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It’s nearing 1 A.M.
Outside is quiet, barely any cars driving past; only the drone of the heater and Dazai’s own thoughts filter through his mind. He lays in bed, knowing sleep likely won’t come for another few hours if at all, yet trying to just at least relax anyway. He can barely see in the nearly pitch-black room. Somehow, the colors that fly through his view when he closes his eyes is brighter — and much more unpleasant.
He hums, his hand clutching onto his pillow. The air around him is cold (that heater probably needs to get checked out), cold in a way that’s familiar and he’s only ever missed when feeling especially low nowadays. He huffs, rolling over, reaching out and dragging his phone over beside him. He chuckles when he sees all the calls from a certain someone, ones he’s never bothered to return — and probably never will — knowing that even if their bond isn’t the same as one he once had, the other has a good sense of when danger is near.
Dazai knows he was much more useful back then, when discomfort was home and humanity was disregarded as a necessity. He knows the Agency respects him and how he processes things, knows that they won’t ever let him reach that limit again and would rather him miss a month of work in favor of a shitty dorm rather than a container near the port. But he didn’t crave things this way before. He wanted crab and decent bandages, sure. But not this. Not some way to occupy his hands that didn’t involve a weapon. Not company, where he felt a sharp sting in his heart when he knew he wouldn’t ever be able to know someone the way normal people did.
He’s getting up before he even tells his body to. His pajama pants sag — a size or two too big, so he can wear them for longer. He has to brush his hair out of his eyes — he needs to cut it soon. He’s half-asleep, slinking through the dorm to the front door, trudging through the halls.
When Dazai arrives at the residence he’s second most familiar with (following his own), he doesn’t move to knock. Doesn’t try to lockpick his way in. His head thumps agains the door lightly, slumped to where he’s staring at his feet, only able to hear the sound of his breath in his ears. He blinks, and suddenly he’s moving, falling, letting out a yelp before he registers what’s going on.
He lands on something firm, but not hard. It doesn’t hurt when his cheek thuds against it. He groans anyway, grumbling as he straightens himself up.
“…Hi.”
“Hey,” Dazai drawls, a lazy smile growing on his face. “Did I interrupt your beauty sleep?”
“No,” Kunikida hums shortly, shaking his head. His posture’s loose, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, hair no longer in a ponytail and instead draped down his shoulders. Dazai raises a brow, but hums, walking through to the bedroom like it’s his own place; Kunikida follows about a minute after, and Dazai can hear the door shut, lock, unlock, and lock again, only then followed by gentle footsteps.
The brunet stops in the doorway, staring at the surprising total mess that is the other man’s bed. The comforter is tugged half-off, one pillow on the side and one at the head, with a notebook, pencil, and crayons strewn about. Crayons?
He peeks over his shoulder, scanning Kunikida’s face. There’s something off, something that couldn’t just be chalked up to tiredness. His brows aren’t tensed, but he’s biting his lip, and he quickly looks down at the floor the moment Dazai turns his head.
“Sooo,” Dazai drones, walking over and plopping down onto Kunikida’s bed. He grabs the crayons, looking through the color assortment. “You love green, huh? You’ve got, like, eight hundred different kinds.”
Kunikida pouts, “there’s only four.”
“Uh-huh, that’s what I said.”
“They all have different, um,” he fumbles, looking around the room, “Purposes. To use.”
“I see,” Dazai nods, slowly, putting the crayons back on top of the notebook. “You’re usually asleep right now.”
Kunikida shrugs, now padding over to sit in bed beside the other. Words are failing him, a little bit, and he’s never been able to gauge just how much Dazai can read using solely body language and facial cues. He’d never considered the possibility of anyone being there during times like this, though maybe that was a fault of the cotton candy clouding his brain.
He likes clouds. They make nice shapes sometimes, and look nice against a blue sky. He doesn’t really like storm clouds, though; the rain exhausts him in a weird, comforting way, and the grays of the clouds and sky blend together at those times.
But he digresses.
“Hi,” he says again, more sheepish this time, peeking over at Dazai.
“Hello,” Dazai replies, tilting his head. He glances over Kunikida’s face, looking for something — just not exactly sure what. Kunikida stares back, not enjoying the feeling in the back of his head from his partner’s scrutiny.
“I was coloring.” He looks back down at his lap. “Drawing,” he corrects himself.
Dazai smirks, though it’s not in the cocky way Kunikida can recognize anywhere, anytime. “Yeah? What were you drawing?”
“Grass,” Kunikida murmurs, grabbing his notebook, “Cat—s… Caterpillars.”
“Do you like caterpillars?”
“Yes.”
“Why? They’re kinda gross, honestly. I never liked looking at them.”
“They’re not,” the blond snips, glaring at Dazai, “They grow into nice things, and they eat plants. They’re like us.”
“I don’t see it.” Dazai shrugs, unsure if he’s spewing nonsense or if there’s actual thought behind what he’s saying.
Kunikida doesn’t respond, standing back up only to walk around to the other side of his bed and slip in under the covers. Dazai simply watches as he picks up the notebook and crayons, tucking it into the drawer of his nightstand neatly, and takes off his glasses to put on top.
“Bedtime? So soon?” The shorter teases, smiling with a furrow in his brow. All he gets is a curt nod in return. “Well, I hope you don’t mind me joining,” he sing-songs, sliding in under the covers as well. “Should I turn the lamp off?”
Kunikida shakes his head, turning his head back to Dazai. He looks almost scared; he just won’t stop puzzling the prodigy.
The lamp is warm, with a vintage-like shade. It does its job well, enveloping the whole room in light, yet not obstructingly so. It’s like a gentle embrace, protecting the kid from what the darkness can bring. He settles into bed properly, lying on his side with a hand beneath his cheek.
He waits a moment more, fighting his eyelids, to make sure Dazai doesn’t deprive him of that warmth before sleep overtakes him the way it does to a real child after a long day of energy and play — even if what Kunikida spent his time doing was nowhere near actually tiring, the period of relaxation encouraged his exhaustion to properly make itself known. But it’s not uncomfortable, nor is it debilitating; it’s just a message, the closing scene for his body for today.
He feels safe beside the warmth of his partner; no matter how much the man tries to rid himself of his humanity, he will always be an anchor, a constant Kunikida can rely on, as wild as that constant is. He feels content from the gentle, playful tone, from the bit of attention he’d never been able to prepare himself for. As strict as his routines and expectations are, he appreciates the surprise. He hopes he can draw some trees and apples and grass and caterpillars with Dazai tomorrow, with his hair down and clothes soft. Maybe he can help brush Dazai’s hair. Maybe they can watch a movie together. Even with as long as he’s lasted without it, he hopes he can have some company again, maybe always from now on.