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Time is such an abstract concept, a social construct; unfortunately its consequences are unforgivingly real. For the past few days Dazai had been unable to get out of bed let alone get things done. He had deadlines to catch up to, missions to finish. His limbs seemed to protest at the very thought, his bones were twice their normal weight and all his nerve fibres felt like they'd bundled up together in an attempt to suffocate themselves. Every cell in him wanted to kill itself.
He hated days like these.
Days that blurred together, passing in a haze, when it seemed like somebody else was inhabiting his body. Days where being alive seemed so out of reach - as if existence in itself was a chore. His skin itched for stimulation, craved the feeling of being ripped open by a dull blade just so it could twitch back to life, so that it could pretend to once have been pure because now it was stained by a river of red. He felt so worthless. It was honestly pathetic, he was a mafia executive, the demon prodigy, the black wraith; so many titles and so little to show for them.
He picked up his phone in an attempt of distraction: no messages, no missed calls. He would've laughed if his body wasn't so run down. He didn't have anybody to call.
At times like this, times when he was run down and pathetic, he liked to imagine a faceless figure he could curl upto, somebody who would cradle him in their arms and pet his hair while he let the weight of the world sink into them. He wanted to associate a face with comfort rather than despair, he wanted- he wanted.
This is so pathetic.
The door to his room clicked open, he didn't bother stirring - it didn't matter.
Chuuya walked in to find Dazai laying on the bed like a wind-up doll without clockwork, it was uncanny. They hadn't known each other for that long, it had only been a couple months since he joined the mafia. He always perceived Dazai to be some invincible force of nature, always scheming, always two steps ahead. To find the boy looking so hollowed out came as a slap in the face, the first feeling he acknowledged was guilt: he cursed himself for how he never noticed that his partner was struggling, never noticed Dazai's human struggles. It made him feel like a hypocrite. He spent so much time chastising Dazai for treating people like commodities, pawns that he failed to realise that he was much more than a brilliant strategist, having his own battles and troubles.
Dazai didn't even glance at him, like sparing him a look would be far too troublesome.
Chuuya mechanically walked over to Dazai's bed, he had no idea what he'd do, no plan of how to drag the boy out of his misery. For a minute he just stood there, taking in the distant look that had settled into Dazai's eyes, like he wasn't truly there.
He sat in the corner, the mattress dipped beneath his weight and his warmth flowed through the thin blanket. This physical shift seemed to have dragged Dazai out of his hypnotic state, he looked over to Chuuya with an unblinking stare. The look carried no ulterior motive, there was no scrutiny, no anticipation, there was nothing. He was just looking. That terrified Chuuya.
He knew what to do when Dazai would scheme, he knew what moves to pull when the bastard would try to predict everything; but now, the weight of uncertainty dawned on Chuuya, he truly did not know what to do with this new piece of vulnerability that was shown to him involuntarily.
"Dazai, what's wrong?" It was a stupid question, he didn't know why he asked, he knew with full certainty that Dazai wouldn't answer that or even acknowledge it for that matter. It was never that easy with him.
Like expected, the question seemed to go over his head, he didn't answer.
Chuuya moved closer to Dazai, crawling across the bed till he's right beside the boy. He doesn't ask for permission, maybe he should, but he knows quite well that what a person needs and what a person wants are two substantially different things. He might not know Dazai that well yet, but it doesn't take a genius to figure out his self destructive tendency, actually it's way beyond the point of being a tendency, it is a disposition.
He runs his fingers through Dazai's hair and the boy stills beneath his hand, his breathing seems to be mechanical, like he'd assessing the situation for threat. Chuuya chooses to ignore that bit completely and continues playing with his hair, he doesn't want Dazai to read this as pity, so he pulls out his phone and scrolls through it, adding a layer of 'indifference' to the situation. Manipulating the openness of the moment into a habit, like calling it out would be the thing that makes it weird.
Dazai seems to understand the implication since he leans into the touch, letting his muscles relax. Chuuya couldn't suppress his soft smile; he could get used to this. The moment was so deeply personal he wouldn't have ever envisioned it in the past. He could selfishly get used to Dazai being this way. He liked the pliant sight of the boy, he seemed so much like a normal angsty teenager rather than the fearsome port mafia executive Chuuya was used to seeing.
He wanted to lock up this sight and keep it to himself, maybe he would feed it to the possessiveness that was growing in his chest.
Dazai moved closer to Chuuya, resting his head on Chuuya's chest, he'd felt an impulse to want to listen to the other's heartbeat. In the process he wrapped his long bandaged arms around Chuuya's waist. Chuuya welcomed the touch, leaning back against the headboard so the position would be comfortable for the both of them.
