Work Text:
“The one I love
Has told me He
needs me.
That's why
I take care of myself I
look my way
And I'm afraid I'll be killed
By a single drop of rain.”
Chuuya was kneeling on the soft carpet next to the couch between his spread legs and definitely not in the fun way. Dazai was leaning back against the cushions wearing only a sweatshirt that was too baggy for him and a boxer that hung low on his waist.
The redhead was carefully cleaning the numerous open cuts that spread along the inside of his thighs in bloody lines of furious red. The gauze between his fingers was soaked with alcohol and hurt from touching the raw, irritated wounds, but Dazai didn't even have the energy to flinch from the pain, just as he didn't have the energy to react when a few minutes ago Chuuya found him sitting on the floor of the bathroom, hands wet and slippery with blood holding a razor and opening deep welts on thighs covered with old, healed scars.
Chuuya didn't speak as he plucked the blade from his hands, dipped him in a hot bath, dried and dressed him. Dazai didn't talk about the sudden urge to open his skull against the white tiles, scattering bone and blood and brain goo all over the floor.
It had been a hard week at all and Dazai knew that the mobster was waiting for the moment when he would really go bad and the deep boredom and tiredness that had seeped into the man's bones would become that apathy and sadness in which he was currently immersed, the feelings that made cliffs attractive, razor blades very shiny and ropes extremely comfortable.
Chuuya gently patted his knee as he finished cleaning the bruises, his expression a confused mix of pain and relief.
Pain because it was a relapse.
Relieved because Chuuya knew how easy it would have been for Dazai to opt for a pulsing carotid artery over the soft flesh of his thighs.
The detective figured he must be feeling guilty and he probably was at some degree, but it was a feeling muffled by the discomfort inside his chest and the weight compressing his lungs. The nagging restlessness beneath his skin curling with the weariness in his mind that lived in eternal feedback from things he already knew and didn't want to know and would rather die than know and why he couldn't let himself alone.
Dazai wanted to lie down, sleep and never wake up.
Dazai wanted to take a knife and flay his own skin in the way he had learned when he was a child, wanted to pull the meat from the muscle and see if there was even something hiding within him if he had not simply grown around an empty devouring and hollow nothing. He felt numb and nauseated and needing to see blood flow, needing to feel hurt.
"Not true" Chuuya's voice pulled him off the intrusive tracks his thoughts had taken him. He sounded serious and definitive as he unrolled rolls of bandages. "Whatever you're mulling over, it's not true, it's just a symptom."
“Doesn't just look like a symptom.” His throat scratched in protest at his speech, the mouth dry because he hadn't had water for a while. An hour or two. A day or three.
"I know" Chuuya sighed tiredly, but still managed a tiny smile, soft and sad in a way that made Dazai's heart twist uncomfortably. "That's why I'm here, mackerel, to remind you of this."
“I'm sorry” The words burned his tongue like they always did, but if there was anyone who deserved his honesty and regret it was Chuuya. There would always be a distance between them that neither of them would be able to mend, but God if Dazai wasn't trying “I'm sorry for putting my Chuuya through this” again hung in the air, implied by both of them.
"Do not apologize"
Chuuya finished wrapping the bandages over the wounds, adjusting the fabric loosely enough not to overwhelm Dazai's already bristling senses, because he always tended to oversensitivity that alternated with total numbness during his fits and the fact that the man alaways remembered that made him even more raw and vulnerable inside.
"You're mine to torment, but you're also mine to take care of, okay?" Chuuya patted his knee lightly again as if he wasn't the kindest thing he'd ever touched (that had happened to) Dazai "One to ten how are we feeling now?"
“Seven,” Dazai replied, closing his eyes tightly, rubbing his hands over his face before opening them. “Almost eight, I think. Maybe more."
The executive knew that a seven-eight meant: plugs locked, edges covered or filed, knives and sharp objects locked and hidden. Medicines were to be locked and a call made to the agency that Dazai was not able to do any work without supervision if he was going to continue working. Chuuya would also need to count all the antidepressant pills in his possession and buy protein shakes to replace solid food when needed.
That was for later, though, and the detective himself was aware of it when the redhead sat down beside him and pulled him to settle on his lap, as if Dazai weighed no more than a particularly tall rag doll. The detective snuggled into the comfort offered, enjoying the way Chuuya had one arm firmly supporting his back while his cheek rested on the ginger’s chest. Even through his clothes, Dazai could feel the heat emanating from under the older's skin.
Chuuya started stroking his hair then, pushing it away from his face with a gentleness Dazai knew he didn't deserve. The redhead treated him as if he were something fragile and immensely precious, as if there wasn't something cold and broken inside him balancing awkwardly on the knife-edge of his sense of humanity. That kindness offered so freely, so willingly to the dirty, envious little thing he was.
The injustice that he was with his hands dipped up to his elbows in blood receiving something other than pain. The injustice that he was still breathing. The injustice and folly that he had survived childhood. The injustice that he hadn't rotted away in his mother's womb. The pure and simple, bitter and oil-tasting injustice that he had even been conceived.
The redhead leaned in and sealed a small kiss against his forehead with unadulterated affection, and Dazai flinched because it was too much. The shudder ran through his entire body and he tasted the salty taste of tears in the back of his throat, the heat demanding to come out of his eye because he only had one eye capable of producing tears (they say if a person cries and the first tear comes out on the left eye is it because it's an act and it didn't make so much sense?), the drops running down his cheek without asking permission. Chuuya didn't look surprised, just depositing chaste little kisses in the wet trail of his crying.
"Why?" Dazai's voice came out clean even when he cried. Mori had trained him until he was always completely intelligible no matter the circumstance or how shattered he was or felt, whether he even knew what he was talking about or not.
Chuuya seemed to understand him anyway, as he usually did.
"Because I love you, Fucking Dazai" The man rolled his eyes with the small smile on his lips "Not that this is anything new to you."
Chuuya carefully wiped the tears from his face with the thumb and Dazai held back a wet sob.
"Why?"
The redhead sighed pressing it close to his chest and not for the first time the detective wanted to melt and get under there.
“There's no reason.” His voice was serious even though his timbre was sweet. “No one is worthy of love, Osamu, but the ability to accept being loved even without believing you deserve it is what dignifies us, okay?”
Chuuya brought their lips together in a quick kiss, more punctuation than a kiss, as if proving a point.
"How could anyone love me..." Dazai muttered softly, eyes clouded. "When even I can't do this?"
