In a moment where everything around him is silent, Dazai's head has never been so loud. It's all so much, so fast, that he can't even tell what he's thinking. Probably something along the lines of, I should have expected this, but even now he can't be sure of what he should be thinking, what's normal in this situation, and the actual thoughts pounding through his head.
He'd thought that maybe there was a chance, that maybe Chuuya being more open with compliments and affection meant that his feelings were returned, and he feels like an idiot for even considering that. He could kick himself right now if he weren't so goddamn tired. When he'd first noticed Chuuya making time for other people, it wasn't a problem for him. Not at all, because Dazai is trying not to be selfish this time, trying not to keep Chuuya all to himself.
Then he'd seen how Tachihara looks at Chuuya, and it all started to make sense. The hang-outs, the movie, Chuuya's earlier mentions of how he thought Tachihara might have a crush on him. It all comes together, and Dazai's heart sinks in his chest like a ship in an ocean storm. He didn't think it was returned, though. Nothing other than Chuuya's acceptance of those invites even pointed in that direction.
But Dazai supposes it makes sense that Chuuya would want to be with someone normal. Even if what they used to have was nothing like anything Dazaihad experienced with anyone else, electric and pulsing and real, there was never any confirmation that Chuuya felt that way. Maybe, to Chuuya, it was just sex after all. Sex with someone Chuuya could trust then, who he can't now. Yeah. It makes sense, in the end.
Dazai is fixing himself, and maybe when he's done with that, Chuuya will like him more. It's a hopeless kind of hope, a pathetic kind of wishful thinking. Dazai thinks it anyway. He doesn't want to hope for the failure of Chuuya's current relationship, because that's something a bad person would do, a selfish person would do, and Dazai is trying so desperately to be better.
He wants to be better for Chuuya, for Yosano and Ranpo, for Fyodor, and he wants to be better for himself, too. It's hard. It's hard when he wants nothing more than to fall back into old, unhealthy habits, showers that burn his skin and blades that make him bleed. It's hard, but he's doing it. He's managing, even though his skin feels stretched too taut over his body, even though there's a sort of tightness he carries with him everywhere, some kind of discomfort burrowing away like a parasite in the back of his skull.
He's trying, he's trying. It's not enough.
It's not enough, it's not enough. He's not enough. The thought hits him hard, a cannonball to the gut, leaving him breathless under the impact. He could never, ever be enough for someone like Chuuya. Someone so determined to do big, good things in the world, someone determined to live without regrets- Dazai could never let himself drag Chuuya down with him, and that's the only outcome his miserable life has, the only direction it goes in. Dazai won't make it very long, he's sure. Recovery is a big hill, and climbing it seems next to impossible with the amount of weight pulling him back.
Sitting where he is, on his mattress in a towel, hair damp and dripping everywhere, Dazai thinks he won't make it out of college alive. The door creaks open and he looks up, unashamed of the position he's been caught in, bare of any bandages, the scars on his arms uncovered for once. He hears more than sees Fyodor's reaction, as spaced out as he is right now, a sharp intake of air, soft footsteps padding toward him. Then,
"Hey, buddy," Fyodor says warily, sounding cautious, like he's handling something fragile. Dazai supposes he definitely looks the part, like a scratched up cat caught in the rain. He probably looks pathetic like this. And normally he might be offended, get angry at being so obviously pitied, but right now he doesn't have the energy to lash out or get upset. He doesn't have the energy needed to be his version of normal. Dazai is tired. "Bad day?"
Dazai remembers Fyodor's reaction the first time he'd gone nonverbal around him, unable to say anything, and guilt overwhelms him. He doesn't want Fyodor to worry like that again. It's not as if Fyodor had signed up for this, had asked to be Dazai's roommate. In a cruel twist of fate, they were stuck together. He gets himself together enough to manage a small, tired nod, barely there. Fyodor manages to catch it, and the expression that crosses his face is one of relief.
"Alright," He says, and sets his bag down on the floor, coming closer. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
Dazai is stuck, torn between his inability to answer verbally and his desperate want to. All he can do is stare helplessly, hoping his expression conveys some kind of answer. Chuuya might get it, if he was here, but Fyodor, though a genius, is an entirely different person. His understanding of Dazai comes in different shapes and sizes than Chuuya's does. Something settles on Fyodor's face, and he sits down at the bottom of Dazai's bed, leaning against the bed frame.
They've been here before, their positions switched, and the familiarity is a comfort, somewhat. Somehow, in their mutual silence, they manage.
"Do you need to call Natsume?" Fyodor asks quietly, after a few moments of that same quiet. "That might help."
And Dazai knows Fyodor can't see from where he is on the floor, but he shakes his head anyway. Calling Natsume wouldn't help, because Dazai can't even begin to explain what's wrong. Sitting in silence is fine, for now. Fyodor seems to get the message, because the quiet between them resumes. Dazai closes his eyes for a moment, his eyelids so heavy it feels almost involuntary. He just wants to sleep.
He wants to, but he can't, because the one person he feels safe enough around to fall asleep next to isn't here right now, and won't be, for God knows how long. How long is long enough? How long does Dazai have to wait before he can feel normal around Chuuya again, like just friends, like he's supposed to, how can that even be possible when it had never been that way for him from the start? This whole mess started because Dazai couldn't help but fall in love with someone who could never return those feelings.
"Are you doing better, Dazai?" Fyodor's voice breaks into his thoughts, clearing them away. "Or was that a lie, too?"
Dazai's silence speaks for itself. It's louder than anything he ever could have vocalized. He begins to think that maybe he's not all that good at lying after all.
"That son of a bitch," Yosano seethes, hands gripping fistfuls of her knee-length skirt. "So, what, he thought it would be okay to just lead you on like that while he's dating someone else?"
