Archive of Our Own

Chuuya got there well before the sun even thought about showing its face on their side of the world.
A world that could just as good not exist right now, and yet, it still wouldn't influence him at all.
He arrived in the hospital restless, dressed so slovenly it was not hard to mistake him for one similar. Exhausted, half-convinced he’s hallucinating due to lack of any proper — no, any — rest the night before, which for normal people would still last in that exact moment he was passing through the halls like a storm about to be brought.
They showed him Osamu, drugged out of his mind and consciousness, hooked to more machines than he could count.

Organs falling out.
Just like then.

Just like then, with someone different.

He’s already been through this. And he’d choose his own pain a thousand times instead of going through his once more.

Did he cry? No, not really. His reaction—it was instant rage.

He yelled at the doctors. Not because he blamed them, but because he was helpless.
He yelled so hard they had to take him outside.

He heard things he hoped he never would, not like this.

Chuuya never hesitated. Never, even when the doctors told him to think it through.
He rolled up his sleeve before they finished explaining.

Despite everything, the Armed Detective Agency members could never sleep peacefully after they got it confirmed that Dazai was in a hospital.

Sure, it wasn't unusual for this prick to disappear for several days. However, the difference was, he returned eventually. Every time. Every time, except for this one.

But not enough time flew by for the detectives to realize that for themselves, early on. It hasn't even been a full day since he didn't show up in the office, also sparing everyone any signs of life after a lone mission he was asked to go on.

Kunikida assumed it was just Dazai being Dazai. Too lazy to make a single call. And well, he didn't call him either, like he did every day to make sure he wasn't trying to end his life in a hole somewhere; simply, work was a tad bit too much that day. Kunikida was exhausted. Before he went to sleep — even earlier than usual — it popped up in his brain, like the endless reminders he always keeps on. Half-asleep, Kunikida just assumed nothing bad would happen if they missed one day of that ritual. It wasn't like it was a big mission.

Naturally, the guilt that was consuming him made it only fair to completely give up on his perfectly calculated full night's sleep at the moment Fukuzawa called him with the news and start dressing up.

Something bad happened.
Dazai landed in the hospital.

From the Agency's point of view, Dazai had no relatives after all, completely none. He was alone, like most of them, and they were the only people in their colleague's life, or so they thought. Dazai never talked about anyone. He probably didn't have other friends, and definitely not a person who'd be actually willing to systematically deal with him on a daily basis and warm his bed. Again, or so they thought. It felt safe to assume after all. Even if Dazai never chose to talk about his own business — actually, anything about him at all — most of the other detectives had it just the same, their lives only spinning around the ADA'S environment, with some minor exceptions.

It was natural for them to assume that no one would care to come to the hospital to find out what was happening, why was he injured, and how badly so. No one would be there to be by his side.

That made it their duty. Not a pain, something they didn't want to deal with. A duty that normally would belong to relatives.

Kunikida wasn't much surprised to see Atsushi, Ranpo and Yosano also choose to come here instead of the office. Everyone got a call from him about this, and it was already sure who'd come in the first instance.

He didn't tell them to go back. For once, work wasn't the most important thing.

“It's cold. You should've gone inside.” Kunikida's breath came along out of his mouth with the words and turned to steam, testifying the exact point he was making.

“Making sure the range of your sense of direction reaches outside the office.” Ranpo said, because of course he did. Yet even he wasn't the same.

It was painfully clear the atmosphere was low, and it wasn't because of white, frozen and slick roads. Even if for all they knew, Dazai might be here because he broke an arm, had another mild attempt or maybe alcohol poisoning.

Inside, Atsushi's shoulders visibly loosened. He slid what was probably the only jacket in his wardrobe off his shoulders, hanging it down next to Yosano's thick, black fur.

He was the first one to approach the reception.
"...Good morning. We're there for Dazai Osamu.”

The receptionist, a young woman with what seemed like at the very least slightest will to work, nodded.
A few clicks. Her eyes narrowed.

She carefully looked behind Atsushi. It didn't compute with her why would people come in like a field trip to visit a patient in this state, if they clearly weren't family.
"Are they with you, sir?”

That spiked the mood even more, additionally making them only more confused. But it was already in the air. Something was palpable because of the fact this woman made.
Atsushi fidgeted with his gloves, fingers tugging at the hem. "...Yes?”

"...I'm sorry, but I may only allow you to wait in the cafeteria or waiting room. I would've let you in before surgery, but some procedures might be happening right now, and space is needed.”

Yosano's reaction was immediate — seeming faster than the light.
"What surgery?”

Now, everyone involved was equally confused.

"...He was found with many wounds. He got attacked, and barely survived.”

The silence sure lasted for... a while.

Two minutes later, they were already in the elevator to the floor with ICU unit, the reality of their worst worries pressing down at their chests.

They expected to see at least a single living soul, despite the hour. It wasn’t like there was too much space in their tiny, local hospital, on the other hand. It seemed like all of tonight’s accidents happened closer to the bigger hospital, which was farthur away in the city.

That didn’t change the fact they felt some strange kind of presence in that grim, depressing hallway, where the light didn’t care to give enough grace to make things seem easier.

That was quickly explained when they passed around the corner.

There was a man. Lying down, slumped in the grap of space between the chairs, on the dirty ground.

His face was down. Despite the fact his fate crossed with the Armed Detective Agency before, he wasn’t easy to recognize in this state of things.

Not much could be seen, not even the color of his hair in the dim lighting from afar. The clothes he put on himself were something one would wear walking around in their private possesion. Slightly folded, comfortable tracksuits.

No one would be fully normal if they saw nearly as much as Yosano. As a person, she always assumed the worst. As a doctor, she always jumped in to help.

Overall, this put her with a stance that always left her more ready to work. And so she dashed, she dropped next to him before her companions even noticed his figure.

The pulse was found right away. Not the strongest, but he was knocked out cold, so what else would it be?

And so, apparently, he wasn’t a deep sleeper.

The guy stirred, getting back to consciousness. They could finally see his face once it lifted.

And of course they had to know him. Of course the truth had to be another shocker. Because the world wouldn’t slow down for them, even for the shortest of seconds.

Atsushi, especially, could feel creeps run down his spine, to the point that almost made him back off. He was never forced to face this man personally before. But he definitely wasn’t someone unheard of in his mind, neither.

Kunikida actually jolted. The situation was getting out of control, leaving him nonplussed and cruelly ripped away from his beat, as it was probably labeled even less possible than the whole accident happening at the moment at all.

Ranpo just looked like he had solved the mystery, cracked the code, as always, ten times quicker than everyone else.

Even opposed to someone who could be a potential threat, Yosano didn’t back away her hand. A hand that was ready to help and treat.

Because how would Chuuya even cause a threat in a state like this?

Their enemies’ executive looked utterly ill. Squeezed dry of strength, eyes glassy and tired. They could see a small, bleeding cut on his cheek, from the looks of it caused by a fall that caused him to end up on the ground, but it was no logical explanation for the paleness of his body.

After looking down at Yosano’s hand grasping his wrist, his eyes lingered hazily on the ICU unit they were in, instantly searching for one of the doors. Then, he glanced at the still blurry images of people around him.

After properly identifying them, he started tossing, attempting on getting away from the grip.

Yosano’s hands moved to his shoulders, refusing to back down as well, at the same time trying to calculate any other potential injuries.
"You’re gonna sit still and let me see, understand?”

"Eat shit—” Chuuya finally managed to rip away, wanting to move away, but Yosano was — temporarily— quicker.