“Silly mackerel” Chuuya sneered with a chuckle “You don't have to love yourself to be loved by others. This is real life, not a self-help book.”
He chuckled softly against his lips, kissing him once more.
"Whether you like it or not, whoever loves you still loves you, no matter what your opinion of it is."
*
“You are the pictures in your room
And the future you dream of
you are made of so much beauty
But it looks like you forgot
When did you decide you were defined
For all the things you're not.”
-Erin Hanson
It was the third day that Dazai had woken up from a restless sleep induced by insomnia medications and antidepressants and he still didn't feel like getting up and living for even a few seconds, and Chuuya was patient enough that he didn't have to actually do it.
The agency was used to the weeks when he would suddenly disappear and Dazai figured that now with Chuuya mediating his crises at least the worry about him ending up dead in a ditch was considerably lessened.
Dazai turned over in the sheets, the clock hanging on the wall stating that it was after four in the afternoon and the brunette was still in that confused state where he couldn't place whether the discomfort in his stomach was hunger or stomach pain and considering how little he had been eating and how much medicine he was taking, both were equally likely to be occurring at the same time. The detective, however, didn't have the energy to solve either of these two problems.
He considered going back to sleep, there was still that lethargic energy in his limbs that only the right amount of depression and strong medication really brings. The heavy drapes kept the sunlight out, preserving the dark environment as if it were still an acceptable time to be asleep, but before he could get back into his cocoon of sheets, Chuuya walked into the room without knocking as if the man’s mind was naturally connected to his circadian cycle.
The redhead wasn't at all surprised to see him awake, but in an act of mercy he didn't turn on the lights, content to squint his blue eyes in Dazai's general direction.
"How are we feeling today, mackerel?"
Dazai hummed thoughtfully. He was less in the mood than made him want to drink a pint of muriatic acid given the chance, but he still wouldn't trust the surroundings of a sharpened scissors. The constant weight on the bones was deadened, but he definitely wanted to rip out his ribs with his bare hands just to feel if there was still something inside him besides emptiness and wasted childhoods.
Dazai sighed.
"Six" He mumbled closing his eyes "But I just woke up and I'm still a little high so it's probably going to turn into a six and a half or seven"
Honesty, unsurprisingly, was still just like pulling teeth without anesthesia, it didn't come easily and maybe he never stopped biting his tongue as it was uttered, but the sympathetic, open expression he never failed to get from Chuuya when he was honest made it all worth.
Because understanding—vulnerability—didn't come easy for Chuuya either, not when Dazai had abandoned him before, not when it was Dazai who had set those bridges on fire first.
Chuuya sat on the bed close enough for Dazai to touch if he wanted to, but far enough away not to choke him and Dazai was grateful because for many times he hadn't been.
“I know six is high” Chuuya spoke calmly, not meeting his eyes, allowing him to flee because his chibikko was indulgent with him like that “But your pet just called me to ask if I could stop by to see you. The brat is worried.”
"Worrying is Atsushi-kun's second nature" Dazai pulled the blankets to wrap himself with a tired sigh "What chibi replied to my lovely pupil?"
"That I would ask you" Chuuya huffed, rolling his eyes "The boy was all nervous saying he wouldn't come if it was uncomfortable for you and all, a little walking anxiety ball that one over there."
Dazai grinned, half hidden by the covers, he remembered as if it were the day before when the boy had pulled him out of a riverbed. He was a thin, nervous little thing who had no idea about his own potential. Eyes wide and bright, though, filled with something soft and precious that Dazai couldn't name. That day, the brunette could have just grumbled a little and left.
But Odasaku said "save the orphans".
And there was an orphan right there in need of saving.
Atsushi, sweet and hopeful Atsushi-kun, had become his responsibility that day and Dazai took his responsibilities very seriously, at least when they were important.
"Atsushi-kun is a good kid" Dazai commented looking Chuuya in the eyes, without running away.
"He seems to be."
Silence.
“Tell him he can come, slug.” Dazai sat down on the mattress and the movement made his joints crack in a dull ache that ran through his entire body “I can’t stay in bed during all day anyway.”
Chuuya nodded, wisely refraining from pointing out that Dazai had spent the last few days moving exclusively from bed to bathroom and nothing else.
"Do you need help with this?"
"If Chibikko wnats to see me naked, he need only ask ~" Dazai knew his voice was slightly out of tune and the provocation was weak, but Chuuya snorted the same old way, accepting -thanks to God always accepting- Dazai at its face value.
"Idiot" Chuuya rolled his eyes in mock sulk as she got out of bed "If you break your bony ass on the shower floor you better not come crying to me"
"Chibi knows the only one allowed to break my ass is him!"
The redhead let out a muffled laugh, affection stamped on the curve of his lips as he walked out of the room with the cell phone in hands.
Taking a shower when he was in his bad days was the crusade and holy war itself, him being the Catholic church, the Muslims and the promised land all at the same time, but he had been avoiding the shower for some time and eventually Chuuya himself would end up dragging him into the box when it became intolerable to curl up every night with someone who smelled of sour sweat and old bandages.
Anyway, it was still a surprise when he took off his clothes and bandages and there was still a whole body under them, frail and thin and bruised but vibrating with life. It was a shock to step under the jet of hot water and no part of his body fell to the ground and ran down the drain just because he was feeling so fragmented.
It was so strange how our bodies can refuse to expose everything on the outside that claims to be going on inside.
Dazai didn't wash his hair, knowing that doing so would buy enough time for the idea of locking the door and filling the tub with water to the brim to start to seem extremely plausible and justifiable. He had learned to pick his fights after so long.
So, shortly after entering the bathroom, he left, hoping he was smelling less like something that had died on a wet road and been in the sun for an entire afternoon.
The idea of covering himself from head to toe with his bandages seemed exhausting in the same way that having exposed skin sounded terrifying, so he reconciled the two needs halfway (Chuuya would be proud if he knew) and wrapped up only the important parts like wrists and neck, and decided he could bother his pet slug later to cover the rest for him. Plus, it wasn't like the sweatpants and blouse set he'd opted to wear left too much bare skin.
Feeling as satisfied as he was going to be with his appearance, Dazai withdrew from his room for the first time in three days and refused to feel as pathetic as he thought he should feel and headed for the living room, flinging himself in the nearest sofa.
From the kitchen, the redhead spied her movement.
"The brat said he'll be here in about twenty minutes"
"Hm..." Dazai stated eloquently closed his eyes lazily "What's chibi doing?"
