Archive of Our Own

Nakahara Chuuya didn't get worried. 

He was a member of the Port Mafia, for crying out loud. He had seen violence in every shape and design, had seen blood and corpses and gunwounds and torture. Enough to last a lifetime, enough to fill the average person’s mind with vivid nightmares and drive them to madness. 

Not Chuuya, though. Those types of things didn't bother him. He was far too used to them. 

And even before he’d joined the mafia, he was well acquainted with injury and death. Some things follow you around for life, and Chuuya happened to be born and bred in the filth that was savagery. 

And sure, okay, sometimes, if a mission was particularly difficult, he might get a little nervous. A little concerned. But only for himself and the Port Mafia's goals. 

He didn't care about other people. And he certainly didn't worry about them. 

But…for some reason, there was a strange feeling twisting in his gut as he looked at Dazai. 

The mafioso was sprawled in a seated position on Chuuya's couch, like he’d been dumped there. He was dressed in his typical attire: long, dark coat, neat shirt, twisting bandages. His eyes were impossible to read, his face blank as a stone. 

It was late, late enough that it was dark outside and early-risers had already gone to bed. The two of them–Dazai and Chuuya–had just completed a mission. It had been an infiltration into an enemy's headquarters to locate intel. And while they were usually supposed to report to Mori immediately, that…wouldn’t be happening at the moment. 

As it was, nothing was going as it should be. Normally, Chuuya would have rather gouged his eyes out than offer to let Dazai into his apartment. Normally, Dazai would have killed himself a hundred times over before accepting.

These were not normal circumstances. 

Because Dazai was currently bleeding profusely. 

It wasn't–it wasn't that bad. That was what Chuuya kept telling himself. 

And, really, it was no one’s fault. It had all just happened very suddenly. Their mission had been a stealth one; at least, it was supposed to be. But, sloppily, they must have triggered an alarm or something, because when they were trying to leave, the warehouse suddenly flooded with enemies. 

The fight was pretty easy, as far as fights went. Not having expected any sort of attack that night, the enemy group was unorganised and messy. Chuuya and Dazai took them down easily. 

But they must've missed one, because as Dazai was turning around to smile at Chuuya, a figure rose up behind him. There wasn't any time to warn him. The attacker lunged, branding a knife and yelling, and stabbed and sliced it down Dazai's torso. 

Nakahara Chuuya didn't worry, and yet when Dazai let out a sound he had never heard the other boy make before, his heart skipped a beat. Nakahara Chuuya didn't worry, but his vision darkened into something violent, and when it cleared again, the man who had attacked Dazai was sprawled on the ground. 

Dead. 

Chuuya, heaving with something sick and twisted, had whirled on his partner. His partner, who was slowly becoming caked in blood, the injury gushing from his back and side. 

Dazai, ever an impassive slate, had simply blinked up at Chuuya from the ground and commented, “That hurt.” 

“No kidding,” Chuuya had snapped, something dangerous still coating his voice. And he'd collapsed by the brunette, his hands shaking shaking shaking as he examined him. 

Dazai allowed himself to be fussed over for a few seconds. And then he was grunting and pulling away, trying and failing to stand back up. He was slippery with red gore.  

That was really the trigger, for Chuuya. The redhead pulled Dazai to his feet, grumbling and cursing and not worrying, not at all. 

Dazai protested for a moment, but it became clear quickly that he couldn’t walk by himself. So he sighed and resigned himself to being dragged, not even complaining when Chuuya wrapped him in an awkward side-hug. There was something pained pinched between his eyes, but other than that, he did an excellent job at hiding his discomfort. 

Even with blood dripping down his side, staining his already dark clothes, Dazai merely limped along as if he’d been scratched. They left the warehouse in a rush. 

“Where is Chuuya taking me?” Dazai managed to ask several minutes later, when they turned down a street leading away from the Port Mafia headquarters. 

“Shut up,” Chuuya snapped. There was something primal in his voice, something thick. “Don't talk. You'll waste your energy.” 

Dazai had the gall to laugh at that, like he didn't have blood smeared all over his torso. Like this was just a regular day. “Slug worries too much,” he commented, too lightly, too flippantly, as if his life didn't mean a thing. 

Chuuya supposed that to Dazai, it didn’t.

But he'd be damned if he let that idiot die, and so Chuuya pulled the lanky mafioso along, all the way to his apartment. 

Dazai raised an eyebrow when they entered, clearly amused at something. “I got stabbed, and the first place you decide to take me is your apartment?” 

