Chuuya watches the blinking red ‘Game Over’ screen in front him, the feeling of defeat infesting his insides once again as Dazai cackles from the other side of the gaming machine.
Hands fisting with rage-induced tremors, he springs up, knocking his stool aside and looking over the top at the brunet. “Rematch, you cheating bastard!”
Dazai giggles, a smirk on his lips as he meets Chuuya’s eyes. “But Chuuya, that’s what you said last time. And the time before that and the time before–”
Chuuya screeches, dropping his head onto the machine and groaning out the rest of his frustrations. It is true, much to his derision, he has lost the last… four (?) matches. All he knows is that the score is 1-to-5 in Dazai’s favor, meaning the mackerel is the winner of this versus session.
After venting his not-so-kind thoughts into Dazai and the machine, he stands straight to cross his arms as narrows his eyes at Dazai. “Alright, what’ll it be this time?”
“Hmm, I don’t know. Let me think about it,” Dazai says, getting up himself.
“What?! You had this whole time to think about it, are you shitting–”
Dazai grabs Chuuya’s hand suddenly, pointing across the arcade to something that Chuuya can’t even see thanks to a different machine in his way. Stupid beanpole and his stupid height.
“I want that! Chuuya has to get it for me as punishment!” Dazai does a little hop, whining more as he keeps pointing.
Of course he couldn’t clarify what it is. Chuuya doesn’t know if he’s about to agree to paying for a dumb trinket or the whole arcade.
“Stop that,” Chuuya starts, grabbing Dazai’s outstretched arm to reel it in before he smacks some unsuspecting person. “Tell me exactly what it is and what you want me to do. I’m not being forced to do extra work again because you didn’t specify the rules.”
Dazai rolls his eyes, snatching Chuuya’s wrist and practically dragging him to his destination before Chuuya can even react.
As they keep twisting and turning, Chuuya’s beginning to wonder how the bastard even saw whatever he’s aiming for.
And then he sees it.
It’s in one of the claw machines on the top shelf where people with no self-control are supposed to stick the claw’s handle through an itty-bitty hole.
Chuuya does have to admit, though – it IS cute. Very much so. And fluffy enough to have those blankets stores only bring out for the holiday season fucking jealous.
Staring back at Chuuya with beady, shining eyes is one ginger, stuffed-plush cat big enough to fill Dazai’s greedy arms.
He’ll give it to Dazai – this is nowhere near the worst punishment he’s given. That doesn’t mean Chuuya has to be happy about it as he yanks out his wallet, though.
With even more grumbles, he inserts his first bill of the night, watching with the most deadpan expression he can make as the machine lights up, LEDs going wild in front of them at the prospect of another sucker.
Unfortunately, Chuuya knows how this part of the game goes. Dazai’s grip is tight on him, eyes laser-pointed at the item of his desire.
Chuuya takes a breath, trying to focus as he feels the heat of Dazai’s hands seeping through his clothes. With a blink, he moves the stick controller, bringing the key towards the little hole on the other side of the glass. He pauses.
Behind him, he hears Dazai sniff, the judgement of it clear to Chuuya. The redhead whirls around.
“Bastard, fix it yourself–” and from the corner of his eye, he sees the key start to move forward, the timer having run out.
It misses by a centimeter. Chuuya growls, getting ready to insert the next bill.
Dazai continues his hold on him, this time going so far as to wrap his arms around his shoulders from behind and lean his head against the side of Chuuya’s.
The electric lights do their silly little dance again, and this time Chuuya makes sure to concentrate. This machine will. not. beat. him.
He lines it up, taking a moment to think. Dazai taps his chest twice, and Chuuya shifts the stick to the right the smallest amount he possibly can.
Just as he’s about to hit the button to get it to move, something bumps into Dazai and thus him, pushing him forward enough to hit the stick and the timer goes off.
Chuuya watches as the handle misses by more than just a centimeter.
And then a chill goes down his spine. He shifts in Dazai’s hold, glancing up and over his shoulder to see those black hole eyes pinpointed on a kid who didn’t even bother to apologize. Before the Demon Prodigy can cause anyone, child or not, to piss themselves, Chuuya shrugs him off.
He inserts one more bill. Just as Dazai moves to go back to his perch, Chuuya sticks his hand out to stop him.
The machine whirls to life again, this time with a red glow barely enveloping it. Chuuya brings the handle to where it was before using the actual stick, then from here he lets the machine do its thing.
As the key moves forward, he forces the machine to line itself up in the correct position, feeling the mechanics trying to go against him but they’re no use against the power of gravity.
The key fits perfectly, unlocking the glass box holding the plush and releasing it into a hole beneath it. A thunk near their feet alerts them to its delivery, and Dazai is quick to snatch it up and into his waiting arms, any traces of the Demon Prodigy long gone as he beams at Chuuya.
“Thanks, Chibi!” He squeezes the cat against his chest, and Chuuya tries to ignore the small thrill of butterflies flying around his stomach.
He frowns, looking away and crossing his arms. “Tch, whatever.”
He opens his eyes again. There, across from them in a corner of the store he couldn’t see earlier, is one of those shooting carnival games, this time with nerf darts to avoid any liabilities.
And above it, hanging from a little loop connected to the roof, is a black cat plush — reminiscent of Dazai’s new one to the point it could be from the same brand, a matching set.
He only spends a second staring at it, debating, before turning away. He’s got better things to spend his money on. It doesn’t matter how soft it looks or how cute. He’s not a kid like Dazai.
He makes a move for the exit, intent on getting out before he can rethink his decisions.
A foot to his shins has him almost hitting the floor. He knows exactly who did it as he catches himself. He couldn’t use his ability just then, after all.
“Dazai, what the fu–”
“Shh, there’s children in here,” Dazai admonishes, his trademark fake gasp popping out, albeit a little less dramatic. Before Chuuya can question it, Dazai’s twirling around to face the carnival-esque shooting game and marching forward, one of his hands wrapped around Chuuya’s wrist much like before.
“One round, please,” the brunet says, taking out his own wallet that Chuuya’s never actually seen until now and handing the cash over to the employee. With the nerf gun equipped, he glances at Chuuya for a split second and sends him a smirk. “Watch and learn, Chuuya.”
Chuuya really can only watch and learn as Dazai effortlessly hits five different targets in their bullseyes, one after the other. The electronics connected to them flash over and over with each hit.
And once a moment has passed for both the employee and Chuuya to pick up their jaws – mostly the employee, though – Dazai sets the gun back down and merely points up at the black cat plush.
The employee gets it down, leaving it on the counter for them to take.
Chuuya doesn’t immediately reach for it. Why would Dazai do this? It doesn’t make sense to him.
Dazai nudges his shoulder and he hesitantly reaches out to grab the plush.
