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If he were the kind of person who thought of things in linear narratives, it would be something like this: he grows up with an unexplainable weight that sits perched atop his chest and nags at him through all of his adolescence. It eases in moments, leaving in its wake unshakable energy that makes his bones ache if not immediately exerted, makes his temper shorter and his self-loathing larger. He tosses and turns all night until he resigns himself to start something new and exciting. It’s never the same feeling twice, highs and lows coming and going with varying levels of intensity and stress that have a hairline trigger. Some nights, he lies still and feels like his heart might give out from how fast it beats against his ribs. Other nights, it’s a sluggish, dragging thud like it might just stop altogether. He learns to live with it, learns to cope in ways that are damaging only to himself—fists against brick, teeth against the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. And he learns to read. “Understanding Bipolar II” is the book he shyly hands to Dazai at sixteen, who flips through the pages and shrugs in a manner that Chuuya finds comforting. Dazai doesn’t look at him differently after reading it. He doesn’t offer useless platitudes or tiptoe around the subject. He just presses the book back into Chuuya’s hands with a fleeting glance that says, who cares?
Understanding isn’t the fix he assumed it would be, isn’t the end-all-be-all he thought of it as in his youth, and even now, as an adult with full awareness, it’s as unmoving a feeling as ever. The label is just that—a label. It doesn’t soften the weight or stop his hands from shaking when the lows get too low. It doesn’t stop the nights when he paces the length of his apartment, too wired to sit still but too exhausted to do anything else. (“A chemical imbalance isn’t fixable,” Dazai used to tell him, “This is your forever,” with an air of sympathy Dazai rarely showed to anyone. Chuuya kicked him in the shin. He wasn’t broken. He didn't need to be pitied.)
Of all the life stories he has to tell, he finds this one the most bothersome. Chuuya doesn’t concern himself much with the details or sleepless nights spent crying and hysterically laughing. He doesn’t dwell on the time he punched the bathroom mirror and spent the whole night picking shards of glass out of his knuckles, or the mornings he sat on the edge of his bed, hands trembling too hard to lace his boots. He’s as unmovable a force as the thing in his head is, and he pushes forward every day despite it. His life doesn’t slow for it. And anyways, it’s not as defining a thing as it was when he was a kid, scared and lonely and so, so worried about being cast out of another family. He’s made a life for himself at twenty-two that keeps him stable—keeps him sane. Or at least, sane enough to hold himself together. To get through the hours that stretch endlessly from sunrise to dusk, when he can finally lock himself away and crumble if need be. Where he can let the weight settle fully against his chest and feel it without the need to fight it.
It’s been a long time since he’s broke. The heaviness is always there, lingering and tugging him this way and that, but he’s matured with age and burdened with too many responsibilities to fall apart as constantly as he once had. But it was overdue, he supposes. Four months is a long time to go without slowing down. Long enough to think maybe he’s outgrown it, maybe he’s finally leveled out. It always comes back. It always will.
The exhaustion is what hits him first. It’s not the kind that tugs at his eyelids or makes his limbs ache in any usual way. It settles in his bones instead, curling around his ribs and pressing down, down, down until the thought of moving—the thought of breathing—is unbearable. He loses his sense of time soon after. Loses his appetite too.
His phone rings. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t remember where he tossed it—somewhere on the floor, maybe the nightstand, vibrating against wood or carpet It’s distant, barely registering through the fog thick in his head. He lets it go unanswered, eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling, watching how the light shifts across it. His body is leaden—disconnected from his mind. He tells himself he should reach for it, check the caller ID at the very least. Just in case. His fingers twitch against the sheets. But he doesn’t move. He remains completely and wholly still.
The phone rings again.
He exhales sharply through his nose. The noise against the stillness of the room makes his chest tighten. His fingers flex once, twice, but the thought of forcing himself to do more—to roll over, sit up, and deal with whatever’s waiting for him outside of this very moment—doesn’t feel possible. Even the smallest action feels insurmountable. He struggles to bring the blankets up over his neck, hands clumsy and slow. He can’t seem to get warm. The fabric is heavy, too heavy. He writhes uselessly, trying to curl in on himself, to lessen the space his body takes up.
He knows this feeling. Knows it well enough to recognize its patterns, the way it will eventually pass and leave behind that awful, jittery energy in its wake. It always does. When the exhaustion finally burns out, it’ll be replaced by something restless and insistent. A static hum that makes his teeth grind and his hands fidget. It will not matter how raw and wrung out he is, how his limbs will ache from lying still for too long. The energy will nag at him anyway, tug at the edges of his frayed nerves and demand release.
