Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts in a place where the sky and the ocean unite in a glass reflection of one another.

Chuuya doesn’t question why the water he is standing on is as solid as a mirror, nor why the sky is so perfectly blue down to the horizon, clear and void of any imperfections, not even in the clumps of soft clouds that dot the sky. The air is warm, and there is a refreshing breeze that twists its way through his hair gently and feels like a soft caress against his skin. There is not a building or land in sight, and yet Chuuya feels nothing but a tranquil calmness at the vast emptiness that he sees. 

He takes a step, and ripples echo across the water's surface. When he looks down, he sees a reflection, though there is little clarity in his details despite the clearness of the sky and sea. But, Chuuya doesn’t question it. Instead, a small smile graces his lips at the patterns that dance across the water with every step he takes.

There is no destination in mind, nor is there anything in sight to walk towards. And yet, Chuuya does, idly glancing up at the clouds as he continues aimlessly. Despite the vastness of it, he doesn’t feel lonely or lost at all. 

Chuuya pauses after an indefinite amount of time and just watches. Even though there is nothing to be seen, the clouds are still present, drifting at a relaxingly languid speed and taking on a myriad of shapes. 

Mesmerised, Chuuya sits down, legs crossed and hands braced by his side leisurely. The watery surface is almost cold to touch, though it also doesn’t feel wet at all. Still, Chuuya pays no mind to the odd sensation. Instead, he tips his head to the sky and watches the clouds. 

A small part of Chuuya’s mind wonders if he ever had taken the pleasure of doing something like this before. It is, somehow, horribly familiar to him, though for what reason he cannot discern; very rarely has he ever had the time or energy to partake in such a mundane activity, nor has he ever had the motivation to, not when he had the Sheep to worry about. 

Or the Port Mafia.

The sudden thought makes him frown. 

But, just as quickly as his thoughts darken, something jolts from his side. 

There is a loud noise to his left. Chuuya barely gets a second to react when something large flaps and moves from behind him. He shields his eyes with his arm on instinct, a gust of wind whipping through his hair and threatening to bring tears to his eyes at its abruptness, but then he sees it. 

A bird flies over his shoulder, and off into the distance right in front of him. 

Chuuya watches it with wide eyes. It’s oddly transfixing; the bird itself is quite large, with even longer wings, beating powerfully as it gains height before soaring with a still grace. It isn’t quite a remarkable bird, at least visually — it is predominantly white, with darker patterns on its wings — however, Chuuya is just as captivated all the same. The small smile from before returns as he watches the large seabird slowly become a spot as it glides to the horizon. 

He should be wondering where it is flying to. Part of him wants to follow. 

Chuuya sits up, hands repositioning themselves against the odd surface of the water, but just as he moves to push himself up it is almost as if the water has turned to quicksand. 

He sinks into what feels like a muddy sludge with a soundless yelp, body tipping back suddenly and falling straight through the surface. 

Chuuya wakes suddenly.

The first things he notices are that the air is cool, and his vision is low. The opposite of where he was, though what he remembers is becoming fleeting, drifting away from him in his mind like smoke. Blearily, Chuuya rubs one of his eyes with the heel of his palm as he attempts to regain his thoughts from his post-sleep haze. 

Then, he realises what he just saw.

Immediately, Chuuya throws the covers off with such force that they thud against the wall beside him. He doesn’t take notice whether or not he actually shifted the gravity there, because he is too frantically scrambling his fatigued limbs out of his bed and through his door to find his phone. His elbow and upper arm slam into the doorframe from his hastiness, but he barely feels it, not when he has such a large grin on his face, elation filling him from his toes to his head. If he had more awareness, Chuuya might feel embarrassed at his haphazard and clumsy movements, but right now, all he can think of is one thing.

A dream. That has to be what that was.

He finds his discarded phone lying against the island benchtop in his kitchen, cold and silent and likely dropped carelessly in a moment of fatigue after getting home in the early hours of the morning. Chuuya almost misses it and knocks it off because of how dark the room still is, however, that changes abruptly when he unlocks his phone and is almost blinded by the vivid, bright light of his phone screen. 

Through bleary, squinted eyes, Chuuya goes to dial Piano Man’s number, the first he remembers (as he also remembers the man had an oddly satisfying number they often joke about; melodic, just like his namesake). He holds the phone to his ear immediately, pivoting around on the cold, smooth tile flooring, almost slipping as he goes to pace around the living area with a slight skip. He half-knows he still isn’t fully awake, otherwise he wouldn’t be acting so giddy, prancing like a child gifted a puppy; Chuuya also knows it's going to show in his voice, but he can deal with that humiliation when it comes. 

There might be a ring or two, he doesn’t pay attention — but, then there is a voice, and time almost stops alongside everything else in the room.

“The number you have called has been disconnected or is unavailable, please—” 

Chuuya lets the phone drop.

The sound it makes when it clatters against the flooring is loud, though to Chuuya it almost sounds as if it is filtered through a thick fog. The screen might have smashed, but he doesn’t know or care. His arm drops, boneless and heavy, and he turns his head to the side mindlessly, staring at the lights of the city that peak through the half-opened curtains of the full-length windows. 

The haze of lingering sleepiness disperses immediately, as quickly as water down a drain. Real realisation sinks in, then, as Chuuya watches small white and red lights thread themselves through the visible streets like ants. 

The moment of clarity is soon replaced by yet another haze, accompanied by a dropping sensation in his heart that almost drags his limbs to the floor with it.

It's like ice has frozen over every surface. The room is chilled even more so now, and for some reason, it's almost as if Chuuya's vision seems less saturated, even with the dimness of the room. The lights outside barely register in his brain, and the previously blue-purple gloom of the apartment now looks colourless and dull. The coldness in the air becomes very numbing.

Right. They’re gone.

Right. Right.

There is a strangled sob that escapes him, but Chuuya barely hears it so much as he feels it, because now nothing around feels quite present, unlike the very vivid, gut-wrenching aches and twists he feels in his stomach. It’s almost like being underwater; the sounds of the outside are muffled to oblivion, and the room suddenly feels so vast and yet claustrophobic at the same time. He feels both trapped and lost in a fog. The world feels tipped, though Chuuya can’t be sure if it is him, or if his vision is playing tricks on him. He’s distantly aware that it might be starting to tunnel, and a part of him is deeply alarmed at the unfamiliar sensation of vertigo, though he doesn’t feel any power to do anything about it.

Right — they’re gone. They have been for a few weeks now. 

Another pained noise threatens to make its way past his lips, but he shuts his mouth tightly and swallows the urge back down. He’s staring blankly at the traffic outside again, but nothing that makes it past his eyes helps in any way that matters aside from being blinding spots in his vision. Still, his eyes dart across every small light, almost frantic if it weren’t for the apparent slackness of his body. He searches, but isn’t finding anything. There isn’t anything to find, of course; the motion is more of an aid in ordering his thoughts, memories, whatever it is that he feels consciously right now. 

Chuuya does let out a pained keen then, to a silent room. 

It helps, at least, in alleviating some of the tension that was building in his body. It seeps away, and instead, it's replaced with a sort of boneless sluggishness that has Chuuya clumsily shuffling his way to the couch, collapsing limply and lying there, staring at the ceiling with no further sound. His aching muscles persist in a way that they have for weeks now, but Chuuya pays no mind to them, not when his brain feels as bruised as his body right now.

Chuuya hasn’t quite had a reaction like that for some time, if ever. He’s hesitant to call it that, even. Guilt is starting to claw its way up his chest, though, because never has Chuuya forgotten anyone dear to him. He even tries to not let short-lived acquaintances go unremembered. He owes at least that much. So, the realisation that, even in a post-sleep daze, Chuuya forgot such events — well, it is a deeply horrible feeling. Logically, he knows that it is understandable, especially considering why he did it in the first place, but… 

Ah. Chuuya’s eyes are starting to sting. 

Barely a moment passes, and then his shoulders start to shake ever so slightly. Chuuya presses his forearm against his face, tightly across his now-closed eyes, however, it does little to stifle the tears that are starting to form and escape through his eyelids, falling so delicately down the side of his face that, had this night been anything different, Chuuya would think it embarrassing. 

It could have been hours or minutes until Chuuya has another thought, one he has had multiple times for the past few weeks, that brings forth a new wave of nausea and sorrow. 

The apartment is quiet. 

Chuuya was distantly aware of this already, but it wasn’t until now that the knowledge of how quiet it is stings something hot like an iron in Chuuya’s heart. 

Months ago, he would have appreciated a quiet apartment. It would mean getting uninterrupted sleep, and finally some peace after who knows how long Albatross goes without rest. But, as Chuuya stares at the ceiling, he realises that now he would probably do anything to hear some of that horrible loudness that used to echo down from the apartment above him. Albatross rarely showed restraint or consideration in that regard, and Chuuya berated him for it as often as they met. But now there is an ache in his chest at the mere memory of what night used to be like in this building. Even the times when Albatross would show up unannounced at his apartment — voice a bit too loud and hands a bit too insistent in pushing Chuuya out of the door — have started to become something of a missed experience. 

At the time, Chuuya was still hesitant about his relationship with the Flags. A part of him — stupidly, he berates himself — was still recovering from what happened with the Sheep, and so he threw himself into his work instead, slaving tirelessly at achieving results that could get him that much closer to the envelope in Mori’s desk. Of course, there was a part of him that felt a quiet exhilaration at the care the Flags showed him, and even his doubtfulness of mafiosos being so welcoming to him so soon wasn’t enough to quell the craving for their affection.

But then, their gift to him on his anniversary annihilated any anxiety about his place with them. They were friends, he and them. Piano Man, Doc, Albatross, Lippmann, Iceman — they weren’t just comrades, they were his friends. 

Maybe even his first.

He really wishes he told them.

Chuuya feels the tears slip by again, well before he takes notice of the hitch in his breath. 

At the very least, no one is here to see this, Chuuya thinks to himself, before he (very cautiously, even though there is no need to) lets his composure slip that final amount. He hasn’t been able to mourn properly, even at their funerals, and so he lets himself be a bit lenient, if only for tonight. No one is here to see or hear it, after all. 

Chuuya spends the rest of the night that way, slumped across the couch with his mind dancing between feeling awfully numb and overwhelmed with memories and conversations that he now knows will never be experienced again. The energy expended through both his emotional and physical responses does end up fatiguing him eventually, and Chuuya drifts to sleep, mind still working even as his eyes begin to droop.

Chuuya prays he doesn’t have another dream.

He does dream after that — multiple times. 

None have been as pleasant as the first. Not by a long shot. Because now, he wakes in what could only be despair.

At this point, Chuuya isn’t even a hundred percent sure that they are actually dreams. Because now, they don’t stick around at all. Chuuya cannot remember.  

When he woke for the first time, the memory of the dream lingered in the form of the smell of the warm air, the coolness of the water, and the comforting atmosphere. But, in hindsight, it only lasted as long as when he found his phone. He knows dreams rarely stick around long, but now…

Now, Chuuya wakes to terror. His fingers ache with tension from how they claw at the sheets during his sleep, damp from the sweat that sticks to his skin in a thin film. His chest hurts; short, shallow breaths are now the sound he wakes to in his empty, silent room. 

If he tries to recall the memories of the dreams, even when he is on the verge of waking, they do not come. In fact, any attempt can be likened to catching smoke with his hands; Chuuya has never done well with non-solid objects, and so this feeling of helplessness as he mentally feels his dreams drift like a lost gull at sea, well — it certainly takes its toll, given time. It’s frustrating, it’s terrifying, it’s like a shadow is residing in the corner of his room, tendrils wrapping and stealing away any semblance of coherency he has when he wakes until he is left with nothing but shuddering breaths and shaking hands.

The effects lasted for a few days following that first night, before it started to stretch into weeks. Chuuya does his best to suppress any indication that he is, for the lack of a better word, feeling off after his first dream (and every time he remembers it was his first, another part of himself feels a sharpness of unwelcome knowledge and, for some reason, guilt) though it's unlikely his behaviour has gone unnoticed by everyone. 

Everyone, in this case, ends up specifically referring to Dazai himself. The boy is so annoyingly perceptive that Chuuya thinks that if he were to spontaneously leave the city and hike in the middle of the mountains, Dazai would sniff him out in a matter of minutes like a bloodhound.

The two of them met up together today on a trip to the arcade. After their first meeting, it became a sort of recurrence for them, at least for a few months; the games worked well in allowing them to let off any lingering adrenaline, either towards each other or in general. More simply, it was entertaining for the two of them, and they were free to yell and shout and threaten without worry. To any outside eyes or ears, they were just teens playing video games, after all.

It isn’t often they visit the arcade much anymore though, at least in the past few months — the amount of missions with the two of them has decreased recently — but there is still the odd occasion where Dazai would insist on dragging them there after an operation, or Chuuya would demand rematches in whatever competition they have going on for themselves (with the arcade being the least publicly destructive option). This time is no different, however it is the first time coming here after Chuuya’s dream, after the death of the Flags even, and for some reason the lights and sounds that beam directly into Chuuya’s eyes and ears feel so intrusive and obnoxious that Chuuya has to withdraw slightly the entire evening. 

Perhaps contemplative is such an unusual look on him that Dazai couldn’t help but point it out eventually.

“So,” Dazai begins, as the game screen flashes a Game Over on both of their screens. They are playing a sort of collaborative zombie game, though their scores aren’t reaching anywhere near as high as usual. Chuuya knows it's probably because of him. 

“What’s gotten Chuuya all weird these past few days? Are you finally starting to mellow out and grow up, slug?” 

Normally, Chuuya might snap something quick in reply, but instead he simply runs a hand down his face with a soft groan as he frowns and looks at Dazai with an annoyed expression. “What’s it matter to you?”

“Ouch, someone is feeling testy today,” Dazai mutters, “I suppose puberty might finally be starting to get to you. Bit late, but I wonder if you’ll grow any taller…?”

Chuuya kicks a foot out, and his shoe collides harshly with Dazai’s shin. He lets out a pained whine and says, “Ouch, okay, jeez!”

“I’m not in the mood for your antics, asshole,” Chuuya says, exasperated. It’s not quite true, because they bickered plenty earlier today. However, as the evening draws closer and closer to an end, Chuuya feels dread trickle into a pile in his stomach, with as much haste as a gradual sunset, and yet so very present despite the ominously slow buildup.  

He doesn’t want to go back to his apartment. 

Chuuya is quite aware that such a reaction might border on childish, but each night he returns, Chuuya finds he can no longer sleep. Now that he has fully acknowledged its absence, the lack of loudness from Albatross’s apartment is having the same effect it used to when he did make a lot of noise.

He also now fears what he might see when he sleeps.

“Chuuya,” Dazai calls lazily. He clicks his fingers once, which snaps Chuuya out of the gloomy daze that he has slipped into. 

“What?” Chuuya snaps abruptly. Dazai recoils slightly, though it is obvious that he does so with a bit of exaggeration, because his face doesn’t shift from its unreadable expression.

Then, he speaks so directly that Chuuya is taken aback.

“Is it about Arahabaki?”

Chuuya doesn't respond.

“Really? It’s only been a few weeks. Does Corruption have an effect on Chuuya’s brain, I wonder? Or,” Dazai licks his lips slightly, and Chuuya’s eyes catch on the motion. The corner of Dazai’s mouth upturns slightly, though it lacks any mockery. “Is it about those comrades of yours?”

Chuuya stiffens instantly, unintentionally fixing Dazai with a most venomous glare, and he can see immediately that Dazai has picked up on something that he didn’t mean to reveal, because his next words are again so very straightforward and absent of his usual form of playful ridicule that Chuuya is momentarily speechless yet again.

Dazai scrutinises him for a moment or two before speaking.

