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The warehouse blew open in a spray of splinters, and Chuuya was still shaking debris out of his hair when he heard it—a sharp, ugly crack somewhere behind him. He spun, ready to sink someone into the ground with a gravity bomb—
But the only thing he saw was Dazai—just standing there, arm hanging at a slightly wrong angle like it was an afterthought.
Chuuya stared at him. “Did you just break your goddamn arm.”
Dazai looked down at it as if noticing for the first time. “Hm. So I did.”
“That’s not an answer, you freak,” Chuuya snapped. “How the hell did you even—actually, no, I don’t wanna know.”
“It was mostly the floor’s fault,” Dazai said, deadpan, stepping over a still-groaning enemy. “I landed incorrectly.”
“You jumped off a crate fifteen feet up for no reason!”
“There was a reason,” Dazai said. “I was bored.”
Chuuya felt a pulse build behind his eye. Of course. Of course the suicidal bastard broke his goddamn arm out of boredom.
And the worst part? He wasn’t even reacting. No swearing, no hissing, no tension. Just that weird distant calm he always had right after doing something self-destructive.
“You’re unbelievable,” Chuuya muttered. “We’re in the middle of a goddamn mission.”
“Wow, so observant.” Dazai walked past him, cradling the broken arm loosely, as if it was an item he’d misplaced. “It’s not like I have a dominant one.”
“That’s not—!” Chuuya bit it back. Not worth it. None of this was worth it. “Just don’t slow me down, moron.”
Dazai made a soft, amused sound. “Oh slug, come on. I’ve fought with worse.”
Which, annoyingly, was true. Chuuya had seen him patch himself up without so much as tape and go straight back into combat like he was assembling a prop.
They moved deeper into the building. Dazai didn’t falter—he floated along like someone carrying a mildly inconvenient grocery bag. If anything, he seemed faintly entertained.
As they reached the stairwell, Chuuya hissed, “If you pass out mid-fight, I’m kicking your stupid ass when you wake up.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You wouldn’t dream at all, you suicidal bastard.”
Dazai flashed him a grin. “Chuuya, you do care.”
Chuuya’s face burned hot with fury. “I care about you not screwing up the damn mission, that’s it.”
“Mm. If Chuuya says so.”
And then—because the universe hated him—a guard rounded the corner. Chuuya lunged, gravity cracking the metal railing, and the guy went down hard. Dazai followed, stepping neatly over the body with his useless arm and zero hesitation.
Chuuya barked, “Try not to hit anyone with that thing, shitty Dazai. It’s dangling like a dead fish.”
“A dead fish can still be a weapon,” Dazai said lightly.
“If you swing your broken arm at someone I will kill you.”
Dazai only smiled wider. A little too pleased. A little too accustomed to pain that should’ve rattled him. And Chuuya hated—hated—the part of him that clocked it, that recognized it, that understood it more than he wanted to.
But he didn’t say anything. There wasn’t time for that kind of mess.
“Come on,” he growled instead, storming up the stairs. “If we’re lucky, you’ll only break one bone today. Damn brat.”
“Ever the pessimist,” Dazai murmured, trailing after him like a shadow with a cracked hinge.
They cleared the second floor with the efficiency of kids who had already seen more blood than most adults. Chuuya hit hard and fast; Dazai flowed around him like he always did—annoyingly in sync, even with one arm hanging limp. Chuuya tried to ignore the way Dazai favored his right side. Not out of weakness, no—out of calculation. Even injured, the bastard still managed to wedge himself into vantage points that made Chuuya’s moves cleaner.
Infuriating.
At the end of the hall, another guard burst from a door with a shout. Chuuya stepped forward, and Dazai laughed under his breath and flicked a kick straight into the guy’s knee, dropping him like a stone.
“What the hell was that?” Chuuya snapped. “You’re supposed to leave the close-range to me.”
“It was a knee,” Dazai said simply. “I don’t need my arm for those.” He nudged the collapsed guard aside with his foot, almost dainty, as if he had somewhere better to be.
Chuuya wanted to break all his other bones on the spot. He settled for stomping past him toward the stairwell. “If you make that arm worse, I’m not carrying your scrawny ass out of here.”
“Gross. Chuuya knows I'm not into slugs like that, right?”
“YOU—”
He cut himself off so hard he bit his tongue.
Dazai looked delighted. “My, my. Defensive, are we?”
Chuuya pretended he didn’t hear him.
They reached the top floor—the one with their target. The air smelled like gun oil and cheap cigarettes. Chuuya signaled for silence, and Dazai nodded, face slipping into that unnerving neutrality he used when his mind was running faster than his mouth.
