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Dazai hears him before he sees him.
Soft footsteps in the hall, steady, familiar—too light to be Akutagawa, too even to be one of the guards, too purposeful to be Kouyou. It’s late, the Port Mafia headquarters wrapped in silence except for the buzz of warm lights and the low hum of Chuuya Nakahara approaching the medical wing.
It’s stupid, Dazai thinks absently. He should’ve locked the door.
But some part of him—some weak, withering part—never locks Chuuya out.
The bathroom is dim, harsh white light reflecting off the tiles. Dazai sits on the counter, sleeves rolled up. His fingertips are red. His pulse uneven. The razor blade lies in the sink, metal catching the light like a guilty star.
When the door opens, Chuuya doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even hesitate.
He just stops. Looks. Breathes once, shallowly. And steps inside.
“…Again?” Chuuya asks quietly.
The tone isn’t anger. It isn’t disappointment.
It’s tired—but not tired of Dazai.
Just… tired.
Dazai forces a smile, thin as paper. “Ah. You found me. I was hoping for a few more minutes of—”
“Save it,” Chuuya mutters. No venom. Just weariness. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit tonight.”
He grabs the small first-aid case from the cabinet, the same one he’s used too many times on this same boy who refuses to admit he’s hurting. Chuuya doesn’t sit. He stands between Dazai’s knees and pulls his arm forward.
In silence, he threads the needle.
His fingers are steady—far steadier than his voice would be, if he let himself speak.
Dazai watches his hands, the gentle precision, the care disguised as annoyance. His gaze catches on the way Chuuya’s brows furrow, the faint tremble at the corner of his mouth he tries to hide.
“Your sewing has gotten better,” Dazai observes quietly.
Chuuya doesn’t look up, but his hands pause for half a second.
“It pays off,” he murmurs. “Considering I gotta do this every damn week.”
His voice cracks on week.
Just a hairline fracture, barely there.
But Dazai hears it.
Chuuya makes a quick, precise stitch. And another. And another. His breathing is even, but the kind of even that people use to keep themselves from breaking.
“…You’re quiet tonight,” Dazai says softly.
“And you’re an idiot tonight,” Chuuya counters, equally soft.
He cuts the thread. Reaches for bandages. His hands move automatically—wrap, secure, tighten—but the tiredness in his shoulders weighs down the room.
“Why?” Chuuya asks suddenly.
Dazai blinks. “Hm?”
“Why tonight?”
Chuuya doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t demand. Doesn’t accuse.
He just sounds… ancient.
Dazai opens his mouth—probably to joke, or deflect, or pull some poetic nonsense about life and death—but Chuuya stops him with a look.
Not angry. Not furious.
Just a look that says: I know you. Don’t lie to me.
Dazai swallows.
His throat hurts.
“…It was quiet,” Dazai finally whispers. “Too quiet.”
Chuuya lets out a slow, exhausted exhale. “That’s not a reason to hurt yourself.”
Dazai tries to laugh. It dies in his chest.
Chuuya sits beside him on the counter. Not touching, but close enough that Dazai can feel the deliberate warmth of him.
For a long moment, neither of them speak.
Then Chuuya sighs, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“You know,” he starts, voice thick, “I used to get angry. I used to yell. Thought if I screamed loud enough, you’d hear me.”
Dazai lowers his gaze. “I did hear you.”
“You didn’t listen,” Chuuya mutters. “Not really.”
Silence again. Heavy. Familiar.
Then Chuuya shifts, turning to face him fully.
“But I’m not yelling tonight,” he says. “Not because I don’t care. Not because I’ve… given up. But because I’m tired, Dazai. I’m tired of losing people. And I’m not losing you too.”
He nudges Dazai’s shoulder gently.
“I’m never too tired for this. For you. To patch you up. To sit with you. To… just be here.”
Dazai’s breath stutters.
Because this—this simple, unadorned loyalty—cuts deeper than any blade.
“Chuuya…” he says, and his voice is almost a crack, almost a plea.
Chuuya meets his eyes. His expression is unreadable—frustration softened into worry, exhaustion shaped into tenderness.
“You don’t gotta talk,” Chuuya murmurs. “Not if you don’t want to. I’m not asking for some dramatic confession. I just…” His voice fades, then steadies. “I just wanted you to stop doing this alone.”
Dazai’s fingers curl around the edge of the counter.
He looks away.
“…I didn’t call for you.”
“You don’t have to,” Chuuya replies. “I come anyway.”
There is no judgement in his tone.
No demand.
Just truth.
Slowly—hesitantly—Dazai leans sideways until his shoulder brushes Chuuya’s.
Chuuya doesn’t move away.
For a man carved for war, Chuuya holds softness like a secret.
And for a man built from self-destruction, Dazai leans into it like a lifeline.
Minutes pass.
Then an hour.
At some point, Dazai’s head tips onto Chuuya’s shoulder, breath evening out, eyelids fluttering shut. Not asleep—just resting. Allowing himself to be held by the presence of someone who refuses to abandon him.
Chuuya doesn’t push him off.
He just sighs, leans his head against Dazai’s, and whispers, barely audible:
“…If you’re gonna fall apart, then fine. I’ll be here to pick up the pieces. Every damn time.”
And Dazai—who never believes in promises—lets himself believe this one.
Just for tonight.
Just because it’s Chuuya.
Never too tired.
Never for him.