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I
Dazai is fourteen, and he is alone.
His apartment is empty, and even the city outside is quiet. He can hear the occasional hum of an engine from the streets below, but that’s it. The mission was a complete failure because he miscalculated, and he paid the price for it. His whole body aches, and there’s a gnawing agony in his stomach like he’s never felt before, but he can’t even gather the strength to sit up, let alone walk to the kitchen and eat. It’s fine, though, because he doesn’t exactly deserve to right now. If he had been better, he wouldn’t be in this situation. He’s fine.
—————
Dazai doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up again, but the sun is low in the sky, so he must have slept through the day. The pain in his body has subsided a little, but his stomach is still in knots. He limps over to his kitchen and opens the fridge, only to find it empty save for a single half eaten bowl of instant yakisoba, which has been in there for god knows how long. He grimaces and throws the whole thing in the bin, inwardly berating himself when he realises he’s thrown the bowl and chopsticks away as well.
His cupboards and drawers are empty, but Dazai can’t get himself to step out of his flat. He hasn’t even looked in the mirror since he returned from Mori’s office, but the bloodstains on his pillowcase don’t exactly fill him with optimism.
Trying to walk to his bathroom is a monumental task, and he can barely stand upright to inspect his tender face in the mirror. It’s not as terrible as he expected, but there’s a gash going from his temple to his jaw, and his whole body is littered in bruises and small abrasions. Some of those are probably from stumbling across his apartment when he got back and some are probably from… what happened after the mission.
He’s just started running the tap to clean up when there’s a knock at the door. Dazai shoots straight up, tensing as they knock again, a little harder this time. It’s probably (definitely) Chuuya, but some irrational part of his mind tells him that it’s Mori, waiting outside his door with that damn scalpel.
He shakes his head.
——————-
“What the hell happened to you? You look like shit,” is the first thing Chuuya says as soon as Dazai opens the door.
“Bad mission,” Dazai replies, rubbing his eyes, “And good evening to you too.”
Chuuya walks inside, toeing his shoes off at the entrance.
“Are you just gonna stand around here with blood all over your face?” he asks, but there’s no real heat behind it.
“I was cleaning up when someone tried knocking my door down!”
“C’mon then.” Chuuya grabs Dazai’s hand and leads him back to the bathroom, sitting him down on the edge of the tub.
He gently rubs a damp cloth across Dazai’s face, wiping off the blood and grime, and rummages around for a towel, throwing it to Dazai when he finds one.
“You stink. I’ll meet you in your room, ‘kay? Don’t pass out in there,” Chuuya says, gesturing to the tiny shower.
Dazai nods mutely and closes the door behind him.
Chuuya heads to Dazai’s bedroom, which is still as small and messy as all the other times he’s been there. The bed is unmade, the curtains are shut, and the cupboard doors are hanging open on broken hinges. He throws a sweatshirt and pants onto the bed for Dazai, and then makes himself comfortable on the couch in the lounge— Dazai always takes forever in the shower.
The lounge is still practically empty, except for a TV that Chuuya is sure Dazai bought from some kind of vintage store just to annoy him, and a sofa that can barely fit two people.
When Dazai walks out into the living room, Chuuya has to take a moment to register that it’s him. He’s always been slim, but here, in the dimly lit room, Chuuya realises he looks skeletal. He’s practically drowning in his clothes, and his face is gaunt and tired. Dazai stumbles towards the couch, unsteady as a fawn, and all but collapses into Chuuya’s side.
“Sit up for a sec, or you’ll get my shirt wet,” Chuuya says, not unkindly, sitting Dazai up so he’s leaning on the back of the sofa. He can feel every ridge of his spine, “Can I check your cut?”
When he nods his assent, Chuuya applies some butterfly bandages to the side of his face, and tries making a joke about how Dazai will turn into a mummy at this rate. He doesn’t find it very funny, apparently, murmuring about how it wasn’t actually his fault this time. Chuuya takes it as a sign to shut up.