Broken arm. No hesitation. Chuuya hated how normal that was.
They burst in together, and Chuuya slammed the nearest thug into the wall with a pulse of gravity while Dazai darted through the chaos, weaving like smoke. He didn’t bother using the broken arm; he just let it hang, moving his body around it with the kind of mechanical efficiency that spoke of too much practice with snapped limbs. At one point, he hooked his injured wrist over the back of someone’s collarbone to anchor himself while he pivoted.
Chuuya saw it, nearly choked, and yelled:
“ARE YOU GODDAMN STUPID?!”
“It didn’t hurt,” Dazai said, twisting the man’s gun out of his hand with the other arm.
“IT SHOULD’VE!”
“Well, that’s hardly my fault, now is it, slug?”
Chuuya punted a crate through a window just to get the frustration out of his system, ignoring the bewildered looks flashing across the enemies' faces as they watched the two teenagers who had just infiltrated their base bicker in the same breath as they punched their lights out.
By the time the target was subdued and tied, Dazai was breathing only a little too fast. That was the only tell. And Chuuya hated that he knew it.
He yanked the front of Dazai’s coat. “We’re leaving. And you’re going to the damn infirmary.”
Lashes low over amused eyes, Dazai blinked at him. “I can set it later.”
“No. Now.”
“Chuuya is very forceful today.”
“Shut up and move your ass already.”
To Chuuya’s disbelief, Dazai actually listened. He followed without protest—though he did look infuriatingly pleased about the whole thing, like being ordered around with Chuuya at the end of his own rope counted as entertainment. They slipped back into the alley where they’d stashed the getaway vehicle. Rain had started, thin and chilly. Chuuya pulled his coat tighter; Dazai didn’t bother.
At the car, Dazai hesitated. The first hesitation all night.
Chuuya caught it instantly. “What.”
Studying his own arm, Dazai tilted his head like he was bored of the whole situation but couldn’t quite detach from the body attached to him. “It’s… stiff.”
“That’s what happens when you break a damn bone. Jesus Christ.”
Dazai hummed as if Chuuya had told him the weather. Then, more quietly: “Will the slug lift it for me?”
Chuuya froze. Annoyance coursed through him. Pure, molten annoyance.
“You can lift your own damn arm.”
“I can’t, actually.”
The matter-of-factness hit harder than any dramatic gasp would’ve. Chuuya muttered a string of curses and grabbed Dazai’s wrist as non-aggressively as he could manage (which wasn’t very). Dazai didn’t flinch—again—and that pissed Chuuya off even more.
“You’re a goddamn moron,” Chuuya grumbled as he guided the arm over the edge of the door so Dazai could crawl into the passenger seat.
“So Chuuya has said.”
“And I’m not helping your stupid bandaged ass again.”
“Chuuya has said that too.”
Dazai settled in, head against the window. Rain streaked down the glass beside his cheek. Chuuya slammed the door harder than necessary and got behind the wheel.
Halfway back to HQ, he heard Dazai murmur, almost conversationally:
“I’ve broken worse, you know.”
Chuuya’s grip tightened on the wheel; he didn’t answer. He wouldn’t give Dazai the satisfaction.
The rain picked up as they hit the main road, wipers squeaking across the windshield. Chuuya was two turns from the exit when Dazai shifted.
“Don’t take me to Mori-san,” Dazai said abruptly.
Chuuya didn’t even look at him. “Not an option.”
“I don’t need him.”
“You need someone who isn’t me to deal with that arm,” Chuuya snapped. “You’re not walking around with it dangling like a dead fish, it's disgusting. You're enough of a dead fish already.”
“My arm is not a dead fish.”
“It looks like one.”
Dazai sniffed. “Mori-san will be annoying.”
“The Boss is supposed to be annoying. That’s how doctors and creeps work.”
“Then I’d rather die.”
The grip Chuuya had on the wheel tightened until his knuckles went white. “You’re not dying, you goddamn waste-of-bandages. You’re going to the damn infirmary.”
“No.”
That was it. No reason. No elaboration. Just that flat, stubborn wall Dazai pulled up whenever anyone got too close to something he didn’t want touched—physically or otherwise.
Chuuya’s jaw clicked. “Shitty Dazai, stop being weird. You broke your arm. Just let the Boss fix it.”
“It’s fine as it is.”
“It’s broken, you moron.”
“That doesn’t mean Mori-san needs to see it.”
“Oh yeah? And why the hell not?”
“Because,” Dazai said, tone razor-thin, “I don’t want anyone touching it.”
That cracked something in Chuuya.
