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They find the villain lurking underneath an abandoned bridge. A bit of a cliché, if you ask Dazai. But no one really asked his opinion about any aspect of this mission to begin with.
Their target is a man named Henry Jekyll—an ex-Guild member gone rogue, lurking in desolate areas of the city and murdering innocent passersby.
“He has an unusual Ability,” Fukuzawa explained to Dazai this morning, stone-faced as always as he handed Dazai the file. “It’s called Hyde and Seek. He creates a disorienting fog, then confuses his victim by switching rapidly between his two selves, Jekyll and Hyde. Switching from one entity to another allows him to travel long distances in the blink of an eye.”
Dazai had skimmed the file with mild interest, fixating on two blurry photographs attached to the document with a paperclip. Each showed a shadowy figure. One wore a top hat and long coat, and held a curved blade—some kind of old-fashioned surgical knife? The other was hunched over, eyes glowing yellow, extending long clawed fingers and baring animalistically sharp teeth.
According to the file, Jekyll had previously been an underground doctor for the Guild. But in a failed experiment to separate his good self from his bad self, he’d accidentally created Hyde. His ensuing madness had led to both halves of himself becoming equally corrupted. Hence, well, all the murder.
So, yes, a bit tricky. But Dazai has faced worse before.
No, that on its own would have been perfectly fine. The bad part is—
“What the fuck?” a voice spits out next to him. “How the hell are we supposed to see him through all this fucking fog?”
Dazai rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh. Close beside him, the pint-sized, ugly-hat-loving, foul-mouthed pain in his ass known as Nakahara Chuuya stands in a fighting stance, a hazy red glow surrounding him.
As if things weren’t bad enough, Fukuzawa and Mori decided—for some reason—to reunite Double Black for this mission. Something about them being the ideal duo to take out Jekyll and Hyde—Dazai to deactivate their ability, Chuuya to take them down. Dazai distantly recalls Fukuzawa giving some other reasoning—that Chuuya’s defiance of gravity might be an advantage against Jekyll’s teleportation, or something like that. Honestly, he doesn’t remember much of the conversation after finding out he would have to work alongside Chuuya. He was too busy seeing red. Quite literally.
He shoves his hands into his pockets and yawns. “Well, I’m sure he’ll reveal himself soon if Chuuya keeps yelling so much.”
The last word has barely left his mouth before he hears the distinct crunch of Chuuya taking a step towards him, crushing the pavement beneath his feet. His eyes blaze with rage. Wisps of red hair float around his face like flames, and his gloved hands curl into fists. His entire demeanor implies he’d punt Dazai all the way into the night sky if he knew Dazai wouldn’t immediately nullify his ability.
Dazai blinks at him, unfazed. He tilts his head and smiles innocently, because he knows it will piss Chuuya off. If he’s stuck on this mission with this annoying little slug, he might as well get some amusement out of it.
“Listen here, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya growls. “I don’t want to be here any more than you do. But can you at least go five damn minutes without—”
Something materializes in the fog several feet behind him. A dark, inhuman shape with glowing yellow eyes.
Dazai stares at it. “Oh,” he says.
Chuuya’s furious expression drops. “It’s behind me, isn’t it?”
Dazai nods.
The creature—Hyde, Dazai assumes—snarls and leaps forward, spittle flying from his sharp canines. Dazai dodges the attack with a neat sidestep. Chuuya backflips into the air, flying over the creature’s head before floating to the ground.
“Bastard!” Chuuya yells. Whether the insult is directed at Hyde or at Dazai, who can say? But Dazai suspects the latter. His name is more or less synonymous with bastard in Chuuya-speak.
Hyde skids to a halt and whirls around, glowing eyes fixed on Chuuya. Claws sprout from his long fingers with a shing, like knives being sharpened. With a roar, he charges.
A crater forms in the ground under Chuuya’s feet, spreading a web of cracks in all directions. Chuuya takes to the air, zipping around the monster like an annoying bug—a suitable metaphor, Dazai thinks. Hyde slashes his claws towards the air to no avail. Chuuya dodges each attack in the blink of an eye, then lands a hard kick to Hyde’s face. Howling, Hyde goes flying back, swallowed by the fog.
Chuuya remains floating in midair, and gives Dazai a scathing look over his shoulder. “Are you actually going to help at all, you lazy mackerel? Or are you just going to stand there?”
Dazai shrugs, without even removing his hands from his pockets. “It seems Chuuya is doing just fine on his own,” he says.
He could run over there and try to get a hand on Hyde and disable his ability. But with Hyde’s whole knives-for-hands thing, it would essentially be playing a deadly game of tag. One Dazai would almost certainly lose. And he can’t die such an embarrassing death in front of Chuuya, ugh. He’d probably be able to hear Chuuya’s obnoxiously loud voice mocking him even from the afterlife.
No, it probably makes more sense to let Chuuya wear their enemy down a bit first. Then Dazai can step in and disable Jekyll and Hyde’s ability.
