Chapter Text
Dazai Osamu hates being human.
He lacks the things a human must be—having emotions and empathy—he was stuck in a place of yearning for someone, or rather something, but it was lacking.
The thought of someone really caring for him sent shivers down his spine—pangs of guilt eating him alive—taking away the care that should go to someone else. People shouldn’t waste their time or emotions on him—he doesn’t need it, he doesn’t care for it, he’s always been better off alone.
He has a pesky little Slug that would never understand that.
He’s walking out of Mori’s office, another punishment was due, and he doesn’t even know what he did. His arms are bleeding, cuts left and right—horizontal and vertical—traveling from his wrist to his shoulder. His thighs hurt; they’ve been beaten black and blue.
This punishment was worse than the others.
Typically, the Boss cuts deep enough to where Dazai can’t feel it. He doesn’t go deep enough to hit a vein, but deep enough where they don’t immediately itch.
He wasn’t merciless with this one.
Instead of a couple of deep lacerations, he did hundreds of shallow slits. They were enough to bubble blood on Dazai’s skin, but not painful enough to the point where he couldn’t feel it.
He hates it.
He hates it more than anything.
These cuts aren’t ones he can ignore. These cuts already fucking itch when it’s only been half an hour. These cuts are getting irritated because he hasn’t changed his bandages in days.
Another thing Dazai hates about being human. He hates pain.
He may want to kill himself, but he wants a painless death.
He cuts himself so he can be immune to pain, that way anyway he attempts will be liberating and free.
A painless suicide for an inhuman human being.
Dazai is a complainer.
What does he hate more than pain? People.
And where do people crowd the most? The store.
Dazai hates the store.
But the store is the only place where he can buy bandages since no store delivers to fucking cargo containers.
Typically, going to the store isn’t such a treacherous feat, he gets it done and over within a matter of minutes. Quick, easy, simple. He even uses the self-checkout lane to avoid human interaction as much as possible.
Yet for some reason, it’s annoying him more than usual today.
He doesn’t feel quite like himself. Slug was forcing him to use legal scent patches, which barely got the job done. He was better off slamming a few stronger used ones on his chest, that way was more effective.
These? Not so much.
He can still smell his scent. His disgustingly sweet vanilla-peach scent. He hates it. He smells like a baby, an infant.
Dazai Osamu is not papoose.
But he prevails.
He’s been aromatic like this all morning, even when he marched into Mori’s office, he knew he smelled like one of those snotfaced freaks, but the Boss didn’t notice or if he did, he didn’t say anything.
Dazai hopes it’s the latter.
He tested the scent patches with Chuuya, who swore on his Animal Crossing Island and money trees that his aroma did not seep through one bit. For some stupid reason, Dazai took the redhead’s word—one, because Slug sucks at lying, and two, because the redhead himself had said he wouldn’t (more like couldn’t) lie about anything regarding Dazai’s headspace.
So Dazai believed him.
He still hated that he could smell himself, though.
It makes him feel stupid, weak, insolent and useless.
He already feels idle when he’s worthless on the battlefield—the only good thing about him is his brain. Dazai would play a game of Russian Roulette betting if the Boss could have just Dazai’s brain and ideas, he would.
The unwanted sound of automatic doors open as Dazai enters a pharmacy, the place most likely to have his favorite brand of bandages. He keeps his head down low, because he still feels off, and any unwanted eye contact would drive him into a panic attack.
He eyes the white linoleum floor, counting the squares as they pass under his feet. It’s something to focus on.
Dazai has been to this pharmacy enough times to have memorized each scratch and cart stain on the woodwork. He knows which tiles mean he’s in the area where his bandages are.
Another weird thing about Dazai, he’s neurotic.
Who the fuck memorizes a place they only go to for one thing? He does.
He counts the tiles, fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, before he lands where his bandages are.
This is the only time he lifts his head off the ground.
