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Dazai tried to be quiet when he stumbled into the apartment at half-past three in the morning, but that was difficult when he could hardly walk.
He shucked off his coat and blood-spattered shoes—Chuuya would have a fit if he found red footprints all over their floor in the morning—and began limping toward the bathroom. His entire body throbbed, and he clutched a haphazard clump of bandages to his ribs with one hand while he propped himself up against the wall with the other, hobbling down the hallway as softly as possible. The moon was still low, casting a silvery glow on the apartment, and his fingers were slick with blood.
What a mess. He really should have been more diligent about being stabbed.
After pathetically dragging himself halfway across the apartment, Dazai could finally push open the bathroom door. He let out a long breath, bracing himself for the tedious task of stripping away his bloodied clothing, and then he paused.
Chuuya was home.
The pitter-patter of the shower was all to be heard in the little bathroom, which was in an unusual state of disarray. Bloodied bandages were piled haphazardly in the sink, half-open tins of ointment slowly melted on the counter, and Dazai caught sight of a needle or two glinting when he turned his head. The smell of copper mixed with Chuuya’s lavender soap—likely the pile of bloodied clothes in the corner, and Dazai huffed. The window was cracked open, but since Chuuya was a sadist who liked his water hotter than Satan, the air was still thick with steam.
Chuuya didn’t seem to notice him, though, and Dazai didn’t say anything. He shuffled toward the sink and propped himself up to start removing his clothes, letting out a little sigh.
He barely had time to touch the buttons on his shirt when he heard the shower curtain move, and then…
Oh.
Water droplets clinging to his scarred and freckled skin, burnished curls stained auburn, lashes casting long shadows onto high cheekbones, looking every bit as beautiful as the moon slung low over the city… was Chuuya. He blinked water droplets from his eyes as he stood beneath the spray, and Dazai wasn’t sure what to do with himself as Chuuya scanned him from head to bloodstained feet.
God. If that pesky stab wound didn’t kill him first, his heart would surely give out.
But Dazai eventually came back to his senses enough to meet Chuuya's gaze, and he watched him perform a thorough examination before looking up again and arching a brow.
“You’re home late.”
Despite his best efforts, Dazai knew his smile looked a bit sheepish. “Miss me, my love?”
Chuuya scoffed and rolled his eyes as usual, but Dazai didn’t miss the slight pink flush on his ears. “You look like hell,” he said instead, staring pointedly at the bloom of red on Dazai’s shirt.
“Your husband comes limping into the bathroom and that’s all you have to say?”
Dazai stuck out his lower lip for good measure, but Chuuya only snorted. He pulled back the curtain further, seemingly to step out of the shower, but Dazai would have none of that.
“No, I’ll take care of it. It shouldn’t be long.”
Chuuya didn’t look like he believed that.
“I’m more than capable of patching myself up, you know,” Dazai huffed, shucking off his waistcoat. Everything in his body ached, but he tried not to let it bleed through his false pout.
He knew it did, though, at least to Chuuya. Dazai hadn’t been able to keep anything from him in years.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Chuuya’s voice was rougher than usual—unfairly hot, considering Dazai’s incapacity. “You can barely walk. I’ll deal with—“
“Chuuya.” Dazai glanced up and watched the way water droplets caught in Chuuya’s lashes before falling onto his freckled cheeks. “I’ll do it.”
Chuuya’s brow furrowed and his lips pinched together, but he must have seen the plea somewhere in Dazai’s face. His frown deepened, he scanned Dazai one more time, and then he let go of the shower curtain without another word.
Dazai chuckled, but the burning sensation in his ribs flared up again and he winced. He’d nearly forgotten about that.
After peeling off most of his clothing, Dazai limped toward the cabinets. He could practically feel Chuuya’s restlessness hanging in the air with the steam—that urge he’d always had to help wasn’t easily stifled.
Dazai was glad for that, but he was also glad to do this himself. Chuuya had spent the past week running himself ragged on some job or other for Mori, and the last thing he needed was to fuss over Dazai’s silly stab wounds.
It was only after he’d shucked off most of his layers and began reaching for the cabinets that he paused. Bandages, ointment, tweezers, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol were all scattered around the sink, uncapped or unwound. How hadn’t he noticed that earlier?
Dazai glanced at the shower curtain for a moment.