“Ah, I see. Chuuya,” Dazai sighs, and Chuuya finds himself unsure if this is a legitimate seriousness or a mocking one. “Grief is a painfully normal thing, you know.” 

“What?” Chuuya replies instantly, and rather lamely. 

“You want to see them again,” Dazai says. It’s like he’s laying out one of their combat plans, all casual-like. “That’s expected. Normal, human grief.” 

Chuuya stares at him.

“You think—” he cuts himself off because he doesn’t know what to say to that. The blaring Game Over screen is flashing in his peripherals, but all he can focus on are the dark eyes of Dazai right in front of him. Chuuya isn’t unused to Dazai talking seriously, not at all, however hearing it in such an environment like the arcade — where they are supposed to be winding down, prone to yelling and shouting and bickering — is quite jarring.

And yet, Dazai is looking at him with such certainty and calmness that it's almost alien to see, to hear him lay it out so simply, because it's Dazai, talking about feelings and… stuff. 

Chuuya knows he is still grieving. He also knows that it is perfectly normal, and yet he still hasn’t been able to shake the instinctual urge to suppress it. Aside from that first night, Chuuya has been very careful to not let anything stray from what it has been. He works just as he has before — lingering, post-Corruption pain aside, though it has started to really become a problem for him — and he has done his best not to let the deaths of his friends affect his capability.

Dazai turns away from him and looks at the game they are neglecting. He speaks in a quieter voice as he puts back the plastic guns on their holsters, though his tone comes off as more bored than considerate. “So, something is getting to you because of it. I don’t want one of our missions to fall flat, just because my dog can’t follow directions, you know? You’ve gotten a bit sluggish recently too, heh.”

It’s an odd way of asking what is wrong, but Chuuya will take it over a direct interrogation. 

“I’m not your fuckin’ dog,” he bites back, eyes drifting to the window. The sun is starting to set, and while typically the two of them wouldn’t be heading home at this time, Chuuya finds he doesn’t want to stay anymore.

Dazai goes to open his mouth to say something again, but Chuuya stops him with an annoyed sigh. Even if Dazai hasn’t figured it all out this very second, he will eventually, and while Chuuya hates the idea of giving up such a thing to Dazai with little fight, he finds his lack of sleep and fatigue has been dragging him down quite thoroughly, delaying his mind and stamina and generally making him a lot more moody and crabbish. Dazai has a point, anyhow; if it were to continue, Chuuya might become more of a liability.

So, he decides to concede, if only a bit.

“I can’t sleep,” Chuuya confesses. 

Dazai raises an eyebrow. They stand in silence for a beat or two, the screaming lights and sounds and buzzers around them in the arcade filling the silence with ill-appropriate fanfare for the current topic of their discussion. 

“And?” Dazai prompts blankly. Fortunately for him, there isn’t much smugness coming from him right now, because had he shown any arrogance at what is essentially getting what he wants without a fight, Chuuya would tear off a limb, probably. 

“And,” Chuuya stresses, annoyed, “that makes me tired, you idiot.”

Chuuya wants to laugh at the irritated exhale and peeved look on Dazai’s face (though, he does manage an amused snort). He walks ahead of Dazai out of the arcade without looking behind to see if he is following. The loud atmosphere dims immediately as he walks out of the doors, and once he is far enough that the sounds become only echoes, he turns to see Dazai right behind him. 

They aren’t anywhere special — just a small side street, empty and dark aside from the illuminated coffee vending machine and a few apartments’ potted plants scattered all across the pavement, with some dangerously close to the road, however it eases the turbulent storm that was swirling in Chuuya’s gut. He can think a bit more clearly, here, in the fresher air and pleasant smell of damp leaves and asphalt.

(They must have been watered recently. Perhaps Chuuya should invest in a houseplant.)

Maybe he could ask Dazai for help. The other boy seems to know a bit about drugs and medications; Chuuya loathes to even consider such a thing, however the temptation is getting stronger the more time passes. 

So, Chuuya decides to ask, even though a part of him knows he should drop the subject entirely, lest Dazai find out the specifics — that something so boring is dragging him down so thoroughly. “Hey, bandage bastard,” he says as casually as possible, “if my sleep is such a problem for you — do you know anything that could fix that?”

Had it been any regular discussion, Chuuya would take pride in triggering a brief spark of confusion in Dazai’s dark eyes. It’s hard to catch, but Chuuya manages. He suppresses a smirk as Dazai replies, somewhat teasingly, though there is a hint of surprise that Chuuya almost misses. “What? Is Chuuya asking for drugs now? I get the mafia life must change you, but I didn’t think—” 

“Just answer me, damn it,” Chuuya snaps, and there is a part inside him that is panicking at the sudden flare in temper, at the unrestrained desperation that is coming forth, disguised under anger. He can’t stop it, and can only pray Dazai doesn’t find that distress in his voice. “Is there anything I can take that can just knock me out at night?” 

“Well,” Dazai starts, but pauses. He doesn’t give any indication of surprise, nor any satisfied expression at seeing Chuuya tick. Just a look on his face as he scans Chuuya's eyes for something. It takes all but a second because Dazai is soon saying, “I can think of a few things, though they are mostly short-term.”

Chuuya’s shoulders sag slightly with relieved tension he didn’t know he was carrying. He swallows down the temper from seconds ago and manages to say more normally, “Okay, good. Can you get me some?” 

Dazai is looking into his eyes with what Chuuya assumes is curiosity, though what goes on in Dazai’s mind is always a mystery. Really, Chuuya wouldn’t be surprised if Dazai is learning more than he lets on, and only acting the part of an idly concerned partner.

Finally, Dazai shrugs, and says easily, “Sure can.”

“Perfect,” Chuuya says with slightly gritted teeth. “When?”

Dazai grins, and immediately Chuuya wants to hit it off him. But he doesn’t, because Dazai answers, “I’ll drop it off tonight, hm?” 

It’s a lot sooner than Chuuya was expecting, though it works out. The quicker he can sleep normally again, the quicker things can go back to the way they were. Well, the way they were a few weeks ago, at least. Maybe. There’s a pang in his chest as Chuuya recalls what normal was in his life months ago because it involved the occasional trip to the Old World. 

He has tried to go back since, but the attempts have been… debatable in their success. 

There is a sting in his eyes again, but Chuuya forces himself to keep his expression blank because Dazai is watching him very carefully. 

“Sounds good to me,” Chuuya replies. He turns, both to head home and to hide his face from Dazai. He calls over his shoulder, “I assume y’know my address already, mackerel?” 

“Naturally,” Dazai answers immediately. 

Chuuya groans. “Of fuckin’ course… Alright. Don’t take long.” 

He leaves Dazai then and heads straight for his apartment. 

He takes the stairs, not because it's necessary, but because Chuuya intends to put as little time between his arrival and Dazai’s. He knows it is practically cowardice now, that he doesn’t want to spend time in the apartment at all, all because of his dreams. Still, he delays his return. 

The stairs provide good exercise, anyway. Not that he needs it at all. Quite the opposite — the repetitive movements have been causing a strain on his injuries that have yet to heal, and his recovering muscles ache terribly by the time he reaches his door.

The apartment is just as cold and empty as when Chuuya left it. It has been just over a week since he has been actively avoiding coming home at all, only dropping by for food and cleaning, instead opting to finally take Albatross’s motorcycle for more frequent rides to clear his head.

(His motorcycle, his mind supplies, but Chuuya doesn’t think he will ever think of it as entirely his.)

The kitchen flooring is ice-cold, as are the benches and most surfaces across the entire apartment. Chuuya hasn’t made use of the heating at all, partially because he himself is more resilient (more than Dazai, anyway) and also because he doesn’t want to stay long enough to take advantage of it.

A different part of him seeks out the relief of the cold as if to freeze away the parts that are already numb to begin with. 

Chuuya almost scoffs at his own melodramaticism. It motivates him to step more purposefully inside, eyes glancing over the empty surfaces save for a book or two. The nearest one is a language book on French, whereas the other (and though it's not visible here, Chuuya is fairly positive he left it on the small table by the couch) details more about the Great War. The unofficial edition wasn’t quite an easy acquisition (largely due to the lesser publicly-known facts inside), but Chuuya’s managed to garner enough of a reputation around the Mafia to pull some strings. If it weren’t obvious by the state of the house, the books would definitely give away to Dazai what has been on Chuuya’s mind as of late, if he didn’t know already.

He sighs, picking up the French book, before seeking out the other and setting them down on the side table.

The sunset is at its end, and the orange colours of the sky are starting to fade into a deep pink-purple, blending hazily through the thin layer of fog that coats the city and wraps around the skyscrapers. Lights are starting to come on now, dotting the buildings both close to the building and on the horizon. Chuuya doesn’t make an effort to turn any lights on here, though. Instead, he approaches the window.

It’s mechanical, the way he steps quietly across the apartment, the ambient light still dim and the only thing to be heard is the sounds of the city outside. He opens the sliding door to the balcony, and Chuuya takes a moment to just observe without stepping outside. It’s almost mesmerising to watch the small lights of lingering traffic filter around like small fireflies, but even this isn’t enough to drag him from the horribly painful sensation that is starting to stubbornly stick to his brain. 

Even traffic, in its own awful way, sometimes reminds him of what has been lost. 

There was an incident about a week after the near-destruction of Yokohama, one involving a car accident. Chuuya was merely passing by it, but as soon as he laid his eyes on the wreckage, it was as if time stopped completely, reality shifting to a place he knew wasn’t real, yet looked just as convincing. 

The car was smashed against a storefront — not an unusual crash site — however, the trunk of the car was also crushed and raised in such a horribly specific way that Chuuya, even from metres and metres away, almost saw the body of Lippmann roll out from it.

He was late to a meeting with one of the Mafia’s gem refurbishing partners, too busy emptying his stomach in some backwater alley at the convincingly graphic illusion his mind decided to supply him with. He did end up getting to the meeting, though; unfortunately, it was also with a bleeding and scratched-up wound on his forehead from when he slammed it one too many times against a building’s dirty brick exterior. It did little to clear his head, but it was enough. 

(It took him a while to take Albatross’s motorcycle outside, too, and even longer to actually ride it. He is getting there, perhaps more slowly than he’d prefer, but Chuuya doubts Albatross would appreciate it lying unused, after all.)

He shuts the door to the balcony, and Chuuya lets his head fall against the cool glass. It’s slightly frosted from the temperature outside, and while it freezes his skin to an almost burning sensation, Chuuya merely closes his eyes and lets the feeling wash over him, distracting enough to be like an icy reset to his mind. 

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he does nothing when they fall without a sound. His body still echoes the sluggish feeling from before, and Chuuya allows himself to drop down next to the full-length window of the door, his arm pressed uncomfortably against the glass and legs tucked tightly underneath him. His muscles cry from the position, but the sensation pokes through his murky thoughts and keeps him grounded. He almost feels like a ship, anchored in deep, dark waters, waves slow with the promise of an oncoming storm. He prays the storm won’t come at all. If anything, it might have passed already — and here Chuuya is, dealing with the forlorn aftermath of it all.  

It’s… not pathetic, because Chuuya is aware these things can happen to normal people. 

But, that is the catch, isn’t it? Chuuya doesn’t know if he qualifies for such a privilege. If anything, it sure as hell is being a detriment to his work in the Mafia right now. 

As his tears dry, Chuuya swallows down the knot of anxiety that threatens to spiral into thoughts unproductive and dangerous. He shouldn’t do this now.

He waits for Dazai like that, mind blank with the white noise of the traffic outside. It lulls him into a half-sleep, the pain in his muscles preventing him from slipping too far. It hurts as much as it works. Distantly, Chuuya wonders if Dazai might have lied, and he wouldn’t bring anything tonight. It would be just the asshole-ish type of thing he’d do, probably. 

It could have been hours Chuuya waits, because when he comes back to himself (and, perhaps a bit worryingly, he doesn’t even know if he shut his eyes or not) the sky is a deep inky black, lights dotting the cityscape like lanterns. His gut churns.

Lippmann once told him about all the cities he visited. Travel was frequent in his line of work, even dipping into international visits, and while Chuuya initially baulked at the idea of flights at three in the morning and hours-long stopovers in countries he cannot understand, Lippmann had airily laughed and insisted, “It may be an acquired taste, but you grow to see the joy in it.”

He had invited Chuuya on two or three occasions to accompany him travelling. Chuuya declined, obviously, because not only did he not see the appeal of it, but because he was focused on his own line of work. 

(And, regrettably, a dark part of him he hates now struggled to fully trust Lippmann or any of the others at the time. Whether it was his own self-doubts sabotaging him, or simply what someone might consider as appropriate caution, he does not know.) 

Chuuya doubted the Boss would appreciate him fucking off to another country for a month or two with no good reason, after all, and so he turned Lippmann down each time.

But, Chuuya still remembers the feather-light touch of Lippmann’s hand on his face, a gentle thing that made Chuuya’s mind short-circuit. “I think you could do it if you wanted to,” Lippmann had said then, a comforting lilt to his voice. “You’re quite beautiful. Let me know if you ever change your mind, and we can work together, hm?” 

Chuuya holds a hand out in front of him. He remembers that touch; it was small, insignificant, and yet it was warm, and soft, something that made him feel younger, something that he didn’t know if he had ever felt before.

Could he say it was familial if he never had a family?

But, you did, a voice says in the back of his mind. Chuuya bows his head, pressing his palm to his forehead and closing his eyes. That doesn’t matter, now. It’s in the past.

Still, his heart catches on the memory, of Lippmann’s insignificant yet comforting touch, the same fingers that handed him—

Chuuya digs his nails into his scalp and exhales.

Piano Man, Albatross, Lippmann, Doc, Iceman — they all did it. Painstaking efforts for his elusive and impossible history, reaching to places no one insisted they did. Chuuya remembers every paper they handed to him, every avenue they pursued, even to the extent of going behind the Boss’s back through a loophole of orders. It was so… unnecessary, risky even, and yet they did it anyway. 

And then they were killed, and it was his fault. 

Chuuya doesn’t think he will ever be able to shake the guilt away. Nor does he think he ever wants to.

Opening his eyes, Chuuya raises his head and breathes slowly, turning and leaning the side of his face against the window. He wonders if this is anything like the views Lippmann saw during his travels, city lights shining through the darkness of night, each one a small glimpse of someone’s life. 

He suspects now that Lippmann could have been inviting him not for serious business, but perhaps something more… leisurely, or as leisurely as it could be with the Mafia. An invitation from a friend — his friend.

Idly, Chuuya wonders if he could see those sights for himself, experience the travel, if only to understand Lippmann better. Maybe he can look into the Port Mafia’s reach overseas — see if he can do anything there.

Suddenly, Chuuya is broken from his thoughts by a ringing. 

It startles him, but as he registers it as his phone, Chuuya scrambles upwards without hesitation. His arm that was pinned by the window drags up, the exposed skin of his forearm stinging from friction that makes him hiss, and his legs are wobbly from numbness, but Chuuya manages to get himself over to his discarded phone on the kitchen bench with all the grace of a newborn fawn. 

He grabs his phone and almost drops it as his fingers haphazardly try to unlock it. But, there is a turbulent anticipation that boils in his chest as he does so because it is almost like the night he first dreamed — the shrouded apartment, the phone light shining harshly in his unattuned eyes — it is like déjà vu.

Chuuya knows it isn’t Piano Man calling, nor any of the others, but he answers the phone immediately without reading who the caller is, and he doesn’t want to hope, he shouldn’t, but perhaps—

“Ah, Chuuya! Emergency, Chuuya!”

It’s a sinking feeling, but not the one Chuuya expected to have. Rather, he feels that rush when one emerges from the water after being held so deeply and firmly that hope feels fruitless; it’s sudden, it’s relieving, and most of all, it brings a wave of clarity to Chuuya’s mind.