Anger festered and bubbled in Chuuya. It was an easier emotion than the concern. “Are you actually dense?” he snapped, heaving Dazai into the space and awkwardly locking the door behind them. “We're Port Mafia, moron. If we go to the hospital they'll ask what happened.” 

“Take me to Mori, then.” 

“Do you want to go to Mori?” 

That shut him up immediately. The reaction had Chuuya feeling a bit uneasy. He wasn't an idiot; he'd seen the vacant look in Dazai's eyes whenever they were around Mori. Glazed, emotionless. More than usual, at least. 

Chuuya didn't worry, but he didn't like that look. And he suspected Dazai hated it even more. 

For once, he didn't like being right. 

He had shoved Dazai onto the couch in the living room, wrinkling his nose when the taller boy smeared blood on it. That wasn't going to come out anytime soon. 

Whatever. Chuuya had more important things to deal with. 

Like how stubborn his partner was currently being. 

“You are literally bleeding all over the place,” Chuuya said, now, exasperated, as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He was standing in front of Dazai, fighting the urge to sock the man and make his injury worse. 

“That's not my fault,” came Dazai's petulant reply. He crossed his arms, pouting like a child. “Besides, no one asked you to take care of it. Just let me die, or something.” 

Chuuya growled. “I wish you would,” he shot back, “but Mori isn't going to appreciate it if you die on my watch.”

“Mori doesn't appreciate anything.” 

Chuuya fought back a wave of unexpected concern, shaking his head to cover it. He glared at Dazai. “This is stupid. Just let me stitch you up before you bleed to death.” 

Because, seriously, why were they arguing about any of this? Dazai wasn't–Chuuya didn't actually think Dazai was in any danger of actually dying, but he was losing a lot of blood. He needed help. 

But, in typical Dazai fashion, he was refusing it. 

“I'm not incompetent,” Dazai said, and to Chuuya's horror, he pushed himself to his feet. Somehow, he managed to hide any discomfort the action caused him behind his thin mask, but Chuuya saw the way his muscles tensed. “I don't need your help.” 

“Stars above, you actually are a moron, aren't you? How on earth do you expect to stitch a wound on your back, by yourself?” Chuuya waved his hands out, mystified and annoyed and concerned all rolled into one. 

Dazai stilled. For all his intelligence, Chuuya could tell he hadn't even considered this. Whatever pain he was feeling must've been making him more sluggish and slow than usual. “Ah,” he said after a moment. 

Chuuya sighed, annoyed and confused and anxious. Why was this so much harder than it needed to be? “Come on,” he urged, turning to the bathroom, where he kept his first aid kit. 

After a few hesitant moments, he finally heard Dazai follow. 

Chuuya tried not to be too relieved at that. As long as he had known Dazai, he still couldn't predict him. Even knowing that his wound was impossible to take care of himself, there was no guarantee he would listen to reason. He was just as stubborn as Chuuya was. 

It was pure luck that he felt like cooperating. 

When they got to the bathroom, Dazai didn’t waste any time moping around. He sat with a huff on the closed toilet lid, and though he tried to make the action look casual, it was clear he was just trying to get off his feet. 

Chuuya decided not to comment on that. 

It was brighter in here, a consequence of tacky fluorescent lighting and multiple bulbs above the sink. Under the harsh brightness, the red gore coating Dazai's clothes suddenly became much more prominent. He was still obviously bleeding. 

Chuuya wrinkled his nose to hide his concern. “You need to sit on the tub, not there,” he told the man, shooing Dazai away. 

Dazai pouted childishly, but he must’ve realised the same thing, because he did as he was told. After all, the wound was on his back and side, and Chuuya would need access to both to properly treat it. And so: the mafioso stumbled to the tub and stepped over the ridge, sticking his long legs in and sitting on the edge. He was facing the wall. 

For some reason, Chuuya felt like he could move easier without Dazai watching him. Something about those dead brown eyes made it seem like the brunette knew everything. 

Chuuya pushed the sensation away, crouching by his sink to get his first aid kit. He rifled through it to produce a needle and thread, the objects familiar and easy in his palm. He set the kit on the counter and turned back to Dazai, silently made his way over and laid the stitching supplies on a small stand by the tub. 

Neither of them said anything. Without thinking, Chuuya brought his hands down on Dazai's shoulders, intending to remove the ruined coat. But that was a mistake. Dazai hadn’t seen Chuuya come over, and he was facing the opposite way. The second there was unexpected contact, Dazai violently flinched, practically yanking away from Chuuya’s hands. 