A flare of pain in his ribs reminded him of the task at hand, though, and he huffed a small sigh as he propped himself up against the sink and wet a clean washcloth. Cleaning wounds was hardly his favorite pastime, but Dazai had never disliked it as much as Chuuya. Perhaps it was his greater patience, or perhaps it was that the task gave his poor little heart a break from all those emotions he was plagued by. All he had to do now was go through the motions and try not to pour rubbing alcohol all over his open wounds.
It only took a moment before Dazai had taken care of the major cuts and scrapes. It had taken longer than he’d have liked to bandage his ribs and it really had been a long day, so he left the rest of the minor wounds alone. Then, with as much effort as he could muster, he pushed himself off the sink and shuffled toward the shower. He could hardly make out Chuuya’s silhouette through the curtain.
How Chuuya was even able to breathe through all this steam was beyond him.
Dazai stepped behind the curtain, ignoring the initial sting of hot water droplets on his open cuts, and watched Chuuya’s gaze snap to his. Even now, years after the drunken night they’d sworn each other their lives in that little church with only the moon as witness, he wasn’t used to the penetrating weight of Chuuya’s stare. Like every grisly inch of him was exposed.
Dazai reached out instinctively to settle his hands on Chuuya’s hips, and he watched the corners of his lips quirk upward.
“You really do look like shit,” Chuuya muttered with a crooked little smile. His fingertips ghosted over one of the shallow cuts on Dazai’s face, no longer than his pinky.
Dazai hummed as he traced idle shapes on Chuuya’s hipbones. “That’s not very nice.”
“Suits you.”
“Such cruelty and for what? I’m wounded, you know.” Dazai stuck out his lower lip and fluttered his lashes to further the effect. “Like a poor baby deer.”
Chuuya huffed. “You’re an idiot.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about!”
He rolled his eyes, and Dazai took the opportunity to properly study him. Chuuya looked attractively disheveled, wet copper curls clinging to his neck and forehead, but Dazai didn’t miss the mottled green and purple bruises blooming on his abdomen or his blistered knuckles. A small collection of cuts decorated his hands, too, snaking up his arms, and his lower lip was split.
“What sort of terrible crimes did you commit today?” Dazai murmured. It was meant to be teasing, a familiar jab, but it came out quieter than he intended. He reached up and brushed his thumb against Chuuya’s bottom lip—these sorts of injuries were common in the mafia, but something heavy twisted in Dazai’s gut all the same.
Chuuya gave him that crooked half-smile again, but this one was smaller. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“I have never doubted your brutishness.”
Chuuya rolled his eyes again. “I’m fine, Osamu.”
Fine. Dazai felt that twisting return in his gut as he watched Chuuya watch him with those thunderstorm eyes. Sure, he supposed Chuuya was right—technically, he was fine. No broken bones, no strained muscles, no twisted ligaments, but the fact that Chuuya’s blistered knuckles and split lip were commonplace made Dazai’s chest feel too tight.
He didn’t realize Chuuya had moved until he blinked, and suddenly sudsy hands tugged at his hair. “Lean over,” Chuuya muttered.
Dazai couldn’t help chuckling at that, but he leaned down and imagined Chuuya’s answering scowl. He would have liked to decline, but he was already on thin ice and if he denied Chuuya this, he might end up with more than a few stab wounds.
But Chuuya’s hands were gentle as he scrubbed the blood and gunpowder out of Dazai’s hair. Another habit—cleaning dead people’s blood off of each other. He bit the inside of his lip.
“You’re thinking too loud, y’know.”
Dazai smiled a little. “I didn’t realize you were some sort of psychic.”
“I don’t have to be when you’re so damn obvious,” Chuuya scoffed, tugging on his hair a little harder. “Stop worrying.”
“I’m not,” Dazai lied.
Another harsh tug on his hair. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”
Unfortunately, he didn’t.
“Look, this is—“ Chuuya cut himself off with a hard sigh, fingers pausing in Dazai’s hair for a moment. “It’s been like this. Forever. You’re gonna drive yourself insane if you don’t let some of that shit go.”
An ugly and bitter taste invaded Dazai’s mouth. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t accept that ultimately, none of this was supposed to matter.
He loved Yokohama. He did. If home had to be a place, he would pick this city in every lifetime, and he’d gladly die on its streets and let his body be buried in some ridiculous little cemetery with a pointless little headstone. He chose to give himself to Yokohama when he joined the Port Mafia, and he chose it again with the Agency. If such a place could foster someone like Oda, or Chuuya, it was a place worth protecting.
Chuuya.
