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"Are you a puppet, Dazai Osamu?
Do your soiled bandages tie your marionette limbs together,
giving you a semblance of control and connectivity,
deluding you into thinking you have a sense of self,
the illusion that perhaps you are whole?
Have you become so disgusted by the gnarled, scarred skin beneath them,
that a moment without the gauzy mask you have forced yourself to familiarize,
is a moment so excruciating you perhaps will crumble?
Your skin is tight.
It pulls taut over the easel, rendering you the canvas.
Will you struggle as they drag dry bristles over you,
dappling your body with a bruised mottling of colors?
Or will you play the good puppet,
still as they unwrap you, bandaged limbs falling to the ground in unrecognizable lumps?
Their lips will press prayers into your dry skin,
a promise for a goodbye,
the goodbye you long for,
cultist kisses stamped into your throat, your palms, your forehead.
They’ll wrap you once more,
countless new disfigurations crawling beneath a silly little layer of gauze.
It won’t protect you forever.
One day, someone will peel away your defenses,
flinching at the deformed flesh beneath.
What will you do then?
One day, someone will find out.
How will you hide then?"
-
Dazai felt spacey.
But not the good kind — not the zero-gravity airiness that curls around in fast motions through your lungs. Not the carefree float through an abyssal plain.
Dazai felt disconnected.
As if his life force was strangled and torn, split off halfway through. He was left with a useless cord hanging limply off his sallow skin.
He needed to move.
Knees tucked up to his chin, the sharp outline of his bones visible. Dazai shivered, his back pressed into the cold wall, eyes fluttering closed briefly before snapping open, then drifting closed again... a painfully redundant cycle.
Move, move, move, move, move, move, move, MOVE—
The mantra was a gory scream in his head, red and white and black pulsing behind his eyelids. Dazai begged his limbs to operate, sobbing internally at his useless, useless arms and legs that felt like lead, shuddering gasps quieting as he rocked back and forth.
Why can't I move? The thought was blurry, a fragile outline etched into his consciousness.
Then, louder again: Why can't I MOVE?
Come on, come on, come ON. It's not that hard, it isn't, it isn't; come on, just let me MOVE, come on, please, please, please—
His fingernails stung as he dragged them across the tile floor of his bathroom, the only fraction of mobility he could muster up.
Dimly, Dazai recalled a watery memory from a few months ago.
"You need a diagnosis," Chuuya spits out, hardening at Dazai's shaken expression."You do, Osamu! You need medication. Because this isn't going to work."
Dazai flinches. Chuuya sees it, but only grips his shoulder roughly, yanking him forward.
"I can't come home everyday and see you freaking out like this, or just sitting there, unable to do anything. It's horrible." He sighs frustratedly. "I can't, Osamu! Jesus! All because you're too stubborn to go to a doctor." Chuuya's eyes search his, seeking out some semblance of disagreement or agreement — quite truthfully, any emotion at all.
But Dazai has already removed himself from the situation. He thins his lips, lowers his head, molds his expression into one of careful nonchalance.
"Okay." His voice is flat.
Chuuya opens his mouth — closes it. "Osamu."
"I'm sorry." The words are empty. Foreign. They taste heavy on his tongue.
"Don't — FUCK, Dazai. Don't do that."
"I am. I am sorry."
Chuuya steps back, a hiss sliding out from clenched teeth. "Don't be sorry, just... shit, just work with me here, okay?" He runs a hand through his ginger locks, frustration palpable.
Dazai curls his hand into a fist, nails biting at his palms. "I don't want medication."
Miffed, Chuuya glances up. "What?"
"I don't want medication." Dazai grinds the phrase out, teeth clenched, a full-body tremble consuming his figure.
Chuuya blinks. "Dazai."
"Chuuya." He won't meet Chuuya's gaze.
"Why the FUCK not?"
Dazai flinches again. He stumbles backward. "You can't—"
He stops. Swallows. Feels thick saliva roll down his throat, curdle his insides.
"You can't fix me, Chuuya. Medicine won't fix me, a doctor won't fix me, a diagnosis won't fix me—"
"I'm not trying to fuckin' fix you, I'm trying to help you—"
"It's not fucking HELPING!"
Dazai's voice resounds through the air, cracking as he forces the words past dry, chapped, silent lips, gagging on the confession. Dazai heaves for breath, gut churning from the way he wrenches the words out of the recesses of his throat. His admission hangs in the air, thick and weighted. Chuuya fixes him with wide eyes and lips parted in surprise.
