Chapter Text
The fight started over something stupid.
It always did.
Dazai had been late, and Chuuya had been waiting, the apartment smelling faintly of cheap wine and something scorched on the stove.
“You said you’d be here at six,” Chuuya snapped, not looking at him.
Dazai shrugged off his coat like it weighed nothing.
“And I am here, Chuuya. See? Miracles happen.”
The smile was polished. Effortless.
Chuuya hated it.
“You treat everything like it’s a joke,” he shot back, voice tightening. “Every mission. Every promise.”
Dazai tilted his head.
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Chuuya finally looked at him.
Really looked at him.
“You don’t care about anything,” he said, too fast, too sharp. “You’d leave tomorrow and not look back.”
The words settled heavy between them.
For a second, Dazai’s expression didn’t change.
Then it did.
Just slightly. The angle of his smile shifting like porcelain under pressure.
“You wouldn’t even notice if I was gone,” Chuuya muttered, quieter now. More tired than angry.
Dazai’s laugh was soft.
“That’s not true,” he said, almost thoughtful. “You’re loud. It would be hard not to.”
It sounded like a joke.
It wasn’t.
The fight didn’t end with shouting.
It ended with Dazai picking up his coat again.
“You’re wrong,” he added lightly.
Chuuya didn’t ask what he was “wrong” about.
The door closed without a sound
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The apartment stayed quiet long after Dazai left.
Too quiet.
Chuuya lingered in the kitchen, staring at the half-burnt pan as if it had personally offended him. The air still felt charged, like the argument hadn’t fully settled into the walls.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
Dazai stormed out all the time.
Dazai said things he didn’t mean all the time.
Dazai always came back.
Three hours passed before the silence started pressing in.
His phone buzzed against the counter.
Once.
Chuuya frowned and reached for it, already annoyed.
Mackerel flashed across the screen.
He almost rolled his eyes.
Then he opened the message.
It was short.
Sorry for the trouble.
Guess you were right.
Don’t worry about me.
That was it.
No joke.
No follow-up.
No second text correcting the first.
Just that.
And that was what made his stomach drop.
The words from earlier came back to him.
Too fast. Too clear.
“Shit,.. Da-“ he paused, pressing his lips into a thin line.
“…Osamu,” he murmured before panicking.
Chuuya practically ran through his apartment to his door, not bothering to fix his appearance or even put on his black blazer.
Chuuya rushes to where he knows Dazai lived.
“That damned mackerel..” he swore under his breath.
Finally, he had reached the shipping container where Dazai chooses to live for a reason Chuuya never understood.
“Dazai!” Chuuya shouted as he banged on the shipping containers doors, voice sharp and raw.
No answer.
Chuuya’s heart pounded with fear he told himself was anger. Without any more warnings, he slammed the door with his immense strength until it unwillingly barged open.
Chuuya’s eyes hurriedly whipped through the container, looking for any sign of Dazai. Then his eyes snapped to the trail of blood that led to a closed off part of the container.
Chuuya’s heart skipped a beat and he felt chills.
He calmed his breathing quickly before rushing over to the blood splattered on the metal floor. He pushed past the half assed barricade there.
It was a makeshift bathroom. A bathroom as you would imagine in a shipping container. It was questionable whether one could count it as a bathroom at all.
There was a cheap, probably broken, bathtub against the metal wall of the shipping container. It was stained and you could tell that it was pulled from the streets somewhere, probably not even cleaned properly before using.
Chuuya’s breath hitched. His eyes widened. There he was.
The smell hit him first.
Metal. Water. Something else.
It was Dazai. There. In the disgusting tub. The water was disgusting, not even clean, swirling around with something dark. Blood. It was blood.
The mix of disgusting dirty water and blood filled the tub, Dazai, was practically drowning. The water level was high and Dazai was slouching down, probably on purpose. The water right over his closed lips, close to reaching his nose, then he would not be able to breathe.
Seeing this, Chuuya froze for half a second before pulling his nerves tight and rushing to the tub.
He immediately grabbed underneath Dazai’s arms and pulled him up with all his strength. At first it was a little difficult for Chuuya because of Dazai’s nullification ability.
“Shit..,” he swore under his breath.
He grabbed him, hauled him upright, ignoring the way his own hands were shaking. The water sloshed violently against the sides of the tub as Dazai sagged against him. His body was dripping with water and blood. Chuuya’s jaw clenched at the sight.
“Idiot,” Chuuya breathed, voice cracking in a way he would deny later. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Dazai’s head lolled slightly against his shoulder.
“…You came,” he murmured, barely audible.
Chuuya didn’t realize he was shaking until he tried to speak again.
“Idiot,” he muttered, pulling Dazai closer, one arm firm around his shoulders. “You absolute idiot.”
