Work Text:
Dazai wanted to die. That was pre-established. That was well known. He was not shy. He did not keep it to himself. He figured that he could stand to be annoying about something so important. After all, how lonely it would be to leave the mortal coil alone.
Pain travelled up his leg with the force of his feet hitting the ground, one after the other. His knees buckled, unable to keep up with his increasing speed, ankles screaming in protest as he stumbled.
One thing he did, regrettably, forget often was that a painless suicide was not something all that possible in current circumstances. Not while he was still on good terms working at the Agency. Not, as horrible as it was, when there was an irate nuclear bomb somewhere in Yokohama at any given moment that had declared himself the sole taker of Dazai’s life.
His lungs burned, ribs barely moving as Dazai struggled to get air in. He could’ve blamed it on the dust and soil, but that wouldn’t be the full story. That was the joy of being a story-teller – read: liar – the world was as he made it, the situations as he declared they were. Not that any of that logic was at the forefront of his mind.
It was one thing to have his perfect end denied, another altogether to continue to align himself with a reason to continue living – the same reason he left the Mafia for – when in this moment, all he wanted was to die.
But he couldn’t. Because that would mean he wouldn’t make it to Chuuya on time. Chuuya, already on borrowed time in the Mafia and accepting of the nature of his employment – it pissed Dazai off immensely. Of all people to settle, it was Chuuya who claimed his own aptitude in playing the cards he’d been dealt. Never in a million years, though hopefully not that long, would it have appeared that Dazai would be the one telling him to raise his standards.
Though that must’ve been the effect of being with the Agency and understanding what life could be like somewhere just a little bit more beautiful. The mafioso would claim he wasn’t made for such a life, being born to violence and chaos, but the brunette would argue differently. He would argue that he was born into love that never got its chance to evolve.
Chuuya would argue that a beautiful kind of life did not suit a monster like him, all while staring Dazai in the face with an inability – or perhaps a refusal – to see the irony.
Dazai stumbled again, cursing as he couldn’t bring his muscles to respond the way he needed, slowing down despite his mind’s urging to push harder and run faster. Mori taught him to endure – how to resist torture, and how to push his limits. He taught him visualisation, an effective tool in redirecting agony, but for all the thoughts of oxygen travelling to muscles, of faster feet, he’d grown soft with the lack of practice.
Run. Faster. Run.
There were few moments when Chuuya’s insistence to train so often and so hard seemed justifiable, especially during a time where Dazai’s mind was the asset that kept him alive. Dazai always called him conceited, screeching his vanity for all to hear. After all, why else would Chuuya carve himself into Adonis? If not for himself? If not to protect a heart he struggled to believe was there? If not to protect his heart by protecting those he cared about?
Dazai hated admitting when he was right, but it wouldn’t measure up to the pure terror flowing through his veins like poison. A foul thought came to him – what if he wasn’t strong enough to catch him this time? What if he fell through his arms like sand?
Like Odasaku.
He was sure he had a twisted ankle, two perhaps, with the way he struggled against the pain, struggling to spur himself forward. Chuuya would bound towards his targets, spear through them with all the power of a god, the same god leeching his life away with every graviton.
Please.
He was closer, nearly close enough. His heart hammered in his chest, staggering to a stop as he balanced his options. As he remembered all the times he’d been hurt during corruption. It hadn’t ever been Chuuya’s fault, not when his mind was taken prisoner inside his own body, but his eyes were guilty and cold when he looked upon a pitiful, injured Dazai.
How disgusting to regret every time he’d played on the man’s misplaced guilt. He’d been speared through by metal, pinned to the ground and a wall, once. All things considered, corruption should’ve killed Dazai a long time ago, leaving him blissfully nonexistent. Not with broken bones and bruised skin.
And Chuuya could’ve died everytime for the plain and simple fact that he had to rely on someone else to sever Arahabaki’s connection.
Please. Fuck.
He looked around for something to bring himself level with, only to be thrown several feet back, the wind taken out of him with the impact of hitting the ground. Pressing himself up on his elbows, whatever air was left in his lungs left them.
Face to face with Chuuya, he could see the damage he was taking, had taken. The blood looked different when Dazai knew he was late. Nothing more than flesh wounds and bruising in a thirty-second stint, but with every second past three minutes, the chance of fatal injury increased.
He belatedly realised that the whine he’d been ignoring was him, at the thought that he hadn’t even contacted Yosano before launching himself into a concrete wasteland. He was prey to the man shrouded in red, his only chance of saving himself and Chuuya being a final effort to get close.
Come here. Chuuya. Come here.
Please.
Please.
“Please,” he whispered, completely accidentally. This isn’t it.
But there was no relief when Dazai reached him. There was no relief when his hand made contact with burning skin, slick with blood. None when he stumbled on his feet to give Chuuya someone to anchor to as he fell, the barest amount of strength leaning him forward to avoid crumbling to the ground.
Dazai’s arms were wrapped around his torso, cheek pressed to Chuuya’s when he felt it. Or rather, when he didn’t.
No.
Someone a short distance away was shouting.
No. No, no. No.
He couldn’t take a breath in. More people were shouting.
Don’t you fucking dare.
The detective brought them to the ground, rearranging the limp body in his arms to get a view of his partner’s face. Lax. Bruised and bloodied. Someone was next to him.
