Chapter Text

Prologue

Chuuya was never a tactile person…

Well, maybe he was, in the period of his life that’s nothing but blank to him– a time which he can’t remember. But all Chuuya is sure of that regarding what he does remember, he was never one to communicate with touch, much less enjoy experiencing it.

That never bothered the redhead– in fact, not once had he paid any mind to what touch could mean, and thus he never pined for any semblance of contact. Instead, he’d indulge in the violent form of it. A punch to the face, a kick to the ribs, a pull on the hair. That was all Chuuya knew of touch in his time with the Sheep. That was what made sense– the excitement of experiencing a fight, the reverberation from his ankles rocking a body, the milli-second of contact that would send him relishing in joy because it felt good.

But one particular day would shatter most- if not all of his world view, and that’s the moment he’d attacked a boy and an old man in the slums of Yokohama. Truly the stupidest decision he might have made in his life, as it had regrettably been the moment he met him.

As always, it felt enlivening to be the offender. One more body crushed under his heel, one more face kicked by his outsole. The contact felt satisfying, good, and though the guy barely flinched and looked dead in the eye, none ever took Chuuya seriously at first just for being a kid. This wasn’t too weird.

What was, however, being the next moments that followed. The fight went on, and it was ridiculous how little effort he put into it, but then he was caught by Hirotsu and-

Something wrapped around his neck: cold, steady and unyielding.

Chuuya’s eyes widened while he looked back, feeling foreign tingles under what he belatedly registered to be a hand. His pulse skipped once, trying to understand what exactly this hold meant– because it wasn’t a chokehold, or a preparation to attack, or even accompanied by a threatening weapon. Because he suddenly feels bare and vulnerable despite it all. Because it didn’t make sense.

And then his eyes found him: the Grim Reaper of power.

Chuuya cut off the contact himself instantly, kicking back as a jerk. His neck icily seared, still tingling in the area that was touched even as he tried to get himself in the zone, to regain back the upper hand. He laughed, he roared, he brushed that off soon enough…

Apparently, the luxury of brushing things as such so soon would seldom come from then on. As Mori threatened him with his friends, as he was asked to partake in a mission, as he was forced to work alongside the boy he already despised so, so much…

Yet also tried to understand.

Dazai, seemingly, had a different comprehension of touch, as unsurprising as that is. They were opposites in every way imaginable, after all, this one no different.

It never ceased to take him by surprise every single time, nonetheless. When the suicidal maniac got so close that they’re within breathing distance -so casually, like it’s a normal fucking thing to do-, Chuuya reeled back in disgust. When the other patted his hair with infuriating commentary, Chuuya kicked his hand away roughly. When the brat had the audacity to grab his head and tell him ‘I haven’t worked you as my dog, yet’, Chuuya threatened to kill him.

It was like Dazai somehow knew he wasn’t used to non-violent touch, that he’d have these visceral reactions every time, and relished in that fact.

For that it was a weakness Chuuya tried to overcome. And from there, he decided that not only would he refrain from flinching when the bastard resorted to that sick, stupid tactic, he’d also try and use Dazai’s methods back against him.

It was only fair.

His start was when his fingers interlocked with frigid ones midst hues of yellow, which he’d successfully kept himself from recoiling from– as it was foreign, it was weird, it wasn’t good, but it was also what cancelled out Rimbaud’s ability and gave Chuuya a chance to send the finishing blow.

The redhead had stared at his bare hands after all was said and done, feeling the violent surge of power they hold with them shown, then glanced at the boy who could suck it all up with just a single touch, musing.

Chuuya was never a tactile person…

But for the one who’s trying so hard to initiate contact for no other reason than to spite him, he might as well try to be.

(And maybe then he’d freaking stop.)

#1- Spirals

The fire of bullets starts to get rhythmic. In a one, two, three, four-

Chuuya knows that’s his que to look back and check, a breath forced out of him at the expected, though still jarring sight. The rhythm doesn’t break, visibly unwilling to, visibly unable to.

The wielder’s face is contorted in that same hideous smile it’s always in during such fits, and the redhead numbly kicks his opponent before he scowls, deep and ugly,

“DAZAI!”

Chuuya is always extra attentive when Dazai holds a gun…

Actually, the bastard doesn’t even have any firearms on him on most days, not unless it’s part of a grand strategy he’d be employing them on. And on the days he does, Dazai wouldn’t even need to use them, not if Chuuya had anything to say about that stupid matter.

Yet from where he stands, few feet away in this shitty warehouse they’re fighting in, he can tell there is a Deagle gripped like a lifeline that has magically spawned in Dazai’s hand, one with .357 magazine, to be exact. It’s pointed down, on a sprawled body on the floor, emptying its contents unforgivingly, trying to win a fight it has already won-

“Shit-” Chuuya growls, because Dazai didn’t even bat an eye at the call of his name, his crazed expression growing rather than faltering. This isn’t a good sign, he needs to-

A gun fires behind his back, and Chuuya remembers to collect himself enough to stop the bullets. His snarl dangerously glimmers, looking back at the last man standing midst the river of bodies, who is stupid enough to shoot at the gravity wielder when it has proven time and time again that it doesn’t fucking work.

“Stay the hell down.” He ricochets the bullet back, flies and kicks the guy in the head before he can even blink, and hopes this is really the last of them, “I’ve got another bastard I need to beat to a pulp, here!”

The fire that has ignited is small, though sporadically expanding, providing better illumination than the moonlight invading the warehouse’s small windows, which is how he’s able to spot the tremor in his new partner’s body as he reloads the weapon glued between his fingers, the sweat beaming his forehead, his pale face tinted in orange and red courtesy of the lighting.

Chuuya’s ears fill with a new round of an overflow of bullets, never-ending and never planning to end, like a mantra one is stuck in. No, wait, it is exactly that. His eyes leaden. His stiffened legs begin to move.

“Shitty Dazai- STOP!” He doesn’t know why he is even trying, as this hadn’t worked last time, nor the first time. A listless attempt to stop what is unfolding: the blatant disrespect to the dead he always considers a line to never cross, one that Dazai crosses so easily, deliberately or otherwise.

Shouting words first is a means to withhold barbarous action. To dull that raging fire inside him because if he doesn’t, he’d get back into old habits and lunge, perhaps shatter a bone or two. An outcome neither Koyou nor Mori would be pleased by.

Dazai keeps firing, keeps smiling, keeps recoiling with the gun, five, six, seven- Chuuya finally wills his legs to run, sneakers tapping on concrete as his jacket sways. He’s about to call his name one more time-

A particular tap, and Dazai gasps and spots him, then in a flash a gun is pointed in Chuuya’s direction. Chuuya’s eyes widen, stops the bullet that was aiming between his eyes in trained fashion. This isn’t specifically what surprises him, however, what does is the panicked smile that is faltering around the edges. Dazai’s eye glowers with the fire around it, but at the same time it’s faraway, dull, and doesn’t recognize him.

You fucking…

Chuuya bristles– that pathetic, pitiful sight driving him madder than any fucked up shit Dazai had done since he’d known him. The bullet ricochets right where he intends, nicking the brunet’s cheek just enough to break skin. Dazai’s smile falls entirely, cocks his head to the side like a goddamn machine, like something inhuman, hair yielding to gravity as he does, swaying as he shoots once again-

Chuuya’s running resumes, purely aggressive, as he dodges this time. Dazai’s chest seems to stutter more frequently the more he misses, cheek smeared in crimson while he panics, and Chuuya’s now close enough to reach the firm arm that holds the gun, the only thing that isn’t shaking in Dazai’s entire form-

And sometimes, a hold on his wrist is enough, but other times-

Dazai thrashes, and fires once more, successfully grazing Chuuya’s thigh,

“Sonnuva-!” The redhead snaps as he fights against him, trying to force the gun’s aim to the ground. The lack of his ability in his position is dangerous, considering that Dazai is aiming for the fucking kill, but he won’t snap out of it without forced contact, or so Chuuya has learned the last two times-

“Calm the fuck down!” He orders, and Dazai gives off a mere grunt as he attempts to claw at his gloved hand, which in turn gets Chuuya to hold his other wrist still. Dazai begins shoving, pulling on the trigger in futile, bullet-less clicks, and Chuuya is glad there is no threat of getting shot anymore, though the other doesn’t seem to register that as he clicks, and keeps clicking and clicking and clicking-

“Oi- look at me!” Chuuya is willing to try anything at this point, managing to grab both wrists with one hand as roughly as he can while the other takes a fistful of Dazai’s hair in the back of his head in order to still him, “We’re at the warehouse, and we won! The hell are you freaking out about-?!”

Dazai, in fact, doesn’t look at him, eye resuming to dart everywhere, behind Chuuya, beside him, upwards, downwards, his panting increasingly frantic as he still tries to break free, as he still tries to futilely click. Chuuya swallows– this is nowhere near the intensity of last two times. This fit is extra persistent for some reason, like there is a looming threat only Dazai can see, and is freaking out about it-

Chuuya isn’t sure what prompts him to do what he does next, other than the thought of ‘I need to blind this bastard somehow’, and the easiest way to do so was…

His hand, the one with the fistful of brown locks, unthinkably shoves inward.

Chuuya winces at the pain that flares in his clavicle as a result, unaware of how rough he was being, and closes his eyes as his nose gets stuffed by the slightly taller’s form annoyingly squeezing at it…

The taller in question rigids the moment his forehead is suddenly connected with a shoulder, gasps at the lack of sight with his only visible eye pressed against a varsity jacket. Chuuya’s hold doesn’t waver, even as the brunet wildly pushes, and he doesn’t plan to waver it until the other gets a fucking grip…

Which, funnily enough, happens sooner than he accounts for.

Chuuya doesn’t know what exactly did the trick, but Dazai’s flails take two more tries before the strength behind them completely dissipate, rendering him trembling and catching his breath. Whether it’s the exhaustion finally overwhelming the desire to escape or Chuuya’s efforts had anything to do with it, the redhead lets out a sigh he’s been unknowingly holding, debilitating his fingers to cup the nape instead, and letting go of the wrists that have eventually limped in his grip…

The gun clatters on the ground uselessly.

“Fucking finally…” He snarls beside the other’s ear, beginning to register their position in a more… different light. Well, his body more so before his mind, seeing as the contact has started to have its familiar, burning itch that is screaming at him to cut it off quickly, hurry, now.

He wills himself not to. Has to will himself not to. And stays.

Stays listening to the other’s wild heartbeats as they’re being tamed, smelling the sterile scent of the handed-down coat -overlapping with the acrid blood and smoke- and feeling the dark hair tickle his own neck like a bunch of tiny bugs crawling across his skin.

Chuuya loosens his hold little by little to in order to neutralize his body’s persistent and irrational panic, if only to stop himself from shoving entirely. It’s only been a few seconds, surely he can handle a few more, right-?

Well, he doesn’t get the answer to that when Dazai is the one who, the moment he apparently regained his bearings, instantly shoves him back.

“Hey-” Chuuya stumbles, throat emitting a relieved breath before he can help it, as the tingles fizzle out as if vaporizing off of his skin. Still, he doesn’t not maintain his offended demeanor, pulling a defensive stance as he stares at the freak of nature he calls a partner.

Said freak of nature doesn’t look much better than when he was mass-shooting anything and everything before him, face covered in sweat and hand wiping off the blood on his cheek in nothing short of aggressive– the key difference is the present look in his one visible eye, piercing it into the ground with gritted teeth and a frown.

Chuuya blinks, taking the sight in and searing it into his mind. This might be the first time the boy before him looks this genuine since he started this God-forsaken partnership, this unreserved, this human-

Then that human face lifts, and just like that, the revelatory moment tragically crumbles right before his eyes.

Dazai’s frown switches so fast, it successfully sends shivers down Chuuya’s spine. The empty eye, a blackhole void and full of nothing, bores into his own pair, as if daring him to inch closer lest he gets severed and swallowed whole.

Gosh, mackerel truly is a befitting nickname.

“What is my dog looking all gloomy for~?” He’s back to fake smiles and overly-pitched tones, “Does he want a treat?”

It sends Chuuya seething: the complete negligence to what has transpired, that is; as it has worked the last two times in order to deter from the main problem that is ever so present before them. Chuuya can’t keep counting on this partnership to work when Dazai might lose control at any given moment, added by the fact that he isn’t appearing overly keen to fix the issue, either, much less talk about what said issue even is.

Giving the benefit of the doubt isn’t Chuuya’s strongest suit, and while he has opted to ignore the last two times, he can’t rely on himself to do the same at the moment, “I’ll beat it into you, you sick fuck.” He stomps forward, disregarding his injury, accepting the blackhole’s dare, “For the last time, stop shooting at corpses in vain!”

“Feisty…” Dazai murmurs, half-heartedly. No-heartedly, if such a word existed.

“Either empty out your magazine on something that is actually imposing a threat,” he continues to chastise, “or I’ll fucking massacre you myself!”

“That so?” Dazai’s smile widens, faraway, “What if I told you it’s simply amusing to me?”

Chuuya’s fist clench, it’s just to rile you up, he’s learned, “Then I’ll call you a filthy liar, because clearly you don’t get a kick out of it.” The smile drops a tad, just barely. Chuuya nears, voice reduced to a growl, “Call me dumb all you want, but I’m starting to see a fucking pattern here.” He crosses his arms, “Don’t fire the bullet if you can’t handle the recoil.”

It’s a beat… until Dazai chuckles, then chuckles some more, turning for his back to face the redhead, “The slug is spouting nonsense…”

Dazai always erratically chuckles after these episodes, Chuuya's come to realize, featuring a recite of murmurs that are apparently too hilarious for the brunet to keep a straight face on.

It’s useless, he can’t even hear you. He deflates a little watching the back ambling lazily away from him, the smell of smoke almost overpowering every other sense. Dazai doesn’t see the severity of this, the immorality of this, not as much as Chuuya does.

“That would probably be the normal way to think…” He vividly remembers him muttering the first time. And it was a pretty hilarious statement, the redhead agrees, because ‘normal’ shouldn’t be a word assigned to either of them at any given moment in time. The fact that Dazai pinned that word on Chuuya’s line of thinking added to the irony of it, because Chuuya doesn’t at all believe that that is the normal way to think, but the right way to.

He would have left the other be, granted him the distance he visibly wishes to maintain, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s going nowhere. The exit is behind Chuuya, and what Dazai is heading towards is nothing but the flames engulfing the building, where they are the biggest and angriest. Whether it’s on purpose or an after-effect of what has transpired, Chuuya doesn’t let him wander farther as he runs and grips the bandaged wrist, rocking the body into a halt as a result,

“Wrong way, genius.” He points out, simply, matter-of-factly.

Dazai’s head whips back, body rigidifying to a scary degree, and Chuuya recoils a little at the pupil that is nothing short of crazed, looking back at him. Dazai glances at the gloved hand holding him before yanking his wrist free, and-

Before Chuuya could step back and give him space he clearly needs, Dazai instantly drapes his fingers around Chuuya's wrist roughly, the bare skin just above his glove, a hawk-like glare in his one eye, sharp and intent. It watches him, pierces through him, anticipates-

Chuuya’s eyes flare for a second at the bizarre act, feeling his ability get stolen from him, before understanding settles within.

He hasn’t known the brat for long, but he can easily tell that he’s lashing out, and by design trying to regain the upper hand over him in anyway he can, to regain any semblance of control. Because he’s expressed vulnerability, and thus Chuuya has to express some, as well, even by force. Even if it’s at the expense of getting cussed or screamed at or shoved…

Too bad, though.

It won't work if it's violent Chuuya was about to inform, to point out the irony of it all, though what stops him is the remembrance that divulging that kind of information to this bastard is entirely the wrong move to make.

He simply stares back. Just as sharp, but not as intent. Rather, knowing…

Dazai pauses, blinks, seeming to regain himself at the lack of a reaction. Chuuya watches it all, the confusion flickering on his face as he gapes at their point of contact; the curiosity at the edges, loosening his fingers the more it unravels…

The contact begins to sting in alarm. Chuuya is about to give it two seconds before he yanks his wrist off. That’s enough mental endurance for one day-

His head snaps when he feels meek fingers trailing downward, downward, until they find the soft leather glove and invade themselves in.

Chuuya's skin scorches at the contact, can't help the startled flinch that emit out of him before deciding that's fucking enough,

"H- The fuck you think you're doing?!" He kicks, right on Dazai's chest, kicks because that's his forgo reaction to any stressful situation, has been since living memory. The maniac lurches back, barely manages to balance himself as he places a hand on his chest, wheezing.

He sends a victorious gleam and a satisfied expression despite it all. Chuuya wants to shove his face into the fire nearby and burn that expression right off. Damn it, he's been trying. He's been trying-

But his palms are where he draws the line, no matter the person, no matter the circumstance. The gloves made that easier to achieve, made the necessity of resorting to garments with pockets an issue of the past, because now the only times the tips of his fingers are bare is when he’s in the confinement of his home, safe and secure from the world.

And unless the situation absolutely calls for it, nobody is allowed to touch his palms. Nobody.

He pants, hand unconsciously reaching for the glove that has draped downwards in order to secure it back in place. Then his fist clenches, staring at the ground in rage and frustration at his lack of control. Dazai is probably reeling right now, he got what he wanted, after all…

Chuuya doesn’t find it in him to check– matter of fact, he can’t even stand a second longer accompanied by that sicko, so he turns around, and shakily stomps to the exit, leaving Dazai behind.

“If you wanna walk into that fire, then by all means, knock yourself out.” He rumbles composedly, the urge to holler a bit more persistent than he’s comfortable with, “Might as well get on with it before I do it myself.”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get the chance to…

~~

They got picked up by Hirotsu, the atmosphere settling into abnormal silence.

The man appeared to sense the tension the second his eyes fell on them, sending a questioning look aimed at Chuuya in particular, since he knows Dazai wouldn’t be upfront when asked anyway.

Chuuya didn’t provide an answer, either, grumbling as he pushed past his senior and seating himself, the door getting slammed and rocking the car along with it as a result.

Usually, at this point, the drive back to headquarter would be filled with loud bickering and bantering, with musing over the latest mission and discussions on which information would be kept or discarded in the debriefing, with Dazai being the absolute worst and Chuuya reciprocating by giving him a smack or two.

Things are only ever silent if both of them are too exhausted to stay awake. But Chuuya doesn’t find it in him to sleep. Perhaps can’t.

The street lights move past him in a pattern his eyes lazily follow, one hand cupping his chin as he rests on it, the other pressing onto the shallow gash in his thigh that has long since stopped bleeding. The thought of moving it away is draining, so it stays where it is, producing stings that are far more merciful on his senses than the shit his so-called partner put him through less than fifteen minutes ago…

Chuuya steals a glance beside him, perhaps for the first time since getting on the ride, mouth thinning at what he might find. Satisfaction? Condescension? Regret, maybe-

Dazai’s asleep…

In the same position Chuuya’s in, except his eye is closed, and his unoccupied palm is rested beside his thigh and on the seat, a little curled. Chuuya’s shoulders absently droop, eyes staring at the bandaged knuckles by his side, then his own palm that is producing stings. Back and forth…

His jaw clenches, sure what he’s about to do is as unusual as Mori not being obsessive over Elise, even a little hypocritical, but he has to test this out himself, to settle his feeling on the matter and fix it, as he’d vowed he would…

So this shit is never used against him ever again.

