Warning: canon-typical violence.
Dazai always put thought into driving a point home. For this specific point (this was fun, let's never do it again), he scoured the leveled forest grounds in search of everything Chuuya had dropped through the fight. He found his hat, dirty but undamaged, a few feet away from his gloves. He found the coat, edges a little torn, right by the shack's entrance.
Dazai folded them all into a neat pile next to Chuuya's head. He watched Chuuya sleep for a moment, eyeing the still-slick blood that had run out of his mouth, eyes, nose. It was in his neck too from having dripped out of his ears.
Dazai was fine with his own ability. He occasionally found himself envying others' (Tanizaki's and Kunikida's were really, really useful) but he was aware of how preyed-upon the power to nullify other powers was; he appreciated the need to keep him alive, whether friend or foe, and he appreciated the invulnerability that No Longer Human granted him. It more often than not paid off that no one could use their ability on him.
Then there were abilities he never wished to have. Abilities he wished no one would have. Dazai took the silk handkerchief he carried mostly for show out of his breast pocket and wiped the blood around Chuuya's mouth gently.
He tried not to think about how Chuuya would handle the aftermath. It had been five years since Corruption's last use; the last time, Dazai had been the one to crawl into bed with him and hold him until the shaking stopped.
Chuuya's hand few up and grabbed his wrist, interrupting his musings with a start. When Dazai looked up slowly, Chuuya was glaring at him.
"Ow," he said, as if only now realizing that he'd wrecked his entire body. "Fucker."
"I'm entirely non-responsible for this, Chuuya," Dazai replied.
"Shut the fucking… fuck…"
Dazai laughed before he could help it. "Your eloquence never leaves to be desired."
"Use another three-syllable word on me and I'm punching your teeth out, Dazai."
With what fists? Dazai thought, glancing at the split-open skin of Chuuya's hands.
Chuuya released his grip, no doubt because of the pain. He looked around himself, blinking through the crusting blood tying his eyelids shut, and marked a pause once he saw the folded clothes next to himself.
The dry laugh he let out lodged itself in Dazai's throat coldly. "Really," he said.
Dazai hummed. Pressed the silk to Chuuya's face again, wiped the blood from his brow. "Really."
"You are such an asshole."
"And you are as short-tempered as you are short."
Chuuya didn't rise up to the taunt, which was even more indicative of how hurt he felt than the tense curve of his lips. They shook when Dazai wiped them next.
He saw Chuuya's hand come up this time—his other hand—and didn't protest when it tugged him down with his tie, regardless of the blood stains that the touch would leave on his clothes.
He met Chuuya's mouth with his more softly than he otherwise would; Chuuya didn't move, didn't try to coax him into anything more than a dry press of lips, and Dazai told himself that the way he breathed out of his nose, the tiny flick of the tongue he gave to Chuuya's upper lip—tasting blood—was enough of an apology.
"Yeah," Chuuya huffed. "I'm sorry too."
He sounded so bitter.
He pushed Dazai away lazily. Turned to rest on his side so at least his belly wouldn't be so exposed, since he couldn't stand up yet. His hands were still red. The tremors were about to start, Dazai knew.
He put the handkerchief back in his pocket and left.