Chuuya. Chuuya.
He was saying his name out loud, wasn’t he? Had to have been. His throat hurt, that was the only explanation.
PLEASE.
That was a yell. He knew what those felt like on strained vocal cords. He must’ve been yelling a lot. His arms were being held, he only knew because he could feel himself pulling away, the head settled in the palm of his right hand lolling left and right as he struggled against them.
Fuck, no. NO. DON’T.
A story-teller would say he died heroically. A liar would say his sacrifice meant something.
Dazai knew better.
When Dazai arrived at Chuuya’s apartment far later than he would’ve liked, two people were already there.
There was a katana at his throat within a second. He would’ve welcomed it slicing his head clean off of his body. Of course, Kouyou wasn’t that merciful. As the head of interrogation, he imagined she had years worth of rage to work through. She wouldn’t give him what he wanted so dearly, so easily.
He was rambling.
“Get out.”
Dazai didn’t move. He stood in the doorway, wondering why they let him open the door to begin with. Were they expecting someone else?
“The nerve you have showing up here,” she hissed, red dotting his neck bandage where she pressed deeper. “Get out.”
Ah, so that was it then. Mori hadn’t managed to bring him back, and Fukuzawa’s offer of Yosano’s assistance had been declined on the grounds that there was no-one to bring back. He couldn’t even feel grateful for the President stepping in, for Yosano’s begrudging willingness to face the Mafia – all for him – not when he was still breathing and Chuuya wasn’t.
Nakahara Chuuya was dead. The sentence sounded wrong. Like it was never meant to be uttered.
“Kouyou-san–”
She shrugged the hand off her shoulder and charged at Dazai. The ability dissolved the moment it touched Dazai, but the interaction between Kouyou’s Golden Demon flaring into existence with its sword raised as if to enact its own vengeance and Hirtosu’s shockwave created a big enough disturbance to knock the detective off his feet and through the doorway, back into the small landing that housed the elevator to the penthouse suite.
He laid there against the wall, strings cut and face hidden by his hair. Only the finest for Chuuya. There was an argument happening in the apartment now, something about property damage and an abrupt intake of breath like Kouyou remembered something important. Like that the person who was living in the apartment was no longer alive.
When he looked up, he could see the older man readjusting the executive’s kimono. Dazai would’ve expected her to be wearing mourning garb by now, though if the poorly-hidden rings under her eyes were any indication, she was probably knee-deep in denial.
Kouyou very much gave the impression that she was untouchable. Out of necessity, the brunette knew that for sure. She didn’t blossom in the dark for no reason, she made it so. Pieced herself into something formidable, sequestering her rage and grief away and letting both leak through in minute amounts while executing her duties.
She had, for as long as Dazai had known her, been untouchable. Not infallible, nor untouchable in the more literal sense, but her grief had pulled her in a weary slouch on the couch Dazai and Chuuya played videogames on. He lingered at the door, unsure of what to do with the attention Hirotsu was giving him, eyes questioning.
He resolved to ignore it, moving like a ghost through the apartment towards the room he was seeking. He didn’t ask when the funeral would be, yet. Were his favourite flowers still Camellias? If the fresh ones in a vase that Chuuya didn’t own were any indication, he was still partial to them.
Dazai stopped in front of Chuuya’s bedroom door, staring at the door’s handle. If he touched it, Chuuya would no longer be the last one to, and Dazai’s rotten touch would never be replaced. But he had to get in.
His chest stuttered with the effort to breathe, looking up from the handle and reaching for it, pushing it open and barely taking a step before gasping. Smells like Chuuya. The apartment was lived in. It was his home, of course it would bare the evidence of being such.
He didn’t turn the light on. Didn’t bother to check the rest of the room. Kicked his shoes and and left his coat on the ground where he shrugged it off. Tore his bolo tie off without care to how much he was tugging his own neck.
Fell onto the bed. It was comfortable. It was plush. It smelled like Chuuya.
Come back. Come back. COME BACK.
When Dazai woke up, the blackout curtains Chuuya bought for his migraines were drawn open and the world was spilling in. The detective turned his face into the covers. He was hoping one of them would run him through while he was asleep.
“He’s awake now,” a voice he knew to be Chuuya’s mentor, now friend, sounded from… the bathroom? Judging by the echo, at least. “I am kicking him out of here.”
A few moments of shuffling passed before a harsh scoff, and an oddly gentle voice soothed her. “Leave him be. He’ll leave in his own time.”
“He doesn’t deserve to be here!”
Dazai felt himself shake, face buried in the mattress. It’d been awhile since he was so out of control, such a slave to his body’s reactions. He imagined that was another reason Kouyou despised him. He was better at hiding than her.
The two were obviously going through chibi’s stuff. What interest did they have in Chuuya’s bathroom– oh. Chuuya’s medication. Why else?
Chuuya had a first-aid kit in there too, but it was more like a small chest. Another basket held all his medications, mostly custom doses for pain relief. The last time Dazai had poked around in there, he discovered pills and IV bags of medication with labels in familiar scrawl with ‘Neuralgia’ penned on them, resolving to ask how it’d gotten so bad when he hadn’t used corruption for several years. The effects of Chuuya’s ability on his body were trial and error, as was finding any measures of relief.
