Chapter Text
There wasn’t anything anymore, barely a sense of presence or being conscious, just an endless feeling of desperation, which, having drunk several bottles of gin and sake, Dazai was experiencing all too acutely. Being inebriated never really helped, but it took the edge off. Or maybe it moved it closer, he could no longer tell. Feeling emotions, and experiencing things, always came later, after the fact, usually in the morning. Or several years later.
Dazai climbed up the stairs leading to his Armed Detective Agency dorm room, just two doors down from Atsushi’s and Kyuoka’s. The two of them are probably already asleep, Nakajima faithfully sleeping in the closet, like the gentleman he is. Despite everything, Dazai was somehow glad that Atsushi never took advantage of the position of trust he was in with Izumi. She was only 14, after all. Besides, his fascination with a certain Port Mafia member (despite his better judgment, of course) seemed to appear as, if not permanent, but at least a long-term thing. Dazai would know. He made sure they would develop this relationship. Just like Mori did for him and Chuuya in the past. Ah, Chuuya. Not quite a thought for right now.
Two in the morning doesn’t mean anything to somebody who wishes for death as a relief. And remembering that there are people who care about you, that, that... That does not help. They don’t understand, how could they, if they never went through this? The only thing that made sense was to continue drinking and NOT look at his phone. Yes, there were people he could call. So many people, but none of them would actually care, after two years of nearly constant suicide talk and attempts. In this sense of inhibition, Dazai wondered if calling anyone would even make sense. Slitting wrists would still, for the lack of a better word, become a problem. After all, nobody cares. People who congratulate you for being at death’s door would even pick up if a call came at two am. Kunikida would show up, but only if he is awake. Yosano, she would help, but in her accusing sort of way. Despite her experience with death, she could never understand why somebody would ever throw their existence away. Ranpo probably wouldn’t even find his way to the dorms. And Atsushi… It didn’t matter. It was just his life he was thinking of ending, after all.
Atsushi is just two doors down, but when nausea is setting in, it’s difficult to form any clear thoughts or plans. Another night in the neighborhood bars, another… whatever this was. Drinking yourself to death doesn’t appear like a painless way to commit suicide. Besides, the waitress didn’t seem that into the idea of throwing her beautiful body in a fast stream of a river at sunrise with a stranger. She had a boyfriend to go home to and a life to live. "What a joke", Dazai murmured. People seemed to be so enamored with the idea of living, that it even appeared natural that nobody truly subscribed to his point of view of the futility of existence.
The corridor wall that Dazai leaned on felt wet and sticky. Or maybe it wasn’t the wall at all – it was his left arm that felt wet. Did he spill something on it? The detective struggled not to hurl his guts out on the floor in front of his dorm room. The keys, yes, the keys, and then, the restroom. Reaching into his pocket, his hand brushing over a pack of matches from a certain bar made his brain short-circuit. He always carried them with him, yes, and yet he would always shudder whenever he would be reminded of the permanence of Oda’s death.
This set from Lupin had a special purpose, too. It was for lighting cigarettes for a certain redhead. Dazai never really thought what he would do when the pack ran out. He wouldn’t, couldn’t think of throwing it away. He would never use any of the matches on his own smoking either. There were fifteen matches left out of twenty.
He didn’t see Chuuya often these days, almost not at all. What did even count as “seeing”, he wondered, to a human that is. Supposedly, cyberstalking somebody might not have counted, but Kunikida’s friend, Katai, didn’t seem to have any objections; and after all, Dazai was only making sure his former partner wasn’t causing too much trouble.
Trouble. What was it that counted as trouble again? Surely, Mafia criminal activities didn’t.
The fogginess in the ADA’s detective’s brain didn’t want to let up as he was still trying to find his keys in his oh-so-deep pockets. What’s the point of a coat’s pocket if it doesn’t contain what you need? Christ, maybe just breaking in might be easier. Finally giving up on looking for the keys, Dazai let out a sigh and tried the doorknob. Silly notion, really; yet it gave in. The door to his place was already open.
Panic, but only for a split second, before he could gather himself (and his nearly hurled guts) and stood upright. An open door, huh, then, hopefully, an assassin, to make his night’s plan go a little smoother. Not ideal, of course - to be found murdered in his own dorm room wouldn’t make for an ideal suicide (and it’s not even a suicide). Why now, of all times, Dazai wondered, must be something to do with the case, but it’s not… it’s not that serious? At least not enough to assassinate somebody over it. As if he had any idea what serious meant…
Straightened up, careless mask on, he decided to walk in. Who cares, after all, Dazai certainly didn’t. In the back of his mind, a persistent thought still prevailed, a quote from some book he read as a child, that “nothing alive actually wants to die. It just wants to avoid pain”. Pushing it out of the way – he didn’t need it tonight, he turned the doorknob, walking into the half-lit hall of his so-called apartment. Half-lit, that’s odd, an assassin wouldn’t turn the lights on in the kitchen. So…oh. Oh. That’s who was here.
“Damn, you took your time, Mackerel. Must’ve been climbing up those stairs for ten minutes at least.”
Right. Of course, makes sense, but how? How did he know…? No, no, walking into the kitchen is the priority and then he can figure it out. It felt odd, not being able to predict absolutely everything. Maybe that’s why Dazai drank, to slow down his odd brain. To feel… more human.
“Well isn’t this a nice surprise? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Dazai’s voice sounded like his usual self, sober even if it weren’t for the barely noticeable slurring of consonants.
Chuuya turned to face Dazai, revealing a glass of wine he’d been holding (or maybe clutching). The Port Mafia executive looked… what was that look, anyway, worry? Concern? Shock? All of the above? God, drinking did no favors to Dazai’s cognitive abilities.
