Chapter Text
Chuuya let Dazai guide him to the bathroom, his legs heavy, his body sluggish—but he forced himself to move. The moment they reached the doorway, he shoved off of Dazai, standing on his own with a stubborn determination.
Dazai watched as Chuuya clumsily tugged at his own shirt, only for it to get caught over his head. He reached out to help, but Chuuya slapped his hand away without hesitation.
“I can do it myself,” Chuuya grumbled, his voice raw from last night’s excess.
Dazai raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. No need for more violence, Chuuya.”
Satisfied, Chuuya turned his back on him and finished undressing, assuming Dazai had finally decided to mind his own business. Chuuya stepped into the shower, exhaling a heavy sigh as the warm water cascaded over him, soothing his battered body.
His mind kept circling back, trying to make sense of everything. Last night at the club. Dazai showed up out of nowhere. He’s missing his fingers. That meant Dazai had been taken by the enemy. And Chuuya hadn’t been the one to save him. The realization burned, frustration curling in his chest like a vice.
Despite the confusion and anger, one fact remained. Dazai was here. He was alive. He was with him.
The heat dulled the pounding in his head, numbing him just enough to relax—until he felt the distinct sensation of the shower door sliding open.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Chuuya snapped, spinning around just in time to shove Dazai back.
Still standing just outside the glass, Dazai barely budged, his arms crossed, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I need to clean up too. Look at the mess you made of me.”
Chuuya scowled. “Use the damn sink.”
Dazai's grin widened. “Come on, Chuuya, it’s not like there’s anything I haven’t seen before.”
“Fuck off!” Chuuya barked, shoving the glass door shut so forcefully it rattled in its frame.
“Fine.” Dazai shrugged, stepping back. “But if you slip and crack your skull in there, don’t blame me. How many times do I have to save your reckless ass, huh?”
“Shut up. Nobody asked you to,” Chuuya muttered under his breath.
“Huh?” Dazai cupped a hand around his ear. “What was that?”
Chuuya bit his tongue, refusing to repeat himself. He wasn’t about to admit that, despite everything, he felt a little more at ease knowing Dazai was there.
When no response came, Dazai simply turned on the sink and began washing his bloodied face. He wiped away the crimson streaks, dabbing at his split lip with an almost lazy indifference. By the time he finished, Chuuya was still in the shower.
A moment later, the bathroom door creaked open slightly, and Chuuya poked just half of his body out, gripping the frame with wet fingers. His torso was bare, droplets of water dripping from his damp hair onto his flushed skin, but the rest of him remained hidden behind the door.
“Where the hell are all the towels?” he grumbled. “I can’t find a single—”
A towel smacked him in the face.
Chuuya ripped it away with an irritated growl, shooting a glare at Dazai, who only smirked in response. He was about to snap when he noticed Dazai inspecting his own reflection, touching the corner of his mouth where Chuuya’s fist had split his lip. The sight sent an odd sensation crawling up Chuuya’s spine—something that wasn’t quite guilt, but close enough to irritate him further. He wasn’t going to apologize. Dazai deserved it.
Catching the glare Chuuya sent his way, Dazai sighed dramatically. “Are you gonna kick me out of the room too? So cruel, Chuuya.”
Chuuya wrapped the towel securely around his waist before stepping closer to Dazai, who had turned away after his last remark. Without thinking, Chuuya reached out, catching Dazai’s chin between his fingers and turning his face to inspect the split lip.
“You’ll need actual antibiotics, or that’s gonna get infected,” he said bluntly.
Dazai let his gaze linger, watching as water dripped from Chuuya’s damp hair, tracing familiar paths along his skin. The sight was almost exactly as he remembered—the lean, taut muscles of his shoulders and torso, the sharp definition of his collarbones, the V-line disappearing beneath the towel at his waist. A little thinner, a few new bruises, but still unmistakably Chuuya .
