The Marionette • Chuuya X Reader

18: Seclusion

When Dazai had said "home", you for some reason weren't expecting to be actually taken to his flat in Yokohama. Somewhere in your mind, you assumed Dazai was going to bring you back to Port Mafia headquarters, though the more you think about it, the more you realize that that itself was a stupid thought. Of course he wasn't going to just walk in to Port Mafia territory in the middle of the night as a traitor holding one of their own injured.

Dazai is a lot of things, but he isn't stupid.

Instead, after some long excruciating minutes, you find yourself sitting on the floor of his cozy apartment leaned against a wall in his bedroom for support, Dazai in another room until he comes back holding medical supplies; mostly bandages. You don't take note of your surroundings or the details of his home, your vision still blurring over if you tried to concentrate too much, but it doesn't take much attention to see the shifting emotions in Dazai's eyes as he kneels down directly in front of you holding a cotton swab with rubbing alcohol.

What is going on?

"Don't move. I'm going to clean your cuts for you and wrap the majority up. It'll hurt, obviously, but I know you can handle pain." He tells you softly, leaning forwards and starting with the cut in your head.

I handled you. Of course I can handle pain.

You don't wince when you feel the sting of the rubbing alcohol in your open wounds, but you do flinch away from Dazai's touch as he uses his free hand to move your chin to the side so he can clean the cut on your head easier. This doesn't go unnoticed by him and you can see from the eyebrow raise that he thinks you are being unnecessary, but even then, he doesn't try again despite his opinions. Once he's done with your head, Dazai leans back to change the cotton swabs and get some bandages ready for your knees and hands, but before he does anything else, you finally find the strength in you to speak up.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping you."

"What, did you grow a conscience in a few days?"

"Maybe I did..."

Dazai tilts his head and gives you a cheeky smile, putting down all the supplies in his hand neatly beside him to allow you to talk, suddenly interested in what you have to say.

"Besides the other day, I haven't seen you in four years. Before you left, I spent eight years with you and only you. Eight years and I never figured out if you actually cared about me at all; eight years and when I do see you again, you tell me that you thought I'd be locked up by now, you don't give me any proper answers, and now...and now you claim to be helping me." You say, not raising your voice, not wavering in confidence and keeping the eye contact with Dazai steady. You try to move a bit from the position you're sitting in, but as soon as you do you feel the dirt and salt from the ground rubbing against the dee cuts on your knees, your pants not helping your case, so you are forced to stay put. Your throat is also in a bit of pain the more you talk, but you don't want to seem so fragile in front of him.

"I am helping you. Like I said, I only wanted to tease you last time; I knew Mori wouldn't hurt something I perfected. On that note...I do still believe you belong next to me and I think you believe it too...but by the look on your face, I don't think you're ready to hear that just yet."

His words infuriate you, but more than that it's his smug tone that really irks you. You don't understand the meaning behind his words as simple as they sound, but you know there's always something more with him. Always, and you are very honestly quite tired of it.

Why can't I get rid of you?

"I hate you, Dazai." You whisper to him, hoping to give him a reality check, but as soon as his smile drops and you recognize the analytical glint in his eyes, you know it was a mistake to say. Your brief relief of finally telling him the tip of the ice berg of what he makes you feel is taken away without a second thought as soon as the man in front of you opens his mouth and reads you like an open book meant for the most illiterate children.