“Surprise? You called me here, you waste of bandages.”
Dazai struggled to remember the night that blurred before his eyes, even though it’s been only a few hours. The waitress, what was her name… Michiko, maybe? She also had red hair, didn’t she? Okay, but what happened after, or before? Phone! The phone!
The drunk detective, still looking puzzled, tried reaching into his pocket, yet again finding the ominous pack of matches instead of the mobile. Jesus, did he lose everything tonight?
“Front pocket, Dazai.”
Chuuya seemed… a little too calm for somebody who’s been summoned to an enemy’s flat at two in the morning. His hair was flowing down his left shoulder as it always did, tiny strands curling a little. Chuuya always looked so good. A little too good really, and in his current state, with the walls wabbling around him, Dazai could only barely deal with it. He was still looking for his phone, suddenly becoming aware that he said almost nothing throughout the interaction. Not that it has been a complex dialogue, filled with intricacies. They’ve barely exchanged a few words.
“Chuuya, I… yeah, okay.”
The front pocket was it, Dazai thought, finally reaching for it, and unlocking his scathed phone. The detective was never too careful with his physical possessions, except for one, that pendant of his, but that piece of jewelry couldn’t get damaged easily. So the phone was… ah, his poor phone. Dazai unlocked it with a fingerprint, glancing over the outgoing messages.
Brain slowing down, even more, a touch of panic, fear, and, if only a little, amusement? Did he… did he really text that? And did… did Chuuya actually…
“If this is one of your games or tricks, I’m out. You have five minutes, Mackerel.”
Smirking to himself, still standing by the front door, Dazai focused on taking his shoes off. He couldn’t help but notice Chuuya’s designer dress shoes there, too, and a tiny smile grazed over his face. A Port Mafia Executive, the formidable Chuuya Nakahara, “visiting” a traitor in the middle of the night, most likely to kill, yet still taking his shoes off by the door. God forbid he drags any dirt in.
“Chuuya. Hello,” uttered Dazai. He couldn’t trust himself to really say much more at this point. Staring back at him, the bluest eyes in the world, still ten feet apart, from the yellowish blur of the kitchen, only seemed cruel in their beauty. Not a touch of the usual dismal bitterness, though. Was Chuuya worried?
“Dazai. Come on. You can’t just text “slitting wrists, thinking of you. Feel free to visit!’ with a damn smiley face, and then expect me to do nothing. Fucking… fucking explain yourself!”
Ah. So that’s what the pain in his left hand was about. Only now it dawned upon the detective that his left hand had been hurting for quite some time now, and the bandages no longer held their pristine white. It was too dark to see but… they felt wet. Right, so that what’s he’s been up to tonight after Michiko the waitress told him to go home.
Chuuya’s eyes now glanced at Dazai’s hand, instantly filling with… what is that emotion? Disgust? Horror? While Dazai was pondering over the nature of Chuuya’s facial expressions, he didn’t have the brain capacity to register that the PM executive made his way towards the detective. Now standing so much closer, close enough to reach to his disgustingly wet hand, close enough to SEE what Dazai’s been doing earlier… Shit, nobody should REALLY see him like this, especially not…
Chuuya reached for Dazai’s left hand, carefully, barely even touching it, with a very well-contained fear in his ocean-blue eyes. Oh, how beautiful those eyes are, Osamu would’ve loved to gaze into them for hours and hours on end… AH! A sudden sharp pain pierced through his damaged limb, nervous endings telling Dazai’s slowed-down brain that Chuuya was touching his wrist.
“Idiot… At least you can still walk. Can you feel your hands, fingers?”
“I… yes. These… these aren’t… these aren’t…. Not lethal, Chuuya, these are… horizontal, not vertical. I’m…”
“Yeah, okay. First aid kit?”
“Bathroom, above the sink.”
As the foggy, in his limited perception, the slim figure made its way into the bathroom, Dazai finally let himself step into his apartment. The usual mess around the futon, made of the myriad of empty liquor bottles and takeout leftovers, pilling itself upon the stacks of a variety of books, no longer bothered him. In fact, it has been about a decade since it even so much as made him wonder if maybe he should be tidier.
Chuuya’s return announced himself with a loud thud of the first-aid kit on the kitchen counter.
“If you can still walk, make use of those stupid legs of yours, Dazai, and. COME. HERE.” Chuuya’s voice seeped with annoyance and something else, barely detectible, that seemed a little too much like… Dazai couldn’t put his finger on it. Literally, even. He just began to register that his left hand’s fingers started going numb.
Dazai stepped toward Chuuya with caution, typical to drunken individuals in his particular predicament. What he meant by “predicament”, he, of course, didn’t bother to wonder. This wouldn’t be the first time he tried to open his veins, after all, but it’s been years at this point. As if he was feeling nostalgic for his past attempts.
As far as suicide methods go, cutting your wrists is somewhat ineffective. It is painful, first, it takes forever – at least two hours – to bleed out enough to die, and if you’re not sitting in a warm tub, then the blood might clot. Then there is the whole issue of cutting deep enough. There are a lot of, almost too many, veins, arteries, and overall blood vessels in a human hand. If one or two are damaged, blood flow finds its way around it. To cut deep enough to bleed out, one would need to cut through the tendons, so very few people can do it efficiently simply because it hurts. A lot. Gradually losing a sense of one’s own body is unpleasant, but it’s much more likely to pass out, and, if sitting in a tub, drown. Bleeding out like this takes too long, while keeping being saved is a high possibility. Dazai stopped seriously trying to cut his veins when he was about eighteen years old, maybe even earlier.