Today is one of the few days he decided to forgo his gloves; the cat’s fur is just as soft as it looked. From here, he can tell that this one is a black version of Dazai’s, a duo set.
He’s never had a plush of his own.
“Why?” he asks, avoiding Dazai’s eyes as he stares into the black fur. Something in his chest is warming up. What, he doesn’t know.
“Chuuya wanted him,” Dazai says, shifting on his feet to sway from his toes to the balls of his feet. “And a thank-you for Slug.”
/That/ causes Chuuya to look up. “Hah?”
“What? He looks like chibi, doesn’t he?” Dazai shoves the orange plush into Chuuya’s face. “See, see?”
Chuuya scoffs, shoving ‘Slug’ out of the way. He sticks his tongue out. “If he’s Slug, then this one’s Mackerel.”
Dazai laughs then, high and airy – genuine – and Chuuya can only attempt to hide his reddening cheeks behind Mackerel’s head. He follows as the brunet leads them outside where the sun has begun to set.
And once they’re a few blocks away, when their lighthearted jabs fade into a comfortable silence, Chuuya gives his own thanks, earning the endearing sight of Dazai’s widened eyes and tinged cheeks before the other tries to wave it away.
sooooo very late to post this but this was written for the lovely @bloodsherry back in october for the soukoku tumblr server exchange!!! please enjoy skk being obnoxiously in love for 17k hehe 🩷
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rated: M
Oneshot (7.8k)
Summary:
There, in the doorway with the most panicked look Yosano has ever seen on him, stands Dazai Osamu holding the body of none other than Port Mafia Executive Nakahara Chuuya.
The redhead is covered head-to-toe in blood that looks to be his, dripping down Dazai’s trench coat as the latter clutches him to his chest in a near death-grip. The executive is completely limp in his arms, and from here Yosano would call him dead already if not for the painful, labored breathing coming out from his mouth. It sounds as if one of his lungs has collapsed, filled with fluid, and the other is quickly on the way.
This was not the ‘fixing’ she had in mind.
“Absolutely not,” she says sternly, tone leaving no room for persuasion as she stands up.
This is Nakahara Chuuya they’re talking about, after all. Mori’s right hand man and the Agency’s least-favorite Ability user to deal with due to his overwhelming power and tendency to yell the whole time at or about Dazai.
Deep down, she knows she should help him — really, she does — but she also knows the consequences that can come from helping the Mafia, helping Mori, and her people will always come first, no matter what.
hi @pepper-steam-milkshake !! this is for you!!
i really hope you enjoy some skk hurt/comfort!! and thank you for your patience!!
/Shit,/ Chuuya thinks, pressing into the growing patch of blood around his ribs.
Shit, shit, shit.
It burns to the touch, sending piercing sparks of pain to every part of his body, but he locks his arm into the position. His clothes stick to his bare skin, the texture eliciting a cringe from him. Bleeding out because of a stab wound is no way for a mafia executive to go out.
The mission was a bust — false intel and a death trap. His men got out ahead of him luckily, and as he was taking up the rear, someone got the jump on him with a knife.
Said someone is now very much dead after getting flattened in what are the remains of the burning warehouse in the distance.
He’s maybe around a little less than a kilometer south of the warehouse, hidden in a grove of some trees and by the dead of night. In the distance, he can vaguely hear the ocean to the east, but aside from that, it’s quiet – only the occasional creakish groan as the warehouse continues to fall in on itself. He’s lucky there’s barely a breeze tonight, else that fire could have gotten out of control and he wouldn’t have been able to do much about it.
His men were given the order to go ahead and return to headquarters without him for various reasons. One, he didn’t want to risk any of them getting swept up in the eventual destruction of the building by his hands, and two, because he’s a mafia executive, the gravity manipulator, and can fend for himself. He’s bullet-proof, for crying out loud. No one in their sane mind would attack him.
And yet, here he is, stabbed and stranded with only a growing patch of blood, a few knives that are useless now, and one forbidden item to his person.
“Fuck,” he grits out, pressing further in as he shifts slightly. He hates how he can feel the blood dripping past his gloves, making them feel like they would when they’re wet.
/This is just another scar to the exhibition,/ he tells himself as he approaches a tree subconsciously deemed safe enough. /You aren’t gonna die because of a measly knife to the ribs. This ain’t your first rodeo./
Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell, though; fire all around the area and digging inwards as he bleeds out. The nerves all around it haven’t even gotten the chance to grow accustomed to it, each shift of his being tugging on them and yanking out another bolt of lightning through him.
Another wave of pain passes through him, body shuddering as the tingles travel up and down his body. He focuses on breathing in and out. In, out. In, and out.
God, he does not want to deal with the recovery of this either. The last time he got well and truly stabbed had been thanks to Shirase, but hey, at least this time the knife wasn’t fucking poisoned. Three cheers for that, or whatever.
He’d been in remission for a week and a half ‘cause of that wound.
He pats his other hand around his pockets, feeling for what should be his phone. When its distinct shape doesn’t pass under his fingers, he looks down to the best of his ability without moving his chest, and begins tapping every pocket on his body.
/No/, he thinks, movements growing desperate. /No, no, no–/
“Fuck,” he yells when all of his normal pockets turn up empty.
This just got a whole lot worse. How the hell could he have lost it–
When the bastard stabbed him.
Mother/fucker/, of course it was when the bastard got him. It must have been enough of an impact for his phone to fly out of his pocket and he hasn’t realized it until now, far too late.
That leaves him with only one option. The worst one, in his very humble opinion. Truly.
The next pain flash has him eating those words as he fishes out from his coat’s hidden inside pocket with his free hand an old flip phone he only ever keeps on him for something akin to comfort but refuses to call.
Realistically, the thing should be long dead given its rising age, but he’s an idiot who can’t give up on the hope of returning to what once was, and so he keeps the batteries in it stocked from time to time.
Gulping down a cough smeared with blood, he opens the phone — screen greeting him brightly in the night — and hits the call button of the only contact it knows.
It rings in the dull air, the ringtone high-pitched and annoying much like its contact’s voice and set years before by the same person.
One ring, two.
Come on, come on. These old phones only ring so many times before giving up.
Three, four.
Shit, if he doesn’t pick up soon, Chuuya may be screwed.
Five—
“Yes, you called~?” Chuuya ignores the slight hesitance in the receiver. He charges forward.
“Asshole. Use your damn trackers and get over here before this blood permanently ruins my clothes.” Chuuya doesn’t allow the other to respond, flipping the phone shut and slumping down against the tree he was leaning on.
