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Pain is the first thing Chuuya registers as his brain slowly regains consciousness.
He used corruption. Again. Despite being advised by the most unlikely source not to use it unless strictly necessary. Chuuya should've listened really, it's not often that Mori prioritises his medical opinion over what would most benefit the functioning of the Port Mafia.
He should have heeded the warning that it would only get worse, the agony that comes with allowing his body to be used as a vessel for a being far more divine and powerful than a mere human.
Chuuya doesn't need to open his eyes to know he's alone, again. He's always alone when he wakes up after an episode.
So he keeps his eyes closed as he pats his trouser pockets, looking for the same trusty cardboard pack he always finds solace in after he wakes up from using Corruption.
The movement alerts him to the softness underneath his head, the shitty bastard at least had the decency to fold his coat and place it under his head.
It's the least he can do, and yet Chuuya's heart still traitorously jumps. He hates how even the bare minimum from him is enough for Chuuya. Anything from him would be enough for Chuuya.
Since their reunion, and the unfortunate alliance between their respective agencies, Chuuya has found himself besieged by Dazai's presence yet again, just as he was all those years ago when they were forced to work alongside one another.
He says forced, and perhaps in the beginning it was an involuntary partnership. He'd be lying if he said it remained taxing to work with him.
Chuuya hates himself for a lot of reasons. There are plenty of things to keep him up at night, to question his morality and, more uncertainly, his humanity.
Nothing reminds him he has a shitty, human organ pulsing on the left side of his chest more than Dazai fucking Osamu. Nothing makes him hate himself more than the way that useless hunk of meat pounds incessantly in Dazai's presence, skips a beat at the smallest of touches, shatters when he watches him walk away, never knowing just when he'll see him next. Never being in control of when they'll see each other again.
Dazai always orchestrated every summoning, always incredibly calculating. His refusal to ever relinquish control over anything in his life was arduous, but Chuuya obeyed the silent command. He stayed away, lamentably hoping that next time he won't have to wait so long before they have a reason to cross paths again.
Often Dazai would show up at his apartment, although this was rarer than their joint missions. Chuuya came to barely flinch at the sound of his lock being picked, after the first time when he stupidly assumed he was being ambushed by an enemy.
Ambush was correct, enemy was...ambiguous.
Dazai was in control of these meetings, too, and this was far worse for Chuuya than renouncing control over the administration of a mission.
Sometimes, the brunette would look at him like he hung the moon and the stars. Sometimes, he'd lean forward, brush their lips together as innocently as they did when they were fifteen, before drawing back and continuing his nonsensical blabbering as if he hadn't just flipped Chuuya's entire world upside down - again. Sometimes he'd be colder, blank behind the eyes to the average person, but not to Chuuya. Chuuya knew every intricate expression that has ever graced Dazai's face. Those nights, he'd pull his head on his lap, comb through his unruly nest of hair. He wouldn't say a word, wouldn't dare move more than his hand. Until Dazai was soothed from whatever anguish brought him there in the first place and he left, also without a word.
Chuuya was used to all of it, as pathetic as it made him feel when he was left alone again and suddenly the weight of his solicitude would crush him.
Strongest mafioso, they say.
He finally found the box he'd been looking for, fiddling until he was pulling out a cigarette.
This would most definitely not aid his already fast-deteriorating health but Chuuya would rather perish than give up his only source of comfort.
With the unlit cylinder in his mouth, he fumbled once more for a light.
The familiar click of a lighter in front of his face startled his eyes open. He had to blink a few times, his eyes catching up with his brain to form the smudge of various shades of brown in front of him into a person.
Into Dazai.
He's surprised the cigarette hadn't fallen from his mouth, in his shock.
Dazai didn't leave him alone this time.
Wordlessly, he tilted his head up until he met the fire, staying put until the tip of his cigarette was well and truly lit before he slumped back down, allowing his eyes to fall close once more.
Inhaling, relief flooded him at the sensation, something so familiar to him it was grounding, albeit a concerning habit to acquaint with so intimately.
He welcomed anything that helped him refrain from feeling anything as stupidly akin to hope, at the presence of him.
Chuuya still hadn't said a word, not moving from where he was sprawled on the ground with his head apparently cushioned on Dazai's lap and not on top of his coat as he had assumed.
He took a few more drags before he opened his eyes again. Dazai was still there, so it was unlikely that Chuuya was hallucinating.
Unfortunately, hallucinating Dazai was the more plausible reality.
"You were cold," Dazai's voice is raspy, likely from all the shouting during their efforts to eliminate the threat of the enemy for their earlier assignment.
They were successful, obviously. Chuuya is never unsuccessful once he allows Arahabaki out in all of his glory.
"Cold?" he replies, stubbing the end of the butt on the pavement next to him, resisting the urge to reach for another one.
"I thought you were dead," his lips are flat, as if he's unimpressed. As if Chuuya purposefully tried to inconvenience him by dying on him.
