Work Text:
“This is all your fault,” Chuuya growls. The sound, low and rumbling from his throat, is right at home considering where they are: lost in the very wood they were supposed to be scouting the Port Mafia’s and Agency’s shared enemy in. The closest to anything man-made they have is the occasional but distant whirring of a helicopter above. Dazai would have pointed out how Chuuya should be fine with sniffing out their tracks like the animal he is except, well. More pressing issues are at hand.
“Me?” Namely, the issue of defending his own very logical, very well thought out plan. “You’re the one who’s at fault here!” Plans which Chuuya had to somehow, in someway, throw into jeopardy along with Dazai’s body when he’d practically yanked Dazai from his feet into a run to get away from the aforementioned enemy.
“I’m the one who saved your ass!” Chuuya says, again in that same timber. Then, more to himself, quieter, “Unbelievable.” He grapples with a particularly wildly grown brush as he attempts to lead the way with no actual path in sight. The twigs and foliage snap so easily in a grip so exceedingly harsh, Dazai’s certain that it’s a replacement for his own neck.
They’re having to scavenge out some semblance of a shelter after being forced to abandon the Agency-issued SUV. It’d be easy if they technically hadn’t broken their cover. As is, the target — nor the target's guards — have yet to find them or the nature of their visit out. So the mission is still on, down one warm and surprisingly comfortable SUV, and now they’re having to lie low in order to bring no further attention to themselves. Dazai has already had to stop Chuuya once from using his ability to scout up and over the trees for somewhere to rest. Too risky that someone could spot them. Chuuya’s already messed up enough to last Dazai the rest this mission.
“The least you can do is help me, shithead!” Chuuya calls back, like he’d sensed Dazai internally blaming this on him. Dazai squints at Chuuya as if he can’t see with perfect clarity the trees and bushes that surround them and the losing battle Chuuya is having with one of the bushes ahead. Dazai sighs, only half for the dramatics.
“How about you try fighting some foliage that doesn’t miniaturise you in scale?” Because really, why not go for the tree right by them with a collection of far less chaotic twigs and low-hanging branches? Sure, For The Tainted Sorrow makes quick work of whatever branch Chuuya is touching, but there's so many to get through. Half of this is still to keep up dramatics so— “Oh, wait, scratch that. Even the flowers by my feet miniaturise you.”
“Shut up and help me!” Chuuya throws one of the brush’s limbs at him, managing in that moment to wrestle it free. Dazai narrowly side steps it, the swipe of the air finding him instead of spiked twigs. He’d always been good motivation for Chuuya to finish a job. Even if the job was a dumb one. “You’re supposed to go downhill with this kinda shit. And anyway, pretty sure there’s supposed to be a river down here. It attracts a lot of campers apparently.”
Dazai sighs again, but this time quieter. He goes to help Chuuya regardless though. He’s tempted to tell Chuuya why that idea won’t work for them in this situation, but seeing him figure it out for himself might just be more fun. Maybe Dazai could time it just right as well, slowly feed him the answer and reveal it with a shit eating grin. He can’t though, he knows that. It wouldn’t be worth it—
A branch, small but thickly populated with twigs and leaves alike, thwaps Dazai on the back of the head. Chuuya grins at him easily despite the sweat breaking out over his temples.
“Pay attention, genius.”
Dazai, in his defence, gapes only for a second. And he smooths the hurt with a hand for even less, more shock at Chuuya’s barbarism than anything else.
“Maybe if Chuuya wasn’t doing such a bad job with his own plan”— Dazai makes a show of walking through the foliage instead of breaking it down and ignores how bits of it prick right through the material of his trousers and into his skin —“then I wouldn’t have to use up such a plentiful amount of my brilliant brain on such a menial task!”
“Don’t even give me that,” Chuuya says back. “You’re just busy figuring out another way to fuck with me, I know you.” Dazai scoffs.
“No, no, I’m busy working out how to rationalise putting so much effort into such a silly thing.”
It's Chuuya's turn to scoff this time, the sound sharp as if he was spitting.
“Silly?” he asks, incredulous. “Finding someplace warm and sheltered is silly?” Chuuya goes back to pulling at the bush’s branches, slowly but surely making a path. He’s using up more energy than he would waiting the night out. Just watching him is exhausting Dazai.
“If you’re really going to be so prissy, I can just give you my half of the rations.” He tries his best to keep his tone casual, and he succeeds. Of course he does. Except Chuuya still throws him a withering look, one far more pity than annoyance and far too comfortable with being directed at Dazai. Dazai finds he cares less about forcing his voice to sound casual anymore, familiar barbs forming on his tongue.
“And let you starve away in the night?” Chuuya snipes back at Dazai, loud enough to startle the birds above them into fleeing and beating Dazai in their own little race of words. Dazai snorts and stomps back through the stabbing shrubbery to Chuuya.
“Is Chuuya really that stupid or has he finally realised the art of exaggeration?”
“Not the point, asshole. What makes you think going a whole day— no, a whole who knows how long without food is anything close to okay?”
“Aww, does Chuuya care about me? He’s changed so much, finally trained into a loyal dog!”