They sit there in silence for a while, until Dazai can barely keep his eyes open for any longer. He’s so exhausted. Chuuya glances at him, concerned, then helps him up, leading him back to the bedroom. Dazai’s hand is so frail in Chuuya’s that he worries it’ll break if he holds him too tight.
He wasn’t like this a few months ago. What happened?
“Go to sleep. I’ll take the couch, ‘kay?”
Dazai nods again, dropping his head onto Chuuya’s shoulder before closing the door.
“Night.”
——————
In the morning, Chuuya is gone, leaving nothing but a folded blanket on the sofa. Dazai sighs— today is going to be a long day. He calls Hirotsu to let him know he’s not coming in, and retreats back to his room, curling up under his covers.
His whole body still aches, and he’s just so tired.
These episodes tend to come and go, but none have lasted as long as this one. There are no words Dazai can think of to describe his state other than pathetic. One half of double black, a feared mafia executive at sixteen, and he’s too weighed down by his own stupid mind to leave his apartment.
If it weren’t for the fact his blades are tucked away in a drawer across the room he’s too weak to walk to, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself—
Instead he wallows in his room, thoughts beating mercilessly around his head. The bandages across his face have started to peel away at the edges, but he sees no point in changing them. All of his bandages are in the bathroom, and if he can’t even bring himself to get out of his bed, he definitely deserves whatever infection is likely to come. His stomach churns again, and he swallows down bile.
It burns.
Dazai doesn’t mind.
II
They’re at a hotel, recovering from their most recent mission, when Chuuya notices something off about Dazai again. Being the middle of summer, it’s warm outside, with the night bringing a slight breeze. And yet—
Dazai is shivering on the sofa, trembling like a leaf in his blazer. Neither of them have changed since they got back, but Dazai insisted on wearing an extra layer when they left, and that was in the middle of the afternoon.
“Are you cold? I can close the window,” Chuuya says cautiously.
Dazai shakes his head.
“If you wanna keep it open, leave it. I don’t mind,” he replies, heading into the bathroom. “I’m getting changed anyway.”
Chuuya takes this as his opportunity to change too, opting for a vest and sweatpants because it’s still pleasantly warm— plus, their room has heating. Dazai takes a while in there, as he normally does, and when he walks out, he’s clad from head to toe, in a huge sweater that almost reaches his knees and a pair of thermal joggers that Chuuya ordered in the wrong size, and delegated to Dazai instead of returning them.
“I don’t know if you’ve clocked, but it’s summer, bandages,” Chuuya says. He doesn’t intend it to come off in a mean way, but he regrets saying it after seeing a look of embarrassment flash across Dazai’s face.
“It’s cold,” he replies simply, looking around the room.
Chuuya nods and goes back to folding his clothes up when he hears a thud behind him.
He turns around, worried someone might have broken into their suite; they’re on the top floor, but it’s not impossible. But all he sees is Dazai lying in a heap on the floor. His jumper has ridden up a little from the fall, and Chuuya can count the vertebrae on Dazai’s back through his bandages.
Chuuya is startled, but this definitely isn’t the first time Dazai has passed out (probably from exhaustion) and it definitely won’t be the last. His years of first aid training from Kouyou kick in, so he rolls Dazai onto his back and props his legs up on a stool, sitting at his side until he blinks blearily.
“What the fuck was that?” Chuuya asks, helping Dazai sit up against the bed.
“I think I’m coming down with something. It’s best if you stay away from me, because I’ve heard dogs don’t handle infections very well!” Dazai replies, feigning cheer.
Chuuya shakes his head. He’s not stupid. They’ve been partners for three years now. He knows something is wrong. Dazai’s been acting fucking weird on missions. He skips out on combat practice whenever Kouyou calls for them, and weirdly enough, he’s been losing a lot of weight.
