Chapter Text
Rain had not quite left Yokohama since the night Dazai had shown up half-drowned and burning with fever.
It lingered now in softer forms—mist in the mornings, damp air that clung to skin, clouds that refused to fully break. The city felt washed but not clean, like something paused between states.
Chuuya ignored it.
Or tried to.
Which, in itself, was the first sign something was wrong.
Because Chuuya did not ignore things. He confronted them, crushed them, or at the very least complained loudly enough that the universe might reconsider its choices.
Today, however, he had been quiet.
Too quiet.
Dazai noticed before noon.
The Port Mafia headquarters carried its usual rhythm—footsteps, murmured reports, doors opening and closing with restrained urgency—but something in it felt… off.
Or rather, someone.
Chuuya stood near the far end of the executive floor, reading over a document with one hand braced lightly against the desk. His posture was straight, his expression composed, his presence sharp as always.
And yet—
There was a drag to it.
Subtle. Almost imperceptible. The kind of thing no one else would dare question.
But Dazai saw the way his shoulders held just slightly too tight, the way his breath came a fraction slower, the faint flush that didn’t belong to the controlled environment of the building.
Dazai leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Chuuya.”
No response.
That alone was wrong.
“Chuuuya.”
Chuuya looked up this time, irritation immediate. “What.”
“You didn’t insult me when I walked in.”
“I was busy.”
“You’re always busy. You usually multitask.”
“I’m evolving.”
Dazai pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room.
Up close, the signs sharpened.
Color too high in Chuuya’s cheeks. A faint tightness around his eyes. The way he shifted his weight like standing still required more effort than usual.
“You look terrible,” Dazai said.
“Get out.”
“You’re flushed.”
“I will throw you out of a window.”
“Your voice is rough.”
“Leave.”
Dazai reached out before Chuuya could step back and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.
Hot.
Not subtle. Not questionable.
Hot.
Chuuya slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re sick.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re burning.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re delusional.”
Chuuya’s glare sharpened, but it lacked its usual bite.
“I have three meetings left.”
“You have zero meetings left.”
“I am not canceling—”
“You are not standing.”
“I can stand.”
“You’re swaying.”
“I am not—”
Chuuya’s sentence cut off as the room tilted slightly beneath him.
It was small. Brief. Controlled.
Dazai saw it anyway.
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Not enough for anyone else to name.
But the playfulness thinned, something steadier settling underneath.
“Sit,” Dazai said.
“No.”
“Chuuya.”
“No.”
Dazai stepped closer, voice quieter now.
“Sit.”
Something in that tone—low, certain, stripped of performance—made Chuuya hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then he exhaled sharply and dropped into the chair behind him like it had betrayed him personally.
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
Dazai crouched slightly, bringing himself level with him.
“When did it start.”
“This morning.”
“Liar.”
Chuuya looked away. “Last night.”
“Why didn’t you say anything.”
“Because I’m not you.”
“That’s unfortunate. You’d be much easier to manage.”
“Shut up.”
Dazai studied him for another moment.
Then, very simply:
“We’re leaving.”
“I’m not—”
“We are.”
“I have work—”
“I’ll tell them you died heroically.”
“Dazai—”
Dazai stood, already reaching for his phone.
“Meeting canceled,” he said into it. “Executive Nakahara is unavailable.”
Pause.
“No, not dead. Yet.”
Another pause.
“Yes, I’ll handle it.”
He hung up.
Chuuya stared at him.
“You cannot just—”
“I just did.”
“I will report you.”
“You’ll need energy for that.”
Chuuya pushed himself up.
The motion was slower than usual.
Dazai noticed.
He did not comment.
Instead, he stepped close enough that when Chuuya’s balance shifted again, his hand was already at his elbow.
Steady.
Unavoidable.
Chuuya froze.
“…don’t.”
“Walk,” Dazai said.
For once, Chuuya didn’t argue.
Getting him out of the building was easier than it should have been.
No one stopped them.
No one questioned.
Chuuya’s condition was subtle enough to miss—and Dazai’s presence was enough to discourage curiosity.
The car ride was quiet.
Chuuya leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed, arms crossed tightly as if holding himself together by force alone.
Dazai watched him.
Counted breaths.
Noted the way his fingers curled slightly with each exhale.
“You’re getting worse,” Dazai said.
“Observation skills unparalleled.”
“You should’ve stayed home.”
“I had work.”
“You have a fever.”
“I’ve worked with worse.”
“That’s not impressive.”
“It should be.”
“It’s stupid.”
Chuuya huffed weakly. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re sick.”
“Temporary.”
Dazai looked out the window briefly, watching rain smear across glass.
Then back at him.
“I don’t like it.”
Chuuya cracked one eye open. “What.”
“This.”
A small gesture toward him.
“Not being in control.”
Chuuya snorted faintly. “Welcome to my life.”
Dazai didn’t smile.
The apartment was warm when they entered.
The familiar space felt different somehow.
Quieter.
Or maybe it was just the way Chuuya moved through it now—slower, more deliberate, like each step required negotiation.
He made it as far as the couch before sitting down.
Then immediately leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head dropping into his hands.
Dazai closed the door behind them.
Watched.
Measured.
Then:
“Bedroom.”
“I’m fine here.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t want to move.”
“You will.”
“No.”
Dazai crossed the room.
Stopped in front of him.
Chuuya didn’t look up.
For a moment, Dazai just stood there.
Then he reached down and slid one hand behind Chuuya’s neck.
Warm.
Too warm.
“You’re burning,” he said quietly.
“I noticed.”
“Come on.”
Chuuya didn’t move.