Dazai shrugs half-heartedly.
"It's really…" He has to trail off to yawn, one hand coming up to rub at his tired eyes. "It's not so big of a deal, okay? I was the one who got my hopes up after setting rules against it in the first place. How can I hold it against him for dating someone else when I implied I wouldn't be okay with dating him? And… And he never accepted my confession anyways, so I should have known better, in the end."
Yosano slams her hand down on the table, starting a few nearby patrons. Dazai looks at her wearily, wondering if it would be considered rude to pass out right here and now.
"Quit blaming yourself for all his bullshit," She hisses. "Half the things you claim to be your fault never even are! It's not your fault that he's dumb as a brick, or that he hurt you, or that your–!"
She cuts herself off before she can finish her sentence, heaving angrily, as if she's just finished running a marathon. Suddenly, Dazai feels more awake, aware of just what she almost said.
"That my what?" He asks, slowly. Yosano deliberately looks away, her jaw set in anger. Intrigued, Dazai sets the hand that had been rubbing his eyes back down on the table, leaning forward. "What were you going to say, Yosano?"
A little bit of the tension leaves Yosano's body in a way that Dazai has grown accustomed to associating with giving up. She doesn't meet his eyes.
"Your parents," She says softly, and Dazai has to fight not to bristle at the mention of them, at the way pity seeps into her voice.
"What about them?" Dazai asks, trying to keep the tension he feels out of his voice. He can be calm. He doesn't need to lash out right now. Not at Yosano. It's hard to keep up the bored, uncaring facade he wears so often when Yosano turns her eyes on him, wide and glistening with emotion.
"What they did," Yosano replies. "It wasn't your fault."
A tidal wave of emotion threatens to carry Dazai away and drown him in its depths. He barely manages to keep his cool, his hands trembling where they're placed on the table.
"What could you even know about something like that?" He tries desperately to keep his voice blank and free of any tell, but he doesn't think he manages to hide the subtle bitterness in his tone. "What could you know, huh, Yosano?"
He's increasingly aware that rather than being angry, he's afraid. Afraid of being confronted with this, his least favorite memory, his biggest insecurity, what he hates himself most for. And when he's afraid, he tries to act bigger, stronger, braver, everything he couldn't be then, when it really mattered.
Yosano doesn't back off, though. He should've expected that, considering all of the psych classes she has to take. She looks at him like he's small again, eleven years old in a house too big, too empty to be called home. He's supposed to feel safe, but instead he feels wild and caged and endangered. He wonders if it shows on his face.
"What do you know, Dazai?" Yosano counters. It's not meant to be an attack, or to be mean, and logically, Dazai knows this. But he can't help the way it stings anyways. "What do you think happened that night? The night they died?"
"I don't want to talk about that," Dazai says, and he tries to make it sound loud, but it's nothing more than a whisper when it leaves his lips. His eyes dart around, searching for an escape that he won't ever make.
"Tell me," Yosano insists. "If not now, then when, Dazai? What happened that night?"
"You know what happened." Dazai insists. "They– you know already."
"I only know what you told me," Yosano says. "And what you told me isn't the full truth, is it?"
"It is." Dazai's mind is racing, struggling to keep up, to fill in the gaps. "Why would I lie about something like that?"
"It isn't lying if you think you're telling the truth, right?" Yosano presses. "I don't think you're lying. I just don't think you have the full picture."
"What else could have possibly happened?!" Dazai fights to keep his voice at an even volume, and fails. It cracks pathetically on the last word, rising into a shout. "I'm not afraid to admit it, why are you? They weren't your parents, why does it even matter if they killed themselves to get away from me?"
"Because it's not true!" Yosano protests. "You have to know that it's not true, Dazai. You– you're a genius."
"They never cared about me." Dazai says, but his voice is trembling. A flickering memory of his mother's voice wiggles its way into his brain, the same one he'd heard that day at the cemetery.
I love you so much, Osamu.
Light peering in from the crack of a barely opened door, the sound of his mother's voice faint in his ears. A press of soft lips to his forehead.
Happy birthday.
But that never happened. It's not possible that it happened, because if it happened- if it happened, that would mean that Dazai had the chance to prevent his parents' deaths, and failed.
"They didn't care about me," Dazai repeats, even as his eyes begin to sting. Convincing himself of that is so much easier than accepting that he could have woken up that night and stopped it all from happening. "They didn't, they never– they didn't– I–"
"Dazai," Yosano tries, but he can hardly hear her over the loud buzzing of his own thoughts. "Dazai, you're having a panic attack. Hey, just breathe, okay? Dazai-"
"I can't," Dazai wheezes, but he's already moving to do what he's learned before, head between his knees, sucking breaths in through his nose and counting to four when he holds them, repeating the process when he lets them out.
"Good," Yosano soothes. "Can I touch you?"
Dazai shakes his head hurriedly, struggling to keep his breathing calm.
"Okay," Yosano agrees. "Then I won't. You'll be okay, just keep breathing."
It's a few brief moments that feel more like years before Dazai feels like he can even begin to breathe again. When he does, he turns to Yosano with eyes that are wild with fear, the fringe of his hair falling into his face.
"You-" He starts. "You don't know anything. Do you? Do you know something I don't?"
Terror crushes his chest like a heavyweight anvil, all-consuming, and he nearly stops breathing again while he waits for Yosano to respond. As it is, she just stares at him quietly, mouth parted and hair tucked haphazardly behind her ears, as if she's just as frightened as he is. In the few moments that there is just silence between them, Dazai struggles to get a grip on himself.
His thoughts are racing wildly, scolding him for showing any kind of weakness or vulnerability around her. Another part of him is insisting that she's his friend, that he can trust her. No, he tells himself, because he can't. He can't trust anyone. He couldn't even trust Chuuya. His fingers grip so tightly into the fabric of his slacks that they turn white from the strain.