Kunikida glared down. He wasn’t sure of the reason for his anger. Maybe it was bits of everything. He felt endagered, angry even at the mere thought of the Port, and probably the clearest of the one’s peeking through — this wasn’t planned. This wasn’t something he prepared to deal with.
"Why are you wandering around hospitals? I assume Port Mafia isn’t lacking any good doctors.”

Nakahara didn’t even have the strenght to raise his voice.. "Fuck off. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

The detectives’ doctor loosened her grip, making sure it didn’t hurt, even though the little devil inside her brain was telling her to get through the man’s thick skull with pain. Or at the very least shake him, along with the pride that kept getting in the way.
"You might have a concussion, or whatever other thing that can make this all worse. Just let me check and make it easier for us all.”

Chuuya’s hands gripped his own hair. He gave up on trying to fight back.

He just focused on not expressing the amount of his pain.

There was something in this human that made Yosano want to help. Halt on any force.
"...Nakahara. You need to tell me what hurts. Or what feels off.”

He took his time to think about it.
"..It’s not concussion. I had it once.”

It was pretty hard for Yosano not to let out a snort.
"Good, but it still can be a thousand other things. Concussion included, because you thinking it’s not the case doesn’t make it not the case.”

Her skilled, professional fingers wandered around, doing all she could to check his condition. She checked him for concussion, but quickly crossed that off the list.

Just when it seemed like it was fine, when Yosano checked his arms for bruises, she pressed a little too hard.

Not really. The spot she laid her fingers on was bruised enough to rip a vocal expression of pain under even slightest touch. Chuuya wasn’t one to whine, so the sharp hiss he let out startled him even more than the people around.

Yosano stilled. "What was that.”

"Just a bruise.”

"Sure.” But the sleeve was already moving up. Sure enough, a bruise was found. But not only it was giant, the colors of dirt that would stain one’s hands after touching freshly cut grass mixing with pale violet — it was also clumsily covered with a piece of medical gauze.

Something that looked like solemn realization flickered in Ranpo’s eyes.

Atsushi winced. "God...”

"You came all the way for some blood test?” Kunikida uttered despite himself.

Chuuya didn’t look like he planned on speaking a single word of explantion. "I don’t talk with my fucking enemies.”

At that, Ranpo finally decided to add his two cents in.
"I think we can already end with that. All this enemy talk.”

"This man is literally dangerous.” Kunikida said mercilessly without missing a beat.

Ranpo wasn’t sure whether to laugh or throw himself on the floor. It did compute with him that the knowledge he already figured out wasn’t common, but the lack of everyone’s understanding seemed so insensitive and dumb he couldn’t not say anything.
"Time and place, really. You need to stop focusing on values when someone is hurting. This is not what we do here. This is also not what someone who’s gonna slit your throat looks like. Also also, his intentions are pure. Isn’t that right?”

Chuuya heard some rumors about this guy. Hell, he had to deal with him before. He was always aware he had to be careful with anything that could out the secret whenever he was around.

But he wasn’t prepared for this.
He never really believed in all these ‘aura’ things. But he did believe his gut when it said Edogawa Ranpo knew something.
But he had no idea what. And Ranpo knew that Chuuya didn’t.

"When are you gonna tell them?”

What could he possibly mean? What did he know, and if anything at all? Maybe he was being baited, once again? Chuuya had no idea. But he knew something for certain. He won’t keep his cool if he doesn’t get out of here.

And so, he managed to get up, after ripping his hand out of Yosano’s.

"Where do you think you’re going?” Asked Yosano, watching him stumble forward in the hallway.

"To get water.”

The Detective Agency watched him for a moment, helplessly. Eventually, they exchanged glances and Akiko got up.

"I’ll talk to him. You try to find out what’s up with Dazai.”

And so, she found him. She knew the corridors of this place well, and she fully expected to find him in the corner he was in. With the vending machine.

Chuuya, with already bought water, sat on the stairs. He didn’t look like he wanted to drink it. He just... stared. Like reading what was written on the bottle was more interesting than matters at hand.

Yosano sighed softly.
"Nakahara.”

No response.

"You fell and passed out. I want to know why.”

For a moment, only the quiet buzz of the vending machine being plugged to electricy could be heard, if one tried hard enough.

As much as he wanted, Chuuya couldn’t get Ranpo’s words out of his head. When will they tell them? It’s not like this little game of chasing will go on forever. He will never be able to run away forever, no matter how much he wants to.
"...I think they took too much blood.”

"Fair, this can happen.” She agreed. "But why would you come here? Out of all places you can take a blood test, you go so far?”

Silence continued.
Chuuya could hear his heart drum painfully.

"...It wasn’t done for checking my blood.”

"What for, then?”

His grip on the bottle tightened, but it relaxed just as quick.

It was almost like he didn’t hate the idea of talking with them. There was no one else he could turn to with this. Share at least the fraction of pain he was holding in his heart right now.

But the issue was — he didn’t know how to start.

Maybe Yosano couldn’t brag about a degree in psychology, as all she officially only had knowledge on the physical type of pain, but she knew a little something.

And despite not seeming like the easiest case, despite all the contradictions and things he didn’t want to express, she could feel herself starting to get used to how to read him. She could see he was lost.

He let out a shaky exhale, leaning his head down to rest it in his hands. He was really trying to keep on the surface without falling, but the amount of both physical and mental suffering, all mixed with exhaustion, drastically lowered his defences.

Yosano couldn’t help but feel something at this sight. The puzzle pieces started to come together, each and every one of them fitting in. She couldn’t quite place it yet, but she could sense the distress.

Ranpo was right. This was definitely not someone who could be considered an enemy.

The grip of the hand that wasn’t holding the bottle tightened in Chuuya’s hair.
"...Fine. I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell all of you.”

Chuuya didn’t move for a long moment after saying it.

Like if he did, the words would scatter and he’d lose the nerve to gather them again.

"…But not here,” he added quietly. "Not next to some shitty vending machine.”

Yosano studied him, then nodded once. "Fair. Come on. They’re back there.”

"Gimme a moment.” His voice shook. Yosano didn’t understand the request, but she didn’t move for now. Chuuya took a few deep, long breaths.

And simply got up after that.

They found the others sitting stiffly on plastic chairs, tension sitting between them like a fourth person. Atsushi stood up immediately when he saw them return.

“Is he okay?” Atsushi asked.

No one was sure who he meant.

Chuuya didn’t look at any of them. He walked past and sat down, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked like he was bracing for impact.

“…He could end up dying tonight. Osamu.”

These heavy words should’ve hit, but at first, they didn’t at all. The meaning was overshadowed by one, particular name. A name that no one ever used to describe the man they came here for.
Osamu.
For a moment, the use of Dazai’s first name got them so, so off guard they genuinely wondered who he meant.

“…What?” Atsushi whispered.

Chuuya swallowed. His throat felt raw. “Someone.... found him. Bleeding out on the street. I think something happened to him on a mission.” His fingers tightened together. “...They... let me see him for a moment. Stab, gunshot wounds. A lot.”

It was already pretty clear Dazai got hurt on the latest mission. Severely, since they were currently in the ICU.

But they didn’t expect this. So, so didn’t expect this.

Atsushi’s eyes narrowed with worry. Desperation to find a solution for this, the moment he heard. "How... how can you possibly know all that? How come they let you see him and told us we can’t enter a moment ago?”

Chuuya locked eges with the younger boy.
"...I’m legally the only one considered his family. As a husband.”

The words didn’t register at first.

They sat there between them, awkward and heavy, like they didn’t belong to any language the Agency knew.

“…Married?” Kunikida repeated sharply. “...That’s not funny.”

“And I’m not laughing,” Chuuya snapped, sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter, more tired. "...Osamu is my husband.”

No one spoke.