Finally making his way to the kitchen, Dazai plopped himself upon a chair, cautiously keeping his hand, his arms, under the table that stood in the middle of the kitchen.
“Is Chuuya going to patch me up then?”
“Like you don’t know. Of course.”
Nakahara circled the table to stand behind Dazai and, despite all his visual annoyance, reached over the detective’s left hand with such care and caution that it almost hurt more than the cuts themselves. Chuuya put Dazai’s hand on top of the table, trying to assess the damage done to the skin of the carbon-based shell that was Dazai’s body. The situation didn’t feel real at all. Not until Nakahara held his wrists with such care.
An exasperated sigh left Chuuya’s mouth as he looked over Dazai’s cuts: “Oh, mackerel.” Dazai felt himself shudder when instead of an expected punch, a slap, or at least an angry comment, Chuuya hugged him from behind. Putting his hand across the detective’s neck and chest, Nakahara’s breathing shook a little (and maybe even his form, but Dazai couldn’t be sure, too drunk). The warmth of Chuuya’s body, standing so close to him, holding him, left Osamu feeling…. Feeling. That was a rarity on its own. The detective hasn’t really “felt” much these days. Or ever, for that matter.
Chuuya finally let go of Dazai, slowly unclutching his arms from around him. His breath grazed Dazai’s ear, and if the latter weren’t this far gone into whatever the hell this state of his was, he would’ve registered it better. Nakahara, still standing behind Dazai, unsheathed his knife and reached over to cut the bloody bandages from the detective’s hand. Dazai could almost hear Chuuya curse under his breath, but he could tell the Executive was trying NOT to express his frustration and anger. Not to voice it, not to show it. Just another very Chuuya thing to do.
“Dazai, does it hurt?”
“…”
It always felt a little… odd, when Chuuya treated him so gently. It didn’t make sense somehow, why would Slug not just pour antiseptic over his exposed cuts instead of softly touching them with a damp cloth? The former would hurt more, and that’s what he deserves, really. Of course, Chuuya is very, painfully almost, human, and this is the sort of thing that humans do. The kinder ones at least.
Chuuya lowered himself into a chair next to the detective to clean the cuts on Dazai’s left hand. These were, as he mentioned earlier, horizontal, but deep, deeper than usual. The vein… was it salvageable? It should be, right? He wasn’t thinking as he was cutting earlier. Hospitals seemed…
“The vein’s fine, don’t even need to drown it out, but I need to sew it up right now.”
It’s fine then, and worrying is excessive, but then why, while he was glancing at his ex-partner, Dazai could witness an expression of relief on Chuuya’s face? Frankly, he couldn’t even fully believe that Slug was here. It felt like a dream, or something out of one, where a person, your person is… Dazai did text him, after all, so why did he feel as if…. Ah. His thoughts are getting scrambled. Mind, slowing down even more. Just focusing on the sound of Chuuya’s breathing would be enough, was enough. And no, this wasn’t fear or panic. Dazai Osamu never could feel something as basic as that.
A sharp pain pierced Dazai’s senses – and when did Chuuya learn how to do this kind of stuff? – A circular needle went into the detective’s skin. Sawing up is never pleasant, but he was usually out for this part of the process in the past. Cutting his veins, well that’s a little basic, isn’t it? He read recently that suicides are usually very monogamous toward a method of inflicting death, trying to go out, in the same way, each time. But then again, Alvarez who wrote that, seemed to contradict himself right then and there, in his own book: for example, Silvia Plath tried a new method each time. Dazai fancied himself a versatile kind of person. Drowning, cutting, hanging... OUCH!
"Chuuya! Are you making it hurt on purpose?” Dazai whined through his drunken delirium.
“Stop twitching! Jesus, thank god the bleeding’s stopped, dumbass.”
Huh. Still no hurtful comments, no lecture… although Dazai supposed Chuuya was a little busy at the moment, so maybe later. Where did he learn how to do this again? Mori? Probably Mori. The doctor was usually the one to do this in the past, but it was Chuuya who would have to go get him. Dazai thought that if he’d been a better person, who would’ve felt guilt for making him at the time boyfriend go through that shit so many times. Was it when Chuuya started smoking?
“Dazai stop twitching, you’ve been through this many times, and I know this doesn’t hurt nearly as much as you pretend it does.”
Dazai pouted. “Chuuya’s so mean, and when I’m on death’s door! How cruel!”
“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” The words left Chuuya’s mouth before he could stop them.
Ah. There it is. Maybe not later. Chuuya would be angry, wouldn’t he, but Dazai couldn’t bring himself to care. It had been a few months since they had seen each other, and yet, here he was, his red-headed miracle, helping like Dazai knew he would. Hoped, at least. Chuuya has always been generous, sometimes to a fault. And beautiful. So beautiful. The detective couldn’t help but stare at the redhead now, admitting to himself that he was just a little bit happy to see his former partner again.
The executive, on the other hand, felt rather torn on what his opinion on this “reunion” of theirs was. There were altogether thirteen horizontal cuts on Dazai’s left hand. Chuuya counted them the second he cleaned the wounds from the blood, trying to access the damage. The main three, right in the middle of the wrist, were the deepest, so probably were inflicted last. It seemed like they were made with a small, but not too sharp knife – a part of a wine key, maybe? Dazai did come from a bar, after all, and it’s not like Mackerel carried weapons on him. Chuuya shivered; little blades that came with wine keys weren’t sharp at all – to cut yourself with it, and this deeply, you would have to apply a lot of pressure. He didn’t want to think of Dazai doing it to himself (again), even though they were now technically enemies.