—
Chuuya hears the sound of an engine in the distance getting closer, and Dazai arrives relatively shortly after, a light glean of sweat the only indication that he had rushed here. After an assessment of Chuuya’s red-soaked clothes and his positioning, he comments, “The slug got himself stabbed? Haven’t seen you that careless since–”
“Shut it. Help me up,” Chuuya grumbles. He props his free arm against the tree and bends his knees, doing his best to ignore the way a gush of blood spills out from his side. It had slowed down exponentially since he’d called Dazai, and Chuuya had done everything he could to dull his movements and slow his heart down, choosing to focus on breathing and counting down the minutes until Dazai would arrive.
He attempts to push himself up, breathing deep and bracing. He makes it all of maybe 10 centimeters up before his chest contracts and pain shoots down his limbs, somehow worse than all the other times before it.
He’s back on the ground in an instant with something akin to a growl and a whimper escaping out of his throat as he hunches over, the instinct to protect his core taking over in a millisecond.
Dazai, for once in his life, makes no comment on Chuuya’s state of being, and inches himself forwards towards the redhead cautiously.
From the corner of his eye, Chuuya watches as the brunet travels down to his knees, hands calm and steady as he produces what has to be one of Chuuya’s worst nightmares come true from a bag slung around his torso. Upon seeing Chuuya’s reaction, he quickly shoves it into his back pocket for later use. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
“Hell no,” Chuuya grits out, poking his head out enough to send the other his best death glare. It bounces off Dazai like he didn’t even notice, though Chuuya knows he did, and, after laying his coat on the ground next to them, continues to pull out items that have Chuuya’s stomach turning in a whole new way that the stab wound couldn’t even try to beat. The brunet sets down a metal tray on top of the coat, the deafened ding still managing to cast itself off the trees around them. “Shitty bastard, we are not doing this here, I swear to God, you fuc–”
“Chuuya,” is all Dazai says as he looks at him, eyes piercing into Chuuya’s. Chuuya hates that look, hates the way he can’t say no to it. It tells him all he needs to know. He’s not getting out of this without either being knocked unconscious or enduring the event of being fully vulnerable against something he doesn’t want to call a fear.
Dazai continues on, laying out sanitizer, gloves, medical scissors, a pack of suture equipment, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, two bottles of water, and two bottles that have Chuuya wanting to fall into a hole and die. Finally, to seal the deal of Chuuya’s inevitable doom, Dazai pulls the metaphorical trigger from his back pocket, setting the sealed bag of a syringe and its jabbing companions inside down.
“I would have taken you back to the car to do this, but the fact you couldn’t stand up on your own calls for a rearrangement,” Dazai starts. He unravels his bandages enough to show the beginnings of his wrists, then pins the excess further up his arms to keep it out of the way. “I–”
“Why can’t you carry me, huh? Or help me get up at least, I can walk the way back and–”
“You would’ve passed out had you stood up, chibi. How many fingers am I holding up?” Dazai throws up a peace sign, looking down as he uncaps one of the water bottles next to him.
Chuuya scoffs. “Two, dumbass. I’m nowhere near passing out.”
“And how many stars can you see through that gap between the trees?” Dazai asks, pointing to the left of them. Chuuya squints, trying to force his vision to cooperate with him at this dire time. From here, he can’t see any little lights, and come to think of it, parts of his vision are spotty on the sides. Even so–
“That’s not fair, we both know my vision’s always been a little fucked up. How about–”
“The answer is three, and no, you are not getting out of this,” Dazai says. Dazai takes the two labeled, undisclosed bottles and pops them open before setting them back down beside the syringe bag. Then, he reaches out an open hand, fingers wiggling to try to coax Chuuya out of his position. “You’re also paler than me, and that’s saying something. So come on. Let’s get it over with, Chuuya.”
If he knew the other wouldn’t absolutely make fun of him, Chuuya would hiss at the bastard. Dazai hates him, it’s officially official. But his name wouldn’t be Nakahara Chuuya if he didn’t at least fight back. “Make me.”
The smirk Dazai sends him is /wicked/, something purely maniacal, and chills fall faster down his spine than the law of gravity would naturally let them. Chuuya’s breath hitches as Dazai reaches into the bag and pulls out a rag and /rope/.
“No,” Chuuya growls, trying to inch his way backwards despite the tree behind him. Even come hell, he ain’t being restrained like a /dog/. “No fucking way, you sick psycho.”
“It’s either this, a concussion, or you suck it up, buttercup~ Your choice~” Dazai winks, but he puts the rope back. He sets the rag aside. “You may want this to bite on, though.”
Chuuya just looks away. Yeah, he’ll want it to bite on, but he’s not about to admit it. That’s for later, more vulnerable Chuuya.
“Now,” Dazai starts. Chuuya glances at him, eyes the way his hands are slowly inching forward again. He avoids growling like a dog, as Dazai would so kindly put it, but the urge to do it is there. He’s never been nice while injured, and he’s always been able to handle it by himself, save for the few times they’ve used Corruption. Dazai never pushed to help him when they were younger if the injury wasn’t Corruption-related, and Chuuya preferred it that way. There was no room for weakness in the Mafia, and there still isn’t. But here Dazai is, insisting on helping. “Let me see how bad it is.”
Maybe that Agency really has changed him. Maybe even for the better.
“Fine,” Chuuya all but snaps, slowly moving his sore legs outwards. He keeps them out of the way of Dazai’s makeshift surgery set-up, and after making sure he was seated comfortably, he slowly moves his arm.
Drawing it forward /hurts/, parts of the blood and skin had dried to it, and he bites his tongue to not make a sound. His arm is completely red, barely any specks of skin untainted to be seen, and a distant part of his mind makes note of how it’s similar to Corruption but more spread out, like what his arm might look like if the beast took over and Dazai never stopped him.
“There you go,” Dazai murmurs, keeping his eyes focused on the wound as he analyzes. When Chuuya stills to take a moment to breathe, his eyes dart up to his face, scanning for anything. The man reaches forward to begin working his cropped jacket and vest off. The clothes can barely be taken off without causing too much movement and so, after a moment, Dazai reaches for the scissors then shoves Chuuya’s main black coat from off his shoulders. “I know you said to come get you before the blood ruined your clothes, but I’m afraid they’ll be ruined either way.”
And with that, he snips into Chuuya’s expensive clothing, uncaring about the chunk of money Chuuya will definitely be taking from him for this travesty. He makes quick work, though, and soon enough, Chuuya’s upper body is free from the confines of his sticky clothing. Dazai had been especially careful around the wound, taking caution to not pull on it too much. All that’s left around Chuuya is his large black coat that Dazai was kind enough to put back on his shoulders, with the sleeves tied behind his head as a makeshift cushion to keep them out of the way.
It’s quiet during the whole process, and by the time Dazai’s done, Chuuya’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. At some point, Dazai had even shimmied him down enough to lay on his back, still using the coat’s sleeves as a pillow, and leaving his side fully open.
“Now for the fun part!” Dazai exclaims, scooting back a little to grab the uncapped water bottle from earlier. “Wakey, wakey~!”
