#it’s been a hot minute since corruption chuuya | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sickficideas · 8 months

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you're losin' me || skk sickfic

ao3! please refer to the tags in the link for content + warnings! sicktember 2023, day 1: hopelessly bad at self care

“’s cold,” Chuuya murmurs quietly, slurred together so much that if Dazai hadn’t known him for seven years, he wouldn’t have understood him.

“I know. Just for a little bit,” Dazai says as he fills the pitcher full of water to gently pour over Chuuya’s head again. He’d really like to properly wash his hair. It’s so caked with dust and dirt and blood, but Dazai doesn’t want him under the water for too long, he’s already shivering. So he’d like to at least brush some of it out.

It’s been a few days since he last used Corruption. Dazai’s made it a habit to check on Chuuya in some way or another after times like that, because recently, he hasn’t been tolerating it well, especially when he uses it for extended periods of time. Sometimes he’ll be too sore to move, sometimes he’ll get sick, sometimes it’s a combination of a few things - no matter the case, it wasn’t always like this.

He thinks Chuuya was already coming down with something before that day, so he wasn’t too surprised to find him passed out on his kitchen floor when he arrived at his penthouse just ten minutes ago.

He has a hundred-and-two-point one-degree fever, which paired with the fatigue and exhaustion from using his ability like that has really, really slowed him down. Dazai had to carry him into the shower even after waking him up, with surprisingly no objection from the latter. His complaint of the temperature just now is the first he’s said to him since he arrived. Chuuya always takes quite a while to come to his senses after he’s like this.

Dazai’s first thought was to shower him because of how filthy he was from their mission just the other day, but it seemed that wasn’t it. He’s covered in sweat from the fever, and Dazai’s fairly certain he wet himself at some point too. Normally, he wouldn’t let Chuuya live something like that down, but it’s a concerning thought that he didn’t even have the energy or will to get up and go to the bathroom.

He opts for the showerhead instead to wash his hair out the best he can, hoping the pressure will help clean it up a little. It’s lukewarm water, to help his fever, but he understands it’s probably pretty cold with the chills he’s feeling - and Chuuya normally showers with scalding hot water anyway.

Chuuya groans and pulls his head away once the water from the shower head hits him, and the way his eyes screw shut tells Dazai he’s probably got some sort of head injury, or at the very least, a headache. Maybe both.

“Want me to stop?” Dazai asks, trying to adjust the water pressure a bit so it’s not as harsh, and Chuuya relaxes just a bit.

He’s taken note of how Chuuya’s left shoulder is hanging slightly lower than it should. He’s been so out of it that Dazai hasn’t noticed, but he grabs his upper arm with his free hand and he’s met with a hiss. He’s probably dislocated his shoulder.

“You’re a mess,” Dazai sighs. Chuuya usually isn’t the type to avoid medical treatment. Dazai has his own reasons for doing so, but Chuuya generally takes good care of his health, so he’s not sure what happened here. Maybe that last use of Corruption really took him down. After all, he’s not sure how long he was passed out in his kitchen.

He shut off the water and hands the shower head up. He wants to tell Chuuya what he’s about to do, but he thinks it might be better in the end to just do it and get it over with, and apologize after.

So he does it. He puts him into position against the wall as quickly as he can before Chuuya can catch on, and he yelps from the pain as soon as Dazai hears it pop into place. He’s sure it’s very painful, it’s been a few days since it was dislocated and there’s no way the pain and swelling hasn’t gotten worse since then.

Chuuya leans forward into Dazai, and he's shaking much more than he was before, and Dazai holds him against his chest.

“I’m sorry. You know how bad those can get if you wait too long, Chuuya,” he says quietly. He hates how much he’s shivering. The whimpers of pain hurt him to hear, although he’d never admit it. He’s careful not to jostle his shoulder too much as he holds him.

Truthfully, Dazai hasn’t slept well at all since their mission, because he hasn’t heard a word from Chuuya. Sometimes Chuuya will read Dazai’s messages without responding when he’s feeling petty, but he didn’t even get that.

This morning, when he threw up last night’s dinner from the anxiety, he decided he needed to come check on Chuuya. Kunikida was even concerned enough to send him home right away.

They stay like that for a while before Dazai decides it’s best to get everything over with and get Chuuya to bed so he can rest properly, rather than on his tiled kitchen floor. He washes his hair, his body, all while Chuuya quietly stays leaned against the corner of the shower wall, shivering every now and then, his eyes unfocused and glassy. He doesn’t voice a single complaint the entire time.

Dazai is happy to finally be able to shut off the lukewarm water and towel dry Chuuya’s hair. Gently, of course, he doesn’t want to dizzy him on top of his suspected head injury. He’s already completely off-kilter.

He pats him dry and helps him over to the adjacent bedroom. Chuuya isn’t strong enough to walk on his own yet but Dazai keeps a hand on his waist to keep him steady. He sits down right at the corner, and Dazai backs up to get a good look at him.

He’s glad there’s no major injuries at least, nothing worse than some scrapes and little cuts, but he’s covered in dark bruises, which make the pale pallor of his skin much more obvious. He’s sure that’s part of the fever, but he can’t pin down exactly why he has a fever to begin with. Was he really sick before their mission? Does he have some sort of internal injury that’s gotten infected? Did using Corruption cause this?

Dazai grabs a random t-shirt and a pair of boxers from Chuuya’s closet and helps to dress him. It’s like dressing a doll. Chuuya isn’t unconscious, he’s still half-awake, at least, but he doesn’t make any effort to get dressed himself. He just lets Dazai do it and aids him here and there.

“Hey,” Dazai says, cupping Chuuya’s cheek and lifting his head just a bit to get a good look at his eyes. He’s not entirely there, but his eyes shift to look at Dazai after a few seconds. “You’re scaring me a little, Slug. Can you talk to me?”

Chuuya’s expression scrunches up a little like he’s confused, and Dazai’s stomach drops. He’s almost worried about him hallucinating. Dazai can’t count the number of times Chuuya has confused Dazai for one of his dead friends while suffering from a fever or some sort of major injury.

“Chuuya,” Dazai starts, running his fingers through his still slightly damp hair, brushing his bangs out of his face. They definitely need a trim. “Can you tell me my name?”

“Mackerel,” Chuuya grumbles under his breath, but his expression doesn’t change. He looks like he would fall asleep if Dazai pushed him backward.

That’s answer enough for him. As long as he’s not hallucinating.

“Okay,” Dazai says with a quiet sigh of relief. “You need to lay down, alright? I’ll see if you have athletic tape somewhere for that shoulder.”

Dazai trusts his mental state enough to leave him on his own for a few minutes while he goes through Chuuya’s bathroom drawers to find what he’s looking for, and thankfully, it appears in the third drawer without too much searching. Chuuya tends to keep things in his penthouse pretty orderly, but he’s noticed signs recently of things being a little out of place. Nothing major - a roll of toilet paper down with the cleaning products, a hairbrush on the floor, things Dazai would never think twice about - but they’re also things he knows Chuuya would never let slide.

He wanders back into the bedroom as he starts to take some of the tape off the roll, but Chuuya is still sitting there at the edge of the bed, his head hanging down, swaying ever so slightly. Dazai worries for a second he’s about to pass out, until he sees the hand pressed against his tummy.

"Dazai," Chuuya murmurs with a gruff moan. "'M gonna - gonna throw up."

Dazai appreciates the warning.

Chuuya somehow manages to hold it back until Dazai slides onto the bed next to him with the bin from his bathroom. He breathes over the bin for half a minute or so, letting the saliva drip down over the plastic. Dazai takes his free hand and starts to rub over his back, gently, and Chuuya groans at the feeling, leaning back into it just a bit and he spits a wad of saliva into the bin.

"Deep breaths, Chuuya," Dazai says gently.

Chuuya does as he’s told, taking in a few shaky breaths that aren’t nearly as deep as they should be, but soon enough, a gag follows a retch, and a torrent of vomit gushes into the bin.

“There you go. That’s good,” Dazai says quietly, patting Chuuya’s hair back as he throws up. Chuuya’s weak tolerance for alcohol makes him no stranger to throwing up like this, but this is the last thing he needs right now. The nausea is crystal clear on his face, and the pained moans that escape his lips between streams of vomit tell him it hurts, too. "You have anything here for nausea?"

"I don' need anythin'," Chuuya breathes out, spitting up a mouthful of stomach bile into the bin before he straightens himself up, eyes screwed shut and hand still heavy against his sore belly. "Jus' needed to get that out."

"If you say so," Dazai says, setting the bin down on the floor.

Chuuya somehow manages to gather the energy to crawl to the middle of the bed and collapse there, sinking into the pillow with a little whine.

He's lying down with his injured shoulder facing up, and Dazai takes the opportunity to carefully roll up his sleeve to apply the athletic tape. He watches Chuuya's face tense up as he does it. He can be as gentle as he wants, he's sure it hurts regardless.

Dazai sits beside Chuuya's shaky, curled-up form for a while, petting his slowly drying hair as Chuuya starts to relax just a bit, enough to give Dazai some relief.

He worries about him. Chuuya used to handle Corruption just fine, but if this is all really all just from the aftermath, even days later…

“Why didn’t you go to a doctor?” Dazai asks with a heavy sigh. He’s not sure why he cares. Chuuya’s an adult, he can take care of himself. And he usually always does.

“Dunno,” Chuuya croaks. His voice sounds scratchy.

“You don’t know?” Dazai confirms, a brow raised. “I found you laying in your own piss and I don’t have any clue how long you were there for.”

“Can’t remember,” Chuuya elaborates after a few moments of silence. He’s starting to sound a little more coherent, which is a good sign, but he doesn’t like what he’s just said.

Dazai’s shoulders sink. “Yeah?”

“I jus’ remember leavin’ with you,” Chuuya says quietly. He pauses, like he’s trying to see if he can collect anything else from his memory, but he gives up. “And…and then, the shower.”

“So you don’t have any clue what happened in between, huh?” Dazai says. Chuuya didn’t seem that out of it when they met before the mission happened. He wasn’t himself, but Chuuya’s never forward about his feelings, so Dazai has a hard time guessing if he was like that mentally, or from an oncoming illness.

“Nuh-uh,” Chuuya mumbles.

Dazai bites his lip. That can’t be good. “Has this been happening every time?”

Chuuya is quiet for a moment, almost like he’s waiting for Dazai to elaborate. Maybe he’s just confused. “Every time what?”

“Every time you use Corruption,” Dazai reminds him.

“S’that what happened?” Chuuya yawns. Dazai watches his eyelids start to fall just a bit.

Dazai feels sick. He didn’t even put those pieces together, with everything that’s going on with him? Part of him wants to believe this is just from a head injury he suffered during this mission, but he’s been getting worse about using Corruption.

Surely he’s fine. If Chuuya really thought something was wrong with himself, he would take care of it.

“My shoulder’s killin’ me,” he murmurs, adjusting it just a bit before realizing moving it at all causes too much pain for it to be worth it.

“No kidding,” Dazai sighs. "I'll get some ice packs. That might help."

Dazai slips out of the bed, and heads for the kitchen to look for something he can use. He knows there’s an ice pack or two in the freezer, Chuuya’s needed them for injuries before, but upon looking in the freezer, he finds it’s nearly empty. There’s a box or two, but normally, Chuuya has lots of things in here.

He opens the refrigerator out of curiosity and finds it to be the same way. Chuuya certainly has the money to be eating out every night, so maybe that’s what he’s been doing, but he likes cooking. It’s strange for him to really have nothing. His stomach twists. He hates that feeling.

Dazai takes two ice packs from the freezer before he hears Chuuya’s ringtone, coming from the bedroom. He remembers seeing Chuuya’s cell phone on the nightstand. He wonders who could be calling him.

Dazai leans in the doorway as he watches Chuuya’s uninjured arm reach for the cell phone, and of course, he’s hiding the screen from him with an annoyed scowl.

"Hey," Chuuya says through a sigh once he answers, laying back against the pillows. The voice says something, but it’s not loud enough for Dazai to be able to figure out who. "I know. 'M sorry. Haven't been feeling so great."

Dazai's glad he's being honest, at least.

"You don't need'a come. 'M fine, just gonna rest today," Chuuya says. “I’ll see ya tomorrow. Love you. Okay?”

The voice says something back, and soon enough, Chuuya tosses his phone to the side and lays his arm over his eyes with a heavy sigh.

"Love you?" Dazai repeats as he wanders over to the bed, climbing back in next to him to lay one ice pack under his shoulder, and the other right on top of it.

"Mhm," Chuuya says he shudders just a bit at the cold feeling, but he relaxes soon enough. "You're allowed to have a side piece too. So don't start."

"I didn't start anything," Dazai chuckles. He's referring to Kunikida, he thinks. "Who?"

"Who what?" Chuuya groans.

"Who was that?" Dazai clarifies.

"Who was what?" Chuuya huffs. He’s clearly annoyed, but he really doesn’t seem to know what Dazai is talking about.

Dazai bites his lip. Maybe he just needs to be reminded. "On the phone, Chuuya."

Chuuya takes his arm off of his face, revealing a genuinely confused expression. "The hell you talkin' about, Mackerel?"

Now Dazai feels like he's going to throw up. "Nothing, Slug."

Is Chuuya losing his memory?

Is using Corruption doing this to him?

Is this a head injury? Is it just because he’s been passed out for a while?

What is he going to do if Chuuya loses his memory?

"I'll be right back."

Dazai tries to be as nonchalant as possible as he leaves Chuuya’s bedroom, trailing off to the guest bathroom on the other side of his penthouse, out of earshot from Chuuya, because he thinks he’s really going to throw up. His stomach twists as he opens the door and he hastily leans over the toilet, and then gags once or twice before his stomach clenches and the bit of food he had for breakfast comes up.

He stays standing, his hands on his knees and he chokes up whatever he can manage. His head swims and these concerns repeat in his mind as fast as a car wheel going a thousand miles an hour. Why does it matter to him, if Chuuya loses his memory? He doesn’t need Chuuya. He’s fine without Chuuya. Clearly, Chuuya is the one who needs him.

At some point his legs get tired and he’s just left breathing heavily over the toilet. He doesn’t even have the will to flush, and part of him thinks he should go back to Chuuya, but his legs give out and he curls up in the corner where the wall and the shower door meet.

It’s not long before he hears the bathroom door creak open.

"Did you puke?" Chuuya asks, his voice shaky. Dazai’s tempted to lie, but he’s sure he can see the evidence in the toilet.

"Had too much to eat for lunch,” Dazai says. He knows Chuuya won’t believe him. Maybe he wants to lead him on. He doesn’t know.

"That's not like you," Chuuya murmurs. He’s leaning against the door frame, holding an ice pack up to his shoulder. "What's the real reason? You anxious about somethin’?"

He does throw up when he's anxious. "No, no. My stomach just...y’know.”

"Dazai," Chuuya sighs.