Carefully, he takes off his bloodied glove, feels the unfamiliar chill biting his palm, then turns to the direction of the brunet’s limp one. He checks that Dazai is asleep one more time, before his hand reaches forward, until it hovers over the hand wrapped in gauze, just above it…

His fingers are already shaky, though he pushes through, trying to poke at the bandaged skin first then the nude hand, feeling the difference. His pulse leaps in warning, actively making him wince, because gosh, how cold can someone’s hand feel? He shakes his head a little, rechecks that Dazai is in slumber for the tenth time, before he bites back his stupid nervousness and gently holds…

Just for a second, he thinks he might have magically overcame his complication, before his senses absolutely haywire, and he draws back with a jerk-

Dammit…

His skin burns in goosebumps and pinpricks, though at the same time incredibly chill, fingers trembling ever so slightly as if they’ve been traumatized by what they just came in contact with, and Chuuya momentarily thinks yeah, that checks.

But the frustration latches on all the same, even as he puts the glove back on, relaxing at the familiar sensation of concealment. He places each one under his armpits, furtherly hiding them, just for good measure, and he hates that he has to do that in order to calm down, in order to function.

Chuuya sighs as he leans on the car door, overcome by weariness, aware of Hirotsu watching him and probably being so freaking confused at the moment. He feels sorry for the man, but explaining this whole fiasco deems impossible, so Chuuya remains silent, half-lidded blues gazing at the brunet’s hand in determination…

He’ll get it right someday.

He has to.

Chapter Text

Interlude: 🎌

The Flags help… in a way.

Well, the shitty thing about that is that Chuuya never even asked for their help, but they’ve somehow figured him out in the first few weeks since he’d befriended the Young People’s Association, like his weakness was something primitive they could’ve snuffed a mile away.

Chuuya never regrets hanging out with smarter and stronger people, it’s the opposite, actually: he enjoys the competition, the things he can learn, the awesome fights he can potentially have–

Unless said stronger people subject him to what most individuals might call casual touches every once in a while, catching him off guard almost every time. Suddenly it’s not as fun.

First Dazai, now this?! Chuuya grumbles to himself after Lippmann taps his shoulder for the second time today, embarking a second subtle flinch out of him. Surely that shitty mackerel told them something. There is no way this is all a coincidence. There is no way he’s this obvious-

“My, my, Chuuya. What’s with the ugly scowl?” Pianoman teases annoyingly from the opposite side of the billiard table, setting up the game “You rarely direct that look at Lippmann of all people.”

Chuuya sends him the scowl, before Lippmann turns at the mention of his name, “What’s that?”

Pianoman shrugs, “Nothing new. Just a random Chuuya-outburst, is all-”

“Watch it!”

“Leave him be, Pianoman, don’t be a pain in the ass.” Iceman mutters from afar, in which Pianoman blows a raspberry at.

“Oooh, what’s wrong with Chuuya?” Albatross asks, coming back from outside. The redhead feels his face burn at his weakness being on the spotlight and a matter of discussion. He wishes to strangle the Piano bastard himself-

Pianoman crosses his arms, looking away, yet Chuuya can see his freaking grin, “Can’t say, Iceman will wring my neck.”

“Man~” Albatross deflates, thank God, “welp, I brought snacks!”

The game starts, and as usual everyone gets too swept up that they forget the last scene entirely. Chuuya never gets too comfortable, however, overly conscious of his back, always looking out for the next time one of them might try anything again.

And then he wins, he laughs, teases Pianoman and for a second he lowers his guard and-

Of course, Albatross finds it the perfect chance to attack.

Chuuya stiffens at the arm that wraps around his neck, something congratulatory on Albatross’s lips but all the youngest can think of is How could I be so reckless-?!

“Hey! Get off, asshole!!” He pushes, firmly. Of course, steady as a rock, the shades-wearer doesn’t falter, doesn’t even feel being pushed, until Chuuya hurtles him across the room with his ability.

Albatross easily flips and catches himself, like a freaky two-legged cat, “Come on, and I thought you were finally chill.” He hums, though a smile stretches his lips as he crosses his arms. Chuuya’s fist clenches, so tightly it shakes.

“Fufu, Chuuya’s in a sour mood again.” Doc sneers from somewhere, as Lippmann sighs. Chuuya is sure they know how much this affects him, they know, they do-

Then why is there a glint of confusion on all of their faces? Like it’s a surprise he’d reacted?

Isn’t that their goal, after all? To watch him flinch and flail like a little girl and get some sort of sick enjoyment from it?

Iceman steps towards him, and Chuuya’s senses heighten profoundly, looking at the tall, emotionless man, with his non-scarred eye boring into his pair, stand before him. He doesn’t step back, doesn’t unclench his fist, only glares further-

About to spit an “I’ll kill you” for good luck, Chuuya doesn’t get the chance as Iceman mutters,

“There was an easier way to deal with that.”

Chuuya pauses, “Huh?”

“Eh?!” Albatross sputters.

“Now, now.” Lippmann utters, face-palming, “Let's not encourage even more hostility."

“We're mafia.” The cigarette between Iceman’s lips bounces as he speaks, “He has to learn how to escape from something like a chokehold without relying on his ability.”

“That wasn’t even a chokehold!” Albatross yells, arms outstretched.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Chuuya, bewildered, darts his eyes between all of them. His walls are still tightly closed, allowing only a peek of confusion.

Iceman robotically turns, “Pianoman, demonstrate.”

Pianoman seems ecstatic as he calls, “Come on, Albatross~”

“Why am I always the one demonstrated on?!”

“You’re the only one with wavering dignity around here.”

“Excuse me?!”

“Pff-” Chuuya sputters before he closes his mouth, hoping no one caught that.

“Fufu…” Both Lippmann and Doc laugh.

“I’m getting you back for that.” Albatross vows darkly, before doing as told.

Chuuya watches the way Pianoman effortlessly flips Albatross over the moment he’s choked, almost too fast for his eyes to catch, easily body-slamming the other.

“And that,” Pianoman presents the blonde on the floor like a fancy dish, to which said blonde grumbles at in annoyance, “is the way to do it, amongst others.”

Chuuya grins evilly, before saying, “Can you repeat that? I didn’t really see.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Albatross springs up, lunging for Chuuya, “We’re moving on to practical!”

“Oi!” Chuuya jerks at the arm around his neck, that don’t really feel like a choke, per se, as it’s accompanied by… knuckles rubbing across his hair?

“The fuck are you doing-?!” He flails, holding onto the arm around his neck. It isn’t applying pressure, and that’s the most confusing thing of all-

“What, never been a victim of a noogie before?” Pianoman huffs from afar.

“It’s a super-secret mafia attack! No wonder you never heard of it, newbie!” Albatross exclaims, stewing Chuuya’s panic further.

“Albatross-” Lippmann warns.

But it’s too late, as Chuuya finds his body moving on its own accord, taking Albatross by the hair and shoving him forward, till his back slams on the ground. His body welcomes the violent hits, the reverberations, hungry for more-

He falls on one knee, and his arm wraps around the blonde’s neck violently as he’s seated on the ground, closing his airway. His own harsh breathing blinds him, along with his unnerved mind, his violently pulsating heart-

Albatross stills, doesn’t react, and simply looks upwards with what is unmistakably a bored expression under his shades. Chuuya falters a little at that, realizing that the only reason he isn’t swarmed by weapons right now is because Albatross can so easily break free, that he isn’t the only threat in the room.

Even when he is the only one with a God inside him, a former leader. No one is fazed. Doc is yawning.

This doesn’t feel good in the slightest.

A realization that debilitates his chokehold entirely, until his arms are nothing but limp limbs draping across the blonde’s shoulders. Albatross doesn’t even gasp in relief, it’s Chuuya who’s panting like he’d run a fucking marathon, taking a moment after his exhausting freakout.

Then his arms sear in alarm at their position because, again, this isn’t a chokehold-

He jumps up, sways a bit, throat clenching as he wants to curse himself ten-times over, and topple the building while he’s at it. He can’t look the others in the eye, knows he’ll find nothing but satisfaction in their gazes-

“Is this related to The Sheep by any chance?” Lippmann asks, and Chuuya’s head whips. There’s… unease(?) in his eyes, curiosity, and the question sounds genuine enough.

It even fools Chuuya for a second.

He tsks, trying to regain his posture, latching onto Lippmann’s pretty eyes and Lippmann’s pretty eyes only, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Chuuya never shared anything about The Sheep with them at this point, and yet each time he does something that’s ‘odd’ to them, that’s their first conclusion. Like it’s somehow a smart thing to deduce, like they’re fucking geniuses.

Chuuya’s life has been nothing but The Sheep. Nothing but gang fights, nothing but living on the streets, nothing but simply surviving since he was eight.

Who are they to think they have the right to judge his past life in any damn way?

What are they even trying to gain here, if not cheap laughs at his expense?

He turns around, acutely conscious of his back once more as he heads for the exit.

“Wh- You’re leaving before our second billiards match?” Pianoman asks, so unceremoniously.

“I’m spent. See ya never, jerks.” Chuuya pockets his hands, speaks as casually as possible.

“Come on, man…” Even Albatross fucking whines like nothing even happened, “Late night mission tonight?”

He flips them all off, “In your dreams, fucker.”

The bar’s doors palpitate behind him violently, as does his heartbeat that is yet to simmer down. His gloved fingers run through his hair, covering his face. He stays there for a good while, in the dead of the night, collecting himself…

The day after things are expectantly back to normal, and while Chuuya doesn’t ever share the root of his troubles in the future, while he still does subtly flinch whenever they decide to test his endurance without his permission,

ever so slowly, whether he likes it or not, their casual touches cease to become a matter of concern…

#2- Conveyance

“You’ve developed a vile habit there, slug…”

The redhead groans, regaining consciousness bit by bit. His eyes open heavily, taking in the road of a forest with bleary vision, as well as a head of brown hair and oh– registers that he’s being carried way later than he likes to admit, if the hands under his thighs are anything to go by. His chin is resting on a shoulder, while one of his arms is draped around the other.

Ugh. He feels awful. Chuuya groans again, the statement that woke him echoing in his frenzied mind.

True, he had made the stupid habit of tackling his partner aside at any chance of him getting a fatal blow. Which in turn leaves his back exposed for said fatal blows. Explains the searing pain at the entirety of his back now, doesn’t it?

Chuuya remembers finishing the job, nonetheless, though fainting- he can’t recall that. Maybe the blood loss got the best of him or something. Sheesh…

“Who knew a dog could be so protective?”

Chuuya’s thoughts take a pause, lolling his head to get a better view of the bandaged eye. Is the freak talking to himself? Or is he aware that he awakened? Well, either way…

“Ngh… Shut the hell up…” He winces at his rough voice.

“Ah- Chuuya!” Dazai’s annoying tone grates his senses, more so now that the mummy’s practically speaking into his ear. Chuuya still can’t gauge most of his expression, courtesy of the stupid dirty bandage covering half his face, but can practically imagine the glint in Dazai’s other eye without the need to see it at all, “I’d say welcome back, though we both know I’m pretty disappointed you haven’t died, already.” The bastard sighs.

“You’re lucky I can’t feel my limbs right now, fucker…” Is all Chuuya can bite back with, reduced to a dazed mess. He should have just let the social misfit take the blow back then, dammit. He isn’t worth how awful he’s currently feeling…

“My, my…” Dazai hums humorously, but there is something off in the tone, even if Chuuya’s heartbeat is thrumming louder than his partner’s words, “The hatrack is extra feisty today. Is it because it’s hatless, perhaps?”

“Hah…?” Chuuya wills his chin to tilt a little upwards, to find Dazai wearing his fedora, “Give it back, bastard! You’ll get your shitty germs on it!” Who knows when the waste of bandages last thoroughly washed that dirty mop of his he calls a hair?

“If you’re asking me to drop you, then gladly.” Dazai taunts, but doesn’t act on his idle threat.

“Asshole.” Chuuya rasps, knowing full well that there is no chance he can rely on his -flickering- ability in his state. His body aches with each shift and he groans for the nth time while resting his forehead on the shoulder his head was occupying. The heave of each slow step Dazai takes is regretfully soothing, even when he’d much rather be anywhere else at the moment.

Right, because were his limbs working at full capacity, Chuuya would have definitely pushed himself off by now, claiming he could walk just fine. And it isn’t just because he hates the bastard– each point of contact between them is practically as scalding as the however-long injury contorting his back, and the redhead’s instincts are screaming at him to cut them off and cower away for how they ache. Arahabaki’s silence isn’t relieving in the slightest, either.

But Chuuya’s already decided that he’ll face those certain aches head-on, and so he tries to focus on other things. The scent of the forest, earthy and lulling in opposition to the smell of the city. The pulsing of his own heart, wild and untamed, trying to compensate for what blood it lost. The fluttering of his partner’s coat, almost dragging on the ground that is either swirling or his vision is the one going rampant due to the quivering shoulder he’s resting on…

Huh?

Dazai’s dramatic gasp snaps him back, “How insolent! Looks like my dog needs another basic obedience training session, what a pain.” Chuuya rests his chin where it was, to see Dazai snarkily sticking his tongue out. He suppresses the urge to headbutt him, for no other reason than finally acknowledging what’s off now.

Each time Dazai speaks his hands tighten a fraction– and at first Chuuya thought it’s because the sicko knows he’s tormenting him this way, but maybe that’s only part of the reason.

It took him an embarrassingly long while, but Chuuya can now catch the tremors coursing through the other’s entire body, however faint– and it isn’t much of a shock, when the redhead recalls the events that lead them here; because the only times Chuuya grabs Dazai out of danger is when he’s prone to it, and Dazai’s never prone to danger unless he was already caught off guard or had fucked up somehow… which means-

Chuuya can’t glance down without it being too noticeable, instead flails with his dangling arm until it “accidentally” hits the brunet’s abdomen, and at the sudden rigidness he receives, in addition to the tightening grip he’s still adamant to ignore, Chuuya frowns in acknowledgement.

“Oi, shitty Dazai.” He trudges the matter carefully, side-glancing at the tight expression under the gauze that is scarily ever so transparent to him, “Where are we going?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Ah, wait- I forgot I’m conversing with a bonehead,” Chuuya growls, the fake unbothered tone getting on his nerves more than the insult, “Dropping you off at Doc-san’s, of course, seeing as he’s the nearest person I’m able to leave you with without risking getting an earful from Mori-san in the morning.” The mackerel huffs, “Chucking you in the river was a tempting idea, though.” He grumbles.

Chuuya’s grimace deepens. ‘Nearest’ his ass. The forest is all the same to the redhead on most days, but even he can tell that Doc’s place is probably way farther than the Port Mafia’s headquarters. It’s gonna be a long walk.

“Ya think your wimpy ass is gonna hold on?” He grits in frustration, trying to tell him to drop the act already, “I wouldn’t appreciate crumpling on dirt any time soon because you were too nonsensical to give me a heads up.”

“Wimpy?! Oh, Goodness.” Dazai gasps exaggeratedly, and would have covered his hand with his mouth hadn’t it been occupied, “You’ve got to have a little more faith in me, slug.”

“And you gotta stop thinking you're invincible, dumbass.”

Dazai must know what he is actually referring to, and that is proven true as he chuckles, “Rich coming from the dumbass who willingly jumped towards the attack.” Then whines, “Besides, I thought it was just an ability!”

“YOU SHOULD STILL DODGE IT!” Chuuya scolds into Dazai’s ear, earning him a satisfying grimace, “Not take it like some kinda deity that you're absolutely not-”

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed with your hilariously tiny brain, but valuing my wellbeing is not my kind of thing.” Dazai says with an easy smile, “I don’t care if I die-”

“As if I'd let that kill you off. Listen, Mackerel, I don’t have a freaky prediction ability or anything, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s only two ways you’ll finally stop being a pain in my ass: Either die killing yourself or live long enough in order for me to kill you.”

Dazai pauses, probably blinks, before a shiver runs through him, discernible to the redhead even midst the other tremors, “Eugh… Who brought you into the equation of my demise?” He sounds genuinely appalled, though that’s a reach when it comes to the manipulative bastard.

Chuuya scoffs, and he doesn’t know why he’s this certain, “Try me for once.”

The shaky fingers under his thighs squeeze further, “If, on the very unlikely chance, that is true, I'd better get on with new ways with suicide, then-”

“You're always doing that. Old shit at this point.”

“I'll be extra persistent about it. The thought of my dog biting me in the end is too horrific to imagine! I'm shuddering!!”

Chuuya rests his forehead right back on the slightly protruding clavicle, which is as uncomfortable as one might guess, “Fuck you.”

Dazai simply hums, compelling their endless trek to silence. Every now and then the brunet would stop to adjust his grip, but never allows himself any break past that. He trudges with no complain, not even a wince, even as his body betrays him while it quivers in warning of its deteriorated state, all sorts of things Chuuya can feel due to their forced proximity that he oh so loathes. And he’s aware that Dazai will never complain, and will never wince, not until his stamina actively gives up on him and they both plummet on either grass or dirt.

Chuuya knows why. Showing discomfort is admitting defeat in Dazai’s book, least of all to Chuuya. And, honestly? He gets it. The redhead shares the same sentiment, after all. Moments of weakness don’t align with their line of work. Never aligned with him before this line of work, either. Have always come with a heavy price.

So he ignores, figures that his earlier scolding was enough, and the silence lingers, making way for his shallow breathing to fill it. Not only can he hear his heartbeat now, but the pulsating that vibrates from the other’s neck is discernable to him as well, almost as vehement. His blurred vision trails to his dangling arm, swaying against his will in irregular motion. A blink in awareness refocuses his vision, and he is now more keen of the irregular part of the last sentence. The taller’s gait is stuttering, favoring the left more than the right.

The gloved fingertips of Chuuya’s other hand brush together easily, coated with something slick, and he now wonders why he isn’t carried properly. His half-ass position is clearly fucking up Dazai’s balance, who is, by the way, equally liable to symptoms of blood loss at the moment due to a wound in both his calf and abdomen. That moron…

Wait- hold up, that can’t be right.

If these past few months have taught Chuuya anything, it’s that Dazai never does anything without a shitty reason behind it. Ever. Which means that said half-ass position is deliberate, which also means-

Oh. Ohohohooo…

Don’t tell me Dazai thought Chuuya wouldn’t handle getting carried properly, that he’ll freak out the moment he woke up hence their proximity. Don’t tell me he had to take a precaution in case Chuuya’s weakness sprung up. Don’t tell me Dazai took him for a nervous nellie and has been openly making fun of him this whole damn time.

Oh, he’ll fucking show that asshole.

By sheer will alone, his dangling arm gets lifted up -with Chuuya gritting his teeth when he feels the stinging of his back the more he moves-, and drops on the shoulder his head has been occupying a second ago with a thump. Swiftly, before either of them can even register what’s going on, he manages to pull both of his heavy limbs closer, nearer, till they wrap around the neck in a make-shift chokehold that is anything but aggressive.

He knows his wild guesses were spot on as his coup elicits a pause out of his partner, who turns his bandaged eye in Chuuya’s view, mouth gaping for just a second, that a nervous smile crack soon enough, “Um… should I check Chuuya for brain damage? I’m certain you haven’t hit your head. Or have you? I mean, what is this for?”

Dazai… Dazai sounds confused, confused to the point of stammering. Something leaps in Chuuya’s chest in victory, contrasting the goosebumps that cover his skin where his cheek is now resting on top of the other’s bandaged neck, concealing his blooming panic from the rest of the world.

“I was fucking uncomfortable…” he mumbles with half-lidded eyes, miraculously refraining from spouting something like revenge or payback or how dare you take me for a wimp you fucker, and choosing to channel all that frustration into holding tighter, “You’re terrible at carrying people. It’s a miracle I haven’t slipped off already.”