"No," Yosano says finally, looking away. Her lips purse together for a moment before she speaks again, almost as if in hesitation. It makes Dazai wary of any word that could possibly come out of her mouth. "I… I don't know anything you don't. It just seems unlikely. Why would they ever do something like that? They were your parents."
It comes as a relief, immense and overpowering, and also as a disappointment, small and unwelcome and curdling unpleasantly in Dazai's gut. The thought that the logic he had come up with at eleven years old to explain everything that had ever happened might be wrong is sickening, that he'd been a fool all these years, that the memory of his mother saying goodbye could be real– he's never been more terrified of being wrong about something.
"You don't know anything," He repeats to himself quietly, a small reassurance. His heart slows again because he makes it, forces it out of its panic and back to something considerably more normal. A party trick has never been so useful in all nineteen years of his miserable life. A laugh forces its way out of his lips, hoarse and pained. "You… You don't. You don't know anything."
"Dazai," Yosano whispers. Her brow creases in concern, in pity. Dazai hates it. His blood boils and his skin prickles and his eyes burn and he hates it. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
"It's fine." Dazai says, though it's anything but. He's buzzing with energy that he can't contain. He feels like a nervous wreck. He needs to sleep, needs to die, needs Chuuya. He can't have any of those things. Irrationally, shaken by intense emotions after feeling pleasantly numb for so long, Dazai wants to cry. He wants to sob, wants to wail like an inconsolable child that is scared, wants to cry for a mother who is dead and who he never had a bond with in all the eleven years that he was in her presence.
Instead, he turns watery eyes up to a heaven where she most likely isn't, if she's anything like him at all. Instead, he repeats something that could not be more untrue. "It's fine."
Regret hits Dazai like a train sometime later, when he thinks of all the notes he'd written, a bit stupidly, during the peak of his infatuation with Chuuya. (As if it had ever lessened, even when he was pretending, fighting to stay angry. No, he's still hopelessly in love with Chuuya, as much as he wishes he wasn't. Maybe it would save him a lifetime of hurt if he had just told Chuuya the truth, or at least followed through on his plan to make Chuuya hate him. That had worked, eventually, but it didn't last.)
I want to be your friend, Dazai thinks, types out into the little message box on his phone. But it hurts too much, Chuuya.
It's a message he won't ever send. It's easier to let things fade out, to go quiet even when Chuuya tries to contact him. It's cowardly, but it's easier, and Dazai Osamu has never claimed to be brave.
In fact, though he's tried to be, he quite frequently claims the opposite in the privacy of his own thoughts. He wasn't brave for not crying when his parents died, just numb and strange and entirely inhuman. A bit like a robot, and he wasn't the only one who thought so. Most of the foster families he went through sent him back for that very reason. They were expecting someone emotional and perhaps prone to a few outbursts, and instead they got silence and blank stares. Unnerving, he'd heard them say, and it's not like they were wrong.
Even Chuuya had once referred to his eyes as dead.
Dazai stares at his phone with those same dead eyes, at a message he doesn't want to send, but wants to and needs to at the same time, at a conversation between two people who fizzled out and can't seem to go back to normal.
In some way, that's Dazai's fault. He's the one who was stupid and caught feelings when he knew that he and Chuuya would never, could never work out. That childish hope has long since faded, and now he feels like he's dragging his feet everywhere he walks, weighed down by the all-consuming thoughts of Chuuya that never seem to leave him alone. Chuuya's voice in his ears telling him to sleep, to shower, to eat, and he can't ever seem to ignore it. It's exhausting, it's draining, and it doesn't compare at all to the real thing. In a moment of strange but not rare stupidity, Dazai falls back into the mindset of two months ago, where he'd called Chuuya just to be sent to voicemail, just to hear his voice again.
He doesn't think it through all the way, doesn't remember that Chuuya isn't ignoring him anymore until the ringing has started. It only rings once before Chuuya picks it up. His voice is hurried, almost panicked, and close to the speaker when he begins to talk.
"Hello?" Chuuya's panicked voice comes through the line, and he curses quietly before seemingly adjusting his position next to his phone. "Hey, Dazai, are you there?"
When Dazai can say anything at all, it's "You actually answered."
He feels stupid, because of course Chuuya answered. Because this isn't two months ago, because they're supposed to be friends again, because this time, it's undeniably Dazai who is fucking things up. Chuuya doesn't seem to have the same thoughts about the matter.
"Yeah, of course," He responds, still oddly breathless. "Yeah, I answered. I answered. Are you okay? Do you need something?"
Chuuya is making an effort, Dazai realizes. All of this is Dazai's fault. It's a pill that's hard to swallow, an unbearably large lump forming in his throat. He can't stop himself from foolishly proclaiming the one thing he isn't supposed to.
"You," He chokes out, and it's cracked and hoarse, pitiful, like he hasn't spoken in days. Maybe he hasn't. Maybe more time has passed than he's aware of. It's definitely gotten cooler, cold night air seeping in through the window. "You, I need you, please–"
He cuts himself off before he can say too much, too soon, before he can spill any more secrets than he already has. No more secrets between us. It makes him wince when he thinks about it. He's not lying, not being dishonest, he just doesn't want to cross any invisible boundaries now that Chuuya has someone else. He probably already has.
"When and where?" Chuuya demands, sounding like he already has some idea, is already on his way. "I'll be there, Dazai, where are you?"
"My dorm," Dazai says, his voice trembling. He feels weak and afraid and like he's demanding too much. He doesn't say he's home, because nothing is home without Chuuya. Chuuya makes everywhere home. Without him, the world is just dull and empty, painted in boring shades of gray. "I'm at my dorm, and I need you, Chuuya–"
He feels pathetic and small and pitifully ugly in every way imaginable, physically and even in small ways that should be invisible. He feels raw and seen and almost human again, and that terrifies him.
