Work Text:
When Dazai returns to their apartment, it's with an overflowing bouquet of roses in his hands that he places on the dining table in a flurry of dramatics always so characteristic of him. Fyodor stares at him. He stares back, one brow quirked up in the way that meant that he's waiting for their answer, though he likely already knows it.
It's a lovely arrangement, they suppose, if one were to be objective, and the flowers appear fresh and healthy. The red of the petals is darker and fuller than most of the flower shops that they pass by on the street, and they absentmindedly wonder how much he spent on it. It's not like it matters, because neither of them are wanting for money, but Dazai likes to make unnecessarily expensive purchase on their card far too often.
"Dazai, dear," they say slowly, "I'm allergic to flowers."
The pollen, to be exact, though they're likely allergic to the chlorophyll as well. The roses are stunning, but ultimately useless. Worse than useless: harmful. A waste of money and a waste of flowers, plucked from the ground for a superficial gift that will die in a couple of days anyway. Dazai won't take care of the flowers and Fyodor has no intention of doing so, either. What is the point of picking life from the ground and snapping it for a brief, forgettable moment in time?
"But I spent so much money on them," he whines, predictably, fluttering his lashes at them ridiculously like it would do anything to change the composition of their body.
"Give them to someone else, then," Fyodor says, raising a brow. Dazai scowls. "No one who knows you is going to take it as an admission of love."
His scowl deepens. He turns away from them, sniffing haughtily, to hang his coat on the hook by the door and kicks his shoes back into place from where they'd fallen. Fyodor returns to their book wordlessly as he stomps his way into the bathroom and slams the door shut with more force than needed. The hinges rattle, old and rusted, and they sigh as the sound of running water reaches their ears.
He's not truly hurt. He's upset, likely, but not by anything Fyodor had done; as it is, there is nothing they can or will do if he refuses to talk.
And, of course, he will.
He wouldn't dare to try to hide anything from them, just as they're not foolish enough to do the same to him.
When he comes out of the bathroom, hair dripping water all over fresh bandages and hanging low in front of his eyes from his shower, Fyodor only sighs again and beckons him over. He tucks himself on the ground in front of the couch, leaning his head back against them and closing his eyes without another word. The white gauze wound tightly around his neck shifts as he settles himself, but he doesn't bother to try to readjust them.
When they reach down to start untangling damp hair, the movement familiar as always, he lets out a frustrated sound and says, "we should get a divorce."
Their fingers don't stop, though they tug on a strand sharply. "Ow," he says reflexively, though there's no actual pain in the word. "No, I'm being serious."
"Enlighten me, then."
"We're not in love," Dazai answers, tilting his head back to look up at them. His eyes are empty holes, barely covered by enough ice to make them appear merely blank, and had they been anyone else then it would have likely been cause enough for concern or - God forbid - fear.
There is nothing that they are afraid of. There is nothing that they can be afraid of.
"We're married because you're a flight risk and I'm ill," Fyodor reminds him with no small amount of amusement, not quite able to keep the corner of their mouth from curling up in a facsimile of a smile. "Love was never part of the equation."
"Flight risk," he repeats, grinning. "You give me too much credit."
"Alright," they say indulgently. "We got married because you're going to kill yourself and I'm going to die."
He snorts, which likely is the wrong reaction to such a sentence, but they didn't exactly marry him for his tendency to act normal. It wasn't normal, anyway, to get married after only knowing each other for several months, but the one good thing about Dazai is that they've always understood each other. Would they have truly needed any more time?
They wouldn't have gotten it, anyway. Fyodor's life is summed up to a ticking clock measured in too-slow heartbeats and the number of times they faint in an hour. Dazai's life is a rope that he tries to hang himself with. The day they'd signed the legal paperwork, he'd still been wearing an extra layer of bandages from his latest attempt, and Fyodor ended up bedridden from a flare-up two days later.
"Kunikida and Chuuya are getting married soon," Dazai says, an indeterminate amount of time later, breaking the silence that had settled between them. They keep combing through his hair, before shifting over to braid it properly. It's gotten long, which means that soon enough he'll notice and cause a crisis and try to cut it all off. And also possibly his head, with it. He's never been one for anything other than disproportionate responses.
Fyodor hums in acknowledgement of his words, though they could honestly care less. Dazai's exes have nothing to do with them, and neither of them have ever really impressed them much.
The feeling is mutual, according to his amusement over how deeply Chuuya despises them. Kunikida is more polite about it, but they know he thinks that they're a terrible influence on Dazai, which is funny. He's far too stubborn for them to have any effect on him.
"Do you not want them to?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, then grimaces and makes a frustrated noise. "I don't care about them."
Fyodor doesn't say anything, but apparently their doubt carries over even if he's not even facing them.