“Are you fucking kidding me,” he growled. “You can’t be selective about medical attention when you keep trying to kill yourself every goddamn Tuesday—”
“Exactly,” Dazai snapped back, sudden heat in his voice. “I can handle this. It doesn't hurt.”
“Oh my god,” Chuuya muttered, “you’re actually serious.”
The argument spiraled fast.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Shut up, you stubborn brat—”
“You're one to talk, stupid, short-tempered garden gnome—”
That did it.
Chuuya slammed on the brakes. The car lurched to a stop on the side of the wet road, and Dazai slid forward with a grunt, clutching his broken arm to his chest.
Eyes blazing, Chuuya twisted in his seat. “Fine, damnit. You don’t want the Boss to set it? Great. Fantastic. I’ll do it right here, right now.”
Dazai recoiled like Chuuya had produced a live eel. “Absolutely not. Do NOT touch me with your slimy little hands.”
“Oh, now they’re slimy? Now?”
“The slug looks like someone who shouldn’t be trusted with my delicate bones.”
“Your bones are about as delicate as stale bread, quit whining.”
Narrowing his eyes, Dazai pressed himself back against the door. “If Chuuya touches me I will scream.”
“Good,” Chuuya barked, leaning over across the center console. “Let the whole damn city hear what a pathetic loser you are.”
Dazai kicked out at him, weak and unbalanced. “Get away from me, you violent chibi—”
Chuuya caught his ankle and shoved it aside. “Hold still.”
“No.”
“YES.”
“NO—!”
Too late.
Chuuya grabbed Dazai’s forearm with a firm grip, braced his other hand at the elbow, and yanked with the clean, brutal efficiency of someone who had done this in alleyways before.
The bone clicked. Hard.
Dazai went stock-still, breath caught in his throat, eyes going wide like Chuuya had thrown him off a cliff.
Then—
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!” Dazai roared, voice cracking high.
Chuuya matched him decibel for decibel. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? YOU TOLD ME NOT TO TAKE YOU TO THE BOSS, SO I FIXED IT, YOU DAMN BRAT!”
“THE STUPID SLUG COULD HAVE WARNED ME!”
“I DID! By EXISTING IN THIS CAR WITH YOU!”
“That’s not a warning!”
“It should be!”
They glared at each other, both breathing hard.
Dazai cradled his newly aligned arm, scowling like a kicked cat. “Chuuya is a monster.”
“You’re the one who made me do it, shitty Dazai!”
“The slug enjoyed it.”
“NO, I DIDN’T!”
“Yes, he did.”
Chuuya slammed his hand against the wheel so hard the whole car shuddered. “Next time you break something, I’m leaving you in the damn gutter.”
With a dramatic sigh, Dazai leaned back against the seat. “Next time, I’ll simply die.”
“GOOD!”
“GOOD!”
They sat there in the charged silence of two idiots who would absolutely do this again.
Chuuya jerked the car back onto the road, tires hissing over wet asphalt. The windshield fogged almost instantly from the leftover body heat of their stupid wrestling match.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Then Dazai sniffed. Loudly. Dramatically. Like he wanted an audience.
Chuuya didn’t give him one. He stared straight ahead, muttering under his breath, “Breaks his own damn arm and then has the nerve to complain when someone actually fixes it—unbelievable, stupid, suicidal pain-immune scarecrow—”
“I can hear you,” Dazai said dully from the passenger seat.
“I know, brat.”
Dazai slumped farther down, clutching his arm tighter than before. His breathing had changed—soft, shallow, barely-there. The kind people used when pretending they weren’t in pain. The kind Dazai rarely ever let slip.
Chuuya’s eye twitched.
He didn’t look over. Wouldn’t. But he could feel it anyway—that shift in the air when Dazai’s bravado started thinning out. He had seen it rarely, only a handful of times—during the odd mission, in alleyways, under collapsed scaffolding, whenever Dazai took a hit he had no business surviving. He always shrugged it off for a while.
Then the pain would creep back in, quiet and sharp as teeth.
Dazai cleared his throat. “Chuuya's bedside manner is atrocious.”
“I’m not your damn nurse.”
“Clearly. A nurse would offer sympathy. She might even commit a double-suicide with me.”
“Sympathy is wasted on idiots. And no nurse is killing herself with you, shitty Dazai. Grow the hell up.”
The rain thickened, pelting the roof. For a second, the rhythm almost covered the sound of Dazai shifting—tiny movements, careful ones. Trying not to jostle the freshly-set bone. Trying not to let it show.
Chuuya gripped the wheel harder.
