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It’s quiet at night in the abandoned shipyards of Yokohama. The only sounds to be heard are the quiet crashes of waves on rocky shoreline, the scurrying of rats, and the tossing and turning of the Port Mafia’s one and only Demon Prodigy.
Four days. Dazai had four days to figure out an excuse to get out of his yearly physical with Mori. While he understood the general idea of annual checkups, being sliced open for a ‘necessary surgery’ didn’t exactly sound appealing. Not to mention the look of disappointment the boss would give him when he saw the fresh scars on his limbs. He could already hear that stupid condescending tone…
Oh, dear… and here I thought we could finally trust you with sharp objects, Osamu.
Yeah right. He’d probably be put on suicide watch for at least a month after, which sounded about as appealing as being a live subject for Mori’s ‘experiments’.
All this for a painless way to die, and yet here he was, still living. Where was the justice in that?
Four days. Dazai turns on his back. Maybe he could stay a little longer on a mission? He turns to his side. Fake an injury? No, then he’d only end up stuck in the infirmary… Onto his stomach. Maybe he should just run away and never be seen again. Back on his side again.
After a solid fifteen minutes of rotation and agonization, Dazai sits up with a huff. If he was going to be up all night, he might as well be productive about it. He reaches over to turn on the kerosene lamp in the corner of the shipping container. The only light source illuminated only a small portion of the steel box, leaving deep shadows in every corner. Dazai gets to his feet and starts pacing, mind racing a mile a minute.
He could get out of this, he had done it before. He just had to think.
…
Dazai Osamu was no stranger to sleepless nights, but even he had to break eventually.
Two days left. It was the last night he had to plan, the last night before the dreaded exam couldn’t be avoided, and all he could do was stare at the ceiling of his container.
A thousand possibilities rushed through his head. Would it be worse than last time? Maybe it would be better. He hasn’t messed up on a mission in forever, after all. That could make things worse, though…
Hundreds of possibilities, hundreds of plans and scenarios and schemes, but there wasn’t enough time—
There’s a pressure building in his lungs, a fluid drowning every alvioli, and it’s filling them with every new plan or fresh scenario or memory–
Dazai needed to stop thinking.
Desperately.
Climbing out of his container and into the chilly night air, he checks his phone. 1:52 am. Perfect, the slug wouldn’t hear him breaking in.
A quick taxi ride later and he’s standing in front of aforementioned slug’s apartment building. He takes the elevator up to the penthouse, willing his hands to be still and his expression to be clear. Under no circumstances would Dazai Osamu, Demon Prodigy, let something as silly as a doctor’s appointment break his carefully cultivated mask.
Unlocking the door to Chuuya’s apartment was as easy as always. Pocketing the two bobby pins for later, Dazai quietly makes his way into the penthouse. As expected, the lights are off, and a light snoring can be heard from the executive’s room.
Dazai smirks, and, making himself right at home, toes off his shoes haphazardly and flops down on the couch that, in his opinion, was entirely too large for such a small man to own. Not that he was complaining, he had plenty of room to stretch his legs. The environment of Chuuya’s apartment was regretfully all too familiar to him. Countless video game competitions and post mission movie nights had gotten Dazai quite comfortable with the apartment. Loathe as he was to admit it, the slug’s decoration choices were… pleasant. If a bit garish. Better than the austere interior of an empty shipping container.
Turning on his side, Dazai settles in. Just as he’d unfortunately anticipated, the soft snoring from the other room quiets down his hyperactive brain. He blames it on the fact that it was simply too annoying to focus on anything else, despite the way his breathing ends up slowing to match the rate of his partner's breaths.
Eventually, Dazai’s eyelids become heavier than steel, and he can’t help but let them drift shut. A week of little to no sleep would eventually catch up to anyone, and as much as he’d like to pretend otherwise, Dazai was no exception. So, curled up on the couch of his worst enemy, Dazai drifts into a dreamless sleep.
…
“Oi, Dazai.”
What an annoying alarm clock…
“DAZAI.”
Was that a fairy whispering in his ear? No… way too loud. Dazai buries his head in the cushion of the couch.
“Alright, fine.”
Suddenly, he’s being very rudely pulled off the couch by a very small redhead.
Dazai whines dramatically, “Ahh, Chuuya, I was in the middle of the most spectacular dream!”
“As if.” Chuuya crosses his arms. Through the annoyance and irritation, Dazai could almost spot a hint of… concern? Now that wouldn’t do at all.
