Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain in Yokohama slipped in quietly, like guilt, threading through alleys, steady and cold. Chuuya stood under the edge of an overhang, his coat dripping wet, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The flame had nearly gone out, the filter damp from the air.

Across the alley, sitting on a bench, was Dazai. His coat soaked through, but he didn’t seem to pay any mind to it.

“You gonna sit there all night or what?” Chuuya asked, voice low, but still sharp.

Dazai didn’t answer. He was staring down at his hands like they belonged to someone else. Bruised, blood under his nails. Chuuya sighed and flicked the cigarette away.

“You’re such a pain in my ass you know that.”

Still no response. That was when Chuuya knew something was off. Dazai never passed up an opportunity to make a snarky comment, especially not to him. He crossed the alley slowly, boots splashing in the water, and stood in front of his partner. Dazai didn’t look up at him. His brunette hair clinging to his face, wet and heavy. Chuuya hated how familiar this felt. The silence. The crushing weight.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Chuuya said finally.

Dazai let out a dry laugh devoid of emotion.

“Wasn’t it? I could've saved him.”

Not knowing how to respond, Chuuya looked away. Rain slipped down his cheek. Maybe it was rain. Maybe it wasn’t. He sat down beside Dazai, not caring about the wet bench. Silence fell between them again, but it didn't feel empty, or awkward. Chuuya had learned, over the years, that sometimes the only way to reach Dazai was to say nothing at all.

“Why do you even care?” Dazai asked, finally looking at him. “You hate me.”

Chuuya scoffed. “I hate a lot of things about you. But not enough to walk away when you’re like this.”

Dazai’s eyes, usually unreadable, were glassy now. Tired. Human.

“…You always do this,” Dazai murmured. “Show up when I least deserve it.”

Chuuya tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “Yeah, well. Maybe that’s why I’m still here. ‘Cause no one else wants to take care of you.”

They sat like that for a long time. Rain still falling around them. No one speaking a word to each other. Eventually, Chuuya leaned over, bumping Dazai’s shoulder with his own.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s get outta the rain before you start catching a cold.”

Dazai huffed a weak laugh, stood up, and followed him reluctantly. 

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the storm outside. Chuuya tossed his coat onto the back of a chair, shaking the water from his hair with a sharp flick of his head. His apartment smelled faintly of red wine and cedar-wood. Warm, grounding, nothing like the alley they’d just been sitting in silence at. Dazai hovered by the doorway like he didn’t belong there, water dripping onto the hardwood floor. His coat clung to him, heavy and cold, and Chuuya was sure he could practically wring it out.

“For fucks sake, don’t just stand there,” Chuuya grumbled, tugging at Dazai’s sleeve. “Take that off before you ruin my floor.”

Dazai blinked slowly, as if the words had to travel a long way to reach him, but he obeyed. His hands trembled when he unbuttoned the coat. Chuuya noticed, and that was enough to make his chest tighten. Without another word, he yanked it off Dazai’s shoulders and dumped it over a chair.

“Give me your hands,” Chuuya said.

Dazai blinked up at him, unfocused. “…Why?”

“Because you look like shit and I don’t feel like having blood all over my furniture.” His tone was sharp, but his grip was gentle when he took Dazai’s hands into his own. The skin was clammy, the cuts shallow but messy, and blood still clung stubbornly under the nails.

Chuuya muttered under his breath, dragging Dazai toward the bathroom. “Honestly”

Dazai didn’t resist. He just stood there, letting Chuuya run warm water over his hands, the steam fogging faintly between them. Chuuya grabbed a rag and started scrubbing carefully, cursing under his breath when the blood smeared pink into the water.

“You’re a damn disaster, you know that?” Chuuya murmured, thumb brushing over a bruised knuckle.

Dazai gave a weak laugh, but said nothing. His eyes weren’t on Chuuya, they weren’t even on the sink. They were far away. He was far away.

Chuuya paused, staring at the blood spiraling down the drain. It was too much. He’d patched Dazai up before, bruises, gashes, anything you could think of, but this was different.

“…Dazai,” Chuuya said slowly. “This isn’t your blood, is it?”