Chuuya drags himself into the bathroom and sits down beside Dazai with a pained groan. He feels warm next to Dazai as he leans against him, laying his head on Dazai’s shoulder. He huffs, sounding a little more than exhausted, like it’s taken a great effort for him to get here. “Can’t believe you made me walk all the way over here when I feel like shit.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Dazai insists with a half-smile. “You worrying about me, Slug?”

“Yeah, you ran out of my room out of nowhere,” Chuuya huffs.

Dazai finds some solace in the fact that he hasn’t forgotten that.

“I’m worried about you too,” Dazai says quietly, and he’s not sure why he would say something like that out loud. He’s disgusted with himself, it almost makes him want to throw up again. Being so vulnerable with another person is so unadmirable.

“Bout me?” Chuuya starts, lifting his head and turning to look at Dazai, even if it seems to be filled with lead. “‘M fine, ‘Samu. I always feel like shit after Corruption.”

"I think you should see a doctor," Dazai says. He almost wishes he could lean his head on Chuuya’s shoulder, but doing that would likely break his neck. A shame, really.

"'Bout what," Chuuya sighs. “Thought you were playin’ doctor.”

"Your memory,” Dazai says quietly, feeling his stomach start to twist again.

Chuuya is quiet for a few moments. "My memory's fine."

"I'm serious, Chuuya,” Dazai says. He hates being serious.

"'M serious too, 'Samu. I don't need’a see a doctor. I’ll be fine in a few days," Chuuya grumbles. He’s really starting to sound annoyed, but Dazai is having a very hard time letting this go. "Quit worryin' about me."

"Do you remember who called you earlier?" Dazai bites. He doesn’t want to sound vicious. Maybe the bitter taste of the stomach acid in the back of his throat is making him sound that way. His stomach is never going to give him a break, at this rate.

Another pause. "What the hell're you talkin' about?"

“Someone called you, Chuuya,” Dazai murmurs, pressing his palms against his eyelids because his eyes are starting to burn and he would rather throw up on Chuuya than cry in front of him. “I asked you who it was after you hung up and you didn’t know what I was talking about, and you still don’t.”

Chuuya is quiet again.

“Can you…can you get out? Please?” Dazai mumbles, keeping his face concealed from Chuuya. He hates the way he feels. He’s not physically hurting anywhere, besides maybe his stomach, but this worry and anxiety is just as painful as any wound. “I need to throw up again.”

“‘M not leavin’ you, Mackerel,” Chuuya says quietly, not seeming to care much that Dazai tried to kick him out of his own bathroom. Dazai thinks he’s started to realize that he might be contributing to the fact that Dazai’s stomach is twisting and turning so uncomfortably,

Dazai feels it, hot in the back of his mouth, and he would really rather just swallow it, but he stumbles forward and chokes up the stomach bile into the toilet to join the rest. He coughs before he can manage to gag again. It really burns, it hurts, tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he’s telling himself that throwing up right now is the only reason that’s happening.

Chuuya is still beside him, despite how sick he is himself, a steady hand on his back, mumbling some comforting words that Dazai can’t quite decipher.

“I’ll call a doctor, ‘kay? Maybe you can get looked at too,” Chuuya says quietly once Dazai is just left huffing out hot breaths over the toilet.

Dazai shakes his head. The idea of that almost makes him gag. “No, I don’t…I’m fine.”

“‘M’kay,” Chuuya says, to Dazai’s surprise. Dazai thinks he’s gotten the hint, now. “You still nauseous? I’ll get somethin’ for you.”

Dazai shakes his head again and somehow manages to force himself onto his shaky legs without much help. His stomach is still all out of sorts, but he knows nausea medication won’t be able to help. “Can we go lay down?”

Chuuya nods with a little sigh, using his ability to stand himself up without too much effort, taking Dazai’s hand like he’s leading him to his bedroom. Dazai’s been there a million times, there’s really no reason for him to do this, but he squeezes his hand tight. It feels nice.

“I��ll be right back. Gonna get a glass of water,” Chuuya says once Dazai curls up into the bed. Dazai’s facing away from him, but he can hear Chuuya take his phone before he wanders out of the bedroom.

Dazai knows he’s calling someone.

“Hey,” Chuuya starts. He sounds far away, like he’s in the kitchen, but Dazai can still hear him fairly well. “‘M sorry. I know I said I didn’t need anythin’, but…”

The voice says something, and Chuuya sighs, answering with a defeated yeah.

Dazai feels like he can relax a little more, and his stomach doesn’t hurt so much.

He curls up in the bed as if it’s his own, and before long, Chuuya returns to do the same, lying close beside Dazai, but far enough that Dazai can still see his face. He looks miserable. If he were standing, Dazai thinks he would certainly pass out.

“You look like shit,” Chuuya grumbles, his nose scrunched.

“I was just thinking about how much you look like shit,” Dazai tells him.

“At least I’ve got a good excuse,” Chuuya huffs. Dazai can’t argue with that, Chuuya’s the one with a fever. “You’re just worried about me. Freak.”

Dazai ducks his head in and cuddles up closer to Chuuya, a little flattered that he’s remembering that despite everything being so touch-and-go right now. His warmth is still a bit concerning, but it’s almost comforting. Dazai doesn’t know why, but he’s almost too tired to care.

“Take better care of yourself,” Dazai mumbles quietly.

“Take your own advice,” Chuuya says back, sounding just as exhausted as he looks. “Get some rest, shitty Mackerel.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

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soukokuwu · 4 years

Text

➤ genre: angst, fluff

➤ pairing: chuuya x reader

➤ synopsis: breaking up with the love of your life is never easy.

➤ word count: 1.6k

➤ a/n: inspiration? “Lose” by NIKI. i just couldn’t get the song out of my head and decided to just vibe with this. ^.^

We only meet at the intersect

You were eighteen when Chuuya’s azure orbs caught your eye.

He was rough around the edges, always the fiery, hot-headed brute in any room, with the crimson hair to match. Exceptionally violent when his temper takes over, like asteroids slamming into a planet, and like a star exploding when he’s forced to use corruption.

Yet his fingers were able to dance across your skin as gentle as a soft summer breeze, and the hot temper gave way to subtle, fleeting signals of affection. The way his usually loud, boisterous voice cascaded into soft hushed tones when he spoke to you. Chuuya was a workaholic, all of his hours usually went into slaving away for the Port Mafia. But even that yielded to making time to find you, even if it was for no particular reason at all. Luckily he wasn’t one to nitpick about the details — because he never could for the life of him figure out what made you so entirely different from anyone else.

But you were.

You were nineteen when Chuuya took the leap of faith, showing you the gravity of his love.

He kept mum about his work, until he couldn’t anymore. Every instant he had to shy away from talking about what he did, every instant he denied you access into his real life, his mind — it felt like he was pushing you away, like he was allowing other people a chance to swoop in once you were pushed far enough.

And once you find out, your reaction was understandable. Horrified, confused and without any words uttered, you left him behind in the restaurant, alone with the doubts of whether he should have come clean at all. Was it worth losing what little of your friendship there was? Was it better to have made a clean breast of it and lose what was dear to him or would it have been smarter to keep you in the dark, keep you close?

But a ray of light came a month later in the form of liquid courage.

Chuuya wasn’t the one who came forth, no. He had considered himself burned from being honest, he thought you hated him. No, if anyone needed to do or say anything it would have to be you. He knew that nothing could make up for what he’s done or what he’s going to do as a Port Mafia executive. It was his family. And he would never give that up. A hard thing it was, for civilians to accept. The murders, the frauds, the sacrifices.

Which is why he didn’t know what possessed you to knock on his door at 2am in the morning, an open bottle of Romanee-Conti in one hand and his heart in the other.

You were twenty-one when you two started cohabitating.

It was a step in the right direction — you two barely met due to his busy schedule. You used to always have your phone on hand, desperate to know whether your boyfriend was safe after a long day’s work. To which he oftentimes forgot to account for; he was too tired. That, and he wasn’t used to being responsible for someone else’s feelings.

But this alleviated your insecurities, and it satisfied his wishes to spend more time with you.

The mornings were sunlight streaming through the cracks in satin curtains, cups of black coffee with occasional breakfasts of toast and eggs and fleeting kisses goodbye. The afternoons were distances, unavoidable work calls, meetings and ‘I miss you’ texts. The nights were hugs welcoming each other home, spills of crimson locks over his bare shoulders, bodies melding into one and ‘I love you’s by midnight.

Closets were full, black coats and grey waistcoats sharing vacancies with flowery dresses and black poly skirts. The pantry was more filled than ever before, now that Chuuya had someone living with him to eat with, to enjoy with. Bathrooms now had two sets of everything, toothbrushes, towels, cups. Walls were now occupied, the dull white paint masked by colourful memories framed in gold and black.

The collection grew and grew.

You were twenty two when you spotted the embers fading.

When sunlight cracked through the curtains and there was nobody in bed next to you. Either one of you always woke up earlier than the other. Time was not made during the busy of the afternoon, with either of you choosing to take a siesta during unoccupied minutes. The eventides of passion turned into nights of sex. You found yourself wishing he’d touch you like he did in the beginning. And he found himself wishing he was as into it as he used to be.

And one night, in the dead silence, as you two stared up at the ceiling in bed — it was the first time in a long time that you two shared the same thought.

Chuuya remembered when you taught him how to love, how you filled the void in his heart, helped him get over his insecurities, healed the numbness he felt about his humanity. The subtle efforts he had put forth because he deemed you worth it — and he still did. But that didn’t change facts: this wasn’t working out anymore.

He broke your heart each time he had to go away on long missions. He broke your heart each time he came back with bruises and a hardened expression. He broke your heart each time he had to keep a secret from you in the name of work. He broke your heart whenever you had to mask your true feelings to take care of his. And he hated hurting you.

You remembered when Chuuya taught you the importance of accepting someone for who they are, how he always tried his best to put you before himself in each decision he made, how he put aside his temper and his ego in every argument you had, how the two of you would always work them out. The two of you were made for each other, but it was painfully obvious: the end was awfully near.

You broke his heart each time he saw through the fake smiles. You broke his heart each time you didn’t bear to check in on him because you didn’t want to hear tomorrow’s headlines early. You broke his heart by giving him everything he wanted, but never could convince himself he deserved. And you hated disappointing him.

Neither of you wanted to do this. But it was a ticking time bomb. Both of you had been dragging this on for far too long — to decide to escape from this only to find yourselves running back to familiarity. It was a too-small house. Either one of you left, or you both stayed cramped in there until neither of you could take it anymore. Two options, but only one outcome.

This time, in the dead of the night, enveloped in the darkness, you took the first step.

“This isn’t working out.” A slight crack in your voice, but a very apparent ache in your heart.

“I know.” Quivering lips and the same gaping hole he had before he met you.

“I still love you.” Your confession.

“I will never stop loving you.” And his.

Chuuya is twenty-four when he finally lets himself consume an off day.

Life has been empty again since the day you moved out. He still remembers hugging you to sleep for the last time that night. And can still remember the overwhelming desire to pull you back in his arms as you walked out the door the next morning, to tell you that you didn’t have to go, that the both of you could work it out — but you both know he’d be lying. Some things you can never come back from. When something dies, they should remain that way. At least his memories of you remain sweet, and only because you left before things could take a turn for the worse.

This is a fire that he doesn’t see could possibly rekindle.

It’s life.

It’s been two years.

Waking up in an empty bed still sucks. Chuuya eyes your toothbrush by the sink. He can’t bear to remove it. It raked confusion in his one night stands. Not that he cares. They never mattered. They weren’t you. And there is still two of everything in the bathroom, but he never lets anyone use the other set. Doesn’t even know why, he just keeps it this way.

But the walls are empty again, all the memories tucked away in a box in the corner of his now emptier closet. He’s never opened them once. He’s afraid of the emotions if he ever does.

In the kitchen he eyes the barrenness. Since you left he hasn’t bought much of anything for himself. Takeouts are his best friend. Besides, he can’t cook as well as you. Something bugs him to make a grocery run though. He listens to it.

Chuuya scoffs looking in his basket, something tugging a subtle smile on his lips. You’ve even managed to keep your influence on him — everything inside is food you’d like. Your favourites, in fact. Love is weird.

And so is life. It has a way of disrupting your journey; it can pull two people together only to force them apart, leaving their hearts in a silent call for each other. But it’s also weird in the sense that it can bring the two people so close to each other yet again, but at the same time offer no further assistance.

Because in the opposite aisle, there you are, shopping for food that happened to remind you of him.

tags: @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes

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carpe-somnium · 3 years

Text

“Dimwit Dazai is safe“

After watching Dead Apple, I really wondered why Chuuya was sitting there on the floor on his own and tried my best to create something that couly have happened between those two scenes:

https://youtu.be/0e9xckPB9tM

https://youtu.be/6FLgy6V-4Ng

please be gentle with me, this is the first thing I have written in years 🥺

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As they dropped to the hard concrete floor, Chuuya let out a choked noise as a result of the air being pushed out of his body by the sudden force of his body hitting the floor. Due to Dazai nullifying his ability, he wasn’t able to catch himself as swiftly as he would have been able by simply manipulating gravity. He had landed hard on his knees, somehow planted directly between Dazai’s slender legs and felt the impact of his body colliding with the floor throughout his body. He was now directly staring down at the taller man’s crotch. His arms were sprawled awkwardly over Dazai’s thighs and his tired body felt heavy and tingly. Even though he hasn’t felt like this a lot, he sure knew the feeling that came after using corruption to an extent that was testing his entire body’s limits. The previous fight against the dragon had cost him a great deal of energy, he wasn’t even sure if he had made it any minute longer.

To get out of his awkward position, he tried lifting his head up immediately, only to be held back by Dazai's hand on his neck which was restraining his head from moving up. “Let go, asshole!”, Chuuya hissed, trying not to stare too hard at Dazai's crotch right in front of him. He couldn’t help it - he was quite literally held back from doing anything besides staring at it. For a moment he caught himself wondering what size was hiding just beneath the fancy white pants. “Don’t move.”, he heard Dazai's voice somewhere above his head, “The fog hasn’t cleared.” Hearing this made Chuuya reflexively hold his breath for a second before he realized that he could have breathed in the strange fog since the moment he hit the floor.

“I don’t want to have to protect you from your special ability in this situation.” Of course, that made sense. It at least explained why Dazai was still touching him, but it didn’t explain why he was also keeping his head down at all. Chuuya had heard about the suicides, that seemingly had caused ability users to kill themselves with their own abilities. Knowing his strength, he was quite sure that he would not fall for some stupid ability that tried to mess with his head, but on the other hand it caused some anxiety in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t fully know how it worked. His will to live was always quite strong - very much contrasting the man whose crotch he had to stare at. But still, he did not know how the fog made sane ability users go mad enough to kill themselves, so he had to trust Dazai on this one.

“It’s still not over?”, Chuuya muttered, as he slowly felt the exhaustion spread throughout his entire body like poison. “No, it’s just beginning.” Dazai's answer sounded almost like he was miles away. Chuuya tried his best to keep his mind focused, and most importantly awake, but the heavy feeling in his limbs made it almost impossible. “Shit.”, he coursed between gritted teeth, blinking rapidly as the weight of Dazai's hand suddenly felt like it had doubled over the course of a few seconds. His neck felt slowly started cramping, the muscles barely able to hold his head up in the position he was in.

