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The night is quieter than usual, in all honesty. The cicadas sing softly to each other, weaving tales from their many lives, and the crickets sing along, adding the final touch to the ambience of the night.
But Dazai’s head is screaming. If anything, this is one of the loudest nights in a while.
He can’t quite put it into words, but it’s loud, frighteningly so. A mix of his own desperate cries for the voices to shut up and repeated insults thrown back at him in reply. If Dazai wasn’t Dazai, he would have thrown up from this long ago, (but he knows how to bite his tongue and swallow his own bile, Mori taught him well after all). But even so, the strongest of steel will eventually bend and break.
(When did these hot tears start streaming down his face? When did his scalp begin to hurt from how hard he was gripping his hair? When? When when when when when? When did this all begin? And why him? Why now?)
In the darkness of the shipping container, Dazai turns on his phone. The light is unbearably bright in contrast to the pitch black, and the stinging in his eyes from crying wasn’t helping this new pain. But he stares at the screen anyways, fingers hurriedly opening his messages.
”i’m coming over” he clumsily texts, barely hitting send before launching himself off his mattress in a panic and grabbing his jacket from the floor.
Dazai isn’t proud to say this wasn’t the first time he had found himself doing this. On the bright side, he had managed to keep these impromptu yet desperately needed visits to only five. On the downside, it was hard to see on these dark walks, even if he had grown used to it by now, (crying did that kind of thing to you, which was why Dazai preferred keeping it to a minimum).
The trip to the apartment is fairly short, only a couple minutes to walk and even shorter if he hijacked one of the motorcycles on the side of the road. But his head is too foggy right now and stuffed to the brim with angry black, screaming and gnawing at his brain. Besides, he has the walk there memorized and knows exactly where the cicadas are the loudest. Loud enough to distract him, even if it’s just for a little while.
By the time he reaches the door his focus has already wandered, feet carrying him the whole way there more out of instinct than muscle memory. But before he can even knock, the door escapes from his hands.
In its stead, there stands Chuuya.
His eyes are only half open, and his shirt and pants are rumpled. Even so, it’s obvious Dazai’s message had woken him. Obvious in the way only he could tell, in a way he was proud that nobody else could see but him.
Slipping that grin on is sickeningly easy as he clasps his hands behind his back, chirping out a “Hello!” as his tired eyes meet Chuuya’s own.
He still doesn’t bother to respond, only heaving out a sigh and stepping to the side for Dazai to enter.
“Chuuya is a little too obedient today, did something happen?”
“Just sit on the couch,” he says.
Says. He doesn’t grumble like Dazai had expected him to. But Dazai’s too tired to give more than an eyebrow raise at that, so he does as he’s told, sitting down onto the stiff couch as he eyes the other boy who wanders off into another room. When Chuuya comes back, his arms are loaded with first-aid materials, from a bottle of disinfecting alcohol to fresh rolls of bandages.
Dazai opens his mouth to ask, “What are you doing?” But before he can even fully get the words out, Chuuya is holding out his free hand.
“Show me.”
“Show you?” He raises an eyebrow, forcing out an awkward laugh. “Well, aren't you forward today.”
Chuuya’s gray eyes stare him down as he repeats his words. “Show me.”
He can’t help but blink back blankly, slowly pulling his hands out from where he had them hidden under his jacket. He was sure he had hidden them well, sure that there was no way anybody could have suspected this, yet here he is.
Then again, Chuuya isn’t exactly nobody.
He watches as Chuuya take his hands into his own. A heaved sigh and the taste of blood on his tongue draws Dazai out of his thoughts, making him realize that: one, he never actually broke his bad habit of biting his lip whenever he was nervous. And two, his hand fucking hurt.
He watches as Chuuya gingerly runs his fingers over the back of his hands, making Dazai flinch, hissing in pain.
“Be gentle with me, Chuuya!” He tries to joke, unable to force out more than a pained smile through gritted teeth at his own words. Chuuya on the other hand, barely responds, only rolling his eyes as he inspects Dazai’s other hand.
“You need to stop doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This!” He gestures to Dazai’s hand a little too aggressively, bumping into it as he does so. A string of mumbled curses and sorries are quickly uttered as Dazai winces yet again, holding his breath to keep away a yelp.
Now that Chuuya mentions it, the wounds on the back of his hands have become increasingly more sensitive. He can feel every small breath accidentally blown their way, he can feel the way droplets of blood have begun to weigh heavy before dripping into Chuuya’s hands. Little cuts that had been healing from previous incidents had been picked open from his absentminded nervous habit, and small bruises had already begun to bloom on his otherwise pale skin. Maybe Chuuya was right, is a thought Dazai considers for a second. Perhaps he’d have to stop eventually. Perhaps he’d have to stop all this pinching and picking at his own skin, before those ugly scars that already littered his arms and legs crept their way to his hands too.
The taste of blood returns to his tongue, but this time Dazai doesn’t stop biting his lip. It’s raw, and quite honestly disgusting, but his heart and mind are racing faster than he can keep up, and God, the voices. That stupid fucking buzzing in his head just won’t stop. It just won’t stop. And God maybe Dazai is starting to stare off into space, maybe he’s biting a little too hard as the iron taste suddenly grows stronger, and maybe, and maybe-
This time Dazai comes back a little too late to hold his breath again, hissing in pain when Chuuya begins to clean the cuts on his hands.
