Chapter Text
"Chuuya." Kouyou calls out, just as he's about to march out of the front of the building with the small army of grunts he has assembled.
"Kouyou." He answers, tips his head in a bow to her, but he's cautious. She should be near Mori's chambers, not up here with him. Something must be wrong.
"The… Contingency we were worried about. It is no longer going to pose a problem." Kouyou says, voice light, and Chuuya raises a brow. The 'contingency' in question had been, of course, Dazai. It had set Chuuya's teeth somewhat on edge that the man had been absent from yesterday's stand-off at the hospital. He's been half expecting to round any unassuming corner at headquarters to find the bastard leaning against a wall, all nonchalant-like, with a dagger covered in Mori's blood held in one slender fist.
"You seem sure of this." Chuuya answers instead, doesn't need Kouyou to know how much he still unpicks every small detail about the ex-mafioso, and Kouyou's lips turn up.
It isn't a smile though. Her face is grim.
"Chuuya. I am telling you this… As an equal out of respect. Dazai is not a worry to us because Dazai is currently under sedation at Yokohoma University Hospital-" Chuuya feels his heart clench, the traitorous thing- "--been shot. They are not sure when he may wake."
The floor beneath Chuuya's boots cracks.
Kouyou's lips thin.
Oh, Chuuya thinks, as he turns away from her and walks into the crossfire. So this is what it feels like to lose.
He feels like all he can hear is static. He's vaguely aware that he has orders to give but can't quite form the words to do so. The grunts seem to fall into formation anyways, and Chuuya isn't sure if it's minutes or hours or seconds that pass before he's hearing reports that the ADA have infiltrated and back up is needed from the front lines.
He's pretty much on auto-pilot as he's shouting down his phone to Higuchi. He's halfway through barking out new orders when–
"Oho! I can't let you do that, fancy hat boy."
Chuuya turns slowly. He can see the smile on the other detective's face even from this distance, and his eye twitches.
"By my estimate, your involvement will lower our chances of victory. I am here to stop you."
Chuuya should laugh. Chuuya thinks he does laugh. Chuuya is aware of the detective, and he's not exactly someone Chuuya wants to make an active enemy of.
But he's tired of mind games. Chuuya's skin itches, Upon the Tainted Sorrow curling in his gut.
"Are you serious? I know you're kind of a big deal in the Detective Agency, but I doubt you're much of a fighter." Chuuya says - never let it be said he isn't patient, despite what Kouyou always says. The other detective just grins wider.
"Maybe… But you've lost to Dazai before, haven't you?" Ranpo asks, voice just tickling the side of taunting, and Chuuya– Chuuya snaps.
He can feel the concrete already crumble under him as the energy of Upon the Tainted Sorrow pools to the surface of his skin. He's frayed at the edges enough already - his leader is dying, Kouyou is still walking her usual tightrope of secrets and deception, and the one constant he had, Dazai being as unpredictable but unsurprising as always, has been blown to pieces.
Chuuya's fighting for the life of an organisation he wouldn't even be in if it weren't for the lanky bastard and his meddling, and now that's being thrown in his face? It's too much. Chuuya's launching himself into the air before he can think twice, and vaguely hears himself screaming.
It tears out of his throat as he plummets back down to earth. The detective's mouth is moving but Chuuya can't hear it over the whooshing past his ears.
He brings his fist out. He's going to pummel this little rat into the–
His fist hits something. It feels like molasses. Fear shoots up Chuuya's spine like an electric shot.
"Ya! I can't get my fist out!" His body feels weird, Upon the Tainted Sorrow and this new ability, whatever it is, crackling against his clothing. His insides feel turned in on themselves, the air punching out of his lungs.
//
Chuuya isn't tipsy, but the vintage wine does leave him appropriately buzzed as he mulls it in his glass, the liquid sliding down his throat sweet as honey.
He's happy. He may be drinking alone in a safehouse he's gotten used to sharing these past few months, but Chuuya has the sweet taste of victory on his tongue as he continues to drink through the bottle.
He pats down his front, frowning when he can't feel the familiar line of his phone. Chuuya isn't arrogant enough to think he can drive in this state, but he doesn't want to rely on public transport either. He sighs as he makes his way onto the street, his car lighting up the footpath as he unlocks it and rummages around the middle console for his mobile.
His hands finally curl around it, and he smiles to himself. He's kicking the door shut and dialing Higuchi's number when he finally hears it - the faint ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Ticktickticktickticktick–
Boom.
Chuuya's car goes up in flames. He's vaguely aware of the bumper flying some feet down the street. Higuchi is yelling at him down the line, having clearly picked up her own phone just as the blast went off.
The wine that had gone down so beautifully turns to acid in his mouth, the taste now bitter and vile. Chuuya's phone splinters in his grip.