"I don't," he repeats, exhaustion seeping through his voice. "I mean, I didn't exactly have a problem with breaking up with Chuuya and then ghosting him for four years. I didn't really expect to ever see him again." That's fair, they suppose, though he's shamelessly leaving out how half of his plans were simply to kill himself and be done with it. "I don't care that the two of them are together, either."
"Don't lie," Fyodor reprimands, pulling on another strand of hair as they tug it into place.
"I'm not lying," he says, "ow can you stop. I'm not. It's just the fact that they're getting married."
"Does that have anything to do with the roses on the dinner table?" they ask dryly in response. He huffs.
"It's Valentine's Day today."
Fyodor pauses, runs that back through the calendar in their head, and realizes that it is. They hadn't made the connection between the date and the holiday yet, because it wasn't like it was anything relevant to either of them. In comparison, Dazai probably didn't even know that it was February before leaving the apartment and getting accosted with the swathes of bright hearts and flowers sure to be covering half of the city right now.
"Did Nakahara propose on Valentine's Day?" Fyodor says in revulsion. It's horrifically sweet. It's exactly what Nakahara would do - and exactly what Kunikida would do as well, now that they think about it.
"They proposed at the same time," Dazai grumbles, crossing his arms and sinking lower onto the ground. They pull him up unceremoniously in order to keep braiding, ignoring how his hair has soaked their pant legs fully through with water by now.
"How awful. Dazai, you need better friends."
"I don't want to hear that from you, your only friends are your literal coworkers," he snaps, but there's no heat to it. He gets along with Nikolai and Sigma far too well for there to be.
"So," they prompt, "they're getting married...?"
They cannot stress how much they do not care about this. They do not want to be hearing about this. But it's what's apparently gotten Dazai into a mood, and if they don't make him talk about it then he'll do something stupid to try to get attention onto him and then they'll have to go clean up after him. Though, on the off chance he tries to ruin the wedding, they're not going to stop him. It would be lovely entertainment.
"Ugh," he says, and barely stops himself from throwing his head back and ruining Fyodor's work. They appreciate it. "Yeah. Kunikida was so, like, nice about it too. He was all like, Dazai, you've been married for years, right, how is that? How was the wedding? And all of that shit."
"There was no wedding," Fyodor says, and chooses not to mention the disgust dripping from his voice.
"Yeah, I know, and I had to look him in the eyes and not tell him that I signed the documents in the hospital after you stopped me from killing myself," he scoffs, waving a hand carelessly. His eye twitches at the end, though, and they sigh. There's a momentary pause, as if he was offering them the time to apologize for ruining his suicide, before he groans and keeps going. They're not going to, and he knows it. "And it was like. I don't know. I'm a terrible wife. I don't even love you."
"So you showed up with a bouquet of roses and said we should get a divorce," they say, and lean over to tug the hairtie off of his wrist and finish off the braid. "If it's any reassurance, I don't love you, either."
"It is," he hums, and it sounds just mocking enough for them to know that it's genuine. "I'm not. I'm not expecting us to be anything like Kunikida and Chuuya."
"Good," Fyodor says bluntly. "I would divorce you if you were."
"Oh, is that how I should go about it?"
"You don't actually want to get a divorce." It's not a question.
"No," he admits, and slumps over dramatically. "I don't hate the apartment. It'd be too much of a pain to find another one."
They don't laugh, but they can't help the smile that cuts its way across their face. He rolls his eyes at them, flipping them off, but it does nothing to deter them. He's always been like this, Fyodor thinks, and it's horrifyingly fond. A world in which Dazai easily speaks his mind will never exist. It's aggravating, but they find that it doesn't bother them all that much in the end. They've never struggled to understand him, after all.
"What are you going to do with the flowers," he asks, trying for casual and failing hopelessly. He rolls over so that he's splayed out over the floor, staring at the ceiling, and lets one of his arms flop out until it's resting lightly against their leg. They don't move it.
"Give them to Sigma." She'll appreciate them far more than either of them, and they can trust that she won't get the wrong idea from the gesture.
Dazai wrinkles his nose, but doesn't say anything. "I already made plans to see her tomorrow anyway. I'll give them to her then."
"Good," Fyodor says. "Get off the ground, Dazai."
"Aw, don't be mean."
"Get off of the ground," they repeat. With an exaggerated, put-upon sigh, he does so, pushing himself up with what appears to be a great amount of effort. He stumbles upon straightening properly, but only flashes them a grin.
"Happy Valentine's Day," he tells them. Fyodor gives them a pointed look, but he remains unfazed, only raising his brows in response and waiting patiently. This absolute disgrace of a man, honestly.
They sigh, pointedly reaching over to pick their book back up. "Happy Valentine's Day, Dazai."
He laughs brightly, light footsteps tapping on the ground as he leaves the room.