Dazai says nothing for a while -something definitely unbecoming of him- as he reluctantly resumes walking, “…Stupid hatrack.” He seems to eventually manage, further hiding his already shrouded expression, “Come on, the probability of you pushing yourself off then dumbly faceplanting on the grass was near certain. I was looking forward to that good laugh.”

Chuuya blinks. Did he just… render Dazai speechless? And exceed his expectations? All of his anger dissipates in a flash, replaced by pangs of immense satisfaction as his blanched face lightens a little.

It’s short-lived, however, as the hands under this thighs squeeze, this time clearly intentional, and Chuuya forces himself still, though too still, to the point where it will feel like he’d tensed.

Hot rage bubbles back in him, and he flails with one of his arms till it “accidentally” meets the other’s abdomen just like earlier, which elicits a very subtle flinch out of him. Not as satisfying, but inflicting pain, what Dazai loathes most, was the main goal. He draws his arm back with a frown.

Seeing as they both simultaneously won and lost, neither of them will mention what just transpired, and Chuuya remembers to reply to the last insult accordingly:

“I’ll give you something… to laugh about, alright.” He rasps, “But only after I get my hat back… Don’t want it getting caught up in that bloodbath.”

“That so? I should hold hat-kun hostage more often, then~”

Chuuya can’t find the energy in him to bite back, the drop in blood pressure prevailing over faster than he can give it permission to. It's so quiet, so serene. Perhaps too serene- with the God of Calamity’s constant rage smothered by a soothing chill, like it had been washed away yet still trying to spout its profanities underwater. Muffled. Easy to ignore.

Which also makes it easy to doze off, despite every nerve in Chuuya protesting in need to be on high alert considering his position. His fingers shake where they maintain their weak embrace, though he refuses to let go, subjecting his body to what it is precisely trying to cower away from, allowing the contact to fester and scorch and eat away at him for as long as he physically can…

In order to overcome this shitty fucking weakness.

He relaxes. Dazai probably doesn't know about the body-slam move, but good thing his hands are preoccupied nonetheless...

Their pace gets a bit faster, just as his eyes close. The sound of shallow breathing that is not his own begins to grow louder, and he wishes to tell the idiot to take it easy and slow the fuck down… Doc isn’t going anywhere…

“…Never do that again, Chibi.” He catches the brunet’s faraway mutter midst the variety of wild pulses, “I can take care of myself…”

Yeah, right.

Chuuya, inwardly, doesn’t make any promises…

Chapter Text

Interlude: 🤖

The adrenalin seemed to seep from his extremists, leaving his vision blurry and spotted.

Chuuya’s shaky fingers wrap around the folded suit he was given. He isn’t sure who brought it or who handed it to him, all he understands is that he should put it on as a means to cover his bare chest. Somehow, despite everything, this is the one grueling task he can’t perform. The suit slides from his unsteady hands, landing on his thighs in defeat, which he pays no mind to.

He must look like absolute shit. Which tracks, because he certainly does feel like absolute shit. And who has the gall to even blame him?

Dazai, probably.

Getting brutally tortured, combating against a crazy European assassin that calls you brother, then fighting your clone’s skeleton all in the duration of an hour is no easy feat, Chuuya can tell you.

His side sends a flash of agony for the umpteenth time, along with the gaping holes in both his chest and abdomen, and that is without mentioning the countless nicks littering both of his wrists. The bleeding has become sluggish, slowed only by Arahabaki’s burning will beating through him. He’s trying to give everything in order for his vessel to heal, even if his everything is but trivial amounts, courtesy of the residual poison.

Chuuya isn’t even sure how he’s still alive. Was it even in the plan that he gets out alive at all?

Turning his head to the side, he blankly watches his only companions from afar. Three heads, two brown and one silver. Saying something or… doing… something…

He was certainly searching for someone specific in order to scowl at, but soon gives up, turning back to the suit resting on his legs, a wince weakly pulling his face. He’s dirty– covered in gashes, bruises, debris, pricks, you name it. He wishes he could be home, running a bath and a second away from hopping in in order to wash all that scum off of him-

A flash of his image resting in a cylinder full of viscous liquid attacks him, and he jerks before he shakes his head numbly.

Maybe a bath isn’t such a good idea.

“Chuuya-sama, are you in need of assistance?”

Chuuya wants to say no so badly, but getting vertigo the moment he faces Adam isn’t a convincing sight, and so he reluctantly relents, letting the man take the suit.

Adam, ever the sap, gets on one knee and holds Chuuya’s brittle wrist in a stupid amount of gentleness than can never be associated with an automaton– it makes Chuuya wish he possessed the energy to kick his face off. He blinks and a sterile wipe is now between the cyborg’s fingers, running it along Chuuya’s wrists, the cuts burning, “I was informed that your healing qualities are accelerated.”

Of course Dazai would tell him that. To that bastard, every second they’re wasting here is a threat to his grandiose plan. And it’s not like Chuuya doesn’t understand the severity of the situation or the urgency of it, but he wishes he could just catch his fucking breath for a second.

But wait, Dazai probably doesn’t realize about how weakened his ability is, does he?

“Not after getting pumped with a liter or so of drugs, I’m afraid.” He mutters in dry humor, eyes following the motion of Adam’s hand across his unseeingly, the wipe soaking blood and gunk and dirt. But the hand stops, he realizes belatedly, and he tilts his head to meet those grey eyes, conveying emotions much more complicated to any human Chuuya’s come across…

“Am I allowed to ask about what h-”

“No. You aren’t.” Chuuya cuts him off, managing a mere fraction of his typical tone’s rumble, “Just get me in the fucking suit, don’t bother with cleaning the wounds. It’s pointless and is such a waste of time.”

Adam deflates, then silently does as told, puppeteering his arms for the white shirt first– that instantly stops being white. Chuuya doesn’t mind, knowing it will get hidden by the dark suit anyway. A low grunt helplessly escapes his teeth; despite Adam’s ridiculous amount of care, the shifting of his body gnaws at his open flesh, sputtering noises out of him faster than he can bite them back.

Each flash of pain sharpens his vision ever so slightly, and he blinks as the blurriness begins to dissipate. He tries to ignore the embarrassment of getting dressed like some sort of toddler, along with the way his heart flares each time the gloved metallic fingers brush his skin, in favor of completing his first dazed objective.

Right, there was someone he needed to send a scowl to.

The brown and silver catch his eyes once more, now clearer. Dazai is with a staring contest with Shirase, which the latter appears to have lost long ago. The mafioso keeps staring though– an intimidation factor, of sorts? Well, it’s certainly working on the past Sheep member, given how he’s twitching and asking if Dazai wants to pick a fight with trembling legs. His partner doesn’t even grant him the ease of knowing.

Arahabaki seems to stir awake with how the rage pummels onto him in one fell swoop. His teeth grind so hard he thinks they’ll shatter. Partner? How generous after what that motherfucker d-

A hand on his shoulder jolts him, and he turns to those grey eyes once more.

“I wish to ask first, but I am one hundred percent positive you will refuse.” Adam speaks so sincerely, so softly, that Chuuya can’t help but allow the contact to drag for longer, “So I will not ask, Chuuya-sama, since I have come to learn that you do not always know what is best for you.”

“What the hell are ya blabbering about?” Chuuya’s expression twists into sheer confusion, “Have you lost your mind?”

Adam doesn’t answer, and Chuuya unconsciously fidgets in his chair, then his eyes widen significantly at the robot leaning onto him. Every inch of his body stiffens once arms prompt him to tilt forward, till his cheek is nuzzled against a suit, till a nose burrows into his shoulder, till he belatedly registers that he’s being embraced-

“T-The fuck are you doing??” He gasps, hisses, eyes darting in stifled dread. The hold is incredibly feeble that he can so easily escape from, though his hands feel leaden in momentary shock. Adam is lucky he’s growing on Chuuya, because had it been anyone else, their arms would have been severed by now-

“Humans tend to be overcome with emotions that they ‘need a shoulder to cry on’, principally after traumatic events.”

Stop taking expressions so literally he wishes to scold, though his throat clogs up with some sort of lump, hitching at the casual labeling of what has just transpired.

Traumatic.

How pitiful.

His arms seem to regain their motion, finally able to shove back, “I’m not fucking crying.” He manages to shakily snarl, seething, his pulse ringing in his ears, “Do you take me for a wimp or something?”

“I fail to deduce how I am belittling you.” Adam is looking at him with so much fucking pity, he wants to barf, “Humans need to cry. It is in their nature.”

Chuuya takes a pause, then gives a bitter smile, avoiding eye contact by turning to the silver and brown, “Yeah? Well, tough luck for me then, huh?”

Adam doesn’t respond to that. Chuuya doesn’t wait for him to. His smile falls gradually, watching Shirase hiding behind a street lamp, while Dazai still fixates on him in silence. The android simply goes back to dressing him up, until the suit is secured, secluding the signs of his defeat underneath.

It’s not over yet, Chuuya has to persistently remind himself.

“Thanks. For the suit.” He mumbles, still observing the duo, as he prepares himself to stand up. Adam stops him once more, this time with mere words,

“Forgive me if I’ve overstepped a line.” He says quietly, “So I will ask this time: Are you certain of rejecting my shoulder?”

A smile cracks Chuuya’s lips before he can help it, meeting those greys, “Yes. Your shoulder’s rejected. Better luck next time.” Adam frowns in displeasure at that, which Chuuya follows suit, for a different reason, “Besides, there are much more important things we need to focus on. Grab me that chair and rope, will you?”

He stands before Adam replies in confusion, overcome by a spurt of hot energy, stomping towards the scene he’s adamant to interrupt, his yet-to-be-healed injuries the least of his worries at the moment-

“Dazai Osamu.” He rumbles, and the soon-to-be-victim finally ends his one-sided game, turning to him blankly.

He has almost 200 ways in mind to exact revenge on that fucker.

Regrettable as it may be, the 2^nd kindest will have to do for now.

#3- Manacles

Sakunosuke Oda and Nakahara Chuuya- that was all the manpower needed to infiltrate the kidnappers’ base.

The only pain in the ass was finding said base in the first place, seeing as the cowardly fuckers expertly knew where to hide. And without the brains of the Port Mafia to assist, things took longer than necessary. A lot longer.

Chuuya knocks down the guards at the front door in hilarious, unsatisfying ease, grits his teeth at the several implications that came with that last thought– one of it being the incompetence his organization found itself in just because a single individual disappeared; the other one, smaller and quieter, dreading how the time wasted might have impacted said individual…

Dazai Osamu was kidnapped last week.

Chuuya could not for the life of him decide on what to react with once he’d been informed. ‘Hah! Serves the bastard right!’ his mind offered for a second, ‘As fucking if. That’s probably a part of some big stupid scheme.’ replaced the first, ‘honestly, about time the scrawny brat got his ass handed to him.’ settled in once Mori confirmed of no ongoing or upcoming missions that would require Dazai to take that sort of risk.

And now, working alongside his senior who’s guiding him every step in the way, the only recurring line is ‘fucking shitty Mackerel I swear to God I’ll massacre him myself-’

He wasn’t assigned to play detective, seeing as that isn’t his forte, only told where to hit when the time came. That doesn’t mean he hadn’t kept abreast of how the search was going these past seven days, constantly astonished at how an organization moronic enough to defy the Port Mafia had the capacity to keep them on their toes this fucking long.

The front metal door gets twisted and hurled with a great force of gravity, exposing the long hall behind. The door takes out some of them men unfortunate enough to stand in its way of flight, knocking them out like domino pieces. Chuuya would have snorted at the thought at any other time.

Bullets fire immediately, which is about as effective as getting bitten by a toothless baby. Chuuya ricochets the bullets, Oda dodges them– most of the men are on the ground before they can even break a sweat.

Again, he can’t believe that these idiots managed to kidnap fucking Dazai.

They finish the hallway to find themselves presented with another equally long one, though this time accompanied with metal doors on each side. About thirty rooms are in this corridor alone, with all of their entrances shut. Bullets fire once more from the other end of it, and Chuuya was about to yawn in their faces before Oda addresses him,

“Nakahara-kun, since Mori-san ordered for the entire organization to be toppled, I suggest separating tasks.” Chuuya listens as the bullets stop without effort, both of them not even facing the men before them, “You check the rooms, while I’ll scout out the base for their leader and plant the explosives.”

It’s a little strange, Chuuya briefly thinks, for Oda to let him handle finding Dazai, seeing as whatever they’re gonna find will surely not be… pretty, and despite not knowing the exact extent of his senior’s relationship with his partner, Dazai would certainly be more comfortable with anyone else finding him in that sort of state other than Chuuya– it’s not even in question.

Then again, Oda can’t bend metal doors on his own, can he?

He nods, not finding it in him to push it, “I’ll contact you once I find the shitty mackerel.”

“I’m counting on it.” Oda says and dashes, taking the stupid gunmen out with him.

Chuuya begins his impatient search, kicking each door down without a knock or a greeting. Most of the rooms are empty, stained with blood, while some contain tied up corpses, rotting away in place. Chuuya’s rage doubles at the treatment of such souls, unable to fathom the gall of not sending them off respectfully, of not even giving them proper burials.

Even the Port Mafia handles their victims, dead or alive, with more care.

He doesn’t bother with entertaining the intrusive thought that is prompting him to check the corpses just in case it’s him. Chuuya thinks he’d know it if the annoying shithead is dead. Some force of natures would undoubtedly fucking shift when that finally happens– and would rock him along with it.

So he simply glances inside the room before kicking the door of the next one, frustrated with either negative outcome, even more frustrated because it isn’t positive.

That is, until he hears it.

Chuuya was on a spree of kicking doors, about to finish almost all the rooms in the hall, before his lifted shoe stops at a particular one.

A scream.

A scream muffled behind the sanctuary of the metal. A scream that knocks the breath out of him. A scream he doesn’t recognize at first because of how damaged it is. A scream that once he picks up a certain pitch in it all of his nerves haywire.

Bingo.

His almost-sore leg, infused with gravity, forcefully kicks for the last time, consciously knocking the door down instead of propelling it forward as a precaution. The debris pummel and produce smoke before him, mimicking every other instance, though this time he steps into the cloud to disperse the particles himself in order to immediately see-

And boy does he see.

“Holy hell…”

The scene before him is difficult to describe in mere words. In the middle of the room, a back is facing him, big and bulky, unfamiliar, overshadowing a chair in front of it that contains, well, a head of brown hair he’d identify anywhere-

Dazai His brain plays like a mantra, taking everything in faster than he can process.

His wrists are bound with chains that travel to the opposite walls, stretching each arm immensely to either side, and it visibly alone looks like that hurts. His ankles are bound with fetters, heavy and constricting, and his chest is bare, encased in some loose bandages all around. Red, is all his brain can provide.

One eye is taped open, whereas the other is bandaged. There is something uncanny regarding this, and Chuuya realizes why immediately: The wrong eye is bandaged, which is the left one, while the right is in the light, the skin around it paler than most.

It’s a small detail, though the implications surrounding it hang over him like the ghosts of everyone he was too late to save. Those heavy, incensing, maddening implications. Mocking, even, with how the gauze is wrapped identically to how Dazai likes it, just on top of the wrong eye.

Dazai’s bandages were toyed with and made fun of.

Chuuya’s breath becomes too rugged all too soon, unable to regain authority of his body no matter how hard he tries. The motherfucker touching his partner doesn’t even turn around to face Chuuya, as if too occupied to even realize what’s going on around him. He steps to the side, still incredibly fixated on Dazai, and Chuuya sees it, his eyes widen till they almost pop-

In the nameless muck’s hand is… a spoon.

A bloody spoon that goes for the one visible eye, just under the lower lid.

Dazai screams once again and that’s all it takes to snap Chuuya out of his freakish haze-

He hollers along, every inch of him vibrating in threat of chaos that aches to be unleashed. The guy doesn’t turn until it’s too late. Too bad that’s gonna be the death of him-

“HANDS OFF, FUCKER!” The sole of his shoe connects squarely with the sick scum’s head, sending him hurtling to the wall aside, a nauseating crack reverberating the dungeon before the body lands on the ground with a limp thud. Shucks, and he was expecting more of a fight from someone who had that much audacity.

He was more of hoping he could take his unrelenting rage out on literally anyone.

Disappointed, Chuuya’s shaky body deflates while staring at the man, before straightening. He gathers his wits, swallows, inhales through his nose, shifts the weight of his feet in calculated manner, before his eyes slowly turn to who his body is facing,

“Well, well. What a lovely view.” His pitch is wrong, but he hopes that isn’t noticeable, “Enjoyed your damn vacation, Dazai?”

The flare of his eyes can’t be helped, because seeing things up close is eons different than faraway. Each detail is starkly presented before him, as if looking at a painted canvas at an inch’s length, determining where each stroke starts and ends:

Dazai’s entire face is caked with blood, dried and fresh alike, and his hair is matted and frizzy, obviously haven’t been washed in the past week. He’s impossibly thin, ribs poking under the layer of blackened, dirty bandages, bones of the arms visible and protruding mostly due to the prolonged position, the lack of circulation. His chest, heaving irregularly, is stained in red as well, though more dried than fresh, while his pants are torn in various places, crimson splotches staining them even for how dark they are.

The taped-over eye looks more gruesome from this angle as well. The lids are stretched so far the skin is creasing past comfort, while the brown pupil shifts in disturbing manner, bloodshot and dried out.

Chuuya swallows down the bile rising in his throat, tasting acid.

He wordlessly reaches over and takes off the tapes over his lids, earning an incredibly violent flinch that is anything but Dazai-like.

Fuck.

Chuuya, frankly, is desperate to maintain his jerk-face act. Is desperate to maintain their status quo. Is desperate to pretend he doesn’t care or else he’ll holler till his lungs are unable to.

Or else he’ll lose himself and there would be no one there to stop him.

“Huh, ain’t that a sight…” He feigns an amused tone, though doesn’t smile, watching the brunet scrunch his visible, red-rimmed eye painfully, blinking rapidly at the ground. Chuuya takes his eyes off of him in favor of surveying the binds. The ones on his ankles are easy to break with a mere step, scattering metal bits under Chuuya’s shoe. The arms, however, are bound with chains that end on circular gauntlets, encasing Dazai’s entire hands with no chance of lock-picking. He grips on one of the chains, which tugs on Dazai’s shoulder, visually tests its sturdiness and his ability to break it, and is disappointed to find that kicking it might send Dazai’s limb hurtling across the room with how much tension it holds. Shit.

Quickly, he checks the man he’d knocked out for any sign of keys, to find none. Great.

Chuuya snatches the communicator from his belt, a little shaken at how his voice resounds once he speaks to Oda. He summarizes the situation, advises him to bring a med kit if he found one, then informs, “He’ll live. Just be on the lookout for any keys that might unlock chains. This one’s tricky.”

Oda hums in affirmation and hangs up.

His hand with the communicator limps defeatedly, the itch of alarming bells never leaving him be. He resigns himself for fifteen, maybe twenty extra minutes before leaving this cursed, smelly shithole…

Well, more time to check on the weirdly silent brunet, he supposes.

He walks over to the seat, and Chuuya has to force himself to look at the extent of the damage, feeling like an intruder more than anything. Dazai doesn’t look at him, fixated on the ground, and it’s understandable. Chuuya wouldn’t have ever wanted Dazai to see him at the hands of N, either.

Aside from the obvious malnourishment; no bones are visibly displaced, thankfully, but the alarming amount of crimson is making it difficult to determine anything clearly.

“Damn, you look like absolute shit.” Chuuya mumbles half-heartedly, crossing his arms before him, placing a physical barrier between them because closing proximity any further threatens this building’s foundation as a whole– with them still in it, “Surprised you ain’t leaping in joy at seeing me, then again, looks like they did a number on your weak ass. About time.” He kicks Dazai’s shin lightly, prompting him to look up.

