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Dazai was a miserable, shivering bundle in the corner of the worn-out white velvet sofa in chuuya's penthouse p.
Usually, when Dazai got hurt, it was a theatrical production. He would spin grand, poetic monologues about the sweet embrace of the afterlife, throw his arms around dramatically, and sigh like a tragic hero in a terrible play.
But tonight, there were no grand speeches. There was no witty banter. He was slumped sideways against the armrest, his knees tucked loosely toward his chest, looking thoroughly frayed at the edges, he was exhausted.
Dazai had been on a mission recently, and let's just say it took a great toll on him.
Every ragged breath he took ended in a sharp, quiet hitch that made his shoulders tremble. Worse still was his left forearm.
The sleeve had been ripped away, exposing an ugly fresh scar that ran from his wrist to his elbow, deeply embedded with road grit, gravel, and dried mud from where he’d skidded across the asphalt.
It was an oozing slow, sluggish mixture of blood and clear fluid, angry red lines already starting to puff up around the edges of the cut open flesh.
This damn guy. His blood, also too thin, always eager to escape his body, But those guys sure took a toll on him, he was fighting against 6 of the port mafia guys at the same damn time. No joke he was bruised.
Chuuya sighed softly.
He was in terrible condition..
He was,
Bruised.
Battered.
Tired.
And in genuine, exhausting, pain.
...and because Dazai Osamu did not know how to handle being genuinely emotionally vulnerable, he handled it by becoming the most stubborn, petulant, and difficult brat on the face of the earth, just like he used to do back when 15, ugh.
Chuuya kicked the bathroom door open with his heel, carrying a rusty but good enough metal first-aid tin under his arm and a clean bowl of lukewarm water in his hands. He was exhausted too..his own clothes were damp, his hat was tossed onto the kitchen table, and his shoulders ached from the three hour fight they’d just endured.
He set the bowl down on the low wooden coffee table with a soft clatter and dropped heavily onto his knees on the floor directly in front of Dazai.
"Give me your arm," Chuuya commanded, his voice rough and completely devoid of patience. He reached out, his gloved fingers extending toward Dazai's wrist.
The moment Chuuya’s hand hovered near him, Dazai flinched violently, pulling his injured arm against his chest, shielding it with his good hand and pouting, all at the same time.
"Don't touch me," he hissed.
His voice lacked its usual sing song tone , it was sharp, and entirely defensive.
Chuuya’s eyebrows snapped together. "Don't start this with me, Dazai. Look at that arm. It’s full of dirt and gravel, If I don't clean it out right now, you're going to be running a fever by midnight and your arm is going to rot off by Tuesday."
"Then let it rot," Dazai muttered, his lower lip jutting out into a hard, childish pout once again.
He pressed his back deeper into the corner of the sofa, trying to physically distance himself from the first-aid kit. "Humph. I don't care. It’s my arm. I can let it fall off if I want to."
"Like hell you will. I'm not carrying a one-armed paperwork nightmare around the office," Chuuya growled. He didn't ask a second time. He leaned forward, reaching across the small distance, and firmly grabbed Dazai’s left wrist.
Dazai let out a sharp, pathetic whine, a sound of pure, distress that he couldn't quite mask.
"Chuuya, stop!, Let go, it hurts!" He tried to pull back, but Chuuya’s grip was like an iron fist, anchoring his arm in place.
"I know it hurts. Hold still and it’ll be over faster," Chuuya said, though his tone softened by a fraction of a fraction. He used a clean washcloth, dipping it into the warm water, and began gently wiping away the dried blood smeared around the edges of the wound, carefully avoiding the raw, exposed center for now.
Dazai shivered at the contact, his eyes tracking Chuuya’s movements with intense, uncovered anxiety. "You’re a brute," he whimpered, his voice dropping into a miserable, breathless complain.
"A thoughtless, tactless slug who enjoys inflicting pain on his superiors. You're doing this roughly on purpose."
"I haven't even done anything yet, you absolute infant," Chuuya muttered. He tossed the stained cloth back into the bowl, the water turning a murky pink. Then, he reached into the tin and pulled out a brown plastic bottle of isopropyl alcohol.
Dazai’s entire body went rigid the moment he heard the sharp, plastic crick of the cap being unscrewed. The pungent, medicinal sting of the antiseptic instantly filled the small space between them, sharp and unforgiving.
Dazai’s eyes widened, a flash of genuine panic crossing his pale face. He began to thrash, his legs kicking out weakly against the sofa cushions, trying to wrench his arm out of Chuuya's hold. "No. No, no, no. Get that away from me. Chuuya, I swear to God, don't you dare put that on me."
"Dazai, stop squirming! You're going to make me spill it!"
"I hate the smell! It’s disgusting, it burns, I don't want it!" Dazai’s voice pitched higher, genuinely miserable, his breathing picking up into shallow, panicked gasps. He was completely overwhelmed by the pain in his ribs, the stinging in his arm, and the sheer exhaustion of the night, and he was channeling all of it into a desperate attempt to escape the impending sting of the alcohol. "Please, Chuuya, don't. Just use water. Just leave it alone."
Did Dazai actually use the word please???, What?, even if it was wrapped in a pathetic, bratty tantrum it made Chuuya pause. He looked up, taking in the sight of his partner. Dazai was trembling from head to toe, dark hair clinging damply to his forehead, his eyes wet and glassy with unshed tears of sheer frustration and physical agony. "W-we can use chlorhexidine i-instead, i use that one all the time it's less painful!"