The deepest cut started bleeding a little again, after being pinched between Chuuya’s fingers. The edges of the cut skin must’ve stung, Nakahara thought, so he did his best not to inflict more pain on his ex-partner. Who would have known that Mori’s insistence on every important PM member learning how to provide first aid (which ranged from giving SPR to cauterizing a wound of a torn-off limb) would pay off like this? The executive refused to wonder why he specifically received extra training on how to deal with self-inflicted wounds and damages (not that there was much to wonder about, though). Right now, Chuuya was just glad that the idiot Mackerel hadn’t tried hanging himself tonight. That one would have been more difficult to interfere with.
“Alright, one down, twelve more to go,” Chuuya almost whispered. “Although I will only need to stitch these three here,” he pointed to the deepest cuts, “and the rest, I’ll just clean and dress. Your bandages will do the trick… Oi, Dazai! Wake up.” Chuuya raised his voice at the detective, who, despite his desire to ogle Chuuya for as long as he could, had started to visibly yawn and lean more toward the table. “I want to go to bed just as much as you do, so don’t you dare fall asleep!”
Dazai tried to find the energy to say something snarky or teasing back but settled for a mere “okay.” No reason to annoy somebody who is helping you, he supposed, even if it is your favorite hat rack. For the time being, at least.
To say that Chuuya was exhausted would be an understatement of the year. It’s been an excruciatingly long week (or more like a month) for the executive. Some anonymous criminal groups have been consistently attacking the Port Mafia’s vital locations over the course of the last two months. They appeared as a series of random robberies, potentially by some young delinquents. Yet, their timing was just a little too well-coordinated and execution a little too precise, so after a while, it became clear that none of these were accidents. Naturally, it was the Executive’s job to find them and deal with them. The last thing Chuuya wanted to do was to visit his ex-partner at two in the morning, to save him from yet another suicide attempt. What a way to spend the night! His hands were steady, well, steady enough, courtesy of the wine he decided to drink a glass of while he was waiting for the detective to crawl home. Why did Dazai even have wine? He hates the stuff and usually goes for something stronger like whiskey, or if the smell was any indicator, gin.
Chuuya was just finishing up at the armory that had been hit just earlier tonight when he received that text from Dazai. The January weather was too cold to take his bike, so jumped into his sports car and rushed over. He didn’t have the exact location, but the half of the former Double Black didn’t need to know it anyway. Despite the four-year gap, and only having seen each other three times since, Nakahara still understood Dazai’s thought process only too well. The only other place he couldn’t have been at tonight was Lupin, but Chuuya didn’t fool himself that there was anybody except Sakunosuke that Dazai would’ve been thinking about while drinking there, especially on this day. The ADA dorm rooms were the only logical conclusion.
About fifteen minutes passed in relative silence, interrupted by Dazai’s occasional whines that the needle in Chuuya’s hands was extra prickly, followed by Chuuya rolling his eyes and huffing. It didn’t escape Nakahara’s attention that Dazai was staring, but he chose not to comment on it. If he began expressing his take on the situation, he would no longer be able to control his anger and frustration. Somebody in Dazai’s shoes did not need that right now.
Finally, Chuuya was done with stitching up the three deepest cuts, sanitizing the other ones, and applying a fast-healing ointment on them. Both men knew these would scar, but it wasn’t really a concern when it came to Dazai, not anymore. It was an open secret that the detective’s body was covered in poorly healed traces of wounds.
The redhead unrolled fresh bandages, carefully wrapping them around Dazai’s arm. There it was again, that softness and care, so very different from how Chuuya would usually act around him. Dazai wondered if he might be so drunk, he was dreaming; Chuuya’s touch seemed so soft it almost made him want to cry. Almost. Little moments like these seemed too precious to ruin with anything as primitive as human emotions.
“Alright. All done, Dazai,” Chuuya said with an exhale as he finished, looking directly at the detective. They were still sitting behind the table in the tiny kitchen, chairs next to each other, but now Chuuya turned sideways, resting his elbow on the wooden surface. Dazai forced himself to slowly turn to his ex-partner, too. A headache was creeping in at this point, and he suddenly realized how thirsty and tired he was. Putting his right hand on the table and leaning on it, his usually straight spine hutched. Dazai appeared spent, exhausted by something greater than insomnia.
As if reading his mind, Chuuya got up, went toward the sink, and poured water into a kettle. What was he… Tea, he was making him tea! As Chuuya was waiting for the water to boil, he came back to hand Dazai a glass of cold water. Moving the left hand appeared to be a challenge, and as Dazai was about to reach for the glass with his right hand, he noticed he was still clutching the matches in his fist. Right, he never did find his keys, did he? Was he just sitting like this the entire time?
Letting go of the pack, not looking up at Chuuya, Dazai reached over to accept the water, downing it almost instantly. His new fast-boiling kettle, a New Year’s gift from Atsushi, has already turned itself off. Chuuya moved again toward the sink, taking two cups from the dish rack, and filling them with hot water.
“Tea is..?”
“Top shelf.”
It was just a tea bag of peppermint tea that Chuuya’s kind hands brought over to the table; too tired to prepare loose leaf. Dazai smiled to himself, thinking that Chuuya probably wouldn’t even offer to make him loose-leaf tea right now; he must be seeping with rage just below his gorgeous surface. Maybe not rage, but some explosive emotion certainly. Dazai didn’t feel like trying his luck at the moment and annoying his ex-partner more.