Dazai reached out with his unharmed hand, his fingers curled around Chuuya’s wrist, then slid lower, settling on his waist, playfully moving his fingers to touch Chuuya's skin under the towel. When Chuuya didn’t immediately shove him off, he took his chances, wrapping both arms around him, pulling him in slowly. Without a word, he leaned forward, resting his head against Chuuya’s abdomen. He felt the sharp lines of muscle press against his cheek, the rise and fall of Chuuya’s breath. A hitch. But no resistance. The dampness of Chuuya’s skin soaked into his hair.
Chuuya didn’t hug him back. He wasn’t ready for that—not yet. The warmth of Dazai’s touch, the familiarity of it, was something he had missed more than he cared to admit. A part of him wanted to give in, to return the embrace, to let himself sink into it, maybe even press their lips together just to confirm Dazai was really there. But beneath the longing, anger still simmered, hurt still gnawed at the edges of his restraint.
So he let Dazai stay there, allowed the contact, but nothing more.
A long silence passed before Chuuya finally exhaled, reluctant. “Thanks for last night.”
Dazai huffed a quiet laugh, breath warm against Chuuya’s skin. “Tell me, Chuuya, were you so worried about me that you had to go on a reckless bender just to avoid admitting it?” His voice was teasing, but there was something softer in the way he held him.
Chuuya scoffed, shoving him away as if the physical contact had burned him. “As if! I was just fine when you left the Mafia—no annoying antics, no headache every damn day. It wasn’t until you got yourself caught like a dumbass that I had to pick up the slack. Even your stupid Detective Agency wouldn’t stop bugging me about it.”
Dazai smirked, something glinting in his eyes. “Oh? So you were thinking about me.”
“Shut up, bastard.” Chuuya turned on his heel, storming toward his closet.
Dazai watched him go, a slow, knowing grin curling at the edges of his lips.
While Chuuya was in his walk-in closet getting dressed, Dazai called out casually, “Hurry up and get back to the kitchen when you’re done. You need to eat something before you drop dead. I’m not carrying you again.” His tone was dripping with mockery.
“Like I’d ask you to, asshole,” Chuuya shot back from inside the closet, irritation clear in his voice.
Dazai huffed a soft laugh. “You’re pretty heavy for how tiny you look. I’d rather avoid the hassle.”
Chuuya scoffed. “Go to hell.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve found out about this weapons dealer if you at least sit at the table with me,” Dazai added, ignoring the insult.
A pause. Then a low grunt of acknowledgment. Dazai smirked—he’d take that as a win.
Inside the closet, Chuuya sighed, too exhausted to care about what he grabbed. He pulled on the first things within reach—loose shorts and an oversized hoodie, prioritizing comfort over anything else. As he reached for his choker out of habit, his fingers met nothing but bare skin. His brows furrowed. It wasn’t around. Dazai must have taken it off last night when he brought him home.
The thought made his irritation spike. If he really wanted it back, he’d have to ask Dazai about it, and the idea alone pissed him off. With an annoyed huff, he finished dressing, shoved his feet into a pair of slippers, and made his way to the kitchen.
Dazai leaned back against the kitchen counter, watching as Chuuya begrudgingly took a seat at the table, arms crossed and still dripping faint traces of water from his damp hair. With a dramatic sigh, Dazai slid a plate of food in front of him. "Eat first. Talk later."
Chuuya scowled. "I don't need you babying me, shitty Dazai. Just tell me what you know."
Dazai merely shrugged, settling into the seat across from him. "Alright, alright. But don't blame me when you pass out from hunger before I get to the important parts."
Chuuya grumbled something under his breath but begrudgingly picked up his fork. Satisfied, Dazai folded his arms over the table.
Not that breakfast was much of a meal. Chuuya knew Dazai was a terrible cook—he could barely manage toast and eggs, and even that was a disaster. He had to poke around his plate with a fork, searching for the parts that looked remotely edible, but his stomach was still too queasy from the hangover to eat much. Instead, he focused on drinking water. Dazai, on the other hand, didn’t touch his food at all, sipping lazily at his coffee as if he had all the time in the world.