Violent, beautiful, sickeningly selfless Chuuya. He had sacrificed more for this place than anyone ever would. He gave up his childhood—what was left of it, anyway—to join the mafia and protect the city from the underground. He gave his life again and again just to ensure the safety of perfect strangers. He would give everything if he had to.
But on nights like this, with the moon hanging low and blood running off of Chuuya’s freckled skin, Dazai had never hated Yokohama more.
“What are you thinking about?”
Dazai hummed and let his eyes flutter shut while Chuuya rinsed the shampoo out of his hair. Caught up once again in his own head, he supposed.
“You.”
Though he couldn’t see it, Dazai could imagine Chuuya arching a brow as he lathered his hands with conditioner.
“Shocker.” Chuuya’s voice was low and throaty.
“You occupy a scandalous amount of my headspace, darling.”
“Idiot.”
Dazai grinned.
The minutes ticked by in silence. Chuuya continued to tug on Dazai’s hair as he worked in the conditioner, and Dazai decided not to shatter the moment by complaining about the ache building in his neck. Chuuya was always so much gentler in the evenings, and they hadn’t done this in far too long.
The peace only lasted until Chuuya shoved Dazai under the hot spray of water and nearly burned his eyes out of their sockets.
“Chuuya!” Dazai yelped, spitting out hot water and covering his eyes with his fingertips.
“Hm?”
“You could have drowned me!” Dazai blinked furiously until the water droplets fell from his eyelashes and he could stare down his husband properly. “And after everything I’ve been through today. What sort of monster are you?”
Chuuya didn’t look the least bit sorry, but there was something scrutinizing about the way he looked up at Dazai. “What were you thinking about?” he asked.
Dazai frowned. “What?”
“Earlier. You were thinking about something.”
Oh. Perhaps his sorry explanation earlier wasn’t as convincing as he’d hoped. “I already told you.”
“Osamu.” And then Chuuya gave him that look, the one where he arched a brow and cocked his chin up and let his lids drop low—and when he said Dazai’s name like that? Chuuya knew he had him.
Dazai wrapped his arms around Chuuya’s waist and pulled him closer until he could count Chuuya’s freckles. He already had, thousands of times over thousands of nights and early mornings. The number varied every time, though, so he’d just have to keep counting them.
“I was thinking,” he began quietly, “about the city. And how you work too hard.”
Chuuya’s brow furrowed. “That makes no sense.”
“It does,” Dazai huffed. He leaned forward until he could rest his forehead on Chuuya’s shoulder. Chuuya’s collarbones were sharp and pointy, but he didn’t mind. “Yokohama is greedy sometimes.”
He heard Chuuya chuckle quietly, and then calloused hands tangled themselves in his hair. “You wanna explain that?”
“Not particularly.”
Chuuya tugged on his hair.
Dazai pinched his side.
“Oi!”
Another tug on his hair, harder this time, and Chuuya wouldn’t let go.
“Okay, okay!” Dazai shook his head until Chuuya finally let go, trailing his fingers down to Dazai’s nape instead. “No need to be such a brute,” he murmured against Chuuya’s collarbone.
He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. It had been years since their drunken vows in the rundown church right by Dazai’s old shipping container, but he was still unsure how to navigate these conversations. He didn’t have much practice being honest, even—especially—with Chuuya.
“I just wish,” he muttered, tracing little shapes near the bottom of Chuuya’s spine, “we could let someone else take care of everything for a while. We could go on a luxurious summer vacation in the French countryside and eat cheese and bread all day, and you could drink all the wine your poor little heart can take, and—“
Chuuya tugged on his hair again.
“Hey!” Dazai yelped, shaking his head until Chuuya’s grip on him loosened. ”I wasn’t finished, you know.”
He thought Chuuya might respond with another well-worn insult, something about his gangly limbs or resemblance to a fish. Or maybe just a simple “you’re ridiculous,” muttered under his breath with that fond, quiet smile he only reserved for these softer moments.
“Are you tired of all of it?” Chuuya asked instead.
Dazai went stiff.
The question was gentle, barely a whisper against Dazai’s skin. Chuuya ran his fingers up and down Dazai’s nape—his callouses were softened by the hot water, and his wet curls tickled Dazai’s skin.
Tired. Is that what it was? The word felt small, far too casual for matters like the fate of Yokohama, for the weight of it braced between their shoulders, but… Dazai let out a little sigh. Forced his limbs to relax, if only slightly. What did he have to be tired from? He was barely twenty-two. These were supposed to be the best years of his life.
