Work Text:
The night was dark.
A sliver of the moon smiled down at him, her faint light the only illumination there was in the grungy alleyway. There were no stars, there never were. The overturned trash cans, dusty debris, and a smattering of bullets on the floor spoke of a common gang hideout. There was also a knife stuck to Dazai’s abdomen. One he didn’t dare pull out. That would hurt too much.
Thus, there was only one conclusion to be made: this was the aftermath of a bloody fight.
Which, of course, it was. Though the loser was not the man on the floor—the losers, or the weapon thieves, to be precise, were currently turning tail and would soon end up at the wrong end of a gun. No one stole from the Port Mafia and got away with it, after all. And especially not weapons plans that could level a whole ship.
From his place on the floor, Dazai hummed a few tunes. He yawned and stretched, wincing as the knife moved slightly from its place. He smoothed down the lapels of his suit, as content as he ever got as he felt the papers in the inner pocket. He repositioned his jacket, adjusting the scarf just right.
The sky was lightening up; it was time for him to make his way back. He murmured a silent goodbye to the moon and reached for his phone, closing his eyes and dialing an ever-familiar number. The line went through immediately.
“Dazai?” a mellow voice sounded from the phone.
“Odasaku!” Dazai chirped, “could you pick me up? I’m at—”
—There was a heavy hit to his chest. Dazai’s head hit the back of the alley wall. Hard. his phone clattered to the ground, out of reach.
He pulled himself out of his dizziness and to find a trio of—teens, he realized, as the sun lit the sides of their round faces—staring down at him. Their eyes were wide and they wore the same plastic pendant around their necks. Teenage delinquents, his mind supplied. Not big enough to have influence (Dazai had intel all over the city) and new enough that Dazai had never heard of them at all. They were plain-looking for delinquents; it was a good trait to be unassuming, but Dazai doubted that it was intentional.
He met the gaze of the kid who had kicked him. He was nervous, though he was evidently trying not to express it, if his shaky clenched fists were any evidence. He wasn’t even holding a knife. Neither was the taller boy to his right nor the girl to his left. The taller boy was clutching his pendant like it would protect him from some malevolent force. The girl stared down at him like she wanted to gut him but didn’t know how to. Dazai blinked, continuing to stare calmly at the boy with his lone, dark, eye. His head felt like it was being pushed in, but the kids didn’t need to know that.
Then:
“Give us your money!” the boy blurted out shakily, “Or I’ll kick you right in the gut, I mean it!”
Dazai gave them a smile, the one he liked to use during business meetings.
“Money, hmm?” He closed his eyes, pretending to contemplate it. He grinned, the same one that gave him the moniker of “Demon Prodigy” three years ago. “Sure. how much do you want?”
If he played his cards right, he’d be out in three minutes at most.
The kid didn’t get a chance to respond.
In fact, in thirty seconds flat, a figure had him pinned to the wall opposite Dazai. The boy’s friends had jumped out of the way, and were now trembling on opposite sides of him. The girl found her voice first.
“Let him go!”
The young man stepped back from the boy. The man was short, Dazai noted, and his hair colour was unusual; the sun’s rising light ran through it, making it seem like it was glowing like a candle’s flame. He was fast—far faster than any one of Dazai’s subordinates. And judging by his attire and the non-lethality, he was a civilian too. It was impressive.
The young man must’ve been staring down the teens, given the way they were trembling. He tilted his head.
“What are you doing with him?”
He spoke with a steady cadence. It was reminiscent of the tone Odasaku would use with his orphans when he caught them taking extra cookies from the cookie jar.
The taller boy raised his hands in surrender, “We didn’t do anything! Honest! He was like that when we got here.”
He waved to Dazai, who currently had a steady stream of blood making a spot on his coat. The knife must’ve been jostled when he got kicked.
The young man turned to face Dazai. His eyes were a slate grey, the colour of the stormy sea. There was a resolute air about him.