He dumps the water over Chuuya’s open wound, letting it run down his side into the dirt below as it cleans out some of the wound.
Chuuya jolts /hard/, trying to sit up at the sensation but Dazai keeps a hand pressed into his shoulder. “That’s fucking cold, idiot, holy shit!”
“Yes, yes,” Dazai blows him off. He squirts sanitizer into his hands, rubs it in, and puts the latex gloves on. “But now you’re not about to pass out on me, so I think it’s fair.”
“How is that…” Chuuya’s voice dies out when he sees Dazai take the two labeled, non-water bottles and hold them up in front of his own face. He watches as Dazai double-checks them, eyes them, and then sets them down before reaching for the syringe bag.
Despite still feeling like half his body is on fire, cold tingles still go down his back, a chill popping up on his skin. He does /not/ want to do this part.
Dazai peels open the bag and pulls a needle-syringe out, then he grabs the bottle of alcohol and lets a few drops of it fall onto the tops of the labeled bottles. With a twist of his fingers, he’s uncapping the needle and lifting one of the labeled bottles upside down, inserting the needle and using the syringe to suck part of the liquid out. Then he does the same to the other bottle, flips his wrist a few times to mix the contents, and then that needle is moving towards Chuuya and–
“Fuck no, what if you’re trying to poison me?” Chuuya asks, minutely shifting his body to the side even as it protests at him. Dazai just raises an eyebrow, expression dead otherwise.The redhead can feel his heartbeat in his ears and he knows he must look like a scared fool but goddamn it, he hates needles, alright?
Despite not showing weakness in the Mafia, there are still things that can unnerve him. Needles are the worst, but the least common to deal with. Even if he never let Dazai see it for what it truly is, Dazai knows what gets to him just as much as he knows what gets to Dazai.
With a sigh that has no right sounding as beleaguered as it does, Dazai breathes out, “Don’t make me tie you up. Just close your eyes.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Then look at the moon or trees or even me. One prick, and you’ll be done, chibi. Home free after the stitches and a car ride to your place, then you can pass out all you want.” Dazai smiles at him and, god, Chuuya wants to punch him. A smile like that – something that could fall under the definition of ‘gentle’ – shouldn’t be saved for someone like him, for a partnership like theirs. But before he can think anymore into it, he carries their talk on with a light smirk of his own.
“That’s only if you don’t crash the car, mackerel,” Chuuya says. He focuses his attention on Dazai, on the way the moonlight peeking through the trees haloes around him, like some sort of angel sent his way. He snorts. He must be delusional. With one final deep breath, he relinquishes control to Dazai. “Do a countdown.”
“I made it here just fine, didn’t I?” Dazai mumbles. He keeps spouting nonsense for a moment before getting closer. Chuuya wills his eyes to stay focused on the gap in the trees above him. That’s all there is around him, and therefore no nee– “Three, two, one.”
Chuuya flinches. A prick into his side, holding steady just above the wound. Just as fast as it entered, Dazai presses down on the syringe, and then the needle is out and away from sight, tossed haphazardly behind Dazai. Near immediately, it’s like a mini adrenaline crash, the breath he was holding falling from his lips in one big gasp.
“See? You did it,” Dazai continues, as if Chuuya didn’t just nearly have a panic attack. He drags the metal tray closer and starts prepping the suture items. “Such a brave dog I have~”
Chuuya refuses to look at him, grumbling. “When this shit is healed, I’m kicking your ass into next week.”
“That’s not a very nice way to thank me, you know. I thought I raised you better than that,” Dazai says, throwing a faux disappointed look at him. A brief flicker of a thought passes across his face, eyebrows furrowing for only a second. “Chibi has his tetanus shot, right?”
“Did you hit your head recently? You were there when I got it at fifteen, dumbass, and I ain’t fucking old enough for another,” Chuuya spits out. He /hated/ that shot, and being reminded that he’ll need it again soon and every ten years after for the rest of his life sparks dread in him. If there was a pill for it, he’d swallow it in a heartbeat, but /no/, technology’s not advanced enough for that.
Dazai must guess his thoughts because the brunet has the audacity to /giggle/. “I’ll hold your hand next time, Mr. Executive Mafioso.”
That comment has Chuuya’s cheeks reddening for two wholly different reasons. Fuck this bastard, always saying the most out-of-pocket shit like it’s normal, like /they’re/ normal. Chuuya looks away. They can’t be normal, that life’s not for them…
“Do you feel this?” Dazai’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t realized he was getting sappy. Blinking, he tries to look down.
“Feel what?” He asks. Dazai lifts a hand up to get his attention, then lowers it back down to tap at areas around the wound. Luckily, Chuuya can’t feel a thing, and another wave of relief crashes through him.
They’re almost done here.
“Chuuya’s ready to go, then.” Dazai makes sure to keep his hands out of Chuuya’s eyesight, and Chuuya wouldn’t admit it, but he is grateful for it. “Keep your eyes on me or up ahead.”
And with that, Dazai dives in.
It’s not the first time Chuuya’s gotten stitches before – he’d woken up to them in his body after Shirase had stabbed him and he’d eventually passed out from the poison. This time /is/ the first time for him to be awake for the actual procedure, though. He’s glad he can’t feel anything sharp, just a light pressure whenever Dazai re-inserts the needle for the next thread. He keeps his thoughts distant, tries counting the trees and then sheep (don’t laugh, Dazai). His thoughts travel down memory lane a little, back to the last time he’d gotten stabbed and how much of a nuisance Dazai had been. They had just gotten partnered up, and here they are seven years later…
If there’s one compliment Chuuya /has/ to give Dazai – ugh – it’s that he’s quick and efficient, movements precise as he threads the needle between the sides of Chuuya’s butchered skin.
Within a few minutes, Chuuya hears the distinct sound of scissors snipping the thread. In his peripheral vision, Dazai sets the equipment down and rummages through the bag, pulling out gauze and fresh rolls of bandages. He makes quick work of the gauze as well before helping Chuuya to sit up.
The brunet is delicate as he wraps the bandages around Chuuya’s chest, fingers light and soothing to the touch, even if they’re still wrapped in latex. Once Dazai’s deemed to have mummified him enough, he lets out a hum and removes his gloves. “We’ll assess and change anything once we get to your place. I forgot to bring antiseptic.”
Chuuya isn't really mad when he says, “Isn’t that the most important part?”
Dazai merely shrugs, uncapping the other water bottle and taking a small sip before handing it over to him.
As Chuuya practically chugs the bottle, Dazai clumsily repacks everything back into the bag he’d brought, even making sure to keep any certain sharp objects subtly hidden in his hands as he does so. When Chuuya’s done, he hands his empty bottle to him, the final item to be packed into it, and moves to stand up.
