Chapter Text
Interlude; One More Record to the Call Log
“Chuuya-kun… How rude of you to ignore me all this time. I have been trying to reach you, you know-”
“Sorry, Boss, but this can’t wait. I need to know Dazai’s blood type.”
“… I can see that Dazai-kun’s location has changed to be in your apartment, but I have not imagined you’ve actually taken him inside. Why did you not bring him to me?”
“He wouldn’t have made it. Just- his blood type, Boss. I need it.”
“And I suppose you suddenly obtain enough concern about Dazai-kun’s wellbeing to offer him your assistance? Are you even familiar with medical care-”
“Yes- Just- *sigh* I managed to stitch the wounds, but he’s very low on blood. I need his blood type, Mori-san. He isn’t awake to tell me.”
“Next you will tell me that you have blood bags stored in your place-”
“I do. Of my own blood, because using corruption fucking drains me. Once again, I ask-”
“And if his blood group does not receive yours? Will you simply leave him to decease-?”
“I’ll fly to the nearest hospital and steal what I need, but for God’s sake, Mori-san, I need you to give me his blood type!”
“…”
“Mori-sa-”
“Be thankful, Chuuya-kun, for Dazai-kun’s blood group is the universal recipient. AB. Isn’t that just swell?”
“Thank you. I have to go now-”
“*sigh* Oh, well. I was really looking forward to Dazai-kun’s visit. Have as much fun with him as you want.”
What the fuck does that even mean?
“Ah, right, Mori-san?”
“Hm?”
“I had to leave more than a dozen bodies in the rain tonight. And I’m not gonna ask what happened, but if I’m informed that you were aware of the severity of the situation from the start in any way, shape or form– I’m quitting.”
“…”
One more second and I’ll hang up-
“Such a bold claim... *Chuckle* I’ll take your word for it, Chuuya-kun. But remember what you are risking to leave behind if you do manage to carry out with that threat.”
A blue pair glances at the pale body on the couch, before the line cuts off.
“Fucking hell!” The poor phone gets hurled at the opposite wall, scattering its pieces in the air.
Three stab wounds. Chuuya had to stitch three.
One on the right side of the lower abdomen, its matching relative paralleling it on the left side, and one just below the navel. Someone had gotten the best of Dazai thrice, and saying he’s in disbelief might be the understatement of the century…
His apartment is now in a shambles of open books, specifically medical ones, near the TV area where the couch is set. The same couch he had been cozily snugged in with no care in the world no less than three hours ago, and he isn’t even occupying it at the moment. No, there is barely any space for that.
Actually, if he were to make the rude invader scoot to the side, or draw the pull-out bed, it might be plausible- but he’d rather be found shot in the head than ever doing anything akin to… that with him.
So instead he sits midst the heavy books on the ground, back leant on the bottom of the couch. Dazai was unconscious by the time they arrived, which was fucking scary at first, but as he began the treatment relief made itself known, because Chuuya doesn’t have any kind of sedatives at home, and Dazai being awake during it all would have been a nightmare.
Well, not like it was all sunshine and rainbows, either.
His neck cranes backwards till his head meets the couch cushion, and sighs. The movie playing as a distraction feels more like white noise to his ears, considering he’s watching the almost-empty (and second) blood bag slowly and steadily draining into the straw poked directly onto the frail arm, the blood stream.
Dazai’s blood type is expectantly the most selfish one out of the four– the one that can receive from all, but donate to none other than itself. And honestly? Pretty on brand. Chuuya should have seen that coming- shouldn’t have even called at all.
A deep frown pulls at his expression at that, but he tries to ebb the feelings away. Getting angry will dissipate energy, and he needs that for much more important reasons, like staying awake in order to ensure that the idiot is truly as stable as he seems, and not just playing tricks on him.
That’s right, even half-dead, Dazai is still perfectly capable of being a manipulative bastard.
Chuuya closes his eyes, feeling the pulse of the outstretched drip arm before him. He hadn’t had the chance to change into comfortable or dry clothes yet, seeing as he’d just finished his treating session. Dazai, however, had to be cocooned in something for his who-knows-how-long outdoor shower, and so his wet pants were discarded and replaced by ones that belong to the redhead, wintery and fluffy, and his torso, though still uncovered, is currently under a comfortable, weighted blanket. Chuuya even went out of his way to dry the drenched hair, and once the shivers were back, Chuuya knew he was on the right track.
