synopsis: you and dazai are good friends, a strange pairing for sure, but it seems to work. you're selfless, a little ray of sunshine, caring, doting, and all-around attentive. at least, that's what everyone else seems to think, since that's how you prefer it. some days are harder than others, and you don't want to bother anyone with those days. however, it isn't lost on your friend what you can become if he isn't there to constantly occupy your mind.

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

It can be hard sometimes, being the strong one, because you’ve come to learn that Dazai needs you more than you thought. The suicidal tendencies that he played off as a joke were more than that, silent cries for help hidden behind laughter and comments of “on to the next one” when they fail. Any time one of those measly little jokes were made, you’d wait until you two were alone in your apartment that he was always barging into, and you’d put him in a cautious verbal corner.

“How are you today, Osamu?”

When you first asked, he merely chuckled, wearing that big grin he always does, and he tilted his head like you were a child asking such a silly question.

“I’m alive, I’m well,” he responded, a generic answer, before grasping your wrist to sit on the couch with him to enjoy a show or movie he picked out. However, you noticed that while you two sat there, his fingertips found your palm, tracing absentmindedly along the cracks, and something in his empty stare at the screen had made you realize that maybe the problem was that he’s alive.

The second time you had asked, you got the same response, that carefree smile on his face, and he pulled you along to the kitchen so he could root through your cabinets for a snack.

The third time, his smile wasn’t nearly as bright, but he said “alive and well” regardless, and took a walk with you along the sidewalk. The streetlights illuminated your guys’ way, his hands at his sides, and yours behind your back.

It was the fourth time you asked that he just stared at you, mildly wide-eyed, before his face visibly fell. The smile he tried forcing through was nothing like the others, and he said: “I’m alive.” He sat on what he indirectly declared to be “his” side of the couch, curled in on himself, and stared at the television. He didn’t say anything else, aside from telling you goodbye when he finally decided to leave your apartment to head back to his dorm.

The fifth time around, he didn’t bother answering. You were at his dorm that time, engaged in a chess match you were horribly losing, then he suddenly knocked over his king in forfeit, and you blinked. You were sitting with your legs crossed under you, cheek propped on your fist, and you were thrown off by the action since he liked to finish the round at the very least.

“What exactly are you hoping to achieve by asking me something like that?” Dazai was blunt, a sharp edge you weren’t used to in his words, and weren’t sure how to answer that. Your eyebrows twitched together, caught off guard, given that you were trying hard to focus on the game, and not at all expecting this kind of reaction.

“I just wanna know how you’re doing, that’s all,” you made an attempt at what you thought was a fairly basic answer – not necessarily a lie, but not specific.

“Why don’t you start asking more interesting or introspective questions? Why don’t you ask what I’m thinking about? Or what I did today? You’re always asking me how I feel,” he scoffed with a roll of his eyes, beginning to clean up the board, a way to busy his bandaged hands, and you watched as he did this, lingering on the gauze that he covers himself in. Always wondering why he does but never bringing yourself to ask. It felt too personal of a question, something you weren’t granted the privilege to take the bobby pin to and listen for a cracking of the lock. Questions you wanted to ask were harder to force the words from your mouth. A simple ‘how are you’ was the closest you could come to an allowance of his vast psyche.

You stared at him a moment longer, his face scrunched up in annoyance, hair falling in his irritated eyes, and your voice dropped to a whisper: “Your suicide jokes don’t sound like jokes. And I worry.” Your gaze downcasted, picking at the bottom of your pant leg, and the jumbling of pieces stopped as he stared at the empty board. “I… Won’t ask you anymore if it upsets you this badly. I’m sorry, Osamu.” He slowly sat himself up straighter, keeping his line of sight on the chess surface, and he swallowed. An ache, something he hadn’t felt in quite a while, tugged and pulled at his chest, and it made him grimace – something you couldn’t see.

He forced with all his mental might that beam onto his face, lips stretched wide and eyes closed, trying to look cheerful, as if he hadn’t just made you feel as though you were bothering him, and he laughed it off. As he always does. “Come on, I’m alive, and I’m well. You don’t have to worry about a thing. You of all people should know I’m overdramatic!” He laughed again, so convincing for anyone else, but seeing as you spent quite a bit of forced time around him, you knew it was a farce.

What a sweet thing you are, to worry over something as hateful as me.

You pushed out the best giggle you could muster in the moment, to go along with him, but even the strap of your mask was getting a little too loose.