Dazai braces an arm under and around him, helping him to get up. The local anesthetics – of which Chuuya is now wondering how Dazai obtained, perhaps via the Agency doctor? – are just barely beginning to lighten up. He knows Dazai had given a minimal shot of them and he’s always had a fast metabolism.
Maybe Dazai’s crazy driving will be good for once and he’ll be able to get home before the pain returns fully.
Dazai bends down to retrieve his own coat and throws it over Chuuya, tying it lightly around his hips. Chuuya is about to complain, but then Dazai is bending down again and tossing the remains of what were once Chuuya’s fancy clothes onto his black discarded coat before using the coat to tie it all up into an easy-to-carry bundle. Finally, Dazai swoops down one last time to grab his hat – Chuuya doesn’t even remember when or where it fell – and plops it on top of his red hair. “Ready, hatrack?”
“Beyond ready,” Chuuya sighs, already forcing his body to take a few steps forward. “I need a glass of wine and my bed, stat.”
“Coming right up, my dear slug~” Dazai cheers, marching in front to lead the way to the car. He turns backwards, still walking, and winks. “I’ll get us back to Yokohama before you can even think about falling asleep!”
Chuuya passes out in the car before they’re even past the still-smoldering warehouse.
When he wakes up, inside his apartment and tucked under the covers of his bed, it’s to the sight of one Dazai Osamu beside him, lightly dozing with a hand intertwined with Chuuya’s beneath the sheets.
Maybe it’s been four years since they were last true partners. Maybe in the last few hours they’ve already started anew.
Fuckkkk, Chuuya won’t miss the last time he has to use Corruption.
…/If/ that ever happens.
The amount of threats that actually need him to use it are far and few between nowadays, especially with the addition of Shin Soukoku’s new attacks that don’t render one of them half-dead like Soukoku’s, but every so often some bad guy sweeps through town strong enough to even have him and Dazai being summoned to the scene together.
Chuuya swallows, trying not to hack up a lung when a blood clot from his earlier bloody nose seeps down his throat. His clothes are beyond ruined at this point and his arms are too tired so he doesn’t even try to cover his mouth. The brick wall he’s been propped against is tilting a little too dangerously – from an earlier attack by someone’s ability – for his comfort, but it’s not like he can do much about it.
If the bricks fall, he’ll stop them. Maybe. Probably.
He just wants to go home and sleep for at least a whole day.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, easy there. I leave Chuuya for two seconds and he’s trying to die on me again,” Dazai placates like he’s some /dog/, jogging the last few steps to him. The brunet is wearing Chuuya’s hat on his head and the fingers of one of the redhead’s black gloves sticks out from his coat pocket. Chuuya wipes the side of his mouth, watching as Dazai pulls a water bottle from his coat’s other pocket and uncaps it before handing it to him. “Don’t drown yourself~”
“Says the mackerel.” His voice comes out raspy, barely audible but the smirk Dazai sends him tells him the brunet heard. He takes a slow sip, breathing out a sigh before chugging as much as his body will let him.. Water has never felt as good as the times after Corruption, when his voice is scratched raw and just breathing is a chore for his windpipe. Clearing his throat to test it, he asks, “How much longer?”
“We’re free to go,” Dazai responds, waiting in front of him with his hands in his pockets. “Mori-san took your coat and has graciously given you a few days off as a reward for being such a loyal dog.”
Also known as ‘Dazai asked therefore Mori approved’ because God forbid Boss says no to ‘the Mafia’s final executive to come.’ As if that’s ever gonna happen.
Dazai’s smirk twists into that one that tells Chuuya he read his mind just then. “Chibi’s cranky.”
The redhead scowls back. “No shit, Sherlock. Hurry up and carry me already.”
“So feisty~ How does the pretty princess want to be carried?” Dazai squats in front of him, leaning within arms’ reach of Chuuya.
“I’m not– honestly, fuck you,” Chuuya grumbles, not even bothering to punch the other. “Do whatever you want, you shitty bastard.”
Of course, Dazai has the audacity to beam at this, already moving to adjust Chuuya into whatever way he wants. He swears he even hears a little giggle from the brunet as he shifts one of Chuuya’s legs.
It’s going to be a long walk back home.
Chuuya hisses as Dazai, still facing him, goes to move one of his arms behind his bandaged neck, the muscle pulling in a way that sears too much to be considered uncomfortable. “Wait–!”
“Where?”
“Bicep, close to delt,” he grits out, forcing himself to breathe as the knot or whatever is wrong with his arm continues to flare. Dazai points at the location given, dead-on in his accuracy. Chuuya manages to nod, watching as nimble fingers find the perfect spot to apply the right amount of pressure in massaging caresses that have shivers running down his spine.
He sucks in a breath when Dazai’s finger moves in just the right way to alleviate most of the pain in one go. After Chuuya releases a shaky sigh, Dazai looks up. “Better?”
“Yeah.”
Dazai returns to maneuvering him into the right position, wrapping Chuuya’s bloodied arms around his neck and scooping under his thighs. Dazai, right in his face, grins something young and fond. “Just like old times, partner.”
With that, he hoists them both up, Chuuya sinking further into his arms as Dazai steadies them. The pop Chuuya hears from his knee has him grimacing with a squint sent at Dazai, but the man doesn’t even stop to test if his scrawny bones can hold them up, instead marching forward in the direction of Chuuya’s apartment.
Fine. If Dazai wishes to play stubborn, then Chuuya doesn’t care (until Dazai either trips or his legs give out, that is).
With that thought, Chuuya settles in on Dazai’s shoulder, eyelids already drifting downwards.
They miraculously make it back to his apartment without Chuuya waking up, Dazai dropping him, or the both of them going splat on the concrete.
That’s a plus, Chuuya supposes.
If Dazai had tried this when they were around seventeen or eighteen, Chuuya’s sure one of them would have ended the night with a broken bone. The last time they had done this had to have been sometime after Corruption's first use, he realizes.
“Where does the slug wanna go?” Dazai asks as he fumbles with the door’s lock. Chuuya blinks his eyes open enough to do his security system’s retinal scan. There’s a click, a shuffle of clothes and doors, and the sounds of shoes hitting the genkan as Dazai pulls Chuuya’s off before taking off his own.
Chuuya hums. “Bed.”
“You’ll be mad if you wake up in a dirty bed.”
“Mornin’ problem.”
“So my problem,” Dazai huffs with a tsk.
Based on the twists and turns they’re taking, they’re heading towards the bedroom anyway. And just before Dazai can make it to the bed where Chuuya’s long desired rest awaits, the brunet swings to the left, eliciting a low whine from Chuuya as they head towards the attached bathroom.
