(reasons upon reasons upon reasons. nothing dazai does that is so personal is on a whim. he dislikes looking for too long, he remembers some, doesn't remember all, and it all paints such a miserable painting of his inner self that he doesn't enjoy the idea of searching his body for something faint under scar tissue. likewise, the thought of chuuya looking at the years on his body isn't pleasant, but he doesn't have anywhere else to run for this. if he's going to be a coward, he might as well be a coward where he always is - that way, it is somewhat familiar.
on top of everything, things... changed. he doesn't like the fact a part of him wants chuuya to see what he hates the most, hoping he'll turn away, think dazai's too disruptive, think this is too much. that way, dazai's self-fullfilling promise would come true. he wants this, he wants to be here, and it's so terrifying that it makes his fingers stiff, like his own body is fighting his brain in self-sabotaging.
because chuuya would never leave. it hardly matters what dazai does, he could rip the man's chest open and hold his heart in his hands, and chuuya would yell, complain, and not leave. it's not confirmation of what he knows that he needs. it's difficult, and he sighs harder, eyes still not meeting the other's, empty as if they never left their teenage years.)
... I hate you, you know. I really, really, really despise you.
[And Chuuya watches, as Dazai strips. Because he'd never forgive himself if he missed any sign of something wrong, but also because he understands how much this is taking from Dazai, to remove his bandages and have his body examined. He's going to make it count, for what little that effort is worth, so he refuses to fuck this up.]
I know. Hate you too, mackerel.
[And yet the words are said in a way that sounds like something else entirely, when Chuuya's hand--bare, after a night sleeping by Dazai's side-- reaches out, touching his bare skin as it's revealed with a gentleness that is reserved for only the most precious of things. A kind of reverence, even. This is how deep Dazai's trust in him goes, to show him a part of himself he doesn't even want to look at, and Chuuya knows the value of such a gesture.
More than that, he knows the value of these scars, even if Dazai sees them as marks of shame and failure. Chuuya knows the battle Dazai is fighting every day, and sees these scars as symbols.
I'm still here they scream. I'm still here in every breath Dazai takes, in every beat of his heart. He's come out the other side of every day battered and bruised, but he's still here. Battle scars.]
(even their hatred is so synced that when chuuya replies with his own statement, dazai doesn't think it's anything different from his own. a desire for freedom that neither one would ever take - and it burns, consumes, and tires.
his skin's never felt such soft touch, as intentionally gentle and understanding as chuuya's giving him, and his breath hitches in the shrieking confusion his brain swims in. the way he leans into touch is almost unnoticeable, hesitant and anxious, before his forehead meets that shoulder again.
his own are bare now, and he should do his arms, which are still healing from the last time chuuya's seen them, along with new marks.
[And that touch lingers, still so terribly gentle, careful not to press his fingers hard into anything that looks like it had been too deep, once. He knows how those kinds of scars can hurt after they heal, nerve deep aching that makes you want to claw your skin open. And while neither of them were shy about inflicting pain on each other, this wasn't the moment for it.
He lets Dazai rest his head for a moment, lets him rest as he examines the slope of his shoulders, the bits of skin and scar tissue he can see, fingers stroking the back of his neck. He can't see anything that stands out suspiciously, littered among all the scars so far, which is a good thing.]
So far, so good.
[It could be referring to his skin being clear of strange marks so far. You're doing great is hidden in those words, carefully concealed to be tolerated or ignored.]
(he can't look at it, it won't happen, so his trying to breathe, breathing getting stuck in his throat, and the touch is both reassuring as it is disgusting. it's a dilemma, isn't it? once his arms are free, it's time for his chest and torso - gun wounds, exit, entering, and all in between. one of them is pronounced, thanks to fyodor, but other than that, nothing more than what could be expected.
his upper-body is finished, and it paints a picture worse than he would allow chuuya to imagine.)
[Chuuya allows Dazai to work at his own speed, touch steady and hopefully soothing all the while. He recognizes some of these scars-- he'd been there for a fair few of them. Dazai was always getting shot or stabbed, regardless of how many bullets Chuuya made sure to block. And there are some he knows Dazai must have obtained in the past four years as well, just by the color and freshness of the scarring.
The whole picture is a tableau of violence, of indifference to his own personal safety. And yet Chuuya still touches him with gentleness, impulsively pressing a kiss to the center of Dazai's chest after a brief moment of quiet.]
(this most likely hurts more than any of these wounds ever did. the touch is too warm, too nice, chuuya's precious hands, so important to his own vision of his humanity touching something so inhuman as his own skin. he's never felt a kiss where his bandages hide, so he freezes a little for a second.
his arms hesitate, as if he shouldn't, he couldn't, wrap them around chuuya. they hover, the eternal fight between his own wishes and his own cowardice, before they loosely do embrace the other's waist, hiding his face on the top of the other's head.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
on top of everything, things... changed. he doesn't like the fact a part of him wants chuuya to see what he hates the most, hoping he'll turn away, think dazai's too disruptive, think this is too much. that way, dazai's self-fullfilling promise would come true. he wants this, he wants to be here, and it's so terrifying that it makes his fingers stiff, like his own body is fighting his brain in self-sabotaging.
because chuuya would never leave. it hardly matters what dazai does, he could rip the man's chest open and hold his heart in his hands, and chuuya would yell, complain, and not leave. it's not confirmation of what he knows that he needs. it's difficult, and he sighs harder, eyes still not meeting the other's, empty as if they never left their teenage years.)
... I hate you, you know. I really, really, really despise you.
no subject
I know. Hate you too, mackerel.
[And yet the words are said in a way that sounds like something else entirely, when Chuuya's hand--bare, after a night sleeping by Dazai's side-- reaches out, touching his bare skin as it's revealed with a gentleness that is reserved for only the most precious of things. A kind of reverence, even. This is how deep Dazai's trust in him goes, to show him a part of himself he doesn't even want to look at, and Chuuya knows the value of such a gesture.
More than that, he knows the value of these scars, even if Dazai sees them as marks of shame and failure. Chuuya knows the battle Dazai is fighting every day, and sees these scars as symbols.
I'm still here they scream. I'm still here in every breath Dazai takes, in every beat of his heart. He's come out the other side of every day battered and bruised, but he's still here. Battle scars.]
no subject
his skin's never felt such soft touch, as intentionally gentle and understanding as chuuya's giving him, and his breath hitches in the shrieking confusion his brain swims in. the way he leans into touch is almost unnoticeable, hesitant and anxious, before his forehead meets that shoulder again.
his own are bare now, and he should do his arms, which are still healing from the last time chuuya's seen them, along with new marks.
he's trying so hard.)
no subject
He lets Dazai rest his head for a moment, lets him rest as he examines the slope of his shoulders, the bits of skin and scar tissue he can see, fingers stroking the back of his neck. He can't see anything that stands out suspiciously, littered among all the scars so far, which is a good thing.]
So far, so good.
[It could be referring to his skin being clear of strange marks so far. You're doing great is hidden in those words, carefully concealed to be tolerated or ignored.]
no subject
his upper-body is finished, and it paints a picture worse than he would allow chuuya to imagine.)
no subject
The whole picture is a tableau of violence, of indifference to his own personal safety. And yet Chuuya still touches him with gentleness, impulsively pressing a kiss to the center of Dazai's chest after a brief moment of quiet.]
no subject
his arms hesitate, as if he shouldn't, he couldn't, wrap them around chuuya. they hover, the eternal fight between his own wishes and his own cowardice, before they loosely do embrace the other's waist, hiding his face on the top of the other's head.
he needs a breather.)