Work Text:
Dazai had always maintained that if he was going to suffer, it should at least be interesting. There was a certain dignity to dramatic suffering.
This was not that.
This was a dull, persistent misery—the kind that sat behind his eyes and in his bones, the kind that made the world feel slightly out of focus. His head throbbed when he moved, his throat hurt when he swallowed, and his body couldn’t seem to decide whether it wanted to freeze or combust. Every joint felt vaguely offended; even his fingers ached in a way that seemed personal. He’d spent the better part of the morning wrapped in a blanket on the futon, dramatically wilting, accomplishing nothing except developing a profound resentment for the concept of being alive.
“This is,” Dazai announced hoarsely, “deeply humiliating.”
Ranpo didn’t look up from where he was standing in the kitchen, rummaging through Dazai’s mostly-empty cabinets with an air of mild irritation. He was making noise on purpose—doors opening and closing, drawers pushed shut a little too hard—like the apartment itself was being organized against Dazai’s will.
“You’re sick,” he said. “It’s not a personality flaw. You’ve got plenty of those.”
“It absolutely is,” Dazai replied. “And no I don’t.” He shifted, trying to get comfortable, and failed. The movement sent a pulse of pain through his skull that made him hiss under his breath, and the blanket slid off his shoulder. He didn’t fix it. “I sound terrible. I feel worse. My head is splitting open. I might actually perish—ah, well, you know, maybe this isn’t so bad.”
Ranpo found what he was looking for—a box of tea—and shut the cabinet with his elbow. “You’re not dying.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Ranpo said easily. “If you were dying, you’d be quieter.”
Dazai scowled at the ceiling. It was unfair that Ranpo knew him this well while also refusing to indulge him. His nose was stuffed up enough that breathing felt like a personal insult. “You’re being very unsympathetic.”
“I’m being accurate.”
Setting a kettle on the stove, Ranpo turned the burner on, then finally glanced over. His gaze flicked over Dazai in one quick, assessing sweep—the flushed skin, the unfocused eyes, the way he was slumped like gravity had personally betrayed him. Dazai had the sudden, unpleasant awareness of being catalogued.
“You look gross,” Ranpo added.
“Wow,” Dazai muttered. “And here I thought today couldn’t get any worse.”
With a shrug, Ranpo walked over, unceremoniously tugging the blanket back up around Dazai’s shoulders. His hands were warm. Efficient. He didn’t linger. The contact sent a brief, embarrassing wave of relief through Dazai anyway.
“You’re sweaty,” Ranpo said. “Don’t kick this off again.”
Dazai opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. The truth was, he had already been cold five minutes ago. His body had betrayed him on multiple fronts today. Begrudgingly, he settled under the blanket, sulking.
“I hate being sick,” he said after a moment, quieter now. His voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word.
“I know.”
That annoyed him, too.
Dazai watched Ranpo move around the apartment, grabbing things—tissues, medicine, a thermometer—like this was all deeply routine. Like Dazai being feverish and miserable wasn’t notable or alarming or worthy of commentary.
“You’re being weirdly competent about this,” Dazai said. “I thought you didn’t like boring things.”
Ranpo snorted. “You’re not special.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” Ranpo pressed the thermometer into Dazai’s hand. “Under your tongue. Don’t talk.”
Dazai made a face but complied. He hated that he did. He hated that his body felt heavy and uncooperative, that even rolling onto his side took effort. He stared at Ranpo’s knees from his position on the futon, watched the familiar sway of him pacing while he waited.
When the thermometer beeped, Ranpo plucked it back out and squinted at it. “Low-grade fever.”
“See?” Dazai rasped. “I’m burning up.”
“You’re barely trying.”
“That is incredibly rude.”
Ranpo set the thermometer aside and crouched in front of him, close enough that Dazai could smell the faint sugar-sweet scent of the candy Ranpo was always eating. He reached out and pressed the back of his hand briefly to Dazai’s forehead, then to his cheek.
Dazai froze.
It was nothing. Barely a touch. But his skin felt too sensitive, too aware of everything. He swallowed, suddenly very conscious of how wrecked he must look.
Ranpo pulled back immediately, satisfied. “Yeah. You’re warm.”
Weakly, Dazai laughed. “You say that like it’s a scientific breakthrough.”
“It is,” Ranpo said. “For you.” He stood again and went back to the kitchen. Dazai watched him go, a strange, uncomfortable tightness settling in his chest that had nothing to do with congestion.
“This is stupid,” Dazai muttered.
“What is?”
“This,” he gestured vaguely with one hand. “You doing this.”
Ranpo glanced back over his shoulder. “You’d whine and complain if I didn’t even more than you’re doing now.”
“Hey. That’s different.”
“Ah, enlighten me then. How so?”
Dazai opened his mouth, then stopped. His head hurt too much to finish the thought, so he slumped back into the pillows, defeated.
A minute later Ranpo brought him a mug and shoved it into his hands. “Drink.”
Dazai stared into it. Steam curled up toward his face. “What is it?”
“Tea.”
“That’s vague.”
“Tea that will make you shut up.”
Dazai sniffed it suspiciously, then took a careful sip. It was warm and sweet and did, annoyingly, make his throat feel a little better. He hated that, too.
“I could be faking,” Dazai said. “You know.”
“You’re bad at it,” Ranpo replied. “You don’t fake being quiet.”
Dazai huffed a laugh and immediately regretted it as his head protested. Stars sparked behind his eyes for a moment. He leaned his head back, eyes closing without quite meaning to.
Ranpo didn’t comment when he did. He just reached over, adjusted the blanket again, and sat down beside Dazai on the futon with his feet tucked up.
Dazai cracked one eye open. “You’re staying.”
“Obviously.”
“…Why?”
Ranpo glanced at him like the answer was painfully obvious. “Someone has to make sure you don’t do something stupid.”
Exhaustion pulling at the edges of his thoughts, Dazai smiled faintly. “You’re so bossy.”
“I’m correct,” Ranpo said. “Now drink your tea or go to sleep.”
Dazai placed the mug on the kotatsu and closed his eyes again, grumbling under his breath—but he didn’t argue. He let the warmth of the tea settle in his chest, let the steady presence beside him anchor him in place.
Without warning Ranpo reached out and pushed Dazai’s hair back from his forehead. He used two fingers, brushing damp curls aside like it was mildly annoying they were in the way. His thumb lingered at Dazai’s temple.
“Your face is hot,” Ranpo murmured.
Dazai made a small, wordless noise and leaned into it before he could stop himself. He felt his cheeks heat up even more.
Being sick was still miserable.
But it was… tolerable.
Which was somehow worse.