Oh, right. Jekyll. Hyde’s evil doctor counterpart has yet to make an appearance. How did Fukuzawa describe it again? That he can rapidly switch back and forth between them?
A loud “Huh?!” from Chuuya cuts through his thoughts. “Where the fuck did he—”
And then—
Something violent and cold and sharp dives into Dazai’s back and pierces through his chest. The shock travels all the way down to his fingertips in burning tingles. He stops breathing.
Dazai looks down, carefully, blinking. There’s a dull throb in his ears and the edges of his vision go hazy. That’s... odd. There’s something protruding from his chest—what he dazedly recognizes as the tip of a curved knife. An old-fashioned surgical knife, to be precise. Rivulets of blood course down its length and drip from the end of the blade.
Ah. So Jekyll has decided to make his entrance, after all. The corner of Dazai’s mouth twitches into a sour smile. He probably should have seen this coming. Should have had his guard up. Too bad Chuuya distracted him by being so loud and annoying.
Jekyll laughs behind him—a gross, wet sound. Almost more like a gurgle. He rips the blade free.
The pain is so great that black stars burst in Dazai’s vision. A choked gasp escapes him. His blood sprays the pavement with an audible splat. He presses a hand to his chest and an alarming amount of warmth spills between his fingers. He can feel more of it spreading rapidly through the back of his coat.
There’s a high-pitched singing noise in Dazai’s ears. His blurry gaze is transfixed on his own blood staining the ground, looking almost black in the dimming light.
Then, red.
A familiar, hazy red glow emerges from the fog and creeps across the cracked pavement.
“Where—” a voice starts to call out, then stops short. There’s another sound—a sharp intake of breath. Then, “Dazai? ...Dazai!”
Dazai tries to inhale. Tries to speak. His lungs feel like they’re on fire. Static pockmarks his vision, blotting out the look on Chuuya’s face. Shock, then rage. A furious roar fills his ears. Dazai doesn’t know whether the sound is in his own head, or if it’s Hyde, or if it’s...
Strange. The world seems to have tipped upside-down. Or the ground has suddenly risen up to meet him. No... Dazai is lying on the ground. He doesn’t remember falling. Did he black out? He doesn’t remember that either.
He’s slumped on his side, his view tilted. An alarming amount of dark crimson pools on the ground, seeping across the rough texture of the pavement and dribbling into the cracks that mar its surface. Agonizing waves of pain radiate from Dazai’s chest, and every wheezing breath he takes makes it worse.
Someone is screaming.
Maybe screaming is the wrong word. The sound is beyond that... more like a guttural, inhuman screech that echoes down the empty street.
Flashes of red brighten the dissipating fog. Dazai thinks there are spots in his vision again. But, no. There are dark spheres shooting through the air in all directions. One crashes like a meteor into the ground, sending pieces of cement flying. Another hits the underside of the bridge, taking out a chunk of stone that falls a few feet from Dazai’s head.
The haze surrounding his thoughts clears just enough for him to realize... something is wrong. Very wrong. Besides the fact that he seems to be bleeding out right now.
He lifts his head, which makes the world spin sickeningly around him. At the center of it, hovering in midair, is a lone figure that he recognizes immediately. His chest seizes. As he feared, there are angry red lines curling down Chuuya’s limbs like snakes.
Corruption, Dazai realizes faintly. Chuuya is using Corruption.
But why? Surely he’s not that stupid.
…Wait. Of course he is. This is Chuuya he’s talking about.
Dazai has to stop him. If he doesn’t, Chuuya will die.
Chuuya will die. It’s that thought that hits him like a slap in the face, like a lightning strike of adrenaline to his veins.
He dredges up enough strength to shakily hoist himself up on one elbow, and—fuck—there’s another explosion of pain in his chest and he clamps his free hand over it. More blood spills between his fingers. Too much. He’ll worry about that later.
He’s not sure how he manages to get to his feet. Some delirious part of his brain thinks it’s Chuuya’s gravity pulling him from the ground, pulling him forward.
He takes one lurching step. Another. With each one, more blood pulses out of his wound, but he grits his teeth and keeps going.
He doesn’t take his eyes off Chuuya—Chuuya with red markings blazing all over his body, his mad cackles echoing down the street, another glowing sphere forming between his hands. He hurls it to the ground, where it lands with a colossal boom that Dazai feels in his bones.
Something... no, someone—that is, what remains of them—is slumped on the ground, unmoving. Dead, most likely, if Chuuya used Corruption against them. From this distance, and the state of the body, Dazai can’t tell if their enemy died as Jekyll or Hyde—or some twisted combination of both.
He’s standing almost directly underneath Chuuya now. Dazai tries to call his name, but it comes out barely more than a croak. Chuuya probably wouldn’t be able to hear anyway, in his frenzied state. But if Dazai doesn’t stop him now, it could be too late. It could already be too late.
Chuuya floats just low enough that Dazai might be able to reach him. A raging wind surrounds him, and the red light emanating from him is almost blinding. But Dazai has no other choice.
