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The world always fell silent when Chuuya entered Corruption.
It wasn’t an ordinary silence — it was as if gravity itself had swallowed sound, as if the air was afraid to vibrate. In that hostile state, Chuuya had no awareness of his own actions. He couldn’t distinguish faces, couldn’t tell allies from enemies, civilians from innocents. The ground trembled around him, space warped and twisted, debris lifting and spinning in the air — everything and everyone at the mercy of gravity.
Everything except one thing.
A boy who couldn’t have been more than seventeen, dark, wavy hair shaking violently in the gusts of wind caused by the very being he was watching. What others saw as an aberration — a lab rat given too much freedom and power — Dazai saw as something beautiful. To him, Chuuya’s Corruption was not merely a singularity. No. It was something that made him want to live. To live just to witness how far something so beautiful could go.
Dazai was there, as he always was. Too close to the chaos. Too confident that a single touch would be enough to bring Chuuya back. That was how it worked. It always had.
But something was wrong that night.
A minimal delay. A second stretched too long. A microscopic mistake — and yet, fatal.
Corruption didn’t recognize faces, names, or promises made in the past — no matter how the name “Dazai” was the only word Chuuya could manage to utter in that state. It only saw a presence, illuminated by the power of No Longer Human. An obstacle. A body too light to exist in a world that demanded weight.
And for the first time, the force that was always restrained did not stop.
The impact was dry. Surprisingly silent.
Dazai felt the air ripped from his lungs before the pain even arrived. The ground rushed up far too fast. The world pulled away, blurred, as if he were watching his own death from inside a shattered aquarium.
When Corruption finally ceased, Chuuya felt exhaustion crash over his body in waves. The dust settled. Blood coated the ruins of destroyed buildings. But he didn’t understand the sensation of warm blood and soft flesh beneath his fingers.
He blinked, again and again, trying to process what was in front of him.
His vision focused — and there it was. A deep crimson red. His fist buried in the brunet’s abdomen, deep enough to feel muscle and organs.
The first sound that returned was the scream.
Dazai’s name tore from Chuuya’s throat, heavy with a terror that not even gravity could hold.
The other boy’s hands trembled around Chuuya’s forearm, bitten nails digging into his skin. He vomited blood in thick waves into the small space between them. Chuuya yanked his arm back immediately, but the damage was already done. Dazai collapsed.
Chuuya caught him desperately, forcing both of them to the ground as he spat his own blood onto the rubble.
Gravity dragged at his limbs. His body screamed with exhaustion. His eyes darted between his blood-soaked arm, the hole in Dazai’s stomach, and his face twisted in agony. Chuuya couldn’t lose anyone else. Not after Corruption. Not Dazai. Not like this.
He tore his shirt apart with shaking hands, doing whatever he could to cover the deep wound. He pressed down with everything he had, ignoring the exhaustion, ignoring the pain spreading through his body like poison. The more pressure he applied, the more blood soaked through the makeshift bandage, staining his hands even further.
Dazai groaned as Chuuya pressed harder against his viscera, “Fuck—”
“Shut up, Dazai! Shut the fuck up!” He screamed frantically. “You’re going to be fine! Okay?! You’re going to li—”
Dazai’s hand shot up and grabbed his wrist, nails digging in as he tried desperately to push Chuuya’s hand away from the blood-soaked cloth.
“What are you—” Chuuya lifted his head to meet Dazai’s face — and froze. Terrified eyes stared back at him, “…doing?”
Time seemed to stop entirely.
That carefully constructed façade was being mercilessly torn apart in seconds. Those eyes reflected a lamb cornered before execution. Helpless. Afraid. And reflected in them were Chuuya’s own — predatory, malicious. Watching. Waiting.
Dazai’s frightened gaze darted away. His hands released Chuuya’s arm and fumbled weakly at his waist, searching for something. Before Chuuya could ask, another rush of blood spilled from Dazai’s mouth. Still, his hands kept moving. Chuuya followed them until they reached — the radio.
Without hesitation, Chuuya ripped it from Dazai’s belt. He screamed into it repeatedly. His voice broke, drowned in panic and incoherent pleas, despite the trained responses echoing back in his head — “We’re sending reinforcements now.”
