Chapter Text
Chuuya gets a call from his boss at the middle of the night, which isn’t unusual.
He’s a late-sleeper anyway, on his off-days in particular where staying awake doesn’t equate to the feeling of intermittent death. And today is an off-day, which, yeah, makes Mori’s attempt to contact him a tad strange, but his boss does like to pick the weirdest times to inform him of upcoming missions so he doesn’t question it, instead places his full cup of hot chocolate on the table, mutes the movie he’s cozily watching and answers.
Casual greeting, casual inquiries about where he’s currently at, and casual attempts to segway into the matter at hand all play at first. Chuuya doesn’t rush, knows that his boss loves that kind of buildup so he lets him roll with it. But then-
“Hah? Why me?!”
“Considering you are at home, you are the closest to where I’m picking Dazai-kun’s distressed vitals from. I have already sent you the location of the signals. All I am asking for you is to drop in to see if he needs assistance, and bring him to me in case things are uglier than they seem. Hopefully that won’t be necessary.”
Chuuya sinks further into the couch in some form of silent complaint, regretting ever picking up the phone, “C’mon… right now?” He tries weakly, but knows that wouldn’t get him anywhere.
“Dazai-kun has not called for help himself, so as I hope, this will be a rather quick and uneventful errand. But this isn’t a request to be ignored. That is an order, Chuuya-kun.” Just as suspected. The mafioso sighs and gets up to change, opting for a casual appearance since putting on the suit is all but a goddamn chore. Leaving his warm spot on the couch midst the pillows and blankets feels like torture, considering how chilly it is. Of course, who else would subject him to such torment when he least expects it?
“Fucking mackerel…” What would he be doing outside at this ungodly hour? And in this ungodly weather? It’s raining goddamn bullets, so it isn’t really a time for a walk or, if what he’s predicting is true, a freaking suicide attempt.
Dazai should be distressed, alright, because if this isn’t anything urgent then Chuuya will gladly kick him like there is no tomorrow and make it urgent himself.
Taking his bike is out of question, as the last thing Chuuya needs on top of getting his warmth stolen is getting wet this freaking late, and as such his car keys rattle till they crack the engine to life. Soon, he is following the address his higher-up gave him. Soon, he arrives.
He can’t find the bastard.
The street is dark and rightfully empty. Actually, it appears that the storm in this particular area has taken the light with it, as the whole block is blackened. Every streetlamp, every shop, every house, even the hospital nearby, all seem to indicate that a massive blackout has occurred, and it might be a miracle that Chuuya’s apartment wasn’t part of it, given that he’s very near.
So he resorts to his car’s lights for the search. Even if the area is hard to see with his wipers on, he’s unwilling to get out until he spots something. Because maybe Dazai isn’t here at all. Maybe he’d left the signal’s location, maybe the signals are only coming from the device, and not Dazai himself. Anything was possible with that maniac he disgruntledly calls a partner-
His eyes narrow when they find it- a laid figure on the pavement.
Chuuya presses on the brakes, leaves the only source of illumination on and gets out without his keys. He doesn’t focus enough to redirect the rain particles with his ability, letting the water bullets freely soak him. Zipping up his jacket hurriedly, he’s near the figure enough to deduce that it’s a body, and that this isn’t Dazai, but- he recognizes that attire, this weapon. And how couldn’t he?
This is one of the Port Mafia’s gunmen.
“O-Oi,” Chuuya drops on his knees beside the man, quickly takes a pulse. Even his gloved fingers can feel the iciness of the man’s skin and- nothing. Chuuya’s breath hitches, and turns his head to the side.
The pavement is littered with figures– bodies. And because the car’s light can only reach so far, they feel nearly endless.
“What the hell…”
This is an aftermath of a mission, no doubt about it. But how- why here, why now? All are questions that flicker away swiftly, because he has to move.
He checks the pulse of each body he finds, frantic with every silent treatment his fingers get. The lack of proper lighting doesn’t provide him a ton of details, but he catches the faints of red being washed out of the pavement by the viscous rain, streaming into drainage grates with plinks that create a sickening melody. Chuuya wants to wail.