He squeezed his eyes shut tighter when he remembered grasping Chuuya’s shoulders and feeling them tense under his palms, ignoring the barking dog in favour of pressing his fingers into the bulging muscle. Chuuya’s body required the care of an elite olympic athlete, massages and physios, the kind of professionals to make sure he could move at his best with the least amount of pain possible. He wanted to say he needed more than Mori.
He deserved more than Mori. Who? You? Who let him die?
The abuse his partner’s body had been through over the years made Dazai gag in his mouth, refusing to throw up on sheets that probably smelled more like him and his putrid sweat now than Chuuya’s musk and cologne and body wash.
He imagined Chuuya under his hands, finding solace in Dazai’s care. The dream was interrupted.
“Get up,” she spat, like the words were vile. He was vile. He also didn’t move. “Get up.”
Her fingers were in his hair and tugging him up, a harsh gasp leaving the brunette as his hands shot out to try and balance. Rather than letting him, she tightened her grip and pulled him backwards. He fell to the side from his knees, reaching to detach her hand but aborting the action when she let go herself.
The next words out of the executive’s mouth made it obvious she’d been inspecting her hand. “You’re putting dirt all over his sheets, boy. Have you no respect?”
None.
Dazai dragged himself up, noticing that his coat, bolo tie and shoes were no longer… in the room? He glanced at Hirotsu, who only blinked back at him. He had the basket of Chuuya’s medications. The brunette opted to brace his hands against his knees for leverage to get up, staring at them and focusing on every ounce of pain in his body.
There was no way for Hirotsu to know about his painful ankles except for the amount of times he lent his shoulder when his rude dog was off somewhere else, or, god forbid, refused to help. It happened more often than he wanted to admit. The older man asked about it anyway, and Dazai shook his head in dismissal and waved him off by raising two fingers from his knees.
“Do not get back into those clothes,” she huffed. Dazai raised an eyebrow without looking at her, certain that his message had gotten across when a frustrated noise tore from her throat, and she marched over to Chuuya’s wardrobe. What a sight it was, seeing – well, hearing – her acting so uncouth. If only he could forget why.
Forget his part in this. But he couldn’t, and he wouldn’t ever. He just wanted to die. He wanted Chuuya.
Coat hangers screeched as she searched through the clothing roughly. She wouldn’t find anything in there that would fit him, and Dazai found it hard to believe she had the humour to pass him something too small. Kouyou was setting herself up for disappointment. It was proven that misery looked for more misery. Really, she was doing it to herself now.
A particularly loud thump from something falling drew a sharp exhale through her nose. “Careful,” he muttered, only partially out of care, and was left with no time to ruminate on how pissed off his old coworker would be when– “OW!”
He held his hand over his right eye, pain pulsing behind it and face contorted into a scowl as he stared between the woman’s hand retreating back to her body, and the… hairbrush that had been ditched at him, now laying innocently on the ground after bouncing off his face.
The bitch aimed for his bad eye.
“You are an ungrateful piece of shit,” she said with disdain.
“Yeah, I’m the ungrateful one. You’re the one that can’t let Kyouka-chan go.”
She spun with fire in her eyes, her kimono flaring out around her and looking every part the demon her counterpart was. Dazai’s eyes lowered to the hangers in her hand, clothes… too big for Chuuya, they’re–
“You let him go for too long.”
Ah. That hurt. That really hurt. His skin stung like he’d been slapped. He had been, on his left cheek. Dazai hadn’t seen her approach or seen her hand raise, but now the clothes were closer and he could see clearly once he turned his head back. Definitely too big for Chuuya. A black tag with the size and brand in gold stitching was in his eye-line. His hand fell from his right eye, nothing but bright light and vague shadows. He already had a headache.
Kouyou pulled him up by his collar, ignoring the wincing at the sudden weight on what were probably aching limbs from his admittedly… admirable sprint towards Chuuya, having missed Hirotsu shift on his feet.
The clothing was shoved into his chest, his hands shooting out to grab it. The only reason she likely hadn’t thrown it at him was her respect for Chuuya’s belongings, though given the size– his heart squeezed. They were ironed. He had them pressed. They were his size.
“Clean yourself up,” he walked out of the room, nose wrinkled. “He has everything you could possibly need in there.”
Of course he does. Chuuya is organised, keeps his shelves stocked because he is– was a functioning human being who could go to the shops and feed himself even when he was tired, and keep his alcohol in one place instead of strewn throughout his abode.
When Kouyou had said ‘everything’, he hadn’t gleaned the meaning. He hadn’t known it was restocked with new additions staring him in the face. Itching cream, wound cream, scar tape and bandages sat on the counter when he walked in, their presence far more offensive than Dazai’s own rancid reflection. Chuuya wouldn’t just leave them there on top, so Kouyou or Hirotsu had to have moved them from whatever hiding place they were in so he could see.
Her voice was the last he heard as she retreated out of the apartment, from the sounds of it. How much had they moved out while he was asleep? What did his apartment look like outside of his bedroom? “He can carve himself up, for all I care.”
He didn’t hear Hirotsu’s hum: “You don’t mean that.”