"Osamu..." Chuuya's voice is hoarse, desperate. "I—"
"Don't."
"I can't help you if I don't know how." Chuuya is insistent — always so insistent, even when it's hopeless, even when Dazai certainly doesn't deserve his gentle, steady, firm love. "I can't be there for you if you don't let me."
He presses forward, tentative, one hand outstretched, featherlight touches on Dazai's shoulder.
Dazai is silent. He swallows again, but there's nothing there; his throat is so dry, head full of cotton, mouth gummy and jaw aching and it's all too much.
"Osamu, please," Chuuya whispers, arms wrapping slowly around his waist. "Please. Let me help you."
Shuddering, Dazai drops his head into the junction between Chuuya's neck and shoulder, the skin around his eyes wrinkling as he forces them to shut. A careful hand comes up to trace small circles onto his spine, tender and understanding with the vertebrae beneath solid fingers. Dazai indulges in the grounding motion for a bare moment.
Just a moment.
Then, Dazai draws in another tremulous breath and pulls away. "You should go," he whispers.
Chuuya's expression shutters. He knows there's no pushing Dazai now, no twist of his hands or words that will warm him like soft, pliant dough beneath his fingertips.
No, Dazai has always been sand — slipping through the cracks of Chuuya's hands, gone before he was ever truly there.
"Yeah. Right. Okay." Chuuya's voice is stilted, barely concealing the throaty, raw nature of his tone. He always hides for Dazai — and maybe a little for himself, out of the selfish and foolish idea that he might exercise a bit of self preservation, of safety.
But there is no safety for one so enamored, so hopelessly connected to an individual like Dazai Osamu. There is no failsafe for when Dazai inevitably reduces his ribs to dust, marks him like a bloodstain, leaves him wandering with an indecipherably familiar language fitting snugly beneath his tongue, unable to speak it with anyone else. He exists in a guttural cycle of pain, the embodiment of wrath and anger and devastation, a willing vessel, a self-destructive bundle of code.
Dazai will always marvel over how such a creature displays restraint — and for him, no less.
Chuuya leaves Dazai cold and shaky.
Dazai can't find it within himself to ask Chuuya to stay.
Dazai shuddered, curling in on himself. Why? Why am I so...
Why couldn't I just ask him to stay?
He wished he'd begged. He wished he'd dropped to the floor and gasped out how much he truly needed Chuuya, how Chuuya permeated his bones, his body, his brain down to his fucking genetic code. He wished he'd coughed up the blood of his exhaustingly dire want for Chuuya, how excruciatingly right it felt to want Chuuya and how painfully wrong it was for Chuuya to want Dazai, too.
I need him to stay.
I want him to stay.
But I just can't ask him to.
Sluggishly, Dazai pushed off the ground, body sagging with the leaden weight of his numb, distorted self-hatred.
Please. Please. Please.
He begged without reason, breaths quickening in audibly pitchy inhalations. What am I begging for?
For this episode to stop? For Chuuya to show up?
Please, Chuuya, stay. Won't you stay?
His shoulder knocked harshly against the corner of the wall.
Please. Please. Please.
Dazai stumbled into his kitchen, frantic. Pins and needles zapped through his body, lightning-quick reminders of how long he'd sat, sealed to the wall, immovable.
This is all my fault.
He collapsed against the counter, chest heaving with invisible exertion. Panic sung in his blood, curdled his insides, thrashed in his chest cavity. It was zero to one-hundred in the fraction of a second, tearing into desperate, frenetic motion when just a moment ago he'd been disgustingly frozen — his body was jolting, ridden with jerky, uncoordinated glitches of movement from the whiplash.
This is the worst it's ever been.
I need you — Chuuya, I need you.
I need you right now.
He slid down the counter, bony elbows knocking on knobs and handles on the way down, forcibly choked-off sobs serving as the only hiccuping, fragmented sound that hung in the air.
But you won't come.
Dazai rocked back and forth, gasping for air on the kitchen floor, wet breaths gargling in his throat. A guttural cry spilled past his lips.
Because I sent you away. I told you not to stay.
He whimpered, aggressively squeezing his eyes shut, head falling into his hands.
Why? Why am I...