‘Quick and uneventful’ his ass.
Trailing further and further from the car’s illumination, ending up with nothing again and again, Chuuya begins to feel hopeless by the ninth dead man he tries to get any sign of life from, and reminds himself why he’s here. Yes, Dazai is why he’s here.
Dazai, who's most likely one of the laid figures his eyes can’t see.
Dazai, whose vitals have been off the rails as Mori’s described.
Dazai, who Chuuya should find now, before he follows the fallen gunmen suit.
“Fuck.” Chuuya innerly apologizes for the other bodies he regretfully walks past, and searches for any sign of familiar brown hair, a black half-worn coat, a bandaged face, and, if he’s lucky, half a pair of open reddish brown pupils.
It feels like he’s walked a mile, chest aching in anxiety he can’t fathom at the bizarreness of it all. At the familiarity of it. But the logical part of him tells him that it’s only a few feet he’d trudged, and that his shaken legs are the mere reason he’s believing otherwise. He fearfully swallows.
“Dazai?” He begins calling, because he’s nearly blind now, the car far enough for its light to fade. He tries not to step on anyone, turning his head back and forth, “Oi, Dazai-!”
He sees it– sees him. A tip of a bandage lays on the ground that Chuuya accidentally steps on, and his widened eyes follow it till he finds it swathing a certain arm, swallowing the limb whole. Chuuya emits something resembling a convulsive gasp, lunging forward.
“Dazai!” Fuck, he can’t see shit. He quickly bites his gloves away, pocketing them, as his knees fail beside the shadow. From what he can deduce, Dazai is laid on his abdomen, so he promptly turns him on his back, which terrifyingly doesn’t urge a whine, doesn’t provoke a reaction.
Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit-
The tremors that consume him can’t be helped, the cold mixed with the disquiet not a pleasant combo. He finds the back of the head, feels the wet, drenched hair on his hand and hauls the frail body close. His other hand reaches for the neck, his own heartbeats a tad too violent in his wrist for him to determine anything. Chuuya forces himself to calm down, to ebb the anxiety away, to feel.
What if he’s too late? What if he’s met with silence once more? What if-
A quiet bu-dump reverberates through Chuuya, and not only that, but it’s followed by another one, and another one, and another– far too swiftly to be deemed healthy. A relieved sigh is forced out of him, and without delay, he finds the other’s knees and snakes his arm under them, standing up with little difficulty. Well, that’s certainly a lie.
His legs almost buckle as he runs back, trying to turn his head away from the other men he’s leaving behind. He can’t face them while doing such a thing. He can’t even believe he’s doing such a thing.
But his car can’t withstand the number, and even so, his priority should be preventing the death of his idiot partner. Thus, he focuses on said idiot sternly, fleetingly discerns the quiet, rapid gasps that seem to shake the one in his arms to his core, and as Chuuya approaches his vehicle, and is finally near a light source, he finds himself choking on his own breath before he can help it.
The red catches his eyes first, vividly stark against the white shirt, and consuming most of it. The abdominal area, in particular, is the initial victim of such hunger, as Chuuya can count at least two stab wounds on either side. There might be a third one, but the overflow of blood acts as a hurdle to truly being able to tell.
Another hue of red catches his eyes next, and that’s the incredibly dilated pupil on the other’s face. Open, wide but not entirely there, rolling occasionally. Then how ashen the other is seems registers next, along with the blue tint of the lips hard to mistake despite the lack of proper illumination, and that- that elicits a frightened gasp out of him.
Because he’s familiar with the signs.
“Shit- hang in there!” Chuuya frantically reaches for the door’s handle, the back seat, and places Dazai inside, away from the unforgiving rain. He quickly reaches for the interior light, and God, Dazai looks even worse upon that. A puddle of both blood and water has instantaneously formed beneath his partner, while each concerning attribute Chuuya’d noticed outside is elevated in urgency tenfold, causing the redhead to wince, distressed. For an entire minute, he does nothing but try to breathe, to sort his thoughts, bare hands running through his own wet hair in a frenzy.
“Fuuuuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
Ever since the incident of his one year anniversary of joining the mafia– as in, that terrible day where five of the people he cared about perished because of him, he’d took it upon himself to be enlightened in the medical field, as a tribute to Doc in particular. He was the doctor Chuuya trusted the most in this organization, and his presence never allowed him to worry about anything regarding wounds or injuries. He’d just let himself be maneuvered and treated without a care in the world, because for just a little while, he was in his friend’s custody.
It was an ease. It was a luxury. It was something he’d taken for granted.
And now that Doc’s gone, Chuuya never found himself truly comfortable with any other doctor. Thus today, unless he’s at death’s damn door, he’d be treating himself and following all the instructions the medical books he’d bought would give him. He has enough medical knowledge and equipment now to treat wounds varying from basic to moderate, some severe, and would you know it…
“…Bring him to me in case things are uglier than they seem. Hopefully that won’t be necessary.”
It is fucking necessary beyond comprehension, but Chuuya can’t.
Reason being: Dazai’s condition can’t wait, as all the symptoms point to Hypovolemic shock. Any delay to treatment and the sly rascal will kiss the chance of his freaky dream of suicide goodbye and well, the nearest hospital is in blackout, and the Port Mafia’s base is nearly half an hour away. Chuuya’s bike would have provided extra speed but seeing as they are now, and what he’s given to work with, there is only one solution.
“Dammit- Okay, okay…” Chuuya lets go of his own hair, and finally gets a grip strong enough to act. First things first, he needs to make sure the bastard will be able to hold on for the duration of the ride, and there are ways to help fulfil that selfish wish.
He climbs into the backseat beside the sprawled body, closing the door behind, and finds Dazai’s chest still heaving rapidly, his pupil darting to his surroundings like he doesn’t know where the hell he is and is freaking out about it. Which is most likely the case. The mackerel should have fainted long ago, but seeing as he’s refusing to give in, it makes way for drowsiness and confusion to attack.
Well, that can’t do.
“You with me?” Chuuya coaxes far too gently despite himself, and Dazai’s blown pupil doesn’t seem to locate him. Chuuya crawls further, until his face is in the other’s view, until his dripping hair lands its cold beads on the other’s cheek, and frowns while he clicks his fingers in front of the eye twice. That seems to do the trick.
Dazai’s eye– or rather, Dazai himself, finds him. So there is a bit of lucidity in there, after all. What else did he expect from the incredibly stubborn bastard?
“It’s me, mackerel. Chuuya.” He clarifies while putting his gloves back on, because what he’s about to do could either get his face slapped or his eyes gouged out, and that all depends on Dazai’s comprehension of the words ‘it’s me’. For all he knows, the bandaged mummy might do the latter because he’s Chuuya. He decides he wants to test that theory.
Dazai’s eye is locked on his, but it doesn’t have that irritating glint to it as it normally does. Chuuya supposes that’s good enough. The rain violently hitting the roof like an assault, the howling wind rocking the vehicle every now and then, and the persistent ringing of his phone all are deaf to his ears as he begins-
“I have to staunch the bleeding.” He directs, but doubts the other is entirely listening. He keeps up with it, though, as a means to calm himself down a notch. Chuuya takes off his own wet jacket, and the dry shirt underneath to act as a barrier between the wound and his hand, then wears the jacket back on bare skin. “It’s gonna hurt like a bitch, but that’s your own fault for refusing to pass out. Don’t go around blaming me.”
Contrary to what he’s saying, there is a tinge of pity etched deep within him that if Dazai had any semblance of coherency he would have effortlessly snuffed it out. But as he places the shirt flat on the other’s abdomen, the tinge inadvertently turns into a persistent shade, pulling at his countenance and causing his moving limbs to quiver.
“If you move, I’ll have to hold you down. So try not to.” He keeps his eye on Dazai’s while he ever so lightly palms his own, swiftly soaking shirt. He doesn’t know why he does that– maybe to catch any and every shift in Dazai’s expression, maybe as a refusal to acknowledge how grave the situation truly is, or maybe it’s an absent, unconscious attempt to comfort the other. All are possible answers, but what’s important is that he holds his gaze and doesn’t let go, even as his hands quickly work.