His voice was gentler this time, not unlike the tone one would use to comfort a crying child. “Did they stab you?”
Dazai sighed. This had turned into quite the mess. His head will still spinning.
“No, it wasn’t them. You can let them go.”
The young man arched his brow. “Really?”
“Yes. They’re not a threat.”
The young man turned to the three teens, who had not moved from their place. He paused, giving them a once-over. Then, he nodded curtly.
“You look like good kids. I wouldn’t get mixed up in this sort of thing if I were you. Don’t do this again.”
The three teens nodded in unison.
“Good,” the man remarked approvingly, “now, scram.”
The teens didn’t need to be told twice.
He turned to face Dazai again.
“Right. I’m gonna call an ambulance. And then you can tell the police about whomever beat you up. How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts. The knife wound is fine. And no hospitals.”
The young man gave him a skeptical look.
“Look, Mr. Shady Businessman, you really should get that checked out.”
Dazai waved him off. “It’ll be fine.”
“You literally have a knife sticking out of you and you’re refusing to go to the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“You realize you could not be more suspicious, especially with,” he waves at the scene around them, “all of this around you?”
“Yup.”
“...No businessman works this early.”
“Never said I was one. You’re here too, you know.”
The man paused. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Bad dream?”
“Ah, no.” He looked away from Dazai. “I don’t usually get—those.”
“Alright then. Could you hand me my phone?”
“Why?”
“So I can call someone to pick me up.”
Dazai’s given an exasperated look.
“At least let me patch you up—I’ve got a first aid kit back at my apartment. Even if the knife wound isn’t ‘that bad,’ chances are you have a concussion.”
Ah. Dazai felt a bit like a scolded child. He’s not escaping this, is he.
He relented. “Fine.”
“Good.”
With reluctance, Dazai’s handed his phone. Odasaku’s still on the line.
“Ah, sorry about that! There’s been a change of plans.”
“You’re alright?”
“Yes. I’ll call you back later.” He pockets his phone.
Dazai met the young man’s gaze. “Well?”
“Well,” the man parrots, “Mr. Shady Businessman, can you get up?”
Dazai raises his arms helplessly. “Nope. And the name’s Dazai.”
He sticks out his hand for a handshake. He doesn’t think there’s blood on it?
The young man shakes his hand firmly. “Right. Nakahara Chuuya, just Chuuya is fine, though.”
“Just Chuuya?”
“Yeah. I never liked my dad’s last name.”
“Hm. Well then, Chuuya,” he drawled, “what do you plan on doing with me?”
“How do you feel about being carried?”
…In the end, Dazai is not, in fact, carried—look, Chuuya is a head shorter than him, his dignity does not allow for that! Instead, he hobbles awkwardly all the way to Chuuya’s apartment with one arm over Chuuya’s shoulder. It’s behaviour more befitting of a mafia boss, he decides. Sure, the weak sunlight feels like it’s eating at his skull, but he has an appearance to uphold.
Chuuya’s apartment was sparse, like his own, and what decor it had was, in Dazai’s opinion, horrendously ugly. The geometric throw pillows needed to be burned yesterday. Not that he found time to complain about them, as he was dumped rather unceremoniously onto them.
“I’m gonna get my first aid kit. Don’t move.”
“Sure.”
Dazai’s not sure if he could move if he wanted to, at this point. His head feels like it’s going to burst. He closes his eyes, relishing in the darkness of Chuuya’s apartment. As soon as he feels like he’s close to sleep, though, Chuuya’s back.
“Hey,” he says gently, “could you remove your scarf? It’s getting in the way.”
Dazai obliges. Chuuya inspects his wound, careful to not move the knife.
“Alright,” he concludes, “it’s just as I thought. You really should be getting to a doctor.”
“Sure. I’ve got a doctor.”
“You’ve got a doctor.”
“Yeah?”
“...You have a doctor, yet refuse to go to the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“...Okay, I’m not going to act like I didn’t know you were involved in some shady shit, but just how much shady shit are you involved in?”