Atsushi looked like his brain had shut down to prevent permanent damage. Ranpo leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, mouth twisted into something full of himself, but approving. Yosano’s eyes were wide, as even she wasn’t left untouched.

“That’s... not possible.” Atsushi said.

“It is. When you go out of your way a little.”

"...No. No, Dazai never said a thing—”

"Because he never says anything.” Chuuya leaned his head back, supporting it on the wall behind him. "You need to get used to that.”

"He did say things.” Ranpo commented, in the middle of cleaning his glasses. "Maybe not with words. But with heavy signs.”

"You knew?! And never thought about telling us, for god’s sake?!” Kunikida yelled, causing Yosano to hush him out of a habit.

"Of course I knew. Paperwork smells. Marriage paperwork smells more. To the point it’s really hard to miss.”

Yosano was absolutely thrown off guard by this, but coming to terms with the new piece of information for some reason didn’t turn out so hard.
Her eyes slowly softened. Not too much.
"...How? When? Was it recent?”

Chuuya let out a quiet laugh.
"You didn’t even know him yet.”

Doppo could only... blink.
"...We met him when he was twenty.” He reminded.

"Earlier.”

"...What the HELL do you mean earlier?!”

"...I got him the ring before his eighteenth birthday, after we talked about this for the first time. We decided to catch a plane on the day he turned eighteen. It was a coincidence. But I guess we kinda... turned that day around for him.”

Utterly flabbergasted Atsushi tried to look for any reasoning in this, once again.
"Chuuya-san.....Um...—”

Chuuya choked on air.
"Who are you calling Chuuya? I’ve never even seen you before in my life.”

....Right.
The younger boy’s eyes widened, and he really struggled not to cringe at himself. Did Chuuya hate him now?

"...N-Nakahara-san....”

Ranpo chuckled in between of Atsushi’s words.

"...It’s... probably really not our business, but... Why? Why would you do that? So young, so.... suddenly?”

“...And why waste time? When you live in the Port Mafia? You don’t know the day, not even the week. It’s a nice sentiment if someone wants to throw a pretty wedding, but we didn’t want that. We realized that one day.”

Chuuya’s eyes hung over the door which seemed to lead to the room that Dazai was currently in. This was the second time. Recalling what he felt back then, now that the history of Osamu having an unplanned near-death experience repeated itself with ten times worse damage, ten times worse risk.
"...We realized we don’t know how much time we had left. We could die without making this, y’know... relevant, named. Not that we needed to prove anything, it’s just.... we thought putting a label on it makes that difference.” He tapped his fingers on his lap. "And it did.”

It really did change both of them a lot. Chuuya couldn’t safely say he was the same person he was before they got married, and not just due to coming of age and maturing. Not even all the experience he got from the Port Mafia.

No matter who’d ask, he wouldn’t admit it, but he knew well that he grew as a person with the growth of his and Osamu’s relationship.

Yosano felt understanding flooding in. It was like studying, biology, for example. The process was so similiar; learning little details, placing all of them together, and filling the huge gaps between tiny observations one could already create in their head.
"...You’re definitely not lying. That means.... Dazai is—”

"Into men and women,” Chuuya explained. "I know what ya think. He flirts with any goddamn woman that passed by.”

"And you’re like... fine with that?!” Kunikida really, really felt like he was getting a blow after blow, over and over. It was all absurdely irrational.

"It’s a cover.” said Ranpo. That earned a nod from Chuuya.

Atsushi’s eyes wandered to the hand of their coworker’s apparent lover.
"You... have a ring. But Dazai-san doesn’t have one, right?”

Chuuya pointed to his neck. "He wears it like a necklace.”

It suddenly started making much more sense. Dazai sometimes took off his vest in the summer, when it was really hot. Sometimes, a string of a shade darker than the bandages peeked through.

Everyone sat there in silence for a while. Soon, all of this started to sink in. It didn’t seem nearly as impossible as before.

"...But this isn’t all. Am I right?” Yosano finally broke the silence.

The mafia executive’s eyebrow quirked up.
"What else do you want to know?” Didn’t he already make it clear, each and every thing about their marriage?

"Your blood. What’s the deal with that?” She asked carefully.

Ah. That.
Chuuya sharply sucked air in.
He was already internally crawling out of his skin in discomfort at the vulnerability.
But it looked like the real pity party was only about to start.

He gripped the pulsing, aching and throbbing spot on the soft of his inner elbow.

His eyes started trying to run away. They lingered on the floor, the door, the window — and finally — Ranpo.
For once, a single second, he was really glad this guy knew everything and anything.

He half expected Ranpo to snicker or smirk, but the latter didn’t. He looked at the group with a softer expression.
"Dazai’s blood type is AB. Chuuya’s matches, as he has B. Any bell starting to ring?”

Ranpo’s gaze flicked from face to face, waiting for it to click.
Yosano’s eyes widened first.

"…Universal plasma receiver. And very rare donor pool.” She looked back at Chuuya slowly. "Meaning...”

"...That anyone could donate.” Chuuya finished quietly. "But no one else who was able do that was around.”

Kunikida clenched his jaw. "You mean to tell me you—“

"...Yes. Yeah, exactly that.” His voice was rough, like gravel dragged across metal.

The truth was, the moment he rememebered this was an option, he offered his blood before the doctor even asked. It was a matter of half a minute.
Chuuya might’ve sucked at expressing emotions verbally. But when it came to actions, he would go to the furthest limits of crazy and risky.
He wasn’t like Osamu, not actively doing something with the intention of leading to his own death. He would just live taking risks, and was always ready to die — in ways that went beyond his loyalty to the mafia and its lifestyle.

And now, he gave up literal life essence to save him.

Atsushi’s hands curled into his sleeves. "B-but he’s in critical condition. Doesn’t that mean you had to give a lot?”

Chuuya exhaled sharply through his nose. "...Normal. It’s nothing.”

"It’s so not nothing.” Yosano cut through sharply.

Silence fell again, heavier than before.
She stood up, crossed the room and stopped in front of him, eyes scanning his posture, the way his shoulders sagged just a bit too much, how his fingers trembled where they rested on his arm.
"How much. How much did you give?”

“…Enough.”

“I know you probably suck at maths, but this is not a measurement.”

"I so do not.”

He was already pissed, so the insult didn’t help him cool down at all. After notfew moments of the guy not saying a thing, too long to look convincing if he decided to lie about the topic he had no knowledge about, he told the truth.

"...I didn’t ask them for numbers.”

Her eyes widened. “Chuuya, that’s—”
“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t start.”

“—dangerous,” Yosano finished anyway, her voice low but firm.

“Don’t,” Chuuya repeated, sharper now, like the word itself was a blade he was pushing between them.
“I already heard it from the doctors. I don’t need a second round.”

But Yosano wasn’t someone who stepped back from sharp things.

“That amount in one go can cause fainting, severe hypotension, arrhythmia— and judging by the fact you collapsed in a hallway, I’d say we’re already halfway through that list.”

“Good thing you’re not my doctor then,” Chuuya muttered.

"I may not be. But if you fall again and hit your head, I’ll be forced to treat you. And you won’t like the way I treat. So you’re going to... nicely... tell me how long you sat there.”

"...Fifteen minutes, maybe... twenty.”

"It’s supposed to be ten at most. Who on earth works here?”

"...They told me. But they also told me it might not be enough to save him.”

"....Oh my god.” She groaned.

Kunikida pushed his glasses up with shaking fingers. “You gave them blood without even confirming the safe limit?”

"Yeah.”

“You stayed longer than recommended?”

“Yeah.”

“You collapsed in a hallway afterward?”

“…Yeah.”

