Work Text:
Dazai slammed the door shut behind him, breathing heavily as he leaned against it in the dark apartment. He was alone. Chuuya had a meeting with Kouyou run late; he’d said to go home without him.
Find it.
Today was a bad day for Dazai to be home alone.
He didn’t bother with the lights, tugging his coat off his shoulders and leaving it in a crumpled pile on the floor. His jacket and tie followed. His feet led him to the kitchen island. He was rarely allowed to help out in preparing meals. He always made a mess of things.
Like now.
There it is.
The knife block sat on the countertop. Just that morning, Dazai had watched Chuuya use it to help prepare food for them both. He had done nothing.
Take it.
A bandaged hand reached out, grasping around the handle of one of the knives.
No. Not that one.
His hand moved away, settling on the knife resting in the middle.
That one.
He pulled it out, its blade shining in the moonlight seeping in through the cracks in the curtains. They had woken up late and Chuuya had been rushing to finish tasks that needed doing before work.Chuuya had asked him to open them that morning. He hadn’t.
Roll up your sleeve.
Dutifully, he obeyed, carefully rolling up the sleeve, crisp and white, and unwinding the bandages, crisp and white, that lay below. The reminders of his past stared up at him. Crisp and white.
You know what to do.
The first cut was always the hardest. Breaking a streak of staying away, breaking the promise to never do it again, breaking the skin. The second was child’s play.
The third was warm familiarity as blood began to drip down his arm. He angled it so blood dripped down his fingers before falling to the floor. He couldn’t ruin another shirt. It had to remain crisp and white and perfect.
The fourth and fifth cut across each other, growing shallower as the blade began to become coated with blood. He paused to clean the blade, grabbing something to wipe it off and--
You messed up.
He had wiped it on his shirt.
There’s only one thing to do to fix that.
More.
Dazai lost count.
His hands were shaking, his heart racing. When would it be enough? When would he be enough? How could he prove himself worthy of living if he couldn’t do a simple task right? If he couldn’t do anything right? How much shame and humiliation did he bring to others by merely existing? How much had they suffered by putting up with him all these years? By trying to cover up his mistakes? By trying to pretend to be perfect? Why couldn’t he match their expectations? Why did he always let them down? Why did he keep trying? Why did he keep living?
The door handle turned.
Chuuya.
Dazai froze, blood pouring down his arm into a pool on the kitchen floor.
Bathroom.
He obeyed, running through the apartment as Chuuya entered, leaving a trail of blood behind him, locking the bathroom door behind him.
Dazai slid down the bathroom door. The rest of the world was silent. It was just him.
Just him, the voice, and the knife.
You messed up.
His arm was still bleeding, now forming a pool on the bathroom tile.
Again.
On a good day, he’d be able to hear Chuuya moving through the apartment, rummaging through drawers, humming to himself, doing their chores.
But today was not a good day.
Do more.
He had been slow when starting with his arm. The same could not be said for the way he cut at his legs, not trying to count, not bothering as his arm bled on the rest of his clothes, not caring as he slashed the knife deeper each time, sharp lines criss-crossing each other.
New marks he could add to his growing collection.
And the other one.
His other leg was already weak from an injury on a mission the month prior. This did not stop him in the slightest. He wiped the blood off the knife again, ignoring the reflection of himself staring back.
Your other arm.
His right arm was always more awkward to reach, his left hand harder to control. But that meant there were less scars, more room to add some.
He fumbled trying to roll up the sleeve, his hands shaking more than they had been before. They felt cold. Colder than usual. He cut straight through the bandages, impatience winning out. He had to complete the set. Complete this arm. Could he rest easy then? Knowing he had finished his job? That there was nothing left to do after that? Would he be able to prove his contributions, prove his worth, if he completed all four?
Dazai stood up, a wave of dizziness making the room spin, before he grasped onto the countertop, steadying himself with one hand, the knife remaining in his grasp.
Look.
He stared up at the mirror, at the pale reflection of himself. Blood covering his arms and legs. Blood covering his hands. Blood covering the floor.
He felt a relief wash over him. He had done it. He had completed the task. He had proven he could do something, he had evidence to prove he had done it.
You aren’t done yet.
His eyes in the mirror wandered to his neck.
There’s still one more left.
He pulled at the bandages, some getting tangled up in each other. It should have hurt, but it didn’t. Not at this point. They fell in the pool of blood on the floor, white quickly turning red.
Look at the mess you’ve made. Go to the bath. At least that will be less messy.
He knelt over the sides of the tub, white noise filling his ears. He had to do this. He had to prove himself worthy of living.
You can.
The eyes reflected in the gleaming knife were numb, tired, desperate. Things he couldn’t let anyone else see, anyone else know. Once he did this, they would never know.
Just do this.
His hands gripped the knife, knuckles turning white as they clenched around it.
Finish it.
The bathroom door crashed open, banging loudly as it hit the wall. Chuuya was overwhelmed by the amount of things to take in - the smell of iron, the blood coating the floor, the bandages scattered about - but his vision zeroed in on Dazai.
A knife held to his throat.
Chuuya ran over, his hands clutching at Dazai’s, pulling the knife away. It had begun to dig in, leaving a trace amount of blood. But that was nothing compared to what poured out of Dazai’s body.
His hands remained firmly clenched around the knife, not willing to move. His eyes were hazy, like he didn’t see Chuuya. Like he didn’t realise how far he had taken it.
Chuuya knelt down besides Dazai, the unpleasant feeling of blood soaking through his own clothes. But that didn’t matter. ‘Osamu,’ he whispered, trying to appear calm despite his heart pounding inside his chest. ‘It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.’ He gently worked on removing Dazai’s stone cold hands from the knife, loosening one finger at a time until he could remove them.
The knife clattered to the porcelain bathtub, the noise like thunder in the quiet apartment. The sudden noise made Dazai jump, his eyes blinking a few times as they darted around, panicking, before settling on Chuuya. The tension in his body broke, and he collapsed into Chuuya’s arms, body shaking and chest heaving as he broke down into tears.
It was only later, when Dazai was bandaged up and in bed, soundly asleep with tear stains streaking his face, that Chuuya would figure out what he had been saying.
‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.’