“I can’t move a single finger.” He blinked again, putting all of his thoughts to the goal of staying conscious, as his body finally gave up. Chuuya wasn’t even sure if he had finished his sentence, as his heavy eyelids closed and his head slowly dropped into Dazai’s lap. Then, Chuuya was out like a light. His head resting on Dazai's lap while his body was awkwardly sprawled across his legs.

Dazai's hand was still hovering over the place where Chuuya’s head had been only a moment ago, as he looked down on the smaller man’s unconscious figure. The way his head had dropped into his lap would give him a sore neck afterwards, but that would probably be the least of his worries when he wakes up. Mentally preparing himself for the yelling that would follow as soon as the mafia executive would wake up again, Dazai gently put his hand back on Chuuya's head.

Touching his bare arm would have been just as effective, though Dazai didn’t care too much about it. For a moment he wondered where Chuuya had left his coat but didn’t question it further. His ex-partner would often leave his coat behind, especially during fights. He once explained that it would only hinder him in his movements, and he would have a wider range for his attacks if he left the coat behind. That was probably due to the fact that even after all those years, he primarily used his legs instead of his arms when it came to near-range combat moves.

Eventually there would be small sounds of falling rocks or cracks in the surrounding mess, but otherwise, it was awfully quiet. Dazai took a second look around the place they had landed, looking for potential threats and also for Chuuya's hat and coat. When he didn’t notice anything that looked suspicious, so he let out a small sigh and tried to relax a bit.

Dazai looked down at Chuuya who was breathing steadily against his side. Even though the position he was in was everything but comfortable, the bundle of anger looked a lot calmer than he usually did when Dazai was around. Absentmindedly, Dazai started gently stroking the ginger locks, making them look even more disheveled than they were before. He slowly shifted his position a bit, stretching his legs, so he would be more comfortable. Chuuya's motionless body slid a bit closer to the floor, arms sprawled next to Dazai's legs. The cold floor sure would be cold uncomfortable in this position, but neither Dazai's butt nor Chuuya's unconscious body cared at this moment due to the post-fight exhaustion.

He didn’t know how long they had stayed in this position, but Dazai eventually had closed his eyes just for a short while in order to relax a bit. His hand was still buried in Chuuya’s hair, stroking the soft curls now and then. The small groans that came from the man in his lap became more noticeable from minute to minute, so Dazai figured that the princess would be waking up soon.

Chuuya’s head moved a little and Dazai heard him hiss in pain. “What... the fuck.”, Chuuya murmured as he found himself in a very strange angle, still spread out between a pair of long legs. He felt a hand that was caressing his awkwardly twisted head slowly and gently and realized that he was still laying on Dazai after the previous fight they were in and tried lifting his head again, this time without being held down again. “The fog has cleared. You should be safe now.”, Dazai exclaimed, without showing any emotion in his tone. His hand was still placed on Chuuya’s head as he lifted it and his eyes met Dazai’s.

Due to the strange position he had fallen unconscious in, he was now laying on top of Dazai, his hands supporting his weight next to the tall man’s hips. He felt incredibly heavy, his body ached for sleep and the warmth radiating from the body underneath him didn’t make it any better. “You deserve a good night’s sleep”, Dazai commented, as if he had read Chuuya’s mind. That obvious, huh? Chuuya nodded slowly, his neck aching with even the smallest movement. “It was a tough day.”, Chuuya simply answered, not able to contain a small yawn as he sat up between Dazai’s legs. He noticed the small smile on the lips of his ex-partners face, it was only there for the blink of an eye.

Despite his entire body protesting against the movements, Chuuya slowly stood up and stretched his sore limbs. He was pretty sure that there was no part of his body that didn’t make a cracking sound at that moment. He looked down at Dazai who looked back up at him and sighed heavily. “Get up, idiot.” Chuuya stretched out his hand and Dazai took it, only to be pulled back to his feet again. He often forgot how strong the smaller man was, despite his petite figure and even without his ability.

Dazai didn’t loosen his grip on Chuuya’s hand, even as he was standing up. “I need my hand back, you know. You got two yourself.”, he commented, craning his sore neck a bit to look up into Dazai’s face. Now they were in the next awkward position, standing almost uncomfortably close to each other, just breathing and staring in each other's eyes, as the sun was slowly rising. The warm colors of the sunrise reflected in Dazai’s brown eyes, making them look like they were made of honey or liquid gold. The color softened his usual cold and absent gaze that he usually wore after a fight. Chuuya swallowed hard. It was moments like these that made him realize the beauty of the man in front of him. “Take a picture, that will last longer.”, Dazai’s bemused voice commented on Chuuya staring at his face for a bit too long to be unintentional.

Chuuya freed his hand from Dazai’s grip, due to the absence of his gloves, awfully aware of their warm softness. He still can’t believe those were the hands of a mass murderer. “I’m just tired and zoned out for a bit, shut up.” His voice was back to the usual anger, even though it was a bit dulled by tiredness. “Oh? So you only stared at me like that because you are tired?” Dazai leaned a bit forward with a playful undertone in his voice. He liked taking every given opportunity to tease Chuuya, it was his way of making sure he was okay even after such a tough day. “Oi, back off”, Chuuya exclaimed angrily, shooting death glares at Dazai. He wasn’t in the mood to give in to his teasing, he just wanted to go home and soak his body in a hot bath while drinking some expensive wine. Was that too much to ask for?

“Oh you mean like this?” With a smug grin on his face, Dazai leaned closer. “Other direction, dimwit.” Like a cat that didn’t want a human face in its fur, Chuuya pushed his hands against Dazai’s face, trying to push him away. Surprisingly, he then felt a grip on his wrists that pulled his hands from Dazai’s face and his whole body closer to the other man’s. He stumbled a bit, completely taken off guard by the sudden movement, and fell against a skinny but tall body.

“Did that fog mess up your head even more than usual or-”, Chuuya’s complaints were completely cut off by a pair of soft lips being pressed on his. That definetely was new. Too shocked to move at first, he just stood there, not sure if that was really happening right now. Even more surprised by his own actions, Chuuya slowly started moving his lips against Dazais, returning his kiss shyly. His tense body leaned into the taller man as he stood up on the tip of his toes in an attempt to balance out their height difference a bit. Chuuya felt Dazai’s arms wrapping around his waist, holding him flush against his own body, steadying both of their bodies. They found a slow and sloppy pace in their kissing really quickly, almost like they did this all the time.

With his hands free from the grip on his wrists, Chuuya slowly started moving them up into Dazai’s hair, slowly stroking the soft brown curls and running them through his fingers as the kiss deepened. He felt the others hands trail down from his waist to his hips, squeezing them lightly, pressing their bodies even closer together than before. Dazais body felt warm and good against his, even though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, he enjoyed it while it lasted. The warmth that was being pressed against him made Chuuya forget about the aches of his body for a moment, his mind feeling foggy.

In the back of his mind he questioned if he was still unconcious on the floor, being left behind by Dazai in the strange fog. Maybe the fog showed people something they would absolutely hate so they would want to kill themselves afterwards? But those doubts were quickly passed aside by the realness of Dazai’s big warm hands rubbing circles on the small of his back. No. This couldn’t be a trick of some ability. This was real and this was strange but also... good. It was the only thing that would stop their bickering for a while and replace it with the hazy feeling of nothingness that came with kissing somebody.

After what felt like an eternity, they slowly pulled away from each other, gasping for breath. Nobody said anything. Chuuya wanted to say something rude, something smug... but he was lost for words for once, which was not often the case. Dazai had caught him off guard, wiped every thought about the previous fight out of his mind and made him lost for words. “I’m glad you made it out alive. I wouldn’t know who else to bother if you had died without me.”, Dazai said while his face was still close to Chuuya’s, his voice a mere whisper. Chuuya opened his mouth to respond something, but he was still lost for words. It was like Dazai slapped him across the face. His words sank into Chuuyas mind as he repeated them over and over again. It sounded honestly, despite their usual rivalry and hatred for each other. They often told the other one to go and die in a filthy ditch so this turn was entirely new. “Well it would be boring without you so I figured saving you or die trying would be fitting.”

Dazai chuckled and slowly let go of Chuuya’s body, moving back a bit in order to put some space between them. Kissing his rival was not what he originally intendet, but the intense stare of those ocean blue eyes and the high feeling after a fight that’s been won made him throw his concerns overboard. And he regret nothing.

“I should go back to the Agency and apologize for teaming up with the enemy for a while.” Pushing his hair back behind his ear as he spoke, Dazai gave Chuuya a small smile and Chuuya understood. It wouldn’t be good to be seen together now. Their rivaling organizations wouldn’t be too pleased to find out that they shared a little moment after teaming up only to fight a greater evil. He nodded and sat back down on the floor, leaning against one of the larger pieces of concrete as he watched Dazai walk away in some direction.

Chuuya decided to just stay there a little longer. It would only raise suspicions if he walked away the same time as Dazai and he didn’t have enough energy left in his body to deal with this right now. Instead he just stared straight ahead, letting all the events of the day replay in his mind in order to cope with them. He didn’t know how long he was sitting there all on his own before he heard some footsteps coming closer. By the pattern of them, he didn’t think they would be a threat. The black coat and black and white hair quickly confirmed this.

Akutagawa slid down a small hill that was formed by one of the bigger pieces of concrete that was laying on the floor and quickly looked around. “What are you doing here?”, Chuuya asked without looking up from the place he had be staring at, “Dimwit Dazai is safe.”

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Ao3-Link:

#bungo stray dogs #soukoku #chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu #chuuya x dazai #dead apple

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crow-writes-stuff · 4 years

Text

Liability

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Dazai Osamu & Nakahara Chuuya

Characters: Nakahara Chuuya, Dazai Osamu

Additional Tags: Whumptober 2020, i hope this counts as whump, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Self-Doubt, Fever, Prompts:, Waking up Restrained, Shackled, Soukoku | Double Black (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dark Era (Bungou Stray Dogs), Swearing

Summary: Chuuya wakes up shackled in a cell. He only knows that he passed out after using Corruption. Where is Dazai? Something is wrong.

Word Count: 3576

Ao3

Something is wrong. It takes Chuuya a while to clear his head from the heavy fog of unconsciousness and comprehend what exactly. He can't move his arms. No, actually he can't move at all. His arms are just the first thing he notices because they are shackled above his head, his hands hanging limply in their restraints. The rest of his body isn't fairing any better. His ankles are bound with heavy chains, digging into his pale skin. He wants to move them, but nothing happens. His head is too heavy to move around, but he appears to be in some sort of cell. It's dimly lit from somewhere behind him.

He groans as more sensation returns to his body, and he is hit with a wave of pain and nausea. What happened?

Corruption. Right. He and Dazai had been on a mission, and Chuuya had to use Corruption to take out their enemies. That at least explains why he feels like shit. What it doesn't explain is how he ended up here, shackled in a cell. Dazai usually makes sure they're both safe after a fight. Where is Dazai? A bolt of panic shoots through Chuuya, and he manages to look around the cell. He's definitely alone. Fuck. He has to get out of here somehow. He tries again to move his arms but except them starting to shake with exhaustion nothing happens. He soon gives up, head still heavy. This sucks. At least he's still wearing his clothes and the room isn't that cold. His situation could be worse.

His thoughts become more sluggish by the minute, and he gives up trying to hold his head up in any way. Dazai is probably fine. The bastard doesn't die even when he actively tries. Chuuya stops struggling to remain conscious. He'll deal with everything when he can actually stay awake for more than a few minutes.

When he wakes again, his cell is entirely dark. Chuuya can't even make out his legs against the concrete floor. At least he can feel them. Even though that feeling is mostly pain. The chains are still heavy around his ankles, and he's glad their not tight enough to cut off circulation. He has enough other problems already. For one, his throat feels like sandpaper every time he tries to swallow. Chuuya has no idea how long it's been since he had something to drink. But while it hurts, he's not too worried about dehydration. Surely, his captors wouldn't have gone through all the trouble of chaining him up just to let him die of thirst. If they wanted him dead, he would already be. Food currently isn't much of a concern as well. This shortly after using Corruption, he wouldn't be able to keep anything solid down anyway. He's honestly glad that he hasn't vomited all over himself. Not yet, at least. The nausea is still very much present. He tries to breathe through it and concentrate on other things. For example, figuring out where he is, who chained him up here, and how to get out. For once, Chuuya really wishes Dazai was here. He probably would already have picked the locks on their chains, all the way making fun of Chuuya for not being able to do it himself.

Chuuya groans both in frustration and pain. Fuck everything about this. He tries again to move his arms and actually manages to wiggle them a little. It makes the chains holding them up clink quietly, but nothing helpful comes from it. Next, he wants to move his legs but only manages his toes for now. He's still too fucking weak.

Chuuya sighs and resigns himself to his fate for now. There is no harm in trying to get a bit more sleep. It'll help him recover faster, and once there is some light again, he might actually be able to come up with a plan. Or maybe by the time he wakes up, the Port Mafia will already be here to get him out. One can dream, right?

A smarting kick in the ribs rips his dreams straight out of him. Chuuya wakes with a swear, needing a moment to orient himself before he looks up at the person responsible for the newly blooming pain in his side. "What the fuck." His voice is barely more than a rasp, and it hurts to speak at all. The guy towering over him is wearing all black, including a ski mask that obscures his face. Well, that immediately gives Chuuya a bit of hope. They don't want him to know who they are in case he gets out. The man is carrying a bottle in his left hand. Chuuya really hopes that it contains some water and is meant for him. Thankfully the man crouches down next to him and holds the bottle to his lips, tilting it upwards. The moment the liquid hits his chapped lips, Chuuya forgets how pathetic he must look, greedily drinking the cold water. Swallowing still hurts, but he's more than willing to put up with it. Much too fast, the bottle is empty and taken away from him. Without a word, the man stands and turns to leave. "Wait!" Chuuya rasps out. He needs information, damn it. "Who the fuck are you? What do you want with me?" The man only glances back at him and then leaves anyway, locking the cell door behind him. Chuuya swears after him.

When he can no longer hear anything outside his cell, Chuuya sighs. At least he's not as thirsty anymore. And the sleep did help a bit in regaining his strength, even if he still feels too weak. He looks around his cell again. Not only the floor is made of the concrete, so are the walls. His cell door is made out of grey metal. The room is lit by a small window above his head, and Chuuya has to strain himself to see it at all. By the looks of it, it's too small for him to get through even if managed to reach it. Except himself and the chains binding him in place, the cell is empty. Speaking of chains, Chuuya finally looks up at the shackles around his wrists. His skin has already turned red underneath them, standing out against the paleness of his arms. He tries to make his hand as small as possible to slip them off, but it soon proves impossible. He would need to break his thumps, and he's not about to do that right now. Maybe once he's really desperate.

Chuuya takes a deep breath and tries to activate his ability. Searing hot pain shoots through him. His vision goes from white to black in an instant, and an oppressive silence fills his ears.