Nothing. Nothing but irregular breathing. Chuuya’s face pales, arms falling as his voice coming out rough and cracked,

“Hey, shitty bastard, I’m talking to ya.”

He jeopardizes their lives before he helps himself, closing the proximity he’d just vowed to eschew. With fingers encased in subdued tremors, he tips Dazai’s chin upward, till the bloody face is in full view. Eye damage, though the suicidal freak is maintaining eye contact with him, so nothing vital. He’s frowning, which is supposedly the normal reaction – Dazai is also maintaining their relational paradigm, huh?

Which is… great. It’s something that indicates that Dazai is mostly fine, that this all looks worse than it truly is. For him to find the energy to keep on with their pretence is always a good sign in Chuuya’s book. It means he’s there, he’s aware…

Though he hasn’t said a word, still.

“You’re seriously sparing me some of your shit talk now? Say something-”

Dazai tilts his head aside with a grimace, clearly displeased with Chuuya holding him like that. Once his ear is in full view, Chuuya’s hold tightens just a little in order to inspect, pulse spiking in dread.

One stream of blood. He turns his head over, moves the hair out of the way. Make that two.

“Shit…” He breathes, the cracks in his façade widening each passing second, “hearing’s screwed, huh? These psychos…”

At least that explains Dazai’s utter silence.

Chuuya stares for more seconds than he likes to admit, absently squeezing the cheek between gloved fingers. It’s fine, it’s fine, he informs the screaming God sheathed in him: ear damage can be repaired.

Dazai scrunches his eye in agitation, breathing starting to get even more rugged– then to Chuuya’s sheer horror he’s suddenly choking, wrenching his head from the gloved grasp. The redhead easily lets him, hand frozen place.

The coughing sounds for four times before wheezing and groaning follows, and the matted curls sway as Dazai’s head refuses to lift back up. Chuuya, shocked and bewildered more than anything, squats this time to meet his partner’s eye level, who is still maintaining his dead-set frown. He has a hunch– a terrible, horrible hunch that would add even more complications to this predicament but lines exactly with what he had witnessed.

He carefully, more cautiously than he’s ever been with the boy before him, reaches forward and prods his mouth open, ignoring how said boy tenses. The red inside doesn’t faze him any less than the internal muscle being unnaturally limp and flaccid. His heart sinks to his knees, eyes widening as he grimaces,

“Fucking hell, did they numb your tongue?” He mutters incredulously, closing the lips in order to place the hand on top of his own mouth, unable to properly fathom any of what he’s beholding, “What the fuck…?”

Chuuya’s heard of this torture method before, as it’s become more common among the mafia dungeons. It involves numbing the victim’s tongue and forcing their heads upwards, causing it to block the airway, which is famously mistaken for “swallowing your tongue” in some regions. Dazai had actually boasted about performing this particular method on someone from an opposite organization not too long ago, which Chuuya had kicked him in the back of his head for. Torture wasn’t something Chuuya could hear of with a straight face anymore, and the bastard knew it.

The image of karma bestowed upon him isn’t as amusing as he had pictured it would be at all, though at the same time isn’t surprising. Dazai had an awful habit of yapping at his kidnappers, which almost always ended on awful consequences for him. The bastard never shut his mouth in serious situations.

Somehow, this specific consequence is by far the most gruesome. Instead of gagging him with a cloth or simply duct-taping his lips, they somehow found it easier to drug his entire mouth with who-knows-what– which, not only takes away the option of talking, but also tasting, swallowing, drinking, eating-

Blue eyes flicker to the hollow abdomen– it’s starkly evident that that was the case, isn’t it?

His ability pulses in warning, the concrete under him cracking without his permission. His teeth grit so hard he genuinely believes they’ll shatter and disarray, chest spasming in an ache to lessen the rage but only doubling it. He wishes Oda would find the keys and get them the fuck out of here already. Each new thing he learns sends him into a spiral that wouldn’t be pretty for anyone involved, and if there is somehow anything else left for him to learn he’d rather the medical professionals deal with it them-fucking-selves, because otherwise he’s uselessly and helplessly seething here.

And Dazai’s watching him, with that tired frown, that expression concealed under a layer of crimson and gauze. Watching as Chuuya all but uncontrollably lose his cool over who he claims he hates the most, eye drilling through him blankly.

Chuuya wanted to spout a futile “fuck you” just out of sheer spite, before stopping himself with a blink. Since his glove wiped some of the blood coating Dazai’s lips, it’s clear now as he narrows his eyes in focus how slightly bluish they are, which only means that tongue numbing wasn’t these fuckers’ only go-to method of depriving proper breath-

He glances at the neck, pales even further at the sight of it being bandaged way too tightly to be deemed healthy, the skin around the gauze squeezed in and irritated-

How fucking dare they?

Chuuya immediately springs to action, fingers aiming to rip the gauze off entirely, yet the moment they brush against it Dazai lunges at him with his teeth bared, aiming to bite his fingers off-

Literally.

“Woah!” Dazai was freaking fast, yet Chuuya’s faster, taking his hand to himself, “Bandages stay on, got it…!” He rests his hands on his knees as he watches Dazai, appearing unnerved as his pupil finally breaks eye contact and darts across the ground in clear panic, grimacing as the interval between each inhale and exhale lessens, edging on hyperventilation. Chuuya can do nothing but unbelievably stare at the scene, mind running a mile a minute-

“Are you…” This makes no sense… this is nonsensical by all means. Why is Dazai even more agitated that Chuuya’s here? It’s like he doesn’t recognize him- like he can’t even see him-

Wait.

Chuuya, in a frenzy, brushes his finger under the visible eyelid. Dazai flinches even harder, jerking his head away in distress-

No-

“Shit- shit, don’t fucking tell me…” Chuuya’s breath picks up, synchronized with Dazai’s at this point, as his legs buckle in his sloppiness, hurriedly propping himself up and tall-kneeling position in order to be just slightly below the face’s view.

Chuuya clicks his fingers in front of the visible eye, his own wide with anticipation.

No reaction to the sound, nor a blink.

No hearing, no sight-

“Oh my God…” His body gives out, sitting on his knees with a thud. The air around him thins significantly, gloved fingers hovering around aimlessly as he locks eyes with the ground in underlying nausea and overlying mania. Not even anger is present at this point, replaced by terror represented in hands managing to grab the sides of his hair shakily, pressing on his ears, trying to breathe through the awful fucking screams-

Sensory deprivation on all sides.

None of Dazai’s senses are working at the moment. None, except smell and touch.

He should’ve realized that something’s off way sooner. Dazai never flinches from Chuuya’s touches. It’s always the opposite- always, always-

The sound of labored breathing mirroring his own prompts him to glance upward during his fit, task deeming incredibly difficult for he grimaces at the flames biting his chest, but the moment panicked blues lock with an agitated brown the world swivels his senses and snaps him back, knocking him senseless till his breath is no more.

Dazai is still incredibly fixed on Chuuya’s face, which is a feat considering his blindness -a skill Chuuya didn’t know his partner even had, if you will-, but he’s actively hyperventilating now, triggered by something, and, glossing over the endless sickening innuendos derived from this, Chuuya finally manages a grip in order to think of safe ways to inform Dazai that it’s him, before he hurts himself further-

For a second, he considers tapping against his skin in morse code, before remembering that he only knows one particular phrase of it, “I am here”. Aside from how tapping this wouldn’t amount to much, Dazai is surely not in a clear headspace to translate morse code at the moment. Similarly, Chuuya thinks of ripping the bandage off of Dazai’s -hopefully- working eye before discarding that thought immediately.

It’s one thing for Chuuya to see Dazai in that state.

It’s another thing entirely for Dazai to see Chuuya reacting to said state.

So that isn’t a viable option until Dazai recognizes him one way or another and calms down from it. He gnaws at his bottom lip frantically, tasting metal and feeling the sting, things that ground him as the gears in his brain shift with clinks and clanks in terrifying speeds-

Suddenly, a robot’s voice that is anything but robotic rings in his ears…

He slowly gapes at his partner in assessment, as all the sounds in the universe silence. Smell and touch, huh?

The gears screech to a halt, pure instinct taking their stead. He stands on his knees once more -with the bleeding eye belatedly following his every move-, arms numb as they reach forward, blue pupils glazed over, while one of his gloved hands wraps around to feel the protruding shoulder blades, and the other runs through the back of brown locks, before he leans forward.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, or how he’s doing it.

All he knows is that this is the most gentle he’s ever been with the brunet before him, keeping the head of brown low as their bodies meekly collide, the acrid scent of blood watering his eyes, trying and failing to tune out the awful gasps of panic that deepen hence the contact-

Dazai flails, chair-rattles stronger than ever as he tries and fails to push himself away. Chuuya never lets him, own face smeared with crimson as he nuzzles beside the bleeding ear and soaked bandages,

A terrified whine elicits out of his partner, Chuuya’s thoughts haywire.

“Shh, shh…” He pleads more than anything, voice cracking-

Finally, Dazai seems to realize how futile his attempts are as he stops, which gives him but a needed moment of clarity to focus. Chuuya anticipates, nuzzles further, trying with all his might to calm his throbbing heart and dull the fire itching his skin but only managing to get so far-

Dazai breathes once against him, and his entire form pauses.

He repeats that, once, twice, inhaling growing deeper… until he melts.

“Sh… Chu…” Dazai barely manages through his rough throat and paralyzed tongue, buries his forehead in the crook of his neck in silent prayer. The breath he lets out is too hitched to not resemble a sob, but Chuuya would never allow himself to recognize it as such, because associating Dazai with fragileness is the equivalent of sinning in Chuuya’s book.

Chuuya is the only person who can never, and will never pity his partner. Dazai himself established this several times. It’s the highest insult either of them could ever direct to the other, because they are not lesser for whatever shit they went or pulled through. They are only stronger.

“Took you long enough…” Chuuya croaks through the ball in his throat, still talking despite the static ringing that is definitely ramming Dazai’s ears at the moment. One hand finds the gauze casing the neck and loosens it, the other travels across his hair, finds the soaked bandages, and decidedly rips out the entire gauze in one motion, leaning back. He hopes, hopes upon hope, that there is a blinking brown under there, lightened and alive.

If not…

Chuuya doesn’t even get to think about all of the chaos and destruction and horror that was about to transpire if that was the case, simply because when the brunet shook the bandages away and eyed him, truly eyed him, he smiled…

The kind of smile accompanied by a tearful chuckle– happy, genuine, and nothing like Dazai.

Neither of them should ever look this relieved at seeing the other. What the hell have these fuckers done?!

He meets the smile with a displeased, rageful frown, to which his partner seems to regain himself at, if only slightly. The sight of Dazai desperate to numb his expression but failing miserably– the crooked and bloody smile unable to falter as if his countenance is pulled by strings, and the way his working eye wells and its pupil glistens and quivers with emotions. So many emotions.

It makes Chuuya sick. It makes him feel those emotions too. And he wonders if this is some sort of tactic on his partner’s end in order to see Chuuya cry and weep over him. He’d definitely hold it as blackmail till the end of time, so the redhead doesn’t allow himself to show anything but anger you bet he is genuinely feeling-

Except Chuuya’s eyes widen slightly when Dazai deliberately leans towards him once more, right at their previous point of contact, bangs concealing his eyes for how his head is hanged.

Only for the older to instantly tip back- placing his hands on his partner’s shoulders and pushing him back lightly.

“You’ll hurt your shoulders that way…” He speaks with tenderness that is only reserved for a Dazai who cannot hear him, sitting on his knees to see him properly. He isn’t stupid, he knows what Dazai is asking of him: the sort of comfort he can’t help but chase, the one Chuuya can’t provide a second time– Because even the gravity wielder can admit that he isn’t strong enough to experience the panicked palpitating of his heart once more, much less the clawing urge to wail and howl and cry.

So he rejects the enabler of that, even if said enabler’s bloody face contorts to one of regret, expression successfully falling as his working eye suddenly dulls with emptiness… nothingness.

Chuuya finds himself shriveling in dismay despite himself, hands lost of what to hold or grab or even do. He doesn’t know how to handle this further than what he has already, and it leaves him shaking in something akin to disappointment and helplessness he rarely ever feels-

“Nakahara-kun!” A familiar voice reverberates behind them suddenly, “Sorry for being late, I was looking for the-” Chuuya whips his head so fast towards that voice, that silver lining, and his eyes soften just as Oda’s face drops into one of horror, an expression seldom on the monotonous man’s face, “Goodness… Dazai…”

Chuuya numbly stands up, leaving the spot he doesn’t deserve to acquire so that Oda could kneel in front of his bloody and skeletal partner. Oda absently hands him the keychains, and Chuuya relishes in the means to distract the screamer buried close to his heart, testing every key in subdued impatience. He chances a glance to the side. Now that there is a means of comparison, Chuuya can’t believe how small Dazai looks before their senior, whose one hand almost take up the entirety of the younger’s hollow face, gently wiping the blood there then saying,

“How extensive is the damage?” Oda whispers to Dazai, whose eye seems more lightened than a second before, and Chuuya remembers that, right, he should probably clear things up,

“He can’t hear you.” He speaks half-gruffly, half-somberly, then answers Oda’s question himself, ignoring the way the man gapes at him with an unreadable expression, “Busted eardrums, numb tongue, obvious starvation, probably a concussion, moderate to severe injuries everywhere, some fractures and…” His voice wavers, the flickers of his ability unmistakable. Focus on the rattle of the keys. Focus on the rhythm of your breath.

He can’t even think about it without the threat of drilling a hole into the earth in their place.

Oda prompts him to continue, but when Chuuya doesn’t, he looks back at the evidence himself. The way he lingers on Dazai’s right eye is indication that he’d got it.

Their senior starts signing things. Chuuya recalls spotting his adopted kid with a hearing aid. He’d probably taught Dazai some basics of it, too, or maybe not. He isn’t sure of anything anymore.

Dazai shakes his head no some, nods some. The redhead tunes out Oda’s mumbles that are translating the conversation going on to him, if only to focus of the rattle of the keys. Insert, turn, coerce, take out, repeat. Insert, turn, coerce, take out. Insert-

The screamer’s volume doesn’t null, the profanities strong and persistent. He finds himself gritting before he can help it,

“The motherfuckers screwed with his sight, Oda-san. His sight.” His teeth bare, pausing the conversation he wasn’t listening on, “Fuck!” The ground cracks, which doesn’t waver either of the occupants of the room.

Oda signs what Chuuya’s saying, including Dazai in the conversation, to which the brunet actually perks at, tiredly shaking his head to him then Oda. Chuuya pauses with the keys, confused.

Hands move in question, then point at the right eye. Dazai slowly shakes his head again. Oda deflates in some sort of relief.

“I believe he was already blind in that eye, Nakahara-kun.”

The screecher pauses promptly, and Chuuya… Chuuya doesn’t know how to feel about that…

So he opts to carry on with the unlocking session, never letting himself a moment or a chance to process. Ignore, ignore, ignore, ignore. Insert, turn, coerce, take out. Insert, turn, coerce, take out. Insert, turn, turn, turn-

Oh.

The chains rattle as they fall, opening the gauntlet and freeing one of the hands. Dazai’s arm immediately limps, clearly immobile, and he audibly sighs in alleviation at the mercy on his shoulder. Chuuya hurriedly gets to the other side to unlock the second and only hurdle keeping them from leaving this place. The moment both arms are free Dazai tips forward without fight. Oda catches him.

Chuuya turns his head from the scene, choosing to exit through the room’s door and glance outside. It’s quiet, which is a good sign on the completion of their mission, the only thing missing is toppling the whole building over to truly kill the members -as Oda has certainly not-, something that Chuuya would be so willing to carry out himself, though sadly the explosives are ready.

“Is everyone taken care of?” He makes sure, addressing without looking.

“Everyone present, yes.” Oda says, “But I haven’t managed to find their leader, probably has escaped when-”

At the sudden pause, Chuuya turns ever so slightly, “What?”

“That’s the leader…”

Azure pupils fall on the man flat on the ground, head dented and bloody by his own sole.

Oh.

The howling starts to rise in volume once more, fist clenched. Ignore, ignore, ignore, ignore. The building will be in shambles soon anyway. No need to take any sort of action-

Sob

Every single nerve in Chuuya freezes.

His eyes betray him as they spot the scene and fixate.

The back facing him shrouds most of it, though it is clear enough nonetheless– of Oda, huddling a frail body in an embrace. Of Dazai, weeping into it, shedding both tears and blood-

Chuuya’s breath leaves him, taking one step forward, one step back, quivers rocking him right to his roaring core, eyes so wide trying to wrap his head around what he is witnessing, unable to tear away no matter how hard he tries…

Chuuya is the only person who can never, and will never pity his partner.

But-

Sob

-Nothing has prepared him for the moment he does.

The almost-static scene plays before him like a loop, the only non-static thing about it is Dazai’s shaking shoulders as they rise and fall. The screamer’s hollers get overlapped by the hiccups and silent wails, by his partner sounding like a kid that has found its sense of security after a millennia of agony, by his partner sounding weaker than he’d ever been before him…

Something trickles the redhead’s face, and for a moment he thinks he’d injured himself somewhere and bled-

Clear.

The sight of water on his gloves jolts him with a quiet gasp, eyes darting to the scene for just a second more before he turns around in a flash, mania rising in his inability to stop the flow of what he is adamant is clear blood seeping from his eyes, because how they burn must only be a result of them being wounded– no other explanation makes sense.

Nothing- nothing makes sense-

The back of his hand presses onto his shaky lips in an effort to stop its shaking somehow, but he never succeeds, no matter how much he breathes through it, how hard he bites his lips and gloves.

Sob

And then it all dawns on him like a coarse of electricity shot through him: the amount of sins he’d just committed. His fedora gets knocked over by his hands aching to grasp his hair, his knees almost buckle-

He’s intruding. It wasn’t his place to witness this.

He shouldn’t- he shouldn’t have…

If he were in Dazai’s place, he’d have rather died ten times over than let Dazai see him in such state. How dare he breach that line so lightly? How dare his mind betray him so easily, thinking such disgusting thoughts-?

How dare he enter when he knew that what he was going to see?

He should’ve insisted on letting Oda enter this room himself.

The bleeding continues, Chuuya wants to claw his eyes out.

What the fuck is he even crying for?!

What has he gone through worthy enough to shed anything over?

There is no excuse for him to weep, and yet he is, and he can’t stop, and shit-

Sob

He needs to leave- he’s intruding- he can’t- fuck, fuck-

Suddenly, Arahabaki gives him the solution to all his problems, nudging him to look over the body lying in a lump aside. His legs move before he wills them to, grasping the lump by the hair and dragging it outside, steered only by violence, chaos, hunger, hunger-

“I’ll be right back.” He isn’t sure who said.

He throws the lump beside an ashy corpse that time has rot, cracking its back with the wall before falling uselessly. The lump’s eyes open for the first time, gasping through the pain. Good, he needs it awake before it matches the liveliness of the third occupier of the room.

It stutters with wide eyes at the sight of him, “Y-You’re- Nakahara Chuuya, the gravity manip-”

Chuuya kicks it square in the gut with no such thing as holding back, voice rumbling, “I know who the fuck I am.”

His gravity-filled shoe aims for the face, for the lump to try and shield it with its hands. Chuuya’s eyes widen for just a second-

It’s wearing bloody gloves. Bloody leather gloves.

Has probably constantly worn them while mutilating his partner.

