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Chuuya Nakahara’s footsteps echoed through the empty hallway of the Port Mafia’s headquarters, his brow furrowed in irritation. Of course, he had to be paired with the idiotic roll of toilet paper again. After all this time, nothing had changed—he was still stuck babysitting that insufferable idiot. Why Mori insisted on sending them out together was beyond him, but arguing with the boss was a battle he couldn’t win.
Chuuya stormed into the mission briefing room, bracing himself for the inevitable. As expected, Dazai was already lounging on the worn leather sofa,, His eyes were half-lidded, and his lips curled into a faint smile that only served to irritate Chuuya further.
“Oi, Dazai,” Chuuya snapped, crossing his arms, “get off your lazy ass. We’ve got a mission.”
Dazai yawned dramatically before sitting up slowly, the ever-present glint of mischief in his brown eyes. “Ah, Chuuya, always so tense. You really should learn to relax. Stress will give you wrinkles, and expand your bald spot, you know?”
Chuuya’s fists clenched. “I don’t have time for your jokes. We’re leaving in less than 15 minutes. Are you coming, or should I do it myself and save us both the headache?”
Dazai stretched leisurely and stood, dusting off his coat. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you handle it alone. Besides, with me around, nothing can go wrong.” He shot Chuuya a teasing grin as if the entire mission was a game.
Chuuya rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thin. “You better not screw this up. Let’s just get it done.”
Despite his irritation, Chuuya had to admit that Dazai looked perfectly fine—there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. He was as infuriatingly calm as ever, showing no signs of illness or distress. Chuuya hated how Dazai could act so casual before a mission, but then again, that was just how he operated.
They left headquarters in silence, heading toward the misdion site, It was going to be easy enough for two of the most dangerous members of the Port Mafia.
As they drove through the empty streets, Dazai stared out the window, humming his suicide song under his breath. Chuuya, focused on the road, couldn’t help but glance at him. There was something unsettling about how normal Dazai was acting. Not that he expected anything else from his former partner, but there was a nagging feeling in his gut—an instinct honed by years of working alongside Dazai that told him something was off. He pushed the thought aside. It was probably just his usual anxiety about working with the bastard.
The drive passed quickly, and soon they arrived at the warehouse district by the docks. The air was cool, and a thick mist rolled in from the bay, making the entire place look like something out of a french film. The two of them approached the warehouse in silence, slipping into the shadows like ghosts.
The mission started smoothly enough. Dazai dealt with the guards on his side without breaking a sweat, his movements precise and deadly, while Chuuya used his ability to crush anyone who got in his way. They rendezvoused at the entrance to the main warehouse, neither of them speaking but both moving in sync. Years of working together had created an unspoken language between them, even if they never acknowledged it.
Just as they were about to breach the door, Chuuya noticed something strange—Dazai’s smirk faltered for the briefest of moments. His hand, usually steady, hovered over his stomach for just a second before dropping back to his side.
“Oi, Dazai—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dazai interrupted smoothly, though his voice sounded just a touch strained. “Let’s finish this.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “You better not be screwing around.”
Dazai chuckled, though it lacked his usual energy. “When have I ever done that?”
Chuuya glared at him but turned back toward the door. They pushed forward, slipping into the shadows of the warehouse interior, ready to take down the remaining guards. But as they moved deeper into the building, something became increasingly clear—Dazai wasn’t keeping up.
Chuuya slowed his pace, glancing over his shoulder. Dazai was trailing behind, his steps uneven, and his face looked paler than usual under the dim light of the warehouse. His hand had returned to his stomach, clutching it tightly now, as if trying to hold something in.
“Dazai, what the hell’s going on?” Chuuya demanded, his voice a mix of irritation and concern.
Dazai waved him off weakly, but his smirk had completely disappeared. “It’s… nothing. Just a small stomachache.”
Chuuya’s eyes widened with frustration. “Now you decide to tell me? We’re in the middle of a mission, you idiot!”
Dazai tried to laugh but ended up grimacing, his knees buckling slightly as he leaned against a nearby stack of crates for support. “I thought it would pass, but… seems like my luck’s run out.”
“Your luck’s not the only thing running out if you don’t start explaining, It’ll be along with the flame of your life, You bandaged idiot!!” Chuuya snapped, stepping closer. Dazai’s skin was ashen now, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a simple stomachache.
Chuuya’s irritation quickly turned to alarm. “We’re aborting. You’re in no condition to finish this.”
“We still need to…” Dazai muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Screw the mission! You’re coming back to HQ.”
Before Dazai could protest, Chuuya grabbed him by the arm and hoisted him up, half-carrying him toward the exit. Dazai tried to resist, but his body wasn’t cooperating—his legs wobbled, and his grip on Chuuya’s shoulder tightened as if he were trying to stay upright by sheer will alone.
“Dazai, you’re a damn idiot,” Chuuya growled as he dragged his former partner out of the warehouse and toward the car. “You should’ve said something earlier.”
“Didn’t want to be… a bother,” Dazai mumbled, his voice weak and his eyes unfocused.
Chuuya’s teeth clenched. “Yeah, well, you’re a bother now.”
ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ sᴛɪʟʟ ɢᴏ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ, Eᴠᴇɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʙᴀɴᴅᴀɢᴇᴅ ɪᴅɪᴏᴛ ʙʏ ʜɪs sɪᴅᴇ...
⁎̩͙ ⁑̩͙̩͙ ⁂̩̩͙͙ 包帯を巻いたバカがそばにいても、物事はまだうまくいかないかもしれない~ ⁂̩̩͙͙ ⁑̩͙̩͙ ⁎̩͙
ʜōᴛᴀɪ ᴏ ᴍᴀɪᴛᴀ ʙᴀᴋᴀ ɢᴀ sᴏʙᴀ ɴɪ ɪᴛᴇ ᴍᴏ, ᴍᴏɴᴏɢᴏᴛᴏ ᴡᴀ ᴍᴀᴅᴀ ᴜᴍᴀᴋᴜ ɪᴋᴀɴᴀɪ ᴋᴀᴍᴏ sʜɪʀᴇɴᴀɪ
By the time they made it back to the car, Dazai was barely conscious. Chuuya managed to get him into the passenger seat, his worry deepening as Dazai slumped against the window, his skin cold to the touch.
Without wasting any more time, Chuuya gunned the engine and sped back to the Port Mafia’s base. He didn’t care if anyone saw them; getting Dazai back to headquarters was all that mattered now.
When they arrived, Chuuya barked at a few guards to get the medics. Within moments, a group of Mafia doctors rushed out, quickly moving Dazai onto a stretcher and wheeling him to the infirmary. Chuuya followed close behind, his mind racing. Dazai had been fine earlier—more than fine, he’d been his usual annoying self. How had he fallen apart so quickly?
After what felt like an eternity, one of the medics approached him. “It appears to be severe food poisoning. It must’ve hit him during the mission. He’ll need to rest, but he should recover fully in a few days.”
Chuuya exhaled, tension flooding out of his body. “Food poisoning? He nearly got himself killed over his bad cooking!?”
The medic gave a sympathetic smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to push through it just for the mission.”
Chuuya shook his head and walked over to Dazai’s bedside. He was still unconscious, his face pale but his breathing steady now. Chuuya pulled up a chair, sitting down next to him, his expression softening despite himself.
“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” he muttered, though his voice was quieter than usual. “Always making things harder than they need to be.”
There was no response, no witty retort, but Chuuya stayed by his side regardless, and maybe that was what partners were for, even if caused purely by shitty cooking skills.
Maybe things could still go wrong with Osamu Dazai by his side— Despite what was previously claimed..