When his senses return, he can hear someone's heavy, shuddering breaths. It takes him a moment to realise that they're his own. He's shivering despite the room not being that cold. He can also taste metal, and judging by the pain he bit his tongue just now. He desperately wants to spit, but he's afraid his aim won't be good enough. He'd only get blood all over his shirt, and he's already covered in sweat, no need to make it worse. He swallows instead, making his stomach squirm uneasily.

All in all that could have turned out better. Chuuya sighs. Everything hurts, he's shaking, and he still has no idea what to do about this situation. He leans his head back against the wall and winces when the change in position aggravates his smarting muscles even more. He feels so fucking weak. He hates it.

He's weak and useless, and the fact that he had hoped someone would save him is proof of that. Stupid Dazai wouldn't need someone else to get him out of a situation like this. Chuuya probably isn't even worth the effort of being saved. After all, it wouldn't be the first time he's been abandoned. Just shows how worthless he really is to the people around him. He probably deserves it. It's the punishment for what he is; Not human enough for people to care, not monster enough to be useful.

Chuuya closes his stinging eyes; he's not gonna cry. He isn't that pathetic. It's too much of an effort to open his eyes again, so he leaves them closed. If he dies here, it won't make much of a difference anyway.

This time he thankfully isn't woken by a kick in the ribs. Instead, he hears muffled noise outside his cell. He can't make out anything concrete, his ears feeling like their stuffed with cotton. He wants to shake his head to clear them up, but the roaring pain behind his temples stops him short. With unfocused eyes, he watches as the door is opened and a black-clad figure steps inside. They seem to be smaller than the man from before, but Chuuya isn't sure. Has the cell always been this foggy? The person kneels down in front of him, and Chuuya really hopes they brought him some water again. They're not wearing a mask this time. Huh. He's pretty sure that's a bad sign, but he isn't sure why anymore. Instead of giving him something to drink, cold fingers touch the side of his face. They gently force him to look up, and he winces. The person frowns, and for the first time, they seem familiar somehow. They appear to only have one eye, now that he's looking. Why is he thinking of fish suddenly? The person let's go of his face and stands back up. No water for him then. Chuuya sighs and closes his eyes. It's exhausting trying to stay awake right now.

Suddenly, he can feel his left arm slowly being lowered to his side. Where did the shackles go? His right arm is already following suit when he manages to open his eyes again. The person is still here, unshackling him. Chuuya doesn't understand the purpose of this but he sure as hell isn't complaining. The chain around his right ankle is removed, and he catches a glimpse of bandaged wrists under the black coat.

Chuuya groans and Dazai looks at him again. "So you're not dead", he teases, unlocking the last of Chuuya's bonds. Instead of waiting for an answer, Dazai moves to his side. "You've got quite the fever going," he informs with a cheerful voice, "Do you think you can walk?" "Sure," Chuuya mumbles. He isn't sure at all, but he already feels the other sling an arm around his waist. Dazai puts Chuuya's right arm around his shoulders and is surprisingly careful while pulling them both to their feet. Chuuya immediately loses his balance and would have fallen, hadn't Dazai been prepared for it. After a moment, Chuuya manages to stand at least somewhat steadily, while heavily leaning on Dazai for support. He's already shaking with the effort, and Dazai does not make it easier by commenting: "How is Chibi so heavy when he's so small?" Chuuya doesn't even have the strength to get mad at him. All his efforts are focused on not falling over. Pathetic. Dazai doesn't tease him further. Instead, he takes one step forward, gently pulling Chuuya with him. Much slower than either of them would have prefered they make it to the door.

Once they're finally there, Dazai opens it, careful to continuously support Chuuya's weight. They're greeted by an impassive looking Hirotsu, obviously standing guard. A new wave of shame rolls over Chuuya. They really had to rescue him. Hirotsu nods at Dazai and then looks at Chuuya, who in turn is staring at the floor. It's too much effort to lift his head anyway.

"Is he injured?" Hirotsu asks, and Chuuya can feel Dazai shift beside him. "I didn't see anything serious. I'm more concerned about the fever." They do realise Chuuya can hear them, right? Not that he feels like talking right now, but still. Everything hurts, and he would prefer just lying down. Of course, he knows that they need to get out of here first, wherever here is. His ears still feel like they're stuffed with cotton and it's easy to drown out the others' talking. He only starts actively listening again when Hirotsu says: "I can carry him." Wait, what? Chuuya can walk! Sure, he would have already fallen over if it wasn't for Dazai, but that doesn't mean he needs to be carried. He's not a child anymore. Perhaps the others might have actually believed him, had he been able to say any of that aloud. Instead, he only manages a low groan of protest as he's shifted on Hirotsu's back. When he stands back up, Chuuya sighs. Whatever. This takes a lot less effort.

They start walking, and Chuuya notices that Dazai doesn't leave his side. He's still obviously on the lookout for potential enemies but never gets more than two steps distance between them. Chuuya doubts anything is going to catch Dazai by surprise around here. He leans his head against Hirotsu's shoulder and closes his eyes. The others don't need him at the moment anyway. And he's so tired.

This time when Chuuya wakes up, he's not sitting in his cell. The room is brightly lit, and he has to squint to make out anything. He's lying in a bed with a thick white blanket covering his body, and his head is slightly propped up with a pillow. Chuuya flinches at the IV drip connected to his left arm. Before he can do anything about it though, someone takes hold of his other arm. He jerks his head around to see the offender and immediately regrets the action. Blinding white pain shoots through him as he screws his eyes shut. Fuck.

Chuuya only opens them again when the pain begins to recede. He finally manages to look to his right. Dazai is sitting next to the bed in a chair, a book propped open in his lap. He is still holding onto Chuuya's arm. Judging by the dark bags under his eyes, he didn't get much sleep. Chuuya wonders why.

"So the Chibi is finally awake," Dazai grins mockingly, but it looks weird. Chuuya can't quite pinpoint why. He just glares at Dazai, not entirely trusting his own voice. The IV may supply him with fluids, but his throat still hurts. "Don't pull that out," Dazai points to said IV and finally removes his hand from Chuuya's arm. The spot suddenly feels colder than before and Chuuya shivers. He's cold in general, he notices, despite the thick blanket covering him. Dazai leans back in his chair with a sigh. He doesn't just seem tired, he looks exhausted. Chuuya looks at him questioningly, and he thankfully takes the hint. "You only recently came down from a 42-degree fever." Oh. That's probably not great. "Since we didn't know how long it had already been that high when we found you," Dazai continues, "the doctors were worried about brain damage." Yeah, definitely not great. "I told them there wasn't much brain to be damaged, but no one listened to me," Dazai shrugs, earning himself another glare. "Even the boss himself came down to take a look at you." Chuuya makes a face that causes Dazai to let out a soft snort. "Don't worry, he only made sure you'd survive without lasting damage and left again." Well, that only makes it marginally better.

Chuuya rests his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes. He's still so tired. Weird, considering that he already slept so much these past days. "Sleep," he hears Dazai say as he drifts off, "I'll stay."

Dazai is asleep in his chair when Chuuya wakes up again. His head feels clearer this time. He's still in pain, and the IV makes him feel queasy, but he at least manages to look around properly. The room is small and definitely belongs to the larger medical unit the Port Mafia runs. It's sparsely furnished with a hospital bed, a chair and a small table next to it. Chuuya eyes the glass of water on it, but it's out of his reach, and he doesn't want to wake up Dazai. He looks like he needs the sleep. Chuuya would feel selfish if he's the only one that gets to rest at least a little.

With a quiet sigh, he settles back down for the wait. To his surprise, it doesn't take long for Dazai to open his eyes again, immediately landing on him. A short-lived smile sneaks across his face when he notices Chuuya awake. Chuuya looks at the glass of water again and motions with his hand as much as he can. Thankfully, Dazai gets the hint and actually props his head up so Chuuya can drink. Once he has drained the glass, his throat feels a little less like sandpaper and more like something you'd find on an actual human being.

Dazai sits back down, and Chuuya clears his throat carefully before attempting to speak: "So what happened?" Dazai's expression darkens. "What do you remember?" Chuuya shrugs, causing a new flare of pain. He winces and waits for it to calm down before answering: "We were on a mission, I used Corruption, and then I woke up in that cell." He gets interrupted by a short coughing fit, causing Dazai to frown. "Dunno how long I was there but eventually you turned up, and now I'm here." "You were gone for three days," Dazai starts. Chuuya stares at him in surprise. That's somehow both longer than he thought and shorter than it felt. "We would have found you sooner if I-" Dazai stops and shakes his head, still frowning. "It's my fault they got you in the first place," he finally says, clearly angry with himself. This is unusual. Chuuya's not sure he ever heard Dazai admit fault this openly. "When I stopped you, I thought all enemies were dead," he breathes in, "but I was wrong." That explains it. Dazai's angry because they didn't complete the mission. Chuuya almost laughs at himself for thinking for even a moment that it could have been because he got hurt. "They ambushed us after you passed out. I think they wanted to take us both but prioritised you after I caused them too much trouble." Chuuya almost wishes he could have seen that. Dazai's not precisely the hands-on type when it comes to fighting, but he's still a cunning bastard. "They threw me out of their truck-" "You're okay?" Chuuya can't help but interrupt. It's not like he cares, though. Dazai, of course, laughs at him: "Aw, is Chuuya worried for me?" "Fuck off," he answers and looks away. Stupid Dazai. He just wanted to know the reason for his rescue taking so long. That's all.

"Yeah, I'm alright," Dazai continues, softer somehow, "I hit my head a bit, and I had no way of contacting anyone in the beginning. When I finally managed to reach Hirotsu, we had lost your trace. Took me almost two days to find their hideout and come up with a plan." That explains it. Chuuya's still glad Dazai was actually looking for him. It probably would have taken even longer otherwise. "We took out the last of the enemies, and I found you in your cosy little cell." Chuuya snorts. Incredibly cosy, yes. "I don't know what I expected, but you really looked like shit." "Thanks," Chuuya rasps, already thirsty again. Dazai moves almost immediately to refill the glass and help him drink. It's a bit weird, but Chuuya won't complain.

Once they're both settled again, Dazai continues: "I mean, you always look like shit after using Corruption, but you usually recover from that pretty quickly." Yeah, when he's at home and can properly rest. "Your wrists were infected, but that wasn't that serious. You also have two broken ribs. The most concerning was the fever, though. It caused you to dehydrate as well." Oh, so he should have been worried about that. "I don't think you even recognised me when I came in. I was talking to you, but you only reacted when I had already taken off the cuffs. Hirotsu and I got you out and back here as quickly as possible." Right. He remembers getting out of the cell with Dazai.

Chuuya contemplates if he should thank Dazai for the rescue when the other suddenly grabs hold of his arm again. Intense dark eyes stare directly at him. "I will not let something like this happen ever again," Dazai says with such dark determination, Chuuya believes him in an instant. He nods, taken aback by the sudden declaration. Dazai lets go of his arm and stands up. "I'll let the doctor know you're awake." "Wait," Chuuya says before he can stop himself. Dazai turns back to him, and Chuuya does his best to avoid his eyes. "I, uh... I don't blame you for what happened. And thanks. For getting me out of there." Dazai actually smiles at him and reaches for his hand. He gives it a quick squeeze before letting go again. "Of course, partner. After all," he grins, "I'd rather you die due to your own stupidity." Chuuya groans and lets his head fall into the pillow. "Fuck off, stupid mackerel." Dazai keeps grinning as he makes his way towards the door. "Anytime, slug."

#whumptober2020 #no.1 #waking up restrained #shackled #bungou stray dogs #fic #soukoku #Nakahara Chuuya #chuuya nakahara #dazai osamu #osamu dazai

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leofemt · 6 years

Text

on the other side of a particular city

"Yes?" He says. Only a few people would have the audacity to call him, and fewer still if there's not an immediate emergency. He waits for a response. He doesn't have the energy to put on his usual show, but he refrains from snapping. He makes a strange sight, a man standing in the center of an abandoned street, alone, half-lit by the filtered light strained through the heavy clouds, water gathering on the hem of his coat and dripping from the ends of his hair. He is completely isolated from the world, save for the phone in his hand.

"Hey." An annoyingly drawling tone comes from the speaker. Dazai's demeanor doesn't change. He may have expected this. "We were supposed to meet with Boss Mori half an hour ago. Did you forget, you shithead?"

Chuuya's familiarly cutting tone shatters Dazai's isolation. He purses his lips.

dazai/chuuya, 2.4k, set after the buraiha trio's last meeting at bar lupin.

on ao3.

(a companion piece to the nsfw oda/ango fic i wrote a little while ago. on ao3, on tumblr.)

Dazai's legs ache slightly. The small side street he makes his way down is dripping with rain, the persistent downpour slicking the stone under his shoes and soaking into his hair. He walks in measured steps, the soles of his scuffed shoes making barely-audible sounds against the ground.

Ango's face- and Oda's face, alongside it- refuse to leave his mind. He understands. He knows Ango- it's not the betrayal that stings so badly, because he had known what to expect ever since he had seen that plastic-wrapped umbrella in his briefcase, and even before. He knows Ango, and Ango's reasons, and Ango's pain, because he is his friend and he knows his mind, and Dazai hates Ango for forcing him to understand.

Dazai hates Ango for taking Oda from him, too. He had seen the indescribable look on Odasaku's face. He had seen the way his fingers had lain carefully across the smooth wood of the bar counter. Oda is a mystery, a man whose thoughts and reactions were so wholly abnormal that there is no explanation for the besides the fact that he is a good man.

Dazai's jaw tenses. His fingers clench in his pockets. He knows Oda and Ango are both years above him, but he has never felt so acutely like a child whose friends are out of his reach.

His phone buzzes. He almost jumps. The street is deserted. He realizes he's half-soaked by the gentle downpour. Yokohama is silent tonight, the dreary gray of the rainclouds driving even the most persistent Mafia members back to their roost, except for the dark turmoil in one man's chest that twists and writhes and beats along to the tempo of his black heart.

Dazai's fingers don't shake when he opens the phone.

Chuuya's familiarly cutting tone shatters Dazai's isolation. He purses his lips.

"I didn't forget," he tells his partner, resisting the urge to hang up and throw his phone into the river and maybe find Ango and slit his throat after all. Suddenly, he wants to speak to Oda. Chuuya's voice comes from the phone instead.

"Then what the hell happened?" He exclaims. His red-hot, fiery demeanor is too jarringly different from the dirt-gray world that crowds Dazai's vision. Chuuya has always been like that- a glowing fire-poker branded across the black of the Port Mafia. Even his Corruption is a bright, searing red. A far cry from Dazai. Dazai has always found it ironic that his power shines a radiant white.

He half-smiles. He realizes it's been several moments since Chuuya had spoken. Dazai opens his mouth, but, for once, has nothing to say.

"...hey." Chuuya says. His voice is tinny and low coming from the phone in his hand. "Hey, idiot, are you alright?"