He keeps one hand pressed to the wound in his chest. With his other hand, he reaches for Chuuya.
His fingers only manage to brush the bottom of Chuuya’s shoe. Stars explode in his vision. He sways on his feet. Damn it.
Chuuya’s gaze snaps down towards Dazai. His eyes have gone completely white, devoid of their familiar dark blue irises. Rage twists his face into a monstrous mask, scarred with glowing red symbols. A dark sphere of energy forms around his hand, and he raises it as if he won’t hesitate to destroy Dazai on the spot.
Dazai doesn’t move. Not that he doubts Chuuya might actually kill him. But he’s craved the release of death for so long that the thought only fills him with detached numbness. Maybe not the efficient-and-painless type of suicide Dazai has sought after again and again, but dying by Chuuya’s hand at least seems poetic in some sense.
He doesn’t have enough energy to think more deeply about that. What little he does have left, he expends by reaching up one more time and wrapping a hand around Chuuya’s ankle.
The world sputters like a candle flame. Bright, dark, bright, dark. A surge of energy—then, the ethereal and almost underwater feeling of No Longer Human activating. A shudder runs through the atmosphere. Chuuya’s guttural scream thins out, becomes gradually more human. And then he’s falling, and Dazai is reaching for him, and gravity is pulling them both down, down...
The scenery flickers around Dazai. He’s sitting on the pavement, holding Chuuya against him. His arms feel shaky, which he chalks up to weakness from blood loss. Nothing more.
Chuuya blinks dazedly up at him. The glowing markings have retreated from his face, and his eyes have returned to their familiar dark blue. Something about that—just seeing Chuuya back to normal, seeing the innocent confusion on his face as he gains awareness—brings some of the feeling back to the tips of Dazai’s tingling fingers.
“Dazai?” Chuuya croaks.
Darkness chews away the fringes of Dazai’s vision. Several taunts blearily rise to the surface of his mind. Maybe something like: Chuuya is heavier than he looks. Has he been eating rocks? Or perhaps it’s the rocks filling his brain?
Instead, when he opens his mouth, he says, “It’s alright.” It’s oddly soft. He hates the sound of it. Yet he keeps speaking, words slurring together as oblivion claims him—as he watches the mounting horror in Chuuya’s eyes, as a deep agony radiates from the gaping hole in his chest. “Chuuya is alright. Everything is—”
Dark. Silent.
Then…
“...Dazai… Dazai! Answer me, damn it—”
That annoying voice again. Chuuya can’t even let him die in peace, apparently.
…Is he dying?
It’s not quite as clean—or as self-inflicted—as he’d hoped. He should be falling blissfully into the arms of death, preferably with a beautiful woman by his side. Instead, death is his failing lungs struggling for one excruciating breath after another. Death is an incessant pressure against his chest. And instead of a gorgeous woman accompanying him into the afterlife, all he has is Nakahara Chuuya.
For some reason, that last thought is what makes him claw his way back to consciousness—or at least to the precipice of it, clinging by a thread.
He pries his eyes open, just barely, and Chuuya’s face swims into focus above him. His expression is… odd. Twisted into some confusing combination of fury and fear. Maybe it’s some trick of the light, but there’s an unusual gleam to his eyes. Almost like…
“Dazai?” he says. It sounds hoarse. He probably ran his voice raw from screaming.
His eyelids flutter—he must be fighting to stay conscious after using Corruption—but he forces them open again. Dazai thinks, dizzily, that Chuuya has very strikingly dark eyelashes. Huh. He’s never noticed that before.
“Took… your phone,” Chuuya grits out. Each word sounds like it’s taking him monumental energy. “Called… Agency. Angry guy picked up. Said… on his way with… with someone.”
Dazai barely registers this information. He’s mostly just focused on Chuuya’s face—his stupid, stupid face—which somehow seems to be the only thing anchoring him to reality right now. That and the grounding pressure against the wound in his chest, which he’s come to realize is Chuuya’s hands.
Chuuya sways a little, head nodding like he can barely keep it upright. His eyes are glassy, eyelids starting to droop. He’s muttering something that sounds almost like a prayer, but Dazai can’t hear it until Chuuya falls forward—or maybe leans in, it’s hard to tell—until his forehead touches Dazai’s, until a strand of his hair brushes the side of Dazai’s face.
“Don’t die,” he’s saying. A command, a plea. “Don’t die, you bastard.”
Strangely, Dazai wants to obey it.
Strangely, the last thing he thinks is that he can’t die. That there’s something he needs to say first. Something he needs to do.
Before he can figure out what it is, darkness creeps across his vision. He tastes copper. He feels his blood pulse between Chuuya’s fingers with every beat of his weakening heart.
Right before the blackness takes him, he realizes that the last thing he’ll ever see is Chuuya’s face.
It might be an eternity later, or it might be five seconds. Dazai can’t tell. All he knows is the weak light that filters through his eyelids, dragging him back to awareness.