The more you cornered him, though, asking him with genuine interest and authentic concern how he was – in more moderation than before, he started breaking down bit by bit. You had begun to tear down his walls, and he would seek you out for help to get them built back up. He broke into your apartment a lot, to the point you stopped locking the door so he could waltz right in as if he lived there. Sometimes you’d find him sitting in your living room, curled up on the couch with the small throw blanket laying haphazardly along his body, staring at the back cushion or taking a cat nap. Other times he’d be in your room, poking your cheek until you stirred awake, his hand immediately flying to your screaming mouth so you don’t accidentally wake or startle others in the building – him giggling and hushing you, begging you to play a round of chess with him, despite both of you knowing you’re going to lose, or turning on some theatrical retelling of a romantic tragedy. He’d show up at all hours of the day if he were available, sometimes even before you got home, sitting on the couch with his legs sprawled out, or helping himself to your bed wrapped in your covers, and his face buried in your pillow. Every so often you’ll catch him in a recognizable oversized hoodie that he bunches the sleeves in his fists while watching TV or waiting for your move on a boardgame, him walking out the door with it on, and realize you’re missing one from your closet. It’ll magically reappear, suspiciously after another visit from the detective, freshly washed and doused in a familiar cologne, like a strange trade-off.

You haven’t figured out why he finds his way to you like this, knowing he has plenty of other friends to hang out with or pester, but that’s just how he is. You’ve accepted it. You didn’t mind, you never minded; he wasn’t a burden to you. Things could just be a little hard.

The truth was, though, no matter how many times he drones on and on about being able to take care of himself and that he doesn’t need help, or pity, or doting hands, Dazai secretly likes how much attention you pay him. He likes that you grant him permission to bombard you, invade your home and space, munch on some of your snacks, play games with him to keep his mind occupied, watch his favorite movies and shows with him. He likes bothering you, because you never seem to mind, you never treat him like he’s a nuisance. You fall for his taunting and “ragebaiting” easily, giving him entertainment when the silence gets to be too much, watching as you yell at him with a dazzling glint in his chocolate eyes, a mischievous grin on his lips, and more irritating things spilling out of his mouth so you’ll continue. He’ll do it when you stop by the agency he works at to drop off a lunch he asked you to pick up for him; he’ll do it when you’re walking around in public, like the mall, the park, or museums; he’ll do it when it’s just the two of you in his dorm or at your apartment, not wasting the energy to tell you to quiet down; and he’ll especially do it when you’re apart, a message coming through that sends you spiraling while you’re at work, and your coworkers are left wondering who got you so wound up.

Dazai notices, though, when you think you’re hiding it well enough. When you’re shoving all of that time, effort, and energy into your savior complex, the mask you’re wearing will start slipping, and you’re too preoccupied to ensure it’s fixed. He notices when it gets too quiet, so quiet he wants to cover his ears and look to you for his usual comfort, only to realize you are the cause for the deafening silence. Huddled into “your” corner of the couch, that dead-eyed stare he’d recognize anywhere, similar to something he has seen in himself, as you look past whatever’s on the screen. He can see the gears in your brain slowly come to a halt, and he knows if you sit too long, let it fester, you’ll become like him. A very real fear he has, that it will all be too hard too quickly, and there won’t be anything he can do any longer. So, he’ll pester you. It’ll snap you right back, puzzled at first, eyes wide, until he starts rattling off more infuriating things that cause you to yell back at him for being “so annoying”. And he’ll laugh, grabbing your flailing wrists while he hushes you into a pout, because at least that’s better than falling into the hole you were digging for yourself.

The world can only handle one person like me, and I can’t handle an outcome like this for you.

It’s hard sometimes, being the strong one when it comes to Osamu Dazai, because it took so much selfless effort to be granted such a privilege, the allowance to walk right through the gates he had made within those walls, just for you. You still need a password to get in, but it isn’t nearly as complicated as you thought it would continue to be. It’s hard because there are days that his suicide jokes don’t sound like jokes, that strike you like an out-of-tune chord, that cut through your hazing mind, that bring you down from reality to the nothingness you have to claw your way out of every chance you get.

His attempts you stumble upon, a silly smile on his face and a dumb joke that follows, seeking your assistance out of it, and he can only seem to say: “I guess that’s not a successful method, considering I had to inconvenience you.”

You, oh selfish you, never understand why he would make such a stipulation to his attempts that they can’t inconvenience anyone else. Why would you ever be thinking of others when the bell tolls faintly in the back of your mind, beckoning you to follow the winding staircase into the abyss, and those bordering flirtatious offerings of committing double suicide don’t sound so bad. When the ache is a slow burn, a permanent feeling of suffocation in the icy depths of the ocean, watching as the sunlight above gradually gets smaller and smaller while you sink to the bottom. You who had placed the rocks in your pockets before falling backward. Would it be so terrible to have someone hold your hand on the way down?

You don’t want him pulling you out, not when he can barely swim on his own.

You sit alone on your couch in the living room, the TV playing something random, something you didn’t really pick, just background noise. White noise. Your gaze seeps past the screen, into its wiring and hardware, wanting to gut it and tangle yourself in the mess, get lost in those protected copper ropes, a helpless thought that maybe today is the day. 