"Okay, it's alright." Chuuya murmurs, even though he sounds just as frantic as Dazai feels. "I'm on my way, I'll be there. Are you alone?"
"Yes," Dazai answers, though he struggles to do so. It would have been so much easier just to hang up, why didn't he hang up? He knows the answer. He pretends he doesn't.
"Okay, okay," Chuuya says. His breath comes sharply, like he's broken into a run. Dazai closes his eyes, and it's easier. It's easier, like that, to pretend that Chuuya is already here. "Keep talking to me. Did you– did you do anything, did you take anything? Dazai, did you take anything?"
"No." Dazai whimpers, curling into a ball on his mattress. "I didn't."
"Good," Chuuya replies, sounding overwhelmingly relieved. "Okay, good. Sit tight and keep talking, alright? What's going on?"
Dazai barely manages between gasped breaths, a small, "Bad day."
It's the truth and yet so, so far from it at the same time. An understatement by a wide measure, and still somehow honest.
Chuuya is quiet for a moment, save for a few panting breaths here and there, and he still manages to sound soft when he speaks next.
"You've had a lot of those lately, huh?" He asks.
Tears sting behind Dazai's closed eyelids. He wants to cry and scream and let the world know just how upset he is. Instead, he says, softly, "Yeah. Chuuya knows me best."
There's a sudden, sharp intake of air from Chuuya's end of the line that startles Dazai, briefly, but he waves it off as Chuuya just being out of breath from all the running. His own breathing is beginning to slow just from hearing Chuuya's voice.
"You really think so?" Chuuya asks, then, his voice hoarse. "Last time I checked, I thought Fyodor Dostoevsky had you down pretty well."
It's an obvious joke, one made for the sole purpose of cheering Dazai up, and it works, if only barely. His lips tilt up into the smallest of smiles. It feels unnatural where it rests on his face, because Dazai Osamu isn't supposed to be happy, ever.
"No one knows me better than Chuuya." He says again, his voice coming out quieter, softer than before. He's terribly, terribly tired. He really would just like to fall asleep. But he has to wait for Chuuya to arrive first.
"You're so stupid," Chuuya chokes out, sounding close to tears for a reason Dazai couldn't name if he tried. "I really hate your guts, you know that? Open your door."
"Chuuya is here already?" Dazai asks, opening his eyes. His vision is a little bit blurry, from the remnants of tears he thought he'd blinked away, or from general weariness, he doesn't know. "It's unlocked. You can come in. I'm too tired to move."
The doorknob jiggles for just a moment before it turns, and the door swings open. There, in the doorway, stands Chuuya, red-faced and panting. His hair hangs into his eyes messily, and he bulldozes his way into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. His phone drops to the floor with a muted thud, with Chuuya not bothering to even hang up. He rushes to Dazai's side and kneels by the bed, hands cupping Dazai's face.
"You okay?" He whispers. "You really didn't take anything, right? You're just tired in a normal way?"
When Dazai nods, eyes trained on Chuuya's wild, fearful expression, Chuuya's head drops downward. He trembles for a moment, his fingers shaky where they hold Dazai's cheeks. He doesn't meet Dazai's eyes.
"I hate you," Chuuya chokes out again, repeating his earlier words. "I hate you, I hate you, did you even know how worried I was?"
Strangely, those words don't hurt. Not because Dazai has fallen back into his numb little haze from before, but because there is no real anger in Chuuya's tone. There is only quiet, quaking fear. Here and now, and unlike so many months ago, Dazai can tell that Chuuya doesn't mean it.
"I don't hate you," Dazai whispers back. "I don't hate you, Chuuya."
"What the fuck are you even saying?" Chuuya hiccups, thumbs stroking along Dazai's cheekbones even as he avoids eye contact, like just the touch is enough, like he can't bear to find what he's expecting written on Dazai's face.
"I don't know," Dazai replies, even though he does, even though he does know. "I don't know, Chuuya, I don't know."
"You only ever say that when you're lying." Chuuya looks up when he says it, his eyes red and teary. "No more secrets between us. Remember?"
This time, it's Dazai who can't stand to make eye contact. He can't even bear to look at Chuuya's face. After all, the biggest lie that Dazai had told since the beginning was one of omission. The lie that was the start of everything. That lie was one he never even tried to convince himself of.
Dazai Osamu is not in love with Nakahara Chuuya.
Such words could never be spoken out loud, because out of all the lies Dazai has ever told, to voice that one seems unforgivable.
"I don't want to lie to you," Dazai says. It comes out small and weak and pathetic, and everything that Dazai feels and looks right now. "I don't want to lie anymore. I just… I can't explain. I can't find the words to explain."
"Then try." Chuuya begs.
But Dazai can't, and so Dazai won't, and it feels like the freshly sharpened end of a guillotine coming down on the new beginnings of their healing relationship.
"I see," Chuuya says, removing his hands from Dazai's face when Dazai is quiet for too long. "I see."
But he doesn't, and that's the problem as much as the problem is Dazai not being able to explain. Because explaining would ruin everything. Not explaining does the same thing, it just happens to be easier.
"Should I go, then?" Chuuya asks, clearly trying to get a hold of himself.
"Please, don't." Dazai blurts, tear-blurred gaze finally snapping to land on the mess that is Chuuya. "I just need a little time, and then I'll tell you. But I can't– I can't sleep, and I'm so tired. I'm so tired."
"I can't guarantee that I'll be very good company." Chuuya tells him, clearing his throat and wiping his eyes. "I'm not happy with you right now."