The phone stops ringing, and the silence is almost worse. It hangs thick and heavy, pressing in on all sides. It feels hard to breathe. Like the room is trying to crush him into the mattress. And for a terrible, fleeting moment, he wonders if he’d care if it did. Would it be easier? It’s familiar—this dragging, hollow sense of absolute nothingness. A bottomless absence. A complete resignation. Of energy, of will, of anything that could make him give a damn about moving. His limbs are dead weight, his chest barely rising with each shallow breath.
It’ll end, he tells himself. He clings to the thought like a lifeline. This will end, and the shitty cycle will start all over again some other time.
He pities Dazai on weeks like these.
Because for all the weight pressing him down, for all the emptiness that creeps into his lungs and turns every thought sluggish, he knows this will end. He knows this isn’t forever. There will be a day soon when he’ll wake up and stretch his arms above his head without feeling like he’s trying to lift an anvil. A day when he’ll swing his legs over the side of the bed and the floor will feel solid beneath him instead of distant. When he’ll be able to breathe without feeling like he’s gasping through water. A day when he won’t be stuck inside his own head, staring at the ceiling while the world moves on without him.
But Dazai—Dazai doesn’t get that. Chuuya doesn’t think he’s ever had even an inkling of that kind of hope. The highs aren’t easier—god, they’re not easier—all-consuming and stressful in a way that makes Chuuya’s skin itch just thinking about it. But even so, it's a break. Respite. Dazai—or people like Dazai—don’t. For them, it’s just the weight. A permanent fixture. No relief, no reprieve. Dazai doesn’t get the promise of an upswing, of a break in the fog, of a few good months before the inevitable crash.
Dazai wakes up like this. He lives like this. And somehow, he still manages to keep himself mostly together. He still moves, still talks, still pulls himself upright and goes through the motions enough to make everyone believe he’s fine. He still shows up.
What the hell is Chuuya’s excuse?
The thought curdles in his stomach, and he shuts his eyes tight against it. But it seeps in anyway, thick and cloying. Self-loathing creeping in at the edges. He knows it’s irrational. Knows it’s unfair. Knows Dazai’s battle is its own breed of relentless, brutal hell. But he still can’t shake the guilt, the quiet, insidious belief that if Dazai can survive under the weight of something so permanent, then Chuuya should be able to survive this. That if Dazai can drag himself out of bed and exist in the world despite everything hollowing him out from the inside, then what the hell is Chuuya doing?
His phone vibrates again. He doesn’t move.
Chuuya stops keeping track of the noise—buzzing and utterly relentless after a few minutes? Hours? He doesn’t know. The light filtering through the blinds has shifted, but not by much. A fraction. Barely noticeable. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but at some point, he must have, because when the sound comes, it jolts him into something resembling consciousness—a soft click, the quiet scrape of metal against metal, and then the slow turn of a handle.
Chuuya exhales through his nose, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. He doesn’t need to look to know who it is. Only one person has the audacity. And besides, he hears Dazai’s quiet footsteps as he crosses the threshold into Chuuya’s room. Soft, measured, almost soundless—but Chuuya would know them anywhere.
He still doesn’t move. He waits, listening as Dazai breathes. He lets the door click shut behind him, the dull thud barely registering. There’s a beat of silence before Dazai’s voice cuts through it—gentle, lilting.
“Chuuya should know better than to ignore my calls.”
Chuuya doesn’t stir, doesn’t even blink, just stares up at the popcorned ceiling. The ceiling fan is still, the blades gross with dust he needs to clean. His eyes remain flat and unfocused, even when he feels the mattress dip under Dazai’s weight. The slow shift of it presses against his side, but it barely registers. God, he can't do this today.
“Unless this was his ploy to see me?”
Dazai’s voice is lighter this time, a little more playful, a shouty attempt to needle him into responding. Chuuya still doesn’t answer. His gaze stays fixed and unmoving. The world feels far away—muffled, like everything is happening at the edges of his awareness.
He doesn’t need to look to know Dazai is watching him. He feels it—thhe uncomfortable, searching weight of his eyes. Assessing. Analyzing. Dazai shifts closer, the mattress creaking softly beneath him. Chuuya doesn’t react when he feels a hand brush over his cheek, palm warm and steady, tracing along his jaw with a gentleness that feels almost incongruous.
“Hey.” Dazai’s voice is quieter now,
His fingers press lightly into Chuuya’s skin, guiding him to face him. Chuuya doesn’t resist. His head turns easily in Dazai’s hand, eyes slipping away from the ceiling. But he doesn’t focus. His gaze lands somewhere near Dazai’s collarbone, unfixed and heavy-lidded.
Dazai’s face is unchanged, soft the same way it was when they were kids. The years have passed, and where there were once only jagged edges and bony angles, there’s now baby fat and warmth beneath his skin. The agency has softened him; made him easier to read, easier to see through, and Chuuya thinks that the light in his eyes suits him better than the mafia ever did.
