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It was supposed to be a simple mission.
Simple enough that Chuuya Nakahara could have handled it alone in less than ten minutes. There was no reason to involve the Black Lizard, let alone turn it into a larger operation.
But Mori Ougai had other plans.
He wanted to see Michizo Tachihara in action.
This time for real.
No disguises, no limitations, no pretending to be just another Mafia soldier.
And apparently, Chuuya was the unlucky bastard assigned to supervise it.
Training Tachihara in the field was already irritating enough.
Training him inside an abandoned warehouse, completely surrounded by armed men, was worse.
That was the kind of situation Mori would probably call an “educational opportunity.”
Chuuya called it Tuesday.
Laser sights pointed in every direction, and even though this mission was supposed to be about observing Tachihara fight, Chuuya couldn’t exactly lean against a wall with his arms crossed while his newest trainee tried to survive.
Still, it wasn’t like he could do much either. Training was training.
So Chuuya decided he would help.
Just the bare minimum.
He’d watch Tachihara’s back enough to keep him from getting killed, but not enough to let the other man grow comfortable.
Chuuya counted thirty-five armed men in total and twenty-five laser sights trained on them before nudging Tachihara.
“Go ahead,” he said. “And don’t worry about your back. Or about me.”
“Chuuya-san, how could I possibly not worry about you?”
Chuuya moved first, twisting his body as he lifted his right leg and delivered a kick strong enough to send a man flying out of the filthy warehouse.
“Focus on not dying, Michizo.”
Tachihara didn’t hesitate.
The moment Chuuya finished speaking, the sound of metal answered.
The iron structures around them began to vibrate.
First the shelves. Then the scattered pieces of metal across the floor. Bolts, loose plates, rusted chains—everything began to move as if it had suddenly come alive.
Chuuya watched without moving.
Impressed wasn’t exactly the word. Tachihara had never been particularly good at lying to him, and Chuuya had already seen glimpses of his ability slipping past the disguise before.
Still, seeing him fight like this was… interesting.
The first man to rush forward was skewered by an iron bar that shot across the warehouse like a spear.
The second lost his gun when a chain whipped around his wrist and tore it from his hand.
Good. Fast.Tachihara was fighting well.
Direct and decisive, just the way Chuuya liked it.
But still a little raw.
He relied too heavily on his ability and didn’t read the battlefield well enough yet. That was something that could be fixed, but it would take time.
This was going to be long-term training.
Chuuya could live with that.
He dodged a bullet on reflex, leaning his body aside as the shot whizzed past where his head had been a second earlier.
“Your right flank is wide open,” he said lazily. “If you don’t want to die, you might want to fix that.”
A metal plate immediately flew in that direction.
Two men dropped.
Chuuya allowed himself a small smile.
Tachihara was still listening and following orders even in the middle of a fight.
That would make things easier.
Another man tried to come up behind Tachihara.
Chuuya appeared behind him before the man even realized what had happened.
The kick landed hard.
The impact sent him crashing into a pile of pallets with an unpleasant crack.
Chuuya returned to the same spot he’d been standing before, keeping a casual distance as if nothing had happened.
“I told you not to worry about your back,” he commented.
Tachihara brought down another man with a metal beam that tore through the air like an improvised battering ram.
Fifteen men were already on the ground.
The lasers still danced across the warehouse, but as more men fell, the red dots began disappearing one by one.
Tachihara spun and ripped an entire metal shelf from its place, sending three men crashing down at once.
Chuuya crossed his arms, analyzing his stance.
Not bad.
A little crooked, but that could be fixed.
Then he saw it.
Movement ahead.
One of the men still standing had crouched behind a fallen forklift.
His gun was already raised and the aim...
Straight at Tachihara’s forehead.
Who hadn’t noticed a thing.
Limited field awareness.
Idiot.
Chuuya moved before he even thought about it.
Two quick steps forward.
He shoved Tachihara hard to the side.
“ Get down!”
The shot rang out instantly.
The bullet tore through the air—
And slammed into Chuuya’s side.
Pain exploded hot and brutal.
The impact forced him half a step backward.
But he didn’t fall.
Chuuya just clenched his teeth, The Tainted Sorrow flaring automatically around him—Too late.
Tachihara spun around immediately.
“Chuuya-san!”
Chuuya was already walking toward the shooter.