Dazai wrenched the cabinets nearest to him open, swallowing down the gross rendition of dismay that fit uncomfortably on his cracked lips and sallow cheeks and dead eyes. His fingers reached in and clenched around a bag of flour, slammed it onto the counter, tightening his grip compulsively until the bag exploded in a cloud of white powder.
The erratic motion did nothing to quiet his loud, bloody mind.
Loud, bloody mind.
Yes. That was it. Glitchy and roaring and filthy with gore.
Dazai's body moved frantically, desperately. Hypersensitive fingers cracked eggs tremulously against the side of a bowl. Bloodshot eyes searched for a bag of sugar. Loosened bandages dipped into a bowl of mismatched ingredients.
He shook violently as he stirred together sugar, eggs, and flour — he wasn't even sure what was in the bowl anymore. He didn't know what he was doing, why he was doing it; he just needed to move, to direct his energy towards something real.
He reached up for a glass pan to pour his batter in, completely unsure of what he had made.
I don't even care anymore.
He slammed it into the oven, flicking it on to a random temperature, the bellowing clash of the oven door a dissonant clash on replay in Dazai's ears.
Absentmindedly, he registered the sharp prick of eggshells embedded in the palm of his hand, the flour dragged through knotted, matted strands of his hair, the butter smeared on his arms and plastered beneath his bandages.
He registered the clack of his chattering teeth, the wheezing breaths shaking his chest cavity, and the abnormal wet feeling on his face.
Dazai's sugar-crusted fingers rose to his cheeks, eyebrows furrowing. Am I bleeding?
He pressed against the wet sensation, then pulled his fingers back, confused. There was no pain when he applied pressure, no blood on his hands, no roughness or deformity on his skin—
Oh.
His lip trembled, curving into a watery smile.
I'm crying.
Tears gushed down the cracked porcelain of Dazai's face with renewed force. The back of his throat stung as he breathed in sharply, unable to inhale properly as deranged cries soured and coagulated in his stomach, resulting in garbled, slurred rasps.
Then, hysterically, Dazai began to laugh.
Feverish giggles peppering the insane rendition of a sob. Frenzied titters forcing their way through his tears.
His vision blurred as he hunched over the counter, tears swirling around in the mess of flour and egg whites. An abstract pool of unhinged torment formed below Dazai. Tremors ran through his body as the laughs grew in fervor and insanity, disconcerting glitches of misery.
Please. Please. Please. Oh, God, please someone just—
Splitting through his fuzzy consciousness, a severe beeping rang throughout the room. Dazai moved sluggishly, drawing back and blinking away the most recent tide of tears spilling past the surface.
He turned towards the oven, stumbling towards it and wrenching the oven door open. Bony fingers curved around the handle. A head of mushy, rotting brain matter screamed at the oversensitivity of his skin.
Dazai was delirious. Insane with horror at his own anxiety.
In this delirium, he didn't think twice about grabbing the glass pan with bare hands, straight from the oven.
Bare hands.
Straight from the oven.
He yanked it out of the oven, unfeeling at first, feet sticking to the wooden floorboards—
Oh.
Oh, oh, OH, OH—
FUCK, FUCK, FUCKFUCKFUCK—
Searing, red-hot pain split through his hands as he gripped the edge of the pan, a whimpering inhale the only sound he could produce. He convulsed, a full-body jerk, gasping, wheezing, groaning as he flinched away, dropping the pan—
Watching it shatter, glass and curdled sugar and eggs and butter and flour splattering across the wood—
Sharp shards of glass grazing his legs, lodging in his bandages—
Defeated wails tearing from the recesses of his throat—
Falling to the ground, sobs starting all over again—
Clutching his scalding hands to his chest—
It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—
IT HURTS, IT HURTS, IT HURTS, OH MY GOD—
NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO—
NONONONO—
"Why," he sobbed out, a jarring and thick sound. "Why, why, why, why, WHY—"
I fuck everything up. I fuck everything up. I can't do anything.
Why do I even try? I ruin everything. I ruin everything.
I RUIN EVERYTHING.
Dazai clutched his stomach, chest to his knees, clothes bunched up and ruined, burned hands fisted unconsciously.
He uncurled his hands, vision bleary with tears as they dropped onto the blistering skin of his palms. He whimpered softly, watching them shake, and shake, and shake.
He couldn't stop trembling.
Hunched on the ground, only one thought swirled around, watery and slight, in his mind:
I hate myself.
And then he screamed.
A sound forcibly wrenched from his empty chest cavity, gutturally rupturing the still air.