Why the hell was he noticing this? Why the hell did it bother him? It wasn’t like Dazai ever complained. He never complained, not about the things that mattered. Only about stupid, useless things for the sole purpose of pissing Chuuya off. Pain didn’t register on him the same way. Either he was numb to it or he had trained himself past it—neither option made Chuuya feel better.
Beside him, Dazai let out a small, nearly-silent breath. Something worse than a gasp or a hiss: resignation.
“Don’t,” Chuuya said before he could stop himself.
“Don’t what?” Dazai’s voice was thin, but still annoyingly amused. “Don’t breathe? Is Chuuya at long last giving me permission to kill myself?”
“Don’t act like nothing’s wrong.”
Silence. A real one.
Blank.
Then Dazai said, “Nothing is wrong.”
Chuuya almost pulled over again just to hit him. “Oh, eat shit. You’re pale as chalk. And you sound like you’re swallowing glass.”
“That’s how I always sound,” Dazai sulked. “It's my natural charm.”
“You’re not charming. You’re pathetic.”
“Pathetic in a charming way.”
“Dazai.”
Chuuya’s voice came out lower than intended. He hated that.
Dazai didn’t answer.
Chuuya risked a glance in his periphery. Dazai had his head tipped back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, rainlight catching along his lashes. The set of his mouth was too tight—not obvious pain, but the kind that hovered just behind the teeth. His fingers were clenched in his coat sleeve, knuckles white.
Still pretending. Always pretending.
Chuuya looked away fast.
Goddamn brat.
Goddamn reckless, broken brat who didn’t know how to take care of himself and didn’t want anyone else to try.
And Chuuya—idiot that he was—kept caring anyway. Not that he would ever say that. He would throw himself into traffic first.
So he muttered under his breath, “If you puke in my car I’m kicking you out on the damn highway.” It wasn't much of a threat, anyway, because Dazai would have loved to be thrown out into incoming traffic if given the chance.
“I’m not puking,” Dazai murmured, eyes closed now. “Just mildly inconvenienced.”
“Mildly—?” Chuuya smacked the steering wheel. “You broke a bone, mackerel. A whole bone. Inside your stupid arm.”
“Mmm,” Dazai hummed lazily. “Chuuya's fixer-upper technique was impressive.”
“It wasn’t for you,” Chuuya snapped.
“Of course not,” Dazai said softly. “Nothing ever is.”
That hit somewhere Chuuya didn’t want to examine. He choked on the response forming in his throat and settled for a furious glare at the road.
The rest of the drive passed in a simmering, uncomfortable quiet. Chuuya kept muttering under his breath. Dazai kept pretending he didn’t hear.
Both of them knew exactly why they were acting like this.
Neither of them would admit it.
Chuuya took the last turn sharper than necessary, tires hissing against puddles. He didn’t bother heading all the way to HQ—he’d had more than enough of Dazai for one night.
For one lifetime, honestly.
He pulled into a narrow side street, slammed the gearshift into park, and exhaled through his teeth.
“Out,” he said, not looking over. “I’m done with you.”
Beside him, fabric rustled. Dazai made a soft, theatrical noise—the kind meant to suggest he was rising from a coffin, not a car seat.
“Chuuya is abandoning an injured partner,” he crooned faintly.
“You’re not injured,” Chuuya snapped. “You’re a suicidal idiot with a fixed arm. Key difference.”
“I don’t know,” Dazai mused, voice thin but amused, “it feels like emotional neglect.”
“Get. Out.”
Dazai sighed as though deeply burdened by the universe’s cruelty. He swung his legs out of the car with that annoying fluidity he always had—but even then, Chuuya caught the micro-hitch of breath when his shoe hit the pavement and the jolt traveled up his newly set bone.
Dazai covered it seamlessly, of course. Straightened his coat. Smoothed his hair.
Pretended.
Chuuya wasn’t about to acknowledge it.
One hand on the doorframe, Dazai leaned down. His expression was half-lidded, faintly smug—the exact look he wore whenever he had won something Chuuya didn’t know he was even competing over.
“Well then,” Dazai murmured, “until our next adventure, partner.”
Chuuya threw a hand up like he was warding off a curse. “Don’t call me that. Ever.”
Dazai only smiled wider—because of course he did—and shut the door with his elbow.
No wave. No goodbye. He just turned, coat fluttering in the headlights, and disappeared down the alley like a shadow that had someplace better to be.
Chuuya sat there gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles ached.
Stupid brat.
Stupid self-destructive, smug, impossible brat.
Why the hell did he even care?
He knew why.
He hated knowing why.
“Idiot,” Chuuya muttered, jammed the car into drive, and tore off in the opposite direction.
The rain swallowed them both.