Indeed, Dazai’s voice has the unexpected effect of pulling Chuuya to the surface, a cool flush washing over him that has him realising how much time has passed this evening, how long he has spent curled up by the window, limbs aching and mind fogged like a frosted winter morning. He feels a bit more like himself now, or at least it is as close as he has felt for a few hours. 

Chuuya can’t stop the sigh that escapes his lips. He feels like he just ran a marathon. 

“...You know, if that is your reaction to someone shouting for help, you are much more cruel than I thought, Chuuya.”

Right. Dazai. 

“Chuuya—!” he hears him drawl from the other side. 

Chuuya clears his voice as quietly as he can and asks calmly, “What’s the problem?” 

“Finally. It’s rude to not say anything, chibi, what if I had the wrong number?”

“Dazai.”

“I need help with something important,” Dazai says. His voice dips into a lower tone, not the one reserved for serious discussion, but it lacks the playful lilt of his usual taunts. “I need your opinion.”

Even though Dazai won’t see it, Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “Y’need my opinion? When have you ever asked for my opinion?” He stands straight, and ignoring the tense cramping of his legs as he does so, Chuuya walks over to the couch and sits down, slipping down into a boneless recline that eases some of the pain. His mouth twitches into a small smile. “This is rare. I should record this.”

“Chuuya is mean today,” Dazai says. He can hear the pout in his voice. “Anyway, I need your answer.”

“Alright, what is it?” Chuuya asks. He prays he isn’t going to be hit back with some nonsensical question that makes him look like a fool.

“Tuna mayo, or grilled salmon?”

“... What?”

“Onigiri! What flavour? Tuna and mayo, or the salmon? It’s late at night, chibi, and they haven’t restocked the shelves yet, so you can’t be picky.” 

“The—” Chuuya pauses. He sits up on his elbow, and hisses into the phone. “You called me to ask about food? What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m at Lawson's!” Dazai says cheerily. “Now hurry up. There is this old lady here that is giving me the side-eye. I don’t think she likes me.” 

Chuuya groans and ignores the offended noise of Dazai in response. What was the bastard doing at this time of night, anyway? He hasn’t mentioned anything about the pills yet, and part of Chuuya is thankful for it — he doesn’t want to acknowledge the request more than necessary — but he cannot help the rise of annoyance at Dazai’s tardiness. 

If Dazai is calling him, he is likely on his way here after the convenience store. Chuuya should put the lights on because as much as he doesn’t want to, the alternative of Dazai walking in to Chuuya sulking is an outcome he would never live down.

“Uh, tuna, I suppose,” he says quietly, shifting into a seated position on the couch. He sits for a moment, feeling out what part of his body hurts the most (all of it, but there is a certain sting in his lower back and thighs, as well as the joints in his arms and fingers. The pain in his shoulder blades might be the worst, though.) He bites his lip as he stands to suppress any noise that might threaten to come, and makes his way to turn the lights on.

He really should see someone about this. It has been a few weeks now, and while the pain fluctuates, very rarely can Chuuya go too long without feeling something. He suspects his lack of sleep is making it worse.

He should see someone. But, he is reluctant, because over the past year, there was only one person he went to for any medical issues or injury. 

Doc wasn’t particularly insistent on Chuuya seeing him alone, not at all, but Piano Man had suggested the man the first few times Chuuya showed up to the Old World with an insufficiently treated wound or injury. He vouched for his expertise, and after seeing the man twice, Chuuya easily slipped into accepting his help whenever it was required. Granted, he only visited Doc when pain or injuries were particularly gnarly — like with the others, Chuuya was still hesitant to get too familiar — but it was an arrangement that he was incredibly grateful for. Never did Doc question the origins of injuries, and he patched Chuuya up with such skill that Chuuya healed in no time. 

Chuuya knows Mori is also a proficient physician, but something always stops him from approaching the man directly. Any potential chance of doing so was squashed immediately when he once offhandedly told Dazai he might, to which the boy’s expression darkened immediately and he said dangerously, “Don’t.” 

Suffice it to say, Chuuya's options right now weren’t the most appealing, and the mere thought of seeing someone made his stomach twist.

Dazai hums on the other side of the phone. “Good, easy — I might as well get whatever sake I can find, too… Let’s see…”

“But, you’re not old enough, though,” Chuuya says automatically. His face flushes immediately as Dazai goes silent, and he realises what he said. He has drunk before, as have many of the members of the Sheep, and he knows Dazai has too, but the mental image of Dazai standing at the register with alcohol in hand is a very unnerving one, albeit a little entertaining.

“Chuuya,” Dazai says blankly, “you’re in the Port Mafia. Please tell me you didn’t say that. Besides, I have my methods.” 

Cheap convenience store food was not what Chuuya planned on having tonight, though honestly speaking he didn’t have much planned at all. There could be some ramen around, though Chuuya hasn’t checked since he last went shopping because even that has become much more of a chore than it used to be. 

He’s just so tired, and in more ways than one. 

“Chuuya, I think the old lady is on to me, she was watching me get the sake — oh! I need to go! I’ll be there in three minutes, chibi! Hi, how are — Argh!”

The phone goes dead, and after a second or two Chuuya pulls it from his ear and just stares at it. He runs a hand down his face with a groan, but he can’t help but smile anyway. He hopes Dazai gets pelted by the lady’s purse or something. Serves him right. 

Chuuya looks around the room in the newfound silence. It is, predictably, as empty as it was months ago. Multiple times Albatross chided him on his lack of individuality in his apartment, but that was often in the middle of the night when the other boy had invited himself inside unprompted, and so Chuuya normally just snapped something in response in his sleep-deprived state. 

He saw the interior of Albatross’s place upstairs, once. Chuuya vowed never to own that many items in his life. 

Still, he should probably clean what he can before Dazai arrives, because the last thing he needs is him reprimanding or teasing Chuuya for being messy. The boy hasn’t actually been over before, surprisingly, though Chuuya suspects there may have been a few occasions where Dazai has invited himself over when Chuuya wasn’t home. He wouldn’t put it past him, and it would explain why some of his socks or cutlery mysteriously disappear despite Chuuya’s attentiveness. Asshole.

Chuuya goes and turns the lights on, blinking through the rush of light, but when he looks around, there isn’t much to… actually clean. Some dust, maybe, but the only things that are out of place are the two cushions of the couch (one is lying on the floor) and a blanket hanging off one of the armrests. He adjusts them to look normal, but aside from the books on the table and in his small shelf and the vinyl records that are resting on top, there isn’t anything here. 

Just to fill time, he goes to the window to pull the long-length curtains across. He leaves one side partially open by the balcony door, if only because Chuuya doesn’t want to shut out the city just yet. There is a lingering longing to see the activity, the life of the city, rather than trap himself entirely in this empty room that only seems useful in confronting him when he wakes, sweat-drenched and frantic from yet another night terror that slips away from memory as soon as he is barely conscious. At this point, he doesn’t even know if it is dreams, or if Chuuya has just… broken himself.

At least the place has held up with its security. Iceman once suggested adding more security measures to the balcony door and windows, and at Chuuya’s look of disbelief (he was on a very high floor) Iceman simply removed his cigarette from his mouth, looked Chuuya in the eyes, and said, “If I can get in, someone else can, too.” 

Mildly intimidated, Chuuya did exactly that, but when Piano Man caught wind of it, he laughed and told Chuuya, “Don’t worry, I don’t think he has actually broken in, it was just a suggestion for your safety.” 

Sure enough, Iceman pulled him aside days later as everyone was heading home from the Old World. He handed him a record, and when Chuuya opened his mouth to question him, Iceman only said, “Take it.” 

Chuuya did, intrigue and poorly subdued excitement stopping him from declining on instinct. He had never owned anything like this, and he was curious why Iceman would part with it. In hindsight, Chuuya wondered if the man, perceptive as he was, noticed when Chuuya hummed quietly to the tunes that played on the record player in the Old World, or the way he moved — a very slight sway here, a foot tap there — when he thought no one was watching. Iceman was observant like that. 

Standing in the middle of his apartment, Chuuya slaps his cheeks harshly. “Stop it,” he says, quietly to himself, as if the words themselves will halt his train of thought.

He might not sleep tonight, even if Dazai brings those tablets, but at least he will have some company for a while to distract himself with, even if it is the annoying mackerel. With a yawn, he spares one more glance around the room, before moving to sit at the kitchen bench. He leans forward, uncomfortably due to the lingering aches in his body, to rest his head in his arms against the cool surface, eyes drifting shut as he waits for Dazai. 

Idly, he notices it has long been past the three minutes Dazai suggested. 

What a liar, Chuuya thinks grumpily. He waits patiently anyway.

Chapter Text

It isn’t until almost half an hour passes when Chuuya hears a noise at the door.

Again, Chuuya has slipped into a half-dazed state at the kitchen bench, but his natural alertness immediately rouses him when Dazai steps into the apartment. How he managed to get inside without causing much of a disturbance is, frankly, quite an achievement, and even in his groggy state, Chuuya can appreciate the stealth skills Dazai possesses. 

He lifts his head from the bench and blinks away the slight tears that gather from the sudden exposure to the light of the apartment. Immediately, Chuuya notices his mood has muddied quite drastically — not unusual after short bursts of rest, at least for him — and so the first thing he does when he catches sight of Dazai is to snap at him.

“What the fuck took you so long?” 

“Oh, Chuuya~!” Dazai chimes from the front door. “I have presents. Or, treats, maybe…” 

Chuuya clicks his tongue in annoyance at his question being ignored.  

“You’re getting too much of a kick out of this, you ass,” Chuuya mumbles grumpily as he sits up straighter. He fights to hide a wince as his limbs practically scream at him in aching pain. “And that was way longer than three minutes, fuck,” he adds quietly as he raises his stiff limbs. He feels his bones crack as he stretches, arms raised high and legs stretching out. 

He hears the patter of Dazai's feet across the floor as he comes closer, though it isn't until he slams something down on the bench that Chuuya opens his eyes in alarm.

Are those… groceries?  

“I… thought you were getting onigiri,” Chuuya says lamely, staring at the large plastic bag Dazai has dumped on the counter. 

Dazai looks at him with wide eyes and an equally wide grin. It would be endearing, if it weren't Dazai. “And I did! Here,” He reaches into the bag, and pulls out two onigiri rice balls, placing one down on the counter and offering the other to Chuuya with a flat palm and a glint in his eyes. “Tuna mayo, your oh-so-typical Highness.” Then, much quieter he adds, “How boring.”

Chuuya snatches it out of his hands. “Like you didn't ask in the first place,” he mutters. 

Looking down at the onigiri in his hand makes his stomach clench. Chuuya hadn't eaten anything in a while, perhaps since earlier this morning, and he is really starting to feel it now. Maybe that's why he's so moody this evening. It wouldn't be the first time, either — once, Piano Man pulled him outside and to the closest konbini near the Old World. It was embarrassing to begin with; in the middle of a billiards game, Chuuya's stomach started to grumble loudly, and he intended to ignore it until Albatross pointed it out. But, then Piano Man elected to drag him along to a convenience store roughly a block away, citing that they were going to bring back some incentives for the next round. Chuuya quickly learned that was just an excuse to buy a bunch of snacks for everyone, but in the end, he didn't regret it — Albatross seemed particularly pleased when Chuuya handed him dorayaki, crowding into his space and swinging an arm around his shoulder with an exaggerated, “I think I owe you my life for this, man.” 

He also learned that day that Doc was particularly into the lemon candy they ended up buying on a whim. Chuuya made sure to take note, and he brought some with him the next time he needed medical attention. 

The memories make his stomach churn more than his hunger. Chuuya feels the uncomfortable twist as he stares at the onigiri, but something isn’t… right, yet. He looks up and sees Dazai still unpacking the groceries from the bag (and Chuuya can see strawberries there — just what did Dazai get?) 

Dazai's onigiri is still sitting on the bench. Chuuya looks at it, then looks at Dazai. 

Dazai, perceptive as he is, notices Chuuya's hesitation immediately. “What, don't tell me you changed your mind about the flavour? Sorry, chibi, but mine’s tuna too.”

“No, it's not—” Chuuya stops. How does he explain it? 

“Aren't you eating too?” he tries. 

Dazai pauses his movements, and his eyes flicker to Chuuya's. 

Chuuya isn't sure how to get his message across exactly, because it sure as hell isn't something he will admit to verbally. 

Despite being in the Port Mafia for over a year now, there are still habits from Chuuya's time in the Sheep that he has yet to shake. 

One of these is his eating habits. Chuuya, despite everything, still struggles with eating first. When he was with the Sheep, Chuuya made sure that any time they had the chance to eat together, everyone else had something before he did. He wasn't exactly sure when or where he picked up the habit, but it seemed to just fall naturally into the way things were. He protected and looked out for everyone for the most part, so it was only appropriate that he made sure that extended to food too. 

He did it a few times with the Flags as well. Unwillingly, Chuuya is reminded of that one konbini visit again. When he and Piano Man returned with their haul, Chuuya was sure everyone had something in hand before he made any advances to food. It wasn’t even a conscious effort, either; it took Chuuya a few days after the event for him to even realise he was doing it, and that was after a not-so-subtle observation made by Lippmann at the end of the evening.

Piano Man probably took notice of it first, because wasn't it odd that Chuuya was eating last, despite being the reason they bought food in the first place? 

Dazai watches him with a keen eye. Chuuya isn't sure he likes it — it's too close to being scrutinised like one of Dazai's enemies, only this one is accompanied by a much more smug expression. The corner of Dazai's mouth twitches, and he finally says, “Do you think it's poisoned?”

“What— no… should I?” Chuuya stumbles. Dread starts to settle in his stomach.

Before he can think too hard on the question, Dazai laughs and waves the comment off with a hand. “Ah, that would be too easy, and painful,” he says, “and boring. I already know many of your weaknesses, but why do something predictable like that?” 

Chuuya blinks, still trying to wrangle his original thoughts before Dazai manages to tangle them up again with talks of assassination. He steals one glance at Dazai's onigiri again, and perhaps the universe has decided to bless him because Dazai puts down whatever he was currently holding (... a toothbrush? Really?) in favour of picking up his onigiri. 

He gives Chuuya a look then, something knowing, and immediately Chuuya realises. He knows. Of course he knows. Dazai probably picked up habits like this from Chuuya weeks into knowing him, and it doesn’t take a genius to string together why. But, oddly, the realisation doesn’t fill Chuuya with anything aside from a mild relief, like the aftermath of ripping off a bandaid. He doesn’t have to say or confess to anything now.

“Though I must admit, I wouldn't put it past her to do something like that,” Dazai ponders, a forefinger pressed lightly to his chin in a display of mock thoughtfulness as he examines the onigiri in his other hand.

“What do you mean, ‘her’?”

Dazai looks at him and with a low voice, as if he were divulging a secret, he says, “You know. The lovely old lady at the store.”

It takes Chuuya roughly a second and a half for the words to register, the sudden rush of the pre-nap conversation he had with Dazai on the phone prior coming back to him in an instant. “The lady at the store… poisoning the onigiri? Why the hell would you think that…”

Dazai has the audacity to look mildly offended. His hands start to work deftly at the onigiri wrapping, pulling it apart as he says, “Well, you never know. She had a grudge against me, definitely — she even hit me! Can you believe that?”

Oh, please let it be—

Chuuya swallows, and does his best to suppress the hint of a smile from forming on his lips as he asks in the most nonchalant voice he can muster, “Did she hit you with her bag?”

“Yes!” Dazai cries, but then Chuuya is gifted with the priceless expression of him catching himself, the admission dawning on him so abruptly that Chuuya scoffs a bout of laughter, doing his best to mask it by quickly unwrapping his own onigiri. “Wait, Chuuya, how did you know!?”