"Getting ready for dinner" Chuuya said with a hint of derision in the voice, but not in a mean way "Someone has to eat in this house."
Dazai made a low noise in agreement, aware of the slow hole of hunger –or stomachache- that was growing beneath his ribs, and that by the end of the night he would find himself sitting at the table trapped between a plate of food and the sharp look from Nakahara Chuuya.
However, that was a problem for the Dazai of the future to deal with, so the present one just lay there with his eyes closed, cradled in the soft tinkle of Chuuya stirring the kitchen utensils.
On better days, Dazai felt morally obligated to go into the kitchen and annoy the redhead so effectively that he wouldn't finish cooking dinner until after eleven at night.
On better days, Dazai would turn on his pet phonograph in some Viennese waltz and take Chuuya in his arms, who would give in to his whims with extreme dislike and minimal resistance. They would dance in the cramped space of the kitchen, heart to heart, until something began to smell of burn and the detective was effectively kicked out of the room.
It wasn't one of the best days, but the man's noises were still comforting, so Dazai was content with what he had.
He was almost dozing off when the doorbell rang and woke him from a dreamless sleepy haze. Dazai sat on the couch, rubbing the sleep from his face, as Chuuya walked out of the kitchen and went to open the door like the proper host he was.
Dazai heard Atsushi's anxious trill accompanied by a quieter, subdued voice as Chuuya greeted them and assumed Kyouka had come with him too. The two were inseparable to all intents and purposes, becoming as close as sibilings.
The man looked up in time to see Chuuya emerge from the hallway with the two children in tow behind him. Kyouka looked calm and unflappable as usual, but Atsushi fidgeted nervously, one hand behind his back, hiding anything suspiciously. Dazai arched a curious eyebrow.
"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me" Chuuya notified in a perfect excuse to give them some privacy "Mackerel, behave yourself and you guys feel at home."
Dazai pouted, falsely offended, watching the redhead retreat back to dinner preparations without further ado.
"So, Atsushi-kun!" Dazai displayed his biggest smirk, even though it was a little frazzled around the edges “What's this you're hiding? It's a gift for your dedicated mentor, huh?”
Atsushi took on a few shades of pink before nodding his head vigorously, stretching his arm stiffly behind his back, as if holding something that was going to explode.
It was a small bouquet of flowers, the simple ones without much ornamentation other than the plastic wrap and the ribbon that ties the stems together. It was, for all intents and purposes, the cheapest model of any corner flower shop. It wasn't a noteworthy gift, not even a souvenir actually.
Still, something sharp spun hard inside his myocardium, a fresh white pain spreading in his chest.
"For you, Dazai-san!" Atsushi smiled shyly, shaking the bouquet a little "Kyouka-chan helped to choose the flowers, didn't you, Kyouka-chan?"
Kyouka nodded silently, looking Dazai straight in the eyes as if daring him to say anything bad about the flower arrangement, not that she needed to worry about him saying anything. Dazai's tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth, pulling away at the moment he needed it most.
"Oh" Dazai gulped, gently taking the bouquet. "It's... It's very beautiful."
They were purple anemones, and by nothing but chance, Dazai knew that anemones, in the language of flowers, meant persistence and perseverance, normally used to give gifts to people weakened by physical or emotional illness.
Something –Dazai didn't want to go into the details of what that something would be- tingled behind his eye and he smiled again, more sincere this time.
"Very beautiful indeed, Atsushi-kun" Dazai ran his fingers over the petals that were unrealistically soft. "Kyouka-chan has very good eyes for flowers."
The boy's shy smile widened even further, his eyes gleaming like sunbeams, looking much less anxious than he was a few minutes ago. Atsushi thrived in the light of approval, even when it came to small and undeniably gentle things. Even Kyouka presented him with a slight twitch of her lips, looking pleased with his reaction.
"Then?" Dazai cleared the throat, laying the bouquet on his lap and trying to control the sudden flood of feelings. "How are things at the agency without my illustrious presence?"
The young detective lit up, sitting next to him along with Kyouka and in the state Dazai was in, normally he would walk away, demanding more space for himself, but recently he had found he was particularly affable with children around him than he was with adults.
Obediently, Dazai listened to Atsushi narrate the latest happenings, being occasionally supplemented by Kyouka. The older detective made a point of reacting at all the right times, giving in his own comments when appropriate, and even risked a chuckle when both children confirmed that Ranpo had taken up his jobs in Kunikida's daily torment.
Of course, throughout the entire conversation there were things right there, crawling under his skin, crawling down his throat and begging to get out, but here were children. And children should always be spared these cruel things when possible.
“Save the orphans,” Odasaku said, but the more Dazai did this, the less it felt like his friend's desire and more justly for the little victim-eyed boy he'd been — broken long before he learned exactly how he was supposed to work.
So Dazai was complacent with their high, cheerful tones and allowed himself to offer a warm pat or two through the children's hair when they seemed particularly deserving of affection. Using their hands for something other than hurting was foreign, but practice would make perfect (because Kyouka and Atsushi were finally stopping their shivering whenever someone raised a hand to caress them).
With the minutes turning to hours, Dazai felt his words begin to demand too much energy to come out of his mouth, the tiredness of socializing starting to take its toll on his muscles, the tighter curve of his lips and the more forced laughter. Small –minimal- signs that did not go unnoticed by Kyouka's observant eyes.
"It's getting dark, Atsushi" The girl poked the young man in the ribs, interrupting the anecdote that he was tolding "Kunikida-san told us not to come back late, remember?"
Atsushi turned to the young girl, a brief communication of glances seeming to occur between them before the boy nodded slightly.
"It's true, I don't need to take another lecture from Kunikida-san today" Atsushi stated looking very serious. "We have to leave some for when Dazai-san returns to the agency."
Dazai chuckled softly more out of affection than humor and rose from where he was sitting.
“Atsushi-kun! Please torment Kunikida-kun or I'll start thinking I'm doing a terrible mentoring job!” The brunette stretched to his feet, rolling his aching shoulders. “I will walk you both to the door like the great host that I am!”
The children shouted their goodbyes to Chuuya who responded with just a grunt of acknowledgment from the kitchen before following him down the hall to the front door. A genuine smile slipped across his lips as Dazai watched the two kids walk past the threshold looking pleased with themselves.
"Fine" He cleared his hroat a little awkwardly "Thanks for visiting and..."
