[ To say that the current situation had taken a careening and albeit screeching turn for the worst was only emphasized by every sound the Mafia executive kept spewing.
There were a hundred things Dazai could have quipped back in the span of seconds after the words tumbled in the familiar cadence of breath from the shorter figure. every hiss a syllable he could have tapped in rhythm of familiarity.
That's what they were like, once. It's why he knows Chuuya is moving for his knife before the other even positions himself into a stance - rise and fall of breath, rustling of fabric as his shoulder dips to reach back in a fluid motion. ] A new low? [ His voice echoes slightly, even if it's lower than usual. Despite that, he laughs, a hitch of air that tells his genuine amusement. ] Ha-ha, did you just make a short joke youself so I didn't have to?
[ The flashlight works against Dazai's favour, as it should and he squints against the light, the sting of it still a lingering phantom in his vision and the shithead keeps talking and -
- he could curse, dig not-so-deep for some colourful language and it would still not define the position all that accurately. Technically, even he would give Chuuya enough credit to know that the other would see his wound.
Though if technicalities were being addressed, he did shine a bright light directly on it so maybe he was giving the headache just enough credit.
He hadn't realized it before, or maybe he didn't consider it, but now that the focus of attention was directed all onto his shoulder, he could feel the effects of it far too well. If this was a subordinate of his before, he would have told them they deserved it for their errors; it was a Mori school of discipline. It was hard not to see this as his mistake, anyway. It pissed him off more now that his ex-partner was there to yap at him.
It's the sort of feeling set in ghosts of memory as much as the present; bullets and flesh and blood and he can still wear a sickle grin even as blood loss registers, wet and sticky and uncomfortably warm against a soaked sleeve.
In the dark, he couldn't see the trail of blood he was surely leaving behind, too. In fact, he was honestly happy with his progress up until now. The power of his denial had helped not notice the fatigue, how damn light his head felt - the throb of pain his only companion.
Then Chuuya's hand settles harshly on the open wound just as Dazai is formulating a sly retort and it's caught in his throat against the sharp inhale in some choked sound that he forces belatedly into another laugh. a little too late, a little too strained. ] Always knew you were into the rough stuff.
[ His other hand flicks out immediately to Chuuya's wrist, still fast and sure, finds skin that's startlingly warm against his slim fingers, telltale drumming of a pulse beneath a feathered grip. ] I was doing fine until I saw your ugly hat. Now I just might pass out on principle!
[ and yet, standing still instead of being in motion, his legs don't feel steady at all.
and yet, he actually considered between throwing up and passing out, and doesn't know which he would want to do first.
and yet, Chuuya offers this and it feels too starkly close to those times. Dazai knew exactly what weight the other's insistence held. That wherever he was going to lead him would be a place that would completely compromise him, should Dazai let the location slip.
He wanted to have that to hold over him. It would be as powerful a play as the letter and to see chuuya's angry face would be pure joy to Dazai. Except for a few factors, a major one of which is the incessant grip on his shoulder, steering him forward. The other factor was the disorientation he was currently trying to grapple with, a culmination of his senses swimming. ] Ha-ha, what are you doing?
You'll get my blood on your trashy clothes - although I wouldn't mind seeing you cry over that.
[ Chuuya should leave him. Walk the other way and pretend none of this conversation ever happened.
and yet, he asks a beat later, with no hint of ulterior thought: ] What about your mission?
your reply and comment are so perfect ohmg i blush ♥
There were a hundred things Dazai could have quipped back in the span of seconds after the words tumbled in the familiar cadence of breath from the shorter figure. every hiss a syllable he could have tapped in rhythm of familiarity.
That's what they were like, once. It's why he knows Chuuya is moving for his knife before the other even positions himself into a stance - rise and fall of breath, rustling of fabric as his shoulder dips to reach back in a fluid motion. ] A new low? [ His voice echoes slightly, even if it's lower than usual. Despite that, he laughs, a hitch of air that tells his genuine amusement. ] Ha-ha, did you just make a short joke youself so I didn't have to?
[ The flashlight works against Dazai's favour, as it should and he squints against the light, the sting of it still a lingering phantom in his vision and the shithead keeps talking and -
- he could curse, dig not-so-deep for some colourful language and it would still not define the position all that accurately. Technically, even he would give Chuuya enough credit to know that the other would see his wound.
Though if technicalities were being addressed, he did shine a bright light directly on it so maybe he was giving the headache just enough credit.
He hadn't realized it before, or maybe he didn't consider it, but now that the focus of attention was directed all onto his shoulder, he could feel the effects of it far too well. If this was a subordinate of his before, he would have told them they deserved it for their errors; it was a Mori school of discipline. It was hard not to see this as his mistake, anyway. It pissed him off more now that his ex-partner was there to yap at him.
It's the sort of feeling set in ghosts of memory as much as the present; bullets and flesh and blood and he can still wear a sickle grin even as blood loss registers, wet and sticky and uncomfortably warm against a soaked sleeve.
In the dark, he couldn't see the trail of blood he was surely leaving behind, too. In fact, he was honestly happy with his progress up until now. The power of his denial had helped not notice the fatigue, how damn light his head felt - the throb of pain his only companion.
Then Chuuya's hand settles harshly on the open wound just as Dazai is formulating a sly retort and it's caught in his throat against the sharp inhale in some choked sound that he forces belatedly into another laugh. a little too late, a little too strained. ] Always knew you were into the rough stuff.
[ His other hand flicks out immediately to Chuuya's wrist, still fast and sure, finds skin that's startlingly warm against his slim fingers, telltale drumming of a pulse beneath a feathered grip. ] I was doing fine until I saw your ugly hat. Now I just might pass out on principle!
[ and yet, standing still instead of being in motion, his legs don't feel steady at all.
and yet, he actually considered between throwing up and passing out, and doesn't know which he would want to do first.
and yet, Chuuya offers this and it feels too starkly close to those times. Dazai knew exactly what weight the other's insistence held. That wherever he was going to lead him would be a place that would completely compromise him, should Dazai let the location slip.
He wanted to have that to hold over him. It would be as powerful a play as the letter and to see chuuya's angry face would be pure joy to Dazai. Except for a few factors, a major one of which is the incessant grip on his shoulder, steering him forward. The other factor was the disorientation he was currently trying to grapple with, a culmination of his senses swimming. ] Ha-ha, what are you doing?
You'll get my blood on your trashy clothes - although I wouldn't mind seeing you cry over that.
[ Chuuya should leave him. Walk the other way and pretend none of this conversation ever happened.
and yet, he asks a beat later, with no hint of ulterior thought: ] What about your mission?