Work Text:
The rain over Yokohama had been falling since morning—thin, cold sheets that blurred the city’s neon lights into watercolor streaks. From the 23rd floor of the Port Mafia headquarters, Chuuya Nakahara barely noticed. His desk was buried beneath stacks of reports, mission summaries, and logistical paperwork. Somewhere in the far corner, a coffee mug sat untouched, the steam long gone.
Another pen broke under his grip. That was the third this week.
“You’re going to snap all of them at this rate,” came a too-familiar voice from behind him.
Chuuya didn’t turn around. “If you’ve got time to stand there and comment, you’ve got time to take one of these files off my hands, Dazai.”
“Mm, tempting,” Dazai Osamu replied, strolling in as if he owned the place. His coat flared slightly with each step, dripping rain onto the black carpet. “But I’m afraid if I touch any of that, I might actually have to work.”
Chuuya let out an irritated breath and slammed the pen down. “You should work, seeing as you were on that mission with me yesterday.”
“Yes, but I’m not the one volunteering for every assignment Mori throws our way,” Dazai said, leaning against Chuuya’s desk. “You do realize there’s a difference between dedication and self-destruction, right?”
“I’m fine.”
The two words came clipped, automatic. Chuuya’s eyes stayed fixed on the report in front of him, but his handwriting was starting to lose its precision. He knew Dazai had noticed—Dazai always noticed—but that didn’t mean he was about to admit anything.
The truth was, his head had been pounding since last night, and his body felt like it was moving through water. He’d barely eaten since the morning before, and the constant stream of assignments had kept him on his feet for hours at a time. Still, the thought of slowing down didn’t sit well.
“You know,” Dazai continued casually, “if you keep this up, I won’t have to kill you. You’ll just drop dead at your desk. Much less effort for me.”
“Shut it.”
“Oh? Did I touch a nerve?” Dazai tilted his head, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Or maybe you’re just irritable because you’re tired.”
“I said I’m fine.” Chuuya’s voice had an edge now, and for a moment, Dazai studied him in silence.
Chuuya hated that look—the one that said Dazai was peeling back layers, poking around in thoughts Chuuya hadn’t even admitted to himself. It made him feel exposed. Vulnerable.
Finally, Dazai straightened. “Suit yourself. Just don’t expect me to catch you if you fall.”
Chuuya didn’t reply, but when Dazai left the office, the air felt heavier.
---
By nightfall, the mission briefing was over, and Chuuya was already in the field. The assignment was simple: oversee a weapons transfer in one of the older districts, keep the peace, and make sure no rivals interfered. Normally, Chuuya could do this in his sleep, but the ache in his joints was spreading, and the air felt like it was pressing down on him.
He told himself it was just the weather.
Halfway through negotiations, he realized his vision was starting to blur. The voice of the black-market dealer faded into background noise as he fought to keep his balance.
“You alright, Boss?” one of his subordinates asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” Chuuya muttered again, though his voice sounded strange even to his own ears. He forced himself through the rest of the meeting, shaking hands, overseeing the loading of crates, making sure every detail matched the report.
It wasn’t until the last truck rolled away that the strength finally bled out of his legs.
The ground came up too fast, but before he could hit it, an arm hooked around his shoulders.
“Well, well,” Dazai’s voice drawled above him. “What did I tell you?”
Chuuya wanted to push him away, to snarl something sharp and scathing, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
“Shut… up…” he managed weakly, the sound barely more than a breath.
“You’re burning up,” Dazai said, his tone shifting from mocking to something quieter. He adjusted his hold, bracing most of Chuuya’s weight. “Idiot. You’ve been running yourself into the ground for days.”
“I can walk—”
“No, you can’t. Not without face-planting into the pavement, anyway.”
Chuuya wanted to argue, but Dazai was already steering him toward a waiting car. The ride back to headquarters was a blur—neon lights, raindrops against glass, Dazai’s steady presence beside him.