Dazai. Flinching. 

Something sour and bitter and sick filled Chuuya's tongue. His hands hovered, useless. The bathroom went dead silent, sort of charged and electric in a way that it hadn't been before.

Because that was something Dazai never did. Or, rather, it was something he always kept himself from doing. His reactions were carefully molded and hidden beneath layers of false personality. The words ‘Dazai’ and ‘flinch’ did not even belong in the same sentence.

“Silly dog,” Dazai murmured after several long, tense moments. His voice was dangerously soft, and without being able to see what kind of expression he was making to accompany it, it was frightening. “Doesn't Chuuya know he shouldn't touch someone without permission?” 

Chuuya swallowed, thickly. An apology was hanging off his tongue, but he didn't think that was what Dazai wanted to hear. And he didn't want to say it, either. So instead he fired back, working around the strange feeling in his gut, “Then take your own ugly coat off.” 

Dazai hummed. He was strangely calm considering what had happened, his demeanor measured and stoic. He did as he was told, moving with a practiced ease, like his injury didn't bother him at all. He slipped his coat from his shoulders and it fell, crumpled, to the floor. 

Chuuya wrinkled his nose at the noise it made when it landed. Sort of splotching there. Blood had soaked through the fabric and would be seeping into the floor. 

There was nothing he could do about it now, Chuuya supposed. He lifted his gaze again, finding that Dazai's shirt had suffered the same violent paintjob. Besides all the red soaked through, there was a large tear in the fabric where the knife had entered. It was still too difficult to see the wound. 

He hated to say it, but…“Take your shirt off, too.” 

Dazai was motionless, sitting with his feet in the bathtub. More than anything, Chuuya wished he could see his face, though he doubted his expression would give anything away. Eventually, the brunette commented, “If you're trying to get me undressed, I'm regretful to inform you I'm not interested.” 

“Dazai,” Chuuya warned. He wasn’t letting his partner deflect or change the topic. Especially to something as stupid as that. 

The taller man sighed, thoroughly cornered and caught. It was clear that he hadn't actually thought his joke would work, but perhaps he'd hoped it would. Either way, finally, he moved his hands to the hem of his shirt. In one quick motion, he yanked it off, not bothering to be careful about his wound in the slightest. 

Predictably, underneath the blood-soaked fabric was yet another layer of cloth: Dazai's infamous bandages. Chuuya frowned as he considered them. He had never seen beneath them before, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew what they were hiding. 

Scars. 

There was a good amount of blood seeping into them, too, but Chuuya didn't think they needed to be removed. At least, not at the moment. The blood was mostly smeared on the top layer, a consequence of shifting around so much, and while it had to be uncomfortable, it wasn’t imperative. And the wrappings ended just before the wound started, so it was still accessible. And though it would probably be easier to just get rid of them, and they probably should to avoid any infection, he–

–he didn't think Dazai would want to do that. 

But Dazai was always so unpredictable. 

Chuuya’s mouth dropped open, shocked, when his partner simply began unraveling them. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like he didn’t even care. There wasn’t any warning, wasn’t any declaration of him doing so. Just the sound of sticky cloth being separated from skin, the revelation of a few inches of flesh being revealed at a time. 

Chuuya stood there, frozen, watching, feeling repulsed with himself. Part of him wanted to protest that this was necessary, they were wasting time, and what was Dazai even doing–

The other part of him was morbidly, disgustingly curious. 

That was the part that won. Chuuya remained silent. 

Of course, Dazai did not face him as he continued. In fact, he acted like Chuuya wasn't even there, and when the bandages were thrown to the floor in a flourish, it was done as if he hadn't considered them at all. Like they were the same thing as his coat. 

The freshly exposed skin was white under the light. Dazai, with his back to Chuuya and his bare arms cradled in his lap, was keeping most of his scars to himself. As it was, Chuuya would have been blind not to see some of them. 

White, twisting marks, running down his skin like ladder rungs. Obvious self harm, and Chuuya hated the fact that he wasn't even surprised. Some of the cuts looked newer than others, like they had only just begun to heal. 

Those weren’t the only marks, though. There were several long ones down his back, like he’d been whipped, a long time ago. And around the man's neck was the harsh outline of something. Rope. 

Dazai joked about suicide all the time. But seeing the evidence, promptly on display, was different than a passing remark. Chuuya was looking at a mosaic of suffering. A stained glass window of pain. 

“If Chuuya stares all day, I'm really going to die of bloodloss,” Dazai finally said, after a long time had passed. His voice was teasing, but it carried something just underneath it, a feeling that was too ambiguous to name. 