His partner. Loyal to a fault, Dazai thinks. He does smile fully now, a wry twist of his lips. The pain of Ango's betrayal, and his trust in Dazai despite it, lances sharply through his chest with every breath in comparison. He wonders if Oda has ever felt pain like this. He feels like he's drowning in air. All he can hold onto is hate and vindictiveness. Oda is too good to hate. Dazai is not.

Suddenly, he's angry, and he still hasn't replied to Chuuya.

"Okay." Chuuya says, after another moment. He must begin to walk- Dazai can hear the click of his crappy boot-shined shoes against concrete. "Where are you? I'm getting a car. You always make me waste my time on you."

Dazai chuckles into the phone. This seems to unnerve Chuuya more than anything. His footsteps speed up.

"Where the fuck are you, Dazai?" He insists. Dazai looks around. Where is he?

"By the warehouse district, I think," he says, peering along the street. It's certainly deserted enough to be the warehouse district.

"The warehouse district." Chuuya mutters. "Great. Like that's not the vaguest answer you could possibly give."

He pauses. There's the slam of a car door, and the rev of an engine- it sounds sleek, like one of those higher-end black cars Chuuya favors. Everything about Chuuya is flashy and expensive, from his clothing to his taste in drink. It makes it that much more satisfying to take him down a notch, Dazai thinks, the black curl of amusement lighting up his mind, eyes crinkling in a smile no one can see. It's a rush to know that he holds the power of the life of someone like his partner- angry, deadly, with the command of matter itself at his fingertips- in his hand.

"I'll be there in five minutes." Chuuya snaps, and hangs up. Dazai is left with a dial tone in his ear. He closes the phone and returns it to his pocket. He's really, properly drenched.

Making Chuuya work a little won't hurt anyone, he decides, and starts again down the street.

Chuuya is true to his word, though- within a few minutes, a black car comes skidding down the street, slipping on wet pavement, and screeches to a stop not five feet from Dazai. Dazai turns and peers into the windshield. Chuuya, looking thoroughly pissed, bursts out of the car.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" Chuuya shouts, struggling to open an umbrella, effectively ruining Dazai's quiet night. He looks out of place, bright orange and rich maroon against gray stone and sky. Everything about him is too stark. Even the umbrella that finally billows open is an oppressively black stain against a desaturated scene. Dazai chuckles. Chuuya eyes him distrustfully.

"Did something happen?" He asks. "Explain yourself, you bastard."

Dazai takes his hand from his pocket. He opens it. Rain falls on his empty palm.

Chuuya frowns.

"You're soaking," he says, mouth pinching in disapproval. "We have a mission tomorrow, you numbskull. What are you gonna tell the Boss if you get sick?"

He moves closer, so they're both under his umbrella, and glares up at Dazai.

"I took care of him." Dazai says, finally. He doesn't recognize his own voice. It sounds far away in his ears. "Ango. I took care of him."

He can't bring himself to say, "I took care of the traitor." It seems too harsh. Even at the end, when Dazai had stared at the drink on the bartop, had done anything but look at Ango's face, he knows the expression the other man had worn had been one of indubitable weariness. Dazai hates him for making him care.

An unreadable look falls over Chuuya's features, like darkness over a burning field. Dazai looks down at him. Chuuya's black-gloved hands are tight around the curved handle of the umbrella. It's wooden, a rich dark brown against the gray of the street- Chuuya's taste has always been expensive. Dazai smiles. It's empty and terrifying all in one, and doesn't reach his black eyes.

"He's not dead, is he," Chuuya sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his other black-clad hand. "You let him go. You damned softy."

Dazai laughs.

"You might be the one person in the Port Mafia more ruthless than me, Chuuya," he says, smiling, voice lilting. He raises a finger in consideration. "Besides Boss Mori, of course."

Chuuya scowls at him.

"Don't do that." He spits. "I hate it when you do that. I hate your stupid- attitude."

Dazai scratches at the bandage wound around his head. He presses his fingertips over his covered eye, for a moment. The gauze is damp and textured against his skin. The rain drips off the black umbrella at the corners, getting on the edge of Chuuya's coat.

"What am I supposed to do?" He asks, lightly, still ambivalently cheerful. Chuuya is too fun to tease. He's too straightforward. He's too brash. He's too violent, and loyal, and explosive, and he trusts Dazai too much, and Dazai hates everything about him. It seems like Dazai can't do anything but casually hate. He thinks, again, of Oda. He wonders where Oda is tonight. He wonders what his friend is thinking. He wonders if Oda feels anything.

Oda is too straightforward, too. Dazai thinks he's surrounded by too many straightforward people. Even Ango is upfront about his feelings of regret, and friendship, and the tearing loss that had ripped that carefully cool mask from his face. Dazai is tired of everyone around him having something to live for. A person living casually, inflicting damage where they can, playing people and manipulating events and never, ever admitting to themselves that they will never find the purpose that they seek because the issue isn't the lack of a principle, the issue is their character- themselves- is the biggest coward in the world.

Chuuya looks at him strangely. He realizes it's because he's just asked Chuuya's opinion. Chuuya shakes his head.

"There's definitely something wrong with you today," he mutters, and grabs Dazai's wrist. His gloves are still mostly dry. Dazai's coat and skin is damp, and it rubs off onto the palm of Chuuya's glove, wetting the cloth. He doesn't seem to notice. Dazai hates him just a little more. Chuuya is grossly, predictably, disgustingly reliable. He has a thought about killing him. He decides not to, because the man is his partner, after all. He is as familiar with Chuuya's thoughts as breathing. He wishes he could rid himself of both. Chuuya drags him to the car, and shoves him in the passenger side seat, where he sits silently, dripping all over the leather upholstry, and gets in the driver's side, starting the car with a sharp flick of his wrist.

"Why are you so fucking high-maintenance, Dazai, you dickhead?" He growls under his breath, revving the engine, the car rumbling to life on slick stone roadways. "We have a job, you know. Prodigious youngest mafia executive, my ass."

Dazai can't remember if he's ever told Chuuya about Ango. Probably. Ango is- was- the Port Mafia's chief intelligence officer, after all. If everyone knows about his association with Odasaku, everyone definitely knows about his association with the most important strategist in the Mafia's arsenal. Former most important. He'd been expecting Ango's betrayal, Dazai reminds himself. Chuuya glances at him from the driver's seat out of the corner of his eye, both gloved hands still wrapped around the steering wheel. The car glides down the street.

Ten minutes later, it stops.

Dazai blinks.

"Where are we?" He asks, peering out of the tinted windows. Chuuya scoffs and gets out of the car. Dazai follows. It's an inconspicuous apartment building, near the Port Mafia headquarters. The kind of place he would choose for a safe house. Chuuya goes inside, and Dazai, for lack of another avenue of action, follows again. He follows him into an elevator, and when Chuuya pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocks apartment number 302, and when Chuuya leaves the door ajar when he enters in a silent invitation. He thinks Chuuya half-expects to turn around and for Dazai to be gone, but he shuts the door behind him, and the click of the lock is quiet in its finality.

Chuuya's apartment is stark and classy. A far cry from Oda's slightly messy, lived-in writer's flat, or Ango's bare hotel room with windows all along one wall, crystal clear glass leaving him incredibly exposed for all the secrets he carries in his head and his heart- Chuuya's apartment is all smooth metal and rich wood, not a carpet fiber out of place. Dazai feels the urge to mess things up a little. He settles for sprawling across Chuuya's leather upholstered sofa instead. There's one sofa and one armchair of warm red velvet. This doesn't look like a place that sees company very often, Dazai thinks.

Chuuya's taken off his hat and coat, and hung them on a set of pegs by the door, and toed off his shoes, and he's considering a bottle of wine that Dazai can't see the label of- he deems it satisfactory and, with two glasses in his other hand, makes his way to the armchair. He sets them down on the mahogany- or oak? Dazai can't tell in the low light- coffee table and pours the wine into the glasses. He hands one to Dazai, who accepts it without resistance.

"At least take off your shoes." Chuuya mutters, swirling his glass to let the bouquet of the wine oxidize before taking a sip. Dazai kicks off his shoes, sitting up, and copies his motion. He drinks. He hates wine. It tastes like dried roses and old curtains. He drinks it anyways.

"You have terrible taste in alcohol, Chuuya," he says, drinking again. Chuuya fixes him with a glare.

"I'm not going to bring the expensive stuff out for you," he scoffs, taking another sip. Dazai doesn't think he can stomach the taste of scotch. Scotch is a drink to be had in Bar Lupin with two close friends. He doesn't have that anymore. Maybe he never did. Now, all he has is bad wine, and a testy partner who invites him to his apartment anyways. He takes another drink. Maybe he'll switch to cocktails. Maybe he'll quit drinking altogether. The wine is disgustingly floral against his tongue.

When he leans over, later, and kisses Chuuya, with tongue and teeth and no love lost, he tastes like roses and curtains too.

#osamu dazai #nakahara chuuya #soukoku #bsd #bungou stray dogs #mine #my writing

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memswrites · 7 years

Text

Aftercare

Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs Pairing: Dazai Osamu & Nakahara Chuuya Rating: Gen. Warnings: None

Summary: Dazai's always there to bring him back, and there in the days after, too, when Chuuya needs him just a little more.

Read on AO3

Entry for @soukokuweek 2017, Day Two - “That’s what being a partner means, right?”

The apartment is still, almost too quiet for the middle of a weekday. Dazai has kicked everyone out – all the visitors and well-wishers, every person with curious, prying eyes and pressing questions, too. The only person he hasn’t is Kouyou, but there’s no kicking Kouyou out of anywhere and she’s left on her own already; she simply knows when space is needed.

And Dazai needs it, badly.

He leaves the living room, littered with cards and slowly browning flowers, bags of get well soon gifts and other bullshit that’ll probably end up in the trash, to head tiredly to the kitchen. There’s scotch in the cabinet with his name on it, fresh ice in the freezer and he pulls out a glass and fills it full with both. He sighs as he does, long, drawn out, too weary for someone that hasn’t cleared seventeen yet and while he’s got his mind on Kouyou and how maybe, perhaps, he could have done with her in his space after all right now, she likely wouldn’t approve of his methods of coping.

Regardless of his ill-timed regrets, he’s got his scotch, anyway, and the burn of it down his throat when he tosses it back is welcome. Dazai hasn’t been able to feel much of anything but a general, encompassing numbness since that night, and as feeling slowly ebbs on in, he can’t help the desire to chase it all away again with more burning alcohol, and feel a little less human than his mind and body are trying to make him.

It’s not the first time that they’ve done this, but each time he has hopes it’s the last time, as unlikely as that is. They still don’t have a decent handle on Corruption – no clue how long Chuuya can actually last while in it, no real idea what it even is, though Dazai has some guesses and none of them are particularly pleasant. It doesn’t really matter they’re inexperienced with the whole thing, and the fact that they can’t safely toy around with it is part of the reason Chuuya’s knocked out in his bedroom, pumped full of painkillers, practically dead to the world.

They’re tools. They’ve always been tools. Dazai doesn’t fool himself into thinking that they’re anything more to Mori; he lost that childlike ideation years ago and Mori’s never done much to prove him wrong. Perhaps to the others… yes… there’s something more there with the others, like Kouyou and old Hirotsu, and even little rabid Ryuu-kun, but the others aren’t the Boss, and what the Boss wants the Boss gets – nice little demonstration of his prized Double Black.

You could have said no. That we weren’t ready. You’re his partner, you know that better than anyone else –

Dazai shakes his head. You know better than that though, don’t you? He’d have told Mori no, if he thought it have done any good, but he knows Mori and knows sooner or later, he’d have gotten what he wanted, anyway. Mori hadn’t gotten the chance to see Corruption up close, after all, and it’s always been a fascination among the Mafia since he and Chuuya discovered it as children. Whatever other methods Mori would have used outside of a polite request would have been less than pleasant for either of them or anyone else involved. It’s as inevitable as the next drink Dazai slings back, and the second, and as unavoidable as Dazai passing out on the couch that evening.

Some partner you are.

The first thing Dazai does when he wakes up in the morning is trek to his bedroom, wobbling with a sloshing, unhappy stomach. His head feels like Kaiji exploded a truck load of lemons over it, and he can’t exactly see straight yet, but he knows his own apartment, damnit –

“Ouch, shit –!”

…except for when he stubs his toe on the door jam leading into his bedroom, it seems.

Chuuya’s still there, in his room, still in the same position on his back in the middle of his bed, arms folded atop the two layers of comforter that Dazai and Kouyou tucked him into the night before. There’s bags beneath his eyes that don’t belong there; even sleeping he looks tired, and the corners of his mouth sag down in a frown. His hair fans out over the pillows, and the vision is almost picture-book, strawberries and cream, until Dazai reaches out and runs his fingers through the sweat-greased tresses that haven’t been washed out in days.

Ahh… He’ll love that when he wakes up.

But he’s not awake yet. His chest rises and falls steady in his narcotics-induced sleep. Chuuya snores like an old man, something Dazai’s always expressed as an annoyance while finding it mildly endearing.

If he lingers any longer, he knows that he’ll start to think a little too hard on everything. So, he leaves Chuuya in his bed, giving a small little pat to his forehead, and decides to do something constructive on his day off.

The apartment is a mess, between what others brought over for Chuuya and his own mildly chaotic system. It’s a surprise to many to learn Dazai is the one that likes to live in organized chaos and not Chuuya, but Dazai knows if Chuuya wakes up to a mess after having been pushed through Corruption, a mild hospital wing stay, and no shower for days, it’ll only heat his already hot-headed mood. It doesn’t usually bother him; Chuuya’s frustrations with his sloppy living are usually amusing and really, does he care if Chuuya’s a gross, unshowered mess? Not really, not on a normal day, but it’s not a normal day and he recognizes it’s one of a few of the least things he can do at the moment, because Chuuya will care. He’s able to bring Chuuya back, after all, not fix the aftermath and that’s honestly the most annoying of the failings of his ability.

No point griping over things you can’t change.

He gathers the bags and the cards, scattered about the living room, as well as the flowers, and brings them to his bedroom. Flowers arranged on the nightstand, bags of gifts over by the window, out of the way. Cards to the nightstand, too, after he thinks about it, and then he sets to straightening the rest of the apartment.

It’s a distraction, mostly. A purposeful distraction but one nevertheless. It keeps him from looking at the clock every few minutes and instead only every hour or so, trying to gauge if Chuuya’s slept a little too long or if he can afford to let Chuuya sleep longer. Eventually it gets late enough and it’s been long enough since his last meal that he thinks it’s time to fix something to eat – and by fix, he preps instant noodles and dresses them up a little better than the packet of powder seasoning that comes with the noodles will do.

They’re good enough, for the moment. Chuuya will need more than instant noodles or… He looks through his cabinets and there’s bread that’s not too hard to make sandwiches with, and about a spoonful of peanut butter in the bottom of his peanut butter jar… rice… more rice…

He sighs. He hates cooking, and doesn’t do it very well on his own, either, but he drags his ass out after finishing up his noodles to see if he can bring back something decent for when Chuuya wakes up.

Dazai pulls a recipe from online, and has Kouyou on the phone.

