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The case had started relatively nicely—no stress, no chasing people or shootouts, just simply questioning witnesses and gathering evidence. And yet, towards the end of it, Dazai can feel his anxiety steadily rising. He doesn’t know who or what set it off, leaving his bones shaking and his ribs squeezing to the point of pain. What he does know is that, with each step he takes, he can feel his mind shutting down, panic forming and blurring the edges of his vision.
Before he can fix the forming cracks threatening to chip away at his carefully curated mask, Kunikida asks, “you okay, Dazai? You’re a little pale.”
“Aww, is Kunikida-kun worried about lil’ ol’ me? How sweet!” Dazai chirps, the lines of his smile pulling unnaturally at his face. It’s so fake he worries that the usually oblivious man can see straight through it to the turmoil beginning to brew and fester beneath.
Thankfully, he has nothing to fear as Kunikida angrily grumbles, “you know what? Forget I said anything, you bandaged nuisance.”
The dismissal leads to them saying nothing more as they continue on their way to the Agency. The walk seems to simultaneously go on forever and in a blink of an eye; time nonexistent as his body slowly shuts down while the panic etches itself deeper into his being. Dazai knows he should lock it down and stuff it away to deal with later—preferably when he’s alone, and he doesn’t have to act like he’s fine when he’s not—but he can’t. It’s already taken hold of him, its oily tendrils wrapping around the marrow in his bones and the alveoli in his lungs.
The best thing he can do is fight to keep his flimsy mask up and hope no one notices how he’s rapidly unraveling underneath. How he’s drowning in the inescapable weaknesses of his horribly fucked-up mind.
The universe must be in his favor when they reach the Agency since the only ones there are Atsushi and Kenji. This means there’s no Ranpo to rat him out, no Yosano to study him, and fewer people to perform correctly for. It also means there are less eyes watching him as he shakily walks over to his desk and plops down in his chair, grateful to take the weight off his trembling legs.
“Hi, Dazai-san! Kunikida-san! How was the case?” Atsushi greets them, a pleasant smile directed at them.
When Kunikida is the one to respond, Dazai lets out a shallow breath of relief. “Well,” he says, taking out his notebook and flipping to the desired page, “we were able to gather valuable clues and information, but at the moment, none of it seems to have a direct lead to the perpetrator.”
“I’m sure a connection will be found soon, then!”
A silence that sets Dazai further on edge comes afterward. His head is on the desk, face hidden from the world as he lets out short breath after short breath. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, the signal to his lungs and brain blocked by something he has no control over. What he wants to do is let go and let the panic swallow him whole, but that would mean letting the Agency see that he isn’t as infallible as he lets on. It would mean—in a moment of pure weakness—showing them that he isn’t perfect—that he struggles with something as small and insignificant as anxiety and panic attacks (just the very thought scares him and puts him that much closer to losing it and making that thought a reality).
Hot breaths bounce off the desk’s surface and fan his face as time slowly slips past. Eventually, Dazai decides he needs a distraction—something hard enough to keep the impending attack at bay but simple enough that he isn’t trying to think through the panic. It’s when his vision lands on the report he should be writing that he decides to do that. He knows it goes against his meticulously crafted Agency persona, but it’s infinitely better than counting down the minutes until he permanently drowns in his mind’s self-destruction.
Words and words, sentences and sentences, paragraphs and paragraphs are written until, suddenly, a hand is placed on Dazai’s shoulder. Reality comes rushing back to him in the form of a pen dropped from his shaking hands, hyperventilation racking his body, and tears rapidly falling down his cheeks. When the hand on his shoulder squeezes, Dazai looks up to find Kunikida watching him, alarm and worry painting his green eyes.
“Oi, Dazai? Are you okay?” he asks, hand unconsciously growing tighter.
Dazai would mentally scoff if his mind isn’t so riddled with panic to the verge of numbness. Is he okay? What a dumb question. Clearly, he isn’t—a fact that shows when he grips the front of his shirt in fear.