There’s pity in those eyes. He’s sure of it, even before Dazai’s gaze shifts slightly, the softness settling into something else. Chuuya resents it—wishes he had the energy to scold Dazai for it, to sneer or slap his hand away. Don’t you dare look at me like that. But he can’t move. Can’t summon the anger he usually carries so easily. Instead, he just stares dully at the faint smear of dirt caught beneath Dazai’s fingernail. His vision blurs and his throat feels thick, like he’s forgotten how to swallow.
Dazai exhales slowly, thumb sweeping over the divet beneath his eye, then along the line of his jaw. “How’s the sky today?” Dazai asks, his thumb rubbing across Chuuya’s cheek in repetitive circles.
“Dark,” Chuuya croaks, the word rough, his throat dry and hoarse.
“How dark?” Dazai asks, brushing tangled curls from Chuuya’s forehead and tucking them behind his ear.
Chuuya’s eyes shift toward the ceiling again, unfocused, as if the stupid flickering light he keeps meaning to replace is enough to keep him anchored, to keep him from sinking further. It's easier than meeting Dazai’s gaze at the very least. He doesn't want to see what's there, doesn't want to acknowledge the way Dazai’s worry is showing itself again. His skin crawls, prickling with discomfort.
Dazai doesn’t let him look away for long. His grip on Chuuya’s face tightens, just a little and it still remains so, so ridiculously, patronizingly gentle, just enough to pull his attention back, to make him refocus on Dazai.
“How dark, Chuuya?” Dazai presses, and Chuuya can hear the shift in his voice, the way it tightens near the end.
He considers lying, but knows it'd be no use. “Dark.” He whispers.
Dazai pauses. “Scale from 1-10?”
“Dunno.”
“Cmon, Slug. You know this game. The faster we do this the faster you can get me out of your hair.”
“8.” He reconsiders, “9.”
“Are you drunk?”
Chuuya huffs. “No.” Dazai looks down at him with furrowed brows, unconvinced. “Not right now.”
“Have you been eating?” Chuuya downright groans at that. He tries to will his body to kick Dazai in the stomach and Dazai,, likely sensing this, relents. “Okay. Later then.”
By some grace of God, Dazai stops talking. Instead, he opts for slipping into Chuuya’s bed like it’s the most normal thing to do. Like nothing has changed. Like years of distance and different lives haven’t wedged themselves between an already barely-there relationship. His body fits against Chuuya’s back the same way it had in their youth, the press of his chest warm and heavy, his arms draping over Chuuya’s waist with that same casual familiarity it always has.
Chuuya doesn’t fight him. Doesn’t pull away or curse or shout like he should. His body, traitorous in its exhaustion, sinks into the warmth like it’s muscle memory. And Chuuya pretends to forget that this isn’t supposed to happen anymore. Dazai is solid behind him, breathing slow as puffs of air fan across Chuuya’s shoulder, his palm resting light on Chuuya’s stomach.
It makes Chuuya sick.
Even after all this time, after everything, Dazai still knows him so intimately, like he’s managed to find a way to live beneath Chuuya’s skin despite their time apart. He knows exactly where to place his hands, exactly how much weight to press against him, exactly how to settle his body so that Chuuya feels like he doesn’t have to hold every piece of himself together. It’s infuriating. It’s pathetic.
It’s comforting.
And maybe it wouldn’t feel so damning if this wasn’t the only kind of closeness they allowed themselves anymore. If this wasn’t just another piece of the thing they kept falling into—hookups that never led anywhere, hands on each other in the dark, mouths pressing together just to take the edge off. They never talk about it. Never acknowledge it. It’s not romantic, not gentle or anything more than quick fuck.
Chuuya doesn’t—refuses to—acknowledge that Dazai kisses him now. That he stays and basks in Chuuya’s presence for hours even after they’ve both come down. The agency has softened him, he thinks again, and wonders how much of Dazai’s bravado was a front in their teens.
His throat tightens, but he doesn’t move. Chuuya closes his eyes. He tells himself he’ll push Dazai away in a minute. That he won’t let himself fall into this—that he doesn’t need this. That he won’t let himself need it.
“—And that reminds me. Did you know that slugs have four noses?” he hears Dazai say. “Imagine having four noses. I think I’d probably get lost in all the scents. Especially around you. You smell. They’ve also been known to…”
Chuuya tunes him out after that, focusing instead on the steady rumble of Dazai’s voice against his back, the rise and fall of his chest with each word. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying. It’s just noise. Steady, familiar, annoying noise.
He doesn’t know how long Dazai manages to go on like that. Maybe minutes. Maybe longer. Time feels stretched thin as of late, folding in on itself, slipping past him in increments he can’t bother keeping track of. Dazai keeps talking—nonsense facts, some probably not even true, lazy musings that don’t need responses. Chuuya, despite himself, lets it fade into the background, letting himself sink deeper into the mattress, into the warmth pressed against him.