“…and that’s boiled now, Dazai-kun?”

“Yes, Kouyou-san.”

“Whisk in the miso paste then.”

He does, keeping his phone propped between his shoulder and ear. He’s never made miso soup, but the simplest of recipes seemed easy enough to make. He calls Kouyou merely for a second opinion – he’s an Executive, and therefore definitely self-sufficient, after all.

“Ah, got that. Then –”

“The onions, tofu, mix those in too.”

“…alright. I think it’s all done –”

“What is?”

Dazai isn’t often taken by surprise, but he doesn’t hear Chuuya leave the room and looks over his shoulder a little wide-eyed when Chuuya speaks. Chuuya doesn’t look much better, if he’s honest, even with the twenty-six going on twenty-seven hours of sleep. If Dazai didn’t know better he’d have been steam-rolled, but that’s entirely beside the point. He stares at Chuuya, who glares tiredly back at him, before slowly approaching with stiff steps on legs that peek out under the oversized shirt Dazai put him in, with the intention being that sleeping in his shirt and boxers would be a little more comfortable than sleeping in his works clothes and harness.

Chuuya peeks into the pot of miso boiling on the stove. He sniffs at it, and Dazai’s pleased he doesn’t seem by put-off by the scent. Chuuya gives it a curious stir as Kouyou tries to get Dazai’s attention again on the other end.

“Is that him? He’s awake? Dazai-kun?”

“Hm? Ah, yes, Kouyou-san, he’s awake.”

“…how does he look?”

Like he needs another twenty-four hours of sleep. Like he’s going to topple over any second now. Like he needs to never do another damn thing Mori says again –

“Better.”

Kouyou sighs, a tired sort of relief in her voice.

“I’ll let you go, Dazai-kun. I’ll call later and check on him. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Kouyou-san.”

The line goes quiet and Dazai hangs up. Meanwhile, Chuuya’s still stirring, almost listlessly, watching the tofu and onion swirl around in the miso broth.

“Doing that won’t make it taste any better,” Dazai says after a moment. Chuuya doesn’t have to look at him for Dazai to know that he’s rolled his eyes.

“I can’t believe you cooked.” Chuuya’s voice sounds raw, like he’s speaking through a sore throat. “You didn’t poison it, did you?”

“As if I’d kill you in such a lackluster manner.”

“Heh. Funny.”

It’s not, not really, but they lapse into a silence and it’s not too uncomfortable.

“Seriously, I can’t believe you cooked. You never cook.”

“I cook.”

“Tch. Instant noodles doesn’t count. No, you don’t.” He pauses. And Dazai counts down the seconds to the inevitable question. “It was bad this time, wasn’t it? How long have I been out?”

Dazai shifts against the counter, idly playing with a loose string from one of his bandages.

“Since coming out of it, or since being here?”

“What do you think?”

“That you’re hungry, which is why you’re so annoyed.”

That’s not the case, but Chuuya doesn’t argue with him about it as Dazai pulls down a bowl. Dazai spoons it full of miso, salts and peppers and plops a spoon into it before sliding it across the counter over to Chuuya. Chuuya merely stares down at it, and then around the apartment. One of his brows raise as he does, and Dazai has the urge to slide his fingers through Chuuya’s messy, greasy hair if only to distract him.

The food does that for him, though. Chuuya takes a spoonful, and then another. He coughs, once, and Dazai realizes he was maybe a little heavy handed on the pepper.

At least it’s not killing him….

Chuuya’s tired blues scan the apartment while he eats, and it’s only a few more quite spoonfuls that he eats before he’s talking again.

“You cleaned, too.”

“How uncommonly observant.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

Trying not to.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like shit, Dazai. Drugged shit.”

“Fun.”

“Not really.”

Dazai doesn’t have anything else to say to that, and Chuuya goes back to eating. Dazai lets him, and watches how Chuuya shovels his bites into his mouth. His hand shakes, spills a little, but he doesn’t hover too bad, only goes to grab a paper towel and hand it over to Chuuya to clean up for himself. After another few bites, Chuuya speaks again.

“Has he at least satisfied with what he saw?” Chuuya doesn’t have to say who he is.

“He said we were above and beyond expectation.”

“Well, great I guess.”

“I told him it wasn’t going to happen again.”

Chuuya pauses his bite, and looks over at Dazai. The bags that were there while he was sleeping still hang under his eyes, somehow more than they had before. Last time they had gone through with Corruption, it had been out of necessity, and it hadn’t left Chuuya looking so weary. What a waste of the ability, doing it for show, letting it drag out the way it had.

Dazai can tell that Chuuya’s not particularly convinced by his assertion, though he supposes that’s fine; he’s not convinced that Mori took it to heart, either, and can see it in the shrug that Chuuya gives before he goes back to his soup.

“You’re going to unravel those if you keep picking at them, you useless mummy.”

Dazai hadn’t realized he was still picking at his bandages, but stops and shakes his head.

“Come on. Finish up.”

“Why the hurry?” Chuuya grumbles out.

“I need a bath and you might as well take one with me, too.”

Dazai preps the bath while Chuuya finishes eating. Nothing fancy, but it’s warm and bubbly with a bit of liquid soap poured in while it was filling. Dazai strips, out of clothes and bandages and piles them out of the way on top of toilet. When he sinks into the water, he sighs, leans his head back, and waits for Chuuya.

I told him it wasn’t going to happen again.

There’s a number of ways he could make it happen, and if he thinks enough on it, a handful of those ways he could do and get away with, without getting himself into too much trouble. It’s less himself in trouble and more Chuuya, though. Mori likes using him as leverage, sometimes. Mori likes using a lot of things as leverage. It didn’t used to work… there was a point where he didn’t have a lot to care about, but now it seemed there was a lot – comparatively speaking.

I’ll tell him it’s not something that can be controlled right now, even with No Longer Human. He wouldn’t risk Chuuya like that… Chuuya’s too powerful and useful in the long run he needs him more than he needs –

“Are you trying to drown?”

Dazai opens his eyes and looks over. Chuuya’s already out of his clothes and has two towels bundled in his arms. For the first time that evening, Dazai smiles, a little.

“That wouldn’t be very pleasant, would it?”

“Don’t know; never tried to drown.”

“It’s not very fun.”

Chuuya rolls his eyes, but there’s a tug of a smirk of his own at the corner of his lips. Chuuya walks in, still wobbly even if he tries hard not to be. He sets the towels aside and lowers himself gingerly into the bath in front of Dazai, back to chest. Dazai reaches out to help him, splaying his fingers along Chuuya’s back while his other hand takes Chuuya by the wrist to steady him.

They don’t say anything while Dazai washes him. He soaps up a sponge with the same liquid soap he’d used for the bubbles in their bath, drags it and suds along Chuuya’s scarred, bruised back. He’s gentle with it, at least, while Chuuya sits and slowly his hands ease out the tension in the way Chuuya sits, until he’s slumped forward a little. He mutters something, as Dazai brings his hands up and over his shoulders.

“Hm?”

Chuuya doesn’t respond immediately, but Dazai just keeps washing him until he does.

“I said thank you,” Chuuya says, louder this time. “For the soup. For this.” Then, quieter again – “Mori’s a shit-head, you know?”

Dazai pauses at the wavering in Chuuya’s voice, used to Chuuya being free with his emotions though never quick to tears. It’s unsettling. Angering. But he knows Chuuya won’t want to be coddled even if he’s appreciative of… this. He’s always been appreciative of this, after rough missions.

His arms wrap around Chuuya, holding him about his waist while he settles his chin on Chuuya’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”

#soukokuweek #skk week #soukoku #double black #fic #fics #ayyeeo

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izanyas · 7 years

Text

Owe No Debt (Part II)

Another story to add to the category: This Got Longer Than Anticipated, Fuck Thanks to @scarlet-blossoms for the beta and welcome back to Soukoku hell!

Rating: M Words: 7,700 Warnings: underage drinking/alcoholism, references to child abuse.

Owe No Debt Part II

There was only one man that Dazai had called a friend, and it wasn't Chuuya.

Chuuya held no resentment for the fact. He hadn't called Dazai a friend either. Regardless of the full-bodied flushes, the tingling skin, the heady power trips of those years—he hadn't called Dazai a friend.

It didn't matter that his days were shaped around the other's presence. That Dazai made a habit of breaking into his home, and Chuuya Dazai's. That electricity sparked between them with all the strength of teenage want and lit fires in Chuuya's veins that took hours to abate.

Chuuya wasn't Dazai's friend. And Dazai wasn't Chuuya's friend.

Dazai was the hook piercing Chuuya's belly, and the line, and the fishing pole.

Chuuya was the fish tearing open his own guts trying to swim forward in spite of it.

Chuuya didn't make the connection between the rumored handyman Oda Sakunosuke and Dazai's Odasaku until the man himself was standing at his front door, reeking of booze, Dazai slumped unconscious over his back.

"Who are you?" Chuuya asked, but he wasn't looking at the stranger anymore. He was eyeing the black bruises under Dazai's closed eye and the stains at his wrists that were weeping blood over his carrier's once-white shirt.

"Sorry," the man said quietly. "I'm Oda. Dazai passed out and I found this on him, so…"

He handed over a slip of paper, with some difficulty. Chuuya took it without letting his eyes leave Dazai's unhappy slumber and opened it mechanically.

Take me there if I die, it read. Followed by the address to Chuuya's new apartment.

"Fucking hell," Chuuya growled, crumpling the paper in his fist. "That's my house, you fucking bastard!"

Oda didn't react to his outburst in any specific way. His eyes were thoughtful as he looked at Chuuya, but Chuuya had already had four years of dealing with a more powerful kind of scrutiny. "Come in," he said, defeated, and made way for Oda inside.

Oda nodded once in thanks as he went. He bent down carefully in the entrance, so that Dazai's head wouldn't hit the corners of the doorframe or the ceiling—he was a very tall man. Taller than Mori, even.

Chuuya scowled, and followed in.

His apartment was a mess. He had moved in only a day before, after years of saving money and months of meticulous selection between the options available to him not too far from headquarters. It was a four-room place with wide windows and clear corners; Chuuya had only finished putting up the furniture and gotten an electrician to come and plug in various living fixtures. Most of his belongings were still spread over the dusty floor in brown boxes.

"Sorry about that," he said, unnaturally low.

"S'alright."

Oda set Dazai down onto the couch. Feeling a little awkward, Chuuya hurried to take the pile of books off of it so Dazai could rest his feet—though he wished the other would sleep in discomfort and wake up feeling worse than before—and, as Oda straightened up free of his burden, watched the outline of the man's guns at his sides.

Oda caught him at it and smoothed the lapels of his jacket wordlessly.

Chuuya cleared his throat. "Do you want—something. I don't know what I have. Tea?"

"Tea sounds good," Oda replied, amiable enough.

"'Kay."

Chuuya shuffled in the direction of the kitchen and had to resist the urge to look back. He busied himself with the kettle and thankfully found a box of black tea bags in the blue crate full of non-perishables sitting atop his dining table. Filling two mugs with boiling water was a matter of minutes, and he was back into the odd atmosphere of his living-room too quickly for comfort.

Oda had taken over a chair and set it next to Dazai's head. He was looking down at him as he slept, and the expression on his face looked a lot like fondness, soft and kind and attractive.

Chuuya had never seen anyone look at Dazai like this. He hadn't seen anyone look at anyone like this.

You have, his mind said then; and Chuuya set the mugs down onto the coffee table loudly, breaking Oda out of his contemplation and himself out of the memory of his mother.

"Kind of you not to let him rot outside," he said, sitting on the table. He cut his own weight in half as he did, just in case. And then: "You're the one he calls Odasaku," he told Oda directly. "The one who refuses to kill."

Oda looked back at him without flinching and replied, "You're Chuuya. The other half of Double Black."

"First name already?" Chuuya asked, smiling darkly.

Oda shrugged. "That's how he calls you."

The tea was still too hot to drink. Chuuya brought it to his face anyway, warming his lips on the brim of his mug and letting steam dampen his nose. The day had been ice-cold, humid to the bone, and walking had felt like swimming. Chuuya had only had to go out once to take care of groceries—he had taken a day off to move out of the suite he had occupied since he was fourteen. His throat had the first itch of true ache in it, and for a moment he contemplated pouring honey into his tea, despite how childish that would make him look.

His eyes shifted back to Dazai before he could help it. Dazai's arm was dangling toward the floor, bandages stained and almost undone. Chuuya leaned over the table to reach it with his hand and lift it back onto Dazai's lap. He felt himself sink heavier onto the table as soon as his skin touched Dazai's, but right now, he didn't care.

Oda was looking at him with kind eyes when he straightened up. Chuuya didn't bother explaining himself for it.

"He's tired," Oda said into the silence.

"We all are."

"It only took him two drinks to be done. I think he was drunk before we even met at the bar."

Chuuya knew. Dazai and himself had taken to drinking in different ways and as many others in the mafia did; but they were young, the youngest to achieve this level of notoriety; Dazai had become an executive in four years as he had promised on the day they met and Chuuya was at the head of his own team, mostly aimed for negotiation work and recruiting, like Kouyou had before him. The brunt of his strength rarely came to use more than once a month. For a year now Chuuya lived through days when he didn't need to hide his forearms from the world, because the bruises were so faint as to be unnoticeable.

For a year now he and Dazai had ended their missions with wine and liquor.

It had been two weeks since his last deployment with Dazai. Corruption had only been in use for thirty seconds, but his arms were still yellow. His fingertips still sore. The inside of his wrists, just peeking from his sleeves, was solidly marked.

"I'm not his watchdog," Chuuya told Oda evenly. "It's his problem if he can't get his head out of the bottle anymore. He goes out with you more than me anyway."

"I can't exactly order an executive around."

Chuuya laughed. "Please, Oda. It's not like he gives a shit how disrespectful you are."

"He doesn't with you either," Oda pointed out.

"Are you kidding? He's been shoving his new title into my face every time I open my mouth to him."

But not truthfully, Oda seemed to want to say. Not seriously.

"Dazai is a shit executive," Chuuya said, breath warm over the nervousness that hadn't left him. "Oh, he's a strategic genius. Absolutely fit to be up there with Boss Mori or Kouyou-ane-san. But he can't handle people."

"And you can?"

Chuuya felt the laughter leave him. "Drink your tea," he said.

Oda took his mug but didn't lift it up. It sat in his lap, between his tan hands, burning against the top of his thigh. "I'm asking because I'm curious," he told Chuuya. "You're only what, eighteen?"

"So's Dazai."

"But you're not an executive."

"Indeed," Chuuya murmured coldly. "I am, however, still your superior."

The silence that followed was icy. Chuuya felt it through his clothes the way he had two weeks ago after Dazai pushed the inferno out of him with a flick of his finger and Chuuya fell onto snow-covered ground. So cold it burned. When he had touched it with his fingers, the pain had been so great that he had almost screamed.

He thought he felt the same now. As if all the fire in him had turned to frostbite.

Oda relented without much grace. He took the tea to his lips and drank half of it in one go, grimacing about the heat but not flinching away from it. Chuuya mimicked him silently and looked at Dazai again.