“Quite a bit.”
“...”
“You know, most people would be scared by that.”
Chuuya crossed his arms. “I’m not most people.”
“No, you aren’t. You seem oddly okay with all of this, actually. Are you a paramedic or something?”
“...I’m a kindergarten teacher.”
Huh. Surprisingly, Dazai could see it. He did have a way with the teens from earlier.
“And why is a kindergarten teacher like you okay with being involved in ‘shady shit’? Wait, let me guess,” Dazai scanned Chuuya from his horrendously ugly hat to his to olive green overcoat to his beat up sneakers, (he couldn’t make out any details, but he was sure it was fiiine), “you were a teenage delinquent~”
“...”
“Ah, so I’m right.”
Chuuya sighed, “it’s whatever now. We grew up from that. What’s important is you,” Chuuya gestured to Dazai, “not dying on my couch.”
“I won’t be.”
“No? Last I checked, you still had a knife stuck in you.”
“Hmm. Not anymore!”
With that, Dazai yanked out the knife.
“Oh my god, what the hell—”
Chuuya scrambled for the first aid kit.
Dazai passed out.
When Dazai awoke, he was met with a very peeved looking Chuuya.
“You,” Chuuya declared, “are insane.”
Dazai’s head felt a little less like it was going to burst. “It’s the price of being a genius.”
“No one in their right minds pulls out a knife from a goddamned stab wound!”
Dazai shrugged. “I did.”
“And I had to stop you from bleeding out on my couch!”
“You could’ve let me die.” It wouldn’t have been painless, but it was death all the same.
Chuuya scoffed, “what, and get charged with first-degree murder and have a hit on my head? No thanks.”
“That’s too bad,” Dazai yawned.
“Wait. Before you get back to sleep, have some soup. It’ll help.”
Dazai obliged. After he finished the soup, he watched Chuuya clean up.
Chuuya turned to face him from his place near the sink, drying the dishes. “What are you staring at?”
“I’m bored.”
“Go back to sleep.”
“Ah, but I don’t seem to be tired anymore.”
Chuuya shot him a withering glare that any child would have crumbled under.
“Tell me about your day,” Dazai suggested.
Chuuya threw the dish towel back on the rack. “If it gets you to sleep, sure. Where do you want me to start?”
“How about your students?”
“Ah,” a fond smile graced Chuuya’s face, “well, today, or well, yesterday, Kojima was telling me how his brother was going to be an entomologist, and Fujita heard him and said he wanted to be one too. Then, Ueno chimed in, and she naturally has a loud voice, see, so when she started saying it, everyone else heard it. And I guess it turns out I have a class full of fledgling entomologists.” Chuuya laughed.
Dazai hummed in response, closing his eyes and leaning back onto the couch. He let Chuuya’s voice wash over him like the sound of ocean waves.
“Some of them tried to find bugs to bring to me, actually. Sato was really excited about it. He tried so hard to catch a dragonfly that I felt a little bad when I told him he had to let it go. I was a little worried since I’d hate it if they brought a bug inside, but they’re good kids,” Dazai imagined Chuuya smiled here, “and they listened when I told them that they should let the bugs go back home…”
Chuuya looked over at Dazai, who was fast asleep. He went over to his closet and pulled out a blanket to drape over him. Dazai was a strange man, Chuuya thought, not for the first time. His bandages were the first indicator, but…Chuuya shook his head. He told himself he wouldn’t get involved in that sort of life again.
So, he prepared for bed again.
Chuuya had a surprisingly pleasant sleep.
Chuuya woke up to the sound of his alarm. He grabbed his phone, his sheep phone charm hitting him in the face as he scrambled to turn off the sound. As he got dressed sleepily, he remembered the man on his couch. Turning the corner into the living room, Chuuya found that it was empty.
It was like a dream. Actually, he would’ve chalked up last night’s events to being a dream if not for the blanket on his couch and the note left on his table:
Call me? 45-1555-8243