Chapter Text
The morning light filtered through the grime of Dazai’s apartment, feeling less like a sunrise and more like a spotlight on his decay. He woke up with a shudder, his body feeling like it had been hollowed out and filled with lead. The sickness was a heavy, suffocating blanket—a cocktail of mental collapse and physical ruin.
He stumbled into the bathroom, the world tilting violently. He gripped the edges of the porcelain sink, his knuckles white, and retched. There was nothing in his stomach to give, yet his body forced the motion. He gagged, a wet, hacking sound, and then it came: a spray of bright, metallic crimson. Blood splattered against the white ceramic, stark and visceral. He stared at it with a detached curiosity, his vision blurring from a fever that had been simmering in his veins for days.
He hadn't slept—not really—since the day he walked away from the Port Mafia three years ago. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the footage from the hidden camera he’d left behind. He remembered the raw, guttural sound of Chuuya’s sobbing, the sight of the strongest man he knew breaking apart because Dazai had vanished. He couldn't bring himself to check the feed anymore; the guilt was a parasite, eating him from the inside out.
To quiet the noise, Dazai lived on cocaine. The white powder was the only thing that kept the void at bay, though it had led to four brutal relapses in the last few months. His skin was a roadmap of failure—jagged scars crisscrossing his arms and neck, some old and silver, others raw and angry.
With a trembling hand, he reached for the knife—the one he’d stolen from Chuuya when they were sixteen. It was a relic of a time when he felt something other than this crushing emptiness. He pressed the blade into his forearm, carving deep. The familiar, sharp sting sparked a rush of endorphins, a momentary flicker of pleasure that silenced the screaming in his head. He pushed further, the blade sliding through skin and fascia, venturing into unknown territory. He carved deeper than he ever had, slicing nearly to the elbow.
Blood surged, hot and thick, spilling over his wrist and splashing onto the floor. He gasped, the blood loss hitting him instantly. Dazed, he fumbled for bandages, wrapping the wound with clumsy, shaking fingers, the white gauze turning crimson almost instantly.
He tried to crawl back to bed, but the mattress was a joke, propped up by haphazard hangers that poked into his spine. Every movement was agony. As he tried to shift, his strength gave out; he slid off the edge and hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, a sudden, desperate ache blooming in his chest. He wanted to be held. He craved the violent, honest comfort of the Mafia—the only place that had ever truly known the monster he was.
His phone buzzed. Twenty missed calls from Kunikida. With a groan of effort, Dazai forced himself up and headed to the Agency.
The workday was a blur of grey. Dazai was a ghost of himself. The usual chatter, the playful teasing, the dramatic antics—all gone. He sat in silence, the dark circles under his eyes looking like bruises against his pallid skin. He was in constant, radiating pain; his legs throbbed, his stomach churned, and his neck felt stiff, as if a noose were already tightening. His fingertips were a sickly shade of black and blue, a sign of systemic failure and neglect. His joints—wrists, shoulders, ankles—were mottled with deep purple contusions.
Mid-afternoon, he retreated to the washroom. He vomited again, a bitter, yellow bile mixed with streaks of blood, despite having eaten nothing for two days. When he finally stepped back into the office, swaying on his feet, Kunikida didn't even look up from his notebook.
"Go ahead, leave. Hmph. You're useless today anyway," Kunikida snapped, his voice cold.
Dazai didn't argue. He didn't even smile. He simply turned and walked out.
His feet led him instinctively, drifting away from the Agency and toward the shadows of the Port Mafia’s territory. He found a dim, smelling bar tucked away in an alley. He slumped onto a stool and ordered a beer, draining the entire glass in three massive, desperate gulps. The alcohol hit his empty stomach like acid, but it numbed the edges.
This is it, he thought, staring at the amber liquid. I'm done.
Then, he saw him.
Chuuya was sitting a few seats away, the silhouette of his hat unmistakable. Tears welled up in Dazai’s eyes, blurring his vision. He didn't realize he was staring, didn't realize he was trembling, until a gloved hand suddenly clamped around his arm with bruising force.
Chuuya yanked him off the stool and dragged him violently out of the bar and into the cool night air. Chuuya spun him around, his face a mask of fury and sheer, unadulterated panic.
"What the absolute fuck is wrong with you??!!!" Chuuya screamed, his voice cracking.
The volume, the touch, the smell of Chuuya’s cologne—it was too much. The dam finally broke. Dazai collapsed forward, his forehead hitting Chuuya’s shoulder. He clung to the shorter man's coat, sobbing silently, his entire body shaking. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of leather and expensive wine, thinking that this—this warmth, this anger, this presence—felt too real to be a hallucination.