Chuuya's face burned at the reprimand. He shoved anything he was thinking away, shoved the feeling that was definitely not worry deep down into his gut. Clearing his throat, he moved forward once again to inspect the newest addition to Dazai’s anguish: the stab wound. 

It was on Dazai's lower back, curving up and outward to his side and ending with a cruel flourish. The attacker had first plunged the dagger in and then yanked, as if skinning an animal. The wound was still bleeding profusely, but it had calmed down. Barely. 

Chuuya considered it with care for several moments, studying it, making sure it was something he could actually handle. Despite what he’d said, he would immediately call Mori if he thought the injury was life threatening or out of his realm of control. As it was…he didn’t think so. It was nasty and gross and painful and angry and definitely in need of stitches, but–

But Dazai would not be dying via stabbing. At least, not today. 

Chuuya tried not to feel too relieved at that. To hide the foolish emotion, he stood back up and went to the sink, wetting a cloth. He swiped disinfectant from his kit and kneeled back by Dazai. “I gotta clean it. This is gonna hurt,” he warned. 

“Looking forward to it,” came Dazai's reply. It was wrapped in a teasing light, as if moments before, he hadn't been entirely apathetic. 

Somehow, the joke was a lot less funny with Dazai's scars on display. Chuuya managed not to comment, instead huffing, forcing a bravado into the sound that he didn't feel. Without warning, he brought the cleaning rag down, some sick part of him relishing in the way Dazai hissed a pained breath. 

From there on, they worked in near silence. Chuuya didn't know what to say, and of course Dazai wasn't speaking, so the only sound was laboured breathing and the hum of Chuuya's apartment. 

When he was done cleaning the wound, Chuuya grabbed the needle and thread easily. He was just about to make the first stitch when Dazai suddenly asked, “Hey, wait–does someone as stupid as you know what they're doing with that?” 

Chuuya bristled at the abrupt insult. “What? Of course I know what I'm doing!” 

“Are you sure? I would hate to die from infection, that would so painful!” 

“Yes, I’m sure! I’ve done it before. Piss off.!” 

Dazai grunted and twisted a bit, meeting Chuuya's eyes with a look of suspicion in his own. But then he shrugged and turned back around, waving a scarred arm and saying, “Well, I guess the worst that can happen is you accidentally kill me”

Chuuya scoffed, annoyed. “If I were going to kill you, I'd have done it by now. On purpose.” With that, he stuck the needle into soft flesh.

Dazai twitched, but other than that, he remained perfectly still as Chuuya began to stitch. “You're just as feisty as ever,” he commented with a hum. “How about some sympathy for an injured, suicidal man?” 

“How about you shut up before I give you an injury worth having sympathy about?” 

Something akin to a chuckle rose up in Dazai and he didn't say anything else. Chuuya wasn't sure how to interpret that, so he went quiet, too. 

Stitching the wound went faster when they weren't bickering. When Chuuya was finished, it felt like no time at all had passed. He leaned back to admire his handiwork; he'd done a good job. The sutures were neat and even, if he did say so himself. 

Dazai couldn't see the job, but he nodded his approval anyway. Chuuya rolled his eyes (as if the mackerel would be able to protest them) and bent by the bathroom sink yet again. He snatched a roll of bandages. 

“Turn around and face me,” he told Dazai. For once, the man didn't argue and did as he was told. 

It was strange to see Dazai's face after so long with him turned the other way. It was even more so without his bandages. Now, he was looking at Chuuya, his scars were even more pronounced and tempting. Calling to him, begging him to stare. 

Chuuya made a point not to look at them. Not to react to the marks. But his lips did pull into a frown when he blinked and noticed little bruises dotting his partner's chest. 

“Oi,” Chuuya muttered, tapping a finger against them, “where are these from?” 

Dazai pulled away, his lips curling at the touch. “None of your business,” he sang. 

Chuuya ignored him. He studied the marks farther. They were too faded to have been from tonight's mission, and he didn't recall any other fights they had gotten into. Knowing Dazai, the man could have egged on any number of their enemies and earned himself those stripes, but–

But Chuuya didn't think so. 

“Dazai,” he repeated after a moment, “where did you get these?” 

His voice was dark. 

A pause. “I did it to myself,” Dazai answered, much too cheerfully. 

Chuuya shook his head. He cursed several times under his breath, because he wasn't stupid. 

He knew that Dazai was lying. 