“And you haven’t changed at all.” Chuuya’s finally back to a normal volume, leaving Dazai’s ears suddenly straining to hear him. He hears him though, hears him as clear as the silence now that the animals have left them alone. His steps freeze and he’s back to the clearing Chuuya had found earlier, but his legs hurt more than when he’d been knee deep in thicket. In fact, his whole body hurts with it and maybe he really does need those rations for himself.
“At least I’m my own complete person to change if I so want to.”
Chuuya’s eyes go from angry pinpricks to round and wide in what would be a blink of an eye if either of them dared to do so now. He looks as if he’s been winded by something as strong as his own ability. It doesn’t last and the next second, Dazai is being barreled down by all the weight Chuuya has to his name.
The move isn't thought through, but for once Dazai can’t really fault Chuuya for that. Neither were his own words.
They’re a tangle of fighting, jerking limbs like two hissing snakes as they fall into the underbrush. No Longer Human sings bright in the dark night and For The Tainted Sorrow fizzles out in a red burst. Regardless, Dazai only gets in one good elbow to Chuuya’s gut before Chuuya catches the second one mid-strike and clambers atop him. Dazai jerks his body violently from this side to that, up and down, trying to slip from Chuuya’s hold. He’s about to fall limp — an act so Chuuya will let his guard down, as if he’d ever let his guard down around Dazai anyway — when he gives one last, exhausting twist to really sell it and the ground gives way under him.
It works to his favour, in an ironic way, the steep slope ripping him from Chuuya’s grasp. There’s another flavour of irony in how the Dazai instinctively grasps out to him, his hand around Chuuya’s wrist now bringing the both of them tumbling down.
The landing is both worse and better than Dazai would have expected. They miss hitting any trees and Dazai lands against something upright but soft, breaking his fall for all of half a second before Chuuya crashes into him. The soft thing gives in then, crushed under the two of them.
“Fuck,” comes Chuuya’s first reaction, eloquent as ever. The curse is loud in Dazai’s ear, louder than the ringing there. He blames it on the fact that Chuuya’s so close to him, half lying over Dazai. Breathing proves difficult like this, but he manages. It takes a moment to hear anything else but after that moment, running water rushes over the ringing.
“Well,” Dazai starts, and speaking is so much harder than he thought it’d be. “Looks like you got what you wanted,” he spits out the rest through gritted teeth, the vibration of the words in his chest bringing a blossoming pain with them. He tries to push Chuuya off but the man’s denser than he looks. Instead, Dazai’s hand falls back to his side, already feeling more exhausted than the last several hours lost in the woods had left him.
When he groans out, Chuuya jolts up and off Dazai so fast that the sudden lack of weight is more shock than relief for the first half a second.
“Are you…” Chuuya trials off, and then: “Oh.” Dazai pushes himself to sit up and when his hand hits a silky, smooth material instead of the same prickly grass as before, he knows he’d been right. A tent — they’d found a tent. Rubbing at his eyes, he doesn’t quite miss the look Chuuya gives him, like the man’s wondering whether or not to revisit his question. When Dazai lifts his head from his hand and gives Chuuya an unamused look, he seems to decide on the not .
“Come on, get up,” he says instead. “You’re lucky no one’s apparently in, could’ve squashed them to death.”
Dazai accepts the hand Chuuya gives him. There’s the dim fizzle of No Longer Human working below Dazai’s skin even with Chuuya not using his ability and Chuuya pulls him up with just one strong jerk of his arm. Anyone else would have fallen right back over with the strength of it. As is, Dazai lands on his feet, graceful as can be with his clothes mussed so badly. “Although, it’s hard to imagine you doing that with how skinny you are.”
When Dazai only gives a noncommittal hum in response as his eyes track back over to the collapsed tent, Chuuya turns his own gaze back to him, suddenly worried.
“Hey,” he says, slow and wary, “you’re not actually hurt, are you?” His eyes travel across Dazai’s face, looking for any signs of blood or bruising, and then over his body when he finds none. It takes another scan over Dazai’s face — trying so hard to find what suddenly got into the man — when he finally follow’s Dazai’s eyes. Now that Chuuya’s looking, it’s impossible to miss the human-sized lump buried under the tent.
Chuuya’s marching over to the tent’s opening before Dazai can say anything. Even if he had the time though, he doubts he could say anything to stop him. The hypothetical passes through him in a second (maybe distract Chuuya with something else so he can’t investigate?) but it’s still too late. Chuuya may not be as smart as Dazai, but he’s not actually dumb.
When Chuuya uncovers the dead body, it’s old and festering with bug life. Despite the decomposition, it’s impossible to miss the many bullet holes and the dark, blackened blood below.
“Fuck.”
Dazai internally echoes Chuuya’s sentiment. Because fuck, he should have tried harder in steering Chuuya away from here.
He’s expecting it to go wrong sooner or later. Chuuya had insisted they bury the body, saying it was only respectful and that now they’d found shelter, they had nothing else to do. Despite that, Chuuya had handled the body roughly even with his ability, obviously tired and exasperated with their situation. He made quick work of it all though, using For The Tainted Sorrow to both make a grave and clean off the tent. It still stank of death, but that was no surprise.