The kick landed heavy.
The man flew across an entire table before collapsing unconscious on the floor.
And finally, the warehouse fell silent.
Chuuya exhaled slowly and pressed a hand against his side. Blood was already soaking into his clothes.
Great.
He glanced around.
“Twenty-nine.”
Tachihara looked torn between checking the bodies and staring at Chuuya’s wound.
“I counted thirty-five.”
“Six ran.”
Chuuya turned his gaze toward him.
“Six.”
Tachihara blinked.
“You gave me a six? All of that was only a six?!”
“You left your flanks wide open, you let six men escape—” Chuuya jerked his chin toward where the shooter had been. “—and you almost took a bullet to the forehead. Six. And that’s me being generous.”
Tachihara fell silent.
Chuuya turned his back and started walking toward the warehouse exit.
“Move.”
“Chuuya-san, you got—”
“A bullet.”
He pushed the metal door open.
“I noticed.”
Chuuya glanced over his shoulder.
“Next time, try not to die before the training is over.”
Chuuya tossed the keys toward Tachihara.
He wasn’t in any condition to drive. The bullet had probably gone through, but the wound burned like hell.
His shirt was starting to stick to his skin from the amount of blood soaking through it, and no matter how hard he pressed his hand against the wound, the blood kept dripping onto the car carpet with a soft, horrible sound.
Michizo kept glancing between Chuuya and the road ahead, clearly worried.
“Take me home.”
“I should take you back to headquarters, Chuuya-san. Mori-san might be there, or at least one of the Mafia hospitals where you could—”
Chuuya threw one of his blood-soaked gloves straight at him.
Tachihara grimaced and shut up immediately.
“I said home. It’s not the first time I’ve been shot and it won’t be the last. I’m not going to a hospital. I hate those places, and I’d rather stitch myself up with a rusty staple and get an infection than let Mori sew me up.”
He pressed harder against his side.
The wound was near his right hip. He could feel the hole but not any fragments, which meant the bullet had probably passed through.
At least he hoped so.
Tachihara eventually stopped in front of Chuuya’s building and got out of the car to help him upstairs.
Chuuya refused immediately.
He walked away on his own without hesitation, leaving both the car and a worried, bloodstained Tachihara behind.
Every step made him grind his teeth in pain.
By the time he reached the elevator he was muttering curses under his breath. The walk had been nothing short of torture, while the doorman ignored him completely like he was supposed to.
Scenes like this were probably common in that building.
Even if the area was technically neutral territory, it was still a Mafia district.
Chuuya stepped into the elevator, smearing blood across the penthouse button before turning to look at himself in the reflective metal wall.
His wine-colored shirt was soaked through, the fabric darker around his waist where the blood had spread, sticky and clinging to his skin exactly the way he had expected it would.
There was blood on his face too—near his nose, around his eyes, across his forehead—and several strands of his hair were streaked with bright red.
He tried to wipe some of it away, but every time he touched his face more blood seemed to appear.
Eventually he gave up.
He leaned back against the elevator wall instead and silently prayed that Dazai was already asleep.
The elevator moved far too slowly.
Each floor felt like it took an eternity.
Chuuya rested his head against the cold metal wall, breathing in slowly through his nose and letting the air out through his mouth. The pain pulsed at his side, hot and constant, like someone had left a piece of burning iron buried in his flesh.
Finally, the elevator stopped.
The soft ding sounded far too loud in the silence, and when the doors opened Chuuya stepped out into the penthouse hallway with slow, careful steps. His body was slightly hunched and his teeth were clenched tightly against the pain.
The carpet muffled the sound of his footsteps, but not enough to hide the faint drag of his right foot.
He stopped in front of the apartment door.
For a moment he simply stared at the handle while entering the annoying security code Dazai changed every week and scanning his retina.
Chuuya let out an irritated sigh.
Great.
He rested his forehead against the door for a moment, closing his eyes. He didn’t really believe in God, but this time he prayed anyway.
Just in case someone was listening.
Then he turned the handle and exhaled in relief when he saw darkness.
He slipped inside and closed the door carefully behind him, trying to make as little noise as possible. His hat was dropped carelessly onto the entry table while he kicked off his shoes and started making his way across the apartment.
The sewing kit was in the ensuite bathroom.
Which meant he needed to stay quiet.