God, he feels like death. And rightfully so, after being faced with a freak out after a freak out, running endless laps around his apartment. Chuuya decides he’s never answering late night calls ever again…
“Y-You said…”
Chuuya’s head whips forward, eyes open, and his body immediately turns around to see-
The source of the whisper’s eye is miraculously open, staring at the ceiling, and Chuuya is suddenly met with a burst of energy to get on his feet.
“Dazai…” He’s scared at how relieved his tone seems to get while he sits on the edge of the cushion, making sure to show otherwise, “Oh, you owe me fucking good, bastard, you won’t even believe it.”
The younger’s face seems to withhold a displeased frown, but doesn’t look at him yet, “You s-said y-you’ll wrap them back…” He croaks, “…but I c-can’t feel them.”
It’s annoying that the first coherent words he hears out of the other today are all but a complaint, or more accurately, a hurt critique on Chuuya’s unfulfillment of his word– which was encasing Dazai’s upper body with his second set of skin once they’re home.
But he understands why, all the same.
“Of course I didn’t. I would’ve had to move your sorry ass around.” Dazai finally turns to him, his dark circle(s) a lot more prominent given his overly blanched complexion. Chuuya’s expression honestly doesn’t convey its typical harshness, as he’s too exhausted to do so, which leaves him as open as one of the medical books laid on the floor. He can tell his partner is in no different predicament.
Dazai glances around the apartment, then stops at the IV stand holding the blood bag, “Please tell me you’ve i-invited a professional doctor over…”
Chuuya’s mouth curls into a sneer, “And have the heart to lie to my patient? No chance.”
Dazai’s eye widens comically, and Chuuya bites back a cackle. Oh, this is priceless.
“Am I wearing y-your pants…?” Dazai tries to distract them, but mostly himself, “They’re too short, Chibi. M-My calves are freezing.” With a flimsy attempt to provoke.
“Oh, shut the hell up.” Chuuya takes it in stride, too busy reveling in the fact that his methods had worked. That Dazai is alive before him, because of him.
Doc would be so proud…
“I-I have to report to Mori-san-” Dazai says in one breath, a little frantic.
Chuuya frowns in anger that isn’t directed to the younger, “No need. I already called him.”
“Oh…” Is all Dazai counters with, visibly relaxing.
The conversation trails, and they stare at each other for a moment, Dazai particularly seeming to gaze at Chuuya’s still-bare chest, which is pretty much littered in scars from his battle with Verlaine, and his affliction with Professor N. The affliction Dazai himself was a factor of. Chuuya tries to shake the memories that apparently haunt them both away.
After a minute of that stoic silence, save for the all but forgotten movie in the background, Chuuya is reminded that the idiot needs any form of nutrients in his system. He glances at the abandoned cup of hot cocoa on the table.
“I’ll be right back.” Quickly, he takes the full mug to the kitchen, and runs it in the microwave for one minute and a half. During them, Chuuya finds the time to scurry through his closet in search for pajamas, for him to put on the comfiest one he owns. He’s back in the kitchen just as the microwave is one second away from beeping, and uses his ability to float a the mug along with a cup of water in his tread back, where the intruder is-
“Ghh-” Chuuya’s eyes widen at the scene before him– that consists of the dumbass tipping backwards after trying to get up. The two cups are secured on the table in a flash before he goes forward and supports the back, feeling his ability flicker away-
“Woah- did you lose braincells on top of blood? Lay down!” He gruffly hauls the blankets to glance underneath, and visibly sighs at the lack of any new bleeding staining the freshly wrapped waist. No stitches were undone.
“What did you e-expect? Y-Your taste in movies is so bad, I-I had to get away.” Dazai manages a heaving remark as he’s pressed beside him, and Chuuya sends a stern look underneath, to find the mackerel’s expression contradicting his playful tone, cracking at the edges, lip shivering slightly. That apparently is enough for his genuine frustration to subside.
“You’re fucking impossible,” Is what Chuuya lamely murmurs as he reaches the remote to close the TV, then his eyes catch a trail of blood. They follow it to land on the bandaged arm that was previously supporting an IV cannula which is now apparently gone. The maniac had yanked the cannula out. His thoughts range from ‘What the fuck’ to ‘Why am I even surprised?’.
He decides not to say anything because he might as well chide a damn wall, and grabs the sterile dressing from the open, disarrayed kit on the table, to press it on the steadily streaming nick. At least the blood bag has fully fulfilled its job. Dazai only blankly watches.
Chuuya’s hand is still on the other’s cold back, the only thing stopping Dazai from bashing his head on the couch’s arm rest. Not like he wouldn’t deserve it. The redhead sighs as he half-sits down (one foot still on the floor), tilting the supported form a little backwards at that, which elicits a wince out of the other but nothing more. Chuuya needs him upright for the time being, so he wedges a pillow behind the small of the younger’s back as an anchor.