Dazai supposed he meant to say something—he hadn’t quite worked out what, just something to fill the air besides steam and the pitter-patter of the shower. But his tongue suddenly felt heavy and leaden, and he couldn’t grasp the words to explain all the confusing, bitter feelings in him.
Part of him wanted to laugh. In all his years, only Chuuya could ever rob him of his words.
“It’s not bad if you are,” Chuuya added, still speaking in that quiet tone. It wasn’t soft—Chuuya was all rough and jagged edges—but it was gentle. “Everybody gets tired.”
Protests bubbled up in Dazai’s throat like bile. They didn’t get to be tired.
Chuuya dropped his hands from Dazai’s hair and leaned back slightly, enough to cup Dazai’s chin and force him to meet his eyes. Dazai wanted to scowl—he’d hidden his face in Chuuya’s shoulder for a reason. He had always been terrible about Chuuya’s eyes and they both knew it.
“Talk to me,” Chuuya murmured, still so unbearably gentle as he traced a calloused fingertip across Dazai’s cheekbone, and really, what else was he supposed to do?
Dazai inhaled shakily and ignored the bleating pain in his ribs. His hands still rested on the small of Chuuya’s back, and he watched water droplets fall from the wet curls plastered to his forehead.
“I want you to myself,” Dazai whispered, half-hoping his voice would be lost to the sound of the running water. Unfortunately, judging by the slight twist of Chuuya’s mouth into a confused frown, his prayers had gone unanswered.
Chuuya’s eyes were so, so blue. “You have me,” he whispered back.
But he didn’t. Because Chuuya would sacrifice himself for Yokohama every time. He already did. He had given more to this city than anyone ever would. He laid down his life every day and gave up everything he thought made him human to be a violent servant for the city.
“You would kill yourself to save them.”
Dazai didn’t mean for it to come out so quiet and accusatory, but he supposed the truth always had a way of bleeding through.
Chuuya stiffened in his arms. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t need to. To be fair, Dazai should have known better than to ask a question they both knew the answer to.
“Don’t you get tired of it all?” Dazai whispered. Giving themselves up again and again without an end in sight, spending their evenings cleaning each other’s near-fatal wounds and pretending they won’t have to do the same tomorrow night.
Chuuya’s expression remained the same for a few moments; gentle, worried, confused. But then he relaxed, breathing out a long sigh, and looked back at Dazai with the bluest eyes. “All the time.”
All the time. He said it with such gentle resignation that Dazai nearly wanted to laugh. That was it, wasn’t it? They could be tired all they wanted, but it didn’t mean anything when there was so much more than their lives at play, when it was the city or each other. When all was said and done, they didn’t get a choice.
“I’m selfish,” Dazai murmured, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to meet Chuuya’s stare. It was so heavy sometimes, piercing straight through him and laying all his bitter insides bare.
Dazai was selfish. He didn’t even consider that other people even had feelings until he met Chuuya, and then Oda. He didn’t care about anyone who couldn’t benefit him, and anyone who stopped being useful was cast out immediately. He’d done it in the Port Mafia, he did it in the Agency, he’d do it for the rest of his life. Everything he did was strategic and coldly calculated without considering something so silly and abstract as a person’s feelings. He was something cold and lifeless dressed in a sallow, moth-eaten human skin, and he’d always been a poor actor in that regard.
And he was selfish because he wanted Chuuya to himself. He didn’t want him to belong to Yokohama when they could belong to each other instead. Chuuya’s allegiance would always remain with the city because that’s the kind of good, selfless person he was—Yokohama had to come first because it needed them. But Dazai was growing weary of having to save each other for the evenings and early mornings, of keeping their wedding rings locked away in drawers or hidden beneath thick gloves and bolo ties. He wanted all of Chuuya’s days and all his nights and everything in between, and he wanted to know that the love of his life would always come back. That the city would never rob them of each other.
But they were never guaranteed those precious tomorrows.
“So?”
Chuuya’s voice had roughened again, back to its usual (if not slightly tempered) fierceness, and he asked the question like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Dazai looked up to find Chuuya watching him with those thunderstorm eyes, his lips downturned in a small frown, his brows slightly furrowed. He didn’t look disturbed in the slightest, just… confused.
Dazai blinked. “So?”