“I know, I know,” Dazai starts, setting him on the counter to turn the sink’s faucet to hot as he grabs a hand towel. Chuuya continues to lean forward on his shoulder, forcing the man to stay in front of him. As the water heats up, Dazai starts prying the redhead’s bloodied clothes from his body. “We’ll take a bath tomorrow. Just a quick cleanup to get most of the blood off and then you can sleep to your heart’s content.”
Chuuya’s already beginning to doze off when he mumbles back, “With you.”
A pause, the shoulder beneath his head stiffening before it slowly comes to relax again. A bandaged hand comes up to rest at the back of Chuuya’s head as the faucet is shut off. “With me.”
Dazai makes quick work of wiping the dried blood from Chuuya’s face and body, delicate but precise, and afterwards in the bedroom dresses the redhead in his softest pajamas. Chuuya always runs cold after using Corruption so he takes precaution, even if it means there’s potential for Chuuya to wake up annoyed because he got too hot.
After tucking Chuuya in the bed – and far enough in the middle of it to guarantee the slippery slug doesn’t fall off of it with his hazardous sleeping positions – Dazai recleans the bathroom, removing his own bandages and clothes in the process.
He steals a pair of oversized pajamas that Chuuya claims he “accidentally bought and was too lazy to return,” then slips into bed beside the other.
When Chuuya wakes in the morning, it’s to warm arms and the sound of a heartbeat against his ear, beating in tandem with his own.
here being the claustrophobic pod of an hellcraft to be flown in the fucking air. humans don’t have wings, there should be no reason he has to fly up in the sky.
but alas, he can’t get out of it.
he curses kouyou for moving abroad. now he has to go through all this dumb stress just to see his sister for a couple of weeks.
the worst part is how ironic this all is.
he used to LOVE flying as a kid when his dad was a pilot. favorite thing in the whole world apart from his family.
but he grew up.
learned the stats and chances of something going wrong on flights. saw the news and each report to the point a pit would form in his stomach whenever he even saw a plane.
and don’t even get him started on turbulence. that’s a sure-fire way to a near heart attack.
it’s not a fear, mind you.
he’s not afraid of dying a horrible death in flames and shrapnel.
he’s afraid of the possibility that something could go wrong and his family could lose him.
it sounds arrogant, but he doesn’t mean it like that.
he just knows that, if he died, his family would be devastated and he can easily see how fast things would spiral for them.
call him a worrywart, but it’s true.
so here he is by the window on this smallass 2x2-seated plane.
one would think the window would make him more anxious because “oh look, the ground aka your potential grave” but it helps ease him a bit to see outside and not feel trapped in the aircraft.
they haven’t taken off yet but he can’t keep his eyes off the window and the outside world.
he hates fucking planes, man.
“15A?”
he startles at the voice, looking up to see a tall brunet standing in the aisle with a line behind him.
when chuuya only blinks at him, the man continues with a sheepish smile, “i think you’re in my seat.”
he holds up his ticket and lo and behold, 15A stares back at chuuya.
but that makes no sense because /chuuya/ is 15A.
he starts digging through his bag to grab his ticket he’d hastily shoved in it after scanning it at the gate.
is he on the wrong plane? does he need to sprint like a mad man through a crowded airport to catch his flight?
he finds his ticket and holds it up—
15B.
15-fucking-B.
how did he fuck up this bad? he always gets the window seat, there’s no possible way he accidentally grabbed the aisle seat while selecting his seat online.
but then it hits him.
he’d left his laptop open after clicking it to grab his credit card for checkout. and he’d returned to find one Baki sitting on the keyboard and mousepad.
he’d been in such a rush to get his flight booked so he could run off to work that he hadn’t thought twice about the fact that his cat could have done something in the thirty seconds it took for him to get back to the room.
/fuck./
“i didn’t even realize, i’m sorry. here—“ chuuya starts, already getting up with his bag in his hands.
he ignores the tremble he feels in them.
it’ll be fine. he can still see the window easily from the aisle seat, he’ll be /fine./
the stranger must notice something, though, because he holds up a hand to stop chuuya. “it’s okay, really. if you prefer the window, take it.” and he plops down in the aisle seat, letting the line behind him through. “besides, now i get more leg room.”
he winks — and now that chuuya isn’t lowkey panicking, he notices how pretty the stranger’s amber eyes are.
actually, he’s rather handsome, overall. chuuya thinks if he’d seen this man before their flight that he would have been the redhead’s airport crush.
the man tilts his head and /oh shit/ chuuya forgot to respond— “right, thank you very much.”
the brunet just hums and begins putting his bag away so chuuya follows suit, getting comfy again in his seat.
ten minutes later has the captain coming over the intercom about the flight and then the crew is doing the safety instructions and then they’re pulling out and heading to the runway and /fuck/, chuuya hates flying.
the engines rev and the wheels take them down the stretch, building speed way too fast for chuuya’s stomach.
then they’re lifting up and chuuya’s gripping the armrest in between him and the stranger as he squeezes his eyes shut.
/of course/, they hit turbulence right away. of course, because god hates him.
fuck this airport and its shitty turbulence and fuck him and this airplane but not in the literal sense because that would be bad—
“hey? are you okay?” chuuya snaps his eyes open as he’s gently poked in the arm. chuuya’s muscles are so tense that the man’s finger doesn’t even dip a little bit into his flesh.
the redhead puts on a strained smile. “yeah, i’m good,” he gets out. the brunet squints his eyes but doesn’t push it.
chuuya goes back to switching between looking out the window and shutting his eyes quick whenever they hit a bump of turbulence.
soon, they get high enough where the turbulence becomes infrequent enough for him to relax a bit and he enjoys a good hour of gazing out the window and playing a dumb game on his phone.
they even hit one blip of disturbance and it happens so fast that he doesn’t get a chance to freak out.
that is, until the captain came overhead and announced they’re flying into a small storm to avoid an even bigger one.
chuuya swears to god, he’s gonna kill himself—
the plane dips /hard/ and chuuya’s hands immediately fly to find the closest purchase they can, a muffled squeak leaving his lips.
something warm sneaks around his hand, and chuuya momentarily forgets about the plane shifting around as he glances over.
oh.
oh /no./
as if chuuya wasn’t dealing with enough feelings, his body betrayed him and latched onto the hot stranger’s wrist.
maybe the plane should fall so that he doesn’t have to live through this embarrassing as hell experience.
the man is still holding onto chuuya’s hand with his free one.
“shit, i’m sor—“
“it’s okay, really.” the brunet says, moving chuuya’s hand to instead /hold his own/, holy fuck— “i’m not a fan of planes myself so i don’t mind.”
he sends chuuya a small smile, squeezing his hand.
chuuya can feel his face burning but the gesture has his heart lifting up from its pit of dread.
another dip has chuuya coming back to reality, and he uses it to turn away and hide his face, gazing back out at the dark but pretty clouds around them.
