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The day looked lovely from up here. A cloudless blue sky showcased the infinity of its atmosphere. The ocean shimmered and shined in the distance, its deep blue color swallowing the sky where it met the horizon. The sun itself lit up the world, glinting off metal buildings and thousands of windows. A cool breeze can even be felt in the air, lightly tousling Dazai’s hair from where he stands.
He’s on the edge of a four-story building, looking out on the world he wishes to never see again.
Today is the day he finally does it. Just one more step and he goes over the edge, freefalling to the concrete below. Just one more step and he can escape the agony and despair that twists and claws and destroys his mind and heart and soul every day. Just one more step and he can embrace the ending he’s always wanted, wished, yearned for with open arms.
Just one…
More…
Step…
…
…
…
…
Ah.
His only regret is not telling his husband ‘I love you’ one last time.
—||||—
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The beeping of the machines. The one sound Dazai loathes. It means he failed, that he survived, that he’s alive for another day in this world he so desperately wants to be free from.
An involuntary sob mixed with a groan is released; whether it’s from mental or physical anguish, he doesn’t know. All he wanted was to be gone from this world. And yet, the universe constantly and consistently seems to deny that one wish he has. It mocks him, presenting his death in arms reach in front of him only to snatch it away at the last millisecond.
With his brain now awake and working, all Dazai can feel and think about is the dull ache in his body and the medical equipment strapped to him. He registers a neck brace around him, scratchy bandages covering the right side of his face and other places of his body, a cast on his right arm, and an IV drip attached to the back of his good hand. Alarmingly, he also registers that he can’t feel his legs. Usually, there’s a constant underlying itch from the bandages wrapped around them, but now, it’s not there.
Before he can spiral down an unforgiving mental path, a voice calls out to him. “Osamu?” It’s his husband, Chuuya, worried and concerned and scared as he always is after an attempt. Judging by the sound, the man is on his left, away from the more damaged area of his body. “Oh, thank god, you’re awake.”
“Chi…bi…?” Dazai manages to croak out, the end of the word ending in a cough. It hurts to talk, and the bandages around his jaw prohibit his mouth from opening past a certain point.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” Chuuya moves into his peripheral, blazing red hair and striking blue eyes filling his vision. There’s wetness on his cheeks and red under his eyes. He must have been crying. “How are you feeling?”
It takes him a minute, the drugs in his system slowing his brain down. “Like… shit.”
A watery laugh comes from Chuuya. “Yeah, I bet. I…” he stops, licking his lips, “it’s… shit, fuck, Osamu, why didn’t you say anything?”
The grief so palpable in his voice gives Dazai pause. He stays quiet, an ugly inkling of guilt rolling in his stomach as he avoids the redhead’s vulnerable stare. He can tell Chuuya wants to reprimand him for the silence, wants to question him and shake his shoulders till the answer is pulled out of him, but he does nothing. Instead, Chuuya stands there, lips pressed into a thin line as unbidden tears form in his eyes.
“Imma go get the doctor,” he eventually says. A kiss is carefully placed on Dazai’s cheek before he leaves his side and exits the room.
Unsurprisingly, silence greets him.
And silence is his worst enemy.
An insurmountable feeling of grief and regret take over Dazai. He wanted to die. He didn’t want to be here. But because of his actions, because he’s alive, Chuuya is hurt. Chuuya is hurting and grieving all because of him. All because he doesn’t want to be in this plane of horrible existence and constantly fails to escape it.
All because he didn’t tell him.
They’ve been working on it, he and Chuuya. Each time Dazai has the urge to cut himself, or overdose on alcohol and pills, or fling himself in the river, he tells Chuuya. And he talks him down from it, giving him comfort and safety and love. But this time, he didn’t, and he doesn’t know why.
The only thing he knows is that Chuuya is hurting because he didn’t trust him; not with his thoughts and especially not with life.
Unwanted tears well up in Dazai’s eye as he stares up at the ceiling. It’s white and tiled and bright, making the dull ache in his skull and behind his eyes worse. Just as he’s prepared to close his eye to stave off the incoming headache, the door to the room opens, revealing Chuuya and the doctor. Seeing Dazai squinting, the redhead walks over to a dial on the wall and turns it down, dimming the lights. As he heaves a relieved sigh, Chuuya goes to the chair at his bedside and sits down, gingerly taking the brunette’s hand in his.
