Soukoku One-Shots

Bruises and Bullet Wounds

Post-Canon

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Chuuya crept toward the abandoned warehouse, flickering street lights illuminating the street in sickly yellow. It was silent save for the occasional leftover raindrop hitting the sidewalk or the faint scurry of cat paws in the gutters, and the moon was high in the sky. It cast a silver glow onto the steel roof of the warehouse.

He should have known something was wrong when Dazai didn't text him after midnight. It wasn't uncommon for either of them to be out late on last-minute jobs or dealing with unexpected complications, but they always tried to let each other know if they were going to be out later than usual. Chuuya had stumbled into their apartment at the ripe hour of eleven-thirty, covered in ash and gunpowder from an ambush on one of their overseas shipments. He'd dealt with it quickly, naturally, but not without getting nicked once or twice by a few knives.

He was just about to clean up when he got the call. The number was unfamiliar, but not just anyone could reach his personal phone. Chuuya answered it with his hackles raised.

"Hello, Nakahara Chuuya," said the voice on the other end. It was a man, likely no more than thirty, and his voice was rough. "We have Dazai Osamu in custody. If you want to kill him before we do, you'd better be quick. We've sent you the address. If you fail to—"

Chuuya hung up before he could finish.

That was how he ended up here, crouched outside an old warehouse in the middle of nowhere, scanning the outside for any potential explosives. Snipers or ambushers were no problem—he'd crush their skulls into the sidewalk. The real issue was if they thought exploding the building when he walked in was a good idea.

After analyzing the entire perimeter, Chuuya could safely conclude that entering the warehouse wouldn't blow anyone to bits. He made his way back around to the front and kicked open the rusting doors, hands in his pockets as he tried not to think about what these people might have been doing to Dazai while he was home. If they hurt him...

"Start talking, fuckers!" he shouted, voice echoing through the warehouse. It smelled like dirt and dust, but there was a metallic note in the air that made his stomach twist.

As he surveyed the space, his eyes caught on a figure near the corner, tied to a chair and slumped over.

His stomach dropped.

Osamu.

Chuuya was moving before he could think. The world around him spun and he didn't care what was in the wooden crates scattered all over the warehouse—he crushed every single one in his way with a flick of his wrist.

He dropped to his knees in front of Dazai, who was still sitting limp in the chair. He ignored the panic climbing up his throat.

"Fuck, fuck—Osamu, can you hear me?" Chuuya immediately pressed two fingers to Dazai's neck, breathing out a long sigh of relief when he felt the faint rhythm of a heartbeat. He pushed Dazai's hair away from his forehead—besides a split lip and one or two small cuts on his cheeks, his face was uninjured.

Chuuya pulled back to examine his body and ignored the knot in his stomach. There was one deep gash on his ribs that needed immediate attention, and several more that could become serious problems if left unattended.

This was worse than he thought. "Osamu." Chuuya cupped Dazai's face, tapping his cheek frantically and searching for any signs of consciousness—eyes, lips, fingers, anything. "Fuck, say something," he pleaded.