(dazai would be almost a little offended but the death grip around his hand tells him all he needs to know.)
when the turbulence all but stops an hour later and the pilot comes back on to announce they’ve passed through the storm and are home-free, chuuya all but deflates in his seat.
the adrenaline crash is already hitting him hard, but he knows he won’t be able to sleep well if he tries to.
a gentle pressure against his hand has his eyes fluttering open to look at the stranger.
he can’t even muster up enough energy to feel the right amount of shame he should feel for how embarrassingly sweaty his hand is.
the man beside him is also a little pale in the face, and the thin crease between his eyebrows is enough for chuuya to realize he was also stressed out.
he does well to hide it, though, and asks, “might i ask for the name of the person who just survived that horrifying experience with me?”
and it’s such an absurd way to ask for someone’s name that chuuya can’t help but laugh, much to the chagrin of any sleeping neighbors, he’s sure. “It’s chuuya. nakahara chuuya.”
the brunet grins back. “dazai osamu. pleasure to meet you, chuuya~”
hm. chuuya likes how his name sounds on his tongue. very much so.
“pleasure to meet you as well.”
they continue to make small talk for the rest of the flight. chuuya finds out that dazai was actually grateful chuuya wanted the window seat.
he has a fear of heights — to which chuuya had commented with a snort on the irony of “you’re tall and have a fear of heights?” — and being reminded of it, even with the window closed, was torturous, but all the aisle seats were booked for once and so he had no choice but to take the window seat.
chuuya finds out that dazai’s going to their destination city to visit family — his cousin and her girlfriend — as well and makes the offhand comment that they should meet up if their schedules allow for it.
he immediately agrees, not even knowing what his sister has planned, hoping to buy dazai lunch and coffee as a thank you for today’s flight. they exchange numbers and he plans to text dazai as soon as they land and his phone’s airplane mode is off.
he’s not about to lose fate’s chance at a hot date because of a numerical typo.
the rest of the flight goes smoothly and soon the captain comes back on the intercom to announce that they’ll be soon landing. as soon as the plane’s wheels touch down and the aircraft begins to slow down, both of them are breathing heavy sighs of relief.
“thank god,” dazai breathes out, slumping in his seat a bit. it’s only when chuuya goes to stretch does he realize that he’s /still/ holding onto dazai’s hand.
his sister’s gonna have a hay day when she hears all about this, dear lord.
to be fair, though, dazai is still holding onto his hand, too, and chuuya takes that as a small win.
but he doesn’t wish to be rude so he begins to let go of dazai’s hand.
“aw, chuuya doesn’t want to hold my hand anymore?” dazai playfully says.
chuuya goes red-faced because he absolutely still wants to but he didn’t want to overstep and now he’s getting teased, something he’s never been good at handling smoothly. “i— well— shit. i mean! i don’t mind if you don’t.”
the last part is all but mumbled out as chuuya looks away. dazai giggles — giggles! — and chuuya’s decided he really likes the sound of it and now he can’t live in a world without it, or else he will die a sad, lonely death.
“ah, our turn is coming up,” dazai says, looking into the aisle to gauge how far along the line of people leaving is. “i’m sad to be the first to let go, but i do need to grab everything i have.”
dazai lets go and chuuya doesn’t like the cold around his palm and fingers that causes. but he should also pack up and make sure he has everything, so he goes along with it.
they head off the plane — and chuuya could kiss the ground for letting him walk upon it safely again — and weave through the crowds of people lined up at the gate they came out of.
both of them need to head to baggage claim, and chuuya only realizes later that they didn’t even discuss it, it sorta just happened in a weird, mental connection kind-of-way.
they exit the security-portioned part of the airport and upon arriving at baggage claim, they hear—
“oh! that’s my brother right there.” “there’s my cousin!”
—at the same time. chuuya immediately looks up upon hearing kouyou’s voice, a grin already spreading across his face before he processes what, exactly, she and the lady beside her said.
the two women are already walking up to them just as dazai says “wait a second—“
“do you two already know each other?” kouyou’s friend(?) asks.
chuuya’s brain stops working as kouyou bombards him in a hug. “huh?”
“chuuya, meet yosano,” kouyou says after pushing away enough to let him see. she still keeps her hands on his shoulders. “my girlfriend!”
holy shit.
/holy shit/.
“is she your cousin?!” chuuya swings his head to the side to ask dazai, who’s just given yosano a hug back.
that’s answer enough, but dazai replies with a laugh, “the one and only.”
“how do you two know each other?” yosano asks.
“we sat next to each other on the plane,” dazai says with a flip of his hand, as if this isn’t the most insane coincidence in the history of coincidences.
“and you didn’t know each other beforehand?” kouyou double checks. chuuya shakes his head as dazai pops the ‘p’ of a “nope!”
“small world, for real,” yosano laughs.
kouyou giggles too. “well, let’s get your bags and head home.”
chuuya hates flying, he won’t lie. but there’s no place he’d rather be than here in his sister’s car’s backseat next to a guy he’s come to quite enjoy and adore as the brunet yaps to his cousin about the flight.
and even if chuuya would have met the guy at his sister’s place, he’s still grateful he was forced to fly since it meant meeting dazai a little bit earlier than scheduled.
end~
imagine these as like the author endnotes on ao3:
- “mini” she says. what a liar.
- one may think i hate flying because of this but i actually love it lmao
- dazai was supposed to make a suicide joke at one point but that got lost in the fluff i fear
Geniuses don’t make mistakes. Everyone also knows that.
So what happens when a genius makes the ittiest-bittiest-littlest miscalculation that rivals even a certain slug’s height?
You get said slug princess-carrying you to Mori’s personal ER because of a poison-laced bullet that had no right being in the hands of a now-dead enemy, let alone being inside Dazai currently.
Safe to say, it hurts like a fucking bitch.
“Chuuya, faster!” Dazai whines, gripping even harder onto Chuuya’s arm from where it’s been digging in for the last 15 minutes since he got shot. “You know I hate pain!”
“Shit, I know that, dumbass. I’m /trying/,” Chuuya grits. They can only go so fast thanks to Dazai cancelling the redhead’s ability. Dazai opens his mouth to retort but Chuuya beats him to it. “And I’m not your damn dog.”
Dazai deflates back to his previous position of jamming his head into Chuuya’s shoulder.
He shouldn’t have been shot. The person who had the laced bullet shouldn’t have been there. And Dazai shouldn’t have been where he was when the gun fired.
But someone had tried to sneak attack Chuuya with a tranquilizer of all things while the redhead was busy ricocheting bullets and Dazai had been sneaking on the sidelines towards the enemy’s backside to pincer them.
Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen the perpetrator creeping on Chuuya. Intel had told him how many personnel there were and he’d been counting how many Double Black took out. There was nothing about a sniper on the other side.