It’s the closest thing to relief he’s had in days.
Then, Dazai shifts, exhaling dramatically against the back of his neck. “I think I’m dying.”
Chuuya doesn’t react.
Dazai sighs again, louder this time. “No, really. I can feel my strength leaving me. My vision is going dark. I’m wasting away right before your eyes.”
Chuuya cracks one eye open, scowling. “Shut up.”
“No, no, I mean it,” Dazai continues dramatically. “I think this might be it for me. My tragic end, right here in your bed. How poetic.” He shifts again, pressing a hand weakly to his stomach like some frail, dying thing. “It’s just… I haven’t eaten all day. And I thought—foolishly, might I add—that my dear, dear partner Chuuya would care. But alas, I see now that I was wrong.”
Chuuya exhales, weighing the effort of responding against the satisfaction of ignoring him entirely. Eventually, he settles for, “Dazai.”
“Yes?”
“Get out.”
“See? No sympathy,” Dazai groans. “At least walk me to the kitchen before I collapse from hunger. You wouldn’t just leave me here to die, would you?”
Chuuya opens his eyes just enough to glare. “Tempting.”
Dazai gasps, scandalized. “Tempting? After everything we’ve been through?”
Chuuya shoves at his face, and Dazai yelps, flopping onto his back in defeat. He stays there for a beat before peeking one eye open, expectant. “So… you are going to feed me, right?”
Chuuya groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You are such a pain in the ass.”
“C’mon, Slug. I can’t eat alone. It’s depressing.”
Chuuya knows exactly what he’s doing.
Dazai, for all his dramatics, for all his exaggerated suffering and performative misery, isn’t actually making a scene for himself. He’s flipping the script, shifting the focus, making his own needs the priority because he knows—of course he knows—that Chuuya won’t get up for his own sake.
It’s not the first time, and it probably will not be the last time Dazai pulls this particular trick.
Dazai has always been good at redirecting. At making himself the center of attention in a way that feels natural, effortless. It’s why people never notice when he’s prying, when he’s laying traps in conversation, when he’s leading them exactly where he wants them to go. Chuuya knows this better than anyone. Has seen it, fallen for it, hated it.
Because it’s easier to roll his eyes, to groan and shove at Dazai’s face and tell him to shut up already, than it is to acknowledge what’s actually happening here. It’s easier to drag himself out of bed for Dazai’s needs—however fake they are—than it is to do it for himself.
And Dazai knows that.
Of course he does.
So, Chuuya pushes himself upright with a frustrated sigh, rubbing at his eyes, trying to ignore the way his body protests the movement. The exhaustion still clings to him, but he moves, because Dazai is still lying there, looking up at him expectantly, and Chuuya finds himself just as weak as he was as a kid when Dazai’s eyes lit up this same way.
“See?” Dazai smiles, getting up and stepping back as Chuuya swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Was that so hard?”
Yes.
The kitchen is dim, lit only by the dull glow of the stovetop and the crappy overhead light as Chuuya stands in front of it, a pan warming in his hands. His movements are methodical, automatic. He isn’t really thinking about what he’s doing—just chopping, stirring, flipping.
Dazai is sitting on the counter, watching. He’s been talking this whole time, filling the quiet with nonsense—complaints about how slow Chuuya is, dramatic sighs about his impending starvation—but it’s not as insistent as before.
Chuuya’s hands work like clockwork, his mind elsewhere, focusing on the rhythm of the actions rather than the weight still pressing against his chest. Dazai’s voice lingers in the background, but it fades in and out, not really registering. He hears him mention something about slugs again, some stupid fact that Chuuya can’t be bothered to listen to.
When the food is left to simmer, Chuuya leans against the counter, pressing the heel of his hand against his eye, exhaling slowly. His body still feels so heavy, it’s gnawing at him. He wants to go back to bed. He wants to stop thinking– stop being.
Dazai slides off the counter, his feet landing softly on the floor with the faintest sound. Then, without a word, he moves behind him and wraps his arms around his waist in a mock hug. His chin rests on Chuuya’s shoulders, and his hands trail up and down Chuuya’s sides.
He’s not being sexual, Chuuya knows. Dazai is never subtle about trying to get in Chuuya’s pants. But it’s like muscle memory to turn in his hold, stand on his tiptoes, and connect their lips. Dazai doesn’t seem to mind; hesitant and a little caught off guard, but eager to fall back into Chuuya’s half embrace once he’s settled.
Chuuya’s hands find Dazai’s shoulders, and he slots himself between Dazai’s thighs. He’s running on autopilot– the fog is back, and he’s clinging to Dazai like a quick fix, like Dazai can fuck the sadness out of him and hold him together.