---
When Chuuya came to, he was in one of the private rooms used for injury recovery. The sheets were crisp, the room dimly lit. Someone had taken off his boots and coat. A cold cloth rested against his forehead.
And sitting in the chair beside the bed, slouched with one leg crossed over the other, was Dazai.
“Took you long enough,” Dazai said when he noticed Chuuya’s eyes open. “Thought you might actually be dead for a second. Would’ve saved me the trouble of assassinating you later.”
Chuuya groaned, rolling onto his side. “Why are you here?”
“Because Mori-san doesn’t want one of his executives keeling over from a fever. And because someone has to make sure you don’t sneak out the second you can stand.”
Chuuya’s glare lacked its usual fire. His head felt heavy, and his throat ached. “Don’t you have better things to do?”
“Not really,” Dazai said lightly, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. “Besides, it’s not every day I get to see you like this. Helpless. Quiet.”
“Go to hell.”
“Mm, maybe later. For now…” Dazai wrung out the cloth in a basin and replaced it on Chuuya’s forehead. “You’re stuck with me.”
Chuuya closed his eyes again, telling himself it was only because he was tired, not because the cool cloth felt good, or because Dazai’s voice—infuriating as it was—kept the room from feeling too empty.
He’d be back on his feet soon enough.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
The fever didn’t hit Chuuya all at once.
It came in waves—slow, creeping, like an incoming tide that soaked through his clothes and left a chill under his skin. When he woke the next morning, the sky outside was a muted grey, the kind that promised more rain. For a moment, he forgot where he was.
Then the smell of antiseptic hit him.
The recovery room was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater in the corner. His jacket had been draped neatly over the back of a chair, boots lined up beside it. The cloth on his forehead had gone lukewarm sometime during the night.
And, sprawled in the chair, head tilted against the wall, was Dazai Osamu.
Of course.
Chuuya stared at him for a long moment, almost willing him to wake up. There was a faint crease between Dazai’s brows, unusual for someone who could sleep through an earthquake without breaking a sweat. The black coat was still draped around his shoulders, sleeves brushing the floor.
It was ridiculous—infuriating, even—that Dazai would sit here all night like some kind of watchdog.
Chuuya cleared his throat. “You know there are better places to sleep.”
Dazai’s eyes opened instantly, as if he’d been awake the whole time. “Ah, the corpse speaks,” he said, stretching lazily. “How are we feeling, partner?”
“Like someone hit me with a truck,” Chuuya muttered. He pushed himself upright, only to immediately regret it when the room swayed.
Dazai was beside him in two steps, one hand steadying his shoulder. “Easy there, Supernova. You’re not exactly at full power right now.”
Chuuya jerked away. “Don’t call me that.”
Dazai grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fine, fine. Would you prefer I call you ‘reckless workaholic who can’t take care of himself’?”
“Better than being a lazy suicidal idiot.”
The exchange should’ve been familiar—routine, even—but Chuuya’s voice lacked its usual bite, and Dazai noticed. He always noticed.
“You were running a fever of 39.5°C when I dragged you back here,” Dazai said matter-of-factly. “That’s flirting with the danger zone, you know.”
“I’m fine.”
Dazai’s gaze sharpened. “You keep saying that like repeating it will make it true.”
Chuuya swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ve got work to do. There’s a shipment coming in tonight—”
“And Mori-san already reassigned it.”
Chuuya froze. “…You went to him?”
“Of course I did.” Dazai leaned back, folding his arms. “Unlike you, I actually care about whether my partner survives the week.”
The word partner hung in the air longer than it should have.
Chuuya exhaled sharply through his nose. “I can handle a fever.”
“Right,” Dazai said dryly. “Just like you ‘handled’ last night by collapsing in the middle of a deal and almost eating pavement. That’s a great look for the Port Mafia’s executive—very intimidating.”
“Dazai—”
“No.” His tone cut through the room like glass. “You’re staying here. End of discussion.”