His throat burned. His words barely came out. Even so, nothing drowned out the frantic pounding of his heart — or the weakening pulse beneath his fingers.
“Chuuya…” a fragile voice murmured.
“Shut up! You can’t— don’t talk… don’t talk,” Chuuya’s voice cracked. The radio slipped from his trembling hands. Tears blurred his vision.
“Heh,” Dazai sighed softly. “Guess I’ll finally die.”
“You can’t die in a place like this!” Chuuya pressed harder. “Please, Osamu…”
Please. Don’t leave me.
It felt like an eternity before the Port Mafia paramedics arrived. Chuuya was in a daze, whispering reassurances into Dazai’s ear, clinging to his weak pulse, the ringing in his ears blocking out the chaos around them. The paramedics separated the two boys and hurried to place Dazai on the stretcher.
Chuuya’s hollow eyes followed them. He blinked distractedly, his strength ebbing as he struggled to stand. His legs trembled as he tried to reach the ambulance. A group of paramedics immediately rushed toward him. He tried to push them aside, but couldn't and collapsed to the ground. His stomach churned and blood gushed from his mouth. Perhaps it was the adrenaline that fueled him, but he too succumbed to exhaustion.
· · ─ ·☾· ─ · ·
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and disinfectant. It had schedules, rules, lights that never turned off. And yet, for Chuuya, time worked differently there — always delayed, always trapped in the instant his fist tore through the air and found a body that was never meant to be a target.
He didn’t visit Dazai when he woke up.
Instead, he reassured Kouyou — who had come to see him — that he was fine, even as the tremor in his hands betrayed him.
“So… how is he?” Chuuya finally asked, voice low, as if speaking louder might make it all too real. Kouyou was sitting in an armchair beside him, her posture elegant despite her evident fatigue.
The silence answered before she did.
“He’s going to be fine, sweetie,” Kouyou said gently. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”
She stood and wrapped her arms carefully around his torso, resting his head against her chest, fingers threading through his red hair.
Chuuya feels his throat tighten and his eyes burn. In a sudden movement, he clutched her kimono, fingers digging into the fabric as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. The sound that escaped him wasn’t quite a sob — it was too broken for that.
On the third day, he heard voices in the hallway. Doctors speaking in voices far too neutral about a risky surgery, internal bleeding, about “Osamu”, as if the name were just another piece of information in a medical record, stated with excessive professionalism.
Chuuya remained seated on his stretcher, feeling the weight of the Corruption still echoing in his muscles, bones, and mind. He was discharged a few hours later, released with recommendations that he ignored almost immediately
Dazai, however, remained in a medically induced coma for five days.
Chuuya left the hospital — or tried to. He lingered in the parking lot, staring at the building as if it were an enemy he couldn’t face. He wandered the city, slept poorly, woke up worse. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the impact. Every time he opened them, he remembered Dazai still hadn’t.
On the fourth night, he returned.
He slipped into the hospital after visiting hours, hat pulled low, the steps contained. No one stopped him. Perhaps because he seemed smaller in there. Less dangerous. Or perhaps because no one dared to say anything.
He stood outside the bedroom door for long minutes.
There was a constant sound coming from inside — an electronic rhythm, too steady to be comforting. Chuuya rested his hand on the wall, feeling the cold concrete against his palm. He thought about leaving. He thought he didn't deserve to cross that threshold.
Even so, he went in.
Dazai lay motionless. Pale. Tubes and wires everywhere. Machines that breathed for him. His chest rose and fell mechanically. Chuuya couldn’t bring himself to look at the bandages beneath the sheet for long.
He stayed by the door.
“…Idiot,” he whispered, his voice too low to compete with the devices.
The silence did not answer.
Looking more closely, Chuuya noticed that all of Dazai's bandages had been removed — probably due to the surgery, he assumed — revealing a large portion of the numerous old scars mixed with new ones that covered his slender body, some made on the battlefield, and others in the great war that was his mind.
Seeing him like this, the one who had once been the feared Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia, the boss's right-hand man, now a body lying unconscious on a stretcher, exposed. It was strange to see Dazai like this, stripped of artifice, vulnerable like anyone else. Strangely human. And, perhaps for that very reason, impossible to ignore.
