Work Text:
Chuuya could not dream.
His dreams were plagued by terrifying shadows, faceless monsters, and memories that slipped through his fingers as he tried to catch them. He clung to the sheets until his knuckles lost their color, writhing and choking with muffled screams as he tried to escape his own head.
Sometimes he succeeded, waking up drenched in sweat, his heart in his throat and his vision blurred with tears, but most of the time, he didn't, until someone pulled him out. And that someone, unfortunately for him, was Dazai Osamu.
The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
They hadn't talked about it since that first mission, months after Chuuya had officially joined the Port Mafia and been assigned to the jewelry business. It was a weakness, one that circled around his neck, suffocating him with each passing day. But it was also a double-edged sword that he would wield if Dazai exposed him.
He did could not dream.
But Dazai couldn't sleep.
For some strange reason, when they were together —hands intertwined under the blankets, a wall of pillows between them— Chuuya could sleep without dreaming, without falling prey to nameless monsters and elusive memories, and Dazai could fall asleep, rest for a few hours from his own head and from the demons that tormented him when night fell and the world fell silent.
It happened, as most things do, by accident: a faction in the northwest rose up to oppose Mori, and somehow they managed to do enough damage that the boss decided to reunite them—Double Black. So they ended up sharing a room in a dilapidated motel, two beds too small and too close together, and time against them.
Chuuya swallowed, saliva scraping his windpipe as it descended, leaving an aftertaste of ash in his mouth. He entered the room with a certain resignation. It was claustrophobically small, a coat rack by the door, a cabinet with a TV that probably didn't work, a phone to call the front desk, and two beds that Chuuya preferred not to look at too closely.
At least they had a bathroom.
"Just one night," he said to himself, a kind of mantra, a spell. But Dazai, the bastard, had to make a strangled sound, a kind of gasp, right behind him and deny loudly. "Dazai, don't make it harder."
"I'll sleep outside. Chibi can keep the mousetrap."
"Ha?!" Chuuya ran a hand over his head, ruffling his hair and almost letting go of his ponytail. He liked it as much as Dazai did, but he wasn't in the mood to test the boss' patience, contrary to the bandaged brat. "Oi, it's not ideal, but at least we don't have to share a bed."
Just thinking about it sent a shiver down his spine.
Dazai made a horrified face.
"I don't want to sleep next to a slug like you."
Chuuya took a deep breath, steeled his patience and clenched his fists at his sides. The seams of his gloves, a gift from Ane-san, creaked in response, or perhaps it was his jaw. Dealing with Dazai was usually a headache of major proportions, but doing so away from home —which was a foreign concept to him— in a motel that smelled like a rotting corpse, and after months of not speaking to each other, was a real challenge.
Dazai tilted his face, a hint of genuine —or pretended, he wasn't sure— curiosity breaking through his uncovered eye as he watched Chuuya with a pout hanging from his lips. The redhead was very tired, he spent his days playing the role he had been assigned, making himself small in Mori's eyes and giant in the eyes of his subordinates, because no one wanted a stray sheep giving them orders.
He needed a break, his apartment was the only place where he allowed himself to exist without pressure, without expectations, without his life hanging by a thread, and now he was there, in a motel with the Mackerel —the Black Wraith of the Port Mafia— who would not hesitate to sink his teeth into him, to cut him open and expose all his weaknesses to the world.
So no, he didn't feel like listening to Dazai's complaints.
He grabbed his bag from the floor, in which he had packed a change of clothes in case the mission got complicated, and ignored the annoying Mackerel that followed him with his eyes, making his way to the tiny bathroom. If Dazai wanted to sleep outside, that was his fucking problem.
It was going to be a long night, Chuuya clung to the sink and avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror, afraid of what he might see. He couldn't remember a night without nightmares catching him in their jaws and tearing him apart. He turned on the faucet, let the water run, and took a deep breath.
He would not sleep.
He wet his hands and splashed water on his face and neck. He could go through a sleepless night and break up an uprising the next day without a trembling finger. I can do it. Dazai knocked softly on the door, startling him, and his high voice, exaggeratedly high, pierced his eardrums.