Chuuya dragged himself down the hallway, the pain returning in waves now—hot, throbbing, pulsing around the wound.
The bedroom door was slightly open, and he pushed it gently with one hand.
The room was dark too.
Perfect.
Dazai’s silhouette was sprawled carelessly across the sheets, half his body outside the blanket, one arm hanging off the side of the bed as if he had simply powered down in the middle of moving.
His messy hair fell over his face.
His breathing was slow.
Deep.
Sleeping like he didn’t have a single worry in the world.
It was strange to see him like that. Dazai was rarely that peaceful while awake. In the dark, with his face relaxed and his breathing steady, he almost looked like an angel.
If Chuuya hadn’t just been shot, he might have stood there watching him sleep for a while.
It looked comfortable.
Warm.
Safe.
A sharp stab of pain pulled him back to reality.
Watching Dazai sleep was something to appreciate slowly.
That would have to wait for another night.
If he moved fast enough, maybe he could collapse into bed before passing out.
Chuuya crossed the room carefully, trying not to make a sound as he headed toward the bathroom door.
Just a few more steps.
Then the mattress creaked.
Chuuya froze halfway across the room, his body bending slightly as he cursed under his breath.
“…Chuuya?”
Dazai’s voice came out low, thick with sleep.
Chuuya mentally cursed every god he had ever heard of.
The sound of the mattress shifting made him freeze completely, still refusing to look toward the bed.
“…Chuuyaaaa.”
Exactly what he had been trying to avoid.
Chuuya clenched his teeth and kept moving, slower than he wanted, trying to straighten his posture despite the limp that pain forced into his steps as he headed for the bathroom door.
“Go back to sleep.”
The pillow rustled as Dazai shifted.
"You’re late today."
Chuuya closed his eyes for a second.
“I have to wake up early tomorrow,” Dazai continued, his voice still heavy with sleep but already thick with drama. “Normal people have to work in the morning, you know.”
The room spun slightly.
Chuuya placed a hand against the wall for balance as another sharp pulse of heat tore through his side.
“Shut up,” he growled through clenched teeth, hoping the irritation in his voice would hide the pain. Dazai was used to that tone.
“I’m serious,” Dazai grumbled. “My partner comes home in the middle of the night, makes noise, wakes me up… and then expects me to function at work the next day.”
Chuuya let out an annoyed sigh.
“You sleep at work.”
“That’s part of my professional strategy.”
Chuuya forced himself to take another step away from the wall.
The room spun again.
“Besides,” Dazai continued, turning onto his side in bed, “you’re a nocturnal mafia criminal. You’ve never understood the concept of office hours.”
“And you’re chronically useless.”
Chuuya bit down hard to stop himself from groaning.
He had been shot.
He was bleeding.
He was about two seconds away from collapsing on the floor.
And somehow he was still arguing with Dazai.
This had to be a joke.
“Cruel, Chuuya. You’re cruel. A tiny, ugly mafia gremlin.”
Chuuya kept moving.
The bathroom was right there.
One more step and he could just fall through the door.
The wound burned.
Every movement tugged at the blood-soaked fabric stuck to his skin.
His legs were starting to shake.
That wasn’t a good sign.
His hand was just reaching the bathroom handle when it happened.
Ping.
The sound was quiet.
Almost inaudible.
But in the dark silence of the room it sounded loud.
Dazai stopped talking.
Chuuya froze for a moment.
Silence.
Chuuya held his breath.
Then he tried to keep walking like nothing had happened.
Ping.
Dazai frowned in the darkness.
“…Chuuya.”
No answer.
Chuuya was too busy trying to keep his breathing steady.
Damn it.
He hadn’t noticed it had changed.
The mattress creaked again.
From the corner of his eye he saw Dazai sit up.
“Your breathing changed.”
Silence.
“Chuuya.”
Another step.
Another drop hitting the floor.
Now Dazai was fully awake.
He got out of bed.
“Hey.”
His hand grabbed Chuuya’s arm.
And came away wet.
Dazai looked down at his hand.
Even in the dark he could feel it.
Warm.
Sticky.
Blood.
His voice changed instantly.
“…what the hell did you do?”
Chuuya slowly exhaled.
“Nothing serious.”
He tried to take one more step.
His legs finally gave out.
He slid down against the bathroom door, giving up the act with a tired sigh.
“Just got shot.”
A full second of silence passed.