Steam blurred the edges of the mirror until the room had no corners anymore, just a soft watercolor of tile and shadow. Water beat a steady rhythm against Dazai’s shoulders, hot enough that his skin flushed everywhere it touched. He tipped his head forward and let the stream drum against the crown of his skull, as if the heat might drill a clean hole straight through and rinse him hollow.
The bathroom still smelled like Chuuya: leather polish, faintly, and sharp citrus threaded through the soap. Dazai breathed it in where it settled under his ribs and stayed there.
His bandages were already a pale ruin at his feet, ghost-white linen soaking dark, coiling like snakes. He watched them, the way they unfurled and drifted toward the drain before catching on the grate. He didn’t kick them away, hadn’t been bothered to unwind them before he stood under the spray, water collecting along his collarbones and slipping down in thin, uncertain paths.
Every small domestic oversight flecked the room with the suggestion of recent movement, like heat shimmering on asphalt where a bike had only just driven away, loud as it accelerated.
A droplet slid over his eyelashes. The world fractured briefly, then reformed. He rubbed his right eye.
The water pressure hiccuped, a tiny cough in the pipes, and the sound bounced strangely in the cramped room. Dazai closed his eyes. Behind them, the past did what it always did when invited: it opened a door and let itself in. A flicker of a grin that had been all defiance. A coat slung over one shoulder. A voice roughened by laughter or shouting, it was always hard to tell which, that could cut him free or cut him open, depending on the day.
He pressed his palm flat against the tiled wall. Heat had soaked the ceramic, but underneath lay a stubborn cold that never quite moved. Foam gathered along his forearm from the neglected body wash – Chuuya’s. He watched it slide toward his wrist, clinging until gravity won. His skin, pruned and pink, looked unfamiliar. As though he were borrowing it.
Borrowing it from who, though? What cruel god ruled in the universe? What god lived through its creations, experiencing the full spectrum of human and animal life? Through its plants and solid rock? Why did the universe experience itself through Dazai, of all things?
Why did it want anguish?
He tilted his face up into the spray. Water filled his ears, muffling the world into a distant oceanic hush. For a moment, he let himself drift there while his mind replayed gestures he hadn’t considered memorised. The quick flick of a wrist while decanting wine, and boots clicking on hardwood, matching the rhythm of his own step.
The drain began its low, hungry whirl when he turned the tap off. He could imagine the silence beyond the bathroom door, the corridor that held their arguments with scuff marks and holes in the walls, the kitchen where a mug would sit cooling. His chest tightened, a slow cinching, as if some invisible hand were checking the fit of a suit too small for him.
Dazai brushed a hand over the glass as he stepped out, leaving a clear arc that immediately fogged again. He reached for a soft towel, wrapping it around himself. Stood still listening for a second pair of footsteps that would not come.
On his search for something sharp in his cabinet, Dazai found manicure scissors, slightly curved but sharp at the point. Good enough. He could make do with opening old wounds instead.
And bandages. Too many bandages for Chuuya to use on his own, even being prepared.
The sting helped. Watching the blood dot his arms and legs helped. He imagined two deep cuts running vertically up his forearms, accepting the fact that he wouldn’t be doing that in this apartment. Probably wouldn’t do it in the Agency dorms… no, definitely not. Not after the Agency did him the favour of offering to help. A more courteous person would stay with them, or at least message while MIA.
He didn’t know where his phone was. Oh well.
He trailed the point of the scissors over the skin of his arms lightly, watching it divide single red dots into two. The stimulation wasn’t enough, though, and he took to roughly dragging it across the skin of his thighs.
He felt… bad, staring at the sopping bandages in the shower after an undetermined amount of time had passed. Watching pink water run down the sink from his arms, he resolved to remove the towel from his waist to step back into the shower and wash his legs. The bandages waited by the drain, pale lengths caught in the grate, neither leaving nor staying. He took care of them before continuing.
Slowly massaged the itch cream over red and white lines with care he rarely showed his own skin – wound cream after the first had sunk in. Without the surplus of bandages, Dazai could have been convinced that Chuuya intended for the creams to be for himself. Now the detective was left to take proper care of his scars.
Because Chuuya would have. Because Chuuya wanted him to. Would want him to.
So he used the scar tape too, where he could. Dazai wrapped his bandages with care and pinned them properly instead of tucking the ends in. Dazai brushed his hair and dried it gently with a different, smaller towel to the one he used for his body. He couldn’t remember if he was meant to brush it before using the towel. If his eyes were closed, he could imagine someone else was doing it. Someone who cared more about his hair than he did.
Dazai put on the clothes bought for him. He imagined they would be soft enough to wear without bandages. Chuuya’s care was quiet, but so loud in the absence of it. Dazai had always and secretly dreaded the day he found out which of them died first. In the joy and relief of going first, he’d probably still feel bad leaving his partner behind.
Only that didn’t happen.
Within twenty minutes of stepping out of the bathroom, the trash had been taken out, the fridge inspected for what would go out of code first, and lavender tea steamed in a mug with fish on it. Dazai spotted his coat and bolo tie hung up by the door, and his shoes at the genkan.
The only thing the brunette couldn’t bring himself to do after sitting on the couch and sipping Chuuya’s favourite tea in silence was change his partner’s bedsheets. He laid down on a different patch of mattress, and closed his eyes.
Dazai Osamu wasn’t seen for a week.
The sheets needed to be changed.