So instead, Dazai reluctantly lifted his empty gaze. Chuuya, sitting in front of him, tired, in the same Port Mafia suit he always wore, rolled up sleeves and no hat for once (must’ve left it by the door, near his shiny shoes), didn’t seem real. The Demon Prodigy’s predictions always came true, yes, yet he still wasn’t sure that Chuuya would show. Hell, he wasn’t sure that Slug would even read his text. Yet here he was, dressing his self-inflicted wounds and making him tea at two-thirty in the morning!
Chuuya took a sip from his cup of tea. Glancing over the fresh bandages, then lifting his gaze at Dazai, he cautiously said:
“Come on. Talk to me, Mackerel.”
He seemed uncharacteristically calm now, a sharp contrast to thirty minutes ago when Dazai stumbled in. Maybe Chuuya wasn’t angry then? Or did he simply notice the matches and remember what day it was? Although, why would Chuuya keep track of something like that, anyway…
Instead of an answer, Dazai reached for Chuuya’s hand still lying on the table with his healthy, slightly trembling one. He took Chuuya’s fingers in his, not sure if the redhead would pull away; but the Executive squeezed them tight in response. Classic Chuuya, he supposed, but this tiny gesture still made that useless organ in his chest ache. Releasing a small breath, Dazai looked Chuuya in the eyes and smiled a little. He even tried to make sure that, unlike his usual grins and smirks, whatever the expression that occurred on his face now, wasn’t corrupted.
“It’s just one of those nights, Slug. Th…” he paused, words refusing to come out. Eject, escape, pull on a mask, laugh, smile, make this a joke, his instincts yelled at him. Dazai gulped and forced himself to say, barely audibly: “Thank… you… khm, thank you, Chuuya. For coming and….” Christ, could he not utter a single sentence without stumbling? For all his usual eloquence, Dazai felt ridiculously tongue-tied. He felt a lump in his throat. Thanking Chuuya for tea would certainly make him cry. Dazai took a deep breath. This entire charade was just so like him. Attention-grabbing, probably, right? An excuse to see Chuuya?
His train of thought, or whatever was left of it, was interrupted by Chuuya’s soft sigh. He didn’t sound annoyed. Good.
“You knew I would come, Dazai.”
“Sure, yeah, I texted you.”
“The wine. A cheap knock-off of a knock-off of my favorite, but still. It’s been here for at least a week. I can tell by the dust.”
Yes, of course, he could. Nakahara Chuuya was many things, but stupid was never one of them.
“Well, we both know how chibi gets if he doesn’t have his wine,” Dazai attempted to joke. Bad habits are hard to break, and a lifetime of wearing masks wouldn’t vanish so easily.
“Cut the crap, Dazai. I told you I’m leaving if this is one of your games. Explain yourself, or I promise, I’m going to punch you so hard your stupid stitches would open again, you damn Mackerel!”
Finally, a glimpse of the same old Chuuya, yelling the usual threats. Dazai felt himself relax a little bit. Nakahara clearly wasn’t going to treat him like he was made of glass, so maybe talking would be fine. He owed his ex-partner that much.
“Okay. I felt it again about a week ago and thought that… well, it would be nice to see you…”
Wow, he must still be drunk then, Dazai thought, to say something like this. Although even the truth didn’t feel like the truth. Sometimes the detective felt that the only mystery he’d never solve is what exactly he was feeling at any given moment. All the reactions always came later, after the fact, for him. He could never fully grasp if he even meant to lie to somebody or not, so used to putting on a face, playing games, pulling the strings. Making people do what he wanted them to do was his specialty, and yet, right now, he didn’t want to manipulate Chuuya. Even if that’s exactly what he ended up doing.
“It’s today, right? January 10th? Well, 11th by now, but still.”
Chuuya, Chuuya. His Chuuya. Ever so attentive and caring. Of course, he would remember, that’s probably why he came, too. Dazai would have liked to think that he could’ve predicted as much, but…
“Do you want a cigarette, Slug?”
“Definitely.”
Chuuya reached into his coat to pull out a pack of his Cleopatra Goldens (Egyptian? Really, Chuuya? Do they even sell them in Yokohama?), and let go of Dazai’s hand, took out smokes for them both. Dazai lit a match, ignoring the edged pain in his left wrist, and moved close to the executive to light a cigarette for him. When Nakahara inhaled, holding in that first breath, Dazai leaned in to spark his smoke off Chuuya’s. Breathed in, gazing into the blue eyes that now were just mere inches away from him. The executive breathed out and the smoke blew into Dazai’s face, clouding his vision for a moment. He didn’t move away.
“Stop trying to distract me, it’s not going to work, Dazai. Answer the question.”
With a theatrical sigh, the detective sat up, holding the cigarette between his fingers.
“Yes. It’s today. Five years now.”
A hint, no, more than a hint, a bold underlined expression of sorrow and empathy showed on Chuuya’s gorgeous face. How could he remain so breathtaking, even with bags under his eyes, and clearly ruffled hair? Always so kind and understanding, and Dazai, he was still playing his games, still manipulating… Could the truth be both truth and a lie? Could he mean both? He felt he didn’t deserve any of Chuuya’s warmth; but selfishly, he decided to accept it, nonetheless.
They sat in silence while they smoked, a couple of feet apart from each other, turned toward one another, knees barely but touching. Chuuya’s gaze wandered around the apartment a bit, glancing over the piles of books (as well as trash) Dazai had lying around practically everywhere. There was a lonely-looking plant by the window, a blue orchid, probably a gift from somebody. A minuscule pinch of jealousy hindered in Chuuya’s mind: somebody knew his ex-partner well enough to gift him flowers. And recently, for sure; Chuuya knew better than to assume that Dazai could take care of something living for too long. There was some morbid sense of humor in the thought. Ah, poor flower. It’ll wither away within a week.