Nausea courses through him before he carries on, each scream gratifying. It’s never louder than the screeches within, however, which is something he’s striving to change. Blood explodes, hollers erupt, the lump’s bloody and bruised eyelids start to fall-

“We’re not fucking done, WAKE UP!” He throws it again onto the wall, this time encasing it in gravity and pinning it there. Seems to do the trick as it speaks,

“Wh-Whatever you’re punishing me f-for… I don’t regret it in the slightest…”

Chuuya doesn’t even listen, crushing it even more strongly through the wall without lifting a single finger. The screams, this time, are just barely quieter than the ones within. Still not enough, not enough-

“FUCK ALL OF YOU PORT MAFIA KIDS!!” It speaks as it’s getting crushed, manic and venomous, “That bitch you’re so hung up over- He’d used those same torture methods on my brother- that monster-!” Chuuya recoils as strongly as a gun getting fired, “Gouged my brother’s eye out and starved him till the brink of death! HE LEFT HIM A SHELL OF A MAN!!! THAT MONSTER RUINED OUR LIVES-!!!”

“I never asked for FUCKING EXCUSES!”

Chuuya grabs him by the collar and levels him to the ground, if only because his legs might betray him any second. He straddles the blonde fucker, and before he can get another filthy word out, he punches him so hard on his cheekbone he feels the dent of his fist embedded on the man’s face. Crimson splashes and stains him. Better than clear, he thinks.

Chuuya had been a victim of Dazai’s torture methods before, albeit indirect. He’d been on the end of so many schemes that used him, so many plans throwing him under the bus, so many times he had been told that ‘it’s for the greater good’-

And most recently, his friends perishing for some grand plan, getting left to be tortured in the hands of a scientist that scarred him in all aspects, marking the worst week in his fucking life.

Chuuya understands.

Chuuya understands.

Chuuya understands-

Though he never stops punching the face in, over and over, ears deaf to the shrieks and begs he receives, blues unseeing what’s before him, mind unable to register the amount of rage it’s experiencing and thus shuts him down entirely-

He imagines the body wearing a white coat, having an emotionless face, spouting instructions and voltage percentages in a dismissive tone– the one person he never got to murder by his own hands, now underneath him. To snuff out the guilt entirely, to justify his means, to never look back again.

He never stops, not even after the face is a carved, unrecognizable mess, teeth protruding from the flesh, wide open in a silent scream…

Only when he’s too exhausted to even breathe do his fists finally break this grueling mantra, and he pants, body trembling from head to toe, the stench too much to bear.

The adrenalin seemed to seep from his extremists, leaving his vision blurry and spotted.

He gets off of the lump, but only manages to get so far before he himself becomes a lump on the floor, pushing his body to his knees, and finds two hands flat on the ground under him, bits of skin showing.

A gag escapes him midst the non-stopping screeches. The bloody leather encasing his hands have torn and shredded, despite being one of the finest. He pulls them in front of him, shaky from the exertion, and gapes at them with eyes wider than normal…

Did that feel good? Is he satisfied?

No, he can’t even begin to fathom how awful this all feels…

…

The memory of when Oda found him, or what the ride back was like is but a dreamy haze…

Only one particular thought was clear enough through it, repeating, repeating, never leaving him be…

He’ll need new gloves.

Chapter Text

Interlude: 👘🗡

The very depths of a calamitous soul reveals nothing but static.

Static that entombs constant wails in deeper depths, though not fully. There is but the tiniest crack in the coffin that refuses to be sealed no matter what, which allows the wails to continue to be heard, enough to make them a nuisance but never a problem. A ceaseless nuisance, planning to stay for as long as it had been gone, until it proves that the ceaselessness itself is going to be the problem-

“That is it for training today.”

The static is gone with a blink. Oh, looks like he zoned out again.

Chuuya slowly refocuses his vision, takes in the training room filled with lower-ranked mafiosi that are about to take their leave. His eyes travel to the highest ranked member in the room, in her modest and colorful attire, sheathing her sword and letting Golden Demon rest.

The hour of daily practice has gone by in a flash.

He is only here to watch—supervise, if you will. Something Chuuya finds ridiculous and frankly insulting. True, he is the one who usually handles the martial training of the lower ranked members -which Kouyou chose to give him a break from this time-, while Oda takes on firearm training; but he feels that having himself on standby acts as a doubt to Kouyou’s capabilities in training their subordinates, when it’s something she perfectly excels at… as expected.

Still, this was upon his sister’s request, as she’d instructed him to:

“Observe and learn.”

Looks like he was doing a terrible job at both. Oops.

Well, he can imagine how the practice session went: Kouyou toying with their poor lower-ranked subordinates and freaking the shit out of them without breaking a sweat. She was probably having the time of her life, if the extra-pleased smile she’s wearing is anything to go by.

The thirty or so mafiosi march past him, and he untangles his crossed arms, idling up to his overseer. She does the same,

“Any comments on today’s training, Mr. Foreman?” She asks sarcastically as she closes her eye, kimono gliding with each step.

Chuuya scoffs, pocketing his hands. He thinks over the question despite its clear rhetorical nature, and finds that it would be impossible to answer.

Kouyou is the epitome of grace, the exact opposite of Chuuya. While he trains in blows and physical endurance, she exemplifies the more refined but equally terrifying approach: The art of humiliation. She prefers to stand still as she demonstrates her opponents’ incompetence by never allowing them to land a single hit, mocking their efforts in her graceful stance. Her combating style could almost be mistaken for a dance, with how she flows and turns with her sword in hand right before she strikes.

What right does he have to comment when he knows nothing of that training style, and can’t even compare it to his own? If he had to nitpick, his only comment would be that Kouyou’s methods just… weren’t like his.

He’s smart enough to deduce that he doesn’t have to, so instead he says, “I didn’t comment in the middle of it, did I?”

Kouyou hums, then covers her mouth with her sleeve, as she always does before an infuriating remark, “I presumed you did not have the guts to.”

“Oi,” Chuuya growls half-heartedly, as her eye opens, the crinkle of it due to her smirk obvious, “You know damn well that I-”

He suddenly bristles, sensing danger behind him.

Chuuya’s about to whip his head back, his ability kicking to life, but Kouyou zips past him faster than he accounts for, his scarlet hair swaying as an aftereffect of her speed. In the split-second it takes for him to twist his neck, he finds the side of his sister’s hand colliding with one of their subordinates’ nape-

“Eh-?” Is the only thing the man utters, before Chuuya sees his eyes roll behind his shades.

His body collapses with a thud on the ground, and the gravity wielder’s body is finally turned.

“What the fuck?!” He exclaims, trying to make sense of the scene that has unfolded, slow when it counts (of course, as always). His fist wasn’t even in position yet. Fuck, he’s stuttered-

“My…” Kouyou exhales, her back to him, “What a nuisance.”

Chuuya breathes, then attempts to calm his panicking wailer down. His shoulders slump a fraction, running near the exit and kneeling down to inspect what is in the paralyzed man’s hand.

“Is that…” His eyes widen, as the object rolls and clinks with concrete. The man’s eyes follow, his breathing as shallow as it can be. “A stun grenade?!”

Kouyou hums in interest, though there’s an edge to her tone, “That would have caused quite the commotion.”

Chuuya checks for any other weapons, to find two syringes and a gun- one different than most gunmen wield, an unfamiliar symbol etched on it, probably belonging to a different organization. He stares incredulously at the fidgeting body as his mind registers what he’s seeing. 

The fucker was planning to blind the two of them, immobilize them, and shoot them dead before any help might arrive. Which isn’t to say is a great plan –who the fuck decides to take on two of the strongest ability users in the building in one go?– but had they realized a second later, things would have taken a very ugly turn.

His growl is from deep within, real and appalled,

“This fucking traitor-”

Just as his fist clenches, and his ability glows- Kouyou’s hand places on his shoulder, eliciting a pause out of him, “Now, let’s not get our hands dirty with useless filth.”

Chuuya turns to her in unrestrained, waking anger- but her leveled gaze at the man traps said emotion in a state of lethargy, never reaching its peak.

It takes more than a second, but the hue enveloping him fades all the same,

“You’re right.” He speaks, controlled, and doesn’t acknowledge the satisfied smile as he stands up. There is no need to spoil his brand new gloves.

Kouyou takes her hand back, then calls for security on her communicator. As they wait for them to arrive, Chuuya steps back in an attempt to disconnect for a moment. 

His sister takes that opportunity to approach the frightened bastard, sweating bullets and attempting to twitch. Chuuya knows what’s coming without trying to guess, making him roll his eyes a little.

Kouyou tilts her head as she leans slightly, if only so her whispers can be heard,

“Your plan was full of flaws, dear.” Her visible eye glints, grin sharp and broad, “I suggest getting tutored on how to properly strategize by Dazai-kun.”

The way the traitor jerks in horror at Dazai’s name is perhaps the most hilarious thing he’d witnessed in a while. Especially since he isn’t even on the job these days (wouldn’t be any time soon), and most of the organization members know that. Just the thought of being at Dazai’s mercy discarded all logic and managed to send him down a spiral. Ridiculous.

“Worry not, first session is on me.” She speaks sweetly, as if sharing a secret with a child. Chuuya scoffs, she’s enjoying this way too much.

The fucker is scared shitless to the point of shaking his paralyzed head, even if it’s but a twitch. And just as his sister was about to continue tormenting him, the security men arrive. She straightens, and apparently decides not to acknowledge the fallen man any further. In contrast to the guards, who take in the scene of what looks to be one of their partners on the ground with widened eyes.

“Discard of that rotten traitor in a befitting manner.” She says, and said traitor tries to scream his protests– in vain, “And command my subordinates to make it an exciting exit for him, if you please.”

Her smile is dangerous, reminding the two arriving men just who is in charge of the torture specialists around here. Chuuya can see the sweat pooling on the security guards’ faces as they clasp their hands behind their backs and nod frantically,

“Yes, Kouyou-sama.”

They drag the betrayer with no care, just as instructed, and Chuuya observes the horrified look one last time before they’re all out of sight...

Kouyou’s sigh drags him back, “Crisis averted.”

“That really gets you going, huh?” He points out as he crosses his arms, to which Kouyou turns to him,

“Whatever do you mean?” She feigns innocence, then her expression drops as they stare at the exit together, “I had an inkling this would happen the moment that man stepped foot in here.”

Upon her serious gaze, Chuuya’s inclined to believe her, “Huh…” He muses, recalling how fast his sister dealt with the situation. While Chuuya is known for his speed, Kouyou uses the element of surprise to her advantage, never playing her cards until the situation calls for it. The redhead has always known that she could rival him in speed if they took the abilities out of the equation, but it didn’t fail to take him by surprise all the same. That was beyond impressive,

“Say, how did you-”

“I have a keen eye for double-crossers...” Her eye is reminiscent as she says, although her smile does a great job at contradicting that. Chuuya’s expression softens just as his sister’s shifts back, murmuring about wanting to get out of this place. Chuuya follows.

“Okay, impressive.” He admits with a shrug, “But I wasn’t talking about that. How did you-”

“Knock him senseless?” She faces him with a prideful smile, “Hitting a pressure point often does the job. The trick is to be faster than they account for.”

Chuuya was talking more about the fact that she kicked into fourth gear in a split-second, but sure, that too.

The trek is silent for only a minute, before the events roam in his turbulent mind once more, causing him to ball one of his gloved hands. The torment Kouyou subjected to that fucker seems trivial all of a sudden.

His footsteps rock his whole body, and he forgoes that as best as he can, “If I had the chance I would’ve beaten him to a fucking pulp. Damn it.”

It’s only half the truth.

Chuuya would’ve tried to beat him to a fucking pulp, but the moment his fist connected with that man’s face, all hell would’ve broken loose. The sound alone would’ve sent him in a spiral of gags and urges to heave, shaking limbs and burning lungs. He’d have lost himself with little ways to keep him grounded at hand, and that would not have been a good look on him, to say the least.

It’s a good thing his sister stopped him at the right time, actually.

“Chuuya-kun,” He blinks. Ah. There is a tone there. A tone that conveys a tinge of disappointment, and is an indication that she’s about to talk down to him. Chuuya brings out the attitude before he even hears the next words, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at her.

“It is better to handle a situation with the least amount of mess possible.” She continues calmly, ignoring his unimpressed glare, “Oftentimes it is more effective. Stealthier. Remember that.”

And there it is. The lesson of the day. “Tch. That isn’t my style at all.”

“It could be. One can adapt.” She says lightly, “Don’t be fooled, just as I can stun my enemies with a mere flick of the wrist, I can equally sever them in pieces and be gruesome whenever I please. Two extremes can meet in the middle.”

“You seriously expect me to defeat my opponents… without a single punch?” He asks in disbelief. Because even if his tactic has resulted in several sleepless nights, nothing will erase his love for sending bodies flying with his fists and vamps. It’s just wired in him. “But that takes the fun out of it!”

“Agh, you speak of fun again. I never understand your brash tendencies.” Her displeased frown quickly disappears, as she seems to get an idea, walking faster to her office, “Come, I will teach you how to perform that skill on at least one pressure point.”

“What?” Chuuya catches up, “You want me to learn that?”

“I’ve endured that flamboyant attitude of yours long enough. My direct subordinate should develop a preference for being poised.” She sends him a pointed look.

Chuuya was about to point out that he had endured her ‘fancy talk’ tutoring sessions for a year straight without complaint. Okay, maybe with a bit of complaint. Which is to say a lot of complaining. It’s annoying to have someone dictate the way you’ve been speaking since you were seven, okay?

“You’re way too excited for this, which doesn’t sit well with me.” He mumbles, alluding to the hurry she seems to be in. Kouyou never rushes herself for anyone or anything. She must’ve been waiting to teach him that for a while now.

And that is proven true by her smile– a little evil, if you ask him, “Don’t be paranoid.” She dismisses his concern as they enter her office.

Chuuya stays by the door, pocketing his hands as he watches his supervisor place her sword next to her desk. She takes a glance at him and ushers him inside.

“Want me to bring you a subordinate you can train on?”

“Wait, you’re dead serious.” He asks in disbelief, then huffs a laugh, “No way! That sounds ridiculou-”

He senses the red, glaring iris before he sees it, prickling all his nerves. He can hear Arahabaki let out a pathetic fearful squeal inside. The contemptuous laugh morphs into a hesitant one,

“I meaaan, sure we can try?” He shifts from one foot to the other, and the iris leaves him. “Don’t expect too much out of me, though.”

Their poor subordinate is called, and Chuuya takes off his hat before standing in front of the man’s rigid and stoic form. Kouyou points at where to aim, demonstrates the motion, and for the first time, Chuuya’s hand isn’t balled up in a fist before he attacks with it.

The gravity wielder can proudly claim that he’s a fast learner in general, but this dumb move takes a significant while for him to grasp. Darting faster than the eye can see is the easy part. The hard part is trying to strike the specific point without too much or too little pressure, just the right one.

At first he hits way too violently. Kouyou points that out. Heat creeps up to his face, deepening with each failed attempt. Tenth, eleventh, twelfth. The poor man has bruised in one specific spot, and Chuuya isn’t putting enough force in his hits anymore.

They can’t even be called hits. They’re never rewarding. He feels stupid.

“Chuuya-kun, stop.” Kouyou interrupts right before Chuuya can lunge again, sharp, “You are clearly holding back. Why?”

“It’s- I told you that’s not my style.” He says in pent up frustration, hands lowering as he grumbles, “It’s not hitting the same for me… literally.”

Kouyou’s eye narrows, placing a finger on her chin in thought, “Fine… we can fix that.” She says slowly, then perks up with a smile, “Think of the one person you hate the most, and think about how satisfying it’d feel to knock them down without a shroud of force. Imagine their face afterwards. Their surprise.”

Chuuya cocks his head, then turns to the bruised man, trying to follow her advice.

He imagines Dazai, healthy with an irritating grin, spouting about how meaningless their lives are, how much of a mistake it was to get born.

Except the phantom morphs, a blond man standing in its place, repeating the same words while his braid sways, and daring to call Chuuya family after everything he’d done.

Then it shifts again, to that scientist in white that has haunted him in both his past and his present, the one he’d tried to carve his face barely two weeks ago, to no avail.

The figure becomes a mesh of two, one more prominent than the other, and with a face so utterly heinous he wants nothing more than to wipe its fucking grin off.

Teeth gritting, his knuckles crack– but he flattens his palm faster than Arahabaki’s wails can louden. His expression turns to stone.

He lunges. Hits.

“Close. You are getting the hang of it.” Kouyou’s words push him forward, and he zips from behind his subordinate, hitting the other side of his neck. The man jerks, part of him sways. Chuuya lunges one last time, face monotone-

Thud.

He halts.

Chuuya looks down at the mafioso at his feet, completely knocked out. And… his throat isn’t tight with an urge to retch. He hasn’t lost himself. He’s still here, in Kouyou’s office, with his gloves intact.

A laugh escapes him.

Then he registers his insensitivity, and kneels down to pat their subject on the back in apology,

“You okay?” He mumbles, and the guy isn’t even awake to hear. Turns out this technique is different than the one Kouyou used, and, speaking of which-

“Very impressive, Chuuya-kun.”

His sister’s claps resound in the office, and he turns to witness her broad, proud smile. Something blooms in his chest, and he tries to ebb the embarrassment of getting moved by simple praise away, as he averts his face. Kouyou kneels next to him, hitting another pressure point so the man can regain authority over his limbs, waking him up.

After giving their thanks, their subordinate bows to them and leaves.

They watch the door in silence, Chuuya’s triumph deafening him to the world. A strange sort of triumph, different than every other time he’d brought an enemy’s face to the ground. It isn’t rewarding, per se. Or good. It’s just…

Enough.

And that doesn’t feel so bad.

Chuuya continues to mull over his conflicted feelings- until Kouyou nudges him with her shoulder, and to his absolute horror, continues her praise,

“What an outstanding improvement.” She thinks she sounds teasy, but Chuuya can easily pinpoint the genuineness in her tone, “My pride and joy, indeed.”

He scoffs with an uncontrolled blush, turning to her while crossing his arms, “Wasn’t I your flamboyant subordinate that you couldn’t stand two seconds ago-”

A hand on his hair leadens his tongue. Chuuya pauses, slightly stiff as he glances past the arm, to find Kouyou with soft eyes and pleased features, sending her adoration through the fingertips patting his hair.

It loosens the tight knots in his shoulders, and he doesn’t jerk his head away, deciding that it’s going to be over when Kouyou deems it be.

“You’re treating me like a kid again.” He complains halfheartedly with a frown.

“Oh?” His sister’s soft demeanor doesn’t last, leaving way for sarcasm, “How impolite of me.”

She lets him go with a hollow laugh, and Chuuya grumbles, patting his hair back to how it was before he takes his hat. A smirk discreetly forms on his face, barely thinking over the next words as he decides to take his petty revenge,

“…Old lady.” He huffs in the tiniest voice manageable.

…

The air dreads around him.

Chuuya’s danger instincts whip his head back– to find his sister gone, only replaced by two monsters of destruction, swords of different sizes getting unsheathed-

Oh, this was a terrible idea.

Arahabaki’s squeal is unmistakable this time. “Hey- that’s only fair!” Chuuya tries to plead his case, hands swinging in front of him defensively, but his fate has already been sealed, “Listen to me! Listen, you treat me like a kid, I treat you like a- Wait, WAIT-!”

The larger sword wooshes, making Chuuya yelp and fly away. They take the hunt to the headquarters’ quiet corridors, and anyone unlucky enough to be in their way sprint in fear too, rendering their chase as one between Golden Demon and a hundred terrified mafiosi for almost an hour.

Chuuya considers himself lucky to have all of his limbs intact afterwards.