“Oh, that is priceless — I wish I was there, damn.” he manages between breaths. He’s accidentally broken part of the rice and seaweed when unwrapping, but he can’t find it in himself to care, because the mental image is just too good.  

Dazai pouts, but takes a bite as he skips around the bench to seat himself next to Chuuya on the only other barstool. “So cruel,” he whines, “I hadn’t done anything to her. Needless violence is bad, Chuuya, didn’t you know? I’m delicate.”

Unconsciously, Chuuya permits himself to start eating after seeing Dazai relax in his seat. Immediately, he is confronted again with just how hungry he is; it takes all his effort to refrain from devouring the poor rice ball in a few mouthfuls. Despite this, however, Chuuya catches Dazai out of the corner of his eye, and he stops abruptly because Dazai is watching him with an expression that makes Chuuya's face heat in embarrassment. 

Great. Regardless of how often they have eaten together (which, come to think of it, isn't as frequent as Chuuya had once thought), Dazai is now going to foster the opinion that Chuuya is messy.  

… Okay, he might be sometimes. He is working on it. It has been a tricky habit to break, considering his upbringing.

Or lack thereof, he thinks with a touch of melancholy. Any grace he might have had, Chuuya doesn't remember. 

And that is fine. 

Fortunately, Chuuya has made remarkable progress when in the company of most others (with ‘most’ often referring to anyone that isn't Dazai, essentially). Kouyou had been an excellent teacher of mannerisms and conduct in appropriate settings, and Chuuya would do well not to squander it by being anything other than composed (or restrained, when necessary). His habits are almost entirely squashed out by this point. Well, that is unless his company is Dazai, because the other boy still can get under his skin like no other. 

Such as now, when Dazai inches closer to him, despite sitting next to him already.

“So,” he says with a grin, leaning his head against the heel of his palm as he gradually gets closer to Chuuya. “Newfound — or rather, rediscovered — appreciation for violence aside, what has been up with Chuuya lately, I wonder?”

“What do you mean by that?” Chuuya replies with a frown. He takes a bite, purposefully making sure he eats slowly to not clue in Dazai as to how famished he is. For some reason, Chuuya doesn't want him to know now. That, and the boy's expression is bordering on unnerving, and it's starting to distract him. It's not a new look, but nor is it one Dazai displays frequently. 

“The pills,” Dazai clarifies. “You mentioned trouble sleeping, did you not? Wanna elaborate?” 

“I did, and no, I don’t,” Chuuya bites out. “Why are you asking again? I told you, it's just for sleeping.”

“Okay,” he relinquishes easily, but Chuuya knows he isn't done because Dazai never is satiated quite like that. 

Chuuya waits for a beat before Dazai speaks just as he knew he would. What he says is too on the nose however, and Chuuya’s jaw tenses immediately at being found out so quickly, yet he shouldn’t be surprised, because it’s only the most logical conclusion anyone could come to.

“Nightmares, huh?” Dazai says as idly as if he were observing a change in weather. When Chuuya glances at him out of the corner of his eye; the onigiri is gone (though whether Dazai actually ate it all is a mystery) and he is staring ahead to the wall ahead of him instead of Chuuya. There isn't anything noteworthy over there — just the backdrop to the kitchen — but Chuuya immediately knows that Dazai isn't looking at something. He is just looking.  

His expression is distant, and Chuuya can almost see for himself that Dazai is watching something else through a film in his eyes. Though, of course, Chuuya will likely never know what Dazai sees. The boy is too vague to let anything like that show to anyone, Chuuya included. 

Briefly, Chuuya wonders if that would ever change. 

He doesn't like the odds. 

“Mm,” he hums in reply. There's little point in denying it now. “Is that so unusual?”

“Not at all,” Dazai says. Despite his low tone, he speaks with a smile on his face. “It's to be expected, I suppose.” 

There's… something in his voice that Chuuya can't figure out, and it frustrates him. Too often does Dazai appear to yo-yo between faces like phases of the moon, and too often does Chuuya find himself feeling as if he is grasping at straws; one minute they are as flawless as they are synchronous, and the next, Dazai is… well. 

Dazai is elsewhere. Not physically, no, and most oftentimes not necessarily mentally absent either. Rather, it's a state that Chuuya has caught on more than one occasion, a state that reflects something dark. 

It worries him, though he’s made an effort not to let it show. Indeed, Dazai was and remains a constant thorn in Chuuya's side, but regrettably, that has never translated into Chuuya being indifferent to the other boy. If it did, things would be a lot easier.

If it did, Chuuya wouldn't feel unsettled whenever Dazai slips into this ominous and vague state. It's like something equally dark opens its maw in Chuuya as well, and he detests it. Not Dazai, but the thing that comes with the sensation. It almost makes him feel helpless, and Chuuya rarely ever feels such a way. 

He goes to voice something, anything even, to drag Dazai's voided gaze to him instead, but Dazai is ahead of him, interrupting Chuuya with a sigh as he sits up straight. 

“Well then,” Dazai says in a bored tone, “I guess it's bedtime, wouldn't you agree?” 

He says it like a parent begrudgingly putting a child to bed, and so Chuuya replies with a scoff. “What, not yours though? I'm not a kid, asshole, and you're lookin’ like you have entire suitcases under your eyes.”

Chuuya takes care not to draw attention to his own face because he is distinctly aware of seeing such familiar dark circles under his eyes in the mirror this morning. He's being hypocritical, but at least he's aware of it. 

Dazai's lips twitch upwards. “Right, but I wanna see if these pills work on Chuuya.”

That makes Chuuya pause. “I thought you knew what these did?” He frowns. “Have you taken them before?” 

Dazai doesn't answer but his smile stays on his face as he gets up and walks back around the kitchen bench.

“Okay, gotta say, you're not doing too well on the trust here. What the hell are you giving me? Are these even what I asked for?” Chuuya demands.

“They are,” Dazai says confidently, any trace of the earlier ominousness fading completely. Chuuya should be worried about that, maybe — but watching Dazai retrieve these tablets has him sitting straighter and feeling a lot more eager than he should. 

Deep within the grocery bag he brought with him (and Chuuya is mildly peeved that it remains somewhat heavy with items — just how much did Dazai cram in there?) he reaches and pulls out a small, unassuming bottle.

He has a mischievous look on his face as he gives it a rattle, placing it down on the counter. It's close enough to be in reaching distance for Dazai, but if Chuuya were to grab it he would have to lean forward a bit. 

He did that on purpose. Ass. 

While Chuuya eyes the bottle, Dazai takes out the last of the bag’s contents. Scattered across the surface and a variety of things; from vegetables and fruits to rice and cooking oil. All in all, it looks like Dazai stole some family’s shopping basket and ran with it. 

Fortunately, Dazai returns the attention to the small, nondescript bottle in front of him. He pushes it forward. “One before sleeping,” Dazai says, “and only one. And, not for too long, either. You better thank me for this, because I stole them from Mori. I don’t think he knows yet, heh.”

Chuuya picks up the bottle and gives it a small shake. It rattles, and Chuuya is uncertain whether it was wise of Dazai to provide him with tablets like this in such a large quantity. Still, Chuuya does not have a death wish like Dazai does, so he doubts there is a cause for concern. 

Perhaps he should be worried that Dazai snatched them from Mori without permission (and that itself suggests these are much more than simple sleeping tablets) but the potential for an easy fix that is right in front of him is too enticing for him to linger too long on any of the implications.

“You know,” Dazai says slowly, “I’m sure you could’ve gotten your hands on something like this quite easily.”

Chuuya is well aware. In hindsight, there probably was little in the way of doing so — but regardless, he asked Dazai first. He doesn’t want to think too hard about why that is.

“I’m glad you did, though,” Dazai continues, “because I’m almost certain the normal things wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

“Now you’re making me sound like a guinea pig,” Chuuya mutters. Exhaustion is starting to chip away at him because he can barely muster the outrage that would typically come with this revelation. 

“Guinea pigs are much cuter than you,” Dazai says with a little too much cheer in his tone before it lowers into something more serious. “But, no worry, I’ll take one too, for the sake of transparency.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you already have a tolerance to whatever cocktail is in this, so that doesn’t mean much.” 

“Rude. I’m trying to be nice.”

“I know,” Chuuya sighs, feeling some reluctance at having to say the next words. But, he isn't one to be a dick to someone who has just done him a favour, even if it is Dazai. Granted, the lack of sleep and crabby mood probably isn't helping. “Thanks for this… I guess.”

Dazai whistles. “Wow,” he says, fake awe dripping in his voice, “Chuuya must be quite out of it to be thanking me so easily.”

“Shut up. You’re done here anyway,” Chuuya counters half-heartedly. He considers the pills again, and thinks, fuck it, it surely will fix something. While the bottle is unlabelled, Chuuya is almost positive that Dazai wouldn't deliver him something fatal. He would never voice such a thought to Dazai, however. But, Chuuya hopes that, if anything, his usefulness to the Port Mafia is enough to ensure he wouldn't be mysteriously off’d by his eccentric partner so soon. 

Hopefully.

Dazai turns and starts moving to the door then, and for a moment, Chuuya genuinely believes the other boy is heading out, regardless of what he just said. It makes sense, because the main job is done — if a bit rudely, because is Chuuya supposed to put away these groceries by himself?

He goes to open his mouth to ask about them, but Dazai speaks when he is barely a step or two from the door. He turns his head to look over his shoulder and holds a hand up in a mock apology, voice raising to a high tone as he says, “Oh, sorry Chuuya, I forgot I left a bag outside, too!” 

… What?

Chuuya stares dumbfounded as Dazai grabs another full bag and dumps it on the counter right next to the other one. Then, he leans his elbows on the counter and pins Chuuya with a self-satisfied look. 

These added groceries make it look like he was moving in. 

Chuuya pauses at that. 

“Hey,” he says, frowning. “You’re not hijacking my apartment now, are you?”

“Of course not,” Dazai says with a wave of his hand.

Chuuya clicks his tongue in annoyance. “I don’t believe you. Dropping something off isn’t permission to stick around, y’know?” Despite saying this, Chuuya starts to feel the taste of ash on his tongue, and he realises perhaps his mouth has run faster than his mind.

He… doesn’t want Dazai gone yet, he thinks. The company in the apartment has had the unforeseen effect of giving Chuuya enough of a distraction to stop thinking so much, and perhaps he fears that, in Dazai’s absence, everything is going to come creeping back again. The same darkness, the same quiet — the same horrible quiet that drips down from the ceiling. 

…No, he can’t stand that.

Even so, Chuuya keeps his jaw shut. He’s said it now, and there’s no point in backtracking. 

Dazai’s smile remains frozen on his face. He says again with fake pleasantry, “I know, slug, I’m not slow like you. Now, where can I put these…” 

Chuuya stares dumbfounded as Dazai makes his way around the kitchen, depositing this and that in all areas. It's almost uncanny, the way the boy moves and shifts and orders things with such familiarity. Likely, knowing Dazai, it is simply a quirk of his, or he's overexaggerating his behaviour to piss off Chuuya, however, it's also almost as if…

“Hey,” Chuuya prompts dryly. “How often are you breaking into my apartment?”

Dazai doesn't spare a second to shift his attention to Chuuya, but he answers in a deceptively calm voice. “Chuuya, I'm wounded by the way you accuse me of such actions.”

“Dazai,” Chuuya warns. 

Dazai shoots him a knowing look, one paired with a smirk and a glint in his eyes that tells Chuuya all he needs to know. 

“Only a handful, I promise,” Dazai concedes as he starts placing fruit in an empty fruit bowl he pulled out from one of the cupboards. Chuuya has to do a double take at that — does he even own a fruit bowl? How long was it in there for?

“A handful,” Chuuya echoes as he mindlessly fidgets with the pill bottle in his hand. He frowns. “Do you have any idea how creepy that is? I should kick your ass right now.”

There's no heat in the words, and Dazai responds with an equally lukewarm tone. “Maybe, but think of it this way: you should probably up your security a bit more. Besides, if it offers you peace of mind, I promise I was up to nothing nefarious.”

That is doubtful, but Chuuya doesn't linger on those words because his mind is still hitched to the sentiment Dazai has shared. 

Even after taking Iceman’s suggestions, perhaps it still wasn't enough if Dazai could get in with ease, too. Chuuya's heart churns at the memory; he never actually got to go over any of that security with Iceman either, so there is still a good chance whatever he did in a mild panic ages ago wouldn't have been enough in the first place. 

Though, why is that what he’s thinking of? Chuuya is plenty strong, so what if his place isn’t fortified to hell and back? He isn’t that high profile to warrant it, not yet.

But… it would've been nice, Chuuya ponders. Having the place inspected by Iceman. The others could come, too, and maybe Lippmann could make tea, and Albatross would go barreling upstairs to retrieve something or other, and they'd all…

Chuuya frowns. 

Dazai must take notice of the shift in Chuuya's exterior, because he says rather loudly, “Alright. Now then, wanna try these out, petit mafia?” 

He reaches over and plucks the bottle from Chuuya's hands. Chuuya lets him, for some reason, instead only staring blankly at Dazai as he does.

… Maybe he really is that tired. There is an ache at the crease in his brows, and there is still a stiffness in his legs that Chuuya is slowly starting to become too familiar with. The pains from before may not have gone, but at the very least he has had less attention to linger on them thanks to Dazai’s irritating company. 

Dazai wordlessly tips out a single capsule and quickly turns to retrieve a glass from one of the lower cupboards (and yet again, Chuuya is stricken with exasperation at the complete lack of hesitation coming from Dazai, who seemingly knows where everything is in the kitchen). He fills it with water, spins on his heel, and sits it down with a loud sound right in front of Chuuya. 

Dazai waves a hand outwards, gesturing to the pill. “Off you go,” he says easily. 

Chuuya looks at the pill, then at the glass, and then he meets Dazai's eyes. “You're just gonna stand there? What's so exciting?” 

Surprisingly, Dazai actually shifts on the spot a little. “Well,” he says, “I’m just waiting to see if you take them. If it helps, I can take one too, just as promised.”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow as he picks up the offered tablet. “What, is that supposed to convince me there isn't anythin’ funny with it? Don't you love this kind of stuff?” 

Immediately something chews itself through Chuuya's gut, and he casts his eyes downward quickly and bites his lip very subtly. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

It’s at the same time Dazai answers. “Well, you’re not wrong, chibi,” he says. “But, I’m more curious to see if it is more potent or not.”

Chuuya raises an eyebrow at that. “Yeah? Why would that be?”

I am human, he thinks. I am, I know I am. So does he.

“No reason,” Dazai says ominously. Then, he shakes one more tablet into his hand. 

They both remain still for a few seconds before Chuuya realises how ridiculous they look. These aren't some hard drugs or anything, and yet the way the two of them are silently looking at the small things in their palms is starting to border on hilarity.

Chuuya voices as much, unable to contain his exasperation. “What the hell,” he says bluntly. “Pass me the water, this is driving me insane.” Normally he’d just take it and be done with it, but the nausea that still lingers makes him feel like he might choke. 

Dazai pushes over the glass with a wink. Chuuya pretends not to see it.

Dazai didn't specify how long it takes for one to get drowsy from these, but it doesn't matter now because Chuuya is fairly certain Dazai isn't going to be able to get home by himself if he takes one too. 

But… 

Come to think of it — where does Dazai hang around during downtime? Where does he rest? 

It's hard to stop thinking. Does Dazai rest, even? Chuuya doesn’t even know where he lives, even after a year.

Chuuya swallows dryly. There's something about the whole thing that sets off warning bells in Chuuya's head. He waits a few moments. Then, very quietly: “You can crash here.” 

He barely raises his voice, but just as Chuuya knew he would, Dazai hears it clear as day. His head picks up, though the movement was so slight that most would miss it, as they would with the slight widening of Dazai's eyes. 