“That’s— that’s incredibly reckless!” Kunikida burst.

Chuuya finally looked up, irritation flashing through exhaustion.
“Oh, sorry. Next time my husband is bleeding out on an operating table I’ll remember to schedule my emotional response in advance.”

Kunikida opened his mouth.
Closed it.

Ranpo snorted quietly.
“Point to the loverboy.”

Yosano sighed heavily.
“…He’s right, Kunikida. People don’t make rational medical decisions when their spouse is dying.”

The word spouse seemed to echo in the room again.

Chuuya leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes for a second.

Yosano watched his every move. "...Do you realize what you did today?”

"Yeah, I gave blood.”

"No. You gave blood to save someone. You gave it to your lover and saved him at your own cost.

Chuuya didn’t react. Or at least say anything.

For a moment it looked like he might brush it off with another cold joke. Another shield. Another pathetic attempt not to let his enemies inside his heart.

Instead, he slowly dragged a hand down his face.
“…Don’t say it like that.”

Yosano watched with caution.

She watched his throat move when he swallowed.
Watched his fingers slowly curl tighter against his sleeve.
Watched the way his breathing changed.

Not louder.
Just… uneven.

“…It’s not like that,” he said eventually.

His voice was quieter than before. “You’re making it sound dramatic. It’s cringing me out.”

“No,” Yosano replied calmly. “I’m making it sound accurate.”

Silence stretched again.

Atsushi shifted in place, glancing nervously between them. He genuinely felt like a child in an abusive household watching its parent cry after a fight, which would be at least a little funny if this moment wasn’t so tense. Ranpo stopped fiddling with his glasses. Even Kunikida didn’t interrupt.

Chuuya stared at the floor like it personally offended him. What came afterwards wasn’t loud. Nor explosive.

Just—

Chuuya’s shoulders suddenly hitched once.

He froze immediately after, like he hadn’t meant for anyone to notice.

His hand came up fast, pressing against his eyes, fingers digging into his brow.

A quiet, irritated sound left him. Like he was annoyed at his own body. “Fuck’s sake.”

No one spoke.

Because everyone in that room suddenly understood something important.

This man had been holding it in since the moment he got the call.

Maybe since the moment he saw Dazai on that hospital bed.

Maybe since the moment he smelled blood.

Chuuya took a slow breath. Another. It didn’t quite work.

His hand slid down from his face to his mouth, covering it instead.
“…I’m fine,” he tried again.

Ranpo snorted softly.
“No you’re not.”

Chuuya shot him a look that would’ve killed a weaker man. But the detective just leaned back in his chair. “Relax,” Ranpo said. “You’re not the first person to lose it when someone important gets stabbed half to death.”

“That’s not—” Chuuya stopped. Because the next breath he tried to take hit something in his chest and broke apart halfway through.

A small, helpless sound escaped him before he could stop it. He looked genuinely startled by it, quickly growing pissed off. His hand clenched into his hair. “…Goddammit.”

He turned his face away from them, shoulders hunched. The low dropped down even more.

“I told him not to go alone.”

The words slipped out before he could catch them.

The room went very still.

“I told that idiot,” Chuuya continued hoarsely, staring hard at the wall, “that if the mission looked even a little suspicious he should call someone. Even I know you guys would go with him.”

His jaw tightened.
“But no.”

Another shaky breath.
“Of course not.”

Everyone just listened, frozen.

“…He’s always been like that,” Chuuya said quietly.
“Acts like he doesn’t care whether he lives or dies.” His fingers trembled against his sleeve.
“And I—”

He stopped.
His voice failed for a second.

When he continued, it was barely above a whisper.
“…I wasn’t even there.”

The words hung in the air like something fragile. It was dangerous, so Chuuya laughed suddenly. The need to water it down.

A dry, broken sound.
“Great husband, huh?”

“No,” Yosano said immediately.

Chuuya didn’t look at her.

“I should’ve been there.”

“You can’t predict every attack.”

“I know that.”

His voice sharpened.

“I know that.”

Then it fell again.
“…But I always feel it in my gut. Felt it this fucking time, too.”

His breathing was starting to fall apart harder and harder. The whole process was almost unbelievingly, excruciatingly slow.

He pressed his burning, throbbing forearm against his eyes again, harder this time, like pressure could force the tears back.

Well, place your guess on whether or not it worked.

A few seconds later his shoulders shook again — once, twice — small, stubborn tremors he clearly hated.

He wiped his face roughly.
“Fuck.”

Another ugly excuse of a breath. “…He hates hospitals.”

That one came out softer.

Almost automatic.

“He pretends he doesn’t, but he does.”

Chuuya swallowed. “He always complains about the smell, but I know it goes beyond that.”

He took a shaky breath as if he was running out of time.
“Said hospitals smell like failed endings.”

Atsushi’s eyes burned. Because the way Chuuya was talking sounded less like explaining something…

And more like remembering.

At their own pace, everyone eventually realized that. Chuuya wasn’t just being weird and yapping for the sake of yapping — he was trying not to go nuts.

Any ilusion of him taking it fine was nothing but a lie. They knew their little bit about the Port Mafia, so it was logical to them to recognize it as lack of comprehension and recognition on how to express.

It spilled over.

Not dramatically, it didn’t feel like anything changed, really.
They just started dropping on his neck, chest and thighs, very much visible and clear on the traitorous light gray color of his tracksuits.

This man had walked into the room like a storm.

Sharp, dangerous, untouchable, unstoppable. He was the strongest person out there, and undeniably didn’t need to prove it for everyone to know.

A soldier.

But now his shoulders looked too heavy for his body.

A lover.

A lover of another lover, whose death could be sensed in the air, for the first time so vividly.

Ranpo spoke again, quieter than usual.
“You’re scared.”

Chuuya’s fist clenched on nothing.

Ranpo pushed his glasses up.
“Terrified, actually.”

Chuuya’s laugh broke halfway through, followed by another obvious, yet unseen tear.
“You think I’m scared of anything?”

Ranpo didn’t reply, he just looked at him. And that was somehow worse.

Chuuya’s fingers dug into his hair. “...Make no mistake. I’ve... seen him almost die before,” he said roughly. “More times than I can count.”

Almost there.

“But he always gets up.”

He blinked hard. "He always—”

His voice broke.
The word collapsed in the middle.

His cries were completely silent, but that didn’t make any less rapid.

“I—”
An inderlude of soundless sobs.
“I can’t—”

Akiko didn’t wait for the rest, taking a step forward. For a brief second Chuuya probably expected another lecture, another sharp medical comment, another correction.
Instead? She pulled him into a hug.
It happened fast enough that he didn’t even react at first.

Yosano wrapped one arm around his shoulders and the other behind his head, pulling him gently but firmly against her.

Not forceful, steady. Grounding.

Accepting.

Chuuya froze. Completely. Like his brain short-circuited trying to process what just happened.

“…Hey,” she murmured quietly.
Her voice had none of the usual bite in it.
“....You can... do that. Crying isn’t forbidden.”

For a moment he stayed stiff in her arms, like a cat that hadn’t decided yet whether to claw or run. But then another breath hitched out of him, he already had his answer.

And the fight just… left. The soft sound of a forehead dropping against a shoulder filled the cramped hallway.

His hands clenched weakly in the fabric of Yosano’s shirt, like he needed something to hold onto.

The tears came harder now. Still quiet, still controlled.
But impossible to stop.

"...I-It’s taking too long.” He mumbled, hardly recognizable. "I’ve been here for hours.”

"…Surgery can take a long time,” she said quietly.

Chuuya shook his head hard, trying to say something, but he genuinely couldn’t anymore.

