Chapter Text

Odasaku… odasaku….

ゾクゾク... (zoku, zoku...)

Shiver, shiver...

ゼーゼー (zee, zee)

Wheeze, wheeze...

痛い痛い痛い痛い... (itai, itai, itai, itai...)

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts...

くそくそくそくそくそくそくそくそ！！！
(kso kso kso kso ksSO KSO KSO KSO!!!!)

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shIT, SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!!!

げー (ge—)

Bleurgh—

A convulsive, stertorous retching sound was heard from a small bathroom. A man slouched over the toilet, shaking like a wet, freezing cat. The sorry figure shivered and jerked violently, letting out a ragged, sob-like wheezing; his face was drenched in sweat and salt.

This man's name was Dazai Osamu, and right now, he was throwing up from overeating. The distress was both physical and psychological; his body was struggling to hold it all in, and his mind was screaming with bright, loud alarms. His head was splitting, his eyes were stinging. The palm of the poet was pressed against his stomach, trying to suppress another guttural heave.

Dazai hated himself for being such a mess. The detective had pushed himself to please you by eating more than his body could handle. He felt deep, burning disappointment because he didn't become good immediately after starting a closer relationship with you. To the poet, the purge felt more than just exiling the food; it was as if he were physically vomiting out the very essence of the "ordinary" life he had tried so hard to swallow.

Sitting next to the soiled toilet, Dazai's mind was clouding, spiralling... again... The shades were shrouding the clarity of his pathetic mind, and the poet was struggling to stay aware of his surroundings. He grabbed his head with wretched urgency; his fingers digging into his scalp like rakes into hard, dry soil, so hard that his digits were turning white. The way Dazai squeezed his head seemed as if he were trying to wring answers from his agonising pain... to find solutions to his predicament... or will himself to get a hold of himself.

Or, perhaps, rid himself of the morbid phlegm-like substance from his now clogged skull.

Another heave of disgusting, wet mass was swirling up his system. Anxiety now seized Dazai's frame and he desperately tried to suppress the feeling. It wasn't about the inconvenience of the mess; it was about the humiliation and guilt that made him shudder.

But he failed... failed again...

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, HOW PATHETIC—

哀れ, 哀れ, 哀れ, 哀れな—
(aware, aware, aware, awarena—)

UGH—!!

げー！！
(ge—!!)

Dazai didn't even have time to aim properly into the toilet bowl when he threw up all over the seat, the lid, and some on the floor. His exhausted, wet eyes tried to scan his work. The first thing that penetrated the mushy fog of his mind was the image of a men's public restroom, where piss was everywhere. The poet felt as hot and defiled as the piss in a men's public restroom.

Suddenly, he saw your face amidst the mist.

The "fake" poet grabbed his phone to call you, but as soon as he did, he dropped it as if it had burned. Sheer shame paralysed him—what would you have thought of him, seeing him like this? His clothes were filthy, covered in his own nasty fluids and bits of his vomit. The feeling of utter embarrassment to show his vulnerability like this made him whine in an inhuman, choked sobbing wail.

The human-shaped creature thrashed in the bathroom, trying to figure out an escape… from this torture...

The bathroom ablazed with black flames, emitting scorching heat and searing frost. Dazai's shivers grew more relentless and abusive.

The inner fog envisioned the pills—they called upon him. The soulless entity languidly reached his arm into the air, as if the blister pack would appear in his shaking palm. But when nothing happened, he groaned miserably and then began crawling towards the sickening sink. These arms were barely holding the creature straight on the edges of the basin. A pair of voids stared at the mirror that mocked him and made him desire to shatter it, using its shining shards to quell the voices.

Soon, the feet stopped listening to him, his knees gave in, and he fell back, failing to reach for his darkened hope. Dazai moaned in a silent, animalistic way. He flung his arms onto his wet, messy face to suppress his beseeching cries. His face felt hot, damp, agonising, intolerable...

The "poet" was struggling to breathe.

The creature rolled over and started crawling frantically in this deceptively clinical room, blindly searching for something, something... then his fingers clawed at the tub, clinging as if for dear life. His grip was painfully tight, his knuckles turned ashen white. The being was having a mental battle over whether to lift himself up or drop down onto the floor. The man-shaped entity was tired, so tired...

His breathing became laboured and choked. The beast desperately sank his teeth into the acrylic, making clanking and grinding sounds. The edge of the bathtub was sullied, slick with saliva. The filthy, reeking creature also let out ghastly whines, sounds resembling the restless dead that—

The door opened.