"Well, sorry to disappoint," he retorts, sitting up with a poorly disguised wince. His muscles scream at him to stop moving, his head pounding so hard in his skull he thinks it might crack the bone.
He flinches when a warm, bandaged hand rests against his forehead.
"Now you're too warm," he tuts, "My silly Chuuya, you can't do anything right."
My Chuuya.
Chuuya scowls, artfully pretending like the choice of words wasn't making his head spin more. He was an expert at remaining impassive.
"Why are you here?" he huffs, picking his hat up from where Dazai must have rested it next to him on the floor, "usually I come to with my face against the fucking concrete and vulnerable to an enemy retaliation because you're a lazy bastard."
Chuuya tries to disguise the hurt in his voice but it's in vain around someone as astute as Dazai. He tends to know how Chuuya is feeling before even Chuuya knows.
"I would never leave you in danger."
Chuuya just snorts a laugh. He wonders when Dazai started lying to him.
Dazai doesn't acknowledge his disbelieving response, simply stands up swiftly and offers a hand out for Chuuya to pull himself up with which he bats away.
When he pulls himself up, the world around him tilts dangerously. His vision darkens momentarily, his throbbing migraine only worsening. Chuuya barely registers the arms wrapped around him, steadying him gently.
As soon as he does, naturally, he attempts to wrestle out of his hold. He may be weak when it comes to Dazai but he is not a damsel that needs protection. Plenty of times he's pulled himself off the ground, got himself home after an episode.
"Don't fight me," Dazai murmurs, refusing to loosen his hold. Chuuya honestly would have kept fighting him if his body wasn't pleading with him to give up.
Reluctantly, he all but collapsed in Dazai's arms, allowing him to pull his arm over his shoulder so he could manoeuvre them towards his car with Dazai carrying most of his weight.
He splutters when Dazai digs around his trouser pockets intrusively to look for his car keys, shamelessly shoving his hands down his back pockets.
"Relax, Chibi, it's nothing I haven't felt before!" Dazai's smirking as if what he just said was something incredibly clever.
The reminder that he has, in fact, had his hands on him before only succeeded in making Chuuya feel even shittier. The reminder that he, being the idiot that he is, continues to allow Dazai to dominate every slight interaction between them, to exploit what he's positive Dazai knows he feels for him.
It's disgustingly pathetic.
He finally unlocks the doors, helping Chuuya into the passenger seat carefully. Chuuya would've laughed at him leaning over him to buckle his seatbelt if it wouldn't split his head in half to do so.
They're silent as Dazai drives, Chuuya trying his hardest to not let on just how much pain he's currently in, covering every wince with an inconspicuous cough. Knowing Dazai, he knows anyway, but Chuuya likes to at least pretend he's keeping his pride in tact.
It feels like forever before Dazai is parking. Chuuya tries to manoeuvre his way out of the car, biting his lip, hard, at the agony of moving. He can barely even identify which parts of him hurt, a dull throb reverberating from his head to his feet.
Dazai's annoyingly at his side in an instant, balancing him against his own side.
"Get off me," Chuuya grumbles, but makes no real effort to shove him away, instead leaning more of his weight on him as they hobbled towards his apartment.
Dazai lowers him to sink back on his couch, but not before carefully helping him remove his shoes, coat and waistcoat. Chuuya was familiar with most forms of Dazai that exist in their realm, but the Dazai that is being so gentle with him is anomalous.
He's not surprised when the warmth he was radiating from being so close disappeared, figuring it was a miracle that he even got him home, let alone anything else.
He was surprised when, rather than the click of the door, he heard the tap in his bathroom running. And then Dazai was back, hovering over him.
"Tilt your head forward," he ordered, and Chuuya muttered expletives but complied nonetheless.
Dazai moved around to the back of the couch, before pulling the hair-tie from his ponytail.
"Oi-"
Dazai hushed him before he could complain further, and then he was yanking a brush through the red locks.
"Ow," the pull did nothing to ease Chuuya's throbbing temples. Where the hell had he even found his hairbrush?
"You need a shower, there's blood in your hair," Dazai kept brushing, disregarding Chuuya's protests.
"Not happening tonight," Chuuya doesn't think he's going to be able to use his legs for at least another 12 hours, let alone stand upright in a steamy room and figure out how to use a shampoo bottle through the haze of his pain-addled brain.
"Didn't think so. This will do for now," Dazai gathered the hair into three strands, overlapping them into a tight braid before tying it with the hair-tie.
Chuuya thought he was done when he was finally pulling his head back to rest on the cushion as it was before. Despite the knots and pulls, Chuuya always found getting his hair brushed absurdly relaxing, his eyes had long since closed once he accepted the invasion.
The couch dipped beside him, warm fingers suddenly grasping his chin and pulling his face towards where Dazai must have just sat down. Blue eyes snapped open, making uncomfortably fervid contact with obsidian.
"Close your eyes," Dazai finally mumbled, bringing a damp flannel up to wipe at the streaks of blood Chuuya was sure was decorating his face.