He looks at the shelf, eye-leveled with his favorite thing in the world, soft bandages. He can feel himself getting giddy when he hasn’t even put them on his skin.
To avoid frequent shopping trips, Dazai grabs five or six boxes, whatever fits his budget. The Mafia pays him well, but for some reason, his money never seems to last.
He shoves all the boxes in his coat, he doesn’t steal them—but people stare whenever they see a sad-looking teenager buying medical supplies.
That was supposed to be the end of his shopping trip. Usually, he keeps his eyes on the ground and head down low, the last thing he wants is to be spotted by the police or another member of the Mafia.
But for some stupid reason, he doesn’t put his head down.
His eyes wander.
And wander.
And wander again.
His gaze lands on a container of stuffed animals in the middle of an aisle.
Dazai doesn’t know what they are, they’re blobs of colors filling in the distance.
He doesn’t remember walking there.
He’s a few feet away from the container—just out of his arm’s reach.
Now he can see what’s inside.
They’re… dinosaurs.
The one that caught his eye was a big green T-rex that was staring right at him.
Clearly, there’s something wrong with him.
If he was normal, he woul dn’t be longing for a tangible object made for babies.
Is this because of Mori’s punishment? Is the itchiness of his arms so bad to the point where it triggered this mess? Or maybe this is just more bad karma coming Dazai’s way. The universe messed up a way of telling the brunette that he’s no use to society.
Dazai tells himself that every day, he doesn’t need the world dealing him more favors.
He shakes off the unimportant want for the stuffed animal. He doesn’t need it. He isn’t—he wasn’t a fucking baby.
Forcefully, Dazai turns around, facing away from the bundles of joy. He can’t endorse the creature he hates so much. He can’t give his stupid headspace the benefit of the doubt when he doesn’t deserve nice things.
He feels the bandages in his pocket.
Does he even deserve them?
Why does he buy them for himself anyway?
He’s slowly begun to feel his heartbeat pulsate through his ears. He needs to get out of the store and fast before he crashes or breaks down.
Dazai steers himself towards the self-checkout lane, his heart breaks the more distance he puts between himself and the stuffed animal. He feels horrible.
But it needed to be done.
Dazai doesn’t need a plushie to keep him company. He has one already at Chuuya’s.
He counts the tiles back to the self-checkout lane, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven but before he can count to the next number, he bumps into something.
It’s a metal rail.
The lanes are closed for construction.
Shivers of anxiety surge down his spine.
Everything was going wrong today. Not a single thing was going his way.
It made everything feel heavy like he was drowning in syrup.
Swirling through the molasses in his mind, he had to make a decision.
Bandages or no bandages?
“I can take you over here, sir!” A cheery voice called.
It felt like the world was cornering him. It would be too suspicious if he put everything back and left when the clerk already called for him.
Dazai Osamu hates people.
He walks over to the cash register and puts all the boxes of bandages he bought on the counter.
One by one, the girl begins to scan them. She asks him questions like if he has a membership (he doesn’t) and if he has a credit card (also no,) and in the end, he just ends up giving her cash.
He tried not to talk because it didn’t feel right, but this employee was insistent and perceptive.
Two things he hates.
“Are you feeling okay?” She asks as she bags the items.
Dazai nods his head. He feels fine. His mind is just fucking with him.
She hums in disagreement like she doesn’t believe him. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”
Why won’t she leave him alone?
“I’m going to—”
“ Leave me alone,” Dazai seethes and he can hear her mouth zip shut. He swipes the bag off the counter and exits the pharmacy.
He feels like shit.
He feels like he’s caught in a swarm of syrup with bees.
Everything is buzzing, everything is out of place, and nothing feels right.
Dazai wants to go home to his container, and he does. But it’s getting dark and he feels out of it, he isn’t even sure if he can get to his abode.
That’s what phones are for.
He digs in his pocket for his cellular device. His one-way ticket to freedom so he can forget all about today and wrap himself in new soft bandages and—
His phone doesn’t turn on.