Horrified, the "poet" turned around so violently that he managed to hit his head against the side of the tub. He rubbed his hurt spot while squinting at the only door in his bathroom, the very escape route he failed to see. His breath hitched.

It was you.

Then Dazai remembered—you had told him that if he were ever struggling, he could call you and hang up immediately. It was the signal—a silent, desperate cry for help that required no words.

And so you had rushed here. For him.

Dazai was drawn to you by your beautiful writing, your unspoiled wit, and the kindness you showed Naoji from the book. He often thought about how wonderful it would have been for such a lovely, sweet person like you to find interest in a man like him, regardless of the ugly nature of his depravity.

Even at this very moment, you were not repulsed by his sorry state. No matter what kind of mess he had made or become, you didn't turn your gaze away with disgust.

But he did.

Dazai envisioned his revolting appearance through the reflection of your clear eyes. His darkened mind twisted the reality into a skewed image of himself, an image that disturbed him further with every passing second.

He felt sicker. His jaw hung open as he struggled to utter any human sounds—a strangled cry of deep distress.

A help he desperately needed but suppressed with all his might.

Suddenly, his vision blurred, and he forgot your existence. What he saw now in front of him was a statue made of cardboard, the kind of hollow support he was so accustomed to. With neither foundation nor volume, dull echoes of platitudes...

A package of empty promises...

The detective didn't see you anymore; he saw an empty shell, like a doll given to a kid to play with, alone. The bathroom seemed like his gameroom, a decorated prison he was meant to live in, and survive...

The comfort of a blinding, illusory home...

Desperation seized the poet—his hands flew to his throat, gripping and scratching. It was a fake attempt to help him breathe, to escape this grief, this bleak reality, to find any kind of release from these overwhelming feelings and sensations.

The more he scratched, the more he imagined getting better, but in truth, his nails left despairing red marks across his throat, unravelling the bandages that had already slipped from his mind.

Abruptly, Dazai felt warm softness on his wrists. The impact was so surreal that he gasped like a man waking from a stupor. He glanced at his wrists and saw gentle, delicate hands restraining him—Dazai felt delirious and panicked, but soon he was pulled back by a soothing voice:

"Osamu! Osamu... I'm here, you'll be ok, you are okay."

The detective jolted at the sound of his name; his eyes cleared a bit to see your face better. You looked calm but firm, which made him feel more grounded and less anxious.

Less psychotic...

His erratic breathing was calming down; the whistling, restrained breathing regained some volume and depth. The shivers were also more manageable.

For the first time since entering his bathroom, Dazai felt at ease, and his chest swelled with a caressing warmth upon seeing you. But the poet was still seeing dark edges in his vision, which were still clawing at his eyes. You recognised his situation.

"Listen, Osamu... I will let you go for a bit, is that ok?"

Your voice was as sweet as a siren who gave up on hunting and decided to save the drowning captain. Dazai was still dazed, still overwhelmed by all the tiring thoughts and sensations.

Then slowly, he nodded.

Before letting him go, you took a good look at him. Once you felt it was safe, you released the poor man and went to the sink. The faucet was gushing water at full strength, and you turned it down before filling a glass. You wondered if Dazai tried to get water.

But the "poet" wasn't even aware that he did that.

He wasn't even aware that he also turned the bathtub's faucet on. Luckily, the drain wasn't blocked, so the tub never had a chance to be filled with frostbiting liquid. The water vapour crept sinisterly, turning into a dangerously inviting mist, gently swirling, surrounding the tragic poet with ghostly whispers...

You gently offered Dazai the glass of water and told him that he could take a few sips whenever he wanted. The poet trusted you but didn't trust himself, so he hesitantly reached for the glass. You both were holding it, letting the cold gradually take your attention away.

Grounding.

グラウンディング (guraundingu)

Once Dazai's vision settled more or less, he began to see the dimmed bathroom more clearly, without the noise in his head. However, what he saw horrified him no less; pills were scattered around the floor, some were crushed, and some were lost... and the shave kit was ripped and the zip was broken...

カミソリ (kamisori)

The razors...

Seeing the crushed pills made Dazai imagine the grated crumbs of powder, like a white desert of his inner worth. He desired to be as small as a single speck of that small hill of sand; invisible, microscopic, lost within the white void...

