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Dazai didn’t really mind being alive, most days.
He would have preferred being dead, naturally, but suicide was such a hassle. He took opportunities as they came, when he could, but doing more than throwing back pills or sticking his head underwater took energy, and Dazai rarely had energy to spare. He got up in the morning. He wished he was dead for a while. He went to work. He played the fool. He went home. He drank. He slept. He got up again. It was fine. It worked. One of these days, death would fall into his lap, and he would finally rest. This vague hope and the eyes of his colleagues on his back kept him moving. Most of the time, it was enough.
Today, it was not enough.
He had woken up from a nightmare with a mild hangover. Nothing unusual, of course, and predictable, since he had avoided eating yesterday so that the alcohol would hit him harder and faster. He had gone to bed with his head spinning, knowing he would still be slightly dizzy in the morning. This was routine for him. But the quiet pounding in his head, the harshness of the lights, the way the room drifted subtly to the left when his attention slipped, weren’t doing anything to drown out his thoughts this morning.
I should get up, he thought. They’ll worry.
Immediately, he dismissed the idea. They wouldn’t worry, his colleagues at the detective agency. They would be annoyed. Angry, even. They would tut and be disappointed, and it would be their own fault for expecting anything of someone who had been telling them for years to expect nothing of him.
So why get up? Why do anything? It all seemed like a monumental effort.
He rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes again. Maybe he would choke in his sleep. Not the worst way to go. Not the most dignified, either, but that would be fitting for him. He died as he lived, they would say, a fool. He almost smiled at the thought.
He was managing a light doze when a pounding on the door woke him. He stared at the ceiling. Knock, knock, knock. There was definitely someone at the door. Knock, knock. Persistent, too.
He let out a long sigh.
“Who is it?” he finally managed to call out. The knocking stopped.
“Dazai.” Kunikida’s voice filtered through the door, not muffled enough to conceal his annoyance. “Open up.”
“Open up yourself,” Dazai called halfheartedly.
“Dazai!” The knocking resumed, increasingly insistent until it was an incessant pounding, Kunikida swearing on the other side of the door. Dazai pulled the covers over his head and closed his eyes. Eventually, the knocking stopped. Good, Dazai thought. Leave me to rot.
Some time passed. The light through the curtains turned from pale gold to amber. It was afternoon when Dazai slid out from under the covers. He would have stayed longer, but his bladder was becoming insistent, and so he trudged to the bathroom. His headache was rapidly becoming a migraine. Dehydration, he supposed.
He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for a long time. Someone stared back. Eye bags, frown lines, premature marks of age that made him think of his father. Or, worse, his older brother. Thought I was a disappointment before? Well, look at me now. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the glass. His family would never recognize him anymore. It had been too many years, too many changes inside and out. Even his name was different. “Don’t you ever take anything seriously, Shuji?” they would say. And he would laugh. No wonder they hadn’t wanted him. No wonder no one looked for him when he joined the mafia. No wonder.
Dazai fished the box cutter from under the sink and slogged back over to his bed. He sat at the foot of it and unwound his bandages methodically, automatically. His feet were cold. It would be annoying to die with cold feet. He stared at the blade for a long time. Wouldn’t it be better to drown? Maybe he should draw a bath. But if it took too long to find his body, wouldn’t the water make him shrivel up? That sounded distasteful. And a cut was so easy to explain away. So easy to hide. No one batted an eye at his bandages anymore. It wouldn’t inconvenience anyone. The metal was cold against his skin. He was tired. He was so tired.
“Hey, moron!” Chuuya knocked heavily on the door. “Got a call from your shitty colleague. You gonna open up, or do I have to let myself in?”
No answer. Fucking typical.
Chuuya pounded the door a few more times as a courtesy, and kicked it once for good measure, before he found his spare key and let himself in. He strode in, flicked on the lights, and kicked the door shut again behind him, going automatically to Dazai’s bedroom.
“Dazai, I swear to g- oh.” All his breath left him in a whoosh as he took in what he was seeing.
Dazai was lying on the floor next to the bed, one hand wrapped around the handle of a box cutter, his left arm unbandaged and bleeding freely. The wound was neat and practiced and deep, a pool of blood spreading under the arm. He must not have reached the artery, he wasn’t bleeding out fast enough for that, but he was, nonetheless, bleeding out. A bubble of panic rose in Chuuya’s chest. Dazai’s eyelids fluttered when Chuuya entered the room, and an unreadable expression flashed across the taller man’s face.
“Oh, Chuuya,” Dazai said breathily. “Fancy seeing you here.” He dropped the box cutter in favor of covering the open wound on his wrist lightly with his opposing hand. “Why- what are you-”
“Idiot,” Chuuya hissed, and rushed over, hauled Dazai up by his bicep, and dragged him towards the bathroom. “Get that washed off. What the fuck are you doing?”
Dazai’s eyes were a little glassy and unfocused, and his face was pale, even paler than usual. His lips twitched in a poor imitation of his usual joking manner. “What does it look like?”
“You look like you’re being a fucking idiot,” Chuuya snapped. He turned on the tap and yanked Dazai’s arm under it. The sink was flushed pink for a moment before the stream was reduced to the snake of blood still escaping Dazai’s wrist. Dazai watched the flow of blood with a blank expression. He made no move to fight Chuuya, nor did he help in any way.
“What are you doing here?” Dazai asked belatedly.