Damn. Chuuya's actually starting to feel bad for him. 

“Chuuya, why would I want to sleep here? It looks uncomfortable.”

Nevermind. 

“Dazai,” Chuuya says as he pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He can feel a headache coming now, and while there is a chance Dazai is the cause of it (as he often is), it's more likely that Chuuya’s head is pleading with him to get some rest.

And rest he will — once he's made sure Dazai isn’t stumbling around the streets. He doesn’t particularly want to wake up to the news of a dead partner, after all.

Typically Chuuya avoids meddling in the other boy's affairs when he knows his efforts would be unwanted. He knows and trusts Dazai is capable by himself, but after knowing him for a year, Chuuya is more than aware that sometimes Dazai might not be the best authority when it comes to his own care.

There's something hypocritical about that, Chuuya thinks distantly. But, it's of no consequence right now; most of Chuuya's recent problems should wind up resolved once he starts taking those intimidating little tablets sitting on the bench in front of him. 

Chuuya exhales softly and tries again in the most diplomatic way he can muster. “Seriously, man, I’m tryin’ to be nice. It's late, and I can see you're almost dead on your feet.”

“Wouldn't that be lovely,” Dazai murmurs. There's a horribly subtle and gentle smile on his face as he does so, and Chuuya almost shivers at the sight. But, he's determined to see this through anyway. It takes his mind off of himself, at least.

Dazai clears his throat. “Well,” he says, “if you insist.”

“Good,” Chuuya says with finality. The tone helps push him into staring down the small tablet before downing it with water as quickly as he is able. Fortunately, he doesn’t choke, though there is a tight sensation in his throat that threatens it as he swallows and takes a breath. He knows Dazai must be looking at him like he’s an idiot — he can imagine the boy’s words now, something like, “What, Chuuya can’t even take medication? How juvenile,” — but, it can’t be helped. 

Unwarranted though it may be, there’s something about the minute task that feels dangerous to Chuuya. Granted, time on the streets never really introduced much health-related care to begin with, but things like medication always felt… deeper than that. In hindsight, perhaps it is — after all, Chuuya has no memory of what happened in that underground lab. 

With a deep exhale, Chuuya turns his gaze to Dazai and fixes him with an unimpressed look. “Happy?” he says. 

Dazai does, in fact, look pleased. “Yup,” he nods.

“Right,” Chuuya sighs. He shifts uncomfortably. 

Dazai shoots him a smirk as he mirrors Chuuya’s actions, placing the tablet on his tongue purposefully before swallowing it dry. 

“Gross,” Chuuya mutters. “We don’t need a show, moron.” 

Dazai pouts. “Not very fun when you’re tired, are you?” 

“You’re one to talk,” he shoots back quietly. Dazai hears, but all he does is hum. Then, he skips back around the kitchen bench and Chuuya, all the way over to where the couch is. He stands in the middle of the lounge with his hands on his hips and declares, “So what furniture gets to grace my presence this fine evening?” 

When he gets no response (because why would he — all Chuuya owns in there is a couch, table, and shelf, so unless Dazai wants a sore back…) Dazai turns his head around to peer over his shoulder with an unimpressed look. “You really are no fun tonight, aren’t you Chuuya? I will say, though, apathy doesn't look very good on you.”

He isn’t wrong. Either those tablets manage to work in the span of a few seconds, or Chuuya is finally starting to reach his breaking point when it comes to entertaining Dazai’s antics. Well, not that he does in the first place — but he is well aware that tonight his energy fuse is quite short, even when taking into account Dazai’s presence.

As Dazai still stands in the centre of the lounge, Chuuya sighs and shuffles off the chair. He walks over until he is level with Dazai, before eyeing the distance they are to the couch in front of them. 

If he stands here, then—

The barest hint of smugness starts to rise in Chuuya’s chest, and not a moment later he pushes very harshly against Dazai, enough to have the boy (and Chuuya can tell just by from that push that even if Dazai has accumulated some muscle from mafia activities, he is incredibly light and almost definitely lacking weight) falling face first over the arm of the couch. 

Dazai yelps from the sudden action, but instead of watching him flail, Chuuya steps quickly towards the hallway. He returns with a spare pillow and additional blanket, and with some minor gravity manipulation to make them slightly heavier, he vaults them straight at Dazai. Dazai's ability manages to cover for some of the impact, but the momentum is still hard to prevent or slow down. They slam against Dazai, who yelps audibly as they collide and then fall to the floor.

As Dazai whines and recovers, Chuuya cannot help but stare for a few seconds longer than necessary. 

Something is jarring about seeing Dazai shuffle his way over and across the couch, crawling forward the rest of the way over the armrest like some oversized worm to lie flat on his stomach. He lies so still that Chuuya wants to make a jab at him. 

“You look more dead than I feel,” he says, crossing his arms as he comes to stand above Dazai next to the couch. “Maybe I wasn’t the one in dire need of those.”

There is still no response, and for half a second Chuuya really wonders how fast-acting these sleeping tablets are. 

Finally, Dazai turns his head around and looks up at Chuuya with a peeved face. “Chuuya, this couch is mediocre. Can you order a new one?” 

“Alright, enough. You're voice is annoying,” Chuuya says. He leans down and grabs the fallen pillow in one hand and the blanket in the other. He ungracefully tosses them both at Dazai, who not only gets a pillow to the face yet again but is also completely covered by the blanket falling lightly over his upper body. 

Chuuya doesn’t wait as he heads for the hallway. He does pause at the doorway, however, so that he can look at Dazai one more time. The other boy hasn’t moved, the blanket still bunched over the top of him, so Chuuya can’t exactly get a read on him. It’s frustrating, but he has allowed him to stay for the first time since moving in here. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Chuuya sighs, “please.”

There is no response, and it's not until Chuuya barely lifts his foot to leave that Dazai shimmies out of the blanket cocoon, wiggling his head free and peering over the bundle at Chuuya like a joey in a pouch. It might be cute, Chuuya thinks, if it weren’t Dazai.

“I’ll stay right here,” Dazai says.

Chuuya stares. “You… will,” he says, though it sounds more like a question. 

Dazai hums affirmatively, before going under again. He is silent again, which is almost a guarantee that he is plotting something under there, but Chuuya can feel the exhaustion ebbing away at the corner of his eyes and the ache in his shoulders pulling him down, and he thinks that perhaps he can take the chance of Dazai doing something maddening if it means he can finally get some sleep. 

So, Chuuya leaves Dazai with free rein, essentially. He half hopes that Dazai legitimately took the tablet when he did (because, who knows — it is Dazai, he’d know a trick or two) and is now dealing with his own tiredness chipping away at his mind, but things are never that simple, and so Chuuya finally decides to let the matter rest and leave it up to fate as he heads for his bedroom.

Just as it was left, and just as it has been for a few days, Chuuya’s bedroom is so quiet and undisturbed that he finds himself stopping and standing at the doorway abruptly. It almost feels like a crime to step inside, and yet Chuuya cannot bring himself to do so even with his body starting to feel weaker. There still isn’t much in there to characterise the room, and somehow that makes everything feel that much worse.

He frowns. It’s so very quiet. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, eyes scanning over the dim room as if he might find the key to allow him to enter and finally rest. It has barely been days, and yet, with each passing moment this place starts to twist and change into something that carries bad memories — “memories” that are either entirely made up in his mind, or ones that are horrific enough that he never wants to see them again. 

But that is why he is doing all of this, is it not?

The lights that manage to peek through the unclosed curtains to the window are still like small stars outside Chuuya’s room. He focuses on that, and it allows him to step inside his room, finally, and as he does Chuuya starts to feel both a bit ridiculous (if Albatross saw him now, he would laugh so hard he might puncture a lung) and incredibly, awfully fatigued. 

Chuuya steps forward almost like a zombie, erratic yet slow, walking over to the window. He grabs the curtains, but before he can drag them closed, he spares a look at the scarce yet bright lights that still grace the city’s night. It is quite late now, so fewer lights are to be expected, however, Chuuya thinks that maybe he’d prefer some more if only to give a glimpse into the lives of the people in the city, proof that there are many more people here, maybe even some who feel as he does after losing someone.

They are oddly soothing. 

Chuuya drops the curtains and steps backward until the backs of his shins hit the bed bruisingly. His eyes don’t leave the lights, and he lets himself fall backward into a seated position on the bed. It could have been seconds, minutes, or an hour until he finally blinks. With it comes clarity, which gives Chuuya just enough time to strip from his clothes, which are dirty from today’s activities — has he really been sitting like this the entire day and evening?

(But, that’s not exactly new, is it? He has lived worse than this before, and yet it makes him that much more particular about himself.)

He is too exhausted to even step foot in the bathroom, so instead, he barely manages to pull on some other clothes before he instantly collapses with just enough effort to pull half a blanket over himself. Chuuya will regret it in the morning, but for now, he can’t bring himself to care. It isn’t the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last, but even knowing this Chuuya feels a semblance of shame and disgust at himself. 

It won’t be the first time indeed, but Chuuya does hope that, with this problem of his hopefully being fixed, it can be one of the last. The haunting nights have only exacerbated depressive episodes, after all, and he can almost feel one coming on already. 

Finally, Chuuya does manage to fall asleep, though when he wakes, he couldn’t have placed when he did. 

It’s odd, when he wakes up. 

At first, Chuuya feels a sort of clouded sluggishness, which while common, feels a bit different from what he is used to. At first, he thinks it is because of the sleeping pill, but after the few moments it takes for most of his body to wake up with the rest of him, Chuuya realises that it might be because he's rested. Or, at least, more rested than he has been in days. The kind of rest that doesn’t necessarily have you waking to a full, clear mind, but more so the one that allows you to bask in the comforting cloud of rest for as long as you’d please. 

It’s nice, he thinks. 

The next nicest thing about it is that Chuuya didn’t dream.  

The realisation of it has Chuuya smiling unconsciously, and the only reason he knows that is because when he rolls over, he comes face to face with someone else who says, “Well, look who is happy this morning!”

Chuuya yelps, perhaps a bit loudly and uncharacteristically high, before in a bout of dexterity he instantly kicks up a leg and lands it straight into the person by the side of the bed. 

“Chuuya, fuck!”

Ah. It makes Chuuya want to kick him again. 

“What are you doing in here, you freak? What kind of creep watches people when they’re asleep!?”

Dazai is holding his nose, which tells Chuuya that he hit his target. There’s a swell of pride at that because it isn’t often someone is gifted the chance of successfully landing a physical blow to Dazai’s face in the first place (as any that are lucky enough are, in actuality, planned or accepted by Dazai in the first place). “I have only been here for about two minutes,” he says, voice muffled by his hand and clearly dismayed.

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” Chuuya mutters. He shuffles his way to the edge of the bed and gets up instantly. He may as well start the day — his morning has been instantly ruined anyhow, with Dazai’s presence in his own damn room.

“Not a morning person, hm?” Dazai asks, pulling his hand away. There's no blood, which Chuuya blames on his half-awake state (certainly, if he hit Dazai normally, the boy's nose would be broken). Chuuya only huffs in response, going straight to the wardrobe and rummaging. 

He is quite pleasantly surprised that, aside from a lingering pulse from his shoulder blades and some scars that haven’t entirely healed, Chuuya doesn’t feel any pain.

Coincidentally, there isn’t anything officially planned for him today, so Chuuya is permitted to treat it as a sort of ‘day off.’ He doubts Dazai has the same liberty, but the other boy doesn’t seem to have any intention of leaving for business yet, because he is sitting cross-legged on Chuuya's bed now, swaying here and there and humming some tune that Chuuya doesn't recognise. It’s late in the morning, after all; when Chuuya spares a glance at the shitty minimalist clock by his bedside, it reads 11:34 a.m. 

Definitely a sufficient sleep-in. Chuuya has to pause momentarily when he first reads it so he can search his brain for any memory of sleeping so late. He cannot recall anything. 

“It worked, I take it?” he hears Dazai say. Chuuya tears his gaze away from the clock to look at his partner, whose arms are now stretched out backward to hold his weight as he leans back on the bed. He looks to be at home, and it instantly starts a fire in Chuuya’s chest, because this is his room, so why is Dazai acting so comfy? His familiarity pisses him off.

For some reason, though, it reminds Chuuya of the time he first moved into this apartment. Albatross volunteered to give him a tour. It was ridiculous, because it wasn’t even Albatross’s space, nor had the other boy ever lived in this place. Furthermore, the apartment wasn’t even big enough to warrant a whole tour, and yet when Chuuya arrived with the keys for the first time, Albatross had bounded down from his own upstairs, snatched them from his fingers, and opened the door to exclaimed dramatically, “Welcome to your new living quarters, my liege!” 

Albatross had the stupid wave and everything, and while Chuuya didn’t want to admit it (and even now, he may not, not in most company) the other boy had actually done wonders in easing Chuuya’s turmoiled body and mind from the uncertainty that came with joining the Port Mafia in the first place. He remembers suppressing laughter a lot that evening, and though he was certainly positive that Albatross missed most of it, it doesn’t change that it may have been one of the first chances he could have had to befriend him. Maybe then they would have had more time together.

Chuuya clicks his tongue as he digs through clothing mindlessly. He distantly hears a questioning noise from Dazai, but whether it is words or not does not register in his mind. 

He really should stop thinking in hypotheticals. Longing for more time is, after all, counterproductive when what Chuuya thinks he should be doing is honouring what time he had. If he wants to stop these newfound nightmares, there is little point in adding fuel to the fire by lingering on what he hadn’t done. Chuuya knows he’s done enough of that flavour of reminiscing already.

Honour what time they had — that would be better, would it not?

“Chuuya,” he hears from next to him. 

“What,” he snaps, whipping his head around to Dazai. The other boy has a minor crease in his brows, which clues Chuuya in to realise his own behaviour. He clears his throat quickly and asks more evenly, “Why are you in here still, you pervert?”

“Hm,” Dazai says, or not-says. He gives Chuuya a lookover. 

Chuuya sighs. In a fit of irritation, he steps over to the bed and grabs a fistful of Dazai's shirt. He promptly ignores the way Dazai splutters a confused, “Chuuya?” as he drags the taller boy across the room and throws him through the doorway. 

“Wait out here or I will drop you from this window, you shit,” Chuuya says bluntly, and then slams the door in Dazai's face.

He turns around after a moment and exhales shakily. There's a tingling sensation that thrums through his body, and Chuuya looks at his hand and flexes it to try to find out if this is even real. He feels a bit odd, but also not. 

“Goddamnit,” Chuuya mutters. 

There is no sound from the door, so Dazai is either still outside or has very silently moved away. Chuuya knows he would not have left yet, because the boy wouldn't have lingered around in the apartment all night if he didn't have something to talk to Chuuya about. 

With a moment's peace, Chuuya contemplates how he should approach this day. 

He's well-rested, apparently, though there is still a lingering sluggishness that has him feeling less inclined to do anything strenuous. Chuuya isn't one to slack off, not by a long shot — he has heard once or twice of how overly vigilant he can get when it comes to work (but, if it gets results, who can stop him?) — but today, there is a small voice in the back of his head that tells him he shouldn't shove himself back into work so brazenly just yet. 

“Care for the mind is just as important as the body,” Mori had said once. Chuuya is well aware that Dazai would probably call it a lie coming from Mori, or half-lie at best, but Chuuya also thinks that Mori probably wouldn't want him to break himself down into total dysfunctionality. He'd be useless.

He knows Doc would tell him off, probably. Not obviously, but there would be an odd comment or two, which would be backed up by one of the others. Hell, Chuuya had been on the receiving end of a lecture once from Lippmann about the importance of sleep and water (and it was a lecture, despite the man insisting it wasn't). 

Chuuya frowns, staring at the lone empty wall opposite his bed. Thinking about them even a little still stings in a way that has him wishing he could crawl back into bed again.