While he was getting frustrated with the endless orders, he obliged, allowing Dazai to drag the material delicately over his pale skin.
"Why are you doing this?" Chuuya didn't mean for it to come out sounding quite so weak, thankful that he couldn't see Dazai's expression.
Dazai didn't reply right away, moving his hands to Chuuya's shirt buttons. Chuuya clamped a hand down on his wrist, halting his movement. He blinked, wearily, staring down at where his hand was tightened over the lithe, bandaged limb.
He could see him raise an eyebrow in his peripheral, although Dazai made no retreat from his grasp.
"You can't stay in those clothes all night," his voice sounded strained, as if what he really wanted to do was chastise Chuuya. Chuuya doesn't know why he doesn't do just that, at least that would be in character.
"I'll manage. I always manage," he let go of him, not entirely surprised when Dazai proceeded with his initial task anyway, unbuttoning the shirt he'd adorned that day.
Chuuya sighed, his head thumping back against the edge of the couch.
"I'm sorry," the words were uttered so quietly that Chuuya doesn't know how he heard them at all. He felt his heart twinge, certain he's never heard Dazai say that word before, let alone directed at him.
Chuuya leant forward, allowing Dazai to pull the material down his arms until it was finally off, letting the silence fester between them for a while.
"Why didn't you leave this time?" Chuuya was trying really hard to pretend like the warm hands gently grazing his skin wasn't doing anything to him.
"I told you. You were cold." Dazai disappears into Chuuya's bedroom, emerging with a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Chuuya let him pull the shirt over his head, but bat him away to peel his own trousers off and pull up the sweatpants.
"That doesn't tell me anything," Chuuya slumped back against the sofa, irritated at the exertion from merely changing his trousers, "so what I was cold? You've never given a fuck about the state of me any other time I've used Corruption."
"That's not true," Dazai snapped, surprising Chuuya with the stern set of his jaw.
"Isn't it?" He fired back, despite his shock. Dazai's usual deceptive grin was completely gone now, an icy glare directed Chuuya's way.
"I thought you were dead, Chuuya," Dazai practically growled, his hand gripping the back of the sofa in frustration, "Your lips were blue. Your skin was pale and cold. I thought you were fucking dead."
Chuuya's face twists in confusion. He's nearly died countless times. Especially when he uses Corruption, both of them are acutely aware that with every use Chuuya is dangling himself in front of the gates of hell. Is he really supposed to believe Dazai cares when, more often than not, it's his idea to use it? It's his choice to leave him alone?
He must understand what Chuuya is thinking, he always seems to understand what Chuuya is thinking.
"You're an idiot, Chibi."
Chuuya splutters, indignantly. Dazai ignores him, turning on the sofa so he's practically on top of him, facing him with a piercing, unrelenting gaze.
"I don't like you using Corruption."
"But-"
"There's no buts. You use it only when there's quite literally no other way of us surviving. And only when I'm no more than a few meters away. I don't like you using it and I don't like seeing what it does to you. Do you understand?"
Chuuya doesn't understand. He folds his arms over, frowning.
"You expect me to believe-"
"You can believe whatever you choose to. I wouldn't lie to you," he relaxes slightly, though he makes no move to retract from where he's in Chuuya's space. The conviction in his voice makes Chuuya want to believe him, so terribly desperate to believe him, in fact.
"I don't like it when you leave me," Chuuya's response is feeble, embarrassingly so. He doesn't expect Dazai's expression to soften the way it does.
"I-I mean, when you leave me on the side of the road. Fuckin' pisses me off-"
"Chuuya," Dazai reaches up, tucking a stray red lock behind his ear.
"I didn't mean it like that," Chuuya bites his lip, though he knows his attempts to back pedal are fruitless.
"Chuuya," he repeats, leaning closer, close enough for Chuuya to feel the warmth of his breath against his cheek.
"Dazai, don't. Please." Chuuya's eyes flutter close at the feeling of soft lips pressing against his cheek. He pleads with himself to hold it together.
They sit there like that for a while before Dazai murmurs "Let's get you to bed," sweeping Chuuya into a bridal carry before he could protest, though protest he did all the way until he was lowered onto his silk sheets.
He still feels like he has more to say, more that he needs to get off his chest before the moment is shattered by the dawn of a new day.
But his body is exhausted, and the comfort of being in his home, cosy and snug thanks to the most unlikely person - Chuuya's not surprised to feel his consciousness lull.
What he is surprised by is the shuffling sound of clothes being taken off, the dip of the bed beside him, the mess of hair tickling his chin as Dazai settles down next to him.
"I won't leave you again, Chibi," Dazai whispers into the skin of his neck, nuzzling into him like a cat. The way Chuuya's heart soars is remarkably fervid.
Chuuya hopes there's a basis to that promise. He hopes he didn't imagine the lips covering his own before he finally succumbed to sleep, blanketed in warmth, familiar and yet concurrently entirely foreign.
He hopes.