Chapter Text
“You’ll have to forgive me for being out of commission,” Dazai said, faux pleasantry in his voice.
Mori hummed, “Of course. If my executive is sick, he ought to take as much rest as he needs.”
Dazai rolled his eyes. Of course this was the first thing that Mori would want to test. Dazai had predicted it. It was, after all, the most natural curiosity. Why was Dazai so attached to his Hoshi no Tama (it’s his soul, he thought bitterly. Of course he was attached to it. But he would never admit that to Mori) that, despite constantly clashing with the man, Dazai never left the Port Mafia.
Fortunately, the drain caused by distance from his Hoshi no Tama was similar enough to human illness, and the chibi would be none the wiser. Still, he hated the idea of being so helpless. “Is that all, Mori-san?” he asked, already feeling an itch in the back of his mind. Mori must have moved his Hoshi no Tama more than six hours ago, for it to be affecting him so soon.
“Yes, Dazai-kun. Oh,” Mori added, because of course he would continue only as Dazai made to leave, “do provide reports on your condition. Chuuya, too, will be monitoring you and reporting back to me.” Mori had a slimy grin on his face; Dazai waved his hand flippantly.
“Of course he will; a desperate dog does as its told.”
“You don’t seem sick,” Chuuya accused, standing over Dazai.
“Chibi is so cruel to me,” Dazai whined, hanging upside down on the couch, his legs kicking idly over the back of the sofa. “Even when I am deathly ill he doesn’t care.”
“You aren’t deathly ill!” Chuuya shouted, aiming a kick for Dazai's face.
Dazai dodged, rolling over onto the floor. “And now you try to kill me! Betrayal! Abuse! Cruelty!”
Chuuya was clearly fuming, but, where he would ordinarily attempt to kick Dazai again, he only growled something unintelligible before crossing his arms. Clearly, he was worried. His first kick had been deliberately slow, so that Dazai would be able to dodge it, even without their strange ability to read each other’s movements. Dazai would have to rectify that worry. “Whatever,” Chuuya grumbled. “So long as you don’t leave I don’t give a shit.”
Dazai raised his eyebrows, smirking. “You want me to stay with you? How forward, Chuuya.”
Chuuya froze for a second, then started swearing, his cheeks red. “You piece of shit! The boss ordered me to keep an eye on you! If it was up to me, you would be back in that garbage heap you call a home!”
Dazai gasped, a hand to his chest. “You would kick your deathly ill partner to the streets?”
Chuuya seemed to barely be controlling an urge to strangle Dazai.
“Anyways,” Dazai yawned, sitting up. He was disappointed when Chuuya moved his head out of the way, not letting Dazai smack him in the face under the pretense of stretching. “I think I'm going to go to bed. Don’t wait up, I prefer to just rest when I'm so very close to death. I know you’ll miss me, doggy, but I believe in your ability to make it through,” he said seriously, giving Chuuya a pat on the head.
Chuuya broke and tried to punch him in the stomach, but Dazai only danced away, laughing. “You don’t get the fucking bed, asshole!” Chuuya shrieked, clipping Dazai's side with a kick that Dazai only barely managed to avoid the brunt of. “This is my damn apartment!”
“But I'm sick!” he whined, spinning around with a dramatic flair, his coat fluttering around him. “You expect a sick person to sleep on the couch?”
Chuuya glared at him, hatred in his eyes. Good; the less concern he felt, the better. When Dazai actually started showing signs of illness, he would be too mad to pay attention to it. “You clearly aren’t sick, fucking beanpole. And I'm supposed to observe you, remember? I can't do that if you're holed up in my bedroom!”
“Chuu~ya,” Dazai whined, pouting. “You don’t have to follow your mas- boss’s orders so closely!” Dazai stuttered, his stomach flipping when he started to say ‘master’.
“That’s literally our job, jackass!” Chuuya returned. “Just cuz you don’t take it seriously doesn’t mean the rest of us can slack off!”
“Have you tried it?” Dazai hummed, wondering if the chibi would even be able to slack off, his heart so closely tied to ideas like loyalty. “It’s not like you would be fired.”
“We can't all be the fucking Demon Prodigy,” Chuuya growled, sneering when Dazai's face darkened. “We don’t have the privilege of being Mori’s favorite. It actually matters what we do; there are consequences when we mess up.”
Unlike you.
That hurt. Dazai didn’t want to admit it, but that statement stung more than he cared to admit. But it also caused anger to bubble up in him, a writhing, hateful thing. How dare chibi say something like that to me? I've been protecting him since day one! No one would choose to be Mori's favorite. He has no idea of the consequences.