The demon had risen from his slumber to open the curtains and windows, open the apartment so it wouldn’t smell of decaying detective. Dazai could smell himself though, despite lathering himself in Chuuya’s products.
He smelled like a coward, hiding away. His eyes ached from staring at the ceiling. Now they prickled at the corners, knowing that Chuuya’s funeral had most definitely been held by now. He could only be thankful that Mori hadn’t visited the apartment, not entirely certain of what was more regrettable behaviour – the boss finding him dead there, or killing Chuuya’s boss in his own apartment.
Kouyou and Hirotsu had been there. The woman swept through like he didn’t exist, ensuring everything was clear and clean. She’d obviously be handling his Will and assets. It was only a matter of time before he got kicked out, so Dazai might as well make the most of the space.
Of where he was trying – he was – to rebuild with Chuuya, rekindle something he’d destroyed. He was done tying knots in the red string connecting them in an effort to repair, he had been trying and it felt like his partner was receptive to it.
Hirotsu sat with him when he came and asked him the day before if he had his phone. He didn’t seem surprised that the answer was no
So when a third pair of footsteps sounded, Dazai was too busy wallowing in self-hatred to recognise them. It took three confident strides into his own bedroom for the brunette to look up, sit up, and gape.
Dazai’s heart froze in his chest, his mouth falling open in a pathetic attempt to breathe in.
Chuuya’s irritation shone clear as day in his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
There was nothing wrong with him.
The detective’s eyes searched him for any hint of pain. He wasn’t holding himself like he was injured. His face wasn’t swollen with bruising, but the divot in his nose bridge where it’d been broken before Dazai had met him was still there.
There was no such thing as a miraculous recovery from death within a week, which he distantly realised while trailing his eyes disbelievingly over his partner’s face could only be the work of one Yosano Akiko.
His confusion must’ve shown – something must’ve been showing, because Chuuya’s eyebrows drew closer, and oh, there was hair missing, he had a slit in his eyebrow on one side where… it’d healed? But Yosano’s ability couldn’t heal what was already healed, and it wasn’t there a week ago, Dazai would’ve noticed the delinquent having done something like that – so Chuuya can’t have been healed straight away.
He was rambling. His partner was staring at him, fists balled by his sides.
“I fucking asked you a question, shitty Dazai.” The brunette felt himself shiver, overwhelmed after a week without that voice. “Why are you in my damn bed?!”
They weren’t that close. Not yet. Dazai wouldn’t push that boundary, but if the events that occurred a week ago had been different, Dazai would’ve brought this tiny man back to his apartment, helped him get clean, pumped him with meds, and laid him in his bed.
Dazai would’ve stayed. But the Chuuya in front of him didn’t know any of that, and from the sounds of it, didn’t know that he’d stayed in his apartment for a week while he was away. Meanwhile, the detective was making connections that he should’ve made over the past week.
They weren’t retrieving the medication, they were bringing it to him.
They weren’t cleaning or clearing out his apartment, they were keeping it for him.
He didn’t have his phone. The Agency couldn’t contact him if they wanted to. Kouyou or Hirotsu could have told him, but they didn’t. That could be used as some form of confirmation that it was touch-and-go for at least a few days. Was it Mori who waited? Who asked after presumably declining?
No-one said he was dead.
“Why, chibikko, because it’s comfortable of course!” He said, sounding so incredibly fake with his voice cracking on the second word that Chuuya’s expression loosened a bit. To avoid dealing with it, Dazai stood, walked into the bathroom, and locked himself in there.
“Oi, bastard!” Four aggressive knocks sounded against the wood within ten seconds. Obviously Chuuya needed the time to recover from the piss-poor effort of hiding how affected he was at the mere sight of the mafioso. Speaking of which. “I need a piss, get the hell out of there!”
Dazai opened it, not before waiting for another four knocks and a threat of beating the door down, and flicked the brim of that awful hat, letting the tip of his index finger hit Chuuya’s forehead just to check. He side-stepped the half-assed shove and didn’t turn to watch the door close behind him.
Why hadn’t he thought to find Chuuya’s fucking hat? His prized possession. How far was his head up his ass?!
Kouyou observed him from the door with an impassive expression. Dazai’s hand itched to pick up a hairbrush and ditch it at her. His cheeks flushed.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He demanded, sounded like the teenager she refused to give the time of day.
“You could sweat losing him a little,” she sneered back. “You still failed. His heart stopped—” so did Dazai’s, for the second it took for her to say it, “—and he was in an induced coma barely alive before the boss swallowed his pride and accepted the Agency’s invitation.” Her voice was, duly, dripping with scorn. “You were too busy drowning in your own misery to check for yourself.”
He had half a mind to say that he didn’t have his phone, but that even sounded pathetic to him.
Her voice was strained with more than composed frustration. “Can I expect you at his actual funeral, Dazai Osamu?”
“You won’t have to worry about that,” he gritted his teeth, glowering at her as his lips barely twitched into a smile. “We’ll be lowered into the same plot.”
Her eyes widened before she schooled her expression as the toilet flushed behind a closed door. “Your jealousy is absurd.”
“I hate you,” he said pleasantly as the water from the tap switched off.