Chuuya didn’t let go.
Even when Dazai went slack against him, even when the weight of him turned uneven and wrong, he kept one arm locked around his ribs like a restraint meant for a bomb that had already gone off.
“Are you seriously—” Chuuya started, then stopped himself, jaw tightening so hard it looked like it hurt. “You absolute idiot…”
Dazai didn’t answer. His head hung forward, hair sticking damply to his face. His breathing came in shallow, uneven pulls, like his lungs were forgetting how to cooperate.
That alone made something cold settle in Chuuya’s chest.
“Hey.” Chuuya shook him once, not gentle. “Don’t you pass out here.”
Dazai’s eyelids fluttered, but he didn’t fully come back. His fingers tightened briefly on Chuuya’s coat—barely there, more reflex than intent.
Still alive. Barely.
“Unbelievable…” Chuuya muttered, and it came out more like anger than relief on purpose. “You disappear for years and I find you like this?”
He adjusted his grip and hauled him forward.
Dazai’s feet scraped the ground more than they walked.
The apartment was not far.
Chuuya didn’t remember the walk clearly later. Only fragments: Dazai’s weight slipping, the occasional hitch of breath against his shoulder, the way his skin felt too hot even through layers of clothing.
And the fact that Dazai didn’t joke once.
That part bothered him more than anything else.
The door slammed shut behind them.
“Stay standing,” Chuuya ordered immediately, like Dazai had ever listened to that kind of thing.
Dazai tried.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
His knees buckled, and Chuuya caught him before he hit the floor, gripping harder than necessary.
“Seriously? You’re this bad off?” Chuuya snapped, but there was something tight underneath it now. Less anger. More calculation. More panic he refused to name.
Dazai’s head tipped against his shoulder again, breath uneven.
“...cold,” Dazai murmured, barely audible.
That did it.
Chuuya clicked his tongue, furious at nothing in particular, and dragged him further inside. “Yeah, no shit.”
He got him to the couch with more force than grace.
Dazai collapsed into it like his body had been waiting for permission to stop existing.
Chuuya stood over him for a moment, breathing hard, hands clenched at his sides.
Then he noticed the details.
The way Dazai’s face wasn’t just pale—it was wrong. The dark circles carved deeper than exhaustion. The tremor in his hands even when he wasn’t moving them. The faint smear of dried blood he hadn’t bothered to wipe completely off his sleeve.
Chuuya’s expression shifted.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
“…What the hell have you been doing?” he said quietly.
Dazai didn’t answer. His eyes were half-open now, unfocused, staring at nothing in particular like the world had stopped meaning anything coherent.
Chuuya exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Yeah. Fine. Don’t answer.” He turned away abruptly, like staying there a second longer would make him do something irreversible.
He grabbed a blanket from somewhere—he didn’t even remember owning one—and threw it over Dazai’s shoulders with more force than necessary.
Dazai flinched at the impact.
Chuuya noticed that too.
His jaw tightened again.
“Don’t move,” Chuuya said.
A pause.
Then, because silence felt worse: “I’m getting water.”
He didn’t wait for permission.
In the kitchen, he filled a glass too fast, hands gripping it harder than needed. The sound of the faucet felt too loud in the apartment.
He stared at the water for a second.
Then exhaled.
“…Idiot,” he muttered again, but it didn’t carry the same weight anymore.
When he came back, Dazai had shifted slightly. Not improved—just rearranged, like his body had given up finding a comfortable position.
Chuuya shoved the glass into his line of sight.
“Drink.”
Dazai blinked slowly at it.
For a moment, Chuuya thought he wouldn’t.
Then, sluggishly, he lifted his hand. It shook so badly Chuuya had to steady the glass before he dropped it.
That contact made something in both of them go still for half a second.
Dazai drank anyway.
Slow. Unsteady.
Like it hurt.
When he finished, his hand dropped immediately back onto his lap like it weighed too much to hold up anymore.
Chuuya didn’t move away right away.
That was the problem.
He should’ve.
Instead, he stayed there, staring at him like he was trying to solve a problem that didn’t have clean answers.
“You’re not leaving,” Chuuya said finally.
Dazai’s eyes drifted toward him slightly.
Not focused. Not fully there.
But listening.
Chuuya clicked his tongue again, softer this time. “Not in this condition.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, almost like it annoyed him to say it:
“…You’re staying here tonight.”
Dazai didn’t respond.
But his fingers, loosely curled in the blanket, didn’t let go of it either.
The apartment stayed too quiet.
Not peaceful—just strained, like even the air didn’t know how to behave around them.