“If that was an attempt to escape, then it’s a sorry and stupid one at that.” Chuuya growls just as the bleeding stops, leaving the dressing to snatch a pill and the cup water. “Get off your high horse and accept that you’re out of your depth for fucking once.”
Dazai, as per his irritating nature, doesn’t leave the comment unanswered, “A-As if Chibi’s so in his depth. I-I’d rather go back to d-dying slowly in the rain th-than be under y-your ca- mf”
Chuuya shuts him up by shoving the pill in his mouth, and at the startled face of the other, he can’t help but hurriedly clarify, “Pain killer, you’ll thank me later.” He presses the edge of the cup against the quivering lips, that accept it and drink slowly. Chuuya relishes in the three seconds of silence.
“Dammit- I’m trapped i-in here with you…?” Dazai grimaces afterwards like it’d just dawned on him, trying to wriggle his body away in an effort to further their proximity but only getting so far, “This is the worst night of my life…”
“Likewise, bastard. Just staring at your face makes me sick.” Chuuya sets the cup down and takes the hot mug instead. And as he leans back slightly so he’s more reclined -even though he’s too close to the edge for his comfort-, he tips the beverage towards Dazai’s mouth. This time he whines, pressing his -no longer blue- lips together in protest. Chuuya frowns, “Hey- You’ll take this whether you like it or not. I’m not letting all my efforts end in vain just because you were too stubborn to drink the best beverage in the universe.”
It takes a second, but Dazai surprisingly nods and complies. Chuuya’s eyes lighten.
“There we go.” He can’t hide the edge of curiosity to his voice, wondering what exactly caused this prompt resignation. He was ready to run this argument till morning if he had to.
Dazai silently slurps, and Chuuya watches as two, three- four times pass where Dazai has the chance to bite back but doesn’t. The curiosity persists, because Dazai’s bandaged side is the one that is facing him, so the chance of reading him, even as an enforced open book, is gone. That irks him for some reason.
“Where’d all the snark go, hm?” He derides, initiates the perfect opportunity for the other to retaliate, to restore their status quo…
But Dazai says nothing, scarily submissive and silent, and Chuuya’s mind suddenly flashes back to where they were merely three hours ago, and how his partner had conveyed those same attributes. Maybe that’s why this is so fucking unsettling to him…
“Hey, talk to me.” He stops beating around the bush, because this isn’t how he rolls. No, that’s the other’s area of expertise, the one he does not wish to associate with in any way. Dazai perks up slightly.
“Mm?” It’s almost robotic. Chuuya presses the warm mug on the mackerel’s bare cheek and urges it to the side, for a single eye to meet his. It doesn’t have that irritating glint to it as it normally does. Chuuya, this time, doesn’t consider that good enough.
“Don’t just hum or nod. Run that infuriating mouth of yours.” He all but coaxes, eyes stern, “I’m sure you’re only refusing to out of laziness.”
Dazai blinks, then sends an absent smile. It’s creepy. “You miss my voice, slug…?”
“Not at all.” He quickly ripostes, “It’s just hilarious watching you talk with that milk mustache.” He wipes with his sleeve as emphasis.
Dazai stills, then the glint sparks to life, as he glances at Chuuya’s grin before facing away. The redhead’s smirk widens at the clearly embarrassed demeanor– and when the ghost of a real, authentic smile forms on the other’s face, he revels in his victory.
Now that Dazai is back, of course he decides to be insufferable as a start, “Mmhm.”
“Oh, now you’re just doing this on purpose.” Chuuya’s smile doesn’t falter, “Talk or I’ll make you.” It’s so hilariously clear that it’s an empty threat– he’s surprised it even worked at all.
“You’re one feisty mutt today…” Dazai remarks with a shiver, turning to him, “Who h-hurt you?”
“I’ll do you one better: who hurt you?” Chuuya’s face subtly falls as he sets the mug back on the table, about ready to leave the couch and lie his partner down. “I mean, that’s one spectacular mission failure if I’ve ever seen one. Wish I was there to see the look on your face once things went off rails.” His eyes betray him as they downcast, haunted by a series of dark figures.
Dazai stares at him calculatingly, before seeming to give up on repelling his need to rest. A sheepish weight on his shoulder intrigues the older, and he looks down to find Dazai slowly but surely unwinding against him. The possibility of leaving the couch is inconceivable now.
“They had an associate who could read minds… which I wasn’t informed about.” Dazai admits, “My plan was completely foreseen. I couldn’t do a thing.”