Something must've shown in his eyes, because suddenly Dazai straightened up. His face went perfectly blank, his eyes dull and soulless. “It doesn't matter, Chuuya.” 

He sounded like he believed those words. It sounded like he had said them enough that they had long lost their meaning. 

And maybe Chuuya was stupid, after all. Or maybe he knew a losing fight when he saw one. 

Whatever it was, he could feel the urge to know draining from him. Concern was like a vermion under his skin, but he couldn't make Dazai tell him anything, and it was wasted energy to keep trying. 

“Whatever,” he muttered, dropping his hands in favour of cradling the bandages. “It was stupid of me to even care. Keep your secrets.” 

“I will!” 

And Chuuya pretended he didn't hate every single thing about that. 

“Let me wrap you back up,” he said, instead of arguing.

Dazai raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, probably to make some joke or protest, but Chuuya's glare cut him off. He closed his mouth and huffed, but didn't say anything. Only held out his arms. 

It was a lot harder to ignore the scars when they were glaring up at him. Chuuya sucked in a breath through his nose and told himself that the thin white lines weren’t anything to stare at. They were just part of Dazai. That’s all. 

He carefully kept his face blank as he began to rewrap them. Dazai probably could have done this on his own, but he hadn’t openly fought Chuuya helping, and it was an inch of trust that the redhead wanted to cherish. Dazai was too often an unreadable stone wall. He was allowing Chuuya this part of himself, however insignificant it may be. 

Chuuya would handle it gently. 

They didn’t speak. There wasn’t anything to say, really. Dazai was surprisingly steady for a man who had just been stabbed; his arms weren’t shaking at all as he held them out. 

For his part, Chuuya just wanted this nightmare to be over. He bandaged both arms and moved to Dazai’s torso, starting lower and working his way up. It had been a good idea to replace all the bandages after all; Dazai’s original ones had been spotted with dirt and blood. They had been in need of changing no matter what, and Chuuya was glad they had gotten it over with. 

When the redhead finally finished, the silence felt heavy and tense. Dazai was mostly covered again in the pristine white cloth. All evidence of his wounds and scars had vanished beneath the blank canvas. All better. Nothing to see here. 

“I’ll get you some clothes,” Chuuya muttered, standing. Dazai nodded and didn’t say anything. 

Going to his bedroom was a bit of an escape from the charged atmosphere. Chuuya dug in his closet for his largest shirt. Dazai was very thin, but he was (annoyingly) quite a bit taller than Chuuya, so it took several minutes to find clothes that would fit. 

When he finally did, Chuuya brought them back to the bathroom and set them on the sink. “Come out when you’re done,” he told Dazai, which was to say, Hurry up. 

Again, Dazai gave a mute nod. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Chuuya left the bathroom feeling strange. 

He busied himself by heading to the kitchen. It was late, but he knew for a fact that neither of them had eaten since lunch. And, now that he thought about it, Dazai hadn’t even eaten then. 

Who knew when his last meal had been. 

Chuuya cursed at the realisation, angry at himself for not noticing and angry at Dazai for everything. Was the bastard trying to get himself killed? 

Yes, his mind answered, without missing a beat. Yes, Dazai was trying to get himself killed. 

Chuuya sobered at this. He stood alone in his kitchen for what felt like a long time, caught in between indecision and something else. Something scarier. 

Eventually, he shoved his emotions aside and went to the fridge. Dazai was an incredibly picky eater, but there was one thing he openly enjoyed: crab. 

Honestly, Chuuya didn’t care for the meat that much. He preferred other things. But if it would get Dazai to eat something…

Well, he would make do.

He was just setting water to boil over the stovetop when a voice suddenly called, “What are you doing?” 

Chuuya started, whipping around to see Dazai’s lanky frame hanging in the doorway. With his new clothes and bandages, he looked much more like himself. His blank demeanor from earlier had faded away yet again. 

“I'm making crab soup,” Chuuya answered after a moment. 

Dazai’s eyes lit up minutely at the mention of his favourite food. But instead of expressing that excitement, he simply said, “I’m not hungry. Chuuya should make a dish that he likes instead.” 

A frown tugged the edges of Chuuya’s lips. “I know you didn’t eat lunch.” 

Something crossed Dazai’s face, but it was gone a moment later, so quickly that it might never have been there. “What, you’re a stalker now?” 

“Dazai.” 

“I’m just saying it’s so creepy to know that. You may be my dog, but you don’t have to be a watch-dog!” 