The marshmallows though — they’re a surprise.
Chuuya’s grab for the plastic bag, the only food that was seemingly left untouched near the tent, was somewhere in between.
“You never spent a night around a campire?” Chuuya had asked, noticing Dazai’s interest in the sweets.
Dazai had spent many nights around fires of all sorts; building fire, gunfire, metaphorical fire as he burnt bridges, or simply burnt himself. Also metaphorical, of course. Usually.
Never a proper campfire though. Definitely no campfires with marshmallows.
“I’m not an animal, Chuuya.” He’d left the ‘ unlike you’ unsaid, although it’d sparked in the air the same as the kindling for Chuuya's fire. Dazai had sulked down to sit at the fire when Chuuya managed one with nearly no smoke, crackling away in the hole he’d dug.
“A neat trick,” Chuuya had said. “Learnt it all the way back when I met the Sheep.”
Then he’d opened the bag of marshmallows.
And now, he's prodding at Dazai with a spare stick, his own staked into one of the treats. The white outside of it is slowly turning to a flaking tan in the flames, Chuuya not even keeping an eye on it as this point. He’d already roasted a handful by now. Dazai’s teeth hurt just thinking about it.
“At least eat your rations, shit head,” Chuuya says. “You can be a party pooper all you like, but I’m not having you waste away even more.” Another nudge with the stick, and Dazai grabs it from him in a swift move. He’s tempted to snap it in half but instead, he settles for poking Chuuya right back. Let that be his revenge. Some kind of one, anyway.
When Chuuya eats up his marshmallow and spears another one, Dazai takes then to poke him hard in the side. A pained grunt, a grapple for the offending stick as distraction, and another quick grab later and Dazai has Chuuya’s stick in hand, marshmallow still dangling from it. Chuuya glares daggers as he throws the spare stick away. It hits a tree trunk with a sickening, gravity defying crunch.
“Just a game, chibi,” Dazai sings. “Try not to be a party pooper, eh?”
He’s halfway through sticking his tongue out at Chuuya when he grabs at the marshmallow. The goal is to rip it off, stuff it in his mouth without even going through the care of roasting it, and swallow it down with as theatrical of a lip smack as possible. Instead, his fingertips burn where he’s holding the sweet like he’d already deep heated the thing in the fire and his nerves feel as if they’re the ones melting into it, not the other way around—
The man’s head is wet with blood but that’s not a sensation new to Dazai’s hands. The only novelty is that it’s someone else’s and not his own. The skin though— the back of the head, right above the nape of the neck, where Dazai is having to cradle him to stop him from bashing his own skull into and across the wall—
The skin is supple and ripe, and that’s new. It feels like he could finger through the flesh and make a home there with how malleable it is. Like a bruised orange. Work the skin of it with fingers and nails until it rips open and peels apart underneath him.
Mori tuts beside him and when had the man gotten there? Dazai realises he must have paused—frozen up—no, paused because Mori’s slowly wrenching his fingers back from the man’s scalp. They’re stiff despite how he isn’t fighting Mori’s touch; they’re stiff as a dead man’s hands.
It’s then Dazai remembers Mori hadn’t wanted him to use his hands. At least, that was the implication when the man had handed him the tools. Mori has one in hand, a hammer, as if Dazai’s thoughts had conjured it. When Mori hands it over to him, it slips through Dazai’s hands with the first practice swing. Not even Mori’s surgeon steady grip over the top of his own hand could have stopped it, not with the blood soaking Dazai’s grip.
The hammer clatters heavy to the floor and the victim startles, bashing his head against the wall again. The sound is followed by silence though, not the insistent banging like before. Instead of thrashing about, he stares out at the dark figure Mori must make over Dazai. Dazai wonders if it’s the effect of a weapon’s presence or because Mori is so close. Dazai wonders if there’s a difference.
Mori steps away to the room’s table and Dazai feels cold to the bone with the departure. There, Mori picks up a small, metallic box and it takes him closing the distance again for Dazai to realise it’s a lighter. Mori smiles with teeth bared as he hands it over to Dazai, cupping it in the boy’s hands so it can’t slip. His eyes glint like the metal chilling Dazai’s fingers. He bores the look into Dazai as if Dazai is the one meant for the interrogation, and not the poor bastard they have tied up on the floor.
The skin gives after that, although nothing like an orange. If anything, it’s more like a—
The marshmallow is soft and pliable, but his fingers don’t sink into it. There’s resistance when Dazai presses too hard.
“Oi,” Chuuya’s voice springs up out of nowhere. Dazai looks over to him, and he’s giving Dazai a strange, wary look. It doesn’t suit the man; he can be cautious around Dazai — suspecting of his partner at all times — but this is a different look. It’s softer, unfamiliarly so. “You… you okay there, mackerel?”