"That's okay," Dazai reassures him, with a desperate whisper. "That's okay, you can– you can be mad, I promise I'll make it up to you when I can. I just need you right now. Please, stay?"
Chuuya looks at him for a moment, his blue eyes searching for anything to latch onto, and he must find it, because even though he looks away again, he follows it up with a,
"Move over."
Relief floods its way through the entirety of Dazai's system, and he hurries to do so, lifting the comforter so that Chuuya can climb under.
"It's cold as shit in here," Chuuya mutters, when the covers are pulled up to his chin. "You always have that damn window open."
"I like the fresh air." Dazai explains, and then hesitates. Chuuya stares at him, waiting.
"Well?" Chuuya asks. "Are you going to cuddle me or what?"
That's all it takes. Dazai doesn't take more than a few seconds to get close to Chuuya, rest his head on Chuuya's chest like he used to. He's missed this, missed the fervent beating of Chuuya's heart under his skin, a little faster than it probably should be. It's Dazai's favorite melody, and it's home. It's home.
"You don't hate me?" Dazai asks, just to be sure. Chuuya sighs, lifting a hand to card his fingers through Dazai's dark hair.
"Being upset with you doesn't mean I hate you." He says. Dazai shrinks into himself a little bit, and Chuuya scratches at his scalp gently with dull fingernails. "I still… Look, if we're going to make this friendship work, then you have to accept that me being upset about something isn't the end of the world. I want you to be honest with me, but I also… I also understand why you don't want to be. I get it. Okay? I'm not going to react that way again." He lets out a long puff of air, like he's been holding it in. "I've been working on myself, too, you know."
Dazai is suddenly blinking away tears again. He rubs his cheek against the fabric of Chuuya's t-shirt, soft and worn from what he assumes to be years of use.
"I know." Dazai says. "I want to. I want to be honest. It's… hard. I spent a lot of time lying when I was younger. In the foster homes, and with–" Mori, he almost says, but stops himself. "When I was in the shipping container. I had to lie. It was the only way to survive."
He hates this. He hates feeling so small, so vulnerable. He hates that even after Chuuya broke his trust, that he's still the only person Dazai feels this much comfort around. Chuuya is his safety net, even after everything that's happened between them. Dazai hates it as much as he loves it, loves him.
He feels torn apart between two sources, his need to protect himself by keeping secrets, and his want to tell Chuuya everything to make up for keeping things from him before, when he shouldn't have. He feels like he's splitting in half, frayed along the edges that are desperately trying to cling onto each other, to keep him whole.
"I know… that it's hard for you." Chuuya says, slowly, carefully. "I just want you… I want you to be able to trust me, even though I know I haven't proven myself worthy of that trust just yet. I want to be the one you can say these things to, even when you can't tell anyone else. I want…"
He doesn't finish, and Dazai understands some of it, though certainly not all of what Chuuya is trying to get across. Even now, stupidly, he feels as though he's missing something, that Chuuya is leaving something important unsaid.
"I get it, I think." Dazai replies, even though he most certainly doesn't have all the pieces of the puzzle put together. "Some of it, at least."
"Yeah?" Chuuya asks, his voice soft and raspy above Dazai's head. There's something small about it, something that makes Dazai think that maybe he isn't the only one feeling vulnerable right now.
"Yeah, I think…" Dazai's eyelids are becoming heavier as he speaks, and he breaks off into a yawn. "I think I get you, Chuuya."
There's a stretch of silence in which Dazai grows more and more tired, and he's just about teetering on the edge of sleep when Chuuya speaks up next, his voice hoarse like he's about to cry.
"I really am sorry, Dazai. For everything."
It's silly of him to apologize when Dazai forgave him the moment after it all went down, even if he tried to convince himself he hadn't just yet. It's silly of him to apologize for feeling things he can't control, so Dazai says so.
"Silly Chuuya." He mumbles into the soft cotton of Chuuya's t-shirt. "You can't control who you fall in love with."
Dazai Osamu knows better than anyone else, after all, that fate has a funny way of determining who you catch feelings for.
The next morning is a bit awkward, but Dazai is relieved that Chuuya hadn't just up and left after he'd fallen asleep. That's a bit of trust regained, then. Dazai can't outright say it, because that would be too easy, but he does forgive Chuuya.
He hadn't entirely realized until last night, and maybe it's a bit cruel of him not to tell, but part of him worries that he'll disappoint people by giving in so easily.
Chuuya has made an effort. He's still here. He stayed the whole night, even though he was upset with Dazai, and that's enough. It's got to be. Right?
While Dazai is stuck warring with himself over such nonsense, Chuuya squirms beneath him.
"Dazai? You awake?" He asks, his voice low and groggy with sleep. His fingers run sleepily through Dazai's hair, loosening the tangles there. Dazai grumbles sleepily in response, pressing his face fully into Chuuya's chest. "You slept like a rock."
"Chuuya is comfortable." Dazai says, trying to defend himself. He can feel the tips of his ears heating with the force of his blush, and he hopes that Chuuya can't see them getting red. If he does, he doesn't give any sign of it other than a low hum of agreement.
"You say that because I'm not skin and bones, like you." Chuuya replies, hand not halting its movements. It's soothing. It makes Dazai want to fall right back asleep. "You really should eat more. Mom would be disappointed."
"Noooo," Dazai protests, upset at the very idea of Cecile being disappointed in him. "Don't say that."
"Does that upset you?" Chuuya laughs lightly. "She did kind of treat you like her kid, didn't she? She does that. She has to take in every stray she finds."
Dazai huffs pointedly, lifting his head to glare at Chuuya. What he sees makes him fall short.