Ranpo’s eyes didn’t leave Yosano and the mafia executive.
"...They’re still fighting for him. He’ll live.”

His fingers loosened where they held Yosano’s sleeve.

“…He didn’t say anything stupid,” Chuuya whispered.

“He didn’t complain.”

His voice shook. “…Didn’t even open his eyes.” Another tear slid down. “…I hate that.”

Ranpo finally spoke again. “He knew you’d come.”

Chuuya’s head lifted slightly.

Ranpo was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, almost bored from the looks of it.

But his voice was gentle.

“He always expects you to show up when things go bad,” Ranpo continued. “It’s practically a constant in his mental equations.”

Chuuya sniffed quietly.
“…You talk like you’ve been inside his head.”

Ranpo laughed faintly.
“Please. Dazai’s head is a circus tent with the lights turned off. But some things are obvious.”

He tilted his head toward Chuuya. "....Things like you. You’re one of them.”

That was enough for the other to quickly tilt his head into Yosano’s shoulder. He let out a shaky gasp of pain. No one could tell if it was mental or physical.

He hugged her tighter. She hugged him harder in return.

After a few moments, perhaps minutes of crying, the man’s body started going limp. Yosano assumed the worst and pulled back, checking for signs of life and pulse, yet everything was there.

Chuuya wiped his tears.
"....Can you wake me up in like... uh... twenty minutes?”

She nodded.
"Sure thing.” not.

The last thing he remembered was Yosano returning to her chair. Shifting him so his head rested against her shoulder, at least a better support than the wall. With the corner of his eye, he could see Kunikida discreetly telling Atsushi something. Giving him something. He couldn’t bring himself to react.

He still didn’t want to seem small or weak, but at this point and after all he confessed and did, it couldn’t get any worse.
He pulled his knees all the way to his chest, and allowed his consciousness to drift away, something his body was begging for. He so wasn’t waking up in twenty minutes.

His water bottle fell to the floor, which startled him one last time, before he fell asleep for good.

It was fully bright — yet gloomy — outside when he opened his eyes. He was the kind of person who never woke up in the same position he fell asleep in.

Despite all his hatred for hospitals, which brought back old, blurry memories of the lab, he found a little comfort in this moment. It was like waking up after a nap in a car or a train, especially since he wasn’t alone here.

He woke up to the sound of chattering, hushed down. Likely for his own sake.

He didn’t say anything, or move from Yosano’s shoulder. Just listened in, wanting to drag this moment for as long as he could.

“Yes,” Yosano replied simply to something.

There was no mockery in her voice. No pity either. Just a statement.

Kunikida sighed.

“Well, that settles it. No one is mentioning that part when he wakes up.”

“Mentioning what?” Yosano asked lightly.

“…Exactly.”

Chuuya’s fingers twitched slightly where they were curled against his knees. He forced them still.

A chair creaked as someone shifted.

“…Do you think he knows?” Atsushi asked.

“Knows what?” Kunikida said.

“That people worry about him.” That question lingered in the air. Even through his closed eyes, Chuuya could practically feel the looks passing between them.
They were wrong. They were so, so wrong.

Finally, Yosano spoke again, softer this time.

“Probably not,” she said. “People like him rarely do.”

Chuuya swallowed.
His throat felt dry.
For a moment he considered staying like this—pretending to sleep forever, if only to keep hearing things people would never say to his face.

But his shoulder twitched slightly, betraying him.

Yosano’s hand shifted.
“…You can stop pretending now,” she said calmly.

Chuuya froze.

Then, very slowly, he cracked one eye open.
“…I wasn’t pretending.”

He groggily raised his head up, trying to deal with the soreness in his neck. "...Is it done?”

"...No. You were out for two hours or so.”

At least it wasn’t five or six he already expected to find out about. What really concerned him was that Dazai was still not out.
“Ugh… what time is it?”

“No idea,” Ranpo said lazily. “Hospital time doesn’t count as real time.”

Chuuya blinked a few times, letting his vision settle. The hallway looked exactly the same as before he fell asleep — sterile lights, quiet footsteps, the faint smell of antiseptic. It swayed a little, but he ignored that part.

But he caught movement. Atsushi came up to him with a concerned face, holding a paper bag which he extended towards him.
“…What’s that.” Chuuya asked warily.

Atsushi perked up immediately. “That’s...”

“Food,” Kunikida said, pushing his glasses up.

Chuuya stared at the bag like it had insulted him.
“You bought me food.”

“Yes.”

“…Why.”

Atsushi blinked. “Because your body needs recovery after donating?”

"No. You bought me food.”

Chuuya opened the bag slowly. Inside was a container of rice, some grilled fish, and a bottle of tea.
His stomach betrayed him immediately with a quiet growl.

He instantly reached for his pocket instead.
"...Okay, how much?”

Kunikida’s eyebrow twitched. “What.”

“How much did this cost,” Chuuya repeated, already pulling out his wallet.

Yosano stopped Chuuya’s hand, using the benefit of him sitting next to her.
"No. Quit that. This is not a business transaction.”

"Everything is a business transaction.”

"Wow. The mafia really did a number on you.” Said Ranpo.

Chuuya scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

Ranpo shrugged lazily from his chair.
“You think people only buy things when they want something back. That’s textbook transactional conditioning.”

“…I hate the way you talk.”

“I know.”

Atsushi sighed.
"Look— we’re grateful for what you did. So much. Husband or not, you probably saved our friend, or at the very least tried, and hard. We want you to have it.”

For a moment there, Chuuya wanted to continue arguing.

But his brain told him to shut the fuck up and refill the stomach that stayed empty since yesterday at work. To make matters worse, he skipped a meal in the evening, too.

Refraining from further comment than "...You guys are so weird.”, he opened the bag and started consuming the content inside.

Kunikida rubbed the bridge of his nose slowly, like he was trying to massage reality into something more reasonable.
“…Five years.”

Chuuya looked up slowly.
“Yes.”

“You are telling us,” Kunikida continued, opening his notebook, “that you and Dazai Osamu have been legally married for five years.”

“Yeah.”

“You eloped during a mission.”

“Yeah.”

“You returned to Japan and ended up working on opposite sides of the law.”

“Yeah.”

Kunikida stared at him.
“…Do you hear how absurd that sounds.”

Chuuya shrugged, chewing slowly.
“Not really. Maybe ‘cuz it’s my reality.”

Ranpo leaned back in his chair.
“It’s actually pretty on brand for them.”

Kunikida ignored him.
“And during those five years,” he continued, “you two simply… met in secret?”

"What? We live together. How did you imagine this?”

"That.... Explains how Dazai could ever afford a place to live in instead of using dorms.”

"By not affording it at all. The house is mine.”

"...I figured.”

Yosano crossed one leg over the other.
“…Why hide it at all?”

Chuuya paused.
Not defensive this time.
Just thoughtful.
“…Because it’s ours, I think.”

The answer was simple.

He looked down at the rice container, absent-mindedly pushing the grains around with his chopsticks.
“Port Mafia would’ve turned it into leverage.”
He lifted a shoulder.
“Enemies would’ve done worse. Just imagine how worse the injuries he has now would be if the person doing it was my enemy.”

"...It was safer if no one knew you’re family.”

Chuuya nodded stiffly. It wasn’t shame, far from it. It was just a weird kind of hesitation, the feeling of unfamiliarity. The situation up until today seemed like they would take this little secret to their graves.

Atsushi tilted his head.
“But the Agency didn’t know either.”

Chuuya glanced at him.
“…Would you have believed him?”

Atsushi opened his mouth.
Then sighed. “…No.”

“…That decision was still deeply irresponsible. Getting married so suddenly.”

Chuuya lowered the bottle.
“We were eighteen.”