He could. Chuuya glances briefly at the tousled blankets, at the way the late morning sun drips through the window and onto the covers. It looks enticing. 

Chuuya sighs, and it breaks the moment in an instant. No, he has never been one to completely wallow in misery, and he won't start now. 

The very slight off sensation in his body doesn't go away, but it's faint enough that Chuuya can trust that it's just in his head. Psychological stuff, maybe. It wouldn't be the first time something has fucked with his head, and phantom feelings and sensations wouldn't even be the weirdest experience he's had to endure — probably wouldn't even make the top ten. 

Despite his abrupt wakening, Chuuya does his best to dress and clean up as quickly as possible. It is a godsend that this room has an ensuite bathroom because Chuuya does not want to take his chances with crossing paths with Dazai so soon. He's surprised Dazai hasn't come in yet; Chuuya's bedroom doesn't have a lock (evidently, as Dazai was in here) and yet he runs through the motions of the morning, thankfully even sparing a quick shower — and yet Dazai is nowhere to be seen. 

Serves him right.

It isn't long after that Chuuya emerges to a silent apartment, idly toweling his hair dry. There is a small part of him that wonders if Dazai really did have work to do today, and has simply run out of time. But, Chuuya knows Dazai.

Sure enough, there is the sound of someone just outside his front door. 

Chuuya can pick up a hushed voice that can only belong to Dazai, and it instantly piques his curiosity. With some minor assistance through his gravity manipulation, Chuuya steps very quietly over to the door. He isn't one to eavesdrop often, but he tries anyway. Unfortunately, Dazai is still too muffled. 

“Whatever,” Chuuya mutters to himself, before opening the door abruptly. 

“—you best make sure it does,” he catches Dazai saying. Dazai instantly turns to face the door as soon as Chuuya opens it, and so Chuuya comes face to face with Dazai’s dark expression which fades from existence so suddenly at the sight of him that Chuuya could've imagined the whole thing. 

Dazai ends the call by slapping his flip phone shut (which Chuuya finds quite peculiar because he knows Dazai uses touchscreens — hell, he saw him use one yesterday.) 

Dazai must pick up on his gaze because he holds up the phone and gives it a slight wiggle. “Burner,” he says, before his voice picks up as he adds, “but it makes for quite a cute phone, don't you think~?”

“You look and sound like a schoolgirl,” Chuuya says flatly. 

“Why, chibi, I think that aesthetic would suit you perfectly,” Dazai says cheerily. “You have the height and looks, why not add a skirt and flip phone along with it?” 

“Hey, fuck you,” Chuuya practically growls, his hands flexing in place of grabbing Dazai’s collar again. With poorly concealed anger, he pivots back around and slams the door in Dazai's face. 

Chuuya only gets a few steps into the kitchen before Dazai walks through the door calmly as if nothing had ever happened, and is much too comfortable. “I'm not gonna bother to ask what that was,” Chuuya says as Dazai circles around to sit at one of the counter seats. “But if you have something to say, spit it out already.”

“I'm not the one who shut the door in my face,” Dazai says unhelpfully. He has an awful grin on his face that makes Chuuya's eye twitch. 

“Oi, watch it,” Chuuya hisses, “I can still throw you from the window.”

“So dramatic,” Dazai mutters. 

There is a moment's pause when Dazai doesn't elaborate, and so Chuuya pushes further with a raised eyebrow. “So?” he asks. 

As he waits for a reply, Chuuya turns around and searches the kitchen. He isn't particularly hungry at all, but it beats staring at Dazai. Immediately, he is amazed at what he finds; the entire kitchen has become quite stocked, not only with food items but additional utensils as well, and while Chuuya would be flattered, there's something that makes his stomach twist when he properly realises this is all Dazai's doing. He'd be lying if he said a part of him didn't feel a bit violated. 

His discomfort is odd, however, because Chuuya has yet to form a strong attachment to this place. Not enough to personalise it, certainly. So why is he feeling this protective now? Chuuya wasn't when he was having those nightmares. Hell, he goes one night with relative peace and suddenly he has the urge to care for and clean his apartment by kicking Dazai out along with everything he brought with him.

… Well, the latter isn't an unusual sentiment, at least. 

“You're very distracted this morning,” Dazai murmurs, and Chuuya can feel his eyes watching as his hands mess around with the upper cupboards. He's barely tall enough to reach them, but Chuuya tries to play it off, because if Dazai so much as utters a word about it he will most definitely send the taller boy out of the window. 

“No, I'm not,” Chuuya retorts idly. Unsurprisingly, there's (previously nonexistent, of course) some brand of unrefrigerated iced coffee sitting on this top shelf which Chuuya decides is good enough for a substitute breakfast. He isn't feeling hungry, and if he has to feel Dazai's eyes following him any longer he might just break a few hinges. 

“See, that's how I know,” Dazai says, a certain lilt to his voice the only indication that he's slipping into his annoying side. Chuuya almost rolls his eyes as he hears it. “You're so very docile. Where's that aggressive hound disposition of yours? Don't tell me it takes one night’s rest to mellow you out?”

“Fuck off,” he says. “You're the one who woke me up. And why are you here anyway? I thought you left just before.”

Dazai hums. “No, I was just outside. You saw me.”

“Right,” Chuuya says, “fine, I'll ask. What was that? Who were you talking to?” 

“Easy to see why you're not an interrogator,” Dazai mutters very quietly before Chuuya's glower has him quickly adding, “but, if you must know — I was getting off work, of course!” 

The sudden jump in his voice almost makes Chuuya slip as he turns to lean on the bench opposite Dazai, open coffee can in hand. Abandoning any sense of decorum, Chuuya lazily licks at what spilled on his hand, eyes narrowing in amusement at Dazai’s mildly disgusted look. “And why are you doing that?” he asks. 

“Do I need a reason to spend time with my lovely partner in crime?” Dazai says, voice practically dripping with insincerity. 

“Yes,” Chuuya answers automatically.

Dazai pouts. “I'm serious,” he says. Unseriously, in Chuuya's opinion. 

“I have a job today,” Chuuya tries. 

“No, you don't.”

Truly, this boy is irritating. Chuuya takes pity on Dazai's subordinates, and he wonders what possessed him to even consider letting him stay over the previous night. 

“I have plans,” he concedes. 

“Very good,” Dazai says. 

“You're not coming.”

“No?”

Chuuya exhales grumpily. His patience has, in his opinion, been immaculate this morning. 

As he finishes his coffee, he looks at Dazai properly and is taken aback at how… normal he looks. Despite what some outsiders seem to think, Chuuya can recognise most of Dazai's tells, whether that be in combat or just plain Dazai. There isn't anything calculating to his eyes — though Chuuya is well aware that doesn't necessarily mean he isn't — but if Chuuya didn't know better, Dazai just looks genuine. Nothing more, nothing less. Frankly, he still doesn't have the energy to bother diving deeper anyway. 

As if this whole experience of his for the past few weeks hasn't been strange and disorienting enough. What’s one more?

“Alright,” Chuuya relents, “but the second you start getting shitty, I am dumping you in the river.” 

“Sounds good to me,” Dazai says easily, slipping off the chair and following him through the door. Chuuya doesn’t know if it's an agreement to the arrangement or delight at the prospect of being thrown in the river.

“With broken bones.”

“Typical brute.” 

Honour the time you had. It should be enough, right?

Chapter Text

“I am not getting on that.”

“You’re a hypocrite, you know that?” Chuuya says grumpily. 

“I just don’t trust your driving, that’s all,” Dazai says. He shrugs as if it is a fair assessment, which only sours Chuuya’s already depleting mood. 

He really doesn’t want to arrive feeling shitty, but Dazai very well might make it happen.

Chuuya taps his foot as he waits for Dazai. He’s already perched on his (Albatross’s, his mind unhelpfully adds yet again) bike while Dazai stalls right next to him. He seems to pick up on Chuuya’s impatience, however, because he says, “Are you sure you’ve driven this around much? Recently?”

“I have,” Chuuya says, but there is a bitter taste in his mouth as he does, tinged also with an imagined metallic tang of blood. The more Dazai draws attention to it, the more the swirl of nausea starts to make itself known in Chuuya’s stomach.

He tries his best not to linger on things like this. Getting on this bike was hard enough the first time — for at least a few rides afterwards, even. Chuuya suppresses the pained noise (it's a horrible thing he feels, like a ghost lingering in the back of his throat) when he remembers the few times Albatross had actually taken him for a ride on it himself. It was one of the first times Chuuya had ever ridden a motorcycle, and while there were a few more times after that, Chuuya remembers the sheer glee in his voice as Albatross laughed at Chuuya’s first time, his hands unconsciously clinging to Albatross at any sharp, high-speed turns. 

It had only taken a few short rides for Chuuya to relax more. “You’ll be an ace in no time,” Albatross had told him, one evening at a sunset by one of their affiliated piers. “I’ll give ya some pointers, and I even have one or two bikes I can lend ya! I can see it now: a high-speed getaway — you’ll love it, it always works.”

He did, in fact. Even prior to the Flags’ deaths, Chuuya had embraced the freedom it gave him. And he had wanted to thank Albatross for helping him cultivate such a thing. 

Guilt starts to gnaw at the edges of Chuuya’s mind. It felt like so long ago, but it wasn’t. It felt like such an insignificant, business-only gesture — except in hindsight, Chuuya recognises the very obvious kindness that came with it. Even years from now, he might look at a motorcycle and think of them. All over a fuckin’ bike.  

He wants to reach back in time and strangle himself at how jaded he must have been after the Sheep.

Impatient, Chuuya starts tapping with a bit more force; any more and there is going to be a hole in the ground — quite literally if his gravity had a say in it. “Aren’t you the one with a death wish here? What’s the problem?”

Dazai eyes the bike carefully, examining it as if he might find a fault on the exterior. He seems to be thinking something — which, he always is, but for Chuuya to see it on his face so clearly is enough of a tell that he really might be having misconceptions about riding with Chuuya, even beyond his tendency to be difficult just because — and after a brief moment, he looks to Chuuya, thoughtfulness still clear in his expression as he asks, “How’s your head feeling?”

Chuuya is taken aback. “My head?”

Dazai nods.

“Fine,” Chuuya says slowly, raising an eyebrow as he watches Dazai stand straight with a sigh. He seems to have given up on whatever he was looking for because with a defeated sigh he finally sits down behind Chuuya. 

“Alright, alright, drive us to hell then, chibi,” he says, but his tone is so flat and uninterested that Chuuya starts to wonder if it really was his driving that Dazai was worried about. He never mentioned a headache or anything, but what else would Dazai even mean?

With a light huff of irritation, Chuuya starts the ignition and speeds off immediately, pointedly ignoring the indignant screech of Dazai behind him.

It doesn't take long to reach their destination. The more mountainous areas aren't particularly rough to get to, the road smooth and the air clean, but Chuuya feels anxious arriving all the same. 

“I'm pretty sure you ran a red light back there, Chuuya,” Dazai says. His legs shake ever so slightly as he gets off the bike and stands, which gives away any apprehension he must have felt during the ride.

Chuuya feels both pettily amused and mildly offended at that — he's actually become a great driver, thank you very much.

When he doesn't see glimpses of what shouldn't be there, that is. 

“I think you're imagining things,” he says mildly as he removes the keys and takes a moment to just sit and breathe. It’s a weak attempt at quelling the twist of discomfort in his belly, and really, Dazai might actually be right about that red light; Chuuya’s head had started to swirl at least five minutes into the trip, and he can't even pinpoint whether it was the anxiety about the trip, or something else entirely. 

No matter, though. They are here now, surrounded by the perfectly green foliage of the trees, grass, and shrubs of the almost perfectly maintained graveyard. 

It dips between being ominous and melancholic, in Chuuya's opinion. However, the few times he has visited previously he has seen people that, by all means, feel too bright, too soft, or too alive to be in such a place. He knows he isn’t one of them, and neither is Dazai — they probably never will be — but it is still a peculiar thing to witness and think about all the same.

Chuuya thinks about one such occasion as he steps off the motorcycle with a final caress against the vivid red paint. 

He accompanied Doc here once, and at the time, Chuuya was contemplating whether or not he was going to face another assassination attempt so soon after the Sheep. 

He happened to require some treatment a few weeks after meeting the Flags and after one or two visits to Doc. Chuuya had stumbled his way to him with a bullet in his calf after an operation with Dazai. It was during cleanup that he received it, so Chuuya had done his best to hide the wound from Dazai lest his proficiency get accused of being inadequate. It was so soon after starting the occasional missions with Dazai, and so Chuuya refused to show any weakness. He had to become an executive before Dazai, after all.

It was also by chance that Chuuya managed to catch Doc outside Old World as the latter was headed towards the graveyard. He invited Chuuya to come with him, and in a bizarre act of decision-making, Chuuya did. It was almost excruciating when Doc treated his wound in the car ride over (and while Chuuya was deeply amazed by it, he was also embarrassed that the driver probably heard his pained curses along the way) and when they arrived, Chuuya curiously followed him. 

They met with a pretty young woman with pale hair wearing a sundress. She stood out so horribly in the clouded, wet weather that day, so much that Chuuya almost thought her to be a ghost. 

She exchanged words with Doc while Chuuya lingered back, reluctant to put pressure on his leg nor eavesdrop on a discussion he had no business with. It was surprising enough that Doc came all the way, IV and all — but after pointing to a direction in the graveyard, the lovely woman bowed and left.

“Who was that?” Chuuya had asked. 

Doc had a faint smile on his face and eyed Chuuya, who felt almost exposed under the scrutiny. “An acquaintance,” he said, “One who lost her older brother very recently…”

Chuuya could feel the weather getting colder. “Was he a patient of yours?” he asked quietly. 

Doc hummed. “At some point, yes. But more importantly, she was delivering some particular supplies I'm in need of… quite crucial, heh heh…” A quick glance at the driver was all it took for the shadowing man to leave their presence, presumably to retrieve the mentioned supplies from wherever they were being held nearby. Kind of creepy, Chuuya had thought — illegal medical equipment to be used for who knows what — but nothing he hadn't seen before. Doc was good at his profession, and Chuuya thought it inconsequential where they came from if they saved people.

Chuuya couldn't pinpoint whether it was for this sole reason Doc had come all this way, or something else. He never had much time to ask. He never really saw Doc treat many people in the first place, despite his absurdly high body count. He also never saw him anywhere except with the Flags. 

To be honest, he didn’t really see many of them outside of their meetups. Did any of them have a family? Friends? Lovers? Did they know what happened to them?

Did they care?

It is that encounter Chuuya thinks of when he looks at the sky now; it's partially clouded, the slightest drops of rainwater falling lightly on his face. They feel lighter than tears even, though a bitter part of Chuuya internally grimaces at the comparison, because often it was hard to distinguish between the weight of his physical symptoms and the weight of whatever emotional turmoil was dragging his heart down at the same time during those episodes of his. Still, however, even the water drops cannot divert his mind from Doc. 

How ironic, that he sees them even here at their deathbeds.

“Chuuya, if you stand here all day, the graves might think you're one of them,” Dazai chides from a distance. He's gone ahead and is halfway up the entrance steps, which are dyed a dark charcoal grey from the rain. Despite its lightness, it hasn’t seemed to have cleared since early this morning, even with the sparse droplets. 

Chuuya finds it rather fitting.

“I’m coming,” he says as he follows. Dazai doesn’t answer as he turns and disappears at the top of the stairs, walking with a bit too much of a bounce and a light humming that makes Chuuya frown. It feels disrespectful, somehow, to see Dazai acting so carefree in such a place. Chuuya has never been able to shake off the solemn front he feels is mandatory for a setting like this. 