Chuuya had no patience for that. He set his glass down with a quiet thud, fixing Dazai with a sharp glare. “Alright, spit it out.”
Dazai blinked at him, feigning innocence. “Spit what out?”
Chuuya’s jaw tightened. “Don’t play dumb. Why don’t you start with that?” He nodded toward Dazai’s missing fingers. “What the hell happened?”
Dazai held up his hand, flexing what remained of his fingers as if just noticing them for the first time. “Oh, this?” His voice was light, almost amused. “Collateral damage. Hated the pain, but the outcome was useful .” He took a sip of coffee before adding, “Atsushi had to go through the same thing. Lucky bastard’s grew back.”
He said it so casually, as if discussing the weather. As if the sight of his own maimed hand was nothing more than an afterthought.
Chuuya’s grip tightened around his glass. “Who took you? And how did you escape?” he asked, his voice steady but heavy with something he didn’t want to name.
"The Agency had agreed to meet with an unknown source for intel on the Guild. It was all a little too suspicious for my liking, so I took the liberty of arriving early," Dazai said, reclining lazily in his chair, utterly unfazed. "Didn’t take long to notice a few unfriendly mercenaries lurking around the perimeter. So, naturally, I let myself get caught snooping—figured it was the quickest way to get close to the real players behind the setup."
He tapped his fingers idly against the table with his injured hand. "And it worked. Atsushi got dragged into it too—poor thing couldn't help but follow me."
While Dazai spoke, Chuuya became aware of something strange—silence. Arahabaki, the ever-present chaos within him, had gone still. It wasn’t just quiet. It had completely subsided. His gut twisted at the realization, at the unspoken truth of how much Dazai’s absence had affected him. He hated it.
His gaze flickered with amusement as he continued, "They didn’t waste any time roughing us up, following orders to cut us into pieces if we didn’t start talking. Very dedicated to their jobs, I must say."
Dazai let out a breathy chuckle. "They still had us at their mercy when the explosion went off. Now that was loud."
Dazai caught the frown on Chuuya’s face. "Yeah, we were right there when the Agency—and you—showed up," he continued, his tone light, almost indifferent. "Not that we could do much to alert you with the way they had us restrained."
He exhaled as if bored, idly tapping his fingers against the table. "It wasn’t until they got a call from our dear weapons dealer that they let their guard down. Lucky for us, I managed to undo the restraints with the fingers I had left, and Atsushi handled the rest just fine."
His lips curled slightly. "Though some of them did take off with our fingers. Which they were kind enough to deliver to the Agency… and to you."
His words were casual, almost conversational, but the weight behind them settled thick in the air.
"With Ranpo’s Super Deduction, it didn’t take long to identify our mystery supplier," Dazai added, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small photograph and slid it across the table. A mugshot.
Chuuya’s eyes widened, recognition striking like a bolt of lightning.
“Looks familiar?” Dazai asked, tilting his head. “He should. He’s the man the Mafia apprehended for you to question. The one you almost beat to death.”
"Jack Barham. Weapons dealer. Arms supplier. But not just any supplier—he’s been working for the highest bidders in the underworld. His inventory? Some of the most sophisticated tech we’ve ever seen on the market. And now, he’s making his move in Yokohama."
Chuuya’s expression darkened.
"Jack isn’t just a criminal," said Dazai, "He’s a dangerous ability user."
Dazai leaned forward slightly. "He’s far more complex than we assumed. He escaped the Mafia’s grasp almost immediately after your interrogation, and he made sure no one who could warn you survived."
Chuuya’s hands curled into fists. "I’m gonna make that bastard pay—"
"Don’t waste your energy." Dazai cut him off, his voice sharp, leaving no room for argument. "He’s not the feeble, pathetic man you questioned. He let you beat him up. He wanted you angry, reckless, vulnerable."
Chuuya scoffed, ready to call bullshit, but Dazai wasn’t finished.
"You mentioned my name to him, didn’t you?"