But soon he felt nauseated at the thought of the bright colour; it was too pure, too blinding for his throbbing brain. Revolting, irritating, rejectaneous... Now he just wanted to be crushed to pieces like those pills on the floor, under frantic stomps of his own feet, or by some random person—just left there, bleeding with white, saturated fluids because humanity had already slipped from his pores long ago...

Dazai started to shiver again; a vibration of damnation. He felt so ashamed of himself, so much so that he wanted to die so badly, so badly that it hurt more...

Dazai harshly pulled you away, some water splashed from the glass and then—

He smiled.

スマイル (sumairu)

He smiled, as if he wasn't covered in his own half-dried puke, hot tears and sticky snot. It was a forced, pained smile.

Alien.

そえん (soen)

Your heart ached; for the first time, you saw Dazai donning an imposed mask. Of course, you've seen him perform before, but those acts were harmless, silly and charming.

This one, though... it was just cruel...

ざんこ (zankoku)

Dazai tried to push you away, to suffer alone, to prevent you from coming any closer to his void. The one he so desperately tried to protect you from and hopelessly make sense of. The very abyss he wants to submerge into, especially when everything felt meaninglessly and irrevocably harrowing.

You were simply agashed; Dazai was chirping like his usual self, like the way he carries himself at the Agency—carefree and lazily suave.

But you were having none of that.

However, you also struggled to figure out how to bring the detective back from this difficult situation. You pondered hard—how to de-escalate the psychological strangulation and the physical pain without igniting the lingering fuel even further when it just got the chance to cool down?

So you grabbed the poet's hand and squeezed it gently, looked firmly into his darkened eyes.

"Can I... hug you, Osamu?"

The cajoiling was soft and attentive, hopeful.

Your words rendered him speechless, but his smile was still plastered on his lips, like a habit, a default state; an act he practised even in his sleep. Dazai's eyes looked detached, soulless and glassy, like those of a creepy, porcelain doll.

Then his breath hitched, his eyes widened and his mouth twisted. Dazai shook his head in fear, his lower lip trembling and tears threatening to spill.

"D-don't... d-dont...!"

The man struggled to speak and he was shivering terribly again. He pressed his back against the side of the tub like a frightened animal.

"Don't look at me!!"

み (mi

な na

い i

で de

！!! )

Dazai yanked his hand from yours and tightly covered his face, audibly sobbing and wheezing.

As if the world was crowding, crushing.

You felt heartbroken, not because of what he did but how much he was suffering. It didn't occur to you that Dazai's issues were this bad, well, maybe you did, but now that you seen it so vividly...

After taking a few deep breaths yourself, you managed to clear your mind and lungs; you noticed your chest tightening, so you needed to relax first. Then, you shifted near him and started to coo sweet words, coaxing him to open up.

"Osamu, I am here, I am not going anywhere. I will stay with you."

To avoid crowding him, you started slowly shifting to his side, keeping the glass of water secured and ready. You let the silence settle for a bit, only broken by the poet's silent, sobbing rhymes.

"Can I pat your back?"

You murmured sweetly, smiling; you wanted him to feel safe, loved and appreciated. After a short moment, Dazai peeked from his arms, gaze locked on the floor.

There was a humming moment of silence.
And then, slowly, he gives a tiny nod.

The smile on your lips stretches involuntarily, feeling glad to be in his space again. Despite the pressuring weight of his soul, you found comfort in his enigmatic presence.

You started to rub his back in a slow, circular motion, subconsciously humming something to yourself. Dazai's sobbing soon ceased, and he ever so lightly, like a feather, leaned towards you. Without hesitation, you let him lean into your embrace, and then, his head rested on your shoulder.

He hugged you loosely.

"Osamu," you purred gently, "can I hug you back?"

The man mumbled, hugging you tighter, face hidden.

"I'm gross..."

キモい、キモい... (kimoi, kimoi...)

"No, not to me." You said calmly, with no sign of doubt or lie.

Dazai shuddered at your words and let out tiny hiccups. The poet was lost within his own lyrics, sounds and rhymes mixed with dreams and seams. Vectors of his sharpened mind cut through strings of his reality, but they were uneven, making it unclear which parts were actuality and which—psychedelic materiality.

After several agonising moments of hesitation, he nodded slowly.

You hugged your partner, shushing him soothingly like a sacharine spell of pixie dust from woodland's trust. "Shhh... You're ok, Osamu, it's ok... I'm here, not goin anywhere..." you petted him while embracing his smalling figure. "Let's stay here like this, as long as you need. We don't need to go anywhere, hun."

