Work Text:
It starts with the blanket.
It’s too heavy. Too scratchy. Too much against skin that was just broken apart and bleeding, stretched to the limits and bearing the weight of gravity only the likes of black holes have seen. But someone’s tucked him in— tight, tight, too damn tight — and how can he push it away when he can barely open his eyes?
Outside his door, Dazai argues with whatever doctor’s been assigned to Chuuya today. Someone who insists Mori has first call on seeing the patient, that Dazai’s been forbidden from stepping inside. It’s a familiar song and dance, one that Chuuya and Dazai always rebel against but, today—
Chuuya’s stomach turns from the thought of how Dazai will sneak in, anyway, and curl against Chuuya’s side. How he’ll play with his hair and press his head to his chest, counting his breaths and heartbeats and reassuring himself he’s alive. Wrapping around Chuuya like he can replace the skin Chuuya’s lost in Corruption’s hold— the thought makes Chuuya’s skin crawl.
He opens his eyes and shifts from beneath the blanket— and, then, it’s not just the blanket that’s too much.
It’s everything .
All at once, this hospital gown feels too heavy. His pillow’s too stiff, too hot. Light shoves against his ribs, pinning him to the bed. Every air molecule sits against him, threatening to tear him apart should he move.
A whimper from his throat— and, fuck , even that scratches against the inside of his mouth. Too much. Too much.
Not enough.
He feels like he’s been cut out from the world but he doesn’t know if he’s the paper figure or the hole left behind. Because his skin and body ache with every place of contact against something else— but something inside his gut burns with an emptiness that roars and rages at the idea of being left alone.
Maybe— Maybe Chuuya just needs to adjust. How long has he been out this time? Maybe he’s been asleep longer than usual; maybe Mori switched out the drugs he usually gives him. Anything could explain the weirdness wrapped around his skin. Besides, how useless would he be if he couldn’t get over something as simple as this?
He tries small movements first. Pulling his arms free from the blankets. Wiggling against the bed.
Each action is like fire down raw nerves.
Slower, then. Touch the blankets, pull them down— but his fingertips feel like they’re still bleeding, and his palms are like someone’s pressed needles into every pore. He should go back to sleep, let this pass— but how can he do that if he can barely stand the weight of his own body against the bed? How is he to shut his eyes and pretend he doesn’t feel his bones protesting each action, his muscles tensing against each twitch?
Remove the blankets, he tells himself. Just move the fucking blankets!
He responds to the screaming in his head with a shout out loud, kicking and thrashing until the blankets are on the floor, eyes tearing and lips distorted into a grimace. He cries out and he swears, shoving away from anything that could touch him— anything that could hurt him.
But everything still feels so fucking heavy around him— inside him. His lungs, his blood, his bones. He’s almost afraid he still has his ability activated, Tainted Sorrow infecting everything he touches. He buries his hands into his hair, pulling hard, eyes shut in fear of seeing that blood-red glow around his body.
This is how Dazai finds him— seconds, minutes, hours later— when he finally breaks in.
Chuuya’s head snaps up; his hair frustrates the back of his neck. He wants to frown, to shout at Dazai for bursting in, but he’s afraid that moving too quickly will set everything off again.
If he stays still, nothing can hurt him. If he stays still, it won’t get worse than it already is.
But he must make some expression because, for a second, Dazai only stares.
“Seven minutes and fifty-seven seconds,” he says, at last. His eyes trace Chuuya’s hands, the stillness of his body. His face goes blank. “You were out for nearly a week.”
Chuuya takes a breath, a sickening knot in his stomach. “Something’s wrong. I feel— Fuck , I feel wrong .”
“Chuuya?” Dazai closes the distance, at Chuuya’s bedside in the time it takes to say his name. “Is it Arahabaki? Here—”
He reaches out, but Chuuya scrambles back with a sound like a wounded screech in the back of his throat. His knees come up to his chest, arms surrounding them. It hurts— it hurts — but some part of his brain shuts down in fear of how it’ll feel if it’s someone else who’s touching him. If his own skin feels so terrible, how would Dazai’s?
Dazai stills, hand held out.
A moment passes. Dazai’s hand slowly lowers. Chuuya watches the motion, his head, body, and blood filled with static.
There’s an edge in Dazai’s voice as he speaks, but it doesn’t seem aimed at Chuuya. “What do you need from me, then? What do you need me to do?”