Chuuya’s lips part in silent surprise, letting things sink it. But really, why is he even shocked? Seeing firsthand how grim and horrendous the aftermath was, the only question that ran in his mind was ‘how in the ever loving fuck did Dazai screw up this badly?’. The answer should have been so easy to obtain.
Of course, because the only thing capable of standing a chance against Dazai’s intellect is said intellect itself.
“How come an ability like this isn’t important enough to impart? You never just dash headfirst into these sorts of things without the complete intel from our Boss.” He’s gradually sinking back in the cushions, still in that uncomfortable half-sit. Both of them are propped by the pillow at this point. “I mean, Mori-san knew all about the mission, didn’t he?” He checks, seeking to know if his threat to quit was rightly earned.
“Wow, ‘impart’ and ‘intel’. Big words for you there, slug,” Dazai sneers, and Chuuya gives him a light pinch in the arm at that, “No, Mori-san was actually against the idea of picking a fight with this particular gang, so I had to gather intel on my own…” Chuuya perks up in surprise. So he was wrong. Fantastic. That would certainly not make things incredibly awkward with his Boss. “He knew about the ambush I’d planned, but when or how weren’t in his knowledge. We started the raid at 11pm by cutting off power in the area, but before long, we were being ambushed back. The gunmen took most of the bullets, though that left me defenseless for their combatant. He was mean. Stabbed me slowly and then threw us all out in the storm to die…”
A shiver runs through Chuuya at the imagery of it, “You seriously couldn’t call for backup? Heck, even I could have come to assist, even though that would’ve ruined my off-day– but it isn’t like I’m currently any fucking better.”
“All forms of communication were taken from me before the combatant started to carve my skin.” Dazai says it like it’s a bedtime story, and Chuuya’s breath rightly hitches. It was a torture session?! “Really, it was my fault for dwelling on the fact that I despised pain and suffering. He decided it would be a swell idea to engrave his initial, make way for blood loss to be the main thing to kill me, and induce shock by leaving me in the cold. I honestly admire his skill, as a fellow torturer, even for how amateurish it had been…”
Chuuya’s eyes widen as they recall the shape of the stab wounds, which he’d honestly paid no mind to until Dazai’s brought it up. The two on the side, the one in the middle, it spelled-
An H.
Rage rumbles deep within, itching to rip something apart. That fucking ‘combatant’ seemed like a perfect candidate, at that, but Chuuya has no idea who or what his name is, and he certainly wouldn’t care enough to hunt some random guy for the person he despises most in the world.
(Four days later, H would be crushed under a heel, squealing for mercy as his skull is being flattened by the power of gravity.)
The surge of anger suddenly dissipates, along with his energy. Chuuya’s arm squeezes the other’s shoulder absently, “If you ask me, I’d say this is the least you deserve, jackass.” He says with little bite, exhausted and upset. But also with little truth to it. After all, this was perfect payback for what Dazai let Chuuya go through during the Verlaine incident. The only thing missing is for Chuuya to have been completely aware of this happening and doing nothing about it.
Dazai scoffs quietly, “Cruel hatrack.”
Chuuya huffs, “Tacky mackerel.”
“Fists for brains.”
“Glorified mummy.”
Dazai silences, like he remembered something.
“I’m cold…” He whispers with a shiver, and Chuuya sighs in understanding.
“Well, yeah, your hypothermic ass isn’t exactly sitting in a sauna.” He tries to divert, knowing exactly that Dazai wouldn’t really be one to express what he’s feeling without some kind of twist to it, and in this case, he’s all too aware of said twist. The idiot’s alluding to his second skin. He’s aching to be swathed, even if the blanket is hiding most, if not all of what he’s trying to conceal, making any extra layer unnecessary.
Why does he need to hide himself, anyway? It isn’t like his scars are much different from Chuuya’s. He decides to save that peculiar discussion for another day…
“Get me a roll, I’ll wrap myself if Chuuya’s too worthless to do so.” Dazai gets forward with it, placing an open palm on Chuuya’s lap in a ‘hand me’ position. The redhead slaps it away.
“Can you stay upright on your own?” He asks, and at Dazai’s attempt to haul himself up, Chuuya holds him down, “Rhetorical question, shithead- I already know the answer. If you really are cold, I can get you a shirt, but it might aggravate the stitches. And even though you bleeding out would be an amazing sight to behold, I’m honestly too fucking tired to restitch your ass back.”
“It’s not fair…” Dazai whines, lifting his head off of his shoulder, and the redhead’s brow arches.
“Hah?”
