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Dazai wants to die. He stands outside Chuuya’s bedroom door, bare-footed, his eyes searching the small apartment for any escape in the dark of night. Only there is none. For wet sweatpants cling to his legs, his upper thighs drenched in long-since cooled liquid. And the demon prodigy, most comfortable in mafia-black nights, finds himself trembling as he confronts the realization that he’ll have to beg Chuuya’s help.
A hand raises, taps tentatively on the door. Knock on wood Chuuya will be merciful. There’s no response; the tapping had been light indeed, and he knocks again, more insistent. A moment passes, and then Chuuya’s voice, waspish and weighed heavy with sleep, snaps that he’d better come in or else fuck off.
Slowly, Dazai lets himself into the room. He swallows back his pride, swallows once more against the lump stubbornly settled in his throat.
“I need to borrow some clothes.” The way Chuuya rolls his eyes is almost audible, and Dazai can see it despite the way nothing is intelligible in the dark.
“Tch. Thought you had a nightmare or some shit and wanted to invade my space.” This, of course, to cover up the fact that he let Dazai in without question. “The fuck do you need clothes for? It’s 2:00 AM, go back to sleep.”
“I can’t.” The unwilling truth passes from Dazai’s lips. He stares opposite the direction of Chuuya’s bed, listens to his own pulse as it races in his ears.
“Yeah?” Dazai can feel the moment worry perches on Chuuya’s shoulders. “C’mere, you don’t have to go. Sleep in here.” Ah. Chuuya thinks he means to leave. Dazai’s ears go warm, his chest tightening, and he shifts his weight from side to side, trying to contain his rising panic. Why is his partner being nice?
“I-I can’t.” He hadn’t meant for it to come out tearful. And there are the covers shifting, Chuuya climbing clumsily out of his nest of blankets to come to Dazai. Loyal, loyal Chuuya, always checking up on him. Dazai thinks distantly that he ought to be calling him his dog to keep up appearances, but his mouth refuses to move.
Except, instead of reaching for Dazai first, Chuuya flicks the lights on. Instantly, his shame is illuminated, the clarity of the situation burning itself into Chuuya’s irises as he takes in what can’t have been anything but a nighttime accident. Dazai cowers, a sob overcoming him as his too-tall frame hunches, fingers splaying out over the too-big-to-hide stain as he attempts to conceal what’s happened.
“Osamu.” That’s Chuuya’s voice. “Hey, did you…” Something must be awfully wrong if Chuuya is coming closer, wrapping his arms tightly around him. Dazai squirms, tries to hide his face. How can Chuuya touch him like this? Why isn’t he yelling? “Oh,” Chuuya continues, now reaching up to smooth his hair. “I didn’t realize, Dazai. I’m sorry I was harsh.” He’s never seen Dazai like this before, and yet somehow he knows better than to look at the tears streaking down his cheeks. For the moment, Chuuya only holds him, his breaths steady where Dazai’s aren’t.
“I had a nightmare,” Dazai admits in a rush. He waits, rabbit-hearted, for Chuuya to inquire what about, but the question never comes. Slowly, like Chuuya thinks he might flinch away, warm fingers come up to cup his face, then wipe his tears when he doesn’t protest.
“You need clean clothes, hm?”
In the bathroom, Chuuya helps Dazai out of his soiled sweatpants. He kneels before him, rests a hand on the waistband of his boxers in request for permission to remove them. Consent comes in the form of a sharp nod, and Dazai stays still and quiet while Chuuya wipes his thighs clean with a wet washcloth.
Afterwards, they don’t discuss what to do. Chuuya dresses Dazai in a loose-fitting t-shirt and sits him down on his bed, then goes to run laundry. And then, with the lights low and their body heat shared, he listens while Dazai tells him about his nightmare.