He wonders, briefly, if he has finally succeeded in dying after all, and has somehow miraculously made it to heaven. But such hopes are dashed as soon as he opens his eyes.
A plain white ceiling looms over him. One he’s all too familiar with. The ceiling of the Agency infirmary.
All at once, memories flood his brain in a tidal wave: A thick white fog, a blade protruding from his chest, crimson blood splattering the pavement. He remembers Chuuya floating in the air, surrounded by blinding red light. Chuuya, falling into his arms. Chuuya, pressing his hands to Dazai’s bleeding chest.
Chuuya...
Adrenaline spikes through Dazai’s veins. He tries to sit up, only to fall back against the pillow again as the room spins around him. Once the dizziness passes, he at least manages to turn his head carefully to one side, and—
Next to the bed sits a familiar red-headed figure sitting in a backwards chair, chin propped on his folded arms, legs splayed haphazardly. Chuuya snores softly, his ugly hat drooping so low that it covers his eyes.
The tightness in Dazai’s chest eases, in a way he does not have the energy to investigate right now. Instead, he throws an arm dramatically across his forehead. “Oh, no,” he groans. “I’ve finally died at last, only to end up in hell.”
Chuuya’s snoring cuts off abruptly and his head shoots up. His hat nearly flies off, but he clamps it down with one hand. “Dazai?” he blurts—but the shock on his face quickly shifts to annoyance. “What do you mean by that, you fish-brained idiot? You’re not in hell.”
“Hm. But if I’m not in hell, then what is Chuuya doing here?”
The chair clatters to the floor. Chuuya is on his feet, hands balled into fists at his sides. “Bastard. I saved your life,” he snarls, but Dazai could swear his voice trembles on the words.
“Is that so?” Dazai taps a finger against his chin. “I seem to recall Chuuya foolishly used Corruption and I was the one who had to save him.”
He can practically hear Chuuya’s teeth grind together, and it brings Dazai its usual sense of satisfaction. But more than that, it feels... dare he call it comforting? Eew. But he must admit to himself, there is something grounding about it—about the familiarity of riling Chuuya up, about rising from the darkness of his near-death to find Chuuya waiting by his side.
“I only used Corruption because you—” Chuuya starts to say, then stops himself abruptly. A red haze has started to form around him, and the floor creaks under the weight of his increasing gravity. He inhales deeply through his nose and exhales through his mouth, closes his eyes, and the light dissipates. “Whatever. The point is, I’m the one who had to swallow my pride and call the Agency from your phone so they could come scrape your sorry ass off the pavement. Can’t believe you haven’t changed your phone passcode in seven years, by the way. Idiot.” He hastily adds the last word like it’s an afterthought.
Dazai tries to stitch together everything Chuuya just said, but one piece is still missing. “Hm... but that doesn’t answer my question of what Chuuya is doing here.”
Chuuya’s nostrils flare. “Is that what you—” He pinches his brow and paces next to the bed. “Look, it wasn’t my choice. I passed out right after your friends arrived and then I woke up here. Thought they’d taken me hostage at first, but apparently they felt they owed me a favor, for... y’know, not letting you bleed out.”
Huh, odd. If it had been up to Dazai, he would have left Chuuya lying in the street—because, please, that would have been hilarious. But, perhaps his friends are more soft-hearted than he is. Not to mention, they’re not as familiar with seeing Chuuya collapse from exhaustion post-Corruption. He can imagine why it might be more alarming for them.
“But… Chuuya is still here,” Dazai says slowly. Something isn’t adding up. Based on the golden light creeping across the ceiling, it’s early morning. Chuuya has no reason to be here. He has no injuries, as far as Dazai can tell from a cursory glance. “Where are the others?”
“If you mean that angry guy with the glasses and the scary doctor with all the knives, they went home. They both had to wake up in the middle of the night to come find us and seemed exhausted. I told them I could—” Chuuya snaps his mouth shut.
“You’re telling me they just left me alone with the enemy? How’d they know Chuuya wouldn’t try to kill me?”
One of Chuuya’s eyebrows twitches. “First of all, you’d probably love that, you death-obsessed freak. And secondly, why would they think I wanted to kill you when I’d literally just saved your life? Besides, I made it clear that I… that I wouldn’t…” Maybe it’s the rosy morning light, but Chuuya’s face is turning a peculiar shade of pink.
There’s a weird feeling in Dazai’s chest, like his heart is beating slightly out of rhythm. An unnameable emotion buzzes through him.
“Wait.” He carefully props himself up on his elbows, and the room thankfully doesn’t pitch around him this time. “Chuuya… watched over me all night?”
Chuuya is definitely blushing now, his face such a deep red that he looks like his head might explode—which would be very funny, by the way. “It—It wasn’t all night,” he sputters. “Just a few hours. Don’t let it get it to your head, shitty Dazai.”
But there’s no way in hell Dazai is letting this go. It’s just too hilarious. A slow, teasing grin rises to his face. “Aww, my little guard dog—”
The last word has barely left his mouth before Chuuya pounces. In roughly half a second he’s launched himself onto the cot, one hand clenched in the front of Dazai’s shirt and the other pulled back in a fist. “What did you call me?”