The cushion beside you dips, a closeness stopped by respectful space. You know that weight, your mind telling – no, screaming at you to pick your mask up off the floor where you let it drop, but your body doesn’t listen. Your brain is running on empty, the haze you sift through every morning, every waking moment spent wading in it, has been rising all week. It has gotten too high now for you, swimming, then floating, until even that is too much. Maybe he’ll think you’re just too enthralled with what’s happening, invested in the plot, the characters portraying such emotion that it could be believable. Enough to move you.

However, Dazai already knows. He had been watching you from the entryway to your living room, silent after a few gentle calls of your name that you apparently couldn’t hear. He didn’t want to startle you, his steps light and cautious, circling around the couch to observe the side of your face, and it was then he understood why you took those few moments every single day to ask him how he was doing. Should he extend the courtesy, or is it too obvious, written all over you in your clenched fists and dazed expression, in your unmoving body? In the far away look in those usually bright and sparkling eyes, alight with affection and adoration, now dimmed to nothing? Not even a spark?

Your brain connects enough to make your neck move, head turning in what feels like slow motion, tearing your disinterested gaze to meet his, those usually impish chocolate irises hold something you don’t think you had witnessed in him yet, and you think your vile mind may be playing tricks on you: he appears concerned. Worried. You blink, just as slowly, before a broken smile cracks on your lips.

“Hey,” you manage, hoarse from not speaking to anyone all day. “How are you, Osamu?” His chest twists, an atypical sensation for him, at that question, hoping it’s because you’ve coerced yourself into a habit. A bad one, where you have made yourself believe you need to be checking in on him constantly, even when the devastation swirling in and out of your mind is so clear. Prominent.

“Hey,” he greets in return, reluctantly keeping his hands to himself as he clutches them tightly together in his lap. “I’m worried about you, my sweet darling.” He murmurs, telling the truth for once, and that already wavering smile crumbles down into neutrality. He’s swimming in after you, and that is worrisome. What if I drag him down with me? Will he let me? You hum, turning your head back to face the screen, the story lost on you, the plot a jumbled mess, and, honestly, the actors aren’t doing a great enough job convincing you that they might actually be in love.

“There’s no need to worry, I’ll be alright,” you assure, nowhere near as convincing as you think you are being. “Just one of those days.” One of those days where your clothes are too tight, no matter how loose you made them, how large they are; where no matter what position you sit in, you’re not comfortable; where your feet are always cold, even in the midst of summer; where your hands shake because you haven’t bothered to get up and burden yourself with the chore of eating. One of those days where the sirens in that black hole have persuaded you into listening as they sing choruses about how everyone you know, have ever known, and will ever know hates you, how they find you to be a task they want to procrastinate for as long as they can. You listen as they lure you with soft melodies of how no one will ever love you the same way you love others, that the emptiness you feel in your heart will last for the rest of your days. They wrap their scaly hands around you in a false sense of security, humming whispers of how they can take you elsewhere, drag you through the depths, before they rip you apart and leave you to die.

“You don’t mind me sitting here with you then, do you?” He asks, tone gentle, watching you as you sigh heavily. “I did walk all the way here, ya know.” He chuckles lightly, trying now to draw you out, that life vest already in his hands that he isn’t sure if he should toss it out in hopes you’ll grab it on your own, or dive overboard and help put it on you himself. He leans forward, trying to catch your attention, because how much I crave your attention, but it seems you’ve gone elsewhere. Left without him, and how badly he wants to be wounded by that, all those advances he’s made that you’ve dodged, just to leave him behind.

“I think I just need to lie down, and I’ll be better after,” you mutter, but you again make no moves, struggling to listen to the signals being shot out in random spurts from your brain. His eyes are intently trained on you, noticing your struggle, and a weird guilt begins to eat away at him. Have you always been this way, and he selfishly ignored it due to his own melancholia? Due to his own desire to have your affection, at his beckon call every chance he could get, because his selfishness was deep rooted in something he pushed down into his own oceanic abyss? Daring it to try swimming up to drag him down, prepared to fight it every step of the way?

“Can I touch you?” He asks, the words tumbling out before he realizes what’s happening. A small, wry laugh comes out of you, side-eyeing him with a tiny mischievous glint in your eye.

“Osa, now isn’t the time for your shameless flirting,” you can get a joke out, this is good. A slight upward turn of his lips eases your tension. He waits, though, for a real answer. You nod once, unsure what he meant, but you know he can be serious when needed, and this is one time you need him to be. The couch shifts, the loss of him immediate, and you grow colder. An arm is carefully placed on your back, then another under your knees, effortlessly lifting you into the air, and you don’t give much of a reaction. This is new, but you can’t exactly find it in you to care, aside from resting your head on his shoulder. That all too familiar scent of his cologne that wafts around in your closet is now wrapping you up, silently calling you back with the ease it gives, subconsciously getting as close to him as you can.