Then Dazai inhaled sharply and reached over to switch on the bedside lamp, the yellow light spilling across the room and revealing the scene in front of him.
Chuuya was slumped against the bathroom door, completely drenched in blood. His shirt and pants were stained dark, droplets of red clinging to his face and tangled in his hair, his hands soaked, and a trail of blood stretched from the hallway all the way into the bedroom. The entire scene looked like something straight out of a crime scene.
It might have been funny.
If Dazai hadn’t been terrified.
Chuuya didn’t get hurt.
Not like this.
Not for Dazai.
It had been a long time since he had last seen his partner in that kind of state, and he didn’t like the memories that were starting to surface because of it.
Dazai felt his heart tighten painfully in his chest. He swallowed hard, eyes wide, watching the redhead try to keep a smile on his lips that looked more like a grimace of pain.
His heart started beating so hard it almost hurt.
“…Chuuya.”
His voice came out quieter than he intended.
Chuuya leaned his head back against the bathroom door and let out a small sigh, still trying to look unconcerned.
“I was trying not to wake you.”
Dazai finally moved.
Two quick steps carried him across the room before he dropped into a crouch in front of Chuuya, his hands going straight to his shoulders.
“Not wake me?!”
His voice came out louder than he meant it to.
Dazai’s breathing had already turned short, too fast for someone who could normally control his own heartbeat with ease.
“You’re bleeding everywhere and you didn’t want to wake me?”
Chuuya let out a weak, breathy laugh.
“Yeah… I noticed that part.”
Dazai looked down at his hands.
They were covered in blood.
Then his eyes moved to Chuuya’s waist, where the fabric of his shirt was soaked and clinging to his body, the dark stain spreading wider and wider.
Chuuya had been bleeding for a long time.
Dazai couldn’t even understand how he was still conscious.
His heart lurched violently in his chest again, an unpleasant reminder that it was still there, beating out of rhythm and far too loud.
“Where?”
“Right side.”
“Is the bullet still in there?”
“I don’t think so.”
I don’t think so.
The words echoed inside Dazai’s head, repeating again and again with cruel clarity.
Chuuya thought.
That was enough for his hands to start trembling.
But there was no time for that.
Chuuya needs stitches.
So Dazai forced his body to move.
He slid one arm under Chuuya’s shoulders and practically dragged him into the bathroom.
The motion made Chuuya suck in a sharp breath.
“Shit…” he muttered through his teeth.
Dazai ignored it.
He sat Chuuya down on the edge of the sink so they were at the same height. Chuuya liked sitting on high surfaces like that; he once said it was the best angle to look into Dazai’s eyes.
Dazai had never complained about it before.
Right now he hated every second of it.
He pulled the first aid kit from the cabinet above the mirror and quickly soaked gauze and cotton with saline, preparing to clean the blood away. He grabbed the scissors and cut through Chuuya’s shirt, earning a quiet complaint from him.
His hands were still shaking.
When the shirt finally fell away, Dazai pressed the gauze to the wound and started cleaning away the blood, trying to see whether there were any fragments left inside.
When he found nothing—just an ugly hole torn through flesh where the bullet had passed clean through—it didn’t make him feel any better.
He needed the needle.
He needed to thread it.
It should have been easy. Simple. Just guide the thread through the eye of the needle.
But Dazai made the worst mistake he could have made.
He looked into Chuuya’s eyes.
Chuuya looked pale.
Too pale.
His eyes were open, but it was obvious he would much rather keep them closed.
Dazai realized something was wrong with himself before he could fully understand what it was.
His heart began to beat faster in his chest—at first subtly, then hard enough that each beat felt too large, too heavy against his ribs, as if his body was trying to force blood through every vein at once with desperate urgency. He tried to draw in a slow breath, the way he always did when he needed to think clearly, but the air didn’t come the way it should. Each inhale was shallow, insufficient, and no matter how many times he tried again it felt like his lungs never filled completely, as if something invisible was pressing inward against his chest.
He knew what he needed to do.
The logic was there, clear and almost automatic after so many years dealing with wounds far worse than this one.
Clean the blood.
Stop the bleeding.
Thread the needle.
Simple steps.
Mechanical.
Things he had done before.
But for some reason his mind refused to stay on those steps.