He'd intended to say something along the lines of an insistent, "I'm not a stray!" Even though he very much is. He isn't able to, though, because as always, Chuuya does something unexpected. The whole time Chuuya has been teasing him, Dazai imagined him to look the part, with a cheeky grin and sharp eyes to match. He couldn't be more wrong.
Chuuya is looking at him with an indescribable softness written on every inch of his face. It feels unbearably intimate, and Dazai almost can't stand to see it. Blue eyes nearly crystalline in the sunlight that comes in through the open window, the corners of his mouth turned up and soft around the edges. He's looking at Dazai like Dazai is the most important thing in the world, regardless of just how untrue he knows that to be.
Swallowing roughly, Dazai forces himself to look away.
"Is there something on my face?" He asks, his voice coming out smaller than he means it to.
"No," Chuuya murmurs, his voice quiet, and just as soft as the expression he had worn. "Sorry."
I want you to want me, Dazai thinks, staring at the wrinkled fabric of Chuuya's t-shirt, bunched awkwardly on his chest, so that he doesn't have to look at Chuuya's face anymore. I want you to need me, I want you to love me.
He wishes the softness of Chuuya's shirt would swallow him whole, afraid to look anywhere else, afraid to see anything but love and acceptance in Chuuya's eyes.
I want you to love me.
"Hey," Chuuya says, his voice the definition of gentleness. He makes Dazai feel like the center of the universe, even when he knows he isn't. In Chuuya's eyes, he won't be, ever. "Come on, look at me."
Dazai can't not listen to that instruction. Chuuya has never commanded him to do anything that wasn't for his own good, save for maybe to leave him alone and never come back, which was bad for both of them and done out of hurt and anger. Chuuya sounds like neither of those two things right now, and so Dazai listens, like he always does.
And his heart nearly caves in under the weight of his guilt. Because last night, Chuuya was angry, and still, he stayed. And now that it's morning, the sun shining through the open window in glaring, too-bright rays, he's still here, and he doesn't seem all that angry anymore.
"You're hiding from me again." Chuuya says, quietly, but it's not unkind. It's just a simple observation he seems to be making. "Where did you go?"
And the answer is that Dazai had never left. He'd stayed here, uncomfortably vulnerable, close to Chuuya's rib cage, close to his beating heart. And that's enough. It should be enough.
"Nowhere." Dazai says, but it sounds more like an echo of his usual voice, even to his own ears, strange and uneven. "I'm here, still."
For a moment he's worried that Chuuya might push further, might argue with him, might uncover more secrets that Dazai doesn't want to be out in the open. If anyone could crack Dazai's code, it would be Chuuya, after all. Instead, Chuuya just hums, his lips pressing together in thought.
"You're beautiful." Is what he says next, startling Dazai out of the remnants of his sleep-induced haze. It's something Chuuya shouldn't be saying, not when he's dating someone else, and certainly not when it's impossible for him to mean it.
"You shouldn't be saying that." Dazai tells him. Because really, Chuuya should know better. Chuuya at least has the decency to appear ashamed, but his eyes never leave Dazai's face.
"I know," He whispers. "I'm sorry."
I'm sorry. It doesn't sound right. Dazai isn't the person Chuuya should be apologizing to, and once more, he wonders if there's a possibility that he could have missed anything.
I'm sorry is not a confession of any category or genre. So why, coming from Chuuya's sweet mouth, does it sound like one?
Dazai can't accept that apology, because he doesn't understand why Chuuya is apologizing to him in the first place, or why he sounds so pained while doing it. It makes no sense in Dazai's still tired brain, not fully awake yet.
And so he doesn't answer, just hums softly, and contemplates putting his head back down on Chuuya's chest and trying to get more sleep.
In time with Chuuya's heartbeat, he thinks, I love you, I love you, I love you, over and over until the words sound funny in his head, until they stop making sense. He doesn't think he'll ever stop.
You are, Dazai wants to say, my everything. But he won't. It's not acceptable now that Chuuya has someone else. In fact, none of this is, really, the sleeping together, even if it's just that, the compliments, honey sweet falling from Chuuya's lips, it shouldn't be happening. Dazai shouldn't be letting it. Even so, selfishly, he wants to keep this part of Chuuya to himself.
Maybe he should say something. He wants to say something. He'd said he would, promised, that when he found the words, he would try. This doesn't feel like trying. This feels like hiding, like Chuuya had said.
He can't say I think I'm in love with you, because that's just not true. Dazai doesn't think he's in love with Chuuya, he knows. It's a fact that is solidified and heavy in his chest, between his ribs, and he hates it, and he loves it, and he couldn't ever wish it wasn't true. Loving Chuuya may just be the best thing he's ever done. Can he say that?
Right now, so close to Chuuya, entangled in his warm embrace in the cold morning air, the covers somewhere by the foot of his bed from tossing and turning in the night, could he possibly come out and say it just like that?
The answer could be yes, but Dazai wouldn't be able to believe it if it was. So it's a no, for safety, for comfort.
I love you is a vulnerability he's not yet ready to share again.
So instead of I love you, Dazai says the next best thing.
"Don't apologize." It's a far cry from I forgive you, or from admitting his true feelings behind the matter. He can only hope, pray to a god he doesn't believe in, that it's enough.
"What if I picked up smoking?" Dazai asks, later, when Chuuya has packed up the minimal amount of things he'd brought over and gone home. There's an empty space where he used to be, even though Dazai isn't alone.
There's an absentminded hum from across the room.
"I think you'd regret it, most likely." Fyodor replies. "It also seems like something to bring up with your therapist. I can't guarantee I'll give the best advice there is. I'm what some people might call a bad influence."
"Nikolai is what some people might call a bad influence." Dazai corrects, tapping his fingers anxiously on his mattress. He's sitting, cross-legged, staring at the spot where he and Chuuya had lain only hours prior. "You're just… I don't know, the influenced one. You only smoke around him, right?"