Dazai's ear is pressed close against Chuuya's sternum, he traces the outline of Chuuya's ribs through his clothed torso. Chuuya knows of Dazai's fascination with the anatomy of the torso, he's seen it several times in interrogations when Dazai intentionally cuts open the chest to catch a glimpse of the sternum. He's seen it in the way Dazai often slices open the bodies of people just to watch life dissipate from their lungs, watching the heart flutter against the boned cage.
"Chuuya," Dazai's voice is so uncharacteristically soft that he feels his heart melt, "Why do you want to live?"
Chuuya continues stroking Dazai's hair, letting his hand occasionally dance across the nape of his neck and letting his nails mark soft lines across the dip of the spine in boys back, his shirt is incredibly loose, he notes absently. He ponders the question for a little bit, it's something he doesn't really think about.
"I've never thought about taking my own life," he says quietly, "I think living just comes naturally to me. I think my death will only mean something if I fight for my life."
"Chuuya's so full of passion," Dazai hums in response. He sounds unaffected but the way their bodies are pressed together, Chuuya could feel him hold his breath when he said living comes naturally to him.
"Why do you not want to live?", he asks in response, it seems fair.
"I don't see any point in it. I wasn't born willingly, the least life owes me is to let me die of my own will."
"No one is born willingly," Chuuya tries to reason.
"Yes, but if you thrust a sword into the hands of a swordsman he wouldn't complain. He knows how to wield it, I'm not a swordsman Chuuya, all this sword does is bleed within my grip. The kindest thing I could do to myself is stop holding it so tightly."
Silence engulfs them after that, letting both of them absorb the weight of the words. Chuuya feels grief bloom in his chest, Dazai's reasoning is so tragically logical, like he's intellectualised his emotions so much so, that his only rational option is suicide.
"Being alive is not supposed to make you bleed, life is not a weapon you hold in battle. It's more like the armour you wear to get through existence."
"Chuuya is surprisingly coherent for a dog." He gets a light tug in the hair as a reprimand. The teasing adds some normalcy to their situation, keeping them grounded. Dazai quietly admits, "I think my armour is weighing me down."
"Armours are supposed to be heavy."
"Heavy enough for my feet to be buried?"
"You're supposed to be strong enough to get your feet out."
"Chuuya thinks I'm weak."
"Jackass. You know that's not what I meant."
Dazai hums in response, "Why are you here Chuuya?"
"You looked like death, figured you could use a little company," Chuuya admits, he hopes Dazai won't immediately push him away and shut him out again.
"No, I mean why did you come find me?" Dazai evidently ignores the intimate implications of Chuuyas previous statement, it makes the other a little disappointed, though he'll never admit.
"Boss assigned us a mission, and you didn't come in to work today. He told me to let you know," Chuuya flinches at his words, he knows Dazai will misinterpret them in some way and dig himself deeper into his grave.
Dazai does exactly that. He lets the words hit him, let's them sink into his skin as he absorbs that Chuuya is only here because of compulsion, of course he is. Why would anybody look for him unless they had to or unless they wanted something, he was such an idiot.
His wallowing must have shown externally, since the next thing he feel is Chuuya's hand on his shoulder - a firm grip.
"I could've waited to brief you after you came back to the Port. I wanted to find you, I didn't have to."
Chuuya's admission cuts deeper than if he hadn't cared. Dazai doesn't like the warmth that pools in his stomach. He doesn't want people to see him this way, he doesn't want anyone to find out he is vulnerable. He can imagine what they'd say if they found him curled into a ball beside his partner. He's an executive for fucks sake, he doesn't need people baby sitting him. He doesn't need them looking down at him. He can take care of himself, he doesn't want this pity, he didn't ask for sympathy.
He begins to stir, to start getting up; Chuuya lays his hand on his back now, pressing Dazai down slightly, a gesture that says one thing - 'stay.'
Chuuya sighs, his free hand rubbing circles at his temple, Dazai is such a pain the ass.
"It's been a long day, I need this too, Dazai."
He hopes Dazai will accept it if he thinks Chuuya is the one who needs this rather than himself, he's an oddball: only accepting help when it's dressed up to resemble something else. God, this bastard is such a pain the ass, he cannot believe he has to trojan horse someone into accepting the help they so evidently need.
Dazai leans back down, eyes softening. He buries his head against Chuuya's chest again, slender fingers now tracing the the sharp curves of Chuuya's collar bone, his soft curls tickling the other boy's neck. They don't say anything, they let time cradle the moment in its arms, let the silence blanket them.
Just as Chuuya's about to fall asleep Dazai mutters a quiet almost inaudible 'thank you.'
He's so pressed up against his chest Chuuya can feel the vibration in his ribcage, he responds by squeezing the tiny part of Dazai's lower back where his hand rested. He silently prays that this night lasts longer, prays that the sun will be kind enough to let them cherish this moment.