He seems almost aware of what he was doing when he shoots a little, “Welcome back,” at him out of nowhere.
Somehow, some way, he always manages to see through the cracks in Dazai’s walls. It was almost impressive, really. The way that at times, Chuuya was able to catch Dazai off guard when he least expected it. The way that sometimes he seemed to know him better than he knew himself. A choked, “Thank you,” begins to form at the back of his throat as he watches Chuuya gently patch him up (almost too gently, too human). But he never says it, even if it threatens to spill out, so Dazai swallows those embarrassing words.
Vulnerability has never been his strong suit. After all, Mori taught him well. (Swallow the bilious humanity whenever it threatens to come out. Never dare to make a sound louder than that of a sleeping swallow. Mori taught him well. But perhaps he had taught him just a little too well.)
But even so, Dazai still finds himself watching. Chuuya sticks the last bandage on before tossing an ice pack into Dazai’s lap, heaving out a sigh as he collapses on the couch with his arms flung over his head.
“I can't take care of you for forever, y’know,” he groans, moving his arms just enough to shoot Dazai a look from the other side of the couch.
“I never asked you to take care of me in the first place.” He stares down at his now bandaged hands. The work is a little clumsy, yet there’s something fuzzy in Dazai’s chest anyways as he runs his fingers over where the ends of bandaging meet.
The sound of shuffling makes him look back up, only to be met by Chuuya’s gray eyes staring startlingly close to him. (Yet he doesn’t flinch back, but instead admires those speckles of blue you can only see from so close.)
“Well somebody fucking has to since clearly you won’t do it yourself.” He sighs yet again as he sits back down, crossing his arms this time as his legs rest on Dazai’s lap. “Seriously, are you that fucking dense? If you’re gonna die, you’re gonna die by my hands. Not by a stupid fucking infection that you could have easily prevented if you weren’t such a moron.”
Dazai can’t help but laugh, opening his mouth to shoot back a witty insult as his now bandaged hands go to rest on Chuuya’s legs, only to get interrupted when he stands back up.
“Your stupidity infected me, god fucking damn it,” is all he mumbles, albeit angrily, as he storms away yet again into another room, leaving Dazai dazed and quite frankly offended from the cutoff on the couch.
This wasn’t the first time he had come over in the middle of the night out of nowhere, of course not, but this was the first time Chuuya had ever been so...lively? No, it’s something else. But before Dazai can put his finger on the right word, Chuuya is back with two mugs and the smell of lavender.
“Lavender?”
“No, dumbass, it’s chamomile.” He sets a cup into Dazai’s open hands before sitting back down. Though the chamomile is stronger now, the scent of lavender still lingers.
“No, there's definitely lavender. My nose doesn’t lie.”
Chuuya snickers as he brings his own mug to his lips. “What are you? A bloodhound?”
Dazai rolls his eyes, grumbling before taking a sip of his own drink. “You’re intolerable. Mori just…” He cuts himself off before he can go on. God knows what those little voices would say if he thought too hard about that old man. Every time he came into play, Dazai’s world only seemed to dim.
And Chuuya isn’t stupid so he obviously catches on. Yet he says nothing, instead taking his time to savor the warm tea in his hands. “Kouyou got me an incense thing the other day, thought I’d try it out.”
“Isn’t that a little girlish?”
“It is not!” He defends, earning a chuckle from Dazai as a reply. “Besides, since when did you care about that kind of stuff?”
“I don’t.”
“Then don’t say it like it’s an insult!”
“Maybe Chuuya is just hiding something,” Dazai teases, staring at his own reflection in the tea. But when he looks back up, Chuuya is seemingly still, like a deer caught in the headlights.
A silence he’s too scared to break holds heavy in the air, Dazai’s eyes lingering on Chuuya’s chest, focusing on the way it rises and falls instead of trying to read whatever expression now rested on his face.
Did he say something wrong?
That was the thing Dazai hated the most about him. No matter how good Chuuya was at understanding Dazai, Dazai could never understand him back the same way. He’d step on landmine after landmine, fumble clumsily through the field that is Nakahara Chuuya’s temper, and yet Chuuya would stay nevertheless.
An awkward laugh startles him out of his worries though. “Why would I hide something from you, asshole? You’d probably just figure it out before I could even say anything about it anyways.”
Right. Chuuya’s right.
So he breathes, because there’s nothing to worry about. (Lavender enters his lungs and courses through his veins, foggy memories of repeatedly being told that he’d be fine, even if he knows it’s all a lie. But the lavender is already in his blood, or maybe it’s something else? But in the memory he’s feeling funny and it’s hard to stay awake.)
“You should use it more often.”
“Use what?”
Dazai squeezes the mug ever so slightly so the remaining warmth seeps into his hands. “The incense thing. That Kouyou gave you.”
“Didn’t you say it was girlish?”
“I never said that’s a bad thing, Chuuya.”