Dazai didn’t say any of it, instead teasing out the annoyance that was showing itself on his face. He returned, in a cold, superior tone, “At least I actually know what I'm doing, unlike a certain slug I know. My plans always work out. Where did working on your own get you?”
What happened when you tried to save your friends without me?
Dazai didn’t usually feel regret. It wasn’t something he could afford when he was a pet to the gods, and it wasn’t something he could feel when he didn’t care about anyone, simply watching the years go by, alone and isolated. The only times he felt true regret was in relation to Odasaku (it still hurt, it never went away, a gnawing guilt in his chest—), but seeing Chuuya's face crumple slightly made his heart twinge in an uncomfortable way that he believed to be that scarce emotion. His anger burned hot in his chest, but it was dampened now by that cursed regret.
“Get the fuck out,” Chuuya hissed, replacing his own hurt with anger. Always the fighter. “I don’t give a shit about the boss’s orders, get the fuck out of my apartment.”
Dazai found himself walking to the door, his body not responding as he tried to turn back. He didn’t want Chuuya to get in trouble for not obeying Mori's orders, he hadn’t meant to cut so deep. Chuuya's words had cut him, and, like a cornered animal, he had returned with his own teeth.
“Chuu—” he started, his throat tight as he crossed the threshold. But, before he could say anything or even turn around, the door slammed behind him. As soon as his body was his own again, he turned around, slamming a hand on the door. “Chibi! You can't ignore the boss! Come on, you stupid slug, I know you're dumb but not that dumb!”
He tried to pick the lock, but it wasn’t even locked in the first place. It seemed Chuuya truly wanted to keep him out, bodily blocking the door, since he knew that Dazai could easily pick it.
He hammered on the door for another minute, then rested his lightly aching head against it. “Damn it, chibi, what am I going to do with you?”
He supposed he would be adding this to the list of punishments Mori gleefully racked up from the gravity-manipulator.
“Enjoy drowning in wine,” he hissed quietly at the door, not knowing whether he even wanted Chuuya to hear him.
He turned away. He supposed that, at least, Chuuya wouldn’t be around to seem him ill.
Never the fought for.
Dazai had, apparently, forgotten just how much being away from his Hoshi no Tama hurt. His toes and fingers were frigid, his joints stiff, bone scraping against bone. Contrastingly, his chest burned with the ferocity of a forest fire, a blaze that tore through his lungs, his throat, even down to his stomach, trying to heat him in his soul’s place.
He whimpered as his head throbbed, curling more tightly into himself, trying to balance his body heat by tucking his feet up. He was curled up in a corner, covered completely by a pile of blankets. Despite the heat, he couldn’t help craving the comfort of this little blanket mound, his hindbrain pleased by the closest thing to a den he would ever permit himself to have.
His mouth was dry. He realized he hadn’t drunk anything in a while. He didn’t have anything to drink near him – scratch that, he didn’t have anything to drink at all. He had already drunk the two plastic water bottles in his mini fridge, put there by a certain redhead.
He wondered how the chibi was doing; probably just burning through paperwork, grumbling that Dazai wasn’t doing any.
“You clearly aren’t sick, fucking beanpole.”
“Get the fuck out!”
Well, Dazai had certainly succeeded in his mission to keep Chuuya away while he was sick. After being kicked out of Chuuya's apartment – it definitely didn’t hurt, he didn’t want to be around the slug anyways – and returning to his shipping container, he had texted Mori that he refused to be around the chibi, too annoyed by his pestering, that he would provide adequate reports, and that he didn’t care if Mori wanted Chuuya to be with him, he wasn’t going to let it happen. Mori could punish Dazai all he wanted, Dazai would not budge. Dazai hoped that that would be enough to keep Mori from sending Chuuya back after him. (If the thought made his stomach twist uncomfortably, if his mind traitorously supplied images of being cared for by the redhead, that was a secret Dazai would take to the grave.)
He had already forced together the report for today, forcing his brain to form coherent sentences, a paragraphed format, rather than the random scribbles of “REALLY FUCKING BAD” and “BITCH” he had wanted to give to the man.
He shuddered, waves of heat and lack thereof pulsing through him, never touching his fingertips or toes, but ravaging the rest of his body. He was hot, so burningly, achingly hot, he was sure he would catch fire. Then cold, drenched in liquid nitrogen, ice crystals forming over his eyes. Hot, a burning poker, pressed against his skin. Cold, stuck in a frozen river, his blood clotting as it solidified. Hot, steam that boiled him alive. Cold. Hot. Cold. Hot.
“Mackerel?”