For a moment, Dazai didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, eyes flicking down at the fading red staining his palms. Then, barely audible, he whispered:

“…It’s Oda’s.”

The words dropped like lead between them. Chuuya’s breath caught in his throat.

Oda.

The name alone explained everything, the silence in the rain, the broken look in Dazai’s eyes, the way he hadn’t even bothered to defend himself.

Chuuya gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles whitened. He wanted to curse, to shake Dazai, to demand why the hell he’d been there, why he hadn’t stopped it, why he always let himself get swallowed by things he couldn’t undo. But the words stuck like glass in his throat. Instead, he turned the water hotter, squeezing Dazai’s wrist gently as he rinsed away the last traces of blood.

“You really are an idiot,” Chuuya muttered, though his voice cracked at the edges. “Carrying him with you like this. Carrying everything.”

Dazai finally looked at him then. “…If I let go, there’ll be nothing left,” he whispered.

Chuuya swallowed hard, pressing the rag against Dazai’s palm with steady hands. “Then don’t let go. Just… don’t drown in it, either.”

For once, Dazai didn’t argue. He only let Chuuya clean him in silence, the water running red, then pink, then finally clear.

Chuuya wrung out the rag and tossed it aside, reaching for a towel. Dazai’s hands trembled as Chuuya dried them, his touch careful, gentle. For a while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the rain tapping at the window, steady and soft.

Then, suddenly, Dazai’s breath hitched. A jagged sound tore out of his throat.

Chuuya froze.

“Dazai—”

Dazai pressed his hands to his face, his whole body shaking violently. The silence shattered, breaking into raw, ugly sobs that wracked his thin frame.

“He was—he was right there, Chuuya—” His words tumbled out, broken, drowned. “And I… I couldn’t—if I’d just—”

Chuuya didn’t think. He wrapped his arms tight around Dazai’s trembling body. He felt the sharp bones of his partner’s back beneath his palms, the way Dazai clawed weakly at him.

“Stop it,” Chuuya muttered, voice rough.

Dazai shook his head against Chuuya’s shoulder, sobbing harder. “he’s gone, and it’s my fault, and—”

“Enough.” Chuuya tightened his grasp around Dazai, grounding him. “It's okay. You’re not alone. Not while I’m here.”

The fight bled out of Dazai slowly, his voice crumbling into small, choked sounds until finally, there was nothing left but the uneven rise and fall of his chest. His grip on Chuuya loosened, head falling against his chest, exhaustion taking over him. Chuuya glanced down. Dazai’s face was soaked with tears, his lashes damp, his breathing finally evening out into shallow, weary breaths. Asleep.

“Idiot,” Chuuya whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from Dazai’s face.

He stood carefully, adjusting Dazai against him, lighter than he should’ve been, almost too light, and carried him down the short hall. Pushing open the bedroom door with his shoulder, Chuuya lowered him onto the bed. Dazai curled instinctively, like a child, fingers still clinging faintly to Chuuya’s arm. Chuuya sighed, tugging the blanket up over him, and slipped into the other side of the bed. Beside him, Dazai shifted, head resting against Chuuya’s chest. And though Chuuya would never admit it out loud, he didn’t mind. For once, there was nothing but warmth, and the quiet promise that, if only just for tonight, neither of them had to be alone.

Chapter Text

The first thing Dazai noticed when he woke up was warmth. Not the sharp, stinging heat of whiskey, not the fleeting comfort of a cigarette burning, just warmth, heavy and solid, like an anchor. He blinked. The ceiling above him wasn’t familiar. Neither was the weight of the blanket, or the faint cedar-wood scent that was in the air. His head turned. Chuuya, still half-asleep, hair tangled, one arm resting loosely across the mattress.

Dazai’s throat tightened. Images from last night flooding in—rain, blood, Oda, Chuuya’s voice comforting him even as he shattered. He pushed it down. All of it. He got up, careful not to wake Chuuya, and sat on the edge of the bed. His hands rested in his lap. He flexed them, as if testing whether they still remembered the blood. They did. They always would.

“Trying to sneak out?”

Dazai froze. Chuuya’s voice was thick with sleep, but still sharp. When Dazai turned, Chuuya was already sitting up, blue eyes narrowed, hair falling onto his face.