Dazai tears his eyes away and back to the marshmallow. His hand is shaking, but he doesn’t quite feel it. Chuuya’s eyes staring at him are of more presence to him right now. It’s clear the man’s waiting for an answer. Dazai shoves the marshmallow into his mouth. His hand is halfway to the bag to grab more since Chuuya can’t expect him to reply with a mouthful of them, when the taste hits his tongue. It’s sweet and overpowering and nice—
and juicy. That’s all Dazai can think as he digs into the meat. He’d be pressed not to think it, considering how the juices overflow with each movement of Dazai’s knife. The aroma, already wafting around the room, hits his nose even harder when he cuts deeper and deeper into it. It’s enough to have his stomach gurgling, the old ache of hunger resurfacing. He’s barely able to restrain himself, carving off a chunky piece while keeping his eyes stuck on Mori.
The doctor is across the long table, the room empty apart from the two of them. Dazai should feel safe or, well, safer, this far away. He never does. The knife gives a harsh grinding noise when it carves all the way through and hits the plate beneath. Dazai almost flinches at the thought of the marks the knife would leave, before realising it’s porcelain and not flesh.
Mori’s eyes dig into him, piercing sharp. They stay on him, digging deeper and deeper as Dazai lifts the meat to his mouth for the first bite.
It hits his tongue and this time, Dazai can’t help himself. It’s rich and fatty and so nice that Dazai rips his eyes away from Mori and to the plate, knife gnawing away at a second piece before he can even finish chewing the first. He has to work for it — for every piece — with how weak his hands are, fingers and wrists and arms as skinny as the rest of him. There’s an ache in his fingers by the time he’s shoving the last piece in his mouth, but it’s far more fulfilling than the one in his gut. That one’s already fading.
“Did you enjoy that?” Mori’s voice cuts through the silence despite how soft he holds his words. Dazai’s eyes jolt back to the man and he’s still looking at Dazai, the exact same way as before. It’s as if he hasn’t even moved, arms still crossed on the table in front of him. Dazai swallows the last piece, licking at the juices around his mouth, before giving a slow nod. “It’s much better than the usual trash you’re used to, yes? Nice and heavy, I’m surprised you even managed to get all of it down. You must have really enjoyed it to get through it all, or am I wrong?”
He asks the question again as you would a child who got it wrong the first time. Dazai gulps, although around nothing but his own flavoured spit this time.
“Yes,” he says, watching Mori’s eyes light up. Maybe he’ll give Dazai another serving if he’s good? “I enjoyed it a lot.”
Mori smiles and moves finally, hand pressing against a buzzer as he speaks into it.
“It appears we’ll be requiring the rest of the course, thank you.”
The door behind Dazai opens and Dazai almost gives himself whiplash with how quickly he turns his neck. There, a trolley holding two glasses, a bottle of dark wine, and one large, shining cloche. The lackey wheels it further down, stopping it by Mori’s side and only leaving once the doctor sends her a nod. The door closes shut with a loud click and Mori stands, taking the cloche with him as he closes the distance between himself and Dazai.
The cloche’s bottom meets the table with a metallic ring. Dazai’s fingers tremble with how close it is, now within reaching distance. He’d be tempted to bury his hands in the fabric of his trousers to fight off the temptation if he didn’t know that Mori would cane him for it. Hands on the table, palms facing down, after all.
“You enjoyed it so much, yes?” Mori’s circling around him, moving to stand over Dazai’s back. There’s a hand making its way through Dazai’s hair. It doesn’t move to pet or grip, simply settling deep into the strands. It’s enough to let Dazai know that he should nod and so he does. “It’d only be polite to say your thanks to who made it then.”
Mori still has one hand planted in Dazai’s hair, but he leans over so he can grip the cloche with his other. Like this, he’s pressing Dazai forward and towards the platter. The smell is undeniable this close, that same rich aroma from before.
“This meal seems thanks enough to yourself, but you still have one other person to thank. This wouldn’t have been possible without our good friend from earlier, Murasaki-san.”
Dazai’s eyes widen and when he tries to push back against the table, Mori twists his hair and pulls him further forward. His fingers tremble again, except now it’s from the churning nausea lodging itself deep in his gut. The taste of meat is overpowered by the acid filling his throat and mouth and it’s a small blessing. “I’m surprised you can be so energetic with a full stomach. Kids really are something. Now, say thank you.”
Mori doesn’t have to lift the cloche. Dazai already knows, Mori knows that Dazai knows. Mori lifts the cloche and doesn’t let go of Dazai until Dazai’s stomach upturns itself over the table and the waxen face staring blank right back at him.
For the next few months, Dazai refuses anything not canned and opened himself. When Mori forces him to a restaurant, Dazai only relaxes when he sees the option for crab. He orders the chef to make a show of cooking them out front where he can see.
The sensation of a hand running through Dazai’s hair almost makes him jump before the sound of Chuuya’s voice reaches him. He’s on the ground now or, at least, mostly on the ground with his head cradled on Chuuya’s lap. The view of it is blurred slightly, eyes as wet as the rest of his face, but he can make out the abandoned bag of marshmallows. He closes his eyes when his vision clears up enough that he notices the vomit not too far off from there and feels the telltale ache in his throat.
“Come on, Dazai,” Chuuya’s voice is soft and his hands in Dazai’s hair are softer, “come back to me, darling.” The pet name is unfamiliar and stings more than the acid in his throat. His body is weak when he tries to push up and away. He can’t, in the end — can’t find the energy to pull away. He blames it on the hand Chuuya has wound through his hair, despite how the touch is feather light and far from Mori's.