The guilt then eats away at you. How dare you rely on someone else, someone that needs you more than you would ever need him, to bring you comfort. To provide you solace. A semblance of relief. You aren’t supposed to need help, you’re supposed to be the helper, the one those go to for their problems, the one who solves them. Why are you being carried off from the spot you decided to rot? How dare your heart twist into a knot at the feeling of someone else making it known they care about you just as deeply as you care about others. How dare you, how dare you, how dare you.

He walks you to your room, a path he knows well from taking trips there himself, with or without you. He delicately sets you down on your bed, the mattress dipping with your body, and you almost wish it would snap up to swallow you whole. Blankets engulf you instead, freezing to the touch when they connect with your skin, causing you to shiver and shrink down further into the covers. He crouches down in front of you, fretting amber eyes peeking at you from over the edge, brushing some hair from your barely opened eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s never been good with words, with reassurance, but he wouldn’t dare leave you there alone like that. Not when this is the worst he’s ever seen you; as if he stumbled upon a secret side of you, one where he is equally intrigued as he is frightened.

You two stare at one another, his warm fingertips tracing along the side of your face, creating his own route to your cheek, up the slope of your nose, then starting over. The sting of annoying tears hit in the corners of your eyes, lowering your gaze because you can’t look at him anymore, his wandering fingers finding their way into your hair, and this is weirdly intimate, even for you. You don’t hate it, of course, just… surprised.

“Want company?” He asks, his head laying on his other arm, unable to think of anything else to say to you. Unable to know what to say. The chatterbox he is, a silver tongue to boot, and he’s suddenly at a loss for words. He had a decent idea that you weren’t always this “sunshine” person, that there was something else there, but you wouldn’t show it at first. Just like him. It’s an unfortunate reason why he feels drawn to you, someone who understands. He understands you, too, Icarus. How much closer to the sun do you need to go before you let your wings melt? Or is it all on purpose? Were you hoping to swan dive? Were you hoping someone would be at the bottom willing to catch you, your silent cry for help, or would you prefer to hit the ground and suffer the consequences? Without me?

“You did come all this way here,” you croak, another disconnected upturn of your lips. He offers you a small smile in return before getting to his feet, padding around your bed, and climbing in beside you. His bandaged arms slink around your shivering body, pulling you back so you’re flush with his chest, wrapping and entangling his legs with yours, trying to transfer all of his body heat so you can be warm. This is also new – despite his clinginess, Dazai wasn’t really one for cuddling. For holding someone.

You joked with him once, after he had finished telling you about yet another conquest of some poor girl he convinced to crawl into bed with him, if he at the very least did bare minimum aftercare. He blinked, a slight tilt of his head at the question, and his brow arched, puzzled, then said: “What? Like cuddling? No, I don’t really do that.” That struck you for some reason, more so astonished than hurt, because he seemed to you like someone who would want that kind of contact. Given the fact he was constantly touching you.

“You know,” he whispers in your ear, breaking through the oceanic haze, your tired eyes staring at the wall across from you. “You don’t have to hold yourself together all the time for me.” He breathes out a light chuckle, tickling on your skin, and your eyebrow twitches, but his face falls instantly. “I… I can carry some of your burdens too. I’m not as weak as you have made yourself believe.” You sigh, heavily, your lashes fluttering as your lids drop closed. Your hand found his, finger tracing circles over his knuckle, and you have a new wave of guilt shoving you down into that hateful current.

“I just–”

“You’re too sweet and kind for your own good,” he murmurs, knowing the defense you're about to pull, his cheek resting against your head, and staring ahead as well, relaxing at your light touch. “Maybe we can’t always take turns, who needs who more, but at least we can lay like this. So we aren’t alone.” He continues, taking himself by surprise by everything he’s saying. “I guess I’m just trying to say that you can come to me, when you’re like this. I’m not the best on comfort, but I’ll do my best. Whatever you need, tell me. I’ll try.” You carefully roll over, to face him, his arms a little looser to allow your movement, and his hand comes up to gently wipe at the corner of your eye. You scoot closer, your own arms making way around his torso, clinging to his broad shoulders, and you finally feel anchored. You sigh, content, placing your forehead on his chest and closing your eyes again.

“Just hold me, Osamu. This is enough.”

And he did. He held you until you fell asleep, breathing even and steady. The silence that once ate away at him, a damning quiet that was usually so loud, overbearing, caused his mind to ease, his guard to drop, and he wondered to himself why he never bothered holding someone this close before.

I didn’t know I could be this warm.