“I’m not your dog,” Chuuya snapped. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to cool his frustration. “I’m just not blind. You’ve been skipping meals. You’re practically skin and bones, Dazai.” 

This time, Chuuya was sure he didn’t imagine it. Dazai’s eyes darkened into something dangerous. “I don’t see how that’s your concern.” 

Chuuya froze for a moment, and then sighed. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his partner, so instead he began pulling vegetables from the fridge. The silence was very loud, and Chuuya wondered how some things could mean so much more than they let on. 

“I don’t care if you die,” Chuuya finally settled on, the words coming out of his mouth slowly as he started to chop carrots, “but you aren’t allowed to do it on my watch.” 

Quiet. Then: “You just said you didn’t care if I died. You’re contradicting yourself." 

“No, I’m not.” Chuuya poured his chopped carrots into the simmering broth, then started on another. “If you die while we’re partners, then I have to get paired with someone new. As much as I hate you, I don’t want to go through all that hassle.”

Dazai made a strange noise in the back of his throat. Chuuya intentionally didn’t look up, but he felt more than saw the brunette cross the kitchen towards him. A moment later, Dazai was looming in his peripherals, wordlessly grabbing a knife and beginning to dice potatoes. 

The only sound was the tink of blade hitting board, the hum of the fridge in the background. It was tense and awkward between them. After several more minutes had passed, Dazai finally asked, “And what, exactly, does this have to do with me eating?” 

For the first time in a while, Chuuya looked at Dazai. The brunette was entirely focused on that task at hand. A tiny frown had taken over the lower half of his face, but other than that, he was near impossible to read. 

“If you starve to death,” Chuuya began, counting off on his fingers, “or you get sluggish in battle from low blood sugar, or you pass out on a mission, or–”

“Okay, I get it,” Dazai interrupted, perhaps harsher than he meant to. His voice went softer a moment later. “I don’t skip enough to be in danger of passing out. Believe it or not, starvation is a terribly painful way to commit suicide.” 

“You don’t skip enough to pass out yet,” Chuuya countered. He pointedly ignored Dazai’s last remark.  

A pause, in which Dazai didn’t seem to know how to respond. Or maybe he did, and he was just keeping it to himself. Whatever it was, suddenly, Chuuya was very tired of this conversation. You can’t convince someone who wants to die to not want that in a twenty minute talk. That wasn’t how the world worked. And so he growled out, “Just eat something, for star’s sake!”

Dazai’s eyes widened minutely. It was always a shock when Chuuya managed to surprise the brunenette with an outburst, but he couldn’t revel in for long before Dazai was sighing. He looked away and muttered, “Fine. Slug can be so annoying sometimes.” 

“Hey!” Chuuya snapped, but he was hardly thinking of the insult. All he could feel was relief at the fact that Dazai had agreed.

They continued cooking in silence. When the vegetables were done being cut and the crab was added, there wasn’t much to do besides wait. And while Dazai and Chuuya could argue for hours, they were both uncharacteristically quiet tonight. 

Maybe it was a consequence of having to deal with Dazai’s injury. Or maybe they were just tired. Whatever it was, neither of them spoke a word until the soup was ready. Even then, it was near silence as they prepared two bowls and carried them into the living room. 

Chuuya had been right earlier; the couch was sufficiently stained with Dazai’s blood. It was a nuisance, but he knew the Port Mafia could have a new one for him the next day. Nothing they could do about it now. 

Instead, Chuuya settled on his armchair and Dazai sat on the loveseat. It was far too late to be eating dinner, but neither of them commented on that as they settled their meals in their laps. 

Chuuya watched Dazai very carefully. The mafioso sat stiffly, though he tried to hide it, and he stared at his food for a very long time. 

“We made it together, it’s not poison,” Chuuya finally told him. His tone was harsh, but underneath that was a hint of something else. Concern. 

Dazai’s mouth lifted in a dead smile that dropped moments later. “You think everything is easy,” he told Chuuya. 

The redhead opened and closed his mouth, trying to decipher what that meant. But Dazai didn’t explain it, instead heaving a sigh and sticking a spoonful of soup into his mouth. 

Chuuya huffed. Fine, then. If Dazai insisted on speaking in riddles and roundabout sentences, then Chuuya wasn’t going to waste his breath responding. He ate, too, and even if it was crab, it was some darn good soup. 

It took what felt like a long time, but the two of them managed to finish their food. Dazai took several minutes longer than Chuuya, and it seemed to be a war in his mind to eat the last few bites, but he did it with minimal prompting. He had said he would eat, after all, and Dazai wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. Even if he looked a bit sick afterward. 