#4- Slumbers

Glowing blue explodes in his peripheral, bathing his own form outlined in a crimson flare.

Chuuya’s head whips to its direction in much more excitement than he’d felt in a long time, his devious smile only growing softer at the sight of halos dancing against the moonlight, its emitter standing like the strongest barricade in the world, taking out an enemy thrice his size.

The redhead grins before whizzing to said enemy, connecting his fist shoe to their head in one quick motion, rendering them motionless. The blue dissipates, twinkles just as the stars above. Chuuya already misses its luminescing presence.

No Longer Human is… an enigma, to say the least.

It’s an ability that cancels out abilities. Activated by a mere touch, untouchable. A perfect paradox, so simple yet so hard to comprehend.

It’s been a year since Chuuya’s been in its vicinity. It’s been a month since Chuuya’s seen it in action.

“This is boooring…” Its user sighs dramatically, nullifying another opponent without even turning to them. Chuuya’s bristling is visceral as he kicks,

“Are you kidding me?!” He yells, feigns offense with a roll of his eyes, “Tch. The things we do for your ungrateful ass…”

Raising his voice an entire octave has never felt heartier.

To say that the last twenty-five days have been quiet would be an understatement. A Kaiji-only-likes-science type of understatement. As the usual doom that accompanies the Port Mafia’s presence was hushed profoundly in a way Yokohama has never seen before. And it is understandable, given the enormous loss they’ve received during the Guivre incident, and the countless allies they’ve unfortunately lost in order to fend it off.

Though it wasn’t merely that. An eerie, lingering silence was bestowed upon The Port Mafia’s headquarters– that was only occasionally broken off by Q’s fucked up shenanigans of haunting the lower-ranked mafiosi, or Elise’s endless whining.

It wasn’t the first time headquarters experienced that kind of solemn atmosphere, but it was the first time it went on for this long.

And Chuuya was both mad and glad about it…

Well, more like frustrated. He hasn’t been mad about anything in a significant while…

Crack- The gravity manipulator breaks another opponent’s jaw, smile growing wider as he glances at his bloody leather gloves but doesn’t wander.

To his own surprise, Chuuya was thankful for the Port Mafia’s decision to lay low these couple of months. For reasons he refused to dwell on, while Arahabaki –the annoying motherfucker– forced him to dwell on in the most inconvenient times, demanding his attention so frequently that Chuuya often considered bashing his head to the nearest sturdy surface just so he could shut him the fuck up.

Said God of Calamity had been restless all month, aching for the violence Chuuya had deprived himself from, the excitement that came with a potential fight. But the mere thought of his fist connecting with human flesh, imagining each wet sound that could accompany it and stain his gloves, had him gagging till his eyes watered. So he put up with the screeches, the body jerks, the gruesome flashes– like a tired mother putting up with her unhinged child, placating them with soon, next time, you have to be patient…

Now, Arahabaki thrives as Chuuya strikes down enemies left and right, scratchy laugh so, so euphoric as if he’d come back to life after withering away for centuries.

A glow interrupts his thoughts, and Chuuya’s eyes don’t fixate on the hand keeping contact this time, instead taking in the sight of his partner’s face: of his pale complexion reflecting the cyan lights like crystalline water. Of his gaunt features momentarily gone whilst his brown locks flail. Of his suppressed smile that Chuuya can so clearly see, sparkling in his mahogany eye despite his claims of ennui.

Chuuya can’t get over how hauntingly alive Dazai seems to be. How human.

Even if it’s only for a few seconds.

The redhead pauses with a blink, can’t believe that he caught his mind raving about Dazai of all things. In an effort to distract himself, he takes the enemy by the neck, hurling them like a ragdoll with no owner, and the bizarre yet strangely alluring version of his partner withers, like a blooming flower decomposing rapidly right before its carer’s eyes, no way to prevent it.

“For fuck’s sake, I know you’re rusty, but this is ridiculous.” Chuuya exclaims in fake aggression– well, mostly fake, “Liven up a little!”

Dazai yawns in response, obnoxiously loud.

It’s been a measly 72 hours since said obnoxious beanpole was evicted from that hellhole swarmed by doctors left and right, with white, blank walls all around. Mori didn’t miss the chance to pair them up as soon as Dazai was back on his feet, to Chuuya’s initial shock.

And his bafflement only doubled while hearing the details, because the mission they were assigned to wasn’t of any necessity– in fact, it was laughably easy. Nothing that required both Dazai and Chuuya on field when they were taking on small fry that posed zero threat to the Port Mafia. Small fry might be pushing it, actually.

He’d opened his mouth to protest, because it wasn’t like he wanted to get chucked into a meaningless fight all of a sudden, back to throwing hands or mangling bodies. And it wasn’t as if he fancied the idea of Dazai being thrown into a fight so soon, either.

Though upon glancing to the side in an intent to share his bewilderment with his partner, his shock all but doubled.

Dazai, who normally belittles Chuuya for getting excited over beating assholes to a pulp, had that glint to him that betrayed his coolness over the invitation.

Thus Chuuya held his tongue.

Another chime resounds in the wind, loud and magical. He turns to the scene once again, can’t get enough of it. Wouldn’t get enough of it, no matter how many times his eyes soak in every single detail. He always finds a new one to admire.

Contrary to what one might think, Chuuya never shies away from secretly gushing about No Longer Human, considering it a separate entity from Dazai himself. Unlike its annoying piece of shit owner, No Longer Human is captivating, powerful by nature and not force. Just a touch, that’s all it takes for you to be stripped of a part of yourself, rendered a normal, mundane person in a blink. A Human. Though an incomplete human, missing something vital, no longer your previous self.

It never fails to impress Chuuya, how a skill so elegant belongs to his scruffy ass partner of all people.

Though he can’t entirely say it doesn’t fit him.

Infatuated he is by death, Dazai himself is a Grim Reaper in a way. A Grim Reaper of power. Stripping people of abilities yet never acquiring his own. He doesn’t borrow the power to use it. He burrows the power just to steal it. Like a sick being that enjoys depriving for the sake of depriving, he watches one squirm without the thing that matters most to them, dangling it in front of them mockingly before finally handing it back. It is the type of mental distress Dazai already excels at causing: being a piece of shit for little explanation or reason.

And it’s a nuisance, to say the least. Chuuya has long lost count of the amount of times Dazai made him face-plant, or had him drop shit on his head, or freaked him out by silencing Arahabaki when Chuuya thought he wasn’t around.

Though appreciation overrode vexation at a disturbing rate, once Chuuya acquired corruption as a skill and began to use it on the regular.

It’s different from those other times, because Dazai used it on him for a reason. Alleviation rather than provocation. Restoring his humanity rather than stripping it away. Relief, blind and maddening, making him sane.

The worst and most dreadful part was that it’s activated by physical contact. And Dazai, the fucking know-it-all, would always be extra gentle when it came to his post-corruption interval, just to add salt to the wound.

Chuuya always wakes up to faint but urgent buzzes on his skin, and always opens his eyes to discover some form of barf-inducing sap taking place. Brushes to his hair, slow rubbing on his arm, sometimes even tender tracing of his face. He’d let it draw out for exactly five extra minutes –reciprocate them with a snarl, if he has the energy– before swatting the cool hands away shakily, claiming he’s fine now.

And he’d-

“TAKE THAT!”

“Chuuya!”

The redhead perks up with a blink, then whips his head around, to find an opponent with a raised sword about to divide his neck in a clean cut. His step backwards is instant, though the sword grazes his chest, not too deep to kill but deep enough to tear his shirt and stain it in crimson.

He zoned out again. Fuck.

The guy himself is pretty fucking easy to knock out, and Chuuya finds himself intensely angry over that fact. Insulted. He grips his reddening shirt. How could he be so careless?

Chuuya turns around with a snarl and an intent to refute his anger, even if it means shouldering part of the weight-crushing blame on someone else, “Why the hell didn’t you nullify his ability, shitty-?!”

His snarl drops. Just like that.

“Don’t- Don’t move!”

The redhead’s eyes widen, and every inch of him turns to stone.

Dazai’s blank eye stares back, but Chuuya’s are set onto the hand forcing his mouth shut, and the knife pointed to his throat.

His breath deflates his chest, and in panic he glances upwards, checking if the fucker whose hands are on his partner noticed that and decided to thrust. Thankfully, the man seems too shaken to carry on with his threat, but the knife is still too fucking close for Chuuya’s comfort.

What should he do? Punching him in the jaw has a chance of sinking the knife in. Using his ability isn’t an option- its hue alone would set that coward off. He’s desperate to live- desperate enough to take an unarmed kid hostage. Even if the unarmed kid in question is the Demon Prodigy.

His breaths come in short, the stench of blood throwing him off balance, the ceaseless wails so loud they deafen him. He’s lost for options. All he can do is obey but that wouldn’t get them anywhere. For all he knows, the guy can escape with Dazai, load him in the trunk of a car and drive where they can never be found. Or he’ll thrust the knife in and flee while Chuuya tries to salvage what little of his partner’s life he can- shitshitshit

He doesn’t know what to do. His hands are tied. He-

Dazai’s squirming catches his eyes.

His partner looks uncomfortable, to say the least, but his empty iris pierces him with a look. One they’ve exchanged many, many times.

It tells him to stop being so tense and use his brain for once in his life.

Chuuya chokes in understanding, and he tries to take a full-fledged breath.

He’s fine, then. He’s fine. He’s not panicking. He has this handled. They both do.

The relief of it clears his mind little by little, subsides his shaking, and Arahabaki’s roars quieten a fraction. Immediately, an idea lights up, his sister’s voice reverberating through his skull along with it.

It’s perfect. He just needs a distraction.

Grumbling, Chuuya crosses his arms over his bloodied chest and feigns a peeved sigh. The coward frowns in confusion at his nonchalant demeanor.

Chuuya sends a direct scowl to his partner, “I take my eyes off of you for one fucking second-”

The man suddenly jerks, making Chuuya jump in alarm. Then deflate at the scene of said opponent taking his hand off of Dazai’s mouth in both astonishment and disgust,

“Did you just lick me?!”

Dazai snaps his neck to face upwards like a freaky little thing, “No, I blew a raspberry. Which means I spit on you.” He says in boredom, “What grown man doesn’t know the difference?”

Oh, he’ll rely on his partner to conduct the distraction part, then.

The guy bristles as he wraps his arm around the brunet’s throat, “You fucking-”

“Ooooh, that smells like a new knife!” Dazai interrupts, and Chuuya can bet his wine collection that he’s genuinely impressed, “Carved, too. Prettyyyy~ Alright, I’ve decided it’s worthy of being my murder weapon. Come on, sink it in, quick!” Dazai tilts his head in order to point at where he wants to be stabbed, “Here! But like, kill me with it in one motion, alright? I hate pain, suffering, agony, so on, so forth. You get the idea.”

Chuuya’s hand flattens.

“What the fuck…?” The man’s sentence doesn’t have to be completed in order for its implications to get across. The ‘What the fuck is wrong with this kid’ is loud enough between the three of them. He regains himself quickly, closing the tip of the knife in, drawing blood, “Shut up!”

Chuuya locks his aim.

“Hey, no. Not like that! That stings! Would it kill you to follow simple instructions?”

Chuuya zips.

“Apparently.” He says before the last step, voice grave.

“E-Eh-?” The side of the fucker’s neck is struck in a flash, and it only takes a second before his body gives an involuntary writhe, stripping control of his consciousness. The knife falls.

Chuuya barely catches a glimpse of Dazai’s open-mouthed stare of what can only be surprise, and he grabs him by his thin wrist before the man’s falling body can crush him.

“Woah-” His partner stumbles, then uprights himself instantly, head shifting from Chuuya to the man that had just collapsed, back and forth. The redhead sighs,

“Thank fuck this is over. I couldn’t stand that goddamn fiasco a second longer.” Chuuya can feel his whole body sag in relief, stepping forward to land one lethal kick to the coward’s head, and nothing more, “Is that all of them?” He surveys around, seeing nothing but dead bodies.

He faces Dazai when he gets no immediate response, arching a brow at the void look that sends blunt daggers his way. This one he can’t translate.

Then Dazai jumps, “What was that?” He outstretches his arms to the body.

Chuuya recoils in surprise, “What was what?”

“A new trick?!” Dazai exclaims, and Chuuya has never seen him so… equal parts impressed and offended before. He doesn’t know how to react. “My dog was learning new tricks while I was gone?!”

Ah, there he is. Chuuya collects himself, takes in the rounded eye and the hands that have gripped the brown hair as his freak of a partner shouts to the sky– deciding to sear that image in his mind forever, for when he needs a good laugh.

It takes a minute for him to understand why Dazai is making such a big deal about this. And-

Oh. It’s because Dazai has never seen him take down an enemy with little force before…

He stifles his pride before it has the chance to quirk the side of his mouth, opting to growl instead,

“Shut the fuck up! Is ‘thank you’ really so hard to come by for you?” He stomps, then winces as the action rattles his body and as a result his shallow injury. It quickly gets replaced back with a grumble as he turns around to head for home, “Fucking ass.”

“Ah the horror!” Dazai continues in woe, and it’s too fucking early for this volume. Chuuya is baffled at his ability to keep it up considering how sensitive his hearing still is. Goddamn masochist. “I’m stupefied, speechless, betrayed!”

“Good.”

“How come my training isn’t as effective?!”

Chuuya turns around in confusion, “When the fuck did your lazy ass ever train me?”

Dazai shrugs with a smile, pseudo woe gone, “Chuuya’s always under my training. He’s just too dumb to realize it.”

Chuuya groans. He would attempt to kick him, but he’s seriously not in the mood for it.

Rather, the sudden crash of fatigue he’s been experiencing after each fight this past month is starting to show its ugly signs at a rapid pace. Headaches, shaky limbs, drooping eyes. They’re warning blares, notifying that he needs to rest on his own will before his body forces him to.

Not that he gets much rest, anyway.

Chuuya isn’t oblivious of the eyebags that have permeated his complexion and resolved to stay. Of course, they never come close to Dazai’s permanent (and currently even bigger) ones, but it still comes as a surprise to the people he’s familiar with, all the same. Nakahara Chuuya? One with a kill count of the hundreds at the age of 16 and never once gave a flying fuck, troubled? Losing sleep? That’s rich.

And it’s not that he stays awake all day restless and unable to blink. No, he does sleep. The only issue is that it never feels like his body has rested like it should. As there is a fine line between light and quality sleep that his mind is unable to overstep, forever stuck in that fearful hallucinatory stage that consists of faces, wires, chains, shadows, wails, howls, screams-

Chuuya scrunches his eyes, and tethers his mind before it has the chance to wander and zone out again. Hopefully, tonight will be different. Tonight will be different. True, he’s been saying that for the past four weeks, but he can feel it. With how wrecked his body feels, there is no way he isn’t going to crash into the deepest slumber mankind has ever seen once he touches an inch of his bed.

A certain intersection catches his sunken eyes. Chuuya stops, and he can sense how Dazai was about to crash into him before catching himself. It’s a testament to how tired the redhead is for not immediately cackling in his partner’s face for that, opting to sigh and shoo Dazai with a hand like a stray cat, as is with every other time they part, 

“Alright. Off you go.”

Dazai silently stares at him. He’s been doing that a lot today. What gives?

Chuuya glares, but doesn’t move, unable to complete his trek before making sure that Dazai is heading for his sorry excuse of a home, instead of a river or some high building.

Dazai finally does something, which is tilt his head, “Has Chuuya forgotten?”

Chuuya is not up for riddles at this unholy hour, so he wipes his face with a sigh, “Forgotten what, you piece of shit?”

“I’m invited over to his place!” Chuuya pauses midst his wipe. Wait- “Oops, correction. It is an exclusive request from a certain higher-up that Chuuya cannot refuse.”

Oh, Fuck. FUCK-

He forgot that Dazai was staying with him for the next two weeks because his dumb shipping container got infiltrated– It’s really how he got kidnapped in the first place, right from his so-called home.

And until Mori finds a new settlement for the bandaged freak (one that is hopefully not another garbage dump), it’s Chuuya’s fucking problem.

He stays stupefied for a second, before doing the only appropriate thing one could do in this situation: cover his face and scream into his hands,

“Aghhhh! Shiiiiiiiit!”

He has no idea why Mori took so long to start his search. It’s been a fucking month, but the boss only considered to begin his hunt three days ago– Like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t know the sort of horrors he bestowed upon anyone unfortunate enough to have Dazai as a temporary roommate because of that.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Chibi!” Dazai’s coat lags behind as he steps up beside him, shit-eating grin wide and real, “I promise to be a well-mannered roommate and only light the house on fire twice.”

“Why am I fucking stuck with you?!” He screams in his palms again, before lowering them and snapping his neck to the source of his misery in disbelief, “Oda-san kicked you out for a reason!”

Dazai smiles drops, then frowns in confusion, scoffing, “Hey, I wasn’t kicked out.” He stares off into the distance dramatically, curling a hand to his chest, “I only requested to be transported before I’m found murdered by the appalling, horrifying, life-threatening condition called ‘getting bored to death’.”

Chuuya gives a final yell, then breathes, choosing to pinch the bridge of his nose and continue walking before he either passes out or murders somebody, “And does it look like I’m your goddamn jester?!”

Dazai shrugs, walking along- ughhhh, “Pretty much.”

The tips of his gloved fingers dig in his palm as his fist shakes, threatening Dazai and his punchable face, “Why you little-”

“No no no, we agreed that using that expression is entirely imprecise.” Dazai pulls up a finger as he interjects, “I’m not the little one h-”

“I can’t believe I’ll have to endure your nonstop fucking yapping for two whole weeks!” He snaps, and his fists actually shake in an urge to send a blow, so he hurries to distance himself before a mackerel is pronounced dead in less than an hour, “I’m taking the roofs.”

“Wh- Chuuya!”

Just as he floats, something grips the end of his red jacket, making him crash back less than gracefully. He catches himself, ignoring the flare of his ankles from his bad landing as he turns,

“What the hell, you bastard?!” He tries to shake Dazai’s hand that’s now on his shoulder off, “Let me go!”

“Chuuya, stop and listen to me.” Chuuya pauses at Dazai’s serious face. “You clearly never heard of roof rabies, and I don’t know how. It’s a serious condition!” He says in urgency.

“Wh-…?” Chuuya stops completely, assessing his partner’s words, his eye. He can’t determine if the sincerity is for show or genuine. He frowns, “You’re bluffing.”

“No, it’s a real disease!” Dazai insists, shaking his shoulder, “Caused an epidemic between the crows and pigeons that stayed on rooftops not too long ago! Now people are getting affected too!”

“…What?” He’s never heard of this. Then again, he isn’t acquainted enough with Mori to have a broad knowledge of the countless horrifying diseases roaming in the city, is he?

Dazai rolls his visible eye at his skepticism, “Come on, why do you think you never see birds nesting on rooftops anymore?”

Chuuya looks up, to find his words accurate. Not a bird in sight. Well, as far as he can see with the lowering moon’s hue.

“…Huh.” He relents, tension leaving his shoulders.

“There we go.” Dazai gleams, snatching his hat quickly, “Aww, I’m so proud of you for taking care of your health! Good boy!” An invading hand starts mangling his hair, burning his scalp.

The urge to kick it is powerful, but Chuuya manages to slightly appease that urge by pushing the hand patting him with little force, and snatching his hat back whilst rolling his eyes. He’s tired. And injured. And irritable. If he let his emotions steer him, he’s gonna have the bastard need another hospital stay pretty soon.

Which… is a plan to consider, in case living with him becomes the inevitable nightmare that it already is. Hm.

Dazai’s smile fades at the lack of a visceral reaction, and Chuuya’s irritability subsides at the triumph of one-upping him once more.