Every time he tried to focus on the wound, his attention was dragged somewhere else: the blood across the floor, the trail in the hallway, the way Chuuya’s shirt had stuck to his body with dried blood, the unnatural paleness of his skin under the weak light.
There was too much blood.
The realization settled into the back of Dazai’s mind like a silent alarm that wouldn’t stop ringing.
His heart reacted immediately, beating even faster now, until the sound of it filled his ears loudly enough to almost drown out everything else in the room. He tried to take another deep breath, forcing himself to control his own body before things got worse, but the more he focused on breathing, the harder it seemed to become.
The air came too quickly.
Too shallow.
And every attempt to inhale deeply only made the tightness in his chest more obvious.
By the time he noticed, his fingers were already trembling.
It was a small tremor, but constant—enough that the tweezers vibrated slightly between his fingers and the thread slipped from the needle more than once.
This shouldn’t have been difficult.
But his hands weren’t cooperating the way they should.
And that small failure allowed the panic to grow just a little more inside him, quiet and insidious.
He looked at Chuuya again.
The way he was leaning against the bathroom mirror, trying to maintain that irritated expression he always wore when he was in pain, wouldn’t fool anyone who actually knew him.
His breathing was too heavy.
Too controlled.
The color of his face was wrong.
Too pale.
Too weak.
And that was the moment a truly dangerous thought formed inside Dazai’s mind.
The possibility that this might be serious.
Too serious.
His body reacted before he could stop it.
His heart lurched again, fast enough to hurt, and a strange sensation spread through him—cold in his hands while an unpleasant heat climbed up the back of his neck. His head suddenly felt light, as if the floor had shifted a few centimeters away from reality, and for a moment everything around him felt distant, like he was watching the scene through a thin layer of glass.
He forced himself to think.
Chuuya was alive.
He was conscious.
He was talking.
But his body refused to listen to that logic.
All his instincts seemed able to register was blood, danger, and the unbearable possibility that something could go wrong if he wasted even a second.
His hands were shaking more now.
His breathing was still short.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, Dazai realized with uncomfortable clarity that he was dangerously close to losing control of his own body at the exact moment he needed it to function perfectly.
Because Chuuya was right there.
Bleeding.
Waiting for him to fix this.
And Dazai couldn’t afford to fail.
Not when it came to Chuuya.
Chuuya could tell that something was wrong.
Dazai was usually annoyingly calm in situations like this. In fact, he tended to be the most irritating person possible while stitching someone up, making sarcastic comments while someone was actively bleeding. He had stitched Chuuya up more times than Chuuya could remember, and not once had he ever looked… like this.
But now there was something different in the way he moved.
His gestures were a little rougher, a little less coordinated, as if he were trying to rush without actually managing to focus on what he was doing. The thread slipped from the needle twice, and on the third attempt his fingers took far too long to guide it through the tiny metal eye.
That was when Chuuya noticed the way he was looking.
Dazai wasn’t really looking at the wound.
His eyes kept drifting back to the blood on the floor far too often, lingering a little longer than they should on the dark stains spreading across the bathroom tiles. And every time that happened, his jaw tightened slightly, as if he were trying to suppress some kind of reaction.
Chuuya watched him silently for a few seconds.
The realization came slowly, but once it did, it was impossible to ignore.
He was panicking.
The idea was so absurd that Chuuya almost laughed. But when he looked again at Dazai’s hands—still trembling slightly as they held the tweezers—the humor vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.
Chuuya let out a tired sigh and leaned his head back against the cold mirror behind him.
“Dazai.”
His voice came out low, rough from the effort of keeping his breathing steady.
Dazai didn’t answer right away.
He was staring at the needle as if it required an absurd amount of concentration, as if the small piece of metal were far more complicated than it actually was.
Chuuya watched him for a few more seconds before speaking again, slower this time, as if testing something.
“Hey… look at me.”
Dazai finally lifted his eyes.
And that was when Chuuya became certain.
Because his expression was wrong.
There was something too tense in it, something caught between worry and panic, as if his thoughts were moving too fast for the moment he was in. His breathing was still uneven, and even under the dim bathroom light it was easy to see the tension in his face.
Chuuya tilted his head slightly as he studied him.
Then he sighed softly.
“You’re having a panic attack over a gunshot?”
The words came out in that incredulous, irritated tone he always used when Dazai did something ridiculously dramatic.
But beneath it, there was something else.