A sound so loud and wholly broken that it terrified Dazai from the inside out, as if he was gagging on the copious internal rot, choking it up in a humid cry, purging his guts, his organs, his body.
It was as if he split the air to form a crevasse — something he could fit in, hide in, tuck his head between his knees and release himself, throw up the self-ruination that he was forced to gorge on like it was the last fucking supper.
Kill me. Kill me. KILL ME, KILL ME, KILL ME, KILLMEKILLMEKILLME—
This was why Dazai didn't believe in God, in any God.
Because if God existed, why the fuck would he allow such a parasite like Dazai to suck away at the fraction of good left in the world?
Kill me. Kill me, kill me, kill me. It was quieter now, a low, insistent buzz forming bumps beneath his flesh. An empty plea.
Kill me.
Please.
-
"I'm home," Chuuya called out, exhaustion permeating his body. He lowered his head, hanging up his coat on the hooks near the door, and closed said door behind him.
There was no reply. The apartment was uncharacteristically silent.
Chuuya waited a beat.
Still no response.
"Osamu?"
His voice was a little pitchier than he'd ever admit to. It wasn't abnormal for Dazai to be asleep by this time, but he always left a light on for Chuuya, always closed the bedroom door—
But from what Chuuya could see, it was wide open.
He quickened his pace, walking briskly down the hall. "Osamu, are you home?"
Maybe he's out. Maybe he's sleeping on the couch. Maybe he's playing a prank, and I'm a fucking idiot for falling for it.
The reassurance was useless and empty, jittery renditions of sensibility and logic that Chuuya knew better than to believe. He always trusted his gut, and his gut was not fucking happy.
He swore under his breath, throwing his hat off, turning the corner into the kitchen—
"Osamu?"
The word fell from his lips breathlessly.
Dazai was a mess.
His gaze was pinned to the wall, distorted mutters spilling from his lips. His eyes were bloodshot, puffy, tears still pouring from them silently. His bandages were loosened everywhere — sagging around his neck, almost completely unwrapped around his arms.
That was a major red flag for Chuuya.
The mess of whatever Dazai had made lay in a bubbling mess, still cooling, beside him. Part of it was splattered on his leg, pale mush dripping down his flesh. It can't have felt good; the concoction was clearly blistering hot. Glass shards were sunken into parts of his skin; shallow cuts littered his body like gory freckles.
The remains of the glass pan were tossed all over the floor, but the densest allocation of shattered glass was right beneath Dazai's hand. He'd clearly scratched at the burn; it was oozing blood. It was probably second-degree. Dazai's fingers curled around the shattered pan almost obsessively, as if one touch from his tremulous fingers would repair it.
Chuuya stepped forward slowly, dropping to his knees and taking Dazai's face in his hands. "Hey, princess. Look at me."
Dazai breathed out a disbelieving, broken whine.
"Oh." His eyes shone; when he blinked, a fresh wave of tears tumbled down his face. "You stayed." Dazai's face contorted, bottom lip trembling, sucking in a steeling breath. It didn't help, though; he fell apart just as beautifully in Chuuya's hands.
"'Course I did. That's my job." Chuuya brought Dazai's face down onto his shoulder, clutching at the filthy brown hair like a lifeline.
But Dazai only pushed weakly at his chest. "Go. Go. You can't be here."
"Shut the fuck up." The comment had no fire behind it; it was almost monotone.
Dazai slammed his fist petulantly against Chuuya. "Leave!" The word was garbled, unintelligible.
Chuuya knew he didn't mean it for a second.
His movements were uncoordinated, powerless, but Dazai struggled against Chuuya's solid hold anyway. "Leave me, leave me," he sobbed out, shoulders heaving.
Dazai fell against his chest, bloody hands dropping and gripping his shirt uselessly. "Leave..."
He felt like an exposed nerve. Like every time Chuuya held him, he was carving him open, pressing at the messy stitches Dazai himself had done blindly, shrouded in darkness without guidance. Like every time Chuuya loved him, he was reopening the wounds he'd so long ago sewn closed, digging his fingers beyond the flesh and wrenching out the parasite eating him alive. Like every time he saw Chuuya, ever, he was forcing Dazai to stitch himself back up, but in a glowing room where he had no choice but to see the broken flesh, to see that he was bleeding and human and imperfect. He was handing Dazai the needle, telling him to create those sutures alone, but with a steady hand this time, albeit an unforgiving one.
