get tired?” He complains, but there’s tenderness in his voice.
It’s a rhetorical question, but he never gets tired of the small, genuine smile that blooms on Dazai’s face when he takes care of wrapping the bandages for him.
“Nu-uh,” Dazai grins, observing every single movement of Chuuya’s hands around his arms and relaxing under his touch. “Chuuya is much better than me at doing this. Why should I stop?”
With a snort, Chuuya drops the first wrapped arm and leans forward to swiftly peck Dazai’s lips before grabbing his other forearm.
“You’re such a child, Osamu.”
Dazai’s grin widens as he leans back against the coffee table, satisfied with the outcome of his charade.
This has indeed become their morning routine, but it is also a ritual they keep carrying through the days. It’s a promise and a pledge. Dazai asking Chuuya to take care of his bandages is a vow they renew to each other every day, and neither would want it any other way.