It wasn’t often Dazai used that voice with him—cold, final. Usually, their fights were a back-and-forth game, one trying to out-sarcasm the other. This felt different.
Chuuya’s jaw worked, but no retort came.
For a while, the only sound was the rain against the window.
---
By late afternoon, Chuuya was dozing again, half-drifting in that feverish limbo where the edges of reality blurred. The heat made his limbs heavy, and every breath felt thick in his lungs.
He woke to the sound of papers rustling.
Dazai was at the small side table, flipping through the mission reports Chuuya had been buried in the day before. “Tch. No wonder you’re sick—half this stuff could’ve been handled by subordinates, but you insisted on doing it yourself.”
“Because they wouldn’t get it right,” Chuuya rasped.
“And you think passing out in the middle of a job is the right way to do it?”
Chuuya didn’t answer. He let his eyes fall shut again, trying to block out Dazai’s voice, but the faint scrape of a chair told him Dazai had moved closer.
When the cold cloth returned to his forehead, Chuuya cracked an eye open. “You’re not my nurse.”
Dazai smirked faintly. “No, but apparently I’m the only one qualified to keep you from killing yourself by accident.”
Chuuya let out a low sound that might have been a laugh or a groan. “…You’re annoying.”
“And you’re terrible at self-preservation.”
The cloth stayed cool against his skin, and for a few minutes, neither of them spoke. Outside, a distant clap of thunder rolled over the city.
---
That night, Dazai didn’t leave. He sat by the bed, legs stretched out, tapping idly at his phone when he thought Chuuya was asleep. Once or twice, Chuuya caught him glancing over, checking for signs he’d gotten worse.
It was strange.
Dazai wasn’t the type to hover. He preferred to disappear, to leave people guessing. But now, he was here, and Chuuya couldn’t decide if it was comforting or unsettling.
“You’re staring,” Dazai said suddenly, not looking up from his phone.
Chuuya shut his eyes. “I wasn’t.”
“Sure you weren’t.”
The smirk in Dazai’s voice was infuriating, but the heat pressing against Chuuya’s ribs made it too much effort to argue.
When sleep finally came, it was deep and heavy.
---
Somewhere in the early hours, Chuuya stirred. His fever had spiked again—he could feel it in the way his skin prickled and his pulse pounded in his ears. The room was dark except for the faint orange glow of the streetlamps outside.
Dazai was still there.
“Why… are you doing this?” The question slipped out before Chuuya could stop it.
Dazai didn’t answer right away. Then: “Because I know what it’s like to run yourself into the ground and pretend you’re fine.”
Something in his tone made Chuuya’s throat tighten, but before he could say anything, Dazai added lightly, “Besides, it’d be boring without you around to yell at me.”
Chuuya huffed out a weak breath. “Idiot.”
“Mm. Takes one to know one.”
The quiet after that wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes—but the kind that settled over you like a blanket instead of a weight.
---
By the time dawn crept over Yokohama, Chuuya’s fever had eased slightly, though the fatigue still held him in place. He wasn’t sure what the day would bring, but one thing was certain: Dazai wasn’t letting him out of his sight anytime soon.
And for reasons he wasn’t ready to name, Chuuya didn’t fight it.
The third day of fever was the worst.
The first day had been pure stubbornness — Chuuya’s body telling him to stop and his pride telling it to shut up. The second had been exhaustion, heavy and cold. But now, the fever had dug deep into his bones, making him both hot and chilled at the same time. Every movement sent waves of weakness through him, and even keeping his eyes open felt like work.
It didn’t help that Dazai was still there.
Not that he was talking much. That morning, Chuuya had woken to find Dazai sitting cross-legged in the chair, reading an old paperback that looked like it had survived three wars. He didn’t look up when Chuuya stirred.
“Morning, shorty,” Dazai said casually, flipping a page.