Dazai lets him take what he needs. Lets him press closer, deepen the kiss, curl his fingers into his shirt. But when Chuuya tries to move things further—when his hands start to wander, gripping at Dazai’s waist, slipping lower—Dazai’s hands catch his. He steadies him, grip firmly holding onto Chuuya’s wrists, keeping him in place.
Chuuya exhales sharply, his jaw clenching. “Dazai.”
Dazai watches him, unreadable. His grip doesn’t loosen. “Chuuya.”
Something prickles under Chuuya’s skin at the way he says his name. He grits his teeth. “I want to.”
Dazai hums. “Do you?”
Chuuya glares at him. “Yeah.”
Dazai lets go of his wrists and lets his thumbs stroke slow circles against his hips. “Or do you just need to feel like you’re doing something?”
Chuuya’s stomach twists. His fingers twitch against Dazai’s shirt, curling in like he’s bracing himself. Dazai’s voice stays maddeningly soft. “I don't need any convincing, Chuuya. I’m not going anywhere."
"Just let me.” Chuuya tugs at his waistband anyways, and Dazai's fingers wrap around his wrists yet again. “Please. Since when did you care about this shit?"
“I may not be the paragon of a gentleman, but even I have lines I won’t cross. I figured you knew that much.” His voice is sadder now. “No matter how little you think of me, Chuuya, I’ve never been interested in taking advantage of someone. Not then. Not now.”
Chuuya frowns. “I’m consenting.”
“To me using you,”
“I was under the impression that that's what we did.” Chuuya shoots back, a little too bitterly.
“Chuuya–”
“Why are you here, bastard?”
Dazai pauses like he's mulling the question over and deciding how honest to be. “Nostalgia, I suppose.” He seems to settle on. “I missed having a dog to take care of.”
Chuuya bristles. “I don't need to be taken care of.”
“Then indulge me. Let me live in the fantasy world I've conjured up in my head where you still need me.”
I missed you, is what Dazai means to say, and what Chuuya won’t let himself hear. It's the kind of thing Dazai would never speak aloud, and the kind that Chuuya will twist—too soft, too close. Chuuya's first to admit that he's too bitter to hear something so sentimental leave Dazai's mouth, and Dazai knows that.
They've done this song and dance before.
God, Dazai's only making his head hurt. He huffs and rests his forehead against the brunette's chest, relenting. “You're unbearable.”
Dazai snorts, and Chuuya leaves his hands curled into the bastard's shirt, not bothering to lift his head. Above him, Dazai sighs—not exasperated, not even particularly annoyed—His hands slide from Chuuya’s hips, trailing up his sides before he pulls them away entirely.
“Food’s gonna burn.” Chuuya blinks, and Dazai moves around him like nothing happened, like Chuuya hadn’t just tried to throw himself at him, like Dazai hadn’t stopped him. Instead, he lifts the lid off the pan, stirs the food absentmindedly, and mutters, “Tch. You always overdo the heat.” He doesn’t look at Chuuya when he grabs a plate, when he spoons the food onto it, when he drags Chuuya to the couch and hands it to him.
“Sit.”
Chuuya exhales slowly, rubbing a hand down his face, before muttering, “Not hungry. It was for you.”
Dazai clicks his tongue. “Wrong. Try again.”
“Dazai.”
“Chuuya.”
“I don’t—”
“You do.” Dazai gestures at the couch. “Sit, Slug. It’s getting cold.”
Chuuya reluctantly sits, if only because he doesn't have the energy nor the will to argue with Dazai. Dazai sits on the cushion beside him and flicks the TV on. It fills the silence well enough, and marginally distracts Chuuya from Dazai’s unwavering eyes as he prods at the food with his fork.
“I talked to Kouyou. She’s worried.” Dazai says after a moment.
Chuuya’s hand falters, but he doesn’t look up. Of course Kouyou would pry. Of course she’d call the most insistent, stubborn prick to come and deal with him. “I’m fine.”
“I don't think you even know what that word means.” Dazai scoffs. “She told me you've been rotting like this for weeks. Hasn't Mori been up your ass about slacking off?”
Chuuya shrugs. “He's used to it. Knows i'll bounce back soon. I don't need to be coddled, by you or by Kouyou.”
He glances over at Dazai’s sudden silence, and pauses poking at his food when he sees just how cold Dazai’s expression has gone. “Coddled? Is that what you think this is? I didn't take time out of my day to come and coddle you, Chuuya. Believe me when I tell you I would rather be doing anything but this. Your misery isn’t my pinnacle of entertainment. But leaving you to your own devices when you're like this has proved to be a poor choice in the past.”
Shame bubbles up in Chuuya’s gut, guilt coiling tight.“I wouldn’t do that again.”