Chuuya slid to the chair beside the bed and sat down carefully, as if any sudden movement could break something irreversible. His hands rested on his knees, clenched into fists he refused to open.
"You always trust too much," he continued, swallowing hard. "I thought… that you were going to stop me."
There was no reaction. No crooked smile. No provocation.
The weight of it was worse than any response.
Chuuya leaned forward, his elbows resting on his legs. His head fell between his shoulders, finally giving way.
"I shouldn't be here," he confessed in a whisper. "Much less near you."
For a moment, he thought he felt something. A slight squeeze on his fingers. A nonexistent movement. He raised his head too quickly — and there was nothing. Dazai remained motionless, oblivious to the guilt that filled the room.
Chuuya chuckled softly, humorlessly.
"Of course," he murmured. "Even unconsciously, you can fool me."
He stood up slowly. Before leaving, he hesitated. His hand trembled in the air, inches from the sheet. He didn't touch it. He didn't dare. Chuuya needed to make sure his hands wouldn't get near anything living again.
Chuuya left the room without looking back.
The monitor continued to mark the steady rhythm of a heart that still insisted on beating.
After that, Chuuya didn't dare set foot inside that hospital again. He was afraid of having to face Dazai after almost passing through his body and having to deal with the guilt. He was afraid of meeting the agency members and the looks he might receive. 'It's your fault' or 'How could you do this?' and phrases like these echoed in his head, along with the faces of those who cared about Dazai — those who would never hurt him like he did.
The Agency noticed quickly. No one commented.
Dazai eventually woke from the coma, but slept a lot. When he was conscious, he felt the agonizing pain in his abdomen, the weight of the bandages — which now carried a different meaning — the uncomfortable limitation of a body that wouldn't obey him. He also felt something else: the absence.
Chuuya had always taken up space, even when he wasn’t physically there. His voice complaining about Dazai’s choices, the insults they threw at each other without real malice, the sound of his footsteps, the steady presence of his breathing — the way the world felt heavier around him.
Now, the room felt too light. Too empty.
“Did he come?” Dazai asked Yosano, feigning indifference.
She hesitated. The silence answered for her.
Alone in the room, Dazai stared at the ceiling. He thought about many things — death, as always — but none of them brought the usual comfort. What unsettled him most was how completely Chuuya had vanished.
He would never admit it out loud, but he missed his partner’s voice.
The Agency visited almost every day. Some afternoons were spent talking with Yosano, others comforting Atsushi and Kyouka. Sometimes he was alone, rehearsing what he would say when he finally saw Chuuya again, promising himself he’d go after him as soon as he got out of that place.
He managed to retrieve his cell phone thanks to Yosano, who convinced the nurses, and immediately texted Chuuya, asking about his whereabouts, but was completely ignored.
09:46
hey chuuya
the nurse said i can use my phone now
✓✓
09:48
it’s not fair that i survive this and you don’t come see me :(
✓✓
09:51
you don’t have to come into the room
just answer me
✓✓
09:57
chuuya
chibi
slug
chuuyayua
✓✓
09:59
i didn’t die
✓✓
10:04
i miss you
✓✓
last seen today at 10:05
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dazai was discharged two weeks later. Chuuya didn’t visit him even once.
There was no dramatic announcement — just a doctor saying he was “stable enough,” a list of recommendations he half-listened to, and an envelope filled with too many papers. He put on his coat carefully, his body protesting every movement, and stood staring at the door for a few seconds.
Nothing.
Dazai left the hospital alone.
Instead of going home, he walked. He wandered through Yokohama without direction, moving slowly, choosing routes that didn’t demand urgency. He passed places that were far too familiar — bridges where he and Chuuya had stood countless times, arguing about trivial things as if they were wars.
He stopped at one of them.
Stood there for a long time, watching the water move below. This time, there was no suicidal urge — only the uncomfortable realization that, for once, he wanted to do something the right way.
He took out his phone. Opened the chat that had remained silent for two weeks.
Chuuya Nakahara
last seen 14 days ago
Dazai turned the screen off.