Chuuya let out a heavy, defeated sigh. He let go of Dazai’s wrist for a split second, only to shift his position. Instead of staying on the floor, Chuuya climbed onto the edge of the sofa, crowding into Dazai’s space. He threw one heavy leg over Dazai’s thighs, effectively pinning his lower body so he couldn't kick, and used his left hand to firmly press Dazai’s good shoulder back against the cushions.
"I'm sorry, mackerel," Chuuya murmured, his voice surprisingly quiet, devoid of the anger from a moment before. "But it has to be done with isopropyl alcohol."
Before Dazai could process the sudden shift in tone, Chuuya pressed a heavily soaked gauze pad directly against the widest part of the raw, gravel-scraped skin.
Dazai sharply inhaled through his teeth, his entire body convulsing. A choked, strangled shriek tore from his throat, followed immediately by a pathetic, breathless sob. "Ah! God! Stop, stop, stop! It burns! Chuuya, please, it burns!"
"I know, I know. Hold still," Chuuya muttered, his own jaw clenched as he worked. He didn't loosen his grip, or get off dazai regardless of how it looked, knowing that if he stopped now, he’d just have to start all over again.
He held Dazai down firmly, his gloved fingers practically biting into Dazai's shoulder to keep him from writhing off the couch, while his other hand steadily, efficiently dabbed the stinging antiseptic across the ragged flesh, flushing out the remaining dirt.
"You're a monster!" Dazai sobbed, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, real tears finally spilling over his lashes and tracking through the grime on his cheeks. He was completely undone by the blinding, searing pain of the alcohol on raw nerves.
He also couldn't fight Chuuya’s strength, he was simply too tired to even move. So instead, he completely collapsed internally. He leaned forward, burying his face directly into the crook of Chuuya’s neck, hiding his face against the damp fabric of Chuuya's vest.
He let out a long, pathetic, trembling groan right into Chuuya’s skin, his breath hot and ragged. "I hate you. I hate you so much. You’re killing me. My arm is on fire."
Chuuya didn't push him away. In fact, he leaned into the contact slightly, using his chest to help keep Dazai steady while he finished the last few swipes. "Shh, My Love, Almost done," Chuuya murmured, his voice dropping into a low, rhythmic lullaby that was dangerously close to comforting. "Last bit, Breathe, Don't pass out on me."
With a final, smooth motion, Chuuya tossed the ruined, bloody gauze into the tin. He quickly grabbed a thick, sterile non-stick pad and wrapped a roll of clean white bandage around Dazai’s arm, securing it firmly but gently, ensuring it wouldn't restrict his circulation.
"There," Chuuya said softly, capping the alcohol bottle and setting it aside. "It's over. The worst part is done."
Dazai didn't move. He remained slumped against Chuuya, his forehead resting heavily against Chuuya's collarbone, his shoulders still hitching with quiet, residual sniffles and sobs. He looked completely drained, his usual sharp intellect wiped clean by pain and fatigue. He cradled his freshly bandaged arm against his stomach, his fingers twitching weakly.
"You're horrible," Dazai mumbled, his voice muffled against Chuuya's vest, entirely devoid of its usual bite. He sounded small. "A tyrannical, abusive partner."
Chuuya let out a soft, huffed breath that might have been a laugh if they weren't both so exhausted. Carefully, mindful of the bruised ribs he knew Dazai was hiding, Chuuya shifted his weight off Dazai’s legs. He didn't move away, though. Instead, he reached up, peeled off his black leather gloves, and tossed them onto the table.
With his bare hand, Chuuya gently brushed the damp, tangled brown curls away from Dazai’s forehead. His fingers were surprisingly warm, a stark contrast to the cold rain outside.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm a monster," Chuuya murmured, his thumb lightly tracing the edge of Dazai's temple, wiping away a stray tear. "Come here."
Slowly, deliberately, Chuuya hooked his arms under Dazai’s armpits and maneuvered him, shifting the taller boy so that Dazai was sitting length-wise on the sofa, his back resting against Chuuya’s chest. Chuuya pulled a coarse, wool blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over both of them, tucking it securely around Dazai’s shivering shoulders.
Dazai tensed for a fraction of a second, entirely unaccustomed to being held with anything resembling tenderness, before his joints completely turned to jelly. He collapsed backward against Chuuya’s chest, letting his head rest in the hollow of Chuuya’s shoulder. He let out a long, shaky sigh, his eyes half lidded and heavy with sleep.
Oh dazai... It felt like he was still 15 and not 25.
Crashed out on chuuya's lap like that.
"If you tell anyone about this, I will poison your wine," Dazai whispered, his voice incredibly faint as the warmth of the blanket and Chuuya's body began to soothe the worst of his tremors.
"Shut up and sleep, Dazai," Chuuya replied softly, his arms resting loosely around Dazai's waist, careful to avoid putting any pressure on his bruised ribs. He rested his chin on top of Dazai’s messy hair, his eyes closing as the sound of the rain finally began to wash away the tension of the night. "I'm not telling anyone you cried over a little alcohol."
"I didn't cry," Dazai mumbled, his eyes finally closing completely as he drifted off. "It was... Water in my eyes."
"Right. Water, totally not the same thing." Chuuya agreed, his fingers gently tightening around him in the dark. "Go to sleep."
"Chuuya is so warm..." Dazai mumbled. "Shh, dazai, close your eyes." Chuuya murmured softly.
Outside the thunder roared, but inside the was just the quiet rise and fall off dazai's chest and chuuya's comfort.