“Dazai, keep your fucking head down.”
Dazai huffs behind the tree they’re using as cover, but decides to do as Chuuya says. For now, anyway. There’s not much point acting on his plan when Chuuya’s keeping an eye on him and expecting him to misbehave.
“You keep your voice down then,” Dazai replies. Chuuya hadn’t been talking loudly, but it wouldn’t be surprising if he did now. Chuuya opens his mouth, wide and teeth bared as if he’s about to start shouting. He pauses though and instead he gives a rough exhale as his face returns to normal. There’s still a knot in his brow though, obviously unhappy with the situation.
Dazai wants to laugh. When isn’t Chuuya unhappy with being paired up with him?
“They seem to be patrolling in groups of three, roughly ten minutes apart,” Chuuya says, still keeping an eye on Dazai by his side. “And if you say ‘I already know that’ , I swear to God.”
“You already swear enough as it is.” Dazai hums, looking out over the trail they need to get past. The building overhead can only just be seen over the trees, dark and far into the distance. It wouldn’t surprise Dazai if the patrols gain in number and lessen in time apart further in.
Chuuya huffs.
“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t make it your job to get my blood pressure to a record high,” he murmurs, low and more to himself. Then, directed at Dazai: “I know we’re not the most stealth based”—Dazai’s snort is cut short by an elbow to the ribs—“but there’s enough distance between us the the base that any unneeded attention will only make this harder.”
“Yes, yes, I’d say I already know that, but I remember a certain slug threatening me,” Dazai trails off and gives Chuuya a lazy smirk. It falls as soon as he flashes it. “Get past them without fighting, get into the building, and arrest the leader only after we’ve cut off the obvious escape routes.”
Chuuya sighs but the knot in his brow softens.
“Yeah. We’re really arresting him, huh?”
“Eh, you’ll get used to it,” Dazai says. He had gotten used to it after all; the target leaving in cuffs instead of a body bag, even if it’d taken him a while. Chuuya, though? Chuuya’s a fast learner, regardless of Dazai ribbing on his intelligence at times. Or all the time.
“Hah,” Chuuya enunciates it so it’s more a word than actual laughter, “there’s nothing to get used to. Mafia’s just having to play by your Agency’s rules for this. Doesn’t mean we’re suddenly giving into you guys.”
“Ah, yes, I’d quite forgotten,” Dazai says it a little too loudly, hand to his chest like he has an audience to play it all up for. He will do if he isn’t too careful to keep it down. Chuuya’s jaw is already tensing up again like he’s struggling not to shout at him himself. “Nakahara Chuuya, the mafioso with a heart of ice, murderer and unfeeling monster all in one!”
“Shut it.” Chuuya looks back to the trail, pointedly avoiding Dazai’s gaze. The tension in his jaw is still there, but there’s the twitch of his lip and the too forcefully still shoulders that let Dazai know the man’s keeping in laughter. “Or this murderous mafioso will slap you silly before any guards get the chance.”
“Promises, promises,” Dazai says, following Chuuya’s gaze. It shouldn’t be long now. Another minute and a half and the next patrol will pass them by.
Sure enough, just under a minute goes by and the rustle of boots against leaves and twigs can be faintly heard. This time, Dazai’s able to slip away from Chuuya, the man now trusting Dazai after the little light hearted show. This time, Chuuya’s focused enough on the incoming men that he doesn’t notice Dazai walking out of cover before it’s too late.
“Excuse me,” Dazai makes sure his voice is clear and unassuming and the guards swing around to face him almost in unison, “I was checking the area out — just moved here, you see — but I already seem terribly lost. I’m sorry to ask as I’m sure you park rangers are plenty busy, but I didn’t know anyone well enough yet to ask them to come with me and help.”
He has to fake the surprised jump when two of the guards point guns at him, but he doubts they’ll notice. A few seconds of shock to show on the face and then hands thrown up—
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m—”
The scared tone is faked too, but when one of them unloads a shot right by his feet, the audible gulp he gives is a little closer to sincere. The guard not yet aiming their gun reaches up with a walkie talkie instead. There’s adrenaline running hot through Dazai’s veins, but now it’s starting to beat to his own rhythm. Looks like tonight’s plan will be as simple as he thought.
Perfect kidnapping bait for a human trafficking group. Hook, line, and sinker.
“Sir, we’ve found an intruder.” There’s a faint buzzing from the radio, chopped enough that Dazai can’t catch the words this far away. He doesn’t need to though. He just stands there, hands up and artificially shaking. “Oh.” It’s an impersonal sound, casual enough that Dazai expects the conversation to continue. It doesn’t though. The guard clicks the walkie talkie off. With the same casual aura as before, they look over at Dazai for a moment before turning back around to keep walking. “Management says to dispose of him.”
Dazai’s eyes widen and this time, it’s far too real.
“Oh,” he thinks himself, "I would have thought selling me would net at least a decent profit.”