“…That explains nothing.”

“It explains a lot actually.”
Ranpo waved a hand.
“They didn’t want to waste time.”

Everyone looked at him.

Ranpo tilted his head.
“Chuuya literally said it earlier.”

Kunikida crossed his arms.
“People don’t usually get married because they’re afraid of dying.”

Chuuya’s expression flattened.
“People who aren’t assassins, maybe.”

Silence settled for a moment.
Even Kunikida didn’t have a response ready for that.
“…I need aspirin.”

Yosano leaned back in her chair, watching Chuuya closely.
“You didn’t tell anyone?”

"No one knows. Not even my sister.”

"You have a sister?”

Chuuya smiled crookedly.
"...Sort of. Not biological.”

She nodded. "Meaning... We’re first.”

"You weren’t meant to know, but yeah. First.”

Atsushi shifted awkwardly.
“…For what it’s worth, I think it’s kind of romantic.”

Chuuya blinked. Ranpo snorted.

Kunikida sighed deeply.
“Of course you’d that.”

Atsushi flushed.
“W-well it is!”

Chuuya stared at him another second.
“…You’re weird.”

Atsushi smiled nervously.
“Thank you…?

Yosano leaned back slightly in her chair, arms crossing loosely.
“…You know,” she said, tone softer now, “this actually explains a lot.”

Chuuya glanced at her.
“Like what.”

“The way he talks about you.”

That made him pause.
“…What.”

Atsushi perked up slightly.
“He does, sometimes. Not directly, but—”

“—like you’re a constant,” Yosano finished.

Chuuya looked between them, clearly caught off guard for a second.
“…He talks about me?”

“Not in a normal way,” Ranpo added. “But yeah.”

“…Huh.”
That was all he said, but something in his shoulders eased—just a little.

Yosano suddenly turned to her friend’s husband.
“Alright.”Everyone looked at her.

“Let me see your arm.”

Chuuya groaned.
“You again.”

“Arm.”

He reluctantly rolled his sleeve up. She checked the inside of his elbow, gently pressing around the puncture site.
He winced.

“You’re still dizzy, aren’t you.”

“…No.”

“You are.”

“…Maybe.”

“Drink. A lot.”

And so, he hesitantly lifted his water bottle.
He didn’t say a thing in a longer moment. His entire focus gathered on watching small droplets of water inside the bottle, as if these were the most interesting thing alive.
“…Thanks.”

It was quiet. Almost reluctant.
But it was there.

Atsushi’s face lit up a little.

Kunikida pretended not to react.

Ranpo smirked.

And Yosano?
She didn’t comment on it at all. She just smiled slightly, and it was unknown if she was smiling to herself, or the man next chair.

The conversation didn’t stop so much as it thinned out, stretching into something quieter, more natural. Words came and went between long pauses, no longer sharp with suspicion but edged with a strange, reluctant ease.

At some point Chuuya stopped bracing for every question like it was an attack; his replies grew shorter, less defensive, occasionally even dry in a way that earned a low scoff from Yosano instead of an argument. They found a rhythm neither of them acknowledged—her straightforward remarks met with his equally straightforward retorts, something almost resembling humor slipping through the cracks of exhaustion. The others watched it settle in, subtle but undeniable.

The tension in the room didn’t disappear, but it changed shape; where there had been disbelief and friction, there was now something heavier, steadier—respect, unspoken but present in the way no one interrupted him carelessly anymore, in the way Kunikida stopped correcting his phrasing, in the way Atsushi hovered a little closer without looking afraid.

Every single one of them acknowledged what he had done to save Dazai.

Time blurred strangely in the sterile light. At intervals, Chuuya’s voice would fade mid-sentence, his head dipping before he caught himself, or didn’t, drifting off for a few minutes against the wall or Yosano’s shoulder before waking with a quiet curse and pretending it hadn’t happened. No one called it out. No one moved away. The waiting stretched on like that—half conversation, half silence, stitched together by fatigue, worry, and something newly formed that hadn’t quite earned a name. Yet.

The sound came before anyone consciously registered it, manifesting in the form of a soft click. Then the slow creak of hinges.

Every head in the hallway turned at once.
Chuuya was already on his feet.
Too fast. The sudden movement made his vision tilt, the world lagging half a second behind his body—but he didn’t care. He felt a hand that caught his shoulder, which belonged to Yosano. He nodded at her, gripping the chair instead.

The operating room doors swung open fully. A doctor stepped out, mask already pulled down, exhaustion written plainly across his face.

For a moment there, all of them refused to speak.

Chuuya didn’t realize he had stopped breathing until his chest started to hurt.
“…Well?” he demanded, voice rough as hell.

The doctor blinked, briefly taken aback by the intensity directed at him.
Then he exhaled.
“…He’s alive.”

Everything in the hallway stilled.
Not relief.
Not yet.
Just a pause—like the words hadn’t fully landed.

Chuuya’s grip tightened further against the chair.
“…And?” he pressed.

The doctor nodded, more firmly this time.
“The surgery was successful. He lost a dangerous amount of blood, and there were complications, but we managed to stabilize him. He’s not in a critical state anymore, and shouldn’t be anymore unless he tears stitches.”

A breath finally tore out of Chuuya’s chest—uneven, almost painful.
Behind him, someone shifted. Atsushi, maybe. Kunikida exhaling. Yosano staying very, very still.

But Chuuya didn’t move.
Didn’t look away.
“...That’s not all, is it,” he said quietly.

The doctor hesitated for half a second, then glanced down at his notes before looking back up.
“…It is, actually. But..”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened.
“...But?”

“…If the transfusion hadn’t been administered when it was—” the doctor began carefully, “—he wouldn’t have made it through the operation.”

His gaze shifted, briefly, to Chuuya’s arm.
“…Your decision to donate immediately is the reason he’s alive.”

That did it.

Not the first words.

Not he’s alive.

That.

Chuuya stared at him.

For a second, he looked like he didn’t understand what was being said.

Then—his shoulders dropped.

He let himself fall back on the chair. He only now realized how fast his heart was pounding.

His hand came up, dragging roughly across his face, like he could wipe away the last few hours along with it.

Behind him, the tension snapped all at once. Atsushi let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. Kunikida pushed his glasses up again, more out of habit than necessity. Even Ranpo opened one eye, watching quietly.

Yosano exhaled through her nose, something almost like a small smile tugging at her expression.
“…Told you,” she said under her breath.

Chuuya shot her a look—automatic, reflexive—
—but there was no heat in it this time.
Just exhaustion and relief
“…Yeah,” he muttered.

His legs gave the slightest warning tremor.
He ignored it.

The young surgeon wiped sweat off his forehead.
"...I assume you’re all here for him?”

That earned collective nods.

"...I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until it’s safe to move him to another unit before you can visit him. Few hours, most likely.”

The detectives nodded, but Chuuya didn’t.

His immediate thought was a weird discomfort and even... anxiety, at the thought of being unable to see him for another hours. He was already running on fumes, and it was so bad he actually could admit it to himself.

The doctor smiled faintly.
"...Nakahara-san has the right to enter, as... family. Dazai-san already asked if he’s here the moment he woke up, anyway.”

Once again, he regained his breath.
"...He’s awake?”

"Yes. On drugs, but he understands what’s going on, and is able to talk.”

Chuuya immediately got up again.

"...But—! He needs peace.”

That made him feel something akin to shame and humiliation.

Did that make him look desperate?
Okay Chuuya, calm down, he told himself.
"...Yes. I know. I apologize.”

The doctor gave a small nod.
“Follow me.”

Chuuya stepped forward without hesitation—then stopped.
Just for a second.
Not turning fully, just enough that his voice carried back toward them.
“…Hey.”