"Nikolai is cool." Fyodor says, shrugging. Then he turns pointed eyes on Dazai, pinning him under his gaze. "And you are changing the subject. What the hell brought this on?"
Dazai's twitching becomes even more erratic. The topic itself is making him anxious.
"I… have this… itch." He manages. "And I can't scratch it the way I used to. I was wondering if smoking would work. Does it work for you?"
He feels stupid asking. It's another side of himself that he hates showing, but one that Fyodor probably saw from the start anyways. Fyodor stares at him, his gaze calculating. He sets his phone down on his lap.
"I have a feeling," Fyodor says, slowly. "That you and I would smoke for different reasons. And that this itch you have might be better scratched with some healthier coping mechanisms than damaging your lungs."
Dazai blinks.
"You, Fyodor Dostoevsky, are a hypocrite." He deadpans. Fyodor shrugs.
"Like I said, my advice isn't exactly sound." He says. "It's good advice, but it's not like I follow it. And I'm not your boss, either. I can't tell you what and what not to do."
Dazai hums, flopping down on his back on his mattress. If he tries hard enough, maybe he'll be able to feel the remnants of Chuuya's body heat. It's a silly thought. That's impossible. Chuuya is long gone, at this point.
"You are supposed to know everything." He teases, but it's half-hearted. "What kind of fellow genius are you?"
Fyodor picks his phone back up.
"I'd say you might have better luck with Ranpo, but he'd probably just tell you you're stupid and to be sure not to smoke in the dorms." He says. "Blah blah blah, being an RA is so hard, what ever shall I do? Talk to your therapist, Dazai."
Dazai groans.
"I don't like therapy." He complains.
"Is it not helping?" Fyodor asks, sounding genuinely curious this time.
"It's not that." Dazai says. "It's just hard. And I don't like it. That doesn't mean I'm giving up, or that I won't do the work, I just…"
Fyodor stays silent, patiently waiting.
"Do you ever get this… overwhelming feeling of dread when you have something coming up?" Dazai tries. "Like… I can't really explain it. You feel kind of sick with all of it, even if the event itself doesn't actually go badly, and it makes you want to back out of everything and anything, even things that you know are supposed to help you."
Fyodor lowers his phone out of the corner of Dazai's vision, and it becomes obvious that he was never really looking at something on it, just pretending to, perhaps for Dazai's sake. It's easier to talk when you're not being stared at.
"That sounds like anxiety to me." Fyodor says. "And not like, small bits of it. That seems like something that would require a diagnosis. Is this, like, a frequent thing?"
That same dread Dazai has been talking about creeps over him like a steady darkness covering the sky, turning it to night.
"It's…" He starts, but his mouth goes dry, and he has to try again. "I'm not… sick. I'm… Yeah, it's– it's common. For pretty much everything. Moreso, lately. Almost at the same level as it was… before."
Fyodor stares at his phone, hard.
"Did they not tell you your diagnosis when you were… you know, hospitalized?" He asks. "I mean, they had to have diagnosed you with something."
Dazai shifts, quickly tumbling back into uncomfortable territory. He can almost feel himself shutting down in slow motion.
"I'm not sick." He repeats, and he's not sure who he's really trying to convince.
(They had told him. He hadn't liked it.)
"Dazai," Fyodor says insistently, finally looking at him again. "You tried to kill yourself. Twice in just the span of six months. Certainly more times than that in the past eight years of your life put together. There's nothing wrong with having some sort of disorder. It's not–"
"I'm not." Dazai snaps. It startles him, and it seems to startle Fyodor, too, by the way he goes quiet. Dazai clears his throat, and continues, trying to keep his voice level, and not let it reach the volatile emotion it carried before. "Sick. I'm not sick. They were wrong, okay?"
Fyodor releases a long breath through his nose.
"Maybe discuss that with your therapist, too." He says. "Because you've told me you felt like you were sick before. And all that stuff– panic attacks, going nonverbal, trying to kill yourself– that's not healthybehavior. You know there's something wrong. You've said so. Why are you denying it now?"
Dazai's throat closes up, and he looks away pointedly, refusing to speak. He knows why.
Accepting it means that it's real. That he was right. That there's something wrong with him. That he's not normal. That maybe there's a reason that no one sticks around him for that long, after all.
"When's your next appointment?" Fyodor asks, after a few minutes with no response. He seems to understand he won't be getting one. Not about that,anyways.
"Tomorrow." Dazai finds himself saying. It makes him feel sick just thinking about it.
"Talk about it then." Fyodor says. Dazai can't feel his eyes on him anymore. "The smoking, and the other stuff. About being… sick. Just talk about it. A professional would be able to help you a lot more than I can. As much as I want you to count on me, there are some things even I can't help with."
Fyodor is a genius. If he can't fix all this, then what could Natsume possibly do?
The answer to that question is that Natsume can give answers that Fyodor doesn't have, and can ask questions that Fyodor doesn't ask. The answer is that Natsume is a lot less emotionally stunted than two child prodigies who somehow collected enough brain cells to make it to a top college in Japan, and it pays off. The questions he asks make Dazai think.
"Why do you think smoking would be better than what you were doing before?" Natsume asks, eyes trained on Dazai's face. It's terrifying. It makes him feel like he's stripped bare down to his nerves, exposed muscle and bone showing through.
"Can you…" Dazai starts to ask, and then pauses to wet his lips. "Can you not look at me? Please."
"Sure." Natsume says it casually, and he ends up looking at his hands instead. "If that'll make it easier to answer the question."
"It's not a very easy question to answer." Dazai says. He tries to smirk, play it off as a joke, but he thinks it comes off as more of a grimace. What does it matter, anyways? Natsume isn't looking at him.