“No, you—” He gasps out, holding the power button and releasing it.
A red battery lights on the screen, it’s dead.
The one time he needs this piece of junk, it’s dead.
Panicky, Dazai needs to think of a way out of this mess now. He can’t stay outside. It’s not safe. He’s uncomfortable and the stupid cashier sets him off.
If she noticed something off about him, who else has? Who else will?
Dazai’s so stupid, he forgot Slug’s house is near this side of town. He can just go there, change his bandages, and crash on his couch.
Since he has the scent patches on, Slug wouldn’t notice his scent, right? How filled with vanilla it was despite Dazai having nothing to really panic over.
It’s perfect.
Or maybe it’s not perfect. He doesn’t know. He’s taking what he can get right now. His slow brain feels so ridiculously heavy, he’s impressed he’s even thinking about anything at all.
Get to Chuuya’s house and everything will be fine.
Hopefully.
⋆˚✿˖°🍓⋆˚✿˖
There’s a weird feeling bubbling in Chuuya’s chest and it's one he’s quickly grown to dislike.
His classification has always been off the rails—one because he doesn’t have a proper bond with a middle or little, so a feeling of emptiness always lingers inside of him, and two because even though doesn’t have a proper “connection” with one, he still feels an abnormal amount of distress that’s only recently submerged because of a particular brunette.
That brunette being Dazai.
Dazai who is a little.
A little Chuuya did not know of until a few weeks ago.
Sometimes, Chuuya feels like he was classified as the wrong thing. Aren’t guardians supposed to know when any little is, well, a little? Or maybe his senses are broken, he wouldn’t be surprised if they were.
He didn’t notice Dazai’s classification, and he wouldn’t have ever known if he hadn’t gone to his container.
He feels like a failure.
But he can’t help the past. He can’t dwell on what he did and did not notice. So the better thing to do right now is to clean his anxieties away.
…
Something feels wrong.
A heavy feeling is paining his chest, swirling all kinds of complicated feelings in his body. It’s not out of anger, nor is it out of active fear, it’s just uncomfortable and weird.
It’s the same thing he’s been feeling ever since he found out about Dazai.
Every time he couldn’t see the spindly Mackerel, his anxieties would flare.
There is a baby that needs protection.
For obvious reasons, Chuuya can’t hover around his partner twenty-four-seven. That’s irresponsible, and they would both get tired of that very fast.
He isn’t against it, though.
He’s cleaned every nook and cranny of his apartment three times over now. These few weeks have caused him to spiral into a neverending turmoil of cleanliness. It’s the only coping mechanism he has besides going berserk at a bunch of ducks in a pond.
Another thing, he’s also scented the baby supplies.
Supplies being the one stuffed animal Dazai owns; the crab.
Chuuya has never washed a stuffed animal before in his life, so he doesn’t dare put it through the wash. But he has laid it under his pillow in hopes of rubbing his scent all over it. Dazai seemed to find scents comforting, and if Chuuya can do anything right, it’s making a toy smell like him.
At least, he thinks Dazai likes how he smells.
He has better things to think about.
The redhead has also taken the free liberty of desensitizing the pacifiers a dozen times. He can smell the soap on them at this point—it’s absorbed into the rubber. He isn’t sure if that’s a good thing, but it’s an added security measure—Dazai won’t get sick from sucking on his paci.
…Is he going through Dazai withdrawal or baby withdrawal?
Pacing around his house, Chuuya is really stuck on what else to do that isn’t damaging.
He has all these pent-up worries in his chest that he didn’t ask for. He’s done everything he could think of to ease them but nothing is letting up. He’s about to go around and ask people if they have anything he could dust off and that’s when he hears something playing with his door lock.
The hell?
Chuuya slowly walks to his door—he isn’t sure who or what is trying to break in—maybe the old man who lives a floor above him got confused about which floor his apartment is on again.
The closer Chuuya gets to the door, the deeper the heavy feeling in his chest worsens. He’s almost tempted to stop before he smells a familiar aroma.