“Why do you get to hide them…?” The complaint is hissed between gritted teeth, low, as the brunet looks away, obscuring his expression. Chuuya’s mouth clasps shut, blinking towards himself. The blue hoodie acts as a barrier to his blemishes, a reminder of his past survival and victories,
“Maybe because I wasn’t the one bleeding out three hours ago?” Chuuya really isn’t up for questionable riddles this late, and sure as hell isn’t going to undress himself just to appease the illogical bastard. He ensures to make that clear, “Besides, I thought this was about you being cold.”
“I am cold…” Dazai insists, and the only indication of him telling the truth is the icy skin Chuuya feels under his fingers– not the shivers, the shivers are most likely a wily front that Chuuya is not dumb enough to fall for.
The redhead ponders, thinking of other ways to warm the other. A jacket might work, but the only warm one he owns is hanging on to dry and even then, they’ll still need to leave it open, making it pointless… and he doesn’t really have another blanket he can use, either, so… The most fucked up option springs for a second- no, no way can he… can they…
Fuck, there might be no other way.
“In that case, looks like we’ll have to make-do, mackerel.” He says it like bad news, which it is.
Dazai’s head slowly turns back to send him a comically bewildered gaze, “If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, then ew.” Of course the know it all immediately understands.
“Right back at ya. But that’s the only blanket I own.”
Dazai’s eye scrunches as he shakes his head, chin pressed to his own chest, “Vile. Truly, truly, sickening.”
“Hey, you think I like this?” Chuuya grits, feeling his face warm slightly, “This night has been one of the most unfortunate set of circumstances I’ve ever went through. I can easily just leave you to-”
“No-” Dazai says a little too quickly as he grips his shirt, shutting Chuuya up. He watches as the younger’s eye instantly averts in… edginess? It fades away swiftly, though, as he lets him go, “Fine. We’ll make-do. But not a single word of what happened tonight gets out.”
“Believe me, I wouldn’t dream of it either.” No, really, Chuuya would rather blow his brains out than ever explain any of what went down tonight, be that the fucking nestling that’s about to ensue, or the freaky first-aid session earlier in the car, “Scoot over.”
Admittedly, it’s Chuuya who scoots Dazai over, setting him down in a careful manner. It doesn’t elicit any reaction out of the other this time, and now there is enough space for the two of them. Chuuya winces in disdain.
Before the inevitable so contemptuously comes, he first draws the extra space, turning the couch into a sofa bed, then grabs a penny from his pocket, and, using his ability, hurls it towards the light switch. The darkness immediately dawns on them, as does the coin clattering on the floor.
Then he huffs as he tips the blanket a little to the side, and burrows underneath it. He’s slow, he’s steady, their arms are brushing- he’d much rather be anywhere else…
For a while Chuuya just scowls at the ceiling, tense and rigid. The moonlight tints his living room in blue, the ongoing muffled pattering against his windowsill fills his ears– all of it is admittedly calming, and he inhales slowly in an effort to smooth his expression. He’s too sleep deprived to think too deeply about any of this with the piled fatigue seeming to crash on him all of a sudden. The body beside him shudders, cold skin prodding against him ever so lightly, which compels him to loll his noddle to the left. An eye meets his, have been already staring, it seems.
Providing warmth is the objective here, he reminds himself, and seeing as Dazai is unable to roll on his side, Chuuya has to. Reluctantly, he fully faces the other, and they stare for a bit, the darkness a helpful factor in hiding details they’d never want the other to see, but Chuuya catches the faint twitch of the bandaged cheek all the same, and wonders aloud,
“Do you sleep with this on?” His voice is hushed in respect of the atmosphere, nudging his chin for what he’s alluding to.
Dazai tenses, and Chuuya doesn’t see the snarl but hears it, “I am not taking it off.”
“Okay, Geez.” Chuuya only sighs, his chance to delaying what he’s oh so dreading has failed, “Didn’t mean to hit a nerve, there.” He slightly nears, before a widened eye stops him.
“…When have you become an obedient dog?” Dazai whispers, surprised for some reason, “You’re not gonna defy me all the same?”
Chuuya frowns, “If you really want them on, why would I?” And then pauses in prompt realization, “I mean, do you want me to defy you?” His brow ridges.
The silence is more than telling, but Chuuya waits for a verbal answer anyway, “…Of course not.” Dazai sends him an expectant gaze.
