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Chuuya drops down into the alley's shadows without a sound.
The ambush is flawless - which is to say, it shouldn't work on Dazai any given normal day.
For Chuuya, attempting to catch the bastard has always been like trying to grasp his shadow; it often leads to Dazai slipping through his fingers. One of the plethora of reasons he is saved as "mackerel" in the phone currently burning a hole into Chuuya's pocket.
Chuuya shouldn't be here. As soon as he turns the phone back on, he'll receive a bunch of worried and annoyed messages. Standard Island is the epicentre of a calamity, after all, and the Boss ordered the executives to gather at HQ in order to discuss the Port Mafia's next move.
But-
Dazai is backed against a red brick wall, right in front of him.
(He can only be found when he wants to be. Or when he's really out of it.)
"What the hell did you do?," Chuuya snarls, fists digging into the collar of Dazai's bland-ass beige coat.
It's never 'what happened to you', or 'are you okay'. Because whatever happened, whatever caused Arahabaki to howl in his chest, caught somewhere between elation and agony, it surely is the bandaged bastard's fault.
It's always Dazai's fault.
"Good afternoon to you too, Chuuya."
The smile is amused, easy - practiced. The sort of meaningless expression Dazai used to fool polite company, way back when. Whatever he's about to say next, is therefore going to be utter bullshit.
"I assure you, I have no idea what you mean."
Chuuya scoffs, almost laughs. Dazai can read his expressions blindly, he's sure, so he merely glances to the side, where what used to be a floating city is slowly recreating the sinking of Atlantis.
"Ah, that." Dazai's smile dims, hollow like glass, and just as reflective. "I assure you, this destruction is not my fault. Akutagawa can corroborate. I'm sure you'll get his report soon."
Right. The kid was supposed to be on this island for a job; if Chuuya can find him when he's done with this, he can sell his little trip to the Boss as an extraction mission. The Port Mafia doesn't leave their own behind, after all.
"Really, damage of this scale is more your style than mine, though, wouldn't you agree?," Dazai needles. Of course he does; stupid bastard is so used to dampening his own heartbeat that he needs to spike Chuuya's blood pressure to even things out in the grand scheme of things.
"Shut up." Chuuya grits his teeth. He prides himself on control, needs it to exist; but when he's facing Dazai, it slips through his fingers, nullified like Arahabaki.
(Perhaps, part of him wonders, it is precisely because Arahabaki is silenced that his own thoughts seem so much louder around Dazai.)
Still, Chuuya digs his fingernails into Dazai's shirt, and takes a deep breath. He didn't come here to let the bastard slip away so easily. There has got to be something he can use to crack the layer of glass that keeps Dazai separated from the world. He takes a step back, observes the other.
...considering the state of the island, and the frazzled way the rest of the detective agency members had seemed when Chuuya stalked them to the mackerel, he would have expected Dazai to look like shit. A broken arm, a few broken ribs, perhaps a stab or gunshot wound - the usual. But looking at Dazai now, there isn't even a hint of the usual shadows under his eyes. He's not wincing when Chuuya leans his full weight against him, either. Dazai seems, for once, to actually be... fine?
Uncannily so.
Chuuya squints at him, voice dripping with suspicion. "Why do you not look like hell?"
Dazai beams, the intensity so bright it's going to give Chuuya a headache. "Oh, are you jealous of my fair skin? I've been using these new oils that are supposed to mimic the preparation of a body for embalming-"
Chuuya cuts him off with an elbow to the stomach. He just saw the mummy two weeks ago, when they had fought some sort of Eldritch tentacle monster.
(He tries not to think about that one too hard.)
A recovery this fast just isn't feasible for Dazai. No skill could have touched him to make it possible.
Except...
Chuuya narrows his eyes even further, gets a closer look at those bandages wrapped around Dazai's neck, leading down to his torso, surely. They are skillfully applied, secured with clips instead of the tape Dazai likes to use. He smells like antiseptic.
Dazai was recently treated by a professional.
"Cut the crap. You have never once taken care of yourself." It comes out perhaps a bit harsher than intended, but that doesn't make it any less true.
"Guilty as charged," Dazai beams, shrugging, but the mirth doesn't reach his eyes. He stares at Chuuya, still, but it's almost like Dazai looks through him, eyes wide and glassy. Unseeing.
Cold dread seizes Chuuya's stomach at the creepy display. But he can't stop the unraveling now.
He knows. He knows what happened, then, or at the very least, he can guess. There have been rumours about a woman the Boss failed to recruit, a capable healer now working for the detective agency. If she was able to heal Dazai...
The idiot won't ever say it.