"I'm coming, fuck!"
He pushed open the door, Dazai grinning mischievously.
"Does Chuuya have loose bowels?"
"Eat shit and die."
Dazai rolled his eyes and leaned back against the door frame to let him pass, but Chuuya didn't move, his gaze fixed on the two beds, on the city he could sense behind the curtains, and on the night that awaited him. His heart beat faster and the pressure in his chest became unbearable. He couldn't do it. He couldn't even change his clothes, damn it.
"Shower first," he barked tiredly.
"Boo, boring."
"Excuse me?!"
Dazai shrugged before slipping into the bathroom, he didn't close the door, not immediately, he gave him a long look and a hint of a smile that for some reason gave him goosebumps.
"Chibi is boring," he muttered as he undid the first buttons of his shirt. Chuuya didn't move either, and he could have, so he couldn't blame Dazai for his next words. "Chibi wants a striptease?"
Chuuya slammed the door in his face. Dazai's laughter pierced his eardrums and got under his skin, rotting everything in its path. He climbed onto the bed, closer to the window, crossed his legs and sank his face between his knees. He didn't want to sleep, didn't want to show himself vulnerable to Dazai, didn't want to...
In retrospect, he should have known that nothing ever worked out as he wanted it to, let alone with Dazai involved.
That night, the nightmares had a feast at his expense. He awoke with a gasp, a muffled cry that filled his eyes with tears and tore him from the inside out. And with someone sitting astride his hips, cradling his face with impossible tenderness.
He couldn't understand what he was saying, his brain was unable to process it, but the cooing of his voice, the gentle caresses on his face, the weight of his body on his... it somehow calmed him and brought him back to the present.
"It's just a nightmare, a bad dream." His thumb brushed the corner of Chuuya's lips, one hand covering his jaw, the other holding him by the nape of his neck. "Chuuya is safe. No one can hurt him here. It's just a bad dream, I promise. Breathe with me. You're doing great."
Chuuya stifled a sob and Dazai—Dazai, fucking Dazai—pulled him into his body to hug him tightly. Chuuya hid his face in the curve of his neck and wrapped his arms around his torso. Dazai continued to lull him with soft caresses and soothing words, reminding him that he was safe and that no one could reach him there.
"I've got you," Dazai whispered into his hair, the brush of his lips against his ear sending shivers down his spine. "You're safe. You're with me. There's no one else, I promise."
Chuuya sobbed harder, tightening his grip on the brunet. If it weren't for the thin layer of pajamas, the bandages Dazai wrapped himself in every day, Chuuya would have left marks, bruises from how hard he squeezed. He could feel, like a caress, how Dazai's ability got under his skin, embraced every part of him, and far from feeling empty, he felt safe.
"Dazai," he cried.
"Shhh, I'm here."
They didn't speak, but somehow they ended up on the tiny mattress, hugging and entwined, with barely any space between them. Chuuya snuggled against his chest, wrapped one leg around his hip, and clung to the bandaged brunet's heartbeat like an anchor in the middle of the ocean. Dazai tangled his fingers in his auburn curls, scratching his scalp with his fingertips and humming a stupid song.
It was a lullaby.
And his voice was strangely soft and comforting, like a warm hug.
Chuuya had never had a lullaby sung to him; he had listened to them in secret with the Sheep, and at night he dreamed of glimpses of a soft melody, warm arms rocking him, and a smile he was not even sure was real or the fruit of his twisted imagination.
In the end, Nakahara Chuuya did not exist.
In the end, Nakahara Chuuya was an invention, a mistake in the universe.
As his heart calmed down, Chuuya grabbed the fabric of Dazai's pajamas with flushed cheeks and rose to meet his gaze. His eyes widened when he noticed that Dazai's right eye was uncovered, and from the way he followed his movements, he looked healthy.
Chuuya drew a thin line with his lips.
"Only you would cover a healthy eye, fish face."
Dazai rolled his eyes.
"Chuuya is better?" he asked with a grin that got on his nerves and tickled his stomach. Chuuya tensed. "Or are you going to keep whining to me like a little girl?"
