Chapter Text
Sharp, piercing pain. Like an electric current shooting through his stomach front to back, whizzing down his spine in short bursts.
Chuuya blinks against the murkiness of sleep, inertia keeping him locked in place. Every breath aggravates the dull throbbing in his ribs. They’re bruised, but not broken.
It’s okay.
More hurtful is the memory of a patent leather shoe pressing down on him, the jagged profile leaving tears in his shirt and dents in his skin, the image of hollow eyes, any capacity for mercy carved out of them, peering down at him in thinly veiled condescension. In disgust and derision.
Chuuya stirs. The movement causes a pain so burning and twisting, it blinds him momentarily, white spots exploding in his vision. Chuuya bites down on his lower lip. He hears the crack as it splits from the pressure. Droplets of blood seep into his mouth.
The small spike of pain on his lip is nothing compared to the hurt and ache drilling into every part of his body; a bruise the size of a fist blooming on his lower abdomen, the imprint of a shoe etched into the skin on his chest, the scrapes and cuts covering over half the surface of his legs.
When the white spots finally abate, Chuuya looks around – and immediately freezes.
While this is definitely his room, it doesn’t feel like it. Something’s off. Something small, yet big enough to tie his insides into dense knots.
His fingers dance over the cover of his bedding. It’s soft, clean and whole. No little holes in it, no frayed seams – no blood. Chuuya’s breath hitches. Carefully, almost warily, he crawls from under his blanket and moves to sit at the edge of the mattress. Cold air nips at his skin, the soles of his feet brush over the fluffy carpet in front of his bed.
The shelve at the other end of his room is neatly organized, books sorted by size and color rather than alphabet and the three hat chains he owns placed next to each other in equal spacing. His heart leaps in his chest. It’s exactly the kind of order his past self would have kept, the kind of bagatelle he used to care about.
In spite of the warm touch of the sun against the nape of his neck, Chuuya shivers, slinging his arms around himself.
The mirror hanging next to the door, uncracked.
The lamp on his bedside table, the one he broke, in a futile attempt to hit back.
Everything, up to the little tear in the coat hanging by the door. The coat he threw away.
Yes, this looks like the room he left behind five years ago.
But it can’t be, which means –
He closes his eyes and exhales, trying to get rid of the tiny bloom of hope growing in his chest.
What a cruel dream to spring on him. Chuuya is torn between wanting to wake up and face reality and begging the dream to never end.
Ever since Chuuya got hit by an ability five years ago, his seventeen year old self transported to another universe, another life, he dreamed of this moment, of waking up and feeling at ease, at home. But never has it seemed so real, so tangible. Again, Chuuya flexes his hand and grips the fabric of the bedding. It feels real, tickles the cusps of his fingers. It looks real.
But it can’t be.
The truth will catch up with him soon, ripping him apart all over again.
He’ll wake up to find his bedding torn and bloodied. He’ll wake to his books strewn across the room, to an empty bedside table where his lamp used to stand – to chaos. He’ll wonder why he ever entertained the idea of this nightmare ending, why he ever felt hopeful, if only for a single heartbeat.
It’s better to cling to reality, no matter how badly he wants to drift away in a stream of what-ifs and if-only’s.
Because if he let’s himself hope, it’ll be so much harder to return to the sting of Dazai’s searing gaze.
On trembling legs, Chuuya stands. Looking down, he sees the same shirt he went to bed in last night, white and a little too big, reaching the middle of his thighs. It’s crumpled from a night of tossing and turning, but fresh and clean otherwise. It’s the little things he focuses on nowadays, like going to sleep feeling comfortable, even if every inch of muscle on his body is cramping with pain.
He didn’t understand, at first, why Dazai was suddenly hurting him.
The first punch surprised him more than it hurt him. Dazai never hit him – he teased and prodded, but he never hit, he never injured. Not with intent. Not him. Never him.
Chuuya understood, somewhere in his mind, that this wasn’t his Dazai. But it was still some version of Dazai. And Dazai never hit him – so why?
Bit by bit, Chuuya realized: This Dazai is different from the Dazai he knows. He enjoys inflicting pain on Chuuya, he sees it as a necessity. He does it without hesitation, without remorse. No, he does it with glee.
Sometimes, Chuuya wonders what happened to his counterpart, to the Chuuya of this world. Maybe he never existed, maybe he got transported elsewhere in turn, or maybe he died when Chuuya took his place. Maybe, maybe, maybe. In the end, he doesn’t care enough to find out.
Sometimes, Chuuya tries to fight back – but the guilt of hurting his partner is too much, and Dazai’s attacks get worse the more he retaliates. So he stops. He can endure. He can endure a lot, he learns that quickly. More than he ever thought possible.
With light steps and bated breath, Chuuya approaches the door.
It all feels too real. The hard floor under his feet, the brush of hair against his neck. The hammering heart in his chest.
The pain.
The doorhandle is cold under his grip.
Chuuya opens the door and steps through.
Dazai is here.
That‘s the only thing registering in his brain. Dazai is here, standing at the kitchen counter, slowly turning to look in his direction.
Dazai is here.
Dazai is here.
Dazai is here.
Chuuya flinches hard and retreats instinctively, back hitting the ajar door with a bang. The doorhandle bumps against his spine. He hisses and stumbles, trying to regain his balance, but his legs give out and he tumbles to the floor.
Pain shoots up his back, reaching his head as a dull throbbing. But he can’t move, can’t breathe.
The silence that follows is heavy.
Dazai stares at him, frozen in place.
He’s wearing something strange. Not black and not dirty – rather, a beige trenchcoat and a bright shirt. But Chuuya knows better than to ask. Asking when not prompted to will result in pain. However, when Chuuya looks him in the eyes, they hold none of the deadness he is used to, none of the malice. Something shines in them. Chuuya cannot make out what exactly it is, but for any shine other than wickedness to be visible in them is unearthly.