Finishing his cigarette, Chuuya noticed that Dazai’s was now mostly ash. The man barely took two drags, it seemed. Sounds about right, making him smoke to be quiet. Although maybe he needed the silence for a moment. Breaking it seemed almost cruel, somehow, and so did pulling Dazai out of the trancelike state he seemed to now be in. Cautiously and with all the affection he could muster under the circumstances, Chuuya got up and softly said: “Alright, come on. Time to get you to bed. It’s almost 3 am.”
Dazai stirred, looking up, and murmured: “Will Chuuya stay…?”
Damn Mackerel.
“Yeah, I’ll stay, idiot. Go brush your teeth and at the very least wash your face, you stink.”
Obediently, Dazai attempted getting up, and, to his own surprise, didn’t topple over. Maybe the effects of all the alcohol were gradually receding. He dropped his unfinished cigarette into a nearly empty cup of tea, letting the liquid extinguish it fully. Burning alive, even with Chuuya by his side, didn’t appeal to Dazai at all.
As he made his way to the bathroom, closing (but not locking) the door behind him, Dazai looked in the mirror to assess… the damage, he supposed. Messy, unkempt hair, and not so much a human face, but an expression of a predicament stared back at him from the reflective surface. He learned over the sink, closed his eyes, and breathed in and out slowly. Five years since Odasaku’s death. And a day. He took off the opal pendant and put it by the sink.
He thought it wouldn’t hurt to shower but doing that with just one hand and fresh cuts on another didn’t seem quite feasible. He could, of course, ask Chuuya to help, but he wondered if that would cross a line of some sort. As much as he would’ve loved an opportunity to embarrass his chibi and tease him a bit as the latter helped him shower… ah, to hell with it!
“Chuuya!” he yelled, a little too vivaciously.
Nakahara appeared at the bathroom door almost too fast:
“What? Can’t find your toothbrush?”
“I need a shower,” Dazai said with a smile.
“Okay?”
“My cuts are so, so painful, Chuuya, and I’m still very inebriated! It’s your moral duty and an obligation to help me undress. And you wouldn’t want me to wet the bandages you so carefully applied, would you?” A mischievous smile crept on Dazai’s face.
Chuuya rolled his eyes, but not before he had a chance to blush for a brief second.
“Ugh, you must be feeling better than, idiot, since you’ve turned on this sad excuse for charm.”
“Chuuuyya! You won’t leave your partner helpless!”
“Ex-partner, and you’re not helpless.”
“I wouldn’t have called you here if I weren’t.”
Chuuya fell silent after that, wondering if Dazai meant the bathroom or the apartment. It didn’t really matter, he realized; for all Dazai’s…. Dazainess, tonight’s requests of his bore an undertone of genuine need rather than manipulation. Of course, it could be both or more, the Demon Prodigy never fell short of motives behind his actions; but the man in front of Chuuya was having a hard time standing up straight.
The hand was in bad shape, Chuuya knew that. Wetting it really wouldn’t be ideal. Making a mental note to drag Dazai’s ass to a doctor tomorrow (if he stuck around for that long, but that’s a thought for later) to have the cuts looked at by somebody with actual experience and knowledge on the matter, Chuuya glanced over Dazai one more time before nodding with an exasperated sigh.
Staying silent, Chuuya walked over to the tub first and turned on a faucet to run a bath for the bandaged idiot. Then he turned around, closed the distance between them, and began unbuttoning Dazai’s shirt. As he undid the last button, Dazai’s grin morphed into something almost distorted – undressing in front of anybody was always a challenge, and with Chuuya, well… maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all? It’s been so long since they’ve seen each other naked, too, he really didn’t know how the redhead would react to the new scars he’d see. The one on his stomach, for example, from a bullet that almost killed him a few months ago. Would Chuuya really care though? It was never an issue in the past, Nakahara never so much as commented on it. Dazai couldn’t tell why this was bothering him, but in his drunken state, he couldn’t quite keep all his masks on completely.
Chuuya’s hands were… warm. Soft. He took off his gloves earlier to stitch him up and didn’t bother putting them on yet. As he took off Dazai’s shirt, he paused for a second, glancing up at the detective, as if waiting for approval, before he reached down to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. Dazai didn’t make any snarky comments, for whatever reason, so Chuuya just motioned to him to pull them down, ignoring how seeing his ex-partner undressed still made him… nervous was the wrong word. Port Mafia executives do not get nervous.
Clothes off, save for the underwear and the bandages, Dazai probably would’ve shivered it if weren’t for Chuuya’s proximity. Suddenly a desire to tease became secondary, with a wish to merely observe Chuuya’s eyelashes taking center stage. The calming warmth of delicate fingers, now reaching for his neck, unwrapping the white cloths, provided much-needed comfort to the distraught detective. How long has it been since he touched the brunet like this, whatever this meant? The thought made him shiver a little, with a creeping sense of worry that the touch would stop just as abruptly, and Dazai would be cold again, no matter the rising steam from the hot water filling the tub, but Chuuya’s hands didn’t leave him, merely moved to his chest.
“I’m unwrapping everything, okay? Except for the left hand.”
