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The first thing Chuuya feels is nothing—and then everything at once.
It always starts like that.
There’s a moment, right before it fully takes him, where his body still belongs to him. Where his fingers twitch under his own command, where gravity still bends to his will instead of consuming it. A breath. A heartbeat.
Then Corruption answers.
It pours through him like something ancient and furious, something that remembers being a god and resents being caged inside bone and flesh. His vision fractures—not darkness, not light, but something heavier, deeper. Awareness without control.
Chuuya is still there.
That’s the worst part.
He watches as his body moves without him, every motion too fast, too sharp, too absolute. Limbs that were once his now feel distant, like they belong to someone else—or something else entirely. The ground craters beneath each step. The air warps with pressure.
And inside—
Inside, he feels it.
The strain.
Not clean pain, not something he can scream through or fight against. It’s deeper than that. His body isn’t meant for this—not fully. Muscles pull too tight, bones pushed past limits they were never meant to reach. There’s a splitting pressure that builds with every second, every movement.
Like something inside him is trying to break free.
Chuuya can’t move.
He can’t speak.
He can only watch.
Arhabaki does not hesitate. Does not think. It destroys. Efficient. Absolute. Every enemy is nothing more than an obstacle erased in an instant. The battlefield becomes unrecognizable—ground torn apart, structures collapsing like paper.
And still, it keeps going.
Too much, Chuuya thinks dimly. This is too much.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts. Seconds. Minutes. Time doesn’t exist here.
But then—
A presence.
Familiar.
Annoying.
Safe.
A hand presses against him—firm, certain.
“Alright, Chuuya,” Dazai’s voice cuts through the chaos like it always does, calm and almost bored. “You’ve had your fun.”
And just like that—
Everything stops.
⸻
The silence afterward is overwhelming.
The pressure vanishes. The force recedes. The presence of something other inside him collapses in on itself like it was never there.
And Chuuya falls.
⸻
Dazai catches him before he hits the ground.
Of course he does.
There’s no dramatic rush, no panic—just precise timing, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. Chuuya’s body is limp in his arms, completely unresponsive, breathing shallow but steady.
Dazai exhales quietly.
“Honestly,” he mutters, brushing a stray strand of hair from Chuuya’s face, “you never do things halfway.”
There’s blood—nothing catastrophic, but enough to matter. Scrapes, bruises already forming beneath pale skin, the aftermath of pushing his body far past its limits.
Dazai’s grip tightens just slightly.
“…Idiot.”
But it’s soft.
Careful.
He adjusts Chuuya in his arms, making sure his head rests properly against his shoulder, one hand supporting his back, the other hooked securely under his knees. Familiar. Practiced.
Then he leaves.
⸻
The penthouse is quiet when they arrive.
Dazai doesn’t bother with lights at first. He moves through the space effortlessly, carrying Chuuya straight to the bathroom like this is routine—because it is.
He sets him down gently on the edge of the tub, one hand still steadying him to keep him upright.
“Stay with me a little longer,” he murmurs, though he knows Chuuya can’t hear him yet.
The water starts running—warm, not too hot. Always careful with that.
Dazai works methodically.
He removes Chuuya’s ruined clothes piece by piece, movements slow and deliberate, making sure not to jostle him more than necessary. There’s no hesitation, no awkwardness—just quiet focus.
Once the bath is ready, he lifts him again and lowers him into the water.
Chuuya doesn’t react at first.
Dazai kneels beside the tub, sleeves already rolled up, and begins.
He cleans him the way someone handles something fragile—not because Chuuya is fragile, but because right now, he might as well be.
Water darkens slightly as dried blood washes away. Dazai uses a cloth, gentle but thorough, wiping away dirt and grime from Chuuya’s skin. He pauses at every bruise, every cut, assessing before continuing.
“Honestly,” he says under his breath, almost fond despite the words, “you really outdo yourself every time.”
His fingers linger briefly at Chuuya’s wrist, checking his pulse.
Steady.
Good.
He moves on.
When he reaches the worst of the injuries—split skin, shallow but painful—his touch becomes even more careful. Cleaning each one, making sure nothing is left untreated.
Time passes quietly.
The only sounds are water, cloth, and soft breathing.
⸻
Chuuya stirs.
It’s subtle at first—a shift, a faint tension in his shoulders.
Dazai notices immediately.
“Welcome back,” he says softly, not looking up right away as he finishes rinsing the last bit of blood from Chuuya’s arm.
Chuuya’s eyes crack open, unfocused. “…Tch.”
His voice is rough, barely there.
Dazai glances at him then, expression unreadable but his gaze sharp, attentive. “That’s all I get? No dramatic complaints? I’m disappointed.”
Chuuya doesn’t bother responding.
He lets his head fall back against the edge of the tub, eyes slipping half-closed again. He’s too tired to argue, too heavy to move.
Dazai hums. “I see. Completely useless, as expected.”
But there’s no bite to it.
He reaches for a towel, helping Chuuya out of the bath once he’s done. This time, Chuuya doesn’t resist at all—he leans into it, lets himself be moved, guided.
Drying him is slower.
More deliberate.
Dazai presses the towel gently against his skin, careful around every bruise, every cut he just cleaned. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t miss anything.
Chuuya barely reacts, just shifts slightly when needed before settling again, completely trusting.
When he’s dry, Dazai dresses him in soft clothes—loose, comfortable, easy to move in. The kind Chuuya pretends not to like but never complains about wearing afterward.
“Arms,” Dazai says quietly.
Chuuya lifts them just enough.
“Good.”
Once he’s dressed, Dazai guides him to bed.
⸻
Chuuya practically collapses into it.
Dazai adjusts him without a word—pulling the blankets over him, fixing the pillows so his head is properly supported.
Chuuya exhales, sinking into the mattress. “Stay.”
It’s mumbled, barely conscious.
Dazai pauses.
Then—“…Of course.”
He sits at the edge of the bed, one hand resting lightly against Chuuya’s arm.
For a while, he just watches.
The rise and fall of his breathing. The way tension slowly leaves his body. The faint crease in his brow that hasn’t fully smoothed out yet.
Dazai reaches out, brushing his fingers lightly against Chuuya’s hair.
Careful.
Always careful.
“You push too far,” he murmurs quietly, more to himself than anything. “One day, even I might not make it in time.”
Chuuya doesn’t respond.
He’s already asleep.
Dazai sighs, but there’s no real frustration in it—just something softer, something heavier.
He shifts slightly, settling in without moving his hand.
Keeping watch.
Like always.