“You’re really fucked up, aren’t you?” a low, rough, altogether too familiar voice sounded in Dazai’s ear.
He raised his head muzzily and looked around for a too short redhead with anger management issues. “Chibi.”
Saruhiko had almost completely forgotten what it felt like to be taken care of, so it came as a bit of surprise, both unfamiliar and familiar at once, the way Misaki hung around on his return from the hospital.
“How many stitches?” Misaki asked as he frowned at Saruhiko’s limp.
How many stab wounds was more like it, Saruhiko thought with a scowl. And how many pints of blood did he have to get, how many hours passed out unconscious, how many days stuck in the hospital, surprised at how many people came to visit and how long they stayed. Misaki stayed the longest, stubbornly sleeping on the ugly couch in the corner of the room until they’d released Saruhiko to finish recovering at home.