Dance at Dusk [Snippet]
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hypermoyashiFandom: Bungou Stray Dogs
Relationship(s): Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya, Dazai & Atsushi & Kyouka
Warnings: blood, gore
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Chuuya stumbled up the last of the steps with a hand pressed against his side and curses on his breath. Blood still pooled and ran down his side, and Chuuya had to grimace at the amount of it winding up on the concrete at his feet. He could only hope it was dark enough for Shirase to miss the trail entirely.
Chuuya swore when his foot went straight through the rotted wood of the first step, lodging several chunks of wood into his ankle. He half fell onto the platform, and he was only mildly relieved that the wood there managed to hold his weight. As carefully as he could manage, he wrenched his leg free and hauled himself under the shrine’s crumbling roof. He pulled himself to his feet, making the world tilt and spin around him, and the prayer box seemed to mock him as he passed it.
The frame of the shrine’s door was weak enough that Chuuya could pull it open with what little strength remained to him. He shut it behind him, grateful that it didn’t completely buckle, but before he was able to take two steps into the safety of the shrine, the world titled just far enough that Chuuya’s legs suddenly gave out from beneath him, sending him plummeting to the floor.
His vision blurring, Chuuya muttered weakly, “Shit.”
It took a few false starts, but he was able to pull himself up and against the wall. He brought his hands up, pausing to note the dirt and dust that coated them from the floor. He had more pressing things to be concerned with, but… still. Gross.
He tried to tear off a part of his jacket to make bandages, but his shaking fingers couldn’t seem to muster the strength. He’d waited too long, and when Chuuya realized this, a sob that was as filled with equal parts hysteria and despair escaped from his lips.
Refusing to just lie down and die, Chuuya pulled his jacket off entirely. He wrapped it around his waist, leaving the body of it around the wound and tying the sleeves together painfully tight. It would serve better than his fingers, and he had to hope his luck would carry him through until morning.
“That’s not going to help much, you know.”
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