“Hello Nakahara-sama. I’m Doctor Tayo,” the man greets, adjusting his glasses. “I understand your husband, Chuuya-sama, says you aren’t feeling good. That is to be expected with your types of injuries.”
The man pauses, seemingly gauging Dazai’s—admittedly weak—mental state. Why he does this sets Dazai on edge, dread beginning to tickle the back of his skull. As if reading his thoughts, Chuuya’s hand squeezes his, silently sending him comfort and reassurance.
“You can probably tell by the cast and bandages that you have several broken bones. On top of that, you have several broken ribs, a spinal injury resulting in the neck brace, and facial reconstruction surgery.”
That surprises Dazai. “Facial reconstruction surgery?”
“It happened when you hit the ground,” Chuuya explains, “your cheekbone, jaw, and part of your eye socket were completely shattered. They needed to do surgery to fix it.”
“Oh.” It’s the only thing he can manage to get out, anxiety wrapping around his throat in a vice grip. When he does lessen the pressure, his voice comes out hesitantly, not wanting to voice his thought and make it a reality, “what about… my legs?”
At this, Chuuya’s eyes narrow as he studies Dazai. His gaze racks over his face, taking in any minuscule reaction the brunette gives that he isn’t verbalizing. “What about your legs?”
Ah. So he wasn’t told.
“I can’t… feel them.” As the last word leaves his mouth, Chuuya’s eyes widen. They become glassy, his nose growing red in upcoming tears.
Doctor Tayo clears his throat, garnering their attention. “About your legs. Due to your spinal injuries to discs C5-C6 and L4-L5, you’ve become paralyzed from the waist down.” A choked-off sob escapes Chuuya as he holds Dazai’s hand tighter. Even though he figured it was the case, the brunette inhales a sharp breath, the air catching in his throat. “There is sadly nothing we can do, but continuous physical therapy can help stave off atrophy in your legs and lower back.”
The doctor goes on to explain how he’ll contact a specialized physical therapist along with the rest of the recovery plan Dazai has to go through.
The only thing he can remember is his husband’s hand in his and the tears silently flowing down his burning cheeks.
—||||—
He hates this. He hates the fact he needs help doing everything. From changing to going to the bathroom to even eating, he needs help.
The bandages around his thighs and arms get changed quite frequently.
—||||—
A shaft of morning sunlight filters through the window, interrupting Dazai’s sleep with blinks and subdued groans. Movement can be heard beside him as Chuuya rolls over and hovers above him. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he whispers, kissing the surgical scars gracing his face.
“Morning, chibi,” Dazai whispers back softly, bringing his hand up and playing with the edges of Chuuya’a hair. The strands flowed between his fingers, smooth as silk. The action earns a fond smile from the man above him.
“You ready for our date today?” It’s asked casually, but Dazai can hear the hope underlying it and stitched around the edges. Some days, he doesn’t mind going out in public, the stares and whispers behind his back not bugging him. On other days, he can’t stand the idea of going outside and facing the inevitable glances he and his wheelchair earn him.
Today, the decision is still in the air, ready to either dissipate the heaviness around them or blanket them in rejection.
Sensing his internal struggle, Chuuya gives him another kiss as he says, “we don’t have to go out if you don’t want to. We can always stay home and watch a movie or two.”
There he goes again, trying to make Dazai as comfortable as possible while locking away his own wants and desires. It’s sweet, a gesture Dazai doesn’t mind most days, but he does wish Chuuya would think of himself for once. Old habits die hard, he guesses. “I don’t mind going out,” he says, tangling his fingers further into Chuuya’s hair. “My dog needs to get out of the house once in a while before he becomes stir-crazy.”
Chuuya snorts, playfully rolling his eyes. “Yeah, okay, asshole. Let me get dressed before we start your exercises.”
A groan is ripped from Dazai as Chuuya disentangles his hand and gets out of bed. Over a year has passed since he was discharged from the hospital, and every day he hates the exercises he has to do. Despite this, he’s eternally grateful for Chuuya, who’s helped him without question and has never once given in to his manipulative tactics. Even on the days where it hurts—whether physically or mentally—he has found ways to make it easier for him to get through it.
It doesn’t take long for Chuuya to get ready, and soon, they’re doing his dreadful exercises. Once those are done, Chuuya helps him get dressed and makes sure his wheelchair is locked before he’s picked up and placed in it. To finish the routine, Dazai adjusts his legs into as comfortable a position as he can get.
“There we are,” Chuuya says. He gives Dazai another kiss, one the brunette greedily reciprocates. “You want your blanket?”