“Okay, yeah, you aren’t.” Another hand joins the other as they grab Dazai under his armpits and haul him up. The minute he’s standing he nearly collapses, his legs shaking too much to hold his weight. Thankfully, the hands keep him upright as an arm quickly wraps around his shoulders to guide him to the couch.
As soon as the backs of his legs hit the couch, Dazai goes limp and falls—almost like the puppet strings holding him went slack. He lands with a soft thump, the back cushions keeping him from slipping off onto the unforgiving tiled floor. Kunikida stays in front of him, hands once again on his shoulders and twitching as if he’s debating his next course of action. Dazai makes the choice for him, leaning forward until his forehead rests against the man’s stomach and closing his eyes. In response, Kunikida hesitantly wraps his arms around him and plays with the chocolate locks at his nape.
Almost as if a button had been pressed, Dazai melts, leaning all his weight on the blonde. They stay like that as he rides out the waves of his panic attack, gasping breaths and soft whimpers muffled in Kunikida’s vest as tears and snot soak it. Distantly, Dazai registers voices talking to each other above him and the subtle movement of Kunikida’s stomach.
An unknown amount of time passes until Dazai feels the last dredges of the panic leave him. Kunikida must realize this, too, since he quietly says, “you back with me, Dazai?”
Dazai’s response is a slight nod of his head. He would verbally answer, but he’s never been able to talk after a panic attack. There’s always mental exhaustion and lingering effects of the panic sticking to his body, clogging up his vocal cords so he doesn’t utter a sound. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to talk for fear of the repercussions he’ll face after showing such a detestable weakness. Mori wasn’t too kind to him when he spoke afterward, after all.
The nonverbal communication, though, doesn’t seem to satisfy Kunikida. “I need you to talk to me, Dazai. I need to hear if you’re alright.”
He can’t. He would but he can’t. His vocal cords are getting tighter, the fear and panic he just got rid of coming back. It makes him panic more, fuelling the unforgiving and endless cycle. The mental anguish must be visible since Kunikida gives a resigned sigh. A tenseness seems to take over the blonde as he tells Dazai, “okay. Okay. Give me a minute. I’ll figure something out.” The rest of the sentence goes unheard as it’s directed to someone other than him.
Everything—from reality to himself—slows down and disappears as Dazai stares at Kunikida’s vest. It isn’t until he feels the man pull away that he gains consciousness. Afraid that Kunikida finally had enough of him, he frantically grabs the fabric of the vest’s back and tightens his grip, effectively trapping the blonde against him. He doesn’t want him to go. He doesn’t want Kunikida to leave and take the comfort he provides with him, leaving Dazai alone and cold and scared. He doesn’t want—
“Osamu.” The voice is like a light in the darkness, chasing away the panic living and festering there. With a strangled gasp, Dazai gradually loosens his grip on Kunikida and allows him to swap out with the newcomer—Chuuya. When his forehead meets the redhead’s chest, a sigh of relief falls from his lips. He puts his arms around Chuuya’s waist and pulls him impossibly closer. He wants to phase with him—phase with the safety and comfort he radiates. “Hey, Osamu. I’m here. I’m here.”
Dazai’s shoulders tremble as he shakes his head, not wanting Chuuya to leave. The redhead keeps repeating, “I’m here. I’m here,” until the panic aftershocks pass and he relaxes in his arms. He feels like the weight on and in his body is finally gone, now readily carried by Chuuya and his strong and capable arms.
Carefully, Chuuya maneuvers them until Dazai’s lying on top of him on the couch, the brunette’s head resting on a calming heartbeat. “I heard from the weretiger that you had a panic attack. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay here for as long as you need.”
The underlying comfort and care makes Dazai go boneless, resting his entire being on the body underneath him. He doesn’t have to talk, he doesn’t have to act, he doesn’t have to worry. All he needs to do is let Chuuya take care of him.
Just like he always does.