Dazai Osamu hadn’t moved much since Chuuya left the room. Only small shifts—an uneven breath, a faint twitch of fingers under the blanket, like his body was trying to confirm it was still allowed to exist.
Chuuya watched him for a second longer than he meant to.
He looked different.
Not in the obvious way—Chuuya had seen Dazai broken before.
But this was… sustained.
Wrong in duration.
“…Tch,” Chuuya muttered, and walked over.
---
“Get up.”
No response.
Chuuya clicked his tongue again, sharper. “I said—”
Dazai’s eyelids fluttered.
Slow. Delayed. Like the command had to travel through too much fog before it reached anything that mattered.
“…can’t,” Dazai managed.
It wasn’t even a complaint. Just fact.
That irritated Chuuya more than sarcasm would have.
“You’re not staying on the couch,” Chuuya said, already reaching for him.
Dazai didn’t resist when he was pulled up. That was the worst part—no tension, no joke, no passive fight.
Just weight.
Too much weight for someone who used to act like gravity was optional.
Chuuya adjusted his grip and hauled him up properly.
And somewhere in that motion, something shifted.
Chuuya had grown.
Not by choice. Not dramatically—but enough that when he stood close, Dazai wasn’t towering anymore the way he used to. Chuuya still fell slightly short, but not by much. The difference was no longer something that made him feel small.
It made the silence between them feel closer.
Dazai was lowered onto the bed carefully this time—not thrown, not dropped.
He sank into it like he was already halfway gone.
Chuuya stood at the edge, staring down at him.
“…You’re a mess,” he said, quieter now. Less accusation. More disbelief.
Dazai’s lips moved slightly.
Nothing came out.
Chuuya exhaled through his nose.
“Don’t try talking.”
He turned away immediately, like staying there too long would turn something inside him into action instead of restraint.
“I’m getting you cleaned up.”
---
Bathroom light was harsh.
Too bright for anything alive.
Chuuya returned with a towel, a basin of water, and the kind of expression that suggested he was doing this purely out of obligation he hadn’t agreed to.
“Sit up,” he ordered.
Dazai did, slowly, like each movement had to be negotiated.
Chuuya started unwrapping the bandages.
Layer by layer.
The silence thickened with each strip of gauze falling away.
At first, it was just injuries—old, poorly healed marks, signs of neglect stacked on neglect.
Then newer ones surfaced.
Not explained.
Not hidden well enough anymore.
Chuuya’s hands stopped.
Just for a second.
“…What the hell,” he said under his breath.
His fingers tightened around the last strip of bandage before letting it fall away completely.
Dazai didn’t look at him.
Couldn’t.
His head hung slightly forward, breath uneven, as if even staying conscious was taking more effort than he had left.
Chuuya stared.
And then something in his face cracked—not loudly, not dramatically.
Just quietly.
Like a structure giving up its final support beam.
He turned his head slightly away.
But not fast enough.
Tears flowed down his face.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty.
It was heavy.
Wet, even if no sound came with it.
Chuuya’s hand lifted instinctively, then stopped mid-air like he didn’t trust himself to finish the motion.
“…You idiot,” he said again, but it came out wrong.
Too soft.
Too broken.
why would you do this too yourself?
---
Dazai’s voice came barely above a whisper.
“…i'm sorry.”
One word.
Barely formed.
Like it had been dragged out of him from somewhere deeper than speech.
Chuuya froze.
That was worse than anything else so far.
He didn’t respond immediately.
When he did, it wasn’t anger.
“…Don’t,” he said.
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“Just—don’t say that.”
He pressed the wet towel into the basin too hard, water sloshing over his fingers.
“…I’ve got it.”
Not a question.
A decision.
---
He started cleaning the blood away carefully.
Slowly now.
Less force. More control.
Dazai barely reacted, except for the occasional flinch when the cloth moved too sharply over sensitive skin.
Chuuya noticed every single one.
Didn’t comment.
Didn’t stop.
Just adjusted.
Like learning a language he didn’t want to understand but refused to misread.
---
When it was done, Chuuya stood back.
For a second, he looked like he might say something sharp again.
Something defensive.
Something that kept distance intact.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he exhaled.
Long.
Controlled.
“…Stay in bed,” he said.
Dazai’s eyes shifted slightly toward him.
Not fully focused.
But present enough to register the order.
Chuuya turned off the bathroom light halfway, leaving the room dim instead of bright.
Better.
Less hostile.
“…I’m not leaving,” he added after a pause.
It sounded like it annoyed him to say it.
But he didn’t take it back.
He stayed where he was.