Chuuya first noticed that night at Dazai’s apartment, but he’s always been on the thinner side. Being overly busy with new trade deals and reports and missions, and having no time to eat himself, Chuuya understands it to an extent, but this? It’s gotten out of hand, like Dazai is a reanimated corpse. He doesn’t joke around as much anymore, and when he laughs it never reaches his eyes.
What the hell is wrong with him?
III
The first thing Chuuya feels when he walks into that dungeon is shock. Because chained up on the wall is none other than Dazai Osamu, who grins at him like he didn’t defect without a trace years ago.
He’s dropped Mori’s old jacket in favour of a tan trench coat that hangs off of his lithe frame. His hair is shorter, thinner, clipped at the sides and less messy. He’s still got those damn bandages, like some sort of fucked up mummy, and he’s still wearing that goddamn cocky smirk. It’s only been four years, but Dazai looks like he’s aged at least ten. His face is gaunt and sallow, and that stupidly fake smile makes the skin on his face wrinkle. And the bruises under his eyes make Chuuya doubt he’s working at a place with supposedly more appropriate hours.
He almost feels guilty for what he has to do.
“Why the hell did you let yourself get captured?”
——————
Dazai limps down the avenue, clutching his stomach. Chuuya’s fighting has somehow improved more, and he packs a mean fucking punch, even though it really felt like he was holding back. The dorms are just in view, and he walks up to his front door as quickly as he can.
It’s marginally warmer in his apartment, but Dazai is always cold these days. It’s only August, but he’s started to wear thermals under his normal clothes, and he still can’t stop shivering. He doesn’t really have the energy to get off his couch and wash up, and his legs hurt too much to walk more anyway.
It’s been like that a lot recently.
He lies on the sofa for what feels like hours, but there’s dried blood down the bandages on his leg and it’s getting uncomfortable, so he gets up to assess the damage.There’s a pretty deep cut on his calf, but it’ll be fine; he has more important things to check.
Dazai bought the scales when he first moved in, and it was the only sign the apartment was his for at least a year when he started at the agency. He stopped using them for a while, but now he can’t help but check every so often. It’s fine, because he’s just making sure he’s staying healthy. Every day.
There’s a certain ritual to it, now. He takes off his jacket, and his slacks, and the bandages around his neck and arms. Then he steps on and off the scale at least four times, to make sure it’s accurate. That way, he can be sure of its reading before he showers— because the waterlogging in his hair will make him heavier, and before he changes, because the fabric of his pyjamas is thick. Just to be sure.
The LEDs flash with a number that still isn’t low enough. He hasn’t lost any weight in three weeks and at this point, it’s getting frustrating. It makes him want to throw a tantrum like a child, that he’s hurting and hurting for nothing, but he doesn’t know how else to be anymore.
And Dazai isn’t stupid; he’s learned about water retention and inflammation and how stress can impact weight. But it doesn’t matter to him anymore, because one thing he also knows is that he still isn’t thin enough.
He stares at his scale a little longer, willing the number to go down even slightly, just so he can feel like this pain means something.
It doesn’t.
So he kicks it back into the corner of his bathroom with more force than needed, and steps into the shower. The water is freezing cold, because he read on a forum once that cold showers aid weight loss, and he’s never taken a warm one since.
When he gets changed, he notices that his fingers are tinged blue, and he can’t help but feel disgustingly proud; this has only started happening recently, so it must mean he’s doing something right. He pours himself a glass of ice-cold water before he goes to bed, so he’ll burn more calories adjusting his body temperature, and then turns out the lights.
—————
Dazai is woken up by the blaring of his alarm, reading 8:30. He should be at work by now, but he always turns up fashionably late, more to annoy Kunikida than to actually do less work.
Getting out of bed is hard, and when he flings off his covers, the chilled air of his apartment hits him like a freight train. As he stands up, he feels a sickening wave of dizziness and his vision whitens around the edges, like someone turned up the exposure on his eyesight. It lasts for a few seconds as Dazai tries to find his balance, grabbing onto his bedside cabinet so he doesn’t fall over, until he regains the strength to walk into his bathroom, ears ringing.