He’s getting close to his goal. He can see it. Soon enough his nonchalance will get through the freak’s thick skull and he’ll finally stop with his awful antagonizations.

The rest of the way is silent, and Chuuya doesn’t mind. In fact, he welcomes the calm atmosphere, breathes in its sereness. For how loud people claim him to be, quiet moments are the only things that keep him sane during the chaos always unfolding around him and within. The two types of chaos he has no control over, forever an appendage to his presence, dragging whoever within his range in its horrid, gory mess.

And whether the quiet moments happen during walks, ocean viewings, or cemetery visits of gravestones etched in familiar names, he never disturbs their serenity when he can help it, feels it’s disrespectful to.

Besides, he needs to savor each second of silence he gets, since a certain nuisance is gonna be staying with him every waking hour…

The cold breeze of dawn sways his hair, a bird or two starting to chirp awake. Chuuya wouldn’t say he has a fixed bedtime that he follows, but like most mafia members, it starts from early morning and ends at late noon. It’s one of the reasons he’s installed roller shutters all over his apartment: to completely block out the sun’s cheery hues and the chatter of the people of the light that he’ll never get the chance to acclimatize with…

His apartment complex comes into view, and the next twenty minutes go by like a reverie. He enters his home, he lowers the roller shutters, he changes in the bathroom, he sterilizes his wound, relies on Arahabaki to deal with the rest, and he goes to the kitchen, where Dazai sits at the bar of, watching his every move.

Chuuya makes some light food– microwavable eggs and leftover rice. Once the food is prepared Chuuya sits at the bar too, its dim and calming light their only companion. They eat in silence.

By now, Chuuya is kind of concerned about how prolonged the silence seems to have gotten, but figures Dazai is just as worn out as he is, and as a result would keep this up till he’s crashed on the couch-

“If Chuuya was smart, he’d have used that stupid move on me back then.”

Seems like he spoke too soon.

“What?” The question is raspy as he turns to Dazai, to find him poking his eggs. Is he talking about when he was trying to escape to the rooftop? Why bring this up all of a sudden?

“I mean, it’s not like it would be pleasant to get knocked out in the middle of my sentence. That would be insanely rude of you, by the way.” He faces him with a pointed look, “But I can’t believe how dumb Chuuya was to not even think of using it!”

Chuuya shrugs, taking a bit of rice in his chopsticks, “Hey, I just wanted to get the fuck away from you. Otherwise, I would’ve actually killed you.”

“That’s my point!” Dazai exclaims, and Chuuya smells the hints of a game starting, “He’d rather have Mori punish him for murdering his favorite and best mafioso who never failed him on a mission than-”

“Shut up before I use your own idea against you, you self-proclaimed genius.” Chuuya decides to play along, no matter how worn out. He’ll never let the bastard get away with calling him stupid.

“Pfff, I’d like to see you try!” Dazai challenges, food forgotten as he crosses his arms and leans in his direction, “You won’t even be fast enough to catch me-”

“The fuck do you mean? You’re literally within arm’s reach.”

“Then try it! Prove me wrong!”

“I’m fucking serious.” Chuuya says with less energy than he likes.

“Do it!” Dazai prompts, laughing, still louder than he’s supposed to be for the comfort of his healing eardrums, “Come on, do it!”

Chuuya frowns, “Now you want me to do it?”

“Don’t you wanna test its effectiveness?”

The frown stays, just as he takes a bite out of his eggs, “You’re extra persistent about this, what gives?”

“Chuuya should knock me out!” Dazai says with a lot of enthusiasm, and Chuuya finds he’s lost his.

“I’m not sure if you’re actually as dumb as you sound, but I wasn’t serious.” He shrugs, truthful, because it’s seriously too early for all of this. He wants nothing more than to fill his belly and snooze. “Besides, it’s no fun just ‘knocking you out’. Your reactions are the best part.”

Saying that Dazai’s smile dropped would be an understatement. It fucking plummeted. Chuuya doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how fast he can just switch like that. His frown deepens.

“You-” Dazai lets out, his iris shifting from Chuuya’s face to his food to his hat-

And suddenly, there are two hands violently rubbing his hair, pushing his fedora off-

“Chuuya’s hair needs brushing!” Dazai chirps and Chuuya jumps, “It’s so greasy!”

“Fucking hell- what is your problem?!” Chuuya exclaims, lethargy gone as he manages to haphazardly place his plate on the counter before trying to escape the icy sears to his scalp or else he’ll get physical-

Just as he manages to hop from the bar stool, Dazai follows– he pokes his face repeatedly while giggling, and before Chuuya can swat him away, Dazai grabs his cheeks, squeezing it in and out.

The desperation is evident. This is too much.

Chuuya’s hands find the other’s chest and immediately shoves.

“What is it, you fucking freak?!” He yells, pupils small in his rage, trying to ignore the tingles coursing like fire ants through his skin, the way his heart is thundering in his ears, “Stop going in fucking circles! Out with it!”

“Why won’t you just do as your master asks?” Dazai’s hands come up to grab his face again. Chuuya immediately smacks them, and turns the table on the freaking maniac by grabbing his face instead. With more than a little force.

“Why are you so insistent about this?! Answer me and I might.”

Dazai pauses, glancing at the gloves cupping his face with an eye that has blacked in an instant. Chuuya’s expression drops, letting him go at once.

He almost apologizes, but bites his tongue at the ridiculousness of that. Dazai doesn’t look like he’s about to apologize for pulling the exact same shit a second ago.

Still, he’s been deliberately refraining from touching Dazai with his gloves ever since he found him in that haunting dungeon. At least when he can help it.

Seems lethargy really is doing its work here.

Dazai goes silent, blank in every inch of him. Chuuya pants lightly in response to the fiasco that had taken place. He shakes away his guilt, letting deserved rage take its place in one fell swoop. If he doesn’t set his boundaries now, things are sure to turn ugly these next fourteen days.

“Dazai, I swear to Grantors of Dark Disgrace, if you ever pull any of this shit again– forget about knocking you out, I won’t hesitate to shear your fucking hands off.” He rumbles- venomous, composed. And when he’s composed, he’s serious. There is no doubt that the fucker is aware of that.

Dazai doesn’t react, as expected, but he does switch his blank stare to the floor instead. Chuuya watches every miniscule shift, counts each time his visible iris twitches, each flex of his fingers, in hopes to get any hint on what exactly is inducing this.

But as always, only what Dazai wants to display will be what Chuuya perceives. And currently, he’s displaying nothing.

“I know it isn’t your strong suit, but can you be fucking honest with me, now?” He crosses his arms, growling in way less intensity than before, but still sharply enough to get his disappointment across.

Dazai loses his staring contest with the floor with a blink, and his eyelid droops slightly. He moves, slow in his gait as he reseats himself in the bar stool, revolving in it to face the bar itself, and leans in till his forehead is in contact with the counter…

“Heh…” He eventually puts his voice to use, humorless, “I think I haven’t slept in a while…”

Finally.

Chuuya lowers his arms, registering what he’s hearing. There should be no tricks here. Dazai is talking to him, for once, and he can’t miss that chance.

The sun begins to peek through the shutters’ small holes, creating a checkered pattern reflecting across the house’s ceramic. Soon, it will reach where they’re sitting, will spread a little warmth over the cold atmosphere, and will glint off of Dazai’s dull eye as he’s the one facing it…

The redhead decides to get down to his partner’s level, and lies his head similarly beside him, feeling the cool marble kiss his cheek. If it were up to him, he’d lose war to his fatigue and sleep right then and there, but he can’t fully rest before the nuisance he’s resigned himself to try to understand is dealt with.

Not that he can fully rest, anyway…

“How long of a while…?” The usual gruffness to his voice is subdued. Dazai’s hair is blocking most of his face, but Chuuya imagines the wide stare directed at his lap without much effort.

“I don’t know, not sure.” Dazai scratches at his narrow wrist, “Everything’s blurry and awful…”

It’s a proof of the truth behind these words, that Dazai just admitted vulnerability like that, and acknowledged its negative impacts on him. True, it took trying to manipulate Chuuya, even provoking him into harming him at first, but if Dazai was in a clear thinking state, he’d have thought of a hundred other ways he could convince the redhead before even considering giving in.

If it’s gotten this bad, then Chuuya is safe to assume that Dazai might have barely gotten any sleep since he woke up from his coma. Which makes about thirteen days of little to no sleep, given that he’d regained consciousness on the twelfth day.

Damn.

Chuuya can’t claim he’s any better, though.

He feels his partner’s open show of self stimulating a call to his own, evoking an urge to fiddle with the ends of his gloves. He catches himself, hugging his waist instead.

“They didn’t let you sleep at the hospital?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. My stay there was the cruelest possible consequence for what had happened– and I know cruel.” Dazai exaggerates with a chuckle, but it rings hollow. Chuuya can starkly see the twitches of recalling bad memories, as the younger goes from scratching his wrists to messing his already tousled hair, “My mind, it…” He gives a harsh tug.

“It wouldn’t… shut up…”

Ah… insomnia and nightmares.

Funny, that whenever Chuuya resigns himself to understand, the matter always ends up being way beyond his depth. It being a matter he doesn’t remember ever experiencing in his lifetime, and would never get the chance to experience. But that’s what Chuuya is, right? An enigma playing pretend in hopes he can reach the levels of normal everyone else seems to so, so easily maintain…

Chuuya closes his eyes, tries to shake the pessimistic mindset by reciting Adam’s words. He already decided that it doesn’t matter, didn’t he? Whether he’s human or not. He’d rather focus on understanding the issue some other way, and place it under light that is familiar to him, in order to reach a suitable solution.

True, the concept of nightmares is foreign to him, but he imagines they’re no different than what Arahabaki makes him go through during that subconscious state before sleep every single night.

Chuuya had to train himself to sleep amidst the God’s awful hollers. To the best of his ability, at least. It has especially become a liability this month, when flashes of a gory face would pulse in rhythmic beats. When the feeling of bony shoulder blades and the sound of a particular terrified whine would reverberate through his skull. The screams would be the loudest they’ve ever been, and the hardest to ignore.

Dazai might be experiencing just that, but instead of being half-conscious during it, he’s just asleep. The flashes would nag at him at first, disrupt the serenity of his barely achieved slumber, until his mind wouldn’t be able to take it anymore and press its panic button, jolting him awake.

Which means that not only does Dazai want to quickly nod off, he also wants to be dead to the world for as long as possible…

And getting knocked out, from his perspective, was the fastest way to achieve that.

Chuuya sighs, opening his eyes. Dazai is still gripping his hair, the force of it shaking his arms. He decides that he wouldn’t like for the idiot to give himself bald spots in his watch.

Chuuya removes one glove this time before taking Dazai’s harming hand by the wrist. It’s not violent, but the bandages don’t feel the same as skin to him anymore. It doesn’t feel like contact, and he isn’t sure how to feel about it.

Dazai turns to him, just as Chuuya rests the offending limb at the counter, and keeps the contact there for a little longer, making sure it won’t go running back to perform the self-soothing actions that do more harm than good.

Once Chuuya feels satisfied that it won’t, he frees it. Dazai watches the silent conversation, waiting for it to become audible.

Chuuya huffs as to not make him wait for long, “And you didn’t mention all that when I visited at the hospital because…?”

There’s something that sparks, then. Something like accusation— annoyance, maybe? It furrows Dazai’s visible brow, “You visited?”

“Wh- Yeah? Multiple times, in fact.”

“Really? Because I don’t remember ever seeing you while awake.”

“What the hell are y- Ohh.” Chuuya’s now certain he is not thinking clearly. How come he spill the one thing he didn’t want to bring up like that? He’s outed himself by himself.

It wasn’t that Chuuya only visited during Dazai’s coma for a logical reason that he can explain, either. Part of him felt he couldn’t face him after he woke up. Another told him that he wasn’t in the mood to try and figure out how to approach Dazai after everything that’s happened.

But a third part, one that he tried to stifle, insisted that he never wanted to face his partner while he’s in a moment of weakness ever again…

And that the moment Chuuya does pity him a second time, is the day Dazai stops being suicidal…

Which is to say: never.

“Uhhh…” He attempts to plead his case, put his thoughts into any coherent excuse, and fails before even trying.

“That’s creepy, Chuuya.” Dazai surprises him with his flat remark.

“Like you’re less of a fucking creep.” He bristles, arms around his waist tightening while averting his eyes, “‘Sides, I didn’t trust the nurses there one bit…”

“Aw, Chuuya was keeping guard? Like my-”

“Oi.”

“-good personal guard dog? How sweet…”

Chuuya deflates, and watches as Dazai withers, unable to maintain the façade for more than a single minute. It’s tragic.

“You think knocking you out is the way to do it?” He refocuses on the issue at hand, ambivalent. Not only would Dazai be practically paralyzed, he’d also need Chuuya’s help in order to snap out of it.

“Come on, Chuuya.” Dazai flashes him with a cracked grin, “When are my plans ever wrong?”

Chuuya stares at him, unimpressed. The grin shatters completely.

“I’ve tried everything.” Dazai admits, sleep deprivation transmitting between both of them, “At least, I’ve tried what I could. The hospital staff was so annoying.”

“‘Cause you probably tried overdosing on something, genius.” Thinking through it again, he sighs, relenting. Chuuya sits up fully, “Fine.”

Dazai tilts his head, blinking at him, “Fine?”

“I agree. But we establish ground rules first.”

A brow quirks, “I thought I’m supposed to establish them?”

“You’re terrible at that.” Chuuya says, then crosses his arms, “First, finish your food.” He orders, despite knowing that Dazai wouldn’t touch his plate again after leaving it. Making it a means for Dazai to reach his goal might work, though. Hopefully.

He doesn’t like how thin Dazai still seems to be.

“Nooooo…” Dazai averts his face, speaking into the counter, “This is abuse.”

“Second, get in some comfortable clothes.”

“I’m too tiredddd…”

“Not my problem. Third, bandages.”

Dazai doesn’t whine this time, turning to him with a frown, “What about them?”

“I know you sleep without them.” Chuuya points out, rubbing his neck, “You have to take them off, ‘cause I won’t sleep well at night knowing your ass could wake up out of discomfort and rummage through my kitchen-”

His partner straightens, drilling through him with a vacant eye, “Again, what’s the problem?”

“Are you being dense on purpose? We need to find a way to knock you out after you take them off.” He runs a hand through his bedraggled locks, and absently takes note that his hat is still on the ground, “We can… turn off the lights before I do it? But I don’t think I’ll aim well- which is to say would be hilarious if I hit your face instead, but… I think I can use my ability to light the room just a little– enough for me to not see anything-”

Dazai’s eye-roll rudely interrupts him.

“Chuuya, I can’t believe your lack of intellect is still capable of surprising me.” Before Chuuya has the chance to growl in response, Dazai removes the bandages around his blind eye without a word.

“Woah- okay. Uhhh,” Chuuya looks away, and has to stop himself before he can cover his own eyes.

Dazai giggles lowly, fabric loose on the paler side of his face, “Is Chibi flustered? He’s acting like I got indecent.”

“Shut up!” Chuuya feels heat creep up to his cheeks, forcing himself to fixate on the badly red-rimmed eye, “By your standards, yes, you did.”

Dazai’s apparently too tired to keep teasing him (thank fuck), as he face-plants on the counter again. Chuuya huffs.

“Help me out with the one around my neck. My energy’s goneee…” 

Chuuya blinks, stupefied.

“You can’t seriously be okay with that.”

“I ‘m…” Dazai slurs, making Chuuya shake his head in disbelief. Disinclined, he steps out of the bar stool, taking off his remaining glove.

His fingers are stiff as he moves the hair out of the way, then hesitates to come in contact with the white gauze, Dazai’s sacred haven. Once he touches it, he looks for any signs of agitation, any reaction, to find none. How is that possible?

He briefly wonders if Dazai fell asleep right then and the-

“Chuuya really is a slug…”

He weakly flinches, “Shut the hell up, there isn’t enough light for this shit.” Stifling his nervousness, he gets on with it, snapping the pin open. Why is he nervous, anyway? He’s not at the receiving end of this, he shouldn’t treat it as a big deal.

But…

As his hands slowly disentangle the warm fabric, contrasting Dazai’s cold skin, he finds his answer. The amount of trust and vulnerability his partner’s showcased these past fifteen minutes alone is… unprecedented. Something he wants to treasure.

And he’s afraid that one wrong move might ruin all of this. Make it a dream. A nightmare he isn’t capable of having.

Dazai’s yawn, muffled by marble, interrupts his thoughts.

“You’ll sleep with your work clothes on?” Chuuya asks as he meekly works, then pauses, looking around, “Did you even bring any clothes-?”

“Chuuya can do all of that for me.” The other mumbles, sounding sleepier by the second.

“Wha-?! In your dreams, vagabond-”

“He’s such a bad host…”

“You’re a bad guest! An invader, at best!”

Dazai hums, and Chuuya hears the smile lacing his tone, “Yeah…”

Fabric undone, Chuuya doesn’t touch nor even glance at the skin on display, bringing the umber locks back in place. He wearily gets back to his seat, though doesn’t hop on it, choosing to lean on the bar as he’s convinced it won’t be much longer for them to retrieve to their respectful beds. The other turns to him, pressing his cheek to the counter.

He finds that Dazai has taken off the bandages around his wrists, too, his rolled up sleeves left rolled up, and Chuuya can barely process any of what’s happening. Fuck, he feels like death.

“Didn’t eat, wouldn’t change…” Chuuya huffs in displeasure, scanning Dazai’s dark circles that seem to have amplified, somehow, “I don’t even think you’ll be able to wait till I knock you out.”

“I can…” Dazai blinks his eye- eyes, in slow, unsynced motion. The sun specks glint off of them and elevate the mahogany hues into caramel. It’s uncanny. “Always awake…”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Chuuya says, and means it. Narrowing the gap between them, he nudges once he finds the glazed eyes shutting, “Come on, up. Up. Like hell you’re sleeping on my counter, slobbering your germs all over it.”

Dazai attempts a pathetic chuckle, just as Chuuya pushes him to his feet, “Chuuya’s the dog…”

“And you’re an annoying fucking stray.” Dazai is unsteady as he stands, and Chuuya makes sure he won't fall before heading for the couch. To his surprise, Dazai doesn’t follow, and he looks back to find him where he left him, head hanged in a flat stare.

Chuuya is sure that he himself will pass out in exactly one minute and thirty seconds, so he has to be quick about this. “Come on, do I have to drag you there?”

He takes Dazai’s wrist, almost flinches at the unexpectancy of the callous skin that meets his, but doesn’t let go as he pulls him along, till Dazai’s back is to the couch, ready to fall in it.

Dazai’s coat has come undone in their trek, as he probably couldn’t drag it along, and Chuuya finds he doesn’t give a fuck. He stands before his partner-slash-temporary roommate’s annoyingly taller form, locking his aim, flattening his palm.

“Ready?”

Dazai’s nods are slow, heavy. Chuuya deems that good enough.

His hand raises, and in a swish he strikes-

Except.

Just before Chuuya’s hand connects with the side of his neck, his eyes widen as he finds Dazai’s whole weight crumbling forward-

“Woah-” He opens his arms instinctively, for Dazai’s head to fully crash into his injured chest, and at the sudden lack of his ability, the only thing keeping Chuuya standing, his body propels backwards, rendering them a mess of limbs on the ground.

He tries to lessen the impact by holding the brunet tighter, feeling the dull throb to his backside he lands on it. His knees are bent and leave space for Dazai’s concerningly limp body to sprawl against his.