A jolt travels down Dazai’s spine. He wouldn’t call it shock, exactly. He was asking for this outcome, perhaps intentionally. It’s more of an odd thrill at Chuuya’s proximity—his legs straddling Dazai’s thighs, his trembling hand twisted in the front of Dazai’s shirt. This close, he can see that Chuuya’s eyes are red-rimmed. Has he been crying? No, that’s not possible...
Chuuya tugs him even closer so they’re almost nose-to-nose. Dazai’s heart performs a strange leap, like it’s trying to break free of his ribs.
“How many times have I told you,” Chuuya snarls, “that I’m not your dog, you asshole?”
The deep timbre of his voice makes the hairs rise on the back of Dazai’s neck. He collects himself, quickly banishing any surprise from his expression and replacing it with a pleasant smile.
His gaze flits from Chuuya’s face to his raised fist. On instinct, Dazai reaches for it and wraps his fingers around Chuuya’s wrist, right below where his glove ends. The gesture feels almost like second nature. How many times has he had to grab Chuuya this way to stop him from using Corruption, to prevent him from destroying himself?
Chuuya tenses. Dazai could swear he feels a tiny uptick in the pulse beneath his fingers.
“It seems I’ve struck a nerve,” is all Dazai can say. He means it to come out mocking, but it sounds a little too gentle for his liking.
Strangely, Chuuya does not try to free himself from Dazai’s grip. Rage contorts his features—but Dazai can read him like a book after all these years. He sees Chuuya’s hesitation: the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the subtle softening of the furrow in his brow.
An eternity passes, filling the space between them with electricity. Then, Chuuya looks sharply away. Dazai feels the tension leave him, like all the fight has drained out of him at once.
“Yeah, well…” Chuuya’s voice is rough and uncharacteristically quiet. His throat bobs. “I thought you were dead. You—You were dead.”
Dazai feels as if the world has tilted slightly on its axis, like everything goes off-kilter for a second. He was dead? What is Chuuya saying? He grasps for something to say—a retort, a short quip, some joke at Chuuya’s expense—but his throat tightens like an invisible pressure is squeezing around it, tighter than any noose he’s attempted to end his existence with.
Chuuya continues, still avoiding his gaze. “When I saw Jekyll’s blade go through your chest, when I saw you fall…” He squeezes his eyes shut as if doing so will block out the image. “I don’t know. I don’t know what came over me, but I just couldn’t control myself.
“And when I came back to my senses, I… you… There was so much blood. I could barely even stay awake, after using Corruption. And when your friends got there, it was almost too late. That scary doctor woman was able to save you just in time, but only because…”
Chuuya’s voice chokes off. He glares off to the side, a dull and haunted look to his eyes. He’s shaking. Dazai can feel it, where his fingers are still wrapped around Chuuya’s wrist.
And… oh. Suddenly, everything clicks into place. What Chuuya meant about Dazai being dead. Why Dazai seems to have miraculously healed despite suffering such a grave injury. Yosano healed him—but that could have only been possible if Dazai’s heart had briefly stopped, if No Longer Human had been deactivated just long enough for her to use her Ability on him.
His tongue feels like it’s made of stone. There’s a lot to process in this new information, and he barely has the capacity to fathom it all.
Somehow, though, he fixates on one detail above all else. “But… wait. That’s strange. If Chuuya thought I was dead, why would he use Corruption?” No answer. Dazai clicks his tongue. “Surely Chuuya knows that without me, his own power would kill him. Or is he foolish enough to have forgotten that?”
He tries to keep his tone light, but he’s mortified to hear how strained those last few words sound. He waits for Chuuya to say something, anything. To lash out at him, either verbally or physically. He would prefer anything over this disturbingly silent version of Chuuya sitting before him, this total stranger.
“Unless...” Dazai’s voice comes out hoarse, and he clears his throat. The corner of his mouth twitches as he attempts a teasing smile. “Unless Chuuya was so devastated by my death that he didn’t care about that, because he didn’t want to live without—”
His sing-song mockery comes to a sudden halt. Instead of the outburst of rage he expected—maybe even wanted—from Chuuya, there is only a quiet so intense that Dazai’s ears ring with it. Chuuya won’t look at him, won’t speak, won’t move except for a small twitch in his jaw.
Dazai’s smile drops. Heat creeps up the back of his neck and blooms across his cheeks. His fingers go slack around Chuuya’s wrist.
No... No, this can’t possibly mean what he thinks it does.
He’s never felt the gravity manipulation that Chuuya inflicts upon his enemies. But he suddenly knows what it must feel like to have the weight of the world bearing down on his chest, to feel so heavy that the ground underneath him might splinter open and swallow him whole.