Yes, unforgiving. Because Chuuya did not love with mercy. He loved like every breath was his last, like every kiss was his first, like every moment was ending faster than he could start it. And he would not wait for Dazai to heal — he would force him to. Because Dazai could not wait for change.
He had to initiate it.
But that didn't mean he had to change alone.
So, Chuuya pulled him up off the floor. His hands fit snugly beneath his armpits, murmurs of encouragement stamped into his throat like a tattoo kiss.
He didn't ask what happened. He didn't need to.
He put two and two together — the shattered pan, the butter and flour and sugar encrusting the ends of his hair, the burns.
As for the specifics? He chose not to.
If Dazai told him, then he would listen. But if he didn't, Chuuya would simply offer his steady presence and move forward to prevent another similar situation.
He carried Dazai to their bathroom, setting him on the counter.
"Osamu."
Dazai wouldn't raise his chin. Somewhere in the convoluted maze of his mind, he feared a reprimand, a shout, a slap. On the surface of his brain, he only feared Chuuya's disappointment.
"Osamu. Look at me. I'm not going to hurt you."
Sighing, Chuuya forced Dazai to look him in the eye. "Hey."
Dazai silently stared. "Hi."
Chuuya's lips twitched. He leaned forward, closing his eyes and pressing his lips against Dazai's for a moment.
And Dazai fucking melted.
His shoulders relaxed and dropped out of nowhere, the tense nature of his muscles releasing in a bare second. He sighed into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut, nearly sobbing at the way he felt Chuuya smile against his lips.
When Chuuya pulled back, he chased, lips parting involuntarily as his eyes opened slowly. Dazai was still shaky and horrified with— with— with everything, but somehow—
He breathed a little easier.
"Can I help you patch up your burns?" Chuuya asked the question gently, imploring.
Not "Can I patch up your burns for you?"; he wouldn't do it for Dazai.
But he would help Dazai. He would teach Dazai to take care of himself, and he would make him learn that help is not weakness.
It took Dazai a while to nod. But when he did, Chuuya offered no disapproval. He simply guided his hands to the sink and washed away the blood and grime, the shame and terror.
Twitchy fingers unfurled slowly, a sigh breathed out at the cool water.
Dread pooled in Dazai's stomach when Chuuya tapped the edge of his bandages. The unsaid question hung in the air: On or off?
Dazai swallowed. His gut tightened, squeezed, panic rising in his throat all over again, scooting back on the counter, eyebrows furrowing—
"It's okay if you want them on. I don't mind. They're just getting wet." Chuuya shrugged.
Dazai stilled. "Ah... then..."
He met Chuuya's gaze. Do you really mean that?
Chuuya blinked. Of course I do.
"I'll... keep them on, then." Dazai's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
Chuuya nodded. He didn't seem bothered.
Wordlessly, he sunk to his knees and pressed Dazai's knees apart to open the cabinet below. Dazai produced an undignified, surprised squeak at the sudden manhandling. Chuuya only snickered, pulling out a first-aid kit.
Dazai leaned over. "Are you going to put that on it?" He jabbed a finger at an antiseptic.
"Nope. And put your hands back under the water."
Dazai complied. "Why not?"
"I'm pretty sure it can infect the burn? Something like that. The point is, I've been taught not to."
"Who taught you how to do first-aid?"
"Google. And a few people in the Sheep."
"Google?! Should you be doing this?"
Chuuya leveled his gaze at him from where he was rifling in the first-aid kit, unamused. "How many times have I stitched you up in the past from potentially fatal wounds?"
"That's not the point—"
"Ah, ah, ah! Answer the question, Osamu."
Dazai squinted at him. "You are a brat."
"And you're deflecting." Chuuya grinned up at him.
Despite the atrocity that was earlier part of his night, Dazai felt his lips falling into an easy smile. It was easy, so easy.
"I like you," Dazai whispered.
Chuuya quirked an eyebrow at him. "I should hope so. Or else I'd be kissing you all this time for nothing."
"No, no. I really like you. I like you a lot. I love liking you. I don't think there's anywhere else I'd rather be at any time of day than with you."
Chuuya's mouth dropped open slightly, a rosy flush settling on his cheeks. "Oh."
Dazai swallowed, his eyes wide and glossy. "I really do, Chuuya. I really, really do. I'm..."