He staggered forward, taking too long to stand upright again for it not to be obvious that he was hurt. Chuuya ignored it though. “Don’t insult Ane-san in my apartment, jackass,” another push to his back and Dazai got the message, dodging his hand and striding towards the doorway from which the woman did not move.
He glared at Kouyou.
“Tuck that bottom lip in, boy,” she smirked, walking out of the doorway. Dazai made to follow her before he choked as he was pulled back by the collar, back arching as Chuuya tugged again.
“What’s your problem, you walking waste of bandages?”
Bandages that you bought for me, Dazai’s mind provided. “My problem?!”
Chuuya seemed to detect the irritation when his voice skipped an octave, grunting and letting go with one last shove. “Forget I asked, fucking hell. Get out of my bedroom, you weirdo.”
He shot him a wide-eyed, incredulous look over his shoulder that the mafioso scoffed at. Dazai’s stomach was in knots at the familiarity.
Kouyou was looking comfortable sitting at Chuuya’s kitchen island. It looked weird and out of place with her elaborate dress – he’d learned as a teenager that disrespecting her in his mind was far less trouble than doing so out loud, even if she did see through it and hit him with her fan – but he could imagine her dressed down outside of work, looking right at home with her ward.
He wanted to puff his cheeks out. Absurd. Absurd?
“Dazai-san.”
Drawn from his internal misery, Dazai nodded to Hirotsu, who had approached him with… ugh. “Thank you, Hirotsu-san,” he turned on his phone screen and tried to ignore how pinched his expression felt at the sight of messages from… yes, everyone at the Agency.
How embarrassing.
“Mm, I have a question.” He waited for the polite nod. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He intentionally didn’t ask about the venomous snake filling the room with her idle chatter and floral fragrance.
The older man didn’t seem surprised at the question. He had only visited three days whilst Kouyou had been there all seven. “I didn’t realise you didn’t have your phone until yesterday. I thought the Agency had told you, though I can see the misunderstanding now.”
Dazai cocked his head. “Misunderstanding?”
“I believe Kouyou-san was under the assumption that you had asked the Agency to hold off on offering Yosano’s services.”
Dazai gawked. He remembered Kunikida’s abrupt handling of him, sitting him away from the carnage and kneeling in front of him while checking for injuries. His hands were gentle but his expression was harsh, as it always was when pinched with concern. He remembered Yosano’s stony expression when she shared a glance with Ranpo, green eyes alert to everything going on around them. They must’ve decided together at that moment.
They mustn’t have made up their mind before seeing the state Dazai was in.
Hirotsu’s eyes twinkled knowingly. “I knew you wouldn’t prevent the Agency from doing so. Her ire is largely directed at Mori-san for his hesitation in accepting the help.”
So Mori nearly let him die…
The Agency wasn’t stupid. They wouldn’t ask for nothing in return. “So Mori owes us a favour, then?”
“It would appear so,” Hirotsu had seemingly no trouble admitting. “I’ll be taking my leave. I have a mission tonight, but before that Mori has requested I coach him on how to speak with Kouyou for the next week.”
Dazai’s face split with the comment. “Ah, you should advise him that a week certainly won’t be enough for her to forgive him. A month, at least.”
“Shall I mention that you said so?”
“Please.”
“Have you been ordering food?” Dazai made a questioning noise. For some reason, he wasn’t chastised for not talking. Or slouching over the island counter. “There’s still food in here. You so lazy you couldn’t be fucked making yourself something easy?”
The detective stood up and began walking away. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
“Stay out of my room, fuckface!”
The detective flipped him off before retreating back to the bedroom. He flopped on the bed, much like he had the first day he’d arrived. Chuuya should’ve been grateful that he didn’t slam the door vindictively.
Not because he wanted to be able to close his eyes and hear Chuuya, see him moving around and muttering to himself in his own space.
Surprisingly, there was no toddler tantrum or stomping feet towards the bedroom, so Dazai settled, turning to lay flat on his back. He held his phone above his head and turned it on to check the array of messages he’d been sent.
The most recent ones were from Kenji, sending him updates about what was happening in the office that morning; and several preceding them were from Kunikida, Yosano, and Ranpo, informing him that Chuuya, by several different names, was okay and to let them know when he thought he’d return to the office.
The one before those was Fukuzawa, confirming that the Agency would extend Yosano’s services again after a personal visit from Ozaki Kouyou. They’d been waiting for his confirmation, or at least confirmation that he was okay. Ranpo might have made the decision to go ahead knowing that the brunette wouldn’t respond, though there was a chance Dazai’s whereabouts was discussed on Kouyou’s visit too.
So she’d been busy… Good to know.
He responded to Kenji with a gif of a bunny that he would undoubtedly show Kyouka; to Kunikida with a picture of him holding up a peace sign that he would undoubtedly show to Ranpo first to ascertain if he was okay, followed by showing the rest of the office with barely-restrained fury. The rest would find out that way.
Lastly, he messaged Yosano. Thank you.
The least he could do. Perhaps he could pilfer an expensive bottle from Chuuya’s collection on his way out. He could do with fresh air, probably. Apparently people needed that. As good of an excuse as any to spur him to actually leave.
His face heated like Kouyou’s sharp disapproval was still directed towards him. He dropped the phone to his side and breathed deep, despising every moment of survival in a bedroom that wasn’t his. He didn’t make to scratch at his bandages, though.