Now looking directly at Chuuya, Dazai couldn’t help but crack a tiny smile before he murmured “Yes.” Still so considerate, this Chibi of his, even after all this time, even to him. Asking for consent to take off bandages. This was… somehow almost too kind. He was the only one who ever did, really. Yosano always just ripped them off, with a promise to supply him with more later. Maybe it was her way of showing her contempt for those who don’t value life like she used to say. Or maybe she simply didn’t care enough about him. And the one-night stands, well, those did whatever they wanted to him, and he let them, out of some sense comparable with morbid curiosity. Nobody ever really hurt him, after all, and he never had to see them again. Still, Chuuya’s inquiry shouldn’t have surprised the detective – chibi has always been an exception to every rule. Dazai refused to wonder why such a simple question would cause a stir in his desolate heart.
When Chuuya got rid of all the bandages, he turned around to throw them into the trash and also to give Dazai some semblance of privacy as the latter pulled down his underwear and climbed into the tub. The hot water felt nice on his scarred skin. He sat down, keeping his left hand above the water, and resting it on the bathtub’s side, pulling his knees to his chest. Chuuya came back a moment later, kneeling before Dazai and rolling up his shirt’s sleeves for the second time tonight.
“Is the water too hot?” Chuuya cautiously wondered.
“You should check for yourself if you’re that curious, Chibi.”
“Not tonight, Osamu.”
Dazai stiffened at the sound of his first name. It wasn’t something he really heard often, if ever. His coworkers at the Agency weren’t that close to him to use his first name and his friends… those weren’t around anymore. Having Chuuya say it again, after such a long time, in a tone that sounded both serious and caring, made Dazai feel exposed in an entirely different way than being naked in front of someone did. Trying to contain his quickly crumbling façade, Dazai chirped:
“Some other night then? Will Chuuya take a bath with me?”
Instead of getting annoyed, the redhead only smirked.
“If you’re nice enough.”
Interesting. No snide remarks, no shouting or yelling. A storm was coming, certainly, but even Dazai’s brilliant mind couldn’t predict when, not after drowning in liters of alcohol. Dazai knew Chuuya should be angry, so it felt strange that his chibi wasn’t screaming yet. Maybe things have changed enough for Chuuya to feel as if he hadn’t the right to give Dazai a lecture. Was Chuuya even really here, pouring shampoo on his head and slowly massaging it? Melting a little (or a lot) into the feeling of Nakahara’s hands rubbing his scalp, Dazai closed his eyes, allowing his mind to take a break, even if for a mere minute. Pity Chuuya wouldn’t climb into a tub with him, though.
“What counts as nice?”
“The opposite of whatever the hell you are,” Chuuya replied. His voice betrayed the tones of bemusement. Making sure he didn’t wet Dazai’s left hand, he reached for the showerhead and turning it on, started washing off the foamy substance from Dazai’s dark locks.
“So, what, you?”
“I’m not the opposite of you, Dazai.”
That’s incorrect, Dazai thought. The opposite of him would be somebody kind, caring, and… human, which Chuuya definitely was. More so than many others, really. There was no use arguing about this, of course, since diving into a bottomless pit of despair after he would eventually win the argument – like he always did when it came to these things – didn’t seem like that appealing an option. Spending the night in Chuuya’s arms did. If he’d stay. He said he’d stay, he certainly did, right?
His train of thought was interrupted again by Chuuya’s insistence on being attentive and caring. Horrible, really. Beautiful, loyal, and kind, and to top it off, hotter than this water was when he first stepped in it.
“Does it hurt to move your hand?”
“It will for at least a week, probably longer. It does every time.” He could suddenly feel Chuuya’s discomfort with the notion. Familiarity with self-harm always left one a little numb to the idea, making one forget that, for whatever ridiculous, unfathomable reason, not everyone in the world wants to die.
Dazai’s answer stirred something in Chuuya akin to fury as he instantly decided that he’d do the lecturing part now.
“Will you ever stop acting like such a damn idiot, Dazai? … move to the center a bit. Do you have any conditioner?” Chuuya spat out, grabbing the bottle. “What if I weren’t available? Or asleep? Sit still, I said. Or drunk somewhere, too, and couldn’t drive? You’re lucky those bastards robbing our armories don’t run on a 9-to-5... Or what if I were too late?”
Now he was just angrily running his hands throw Dazai’s hair, covering it in conditioner. Even that somehow made the detective’s heart melt and knees weaken. If he weren’t sitting already, he’d certainly want to find a chair.
“Dazai you bastard, you want me to live out the rest of my days feeling guilty that I missed a text from a drunken idiot one night?!? I SAID SIT STILL I’m going to wash off the stuff from your hair. FUCKING HELL.”
Now Chuuya sounded furious, in his whispered yelling – being considerate again, not wanting to wake up the neighbors (or being clever, wouldn’t want the ADA to know that a Port Mafia Executive was currently washing their most obnoxious of detectives). Somewhere in the back of his clouded mind, Dazai wondered if this was what being cared for felt like.
“Chibi I’m sor…”
“Shut up I’m not finished. If you wanted to see me so badly, could’ve just invited me out for drinks or something, dumbass. Like normal people do! And it’s been forever since I’ve seen you, what if I didn’t…” Chuuya paused suddenly, continuing to shower Dazai’s now completely clean hair. Realizing that, he turned the water off, kneeling next to the tub again, looking directly at the brunet. “And I know these weren’t exactly… lethal, even you wouldn’t cut deep enough to do irreparable damage with all your hate of pain, but FUCK! WHERE IS YOUR FACEWASH?!”
Nakahara began to sound exasperated. Shitty Dazai, what was he thinking? The relief he felt earlier about stitching up the wounds (and doing a pretty good job at that, Mori would approve) evaporated in a second. The anger and frustration he had been trying to contain were now rushing to the surface. So much for trying not to yell at this suicidal maniac, Chuuya thought. No matter, Mackerel needed to hear this from somebody, might as well be him.