Chuuya groaned into his pillow. “If you call me that one more time, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Dazai’s tone was light, but his eyes flicked over, assessing. “Pass out halfway through your sentence?”
“Shut up.”
Dazai set the book down, leaning forward slightly. “How’s the fever?”
“I’m fine.”
The corner of Dazai’s mouth twitched. “That’s four times in three days you’ve said that. Should I start keeping a tally?”
Chuuya wanted to snap at him, but his throat felt raw, and the effort seemed pointless. Instead, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Bad idea. The world tilted, and a rush of heat washed over him.
Dazai was already moving, one hand bracing Chuuya’s back until the spinning eased. “You’re a menace to yourself,” he murmured.
“I don’t need—” Chuuya stopped, his voice cracking. “—your help.”
“Clearly,” Dazai said dryly. But he didn’t move his hand away right away.
---
The hours dragged. Chuuya drifted in and out of shallow dreams, sometimes half-awake and staring at the muted light coming through the curtains. He dreamed of rain-soaked streets and clattering trains, of the smell of gunpowder and the faint weightless feeling of Corruption at the edge of his mind.
When he woke again, Dazai was wringing out a cloth in the basin, steam curling from the water. His sleeves were pushed up, the thin pale skin of his wrists catching the light.
“You’ve been doing that all day,” Chuuya rasped.
Dazai glanced over. “And you’ve been trying not to thank me all day. We’re both stubborn idiots.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What, stubborn?”
“I don’t need your pity.”
Dazai stilled, cloth in hand. “…Who said this was pity?”
Chuuya blinked at him, unsure how to answer.
With a sigh, Dazai crossed the short distance and pressed the freshly cooled cloth against Chuuya’s forehead. His fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary, brushing damp hair out of Chuuya’s face.
It was—unexpected. Not the touch itself, but the gentleness of it.
For a while, they didn’t speak. Chuuya leaned back against the pillows, eyes half-closed, trying to ignore the way his heart had picked up speed.
---
By evening, the fever had dipped enough for him to stay awake longer. The rain had stopped, leaving the city damp and reflective outside the window. A thin slice of moonlight stretched across the floor.
Dazai was seated beside the bed again, elbow on the armrest, chin resting against his fist. “You’re quieter than usual,” he said.
“Not feeling like yelling at you.”
Dazai smirked faintly. “Now I know you’re really sick.”
The banter faded into quiet.
“You know,” Dazai said after a long pause, “you don’t have to keep proving yourself all the time. Not to me, not to Mori, not to anyone.”
Chuuya turned his head toward him. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Maybe. But I’ve learned something you haven’t.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“That it’s easier to survive when you let someone catch you once in a while.”
Chuuya stared at him, caught off guard by the seriousness in his tone. He wasn’t sure if it was the fever, or exhaustion, or just the way Dazai was looking at him—steady, unreadable—but his chest felt tight.
“You’re still an idiot,” Chuuya muttered.
“Mm, probably.”
The quiet between them stretched again. Chuuya realized belatedly that Dazai had leaned in slightly, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from him. His pulse skipped.
“You’re staring,” Chuuya said.
“So are you.”
He should have looked away. Should have shoved him back and told him to quit hovering. But instead, he found himself tilting forward, just enough that the space between them was gone.
The kiss was brief—barely there, more a brush of lips than anything. Warm, unfamiliar, and entirely too natural. Chuuya felt Dazai’s hand steady lightly against the side of his neck, not pulling him closer but not letting him pull away too quickly either.
When they broke apart, Chuuya’s face was hot for more reasons than the fever.
“That—” he started.
“—never happened?” Dazai offered, one brow raised.
Chuuya glared weakly. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re delirious,” Dazai said lightly, though there was a glint in his eye that wasn’t mockery.
He leaned back in his chair, pulling the cloth from the basin again like nothing had happened. But when he placed it against Chuuya’s forehead this time, his fingers lingered.