Chuuya collected their bowls and brought them to the sink. He thought about cleaning them, but decided against it. He could do that tomorrow. 

Instead of going to the living room, he detoured and headed for the medicine cabinet. He unlocked it, grabbed two pain killer pills, and then carefully locked it back up. With Dazai, you could never be too careful. There was a low chance he would use the medication to overdose, especially tonight, but there was still a chance. Better safe than sorry, better paranoid than finding your partner dead on the ground. 

Chuuya nabbed a glass of water and then brought the materials back to the living room. Dazai was sitting in the same spot as when he had left, but he had slumped down. Obviously tired. 

It had been a long day. 

“Here,” Chuuya said, trying to throw some fire into the word, but he didn’t really succeed. 

Dazai eyed the water and pills with disinterest. “Hm?”

Frustration bubbled up in Chuuya. There was definitely a fire when he responded with, “Do you have to make everything difficult? Take the stupid painkillers, Mackerel.” 

Dazai’s nose scrunched up. For a moment, it looked like he was going to argue, but he didn’t. He swiped the water and pills and then took them, swigging them back like it was alcohol. 

Chuuya waited for him to be done, then took the glass from him and set it on the coffee table. He slumped back in his original chair, exhausted, his feet hurting beneath him. He needed, like, a gazillion hours of sleep. He let his eyes fall close.

“Do you think differently now?” 

The question came from nowhere. Groaning, Chuuya opened his eyes, squinting at Dazai. The brunette was just sitting there. 

The words took a moment to process and were promptly met with confusion. “What? What are you talking about?” 

Dazai was looking at Chuuya with a strangely serious expression. His eyes were blank, void-like. Never ending in a way that made Chuuya feel very small. “After seeing them. Do you think differently of me?” 

“Seeing what?” Chuuuya shot back, frustrated. Why could Dazai never ask him anything straight? He didn’t understand. 

But he did a moment later, when Dazai murmured, “My scars.” 

…Oh. 

Chuuya had–he’d never seen Dazai like this before. So empty. Like it didn’t even matter what answer the redhead gave. 

But, of course, it did matter. He had asked, after all. 

“No,” Chuuya answered, honestly, the word soft on his tongue. He could have rattled off insults, deflections, taunts. Could have started some sort of fight and avoided talking about this all together. 

Instead he gave Dazai the truth. This was too important not to, too heavy to just brush under the rug. Chuuya would not do that, he would not ignore this. 

The brunette took the answer in silence. Chuuya couldn’t read his eyes, but it looked like Dazai was mulling over his response. A few minutes passed. Then a few more. 

“I just thought,” Dazai finally continued, “that if you saw how worthless I am to myself, you would start thinking the same thing.” 

Chuuya blinked. Surprise slithered down his spine. That word seemed to echo around the room: worthless. He didn’t know what to do with it. 

Dazai took his lack of response to something else. The mafioso tilted his head, and suddenly his eyes cleared and he beamed, his smile wide and fake. “Guess not, then! Chuuya is so sentimental.” 

“Stop,” Chuuya muttered, suddenly hating Dazai. “Stop that.” 

“Stop what? I’m not doing anything.”

“Stop pretending!”

Dazai’s smile sat frozen on his face. Creepily large. “I’m not,” he lied. His voice was completely flat. 

Chuuya hated it. Something sharp bubbled up inside of him. It stung and twisted and made him nauseous and he wasn’t sure what it was. 

But a moment later, he knew.

And perhaps Nakahara Chuya could feel worry, after all. Perhaps he had always felt it. 

Or maybe it was a Dazai-specific emotion. 

Whatever it was, he didn’t know what to do with it. He looked at Dazai and Dazai looked back and everything in the whole world felt very small compared to this. His mind flashed to the scars he’d seen earlier. 

He wasn’t sure if there was a single thing about Dazai that was genuine besides those. 

So he did what came naturally when he wasn’t sure what to say about something: he changed the topic. “We should get to sleep.” 

Dazai’s ever-present smile didn’t even falter. It was like he had been expecting Chuuya to say that. Knowing him, he probably had been. “Am I staying here?” 

“Yes.” There was no way Chuuya was letting Dazai go back to that stupid run-down shipping container. Not tonight. 

Dazai seemed to sense this, because he didn’t argue. A beat passed in which neither of them did anything. 

And then they both moved. Dazai immediately laid down on the loveseat that he was occupying, tipping over so his head was on the armrest. His hair fell in his eyes and he made no effort to swipe it away. That perpetual grin was still stuck on his face. 