“Do what again? Crash a bike going ninety on a freeway without bothering to use your ability to break your fall? Mix alcohol and sleeping pills and leave me to find you frothing at the mouth on the bathroom floor? Use corruption without me there and swear it was the only viable option when me, you, and all your subordinates knew otherwise? Have drunken escapades with men twice your age while you let them–”
“If you're just gonna sit here and tell me all the ways i've fucking burdened you in the past, you can leave.” He cuts him off, voice wobbling. “This is the last thing I need right now, jackass.”
“That's not even remotely what i'm saying.” Dazai argues. Then, if Chuuya didn't already feel terrible enough, says, “you of all people know how it feels to be on the other side of this.”
Chuuya’s shoulders hunch in. “I'm not like you. I don't want to die.”
“I know.” Dazai’s voice softens again. “That is why I'm here.”
Chuuya pauses, bringing his knees to his chest and lowering his eyes back down to his barely touched meal. “Didn't know we were still extending those sorta favors anymore.”
“Then Chuuya’s even dumber than he looks.” Dazai says simply.
They fall back into silence, which Chuuya is immensely grateful for. He keeps his head down, focusing on his food. His appetite is shot, but he forces himself to eat anyway—small bites, chewing slowly, swallowing over and over again until he feels like he somewhat remembers how to do so normally.
The food on his plate gradually disappears, though every bite feels like a drag. Dazai watches, unreadable, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee, his own plate, for once, licked clean. Eventually, when Chuuya gives up, setting his fork down with a sigh, Dazai moves.
“Can’t stomach any more?”
Chuuya shakes his head, half expecting Dazai to say something snide about it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just picks up their plates and walks off to the kitchen, and Chuuya listens as the faucet turns on. The sound of water rushing against metal fills the space, comfortingly rhythmic. He frowns to himself. Dazai never does the dishes. He’s the type to let them sit in the sink for days, waiting until Chuuya gets irritated enough to take care of them himself back when they lived together. But now, here he is, sleeves pushed up, scrubbing away without a single complaint.
Chuuya stifles the knee-jerk reaction to insist he can do it. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest against his knee, but he stays where he is.
The water shuts off after a minute or two. Dazai’s footsteps move past him, but instead of coming back, he disappears down the hall, and a few seconds later, another faucet turns on. Chuuya stares at the wall in front of him, his vision turning hazy again, ears filled with the distant rush of water. He exhales slowly and lets his gaze drop to his hands. His knuckles look too pale, his skin too washed out under the dull lighting. His fingers twitch again against his knee. They don’t feel like his.
Nothing does. His whole body feels foreign, like he’s watching himself from somewhere just outside his own skin. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the still-lingering hunger he can’t bring himself to actually feel, or the conversation still weighing heavy in his chest. Maybe it’s all of it.
Anger wasn’t as pleasant of a momentary reprieve as he remembered it being. It leaves his muscles sore, his mouth dry, his throat tight.
He blinks, and suddenly, Dazai is standing in front of him again. Chuuya doesn’t know how long he’s been gone, doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here, staring at nothing. He’s so tired of that—being disoriented, unaware. Always a few steps behind, watching time move around him while he’s left struggling to catch up.
“Bath’s ready,” Dazai says. His voice is low, and his face is annoyingly neutral. “Should be warm by now.”
Chuuya frowns, barely shifting enough to glare. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Didn’t need to.” Dazai shrugs. His gaze flickers over him. “You smell like you haven’t washed in days. Which, by the way, is disgusting. Now, go.”
Chuuya exhales sharply through his nose. Hypocrite. His arms tighten where they’re folded loosely against himself. The idea of standing up, of dragging himself to the bathroom, of peeling off the clothes that have started to feel like an extra layer of skin—it all sounds exhausting. His legs feel too heavy. His chest feels heavier. Just heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy.
Dazai, still in the doorway, tilts his head. “You’re gonna make me carry you, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you dare—”
But Chuuya doesn’t get the chance to finish before Dazai crosses the room and yanks him up by the wrist, dragging him halfway off the couch with an ease that pisses Chuuya off more than anything. His legs nearly buckle when he stumbles forward, but Dazai doesn’t let him fall. His arm slips around Chuuya’s waist, hoisting him up, and Chuuya is too off balance to do anything but cling. His legs instinctively wrap around Dazai’s hips to keep from slipping, and the indignity of it burns low in his chest.
“Bastard—”
“Quit whining.” Dazai’s grip tightens, adjusting slightly to keep him steady, his fingers splayed low against Chuuya’s spine. “You’ll feel better after.”
Chuuya scowls, his hands fisting into the fabric of Dazai’s shirt. His chest is still so tight, his limbs still too slow, and he hates how easily Dazai carries him. What a stark reminder it is of the time that has passed. How the Dazai he knew, the one he had once upon a time, could barely lift Chuuya even with adrenaline pumping through his veins mid fight.