Before Dazai could finish the sentence, he found himself with his arms suddenly full of Atsushi.
The boy hit his collarbone and smelled like baby shampoo for some reason, the scent subtle and slightly glycerin up close. The boy's arms were tightly wrapped around his waist and the detective had no idea what to make of the information that he was being hugged vigorously.
Atsushi squeezed him a little tighter and Dazai placed a hesitant hand in the middle of the boy's back, the other awkwardly stroking the silver hair, not quite sure what to do with his own body. The boy buried his face in his chest and rubbed gently like a kitten.
“I hope Dazai-san feels better soon” He muttered, his voice coming out a little muffled from where he was nestled “Because Dazai-san is very special to me.”
Dazai frowned, a lump forming in his throat preventing him from articulating anything.
“It's just that if it weren't for you, I would never have found a family.” Atsushi whispered softly, barely audible. “I've also felt complicated like that, and it gets better, even when it doesn't seem like it is going to.”
Atsushi dislodged himself from where he'd stuck his face and looked up, his eyes full of raw honesty. The eyes of a boy who wears his heart open and beating in his chest, never having learned how dangerous it could be.
Or rather, he had learned and even so, even so...
Atsushi smiled and Dazai was feeling so raw that dignity to hell, he was going to start crying right then and there and blame his medication later. Atsushi was pure, sweet, grateful, hopelessly young and God, God, he wanted to do for that boy and for Kyouka everything he had been too cowardly to do for Akutagawa.
(Everything that everyone had been too cowardly to do for him)
“And” The boy cleared his throat, “I know that because whenever I think it's all over for me, Dazai-san has proved me wrong. Dazai-san is good that way, at that point and I'm grateful.”
Suddenly the boy blushed heavily, the arms around him loosening, gripped tightly by the sudden shyness when his actions finally reached his brain, but it was Dazai's turn to press him tightly against the chest.
He could only hope his actions said more than his words ever could.
“Thank you”
Dazai released him and Atsushi emitted a nervous chuckle, jumping back to the side of Kyouka who had obediently waited on the threshold for the scene to unfold.
"Good!" Atsushi scratched the back of his neck shyly "Now we're really going back to home!"
Kyouka frowned, leaning to Atsushi's side and opening the ubiquitous mail bag he used to carry around and looking for something inside.
"Kyouka-chan?"
"I was forgetting about that..." The girl pulled a white box from the bag, it smelled of sugar and chocolate and was promptly extended towards Dazai "Here"
The detective tilted his head in confusion but accepted the box. The fact that he wasn't a big fan of sweets was almost universally known at this point.
“They're crepes” She explained deadly serious “When I'm sad and there's no way to eliminate the reason, I eat one of those and always get better. I know Dazai-san doesn't like sweets very much, but it might work.”
And that was such a genuinely Kyouka thing to think, so different from the glassy-eyed girl who came to them, yet so appropriate for the girl she was now, just 14 years old learning to navigate the complicated emotions of adolescence while growing up that Dazai found in himself nothing but the honest thanks and the brief farewell he extended to the children before closing the door.
And if Chuuya thought it odd that he'd barged into the kitchen and traded a perfectly cooked egg mollet under crab and risotto for two chocolate and vanilla cream-filled crepes, the redhead didn't comment.
The sugary flavor of the candy didn't mix well with the salty taste of the tears, but Dazai ate the crepes to the last bite anyway.
*
"Your heart and my heart are old, old friends."
- Hafiz
Dazai had just finished a field mission with Kunikida as if he hadn't spent the entire night before with Chuuya's arms tightly wrapped around him, four hands clasped together like a straitjacket because he hadn't been able to stop scratching a uncomfortable that it wasn't really there and his skin had started to sag under the nails. Sleep was slow in coming and every bit of him burned begging to be scratched and scratched and scratched until there was no longer any piece of his complexion covering him.
Now, however, there was a strange sense of normality in the air as Kunikida went back to listing the reasons why his conduct in the course of the mission had been completely inappropriate, as he always tended to do. Dazai had heard these same complaints so many times that he could recite the sermon himself.
Here's the thing: There is a limit to how long the worst of his depressive crises could last.
Being as frequent and reliable as the tide, they were also a constant cycle of coming and going, alternating between tsunamis, waves and almost harmless ripples. At intervals of moments that never made any sense, he could sleep dreaming about how many different ways there are to disembowel the sensitive parts of himself and bleed until there was not much left inside him but the abysmal emptiness of the No Longer Human, and in the next daylight, waking up feeling like any other half-functional individual, the loud roar of his mind morphing into a low murmur behind the back of his head.
And in that day, that's exactly what happened. Dazai had managed to get out of bed and go to the agency, tease Atsushi until he finished some reports for him, and close an investigation with Kunikida that he had postponed for too long. It was one of the rare good days he had infrequently amidst in his violent emotional turmoil.
Kunikida had gone through half of the list of complaints when they reached the bridge that would take them to the street of the agency building.
It was a cold day of cloudy, bruise-colored skies promising snow, and Dazai felt his gaze slide over the side of the bridge they crossed: the unusually turbulent river below, the drop between the parapet and nothingness in the murky water.
It was cold in the way that years ago had made Oda press his black overcoat against his shoulders and torment him until he put it on properly and fastened all the buttons.
“Children get colds easily” he would say.
Dazai never explained that he really didn't care about the idea of getting sick or that Mori preferred him feverish and lenient or even that he wasn't a child anymore. Despite the Demon Prodigy's trademark coldness, Dazai never had the courage to allow himself to break Odasaku heart.
So just as he could have broken the man's heart with his cynicism, Odasaku went there and broke his heart with his kindness.
"Dazai?"
Kunikida was frowning at him with the arms crossed over his chest, but his eyes betrayed the shadows of his worry. Dazai hadn't even noticed that he'd stopped walking, hands wrapped tightly around the railing of the bridge parapet, the steel cold to the point of pain against his bare fingers. The man wondered curiously if it would be even colder in the water below, cold enough to make him lose his senses on impact, knock the air out of his lungs. Water when cold enough could make a heart skip a beat until it started to slow down, slowly giving up when the blood got too thick and icy to pump and then-
"Dazai" Kunikida repeated in a more insistent tone this time and Dazai turned to him, pulling his gaze from the fall, the cold, the promise "One to ten, how are we feeling now?"
“Five, maybe five and a half.” Dazai took a breath and the cold air cut through his larynx but brought some clarity to his mind.