Vanilla.
Dazai?
Chuuya unhesitantly unlocks the door, and he’s almost taken aback by how disheveled Mackerel looks.
His uncovered eye looks hazed over and frightened. His hair is wet, sticking all over the place. His bandages are dirty, Chuuya can tell even though there’s a foot of distance between them. And most of all, Dazai is shaking like a frightened cat.
Seeing Dazai alleviates the feelings in his chest, but really seeing Dazai makes his Guardian instincts flare in overprotectiveness.
Chuuya clears his throat, “Come in?”
All Dazai does is blink back at him, slow and sluggish. “ ‘M just here to change my bandages,” Dazai says before entering the apartment.
Chuuya stands to the side, watching Mackerel disappear into the hallway and into the bathroom.
Now that the brunette in question is here, Chuuya has no intention of letting him leave.
Well, he couldn’t force Dazai to say, but he could sure as hell try.
Chuuya clicks his apartment door shut and locks it, something he never does. But his instincts aren’t dying down, and he’s willing to do anything to make them stop.
A strong, spicy surge of vanilla flows through the apartment and Chuuya feels his lungs drop to his stomach.
Very unhappy baby.
Wasting no time, Chuuya speedwalks to the bathroom—he keeps his footsteps soft and gentle—Mackerel would be able to sense if he was on edge.
The bathroom door isn’t closed but it isn’t fully open either. Mackerel deserves the same privacy he would get if he wasn’t little. So, Chuuya knocks on the door.
He uses his knuckles to hit the door, “Mackerel, you good in there?” Chuuya asks.
“ ‘M fine, don’t need Slug’s help,” Dazai’s voice quivers, and Chuuya already doesn’t buy his bullshit.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go away.”
The vanilla scent only got stronger.
Chuuya takes a deep breath in and out. Dazai can spew all the nonsense he wants, but he can’t prevent his pheromone from giving away how he truly feels.
“Mackerel…” Chuuya uses his soothing voice. He’s been doing more research with Kouyou on how to handle little and middles—your tone of voice matters when speaking to them. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
On some occasions, how a Guardian or Caregiver speaks to a little can send them into headspace completely. The voice can be so soothing that their mind has no choice but to surrender. Some people take advantage of that fact completely, so some patches and suppressants are being made for littles to help them combat that.
He doubts Dazai knows about that, though.
Dazai probably isn’t educated much on headspaces at all.
The door slowly creeks open, and he sees Dazai standing there with the beginning of tears in his visible eye, not good.
“Feel weird,” Dazai’s voice wavers, and Chuuya can feel himself being shot with a thousand needs of pain.
“Let’s sit down, okay, sweetheart?” Chuuya is unsure if it is okay for him to use the petname, but Mackerel gives him no sign of being uncomfortable.
They haven’t gone through a list of do’s and don’t’s—what’s okay and not okay for Chuuya to do—those conversations require being open about your headspace, and Dazai isn’t accepting of his at all.
They’ll get there eventually.
Sooner rather than later.
For now, Chuuya is a little on the verge of a breakdown at his fingertips.
Chuuya guides Mackerel to sit on the toilet seat, not missing the way he hiccups when he touches the cold, white plastic. He can hear Mackerel whine and sniffle. He is not a happy baby.
“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?” Chuuya says in a soft voice, rubbing his thumb on the top of Dazai’s hand. “It’s okay, I’ll listen.”
He sees Dazai bite his lip like he doesn’t want to say. He looks down, bangs obscuring his face. He could win the Guinness World Record for the saddest baby ever.
“It’s okay, Dazai. I want to help you,” Chuuya reassures because Dazai needs more reassurance than anyone he’s ever known, and Chuuya doesn’t mind providing it.
A few sniffles escape Dazai’s runny nose, he’s still chilled from the cold. Chuuya hoped that he could get him in warmer clothes soon, but right now Dazai doesn’t seem willing to leave the bathroom.