For Chuuya’s part, he stood up and retreated to his room. His mind seemed intent on replaying the conversation he had just had with Dazai as he got changed for bed. He wanted to shower, but he didn’t have the energy for it. 

When he went back to the living room, Dazai’s eyes had fallen closed and his smile had faded into something gentle. Chuuya could tell he wasn’t sleeping, but he let the brunette be, yanking a blanket and draping it over his partner. He shut off the light and made himself comfortable on the armchair, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. 

“Chuuya is sleeping out here tonight?” Dazai suddenly asked, several moments later. His voice was a bit muffled from his position, and his tone was difficult to read. 

“Of course I am, dense-face. I can’t leave you alone right now.” 

“Afraid I’ll go and kill myself?” 

“Yes.” 

Quiet. It was a too-serious answer for a joking question. Dazai gave his own serious answer: “Chuuya doesn’t have to worry about that.” 

Yeah, well. There wasn’t much that either of them could do to stop it. Chuuya huffed and shuffled a bit, trying to make himself comfortable; it was going to be a long night. 

He allowed Dazai’s words to ring in the air for long enough that the appeal to respond faded. Exhaustion pulled at his mind, but Chuuya forced himself to stay awake. After a long time he murmured, “Dazai?” 

“Hm?” Of course the man was still awake. He probably wouldn’t sleep at all. 

“I don’t think differently of you,” he whispered. They both knew what he was talking about, and even though he’d already given his answer, this felt a bit more real. A bit heavier. “And you aren’t worthless, Dazai.” 

A long pause, and then a scoff. “You sound just like Oda.” 

Chuuya frowned even though Dazai couldn’t see it. He didn’t know much about Dazai’s friend besides off-hand remarks like these, but he figured the man was decently okay. If he took care of Dazai, then he was alright in Chuuya’s book. “Oda is right, then. In this, you have to deal with being the one that’s wrong, okay?”

Dazai made a sound, a cross between a sigh and a chuckle. “Goodnight, Chuuya.” 

“Dazai,” Chuuya snapped, hating those words more than anything else that had been said. “We’re not done talking!” 

No response. 

Anger, mixed with that sharp worry from earlier, flooded Chuuya. He let out a growl and glared at his coworker in the dark, but Dazai’s eyes were still closed. He was clearly done with the conversation. There wasn’t anything more he was going to say. 

But–but he couldn’t stop himself from hearing things, and so Chuuya took a sputtering breath and spat out, “Listen here, you bandage-wasting machine. You may think you can starve yourself and keep secrets and hide things and cut yourself because for some reason you believe your life is meaningless, but it’s not. I’m sick and tired of you acting like it is. Your Oda is right, and so am I, and you need to deal with it. You’re not allowed to kill yourself, not for as long as you’re my partner. Do you understand?” 

The words seemed to echo throughout the room. Understand-stand-stand…Of course, Dazai didn’t so much as twitch at the tirade. He laid as immobile and motionless as ever, as if he hadn’t heard a word. If it had been anyone else, Chuuya might have thought they’d fallen asleep. 

But it was Dazai, and he was awake. 

As annoying as it was, Chuuya wasn’t expecting any sort of response. He didn’t even fully know why he had said what he did, but he knew that he wasn’t taking it back. He believed it all, and a small part of him, the part that worried about his partner, wanted Dazai to believe it, too. 

His life wasn’t worthless. It was time for him to stop acting like it was. 

The silence pressed around for a long time. Chuuya tried to fall asleep, but despite how tired he was, he couldn’t seem to manage it. He just laid there and stared at the ceiling and tried to think if he had made a mistake. Maybe he should have just taken Dazai to Mori. Maybe things would have been less complicated that way. 

Maybe he never should have opened his mouth. 

He was sitting there, thinking these things, when suddenly Dazai did something that surprised Chuuya more than anything else. 

He murmured out, “Thanks, Chuuya.” 

And while it was a far cry from actually agreeing not to kill himself, it was something. It was acknowledgement, it was proof that Dazai had heard and absorbed what he had said. 

The tightness in Chuuya’s chest lessened, just a tiny bit. Just enough to let him breathe normally. Suddenly, all the exhaustion that had been toying with him crashed in at once, catching up with him. Drowning him. 

“Of course, Mackerel,” Chuuya muttered back, when he finally realised he hadn’t responded yet. “I’m not letting you go. Not if I can help it.” 

He was asleep before he could hear Dazai’s response.