“Woah, hey…” Recovering quickly, he adjusts himself to look down in slight franticness, moving Dazai’s head in order to see anything other than the brown hair beneath his chin, and… finds Dazai’s eyes shut, his breathing slow and steady…

A fraction of Chuuya’s tension dissipates.

He’s just asleep…

The redhead is unsure of how to navigate this, so he stays there for a while, tentative and tense. He forces himself to relax soon enough, one hand cupping the back of Dazai’s bare neck, the other over his back, solidifying their dreadful proximity.

He’s hesitant for a semi-second, before his nose meekly burrows into the tempting dark curls, his lethargy weighing him down tremendously.

“Couldn’t predict that one, huh?” He hoarsely says, closing his eyes, “Can’t believe I bested you in your forte…”

There are but slight tingles coursing through his nervous system, growing minutely by the minute. Chuuya punishes himself by submitting to them for longer, his arm pressing, tightening. Dazai’s chest presses onto his own with each inhale, his ear spying on his pounding heart, no regard for privacy as always.

And his worn out body sags before he can help it…

Arahabaki’s screaming should attack Chuuya at this stage of half-consciousness, but he’s blissfully silent, like Chuuya’s ears have defeaned, like he’s finally been pacified…

And as a result, the gravity manipulator discovers that… his mind was the one sending the gruesome flashes all along.

A lab fills his vision, searing the phantom bullet wounds that’ve long healed. He tries to shake it away, and it does, only to shift to a grimy, dirty dungeon, a single chair in the middle of it.

Chuuya’s eyes scrunch, fingers interlocking with bistre curls that smell like rain and death, heaving through them.

He keeps getting assaulted with one mental image after the other: half a body in his arms, a hand identical to his pressing through glass, his skeleton crumbling to ashes; pain, hot and blinding, granting him soaring wings he’d never asked for…

It stops at the image of Dazai leaning towards him in his manacles. Lingers on it.

And Chuuya’s hazed mind wonders…

If he didn’t deny him back then. If he had offered his shoulder for his partner to cry on, would things have ended up different?

Chuuya shakes his head. What a dumb question.

Of course they would have.

Arahabaki would have muted, he wouldn’t have roared in a frenzy to let his terrifying rage out, the one Chuuya couldn't physically nor mentally handle.

Chuuya wouldn’t have dragged that fucking monster to another cell, took it out on him. He’d have evacuated right when he was supposed to, left that job for the explosives that had already sealed his fate.

He’d have never felt the urge to regurgitate whenever his fist connected with flesh. He wouldn’t have seen flashes of a carved face whenever his eyes closed. He wouldn’t have ever been a defected fighter, losing the one thing he enjoyed doing most for an entire month.

Instead, he’d have cried, sobbed along, taken a fraction of Dazai’s pain, maybe alleviated him in some way. He’d have been comfortable enough with Oda-san, maybe even had him as a friend, instead of being too discomfited to face him after the state his senior had found him in, covered in gunk and gore…

And Dazai? He would have been upfront about this from the very start…

Trusted that Chuuya would always ease his pain once he asks for it.

Instead of going in circles…

The realization sinks in and stews, and Chuuya feels his chest swell in pinpricks. Pinpricks different from the ones his healing injury is emitting as Dazai’s cheek leans onto it. It’s unbearable.

“I’m…” Chuuya’s wheezing throat doesn’t let him continue. He’s so many things. Frightened, upset, regretful, ashamed…

Sorry…

Chuuya blinks his eyes open, and a spurt of energy gets him to his feet before the urge to weep threatens to choke him, even though he could have endured much more contact. He could’ve punished himself for longer…

But he’ll truly pass out if this goes on, and Chuuya doesn’t tolerate the idea of sleeping like that, on the ground.

With Dazai this vulnerable in his arms.

So he manages to carry the younger to the couch. Somehow. He isn’t even sure how that happened. He doesn’t question it.

The spare blanket is thrown over the other, and he would step away and leave it like that, but Chuuya pauses… before he annoyingly grumbles, spreading the corners of the blanket to even it out.

Dazai exhales, snuggling onto the coverage like a freaky cat with its paws pillowed under its head, expression furrowing then smoothing into blissful comfort.

With a miserable sigh, the redhead glares at him as he utters, “I’ll have to endure two weeks of this shit...”

His eyes soften.

Somehow, his words don’t hold the vexation they normally would with anything Dazai related.

Huh…

The very depths of a calamitous soul reveals nothing but static…

Static that merges with unrelenting wails, aching to be let out, aching to be free. They are loud, hoarse and pained and angry. Shaking in continues chaos, misery. But wails should not have feelings, so how come they-

They stop.

Wait…

They’ve stopped. They’re quiet. They’re-? They shouldn’t be-

You’re falling.

Chuuya starts awake with a gasp, right when his body lands from his imaginary fall, the one that felt like plummeting from a hundred story building. His form trembles as his blurred eyes dart across his room, the lack of light barely helping– in fact, intensifying his frenzy.

He’s on the floor. He’s face down. There is a broom clattering next to him. He’s not hearing any screams. He most definitely isn’t in his room.

“Owww…”

Chuuya’s head whips to the sound that’s… coming from right under him??

He watches, stupefied, as Dazai casually sits up and rubs his head, grimacing and mumbling-- with Chuuya still on him.

“Ugh, I’m never catching Chibi again…”

The redhead registers the warmth of the body against his, prickles thundering his already muddled heart as his breath comes in short bursts. Waking up in Dazai’s contiguity isn’t unprecedented -corruption had numbed him to that, at this point-, it’s his inability to explain what brought them here that rattles him.

An arm wraps around Chuuya’s back, and he finally snaps out of his trance to yell,

“What the fuck?!” He scrambles himself up, limbs yet to awaken—and Dazai’s arm doesn’t fall, “What did y-”

“You were floating.” Dazai says simply.

Chuuya grits his teeth before shoving the other, ready to punch the shit out of him if he doesn’t find anything better than a ridiculous made-up excuse to justify their position with,

“Is this some kind of joke?!”

Dazai falls back on his elbows, but keeps both his eyes fixated on his, “No. I woke up and found your ugly face staring down at me.” He insists in a flat tone, and something about it makes Chuuya’s anger falter, “You were on the ceiling.”

Chuuya scans his partner’s uncanny face with his eyes that have adjusted to the dark, to find… nothing. No subdued mischief, no condescending undertone, no means to an end.

What would Dazai even gain by lying about this?

His azure eyes shift to the broom, then to the ceiling, face scrunching in bewilderment.

“…What?” He grimaces, rubbing his burning eyes as he gets off of the one underneath him. With how sore everything feels, he’s inclined to believe him.

Looks like his fall wasn’t so imaginary, after all…

Dazai straightens in a crisscrossed sit, holding his ankles– and the dazed redhead belatedly notices that Dazai’s wearing his pajama, shirt and pants a tad short on him. His eyebrows lift in surprise while the beanpole in question teasingly-slash-curiously asks, “Did my dog have a bad dream?”

Chuuya freezes, then a solemn smile forms as his eyes avert, “Oh, yeah. Awful. Horrifying. Can’t believe that my mind came up with that shit.”

Dazai’s expression falls, seeming to realize the stupidity of his question –for once in his life–, “…Right.”

Chuuya sighs, wobbly standing up. He collapses onto the couch after pushing the blanket aside, head lolling to stare at the ceiling, wiping his face in an effort to process what he’d just learned.

Did he always do that? Is that why any amount of sleep never feels like enough? Because his fucking ability would activate and make his body roam around in his apartment like a dandelion puff, never giving it a chance to properly rest? What the fuck?

It’s not like he found himself waking up outside of bed, recently. And Albatross, for how much he used to kick his door down when they were supposed to be sleeping, never mentioned that, either.

The couch dips beside him, and Chuuya feels the vacancy staring through him, now doubled. He thinks over this whole thing again, and lets his frustration get the best of him,

“Why would I just… float in my sleep like that?” He grits, throat clogging slightly.

“I can't say for certain. There’s a lot to consider.” Dazai answers flatly, “Lowering Chuuya with a broom was hilarious, though.”

The fact that Dazai can’t explain what’s happening with him makes him feel infinitely worse, because now he’s certain it’s a phenomenon that’s unheard of. A non-incessant ability activating on its own, maneuvering the body like a puppet on strings, as if it’s stronger than the user itself?

Of course that’s unheard of.

Of course there is no chance for him to ever be normal.

Neither as an ability user. Nor as a goddamn human.

He wants to holler at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

But he sighs instead, weary beyond belief, and he’s curious to know if there’s a good reason for that,

“What time is it?”

“Nine.”

Three hours of not-sleep. Shit.

He grumbles now, glancing aside at the mackerel attiring in his fuzzy, bright clothes, “Why the hell are you up?”

Dazai tilts his head as if that’s a weird thing to ask, then seems to get it because he sighs overdramatically afterwards,

“Nothing changed.” He crosses his arms, giving Chuuya a look like this was somehow his fault, “Turns out Chuuya’s stupid method was faulty, after all…”

Chuuya was about to point out that his ‘stupid method’ wasn’t even implemented, but he makes the smart choice of saving himself two weeks’ worth of headaches instead.

They stay silent for a while, what little sun peeking through being their only company. He casts a lazy glance to the side, to lock onto the hatrack by chance, finding Dazai's coat and his porkpie hat hanging off of it, and he can't recall placing them there. The chatter of the people of the light manage to filter through, car honks and chirping birds and infinite warmth neither of them wound ever want to associate with-

“So,” Dazai cuts through the fog permeating his mind, scooting closer, “Any ideas on how to fix this?”

Chuuya stares at the ceiling miserably, then closes his sunken eyes, “Why bother? I’m not awake for it anyway.”

Dazai gasps like Chuuya just told him to pet a German Shepherd, “You think I can sleep well at night knowing Arahabaki might just randomly possess you?! You know we don’t get along! I’m fresh meat! I fear my safety! Oh my brittle, fragile self!”

Dazai wails like an ambulance siren. Chuuya emits a humorless laugh at the irony. He can’t tell Dazai how much the God sheathed inside him actually screeches in his head in worry of him, or how bad it got during this past fucking month alone. That’s like admitting that he was losing sleep over him, which… yes, that’s true, but Dazai would absolutely twist that sentiment into something else entirely with zero hesitation.

Chuuya knows for a fact that while a part of Arahabaki might hate Dazai for being his only tamer, he’s also unapologetically protective of him. He’d never intentionally hurt the bastard if his conscience allowed it.

All of that can stay under wraps, though.

“Okay, okay- just shut up! Too early for all that yelling.” He lowers his head, feeling the blood that’s rushed there return to its normal course, “If it’ll get your wimpy ass to rest easy, I can tie myself to the be-”

“That’s a bad idea. Who’s to say he won’t get aggressive?”

“Right.” He holds the bridge of his nose, “Ughhh, I don’t know…”

“Chuuya’s tiny brain is malfunctioning already?”

“I don’t see you coming up with any ideas.” He growls, but it falls short, “What do you suggest we do, then?”

His partner looks ahead as he speaks, “If you ask me, we should put him to sleep completely.”

“How, smarta-”

Dazai sends him a knowing look.

It’s indicative, implying something, and when a very vivid, very detailed image of the two of them snuggling in the same bed suddenly violates him, Chuuya’s face reddens so fast he prepares himself to get up and barf in the nearest container and bleach his brain while he’s at it-

“Chibi is so dramatic,” Dazai rolls his eyes like he didn’t just traumatize the shit out of him, “I was insinuating that we tie a thread to our fingers.”

“Fuck off! That wasn’t what that look meant!” Chuuya exclaims as he revolves his body to fully face the other, unable to get his face to cool down.

“What else could it possibly mean?” Dazai asks slyly, piling his embarrassment, “Look, just to prove my innocence, we’ll put a pillow between us. Dogs shouldn’t sleep in their owner’s beds, but alas.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Chuuya is this close to catapulting his ass out of the window, “That is my bed!”

“Oh, my bad. Owners shouldn’t sleep in their dogs’ beds. Better?” Dazai grins.

His anger persists for a total of one second before it abates all too quickly. Chuuya averts his eyes with a huff, the blush lingering.

He isn’t sure if he’s on board with this whole thing…

Dazai’s face falls, half-lidded and bored, “Do you not have thread, Chuuya?”

“Of course I do. This isn’t what I’m worried about.” He reclines, back against the arm of the couch, “You think it’s comfortable to be tied to someone while you sleep? Turning around would be a hassle. Moving at all would wake the other. The thread might snap for all we know.”

“We can make the thread long enough.” Dazai shrugs, “I don’t see the issue.”

“This is a stupid idea.” He tries.

“That we should try. I can’t find a more effective solution.” Dazai suddenly stops, snapping his head to him with a quirked eyebrow, “Unless Chuuya is asking that we cuddle with ea-”

“UWAAAH!” Chuuya scrambles to cover Dazai’s mouth with energy that isn’t at all appropriate for the amount they slept. Dazai giggles through it. “SHHHH! SHUT UP FOR THE REST OF THIS NIGHT! BETTER YET, FOREVER!”

“S’re w’nt!” Dazai speaks through Chuuya’s fingers, effectively sputtering on them. Chuuya wipes his hands in Dazai’s face, then stomps back to his room, spouting profanities.

But not before noting that the counter has been cleared of the plates he admittedly forgot about.

Dazai infuriatingly skips along. Chuuya nearly pulls the drawer out of its hinges, and finds the thread he’s looking for. Thankfully, it isn’t fucking red. Though if they’re planning to keep on with this charade for the next two weeks, then they’ll have to resort to it pretty soon.

Fuck, he wants the earth to swallow him already.

They set themselves on the mattress, the pillow between them. Bleary eyes follow as Dazai pinches the end of the thread and lets the paper core tube roll freely, till it’s about two meters in length.

Dazai ties the knot around Chuuya’s pinky, and Chuuya ties the other around his.

Arahabaki silences immediately, and it strikes him as a tad bizarre. The rush of No Longer Human feels exceptionally distinct when it’s activated through skin contact. It’s like your whole being gets sucked away, the point of contact a noiseless vacuum, your ability eager to surge through its filters, its veins. It tingles, it stings, it feels like you’ve been doused in ice-- all in the fragment of a second.

Here, it’s a tiny fraction of that prosperity, and Chuuya isn’t sure what to make of that.

He decides he’s too exhausted to think about any of this anyway, plopping onto the bed less than gracefully right after putting the lampshade to sleep. Back pressed to the pillow, he tugs the quilt to wrap it just the way he likes it-- before someone acts as a hindrance.

Said hindrance takes most of the blanket, leaving Chuuya with a space for cold air to invade. Chuuya gawps at the audacity, then pulls back, harsher.

The tug-of-war keeps going on for more than five minutes before Dazai is the one to exclaim-

“Stay still!”

“You stop wriggling!” Chuuya sends a snarl back, to find the asshole doing the same, “God, I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

“Chuuya’s so greedy! He’s taking up all this warmth when he’s already so warm!” Dazai turns his body to fully face him, “I need a blanket to survive!”

“Perish then, bitch!” Chuuya yanks his own goddamn blanket tighter, nuzzling his head back in place, “There isn’t one big enough for both of us!”

There is a second of suspicious silence, and Chuuya considers turning back around, before Dazai’s toes touch his and they’re freezing.

“Fucking hell!” He jerks away, wishes he could kick him in that position. Dazai snickers. “Get the spare blanket and stop being a pain in my ass!”

“Stupid Slug, we’re tied together. Are you willing to-”

“Yeah, no. I’m not getting up-”

“Yoink!”

In a blink his covering is ripped from his grip.

Chuuya truly cannot fathom the audacity, springing up with the mere intention of strangling the scrawny bastard,

“You did not just ‘yoink’ me!” He leaps onto the lump that’s hid itself under the quilt, “Come here, motherfucker!”

“WAAAAH!” Dazai wiggles fruitlessly beneath.

The thread miraculously stays untangled during their deathmatch, which only ends when both of them are too exhausted to lift a finger, the lack of sleep crashing them down as if they’ve been hit by horse tranquilizes. Dazai, with his head hanging off the side like that one creepy painting. Chuuya, with him face-down at the foot of the bed, imitating a body at a crime scene. The floor takes most of the blanket at the end, turning out victorious without even being a participant.

Chuuya sleeps terrifyingly fast. And terrifyingly well.

Dazai, too, seems to have rested without disturbances.

They rise up at the same time, gaping at each other with eyes that glint in such dubious lucidity that puts the past couple of months’ to shame.

Still, Chuuya complains about being sore from staying in the same position for too long. And Dazai whines about the pillow getting kicked to his back.

They escort themselves to the bed the next night, nevertheless, tying the link between them without a word.

That same night, Chuuya swears he heard creepy mumbling that’s not his own.

The night after, Dazai claims he got spanked in the face.

The night after, the thread snaps and Dazai catches him.

The following one, Chuuya’s hand, gloved, wraps around Dazai’s thumb under the pillow between them.

Chuuya’s hand becomes so sweaty he vows to never sleep with gloves on again.

So the following night, Dazai compromises by tying Chuuya’s longer hair around his wrist. Obviously a bad idea. Obviously on purpose.

Naturally, Chuuya kicks Dazai out to sleep on the couch with a tuft of his copper hair missing. He wakes up to Dazai having nullified him again.

The night after, they crash after a mission and don’t bother with any compromisations.

By the second week, the pillow is gone…

Sharing a blanket, Chuuya stares in lethargy at the sleeping face before him, then shifts his focus to his hand resting on the pillow. Gloveless, bare. His pinkie isn’t free, intertwined with the mackerel’s slack one.

It strangely doesn’t tingle. Or sting.

His sacred palms, the ones so unused to contact, immerse in the frigid cascade and don’t even bat an eye. He knows adding but a finger more would kickstart the familiar burn that brands his skin, and his heart thunders, still-- but it’s the lulling type of thundering, as each beat washes over his nerves just when they begin to show the littlest signs of a frenzy, the cycle repeating over, and over, and over…

He wishes to draw away, put the cycle to an end. But it’s soothing, to shut his eyes without having to try and tune out Arahabaki’s hollering in his ears, spitting endless profanities for one last time…

His focus turns back to the sleeping face. So unnaturally close, so unnaturally cordial.

Tomorrow, Dazai is supposed to return to his new home. His new shipping container. Chuuya doesn’t know its location, nobody but Dazai and Mori are supposed to.

He wonders if Dazai, too, has that underlying mourning eating at him because of that fact.

Tomorrow, he’ll probably float with no one to ground him. Somehow, Chuuya can’t imagine what it would be like without Dazai waking him up with a slap to the face. Or their stupid bickering in the kitchen while Chuuya prepares breakfast. Or chatting on the balcony with cigarettes between their fingers. Or playing video games on insane bets.

He can’t imagine it, as if they’ve been roommates for years, not mere days.

As if he’ll actually miss him.

You will.

Whether he likes it or not, this particular Grim Reaper has wormed a way into his heart. Manipulating him, as he often does, with his human form, his dark lashes and forever matted curls. He should probably be a bit concerned about that, cringe at the invasive thoughts as always.

But no, he indulges in what might be the last time he feels the cool rush of No Longer Human as he goes to slumber, the ability that never makes him feel like a part of himself is missing, instead making him complete. Whole. As if the lack of it is what has been missing all along.

As if the lack of him is what has been missing all along.

The only tamer of the God of Calamity in this entire world.

Perhaps making him more powerful than said God. With a mere gentle, feeble touch.

He should probably be a bit more concerned about that, as well.

But no…

Chuuya only closes his eyes, scooting an inch closer with the faintest of smiles etching his face...

Because what vessel of chaos has a right to complain?