Dazai wants to tell Chuuya what’s wrong, he does, but his throat has closed up like a zipper and his tongue feels too big in his mouth to spit out a proper word. His brain feels fried. A mush of bananas and avocados. He doesn’t know if he can think of a coherent thought.
He inhales a sharp breath. He doesn’t like the way his chest heaves and rises all too fast. It’s uncomfortable. His arms hurt and he just wants something to hold.
Maybe he can just point to what’s wrong? Chuuya is sure to get the memo, right?
“Mori,” Dazai mumbles and tugs on his sleeve. He’s so quiet that Chuuya wouldn’t have been able to hear him if he wasn’t as close as he is now. “Ouchie.”
Dazai doesn’t mean for his breath to hitch, but it does so against his will. His lungs are trembling with a familiar enemy of his, anxiety, and he knows the telltale signs of when he’s about to have a panic attack.
On the other hand, Chuuya feels his blood go cold.
The older isn’t oblivious to how Mori treats Dazai. The doctor is rougher with him, keeping him by his side like a puppy he refuses to let go. Chuuya can tell their relationship is complicated and toxic, he’s wanted to punch Mori in the face multiple times because of it.
But he can’t do anything because he’s his boss whether he likes it or not.
Mori’s punishments are… peculiar to say the least. He goes based on the person and their relationship with him. But Dazai’s have always been special.
And not the good kind of special.
Chuuya cannot afford to freak out. He has a baby approaching a panic attack on his hands.
“I can try to make it better, okay?” Chuuya places his other hand on Dazai’s while he searches the cupboards to grab the first-aid kit. “Can I take off your coat?”
Dazai nods, swallowing a lump of worry. He seems scared and ashamed.
“None of this is your fault, Mackerel,” Chuuya puts down the medicine box and slides the black coat off his partner’s shoulders. “Mori is mean. He shouldn’t be hurting you like that.”
Chuuya throws the coat into the bathtub and closes the curtain so the brunette can’t see it. The damn thing would only cause more anxiety and that is the opposite of what they both need right now.
Slowly and gently, Chuuya rolls up the younger’s sleeves to reveal the bandages. The bandages look horrendously used and blotchy with dirt. Dazai is usually really good at changing them, but these look old.
More worries swirl in Chuuya’s chest. There are so many things off about today.
“I don’t have your favorites, is it okay if we use another brand?” Chuuya adds bandages to his mental checklist. He was due to another trip to the store.
Dazai shakes his head and points to the bathtub. “B’dages.”
Chuuya raises an eyebrow, “Did you buy some before coming?”
Dazai nods his head, waving from side to side.
“I’ll be quick, okay?” And Chuuya opens the curtains and digs through Dazai’s jacket.
He quickly finds boxes of bandages tucked in the sleeves and pockets. Looks like Dazai was doing his monthly bandage run and was planning on coming over to change them.
A happy feeling swoons through Chuuya’s body. Mackerel feels comfortable enough to come over and change his bandages instead of confiding himself to his container. That’s good. That’s progress.
The redhead swipes a box from the tub and is quick to sit on the floor where he originally was. He tears open the box, getting the white medical supply ready for use.
“I’m gonna take these off,” Chuuya mumbles and feels Dazai immediately tense underneath his fingertips.
Sirens swirl through his head.
“What’s wrong?”
Dazai shakes his head, whimpering. “Ouchies,”
“I’m sorry, I know they hurt,” Chuuya reassures. “I have the numbing cream I used for your chest last time, would that help?”
Dazai bites down on his lip hard. In all honesty, he doesn’t remember much of last time. He just remembers Chuuya’s gentle care and warmth.
He hears Chuuya shuffling in the cupboards again, and this time something new is in his hands; a pale yellow bottle with a rubber ducky swimming in a pond on the front.
“This is what we used last time, it smelled like oranges, remember?” Chuuya tried to jog up his memory, but no dice.
