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ranpo is enough at a devastating enough hour, that it has come to the strange laminal space in the day where late night bleeds into early morning, the indigo velvet of yokohama’s skyline bleeding into a strange violet hue, the frost-blushed fingers of dawn pulling away the curtain of darkness, and signalling the end of the mafia’s reign for the time being.
beside him in the bed, dazai is asleep. he sleeps the deep, dreamless sleep of the drug-addled, his slender body plied with chemicals until its resistances have been overwhelmed, and not for the first time, ranpo envies him for it, wishes there was a solution as elegant and simple as that to the endless noise that fills his every moment.
but dazai is not like him. dazai doesn’t need to be able to wake up.
ranpo has heard it be said numerous times that a dead person looks like they’re asleep. but dazai, when sleeping, does not look dead. he looks merely – relaxed. the tight coil of tension at the coil of his body is not present to animate his every movement. he is still, his breathing heavy, deep and even. he sleeps nude, unspooled – unmade – to allow his skin – normally constricted by miles of white linen that ranpo is so jealous of for getting to kiss his skin at all times – the chance to breathe at least in the night.
he’s laying exactly how he laid down last night, when the medication finally did as it was supposed to, pulling him under. his book had slipped between his slender fingers, and ranpo had marked his page with an old takeaway receipt and put it aside for him.
dazai is on his side, facing ranpo, the pale curve of his naked shoulder just barely peeking from under the thick duvet. his long slender arms are wrapped loosely around his vulnerable middle, but it is not defensive. he sleeps with his blind side buried in his pillow, so when he comes awake, he can instantly take in his surroundings – and more recently than not – so he can see ranpo beside him first thing.
he has been getting enough sleep lately, mostly because ranpo ensures that he takes his medication when he is supposed to. it has brought more color to his cheeks, a more energetic spring to his step.
he doesn’t nap on the sofas in the office out of need anymore, except maybe for the near pathological need he has to annoy kunikida-kun.
ranpo is glad for it. really.
except. he’s also jealous.
sleep does not come to him easy – it never has. his mind is too fast – before he can slip away, another stray thought always catches his attention. and if he does manage to fall asleep – well.
the soporifics dazai takes are heavy enough to pull him under, but they should – in theory – allow him to wake up, should he need to. however – this dazai had confessed – he didn’t really need to.
“i am a naturally deep sleeper, ranpo-san. i just find it hard to fall asleep. besides… it’s not as if i have nightmares often.” he shrugs gracefully. there’s no lie that ranpo can detect.
it makes sense, he supposes. if dazai does dream, he rarely shares it. if his dreams are bad – what could they possibly contain, that would make someone like dazai – someone who has done the things he has done – thrash and shake and scream?
ranpo has not had to pull him out of a nightmare yet, so he wouldn’t know.
he wonders, since they started sharing a bed, if this is perhaps some underlying cause for his own insomnia – some deep-sated fear that he will not be able to help dazai, when dazai needs him. it doesn’t feel true – it feels like too shallow an explanation.
he is a light sleeper – always has been. the lightest shift in dazai’s breathing beside him would have him awake.
no. the truth is much more mundane. it’s not dazai’s nightmares he fears. it’s his own.
lately, the dream has been the same, repeating itself in a way that makes ranpo curse his own memory. imprinted on the inside of his lids is the black steel and glass pillar that makes up the mori corp building.
in the dream, ranpo is running towards it. in the dream, he knows he must reach it, that something terrible will happen if he doesn’t. he runs as fast he can, his lungs burning.
he pauses – for a moment – to catch his breath. he looks up to the top of the skyscraper. something flashes in the sky – a brilliant slash of scarlet, as though some invisible hand has slashed open the very fabric of his reality, bleeding it dry.
the screams deafen him. the crowd drags him along. he knows he was too late. he knows what he will find on the pavement. he has to wake up before he sees it –
beside him, dazai shifts. slow, languid. a deep groan works its way out of his slender scarred throat. he stretches slow and lazy like a cat, blinks to clear the cobwebs of sleep away, his thic long lashes kissing the high slopes of his cheeks. a smile spills over his face, oil-slick, a persistent, quiet joy radiating off him as he reaches for ranpo, still sleep-soft and blanket-warm.
ranpo reaches out for him, tries to still his shaking. he cups the blind side of dazai’s face. runs his fingers through soft, chocolate brown curls, scraping his nails over dazai’s scalp, feeling his skull, still intact, the only scar tissue there – the remnant of the unfortunate bullet that hadn’t quite finished the job.
“ranpo-san is affectionate today,” dazai says. his morning voice is deep, carries the roughness of someone who used to smoke regularly.
ranpo knows what he saw in his dream. he knows it’s not real, because the real dazai is right here, warm, alive, pleased with himself as always.
he hums his ascent. he is affectionate. but he’s not convinced he’s awake.