So Chuuya has to, because if he doesn't, it will tear him apart trying to get answers from a guy who doesn't believe it's worth sharing his struggles with the world. Only ever his brilliance. Never his humanity.
"...you were dead." Chuuya tries to say it gleefully, like his wildest dreams were finally fulfilled. Isn't that what he always wanted? But his voice comes out too quiet, fragile, in the space between them.
They're too close. Chuuya wants to take a step back, but Dazai's hands have found their way into his coat, holding him in place. He could break away, perhaps, but...
Dazai's fingers shake slightly. "Yes," he admits with a calm smile, like it's a private joke between him and Death.
The breath catches in Chuuya's chest, and his heart stills for one, two, three agonising seconds. He's made keenly aware that his own is not the only heart Dazai controls.
"And when I was finally caught in the sweet embrace of Death, Yosano just had to drag me back onto this cruel mortal coil on Kunikida's orders-"
He's lamenting pathetically, but to Chuuya, it just registers as babbling. He wants to... hit Dazai, vomit, run away, he isn't really sure. This was never supposed to happen. Dazai can't die, that's not how the story goes. Dazai leaves, but he doesn't die. Dazai hides and schemes and wins. Sometimes he gets punched. But Dazai doesn't die.
Dazai can't die.
Chuuya's hands tremble - with anger, fear, or echoes of grief, he can no longer tell. He flattens them against Dazai's chest, to feel the hint of skin temperature through the bandages and shirt, for them to rise and fall in sync with the idiot's chest.
"Why didn't you..." call, he wants to say, but can't. What use would Chuuya have been, too far away to do anything?
(It would have been nice for him to say goodbye, at least, if that was indeed the end. Dazai still owes him that.)
"...have a contingency plan?," he finishes, lamely. His thoughts are spiralling; it's the best he can come up with.
Dazai merely shrugs.
"I was surprised. I expected to be incapacitated, not killed. It happens." The faraway smile Dazai gives him is too kind, too brittle. Like Chuuya is the one that went through a near-death experience, like he's the one in need of comfort. Like Chuuya is the one trembling lightly.
"I got better." Despite the smile, despite the positivity, there's a wistfulness in his voice, and Dazai's hands clench into his coat.
He would have rather died.
Dazai would have rather stayed dead.
It wasn't the suicide he had planned, but he still wanted death.
Logically, Chuuya knows this. Has always known this. But it still leaves him hollow. Dazai was supposed to be happy. What good is it for him to turn tail and run into the light, if it doesn't even make him happy? Wasn't that the whole point of it?
The summer heat burns mercilessly, and yet Chuuya is freezing.
"...don't be such an idiot. They need you." It's coarse, but it's all Chuuya can manage. You're not allowed to die on me, would perhaps have been appropriate a long time ago. But no more.
Dazai doesn't belong with him, anymore.
Still, the quiet smile says Dazai heard him anyways.
"I can't promise that," Dazai says, too honestly. It's disquieting. He should go back to lying. Not that Chuuya can't see through those, either. There's no winning here, not anymore.
Dazai is still wearing that same, quiet smile. "You'll just have to come save me, next time."
'Next time.' Dazai expects - or plans - to be on the brink of death, again. Or perhaps, judging by the stunts he has been pulling recently, to actually die for his goals.
Like death is the only thing that could give his useless life meaning.
Nausea washes over Chuuya, followed by burning fury and something he can't name. It's deep and unyielding, anchored in his chest.
"There better not be a next time, then," he scoffs. As if he ever had a say in the matter. As if he would willingly let Dazai die, if given any agency at all. While Chuuya can still walk, and perhaps even if he can't-
Dazai must not die.
The idiot merely smiles, and steps out of Chuuya's shaky grip.
"'Til then, partner~"
Dazai waves, a jaunty little gesture, and disappears onto the main road.
Into the light.
.
"Chuuya," comes Ango's subdued voice over the radio while Chuuya squints and looks down at Yokohama. Everything seems so small... compared to the massive, roiling dragon, that is.
"Dazai has most likely been disposed of by now. Do you understand what I'm getting at?"
Chuuya removes his gloves, prepares for the drop. Closes his eyes.
"I don't care."
Deep within his chest, Arahabaki rumbles restlessly. It echoes in the expanse of that nameless, steady emotion in his chest, almost soothingly.
If Dazai was dead, he would be able to tell. An ache in his bones, his heart, his soul.
And it hurts. But he's not torn asunder.
It's not too late.
'You'll just have to come save me, next time.' The words ring loud and clear in his mind, echoing until they are all that's left.
Chuuya opens his eyes.
Just wait for me, you idiot, he thinks.
I'm coming, Dazai.
And jumps.