Chuuya’s breath caught as the memory resurfaced—the interrogation, Jack’s body slumped over after Chuuya had mindlessly beaten him, the slip of his tongue when frustration had gotten the better of him. A mistake so basic, so careless. He should’ve known better.
"That’s why he sent my fingers to you," Dazai said, his gaze sharp, unreadable. "The moment he slipped from the Mafia’s grasp, he made sure that message reached you. Not for any grand reason—just to tip the scales a little further, to throw one of the Mafia’s top executives off balance."
Chuuya exhaled sharply.
This wasn’t just a mistake. It was a failure—one an executive of the Port Mafia had no excuse for. If he had been more careful, if he had done his damn job right…
Dazai might still have all of his fingers.
Chuuya clenched his jaw, glancing away. “Why now? Does he really think he can shake up the Tripartite Alliance just by selling weapons and stirring up trouble?”
Dazai’s usual playful mask faded, replaced by something sharper, more serious. “Because he’s not just an arms dealer. He’s an instigator. He doesn’t just sell weapons—he sells wars.”
Chuuya stiffened.
“He’s been fueling conflicts between rival organizations, arming both Gifted and non-Gifted alike, pushing them toward destruction,” Dazai continued. “Yokohama’s balance is already on a knife’s edge. All Barham has to do is add fuel to the fire. It won’t be long before everything spirals into chaos.”
“Chaos? Is that what Jack wants?” Chuuya asked, his voice steady despite the tension simmering beneath it. “During the interrogation, he mentioned someone above him—someone more influential. Or was that just more bullshit?”
Dazai exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Jack is a master manipulator. Lies and half-truths are second nature to him. But according to what Ranpo managed to piece together… Jack’s only been responsible for gathering people—Gifted and non-Gifted alike—selling high-tech weaponry, distributing experimental drugs. Stuff that shouldn’t even be in circulation yet. More than likely, yes, someone else is pulling the strings.”
Chuuya’s jaw clenched as memories flickered—his meeting with the weapons dealer, the explosion, the boat.
“What the hell are we waiting for?” he demanded. “Can’t your detective friend just tell us where to find Jack and whoever’s behind all this?”
Dazai tilted his head, feigning boredom. “You think we haven’t tried that already?” His expression darkened. “Ranpo was taken out of action. A nights ago, someone ambushed him. We don’t know what kind of weapon—or drug—they used, but Ranpo is in a coma. Not even Yosano could figure out what happened.”
Chuuya narrowed his eyes. “And what’s your plan, then?”
Dazai smirked, propping his chin on his hand. “Oh, I have a few ideas. But first, you’re going to finish eating.” His tone was light, but there was no room for argument. “If Ranpo’s deduction is correct—and let’s be honest, it always is—we still have a little time before they make their next move.”
He tilted his head, gaze flicking over Chuuya with something annoyingly smug. “Besides, you don’t look like you’re in any condition to fight right now.”
Chuuya was offended, but Dazai was right. Days of self-neglect and an imprudent bender had thrown him off his game. His body felt sluggish, his head still pounded faintly from last night’s drinking, and the lack of proper meals had left his strength waning—not that he’d ever admit it.
“Tch.” Chuuya clicked his tongue, stabbing his fork into the sad excuse for breakfast on his plate. “I don’t need you lecturing me, Dazai. I’m fine.”
Dazai hummed, unconvinced. “Oh? Then stand up.”
Chuuya scowled. “What?”
Dazai gestured lazily. “Stand up. Walk across the room. If you don’t stumble even once , I’ll drop it.”
Chuuya’s grip tightened around his fork, irritation sparking in his veins. He wasn’t some weakling, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to let Dazai have the satisfaction of proving a point. With a sharp exhale, he pushed back his chair and stood—only for a brief wave of dizziness to wash over him. His balance wavered, barely noticeable, but of course, Dazai noticed .
Dazai’s smirk grew impossibly smug. “Ah. There it is.”
“Shut up, ” Chuuya growled, forcing himself upright. His pride wouldn’t let him falter further.
