Work Text:
The first one appeared after the mission with Lovecraft.
Chuuya thought it had to do with Corruption. Corruption wreaked havoc on his body, and each time around he played a guessing game about which of the many ways he would feel like complete and utter shit.
Kouyou suggested taking a bath and Chuuya decided, why not, it would soothe his sore muscles and relax his frayed nerves. Maybe he’d stop being angry that Dazai left him in a field and hadn’t made contact since.
He slipped into the warm, soapy water and rested his head against the porcelain surface of the tub, stretching out and closing his eyes. The warmth seeped into his bones, taking away the cold that had put up residence there ever since that night. Only his head and the tips of his toes remained out of the water.
It was nice.
A glass of wine would be nicer.
Chuuya cracked open his eyes and noticed a spot of red on the toenail of his right foot. He blinked. The spot remained. He sat up.
Was he bleeding? Did he get cut, somehow?
Corruption tore his skin open in places, but this spot was so small that it didn’t seem related. The red followed the line where his nail met skin, where his cuticle should have been.
Chuuya leaned forward to examine his foot.
The red was too bright to be dried blood.
He rubbed his thumb over the area. It didn’t smear like freshly pooled blood would. It pulled.
The sensation could almost be dismissed, but Chuuya felt a slight pull under the skin of his toe.
He rubbed the spot again and felt the same sensation. And now, there was more red. Enough for Chuuya to hook his index finger under this thing and pinch it between that and his thumb.
The red object, whatever it was, felt soft under his fingertips.
He pulled.
The stronger sensation of something moving under his skin almost made him gag, but he didn’t stop because he didn’t think he would be able to start again. It seemed to go on forever, but finally blood welled up from his nail bed as he freed the object.
He wanted to be sick.
Between his index finger and thumb, he held a red flower petal. That he’d pulled. From under his skin.
Taking several shaky breaths, he tossed the petal over the edge of the tub. Blood ran down his foot now from where he’d removed the petal, and his toe throbbed.
The water had grown cold.
He scrambled out of the tub, throwing a tower around himself. The water swirled into the drain, tinged with red. Chuuya rushed into the kitchen, not caring that he was still wet.
With shaking hands, he poured himself a glass of wine and took long gulps.
Eventually, his heart slowed and his breathing evened out. Slightly dizzy, he stumbled back into his room to throw on a shirt.
Something must have happened with Corruption. That’s all.
*
“Chuuya-san, what is that?”
“What is what?”
Akutagawa hesitated, then tapped Chuuya’s left hand. Chuuya looked down and almost passed out.
Bright red lined the nails of each finger.
“Fuck.”
Akutagawa cleared his throat.
“I’ll finish looking over these reports with you later,” Chuuya managed. “I have to go.”
He rushed back to his apartment and into the bathroom. He fumbled around for his tweezers, took a deep breath, and went to work.
He could see the area just under his skin moving as he pulled, and he swayed on the spot, his head buzzing and his gorge rising. With each one that he pulled, blood splattered onto the sink and dripped onto the floor.
He finished his left hand and started on his right, fingers sticky and throbbing.
Ten crumbled flower petals soaked with blood lay in the sink by the time he was done. Chuuya collapsed against the floor, breathing so hard it almost sounded like he was sobbing.
He had been getting better. Corruption was over. Why was this happening?
Was he going crazy?
When he returned to work later in the day no one mentioned his torn up fingers.
But Chuuya felt them looking.
*
The next morning Chuuya had a lump in his throat.
He drank water. He cleared his throat. He took a losange. Nothing seemed to help. When he talked, his voice sounded hoarse. During his weekly meeting with Mori and the other Executives, he held back the urge to cough.
Mori, of course, took his time. Kouyou wanted to talk to him after the meeting. Chuuya brushed her off with the promise to see her later and stepped outside for some fresh air.
That didn’t help.
He doubled over, coughing. It felt like something was crawling up his throat and he coughed harder, trying to force whatever it was out. Whatever it was wouldn’t clear. It felt harder to breathe, like the thing was blocking his airway, brushing against the back of his tongue. Chuuya stumbled into the nearest alleyway and leaned against the wall, reaching into his mouth and feeling something soft brushing against his fingers.
He grabbed it and pulled, and felt something slide out of his throat from what felt like his chest. Chuuya gagged, eyes wide as the object finally slid out and he dropped it on the ground.
A red flower, with a long, thin stem and a small network of white roots stained red.
Chuuya clapped his hand over his mouth, swallowing what tasted like blood. His knees gave out and he crashed to the ground.
*
The next day his vision went. He could only see red.
His chest felt heavy.
When Kouyou knocked on his door, he didn’t answer.
Instead he holed up in the bathroom, coughing up flowers, pulling them from his throat, hoping that maybe if he kept pulling, he’d get them all out and he could finally breathe again.
Tears splattered on the tiles along with blood. Both were soon covered by flowers.
*
Dazai “missed” four calls, two voicemails, and ignored three text messages from Chuuya before he decided to see what his annoying partner was up to.
He started with the voice messages.
The first one, Chuuya sounded angry. “Oi, Dazai, why the hell don’t you ever pick up your phone? It’s a fucking pain in the ass. I need to know if anything weird happened when we fought Lovecraft. I need a serious answer, so don’t be an ass about it.”
Dazai thought back to that night, and while Lovecraft himself had been a huge anomaly, there hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary in terms of their operation. Corruption worked as it meant to, and Dazai’s Ability nullified Chuuya’s as always.
The only difference was that after he nullified Corruption, Dazai left Chuuya to fend for himself.
He listened to the second message. “I don’t know what’s happening but...I don’t know...maybe you do. It started that night. It had to.” Chuuya’s voice sounded hoarse, strained, and he paused twice to cough. The sound was jarring, making Dazai wince.
He checked the texts.
Dazai, listen to my voicemail and answer the damn phone.
It’s getting worse. I really need answers and I feel like you would know.
Please come over.
Each sent several hours apart.
Dazai rarely worried, and he never worried about Chuuya, but this was concerning. What did Chuuya think was happening? Did it have to do with Lovecraft, or Corruption?
Against his better judgement, he decided to make the trek to Chuuya’s apartment.
He never bothered knocking, because that warned people he was coming, and one of the small delights in life was catching people by surprise. He picked Chuuya’s lock, laughably easy for someone in the Mafia, and crept inside.
The lights were on.
“Chuuya, for shame! This is an appalling waste of energy!”
No answer. Maybe the hatrack wasn’t home.
Dazai rounded the corner to the kitchen and stopped.
Chuuya lay with his head on the counter, arms slack, face turned away from Dazai. His hair spilled out behind him, and his hat was gone.
“Drinking during the day?” Dazai teased.
Chuuya didn’t so much as shift.
“Chuuyaaaa, you’re no fun,” Dazai moaned, walking over so that he could wave his hand over Chuuya’s face. “Time to wake-”
He stopped.
Chuuya wasn’t asleep.
He wasn’t even breathing.
Vines twisted from Chuuya’s open mouth, the red flowers at their ends resting on the counter like a small bouquet. Dark, dried blood stained Chuuya’s pale cheeks and had dripped onto the floor, forming dark puddles under Chuuya’s feet. Where his eyes had been, red flowers bloomed.
Dazai backed away, wanting to be sick.
There was a folktale, but Dazai had thought it was only that: a tale. Nothing to do with him or Chuuya.
But he was wrong.
It had everything to do with him.
Chuuya had called for help, and Chuuya had died alone.