Here's something about his good days: They didn't always end up the way they started, especially when he still had the glimmer of high numbers in the too-recent past. And in a way, that uncertainty was even worse. It was like running on a long, enormous ladder and only discovering the fat of a step when you were already supported with the full weight of your body on top of it.
"Alright" The blonde sighed in a mixture of tiredness and relief, his shoulders losing some of the tension "We can handle a five, even a six if necessary, right?"
Dazai nodded, with no energy or even a clue as to how he could explain to Kunikida that if he was going through there alone it would definitely be a ten, it would definitely be him upside down twelve meters underwater, because no matter how much he was starting noticing the differences between a body and a weapon, there has always been something tempting about chasms and bridges.
There has always been something tempting about falls.
Mori asked him about it once while patching him, no anesthesia as usual, after yet another one of his failed adventures why he was so desperate for heights. Didn't he know that caged birds never learn to fly?
( "By any chance, Dazai-kun" Mori asked in a voice always very sweet, very deceptively full of affection, holding a crimson-soaked scalpel between his fingers "Do you need me to cut those little wings of yours closer to the root?")
A hand ( warm, warm) slowly pulled each of his fingers from the iron grip he had on the handrail and it took a while for Dazai to realize that it was Kunida's hand there, that it was him by his side and, for this he did not resist, but did not help either, just watching him in the calm and methodical process. Kunikida had warm skin and it was terrifying to be touched by something full of life.
"Jesus, you're freezing in here" The blonde sounded irritable as he rubbed his hands together, stimulating the lazy blood circulation of Dazai who always neglected his extremities "I'm surprised Nakahara let you leave the house so badly wrapped up."
“Nah, Kunikida-kun~” Dazai managed a forced, watery smile, a fragile reflection of better days “Genius doesn't need to wrap up, we never get sick! I think I just attract annoyingly concerned partners, uh?”
( "I keep attracting stupidly nice people who never learn not to love loose and broken things, cage things that end up loose and dirty on the streets")
"Idiot" Kunikida rolled his eyes with a grumpy snort, but laced their fingers together without a second thought as he considered them as warm as rubbing would make them. “Don’t drop frozen in the ground now and I’ll buy you a hot drink when we get to the agency.”
"To me? For free?!" His own voice sounded too high to him, loud enough to give migraines "Kunikida-kun who must be sick!"
"Yes, I must be" Kunikida looked into his eyes, a complicated expression on the face of those who are feeling diffuse things, too much complex to analyze "And we can not have two sick detectives, it would be bad for my schedule if you died right now .”
Dazai nodded, cocking his head to one side in curiosity. The detective figured that Odasaku would get along very well with Kunikida for some reason.
"And when would it be appropriate, Kunikida-kun?"
“I'm still not sure” The man pursed his lips slightly “I think you should stick around until I find out, don't you? And fit a space in my schedule.”
Kunikida's hands were warm against his and by comparison he noticed how cold the rest of his body felt, the numbness that had spread through his limbs having very little to do with the weather. Kunikida was looking at him the same way he'd caught Chuuya staring at him when he woke up in the middle of the night, eyes aching, following the rhythm of his breathing so viscerally worried he'd stop breathing if he didn't watch it.
Chuuya was his twin flame. They were partners even before he was born, their hearts loved each other the moment they were created, but Kunikida was the partner he had formed. Their friendship had been refined by their mutual care, unaccountable to fate or entwined souls. They cared about each other against all odds and for reasons honestly still unknown to Dazai.
"Sounds fair to me," Dazai agreed, his tone deadly serious and no room for quips as he allowed himself to lean against the man's shoulder because he was freezing . Kunikida shivered but didn't pull away. It was enough.
There was something tempting about falls.
But there was something even more tempting about being caught before falling and Dazai was selfish enough to allow himself to wish.
(Kunikida took him to the cafe in the building and bought him an overly fancy cup of coffee along with some snacks and didn't leave his side until he'd eaten about half of his muffin.
At the end of the day, it was only a three and a half that narrowly missed zero when he returned home and collapsed into his Chuuya's arms feeling confused and comforted in equal doses.)
*
“You look so familiar…
I must have loved you
In more than one lifetime"
- NR Hart
The beta minnows happily swam in their tanks. They were a bright green and blue couple that surprisingly didn't try to kill each other at every few seconds, just dancing happily around each other and across the corals that decorated the aquarium.
The fish were graceful as well as beautiful and well cared for, and for some reason they combined in perfect contrast to the sterile environment that was the infirmary under Yosano Akiko's jurisdiction.
Infirmary and hospital centers in general still left Dazai excessively on alert, his mind lurking for a danger that hadn't been there for a long time, but still able to remain suspicious and incapable of leave him alone. The strong smell of antiseptic, the whiteness of the walls, the discomfort of the stretchers, everything rubbed his senses the wrong way and he had never felt comfortable around there.
And there was also Yosano herself in question. There was something about the woman between the snap of her nitrile gloves, the slightly cruel streak in the curve of her smile, the twitch of her violet eyes and the long, steady fingers, all the little things, tiny even, that brought back the always -too- fresh memory of Mori. The memories never ceased to build a lump of childish nervousness in his throat and he was a little boy again who was never afraid of needles unless they were in someone else's hands.
Dazai, however, was self-conscious enough to know that Yosano must also see a lot of Mori Ougai in the dark of his irises, in the sound of his laughter, in the footsteps of his walk or in the blankness that sometimes graced his face. The two were linked by a single common denominator, and Dazai remembered nights he preferred to forget about a hand that ran across his skin and a voice that murmured about the childlike beauty of a certain little girl with a divine skill .
(He had already arrived somewhat broken into Mori's hands and there was only half-shredded childhood wreckage left in it, there was little childishness in Dazai, the doctor had said looking disappointed, even if that hadn't stopped him from cutting with a knife what was left).
They were two prodigies who brought out the worst in each other.
They were, the two of them, a pair of beta fish, inherently aggressive and territorial, the violence that comes from the pedigree, who surprisingly didn't try to kill themselves at every few seconds, just danced happily (carefully, fearfully) around each other.
Yosano softly hummed a melody without lyrics as she separated a series of white pills from the counter and placed them in a glass bottle. Dazai knew that the original package, purchased by prescription, contained about double the amount the doctor was sorting, and was supposed to last for at least an entire month.
But Dazai came every fortnight to refill his vials, because then the amount he received at one time was not large enough to cause an overdose, and whereas no one could really stop him from trying to commit suicide again if he really was determined, it was comforting that temptations were lessened.