He always drinks exactly eight hundred millilitres of water from his fridge as soon as he gets up, mostly to curb the throbbing of his stomach, but also because the one time he forgot to, his stomach rumbled so loudly at work that Atsushi offered him some of his prized chazuke, and even Ranpo looked disconcerted. The strange shame of his colleagues knowing he experiences hunger is something he never wants to feel again.
And god, is Dazai hungry. He hasn’t felt full in years. Not since he was in the mafia, not in his two years of hiding, not during the first few months at the agency, where he tried to ‘recover’, and quit as soon as he saw the scale move in the wrong direction.
All he knows now is hunger. Who is he, if not in pain? Who is he if not exposed ribs and sunken cheeks and an empty stomach? The hunger has been a part of him for as long as he can remember. So what is he, if not craving?
He stares at himself in the mirror, poking and prodding at his stomach, the flab on his arms, the fat covering his thighs. He could be so much worse— so much better.
Sometimes he reflects on what Odasaku would think. While he was still alive, he would cook for Dazai and the other kids, or take them to a nice cafe, at least. Even at his worst, Dazai never turned down a bowl of yaki curry, if Odasaku had made it for him. He would be so disappointed if he saw Dazai now, though; too weak to actually help people on field missions, too cloudy headed to write up the reports afterwards.
He feels so useless.
All he’s good for now is pain.
IV
Yosano Akiko has been somewhat confused about Dazai ever since he joined the Armed Detective Agency. On his first day, he walked in with Kunikida yelling at his back about how ‘it was greatly unprofessional to jump in rivers on the job.’ There was a grin on his face as he laughed at Kunikida’s antics, but his eyes were dark.
Something about that first impression had made her wary of Dazai. He reminded her of… someone. And she had her suspicions as to why that was.
Dazai and Ranpo consistently planned missions together, with the latter often complaining to her about how fake Dazai’s cheer was; how forced his jokes were.
Most of the time, if no ability users were involved, the three of them tended to stay back from missions that they knew would require a lot of fighting, since Yosano’s ability wouldn’t work on Dazai unless he was practically dead, and neither he nor Ranpo seemed to excel in hand to hand combat.
She still remembers the first exception to this.
A few months after Dazai joined, they had all been out at Yamashitacho, apprehending a group of ability users who had planned to destroy Yokohama Port over some gang rivalry. It was a fairly one and done mission, but the gang was strong, and so were their abilities— though everyone seemed to be in decent condition afterwards.
It wasn’t until they had arrived back at the Agency building that Dazai had collapsed to the floor in front of the doorway, leaving everyone to notice the blood trailing behind him.
As it turned out, he had been shot in the thigh by a stray bullet, and the dark fabric of his slacks had concealed the slowly expanding patch of blood that would have otherwise made his injury obvious. But what Yosano had found most concerning was the fact that he had hidden his pain so well. A bullet wound anywhere would be agonising, but in the thigh, near the hipbone, it would’ve been beyond excruciating. And yet— she didn’t even notice a limp in his step as they walked side by side.
It was then that she had started wondering about his life before the agency. What kind of a job would force him to mask his pain like that?
V
Yosano would like to consider herself an observant woman, and she can see right through Dazai more often than not now. From his gradually failing endeavours to cover up the gravity of his suicide attempts, to the sour change in his mood, to the fake smile he’s struggling to keep plastered on his face.
She knows. She knows something is wrong.
Dazai has never been ‘okay’ exactly, but he was doing a lot better in his first year or so at the agency. He smiled more often, more genuinely, and even his attempts got less frequent. He honestly seemed happier.
And now what?
He’s withdrawn, almost sulky, like a rebellious teen (he practically is, Yosano has to remind herself; she forgets how young he is sometimes).
