021

The rustle of fabric and low grumbling broke the brief hush that had settled over the infirmary.

“Agh…”

Chuuya’s voice rumbled from the cot with unmistakable irritation. Not pain. Discomfort.

You didn’t glance up right away. You were adjusting a tray, aligning scalpels by size and cotton by density, but your mouth twitched faintly.

“Don’t squirm too much, Chuuya,” you murmured, almost amused.

That got his attention.

His eyes flicked to yours, brows drawn not in resentment toward you, but clearly aimed at the third, increasingly unbearable presence in the room.

And there he was.

Dazai Osamu, legs spread lazily, elbows on the chair's armrest, chin resting on one hand, eyes fixated across the room like a cat watching another prowl into its territory.

Their eyes met.

And the air cracked.

A silent arc of tension snapped between them like live wire.

Dazai’s narrowed stare brimming with suspicion and pettiness, Chuuya’s laced with just enough bite to challenge.

And then—

Something flickered behind Chuuya’s eyes.

Something devilish.

He looked down at his leg, then back at Dazai, and smirked.

Dazai’s fingers twitched.

“My knee hurts too,” Chuuya said suddenly, tone utterly neutral as he raised a gloved hand to gesture vaguely toward his left knee.

There was not a single wince in his voice. Not a limp. Not a twinge.

Just blatant, deadpan provocation.

Dazai's reaction was instantaneous and visceral. His jaw dropped, scandalized. As if Chuuya had just spit on his mother’s grave and asked for applause.

You, unfazed, let your gaze slide to Chuuya’s leg.

“Ah, is that so?” you murmured, voice draped in curiosity.

Without waiting, you knelt before him, fingertips brushing along the fabric of his pants just above the joint.

Chuuya didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

But across the room—

A loud, deeply offended gasp shattered the space.

“You’re kidding me.”

You tilted your head slightly, looking past Chuuya’s thigh toward the source of that wounded screech.

Dazai stood up, eyes wide, expression twisting in disbelief.

“I’ve been bleeding this whole time!” he whined, gesturing to the bandages on his side with all the grace of a six year old denied candy.

“Actual blood, L/N-san. Not some imaginary knee bruise that doesn’t even have swelling! This is favoritism!”

“I’m treating the person in front of me,” you replied evenly, fingers gently ghosting over Chuuya’s leg with the clinical detachment of a surgeon.

But your lips were curving, just faintly.

Chuuya smirked victoriously.

“But—!” Dazai stepped forward, gesturing grandly at his ribs.

“I got stabbed! Right here! Deep! With a pipe! There was gurgling!”

You didn’t even glance up.

“Then treat yourself,” you said.

Dazai blinked. “What?”

“You know everything I know. You learned from me.” Your tone was light. Dismissive. Unbothered.

And then your eyes rose, meeting his.

And Dazai froze.

Because your smile hadn’t reached your eyes.

They were blank. Clinical. Stripped of interest. Stripped of affection.

That look.

The one he knew.

The look you gave him whenever you slipped into one of your little “games”, ignoring him, withholding warmth just to observe how long it would take for him to break, or lash out, or crawl back.

The air shifted.

Dazai didn’t flinch.

He didn’t sulk.

He only straightened slowly, letting the childish pout drop from his face like a discarded mask. In its place was something quieter. Cooler. More refined.

Almost lifeless.

“How cruel, L/N-san,” he said softly, smiling like a corpse in a coffin.

“It makes me wonder who your real student is.”

You met his gaze. And for a heartbeat, something almost fond stirred beneath your mask.

You smiled again. Warmer, this time. Not mocking. Not empty. Just soft enough to suggest something else simmering beneath.

“You, of course.”

Dazai’s lashes lowered.

It wasn’t victory. But it was something. Enough to stop him from pushing further. For now.

You turned your attention back to Chuuya’s knee, fingers pressing lightly against the joint.

“There’s nothing here,” you said smoothly.

“But if you're injured, I’ll still treat it.”

Chuuya glanced away.

“Maybe I twisted it during cleanup,” he muttered.

“Mm,” you hummed.

“What a shame. You’ll need care and rest. Possibly attention.”

Chuuya coughed into his fist, hiding the way his ears reddened. “I’m fine.”

“Of course,” you said.

Behind you, Dazai slumped dramatically into his chair again, limbs dangling over the arms like a marionette that had lost its strings.

“You’re both unbearable,” he muttered.

You didn’t disagree.

“Yet you're still here,” you replied, amusement clear on your face.

He didn't say anything.

It was fifteen minutes later.

Chuuya was perched beside you, watching as you demonstrated the proper way to wrap a rib injury for compression.

His focus was sharp, posture straight, ears tuned to every word.

Across the room, Dazai sat on the edge of a gurney, rewrapping his own side with measured efficiency. He didn’t look over once.

But you knew he was listening.

“You’re quick,” you commented to Chuuya without looking up.

“Most people fumble with this part.”

“I’ve had to fix a lot of my own shit,” he replied gruffly.

“Don’t trust just anyone to touch my ribs.”

“But you trust me?” you asked idly.

A pause.

Then, softly— “Yeah.”

“You're my superior and boss trusts you. I have no reason to doubt you.”

You smiled faintly.

The boy trusts too easily. It's bound to end on a bad note. For instance, something like... betrayal will certainly break him. Even if it's subtle.

From the gurney, there was the sound of a bottle clattering unnecessarily to the floor.

You said nothing.

“Do you know why rib injuries are so dangerous?” you asked, lifting the bandage roll again. “Aside from organ punctures.”

Chuuya shook his head. “No.”

“Because the pain forces shallow breathing. Lungs don’t inflate fully. That leads to oxygen starvation.” You looked up at him.

“Most men don’t die from the puncture. They die because they can’t breathe properly after.”

Chuuya blinked, almost curiously. “...Did Boss teach you that?”

“Mori-san taught me a great deal. But I’ve done my own experiments.”

You said it like one might say gardening.

And Chuuya didn’t ask further.

Which only confirmed what you already knew.

He was impressed.

Not just by your knowledge. But by the ease with which you wielded it. The way you controlled a room without raising your voice. The way Dazai... Dazai, yielded ground without ever admitting he was losing.

You didn’t demand loyalty.

You simply made disobedience feel… unsatisfying.

A rare trait in this organization.

And for someone like Chuuya, someone who’d spent years trading respect for respect, it mattered.

You finished tying the last knot. “You’re done.”

He stood, rolling his shoulder. “Thanks.”

From the gurney, Dazai sighed. “Guess I’ll just die over here, unloved and untreated.”

You gave him a look over your shoulder. “Haven’t you done that before?”

Dazai grinned. “But not recently.”

Chuuya snorted.

And for a few seconds, the silence between the three of you wasn’t charged. Wasn’t hostile.

It was not welcoming, warm or comforting either. Certainly not in a place filled with daily blood shed such as this.

You turned back to your tray, humming faintly to yourself.

Dazai leaned back, eyes watching you carefully now.

And Chuuya glanced between the two of you.

He hesitated. Then— “Can I...learn more from you?” he asked quietly.

You smiled.

“Of course. You're more than welcomed.”