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It was the 27th Of September, It started out subtle, almost too subtle for Chuuya to notice. But today, there was something different in the air. It wasn’t the usual banter that came with Dazai every other afternoon. No, this was quieter. Muted even.
Chuuya glanced over his shoulder from the kitchen, where he was preparing dinner. Dazai sat slouched on the couch, his limbs draped over the armrest, eyes half-lidded in a way that didn’t scream laziness. It screamed something else.
“Oi, Dazai,” Chuuya called, stirring the pot on the stove. “You’re not gonna sit there and do nothing, are you? You could at least set the table.”
There was no response. Dazai didn’t even lift his head, and that alone sent a twinge of unease through Chuuya. If there was one thing Dazai never did, it was ignore a chance to spar with him, verbally or physically.
“Oi, you idiotic mackerel, I’m talking to you,” Chuuya tried again, harsher this time. He turned off the stove and crossed the room, hands on his hips as he towered over the couch. He expected some lazy quip or an insult. Instead, Dazai’s eyes flickered open slowly, there was dark circles beneath them.
“Chuuya…” Dazai muttered, his voice scratchy and low. He didn’t sit up; he didn’t even flinch. It was then that Chuuya noticed the pallor of his skin, the faint sheen of sweat dotting his forehead.
“Shit. You’re not looking too hot, Dazai.”
Dazai gave a half-hearted smile, the corners of his mouth twitching in a weak attempt at humor. “Hey! I always look hot, Chuuya.”
“Not what I meant,” Chuuya shot back, though his tone lacked its usual bite. There was something off, really off, and it bothered him more than he’d care to admit.
He crouched beside the couch, reaching out a hand to feel Dazai’s forehead. Before his fingers even made contact, Dazai flinched away, a sharp intake of breath accidentally showing the discomfort he was trying to hide.
“Idiot. You’re burning up,” Chuuya muttered, worry now replacing the frustration he had felt only moments ago.
“I’m fine,” Dazai mumbled, his eyes closing again as he shifted, curling slightly in on himself. “Just…tired.”
“Yeah? Well, you don’t look fine,” Chuuya snapped, more out of irritation at Dazai’s stubbornness than anything else. His hand hovered over Dazai for a moment before he stood up, pacing the length of their shared apartment. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, with the gnawing anxiety creeping up his spine.
Dazai, sick? It didn’t sit right with him. The idea of Dazai being vulnerable in any way, physically or emotionally, made something twist in Chuuya’s gut. He wasn’t used to seeing him like this, pale and quiet, too quiet.
"Go to bed," Chuuya ordered, gesturing toward the hallway where their bedroom was.
"No," He said weakly, Dazai hadn’t moved from his slouched position, his arm now draped limply over his face like he could block out reality with pure stubbornness.
"No? What do you mean, no? You look like you’re about to pass out. Get up and go to bed."
Dazai shook his head, though it was a small, almost pitiful gesture. "I don’t want to."
Chuuya’s patience, already thin, was wearing down to nothing. He crossed his arms and glared, though his heart wasn’t in it. "Why the hell not?"
Dazai’s eyes opened slightly, his gaze unfocused as he stared at the ceiling. "Bed is…too far. I’m comfortable here."
Chuuya scoffed. "Comfortable, my ass. You’re sprawled out on the couch like a damn corpse. I’m not dealing with you passing out here."
He moved toward Dazai, ready to yank him up by force if necessary. But before he could reach him, Dazai’s body tensed, his face contorting with a sudden grimace. The next few moments happened in a blur, and it took Chuuya a second to register the sound of Dazai gagging.
“Oh, no—” Chuuya barely managed to react before Dazai doubled over, retching violently onto the floor next to the couch.
“Dazai!” Chuuya cursed, quickly grabbing the nearest towel and dropping to his knees next to him. He held onto Dazai’s shoulder, trying to steady him as the fit passed. Dazai’s whole body trembled with the effort, his face flushed and covered in a cold sweat by the time he slumped back, breathless.
The smell of vomit hit Chuuya’s nose, and he grimaced. Not because he was disgusted—he’d seen worse—but because of the sudden, sharp realization that Dazai was far sicker than he had first thought.
“Great, just great,” Chuuya muttered, though there was no anger behind his words. His voice had softened, the sharp edges dulling as he grabbed another towel and wiped at the mess on the floor.
Dazai didn’t say anything. He didn’t even try to make a joke or quip about his situation, and that worried Chuuya more than the actual vomiting.
“Alright, that’s it,” Chuuya said firmly, standing up and pulling Dazai’s arm around his shoulder. “You’re going to bed. I don’t care if you don’t want to. It’s non-negotiable.”
Dazai tried to resist, but his body betrayed him. His legs were weak, unsteady, and he leaned heavily on Chuuya as they made their way down the hallway. Chuuya could feel the heat radiating off of him, could hear the shallow breaths Dazai was taking, and he cursed under his breath again. He hated this. Hated how fragile Dazai seemed in this moment.
Tʜɪs Is Nᴏɴ-Nᴇɢᴏᴛɪᴀʙʟᴇ!
ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ これは譲れない ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ
ᴋᴏʀᴇ ᴡᴀ ʏᴜᴢᴜʀᴇ ɴᴀɪ!
When they reached the bedroom, Chuuya practically had to drag Dazai the last few steps to the bed. He lowered him onto the mattress, careful not to jostle him too much. Dazai lay there, eyes half-closed, too exhausted to fight back anymore.
“Stay,” Dazai mumbled weakly as Chuuya pulled the covers over him.
Chuuya paused, his brow furrowing. “What?”
Dazai’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Just…stay for a bit.”
Chuuya let out a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You really are a handful, you know that?”
But he didn’t leave. Instead, he sat down on the edge of the bed, arms crossed as he watched Dazai’s breathing gradually slow, the fever still burning under his skin. He wasn’t a nurse. He wasn’t good at taking care of people, especially not people like Dazai. But what was he supposed to do? Leave him like this?
No. That wasn’t an option.
He sat there in silence for a few minutes, the only sound in the room Dazai’s uneven breathing. Chuuya’s mind raced with a thousand thoughts, most of them centered around the fact that he didn’t know how to handle this. Dazai was unpredictable, a wild card in every sense, but this—sickness, weakness—was new territory.
Without thinking, Chuuya reached out, his hand brushing against Dazai’s forehead. His skin was still hot to the touch, and Chuuya frowned, frustration and concern warring within him.
“I’ll get you some water,” Chuuya muttered, standing up. “Don’t move.”
Dazai’s only response was a faint nod, his eyes already slipping closed again.
Chuuya left the room, grabbing a glass of water and a damp cloth from the kitchen. When he returned, Dazai hadn’t moved, and for a brief moment, Chuuya’s heart skipped a beat. But then he saw the slow rise and fall of Dazai’s chest, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
He sat down on the bed again, placing the glass of water on the nightstand and gently pressing the cool cloth to Dazai’s forehead. Dazai stirred slightly at the touch, but didn’t wake.
“You better get better soon, idiot,” Chuuya muttered, more to himself than to Dazai. “I’m not cut out for this caretaker crap.”
But despite his words, he stayed. And he didn’t leave until the fever finally broke.