“For the love of-” As always, resorting to fucking riddles proves to be Dazai’s go-to method of solicitation. “Come here…” He wriggles his body with a peeved grimace, till they’re chest-to-shoulder, and Chuuya brings his hands forward, searching for the safety pin he’d spotted somewhere at the back of Dazai’s hair earlier. Position appearing difficult to move in, he pushes himself upward slightly, so his shoulder is supported by the pillow instead of his head. The safety pin is found at last, and he unfastens it for the bandages to lose their only support, slackening and dropping in a tangle of white…
He ignores the way he can hear the other’s every intake and exhale of breath given their proximity, dead set on avoiding eye contact as he works. He lifts Dazai’s head a little to shed them entirely, and with them carelessly thrown away like litter, Chuuya registers just how warm the cheek he’s holding is, and glances down…
Dazai cranes his neck to look at him, and Chuuya almost laughs. There is a curved line -clear enough even midst the darkness- separating his left side from the right, the one he’s in contact with. The right is paler, brighter, and looking like it hasn’t seen the sun in ages– which is probably the case, given the all too apparent tan line he surprisingly finds in the bandage’s stead. (A pleasant opposition to the scars Chuuya was almost certain he’d discover.)
“What?” Dazai grits like he knows exactly what sprung Chuuya’s amusement, and even though this is the perfect opportunity to pay the mackerel back for all the times he made fun of his height, Chuuya satisfies his urge to laugh with a mere chuckle,
“Nothing.” He’s honestly too worn out for a banter, but that doesn’t mean he won’t definitely make fun of this newly discovered feature in the future. Dazai’s unconvinced frown is hilarious, as well.
He’s glad this has diminished the tension, even if for a moment, because now he’s relaxed enough to act without feeling like he’d fucking explode. He presses the back of his fingers on the other side of Dazai’s cheek out of curiosity, to be surprised by the contrast in temperature. Maybe the bandages do provide warmth, and the mackerel wasn’t whining for nothing. Oh, well. Too late for that, now.
The brunet’s unconvinced frown turns into a confused one as Chuuya brushes his face, then a chill runs through him. Dazai seems to heave a distressed sigh before he can help it, looking just as exhausted as Chuuya feels now that his expression is no longer half-veiled. The redhead glosses over the uncanniness of it as he’s reminded of his objective once more. Right.
Once again a staring interval passes between them, sort of a preparation, for Chuuya’s eyes to stern while Dazai’s two-tone face fully blanks. No, this is not a preparation, rather a silent sanction on both their parts– an exchanged ‘is this okay?’ followed by a ‘you’re good’ that only the two of them can hear…
Wordlessly, and oh, so slowly, Chuuya’s left arm moves first, aiming just below the neck. Sheepish fingers drape around the cold nape for only a second, briefly register the goosebumps forming there before the rest of the arm extends even further till the uncombed brown curls are pillowed on the crook of his elbow instead of the actual pillow…
Laying the first stone is surprisingly the hardest part, as the mentality of it was so absurd to begin with. But now that it’s set, Chuuya finds that from there it’s all automatic– the outstretched arm meekly curls till the fingers reach the hair, and his other hand finally works, a little less slowly, at that. It finds the chest, wanders to the further bandaged arm, and begins sheepishly rubbing it to provide the sought out warmth the other needs…
He’s ready to call this off at any sign of genuine agitation from the younger, and oddly enough, he almost did at the jerk he received just as he touched the rough skin, but the lack of verbal complaint assured him that that was merely an involuntary reaction, no matter how absurd that sounds. Because, come on, now, really? Dazai, the one Chuuya has personally seen withstand ungodly amounts of physical abuse without batting an eye, flinching from a flimsy touch? Sounds like one tasteless joke.
But it isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds, when Chuuya thinks of it. As he, too, was once in the same dilemma where a gentle brush was scary enough to cower away from, where touches that didn’t aim to hurt burned far hotter than ones that did, though at some point that had changed…
He doesn’t know exactly when, but the acclimatization weirdly aligns with him acquiring his apartment and, oh– he finds his answer. Albatross… that was Albatross’s doing…
Memories flood, of creaking sounds above him at dawn, of a chirpy voice dragging him out of his slumber, of late night missions he never asked for, all tinged with a weird filter of fondness. And it’s funny how that works, isn’t it? Three months ago he would have gladly cursed at the lack of that bastard’s boundaries till there is no tomorrow, but now he’d do anything to be subjected to all those small inconveniences ten times over…
The way his throat clogs forces him back where he is, and he swallows thickly. The sleep deprivation might be really getting to him for such emotions to easily overcome him. He sighs, resuming with stroking the cocooned arm as he’d stopped at some point, and tries to glance down to determine if his partner had finally went to sleep, but he can’t see when he’s propped higher like that, the bangs acting as an obscuration to fully see.