He understood. Or thought he did. Chuuya handled guilt the way one handled a wild animal: from a distance, afraid to get too close. Dazai knew that better than anyone.
Still, it hurt.
That night, Dazai went back to his apartment. Took off his coat, sat on the couch, and stayed there — unmoving — as if his body were still waiting for someone who wouldn’t come. The physical pain was manageable. The other kind wasn’t.
He sent one last message.
Dazai Osamu
18:42
Got discharged today
✓✓
He didn’t accuse. Didn’t ask. Didn’t explain.
Then he did something unexpected even for himself: he rested. He went to sleep early, allowed exhaustion to overcome restlessness.
Because deep down, Dazai knew. If Chuuya hadn’t come, it wasn’t because he didn’t care.
It was because he cared too much.
And this time, Dazai decided not to chase him immediately.
He would wait.
But not forever.
· · ─ ·☾· ─ · ·
Dazai waited three days after being discharged. Not because he needed to — his body still ached, his movements were still slow — but because he wanted to be sure it wasn’t impulse. That he wasn’t going after Chuuya out of habit, or fear of silence.
On the third day, he realized the silence wasn’t going to leave on its own.
He put on his coat carefully, ignored the sharp pull in his abdomen as he bent to put on his shoes, and left. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. If Chuuya wanted distance, Dazai would have to catch him off guard.
He knew exactly where to find him.
The building was old, discreet — too modest for someone like Chuuya — but Dazai recognized it. He climbed the stairs slowly, one hand gripping the railing, the other hidden in his pocket to mask the tremor. He stopped in front of the right door. Breathed in.
Knocked.
There was movement inside. Hesitant footsteps. A pause that lasted too long before the lock clicked open.
Chuuya opened the door — and froze.
He looked thinner. Hollow-eyed. A half-empty bottle of expensive wine hung loosely from his hand. His body was tense, like someone always bracing for impact. When he saw Dazai, the color drained from his face.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, too quickly, as if trying to end the scene before it fully existed.
“I got out of the hospital,” Dazai replied. “I came to see you.”
Chuuya immediately looked away. “You shouldn’t be walking around.”
“And you shouldn’t have disappeared,” Dazai countered quietly.
Silence settled between them again — heavy, familiar. Chuuya’s grip tightened on the doorframe, knuckles turning white.
“I didn’t come because…” he started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. “Because I was afraid of myself.”
Dazai took a step closer. He didn’t enter. He didn’t touch. He simply shortened the distance.
“I know.”
Chuuya looked up, startled.
“I know,” Dazai repeated. “But I’m not afraid of you, Chuuya.” He raised his hand and gently cupped Chuuya’s cheek.
Chuuya’s jaw tightened — then he opened the door fully and stepped aside. “Come in,” he said quietly. “Before I change my mind.”
Dazai entered slowly and sat down on the sofa. The apartment was silent, but it felt like it had survived a storm.
The air was heavy, soaked with stale alcohol and something metallic, bitter. The smell of sour wine dominated the air, clinging to the throat like a bad memory that wouldn't go away. The wooden floor was stained in dark splashes — dried spills, uneven trails leading from the door into the living room, as if someone had wandered aimlessly in circles.
Bottles were everywhere. Some intact, empty, tipped over. Others were broken, scattered in glistening shards that reflected the dim light from the window. The dried wine on the shards looked like old blood, darkened by time. Chuuya had kicked one of them near the sofa; the glass was still there, no one had bothered to sweep it up.
The couch was misaligned. One cushion on the floor. Another torn at the seam. Chuuya’s coat lay crumpled over a chair, as if it had been ripped off in a hurry. On the low table, a toppled wineglass sat among ring-shaped stains — traces of nights repeated and forgotten.
This was an apartment inhabited by someone who didn’t sleep properly. Who drank to forget and broke things when forgetting didn’t work. A place that seemed suspended in time, trapped in the exact moment when Chuuya lost control—and then lost the courage to clean up the mess.
Nothing screamed rage. Everything whispered guilt.
Chuuya crossed his arms and approached the couch, trying to ignore the mess. They stood facing each other, uncertain how to continue.