One of the two gun toting guards fixing Dazai in his sights, most likely making for a clean hit to the head. The other is more distracted, looking to the side. The movement isn’t finished before there’s the sprinting weight of Chuuya knocking into them. The gun fires, too wide with shock and missing Dazai’s head with a thundering cry.
Chuuya’s able to take the gun from the one he tackled easily, yanking the weapon violently enough that Dazai hears the guard’s fingers snap. It gives Chuuya another opening, flipping the gun and firing it once through their head. Dazai feels his legs moving, running up to the other guard. The last two are focused enough on Chuuya that Dazai can manage to tackle the second armed guard, wrestling with them long enough that all Chuuya has to worry about is aiming again.
The last one is only just clicking off their gun’s safety when Chuuya makes the shot, hitting the right of their temple. Dazai hears the body fall even as he continues his scuffle, using all the weight he has to keep his opponent on the ground, gun stuck between body and soil. A second of hurried steps and Chuuya’s next to them, crouching down with gun still in hand.
“Fucking, keep still,” he spits out, trying to aim and scowling at the chaos. He swears again and jumps back up. “Dazai, out the way!”
For once, Dazai doesn’t need to be told twice. He rolls off to the side and Chuuya’s next shot is true again. The night is quiet again for another few seconds. Then Dazai sits up, blinking and processing what had just happened.
“Shit,” he says, the pieces falling into place.
“Yeah,” Chuuya says, “shit.” With that, he grabs at Dazai, hauling him up and dragging him into a run further into the wood.
The fire had gone out a while ago, leaving behind only ash and the half burnt remains of wood. Dazai doesn’t remember either of them doing dowsing it, meaning it must have happened while he was… distracted. If it had naturally gone out or if Chuuya had smothered the flames with his ability, Dazai doesn’t ask because it’s not important. It’s not as if the night’s cold without it; in fact, now that they’ve got a tent, the temperature is actually somewhat comfortable. Dazai takes note of it regardless, along with the marshmallows that are forgotten by its side, the bag crumpled yet not sealed properly as if thrown there mindlessly. He doesn’t point that out either. The ants can have it for all he cares.
Chuuya’s hovering nearby. It should be enough to feel annoyingly invasive, like Kunikida demanding Dazai finish his overdue paperwork when Dazai really isn’t in the mood or someone at a bar who wasn’t taking a hint that Dazai wasn’t going to play along for anything more than a free drink. The only real difference is that, when annoyed, Dazai doesn’t quite have that same need to put up an act for Chuuya.
No acting dumb or teasing like he does to his coworkers, specifically so they’ll get riled up enough to forget why they were bugging Dazai in the first place, or simplying grinning and bearing until there’s an opening to escape an oblivious but overall well meaning stranger. With Chuuya, there’s no translation filter between feeling annoyed and how he acts . If he’s annoyed, Chuuya will know about it.
He’s not finding it annoying though, not as much as he usually would. It’s closer to comforting. Dazai wonders if this is how Chuuya feels, having Dazai close to nullify corruption. Like the fire and the marshmallows though, he doesn’t want to ask.
“They’re not going to be looking for two ability users,” Dazai says instead. “Just two ordinary civilians, if they even figure out I wasn’t alone. We could easily infiltrate the base now.”
Chuuya throws him a tired, withering look. He’s like Dazai in the sense that he doesn’t hide when he’s annoyed. He never does with anyone though, it’s just that Dazai’s always been better at finding the right buttons to push than anyone else. The tiredness is unusual though — that usually doesn’t happen until Chuuya’s been subjected to at least a few days of Dazai, not a few hours.
“So you can actually get shot this time? They may not know we’re ability users, but they’ll still be on higher alert now.”
“It’ll be fine.” Chuuya looks ready to fight Dazai again regardless of the tiredness. There’s no way he’ll accept a ‘just trust me’ without some serious twisting on Dazai’s part. And Dazai is tired as well. His stomach feels heavy with its emptiness, its lost contents cleaned up by Chuuya not too long ago. “They’re understaffed. Or, more accurately, they bit off more than they can chew. Overcrowding, guards stretched thin, losing resources faster than expected — they’ve taken more victims than they can keep up with. I can’t imagine any of the victims are being looked after well.”
Chuuya’s body stiffens.
“Well no shit, as if they’d be treated with luxury otherwise.”
“That’s not— if you’re going to sell someone off, you’re not going to hurt them more than needed. Better kept stock, better price.” Chuuya’s eyes widen at that before narrowing to angry slits, searching over Dazai like he does when he suspects Dazai of foul play. Dazai sighs. He could lie or stay silent, lead Chuuya to an untrue answer, but he can’t. Not with this, anyway. “Don’t look so concerned. The Port Mafia never dealt in human trafficking.”
With that, Chuuya’s shoulders relax. A missed opportunity to load ammo against Mori and point the weapon that’s Chuuya at him, maybe. He’s supposed to be better now though, better than he was, so he won’t let himself regret it. It still stings though.
“All my insider knowledge comes from before the mafia,” Dazai’s words are sharper than he should let them, but it’s a way to release that sting from his body. “How do you think I ended up with Mori in the first place?”
He sounds smug and he hates it. He’s sure Chuuya hates it even more.