Chuuya’s eyes scanned over dazai’s arms, thighs, chest, everywhere. There were cuts everywhere. Dazai did not hold back. Well, he usually didn’t. For Dazai, even his more “weak” cuts were deep. They crisscrossed each other, trailing from Dazai’s writs up to his upper arms. There were deep and long cuts on his thighs, horizontal. His arms had lots of horizontal and lots of vertical, the vertical ones being noticeably deeper. His torso had only a few cuts, but they were nonetheless concerning.
Chuuya’s jaw clenched.
Dazai didn’t argue.
That was worse.
Usually there would be a quip. A lazy grin. Something to break the tension.
Instead, he just let himself lean.
“…You came,” Dazai repeated softly, like he was testing the words.
“Of course I came,” Chuuya snapped. Too quick. Too sharp. “You think I’d ignore that stupid message?”
Silence.
Water and blood dripped steadily onto the metal floor.
Chuuya swallowed hard and shifted his grip.
“Can you stand?”
A pause. Of course he could not stand. His legs were slashed everywhere.
“…Maybe,” Dazai said, but he didn’t try.
Chuuya hauled him up anyway.
The container felt colder than usual.
Chuuya grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped it around Dazai’s shoulders, rubbing briskly like irritation could replace warmth, being careful to avoid the cuts on his upper arms.
“You’re not dying in a place like this,” he muttered.
“If you’re going to be dramatic, at least pick somewhere less pathetic.”
Dazai gave a faint huff of laughter.
It didn’t reach his eyes.
Chuuya’s hands slowed.
“…You really thought I wouldn’t come?”
“I wasn’t sure,” Dazai admitted, slurring his words, in a daze.
Chuuya didn’t give himself time to think.
He grabbed another towel and crouched in front of him.
“Stay still,” he muttered, like this was nothing. Like this was just another mess Dazai had made.
Dazai obeyed.
That was what made Chuuya’s chest tighten.
He worked in short, efficient movements, drying his hair first so it wouldn’t drip into his eyes. The damp strands clung stubbornly to Dazai’s face, and Chuuya brushed them back with more force than necessary.
“You’re impossible,” he said under his breath.
Dazai’s gaze followed his hands.
“…Sorry.”
The word was quiet. Unarmed.
Chuuya paused.
He hated that word from him.
“Shut up,” he said automatically. But it came out softer than he intended.
He paused before resuming, he gently patted Dazai’s red cuts dry. Some were more superficial, but even those were considered pretty deep for a normal person.
Dazai wasn’t a normal person.
There were a decent amount that were deep, still bleeding even after Chuuya had pulled him out of the tub.
Chuuya tried his best to ignore his trembling hands as he reached for some gauze from Dazai’s huge pile nearby.
Dazai’s dazed eyes, unfocused, eyelashes fluttering, half open, watched Chuuya’s moments carefully.
“Chu..,” he tried to speak, his voice shaky and weak.
“Don’t talk right now, asshole,” Chuuya said, with less demand than he wanted. He hated how it sounded like a plea.
He carefully but firmly wrapped Dazai. His thighs, his arms from his wrists to his upper arms, his torso, everywhere that had cuts.
“Let’s get you some clothes on. Clean clothes,” Chuuya said, breaking the unbearable silence.
Dazai didn’t even stir.
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Chuuya finished dressing Dazai with what he could find in his shipping container for a home, a white t-shirt and black slacks, a bit big on him.
The clothes hung loosely on him.
Dazai didn’t comment.
Didn’t joke about fashion crimes or how Chuuya had no taste.
He just sat there, quiet.
Chuuya stepped back, taking him in, and felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
This was wrong.
Not the bandages. Not the exhaustion.
The silence.
“You’re not staying here,” Chuuya said finally.
Dazai blinked up at him, slow and unfocused.
“This is my humble abode,” he murmured.
“It’s a rusted box.”
“It has charm.”
“It has mold.”
Dazai’s lips twitched faintly.
It wasn’t enough.
Chuuya grabbed his coat from the chair and shoved it toward him.
“Get up.”
A pause.
Then Dazai let him pull him to his feet.
No resistance.
No theatrics.
Just weight.
Chuuya tightened his grip without thinking.
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The city lights blurred past the car window.
Dazai rested his head against the glass.
Chuuya kept one hand wrapped around his wrist the entire drive.
Not because he thought Dazai would disappear.
Just in case.
“Sit,” Chuuya muttered once they were inside.
Dazai obeyed.
Again.
Chuuya grabbed a blanket and draped it over his shoulders.
“You’re not sleeping alone,” he said gruffly.
Dazai looked up at him.
There was no teasing in his expression.
“…Okay,” he said quietly.
That might have been the most dangerous thing he’d said all night.
Later, when the lights were off and the room was dark, Chuuya felt fingers curl loosely into the fabric of his shirt.
Not asking.
Just holding.
Chuuya didn’t move away.
He stared at the ceiling long after Dazai’s breathing evened out.
Just listening.
Making sure it stayed that way.