Dazai shakes his head in response as he puts his glasses on. He’s wearing a cream turtleneck with a light brown cardigan and wool-lined pants, so he should be plenty warm for the September weather.
A light breakfast is had before they set off, traversing the streets of Yokohama to their favorite bookstore. Idle chatter and familiar bickering pass between them as Chuuya pushes Dazai along. As they go, Dazai begins to pick the skin around his thumb’s fingernail, unconsciously trailing off midway through his sentence. His eyes are trained on the people they pass, anxiety high as they glance at him.
Chuuya—naturally noticing his behavior—squeezes his shoulder to pull him away from his thoughts. “Hey, don’t worry. They aren’t staring at you.”
A disbelieving scoff. “Chuuya must be blind, then. Of course, they’re staring at me. I’m in a wheelchair.”
“Well, great genius, how do you know they aren’t staring at me? I’m pretty hot, after all.”
“Of course, Chuuya thinks that,” he grumbles. “He’s conceited. Arrogant. Egotistical.” It comes out petulant, clearly not meant to be taken seriously.
A low chuckle comes from the redhead. “Whatever you say, mackerel.”
The bookstore soon comes into view, a cozy place filled with plants and smelling of books and a bakery. It’s a special place for them, filled with memories of them meeting for the first time, countless dates, and Chuuya proposing to Dazai.
True to the amount of time spent there, the clerk waves at them upon entry. “Hello, you two! You here for a date?”
“Hello, Atsushi-kun!” greets Dazai, waving back at him. “And, yes, we’re here for a date. Chuuya was feeling restless, so I had to take him for a walk.”
“Bastard,” Chuuya playfully snaps, aggressively tousling the brunette’s hair.
Used to their antics, all Atsushi does is smile. “Well, I hope you two enjoy it!”
They thank Atsushi before venturing further in. When they stop in front of the classical literature section, Chuuya gives Dazai a kiss, saying he can find him in the poetry. With that, he’s left alone, spending his time perusing the new and old books they have on the well-worn shelves.
While he does this, he feels a sudden pain in his thumb. Looking down, he can see blood pooling underneath the skin he picked off. With a sigh, he reaches for the bag Chuuya leaves on his wheelchair, opens it, and digs through for the bandaids. Thanks to his anxiety, it’s a common occurrence for him to pick his fingers to the point of bleeding; so a packet of bandaids is brought everywhere with them. Most of the time they are themed, a fact Dazai finds great joy in. For now, his current packet is cat themed, and he chooses a siamese one to wrap around his thumb.
As he’s reading the summary of an 1800 classic, a little girl comes up to him, stealing away his attention. Looking at her, Dazai guesses she’s no older than five, with chocolate hair in pigtails and a cute polka dot pinafore.
“Hello,” he says, maneuvering his wheelchair slightly so he’s facing her better.
“Hi, Mister-san!” she says, passing him a smile. She’s fiddling with something in her hands, an object Dazai can’t see. “Why do you use a wheelchair?”
The sudden question blindsides Dazai a bit. So often does he forget that children don’t have that polite filter most adults have, uncaring to ask questions that most would consider rude and inappropriate. “I can’t use my legs, so I use a wheelchair to get around,” he answers.
The girl’s eyes grow wide in surprise, likely not knowing that was a thing. “Oooohhh. Well, my sister has spin–spine–”
“Spina bifida?”
“Yeah, that! And she has to use a wheelchair, too! Hers looks different from yours, though.”
He isn’t surprised by that. He knows that there are different types of wheelchairs, some even having specific purposes. “How so?” he asks, curious to know her response.
Before she can explain in the way kids her age tend to do, a name is called for her. She quickly comes up to him, slaps the object that had been in her hands on his armrest, and runs off to find the one searching for her.
Taken aback, Dazai looks down to see what she gave him. To his astonishment, it’s a sticker of a colorful cartoon cat with “get well” written above it. He can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it. A sticker—full of hopeful well-being—placed with innocence and well-intention on a wheelchair he has because he tried to end his own life. It’s antithetical, almost.
“Well, she was cute,” Chuuya says, effectively grabbing Dazai’s undivided attention as he appears around the corner.
“She certainly was,” he agrees. A small, fond smile forms on his face as he gently caresses the edge of the sticker.
Dazai has realized that some days can start off rough, mental and physical pains slowing him down. But he’s also realized that, in the end, unexpected things can happen that make those days that much better.