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Dazai never counted his scars.
Not because they didn’t matter. Not because they didn’t hurt.
But because counting meant acknowledging, and acknowledging meant remembering, and remembering meant regret.
And Dazai didn’t do regret.
Not anymore.
Except for one.
A single, deep line just below his ribs, pale and raised against his skin, the only one that mattered. The one Chuuya had found when they were seventeen—when they were reckless and young and neither of them understood what it meant to be alive.
He had been careless back then, too indifferent to hide it properly. Maybe a part of him had wanted someone to notice. Maybe he had just been too exhausted to care. Either way, Chuuya had seen.
And Dazai would never forget the look on his face.
Not anger. Not disgust.
Fear.
Not fear of Dazai. Fear for him.
And Dazai, for all his silver-tongued brilliance, hadn’t known what to say. How to explain the aching emptiness in his chest, the nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering why he was still breathing. He could face gunfire without flinching, endure broken ribs and shattered fingers without so much as a wince—but Chuuya’s silence had made him squirm.
Then, without warning, Chuuya had gotten up, rummaged through the mess of their shared apartment, and returned with ink, a needle, and a determined set to his jaw.
"You’re a fucking idiot," he had muttered, dragging a chair beside Dazai and dipping the needle into the ink.
Dazai had blinked at him, genuinely thrown for once. “What are you doing?”
"Fixing it."
It had stung. More than he expected.
He had watched, equal parts curious and bewildered, as Chuuya pressed the needle into his skin, over the scar, over the wound, one painstaking dot at a time. The pain was different from the kind he was used to—not a punishment, not self-inflicted, but something else. Something grounding.
When Chuuya pulled back, Dazai had looked down.
A dog.
A tiny, curled-up dog, inked into his skin right over the scar, crude and a little wobbly, but unmistakable.
Chuuya had scowled, arms crossed, looking anywhere but at him.
"Now you can’t hurt yourself without hurting me," he had said, voice gruff, like he hadn’t just carved something permanent into Dazai’s skin.
Like it didn’t mean something.
But it had.
And it still did.
Because every time Dazai fell back into the abyss, every time he picked up a blade, he saw it.
That damn dog.
That stupid, ugly, tiny dog.
And the moment the blade kissed his skin, the moment he pressed down, guilt crawled up his throat like bile, thick and suffocating.
Because it wasn’t just his skin he was slicing open.
It was Chuuya’s, too.
And that was the one thing Dazai could never bring himself to do.
---
Years passed.
Dazai left the Port Mafia.
Left Chuuya.
Left everything behind.
And Chuuya—Chuuya, being Chuuya—kept moving forward, like he always did. The rumors said he had a fancy penthouse now, high above Yokohama, with a view that stretched over the city like a king surveying his domain.
Dazai hadn’t thought about it.
Hadn’t let himself.
Until the night he did.
Until the night he found himself on a familiar balcony, staring at a familiar glass door, with a single, stupid, reckless thought pounding through his skull like a war drum.
It’s unlocked.
Chuuya had forgotten to lock it.
Except—no.
Chuuya never forgot anything.
The realization almost made Dazai laugh.
Almost.
But then he stepped inside.
And the scent hit him.
Red wine. Expensive cologne. Something sharp, something distinctly, suffocatingly Chuuya.
And just like that, the breath left his lungs.
Because it was the same.
The air, the space, the feeling—
Everything.
It hadn’t changed at all.
And for the first time in years, Dazai wanted to turn back.
Wanted to run.
Because if he stayed—if he stayed, he would remember.
And if he remembered—
He would break.
But he didn’t.
Didn’t run.
Didn’t turn back.
Because some things—some things, no matter how much time passed—
Would always pull him home.
---
"You're late."
The voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence like a knife.
Dazai turned.
Chuuya was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking at him like he had been expecting this.
Like he had been waiting.
For him.
Dazai opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
What could he say?
That he hadn’t meant to come? That he had? That he had spent years pretending he didn’t care, only to find himself standing here, in the one place he had sworn never to return to?
That the first time he broke into Chuuya’s home in years, he had hesitated?
That for the first time in his miserable life, he had been afraid?
Chuuya sighed, shaking his head.
"You look like shit," he muttered, stepping forward. His eyes flickered over Dazai’s frame, sharp and assessing, like he could see straight through him.
Maybe he could.
Maybe he always had.
Dazai swallowed. "And you look—"
"Don’t."
Chuuya’s voice was quiet, but there was something behind it. Something tired.
Something broken.
The words died in Dazai’s throat.
Chuuya exhaled slowly, gaze dropping—just for a second—to where Dazai's hand rested against his side.
Where the scar was.
Where the tattoo was.
Where the old wound—the only wound that ever truly mattered—still lingered.
A flicker of something passed over his face.
Dazai turned away before he could name it.
The silence stretched between them, heavy, suffocating.
Then—
Chuuya moved.
And suddenly, he was there.
Right in front of Dazai, close enough to touch, close enough to hurt, and for one terrifying, agonizing moment, Dazai thought—
He’s going to hit me.
He’s going to scream.
He’s going to break me apart.
But Chuuya didn’t do any of those things.
He just—
Pressed his forehead against Dazai’s.
Soft.
Gentle.
Like he was afraid Dazai would disappear if he wasn’t careful.
"You’re an idiot," Chuuya murmured.
Dazai closed his eyes.
"I know."
They stood there, in the dim light of the penthouse, breathing the same air, existing in the same space, and for the first time in years—
Dazai let himself believe.
That maybe.
Just maybe.
He wasn’t alone.