“So what?” Chuuya reached up to flick a few stray curls out of Dazai’s eyes like it was some sort of habit. “Everybody’s selfish. You’d have to be some sort of alien if you never did anything for yourself.” Chuuya met his eyes again and shrugged. “‘Sides, you say it like that some sort of secret.”
Dazai was sure he was gaping at Chuuya like some sort of fish, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t know what he expected, but this wasn’t it. He thought Chuuya might look disgusted or at least a bit perturbed, but he couldn’t see any of that on Chuuya’s face.
“You’re such an idiot,” Chuuya snorted, shaking his head and flinging hot water droplets around them. “You get to be tired and selfish and all that shit. You’re human, Osamu.”
Dazai couldn’t seem to swallow down the lump in his throat. It felt constricted, his breathing shallow, his eyes dry. What on Earth was he supposed to say to that? What could he do when Chuuya said such gentle things to him when he knew he deserved something far worse for all his atrocities, but Chuuya’s reckless earnestness was too good and kind and warm to possibly let go of?
“Jeez, don’t get sappy on me now.” But Chuuya’s voice was gentle as he wrapped his arms around Dazai’s waist and pulled him close, pressing a kiss to the scarred skin just below his collarbone. “I love you,” he added quietly, even crueler. “You know that, right?”
Dazai leaned down to bury his face in Chuuya’s coppery hair and let his eyes flutter shut. All the ugly, twisting feelings in his gut melted away like springtime snow, leaving behind something warm and bittersweet. “I love you too,” he managed to whisper.
“And you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon.” Chuuya pulled back briefly and stood on his tiptoes to steal a quick kiss. His lips were soft and warm, and his hair smelled like his fancy lavender shampoo. “Promise.”
He couldn’t promise that—they both knew it. But it was nice to pretend sometimes, crowded together in their little shower covered in scrapes and bruises, that forever could exist somewhere between them.
Dazai would have liked to say something, anything to make himself feel less raw and exposed, but his silver tongue had abandoned him several long minutes ago.
He watched Chuuya wring out his hair and yank the shower curtain aside. He slung a towel low around his hips, grimaced at the mess left out on the sink, and paused for a moment before speaking again.
“Hey, what do you think about a vacation?”
Dazai blinked. He still stood under the hot spray of the shower, and that stab wound was still a dull throb in his ribs, but he hardly registered any of that.
“A vacation?” he asked.
Chuuya glanced over his shoulder at him with a crooked grin. “Yeah. Get out of here. I bought us that place up in the Hidaka mountains a while back but we haven’t been up in ages.”
Dazai would never fail to understand how Chuuya would wriggle his way into Dazai’s mind like a slug and see everything he’d never been able to say out loud.
He turned off the faucet and stepped out of the shower, wrapping the towel Chuuya held out for him around his waist. Then, quick as he could with all those pesky injuries, he yanked Chuuya toward him and seized his lips in a kiss.
Chuuya let out a surprised little noise, freezing up for a split-second, but then he relaxed and reached up to cup Dazai’s jaw. In quiet, tender evenings like this, Chuuya’s kisses were just shy of soft—he could never quite lose that jagged fierceness of his no matter the hour. Dazai kept his hands on Chuuya’s hips, fingertips dipping just beneath the towel, and savored the feeling of Chuuya’s warmth and solidity and realness against him.
The minutes bled together in a haze, but Chuuya eventually pulled away enough to catch his breath. His pupils were dilated, his lips blushed and slightly swollen, and his hair was still a mess of damp curls. At least Dazai hadn’t reopened that split lip, though the sight of it was still unfairly sexy.
“A vacation sounds lovely,” he murmured, leaning down to steal one more quick kiss.
Chuuya scoffed and rolled his eyes—he had always been a sore loser about being caught off guard like that—but Dazai didn’t miss his flushed ears. “C’mon, I’ll re-bandage your ribs,” he murmured, just before he turned on his heel and made his way toward their bedroom.
Dazai stood in the little bathroom and watched him go. The air was still dense with steam despite the cracked window, and every surface was a mess of first aid tools or assortments of bloodstained items. He could see the faintest outline of the moon through the window, higher in the sky than it had been earlier.
He supposed he couldn’t hate Yokohama. He was tired, and he wanted more than these stolen moments with his husband, and he didn’t like having to wake up before noon every morning. But if given the chance, Dazai wouldn’t change anything.
He opened the bathroom door and followed Chuuya’s path down the little hallway to their bedroom. He left the moon in the bathroom, bathing the softest edges of the world in silver, to watch over the city for them tonight.