“Chuuya.” Dazai forced a crooked smile, tilting his head like it was all some harmless joke. “Good morning. I must’ve passed out. Thanks for the bed. I’ll be going now—”

“The hell you will.” Chuuya swung his legs over the side of the bed, glaring at him. “You think you can cry yourself to sleep in my arms one night and then pretend it didn’t happen the next day?”

Dazai chuckled, though it sounded brittle. “Cry? Me? You must’ve been dreaming. Everyone knows I’m far too charming and composed for something so… undignified.”

Chuuya’s fists clenched at his sides. He hated it—hated the mask snapping back into place, hated how easily Dazai slipped behind it. But then he caught it—the faint redness still in Dazai’s eyes, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his smile didn’t quite reach.

“Bullshit, Dazai,” Chuuya said quietly, the anger softening into something heavier. “You don’t get to hide from me. Not after last night.”

For a long moment, Dazai didn’t answer. His smile held, but just barely, wavering at the corners like a house built with rotten wood.

Finally, he sighed, gaze falling to the floor. “…If I pretend, it hurts less.”

Chuuya’s chest ached. He stood, walking over, and before Dazai could move away, he gripped his shoulder, firm and steady. “Then don’t pretend. Not with me.”

Dazai’s lips parted like he wanted to say something, wanted to argue, deflect, make some stupid comment, but nothing came out. Instead, he let out a small breath, tension bleeding from his frame under Chuuya’s touch.

They stood in silence, the storm from the night before passed, leaving only gray light spilling through the curtains. For the first time in a long time, Dazai didn’t feel like running away.

Chuuya’s hand squeezed his shoulder once more before pulling back. “Come on. I’ll make coffee.”

And though Dazai smiled faintly, there was something different in his eyes when he looked at Chuuya, something raw, unguarded, as if his mask hadn’t quite settled back into place.

***

The kettle hissed on the stove, steam curling up into the quiet morning air. Chuuya leaned against the counter, waiting. Dazai sat at the small kitchen table, chin propped up on one hand, watching him with that unreadable gaze that always made Chuuya’s skin itch. Except today, the sharp edge was dulled, less calculating, more… tired.

“Didn’t peg you for the domestic type,” Dazai said finally, a faint curl tugging at the corner of his lips. “Coffee in the morning, a cozy little apartment… what’s next? An apron and slippers?”

Chuuya shot him a look over his shoulder. “Keep talking and I’ll kill you.”

“You would never.”

“Fuck off.”

Chuuya grabbed two mugs, pouring the dark liquid until the steam rose up to meet him. He set one in front of Dazai and slid into the chair opposite, wrapping his hands around his own. The warmth felt grounding.

Dazai swirled the cup idly before taking a sip. He hummed, low in his throat. “Not bad. You’ve improved since the last time.”

Chuuya frowned. “The last time?”

A spark of mischief flickered in Dazai’s eyes. “When we were sixteen. Remember? I broke into your place after that mission went sideways, and you tried to make coffee with whiskey because you thought it would ‘wake us up faster.’”

Chuuya groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t remind me. That was disgusting.”

“You drank two cups.”

“Don’t twist it like I enjoyed it.”

Dazai’s laugh was soft, but genuine, not the hollow sound from the night before. It settled into the air between them, fragile and warm, like something neither of them wanted to break. For a moment, the silence stretched on. Chuuya sipped his coffee, watching the way Dazai’s fingers lingered around the mug, clinging to the warmth like he needed it more than the caffeine.

“…You should stay a while,” Chuuya said suddenly, surprising even himself.

Dazai tilted his head. “Oh?”

“You heard me. Don’t rush back out there. Not when you’re like this.” He looked away, ears burning. “It’s not like I want you hanging around, but… just. Stay. Rest. For once.”

Dazai only stared at him, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the faintest smile curved his lips—not the sharp mask, not the weaponized charm, but something small. Something real.

“If you insist,” he murmured, taking another sip.

Chuuya rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward despite himself.

The storm outside had long passed, but inside Chuuya’s apartment, the quiet lingered. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Just quiet. For once, it felt like enough.