---
Chuuya didn’t dream much that night. Just the vague impression of warmth, the low hum of Dazai’s voice, and the faintest memory of moonlight catching in his hair.
Chuuya woke to the quiet sound of pages turning.
For a moment, he didn’t remember where he was. His thoughts moved sluggishly, caught between sleep and wakefulness, but the steady presence beside the bed anchored him.
Dazai was there, of course. Sitting in the same chair he’d practically claimed these past few days, reading by the dim yellow light of the desk lamp. He looked annoyingly composed for someone who’d spent three nights in a hospital-grade room without leaving.
And that was when the memory hit.
The kiss.
It came back in fragments—the press of lips, the faint warmth of Dazai’s hand at his neck, the way his own body had leaned forward without thinking. He swallowed, unsure if it had been real or just some fever-addled hallucination.
His chest tightened.
“Morning, shorty,” Dazai said, closing the book with a soft thump.
Chuuya grunted, keeping his expression carefully neutral. “What time is it?”
“Around six. You slept like the dead.”
“Guess you’re rubbing off on me,” Chuuya muttered.
“Mm, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Dazai stood and crossed to the basin, wringing out the cloth with practiced ease. He moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times—routine, steady, without his usual theatrical flourishes. It was almost unsettling.
When the cloth pressed to his forehead, Chuuya flinched—not because it was cold, but because Dazai’s fingers brushed his skin in the exact same spot they had last night.
“You’re jumpy,” Dazai noted.
“Just don’t like being fussed over.”
“Liar.”
Chuuya scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You like it when people stay. You just don’t know how to ask.”
The words lodged under his ribs like a splinter. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dazai smiled faintly, but it wasn’t smug. “Don’t I?”
---
The fever was breaking—Chuuya could tell by the way the fog in his head was starting to thin—but the exhaustion lingered, and so did the restless energy that came from too much time stuck in bed.
That evening, Dazai surprised him with a paper bag from the cafeteria.
“Figured you’d want real food before you start wasting away,” Dazai said, pulling out a container of rice and grilled mackerel.
Chuuya blinked. “You actually went out of your way to get me dinner?”
“Don’t sound so shocked. I’m capable of basic human decency.”
“That’s debatable.”
Still, he ate. Slowly, but enough that Dazai’s faintly satisfied expression didn’t annoy him as much as it should have.
---
It wasn’t until later, when the lights were dimmed and the city outside was little more than a black sprawl dotted with streetlamps, that the silence between them grew heavier.
Chuuya had been lying half-awake for hours, too wired to sleep, too tired to move. Dazai sat in his chair, long legs stretched out, watching the faint glow of the streetlights play against the window.
The memory of the kiss hovered between them like a ghost neither wanted to name.
Finally, Chuuya spoke. “About… last night.”
Dazai didn’t look at him. “What about it?”
“Did it actually… happen?”
There was a pause—long enough that Chuuya almost regretted asking—before Dazai turned his head, meeting his gaze with an unreadable expression.
“Do you want it to have happened?”
Chuuya’s mouth went dry. “…That’s not an answer.”
Dazai leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You were feverish. Could barely keep your eyes open. I thought maybe you’d write it off as a dream.”
“I might’ve,” Chuuya admitted, surprising himself with the honesty. “But it felt… real.”
“It was.”
The air seemed to thicken between them. Chuuya held his gaze, looking for the inevitable smirk, the teasing remark that would make the whole thing a joke. But Dazai’s face stayed calm—serious, even.
“…Why?” Chuuya asked finally.
Dazai tilted his head. “Why what?”
“Why’d you do it?”
There it was—a flicker, brief but sharp, in Dazai’s eyes. “Because you were looking at me like you weren’t going to push me away. And because I…” He trailed off, as if weighing the words. “…Because I wanted to.”
The bluntness caught Chuuya off guard. He’d expected deflection, maybe some half-baked metaphor about drowning or the moon. Not this.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” Chuuya muttered.