Then, as if time has unfrozen itself, Chuuya yanks his hand from Dazai’s grip. “Yeah, right.” His voice cracks on the words. “Don’t flatter yourself, you brainless mackerel. As if I care whether you—”
He shifts and starts to get up. But almost of their own accord, Dazai’s hands shoot out and grab him by the shirtfront. Chuuya stills, his eyes going comically wide as they flit from Dazai’s hands up to his face.
Dazai should make fun of him. He should mock Chuuya for his horribly out-of-fashion hat being askew, for his face being absurdly red. He should.
But when he opens his mouth, all he says is, “Chuuya.” It sounds choked and breathless, like all the wind has been knocked out of him. He feels dizzy. Does he have a head injury that Yosano’s Ability somehow failed to cure?
That must be the case. Because why else would he be staring at Chuuya this way now? Why else would he be fisting his hands in Chuuya’s shirt as if he might disappear otherwise?
Chuuya inhales sharply. Dazai swears he feels the sound go through his whole body, down to his very bones. He’s suddenly hyperaware of the mere inches between them, of the weight of Chuuya sitting on his thighs.
“I…” Dazai says. Even that single syllable trembles with uncertainty. Oh. Oh, God, this is bad. He’s never at a loss for words like this. Say something. Words cling to his throat. Say something, damn it.
Chuuya is quiet again. Dazai doesn’t know whether that’s a miracle or a curse. What he does know is that there’s an oddly dazed look on Chuuya’s face, as if he’s just awoken from a dream. Dazai has seen that look many times before, whenever Chuuya has come back to his senses after using Corruption. Those blissful few seconds where Chuuya’s rage is gone—when there’s only innocent confusion in its place.
Dazai remembers, when he was on the verge of death, he was certain that Chuuya’s face would be the last thing he would see. That thought should have brought absolute horror—because, ugh, what a horrible way to go. Yet, thinking back on it now, Dazai doesn’t recall feeling disgusted. It’s all a bit hazy, but he remembers the thought that surfaced right before the darkness pulled him under—that there was still something he desperately needed to do.
All of a sudden, he has a feeling he knows what that something is.
Chuuya’s brow furrows. “What the hell?” he snaps. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Dazai realizes he’s smiling. He can’t help it. Something about Chuuya’s annoyance only fans the flames of this emotion burning in his chest. It should probably come as a surprise. Yet, he has to wonder if it’s always been there... a small kindling that caught fire on the day he met Chuuya, which is quickly building into an inferno.
Yes, Chuuya is infuriating. He’s brash and loud and obnoxious. He has horrible taste in hats. He’s been nothing but a thorn in Dazai’s side since they were fifteen years old.
And yet...
Yet. He finds himself thinking of every time Chuuya has fought by his side, has protected him despite his constant insistence that he doesn’t give a shit whether Dazai lives or dies, has literally battled a dragon to save him. He thinks of how Chuuya has always gotten under his skin, in one way or another, and how his mere presence has always sparked something in Dazai that he’s never felt around anyone else.
Dazai releases a breathless noise. Maybe it’s meant to be a laugh, but it sounds more like he’s choking. God. Maybe he’s finally, officially gone insane.
“You know,” he says. His mouth feels dry, and he swallows hard. “When I thought I was about to die, I had the strangest feeling. Like there was something I was still supposed to do.”
As casual as he tries to keep his tone, his ears ring with panic. What is he saying? Chuuya glares at him like he’s grown a second head. For once, Dazai can’t blame him.
Finally, Chuuya tears his gaze away and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says. “You still have to commit double-suicide with a beautiful woman or whatever.”
“Appealing, but no,” Dazai says. His heart hammers thunderously against his ribs. He’s probably making the stupidest decision of his life. “I think it was something else.”
The angry crease between Chuuya’s brows smooths out. “What the fuck do you—”
Dazai kisses him.
He doesn’t even quite know how it happens. Just that his hands have twisted in the front of Chuuya’s shirt and pulled him forward, and Chuuya’s mouth is crushed against his. Chuuya is blessedly silent for once, besides a short and muffled noise of surprise. If Dazai had known there was such an easy way to shut him up, he should have done it long ago.
On second thought, maybe this was a terrible idea. Chuuya remains tense, unmoving, and this is probably how Dazai dies. Chuuya will kill him for this, he’s pretty sure. He probably deserves that. Though it may not be his preferred method of suicide, there are worse ways to go.
But just as he’s about to pull away, and face whatever wrath Chuuya is about to cast upon him... there’s a slight movement against his lips. Clumsy and hesitant at first, then growing urgent.
Suddenly, Dazai thinks he might die for a completely different reason.
His heart stutters. His eyes close. He tries to meet the frantic pace Chuuya has set, which only results in their noses bumping and teeth almost knocking together, like they’re two stupid teenagers who have no idea what the hell they’re doing.
Distantly, it makes Dazai wonder if Chuuya has even ever kissed anyone before. Probably not, because who would want to kiss a gross little slug?
...Well, apparently he does. And shockingly, he’s pretty sure he’s enjoying it.