It was probably ten minutes before Chuuya ventured into the room. One of Dazai’s many talents was put to use: feeling the mafioso’s blood pressure rise without needing a machine. It was an atmospheric thing, though most people Chuuya came across experienced atmospheric anomalies only when being crushed into the ground via gravity.
“Why are you still chucking a bitch fit?” Dazai held a hand up to his ear without saying a word. “Start talking or get the hell out of my apartment.”
“But you made me lunch,” he whined quietly. “You wouldn’t throw me out after the extra effort.”
The certainty in his voice hardened Chuuya’s own. “I’m starving, actually. I’ll eat two fucking portions. Be grateful I’m feeding your ass at all.”
Dazai blinked. Did Chuuya wake up in an infirmary? Or had he been moved already? Was he stressing out?
Dazai lifted himself onto his elbows, searching Chuuya’s expression for any remnant of stress. He pulled his face into so many different expressions, Dazai wanted to catalogue them all. He didn’t find anything amiss, but that didn’t mean that the man wasn’t better at hiding things than he used to be.
One way to find out, in any case. Dazai wrinkled his nose. “You smell like hospital.”
“Who’s fault is that?”
In Dazai’s defence, he hadn’t made a face on purpose. But Chuuya must’ve seen him wince, because he didn’t continue, walking into the bathroom and moving things around from the sounds of it, unintelligible muttering echoing just loud enough to tell he was speaking.
“Would it have killed you to use your own shit?”
He sat up and looked to his left where Chuuya was holding his shampoo bottle. “I don’t have anything.”
Chuuya pulled his ‘Why-can’t-you-just-be-normal’ face, the one usually replaced by the ‘I-forgot-somehow-that-you-don’t-want-to-be-alive’ one, finally superseded by the oh so clever ‘You-are-alive-and-I’m-going-to-force-the-issue-by-remaining-in-your-vinicity.’
Like clockwork.
“Go eat. I’m changing the sheets.”
Dazai frowned. He was never the one to start the talk. Lie. “Chuuya–”
“Out.”
Dazai wasn’t brave. He walked out and found two large portions of omurice sitting on the kitchen counter. Longer than ten minutes then.
He didn’t eat alone, surprisingly. He’d barely finished a quarter of his plate when the mafioso emerged with wet hair and new clothes.
“Did you go through my wardrobe?”
Dazai shoved food in his mouth, talking with his mouth full. “Kouyou-san.”
Chuuya was definitely stressed then, if he’d only just noticed what Dazai was wearing. Better at hiding. Even if he didn’t like not knowing something about Chuuya. He didn’t deserve to. But maybe… he could. Someday. Not any day in the past week, though.
His heart ached when Chuuya sat down next to him and stared down at his food, picking up his utensils without another word. He bit his lip at the sight of the tip of Chuuya’s ear changing colour slightly.
It wasn’t fair. Something was wrong with the universe. Chuuya wasn’t meant to be endearing. Adorable? Sure. But endearing? He was going to vomit this omurice all over Chuuya’s spotless counter.
“Stop.” He glared. “You’re thinking annoying shit. I can feel it.”
“Just wondering about something.” Dazai lowered his utensil slightly at the delicious colour spotting his partner’s cheeks. What could possibly do that?
“Well then? Spit it out.”
“I saw the neuralgia meds,” he tried to say casually, holding eye contact. Something else must’ve been on Chuuya’s mind, but the constipated look on his face was enough to deter a very slightly guilty Dazai, if he was being honest.
There was no way he could have… that conversation. The red string knot-tying conversation. Not for a while now. But this? He could do. If Chuuya played along.
“How long have you needed them?”
Chuuya’s eyes drifted to somewhere over Dazai’s shoulder, lowering to Dazai’s plate before meeting his eyes again. “The migraines got worse. Boss thinks it’s occipital neuralgia.”
Dazai left a pause. Worse – presumably sometime in the past four years. The mafioso didn’t want to talk about it, or say it. The brunette didn’t push him to answer the question he actually asked, diverting to something else. “Has he looked into nerve disorders?”
Chuuya shrugged, taking another mouthful. Unlike Dazai, he didn’t speak with his mouth full or eat with his mouth open. It spoke volumes of Kouyou’s etiquette training growing up. The only time he forgot was when he was raging at a videogame. “He’s looked into lots of shit. Same as you.”
“He’s a doctor, he should know better.”
Chuuya scoffed. “Way to absolve yourself of responsibility.”
The brunette wished Kouyou was there to slap him again. Corruption was their responsibility, always had been. Dazai let him down. “It’s peripheral nerve damage.”
“You sound sure about that.”
But Chuuya was prepared to die. He kept talking, moving the food around his plate now and staring at the food prepared for him as he did so. Didn’t look up at Chuuya again. “Explains the pain, cramps, twitching and why your blood pressure dips so low. And your sensory issues,” he mentioned pointedly. “Explains why you don’t always notice smaller injuries too, because you’re numb. Not because you're a badass.”
“I am a badass,” Chuuya muttered through his food. Dazai felt his lips twitch. I wish I hated you. He didn’t add anything else though. It was a bit hard with the torture training they’d both been through. “At least it’s not CRPS.”
Dazai felt his face tighten immediately. The symptoms could line up. “He thought it was CRPS?”