"Here" Yosano deposited the bottle on the gurney where he was sitting, swinging his legs in a falsely unconcerned way "Try not to skip your shots this time."
“Thank you so much Yosano-sensei” Dazai smiled brilliantly and just a little fake “The agency would be nothing without your diligent work~”
“Um, yeah.” The woman snorted, putting her hand on her hip and looking slightly disapproving. “Are you really okay to go back? It's not like your pile of late work will care too much about your absence for another week.”
“Yosano-sensei! Kunikida-kun would be sorely disappointed to hear you suggest such a thing to me!" Dazai clutched his chest theatrically, throwing himself onto his back on the hard stretcher. “Imagine! Me? Abandon my reports just like that!”
"Don't play the braggart idiot with me, Dazai" Yosano sat in her chair next to him, crossing the legs.
The brunet frowned, the smile fading from his expression like sugar in the rain, leaving only that white, emotionless expression that still drew goose bumps from Yosano, but which she had learned was just the face Dazai made when he was looking into his own head and nothing else.
"I'm as good as I can get Yosano-sensei" His voice was serious and as neutral as his face "Walking around in my own misery at home isn't going to help much either."
Dazai gave her a wistful little smile, his eyes softening.
"Nothing can really help me"
Yosano arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"You sound so fucking defeatist when you're upset you know?"
Dazai threw back his head, letting out an amused laugh. The laugh barely reached his eyes.
“It's part of my charm.” Dazai winked at her. “Everyone always wants a handsome man with a broken heart to try to fix. Sadness can be ridiculously attractive.”
"Speak for yourself" Yosano huffed patting his chest lightly. "But if you're good enough to make jokes, you should be good enough to work too."
A soft smile graced the doctor's thin lips and the fragile animal that hid between Dazai's ribs shrank back, feeling dazed and trembling. Unworthy to some degree.
The woman leaned in and hesitantly reached up and ruffled his hair, Dazai refraining from leaning too obviously into the contact. Yosano would forever be the kind of good doctor who holds children's hands during consultations ( “Hey, don't be afraid, it's just going to be a little mince and…See? It didn't even hurt”)
Yosano and him were so much the same, but so different at the same time. The woman had danced with her trauma and created a garden for herself with her pain. Dazai envied and prided on her in close measure.
"You're a bastard" Yosano declared with affection undisguised in the words "But I'm glad you're a living bastard."
Dazai looked away, suddenly embarrassed as he always was when he found himself surrounded by fleeting and overwhelming emotions like kindness or affection or love.
"Yosano-sensei?"
"Yes?"
Dazai pointed to the aquarium behind her, until the doctor leans back in her chair and gazes at the large glass tank along with the detective.
"I thought you shouldn't breed beta fish together or they'd devour one another" He commented and the woman nodded with a nod in agreement.
"Yes, but these two are a special case."
"Oh?" Dazai turned his gaze to the woman. Violet and brown intertwining. "Yosano-sensei think they became friends or something?"
"Don't be stupid" Yosano crossed his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes. "I 'm sure they did."
*
"There is no beauty without some strangeness."
- Edgar Allan Poe
“You take yourself too seriously,” Ranpo declared, pulling the cherry lollipop out of his mouth with a snap and pointing at it, looking serious. Or as serious as someone like Ranpo could be "That's your problem, stop it now."
It was almost midnight, a mission had failed, he and Ranpo were alone at the agency, there was a seemingly insoluble puzzle lying on the floor, and a slight headache had started to seep into the edges of Dazai's skull, not that he would admit that in some near future.
The brunette gave a small, polite smile, always very polite, which everyone for some reason always reserved to Ranpo, forgiving any and all lack of tact he used to show. The detective was an entirely different species and his honesty could be raw, but without a cruel bone in it. Sometimes it was even well-intentioned.
"I'll need you to elaborate on this with more words, Ranpo-san" Dazai held out a translucent little piece (like all the other pieces that were scattered by the sign) to the older man. "This one should go in the upper left corner."
Ranpo took the piece, but made no move to fit it where indicated.
"No, you don't need me to" Dismissed carelessly with a move of the hand "Besides, you're wrong, this goes here" Fitted the piece in the center of the game "Not there."
"My carelessness" Dazai sighed looking at the other many pieces remaining on the floor "To match the rest of the day"
Ranpo frowned at his tone, the green eyes like little emerald slits that looked quite discontented at the moment.
“The mission didn't fail because of you,” Ranpo stated simply, analyzing him as he would do with some particularly intriguing case. “As I said and I hate to repeat myself: you take yourself too seriously.”
"Well, I could have predicted that-"
“I could have predicted it too.” Ranpo rolled his eyes, hugging his legs and tucking the chin between his knees. “And yet, none of us did, right? It wasn't careless, sometimes unexpected things happen and it's always much easier to find ways to expect for them after they've already happened.”
“I don't need the sermon, Ranpo-san”
“Save the people” had said Odasaku, like a curse, and here he was: Sitting helplessly on the cold agency floor, assembling a thousand-piece puzzles while somewhere they were burying someone's child. Ranpo could say what he liked about side effects and accidents and absolution of guilt, but Dazai knew he wasn't feeling any less frustrated either.
After all, when they didn't take themselves too seriously, people died and it would always work that way. If they didn't push themselves as hard as they could when it was necessary, if they weren't willing to break a little...
The unfinished puzzle on the floor with its identical pieces scattered around seemed to mock the two detectives who were apparently brilliant: one more thing they both couldn't solve no matter how hard they tried.
Dazai couldn't tell why the habit of putting puzzles together had become their shared nighttime activity. As far as he could remember, they were both just working a few extra hours on a singularly complex case about child sex trafficking and something in the depositions made the younger man's mind roil dangerously and Ranpo had come out of nowhere with a small box of puzzles for childrean and demanded that Dazai play with him as they went back to the discussion.
Over time, both began to tend towards less childish and more intricate models that required real effort on both sides, and Dazai who never had time to play as a child allowed himself the luxury of the reliable pastime.
It was calming in a way, having parallel activities going on inside his head at the same time kept his mind from wandering into dangerous places, and Ranpo tended to be more objectively focused when he had things to do with his hands.
But at times, the harmless fun tended to become as frustrating as a failed day's work.