Because even with the pain burning along his side and blood still slowly soaking through the makeshift bandage, Chuuya didn’t seem nearly as concerned about the wound.
He was watching Dazai instead.
Chuuya had seen Dazai in far stranger situations over the years. He had seen him laugh in the middle of an explosion. He had seen him walk calmly through scenes far worse than this one. Which was exactly why this reaction felt so completely out of place.
It was almost ridiculous.
Almost.
He let out a tired breath through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he watched the other man try to thread the needle again.
The thread slipped once more, and he heard Dazai close his hand into a fist in frustration with himself.
Chuuya made a small sound of disbelief.
“Seriously?”
Dazai didn’t respond.
Or maybe he was too busy trying to control his breathing to answer.
Chuuya let his head drop slightly and closed his eyes for a second, gathering what little patience he had left before opening them again.
“Dazai.”
Nothing.
He tried another approach.
“I’ve been shot worse than this.”
Still nothing.
Chuuya wrinkled his nose irritably.
“One time I took three at once, remember? You spent twenty minutes complaining that I was bleeding on your coat and that it would be impossible to wash. You even told me to buy you a new one because that one smelled like ‘Chuuauha blood.’”
That finally made Dazai look at him.
His gaze was still tense, but at least he was paying attention now.
Chuuya raised an eyebrow, evaluating him.
“I came home once with three broken ribs and you spent half an hour complaining that I was breathing too loudly and ruining your sleep.”
Dazai stared at him in outrage, mouth slightly open. He clearly hadn’t expected that, but Chuuya didn’t give him time to start rambling.
If Dazai had ended up somewhere strange because of one gunshot, then Chuuya would drag him right back out of it.
He remembered every annoying moment Dazai had taken care of him.
“Remember that time I passed out after getting shot and woke up with you trying to write my will?” Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “And you were putting everything in your name.”
“That was when you had just become an executive and were making more money. It was only fair,” Dazai muttered with a small frown.
“And that day in Kyoto? I took two bullets and you spent the entire ride complaining that the blood was ruining the car. You didn’t even ask if I was dying.”
Chuuya tilted his head.
“Actually, you did ask. But only because you wanted to know if you’d have to drive since you were too tired.”
“That was Shibuya, and that’s not fair, Chuuya. Do you know the distance between Shibuya and Yokohama? Enough of this!” Dazai turned his head, trying not to smile.
He remembered that day like it was yesterday. They had been younger then, but Dazai already had feelings for him, even if he hadn’t quite understood them yet.
“I’m not done yet. There was also that time I broke my leg and you said it was inconvenient because now you had to carry me and I was too heavy.”
Chuuya lifted an eyebrow.
“You complained the entire way, calling me a ‘mini gravity barrel’ and a ‘deadweight with a hat.’”
Dazai finally gave up trying to hide it and laughed softly as the memories began calming him down little by little.
Chuuya was pulling him back.
Those had been different times.
Of course Dazai had worried about Chuuya—he always had, in his own clumsy way. But in those moments he had been there. He had seen the gunshot, the stab wound, the blood. He knew exactly what had happened and from what angle. Most of the time he had already calculated the injuries.
This was different.
This was Chuuya arriving home bleeding without Dazai beside him.
Trying not to wake him.
Trying to reach the bathroom to stitch himself up.
That wasn’t right.
It wasn’t fair.
How could Dazai not be worried?
“So explain to me why you look like you’re about to faint over a single gunshot.”
Dazai clenched his jaw.
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.”
Chuuya cut him off without hesitation.
“Your hands are shaking so much you missed three times.”
The silence that followed lasted a few seconds.
Dazai looked away, clearly irritated at being called out on something he had been trying to ignore.
Chuuya watched him carefully before sighing and leaning forward slightly, ignoring the stab of pain that immediately shot through his side.
“Listen here, idiot.”
His voice was quieter now, but no less firm.
“I’m not dying.”
Dazai looked back up.
Chuuya held his gaze without hesitation.
“I got shot. That’s it. I’m not going to die. Not like this.”
He shrugged lightly, even though the movement made pain pulse through his side.
“It happens every week.”
Dazai frowned.
“That’s not—”
“Dramatic enough for you to have a breakdown, exactly.”
Chuuya finished before he could.