“That bastard Kunikida called me,” Chuuya said sharply. “Said you didn’t come to work and weren’t answering the door. Like I’m your fucking babysitter.” He turned off the tap and grabbed a hand towel to press against Dazai’s injury. “Hold that there,” he instructed, placing Dazai’s other hand on top of the towel. “Do you have disinfectant? Butterfly bandages? Fuck, no, of course you fucking don’t. I’ll get your stupid useless normal bandages.”
Dazai hummed tonelessly and held the towel to his arm. Chuuya stormed into the bedroom and snatched up the pile of bandages that Dazai had left there, presumably from unwrapping his arm to get at the skin beneath. When he returned to the bathroom, Dazai was perched on the side of the bathtub and had dropped the towel. He was staring down at his arm, his eyes following the rivulets of red trickling down around his wrist. Chuuya growled and picked up the towel again, dampened it slightly, and cleaned the idiot’s arm again.
“What did I fucking tell you?” he snapped. “Hello? Earth to Dazai? You in there?” Under his anger, a current of worry needled at him. He had seen Dazai like this before, of course, but not for years, not since before the Agency. I thought you were getting better, he wanted to shout. But he had a modicum of self-control, and refrained. He’d used that line on Dazai once before, and would never forget the way Dazai’s posture had crumpled, his lip curled, his hands clenched, the acid with which Dazai had replied, Your mistake.
Now, Dazai just gave another faint smile. “I don’t know, am I? Is there another person in the room with you? Or are you alone?”
Chuuya shivered involuntarily, and shook his head. “Spare me your philosophical bullshit. What happened?”
Dazai still hadn’t met his eyes. He watched as Chuuya pressed the edges of the wound together, then started to rewrap his arm. He didn’t so much as flinch as the linen was pulled tight against the wound.
“Nothing happened,” he said. Dazai was clearly trying to keep his tone light, but without much success.
Chuuya snorted. “Something must have happened. I saw you, what, three days ago? And you were fine then. You were fine. What happened?”
Dazai shrugged with one shoulder. “Just told you. Nothing. Can’t a man want to kill himself without being interrogated about it?” His smile was painful to look at.
“No,” Chuuya said sharply, “he can’t. You can’t. Why today?” He yanked on the bandage, and felt a twinge of sick satisfaction when Dazai finally winced.
“Felt like it.”
“Fucking- yeah, whatever! Why did you feel like it? Just tell me what happened!”
Dazai was quiet for a moment. At long last, he dragged his gaze up to meet Chuuya’s. As ever, Chuuya felt himself drawn in by those dark eyes, like a moth to a streetlamp.
“You’re looking for a catalyst so you can avoid it,” Dazai said softly, “because you think this is something either of us can control. You think you can do something to keep this from happening again. But you can’t. Nothing happened. I had a normal week. I slept as much as I ever do. I had the same nightmares I always have. This is just the way I am. You can’t fix this, Chuuya.”
Chuuya gritted his teeth. “Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut the fuck up. Why are you doing this? Fucking… fucking, blades? I thought you didn’t like pain?”
Dazai let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes. “I don’t. If I liked pain, I wouldn’t mind living so much.”
“The fuck are you talking about?”
Dazai waved his left hand vaguely. “Have you read Infinite Jest? Don’t you recall that bit about the ‘so-called psychotically depressed person’? The burning building or the long fall? No? Oh, what about the part of The Dream of a Ridiculous Man where-”
“Shut up,” Chuuya bit out again. “I don’t care. I don’t care! You need fucking stitches, and probably a fucking transfusion, this bandage isn’t enough. Come on, let’s go to your stupid agency.”
Dazai yanked his arm away. “No,” he said sharply, and Chuuya was so startled that he actually drew back for a moment. “This is fine. This is enough,” he said more quietly.
Chuuya stared at him for a moment. “Moron,” he muttered at last. “Fuck. No, I’m not letting you do this, Dazai, you hear me? I came all the way fucking here to make sure you were okay, I’m not going to walk out the door again until you’re not actively bleeding. Either you let me take you to the agency, or I call an ambulance. Your choice.”
Dazai was quiet for a moment. Finally, he let out another sigh and sank his face into his left hand. “Fine. Do what you want.” His exhaustion was heavy in his voice. The attempts at levity seemed to be draining him even more. Chuuya clenched and unclenched his fists a couple of times. Then, he shifted to sit beside Dazai on the rim of the tub, and, after a moment of hesitation, he put an arm around Dazai’s shoulders.
“Dazai,” he said quietly. “Fuck. Osamu. Look at me.”
Dazai twitched at the sound of his given name, and looked into Chuuya’s eyes.
“Hm?”
Chuuya took a measured breath. “Listen. I know we… I know it’s… I’m not always the easiest. Person. To be around. But you- I don’t mind you. I mean, you’re fine. I mean, you’re insane and stupid and reckless, but- I-” He grimaced. “I would prefer if you stuck around,” he managed at last. “Don’t fucking make me repeat that. I just. I’m trying, Dazai. Can you… try a little? For me?”
He could practically see the cogs turning in Dazai’s mind. He saw Dazai’s expression shift minutely, saw the urge to make a joke come and go. At last, Dazai leaned his head against Chuuya’s.
“I can try,” he murmured.
“Thanks.”
“Mm.”
“You wanna go to the Agency?”
“…Yeah.”
Together, they stood, and made their way out into the world.