“So,” Dazai continues, “if they’ve sent out guards to search for us, they’ll be stretched even thinner than before. Now would be the best time to strike.” He's waiting waiting for the argument, for Chuuya to try shouting sense into him.
“Just be careful.”
Dazai stares.
“... What?”
“Contrary to what you seem to believe,” Chuuya sighs, “I don’t actually want you to get hurt.”
Dazai continues to stare. He then blinks slow, and just as slowly:
“Because then I won’t be as effective of a partner?”
Chuuya sighs again and he’s turning to face Dazai full on now, eye contact unavoidable unless Dazai were to move away himself. He doesn’t though, watching Chuuya’s movement, slow and purposeful enough that Dazai could easily do something to nullify the clear connection it’s making between them. He doesn’t. He wonders if this is how a deer feels caught in the headlights. Or maybe the morbid and undeniable curiosity to watch the upcoming disaster unravel.
“Oh my God, you’re impossible,” and Chuuya laughs. It’s an exasperated sound, but not in the same way his face looks tired. Instead, it sounds wild, as if there’s too much energy there. “I don’t want you getting hurt just— just because! I don’t like the thought of you hurting.”
Thinking a mile a minute isn’t unusual for Dazai. He’d describe it as his default actually. But right now, he feels like he’s thinking over Chuuya’s words so fast that he’s overheating with it. It’d certainly explain the heat on his cheeks. His stomach feels like it might just do a somersault, although it’s nothing to do with nausea this time.
“Can I,” the words tumble out before Dazai can catch them. Chuuya looks over at him curiously, leaning closer to Dazai as if he’d struggle to hear him in the dead silence. It’s too late already, Dazai knows; Chuuya’s a tenacious fucker, more than Dazai has ever been. If Dazai can’t keep Chuuya from suspecting something from the beginning, it’ll always come to a head. “Can I kiss you?”
Chuuya springs up straight again, as if the words pushed him.
“Seriously?”
And Dazai wants to cringe. Screw up all his features and maybe his body alongside it, so small that he’d disappear altogether.
“Oh, I was just asking since Chuuya’s acting so charming all of a sudden, I wondered if he’d turn into a prince” Dazai sings, the controlled notes something to focus on so his voice doesn’t trip. It feels artificial and wrong, but so does this entire situation. If he’d just worked harder to make sure Chuuya hadn’t come this way—
“Not— ugh,” Chuuya says, body relaxing and bringing a hand to rub at his forehead. “I meant, seriously right here and now? I didn’t mean it about, well, the entire concept of… kissing you.”
Chuuya coughs, now avoiding eye contact in favour of the leaves below. Well, that won’t do.
Dazai smirks, walking up to Chuuya so that he can’t avoid looking at him. It’s not quite a challenge, or not like their usual challenges, but Chuuya takes then to look up as if to say he isn’t backing down. Meeting the not-challenge head on, despite how his cheeks are as red as Dazai’s own.
“You’re supposed to kiss something that hurts to make it better, right?” Dazai sounds way too serious even to his own ears. Annoyed, angry, sarcastic: those are all the usual for them. Serious is even rarer than worry. Chuuya smirks as easily as he does anywhere else though, looking almost casual if it weren’t for the heavy blush.
“I suppose,” he says and he’s teasing. It sends a little spark down Dazai’s spine, his head perking up in interest. Chuuya laughs, not missing Dazai’s reaction. “Only a kiss though, we are sort of in the middle of enemy territory.”
Dazai’s already stepping forward, giving a succession of quick, small nods as if he can’t agree to those terms fast enough. Chuuya pulls him down before Dazai can close the distance first.
The first touch of mouth against mouth is rough in its unfamiliarity, more pressure applied than actually needed. They both pull back at the same time, a little bit too far so their lips are apart again. Chuuya reaches up, one hand smoothing into Dazai’s hair like before and the other cupping Dazai’s cheek, and he fixes that.
Their lips press together tentatively, barely there compared to before. Dazai sighs into it, content. He angles his face, not to make the kiss deeper, but just to feel Chuuya’s lips drag against his. His hands find themselves lightly resting against Chuuya’s sides when the kiss breaks.
Chuuya doesn’t let the silence drag.
“We’re going to talk about this, after.”
Dazai nods, his stomach back to anxious somersaults at the very idea.
“And we’re going to rest before for a bit we get back into action.”
“Fine.” Dazai tries to sound put off, and he’s an excellent actor if he says so himself. Chuuya scoffs.
“We both know if you weren’t willing to, you’d find some way to weasel out of it.”
Dazai pouts at that, and keeps it going the entire time Chuuya sets up the fire again. He only lets it fall when they’re huddled around the flames and Chuuya yields to Dazai’s demands for hugs. He’s pressed against Chuuya’s side by the time the other has the marshmallows open again, getting them ready like before as Dazai curls against his shoulder. The flames crackle, the same red and orange with no smoke. It’s warm and comfortably so.