“You’re damn lucky I know now how to treat self-inflicted cuts, too. You need to see a doctor tomorrow, by the way, I’m not an expert on this shit.”
Dazai almost groaned. He’ll see a doctor alright, probably several feet away from him in the office, and that doctor will most definitely give him a similar lecture, if not straight-up murder him instead. Aside from Yosano, however, he really didn’t want to even interact with anyone from the medical field. Doctors annoyed him, trying to keep him… well, alive, and for what? But Chuuya seemed so… upset? Witnessing it was much harder in reality than Dazai ever thought it could be, for whatever reason, especially after all this time.
“Chuuya… can we… can we talk about it tomorrow?”
“You bet your flat suicidal ass we’re gonna talk about it tomorrow, Dazai! FUCK. Close your eyes,” Chuuya poured water over Dazai’s face. Exhaling, the redhead felt the last bit of this sudden anger leave him, exhaustion creeping in. Christ was he tired. Dazai’s offer to spend the night was a sudden, but not an unwelcome one. Thinking he’d ponder on why he accepted so casually, he knew he was staying over just not to fall asleep at the wheel.
When the water was drained from the tub, the oddly soothing silence from before returned between them. Dazai was still sitting, almost still, with his left hand dry, while Chuuya poured water over him to wash off the remaining soap and foam. Something prompted him to run his hand through Dazai’s wet hair once again, lingering in it for a second too long. Dazai almost leaned into the touch, but Chuuya pulled his hand away, turned off the water, and reached for a towel to hand it to Dazai.
“Dry yourself, I’ll go make the futon.”
The hot water sobered Dazai up a little, so getting out of the tub didn’t seem like that much of a struggle. Stepping out, he wrapped the towel around his hips, lingering in front of the mirror for a second before he took his toothbrush. Being clean made him feel a little better, at least. The overconsuming despair from earlier hasn’t let up, but at least released its crushing hold on him, allowing him to breathe. Although, it was probably the consequence of having Chuuya’s warm presence here. Dazai took out a box of fresh bandages, but then decided against putting them on – with his left arm still hurting and not very mobile, he’d spend forever doing it by himself. And he was so tired. Avoiding looking at himself in the mirror, Dazai pulled on his sleep yukata and stepped out of the bathroom.
Chuuya, the neat freak that he was, already changed the sheets on the futon, and washed the teacups from earlier, now sitting in a chair. Chuuya’s cigarettes and Dazai’s matches were still sitting on the now clean kitchen table. Seeing Dazai come in, the redhead got up, extending his hand to the detective.
“Let’s put you to bed, idiot.”
The walls weren’t spinning as much as he’d thought they would when Dazai lay down. Still holding Chuuya’s hand, who was now sitting next to him, and for some reason not lying down as well, Dazai said with a whine and a hint of worry:
“Did Chuuya change his mind?”
Laughing, the executive replied: “I want to shower, too, Mackerel.”
Relieved, but with showy grumpiness, Dazai remarked: “If you’d have gotten in with me when I offered, you could’ve been going to sleep now. But instead, I now have to wait for you to come back. Chuuya is certainly being cruel.”
“Jesus I’ll be RIGHT BACK, calm down,” the redhead said roughly, but there was no malice in his tone. Chuuya wanted to wash away the exhausting day as fast as possible, and crawl into a warm bed with his… well, maybe not his exactly, but definitely a dumbass. And maybe he needed this just as much as Dazai did. If it weren’t for the circumstances, he would say he was almost glad to see Dazai again.
A shower really didn’t take all that long. Chuuya borrowed Dazai’s toothbrush, not worrying at all about hygiene even after all this time. No part of Dazai ever felt repulsive to him, and this was something they used to do all the time in the past anyway. Chuuya put on one of Dazai’s t-shirts that he borrowed, and he definitely wasn't thinking about how it was too long for him. Why did this shitty Mackerel have to be so freaking tall? But at least it was roomy enough to sleep in.
Dazai was still awake, somehow, when Chuuya came back. After he turned off the lights, he made his way to the futon, lying down on his back. He wrapped his arms around Dazai; the detective rested his head on Chuuya’s shoulder and put his bandaged hand around Chuuya’s torso. The redhead smiled, running his fingers through Dazai’s still damp hair – some things never change, Chuuya thought, Mackerel always wanting to be cuddled. Nakahara almost didn’t want to say anything anymore, and just slipped into the oblivion of sleep, but something made him ask nevertheless:
“Dazai. Are you feeling better now?” Silly question, really, but he couldn’t help himself.
“I... I’m not feeling worse. That’s because of you.” Dazai's reply was barely audible, his face turned into Chuuya’s chest.
“Not feeling worse is still bad though.”
“It’ll pass by the time the morning’s here.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have asked me to come,” Nakahara whispered, hand still caressing Dazai’s hair, so soft and fluffy after a shower.
“I would have. I missed you, Chuuya. I wanted to see you.”
Hearing Dazai demonstrate any type of emotion was always odd, and usually made Chuuya look for a catch, but now, in a half-dazed delirium, Dazai had no reason to lie. Reminding himself that the detective is also still very drunk, Chuuya decided to do nothing with this tiny bit of what seemed like important information. He tightened his grip on Dazai, pulling him even closer, and softly kissed his forehead, feeling the detective enforce his hold on Chuuya, too.
“Sleep, Osamu. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Engulfed in Chuuya’s warmth, feeling his hot breath near his face, Dazai finally allowed himself to fall asleep.