Now, he comes into work at exactly 9 every day, and leaves at exactly 4 every day, all without greeting or saying goodbye to anyone. He barely talks during the day, except to ask about case details for reports. Most of his day is spent glaring at a computer screen or staring into a blank wall of the office.
He’s stopped pulling dumb pranks on Kunikida, or going on spontaneous shopping trips with Atsushi to get away from work, or playing chess with Ranpo and the President, or going out for drinks with Yosano.
It’s like he’s sunken into a shell of himself, and despite all her medical training, Yosano doesn’t know what to do.
She can’t look at Dazai like he’s just a patient, because he isn't. He's been one of her closest friends for half a decade now. She can’t be objective like she should be, because she just wants him to feel better.
The only thing she can think of is to simply let him come to her. He’ll talk if he wants to.
—————
That time comes a lot sooner than Yosano anticipates. She’s in the agency infirmary after everyone else has already gone home, filing away some old medical records, when her phone rings.
“Dazai? What do you want?” she says, shutting the drawer next to her.
She already has a pretty good idea of what he’s calling her about, but for once in her life, she wants to be completely wrong.
“I did something, ah— I made a mistake, I think,” Dazai replies cryptically, “I’m in my apartment.”
“Don’t move from there, alright? I’m on my way.”
Yosano knows exactly why he needs her help, so she grabs the emergency first aid kit from its spot on the wall. Pulling on her lab coat, she locks the door behind her as she rushes out of the agency, scrawling a note to let the President know where she’s gone.
It’s a short walk to Dazai’s apartment, since he lives in the agency dorms, but even that five minutes feels like it’s five minutes too long. Anything could’ve happened— all Yosano knows is that Dazai tried something stupid and he can’t fix it on his own like he normally does. That means it’s pretty fucking bad.
When she reaches his flat, the door is unlocked and slightly ajar, so she pushes it open and lets herself in. His apartment looks pretty much bare, furnished only in the standard agency decorations. Other than that, the only sign that this isn’t just a spare accommodation is the treadmill in the far corner of the dining room. Considering Dazai complains about physical training whenever the idea is even suggested, Yosano finds it odd he’d spend thousands of yen on a machine she considers to be the epitome of exercise.
But she isn’t here to think about that— Dazai called her and he needs her help. So she makes her way over to the bathroom, because that happens to be where a lot of his attempts take place. She hates that she knows that fact.
And she hates that she’s right, too, because when she pushes open the bathroom door, she sees Dazai, and a pool of blood. His bony arms are slashed to bits and he’s not wearing any of his bandages— they’ve been strewn on the floor, soaking up some of the blood on the tile.
He smiles weakly at her.
There are tear tracks on his cheeks.
“Hi.”
She nods at him in lieu of a proper greeting, “How long ago did you do this?”
“Forty minutes, maybe? But it won’t stop bleeding,” Dazai answers. His expression is mild despite the redness of his eyes, but Yosano can read him well by now, and he’s shaken— she can tell.
“You should’ve called me earlier,” she reprimands gently, kneeling down at his side. The blood soaks into her skirt, and stains the edges of her sleeves, and Yosano knows she’s going to have to burn this outfit, because she won’t wear something that holds her best friend’s blood on it, no matter how many times it’s been washed.
She pulls out a disinfectant wipe from the first aid kit and starts cleaning the edges of the wound when he whines in pain, curling away from her.
Dazai never shows when he’s in pain.
Seeing him like this is agonising. All Yosano can do is murmur soft apologies as she finishes cleaning out the slashes and pulls out the thread to begin suturing the deepest ones closed. Dazai’s arm is so thin in her grip that she’s irrationally afraid she’ll stitch right through him.