Dazai’s mouth quirked. “So are you.”
They didn’t move closer—not this time—but something unspoken settled between them, less like a weapon drawn and more like an understanding.
---
Later, when Chuuya was half-asleep, he felt the faint brush of fabric and realized Dazai had draped his coat over the bed.
He didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t push it off, either.
By the fourth morning, Chuuya was done being sick.
The fever had finally broken overnight, leaving him achy but no longer drowning in heat. His head felt clearer, and the gnawing impatience that came with too many days stuck in bed was already clawing at him.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his boots.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Dazai’s voice came from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, hands in his pockets, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You’re still pale. Pale isn’t your color, Chuuya.”
“Neither is hovering,” Chuuya shot back, though his voice lacked the usual venom.
Dazai walked in, closing the door behind him. “You’ve barely been vertical for more than five minutes without swaying like a drunk.”
“Better than lying here letting you babysit me.”
“Oh, but I’ve grown attached to my new role.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes. “Spare me.”
---
Eventually, Chuuya managed to stand without the world tilting. He made it to the window, pushing the curtain aside to look down at the city. The streets glistened under the pale winter sun, damp from days of rain.
“You missed a few things,” Dazai said from behind him.
“I’m sure you handled them perfectly,” Chuuya replied, the sarcasm dry but without real bite.
“Of course. But it’s amazing how quickly people panic when their favorite executive is out of sight.”
Chuuya glanced over his shoulder. “Favorite?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
For a moment, they just looked at each other, and Chuuya realized how different Dazai’s gaze felt now—less like he was trying to dissect him, more like he was… simply watching.
---
By midday, Mori had signed off on Chuuya taking another day before returning to full duty, though Chuuya suspected Dazai’s interference had something to do with it.
They spent the afternoon in the recovery room, Chuuya lounging on the bed with a stack of paperwork Dazai had finally let him see.
“You’re a control freak,” Dazai said, tossing another folder onto the pile.
“And you’re a slacker.”
“Opposites attract,” Dazai said lightly.
Chuuya froze for a split second before forcing his focus back to the document in his hands. “…You’re insufferable.”
“Mm, but you didn’t say I’m wrong.”
---
As evening fell, the city’s skyline lit up in streaks of gold and red. Chuuya was standing by the window again when Dazai came up beside him, their shoulders almost touching.
“It’s clear tonight,” Dazai said. “First time in a week.”
“Guess the weather got tired of hovering over me too,” Chuuya muttered.
They stood there in silence for a long moment. The glass was cool under Chuuya’s fingertips, the hum of the city faint through the thick windows.
“You’re really bad at letting people take care of you,” Dazai said finally.
“I don’t need—”
“I know you don’t. That’s not the point.”
Chuuya glanced at him. “Then what is?”
Dazai’s eyes stayed on the skyline. “That sometimes, it’s not about needing it. It’s about letting someone stay because they want to.”
The words landed heavier than Chuuya expected. He didn’t have a response ready—not one that didn’t feel like peeling something raw open.
“…You’re saying you wanted to,” Chuuya said after a beat.
Dazai turned to look at him fully, his usual smirk softened into something quieter. “I’m saying I didn’t want to leave.”
The space between them felt different now—less like a battlefield, more like a line neither of them minded crossing.
Chuuya hesitated only a second before leaning in. The kiss was slower this time, deliberate, not born out of fever or delirium. Dazai’s hand found the side of his jaw, warm and steady, and for once, Chuuya didn’t feel the need to pull away first.
When they broke apart, the city lights spilled over both of them, casting long shadows across the room.
“Still impossible,” Chuuya murmured.
“And yet, here you are,” Dazai replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Chuuya didn’t deny it.
---
The next morning, Chuuya was back in his boots, coat slung over his shoulders, ready to return to work. But as they stepped out of the room, Dazai fell into step beside him without a word.
It wasn’t hovering.
It was staying.