But if it would make Dazai’s cuts stop hurting and less itchy…
Dazai nods his head. Yes, he wants the lotion.
Chuuya chuckles, “Let’s start taking off your bandages. I’ll try to be fast.” His hand is already at the loose end he could find, untucking it from the mound of bandages layered on top.
Chuuya is well aware that Dazai hates looking at himself, his bare skin, anything, Dazai hates. It’s one of the multiple and very complicated reasons why he wore the bandages in the first place. It hides scars—the scars he’s inflicted upon himself and the ones Mori gives him. Mackerel has this… perception of himself—if he can’t see what’s wrong with him, it’ll go away.
That’s what he thinks.
But that’s not what life is.
You couldn’t explain that to Dazai, the Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia.
He’s true to his word and is putting the cream onto his skin and wrapping new bandages on his arms. He can tell Dazai is trying his very best to keep it all together—he looks like he’s going to crumble any second.
“We’re all done, you did so well,” Chuuya pats the younger’s hand, and his breath shudders.
And then he shivers.
Fuck.
“...Mackerel?” Chuuya tries to earn his attention. “Let’s get you in some warm clothes, all right?”
No response.
“ ‘Samu?” The older crouches down in front of him, getting a look at the baby’s face. He’s been avoiding eye contact this whole time, whether he meant to or not.
The beginning of tears fill his waterline, breaths trying to escape his mouth—he’s been holding them in, not good.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Chuuya tries to reassure. “I’m not mad, it’ll be—”
Dazai shakes his head.
“S’ouldn’t, have, come,” he hiccups—his voice aches and cracks. He sounds so upset. Chuuya just wants to shoo all his problems and trauma away.
Chuuya softens his gaze, grabbing a hold of the baby’s cheek. “You did a good job coming here, yeah?” He wipes away a stray tear. “I am here for you, Mackerel.”
“No!” Dazai sobs out. “No, no, no!”
“No?” Chuuya will go the longer route. He’d rather have the baby let out all his feelings than try putting him to bed while he’s fussy and crying. That’s another thing he researched on. Putting a happy baby to bed is better (and healthier) than an upset sad baby. “Why is that?”
“ ‘M not your problem,” Chuuya has a firm hold on both of his hands, so Dazai can’t grab at his skin like he normally would. “Bad!”
“You’re not bad or a problem, sweetheart,” Chuuya’s heart pangs. He doesn’t want to say so much that he overwhelms the baby, but he also doesn’t want to say too little. “You’re my baby, remember?”
Dazai tips and his face lands on Chuuya’s shoulder—sobbing and wetting up a spot. Clothes are washable. Dazai wishes his feelings could go away as easily as Mayo does on a white shirt.
The pair sit there, Dazai crying his pleas onto Chuuya while the older rubs circles onto his back—something they’ve done dozens of times in and out of headspace.
It takes a few minutes before Dazai is left to only hiccups and fast breaths—shudders, if you will. He’s still shivering, something Chuuya has been waiting to deal with. The last thing he wants is for Mackerel to catch a cold on top of being so fussy.
At some point, one of the baby's hands had made it into his mouth. Chuuya can't say he wasn't expecting it. Babies put things in their mouth to destress—to calm down—it's a coping mechanism and they oftentimes don't know they're doing it.
It's a subconscious trait, Chuuya has spent hours with Kouyou and conducting his own personal research regarding headspace. The last thing he wants is to fuck this up for him and Dazai.
Which is why he has hidden pacifiers around the apartment like they're Easter eggs.
Chuuya looks down at Dazai—face flushed and cheeks red. He looks very tired, nap should have been due, but he had wounds that couldn't be left untreated.
The younger seems too tired and out of it to refuse a paci, or well, anything. As long as he keeps getting attention and reassurance, everything should be okay.
I hope.
“Sweetie?” The endearment slips off his tongue. “Want some comfy clothes?”
A soft whine escapes the brunette’s lips. He hugs Chuuya tighter with one arm.