“You should try to eat something,” Chuuya says and Dazai scowls. He doesn’t leave his place hiding in Chuuya’s shoulder. “I know what you said earlier, about not needing to eat, but you still should— wait.” Chuuya shifts enough that he can press his lips into Dazai’s scalp. “Dazai, were you trying to stop me from finding this? All that trouble from before?”
Dazai stays silent, watching the flames curl in on themselves as they burn at the wood underneath.
“I can handle a bit of death, you know.”
“I know—” Dazai stops himself, biting at his lip. The sigh Chuuya lets out is long and slow and vibrates against where he’s pressed against Chuuya’s chest.
“Dazai, I see death all the time, I’m not a child. You remember how the mafia is. Hell, I’d have actually been more upset if this was one of my people, but it wasn’t. It was just some stupid civilian unfortunate enough to—”
This time, Chuuya is the one to cut off his words, his fast talking breaking so quickly it could give someone whiplash. Dazai winces, although more from what he knows is about to happen. The reason he wanted to avoid here in the first place.
The shoulder beneath Dazai’s chin stiffens horribly, nearly throwing him off. When Dazai glances up, Chuuya’s face is lax and lost like he’s searching for something without knowing what. Or, in this case, finding something he didn’t realise he should search for in the first place.
“Yeah, Chuuya. I know,” Dazai says. His heart isn’t in it but he wants for anything to break the silence. Anything to kick Chuuya back into action instead of this. It doesn’t work.
“Oh.” The sound comes hollow, quickly lost into the air. “What was the reason I joined the Sheep? The mafia after that? What did I say it was?”
“I know, Chuuya.”
“No, you don’t!” This time, Dazai is thrown off Chuuya’s shoulders. There’s a quake to them now, although Dazai can’t quite tell if it’s from restraining sobs or laughter. Maybe both with the wild look in Chuuya’s eyes. “I said— I said it was because of the shit the previous boss pulled, right? Hurting everyone and anyone— and then the mafia? Because they’d finally got their shit together with Mori and they were actually making it work for Yokohama’s people—”
Chuuya’s voice chokes off into a frantic whisper, breath rapid. He’s curling in on himself. Like this, he looks too small and far too wrong to Dazai.
“It was supposed to be about helping people, Dazai.” Chuuya’s covering his face now, words muffled. Dazai both wishes to not hear any of it and strain to hear every detailed intonation. “And here I am, not caring about them. I don’t care.”
Dazai reaches a hand out to hold Chuuya, something to ground him. Like the kiss, the first instance is far too shocking. Dazai grabs him too hard around the wrist and Chuuya whips himself up, already pulling away and about to throw the hold off. Those wild eyes soften slightly though when he sees Dazai, although his breathing stays at the same fast pace.
“You care. You do,” Dazai says, holding Chuuya’s gaze. His hold has already weakened, although Chuuya wouldn’t need Dazai to do so if he really wanted Dazai off of him. “You can’t mourn everyone though, it’ll drive you mad. But we’re here now, on our way to save people.” Dazai swallows hard. “It’s okay that you care more about the people you know.”
Chuuya’s still breathing hard, but it’s lessened in pace now.
“I called them some stupid civilian,” the words have no heat behind them and Dazai can’t decide if he should prefer that over the panic. “That was pretty inhuman of me, don’t you think, Dazai?”
“I think that’d make two of us then.”
Chuuya laughs at that. It’s weak, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. When Dazai lets go and, instead, opens his arms, Chuuya hesitates for only a second before he closes the distance. It’s awkward like this, kneeling on the uneven soil and working around each other to form the hug. Chuuya’s breath is soft against Dazai’s neck though and it’s far more comforting than comfortable.
“You’re fine, Chuuya.”
“I hope so,” Chuuya says.
“Now, I remember you saying something about rest?”
Chuuya pulls away slowly, although he keeps close enough to stay pressed against Dazai. It’s just enough space to let them shuffle about, finally settling back to rest again. The fire’s dwindling, the small amount of wood Chuuya had fed it already nearly gone, but that’s quickly remedied with a few more small branches thrown to it.
“Dazai?” Dazai gives an affirmative noise in response, feeling both lazy and comfortably tired. “I think I remember saying something about eating too.”
There’s the soft press of Chuuya’s fingers against his, opening them up to hold and then—
Then there’s something even softer being placed in Dazai’s hand. Looking down, he sees it there in his palm, white and puffy in all its marshmallow goodness. A brief panic rushes through him, mixed with the thought, ‘ Chuuya, you idiot,’ and all leading up to nothing.
There’s no new memory.
“Dazai?” Chuuya’s voice brings him back out of his head. “You’re shaking.” And lo and behold, he is. Or, at least, the hand holding the marshmallow is. He lets the sweet fall to the ground. This time, the ants will definitely get it.
“I’ll tell you later. After all this.”
The okay he gets in reply sounds weak, although maybe that’s only due to how tired Chuuya is. There’s still that fire within Chuuya, if how surely he winds an arm securely around Dazai is any indication.
Dazai wonders if he’ll be able to do this again sometime. This, with Chuuya. Not the exact same, of course. Preferably without the immediate danger and maybe during a shared break instead. He might be able to eat marshmallows by then, anyway.
It’s nice, the idea that a marshmallow could just be a marshmallow.