They’ve finally managed to slot their lips together properly, and Dazai eases Chuuya into a more reasonable rhythm. His hands unclench from the front of Chuuya’s shirt, slide down his chest, and find his waist. Chuuya inhales sharply through his nose and his hands fly up to grab Dazai’s face.
Dazai surges forward to meet him, parting Chuuya’s lips with his. Chuuya makes a faint whimpering noise which Dazai really wants to make fun of him for, but tragically his mouth is occupied—occupied by Chuuya’s tongue, to be precise, which presses against his own and pulls an equally embarrassing sound out of him. He supposes that puts them at an impasse.
Well, that won’t do. Dazai fights to gain the upper hand, reaching up to push Chuuya’s hat off his head. It occurs to him that maybe why he’s always hated it is because it’s always in the way. But there’s nothing stopping him now from tangling his fingers in Chuuya’s hair, from tilting Chuuya’s head to kiss him more deeply, and—
A sudden shove to Dazai’s chest sends the world tilting haphazardly. He lands back against the mattress with a surprised oof—and then his breath chokes off, because there’s something pressing against his neck. Chuuya’s arm. Chuuya glares down at him, breathing heavily, and Dazai’s pulse skips over itself.
He gathers his wits enough to remember to inhale. Although, that’s a bit difficult with Chuuya’s arm crushing his windpipe. “Ah,” he says, although it comes out as hardly more than a wheeze. “I didn’t know Chuuya was so forward...”
“Fuck you.”
Wait.
What?
Dazai blinks, mystified. Not that he hasn’t heard those words out of Chuuya’s mouth more times than he could possibly count. But why now? And why did Chuuya sound so choked when he said it, as if he was the one getting pinned down by the throat?
Dazai tries to quickly analyze Chuuya’s expression, but that’s a dead end. The usual rage is written all over Chuuya’s features, yet his eyes glimmer with something else. Something undefinable. It looks almost like... hurt.
He swallows—which, again, is difficult given his current predicament. He’s suddenly aware of the fact that his neck is unbandaged, and the skin of Chuuya’s forearm is strikingly warm. “I don’t know what you—”
“This is one of your tricks, isn’t it?” Chuuya presses more firmly against Dazai’s throat. “I don’t know what your motive is, but I know there’s something. So, just tell me. Are you trying to get me to spill Port Mafia intel or something?”
With each word, his tone loses its conviction, like he’s unsure of himself. Which is so un-Chuuya-like that Dazai finds it a bit frightening.
His instinct is to ridicule Chuuya for asking something so colossally stupid. But when he takes in the look on Chuuya’s face, the words evaporate on his tongue. Under the mask of fury, Chuuya’s eyes cloud with uncertainty. With fear. As if something very important hinges on Dazai’s answer.
Ice runs through Dazai’s veins. He’s faced many a foe without even blinking, but somehow this is a hundred times more terrifying. In some ways, maybe it would be easier to tell Chuuya this was all a ruse of some kind. But the thought makes Dazai’s gut twist into an unpleasant knot.
He wills his heart rate to calm down, then takes a breath. “I have no ulterior motive.” He looks Chuuya earnestly in the eyes, even though doing so makes him dizzy. Or that could be the lack of oxygen. “Against my better judgment, it seems that I actually want this. I want...”
He stops, feeling like he might literally cough up his own heart if he finishes that sentence. The anger on Chuuya’s face gradually fades, giving way to bewilderment. The pressure eases from Dazai’s throat. He can’t help but think of when they were in a similar position not all that long ago, after Shibusawa poisoned him—how Dazai awoke to find Chuuya floating above him, as he’d trusted he would.
Just like then, he reaches up to rest his palm against the side of Chuuya’s face—the lightest touch, like it might cause Chuuya to break, or to push him away. Chuuya does neither.
“You.” The single word comes out soft, much too soft. Dazai wishes he could swallow it down, take back the humiliating damage he’s probably just done. But since it’s already too late, he finds himself saying it again—his mouth, still tingling from Chuuya’s kiss, resolutely shaping the words. “I want... you.”
The words shock him just as much as they seem to shock Chuuya. He sees his own astonishment written in Chuuya’s widened eyes, hears the catch in his breath, feels the weight of Chuuya’s forearm disappear from across his neck. Dazai still doesn’t breathe, even though he has the ability to do so freely now.
A muscle in Chuuya’s jaw twitches against Dazai’s fingers. His hands knot into the thin sheets on either side of Dazai’s head.
“Asshole,” he says. It sends a cold wave through Dazai’s whole body—until Chuuya presses his face into Dazai’s hand. And… wait. Are those tears in his eyes? Chuuya lets out a shuddering breath. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? You made me wait seven goddam years?” Despite the harsh words, his voice trembles.
Huh? Dazai’s brain short circuits, fries itself, then reboots again. Even then, he wonders if he really did die, or if this is all some bizarre dream. Because there’s no way Chuuya is admitting to having had feelings for him for seven years. A quick mental calculation confirms that that’s exactly as long as they’ve known each other.