His press is sudden, void of benevolence but it’s only for the victim’s sake– and said victim visibly tries not to react, but his eye widens all the same, and his body convulses under the offender’s hold while his breath leaves him all together.
Chuuya’s other hand is ready in case Dazai flails, gripping the edge of the seat near the younger’s shoulder that acts as an added method to balance himself. Dazai chokes once, twice, but thankfully doesn’t writhe, and Chuuya takes that as a good sign to move forward, because this hellish session of first-aid has to end soon so they can get out of here.
While his left palm is busy with applying pressure, his right takes the lead. He leans back and searches for the passenger seat’s recline lever. Once clutched, he tugs it harshly which prompts the seat’s back to lean towards him. This will unfortunately further cramp the already cramped space they’re in, but aiding Dazai’s circulation is wildly crucial, so once the back is flat, almost touching Dazai’s stretched legs, Chuuya doesn’t wait to maneuver said limbs up-
“Nngh-!” That elicits a forced whimper out of the other, and it’s the first thing Chuuya hears out of his partner’s voice today. He doesn’t falter, however, doesn’t apologize as he promptly rests the two legs on the fully reclined seat so they’re elevated above the heart, helping the organ in question out. Looking back, Dazai’s complexion seems to have blanched even further, in contrast to the bluish lips that only intensely vivid. Chuuya bites back a gasp.
Loosening clothes was supposed to be the next step, anyway, but the redhead chides himself for not getting on with it sooner, because the layers are many, and he has to work on various places– specifically the neck, chest and waist.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, pervert.” Chuuya rumbles halfheartedly as he quickly leans forward, back in Dazai’s field of vision; and unfastens the tie, unbuttons the unsalvageable stained, red shirt from the collar, trying to prevent any constriction to the windpipe. Of course, these aren’t the main culprits, because what is truly swathing the neck is the fabric that acts as the younger’s second skin, the one Chuuya never had the chance to look under before…
Chuuya can’t dwell on the fact much as he unsheathes his dagger, and while his left is still busy with applying pressure, his right tries to steady itself as it tips on the edge of the bandaged neck, about to tear it down in wavering precision-
Something catches his wrist.
Chuuya’s chin lifts in surprise, trying to get an explanation before he can easily break free and continue with his rudely interrupted action. Dazai’s teeth are clenched, pupil refusing to look at him, and Chuuya doesn’t consider that much of an explanation-
“I’m saving your life, you sicko. Don’t try to stop me.” He deadpans, and without waiting for an answer that is never bound to come, he closes the dagger’s tip on the bandage once more. The grayish fingers tighten by a fraction. Chuuya stops.
“N-N…” Dazai fails to utter a single word, eye rolling.
The hold itself is hilariously weak, and shouldn’t have even stopped Chuuya at all, but the idea of Dazai having that much willpower to lift his arm and grab him during a shock might be the true factor of him halting. The shifting pupil finally stills enough for Dazai to look him in the eye, which unmistakably conveys one emotion, and one emotion only…
Chuuya’s entire form freezes.
Fear- Dazai is fucking scared under him, looking younger than ever before (dare he say looking his age) and Chuuya- for all his big talk about how much he hates the bastard, suddenly finds himself kicking all reason to the curb,
“Woah- Hey, hey,” He frees his hand from the weak grasp, takes his dagger away ever so slowly, as to show it to his partner. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Dazai. I promise.” Dazai’s form is trembling, but Chuuya can see him shake his head. They don’t have time for this, but seeing the distressed look on the younger may have suddenly made this whole scene a bit sickening, and Chuuya cannot advance until Dazai is convinced he’s safe, “I just need to loosen anything that might restrict your airway or blood flow. Your bandages are pretty tight, so they’ll have to go. Blink if you understand me.”
Dazai immediately blinks, and Chuuya nods grimly, “Only the ones wrapped around your torso and neck– that’s all I’m gonna take off. And we’ll wrap them again at my place, okay? Just- trust me on this. I promise I’m not gonna hurt you.” He insists, desperate, because they’re wasting every second that counts.