Dazai sighed, tapping a lazy finger against his mug. "Face it, Chuuya. If you show up to a fight like this, you’re just going to be in the way." His voice was light, almost indifferent, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. "Hungover, dehydrated, running on fumes—you'd be more of a liability than an asset. And I don’t have time to babysit you on the battlefield."
Chuuya bristled, his grip tightening around his fork. "The hell did you just say?"
Before he could launch into an argument, the doorbell rang. Instinct kicked in, and Chuuya stiffened like a dog on guard, eyes sharp as he turned toward the entrance. Meanwhile, Dazai—completely unfazed—rose to his feet with a hum.
"Ah, that must be the food I ordered."
Chuuya narrowed his eyes, still tense as he watched Dazai stroll to the door without a single ounce of caution. "You’re seriously ordering takeout at a time like this?"
Dazai shot him a sidelong glance, amusement flickering in his gaze. "What? Worried it’s an assassin?"
Chuuya didn’t dignify that with an answer, but his expression said enough.
Dazai chuckled, waving him off. "Relax, Chuuya. If anyone was stupid enough to try and kill me through the front door, I'd be flattered by their optimism."
Chuuya scoffed but stayed on alert as Dazai opened the door, revealing a delivery bag in the hands of a very unbothered courier. Dazai exchanged a few words, took the food, and shut the door behind him, carrying the bag over to the table.
As he set it down, Chuuya crossed his arms, eyeing him with suspicion. "So, you didn’t actually expect me to eat your food."
Dazai smirked. "Oh, of course not. I just served you that poor excuse of a meal to see if you’d actually eat." His tone was utterly smug, mocking. "And look at that—you barely touched it."
Chuuya felt his eye twitch. "You bastard—"
Dazai only grinned, unbothered, already reaching into the bag. "Now, this —this is what you call a proper meal."
As Dazai set out the plates, Chuuya ran a hand through his still-damp hair, mind racing. But I can't just take the whole day off—.
The thought barely left his mouth before panic struck him like a bolt of lightning. Shit. His phone. Did he lose it last night at the club? Or worse—was it stolen? He patted the pockets of his shorts, pulse quickening. And his hat—
Before full-blown panic could set in, Dazai casually tossed something toward him. Chuuya caught it reflexively, fingers closing around his phone.
"Relax," Dazai drawled, leaning against the counter. "It was off, but it still works. You left it at the bar, by the way. Good thing I have an eye for abandoned, pathetic things."
Chuuya shot him a glare but wasted no time plugging it into the nearest outlet. The moment it had enough charge, the screen lit up with a flood of notifications. Shit. Several missed calls—Akutagawa, Hirotsu, Tachihara, and others. Just as he was processing that, his phone vibrated again.
An incoming call. Hirotsu.
Chuuya took a steadying breath and answered.
"Young Master," Hirotsu’s voice was calm but carried an unmistakable concern. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah," Chuuya muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me what's going on."
Hirotsu gave him a brief update. It seemed that, for now, the Port Mafia and the Detective Agency were temporarily sharing intel, both after the same target—Jack Barham. The Mafia was already aware that Dazai had been found and were maintaining a constant watch for any sign of Jack or his people.
For the first time in hours, Chuuya exhaled, relieved—at least for now. "Got it," he said before ending the call.
But one concern still lingered.
"Here it is."
Chuuya turned just in time to see Dazai holding something out to him—his hat.
"I dusted it off as much as I could," Dazai said with mock sincerity, twirling the familiar black fedora between his fingers. "But really, what can you do with such a tacky, outdated hat?"
Chuuya didn’t respond, just took the hat from his hands. He turned it over, checking for any damage, running his fingers over the material. It was fine. He was fine.
But Dazai caught it—the faint brightness in Chuuya’s eyes. The way he held onto it just a little tighter.
"Shut up," Chuuya muttered, placing it on his head as if it belonged there and nowhere else.
Dazai only smirked, watching him with something unreadable in his gaze.