“Chuuya?” Dazai’s voice is brittle and so quiet that Chuuya wouldn’t have heard it if the air around them wasn’t so oppressively silent. Every breath feels like swallowing water. Too thick, too little oxygen. Dazai turns around fully, arms falling to his side limply. “Chuuya?” There it is again, that tremble in his voice. That’s ridiculous. Dazai’s voice doesn’t tremble, not unless his windpipe is being crushed.
“Yes?” Chuuya asks, because Dazai hates not getting a response, especially if he already asked twice.
Taking a step in his direction, Dazai blinks. “Is that really you? Chuuya?”
Is he not supposed to be here? Is he not allowed out? Did Dazai want him to stay in his room? Shit. “I’ll – I’ll go back.”
“Wait!”
Chuuya freezes. Every muscle in his body locks up. Of course. Having broken a rule, Dazai will want to punish him first. Chuuya grips the doorframe with such force that his knuckles turn white and pulls himself up. The bruise on his stomach throbs and his injured ribs press against his lungs. A puff of air escapes him.
Dazai approaches.
Something is strange about his gait. Like he’s hesitating. Like he’s trying not to scare a cornered animal.
Chuuya doesn’t take his eyes off of him. It’s easier if he sees what’s coming. The thought of jumping out a window and fleeing crosses his mind. But he’s still in the weirdly organized and clean flat, which means he’s still in a dream – which means Dazai can’t really hurt him.
And if he’s not in a dream, fleeing will make the fallout so much worse.
“Are – are you okay?” Dazai asks.
Chuuya frowns. Something akin to acid bubbles in his chest. What kind of sick new game is this? Making him feel safe before attacking? Playing with his feelings? Confusing him?
Chuuya tries to think of an answer, but Dazai has never asked him that before and he doesn’t know what kind of answer the other man wants. The truth would make him seem weak, a lie would no doubt seem like disrespect and prompt Dazai to make it hurt more. No matter what angle he takes, there is no right answer. So he stays quiet.
Dazai’s eyes wander up and down, brows furrowing more the longer it goes on. He lingers on Chuuya's scraped up legs. His Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. “You’re hurt.”
A venomous remark sits at the tip of Chuuya’s tongue, but he bites it back. Don't talk back, don't talk back. “Yes,” is all he says, though there is a roughness to his voice that Dazai no doubt hears.
Dazai shakes his head and takes another step forward. Chuuya tries not to flinch, but he can’t suppress it entirely. Dazai slows his pace, a pained expression taking over his face. “Where were you?” An edge of desperation accompanies the question. The emotion is so entirely out of place, so foreign. Dazai doesn’t sound desperate. His voice is a hollow monotone or a cutting sword – nothing else.
“In my room,” Chuuya says dumbly. “Sleeping.” He’s getting bold and he knows it, but Dazai’s current behavior is so weird that he can’t bring himself to mince his words. A million questions swim in his head, most of them preluding answers he doesn’t want to hear.
Dazai stops in his tracks. It’s almost awkward, the way he stands in the middle of the living room, brows knitted and hands visibly trembling. If Chuuya weren’t so tense, he would laugh. “In your room?” Dazai repeats, incredulous. “Chuuya, you were gone for five fucking years.”
Something shifts in Chuuya’s mind, something slots into place. Something heavy. It’s so sudden and strong that his entire body shudders with the force of it.
Impossible.
Five years.
Impossible.
But Dazai hasn’t yet attacked him and his eyes still gleam with something other than hatred.
His flat is still bright and clean – whole.
He’s back.
He’s back home.
“M-Mackerel?” The question rolls out of his mouth before he can think it over.
And when Dazai reacts to the nickname with a smile, Chuuya swears he stops breathing.
“Yes, Slug. It’s me.” Dazai shakes off his stupor and crosses the last few feet between them. “What the fuck, Chuuya. What the fuck.”
Dazai grabs Chuuya’s shoulders and pulls.
Chuuya envisioned this scenario so many times, dreamed of it so many times, but never did it end with Dazai hugging him. Nothing ever ended with Dazai hugging him.
Dazai’s chest is warm and broad, and the hands burying themselves in his shirt are searching but gentle. Chuuya rests his cheek on the junction between Dazai’s shoulder and neck, breathing in deeply. It’s the same cologne he remembers. Dark and heavy. Spices and musk. He closes his eyes.
When Chuuya’s body goes limp with exhaustion and relief, he expects to hit the floor, but Dazai strengthens his grip and holds on tight.
He’s home.
“Where were you?” Dazai repeats, voice still so soft.
Chuuya doesn’t know where to start. A simple explanation wouldn’t explain the way he trembles in Dazai’s arms, the way he flinched back from a simple glance. So he shakes his head. “Later,” he mumbles.
“Okay.” Dazai hoists him up. “Later. For now, I think you should sleep some more.”
And that – that fills Chuuya with crushing dread. His trembling intensifies, borders on convulsing.
What if he wakes up in the wrong world again? What if this is a dream? What if – He grips Dazai tighter.
“What’s wrong?”
“No.”
“But you’re clearly exhausted. We can talk later. You need rest.”
Chuuya remains silent.
“I’ll stay,” Dazai offers after a while. But it doesn’t sound like an offer at all, more like an irrefutable fact. “I’ll stay the whole time. So go to sleep, Chibi.”
The nickname he hated so much just a few years ago wraps around him like a warm blanket.
It’s true, then. It has to be.
He’s home.
His Dazai is here.
And he’s safe.
He repeats those truths until his eyelids grow too heavy for him to keep open.
The last thing he feels is Dazai readjusting his grip and lifting him up.
He’s home.