“I was scared,” Chuuya finally said. “Scared to look at you and remember the feeling. Scared to touch you again and… lose you for good.”
Dazai lowered his gaze to his own hands. “I was scared I’d never see you again,”
The words stayed there — bare, unprotected by irony. The silence in the apartment wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't empty either. It was the kind of silence that existed because nobody wanted to make a mistake.
Dazai was still sitting on the couch, shoulders slightly hunched, his body betraying a fragility he hated to acknowledge. Chuuya stood before him, fists clenched, like one wrong move could shatter something irreparable.
From where he sat, Dazai looked smaller than Chuuya remembered — not just physically, but because for once, he had to tilt his head up to meet his gaze. The difference wasn't huge, but it was enough to change something between them. Chuuya noticed and looked away, as if he didn't know what to do with that momentary advantage.
“Does it hurt?” Chuuya asked.
Dazai looked up, surprised by the simple question. "A little," he replied. "But I've been worse."
Chuuya stepped closer. Then another step. Each movement deliberate, careful — unnatural for someone driven by impulse. He stopped just inches away.
“Tell me if I cross a line,” he murmured.
Dazai nodded.
Chuuya hesitated. His hand rose slowly, trembling, hovering for an eternity before resting against Dazai’s chest. He didn’t press. Didn’t pull. Just touched.
Dazai’s body reacted instantly — a slight stiffening, then a soft, involuntary breath. Not of pain. Of recognition.
Chuuya closed his eyes for a moment.
"You're warm," he said, as if he needed to confirm that he was there, alive.
His other hand traced Dazai’s shoulder, down his arm, following the outline with excessive care. When his fingers found exposed skin at Dazai’s wrist, he swallowed hard, feeling the weak but steady pulse beneath.
“It’s beating,” he murmured, more to himself than to Dazai.
Dazai gave a small, tired smile.
“I’m still here,” he said softly.
That was enough to break through the last barrier.
Chuuya leaned forward, resting his forehead against Dazai’s shoulder. He didn’t hug him right away. Just stayed there, breathing in sync, relearning something he’d forgotten.
"I thought you’d..." the voice faltered, "be afraid of me."
Dazai lifted his hand and rested it against Chuuya’s arm — light, permissive.
“I would never be afraid of you, Chuuya.”
Chuuya finally wrapped his arms around him, slowly, respecting his injured body. The hug was awkward, incomplete — and yet, real.
Dazai closed his eyes, returning the hug and allowing himself to sink slightly against him.
The touch didn't heal everything. It didn't erase the fear, nor the bad nights. But there, in that instant, it was enough to prove that there was still something to be saved.
The hug slowly dissolved, as if neither of them wanted to be the first to let go. When Chuuya pulled his face away, he was still too close. Close enough to feel Dazai's breath falter.
They stayed like that for a few seconds — close, motionless, trapped in a fragile space.
“Chuuya,” Dazai murmured — not teasing, but warning. He lifted his hand, touching Chuuya’s chin, guiding without force. A silent request.
The kiss happened without haste. There was no hunger, no urgency. It was short, almost restrained, as if both were testing whether it was still allowed. Chuuya let his hands rest on Dazai's shoulders, while the other wrapped his arms around the redhead's nape, gripping a bit of his hair, not forcefully, but enough to show his presence.
Chuuya's lips were warm, trembling; Dazai's responded carefully, as if each movement were a conscious choice. Chuuya closed his eyes in the middle of the kiss, his hand rising to the collar of Dazai's coat, holding on as if he needed something solid to keep from falling. Dazai let out a low sigh against his mouth, an almost imperceptible sound that made Chuuya shudder.
When they pulled away, it was just enough to breathe. Their foreheads remained pressed together, noses almost touching. Dazai's eyes were half-closed; Chuuya's, shining too brightly.
“You’re still here,” Chuuya murmured, as if saying it to convince himself.
Dazai smiled slightly, tired but genuine, and touched Chuuya’s wrist with his thumb.
“I am,” he replied. “And so are you.”
The kiss didn’t solve everything. It didn’t erase the fear, the guilt, or the weight of what was almost lost. But there, in that shared silence, they chose to stay.