The worst of it is over quickly, so she pulls out a fresh roll of bandages and gauze and starts wrapping Dazai’s arm, taking care to do it tightly like he prefers. He stares at the ceiling the entire time, not once meeting her gaze until she’s finished wrapping both arms.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise. Just call me earlier, next time,” Yosano responds, supporting Dazai as he stands up shakily. Neither of them mention how she said next time, because both of them know this won’t be the last time.
She can feel every vertebra of his spine as she hugs him, “Get some rest— I’ll clean up. Don’t worry.”
He nods, and staggers into his bedroom. Yosano can hear the way he collapses onto the bed. He probably hasn’t slept in a while, she thinks, as she grabs a towel and begins to mop up the blood that’s collected on the floor, and put the old bandages into the bin. It takes a couple of hours to thoroughly clean the bathroom, and by that time she can hear Dazai’s soft snores coming from the room next door.
Yosano steps into his room for a second, to brush his bangs out of his face. Even asleep, his face is scrunched in pain, like he can’t ever really rest, conscious or not. He’s so young— she finds it easy to forget that. Leaving a glass of water on the nightstand, she closes the door and heads out.
She’s starving by this point, so she washes her hands and heads to the kitchen, inspecting the cabinets for anything to eat. The first one yields nothing but a box of Bufferin and a roll of cheap gauze. The rest of them are empty, except for a tube of gone off crackers. Yosano wrinkles her nose at the sight and tosses them into the bin before heading to the fridge.
Her hopes of having a proper meal are crushed when she sees the barren shelves, filled with nothing except a lonely container of chopped cucumber and a few half finished bottles of energy drinks.
She gives up in the kitchen and instead heads to the bathroom to wash up properly. She stands with her hands under the scalding hot water for a few minutes, because it never really feels like she can get the blood off of her now. But that’s when she notices the scale in the corner flash on and off, numbers flickering in the dark room. Out of curiosity, she glances over, and her heart drops when she catches sight of the reading on it.
Yosano has noticed that Dazai has lost a lot of weight recently— it would be impossible to miss— but she chalked it up to stress and his inability to actually take care of himself. But the scale, the treadmill, the mood swings, the lack of food in the fridge— it paints a more serious picture, one that confirms one of her biggest concerns about him.
Something that’s probably been slowly spiralling out of control for Dazai’s whole life, if she knows him well enough.
She knows that as his colleague, his friend, she has to talk to him.
But the night is young, and their day has been exhausting, and her and Dazai both could really use the rest. She resolves to talk to him— another day.
VI
Dazai walks into the agency building strangely early, the heels of his brogues clicking on the stairs. He hasn’t been in for a few days— Kunikida came banging on his door yesterday.
Dazai didn’t answer, naturally.
But he’s here now, and dread is crawling its way up his spine as he grips the handrail for support. His heart is a kick drum against his ribs and there’s a lump in his throat and there’s sweat beading on the back of his neck and his hands are shaking as he opens the door into the shared office.
Everybody’s eyes fall on him as he enters the room; even Ranpo looks up from his bag of candy to shoot a glare his way.
He’s really fucked up this time.
“Where were you?” Kunikida demands, as soon as he walks in.
“Nothing for you to worry about, Kunikida. I had some business to attend to!”
It’s a lie, of course— unless he counts the ‘business’ as laying in bed for four days, weighed down by his own misery. Kunikida doesn’t need to know that, though.
Kunikida nods, but his eyes follow Dazai suspiciously as he returns to his desk with Atsushi and Kenji to finish the reports they’ve probably had to do on Dazai’s behalf. Yosano beckons him over, leading him into the infirmary.
She gestures for him to take a seat, before donning a pair of gloves and pinning her hair back.
“You’ve lost weight,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“You’re ever the flatterer, Doctor, but I don’t think—“
“Don’t play dumb with me.” Dazai doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before Yosano interrupts him, “you’ve been losing weight recently. We’ve all noticed. Kenji has been trying to talk to you, Atsushi has been trying to take you out for meals; even Ranpo is offering his shit to you. You never accept it. You always have excuses. I saw that damn scale in your bathroom and I saw what it said and— your kitchen was empty! You’re killing yourself, Dazai, and you know it.”