“For a bit. Ruled it out though, said I probably wouldn’t be able to tell. No dystonia or anything, coordination is fine. I’m not worried. Already knew about the nerve damage.”
If Yosano had been around the Mafia back then, she probably wouldn’t be around now. It was stupid to think about how much less Chuuya would have dealt with pain-wise, but how much more Mori would have abused that power.
Would he, Chuuya and Yosano have been a trio of sorts? Would Chuuya have been able to talk her into living like Ranpo supposedly had? Would Chuuya have needed Dazai to tell him to stay alive, or would he have accepted what he considered to be his duty to the Mafia? What a laugh that would’ve been – Dazai, telling them to live.
He grew to care, though, more than he thought possible. Chuuya, Oda and Ango taught him about that first.
“So you’re okay?”
Chuuya waited until he looked up to respond. “Yeah. It was fucking close though. Not that I knew that.”
“Did you pass out right after I nullified corruption? Or were you awake?”
He didn’t respond for a moment, stabbing at his plate. “Pretty sure I was awake for a few more seconds than you thought I was.”
Oh. That’s probably why he hadn’t been kicked out.
“Got a pair of lungs on you, for a fish. I was waiting for you to take a breath.”
Dazai couldn’t breathe. That’s how a fish was meant to act out of water. Delayed reaction, perhaps. He made a sound to signal he’d been heard, instead focusing on using his utensils like a normal person and not a child that had to be taught.
“You said some shit. Do you remember?”
He frowned, blinking and swallowing hard. He shook his head. Chuuya had been completely still. Limp. His heart stopped? How could he have heard anything? Was he already talking before his partner fell into him? Chuuya’s heart stopped and Dazai felt his ability disappear.
“Okay.”
Okay? Confusion bellowed off him in waves. It felt a lot like grief.
“I barely remember it, if anything it felt like I was awake for too long. It hurt like hell. You were holding me up, telling me I was fine. I passed out after that. That’s all.”
Why are you trying to make me feel better?
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m fucking pissed,” he pushed his plate to the side and leaned closer. “I don’t know how I fucking feel yet, I only woke up this morning. Apparently Yosano came last night, I don’t remember being awake though,” his words slipped into a drawl. Chuuya was… calming down? “But when I woke up, all I could hear was you freaking out in my damn ears. I was going to track you down after coming home, but you were already here.”
He was going to try and calm himself down, make sense of himself before facing the man that let him die.
“You died.”
“Yes.”
That was the crux of it. Chuuya was frowning. Chuuya was angry. Dazai… Dazai wanted to die. “It happened again, Chuuya.”
Chuuya had never died in Dazai’s arms, gotten close but never, but Odasaku had.
He blinked, vision blurry. He could feel his right eyes twitching, brought his hand up to find it wet. “How…?”
Of course. He’d nearly lost Chuuya.
He didn’t realise he’d been whispering apologies.
“Geez,” Chuuya said, voice wavering slightly. Good. Chuuya was out of his depth too. Even if he was better at dealing with it, like buying clothes and bandages and feeding him when he knew Dazai wouldn’t feed himself.
He flinched away from the hands that landed on his shoulders but not completely, unable to prevent himself from shaking. He’d buried this in a blanket that was now being washed, and now he had nowhere to hide and someone to hide from. He hadn’t even noticed the mafioso move closer. He was standing now, shorter than Dazai again.
“I get it,” Chuuya’s voice was rough, it always sounded like it was going to give out when he spoke quietly, so low. “I heard you the first damn time. Stop apologising, damnit.”
Come back.
Come back.
Where are you? Where did you go? Why did you have to leave?
He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but his face was hidden now. Hidden in the junction between the mafioso’s neck and shoulder. It was wet. There was a hand on the back of the brunette’s head, keeping him there, and the other was wrapped around his back.
The chest moved. The pulse beneath his lips wasn’t thready. It was strong, if anything, a bit fast. Soukoku didn’t hug. Normally. This was definitely different for them. But Dazai felt for Chuuya like no-one before.
Hearing the other speak, it was like his own body realised Chuuya was there. It relaxed into him when it heard: “It’s fine, saba.”
“It’s not,” Dazai barely managed a whisper, miserable. He couldn’t undo the knot of feelings, couldn’t get them out. To care is to protect, and he didn’t protect. The Agency did; Kouyou and Hirotsu did.
“Fine, then it’s not. We’ll deal with it, you dramatic asshole.”
I feel for you. I wish it was me. What is wrong with me? Why do I feel like this?
“C’mon. Couch."
They passed the vase of camellias on their way, and Dazai tugged away from Chuuya’s grip to pluck one. He shoved it in Chuuya’s direction and made his way to the couch, dropping on it like a petulant toddler.
He wasn’t expecting the open, adorable look on Chuuya’s face when he peered over the back of the furniture, mouth open to complain that he was lonely with all the persuasion of a brick. The expression flayed him open even more, thinking about missing it because Chuuya would have died without intervention from a rare healing ability.
“Kouyou brought them,” he felt the need to clarify. He didn’t deserve credit for that.
Chuuya hummed like he didn’t care that nothing was fixed, teasing a petal between his fingers with a soft look that the detective resolved to make sure was directed at him next time. Next time. There would be a next time.
“Thanks, Dazai.”