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"Of course, partner."
There is ragged breathing coming from the motionless other, dots of red peppering and spreading. Poison, Dazai believes. His eyes narrow upon thinking that God's name, wrinkles his nose when Chuuya has to employ his woeful hell.
He's close, he knows. Enough to see the strings of ginger which flutter at every heave, gasp, perhaps painful draw.
He shifts, drawing muddy bandages back from an unexplainable, instinctive itch to push those strands aside. That curtain had fallen long ago, its actor retired from a singular audience.
He sees sparkles on those lashes, sweat and tears smeared with grime. Chuuya deserves to be clean, he scowls. The gun in his pocket trembles. Steinbeck's end will come. He shakes himself into refocus. He hears another exhale. Pale. Almost lifeless. He refuses to succumb to unwelcome, illogical fear.
"I'm not gonna die, you waste of bandages." The ginger had slurred approximately 1,424 days ago. Or has it been longer? A past mission, full of insults that weren't meant by either.
Ex-partner.
Dazai couldn't be sure how much of today's banter was filled with betrayed malice.
Chuuya, a bloody sakura clinging onto Arahabaki's branches. Dazai, scampering forwards faster than suicide ever tempted him, hoping to catch the flower's descent.
Partner. Ex-partner.
The flower falls. His heart hurts, he wishes his ability could nullify.
He's still watching the figure. He feels the wind, it threatens to swallow Chuuya's hat. He grabs it, puts it on the other's head, tries not to think about the thin fabric keeping a deadly touch apart.
Years ago, he would have long lifted his slug into his arms, long ignored the way his cuts stung under the bandages. He would have brought him home, their home, and watered the tree that kept his sakura alive.
Ex-partner. Partner.
A dead mimicry of former vitality.
"...bring me back to base."
The punch had been too weak.
He feels a broken sting in his chest. He inhales. The wind mocks him. He makes a decision.
He ignores the way his heart shatters like glass, pieces embedded within his throat. Bandages cannot cover this. There is sourness behind his eyes. He blinks. He hoists Chuuya up, holds him tight, tries not to breathe in the stench of petals and rust.
"Such a lazy slug," he whispers. The wind dies down. He can hear the rush of water, a distant call of birds. Seagulls, he assumes. But, most importantly, he hears Chuuya's breathing even, if only slightly. He grips him tighter.
"Let's go home, partner."
He'll be the first to replant a fallen flower.