"Do you know where he gets those injuries?" Oda asked.

His tone was enough to confirm that he wasn't asking to know for himself.

Chuuya didn't answer. He swallowed his scalding and tasteless tea, eyes fixed onto the untied gauze hanging limply from Dazai's wrist and remembering the stitches that he had sewed himself into the thin skin right under.

He felt the heat of Oda's eyes on him as if it were weighed by the Tainted Sorrow; he felt that if he were to stand up now, he would sink through the floor without needing to use it at all.

Chuuya, his mother's voice rang into his ear. Soft like a breeze. Where did you get those injuries?

Odasaku left a few minutes later. It was only as the other murmured his goodbyes that Chuuya realized they had been whispering all along, voices soft so as to keep Dazai from waking. He didn't know how he felt about that. There was a frustrated tension inside him that didn't only come from the stress of moving or the unbearable kindness in Odasaku's eyes—the unbearable regret, unmistakeable for pity, because it didn't come at all from a position of superiority.

Odasaku looked at Dazai on the couch like this. Affectionate and worried. And he looked at Chuuya with a bit of the same despite not knowing him at all.

Chuuya superposed two boxes by the window next to the couch and sat on them, weightless, a cigarette stuck between his dry lips. The cold night air creeped down his throat alongside the smoke and froze inside his lungs.

He didn't move when he felt Dazai's foot nudge his lower back. "Keep your damn hands away from me," he muttered. "Those boxes can't handle my weight."

"I always forget how heavy you are, for your size."

Dazai's voice was low and raspy. Chuuya looked into the open glass pan of his window and saw the other's reflection sit up on the couch, looking around quickly.

"So this is your new place," Dazai said.

"Like you didn't fucking know."

"I haven't broken in yet."

Chuuya crushed the stub of his cigarette out onto the windowsill, burning the first black stain onto his new home and listening to the sizzling sound it made as the ember touched frozen condensation. "Hopefully you won't feel the need to," he replied.

He hopped off the boxes lightly and dusted the front of his shirt. There was a small tea stain near his cuff, he noticed, and Dazai saw it too; though when Chuuya turned to look at him properly his alcohol-hazy eyes were looking at Chuuya's skin more than his clothes.

"I was awake," Dazai chose to say. "When Odasaku was here."

Chuuya flicked his tongue, annoyed. "You even bother your friends like this then?"

Dazai didn't answer him. He pushed himself off the couch entirely and wavered only a second on his feet as he stretched his hands. The gauze fell from his wrist then, and though it was dark, Chuuya could still see the newest and inflamed addition to Dazai's ever-scarred arms.

He took Dazai's wrist between his fingers without thinking and let his thumb press onto the stitches. Obviously, Dazai winced. "I told you to take care of that," Chuuya seethed. "Do you want to get an infection?"

"Your stitches are fine," Dazai replied with a fleeting smile. There was new blood along his jaw, Chuuya noticed, and the injury around his eye had been dressed with new gauze. Again.

Chuuya dropped Dazai's wrist. As expected, he found his ability cut off from him, because Dazai never passed up an occasion to leave Chuuya disarmed.

They looked at each other for a moment. Because of Dazai's latest growth spurt, Chuuya had to strain his neck more than usual to do so; and Dazai smiled at that, with a glint in his eye that spoke of as much amusement as it did heat.

Heart fluttering in his throat, Chuuya said: "I can't always be here to keep you from dying."

The smile on Dazai's face didn't disappear, though the heat did.

"Then don't," he replied. "You'd be doing me a service, really."

"I don't want to do you any services. I just can't have you dying stupidly on me."

"This is truly the rock or the hard place for you."

"You wish," Chuuya mocked, before blushing harshly—and Dazai laughed, full and open in the silence. "Shut up," he said between his teeth, "I was talking about your pathetic lack of physical strength."

"I'm strong enough to keep my dog in line," Dazai replied with a smirk.

"That's because Akutagawa is even weaker than you. Asshole."

Dazai hummed, neither confirming nor denying it. "You should think about taking one," he said. "A dog."

"A dog," Chuuya replied flatly.

"You've got the room for it now. Who knows, it might soften you up, make you nicer."

"I'm plenty nice."

"And yet you never are to me," Dazai whined, so Chuuya rolled his eyes and turned his back to him with the goal of heading straight to his bathroom and drowning in his brand new bathtub. Dazai caught his shoulder before he could, though. "Truly, Chuuya," he said. "Why don't you take a student? I thought you wanted to be an executive one day too."

Chuuya dislodged Dazai's hand from his shoulder. "I don't want some kid following me around."

"You have to. All the others have one." He felt Dazai approach, the end of his shoe knocking lightly into Chuuya's heel and his hot breath running over Chuuya's ear. Chuuya stood still and tried his best to ignore it as he spoke again. "I hear I was a very rewarding apprentice. Akutagawa sucks, but even he's interesting. And you are good with people."

Chuuya jutted his elbow backwards—was met with empty space as Dazai sidestepped him, chuckling darkly. When he turned around, the other was looking even more out of it than he had before. His one visible eye was unfocused and his face was shiny with sweat.

"Go the fuck to sleep," Chuuya said, disgusted. "And throw yourself out before I wake up tomorrow morning if you don't want me to do it by kicking in your ribs."

"Do you want to know what I think, Chuuya?" Dazai asked.

Chuuya tensed immediately. The lights overhead were off, and everything that he could see came from the open room of his kitchen. In the soft glow of it Dazai's face looked like a doll's.

"I don't," he replied tightly.

Dazai smiled. "I think you're scared of taking a student," he said. "I think you're scared that if you do, you'll turn into your father."

There was a beat, filled with dreadful silence. It took a long time for Chuuya to manage to open his mouth again, and when it did, nothing came out, not even air.

Dazai's eyes weren't as kind as Odasaku's had been. His were filled with pity first and worry second. And Chuuya could not look past the first now. Not with childhood terror solidifying in him like blood turning to scabs.

His fist unclenched by his side with conscious effort on his part. "Get out," he managed.

"No," Dazai said merrily.

"Dazai." Chuuya brought a hand up and rubbed it over his face. "I'm too fucking tired to deal with you right now, but if I have to beat your ass I will. For once in your life can you just leave it alone."

"How often did he beat you?" Dazai cut in, and every single one of his words felt like a blade on Chuuya's throat, cutting him open and whistling through the air like a child's scream. "It was actually really hard to track you down at all, I only managed about six months ago, and that's because I saw your mother in town by pure accident and she looked so much like you—"

He shut up.

Chuuya's hands were turning purple. The fading yellow bruises were filling with blood again, but Chuuya hardly felt the pain of it until Dazai actually tried to touch him—at which point he tugged his arm back so suddenly that not only did his skin burn, his shoulder screamed too, sore beyond measure.

"Drop it," he said, when Dazai tried to approach again. "It's not dangerous or anything, I don't need you."

"It looks like…"

"Yeah. It's not."

Chuuya hadn't had this happen to him since he was eleven. He took a slow breath, eyes close, and let his hands relax by his sides until only the burn remained. It felt, as always, as if a colony of ants had taken refuge under his skin and started biting off chunks of it with their tiny teeth.

When he looked at Dazai again the other's gaze had lost its vicious edge. "You must hate me," Dazai said conversationally.

Chuuya snorted. "Yeah, I fucking do."

"Not like this." Dazai's mouth twisted into another smile, one darker and more painful than the previous. "You must resent me. Seeing the way I treat Akutagawa."

There was no answer. Chuuya clenched his teeth and willed away the nervous energy in him, the push of fright-born power in his limbs that made blood vessels burst open despite themselves. He looked sideways, out through the snow-covered window, and massaged his own wrists as gently as he could.

It took a moment, but the pain stopped much more quickly than Corruption's aftermath. Chuuya's skin stayed blue and purple under his own fingers, but he wasn't feeling it anymore. He dropped his hands by his sides slowly.

"Chuuya," Dazai murmured. He was still looking at Chuuya's hands. "Your mother's still alive."

Chuuya didn't know how to reply to that. I don't care would not be accurate; I know would've been a lie, though he had wished—he had wished. A long time ago. He had hoped that she would stay alive. So she could maybe grow to forget him and what he had done.

His throat was tight, his face warm, when he spoke. "Get out of my house, Dazai."

"No," Dazai repeated—Chuuya felt fury unfurl in him like the ugliest of flowers, but as he was about to open his mouth and yell, Dazai said, "You should go talk to her."

Not for the first time since meeting him, Chuuya almost choked on his own surprise. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Why not?" Dazai crossed his arms in front of him. "There's nothing to say that you can't."

Dazai was so obviously drunk. Not in the fun, good way either. He had the sluggishness of heavy drinkers and the flush to indicate how little control he had over his own words and actions right then; it was the only reason, Chuuya told himself, why Dazai even got close enough to grab the side of Chuuya's shirt as he did then. Chuuya hated beating on weakened adversaries.

"I could tell you," he said, oversweet breath rushing along the skin of Chuuya's face hotly, "how she reacted when you disappeared. I know everything now. I could tell you where your dad's buried."

"I don't want to hear it," Chuuya replied.

Dazai laughed, mean, uncaring. "You're so cold, Chuuya." His hand rose up to grab Chuuya's shoulder instead of his side—and it was as much to keep Chuuya still as it was to steady himself. "Letting your own mother think you're dead. How cruel can you be?"

"Dazai—"

Chuuya shut up when Dazai's other hand touched his cheek. Cold-fingered and rough-skinned.

"I really don't get you," Dazai murmured. "If I found out that I still have family somewhere I'd be dying to see them for myself." His fingers traced the side of Chuuya's face until they reached his hairline, at which point Chuuya grabbed Dazai's wrist forcefully and pulled away.

"If you can run your mouth then you can run," Chuuya growled. "I suggest you start now."

"See, this is why I hate you," Dazai smiled.

In answer, Chuuya did the next best thing to using his ability and destroying his brand new apartment; he hooked a foot around Dazai's ankle and pulled, making Dazai fall to his backside with a very satisfying grunt of pain.

His heartbeat was still hurried as he looked down on the other. Still uncomfortably violent in his throat. But this was good. This was familiar. He could muster up some mocking, even if just for show.

"Ah," he sighed. "I've missed making you bite the dust."

"I haven't," Dazai replied, strangled.

"Maybe we should spar sometime soon."

"Maybe you're right after all," Dazai snapped back as he got himself to his feet once more, wincing. "Maybe you're too hard to love even for a mother." He avoided Chuuya's half-hearted punch with a laugh and waltzed toward the door, loose with alcohol more than true confidence. "I'll be taking this then"—his hand opened the first drawer of the wooden cabinet near the entrance and pulled out a key—one of Chuuya's spares.

"You won't," Chuuya said, offended.

"Would you rather I break in?"

"I would rather you never fucking showed your face to me again!" Chuuya walked toward the entrance himself as he said it and only stopped short of actually butting his head into Dazai's body. He stared up at Dazai and tried to muster anger and nothing else, no shock, no relief, none of the ebbing fear from earlier. He didn't twitch as Dazai looked at his hands again with something a little too close to remorse.

"I wonder what Odasaku would think, if he saw us now," Dazai said. Of all things.

Chuuya resisted the urge to snort again. "Probably that you're an insufferable child."

"He already knows that. That's not what I meant."

But though Chuuya was curious what Dazai meant, he didn't ask. He'd had enough of Dazai's mind games for the evening.

"Whatever," he said. "Just go. I'm tired."

"Knowing him, he'd think this is good for me. I bet he likes you too—he never minds anyone. It'd be interesting to see Odasaku truly hate someone, maybe even enough to make him go for the kill—"

Chuuya pushed his palm onto Dazai's mouth and groaned, "God, do you ever shut up?"

Dazai's face had stilled in a parody of humor, still drunken and hazy, still twisted on a smirk Chuuya knew was meant to inspire disgust. Still looking at him as coldly as if he wished to encase him in ice.

His skin was warm under Chuuya's fingers, though. A little damp from the whiskey-heat maybe, but warm. When Chuuya pressed the pad of his index against the edge of Dazai's chin, he felt his heartbeat underneath, as strong and steady as his own.

Dazai ruined it by opening his mouth and licking wetly against Chuuya's palm. "Gross," Chuuya protested, tugging back his hand as if he had been burned.

"Not as gross as your face," Dazai replied. Then, pocketing the key anyway: "Take care of those bruises, Chuuya."

"Why do you care?" Chuuya asked, suspicious.

Dazai shrugged. "Just being polite. Also, I'm pretty sure sparring won't be any fun if you can't throw a damn punch."

"I still have legs."

"Trust me, I know." Dazai opened the door behind himself without looking, and before he even spoke again his look made Chuuya's blood freeze in his veins. "Think about it," he said. "Do you really want to spend your whole life pretending you don't have someone out there waiting for you?"

He left Chuuya like this, standing in the middle of a place he couldn't call home yet. His hands full of blood and his heart full of fear.

Chuuya received a text that same night. He never opened it and never read the address he knew he'd find on it. For months his message notifications bore the number (1), until the phone itself got destroyed one day and Chuuya thought, too bad, not knowing whether what he felt was disappointment or relief.

Dazai didn't message him the address again, because Dazai had defected and disappeared off the surface of the earth by then. The man with kind eyes that Dazai had called Odasaku with such childish pride was dead, the mafia's top intelligence agent was a traitor, and Double Black quickly became a worthless memory that Chuuya couldn't hang on to for authority. He threw himself into work, filled in the executive's spot that Dazai had vacated, and closed another page of his life.

He strove forward.

Sinker.

Kouyou caught Chuuya on his way back from his search round three days after he visited the agency. She caught him as the day died, blue-pink-red, shining off of her like stage lighting. Chuuya nudged off the hand she had wrapped around his shoulder and said, looking up at her: "I'd appreciate if you stopped being so familiar."

She only faltered a little. "Oh, how I wish I could still tell you to watch your tongue."

He smiled, in spite of his irritation. "Just the touching," he explained, throwing a pointed look at her hands. "You never used to be like this with me, and I'd like not to become replacement for a little girl when in my twenties."

"I see." Kouyou folded her hands back into the lapels of her clothes. She looked more menacing with them hidden than out, Chuuya found, but he didn't take back his words. "Boss asked to see you," she said then.

Chuuya hid the immediate fatigue he felt at that habitually. He followed Kouyou to the elevators without a word, straightened his shirt and waistcoat and wiped the dust from his pant legs. The shoes would have to wait for later. Kouyou observed him all the while, her face as terrifying and unreadable as it always was.

He would always be afraid of her, he thought. He could grow as old as his lifestyle allowed and still feel the need to shake at the knees in front of her, the way he had all those years ago when he found her. Stumbling on his own words and spitting blood as he breathed.

"No clue yet?" Kouyou asked softly.

Chuuya glanced at her. "None," he admitted. "Either the special ability department is hiding them or they've all disappeared off the surface of the earth. Either way, I'm going to have to talk to them."

"You'll need clearance for that."

Chuuya looked pointedly at the ceiling of the elevator. "I'm getting it," he replied.