However, as his awareness of his surroundings returns, he discovers that using his vision isn’t as vital as he’d imagined: for Dazai’s body is a little too rigid to be considered in slumber, and his breath is fluctuating between stuttering and stopping entirely…
Chuuya wouldn’t have pointed any of this out, because for one, he’s not touching any wounds to be the one kindling those attributes, and for two, he truly couldn’t have cared less… He’s tired.
Though the way-too-violent heartbeat he’s feeling is a little concerning, just a bit.
“You kicking the bucket, down there?” He rasps way too nonchalantly, which might be the thing giving away his legit worry, funnily enough.
Dazai’s chest stills, and Chuuya can tell exactly when he forcibly relaxes his form, “You’re on thin ice, hatrack…”
He’s fine, then.
“Tsk. Too bad.” Chuuya deadpans, then winces a little at how outstretched his limbs feel, as there is still some space between them, an imaginary threshold that he hadn’t yet crossed but now that he’s uncomfortable all that runs through his mind is: to hell with it.
His massaging motion stops, replaced by a squeeze, and he pulls the frigid body closer, till the threshold is all but trespassed– where Chuuya’s nose is burrowed in dark curls, where Dazai’s ear is over his heart and listening, listening, listening…
Till their pulses are reverberating through one another…
Dazai rigids once again, but this time it doesn’t last. They both sag in sync, and Chuuya refrains from doing anything stupid with his legs, given that one nudge with his knee and the bastard would be howling in agony. It’s a feat Dazai hasn’t voiced his concern about that, yet. Scratch that- it’s a feat that any of this is happening, in the first place.
But none of this matters, he reminds himself. None of this means anything because they both agreed that the entirety of this night will be forgotten in the morning, will never be brought up again neither to their circles, nor to one another- not even to themselves. The depth of Chuuya’s consciousness dares to divulge a sickening but sadly truthful statement:
For just tonight, they can drop the act and indulge in what they miss.
“This… is awful.” Dazai whispers as he nuzzles further.
“Tell me about it.” Chuuya’s hold tightens as he addedly caresses the petrichor-smelling locks, “Anything hurts and you wake me up immediately.”
“So demanding.” Dazai sniggers lowly, sounds like death, “I bet Chuuya’s a sleep kicker…”
“And I bet you’re a sleep talker- no, scratch that, a sleep screamer.” Chuuya quips, “Yeah, that’d fucking fit…”
At the lack of a reply, his heart drops.
“Wait… you can’t be serious…” He incredulously murmurs– night terrors? “How’d you even know?”
“Mori-san…” Chuuya takes a pause, a million questionable scenarios invading his mind before he can help it- “he’d tell me about them whenever I stay overnight at the infirmary…” Oh, Chuuya relaxes back, learns to breathe again.
“Terrific. Good to fucking know.” His snarl is weak, because what he’d just learned alludes to so, so many things he has no energy to dwell on, “Any other wonderful news?”
The silence lingers for a bit, until Dazai’s voice infuriatingly teeters on rueful, “You’ll actually deal with it if it happens?”
“No, I’ll dump you back to your shipping container at 5 in the morning.” Chuuya rasps, lids falling as his kneading slows down, already resigning himself for an ugly wake-up call, “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve done enough, slug.” Dazai’s voice grows fainter as well, “The thought of being indebted to you sickens me…”
“As a matter of fact, you are already indebted to me.” Chuuya makes sure to clear that up, but doesn’t plan on sticking through with that fact because again, this night might as well have never happened, “Now shut the hell up. The fuck are you still awake for?”
His question truly isn’t a mere erotesis, he’s genuinely curious- As once the pain killer spread in his system he should have been out like a light, and yet he’s still here, fighting back sleep for… what exactly?
Dazai doesn’t verbally answer, instead Chuuya faintly discerns shifting underneath the banket, and before he can deem it as anything, a set of shaky fingers weakly enfold his warming forearm, just for a second, before loosening and landing on the scarred chest.
Chuuya knows it’s the closest thing to a thank you he’ll get…
The redhead ignores the way his heart flutters, among everything else– the added warmth to his face, the snugness consuming him despite himself, how truly close they are, merged in a tangle of unfamiliarity that is too anomalous to explain…
He ignores and ignores and ignores…
What he openly acknowledges, however, is the fact that the body below him has regained most its temperature, and his limb stops entirely- well, it certainly continues to rise and fall along with the heavy lungs, calculatingly rhythmic and perhaps even soothing.
And that’s the problem- calculatingly. Chuuya can tell how much his partner is feigning coziness, even if the attempt is thorough, as nothing will truly get past the older with the way they’re mimicking each other’s pulses and breathing patterns...