//
What's only a few hours in the real world stretches out to nearly three weeks in the novel plot Chuuya has found himself in.
He splits from Ranpo at the first chance he gets, and for the first few days is happy to assimilate amongst the book characters. He picks out two murderers in as many days; one who tries to slit Chuuya's throat as he sits along the riverside at night, another who offers Chuuya a poisoned crepe as he makes his way through the town square.
Chuuya doesn't mind people trying to kill him. That's been his whole life, after all. If it isn't external forces then its his own ability, Arahabaki, threatening to tear through him and consume him as the God destroys anything in its path.
The depression lasts a little longer than usual, but Chuuya figures he has a bit of a right to mope.
Ranpo catches up with him about a week later, his hair haggard and, despite the sunken set of his tired eyes, a wide grin on his face.
He has an armful of various sweets, and holds out a hotdog for Chuuya. There's mustard and tomato topping it in perfect squiggly lines, and Chuuya thinks it's the best thing he's smelt in months. He takes the offered snack, and with a side glance to the detective, takes a bite.
"Oh… I see." Ranpo says, mouth spitting out cake crumbs around his words. Chuuya gives him a distasteful look, and doesn't show any inclination that he cares for what the detective has deduced.
Chuuya finishes the hotdog in silence, and Ranpo lies on the bench next to him to doze.
Chuuya wonders if Mori is still alive. If Kouyou knows of his predicament. If Dazai is awake.
He nods his head down, and over it flies an arrow.
"I've had enough of this shit." He sighs, as he raises his head again and his would-be assassin disappears behind the treeline.
The detective grins again.
"Ah, I was wondering when I would get to work with Nakahara Chuuya of the Port Mafia! Let's go." He says, and Chuuya begrudgingly follows the other man.
When the book finally spits them out Chuuya stumbles as he recognises his surroundings; an office in the ADA building, and a raccoon looking at him with bright eyes as the familiar feeling of Upon the Tainted Sorrow curls around his rib cage again.
He lets out a sigh of relief.
"Nakahara! We should do this again." Ranpo says behind him, who has also pulled a cookie out from somewhere, and Chuuya grimaces. He's not entirely sure what the detective is referring to - Fighting one another? Being sucked into a mystery novel? Working together? - but he has no interest in repeating any of it any time soon.
He straightens his hat over his hair.
"I have a boss to protect. Get in my way again and I will kill you." Chuuya says, though the words are without malice.
He makes to leave, but Ranpo's voice calls out after him.
"He's in the ICU ward!"
Chuuya bristles. Fucking nosy detective's.
//
Dazai closes his phone and looks out of the hospital window along the Yokohoma skyline. The bandages over his body, while welcome, feel wrong. It's not how he usually dresses them: the doctors covered him in the gauze once he was finally wheeled out of the operating room and into his small private room in the ICU.
There's a sigh at the foot of his bed, and Dazai smiles.
"Chuuya." He croons, and Chuuya sends the other man a filthy look from under his eyelashes.
"You're a fuckwit." Chuuya tells him, voice veering a little on unkindness, and Dazai pouts.
"Chuuya," he wines, tries to move himself up the bed but even that hurts, "don't be mean. I'm in pain."
"Shush. You get another morphine shot in thirty minutes." Chuuya says, tapping his fingers against the medical files he's been reading.
"Oh? And what else can you tell me?" Dazai asks, though he already knows the damage; knew it the second the bullet tore through him like a hot knife to butter, but he still feels a bit on the backfoot, and needs something (anything) to bring him back to earth.
"Ah… Bad news, shitty Dazai. Seems you have been diagnosed with-" Chuuya flicks through the pages for effect, "-extreme incurable idiocy. And it's terminal." Chuuya says, slaps the file closed again, and Dazai knows he's being made fun of, but neither of them are laughing. Chuuya's face is hard, and despite standing mere feet away, Dazai hasn't felt distance like this between them since–
He pushes that thought out of his head. The vision of Chuuya standing amongst the flames of his car is one that already haunts too many of his nightmares.
"I have to go." Chuuya announces, more to the room than to Dazai, and Dazai sighs.
The smaller man pulls on his coat from where he had draped it at Dazai's feet across the bed. The weight of it, once lifted, makes Dazai feel overwhelmingly vulnerable.
"Hey." Chuuya says, comes to a pause at the doorway. Dazai quirks his brow, wonders if he's doing to get a show again like he did in the basement those months ago.
"Put yourself in a sniper's eye line on purpose again, and I'll make sure it is a lethal shot." Chuuya tells him, doesn't bother to turn around, and then he's gone.
//
Dazai gets discharged from hospital.
