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Dazai’s shiping container always smelled like rust and the stagnant salt of the Yokohama docks. It was freezing, the kind of cold that bit through Chuuya’s coat, but Dazai just stood there in front of a mirror that had seen better days. A spiderweb of cracks distorted his reflection, splitting his face into a dozen pieces.
“You’re late for the briefing, mackerel,” Chuuya voice echoed through the room, his boots echoing off the metal floor. He was ready for a witty comeback or a groan of boredom.
Dazai didn't turn. He was fumbling with a fresh roll of gauze, his movements uncharacteristically clumsy. His usual coat was tossed over a crate, leaving him in just a thin, wrinkled shirt.
“Go away, Chuuya,” Dazai said. His voice wasn't teasing. It was flat. Empty.
“Like hell I will. Mori is losing his patience and I’m the one who has to—”
Chuuya reached out, his hand snapping forward to grab Dazai’s forearm to jerk him around. He expected Dazai to dodge. He expected a struggle. He didn't expect the fabric to give way.
Chuuya’s grip was too firm, and the loose, half-fastened sleeve of Dazai’s shirt slid upward, tugging on the rough edges of the old bandages underneath. With a sharp rip, the white gauze unspooled, falling to the floor.
The silence that followed was louder than any explosion Chuuya had ever caused.
Underneath the bandages, the skin wasn't clean. It wasn't the smooth, porcelain surface Chuuya had imagined. It was a map of silver lines and dark, angry marks—none of them from a battle. None of them from an enemy. They were too precise. Too deliberate.
Chuuya’s fingers froze. He didn't let go, but his grip changed from a shove to something hovering, trembling. He stared at the marks, his breath hitching in his chest.
Chuuya didn't pull his hand away. His fingers remained hooked around Dazai’s wrist, but the strength in them vanished instantly. The sharp, hot anger that usually fueled him—the constant, buzzing heat in his chest—flickered out, leaving him cold.
He stared at the marks. They were pale and old, layered over ones that were pink and new, a history of pain written in a language Chuuya didn't want to understand.
Dazai didn't move. He didn't even breathe. He just stood there, his arm limp in Chuuya's grasp, staring into the jagged shards of the mirror as if he were looking at a stranger. The teasing remark Chuuya expected never came.
Slowly, Chuuya’s hand slid down. His thumb brushed against the edge of a bandage, a movement so light it was barely there. He felt Dazai flinch—a tremblw—and that was what finally broke the mask.
Chuuya stepped back, his boots scraping softly against the iron floor. He didn't yell. He didn't demand an explanation. He just looked at the discarded pile of gauze on the floor—the white fabric looking like a ghost in the dim light.
Without a word, Chuuya knelt.
The shorter boy picked up the fresh roll of bandages Dazai had dropped. He stood up and took a half-step closer, hovering in that uncertain, private space between them.
He didn't look at Dazai’s face. He couldn't bring himself to see whatever expression was there. Instead, he reached out and took Dazai’s hand again, his touch uncharacteristically gentle, and began to wrap. He worked with a focused, grim intensity, smoothing the fabric over the ruined skin as if he could hide the pain away if he just wrapped it carefully enough..
"Don't," Chuuya finally whispered. It wasn't an order. It was a plea, cracked and quiet, barely audible over the wind whistling through the walls.
Dazai finally looked down at the top of Chuuya’s red head, his dark eyes wide and unreadable. For the first time, Dazai had absolutely nothing to say.
Chuuya finishes up bandaging Dazai’s arms, his fingers remained on Dazai’s wrist for a bit until he finally pulls away. His gaze remains on the discarded gauze on the floor.
“Mori can wait a few minutes," Chuuya said, his voice softer than usual. He stood up and kicked a crate toward Dazai. "Sit down. You look like you're about to pass out."
Dazai sat, though he did it with none of his usual dramatic flair. He looked tired, the "Demon Prodigy" replaced by a boy who simply had nothing left to give.
Chuuya reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a slightly crushed chocolate bar—something he’d grabbed earlier to eat on the way. He tossed it into Dazai’s lap. "Eat it. Before I shove it down your throat myself."
Dazai stared at the silver foil in his lap as if it was going to bite him. "Chibi is being... strangely nice today," he mumbles, expecting Chuuya to react but he said nothing. They sat there in uncomfortable silence until Dazai finished eating the chocolate bar the shorter boy gave him.
“Let’s go, Dazai.” Chuuya puts his hand out to help Dazai stand from his seat. Dazai looks at his hand for a moment before grabbing it. Dazai acts if nothig happened and goes back to his usual, playful, self.
Ok good ending they eat cupcakes with sprinkles and they play with bubbles the end