His head feels as light as air. He can feel his mouth turning up in a giddy smile, and he huffs a breathless laugh. His thumb brushes along Chuuya’s cheekbone, and Dazai doesn’t even ridicule him for the trace of wetness he finds there.
“Aww,” Dazai coos. “Chuuya has had a crush on me since we were teenagers? Who knew this angry little chibi was such a romantic—”
“Shut up,” Chuuya says. For once, there’s hardly any malice in it. In fact, it sounds almost... fond. Chuuya leans down towards him, until his face is so close that Dazai almost has to go cross-eyed to look at him. The tips of their noses brush, and Chuuya’s breath tickles Dazai’s lips. “Just shut the fuck up.”
Dazai is more than happy to shut the fuck up, because Chuuya is kissing him again. His eyes drift shut, and his fingers weave into Chuuya’s hair. His other arm snakes around Chuuya’s waist. He makes a satisfied humming noise, which soon gives way to a sharp gasp when Chuuya’s lips break away from his and graze the underside of his jaw. Chuuya kisses his throat with a tenderness Dazai would not have thought him capable of, tracing each of the faint scars there.
Dazai’s hand clenches against the back of Chuuya’s jacket. He tilts his head back and breathes Chuuya’s name, and—God, he should probably feel ashamed of how pathetically needy it sounds. But somehow, he doesn’t care.
He has no idea how long this continues. Time itself seems to have stopped in favor of allowing a single kiss—or, well, a long series of kisses—to last an eternity.
When Chuuya finally draws back, Dazai starts to whine in protest—then stops when Chuuya’s hand lands over his mouth.
“Wait.” Chuuya lifts his head, looking sharply to one side. “Did you hear something?”
Dazai barely processes the question. The only thing he can focus on is Chuuya’s hand pressed over his mouth and the unexpected thrill it sends through him. Huh. He didn’t know he was... into that. Maybe something to explore later. He’s almost tempted to bite at Chuuya’s glove just to see how he would react—
But right then, he does hear something: the distinct sound of footsteps, followed by the whoosh of the curtain to the infirmary being flung aside.
“Dazai-kun! Are you—oh.”
Kunikida stands there, staring at them, one hand still holding the curtain open and the other clutching his notebook. His face shifts to a shade of red that Dazai didn’t know human skin was capable of turning. Very slowly, he backs away and lets the curtain drop back into place.
“You seem to be… doing better,” he says tightly.
Dazai grins behind Chuuya’s hand. “Oh, I am,” he says, his words muffled. Chuuya scowls at him and snatches his hand away.
Kunikida remains behind the curtain, his shoes visible. One taps a couple times against the floor. “You’re not going back to the Port Mafia, are you?”
Dazai’s first instinct is to lie just to mess with him. He can only imagine the hilarity of Kunikida thinking he was going to leave the Agency. At least, it would be funny up until the part where Kunikida would try to strangle him.
He releases a weary sigh. “No,” he says, “I’m not.”
“Oh. Good.” Kunikida pauses. “Also, make sure you wash those sheets after.”
Chuuya’s face goes blank—then twists in fury a second later. It’s amusing to watch. “We’re not—” he sputters. “We didn’t— Can you just give us some privacy, you nosy bastard?”
There’s a moment of deadly silence, in which Dazai wonders if Kunikida might come crashing in again and fight Chuuya to the death. But then his footsteps scuffle against the floor as he retreats, accompanied by the sound of him grumbling and scribbling something down in his notebook.
It’s then that Dazai realizes he’s smiling softly. That there’s something warm and familiar about the sound of Kunikida complaining and jotting things down. Soon the Agency office will be full of other familiar faces. He’s sure he’ll get a scolding from Yosano and a tearful hug from Atsushi. Ranpo will pretend to be indifferent to Dazai’s brush with death, but will stealthily leave a few treats on Dazai’s desk later. Everyone will welcome him back with relieved smiles, with exclamations that they’re glad he’s still here.
Something catches behind Dazai’s sternum.
If he’d died last night, he would never have gotten to experience any of that again.
“Dazai,” Chuuya says. He rolls to one side, lying next to Dazai with his head propped on one hand. “You’re being quiet. It’s weird.” This is probably his means of expressing concern.
Dazai huffs a laugh. “It’s nothing,” he says. “I was just thinking, maybe I should keep you around if you’re able to get Kunikida-kun to stop pestering me that easily.”
A furrow creases Chuuya’s brow. “That better not be the only reason you want me around,” he says. It’s probably meant to sound threatening, but there’s a tiny hint of uncertainty in it.
Dazai laughs again. The concerned look on Chuuya’s face is too funny. “No,” he says. “It’s not.”
He takes Chuuya’s hand in his and holds it against his chest, right over his heart. Each beat is a reminder that he’s still here, still alive. For once, maybe he’s grateful for that.
Chuuya’s mouth twitches up at one corner. He squeezes Dazai’s hand back.
And Dazai realizes just how much he meant what he’s just said. He does want to keep Chuuya around.
And maybe, just maybe, he has some reasons to stick around, too.