“Starvation is a painful way to go, Yosano,” he replies coolly, “Don’t make wild assumptions.”
He is trying so, so hard to stay calm, to keep his lips shut tight, to not spill out everything he’s been holding in for the past ten years. But it’s hard, because he knows the look in Atsushi’s eyes when he declines yet another dinner get-together; he knows the disappointed furrow of Kyouka’s brows when he comes back from the crepe stand with one crepe instead of the two they used to eat together.
The guilt swallows him whole, and his own stupid fucking mind spits him out and leaves him on the ground anyway.
“I know you. But I don’t understand why—“
“Why do you need to understand, Doctor? Am I another one of your lab rats? Did you learn that from Mori, too?” he leers, a sickening grin making its way across his face.
Yosano’s face blanches. Her gaze hardens and she sits up straighter. She opens her mouth like she’s about to spit back a remark that’s just as cutting, but Dazai wouldn’t know anyway.
Because he’s doing what he knows best, now.
He runs.
—————
Ranpo finds him, an hour later, sitting on the floor of an alley dangerously close to mafia territory.
“You should really apologise to Akiko, you know. That was cruel of you to say.”
“I know. That’s why I said it,” Dazai responds, turning his head to look Ranpo in the eyes.
“Still. You know you went too far.”
Ranpo sighs at Dazai’s lack of a reply, then sits down next to him.
“For a supposed genius, you’re pretty fucking stupid. You know we all care about you, right? We don’t want you to hurt. Everyone freaked out when you bolted,” he says, forced nonchalance making itself obvious in the tremor of his voice.
“I know.”
Ranpo stands up again, dusting off his trousers, and extends a hand to Dazai.
“Come back?”
——————
They eventually make their way back to agency, walking in awkward silence; only interrupted by Ranpo pointing out interesting bird species every so often.
Dazai stops at the door. He did go too far with what he said to Yosano. If someone said something like that to him, he would spiral, so she probably doesn’t even want to look at him. And with her being the backbone of the agency, he might as well leave if he doesn’t have her good graces.
“You’re thinking something stupid. Akiko doesn’t hate you. Just open the damn door.”
It’s disconcerting how Ranpo can practically read minds, sometimes, but Dazai listens and twists the doorknob anyway.
When they reach the offices, Dazai can feel everyone’s eyes on him, again, and he resists the urge to sprint out of the building, again. Yosano is stood at the entrance of the medical room, peeking her head around the doorway. Her face gives nothing away as she beckons him over for the second time that day.
The sound of her heels is almost deafening as he follows her down the hallway. He feels like a lamb being led to slaughter. When they reach the door of the medical room, Yosano locks the door behind them.
Normally, Dazai is okay with clinical settings now, but something about the lab coat hung up on the wall and the latex gloves on the desk and the faint smell of antiseptic and the all white room and the tray of medical equipment is making his heart race. He flicks his gaze around the room, trying desperately to figure out what feels so wrong about it this time, but he can’t put his finger on it. All he knows is that his breath is coming in short bursts and it feels like he’s dying. Vaguely, he thinks someone is telling him to sit down, but he can’t hear them.
Did Mori take his hearing too?
He claws at his throat, trying desperately to breathe. He hasn’t felt this in years— the feeling of glass in his throat, of someone squeezing the breaths from his lungs as they come.
He is, however, all too familiar with the way his vision falters, and the way his back hits the ground.
VII
When Dazai wakes up, dizzy and tired eyed, he’s in the President’s dorm, tucked into a bed he recognises as the one from the guest room. Yosano is standing in the corner, talking to Kunikida in a hushed tone. They seem to be deep in conversation, looks of concern painted on their faces.
