The apartment door closed soundlessly behind them or perhaps that was wrong. Perhaps it only appeared to be soundless, because of the existential state of reality that had been thrust upon them.
Who knew?
Eager to finally sit down, Chuuya was quick to sink down into the plush living room couch with the help of Dazai, who quickly settled down next to him shortly thereafter.
"Fuck… we still gotta take care of this shit," Chuuya grumble exhaustedly, as he lazily gestured toward Dazai's bullet-ridden hand and his broken ribs.
"Yeah," he heard Dazai say next to him, sounding equally as tired but still trying to push past it, "here, I'll grab the stuff. Stay there."
A part of Chuuya felt guilty that he wasn't helping Dazai gather up the needed supplies, but another part of him was too tired to do anything about it. So, he ended up just waiting, sinking further into the couch cushions, while his broken ribs seemed as though they were lit ablaze in his chest.
A few more minutes passed by, before finally, the couch dipped again, signifying Dazai had returned.
Chuuya's eyes flickered over to see what Dazai had collected as he sat up with a slight grimace in favor of the scream of pain that wanted to leave him.
In Dazai's lap lay a roll of bandages, some Eva A, vaseline, a gauze pad, and an ice pack he must've found in the freezer at some point while he'd been gone.
"Take that soggy bandage off, go wash your hand and I'll wrap it for you," Chuuya mumbled, gesturing towards Dazai's offending hand where blood still pulsed from the hole in it, in a way that would've made Chuuya want to vomit had his whole life not revolved around violence.
Instead of just listening to him, however, Dazai seemed to have other ideas.
Just like he always did.
Why couldn't anything ever be easy?
"Chuuya, you've got two broken ribs. My hand is fine, I mean I can barely feel it, see?" In a lousy attempt to emphasize his point, Dazai prodded at his hand with an encouraging smile. However, the effect was quickly lost if it had ever even sunk in at all in the first place, by the increasingly darkening scarlet stain that tainted the foul bandages he currently had it wrapped in.
"Dazai," Chuuya gritted out, before forcing himself to sit up despite the bout of agony it sent through him, "you were shot in the fucking hand and the bleeding still hasn't stopped. You could go into fucking septic shock if we don't do something about it now. My ribs can wait, they've practically already healed with Arahabaki's assistance. So let's just take care of your hand first, alright?" The part about his ribs being pretty much healed had been a lie and he knew Dazai knew it, but he wasn't incorrect in his assurance that Arahabaki would fix it. It would just take a bit more time as was fairly obvious. Still, there was the point that his ribs wouldn't leave him in any kind of immediate mortal danger with the help of Arahabaki at least for the moment.
"Chuuya-" Dazai fruitlessly tried again, before immediately being cut off.
"Dazai, please. Just this once, can you listen to me?"
A bout of silence rang out between the two in which Dazai seemed greatly conflicted before finally he stood defeated.
"Fine, but as soon as we do that, I get to take care of your ribs."
"Yeah, yeah," Chuuya chided, rolling his eyes.
Dazai disappeared back into the bathroom. The telltale sound of the facet turning on signified to him that Dazai had indeed listened to his advice for once in his life. A surge of triumph flooded through Chuuya's chest at the noise. If only such an occurrence were more common.
When Dazai came back out, his hand was free of the ruined bandages and washed clean. Blood still sluggishly pulsed from the wound but with proper care, it'd probably heal just fine. Dazai's body seemed astonishingly impervious to most acts of violence anyway.
Grabbing the Eva A first, Chuuya unscrewed the cap, while doing his best to ignore the sharp flare of pain that was sent through his ribs at the movement.
"Here," Chuuya said, passing Dazai two pills before taking two of his own.
He knew that the pills probably wouldn't do much for Dazai's condition with his more than unfortunate history of built-up tolerance. However, it was still better than nothing and Chuuya felt wrong to be the only one taking the pills without giving Dazai any. Granted, he knew that he probably wasn't much better with the metabolism bestowed upon him by Arahabki.
Reaching over, Chuuya then grabbed the vaseline before gesturing for Dazai to give him his hand. Without hesitating, Dazai held it out, offering it to him. The amount of trust that fueled their relationship had always been something that had been special to him because he knew that almost no one else ever saw Dazai like this. Even if they did, it was probably only in the briefest of moments.