The poor weather seems to be the only thing that paints this place as visibly dreary, however. As Chuuya walks calmly down steps and across the paved walkway he takes in how clean the place is. Countless graves line the rows and rows of the cemetery, and as Chuuya passes each of them he can see that the vast majority have been cleaned. It brings a small comfort to him, knowing that when he is unable to, someone might be able to take care of the Flags’s gravesites in his place.

Chuuya is almost surprised at the number of flowers left behind as well. He knows how common it is, but for such a large amount of gravestones, he expected a few to be absent or wilted. Granted, many of them are looking rather average in this weather, foliage damp and petals withdrawn, but even that doesn’t smear the overall atmosphere of the graveyard. If he thinks about it, Chuuya could consider the flowers to be mourning in their own way.

It is almost comforting, the way he can tell when some arrangements are amateurly made. Chuuya doesn’t know many of his flowers yet (he's sure Lippmann knew a thing or two though; he mentioned things like this once) let alone their meanings, but at a glance, he can tell when some have such a personal touch that the maker mustn’t know either. From the ribbons, the flower choices, even the cards left behind — he saw a soggy, smudged one back there — Chuuya feels simultaneously a heartwarming and utterly soul-crushing tug deep in his chest. It's like his lungs have become heavy with something, and it makes Chuuya pause to take a short breath to ensure he is just imagining it.

He feels a bit silly getting emotional over flowers and cards. In all honesty, he should be more surprised that all these graves are so well cared for.

As he stops, Chuuya briefly catches sight of a peculiar grave. It sticks out from the others, solely from the fact that the flowers left behind are all various shades of red. Chuuya almost missed it, because it is located on the far end of one of the rows, submerged in the dark shadow of the tree’s shade that is planted right next to it. He can tell from here the flowers may have been chosen solely for their colour, and Chuuya almost steps over to investigate. Red is a very bold colour, after all. He’d know.

It's like once he sees it, he can't look away. The red is like the bike, but the flowers make him think of Lippmann, because they are quite beautiful, even at a distance. Beautiful, but the longer he stares, the more it uncomfortably looks like a stain against the green of the grass and trees, a violent, vibrant contrast that flickers between beautiful and frightening.

“I didn’t peg you for a sightseer, Chuuya — especially not a place like this. Unless you're shopping for a plot…?” 

Chuuya doesn’t jump at Dazai’s voice, but a part of him startles at his sudden presence next to him. Dazai is watching him, leaning over closely (distantly, Chuuya wonders if he's grown taller) and Chuuya knows he’s made a mistake, being so distracted as he walks through here. 

Chuuya shoves at Dazai’s face with a growl. “You’re disrespectful, you know that?”

“Come now, that’s a bit harsh,” Dazai mutters, but he does sort of drop the topic regardless, shoving his hands in the side pockets of his pants. At a distance, it looks like he's sulking, but Chuuya knows Dazai would never be so obvious.

Chuuya spares a single glance back at the grave head. He knows he wouldn't know the name that is written, nor would he find anything useful other than a bundle of red flowers. Still, its starkness has drawn his attention to just how many graves are kept here, and how many are those who, even with the apparent graveyard maintenance, might rest forgotten.

Part of him wonders if any suffered similarly to the Flags. He hopes not, but he also isn't a fool enough to expect it to be impossible, especially in a place like this. There was a high chance there were other Port Mafia’s bodies here. Maybe even some from then.

The thought of it clouds his mind. They continue without further words. 

The rest of the walk to the respective resting place of the Flags is in silence. Chuuya does wonder if something has compelled Dazai to keep his own mouth shut (because as soon as Chuuya even entertained the idea of bringing Dazai, he knew and anticipated that the trip would be an irritating one) but to Chuuya's surprise, Dazai simply trots along at his side with the occasional hum. It's not the sort of silence that he does when he is planning something particularly nefarious (rare as it is, Chuuya is learning how to pick up on it) nor is it a silence that feels too grim or dangerous. 

Chuuya is — dare he say — feeling kind of comfortable with Dazai. As comfortable as one can be when waltzing to one's dead friends’ graves, at least. He'd never say it out loud, but the extra presence has turned this walk into something much less sulky, like he hasn't been left alone, even if it feels that way.

Finally, they reach them. 

Dazai pauses a few steps further back and feigns a somewhat disrespectful indifference, checking his nails for dirt and the like. Chuuya would be annoyed with him if he wasn't fully aware that this was simply one of Dazai's more honest methods of dealing with touchy scenarios like this. Sometimes, the boy can have decorum when he wants to.

The weather clears ever so slightly, enough for the sun to shine a ray or two between the clouds. Chuuya can't help but scoff at that, even if the corner of his mouth twitches upwards as he does. At least the world is kind enough not to have them meet in the rain. 

They all would laugh at him if he did. He already looks like a mildly drenched rat. 

The graves themselves are lined next to each other, which makes things easier, however, Chuuya thinks the most important part is that they can at least be together as friends. 

Chuuya frowns lightly at that thought. No, even the walk here — he doesn't remember thinking about death so much like this. It's unnerving, but he can't help it, so he only swallows any remaining thoughts down instead. If he takes too long here, Dazai will get nosy. 

He doesn't really want Dazai near them. Not yet.

He exhales a breath. Then, through the feelings of awkwardness and shame, Chuuya speaks quietly. 

For once, Chuuya feels somewhat grateful that Dazai wasn't a creep and gave him space. By the time Chuuya finishes paying his respects (though, he never was one to do much besides sit and talk occasionally) Dazai finally reappears from wherever he was to ask, “You done, slug?”

Ah, back to insults. No doubt whatever minor quiet that managed to occur has passed by now. 

“Yeah, let's go,” Chuuya answers. He feels subdued, but relieved, although there is a bit of pain coming through now that he's standing straight again. Despite the brief sun that has since clouded over again, the damp weather makes his aches play up worse than normal, and so Chuuya doesn't think twice when he gets a bit queasy when he finally stands and starts moving again. 

It'll pass, he tells himself.

Before they leave, someone is clearing their throat behind them.

Chuuya's head whips around quickly and quietly. His hands rest in the pockets of his jacket (that is almost as ratty as he feels — it's an old one, torn and frayed) but his fists still clench with anticipation.

Next to him, Dazai keeps his relaxed posture, but Chuuya knows from the angle of his waist and the gaze of his eyes that he is equally on guard.

As Chuuya sees the newcomer however, his guard almost drops.

It's the woman from before — long before, the one he met with Doc when he was here last. That would have been a few months ago perhaps, but here she is, as if the meeting was only an hour prior. Except, in this case, her outfit is all black, a stark contrast to the pale beauty he remembers. In her arms is a large basket, completely filled to the brim with a mirage of vibrant flowers. She holds a large, dark umbrella in the crook of her arm, looking like the picture-perfect image of a young lady heartbroken at a rainy funeral.

She makes eye contact and approaches swiftly. Her heels click against the path and her long skirt flows lightly in the wind. She appears harmless, but Chuuya goes on the defensive immediately. 

“Who are you?” Chuuya asks. He keeps his tone even, but the woman simply smiles like he had offered a greeting.

“I remember you,” she says with an airy voice, “when the doctor came to see me.”

Chuuya's jaw tenses, but he stays silent. Dazai does too, which makes Chuuya curse internally as he notices; the other boy is clearly assessing their non-existent relation, and it hurts, because the only link here is Doc, and he doesn't want that reminder, fuck.

“I'm not here for you,” she continues. But, then she holds the basket forward, almost like an offering. Chuuya eyes it cautiously.

Despite the clear rejection, she elaborates. “I heard he passed recently. It's a shame, I owed a lot to him. You were friends, right?” 

Chuuya's eyes sting.

“Yeah,” he mutters, “we were.”

“Then take some of these,” she says. 

Chuuya doesn't move.

“A beautiful lady offering flowers? How wonderfully kind of you, miss,” Dazai chimes in. He steps over, almost rhythmically so, to stand next to both Chuuya and the woman. He assesses the flowers with an easy smile, before glancing at Chuuya from under his eyelashes. In a deceptively gentle voice, he asks, “Well, Chuuya, which do you think?”

The stinging in his eyes hasn't disappeared yet, even as they brush over the beautiful petals of the abundant mass of flowers. Dazai nudges closer slightly and prompts again, “Well? You can't keep her waiting.”

“I don't know,” he murmurs. He's too quiet, he thinks, so Chuuya clears his throat and speaks a bit louder, asking the woman, “What… what would be best?”

She doesn't even answer. She just smiles, and her eyes drift between him and Dazai. 

“Chuuya,” Dazai drawls again, before picking up one of the flowers. There are many that Chuuya is almost certain aren't native, but they are quite beautiful; Dazai holds a light purple — lilac, Chuuya's mind supplies mildly — flower, characterised as a small cluster of petals and buds. 

Dazai raises an eyebrow at him, and smirks very lightly as he questions, “What do you think?” He holds it up for Chuuya to see, right next to his own face. Chuuya's eyes narrow at that, because there's an annoying twinge of something in his mind that supplies, huh, Dazai doesn't look half bad with that colour.

The thought is gone just as quickly as it comes as Chuuya snaps a quiet, “This isn't about you, you selfish bastard.” Briefly, he is worried about what this woman might think of them, but her expression doesn’t change much. She must have some sort of familiarity with the Mafia then, to be unsurprised at eccentric individuals like Dazai.

Dazai hums quietly, a defeated tone wavering through the sound. To Chuuya's disappointment, he doesn't back off, but picks up more flowers to compare and poke at Chuuya's thoughts.

It goes on like that for a while. With its large size, the basket the woman holds has quite a few varieties; Chuuya remembers (from somewhere. He doesn't like the implications of that, not after knowing what he knows) that chrysanthemums could be appropriate mourning flowers, so he chooses a few, as well as a few other types before laying them down to rest at the headstones.

It's obvious the results don't demonstrate a strong knowledge of any kind of symbolism or message, but Chuuya feels relieved regardless. With the short time that has passed, the sun has started to creep through the clouds again, and the gravestones of the Flags start to look… nicer.

Chuuya frowns. ‘Nicer’ isn't quite the word he'd use at all. What he does think of is ‘loved’ — except, even that feels deceiving.

Has Chuuya known them enough to say that? Loved?

“They're looking lively, don't you think?” 

Chuuya only now realises he's been staring, crouched at the final grave — Piano Man's — deep in thought. Next to and above him, Dazai stands casually, weight resting on one leg as he turns the lilac he picked out earlier in his hands.

He catches Chuuya's eyes as the latter turns his head to peer up at him. Dazai smiles down at him from behind the petals. 

When Chuuya rises to a stand, he does so with an annoyed groan. “That was awful,” he says, “and rude.” He makes a grab at Dazai again, but the taller boy prances out of range. 

The woman still stands there silently, and so Chuuya forgoes chasing down Dazai in a fit of mild rage to instead talk to her.

“Thanks,” he says quietly. “I forgot to bring something along…”

“Don't worry about it,” she says as she holds up a well-manicured hand to halt his words. “I've met one of them before, after all.”

“I remember seeing you with Doc,” Chuuya adds.

She nods. “You did. He was very… peculiar.”

Chuuya can't help but scoff a light laugh at that. “He was,” he says, a hint of fondness creeping through his voice. “They all were.”

She laughs lightly, before poking and prodding at the remaining flowers. Her shifting tells Chuuya she's leaving, and she does just that with little warning — she waves gently and turns on her feet just as fluidly. She says as a goodbye, “I think they’d appreciate you visiting. You’re very kind to do so. Take care of yourself.”

Despite knowing she wouldn't see it, Chuuya nods curtly and says quietly, “Right. You too.”

She continues along the paved path unwaveringly, heels clicking and gradually fading. By the time the echo falls silent and her figure disappears from view, Chuuya hears a snicker beside him. 

“‘You too,’” Dazai murmurs, amused. “You sound so silly speaking like that, Chuuya. You didn’t even ask for her name.”

“Eat shit,” Chuuya mutters.

“Yuck.”

As gives the stones a final once-over, Chuuya turns and leaves the cemetery.

“I'm thinking of doing some traveling,” Chuuya says idly as they walk down the entrance steps back to the parked bike. He has his hands in his pockets — a habit that still lingers, it seems — and the crunches of leaves accompany every step. If he had a morbid imagination like Dazai, there could be some ironic comparison to bones here, but Chuuya is feeling much too pleasant (relatively speaking, of course) to make such horrific comparisons. There's a lightness in the air that has Chuuya feeling mildly relaxed, quite like the way nature sits still after rainfall.

Much like today’s, in fact. At least the petrichor gives him something to focus his senses on.

Dazai makes an interested hum, but in Chuuya's peripherals, he sees that Dazai’s attention remains on the lilac in his hands. He turns it, twirls it, and gently touches the petals. He's very delicate with it. How he manages to do such a thing while walking straight is a bit annoying to Chuuya, and he silently wishes Dazai will trip or run into something.

“That would be great,” Dazai says, “to finally be free of Chuuya… How about somewhere far? Europe? That should be far enough…”

“Yes, actually,” Chuuya growls quietly. But the reasoning is enough to stop him from getting too irritated. “Maybe France, if possible.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“Y’think the Port Mafia has any reach that far?” Chuuya asks. 

Fortunately, Dazai seems to take an interest in discussing the topic. “They do, to an extent,” he says, though he sounds a bit disgruntled. It makes sense — Chuuya is well aware of Dazai's prickly opinion of the Mafia on most days. If it isn't mild irritation (most often in regard to Mori) then it is apathy. “But whether or not Mori will let you… Hm, hard to say.” He then shoots a smirk at Chuuya. “Of course, if you climbed the ladder a bit more…”

“Which I will,” Chuuya asserts. “Am, actually. Surely you've heard something.”

To Chuuya's surprise, Dazai lowers the flower and turns his full attention to him. They’re at the end of the steps now — Chuuya's bike is only a few paces away — but Dazai stops completely to speak. 

“Mm, I have. You're still serious, then?”

Chuuya mirrors a smirk back. “Of course I am.”

“Wonderful. Now then, where to?” Dazai asks as soon as they step near the bike. “Because I don't think I want to ride that again, so if we are going far… no thanks, sorry.” 

Chuuya wants to roll his eyes at Dazai's audacity, but for some reason, he can't find it in him to be entirely peeved at Dazai's presence on his day off. The other boy has been rather well-behaved today. Relatively, at least; he didn't go off too hard when the woman arrived, nor did he cut into Chuuya's time spent at the graves of the Flags.

Part of Chuuya wonders when the other shoe will drop.

“I can drop you off closer to HQ,” he offers. 

Dazai makes an exaggerated noise of consideration as he slowly walks around the bike. The lilacs still sit between his fingers. It's oddly captivating to Chuuya; Dazai must really like it because the stem isn't broken and not a petal has fallen yet. 

“I guess that is fine,” Dazai drawls, but then huffs grumpily and says under his breath, “And after all the trouble I went through to cancel work…”

“Take it or leave it. Otherwise, I'm leaving you here and you can walk back to whatever hole you live in.”

Dazai presses the hand holding the lilac to his chest, scandalised. “How mean. I’m not the one short enough to be a mole rat.”

“Wanna repeat that?”

Despite the difficulty, Dazai does accept the ride. 

The days following that graveyard visit were… peculiar, to say the least.

It wasn't that Chuuya felt there was a significant change — no, he still wakes with pain in his back, like two hands are tearing open the skin and muscle surrounding his shoulder blades, or the dull, creaking pain that feels like it stretches along the length of his tibias in both legs (which has become particularly irritating as he has stumbled in the presence of higher authority more than once. Thank whatever lord is up there Dazai hasn't been around to witness anything of the sort.) 