Then you gently, carefully nuzzled his temple, which caused him to shudder and whimper pitifully, but he didn't push you away. Dazai's grip on you instead tightened, and his face buried deeper into your shoulder. Dazai shook as he inhaled your scent and sighed deeply, as if he was finally able to breathe oxygen after many long years.

Both of you sat there some time in silence, momentarily broken by the poet's quiet laments. You kept rubbing his back and murmuring sweet tunes, ever so lightly rocking him back and forth. At this point, your clothes were all painted in his bodily fluids, but it didn't bother you—those traces were marks of trust and love to you.

You really didn't know how much time had passed; it felt as if all air and smells had stilled within this bathroom. You kept holding your lover in your arms gently as you began to get a better look around.

The mirror by the sink was smudged, possibly with his sweat and snot. You thought Dazai must have tried to break it, but then gave up; there were signs of fists banging at it and a palm print dragged down the glass. You also remembered that the sink was dirty, too—stained with bits of food. You wondered if he’d hurled in there and tried to clear the taint by running the water.

The pills and packs of medicine lay on the ground like stars and galaxies in a white vacuum. The crushed tablets looked like cosmic dust, painting the floor into nebulae, while the lines separating the tiles served as a notebook's margins. The scene evoked a science classroom, filled with vials and formulas.

The bathtub you and Dazai leaned against was cold, but you could also feel the lingering chill mist drifting lazily from the pit. You had turned all the faucets off, but the one in the tub was especially freezing—it was so biting that you yanked your hand away as soon as you turned the handle. It unnerved you; you weren't sure if this was Dazai's version of purification or a re-creation of the Styx.

Your gaze then reluctantly turned to the one thing reeking in the room—the toilet...

You could tell Dazai had been hurling a lot, and violently so. The smell was horrid but manageable at this distance. Seeing the visible, visceral mess, the odour seemed to intensify just by looking. Vomit was splashed everywhere—around the seat, on the floor, and even on the tank. Even from here, you could tell which bits and pieces belonged to the food he had eaten and purged.

You also noticed how the lid had been violently handled; it was smeared with fluids and skewed by force. You wondered if your lover had tried to rip it off as his body was rejecting those life-preserving substances.

By now, you had noticed his breathing calming and his sobs growing quieter. He leaned closer, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You knew what this meant; he had settled down and was more stable, though still feeble from total holistic exhaustion.

You nudged closer to his temple while carefully petting his hair. You wanted to ground him before asking: "Osamu~ Would you like to do the breathing exercise with me, hm?"

The poet shivered at first, as if he was afraid of being seen. Soon, however, his body relaxed. He peeked up at you, sniffling softly, like a small, tender animal.

Like a bunny.

うさちゃん (usa-chan)

For a moment, you felt delirious; you had seen Dazai in all sorts of lights, but most had shown only his confident, elusive, watchful, slippery, and flippant sides. Now, you saw him all meek and fragile. Sure, it was not the first time you had seen him vulnerable, but… witnessing this rarity felt surreal and morbidly exhilarating.

To a point.

And for a flicker of a moment, you felt like an onlooker observing this rare, delicate bundle of a creature. This dissociation was intoxicating, making your body feel floaty and your mind heavy.

But that soon disappeared as quickly as it had come.

You shook your head to clear your mind from that delirium, then gave Dazai a sweet smile, petting him like a newborn baby.

"Alright, Osamu, dear, I will do the box breathing now; you can follow along if you like, okey?"

And so you began the exercise; you never forced the detective to do anything, really; you knew that just being there for him was enough. You also knew that offering advice or help without expectations would be more motivating—something you've learned at your office job.

Besides, you also needed to stabilise yourself; this was a delicate, serious matter after all. No matter how much you had worked under stress and pressure at the Agency, nothing can prepare you for everything, let alone the emotional distress of your loved one.

Let alone Dazai.

Soon, though, you felt the very man breathing along with you. This almost melted you, but you managed to catch yourself before you became another mess of liquid in this already soiled space. You tried to stay as cool as possible lest you startle the bunny.

Finally, Dazai managed to sit up on his own without violent shivers and panicked breathing. The poet's listless arm moved to rest on his bent knee—this made you vividly remember the ballet dancers in Swan Lake, how their limbs wave like beautiful, snow-white wings.

However, this detective looked exhausted, a total mess, really. His gaze was dark and distant; if you didn't know better, you'd have thought he was a prop for a sick theatrical play with holes in his eyes.