“Ah, Chuuya’s so mean to me…” Dazai sighs, getting to his feet and throwing a hand over his forehead to add to the theatrics.
Taking a glance at the clock, it’s the ungodly hour of 4 am. Who on earth woke up that early? Before he can continue pondering that important question, he’s interrupted by a certain slug pulling his arm away from his face.
“Why are you in my house?” Chuuya got right to the point.
“I felt like bothering you, of course.” Dazai shoots back with a grin. He hoped Chuuya would be too groggy to notice how strained it was.
Chuuya’s eyes narrow. Of course he’d catch on, the stupid slug was less stupid than Dazai would care to admit. His grin falters; he really didn’t have the energy to keep up with his own theatrics right now. Before he can come up with a suitable response, however, Chuuya sighs, once again halting his sleep deprived thoughts in their tracks.
“If you think sitting on my couch and napping all day is gonna annoy me, you’re really running out of ideas.” Chuuya takes a step forward, arms crossed, “What’s really going on, asshole?” He looked exhausted, annoyed, but that stubborn little hint of concern wasn’t going away. Damn it.
Any other day, Dazai could have brushed it off. Any other day he could’ve just kept up the endless jabs, jokes, and banter that made up the foundation of their unique form of communication. Any other day, but unfortunately, today was the one day he was simply out of energy.
Chuuya must have noticed the uncharacteristically prolonged silence, because he huffs in irritation. “Alright, be that way, then.” He turns, grabbing his gym bag and heading for the door.
Before he can think about it, Dazai is reaching out for Chuuya’s hand. His actions don’t register to him until the other boy is looking him in the eye again. Shit.
“Don’t go.”
“...Why not?”
“I…” Dazai grits his teeth. He hated this, feeling so vulnerable and stupid. It’s like he was begging to be stabbed in the back, and not in the fun way. Blanking for a suitable lie, he goes for a vague truth instead. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“You– really?” Chuuya faces him with an unimpressed look, but doesn’t pull away; not yet at least. “You broke into my apartment just cause you ran out of melatonin?”
Dazai only holds on tighter. If he were any less sleep deprived and in any right mind, he'd be retching at what he was about to say, but unfortunately for him the sane Dazai was apparently out for the count.
“Just… will you stay?” He bites the inside of his cheek, immediately cringing internally at how badly his stupid voice cracked. “You live here, anyway.” He hastily adds on. Because that would be the thing to save this sinking ship.
“...”
After what feels like an eternity, Chuuya lets out the millionth exasperated sigh of the evening. “Fine. But you’ll owe me. Got that, bastard?” Whatever the hell is wrong with you, I'm not going to push it.
Despite such a rude and uncalled for delivery, something about the slug’s casual acceptance drained whatever dense liquid was filling in his lungs. Dazai could finally breathe again.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you the fancy kind of dog food.” Dazai casually brushes off, letting go of Chuuya’s wrist. Thank you.
“You– damn it, quit pretending I’m your dog, slimy mackerel!” Chuuya bats him on the shoulder. No problem, idiot.
Chuuya ends up abandoning the gym bag in the hallway. Even in his current situation, Dazai can’t help but feel a little proud that he had managed to keep Chuuya from his cherished workout time. Even if it had cost him his dignity.
Just as how countless previous movie nights have ended, Dazai finds himself situated comfortably on Chuuya’s pointlessly massive couch, head resting on the former’s shoulder and a blanket surrounding the both of them.
Chuuya picked out some dumb action flick for the both of them to watch, Payback for making him miss his usual workout, he’d claimed.
Dazai would complain, but as much as he’d have liked, his eyelids suddenly felt like tungsten, and his head was rapidly filling with honey.
It would seem his current pillow wasn’t fairing any better. Before the movie makes it past the opening exposition and conflict, Chuuya was slumping to the side, the only thing keeping him vaguely upright being Dazai’s head on his shoulder.
Dazai puts up a valiant effort, but with the low noise from the movie and the steady beat of his partner’s heart in his ears, paired mercilessly with the warmth of the blanket and the protection from the elements a shipping container could never hope to achieve, he couldn’t help but let his overtired eyes drift shut. For the first time in almost a week, the sensation of impending, inescapable doom finally dissolved into the soft white noise from the TV.
Dazai Osamu, Demon Prodigy, had finally stopped thinking.