Chuuya did not care. He really didn’t, but he needed Dazai to do his damn job. The mackerel had disappeared after being kicked out of his apartment, not coming back to work. Mori, when Chuuya had reported that he had kicked Dazai out, that he would go retrieve him immediately, had only seemed amused – fucking demon prodigy privileges.
Indeed, Mori was perfectly happy to give the excess paperwork to Chuuya, along with a biting dismissal of, “Do try not to fumble this assignment too, ne, Chuuya-kun?”
Chuuya had burned with shame as he left Mori's office, swearing to kick Dazai into next week as soon as he saw him again (it was next week, and Chuuya hadn’t seen Dazai).
It was Dazai's fault, anyway. The mackerel had no right to go after the Flags like that, no provocation. Chuuya hadn’t done a damn thing warranting actual wounding, rather than their usual banter. There was no reason for Dazai to have such a visceral reaction to anything Chuuya had said. Clearly, it was Dazai's fault. So why was Chuuya currently standing outside a rusting shipping container, surrounded by toxic waste?
The answer was simple. It was because he didn’t give a shit if the mackerel was sick, he had to do his share of the work. Chuuya wasn’t going to do it for him forever.
Chuuya knocked harshly, causing the container to rattle. “Asshole! It’s been a fucking week! Stop sulking and do your godsdamn job!”
He didn’t get a response.
“Oi! Are you dead?”
Still, only the wind answered him. Was it his imagination, or was the wind whispering to him, telling him to go away? He figured he’d watched too many shows recently.
“Screw this,” he growled, reaching to the handle of the container, gravity crushing the locking mechanism instantly. He pushed the door open with a screech of metal, looking in on Dazai's depressing living space. Dazai wasn’t there.
“Mackerel?” he called, confusion filling him, along with a distant dread. Had he tried to kill himself again? Was he sunk at the bottom of a river? A nameless splatter on pavement?
A low groan came from the corner.
“Damn it, you piece of shit, why didn’t you answer?!” Chuuya shouted in definitely not relief, striding over to the mound of blankets the sound had come from.
“’m sick, chibi,” Dazai mumbled, sounding miserable. “Did you come to take care of your m- owner?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Chuuya snapped, bending down and yanking the blankets away. Dazai was curled up, his thin limbs all tangled in each other, his face buried between his knees. “Gods you look pathetic,” he sneered. He glanced around. “Why aren’t you on the mattress?”
Dazai hummed, shrugging a little. He was shivering.
“Damn, you really are sick.” Chuuya crouched by him, pressing a hand to Dazai's forehead. Dazai flinched, recoiling. He didn’t make it far, seeing as he was already pressed into the corner, nearly flush with the wall. “Fuck,” Chuuya hissed. “That’s really high.”
Dazai lifted his head just enough to show a single drooping eye. It looked around, landing beside Chuuya. Chuuya swore as a hand shot out and grabbed the blanket Chuuya had taken, scratching his leg in the process.
“What the fuck!”
Dazai had already wrapped himself back up, this time so tightly Chuuya knew it was going to be a struggle to get him out.
Fine. If the mackerel wanted to wrestle over the damn blanket, then they would wrestle. He grabbed hold of the blanket, bunching it in his fists, and yanked.
Dazai let out a little yelp – a yip? It was a strange noise – as he was thrown across the room. “Let go, you fucking idiot,” Chuuya grumbled. He didn’t feel bad, of course not. He was happy the mackerel was probably in a lot of pain. Definitely. He wasn’t worried.
The blanket loosened around Dazai, and Chuuya took the opportunity to yank it away. What he hadn’t anticipated was that Dazai had, in fact, let go, so when he pulled he pulled way too hard, sending himself to the floor with a hard thud.
“Oh fuck you!”
Dazai didn’t respond, so tightly curled into himself that Chuuya wasn’t sure he would even be able to get enough air into his chest to say anything. Getting up, Chuuya gave him a light kick, making him… whimper.
“Dazai?” he questioned, his voice softer now, concern finally starting to come to him. Dazai didn’t answer. He was shivering violently, his breaths short, rapid. “The fuck is wrong?” Chuuya asked, squatting beside him. He reached out to feel his temperature again and swore, pulling his hand back. “What the fuck is that?!”
The mackerel was burning, hotter than before, far hotter than Chuuya had ever felt a sick person get, definitely beyond the temperatures that indicated to the Sheep that that member was going to die.
Cold hands, empty eyes, a stare cut off by too small fingers. Snow slowly covered the body as they left it behind. They didn’t have a place to bury it, after all.
“Shit, shit; Dazai, look at me,” Chuuya demanded, surprised when Dazai did. His eye was still drooping, glassy and dazed. “Why are you not at a hospital?”
Dazai didn’t respond, just staring at Chuuya.