The bathroom is warm, bordering on hot, steam curling against the mirror in uneven strokes, blurring the edges of their reflections (Which Chuuya is grateful for. He can't stand the thought of seeing what a mess he must look like.) The faint scent of Chuuya’s expensive shampoo lingers in the damp air—minty and herbal, with a hint of citrus.
Dazai stops at the doorway, shifting Chuuya’s weight carefully in his arms before lowering him down. He gestures vaguely toward the tub. “Go on, then.”
Chuuya’s feet touch the cool tile, and he sways slightly before finding his balance. He narrows his eyes at Dazai. “You’re still here.”
Dazai raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “You want me to watch?”
“Fuck off,” Chuuya mutters, shoving at him with less force than he intends. Dazai lifts his hands in a mock display of innocence, the corners of his mouth twitching in something too self-satisfied, but he doesn’t leave. He just turns his back, leaning against the sink, his arms folding loosely over his chest. He makes a point of looking anywhere but at Chuuya, idly dragging a fingertip along the condensation beading the mirror’s edge, smudging the faint outline of his own reflection.
Chuuya huffs, then rallies himself to muster up the energy to undress. He tugs at the fabric clinging to his skin, his fingers catch on the zipper, arms stiff as he peels away his clothes. The fabric drags and sticks in places, and he exhales sharply through his nose when he lifts his stiff arms too high. His feet shuffle unsteadily as he steps out of his pants, and the shower curtain crumples as he grips it for balance. He knows Dazai is still behind him—can hear his breath, can feel the weight of him standing there, listening.
He steps into the tub without looking back. The warmth hits him all at once, seeping into his sore limbs, dragging at the stiffness in his joints. Slowly, he sinks into the water with a sigh, the tension bleeding out of him by inches. His shoulders sag until they nearly break the surface, steam clinging to his skin, damp hair sticking to his temples. With a slow exhale, he tips his head back against the cool ceramic edge and lets his eyes slip shut.
But Dazai doesn’t leave.
Chuuya cracks an eye open, scowling. “You can go now.”
Dazai doesn’t even glance at him as he turns back around. Just hums thoughtfully, crouching down beside the tub. His arms drape over the edge like the damn bastard thinks he belongs there. “Nah. Think I’ll stay.”
Chuuya groans and slumps slightly deeper into the water. He flicks his hand just enough to splash him. The water hit Dazai’s sleeve with a dull smack, sinking into the fabric and leaving scattered, darkened spots.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re ungrateful,” Dazai whines, shaking out his arm with a theatrical flick of his wrist, sending water splattering against the tile. “I seem to recall a certain someone loving having his hair washed as a kid.”
Chuuya stills. His fingers tense faintly against the rim of the tub. His eyes harden. “Don’t.”
But Dazai only smiles, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. The fabric sticks slightly against his skin where it’s still damp. He props his chin against his hand, regarding Chuuya with a mock look of pity. “It’s a tragedy, really,” he muses. His voice teasing. “Poor Chuuya, left to suffer all alone in the bath, when he used to have someone who did all the work for him.”
Chuuya clenches his jaw. His eyes flick downward, away from Dazai’s, and he tips his head just slightly to the side, like he can ignore Dazai out of existence.
And then Dazai’s fingers are in his hair.
Gentle. Familiar. So, so careful. They move slowly, massaging loose circles against his scalp, unhurried as they ease through the tangles. Chuuya’s breath catches in his throat. His eyelids flutter against the steam-heavy air.
His body remembers before he does. The way his shoulders drop, the way his head tips forward into the touch without meaning to. Muscle memory. He hates it. Hates that it comes so easily. Hates the heat spreading behind his ribs, the way Dazai’s fingers are so warm against his scalp. The way they drag along his skin, raking his nails through damp strands of hair.
He should shove him off. Tell him to stop. Say that he’s not a damn kid.
But his body stays slack. His breath slows, warm water lapping at his skin. Dazai’s nails scrape behind his ear, and his eyes slip shut without meaning to.
And he doesn’t move.
After a long stretch of peaceful silence, Dazai speaks again. "Mm. You always did go quiet when you liked something.”
Chuuya’s eyes open, and his hand moves before he thinks. Water splashes against the side of the tub as he slaps at Dazai’s wrist, knocking it away.
“Fuck off,” he growls.
Dazai snorts, but he leans back. His arms rest over the rim of the tub, shirt still damp where the water splattered him, the fabric clinging to his skin. His hair hangs loose, clumping slightly in uneven strands. He watches Chuuya without saying anything. It's unnerving.
Chuuya slumps back against the ceramic, tilting his head to the side so he doesn’t have to look at him. Water drips slowly from his hair, sliding down the curve of his neck, and he stares dully at the far wall.
“Your hair’s so much longer than it used to be.”
Chuuya doesn’t answer. He drags his hand through the water, disturbing the stillness just enough to see the faint ripple.
“You should let me cut it.”