Then, after studying his face for another moment, he added with a small grumble:
“Honestly, I expected more from someone who calls himself the ‘dream boyfriend.’”
That worked.
Dazai narrowed his eyes.
“You’re bleeding in my bathroom.”
“The bathroom is part of the house that, as far as I know, belongs to me.”
“I spend more time here, so it’s more mine than yours. Therefore, my bathroom.”
Chuuya gave a crooked little smile, though he still looked far too pale.
“My point is that if you don’t stop acting like I’m about to die, I’m going to stand up and stitch this myself.”
The threat hung in the air for a moment.
Dazai went completely still.
Chuuya tilted his head, waiting.
“I’m not letting Chuuya do that alone.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“But I’m here now,” Dazai said quietly. “And I’m telling you I’m not letting you do it. I’ll do it.”
Dazai slowly let out a breath, forcing his body to calm down.
His hands were still shaking slightly when he picked up the needle again.
But this time he managed to thread it.
Chuuya watched silently as he moved closer with the tweezers and gauze.
“So who’s the dog now?” Chuuya muttered, trying to hide the pained grimace with a sarcastic smile.
It didn’t work.
Dazai pushed the knot into his skin with a small smile that looked calmer now.
“I’m stitching up my badly behaved dog who went wandering away from his owner and got hurt. Bad dog. Bad chibi. Bad mafioso. The worst of all.”
Chuuya looked at him softly and noticed the small, brief smile on Dazai’s lips.
They would talk about this later.
Dazai took a few more minutes to finish the job.
The needle moved in and out of the skin with careful motions, each stitch pulling the edges of the wound back together while he tried to keep his hands steady enough so the thread wouldn’t slip again. Chuuya stayed relatively quiet throughout the process, only letting out a slow breath through his teeth now and then when the needle passed through a particularly sensitive spot, but he didn’t actually complain.
When he finally finished the last stitch, Dazai pulled the thread tight and cut it, studying the result for a moment to make sure the bleeding had truly stopped.
“Done,” he murmured, pressing gauze over the newly closed stitches before fixing it in place with tape. “Congratulations. You’re still intact enough to be annoying tomorrow. But no physical activity—the gym will have to wait.”
Chuuya let out a tired grunt, letting his head fall back against the mirror once more.
Dazai stepped back half a pace to examine his work. Then the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“Interesting.”
Chuuya opened one eye suspiciously.
“What?”
Dazai tilted his head, looking him over—the new bandage on the side of his waist, the blood in his hair, the ruined clothes.
Then he pointed at himself, and then at Chuuya.
“We’re both covered in bandages now.”
Chuuya wrinkled his nose.
“You’re always covered in bandages. And why the hell are you even wearing bandages at home, you idiot?”
“I think my subconscious knew that Chuuya, with his deeply romantic nature, would want to match bandages with me. I must have simply forgotten to take them off before going to sleep.”
Chuuya let out a tired snort.
“Shut up and come here. I’ll take them off for you if you want.”
“I’m not sure how I should feel about Chuuya copying my style right in front of me.”
“You’re making jokes now? Wow. Hilarious.”
“Chuuya spent years criticizing me, and now he’s imitating me? I don’t know… should I feel flattered? Or offended by your shallow personality?”
“I’m going to hit you.”
Dazai smiled faintly and ignored the threat. Even in the state Chuuya was in, he knew the threat wasn’t entirely empty.
Oddly enough, that made him feel better.
Chuuya was fine.
He leaned closer to him while unwrapping the bandages from his own arms, exposing his neck and part of his torso to Chuuya as he worked. When the last of the bandages fell to the floor, he let out a quiet breath of relief.
“So who’s the mummy now?” Dazai murmured softly into Chuuya’s ear.
He felt Chuuya shiver slightly before pressing a light kiss to the curve of his neck and pulling away again.
Dazai grabbed a pack of wet wipes from the shelf and started cleaning the dried blood from Chuuya’s hands, gently wiping across his palms. He smiled faintly when he compared them to his own.
Chuuya’s hands were smaller.
But his fingers were beautiful.
Dazai’s movements were calmer now. The panic that had been squeezing his chest earlier had eased once the wound was finally closed.
He carefully wiped the cloth across Chuuya’s skin, removing the blood that had already begun to dry.
“I don’t even want to see the other rooms you walked through,” he muttered while he worked.
Chuuya answered without opening his eyes.