It takes a second for him to register there's an IV drip in his arm.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been out for, or what the fuck is even in the IV, or how longs it’s been in there. All he knows is that he has to get it out. Panicking, he rips the tube out of his forearm, small droplets of blood splattering on the checkered grey sheets.
The noise of it makes Kunikida and Yosano spin around to face him, eyes widening.
“Don’t take that out! It’s just saline,” Yosano says, rushing to Dazai’s side, Kunikida following quickly after her.
While re-inserting the IV, she whispers something in Kunikida’s ear that Dazai can’t quite catch in his bleary state. They drag out a chair each and sit down next to Dazai.
“So,” she begins.
“So?” Dazai repeats.
“You want to tell me what that was about?”
He blinks at her innocently.
“I’ve already said this, Dazai. Don’t play stupid with me. You know what I mean.”
“I’m going to need you to be more specific,” he states simply.
He’s trying to stay calm, to not lash out like he did earlier.
“Okay. Sorry. For what I said—“ he starts, but he’s cut off.
“I don’t care about that. That’s my shit to work through,” says Yosano.
We’re asking about you,” Kunikida clarifies, “You wanna tell me why you passed out in Yosano’s office the second you walked in and freaked out over the IV?”
“It’s a long story, Kunikida. I’m surprised you guys are so interested in me.”
“We have time.”
All three of them know Dazai is just skirting around the truth.
“I don’t want to tell you. So I’ll cut a long story short— Mori took me in when I was a kid, and I know he did the same to you, Doctor. He was a physician, whatever. You’re smart. Put the pieces together,” Dazai’s voice is steady, but they can both tell that he’s getting annoyed.
Kunikida’s face betrays his reaction, as his eyes widen. He’s had his suspicions, but they had never been explicitly confirmed until now.
“That’s not all though, is it?” Yosano prods, raising an eyebrow.
“What else is there?”
“Dazai, please. We’re all so damn worried about you. So don’t play dumb, not now. We barely see you eat, and your kitchen is empty, and you weigh less than a little kid— II know I can’t fix this for you, but you’re in dangerous territory, and you know it. Please, just talk to us,” desperation is creeping into the edges of Yosano’s voice.
Dazai sighs in resignation.
“Ok.”
There’s a long period of silence, as Dazai gathers his thoughts. Telling them would be like ripping himself open, forcing his two best friends to see the ugliest, most pathetic side of him. They’ll think he’s stupid. They’ll probably kick him out of the agency, too, and then he’ll have lost the trust of four people.
But this has been weighing on him for so fucking long, and he’s tired. He’s tired of carrying the burden of never being good enough, never being sick enough. He’s tired of coughing up blood, and always being freezing, and losing so much hair, and disgusting everyone he sees because of how sickening he looks, and he’s tired of keeping this up. Because deep down, he knows that this isn’t bringing him control. It did, at the start, and he felt invincible. But now? He’s a wretched, pitiable thing, useless and bitter.
So he tells them:
“It started when I was twelve, maybe. I don’t know why. I just didn’t want to eat. I wanted to die, more than anything. And then I guess it got worse, when Mori— after missions. He would hurt me. I just wanted the pain to be my own. And then I liked how it made me look, I liked scaring people, because then nobody would ever want to hurt me like that again. And I liked having control. And now—“ he cuts himself off with a sigh, “I don’t fucking know. I do it because that’s what I’ve been doing for the last decade. I don’t know how to stop.”
The last part is whispered, a shameful confession fuelled by desperation.
Gently, Kunikida pats his shoulder, “We shouldn’t have been so pushy. But you know you can talk to me whenever, right? I’m your friend. If you’re not ready to change now, just think about it, okay? You deserve better than this.”
Yosano nods, “Come to my office whenever. I’ll give you a drink or something, if you don’t wanna eat. I won’t judge you, ever. Okay?”
“Okay.”
They leave Dazai to get some rest, and he has a long time to think.
All the pain might feel useless, if he tries to get better. But it’s worth it to feel human again.