It was quieter than anything he’d said before. They looked at him, even Ranpo.

Chuuya didn’t meet their eyes.
“…Thanks,” he said.
Simple.
Rough.
Genuine.

Then he clicked his tongue softly, like he’d said more than he intended, and started walking again before anyone could respond.
The doctor opened the door for him.

Behind him, the Agency stayed where they were.
No one spoke.
But the silence wasn’t empty anymore.

It was full of something solid.
Something earned.

And as Chuuya disappeared around the corner, shoulders still heavy but no longer quite as alone—

Every single one of them understood it.
They weren’t just waiting for Dazai anymore.
They were waiting for his devoted husband that didn’t turn out as bad as they thought he’d be.

As days flew by, the atmosphere began to shift, especially since the moment Dazai woke up. The tension slowly resolved, and fear first faded into quiet relief, then into normalcy that made it easier to breathe.

It didn’t take long for Dazai to talk like before. Even after scaring the living crap out of everyone and enduring worst injuries, the only thing he sometimes struggled to do was moving and handling more complicated elements of everyday rutine. Not that he had a lot of rutine at any point before that.

The Agency visited everyday. The first time they came, they brought flowers and a modest card from everyone, which Dazai struggled to accept. Then they started bringing normal food, just in case the hospital food wasn’t enough.

Enough for two people.

Over all this time, Chuuya left once. Only once, but he came back right away, washed up and in clean clothes, bringing things they could use to get through the incoming hospital stay.

Formally, he was allowed to stay because he ‘needed to stay under observation as a donor’. Practically though, the nurses quietly left an extra pillow for him every evening.
Skipped Osamu’s room when the visiting hours time ran out.
They never even told him to leave the room and lie down somewhere else. Every single staff member of both the ICU and recovery unit seemed to know exactly what happened.
What Chuuya did.

Hell, when Osamu no longer needed most wires and tubes, no one said anything when Chuuya spent his nights half in the chair, and half leaning over the bed or Osamu’s lap.

Maybe not just nights. Sometimes, he slept more than his recovering husband himself.

And the recovering husband was tired, but not any less sharp than usual.

He knew something happened. He just needed time to clock it.

That afternoon, Atsushi and Yosano found enough time pay a short visit after work. They got their passes and slid through corridors with a sense of familiarity. Or maybe that’s not a strong enough word for Yosano, with how well she knew this place before, with everyday visits becoming a habit, it was almost as if she owned it.

They found the room, now elsewhere, in the recovery unit they were freely allowed in. Slipping through the hallways, the vibe and lighting seemed so much different, lighter. No longer weighing down on them with stress and worry.

The hospital room had settled into something dangerously close to peaceful over the last few days.
Not quiet — Dazai was physically incapable of being quiet for more than four consecutive minutes — but familiar.

The afternoon light spilled weakly through the blinds, pale gold across the sheets. One of the monitors beeped steadily beside the bed. Osamu was propped against a mountain of pillows he kept complaining were ‘an assassination attempt on his spine’ while Chuuya stood near the window trying to open a plastic bag of vending machine snacks with escalating hostility.

“You’re five foot three and losing a fight against packaging,” Osamu observed.

Chuuya ripped the bag open hard enough to send crackers flying onto the windowsill.

Silence. Pissed-off silence of blood boiling up.

“Die.”

“Already tried that. Apparently I’m not allowed.”

A knock interrupted whatever insult Chuuya was about to throw back. Atsushi stepped in first, carrying a paper bag from a café downstairs, with Yosano following behind him.

“Oh,” Atsushi said, visibly relieved to find the room not actively on fire. “You’re both awake.”

“That’s usually how visits work,” Chuuya muttered.

Yosano ignored him completely and crossed straight to Dazai’s bedside. “You look less dead.”

“I strive for mediocrity.” Dazai said.

“You’re still pale.”

“I’m naturally beautiful.”

“Unfortunately true,” she sighed.

Atsushi hovered awkwardly near the foot of the bed before finally holding up the paper bag a little. “I brought food.”

Dazai gasped theatrically. “Atsushi-kun, you angel. Did Kunikida finally approve my funeral budget?”

“It’s soup.”

“Cruel.”

Chuuya took the bag from Atsushi, as if assuming Osamu could spill it onto himself and started unpacking containers onto the side table with the kind of absent efficiency that only came from habit.

Domestic habit.

Atsushi still looked faintly startled every time he saw it.

Dazai noticed. Dazai noticed everything.
He watched Chuuya twist the cap off a bottled drink and pause for half a second afterward, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly against the plastic.

Too long.

He watched the slight stiffness in his shoulders when he leaned down.

The shadows under his eyes.
The color of his skin.
All that screamed that something was wrong.

Not dramatic enough for anyone else to panic over. But wrong enough.

Chuuya caught him looking and frowned immediately. “What.”

“Nothing,” Dazai said lightly.

Which meant absolutely something.

Yosano sat down in the visitor chair and narrowed her eyes at both of them with clinical annoyance.

“You,” she pointed at Dazai, “need another week minimum before discharge.”

Dazai groaned loudly.

“And you,” she added, turning to Chuuya, “should take a break too.”

Silence.
Tiny.
Instant.
But absolute.

Atsushi visibly froze.

Chuuya’s expression flattened.

Dazai tilted his head slightly.
“Too?” he repeated.

Yosano realized it exactly one second too late.

Chuuya spoke before she could. "I’m fine.”

“Mm.” Dazai’s voice stayed easy. Curious. “Interesting choice of words, though.”

“There’s no choice involved.”

“Chuuya recovering this fast is actually really impressive,” Atsushi blurted out, desperately trying to fix this.

But he spoke a little too soon before thinking.

Every head in the room turned toward him.

Atsushi looked like he wanted the floor to consume him whole.

Dazai smiled, but it was the kind of smile that was worse than him not smiling at all.
"...What was that? I don’t think I caught it.” His tone was polite. Too polite.

"N-Nothing. I’m tired.” Too fast.

Way too fucking fast.

So fast it was making all the blood in Chuuya’s body that was recovering pump in his veins.

"Atsushi-kun,” he said pleasantly, “is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

"No.”

Beside him, Yosano closed her eyes briefly like she was experiencing physical pain and sighed deeply. It was way too late, and it was just as much her fault as it was Atsushi’s.

Chuuya scoffed. “You sound insane.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.”
Dazai’s gaze moved slowly over him again. Clinical. Precise.
Despite that, his words weren’t directed at him.

“I think,” he said, “I would like Atsushi-kun and Yosano-san to leave now.”

Atsushi blinked. “Eh?”

“Out.”

“Dazai-san—”

“Now.”

The joking cadence was gone completely. Yosano moved first. She studied Chuuya for a long moment, only then Dazai.
“Don’t rip your stitches,” she said flatly.

"To which one of us.” Dazai’s smile turned a little bitter.

"...Yes.”

Atsushi couldn’t bear to look at either of them as he clicked the door shut, immediately heading towards the bathroom.

The silence was so tense you could not only slice it with a knife, you could also chop through it with an entire axe.

Fingers wrapped tightly around Chuuya’s wrist, but he didn’t look.

"Tell me,” he said.

Chuuya rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re bored out of your mind and make shit up.”

"Yet I’m still sane enough to tell when you’re trying to gaslight me.”

That made Chuuya realize what he was actually doing right now. His husband only named it.

He didn’t like that wording — it stung him, but that’s how you know it’s accurate.

Osamu’s gonna find out anyway.

"....I took care of it.”

"Of what.” The other’s tone took a sharper shift.