Shaking his head, Chuuya leaned forward and kissed his eyebrow, his nose, his cheeks. He moved his hands away from the first-aid kit and cupped his face, bringing their lips together and kissing Dazai softly, slowly.
He cradled Dazai, ran his hands through his hair, combing out the tangles. Held him like honey between his fingers. Pressed all of Dazai's jagged edges together, stitched him up.
Unable to keep still, Dazai's hands tried to rise to tangle in Chuuya's shirt. And Chuuya laughed onto his lips, smiling as he pulled back and guided them back beneath the water. "Keep them under for a bit. I'll be right back."
But his eyes told a different story. He pierced into Dazai's heart with just one look. I'm trusting you to be alone for a minute.
Silently, Dazai nodded. I'll be okay. Don't worry.
When Chuuya returned, he held a small, unopened package. Dazai cocked an eyebrow at him. Chuuya only grinned.
He tore it open, and, as if it were fucking holy water, brought out a seemingly sacred purple band-aid with a dinosaur pattern. His gaze flicked up to Dazai's, watching awe unfurl.
"Chuuya."
"Hm?" Chuuya sounded endlessly amused, and while it would usually piss Dazai off, he just didn't care right now.
What Dazai didn't know was that Chuuya was, in fact, simply endlessly endeared.
"Put it on." He stuck out his leg where multiple grazes from the glass peppered his skin. "Right now. Or there's going to be more blood on these hands, and it's not going to be mine."
Chuuya snickered. "I wasn't going to fight you on it. Why do you think I bought these? I've had them for emergencies for like, three weeks now."
"Is this an emergency?" Dazai's tone was genuine.
Sobering momentarily, Chuuya glanced up at Dazai. "With you, it always is."
Honesty. That's all it was. Chuuya knew that Dazai breathed the same air as Death, constantly, so... yes, it was an emergency.
He pressed one dino band-aid onto his skin, then two, then three, until it was nearly a dozen. The dissonant pang at the sheer number of cuts was worth it when pure glee rose onto Dazai's face.
Chuuya mentally reminded himself to buy those band-aids in every color he could find — hell, he was going to buy out the damn company.
He stood, admiring his work, then turned to switch off the water. He settled Dazai's hands into his own. "Can I pull your bandages down just a bit? Just down to your wrist, so I can wrap your burns."
Dazai hesitated.
Chuuya sighed. "You can say no."
"I know, I know. I'm just thinking."
Chuuya nodded thoughtfully, heart twisting at the blistery skin of his palms.
Dazai shifted above him. "Yeah. You can... you can pull them down. Not far, though."
"Okay. Thank you." The words were so simple, so natural as they fell from Chuuya's lips. But they nearly punched the air out of Dazai.
Thank you?
Chuuya shifted the soiled bandages down just a bit, wrapping the burns methodically with the gauze from the first-aid kit. He traced the tips of Dazai's fingers haltingly when he finished.
"Bed?" The word was uttered quietly.
"Yeah."
Chuuya lifted Dazai off the counter despite the tiredness seeping into his bones, carrying him towards their bedroom and peeling back the covers before tucking him beneath.
"Gonna go change," he whispered into Dazai's ear, massaging his back momentarily. "Do you want to?"
Dazai shook his head. He couldn't find it within himself to speak. Chuuya hummed his acknowledgment, walking off towards the closet.
Thank you? Why did he thank me?
A few minutes later, Chuuya crawled into bed beside him, arms curving around his waist and pulling him close. He exhaled into the crook of his neck, eyes fluttering closed.
Dazai swallowed.
"Chuuya?" His voice was small.
"Mhm?"
"Why did you thank me earlier?"
There was a beat of silence, then a yawn as Chuuya nestled closer to him. "Cause 'm proud of you, that's all."
What?
"Why are you... proud of me?"
Dazai felt Chuuya lift his head behind him. His tone was a bit miffed. "You're still here. You let me help you. And you even let me touch your bandages."
"But that's not..." Dazai sighed, eyebrows furrowing. "That's so small. Insignificant."
"It's progress, Osamu. I'm not going to be mad at you for having normal responses to trauma. And I'm going to be happy when you start showing that you're healing."
Oh. It's so simple. I've never thought of it that way. Just... as it is.
No fancy, clinical terminology. No diagnosis.
Just... progress.
Yeah.
Progress.
Dazai unfolded, eyes closing. He melded into Chuuya like a puzzle piece.
I can work with that.