The redhead begins to work around Dazai’s lanky limbs. He’s so gangly that it’s easy to move them from place to place. Dazai is underweight and Chuuya is strong.
He feels a sharp gasp of air brush his neck when he stands up and his attention immediately turns back to Mackerel, shushing him. The baby had just calm down so Chuuya needs to take things slower than slow.
He opens one of the drawers by the vanity where he was stored a handful of pacis. He's glad he fucked them in every nook and cranny he could think of—Dazai is a very anxious little and putting things in his mouth seem to be his go-to soothing method.
" 'Samu?" Chuuya shushes gently. He already has the plastic nub hooked around his finger. "Fingers out of our mouth, they're dirty."
This part, as the last few times Dazai has regressed, doesn't go the smoothest. Dazai's sad whines and fussy refusal of the pacifier are always so hard to hear—but the baby already has sensitive skin, sucking on his fingers would just give him another avoidable injury.
"It's okay," Chuuya whispers into Dazai's mocha brown curls. He has his finger on the shield of the paci, waiting for Dazai to latch onto it.
He's reminded of how overtired the baby is when he immediately begins to suckle on it.
Yup. Way overdue for nap time.
From there, Chuuya makes way to the bedroom. Gently bouncing the baby here and there—carding his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t know if it helps, but it isn’t making things worse.
Chuuya opens the door to his room and turns on the lights—the crab plush is the first thing in sight. It’s abnormally clean in here, even for him.
“Do you wanna see a friend?” Chuuya coos, walking to his pillow where he has the plush buried underneath, making sure it smelled just like him.
Dazai hadn’t been paying attention to all of Slug’s sappy nonsense until he heard a familiar chime. A chime he didn’t know he yearned for or missed.
He peeks his head out of Slug’s unfairly comfy shoulder. It was getting too hot and wet in there, though. Unavoidable tears were ruining his adventure to dreamland.
Against his will, his available hand reached for the toy and the moment the plush was in his grasp, he felt his head swoon— being shoved deeper into headspace. Uncool.
“I’m glad you like him, Mackerel,” Chuuya resisted the urge to kiss the top of his head. He has a semi content baby on his hands, he can’t waste time fussing and fondling over how cute his partner is.
Thinking back on it, Chuuya should really order Dazai some pajamas, or at least things he could actually wear to sleep. He doesn’t have an infinite supply of old pajama pants and overworn shirts.
For now, the Magikarp hoodie and some botched-up flannel bottoms will have to do.
Hefting the baby up into his arms, Chuuya walks to his closet and pulls out the bright orange-red hoodie—something very familiar and comfortable—and then digs through his drawers to find pants he thinks will reach Dazai’s ankles.
From there, changing Dazai is easy. A process he’s done more times than he could remember. He has such a compliant baby right now, he’d much rather change this Dazai than one who tries to punch his face off.
By the time he’s done, the baby is yawning into his shoulder, snuggling into his chest.
“Tired?”
“Mm-mm,” Dazai yawns, doing a horrible job of denying it. Poor baby is too exhausted to put up a fight.
Chuuya hums in response, brushing his bangs to the side. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Ideally, Chuuya would like for him to have a bottle before bedtime. That would be the responsible thing to do. But with how the baby is melting into his arms and how emotionally taxxing the day has been for him, he doesn’t want to jostle him. It was just barely afternoon, he’d be sure to feed him something when he woke up.
Slug was been awfully too nice. If Dazai’s brain didn’t feel like absolute mush or if he wasn’t dressed in unfairly comfy pajamas, he would’ve had the courage to fight more. But Chibi made that hard, too hard. Like he was reading his mind!
He wanted to say something, anything to let Slug know that he didn’t need any of this and that he should’ve let him cry it out in the bathroom, yet none of that came out.
All that comes out is his eyes blinking one last time before slumber encompasses his mind.
Hopefully, Chuuya will be there when he wakes up.
He promised that much, right?