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The first to enter the house is Chuuya. The clinking of keys hastily dropped onto the small cabinet is the first sound to break the silence, swallowed by the hallway.
Dazai, lagging behind, follows the usual path at his own pace. He places his keys in their proper spot and reaches out, lingering over the fabric of the couch.
He stops after a few steps in front of the kitchen and glances up at the lamp—he’ll probably have to replace it.
Chuuya is waiting for him in the bathroom, he knows, but he keeps moving slowly, and as he walks he takes off his coat. He lets it fall onto the tub, next to his partner.
He sits on the floor and stretches out his arms; his palms rest gently on Chuuya’s knees.
Blue eyes immediately shift from the mirror to those hands.
He takes one in his own and begins to unravel the bandages.
Dazai’s skin is cold under his fingers, colder than usual.
When he’s halfway through, Chuuya looks up and yanks him closer without any gentleness.
He repeats the gesture on the other side and, once he frees the skin from the bandages, he dabs at the wounds with a cotton pad.
It only takes a slight increase in pressure to get a reaction.
“You’re distracted, huh?” Dazai’s tone is sing-song, provocative. Not a question.
Chuuya stops, his hand hovering midair.
He resumes calmly, and when he looks away to grab more cotton, Dazai stands up and stares at him. “And I’m the one who doesn’t talk.”
Chuuya stands as well and meets his gaze. “Leave me alone,” it’s almost a growl, his jaw tight. He sighs and shoves Dazai’s chest to make him move. He washes his hands, then his face, and as he looks at himself in the mirror, two arms wrap around his waist and an annoying voice murmurs in his ear, “Were you scared?”
They look at each other through the mirror, and yet Chuuya can’t relax. “You know I’m here.”
He places his hands over Dazai’s and pushes them down, freeing himself.
He turns on the shower; the rush of water and the stark white pull his mind somewhere else. It’s the metallic taste in his mouth that brings him back to reality.
“Get me clean clothes.”
Dazai rolls his eyes with a faint laugh and leaves the room.
There are no whispers or soft words, only the sound of running water. They shower together—it’s one of the few spoken rules of their relationship.
Once out, each with their mind somewhere else, they take care of each other. Sitting on the floor, Chuuya wraps Dazai’s bandages first, his hands gentle, barely touching him. Then Dazai dries his hair.
“There.”
Dazai hints at a smile and looks for Chuuya’s eyes, but doesn’t find them. The other has already stood up and walks past him without stopping.
“I’m hungry. Do you want anything?”
“Nah, my stomach’s a mess.”
Dazai follows him; it only takes a few steps to be beside him again.
“I’d like a drink.”
His movements remain slow, measured; he doesn’t overtake him, stays close enough that their hands almost brush.
The kitchen lamp definitely needs replacing.
“Maybe this time it’ll work.”
A small laugh slips from his lips as he pours himself half a glass of whiskey. He brings it to his nose, savoring the scent, rising slightly onto his toes to lean against the kitchen island.
“Come on, chibi… why are you like this?” A smile spreads across his face, broken by a cough.
Chuuya slams the pot onto the stove; the impact makes water spill out, enough to put out the flame. His jaw stays clenched, his breathing deepens in a futile attempt to regain a calm that’s already gone.
He turns sharply and jabs a finger into Dazai’s chest.
“You… don’t get it.”
He pushes him; Dazai has to brace a hand against the counter to keep his balance.
“What—”
“Don’t.”
Chuuya steps back, hands gripping the edge of the counter.
“You forced me. Again.”
Dazai doesn’t reply immediately.
“Did you really think I had a choice?”
“You always have a choice—and you didn’t choose me.”
Chuuya’s tone is low, defeated. He closes half the distance between them, rolls up his sleeves, then lifts his shirt.
He looks down at his body; his eyes turn glossy, but he quickly lifts his head toward Dazai.
“Look at me. I’m wrecked.”
His skin is uneven, stained yellow and purple.
Dazai lowers his head slightly, drinks the last sip of his drink, and wraps his arms around Chuuya.
“I’m here with you.”
Chuuya is still tense. He pushes him away.
“I don’t care that you’re here.”
He pulls his sleeves back down, wipes his eyes.
“I want to be taken into consideration. When it comes to my life. My body. My power.”
He runs a hand through his hair, closes his eyes for a moment.
“You’ve ruined my appetite.”
He turns off the stove—already off—and leaves the pot in the sink.
Dazai steps closer.
Too close.
“Don’t play with me.”
He stops, then takes a step back.
“You can’t expect to build something with someone who isn’t meant to last.”
Chuuya doesn’t move.
He doesn’t notice when Dazai pulls away.
He feels nothing.
“You can’t do this to me again—”
The pale color of the wooden floor hypnotizes him.
A shiver runs down his spine when he hears a door slam.
It only takes him a moment to get back on his feet and follow him.
He sits down beside him and rests his head on his shoulder.
“You should’ve thought about that earlier.”
Dazai holds his breath for a moment, then puffs out his chest.
“Explain yourself.”
Chuuya takes Dazai’s hand in his. He looks at them together, feeling the roughness of the bandages against his skin.
“Earlier.”
He squeezes his hand slightly, closes his eyes.
“We decided to come clean. You didn’t keep your promise. I told them, Mori knows. They can use me to get to you…”
He shifts slightly, but doesn’t let go. He looks him in the eyes.
“For me it’s dangerous. But the truth is you don’t care.”
Dazai stares at the dark TV screen. His leg moves quickly, producing a sharp, continuous sound.
“It’s just easier. You’re not involved.”
Chuuya suddenly stands up, looking down at him. Judging.
He grabs his face with one hand, squeezing his cheeks until the skin turns white.
“Look at me and say it again if you’ve got the guts.”
He’ll leave marks on his face.
The floor under his ability cracks. He doesn’t shout—his voice is steady.
“Tell me that in this relationship my will doesn’t matter.”
He lets go of his face only to grab his neck.
“So I have nothing to do with this, right? You can try to kill yourself as many times as you want, right? That has nothing to do with me, huh?”
It comes out as a hiss, tightening his grip to force him down.
Dazai’s hand touches the cold floor where the cracks are spreading.
“I’m going to have to pay quite a lot for this damage—”
He finally looks up at Chuuya, quickly grabs his wrist and pulls him down with him.
“I am this—do you want to try leaving me?”
Dazai’s voice breaks, maybe from the pressure on his neck.
Chuuya processes the question only when Dazai is right in front of him.
He releases the air trapped in his lungs and clings to his shoulders, shaking him.
A tear runs down his cheek.
“Can you take me seriously?”
The sentence is shouted. It’s not despair, but a disturbing attempt to be heard.
Dazai remains still, at the mercy of a movement controlled by someone else. His gaze is lost on the unmade bed.
Chuuya feels his throat scratch before he stands up.
“I understand.”
He opens the door.
“Chuuya—”
He freezes in the doorway for just a moment, long enough to wipe his wet eyes with his hand. He doesn’t answer, he walks past the kitchen and the living room. The entrance rug is ready to catch him—if not for a hand grabbing him.
“Wait.”
Chuuya slips out of the grip and rubs his wrist.
“Don’t touch me.”
His eyes stay locked on Dazai.
“I don’t have space in your life anymore. I don’t beg to be heard or seen.”
Dazai feels a shiver. He looks down at his hands. They’re trembling. His breath catches when he tastes salt.
“See you around.”