Chuuya watches Dazai's name flick up on his phone screen, the call ringing and ringing and ringing until it hits a pre-recorded voicemail.
//
The stool next to Chuuya moves as he finishes his mouthful of chablis, the pairing prefect for the sashimi he has picked out for himself.
"You're in a good mood." Dazai says, chopsticks reaching over onto Chuuya's plate and reaching out for the crab that had been perched at the side as Chuuya ate.
"I'm always in a good mood when you aren't around, Dazai. And now it's ruined." Chuuya sighs, watches as Dazai smiles over the crab in his mouth.
Sitting together again isn't uncomfortable, but the air between them is awkward. Chuuya drains his wine glass and Dazai picks bits off Chuuya's plate, the two of them sitting in silence.
Dazai pays, which Chuuya raises a brow at. Dazai refuses to meet Chuuya's eye, his hand absentmindedly brushing against his healing bullet wound.
So that's how they're playing it.
It's cool when they step out onto the street, wind brushing past Chuuya's neck where he isn't quick enough to pull up the collar of his coat and he shivers. Dazai falls into step next to him, his hands pocketed in his own coat.
The walk back to the safe house is brisk. Chuuya feels like he's choking the closer they get to the street where it all went up in smoke, and even Dazai falters for a second as he unlocks the place with his own key and gestures Chuuya inside.
It's lived in, as much as anything owned by a man like Dazai can be. Chuuya had assumed he'd dumped the place in the years between burying his allegiance to the Port Mafia and resurfacing at the ADA. It's all a little raw, coming to the bare-faced truth that Dazai chose to keep this place out of all the others for himself.
"You could run a duster over this place once in a while, you lazy shit." Chuuya comments - because that's easier than noticing the antique hat rack still off to the side where Chuuya's old coat still hangs, easier than following Dazai to the kitchen where he's pulling out a bottle of scotch, easier than trying to control the flush high on his cheeks as Dazai undoes his cufflinks and rolls his sleeves to reveal bare arms.
Dazai offers Chuuya his own glass, the ice clinking against the expensive crystal. The liquid goes down hot, settling low in his belly.
Dazai is looking at him, face open and still, and Chuuya gulps a little too fast at his whisky, some of it spilling over the corner of his mouth. Dazai is there immediately, a thumb coming up to catch the liquid before it can spill down Chuuya's chin, and the dam breaks.
Chuuya places the glass on the bench and Dazai curls one long arm around Chuuya's waist, pulling him in close. Chuuya can hear his heartbeat in his ears as Dazai brings his thumb, still wet with the liquor, to his mouth.
"Fuck you." Chuuya spits, dizzy with lust, with anger, with longing, and Dazai grins.
"Such harsh words." Dazai breathes, and finally he's leaning down and pulling Chuuya into a kiss. Chuuya slides his hands up Dazai's chest, his waistcoat smooth under his palms, and Dazai can't hide the small whimper into Chuuya's mouth as his fingers edge at the side of his new scar.
Chuuya pulls back.
"Show me." He murmurs, a little breathless, and he can feel the air against his lips as Dazai sighs.
"Ah, I didn't think you would be this eager to see me undressed, hm?" Dazai teases, tries to lean forward to bite at Chuuya's bottom lip, but Chuuya laces one hand into chestnut hair and pulls.
Dazai makes another noise at the back of his throat, the sound like music to Chuuya's ears.
"Shirt off, asshole." Chuuya grits out, fingers tightening, and Dazai pulls his arms from around Chuuya to begin undoing waistcoat and shirt buttons.
It feels like an eternity until the cotton is finally slipping off Dazai's bony shoulders. Chuuya grips a handful of the shirt so it doesn't fall to the floor, and his other hand immediately traces the thin line across Dazai's chest from when the old Port Mafia boss had slashed it open all those years ago.
His fingers come to rest at the newest scar.
"Does it still hurt?" Chuuya asks, pushing at it before the question fully forms, and Dazai drops his cheek against the top of Chuuya's head.
"Ya, Chuuya." He whines, as Chuuya feels out the marred and raised skin, the skin blooming yellow from where the bruising has taken a little longer to settle.
"Serves you right." Chuuya mutters, flattens his palm against Dazai's flank, heart racing. Dazai is mumbling in his hair, voice resigned, and Chuuya uses his distraction to press an open-mouthed kiss on Dazai's collarbone.
//
When the wine haze lifts and Chuuya wakes to a cold bed, he will realise the tectonic shift this evening imparts on his life. For now, though, he's happy to hold Dazai - even if the scars under his hands each time he does only get bigger and more frightening.
Oh, Chuuya will think, as he nuzzles into the crook of Dazai's neck and attempts another hour of sleep. So this is what it feels like to win.