“Fuck, Dazai, you don’t need to do anything, just—” Chuuya stares at the white bandages around Dazai’s throat. The paleness of their color, at least, doesn’t irritate his eyes. “Just don’t touch me.”
“Don’t touch you,” Dazai repeats after an extended second.
Chuuya feels guilty for nodding, but it’s all he can do. Even this close, he can smell the coffee on Dazai’s breath, and imagines he can feel the warmth of each exhale on his skin. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, trying to make space between the fabric and his skin; it only causes more irritation when his knuckles brush his collarbone.
He whines, a pitiful sound. Dazai's face crinkles in sympathy.
“Does it bother you if I talk?” He asks stiffly. Chuuya nods his head enough for his bangs to fall against his face. Dazai’s jaw tightens, hand twitching at his side— this is the part where he’d brush the hair aside, climb into bed with Chuuya, fall asleep in his arms. Is Dazai thinking of that, too? “Okay. Give me a second.”
Dazai’s going to leave
Chuuya’s body goes cold. The thought of being alone in this room is just as bad as the dreadful feeling crawling over his skin. And if Dazai leaves because Chuuya can’t handle whatever this is— what if this is the last time Dazai visits him after Corruption? The question carves through his brain.
Something burns hot beneath his skin. Something dangerous— something that’s been just beneath the surface since he awoke, bubbling and boiling over until the heat’s on the outside, too, searing across his nerves, setting him on fire, burning him alive and he opens his mouth to scream and—
Dazai’s hand on his shoulder, the gentlest touch.
Gravity returns to normal in the room. The red fades from Chuuya’s vision.
It wasn’t Corruption— just a slip of Tainted Sorrow from his control. Somehow, that feels worse.
“Don’t touch me,” he hisses, jerking away from Dazai’s hand. It’s gentle, yes, but it still doesn’t feel right.
Dazai stares at him, seated. That’s what he’d been doing, Chuuya realizes. Not leaving. Only pulling a chair over to the bedside.
How fucking embarrassing can Chuuya be? He looks away. He wants Dazai’s touch back just as much as he never wants someone to touch him again.
Dazai sits back. There’s something like hurt in his voice. “You haven’t done that in a long time.”
Done what? Activated his ability without meaning to, or eluded Dazai’s touch? Either could be the answer, and Chuuya hates how trapped he feels in this room— in his own skin.
“It’ll pass,” Chuuya says, his voice burning across his tongue. “It’s just some shitty side effects from using Corruption for so long. If it’s a problem for you, you can leave me alone.”
Gods, please, anything but that.
Dazai doesn’t answer. Chuuya shuts his eyes. He knows he won’t be able to sleep— not in this position, not with every piece of his skin so sensitive— but he hopes Dazai won’t call him on it. He waits for the sound of Dazai’s chair pushing back, the door opening in that quiet way Dazai always does.
All he receives is silence and he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse. He grips his legs more tightly, burying his face against his knees.
Then— a shift of fabric. The blanket. Dazai lifting it from the floor, probably, and folding it in his lap because he needs something to do with those hands or he’ll feel useless, Chuuya knows. Chuuya’s putting him in a position where all he feels is useless. Chuuya curls more tightly as though it could make him invisible.
“Stop thinking stupid things,” Dazai asks— a whisper, something soft enough to brush over Chuuya’s senses without aggravating them.
Chuuya turns his head, glowering weakly. “Don’t call me stupid, asshole.”
“It is stupid, though, if you blame yourself for any of this or if you choose to be embarrassed by it- as if I haven’t seen you worse.”
“Worse?”
“Does Chuuya forget who drags him home from the bars when—”
“Shut up.”
And Dazai does. A more tender silence. He watches Chuuya watch him. Just like Chuuya suspected, Dazai toys with the edges of the blanket he’s pulled into his lap. Chuuya follows the action, allowing it to soothe him— a repetitive motion, Dazai’s fingers pulling back and forth across the sheet. Ocean waves caught beneath Dazai’s skin. A melody, a pattern, a rhythm Chuuya matches his breathing to.
Seconds.
Minutes.
Hours.
Chuuya doesn’t know how much time passes, and Dazai doesn’t seem to tire. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“You are right about something, though,” he says just as Chuuya feels exhaustion reach for him once more, a caress of sleep through his mind as his muscles relax. “This will pass, Chuuya. You’ll be fine.”
And, if Dazai says it, how can Chuuya ever allow himself to disagree?