Even his hands and fingers haven't been exempt, nor anything, really. Logically, Chuuya knows he should probably ask Mori again for some sort of solution, but why would there be? Enough doctors (supposed doctors, that is, because even now Chuuya can’t bring himself to visit a regular, normal hospital) have looked at him after the events of Guivre and had found there was nothing wrong with him, and that was barely before he developed his aversion for any further professional examination.

Chuuya chalks it all up to growing pains — at least then he can bear them with some sort of payoff in mind. 

Miraculously, the tablets Dazai gave him seem to work. Chuuya hasn't dreamt since Dazai first handed them over a few days ago. It's been… both a blessing and a curse, really. Chuuya has once again returned to the dreamless sleep he has been oh so familiar with for the first decade and a half of his life. On one hand, it has removed the nightmares entirely and given back some modicum of rest each night.

On the other hand, however, the absence of dreams has once again returned to Chuuya his feelings of loneliness and alienation. It's a hard thing to acknowledge even these days when he is fully aware both things are, frankly, nothing to be worried about in the first place. 

And yet.

Sometimes, he thinks of innocent dreams, like his first. That reflective space of water and sky; peaceful and abstract enough for his mind not to latch on to something — or someone — painful. That kind of dream would have been something to poke and prod at when he'd wake. He heard once from Piano Man of one of the Mafia's girls being really into dreams — an interpreter, or something — and a small part of him wonders, what would she have found? 

What indeed. Chuuya never had much skill in inferring from abstractions, but something in him tells him the Flags would've had a grand time trying to do so. 

Especially Albatross , Chuuya thinks to himself humorously. He seems the type to believe that stuff. Hell, maybe even Iceman. That would be a surprise for sure.

Currently, Chuuya is enjoying a drink on the small balcony of his apartment. It's evening, and while it is at a time Chuuya is normally at work, he got a promotion today. A small one that has only upgraded him to managing the jewels more directly. 

At least he has the power to fire people for less now.

“Hooray,” Chuuya mutters quietly to himself as he tips the bottle. He’s lost count of how many glasses he’s had, though he never bothered to keep track in the first place — he’s not feeling very tipsy, so he supposes it's fine. It’s not a common occurrence, but there hasn’t been much alcohol in this place for a while. 

A second glass lies discarded on a small glass side table he has sitting out here with two chairs. Presents from Hirotsu, who’s recently been able to hold an amicable relationship with Chuuya. Dazai's always accused Chuuya of having poor taste in fashion and interior design, which predictably also extends to every item under his roof, but these, these he can't complain about. 

Speaking of Dazai, however…

Things have been… odd. They've started to settle into a weird, almost tolerable dynamic after the lab and Verlaine. They jab, they fight, but overall they've managed to get along fine. Chuuya still can't tell Dazai's thoughts on everything that transpired, though — he's still much too elusive and tricky with his words, and from a distance, it doesn't feel like anything has changed in his behaviour — and yet Chuuya has been seeing more of him in places he really shouldn't. He's begun to see Dazai in a hallway or two, a handful of times on the street, and they've even crossed paths a few times in some of the underground parking lots (which is strange, in hindsight, because Chuuya has never seen the boy drive anything, though he doubts he could, and yet Dazai was definitely alone). Sometimes it's brief, other times they might go out if they aren’t both busy. It varies from moment to moment.

Chuuya, surprisingly, doesn't actually hate it. If anything, it's almost… eerily familiar. They've certainly spent time together before — the arcade is a frequent venue of theirs — but it feels a bit different now.

Chuuya hums. The bottle’s empty, so he swirls what’s left in his glass with a bored gaze and loose fingers. It’s not a warm or cool evening, and the air is dead silent, only the traffic for company; no wind, no noteworthy sensation at all. The lack of any particular qualities to the weather (aside from the overcast, that is) has the whole evening feeling rather timeless. 

It’s… nice. 

With this newfounded dynamic (yet delicate — Chuuya still feels a bit hesitant to call it comfortable) maybe he could ask Dazai if there's anything to fix his aches, but then again, the idea of asking Dazai for something else is mortifying. The first time around he was plagued enough with shitty dreams that he couldn’t focus on anything, and anything he did manage to spend more than a handful of hours working on turned out rather poor. Chuuya only narrowly avoided fucking up his work before he caved to asking. 

For now, it has worked out. Dreams gone, work back on track. There is a mission coming up for both Dazai and Chuuya. Something relatively small and seemingly unimportant when compared to saving Yokohama from destruction, but it is a mission nonetheless. Chuuya isn’t a fool to delude himself into thinking that Mori is assigning it solely out of care for Chuuya (after all, Chuuya has insisted the past two days that he can operate as normal from here on) but even so, perhaps he should take it as a blessing. Getting back into the throes of things, so to speak. Getting familiar again, in light of everything they’ve learned, though even that feels a bit one-sided; Chuuya has certainly had an eventful few weeks. It feels almost unfair that Dazai now knows so much more about him than he does of Dazai. 

Hell, Chuuya doesn’t even know where the other boy lives, whereas Dazai is able to prance into Chuuya’s apartment whenever he likes.

Such as now, for instance.

Chuuya can hear the creak of the door even from here, which is all the confirmation Chuuya needs to know that it is Dazai. The other boy has made a habit out of coming in as loudly as possible in recent days. Knowing him, however, it’s all a coverup for when he sneaks in without a sound. That is when Chuuya needs to worry about him. He can feel it coming. 

Now, though, all Chuuya is treated to is a deadpanned delivery of, “Really, Chuuya, drinking already? … Is that the entire bottle? I’m almost certain you can’t handle that,” as Dazai stares at him from the balcony’s sliding door. 

Chuuya doesn’t look around at him, not yet. His eyes are still glued to what little remains in his glass, idly murmuring, “It was barely half full, actually. And that’s none of your business. What are you doing here, Dazai?”

Dazai pouts. Chuuya doesn’t need to see it to know it. “Such attitude for someone so small, jeez,” he sighs a moment later when he realises Chuuya isn’t rising to the bait (and distantly, Chuuya is a bit surprised himself) before his voice evens out into what Chuuya recognises as his business tone. “Mission’s been pushed up. We’re heading out tonight — Mori thinks they caught on to us, so they’re picking up shop and moving it already. Probably out of the city, if not the country.” 

Chuuya scoffs at that. “Right, as if they haven’t done that and crawled back already.” 

He can hear Dazai’s shrug in his voice. “Well, peddlers like this aren’t always the smartest. Why Mori’s giving it to us, I have no idea, but orders are orders, right?”

He feels a bit awful — despite his slowly growing enjoyment of wine, Chuuya tries not to pull anything risky before doing anything important — but, deadlines are deadlines. These mercs aren't going to sit pretty and wait while Chuuya sleeps off whatever looming discomfort is plaguing him in the aftermath of drinking a little.

“Alright,” Chuuya says, rising and facing Dazai. He’s leaning against the door, arms crossed and looking as every bit thrilled as Chuuya is feeling. Inwardly, Chuuya smiles. At least he can find some comfort in knowing that Dazai isn’t pleased tonight either. 

That makes two of them, then — and while Chuuya can’t speak for Dazai, punching things has always worked some wonders in making himself feel better, as horrible as it is.

He meets Dazai’s eyes, dark and unforgiving for what’s to come. 

“Let’s go, then.” 

“I think I prefer this to our little lightshow a few weeks ago, don’t you think, Chuuya? Much less bothersome.”

“That’s rich coming from you. You hardly did anything then, either,” Chuuya snaps halfheartedly, because even after it all, he can’t help but feel an appreciation for Dazai’s presence that night —- even if he made things worse before he made them better. 

Dazai sniffs, unperturbed. There’s dirt on his shoulder from when a part of the ceiling fell down, a foundation beam lying in a rubbled heap a few inches from his now dust-layered shoes. He stares down at it boredly and says exasperatedly, “I think that’s entirely subjective.” 

Chuuya rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning away from the now-unconscious man before him. The whole group lies in shambles, and neither Chuuya nor Dazai are worse for wear. Dazai was right; this was quite an easy task, but Chuuya is still walking off the lingering hum of a-bit-too-much wine in his system, alongside his persistent headache. There’s lightheadedness now, too, but that he blames on all the dust in the air. He’s already sneezed three times. 

Scowling, Chuuya carefully steps over the rubble and bodies. There’s an off-putting spread of blood across the floor, congealing with whatever dirt it inches towards. It makes his stomach churn a bit, though with the way everything has fallen, it makes it near impossible to traverse without stepping in something . Chuuya doesn’t want anything to get on his shoes (neither, it seems, does Dazai, if the way he looks down at his already-dusted shoes with disdain is any indication).

“What say we leave the cleanup to the guys?” Dazai suggests. “This is just… unpleasant. I don’t care much for blood, but all this dust is making me sneeze. Achoo!”

“That makes two of us,” Chuuya mutters, a slight itch at his nose tempting him to do the same. He might have jumped the gun a bit by punching the walls and interior beams too harshly, but there’s no backtracking now. Besides, the guys here deserved it; they insulted his height as soon as he stepped in the room (they should know by appearances — he’s still young, so what’s so strange about that?)

Chuuya rolls his shoulders, groaning at the slight reprieve it offers his muscles. “But, sure. It’s not a hard cleanup, but my head is starting to kill me.”

“Shouldn’t have drunk all that wine~!” Dazai chimes. 

“Hey, I didn’t know we were going tonight!” Chuuya instinctively bites back. The volume of his own voice surprises him though, a horrid ringing sensation spiraling in his head as he speaks. He pauses for a moment to rest two fingers on his temple, rubbing slightly with an aggrieved hum. How long does it take for a headache to go away?

He spares a last look at the room; it’s a total mess, but they’ve done what they had to. All of the product has been collected and confiscated and all that’s left is to make the place look less like a hurricane had hit it. 

But, when Chuuya takes a few steps over some half-crumbled bricks outside, the world tilts slightly. Had Chuuya not paused in his steps, he might have missed it. 

Chuuya blinks. Then, there is vertigo. 

The unfamiliarity of it throws him off much more than the actual nauseating spin of it. He stumbles slightly, legs still stubbornly planted on the ground in an attempt to hide whatever reaction is happening, but it isn't enough to escape the notice of Dazai, who pauses his own leave also to look back at Chuuya with a questioning gaze and a soft, “Chuuya?”

Chuuya opens his mouth to respond but snaps it shut just as quickly with enough force to make his teeth knock each other with a clink. He suppresses a groan with a closed mouth and a quick exhale, because now the initial shock of the feeling has faded out, it somehow feels worse. 

It feels like something is twisting uncomfortably in his stomach, and Chuuya instinctively raises an arm. His fingers shake slightly, and his own eyes catch on the movement; Chuuya doesn't know if he means to clutch at his stomach or his head. 

He hasn't felt this way in a long time.

“Chuuya?” he hears distantly again. Dazai has approached him now, though his voice still sounds somewhat far away. Whether it is due to their actual proximity (though it is only a matter of inches) or Chuuya's own sludge-filled head, he has no idea. 

His legs buckle again, and Chuuya lets himself slip down into a squat gracefully, because the alternative was to drop clumsily in front of Dazai (and he could never live with such an embarrassing performance in front of the other boy, regardless of how shitty he feels). His legs feel like jelly, and the nausea is making his vision swim. The headache from before pounds; it’s like a beast breaking through a wall.

“Dazai,” Chuuya chokes out, but he doesn't manage many other words aside from a quiet, “I’m… sick, I think, fuck.” 

“No shit, you imp…” he barely hears, though Chuuya doesn't actually know if Dazai really voiced such a… concerned tone or if it was just his imagination. However, Dazai's form coming to his side is definitely real, because the hand that appears to rest on his forehead is cold, and while it should bother Chuuya, it does not. Rather, it's a cool reprieve that forces a strangled sigh from his lips.

“You're getting a bit warm,” Dazai mutters. “How unusual, I thought it was just a headache.” 

“Yeah,” Chuuya says dumbly. Then, he winces at how quickly his eloquence has dropped, but then again, Dazai has always been the one with the way of words between the two of them.

Chuuya scratches the nails of his left hand against the gravel while the other holds weakly at his side, still uncertain whether the problem lies with his head or stomach. The tiny stones provide a good distraction from the illness he is feeling, so Chuuya focuses on the ground underneath him while Dazai looks over him. 

“I think we should go home, chibi,” Dazai says mildly, the back of his palm still touching and dabbing at Chuuya’s skin. He briefly runs his finger around Chuuyas eyelid, and he wants to snap at the boy for examining him like some doctor (indeed, he barely restrains from biting Dazai when touches near his eyes), however the rush of offness that comes is enough to make Chuuya swallow down his dissent. 

“There’s still shit to do,” he hisses and tries to rise to his feet. “Still gotta accompany the shit back to Mori.”

“Uh-huh. And you think this is going to work? We’ve done the heavy lifting already.”

Through the haze of his nausea, Chuuya is mildly shocked that Dazai is so easily discarding the rest of the mission. He knows the boy to be lazy at times, passing off things to others — but this is one of their first times back together, and if Mori were to see their clumsiness… 

Chuuya groans in dissatisfaction, but Dazai only sighs exasperatedly and says, “Come on.”

Fine, Chuuya thinks, fine. It will end worse like this if he continues. If anything, he can blame Dazai for the decision of leaving the building early. He did suggest it, technically. 

“Uh, woah — go slower, slug,” Dazai complains when Chuuya stands upright and jolts forward. Despite this, he reaches out an arm to steady Chuuya and follows him up as he stands. Chuuya will never let Dazai know how much his support is helping him stay upright right now, but damn, it is probably the only thing stopping him from tilting and falling flat on his face. 

Vaguely, Chuuya tries to take note of whether or not there are many witnesses to his — frankly — rather embarrassing display. There’s a nondescript, human-shaped shadow a bit ahead, wedged in what he thinks is an entrance or exit doorway. When he tries to turn as subtly as possible to survey behind them, Dazai surprises him with a slight hoist of Chuuya at his side. The jerking motion makes stars bloom in his vision again, and so Chuuya very nearly bites Dazai’s ear in retaliation. 

“Do that again and I’m gonna tear your ear off,” he whispers weakly in Dazai’s ear. It doesn’t sound nearly as intimidating as it should, but Chuuya’s fairly certain Dazai understands he means it.

“Not my fault you’re heavy as shit,” Dazai mutters grumpily in response. “I should just drop you.” 

“Whatever. Let's go,” Chuuya says impatiently. He snaps to the nearest man — the blur from before, a single guy, stationed inconspicuously at the fire exit of the building, the one they are leaving — and says darkly, “Make sure everything is as it should be when we are gone.”

To his credit, the guy doesn’t flinch at his tone, but Chuuya does manage to see him swallow thickly through the cloudiness of his vision. Good, he thinks. Rarely has Chuuya had problems directing their men so far. It’s embarrassing enough for one to witness this display, but such things couldn’t be changed.

Dazai ruins his show of intimidation (or as much as he can gather, because Chuuya is still looking like he’s halfway to dropping into a puddle) with an annoyed grunt, muttering, “Hn. It's not exactly easy to lift your heavy ass, you know.”

“Shut up. If I pass out in the next few minutes, there’s no way in hell I trust you to get me anywhere, so you better not pull anything.” 

Dazai groans a curse at him, but Chuuya doesn't snap anything back, partly because he knows it's not worth it despite how tempting it is, and partly because his head feels like a cracking stone right now. 

They manage to leave the building and alley without any issues. The whole trek downstairs was with little fanfare, to begin with — a handful of men passed them up the stairs with nary more than a glance at the two boys, likely heading up to aid in whatever cleanup was necessary — so Chuuya hopes his reputation isn’t too badly damaged by this. 

His consciousness dips in and out barely a few steps away from an adjacent street, and it is so jarring that Chuuya cannot stop himself from letting go completely, sinking into the dark unknown of his illness and letting Dazai handle the rest of him.