"I said it’s fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Chuuya exhaled harshly through his nose. “You were sewed open on a operating table, asshole. Excuse me for not prioritizing a lore drop and focusing on your recovery.”

The words hit wrong. Not because they were cruel, but because they were tired. Bone-deep tired, and also openly cariny.

Osamu just stared at him.

Chuuya’s expression changed.
There.
There.
Tiny and immediate.

Dazai’s heartbeat stuttered painfully.
“…What happened?” he asked again, quieter now.

"It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Chu.”

No response.
The monitor beside the bed had started speeding up.
Dazai could hear it.
Could hear his own pulse climbing with it.

“You are scaring me.” If that, admitting it, wouldn’t help, he didn’t know what would.

That finally made Chuuya look at him. And he cracked, just a little.

He simply had no idea how to word it. That created the biggest issue.

“What did you do?”

“I told you already, it was handled.”

“What did you do.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened.

Dazai’s voice broke sharper this time.
“What. Did you. Do?”
The words echoed harshly off sterile walls.

Chuuya flinched.
Actually flinched.
Then looked exhausted by it.
“…You... needed blood.”

Dazai stared at him blankly.

The pieces refused to fit together.
Then—
The bruises.
The dizziness.
Recovery.

The fucking electrolyte packets.

Dazai’s face went white.
“No,” he whispered.

Chuuya’s silence confirmed it.

“No.”

“It wasn’t a big deal.”

"Not another word or I’ll kill you or myself.”

Breathing started to feel harder and harder.
“How much?”

Chuuya didn’t answer.

“How much?”

“Osamu—”

“How much did they take from you?”

The room blurred unpleasantly around the edges.

Chuuya pushed himself forward immediately “Hey.”

Dazai looked at him and suddenly saw it all at once.
The exhaustion.
The weakness hidden beneath irritation.
The fact Chuuya had spent days sitting beside his hospital bed while recovering from severe blood loss himself.

Alone.

Without telling him.

Something inside Osamu caved in violently.

“You idiot,” he said, but it came out wrecked.

Chuuya’s expression softened immediately. “I’m okay.”

“You are not okay.”

“I am now.”

“You could have—” The sentence snapped apart before he could finish it. You could have died too.

Chuuya stepped closer carefully, like approaching something fragile fine china.

“Osamu.”

But Osamu pressed his hand hard over his eyes.
Humiliation burned through him the instant his breathing hitched. No.
No, absolutely not.
Not in front of Chuuya. Not after a thing like this. But the panic had already rooted itself too deep. Because suddenly all he could think about was waking up alone. Waking up alive only to find Chuuya had bled himself dry beside him.
The image hit with enough force to make him nauseous.

“You absolute fucking moron,” he choked out.

“...Yeah, yeah.”

“What if—” His voice cracked badly. “What if something happened to you?”

Chuuya went still.

Dazai laughed once, painfully breathless. “Or does my word do not matter in this regard, too.”

“Osamu—”

Silence. He said that to get his attention, but for what, exactly? Nothing got out.

Then Chuuya crossed the remaining distance between them, simply cupping the side of his face carefully, thumb rough against damp skin.
And that—
That shattered the last of it.

Dazai folded forward abruptly, shoulders shaking with ugly, silent sobs he seemed almost angry about producing. Chuuya caught him immediately despite the obvious strain it put on his own body.
“Hey,” Chuuya murmured, voice gone frighteningly gentle. “Hey, I’m here.”

Dazai clutched the front of his shirt hard enough to wrinkle it. “You hid it,” he whispered brokenly.

“I know.”

“You hid that from me.”

“I know.”

“I thought—” Another sharp breath. “I knew something was wrong and you just kept smiling at me—”

Chuuya pressed his forehead against his hair.
“I’m sorry.”

And because Chuuya almost never apologized first, because the words were quiet and real and exhausted, Dazai finally understood just how close it must have been. It made him press himself flat to Chuuya’s chest like a maniac, desperate to hear his heartbeat. He didn’t have a way of hearing it from one of the monitors, no loud sound copying the heartbeat he fully memorized when they were younger like it should be doing right now. He at least needed to feel it.

Another wave of sobs and nausea hit him.

Chuuya was genuinely getting terrified, not sure how this state affected all the devices, but he knew better than to get Yosano. So, he stayed where he was for a long time after the crying quieted. One hand rubbed slow circles between Osamu’s shoulder blades while the other remained cupped against the back of his neck, grounding him there against his chest. All that despite barely standing in the uncomfortable position.

Osamu’s grip on his shirt never loosened. The monitors had finally settled into a steadier rhythm.
“…You’re hurting yourself,” Osamu muttered eventually, voice raw against the fabric near Chuuya’s collarbone.

“Probably,” Chuuya admitted.

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

“And yet.”

Osamu let out a weak, wet laugh that collapsed halfway through.

For a moment neither of them spoke again.

Chuuya knew this part.

The aftermath.

Not the crying itself—Dazai almost never let himself break that far open—but the terrible quiet after vulnerability had already escaped and couldn’t be shoved back inside.

Usually, this was where Osamu started joking again. Usually, this was where he rebuilt the walls.

But he still shook. Because this was the most scared he ever was for his husband — since he couldn’t control the thing that happened. In any way.

“You should’ve told me.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve died.”

Chuuya sighed quietly through his nose. “Not really.”

Osamu pulled back just enough to glare at him through reddened eyes.

“That is objectively untrue.”

“Fine,” Chuuya amended. “Not likely.”

“That is still bad.”

“Osamu,” Chuuya said, more serious now, “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he did.

Blue eyes met brown.
Steady.
Ones red from wailing, the other red and glassy from exhaustion.

“I made the choice knowing the risks.” Chuuya’s thumb brushed beneath one of the tear tracks still damp on Osamu’s face. “And if I had to do it again, I would.”

Osamu’s expression crumpled immediately.
“See, that’s exactly the problem.”

Chuuya huffed a soft laugh despite himself. Then his face gentled.
“You still think loving you is some kind of self-destructive decision,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

Osamu looked away.
“That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is.”
The words landed without cruelty. Just certainty.

Chuuya shifted carefully, ignoring the protest from his own body long enough to hook two fingers beneath Osamu’s chin and make him look back again.

“You wanna know why I didn’t tell you right away?” he asked.

Osamu frowned faintly.

“Because you almost died,” Chuuya said simply. “And the second you woke up, you were already trying to make yourself useful again. Already trying to manage everyone else.” His mouth tightened. “I didn’t want you turning that on yourself too.”

Osamu stared at him silently.

“You deserved a few days where surviving was enough.”

The room went painfully quiet.

Then, very slowly, Osamu’s expression folded inward again—not shattered this time, but unbearably fragile.
Nobody had ever said things like that to him gently.
Not without wanting something in return.

No one, but his husband.

Chuuya saw the exact moment that realization hit and immediately regretted every sarcastic thing he’d ever said in his life, because suddenly Osamu looked heartbreakingly young.

More similar to the fifteen year old boy in a coat that looked like it might fall off, following him around like a curious puppy. Admiring him, while pretending he was grossed out.

“Oh,” Osamu whispered.

Chuuya’s chest ached.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

Osamu blinked rapidly once, like he hated himself for threatening to cry again.

Then Chuuya felt him lean forward a second time—not collapsing now, not desperate, just tired—and rest his forehead against Chuuya’s shoulder. Trusting him to stay.

The thought nearly undid Chuuya too. He pressed a messy kiss into equally messy dark hair before he could overthink it.

“We’re both alive,” he murmured. “That’s the important part.”

Osamu made a quiet noise that might have been agreement.

He needed a few days to process this.

...

Chuuya stopped sleeping on chairs.