Soukoku One-Shots

Bloodstained and Gentle Hands

Dark Era

Dazai Osamu was one of the most feared people in Yokohama, and everybody knew that.

Known as the Demon Prodigy, he was the tactical genius of the Port Mafia and the other half of Double-Black: the title for the vicious duo that had decimated an entire gifted organization in a single night. His name was spoken with reverence and fear, and his brutality was second only to the Boss of the Port Mafia himself. He could slice someone to pieces and not so much as flinch. He might even smile.

So why the hell was he bleeding out in Chuuya's doorway?

"Slug?"

Chuuya blinked, focusing back on Dazai's face—pallid and sporting a tight-lipped smile that only barely disguised the pain he was clearly in. "Are you just going to keep staring?" he asked wryly. "I realize I'm quite handsome, but—" Dazai cut himself with a short intake of breath as he sagged forward, nearly crashing straight into Chuuya.

"Holy shit, Dazai," Chuuya hissed, immediately propping Dazai up and looking down to see the bloodstain spreading on his suit jacket—nearly invisible thanks to the way it was swallowed up by the black. Chuuya cursed under his breath as he practically dragged him into his apartment. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Dazai's smile was pained as Chuuya heaved him toward the bathroom. "I was stabbed," was the simple reply.

"You were what?"

Dazai sank onto the toilet lid with an unceremonious snort as Chuuya immediately went to his sink cabinet and pulled out a first aid kit. "Stabbed, chibi. Don't worry—" he cut himself off with a pained hiss, "not by anyone else."

Chuuya's fingers stalled for a few seconds from where they were unbuttoning Dazai's suit jacket—almost unnoticeable, but Dazai noticed everything about Chuuya. He resumed taking off the jacket with almost no change in his expression—almost, because the way his lips tightened just slightly and the way his scowl deepened were obvious to Dazai. "You did it."

Not a question.

Dazai huffed a pained chuckle. "No one else could do something like this," he gestured vaguely to the gaping slice in his stomach, which was exposed in all its bloodstained glory now that Chuuya had wrestled off all of Dazai's clothes. "Except you, of course. Brutish hatrack."

But Dazai could see the way Chuuya began biting the inside of his cheek, jaw taut and face pinched in concentration and something else. Worry? Irritation, Dazai concluded swiftly and shoved the thoughts to the back of his mind.

"I didn't think you liked pain," Chuuya muttered, and Dazai bit back a mangled gasp when Chuuya pressed down hard on the wound with the gauze he held.

"I don't," was the quiet reply. "That's why I'm here in the first place." He let out a lazy half-chuckle, but they both knew it was fake.

Chuuya snorted, though, tossing the gauze away before he picked up a small bottle of alcohol "If you really wanted to kill yourself, you should have gone for your Jugular Vein."

"I know," Dazai whined, and even as he bled out in Chuuya's bathroom he managed to be as endlessly irritating as ever. "But bleeding out isn't a very appealing way to go, so I thought I'd try something else."

"And didn't that work out just splendidly," Chuuya muttered, pressing an alcohol-soaked piece of gauze into Dazai's gash and causing a sharp intake of breath as he bit down the pain.

"That's mean, slug! I'm dying and you're making fun of me. So cruel." Dazai's voice was scratchy and hollow—it was a pathetic attempt at their usual bickering and neither one was in the mood for it.