“Not a chance.”
Dazai’s elbow shifts slightly on the tub’s edge, but he doesn’t move closer again. "Why not?”
"You don't like it this way?"
"I like it any way."
Chuuya doesn't grace that with a response. His nails press into the skin, grounding himself as he says--before he has the chance to think better of it-- "Get in."
Dazai hums beside him. "What was that?"
He exhales through his nose and turns further away. "Bastard, you heard me. I ain't saying it again."
He hears Dazai chuckle under his breath, then stand, the telltale sound of a belt and pants clanking to the ground. A moment later, Dazai’s body settles behind him, pulling him back. His legs bracket Chuuya’s, knees brushing against his sides as he leans over Chuuya’s frame like he’s trying to engulf him. Dazai wraps his arms around Chuuya’s stomach and nudges his chin into the crook of Chuuya’s neck, smiling against his skin at Chuuya's resulting shudder.
And, god help him, Chuuya doesn’t move away.
He closes his eyes and lets himself sink against him, lets the warmth seep deeper into his muscles, lets Dazai’s fingers run up and down his sides. His breathing evens out before he realizes it has, and the ache in his chest is almost tolerable.
It’s nice. It’s fine. But it doesn’t fix anything.
Nothing ever does.
“I’m so fucking tired,” he mutters.
Dazai hums, dragging his nails lightly over Chuuya’s skin. “I know.”
“It never stops,” he whispers.
Dazai’s hands still for only a second before they pick up again, gentler this time. “No,” he agrees, voice just as quiet. “It doesn’t.”
Chuuya swallows. He almost says what if one day I can’t do it anymore? What if one day i'm not strong enough? But bites it back at the last second. Because that’s not true. He’s always survived it. He always will. No matter if some days that feels like a curse in and of itself.
Dazai must sense it anyway, because his voice comes softer, “But you’re okay.” His hands slide up, resting over Chuuya’s shoulders. “You always are.”
Chuuya exhales again. “Yeah,” he says after a long moment. Not because he particularly believes it, not because it feels true, but because it has been before. Because, somehow, it always is, despite how absolutely, bone achingly exhausted he is.
Chuuya murmurs, “How do you do it?”
Dazai tilts his head slightly, not stopping his movements. “Do what?”
“Live like this.” Chuuya shifts a little, voice rough. “It never…I don't know–” He tries to find the words. “swings for you, I guess.”
There’s a pause, and then Dazai huffs an amused breath. “That’s an awfully poetic way of calling me miserable, Slug.”
Chuuya frowns but doesn’t argue.
“The trick,” he says, “is knowing when to look for the light.”
Chuuya scoffs, tipping his head back. “That’s the most bullshit thing you’ve ever said.”
Dazai laughs, chest rumbling. “Maybe. But that doesn’t make it less true. I don’t get the luxury of burning bright. It’s just darkness, start to finish. The only thing that makes it bearable is knowing there’s still light in the world somewhere. That if I look for it, I can find it.”
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. But he knows what Dazai means—knows that he’s talking about the agency, about the people who pull him out of his own head, about the people who remind him, again and again, that there’s a reason to keep moving. Chuuya doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Just sinks further into the water, feeling the weight of his own self pity settle back in his chest.
Dazai lets the silence hang for a moment before speaking again, his voice sadder this time. “You always think the highs are better.”
Chuuya shifts. “Because they are.”
“Are they?”
Chuuya opens his mouth, ready to fire back, but Dazai doesn’t give him the chance.
“The highs scare me as much as lows,” Dazai says quietly. “When you’re up like that, it’s like watching someone running toward the edge of a cliff and knowing there’s nothing to stop them once they’ve started.”
Chuuya stiffens. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you to come,” He grumbles.
Dazai cranes his neck and glances down at him, that stupid, lazy smile of his playing at the corner of his mouth. “I know,” he says. “You never do.”
Chuuya wants to protest more, but it feels so pointless. Instead, he looks away, staring at the tiles, biting down the guilt. It crawls up his throat like something bitter.
Dazai’s fingers pause for just a moment, then keep moving, slow and steady. “You’ve done your fair share for me, haven’t you? If anything, we’re even now.”
Chuuya frowns. “I didn’t ask for that either,”
“I know. But you did it anyway.
“If you're doing this because you feel like you owe–”
“When have you ever known me to do anything I didn't want to?” Then, softly, “I really am trying to be better. I haven't always handled you with the care you deserve. Saying it's better late than never feels silly in the grand scheme of things but I am trying.”
Chuuya hesitates, then shrugs, “You're doin’ alright, I guess.”
He feels Dazai’s smile against his skin, his breath warm against the nape of his neck. “Just rest, Chuuya. I’ve got you.” For the first time in days, Chuuya slips into a semblance of peace as his head falls back onto Dazai’s shoulder. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”