It made Kouyou huff, almost snort. "Careful, Chuuya," she said with an edge to her voice. "That's another traitor you're talking about contacting."

"Should you really be talking about treason, ane-san?" Chuuya snapped back. "I don't see Mori forgiving you for that spiel with Kyouka-chan any time soon."

Kouyou's eyes were hard as steel. "I don't see him forgiving you for failing to bring Q back to us," she said.

Chuuya stepped toward her with intent in his feet and violence in his blood; his shoulders ached with tension, his mouth stretched into a smile; and through the clean folds of Kouyou's silks he heard the whisper of her blade coming out of its shield.

The elevator's doors chimed open.

It took less than a second, but to Chuuya it felt like an eternity. He made himself swallow back the offense and watch as Kouyou did the same—hers stained with worry. "We'll settle this later," he threatened in a low voice.

"We will," she acquiesced.

Chuuya didn't bother showing his ID to the two men watching them nervously. He strode up the corridor leading to Mori's office and made his steps heavier, so the tension could seep out of him and through the floor every time his feet touched ground. Neither of the guards shadowing him as he walked made any mention of the noise he made like this.

Mori was standing by the window when he entered. He had a thin stripe of handwritten paper in his one hand and the other, gloved, resting onto the glass in front of him.

"Boss," Chuuya said, bowing.

He heard Kouyou enter the room behind him, silent as an owl. She didn't greet Mori.

"How went the search for the Guild's remaining members?" Mori questioned as Chuuya straightened up.

"Not well," Chuuya replied. "Can't find the body of the leader, can't find anyone else. Most of them are probably gone, but…"

Mori hummed. "We'd know if they had fled by boat or plane," he commented. He turned away from the view of Yokohama and toward Chuuya instead, handing the paper over. Chuuya stuck his hastily-folded coat under his armpit and took it between his fingers, and his eyes widened a bit as he saw the handwriting on the page. "I'm sure you recognize this?" Mori asked, amused.

Chuuya's fingers tightened on the paper. "What the fuck does Dazai want now?" he asked in lieu of answering.

"Read it, Chuuya-kun." It took strength of will to rip his eyes away from Mori's enjoyment and turn them back to the paper at hand, and it turned out to be futile, because Mori explained himself anyway. "It seems the agency's incompetence knows no bounds," he said. "They've lost Q."

Kouyou made a faint sound. Chuuya barely heard it through the ringing in his ears. "I'm going to kill him," he said.

"I'm sure Dazai-kun's death will come in due time."

"How the fuck did they lose him? How do you even—" Chuuya choked. Breathed in. "The fucking morons."

"Who took him?" Kouyou asked, walking up to Chuuya's level with barely a noise. Her eyes were fixed onto the paper as well. "And if I may… why did Dazai tell you about it?"

"I'd like to know that as well," Chuuya added, regardless of propriety. He was too angry to care.

But Mori didn't seem offended in the least. If anything his eyes had that morbid glow in them that they usually only possessed when his ability was running, and Chuuya felt cold sweat gather at his nape despite himself, felt his muscles flinch involuntarily as memories of that same look in different settings—at a different age—whispered tickling fears into his ear.

The bruises on his hands flared very slightly.

"The agency is kindly reconsidering your offer, Chuuya-kun," Mori said, death on his voice. "Fukuzawa is sending Dazai to Kumagaya and requests backup from us, as he doesn't have the manpower to spend more than one man on the job…"

"Kumagaya?"

"The location where the ministry's special ability department probably took Q."

Chuuya brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed, as hard as he could without outright splitting skin. "Fucking Sakaguchi."

"Why would the agency want Q out of the ministry's hands?" Kouyou questioned. "Shouldn't Dazai and Sakaguchi Ango get along, by virtue of both having betrayed us?"

Chuuya had never gotten to the root of what had happened to Oda Sakunosuke. The man had been honored as a member of the port mafia for taking out their enemies by himself… and that same night, Dazai had disappeared. That same night, Mori declared Sakaguchi Ango a traitor alongside his own future right-hand.

He had never seen Mori look more terrifying than he had as he said Dazai's name then.

But Sakaguchi Ango had been part of whatever Dazai had going on with Oda. Chuuya had met Sakaguchi more often than Oda, more often that Dazai at one point, because he actively worked alongside the man until he was revealed a spy. If Sakaguchi was involved in whatever had killed Oda…

Dazai held grudges. That was maybe the one thing Chuuya admired in his ability to regret everything he ever did. He held on to grudges as hard as if they were supporting him, kept them close enough to breathe in every minute of every day. Dazai sustained his violence on them. He sustained his reasons to live on them.

Or he had, at least.

"Fukuzawa Yukichi has probably grown fond of the boy," came Mori's voice. It sounded distant. "He has a talent for taking in strays."

"So," Chuuya let out, raising his head to look at his boss, "does that make Q a member of the agency?"

Mori was positively brimming with hatred. He smiled, teeth bared and ice-cold aura seeping through Chuuya's clothes, flesh, bones; when he spoke again his voice was higher for the rush of adrenaline in it and cut through the air with scalpel-like precision. "We shall make it so he never is."

Taking Q out of Yokohama was a good plan. An easy plan. The mafia was loath to leave the port out of their sight and possibly give way to the police or the ministry; Chuuya was loath to leave Yokohama, every time he had to, because the city as a whole was home to him for lack of having an actual place to call such.

Taking Q out of Yokohama and to the sweltering mid-August heat of Kumagaya was a plan that could not have been designed by someone less evil than Sakaguchi Ango.

Chuuya was drenched in sweat by the time he exited the train station. It wasn't just his shirt sticking to his back, it was his waistcoat too; he took it off only a few minutes in and only managed to keep his gloves on because he didn't want to suffer the inquisitive looks of the crowd around him. He kept his hat on to protect himself from the sun, but it still beat at him relentlessly, slicking his temple with sweat and making drops of it run down his back uncomfortably.

Stepping through the streets felt like stepping into an oven would. The wind was scorching, the ground hot enough for him to feel it through his shoes. Chuuya's throat was parched before he even made it to the hotel whose address was scribbled onto the paper in Dazai's ridiculously bad handwriting. The place wasn't even two streets away from the station.

He stepped into the lobby, air conditioning hitting him full force and turning his skin to instant shivers. And then he dropped the paper and the waistcoat to catch the thing flying at him too fast to be unintentional.

The fingers if his left hand buried themselves into plastic and then rubbed against the smooth, soft content inside; Chuuya relaxed his hold on the handle of his knife and lowered the bag, and Dazai was sitting there in a leather armchair, looking infuriatingly refreshed.

"I got you clothes," he said.

Chuuya threw the bag back at him. "I don't want them."

"We don't know how long this is gonna take us and it's forty degrees outside, do you really want to melt?"

Chuuya ignored him. He walked past the sitting lounge and toward the counter where a woman was sitting, the badge at her chest reading Yako. He talked to her in a low voice, booked a room indefinitely. If her nose flared a little at how pathetic he looked from the sweat, she masked it quickly enough once he handed his credit card.

"Careful, Miss," Dazai said from his seat. "That one's a criminal."

Yako laughed awkwardly, looking between the two of them. Chuuya pried the keycard out of her painted fingers and tried to let none of the anger he felt show on his face as he smiled.

Dazai stood up gracefully as he walked by again, hands full with the plastic bags. He was dressed for the heat, a white shirt with short sleeves and very thin slacks; but his arms and throat were as wrapped up as ever, which made Chuuya rather sure that Dazai would suffer just as much as he did once they went back out.

And he wanted to kick himself, really, for already thinking in they.

Dazai didn't ask before entering the room Chuuya had booked and Chuuya didn't try to stop him either. "Put the damn clothes on the bed," he just said, before proceeding to lock himself in the bathroom and strip naked as fast as he could. He had to peel the pants off his legs slowly, they were so sticky.

The cold shower was a wonder on him. He felt the sweat run down his body and his head cool, hair flat against his face, clearing his thoughts as much as his skin. It took a long time before he felt truly cold, and by then he had washed himself from head to toe, the tiny room smelling strongly of lavender from the hotel's free shampoo sample that he had used.

The air wasn't hot anymore when he stepped out. Dazai must have turned on the AC. He felt it on his skin as he dried himself and tried to ignore the full-body shudder that threatened to shake him at the difference in temperature.

Chuuya walked back into the room with the towel wrapped around his hips. Dazai was sitting at the desk, facing the room, drinking juice out of a can. His eyes followed Chuuya around the room, but he made no comment.

There wasn't much inside the bag, and what was there wasn't as atrocious as Chuuya had feared. It made suspicion run up his spine, and he looked at Dazai as he spoke, fingers pressed to what felt very much like silk. "What's this?" he asked.

Dazai finished slurping—loudly—before answering. "A peace offering."

"You bought me underwear too."

"My boss is very thorough," Dazai replied, bashful. "Trust me, I want nothing less than to be in this hell town with you, buying your underwear for you."

Chuuya snorted before he could help it. "That's what you get for losing Q, you absolute disaster."

This seemed to make Dazai sober up, at least. The smile left his face and the warmth his eyes—more completely and quickly than it had in their last three encounters. Chuuya left him to it, slipped on the silk shirt, and didn't comment on how close to being perfectly fitted to his size it was.

At least Dazai was kind enough to look away when he dropped the towel. The room felt warm, despite the AC.

"I'm not letting you get Q again this time," Chuuya declared once he was dressed.

"And you plan to stop me all by your lonesome?"

"I could flatten you into the ground if I tried, Dazai."

Dazai didn't deny it, at least. "Well, Boss said it was fine if you took him. As long as he's out of these guys' hands."

There was something on Dazai's voice. Resentment. It was strong enough that Chuuya couldn't hear any lies under the weight of it, though he had no doubt that they were there. "So it really is him," he said.

Dazai blinked at him. "Who?"

"Sakaguchi Ango."

The slacks, similar to Dazai's, were a bit too long for Chuuya. He sat on the edge of the bed in the silence that followed and folded the hems—he would prefer to sew them that way, but he didn't have the material on him. Or the time to go to a tailor. Chuuya looked up again, found Dazai sitting shell-shocked on his chair, and stilled.

He frowned. "Don't tell me you didn't know."

"I did," Dazai said. He shook his head—his hair was pinned back, Chuuya realized. No bangs to hide behind. It left Dazai's forehead visible, surprisingly wide, and his face clearer. Chuuya held Dazai's gaze as long as he could before his eyes inevitably wandered to the shape of his face again. Familiar and foreign. His own felt hot by the time Dazai spoke. "I just didn't think I'd hear his name come out of your mouth, is all."

"Why not?" Chuuya asked, looking resolutely down. He tugged his shoes toward him as an excuse for the avoidance. "I used to work with the fucking mole."

"That must be so grating to you, Chuuya. Not one, but two traitors right under your nose."

Chuuya hissed a short breath through his teeth. He stood up, fixed the cufflinks of the shirt, slipped on his gloves; then, turning toward Dazai, he ordered, "Let's go."

He barely heard Dazai's reply of, So curt. The door's lock clicked shut behind them once they were out. Chuuya kept his hat in his hands until they made their way outside, and had to restrain himself from making a noise of discomfort as the scorching wind found him again. His shower-cool skin heated up in seconds, and even the soft caress of silk on his back became too much soon enough.

"Do you know where he is or do we have to start blind?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Who do you take me for?" Dazai replied.

Chuuya rolled his eyes. "Lead the way, then."

He waited, ears focused on the soft sound of Dazai's shoes hitting the pavement; but Dazai shifted once he reached Chuuya's level instead of walking ahead, and though Chuuya was on the ready for a sneak attack he wasn't for the feeling of Dazai pulling his hair.

He let out a cry of pain. "What the fuck—" Dazai laughed, pulling again, forcing Chuuya to bend backward and walk back toward the shade. "I'm going to fucking kill you—ow, motherfucking—"

Dazai avoided both the elbow he threw back and the blind grab that followed. His hold on Chuuya's hair didn't relent. He was doing something—tying it.

He was tying Chuuya's hair. Chuuya's hands stilled as they were, and before he even knew, his breath suspended itself.

He felt Dazai tug the elastic band up until it reached just above his nape. This time, when the hot city wind hit him from the side, his neck didn't feel so damp. And the heat at his back from Dazai's own body was an entirely different kind of bother.

"There," Dazai said, close enough that Chuuya felt the word brush against his ear and temple. "You'll be more comfortable like this. I told you, I came prepared."

Chuuya's chest was heavy with more than just the weather. He had to work to swallow, and again when Dazai finally let go of his hair and brushed his fingers against the line of his shoulder as they came down. Finally, he took a step forward; Dazai let him go easily. He only turned around once he was outside of reaching distance and once he could smooth his own face into neutrality.

"Do that again," Chuuya said, voice alight with—with anger, with pain. With age-old want. "And it'll be the last thing you do."

Dazai smiled. "Take off your gloves," he replied.

"No."

"We're in one of the hottest places in the country. No one cares that your hands are ugly, Chuuya, just take off the gloves."

Chuuya's hands were already slick with sweat. He could feel it every time he moved, could hear the leather squelch disgustingly when he closed his fists.

He closed his fists anyway. "Take off the wrappings, then," he challenged.

Dazai looked into his eyes differently than usual. Chuuya didn't have time to understand what it reminded him off before he said, "All right."

And he ripped open one turn of gauze at the crook of his wrist, tugging nonchalantly on it until all of his arm was bare—all of it, every burned and beaten and scarred inch of skin. He did the same with the other one under Chuuya's dumbstruck staring, and then took his hands to his neck to take off the wrapping there and expose the jagged white scar running along the underside of his chin. Right where he had let his opponent cut him open with the knife now in Chuuya's possession, almost six years ago.

Dazai's hands weren't shaking when he threw the gauze into the nearest trash bin, but they weren't very steady either.

"Dazai," Chuuya said, hesitant.

"Your turn," Dazai replied darkly.

Chuuya bit his lip. It took longer for him to take off his gloves than it had for Dazai to tug off the bandages, because they were sticking so hard to his skin; he had to work through the now-faint pain of Corruption that always took weeks to heal up, each fingers stinging with it as he slipped it out.

The bruises were greenish now. Still covering every bit of visible skin almost all the way to his elbows, even if his forearms were hidden under the sleeves of the shirt Dazai had bought.

Chuuya shoved the gloves into his pockets and turned his back to Dazai, shoulders hunched. "Shit," he let out. "Happy now, shithead?"

Dazai chuckled. "With you? Never."

But he walked ahead this time, without making a suspicious move. The grotesque flesh of his arm brushed Chuuya's as he did; and Chuuya saw the way that the people around them looked at Dazai's scars and Chuuya's own skin, with strangers' pity and disgust in their eyes; the step he took after Dazai dug into the road and left an imprint behind, surrounded by lightning-like cracks.

"Well now," he heard Dazai murmur. "We've got a shifty little bastard to make talk."

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#bsd #bungou stray dogs #soukoku #nakahara chuuya #dazai osamu #fic: owe no debt

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