Taking Dazai's proffered hand in his own, Chuuya held it gently with one hand, whilst using the other to generously apply the vaseline to the wound. It only took a minute at most, before Chuuya was satisfied with his work and slid two gauze pads out of their encasements.
Gently, he laid a pad on each side of the wound, before he began to wrap it in a fresh bandage. His mouth set into a thin line, as he focused on his work, making sure that the bandage wasn't unbearably tight to the point that it cut off circulation and yet also not so loose that it had the potential to slip from its position on Dazai's hand.
As he finally finished up his work, Chuuya took a moment to admire it.
"You know what? I think I'm better at this than you."
A soft look had settled into Dazai's eyes and they seemed to almost glimmer in the moment of levity.
"I don't know, Chuuya," Dazai replied, "when I look at you the word artistic doesn't exactly illuminate in my mind."
"Hey!" Chuuya protested, before lowering his voice as the loud reverberation sent another echo of pain through his chest. "I'll have you know that I am very artistic. Fuck you."
"Really?" Dazai pressed, raising a brow.
"Yes really, you asshole. I write poetry, so there."
A moment of dead silence passed between the two, as Chuuya's realized what he'd said and the implications, as his cheeks began to take on a deep red hue, rather making him resemble a tomato. Meanwhile, Dazai's eyes, though still dulled by recent events, took on a dangerous sparkle of enthusiasm.
"Can I read them?" A terrifying smile slowly began to make its way across Dazai's face.
"Um yeah, fuck no. You'd just laugh at them."
"But Chuuya-" Dazai whined.
"No, Dazai," Chuuya replied firmly, but the smile that was now beginning to pull at his lips despite himself took away from any scathing quality the comment might've otherwise held.
"I promise I won't laugh," Dazai futilely assured him. "Please Chuuya, I'm begging you. I need to see these. My life is meaningless without them."
"Fine," Chuuya finally conceded, "but only after you help me with my ribs."
"Great," Dazai said, practically beaming now.
Moments like these reminded Chuuya about why he'd fallen in love with Dazai in the first place.
The thought came unbidden into his mind, and this time he didn't even try to shove it away, being much too exhausted to do so. Of course, he would refrain from acting on it, because who knew how Dazai felt? He doubted it was the same way and he couldn't risk losing their friendship over something as stupid as unreciprocated feelings.
Being able to have these moments of levity with Dazai amid unequivocally traumatic events, was something he was unable to experience with any other. They were both in pain and yet, they still found ways to make each other smile and laugh despite it.
It was just really nice, and in lives as painful as their own, such moments felt like rays of warmth on a chilly day.
Perhaps others would look in and see them joking in times of morbid reality and call them callous. The thing was that those people only saw from that perspective because they had never experienced things from the life perspectives of Chuuya and Dazai. Perhaps in their worlds acting in such a way really was callous or insensitive, but life experiences were not universal. So in the end, it simply did not matter.
"Okay, okay, let me help you with your ribs, so we can get to the poetry faster," Dazai said, and Chuuya nodded in acceptance, slowly shrugging off his coat and then beginning to pull upwards at his shirt. This only lasted a few moments, however, as Chuuya was quick to find himself falling back into the couch cushions while stars dotted his vision and agony erupted in his chest.
"Shit," he heard Dazai say from somewhere beside him, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have let you do that. Here let me help you."
It took them several minutes of Dazai helping Chuuya get the shirt off as painlessly as possible but went much better than it would've gone had Chuuya tried to do it all on his own. In all honesty, they probably should've just cut the shirt open, but it was a really nice shirt and Chuuya couldn't bring himself to ruin the fabric more than it had been already.
So now, bare-chested, exhausted, and in pain, Chuuya lay still with unconscious beckoning, while Dazai began to inspect the damage.
However, he was quite quickly drawn from his withdrawn state as the featherlight touches of careful fingertips began to explore his chest.
A feeling he could only find himself stupidly relating to butterflies settled in his throat and gut, as he desperately found himself fighting to hold back a blush.
This was just Dazai seeking out the extent of the damage, nothing more.
Chuuya just hoped Dazai didn't notice the increase in his heart rate, and that if he did, he wouldn't mention it.
"It doesn't seem like it'll be too bad in the long run," Dazai finally assessed, "you'll just need to ice it and it should fix itself with Arahabaki's help like you said."
