Chapter Text
“It’s just a scratch, chibi, quit whining.” Dazai is currently putting a bandaid on Chuuya’s forehead where a small cut continues to bleed sluggishly. Head wounds always bled terribly.
A tiny electric current shocked through him as his fingers brushed the redhead's skin. Meanwhile, a scowl remained on Chuuya’s face.
He was pouting because he’d been hit with a piece of gravel as they had been fighting an ability user who could control the land. Chuuya had gotten distracted for a moment because earlier that day, Dazai had pranked him by putting a slug in his hat. After nearly an hour of wearing it, he’d noticed because the slug had burrowed its way into Chuuya’s hair. Chuuya was mid chewing Dazai out as the ability user had snuck up on them and he’d gotten hit and his ego hurt. Hence, the pouting. The ability user was long dead, now. Curb-stomped and shot thrice, lying dead on the ground.
Once he was done bandaging the cut, Dazai stepped away from his partner, shoving his hands in his pocket. “Chuuya can do the report for morning?” It wasn’t a question, just confirmation; to which Chuuya nodded.
“Alright then. Goodnight, chibi.” Dazai moved to turn away but stopped when a hand wrapped itself around his forearm.
“Wait. You wanna get dinner?” Chuuya asked. It wasn’t a strange question. They get food together after jobs all the time. And it was dinnertime, after all. A tiny part of him wished he could feel the guilt he used to about turning Chuuya down. Now, he just feels empty.
“If only, slug. But unfortunately, Mori has requested to speak with me tonight. It’s almost never good news, so I highly doubt I’ll be in the mood for company afterwards.” Chuuya frowns at his tone. Dazai is not in the mood that night to be fake, so he’s aware that his voice and face resemble his nickname. A dead fish. Dazai is exhausted.
He doesn’t truly have a reason to be, either. Work hasn’t been any more difficult than normal. In fact, it might be a little slower than normal this month. But Dazai is not what most would call the picture of good mental health. He’s always struggled with an assortment of mental illnesses. He’s also always been on a myriad of pills for them since as long as he can remember. Anti-depressants, ADHD meds, anxiety meds, he gets chronic migraines, so he’s on a pill for that as well.
But it was the anti-depressants that had changed recently. He had to switch from the old ones because he had lost weight recently. A lot of it, actually. So, he’d fallen out of the range to be able to take the other ones without feeling high as a kite because of his new lightweight status. But the new ones made him feel dead, so he'd stopped taking them.
It had been a week since, and he’d been slowly slipping back into a hole. All he felt nowadays was tired. Chuuya, who could usually pull him out of his moods, was unaware of the situation. He wasn’t completely in the dark, however. He’d have to be pretty dense to not realize that something was wrong with Dazai in the head. Plus, they’d had overnight missions where they’d have to share a hotel room before, and watched Dazai take his pills in the mornings and evenings. For all Dazai knew, he might have read the bottles, and known exactly what was wrong with him. (Dazai didn’t think he did, though. Chuuya himself was a private person, so Dazai imagined that he respected Dazai’s privacy just as much as he respected the need for his own)
“Oh. Okay. See you later, then, Mackerel.” Chuuya was still frowning slightly, like he knew something was wrong.
Dazai just nodded and turned away, a distant look in his eyes.
He hadn’t been alright for months now. That’s why he’d lost weight; Mori had explained to him. Because of his depression. Clearly the other meds hadn’t been working as well as anyone had thought.
His mind was somewhere else as the elevator that would bring him to Mori’s office climbed.
When he entered the office, a stiff but strangely warm smile waited on the man's face.
“Dazai-kun! You made it!” The big windows had been left open, exposing the room to the pretty sunset in the distance. It actually made the office look slightly inviting.
“I did.” Dazai replied, not coldly.
“I asked you here to discuss how you were adjusting to the new medication you’re on. Any progress with your weight yet?” Mori asked, and Dazai’s eyes almost narrowed.
Did he know something?
“They’re going fine. I haven’t gained any weight yet, if that’s what you’re asking.” He responded after a moment.
Mori frowned. “Strange. I would’ve thought something would change, by now. It’s been nearly 2 weeks since you started them, hasn’t it?”
Dazai hummed in confirmation.
“...Okay, I suppose you’ll let me know if anything changes?” Mori asked.
“I will.” Dazai was done with this conversation.
He wished Mori goodbye and left, barely registering what he was saying, mind checked out.
When he arrived home, he collapsed on the mattress sitting in the corner of his shipping container. The bare space brought him comfort during nights like this. When his brain felt too cold.
Quiet rain pitters on the top of the container. A deep cold settles in Dazai’s bones. The container lacks any heating, so there is little he can do about it. He could wrap himself in a blanket, but his body feels like it’s underwater. Moving is impossible at the moment. He wants to feel something but is too tired to add to the lines covering his arms and thighs.
He’s so sick sick
sick
SICK of feeling like this.
Like nothing matters, ever. He doesn’t feel anything. Everything he used to love doesn’t mean anything anymore. A cold realization falls over him.
He doesn’t want to be here anymore. The same brick wall looms in front of him; it prevents him from feeling any hope that he can get better. He thinks about his future. He has two options for the rest of his life. Either take pills every morning that make him feel like he’s a doll on a good day, dead on a bad day, or he could actually be dead.
Suddenly he has energy. He sits up from his place lying on his back and nearly stumbles on his way to his bathroom. His vision is going dizzy from the mix of not moving for over an hour and lack of food, but he ignores it, practically ripping open his medicine cabinet.
Mori had stocked him up for almost 2 months with his anti-depressants, leaving him 2 bottles of 30 pills, only about 7 gone from the first week he used them. For extra measures, he grabs his anxiety medication bottle, which only has about 15 left, thanks to his frequent use. They, on the other hand, help him immensely.
He once again enters the main room, the bottles in one hand and a large plastic bottle of water in the other. He changes into his favorite pair of pajamas; red and black flannel fuzzy pants and a plain black soft t-shirt. He stops for a moment, and a huge smile spreads across his face. He feels like giggling. He’s been waiting for this moment for a long, long time. He pulls back the covers in his bed and gets comfortable.
Pulling the top off the already opened bottle of medication, he pours the contents into his palm. He shoves all of them into his mouth, and chugs water to get them all down. He moves onto the next bottle. After the third, he puts his head on the pillow and closes his eyes.
It’ll all be over soon.
He’s still smiling when sleep drags him under.