So he’d ditched his cover to get a better shot at Chuuya’s would-be attacker and pulled the trigger.
Only to feel the intense pain of his flesh and muscles tearing under the force of a 9mm bullet, as if him firing his own gun had instead shot himself. But he knew it couldn’t have been that as he watched the man he’d fired at fall to the ground dead.
He thinks he fell to his knees around this point, connected to the dead man like their strings had been snapped.
And then Chuuya was whipping around to face him, the horror coloring his face pale before it 180’d to pure rage. The bullets he’d been holding hostage with his ability quickly swept through the area, taking out every enemy, and the last three were sent upwards to the angle Dazai’s attacker had fired from.
The sick sound of a body hitting the ground was the only indication that Chuuya had hit his target, but the redhead hadn’t even seemed concerned with this, already in front of Dazai and lifting him up in a mad dash to their getaway ride.
Dazai may have slipped into unconsciousness a few times throughout the trip, but he knows that Hirotsu’s never driven that fast before.
And that’s how they ended up here, Chuuya rushing a semi-delirious Dazai down the hall towards Mori’s surgery room.
“Chibiiiii,” Dazai’s voice pitches, shrill in a way that would normally drive Chuuya insane, as a wave of pain washes over him again. The redhead’s hold tightens around him and he blinks his unbandaged eye open.
Mori’s medical bay is empty as always, reserved for only those deemed important enough to be saved by the doctor’s hand.
Dazai doesn’t particularly care if someone were to see him right now. Almost every mafia member cannot get a read on his masks, so even if he gives in to being childish over a bullet wound, they would still fear the potential of the utter whiplash that comes with the Black Wraith’s faux moods.
At the end of the hall waits Mori, decked in scrub gear and doors propped open in anticipation of their arrival.
“Ah, Dazai-kun, Chuuya-kun,” Mori greets, extending an arm towards the bed meant for Dazai.
“Boss,” Chuuya responds, walking past the man with barely a glance. He beelines for the bed, already laying Dazai down by the time the brunet is complaining again.
“Mori-san, hurry and take it out! It HURTS!” Dazai practically yells. That look of annoyed affection passes over Mori’s face as the man comes over.
“Patience, Dazai-kun,” Mori says, putting latex gloves on. Dazai immediately opens his mouth to tell him off but Mori interrupts. “Chuuya-kun, take a general antidote and scrub up. We don’t know how this type of poison works just yet.”
And then Chuuya’s turning and maybe Dazai was a little more out-of-it than he realized but next thing he knows, his chest /sinks/ as the redhead walks /away./
“Wait—“ Dazai starts, only to feel the telltale pinprick of an IV piercing his hand and the immediate coolness of /something/ entering his bloodstream. “Wait…”
The world grows blurry — well, blurrier — fast before going dark.
When he wakes, it’s to the typical white, sterile room that greets him every other week. The blinds are down and the lights off, though slips of light sneak in through the blinds’ cracks.
So it’s daytime, at least. He doesn’t know what day and closes his eyes again. There’s a weight on one of his arms and an ache throughout his body, centered around his lower torso, and it takes a second for the events that led him here to come back to him.
So he should be fine. But what if he’s not? Or something happened? Or it was a rare poison Mori didn’t have the antidote for?
Beside him, a heart monitor beeps out of rhythm only twice before returning to normal.
On his other side, the one that felt weighed down, a head of messy, red hair springs up and wide, blue eyes meet his own bleary ones.
“You’re awake,” Chuuya breathes out. Dazai thinks he sees relief in the swirl of emotions within Chuuya’s eyes. “Fuck, you’re awake.”
Dazai doesn’t really know how to respond to that, but Chuuya keeps looking at him and all he can do is hold eye contact with the redhead, waiting for something — he doesn’t know what — to happen.
And then Chuuya punches his shoulder, forcing a grimace from him.
“What the hell?”
“That’s what you deserve for getting yourself shot, you damn idiot!” Chuuya yells at him. He sounds upset. Dazai doesn’t like that. It’s not like he /tried/ to get shot, after all. “You were out for two days, mackerel.”
Oh. Slug’s worried.
“Mm,” Dazai hums. “But I’m okay.”
“Yeah, but—“
“Chibi’s too loud.”
Chuuya goes quiet, glaring at him with that contemplative look he always gets after Dazai does something he deems stupid.
“Whatever,” Chuuya scoffs. He points an accusatory finger at the brunet. “Don’t fucking do that shit again.”
Dazai purses his lips, attempting to turn over to go back to sleep. Talking to an angry Chuuya is no fun when the other gets truly mad and Dazai is bedridden so he can’t escape.
There’s a brief silence with only the heart monitor’s occasional beeps piercing through.
“Fine. Don’t die in your sleep.” The ruffling of Chuuya getting up and starting to walk away enters his mind, and maybe it’s because the last time this happened he was hurt and delirious and almost panicking, but his chest begins to drop in that same way it did before and he moves to reach out.
By the time he looks up, arm outstretched at the redhead, Chuuya’s already looking back at him, the sounds of Dazai shuffling around catching his attention.
Dazai slowly brings his hand back. He murmurs, “Chuuya can stay if he wants.”
Chuuya blinks back before letting out a slow sigh as if he’d been holding his breath. He returns to his seat, scooting it closer to the bed than before, and sarcastically mutters back, “I guess since you ‘asked’ nicely.”
Dazai twists the rest of himself to face Chuuya, content with him by his side, and opens his mouth to start a conversation that’ll likely end in an barely aggressive argument of some sorts.
Chapters: 1/1
Rating: T
Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs)
Additional Tags: Fluff, Christmas, Secret Santa, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Getting Together, Soft Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Nakahara Chuuya Cares About Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Dazai Osamu Cares About Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), hints towards Kunikida x Haruno hehe, Christmas Fluff, Armed Detective Agency Member Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs), Armed Detective Agency as Family (Bungou Stray Dogs)
written for @/bsdchronicles’s christmas week over on twt!! with beautiful art by @astraviolasororia!!!
Summary:
"We got each other?!" They yell, looking horrified at the other and then at everyone around them. Chuuya particularly looks as though he will combust, meanwhile Dazai seems to have found his thirteenth reason why.
"This has to be some mistake," Chuuya starts, near hyperventiliating with the weight of what he's learned. "There's no possible way the mackerel got me! I refuse!"
At this, some of those who had been serenaded by Dazai's tales connect the dots, eyeballs practically gouging out of their eyes as their mouths drop open far enough that Dazai is tempted to stuff them with ornaments as a joke, but alas he is in the midst of mourning this utter travesty upon his being.
With the clothing where his heart theoretically is being clutched by one hand and the other lamentingly on his forehead, he whines out, "Kunikida-kun, how could you do this to me?! I thought we were friends."