Dazai sighed, softer than expected.
Then, without asking again, he hooked an arm around Chuuya’s back and pulled him upright.
Chuuya made a small sound of protest—but he didn’t resist.
That was worse.
Much worse.
Dazai guided him down the hallway, slower this time, matching his pace.
When Chuuya stumbled once, just slightly, Dazai’s grip tightened.
Steady.
Certain.
Unyielding.
“Don’t get used to this,” Chuuya muttered.
“Too late.”
The bedroom felt dim and distant.
Chuuya sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
Dazai moved around him with quiet efficiency that would have startled anyone who knew him outside of moments like this.
Jacket off.
Shoes removed.
Curtains drawn halfway.
Water set on the nightstand.
“Lie down.”
“No.”
“Chuuya.”
“No.”
Dazai tilted his head.
Then, very calmly:
“Do you want me to make you.”
Chuuya glared up at him.
There it was—the spark, faint but still alive.
“…you wouldn’t.”
Dazai smiled slightly.
“Try me.”
A pause.
Then Chuuya huffed and let himself fall backward onto the bed.
“Manipulative bastard.”
“Efficient caretaker.”
“Fire you.”
“Promote me.”
Dazai pulled a blanket over him.
Chuuya immediately pushed it down.
“I’m hot.”
“You’re feverish.”
“Same problem.”
Dazai adjusted it anyway.
Then sat on the edge of the bed.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The quiet stretched.
Different from before.
Heavier.
Dazai reached out and brushed hair away from Chuuya’s forehead.
Chuuya’s eyes flickered open.
“…don’t.”
Dazai didn’t stop.
“You did it to me.”
“That was different.”
“How.”
“I wasn’t dying.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I might.”
“You won’t.”
“Tragic.”
Dazai’s hand lingered for a second longer than necessary.
Then dropped.
“I’ll get medicine.”
“Don’t hover.”
“I’ll hover professionally.”
“Dazai—”
He was already gone.
When he returned, Chuuya hadn’t moved.
Still on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing uneven but steady.
Dazai set the glass and pills down.
“Sit up.”
“No.”
“I will lift you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Dazai reached for him.
Chuuya sighed and pushed himself upright first.
“Annoying.”
“Prepared.”
He took the pills without argument.
That, more than anything, unsettled Dazai.
Too easy.
Too compliant.
He filed it away carefully.
Chuuya leaned back again almost immediately, eyes closing.
Dazai stayed.
Sitting at the edge of the bed.
Watching.
Minutes passed.
The room dimmed further as evening settled in.
At some point, Chuuya shifted.
“…you’re still here.”
“Yes.”
“Why.”
Dazai tilted his head slightly.
“Because you are.”
Chuuya made a faint sound—something between a scoff and something softer.
“…don’t get weird.”
“I’m being normal.”
“You’re terrible at that.”
“True.”
Silence again.
Then, quieter:
“Stay.”
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t even fully awake.
Just a word, slipping out without armor.
Dazai’s chest tightened.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Night settled fully.
The city lights returned, blurred through rain.
The apartment remained quiet except for soft breathing, distant traffic, and the occasional shift of blankets.
Chuuya slept.
Restlessly at first.
Then deeper.
Dazai didn’t move far.
He sat beside him, sometimes leaning back against the headboard, sometimes standing briefly to check temperature, to adjust the blanket, to make sure—
Just to make sure.
At some point, Chuuya stirred.
Eyes half-open.
“…Dazai.”
“I’m here.”
A pause.
Then, faintly:
“Idiot.”
Dazai smiled.
“Yours.”
Chuuya’s hand shifted across the bed.
Searching.
Without looking, Dazai caught it.
Held it.
Warm.
Alive.
Real.
Chuuya’s grip tightened weakly.
Then relaxed as sleep took him again.
Dazai didn’t let go.
The fever broke sometime after midnight.
Dazai felt it before checking.
The heat eased.
The tension in Chuuya’s brow softened.
His breathing steadied.
Carefully, Dazai brushed fingers across his forehead again.
Cooler.
Better.
Relief came sharp and sudden.
He hadn’t realized how tightly something in him had been wound until it loosened.
“…better,” he murmured.
Chuuya didn’t wake.
Dazai shifted closer.
Close enough that their shoulders touched.
Close enough that if Chuuya reached again, he wouldn’t have to search.
He watched him for a long time.
Long enough that the night deepened and softened around them.
Long enough that exhaustion finally settled into his own bones.
Eventually, he lay down beside him.
Not touching at first.
Then—
Just slightly.
A hand resting lightly against Chuuya’s arm.
Careful.
Measured.
As if he might disappear if held too tightly.
“…stay,” Chuuya murmured again, not fully awake.
Dazai exhaled.
“I am.”
A pause.
Then, quieter still:
“I always do.”
Morning came slowly.
Soft light through curtains.
Rain reduced to mist.
Chuuya woke first.
Head heavy.
Body aching.
But—
Better.
He shifted slightly.
Paused.
There was weight beside him.
Warm.
Familiar.
Dazai.
Asleep.
One arm loosely draped across his side, hand still half-curled like it had refused to let go even in sleep.
Chuuya stared at the ceiling.
Then at him.
For a long moment.
“…clingy bastard,” he muttered.
Dazai didn’t wake.
Chuuya could move.
Could get up.
Could—
He didn’t.
Instead, he settled back into the pillow.
Let his eyes close again.
Just for a little longer.
Dazai shifted in his sleep, grip tightening slightly.
Instinctive.
Possessive.
Soft.
Chuuya huffed quietly.
“…mine too,” he murmured.
And didn’t pull away.