Dazai stares, and then, like a switch, all the tension in his body leaves. That’s apparently Chuuya’s cue.
He lets go with his left, as the bleeding must have slowed, and decides to take things less aggressively. As he leans in to determine exactly where the knife is going, to truly see before he can act, his bloody glove gets discarded so that his free, bare hand travels to the other’s wet hair, fingers intertwining with the brown locks; it mildly guides the head, tilting it to the side so the neck is in full view, and Dazai takes it all wordlessly, no protest. In fact, if Chuuya were to sound crazy, he’d even tell you that the Demon Prodigy was freaking leaning into this specific contact.
Chuuya’s brows furrow in realization. All his previous touches have been inadvertently hurting his partner, even if they were all for Dazai’s own wellbeing. Really, it was only a matter of time before the younger snapped and asked him to stop.
The dagger runs through the thin fabric in scary precision, the sound honestly satisfying, and he stops once he reaches the collarbone to throw the discarded bandages away. His car is in an unhopeful mess at this point, but it might be worth the relieved sigh that the other emits at being able to freely breathe.
The skin under the bandages itself doesn’t look the prettiest, but Chuuya’s expected much. He can’t really ask or stare– not right now, after he’d earned Dazai’s trust.
Later, though, when his partner’s life isn’t in his hands, he might.
“You make for an awful mute…” Chuuya tries to lighten things as the knife cuts both fabric and gauze over the panting chest. Dazai is facing away, probably seeing every detail on the leather seat's back, probably seeing nothing at all. His nose is pressed against Chuuya’s caressing arm, allowing the redhead to feel every exhale that he lets out. It’s admittedly comforting.
“I mean, silence doesn’t suit that fish-like face, that’s for sure.” Chuuya chuckles.
Dazai lets out a huff, but that’s evidently all he can respond with. With the incision he’s made done, Chuuya decides to simply pry both the fabric and bandages open like an unzipped jacket, as he’d be unable to shed them completely without maneuvering the idiot. Once again, he refuses to stare, refuses to truly take everything in, and checks for any other things that might act as constriction. He unbuckles the belt in Dazai’s pants, seeing as it’s freakishly tight around the hips.
“For now, I’m done. We’re done.” Chuuya reassures softly, pocketing his dagger immediately, and Dazai’s form relaxes even more.
Chuuya might have run his smart mouth that he always resorts to, but a ‘good job’ or an ‘I’m proud of you’ isn’t really embedded in their code. Instead he gives the other’s shoulder a grounding squeeze as the next best thing. The skin is frigid under his touch.
That springs the issue with the cold. And to be honest, they’re both shivering to the same degree, but Dazai’s shivers are fatal, and he needs to be wrapped with something dry. Unfortunately, the only dry thing Chuuya had is acting as a pressure dressing to the various stab wounds right now. This one can’t be helped.
“Oi, mackerel. Can I trust that you won’t die on me for just ten minutes?” It’s a stupid request, but he needs any form of reassurance, and what’s a better way than taking it directly from the source?
Dazai’s pupil is still staring blankly at the back of the seat, looking like it’s requiring all of his willpower just to stay conscious. Chuuya attempts to take his hand that is brushing the hair back, if only to get the car moving immediately- however, something catches his wrist once more.
The shaky fingers are barely hanging on, but they try to give a squeeze. The faintest hint of a smile cracks Chuuya’s face in cognizance.
Yes, you can.
“You better go through with that.” The redhead squeezes the gray fingertips back, gently placing them on the brunet’s bare chest, before untangling his own set of fingers from the brown locks.
Chuuya doesn’t need to get out of the car– he hops to the driver’s seat from the inside, grips the steering wheel, and takes one last look at the littered pavement, an ugly feeling bubbling in his chest. He’ll have to return the ten missed calls his boss had initiated, as there are a ton of things he’d love to get a clear explanation for. Later, he reminds himself. Later, not now.
Chuuya adjusts the rearview mirror on the backseat, just in case, and promptly accelerates.
He’s home before the ten minute mark.