"I'm going to kill you, you bastard."
Dazai's face softened, and the warmth he saw in his eyes unsettled him completely. He wasn't ready for this, for a soft, caring Dazai.
"I can't sleep," he confessed.
"What?"
Dazai didn't look away, he reached out and caught a lock of his hair, a soft curl, and tucked it behind his ear. Chuuya held his breath.
"I can't sleep," Dazai repeated in a hoarse voice, Chuuya frowned and Dazai turned his eyes to the window, to the sleeping city that had taken everything from them. "When I sleep, I remember everything. My childhood, my home... I remember what they took from me, what they did to me, and..."
Dazai clung to the sheet, clenching his jaw so tightly that Chuuya feared he would hurt himself. Even though part of him wanted to cradle his face in his hands and murmur words of comfort, Chuuya didn't move, barely breathing.
"I remember everything," he scoffed weakly, his gaze empty and his face distorted by the emotions he refused to show and which overflowed him. "My head, my memories... They are my worst enemy. I am my worst enemy."
"Dazai, you don't have to..."
"It's terrible, Chuuya. It is terrible to be in my head, and when I sleep it gets worse. I remember the men of my father, their laughter and their touch... I remember what they made me do..."
One secret for another.
A weakness for another.
There was no need, Dazai owed him nothing, but Chuuya accepted his confession for what it was: compensation. He lay down beside him, his eyes on the ceiling, on the damp spots, and told him in return of his dreams; of the terrifying shadows, the faceless monsters, and the elusive memories he tried in vain to cling to and use as a shield.
And wasn't it ironic? Dazai wanted to run away from his memories and Chuuya longed to hold on to his, to reclaim them. They were so different —broken, wounded and lost— and yet so similar that for the first time in months, he didn't feel adrift. He was not alone, not anymore. His heart shrank as Dazai got out of bed, but he only reached for his pillow.
A fortress of pillows, a flimsy wall between them.
Chuuya bit the inside of his cheek. It was better this way, he knew, but...
"Sleep, Chibi, I'll keep watch."
Chuuya wrinkled his nose.
"Watch what?"
"Your dreams, silly."
That night, he slept dreamlessly and woke up at dawn. And there, on the other side of the pillow fort, sleeping peacefully, was Dazai. His heart leapt in his chest, he propped himself up on one elbow to sit up and realized that sometime in the early morning, one of them had desperately reached for the other and their hands were intertwined.
A small smile broke across his mouth, softening the corners of his eyes and calming his mind. They wouldn't talk about it, not when they belonged to a cruel world where any sign of weakness, no matter how insignificant, could be used as a weapon. Chuuya would never admit that it was the first night he slept without dreaming, and Dazai, with his mouth open and in a deep sleep, wouldn't either.
Dazai shifted in his sleep, mumbled something unintelligible and drew their hands closer.
No, they would not talk about it.
Not now, just a few minutes before the alarm went off.
Nor tomorrow, when they returned home.
They wouldn't talk about it, but one night Dazai would sneak into Chuuya's apartment at ungodly hours and it would become a habit. And one day Chuuya would get a bigger bed, a plush crab and give up part of his dressing room.
They wouldn't talk about it, but the apartment would fill with life with each passing day, with each trinket they got and each wall they knocked down together.
They wouldn't talk about it, but one day it wouldn't be his apartment, it would be theirs .
They wouldn't talk about it, but every night they would take refuge under the covers, in each other's arms, sleeping with their limbs intertwined and their hearts in sync, and they would feel loved.
They wouldn't talk about it, but they would cling to each other for years to come, building a life together, at least until an unfortunate bullet changed everything.
Then they would have nothing, no refuge to return to.
They wouldn't talk about it until they did. Four years later, with unhealed wounds and an unbridgeable distance between them, Dazai would sneak into Chuuya's apartment-not his, ever again-and Chuuya would let him in. And that night, many years later, sheltered by the darkness of a city that united, separated, and reunited them, the two would finally be honest.
Maybe they would even give each other a second chance.
Maybe.
Just maybe.