Dazai had hated the taste of defeat since the mafia days when people were little more than rates and numbers that rose and fell, but punishments could be cruel to the unfit. However, now, even without the threat of retaliation, the cloud of his failure still weighed heavily on his mind because he was no longer failing just himself and even though none of him was going to bleed at the end of the night, he still craved the taste of a punishment that would make him regret having been so lax in carrying out his plans.
Dazai tended to punishment the way a moth tended to flame: happily and promising pain. And there were so many sweet ways to punish himself and when he felt he was justified, he managed to throw any sense of self-preservation out the window.
“It's late,” Ranpo commented, glancing at the clock on the living room wall. “Mr. Fancy Hat won’t be worried about your delay?”
"Poe-san won't be worried about yours?"
“Touché” The detective chuckled wearily, rubbing one of his eyes in that childish way that was always present in his ways “I hate to faill but I think there is no way to never do it.”
“There is one” Dazai was feeling especially morbid at the time, Poe-san would have loved “Dead people tend to stop making mistakes.”
Ranpo arched a curious eyebrow at him, looking amused.
"This is true, deads can’t make any mistakes" Ranpo broke the lollipop teeth, munching the sweet "But the thing is if you die you can not be right in anything anymore too and I love being right, you don’t?"
Dazai snorted, chuckling slightly, eyes momentarily closed. He still felt tired, but maybe it was the tiredness that could be resolved with a good night's sleep.
"Ranpo-san is so subtle."
“If you throw yourself off a bridge on the way home, they'll think it's my fault.” Ranpo rolled his eyes, jumping up from the ground. “I'm sleepy, take me home.”
"And what about this?" Dazai gestured to the general direction of the half-finished puzzle.
“It is not going to run away from there, are it?" Ranpo yawned and stretched, green eyes blinking slowly. "The best we can do is try again tomorrow."
"I think so" The other detective stood up too, bones cracking with movement after a long time motionless,
Ranpo watched him stretch a little before opening his desk drawer and pulling out a packet of chips and shoving grudgingly on his chest.
"And eat this" He mumbled sounding grumpy "You think you're pretty smart thinking that no one will notice you starving yourself in the hallways, don't you?"
Dazai opened the snacks. It was his favorite and Dazai had no idea how the hell Ranpo knew that, but he had long since stopped questioning that sort of thing, it was much simpler to deduce that Ranpo knew everything. Usually it was right.
"Not smart enough to trick Ranpo-san, uh?"
"Don't blame yourself" The man smiled brightly, eyes closed looking pleased as if he'd won some small battle Dazai was oblivious to in the meantime "No one is."
(Dazai understood exactly what the battle had been when hours later he fumbled in his overcoat pocket for his pet knife and found none.)
*
“You don't have a soul
You are a soul
You have a body"
- CS Lewis
Dazai stared at the hand.
It was a pale hand with long, pale fingers that looked deft if not too dainty, with bones too delicate and brittle, only lightly covered by a thin film of flesh, nerves and skin. There were a few scars on the palm, burn marks slightly darkened by age along with the calluses on the fingertips. A gold ring rested on the ring finger and it looked expensive.
Between the index finger and the thumb was a small, worn wooden piece -a koma.
Dazai carefully studied how the light from the small room fell on the piece, the kanji a little blurry from constant use, but still legible.
"It's your turn" Fukuzawa spoke in his usual tone: serious and severe.
Dazai turned his attention to the board and, with surprise, realized that it was indeed his turn. And look: the hand, at some point, must be his too.
(He felt as much connection to that hand as he felt to that shogi piece and what was the point of trying so hard to keep a body alive if it would kick him out of it at the first opportunity?)
Somehow, the detective managed to watch (if those eyes, those gelatinous spheres of glassy humor, wet, innervated, fresh, were really his and were really part of him. Imagine being made of things just waiting for the right moment to start rot) the hand move the piece to a little box on the board.
He - he- had moved the piece. The hand. The hand that was his hand, the hand that didn't feel like his, but well, it must be his because he used it constantly, didn't he? Didn't use it? Didn't use it?
That body (fresh, fresh, fresh) was his too, wasn't it?
He dressed it- No! He wore it every day and it was his to kiss Chuuya, smile at Atsushi and torment Kunikida.
(It was his to seek revenge against, hurting, opening, tearing apart, prodding the organs-).
It was his.
Dazai stared at the hand.
It didn't look like it was him.
Dazai stared at the body.
It didn't look like it was him.
That thing full of flesh, nerve, skin, bone, blood, sweat, hair, teeth, that thing that could only belong on operating tables and morgues. That thing made of organic fluids, that human thing couldn't, could n't, couldn't be him.
(Mori, Mori had once tormented him for months talking about him having a skeleton inside his body and that his bones were always wet and Dazai spent entire years rehearsing and reproducing exposed fractures until he could touch...).
"Dazai?" Sometimes Fukuzawa spoke like this: Severus, stiff and slightly worried, his brows furrowed a little and his expression was no longer so impassive. It was such a Fukuzawa expression and how crazy it would be to belong to youself like that.
"I do not exist."
Nor did his voice sound like his voice anymore. It was very high pitched, octaves higher than the natural deep purr, bordering on pure hysteria and he hadn't even noticed he was hysterical, but he must have been because the hands that might have been his were shaking compulsively against the board and there was a hissing breath on the lips who got lost halfway through finding his lungs.
How could the body – his? – have gone into a spiral of panic and not warned? Blood thundered in the ears, the heart bursting inside his chest in frantic beats as if it wanted to break his ribs and Dazai had never gotten the right way to fracturing ribs out of the skin to the point where his bones were white and wet and touchable, maybe now, without your permission, the body could and...
"Hey!"
Dazai looked – when had he stopped looking? – at Fukuzawa.
The man still had the same serious frown, but his gray eyes looked soft and Dazai, who had cataloged all the micro-expressions of the people around him, knew of the disconcerting curve of his lips and the pronounced tension of his shoulders.
The director was genuinely concerned.
"You exist" Fukuzawa declared as if it was that easy, as if he could just exist, as if there was no cotton between his neurons and their receptors, as if... "You, Dazai Osamu, exist."
Fukuzawa held out his hand.
And Dazai stared at that hand.
It was calloused, deeply scarred and firm. There was a subtle grace in it too, a mobility practiced beneath those tendons.
It was definitely of Fukuzawa. And Fukuzawa was real.
Fukuzawa existed.
Dazai watched the trembling alien hand reach out and touch the director's.