“Of course you aren’t going to tell me,” Chuuya grumbled, looking around. “You probably are just hoping to die of this.” He noticed two water bottles – empty – by the corner he had found Dazai in, and he didn’t need to check to know that there was nothing in the fridge. He was the one who had gotten it, after all, the one who insisted on giving Dazai things to fill it with. Only because he wanted his partner to be functional, of course.
“Right, I'm taking you to Mori-san,” Chuuya said, turning back to Dazai to pick him up.
Dazai shuddered, shaking his head violently, then uncurling slightly so that he could release a few painful coughs.
“Yes, you are,” Chuuya returned forcefully. “Fevers that high can kill you!”
Dazai, in a burst of energy Chuuya wouldn’t have thought he could conjure up at the moment, forced himself to a sitting position, scooting away from Chuuya. His one uncovered eye glared at Chuuya, a silent dare.
Chuuya only rolled his eyes, easily catching Dazai and lifting him. “I'm not letting you fucking die, asshole. I don’t give a fuck if this is how you want to go out.”
Dazai thrashed, scratching Chuuya's face with weirdly sharp nails, desperate to escape Chuuya's grip. “Stop… fighting…!” Chuuya growled, trying to haul Dazai towards the door.
Dazai went limp.
“What? That worked?” Chuuya stared at him; he supposed that he did have a fever higher than anything Chuuya had ever felt.
He held a kid’s hand as she died, then her brother as he cried.
He shook his head violently. He wasn’t going to let that happen to Dazai. He was a mafia executive now, and his boss was a skilled doctor. Besides, Dazai was seemingly allergic to death, no matter how many times he tried to die. Dazai wouldn’t go out to something as plain and boring as a fever. When he died it was going to be as dramatic and annoying as he was.
Carefully, he carried Dazai towards the main road, calling Hirotsu to come pick them up. He had come on his motorcycle, after all, and he wasn’t about to try to carry an unconscious(?) Dazai on it. Hirotsu was already there when they arrived, Chuuya gratefully sliding Dazai into the backseat as Hirotsu held the door open, then walking around to slip in beside his partner.
“Headquarters,” he said, maybe too harshly, but he was worried, damn it.
He froze, his mind blanking. Worried? He wasn’t – well, he was, but only in the capacity that anyone would be to see another person about to die. Right? hy he cared about the bandaged idiot when he only hated him, well, he was just a decent person. What was he supposed to do, leave Dazai to die? Not care if he did? What sort of person would do that?
The drive was silent, Chuuya monitoring Dazai, who seemed to have lost all will to fight, and was only looking at Chuuya with a desperation that Chuuya didn’t understand. He wanted to ask, but it was too fragile a thing to talk about around others.
“We’re here,” Hirotsu said, parking the car in the garage of the Port Mafia.
Chuuya waved a hand in acknowledgement. “Thanks, Hirotsu-san. I’ll get him from here.”
Hirotsu nodded, handed him the keys, bowed slightly, and left. Chuuya waited until he was out of earshot to snap at Dazai, “You better fucking tell me why I shouldn’t get you help, or I swear to fuck I will deposit you at Mori-san's feet and leave you there.”
Dazai seemed to snap, suddenly shouting at him, his voice terribly hoarse, “You can't take me to Mori-san! He’ll just drug me up and make it worse!”
Chuuya stared; that was not an answer he had been expecting. Dazai, too, seemed to hesitate, something almost like regret in his eye, before mumbling, “Just, not Mori-san. Do whatever you want, but don’t give me to Mori-san right now.”
Chuuya's stomach twisted unpleasantly. Was this why Dazai had never taken him to Mori, even after corruption? Why he had always insisted on treating Chuuya himself, or taking him to the Mafia clinic, if absolutely needed? Dazai had always kept him away from Mori when he was sick, when he was injured, when he was vulnerable.
“Surely, Mori-san wouldn’t—”
Dazai blinked, a long, slow shutter of his eyelid, seemingly daring Chuuya to continue his sentence. Chuuya could easily understand the unspoken words, ‘You can't be that stupid, can you?’
Mori-san, the boss of the Port Mafia, a former underground doctor, wouldn’t practice morally questionable medicine? Chuuya realized it was stupid as soon as he thought it through. He was just so blinded by Mori's leadership that he hadn’t considered…
“Are you going to die?” he demanded, staring Dazai down.
Dazai kept his gaze. “No.”
Chuuya considered him, trying to determine if he was lying. “Fine,” he grunted, slamming the door shut in the mackerel’s face and moving to the driver’s seat. He started the engine, looking in the mirror to see Dazai, a little more curled again, but still shivering. “You better not break your promise.”