"You look like you've been dug up from the bottom of Hell, and I mean, the bottomest of the bottom of Hell," you emphasised with your index finger pointed at the ceiling.

"Whichever excavation team finds you would think you've been rotting there for millennia, and they would also wonder whether you're the most prized relic in existence or the most horrid accursed object in the entire solar system."

Then you looked at Dazai with an honest, humorous smile. You weren't mocking him nor insulting; you simply spoke your truth.

The poet was motionless for several heartbeats, whether his or yours, but then he huffed a chuckle, not strong enough to be laughter. He found your blunt absurdity endearing and refreshing.

"Yeah... I do look that bad, huh?" Dazai managed a weak smile, but a smile it was.

Your smile also grew with his, and you reached out to gently rub his shoulder. "But you know..." you added coyly, "the beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, isn't it?" You couldn't help but grin at the ruined man.

His brows furrowed as he gently swatted your hand away, but then he immediately dropped his head on your lap. He loved your openness, but that didn't mean he was ready to be as open, so he did that—

non-verbal communication.
非言語コミュニケーション (higengo komyunikeeshon)

Dazai wanted, really wanted, but he couldn't, he just couldn't... to look you in the eye, to be direct, to be exposed and vulnerable with you...

It just hurts... hurts so much...
That kind of exposure, that kind of vulnerability, that heat...

Like standing on the surface of the hottest, bluest sun.

The detective wasn't ready for such destruction. Your soul was a light of luminescence—a gentle, natural emission that would make any flower bend and coil towards you. But his, Dazai believed, and he truly believed, was that of incandescence: powerful, blinding, and overwhelming. The wailing of the poet would wither any and all plants, even trees and branches.

So he lay there, on your softness and warmth, like a battered, wet kitten that felt at home for the first time in his short yet tormenting life.

You thought it was time to move on from this damp atmosphere. So you started to chat about random, light-hearted topics. You talked about how the week went, some natural events. For example, you spotted a brambling on Wednesday—you hadn't seen one in a while, so you were ecstatic to see and hear them.

You even talked about silly things, like how Atsushi ate all the gingerbread you and the other clerks had baked together. The weretiger felt too bad to let your efforts go to waste. A man of poverty has a powerful stomach, you thought—especially a young boy who also has a heart of gold.

Dazai was listening; he loved the sound of your voice. Sometimes he dreamed of doing nothing but silently enjoying your presence for the rest of his miserable life. As you spoke, the poet played with the hem of your shirt—alternating between absentmindedness and intent. He would pinch and twist the fabric as if testing its endurance, or trace slow, small circles to feel the texture against his smooth fingertips.

You felt at peace. Despite the chaos that had settled in Dazai's bathroom, you felt human—normal, even. That feeling made you subconsciously take a deep breath, which you regretted as soon as your olfactory device caught the wretched stench. You then felt something turning and moving on your lap.

As your gaze dropped, your eyes met with a glimpse of mischief. "So, you yearn for the cocks o' the north? My, my, [Y/N], I had no idea my lovely clerk had such a dirty min—" You didn't let the man finish his sentence, for it was cut short with a light bonk on his fluffy head.

Dazai groaned in theatrical pain; apparently, he was in better shape than a few minutes ago, because this poet now had the audacity to sprawl across you like a spoiled, needy cat. He was still covered in his own fluids—some of which hadn't dried yet. You didn't mind the mess, really, but now that the detective wasn't in any immediate danger, your patience was starting to thin.

After letting out a deep sigh, you pulled your lover up into a sitting position. The way he was so light and lanky in your hands made you imagine him like a curious kitten hanging in a ragdoll manner. You almost gave in to his adorable yet naughty face. Almost.

"Now, let us wash that face of yours, shall we? I'll also help you wash your clothes, hun," you announced with a caring, almost parental softness. Dazai grinned cheekily, and despite all the dirt on his face, he looked handsome and so cheerful. Dear Heavens, you loved him dearly.

The rest of the day went without an incident; it felt harmonious, actually. You washed Dazai in warm water, regularly checking the temperature after being traumatised by the cold air. He also insisted on washing you, but you didn't trust his sneaking glances, so instead you let him wash your clothes together with his. Later, you both cleaned the bathroom together, though you did most of the work because certain spots made the poet freeze in place, like where his medicine and shaving tools were scattered.

This was not the first time you had seen him having an episode, but this was the most intense yet.

You can read this fanfic in a better format on my Tumblr and Ellipsus.