Fukuzawa squeezed it firmly and the buzzing Dazai hadn't even noticed was in his ears vanished. Suddenly it really was his hand there.
Because the man in front of him was real and existent and his hands were indisputably clasped together, and Dazai could feel the heat, the roughness of his calluses and the softness of the flesh on the palm.
Dazai stared at his hand.
Dazai stared at his - his- body.
"I exist" The brunette muttered under his breath, panting as if he had run a marathon "Don’t I?"
"Yes" Fukuzawa pursed his lips in a toothless smile and stroked his hair lightly like a feather, but even so Dazai felt because he was touching him "You definitely exist" Fukuzawa signaled with his free hand to the board "And it's also your turn again."
The match lasted nearly two full hours and Dazai obviously didn't unlace his fingers for a single minute.
(Except when Fukuzawa inevitably won and Dazai needed both his hands to argue why he, Dazai Osamu, could not under any circumstances have lost a game of shogi,
Fukuzawa Yukichi smiled like a proud father throughout the monologue).
*
“I hope you are blessed
With a heart like a wildflower
Strong enough to rise again
After being trampled upon
Tough enough to resist
The worst of summer storms
And able to grow and flourish
Even in the most broken places"
- Nikita Gill
"Kenji-kun" Dazai frowned looking at the small vase that had been given to him "I don't want to be ungrateful, but of all plants, why this one?"
Neither Kenji nor the small cactus Dazai held seemed particularly offended by the question.
Kenji even seemed pleased to have been questioned, displaying a radiant smile as was his way and Dazai smiled back, not noticing, because that was the boy's effect on people in general and Dazai, this time, was no exception to rule. The boy was a walking ball of solar energy and the detective was weak.
"Firstly because Dazai-san doesn't seem to know much about plants and a cactus is not difficult to care for" The boy explained in a cheerful tone "Secondly because cactuses mean endurance and strength, it suits Dazai-san"
Dazai deepened his grimace a little more, eyeing the prickly little thing planted in its mound of earth, not looking very tough or strong, just capable of an honest amount of damage if he was careless.
"That's really sweet of you, Kenji-kun!" He cooed half-sung "I'll take good care of it!"
Kenji cocked his head to the side pouting, but his eyes creased tenderly.
"Not of it, Dazai-san" Kenji spoke softly, eyes round, innocent and kind "Please."
Dazai nodded, ruffling his pleasantly soft blond hair.
"I'll take care of both of us then."
Kenji leaned into the caress, letting out a happy, satisfied chuckle.
"Much better now, Dazai-san!"
*
“Now I know it's just a theory
But I think I really figured out how
the only way to happiness
It's loving what we have now.”
- e.h.
Dazai opened the feed bag and poured the proper daily amount into the aquarium. The axolotls stirred lazily in the water, looking for bits of food scattered in the water.
There were two, one white and one black, Dazai had bought them at the height of a manic outbreak two years ago because he had read somewhere the unreliable information that they were poisonous and, as the crisis passed, he had kept them both in home for little more than self-indulgence.
Besides, it was comforting the idea of having something that viscerally depended on him to survive, but that didn't require any direct affective and emotional bond. The amphibians were gloriously indifferent to their owner, except when they were hungry when they would start swimming near the glass whenever Dazai passed through the aquarium until they were properly fed.
Neither of them had a name, but Dazai had a soft spot for both and even when depression made him a prisoner in the sheets, he would remember to mumble or yell at Chuuya for hours to feed and watch them eat to make sure that the axolotls were well and healthy.
Dazai lightly nudged the surface of the aquarium, tapping his fingers there. The amphibians still seemed unflappable, but even so it was a good thing he could do it himself now, going out of the way of saving every ounce of energy for other tasks like work, eating and not opening his wrists.
"Are we finally getting out of the red phase then?" Chuuya wondered from where he was sprawled on the couch reading some French poetry book.
Of course, feeding his pets also had its own merits in wordless communication between soukoku and meant waves waning in intensity, constantly low numbers, and Dazai (finally!) seeing solid ground instead of slumps when thinking about the future.
“Yup, officially out of it”
Chuuya couldn't hold back his genuine sigh of relief, lowering the book to his chest and Dazai turned on his heel to stare into those affectionate blue eyes, watching the weight of Chuuya’s body release the tension that always built up on top of the ginger during his crises. Dazai wanted to feel guilty for subjecting the man to these endless hells that sometimes showed their faces, but the only thing he could think was that he was grateful to all the idiots who surrounded him and had a soft spot for broken and fickle things like him.
"That's good" Chuuya held the arms out to him, a smile gracing his lips making little wrinkles appear around the eyes "Now come here, uh?"
Dazai didn't need to hear it twice and promptly climbed on top of the smaller man. Legs curling awkwardly as he rested his chin on the redhead's chest.
Chuuya stroked his cheek, brushing away the stray strands of hair from his face.
Dazai arched an eyebrow.
"Chibikko wants to be mushy now, I'm feeling it."
Chuuya snorted, but didn't correct him or stop the constant caress that the brunet leaned closer to, content.
"I do and I'm going to be mushy mackerel" Chuuya rolled his eyes good-naturedly "I'm proud of you, I know how exhausting your crises can be and yet you managed to get through it all one more time, Osamu."
Dazai looked away, ignoring the blush creeping up his cheeks. His slug had a gift for making him uncomfortable with the most select and short choice of words he used. It never failed.
“One more time” the detective repeated, laying his head on Chuuya's sternum, only partly so as not to meet his eyes, “It's still here, Chuuya knows. It will always be here with me. It's still in the car, but I'm also happy to be me at the wheel again.”
Chuuya hummed in agreement, the fingers sliding through his hair, massaging the back of his neck in a way that never stopped melting the man.
Dazai took a deep breath, smelling the chic cologne, wine and cigarettes the brunette had learned to associate with home.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the arrangement of anemones on the dinner table. Chuuya had cut the stems and dipped them in a vase of water to last longer and the flowers were still beautiful and adorable as if they had been freshly picked.
Tough flowers indeed.
Dazai remembered crepes, chic coffees and muffins. He remembered beta fish and puzzles, shogi boards and the cactus that rested in their bedroom window.
“And…” Dazai continued with his eyes closed and seriously considering taking a nap, “It's also good that the two of us aren't driving alone. The tenant in my head can scream all it wants around the corners, the other passengers talk much louder.”
Almost asleep, Dazai didn't see Chuuya's smile, but he didn't even need to.
He had his own resting on his lips.