Yet another silence, but this one slides over faster. Because Chuuya laughs again, more sincerely than the last time. And Dazai can’t help but smile too. He breathes again and the lavender scent is already running through his blood, more gently this time, like the hands of someone tending to your wounds. The incense thrums through his veins in the gentle way only another certain person can, coaxing him to close his eyes and slip into the darkness. But this time his head doesn’t buzz with black thoughts. This time he doesn’t seek the sound of cicadas out. This time he doesn’t find himself scrambling into Chuuya’s arms.
Because he’s right here. Right where they’re both supposed to be.
“You’re so fucking stupid, just make up your mind.” Chuuya huffs, setting his head down on the back of the couch as he brings his feet up to lay on Dazai’s lap again.
The chamomile tea is already almost gone, so Dazai finishes it as he hums in thought.
“Nah.”
Chuuya scoffs, kicking his leg gently only to receive a punch to his leg back. He kicks again in retaliation and Dazai readies himself to take it, bracing for impact with a grimace only to instead be met by a weight on his shoulder. As his eyes slide to the side he catches a glimpse of brown burned red hair. (He’s always loved that shade that Chuuya has, quite unlike any other.) The other boy sits pressed on his side in a way that just feels right. Dazai has never been much of a romantic, but if the heavens ever made anything in sets, he’s sure he and Chuuya are one of them.
His voice is low in a tired way, drawing Dazai out of his trance. “Are you done with it yet?”
“With what?” Dazai’s voice seems to quiver in contrast, scared to break the delicate scene Chuuya has set up for them.
“The tea, dumbass. What else?”
The cup has gone cold by now as he nods and hands it over to Chuuya, letting his fingers slip away from the ceramic as Chuuya takes it and sets their cups on the little table before them. Dazai raises an eyebrow, earning a brief glance and eyeroll as Chuuya settles himself back. This time he leans in more, lets their bodies press together in a way where Dazai can feel their sparce body heat intertwine.
He relishes in the feeling, itches to pull his friend closer, as Chuuya begins to speak. “I’ll deal with the cups tomorrow. Don’t think I’m doing this for you.” His words come out as more of a mumble than anything, really. “I’m just tired.”
And Dazai can believe it. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to hope the reasoning is otherwise, doesn’t want to give himself anything to lose. Another important thing Mori has taught him over his dreadful and long years.
“Got it, Chuuya.” He lets the name linger on his tongue, drawing it out, as if too scared that it’ll disappear completely once he finishes sounding it out. So instead, to make sure that can never happen, he lets his arm pull Chuuya closer as his eyes slip close, letting the lavender in his blood take over. Just this once. Just for warmth.
A lie told once hurt anyone, after all.
——————————
Dazai can still feel it. The lavender coursing through his veins. Coursing, coarsing, rough and gentle and soft and smooth, all the same. It takes its course through his blood. Lures him to some sense of safety that he knows isn’t there.
Not anymore, at least.
He stumbles back in his apartment, too tired from sleepless nights to bother fixing the way his feet trip over each other. As if he’s trying desparately to do a one person dance with two left feet. He can still smell the lavender incense he had burnt this morning in the little room he calls home. It’s well seeped into everything by now— the futon he only bothers fixing up when Kunikida fixes it for him, the closet he’s left open since he first moved in, the spare clothes he actually owns, the rolls and rolls of bandages that sit in his tiny bathroom and by his bed. There’s no more cup noodles for it to seep into though, he’ll have to deal with that in the morning, but for now he has a more urgent problem to handle.
He kicks away a bottle by his futon as he lets his body crumple onto the barely soft mattress. He has a new bottle to down, after all. The taste is bitter as he kisses the lip of the bottle and lets the sake slip down his throat. How he longed for the taste of chamomile instead of cheap alcohol. But that ceramic cup of warm tea isn’t there.
Not anymore, at least.
So he’ll make do, he supposes. The green glass hits the floor with a thud as he finishes it off, letting his coughing fit roll over as his eyes instead focus on the way the moonlight shines through the bottle.
As one hand shields his poor futon from spit and whatever splatters of blood might make a surprise appearance, his other hand slips from the bottle and fumbles for the roll of bandages he keeps by his pillow, letting his hands do their daily work without much of a thought.
The bandages from the night before slip off as he undoes them, falling almost gracefully if it weren’t for the fact that they were his. In its stead now are the bruises and picked off scabs littering the back of his hand, creeping up his arms like thousands of bugs. How he longed for another pair of hands to do this tedious task. Maybe he shouldn’t have mocked the way Chuuya did it back then. Maybe then he’d be here to help with this.
Ah. But he isn’t here.
Not anymore, at least.
The realization that he finds himself having every night never gets any easier to swallow. Never gets any easier to accept. And definitely not the part where he remembers just why Chuuya isn’t here anymore.
His hands sting in searingly sharp pain as fat tears form and fall faster than he can catch them. So Dazai gives up on the bandaging for tonight. Lets these weaknesses flow like rapid waters gusting him away. His hands sting. They burn as his salty sake stained tears fall and seep into his wounds. He’ll let himself cry for no reason in particular, just this once. Just for warmth.
A lie told twice never hurt him, after all.