Though, is it really worth mulling over? Dazai can easily stop this if he wants to, can just shove or decline and Chuuya will act annoyed but will undoubtedly grant his wish without question.
Because neither are in a more dominant position, currently– Dazai is as vulnerable with his skin shown as Chuuya is without his ability. Their power dynamic is all too intact for it to be the younger’s -God forbid- fear that is driving him to endure any of this. The thought is so emetic that Chuuya actively grimaces.
So, quite frankly- no it isn’t. And the redhead finds himself neglecting the trail of thought as his hazed mind acts without regard, shifting his limb to feel more comfortable, to lessen the pressure on the other’s body. His fingers trace rough skin, till they find precisely where the heart is buried, and land on the shoulder, curling around it feebly. Dazai’s form shudders, but it can’t be from the cold… No, he’s plenty warm, already.
Chuuya opts to ignore that, as well, his pulse quickening as a result to catch up with the other’s. Jumbled thoughts that should clearly be saved for tomorrow make themselves known– some about Mori and his words, the threat he’d made and what his stance with his boss is going to be like from tomorrow. Some are mere shadows of wet, pulseless and bloodied bodies, most in the rain but another most in the light, midst a shattered mess of a billiards bar…
Some are about a threading needle against flesh, three lines that resemble a symbol, and Chuuya makes a mental note of resorting to professional medical care tomorrow, seeing that his amateurish attempt will very likely scar. The initial of a worthless nobody engraved to someone who’s anything but…
He’ll fucking kill him.
Something under the blanket shifts, and Chuuya’s involuntarily seething form wavers at the feel of it trailing downwards. Chuuya chases that something, hand catching a bandaged wrist just before its owner could scratch at his newly acquired wounds among many. Dazai tenses in protest, but Chuuya leads the hand back anyway, bringing it where it was on the sternum. He lingers the hold, just feebly enough, as silent reprimand…
And maybe he’s the one scared this time, being at the dispensing end of the familiar gesture– For how the night turned out in the blink of an eye. For how close he was to finding the rabid pulse that is currently under him gravely silent… belonging to the one he cares nothing about and yet feels his heart awfully twisting at the thought of him being gone.
Dazai lets out an incredibly weak whine, weaker than Chuuya could ever think his tone could get, and lolls his head sideways which simulates a flimsy headbutt against Chuuya’s collarbone. His chest shakes in a silent chuckle, but pauses when the younger frees his wrist from his grasp, and Chuuya thinks he’ll need to start the chase again– though his partner surprises him when he stays, and not only stays, but finds Chuuya’s palm and drapes his smaller fingers around it… softly.
Somehow, despite them being intertwined in every literal sense, this is what truly sends his senses hay wiring for how enigmatic it is. And whatever message Dazai is trying to convey has either worked terribly or terribly worked, because Chuuya is suddenly acute of every single thing he’d previously tried to ignore, of what has happened, of what is happening…
And as a result, his body involuntarily snuggles closer, fights physics and logic because there was no space left to begin with, yet he manages, forehead burrowing into the fluffy curls in an attempt to hide from the world, fingers reciprocating with an equal squeeze, pulses almost acting as one, and nose tickling from the stray locks he breathes through… The added pressures comfort him in almost a terrifying degree.
Has Chuuya demonstrated that he’d rather be found shot in the head than do any of this, yet? Oh, well. As established, this night was definitely, truly uneventful, and will always be so even on their deathbeds, no matter how soon that will be… Something, somewhere in the back of Chuuya’s mind, tells him that he wouldn’t mind slipping away just like this…
Chuuya desperately ignores that thought. Tries to, at least, as he finds himself whispering against his partner’s ear in an effort to tell him to knock off the falsified front already, to let them both rest,
“Take it easy, mackerel… Come on…” A million reassurances slip between the lines. Chuuya is confident Dazai has heard them all…
It’s okay
I know it hurts
We’re on the same boat
You’re not a burden
I’m not getting rid of you
I’m sorry for not keeping my word
You’re safe
You can trust me.
At that, Dazai’s form completely slackens, the screaming of his irritatingly gifted mind seeming to quieten, to grant him mercy…
And it takes Chuuya a second longer to follow suit…
.
.
.
.
Two hours later, a set of fingers are running through sweaty hair, and an arm locks against a thrashing, panting chest, while the other set of fingers smoothly rub on a bandaged, trembling upper arm.
A scream sounds through the air…
“I’m here… I got you..” The words are whispered between dark curls again and again, as they evanesce into the uneventful night…