“Are you going to cry about that too?”
Dazai made a small offended noise.
“I wasn’t crying.”
“Mm.”
“Slander.”
“Don’t get like that again… please.”
“Then don’t bleed like that again.”
“I promise I’ll be more careful,” Chuuya murmured quietly.
That was enough to calm the rest of Dazai’s body—and his heart.
Because if there was one thing Chuuya was good at, it was keeping his promises.
Dazai continued cleaning the blood, now wiping Chuuya’s face with more care, removing the stains near his nose and forehead. Every now and then he left small kisses around his nose, cheeks, and eyelids, earning small smiles from Chuuya, who kept turning his face away in a weak attempt to stop Dazai from drooling all over him.
When he finished with his face, Dazai leaned back slightly and sighed as he looked at Chuuya’s hair.
“Of course there had to be blood in your hair too.”
Chuuya muttered something incomprehensible.
Dazai grabbed another wipe and began cleaning the strands that had stuck together, separating the hair with his fingers while removing the dried blood.
It took a few minutes before the worst of the mess was gone.
Then he finally looked at Chuuya’s clothes.
The wine-colored shirt had already been cut open, so Dazai simply finished tearing it apart and dropped it on the floor. The belt and pants came next, and Dazai let out a quiet sigh at the sight of Chuuya leaning back against the sink counter, his head tilted against the mirror and his body relaxed.
He grabbed a few more wipes and cleaned the last traces of blood from his body, making sure nothing would irritate the skin around the wound.
“I’m going to get you some clothes. Don’t move.”
He heard Chuuya complain about something, but he didn’t pay attention as he quickly stepped into the bedroom, ignoring the blood on the floor.
He would deal with that tomorrow.
Dazai liked it when Chuuya wore his clothes.
They were always too big on him, which somehow made him look smaller, creating the exact contrast that Dazai loved.
When he returned to the bathroom, dressing Chuuya turned out to be the easiest thing he had done all night.
“Alright.”
Chuuya opened one eye again.
“Alright what?”
Dazai looked at him.
Then at the bed in the bedroom.
Then back at him.
“Time to move the patient.”
Chuuya frowned.
“Don’t call me that.”
But before he could complain any further, Dazai slipped one arm behind his back and the other beneath his legs.
Chuuya immediately realized what he was trying to do.
“You’re not—”
Dazai lifted.Or tried to.
Chuuya was heavier than he liked to admit, and the pathetic scene immediately reminded him why he complained so much whenever Chuuya got injured on missions.
“…oh fuck.”
Chuuya looked at him, incredulous.
"You’re shaking."
“Shut up.”
“I can’t believe you’re shaking.”
“Chuuya, now is not the time to talk. I need to concentrate.”
“Fuck that, I can feel your legs shaking.”
Dazai adjusted his grip, pulling Chuuya closer against his chest before trying again.
This time he managed to lift him, though with far more effort than he would ever willingly admit.
“If you drop me, I’ll kill you,” Chuuya muttered.
“You’re in a curious position to be making threats.”
Dazai walked slowly toward the bedroom, each step careful so he wouldn’t jolt the wound too much.
When he finally reached the bed, he lowered himself carefully and placed Chuuya onto the mattress.
Chuuya let out a quiet sigh when his body finally relaxed against the pillow.
Dazai automatically pulled the blanket over him.
For a moment, he just stood there watching.
Chuuya’s breathing was slower now.
More stable.
The color was slowly returning to his face.
Dazai turned off the bathroom light and returned to the bed.
He was almost certain he wouldn’t be able to sleep.
Adrenaline was still running through his body.
But when he lay down beside Chuuya, something shifted.
Almost instinctively, he moved closer and wrapped an arm around his waist, careful not to press against the bandage.
Chuuya murmured something softly, half-asleep, but he didn’t complain.
Dazai stayed there, unmoving for a few moments.
His head resting against Chuuya’s chest.
Listening.
One heartbeat.
Then another.
Chuuya’s heart was beating strong and steady, and without realizing it, Dazai found himself counting the pauses between each beat.
One.
Two.
Three.
The steady rhythm was strangely calming.
He had been certain he would stay awake the entire night.
But somewhere between one heartbeat and the next of that stubbornly alive heart, his eyes slowly closed.
And still holding on to Chuuya, Dazai eventually fell asleep.