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Dazai had never been a big fan of washing up in the bath.
If he were taking a bath, it was because he was in pain; he'd turn it into a shower after he'd had a nice, relaxing soak. Bath salt, bubbles, and all.
But occasionally, standing up and starting the shower was just too much. When days were particularly long or when he was particularly exhausted, getting up was the last thing he wanted to do. He'd lay in the bath, too small to fit his whole body comfortably, knees sticking up out of the water, and just think. He'd think about everything. Everything good, everything bad, everything he wanted to do and everything he'd wished he didn't do. Eyes closed, breathing slow, fingers and toes starting to prune, he'd lay and think and think and think until there was nothing to be thought about anymore.
He'd think about his past, his present, his future. He'd think about the ADA, about the Port Mafia, about all of the people he cared for, all of the people he didn't, all of the people he used to. He'd think about what he'd like to live for, live to see, live to do. He'd think about his favorite songs, his favorite people, his favorite feelings, his favorite little anythings. Those were the best things to think about at times like this. All of the things that kept him going, kept him hopeful. He'd smile to himself as he pondered all of the positive things in his life and everything he had going for him.
Dazai would feel his hair flowing about in the water, reaching to touch it and admiring how soft it felt, noting that he'd need to cut it before it got too unbearable. He'd think about how he disliked washing himself in the bath because he felt like he'd been marinating in his own human-dirt soup and didn't want to clean himself with that same water. However, when he'd try to sit up, he would find that even that was a difficult act. He'd then decide to double down and reach for his shampoo.
He tried not to think about his least favorite anythings, but they came up often. It was hard to avoid them when he had nothing but his own head to distract him. Washing his hair in the bath reminded him of his ex partner, who would do it for him all the time. He'd think about missed opportunities, past mistakes, his uncountable regrets, all of the things he did and said that he wished he could take back. It was too late to think about that, he knew, but he didn't stop it. He went over hypotheticals in his mind, played out scenes where he could take things back and change his outcome, thought up imaginary conversations and confrontations. He thought about the things he could have done better and the things he could have done worse.
Dazai would massage his scalp, as if the physical pressure would work the thoughts out. Neurons firing rapidly-- maybe he could push in just the right spots to make them stop. For a moment, or maybe, just maybe, for good. He'd dip his head back into the water and submerge himself as deep as he could in the small bathtub.
Then came his least favorite thoughts of all: The sick ideation that twisted knots into his stomach and sent a stabbing pain into his chest. He tried to push those thoughts out as best as he could, but they were something he still felt had power over him. They made him feel as if he were suffocating. Were they any worse than his other mistakes, he wondered? He almost wondered if they were better. All of the times he tried to destroy himself, all of his attempts left their marks on him, whether physical or psychological. His own brain plagued him with unpleasant scenarios and ideas, methods for his very own end-of-the-world plan. Why did this one organ have to have so much control over him, and why did it want the rest of his body dead so badly? He hated thinking about how much jurisdiction these thoughts had over him. He hated thinking about how many times he'd fallen victim to them before. He hated every bit of it. It filled him with shame and left him doubting his own self control.
Dazai would lather soap over his body, scarred and bruised. Bare skin on bare skin-- as he couldn't wear his copious amounts of bandages into the bath-- he felt so open and vulnerable, and he was only with himself. He was afraid of what his hands could do, running over raised lines and divots; Akin to rolling hills, but filled with more regret and misery. He was reminded that he was still human. He was hyperaware of it now, to the point that it made him uncomfortable. It prompted him to finally drain the tub.
The water wasn't red. It wasn't red, and Dazai let out a relieved sigh. It was clear, filled with bubbles, and filled with all of the feelings he'd let pour out of him.
He may not have been satisfied with his level of cleanliness (he would have much preferred a quick shower), but he could forgive himself. He reminded himself that 50% was better than 0%, and a bath was better than nothing at all.