Several minutes later, the two managed to set Chuuya up with one of Ango's spare hoodies and a large ice pack laying across his chest.
"So, how about some poetry now?" Dazai prodded, his eyes alight with exaggerated childlike excitement.
"Yeah, well when we get out of this, I'll let you read it. They're all back at my apartment, and it's not like we can just go there right now with everything going on so…"
At the reminder of the reality of their situation, a somber silence fell over the two.
A pang of hatred stabbed at his heart for ruining the mood, but deep down he knew it was bound to happen eventually.
"Chuuya…" Dazai said, his voice soft and eyes pained, "I'm so sorry I didn't keep my promise."
"Dazai-" Chuuya tried to cut in, before being quickly silenced, as Dazai began to speak over him.
"No, no, no, just let me finish. I just… I know you don't think I should feel bad about what happened, but I do. I keep making all these mistakes that I used to never make and it's putting you and others in danger or just outright killing them and just what if next time… what if the next time I get you killed you too? I mean if I did that, I don't think I'd ever be able to live with myself. I'd find a way to end it. A way that would be permanent."
"Dazai," Chuuya protested, his voice cracking as shards of glass seemed to burrow into his chest. "You're not going to kill me and even if something did happen, please don't do that. There are others who care... who you can talk to."
"Yeah... I mean it's just... it's just my whole life, I've always been expected to know exactly what to do. I've been expected to see life as a fucking chessboard, always peering ten steps again and I'm tired, Chuuya. I'm so fucking tired and the more I slip up, the more tired I get, and so on and so on in this neverending fucked up cycle of me failing everyone who's ever meant something to me. So I just... if I lost you... well, it'd be hard you know? Then there's what happened to Ango…"
"Dazai," Chuuya protested, eyes narrowing in confusion, "what happened to Ango was entirely Dostoevsky's fault. Regardless, he's in the hospital right now. He's pretty resilient, I'm sure he'll be okay."
"Oh," Dazai said and he sounded wrong, so terribly wrong, "you didn't notice."
"Notice what?"
"Ango's dead. He left the hospital to save us at the Port and Dostoevsky killed him."
An oppressive heaviness seemed to weigh down the air in the room.
"He's dead," was all Chuuya could bring himself to say in the end, not entirely sure how he felt about that.
"Yeah... he's dead," Dazai confirmed, eyes distant and unfocused. "He distracted Dostoevsky so that I could jump in after you and save you. He's probably the only reason we're both still alive… and I... I just wish that we had ended things differently and under better circumstances. I mean he probably died thinking I still hated him," a sardonic laugh tore its way out of Dazai's chest, "I mean I did for so many years, but I'm just so tired now, and I… I just wish that I had gotten the chance to tell him how much I missed him. I wish I had gotten the chance to tell him how I missed going out for drinks and just talking. Too late now though, I guess. Always too late…"
"I'm sure he knew," Chuuya tried, setting aside his own feelings about the matter for the moment, "and even if he didn't, what happened wasn't your fault. None of this is. I know I keep telling you this, but you need to understand it, okay?"
"Yeah… um yeah, okay. Thanks," Dazai said, eyes still vacant, but now finally meeting Chuuya's once more.
"'Course."
He would tell him a million more times if that was what it took.
"I don't think I tell you this enough, but I really appreciate you, Chuuya," Dazai said, the look of vacancy finally beginning to fade from his eyes in favor of vulnerability and something else that Chuuya couldn't quite identify, "for sticking around and all that. Not many do and I know I deserve it because I can be... difficult sometimes. I just… sometimes I well- I don't know, this is really shit timing, but I... well look I… well I just need you to know that I… that I just well… fuck Chuuya, it's just that I'm in fucking lo-."
The ringing of the home phone cut off whatever Dazai had been about to say next, and Chuuya was too scared to even speculate on what it was for fear that he'd be wrong. Even as his heart screamed for what he thought Dazai was about to say to be true, it simply wasn't worth the risk.
For a brief moment, the two just stared at the phone debating what to do, before finally Dazai rose from his seat and picked it up, lifting it to his ear.
And then there was something he didn't think he'd ever see again.
An unhindered smile spread across Dazai's face at the voice of whoever was speaking to him from the other side of the phone before he too began to speak into the phone's transmitter, relief evident in his voice.
"Hey, Kunikida."