"It's not." Natsume agrees. "But I'd like it if you would try."
There it is again. Those words. It's reminiscent of two nights ago, when Chuuya had pleaded with him just to try to explain his thoughts, desperate to just understand. Dazai bites his lip, guilt nearly overwhelming him.
"Smoking just…" He begins. "It's dumb. I know the effects just as well as anyone else who went to school. It's bad for you, right? But it doesn't… It doesn't look bad. On your body. Inside, maybe, but no one cares how your lungs look until you're already dead. At least it wouldn't… you know. Be visible."
"You're referring to your self-harm habits?" Natsume asks. "The cutting?"
Dazai had forgotten that they knew. That they observed him. His lip curls.
"No one cares," He repeats. "Because even if it's ugly, they can't see it. It won't do what cutting does."
"Is that the only reason?"
No, it's not. Natsume knows that as well as Dazai does, probably. He needs confirmation anyways.
"No." Dazai says, hating the way his voice trembles. "It… helps, right? With stress. Anxiety. That kind of thing. Nicotine. It helps, right?"
"Have you been experiencing some of that lately?" Natsume asks, and then pauses. "One thing at a time. I got a bit ahead of myself. Nicotine is often used as a coping mechanism for stress and anxiety, yes. But in reality, it mostly causes that anxiety and stress to worsen. The instant feeling of relaxation a smoker gets when they smoke a cigarette is temporary– it doesn't last, and most times they begin to build up a tolerance to it. It's ineffective. It doesn't work for elongated treatment."
Dazai nods. That answers that question. In return, he supposes he can answer Natsume's.
"I have." He says. When Natsume glances at him though fleetingly, he clarifies. "Been feeling anxious. And stressed. Mostly about this, about coming here."
"Where do those feelings show up for you, when you feel them?" Natsume prods.
Dazai frowns.
"Like… in my body?" He asks. Natsume nods, the bowler hat on his head dipping down with the movement. "I feel… sick." Dazai admits. "So, I guess… My stomach, mostly. I get really tense. I feel like a rubber band, a little bit. Too tight."
"And you usually cope with those feelings how?" Natsume pauses. "By cutting?"
Dazai's breathing stutters. He really, really doesn't want to talk about it. But Chuuya's voice won't leave his head, pleading and on the verge of tears.
Try.
He can do that. It's not the same subject, but if it gets him closer to being able to tell Chuuya the whole truth, then he can try. Dazai can try, for Chuuya.
"Not usually." He says, and it feels like all of the air in his lungs has left with those words. "Uh, not since my first attempt this year, in February. I kind of. I tried to stop then, because I didn't want to make a mess. I stained the tiles in my bathroom, because they couldn't– they couldn't get the blood out all the way."
Certainly not for lack of trying, from the sound of things. He hates to think about how long Ranpo must have spent on his knees, trying to scrub the blood away.
"So you stopped not because you didn't want to hurt yourself anymore, but because you didn't want to inconvenience the people around you?"
There's nothing inherently judgemental about Natsume's tone, and logically Dazai knows that Natsume won't judge him, but he can't help but feel on edge from the way the question is posed, regardless.
"I turned to… other methods." Dazai agrees, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Things I thought wouldn't be as noticeable. Biting my nails, my lips, pinching myself. That sort of thing."
"But someone did notice?" Natsume questions, and Dazai wants to curse at him for being so observant and catching that slip, even though it's quite literally his job.
"Someone. Yeah." Dazai exhales shakily, fingers scratching absent-mindedly at the arm of the chair he's sitting in. It's meant to be comfortable, soft, and the fabric used is the kind that changes shades slightly when pushed in the opposite direction. It's textured, and he feels almost soothed by the feeling. "Chuuya. Chuuya noticed. Other people, too, probably, but they never said anything, even though they probably worried."
"You wear band-aids on your fingers, sometimes." Natsume notes. "That's from the nail-biting, I assume?"
Dazai nods in agreement.
"I didn't even know how bad it got until Chuuya pointed it out." He admits. "One time I pinched myself so hard I almost drew blood, and I didn't even feel it, really. I… don't really want to admit there's something wrong with me."
The room suddenly feels a lot smaller than it did when Dazai walked in at the beginning of the session, unbearably cramped even though he knows there's plenty of room.
"Do you think there's something wrong with you, Dazai?"
Try.
Dazai doesn't want to, but he will.
"I know there is." He admits through gritted teeth, his eyes squeezing shut. "I've known for a long time. A very long time. It was just never this… real. I could always pretend that maybe there was some hope I could turn out… normal."
"Is not being normal really such a bad thing?" Natsume asks. Dazai opens his eyes just to squint at him. "I don't know if you'll believe me when I say this, but I think you'll find a lot of people out there are not exactly normal. A lot of them have the same problems that you do."
"No one is as fucked up as I am, though." Dazai says, and then pauses, rethinking that sentence. "That came off as very self-centered, didn't it?"
"You're very self-aware, aren't you?" Natsume asks. "Do you always rationalize your feelings like that?"
Dazai frowns again, something he finds he's been doing more and more in these sessions, because he has to actually think to find an answer. Sometimes he can't find one.
"I don't think so." He manages, eventually. "I think I usually… I'm usually not even sure what I'm feeling. It feels like too much. It's overwhelming. Mostly I just try to shut it down."
"Have you ever considered letting yourself feel it?"
No. The answer is a resounding no, because feeling is scary and Dazai doesn't like being scared. That doesn't mean he doesn't feel things, as he'd had himself convinced for so long, just that by the time he's feeling them they're so big that even he can't control them anymore.
He must show some sort of sign of tension, and Natsume must have been looking, because Natsume makes a small humming noise that is surprisingly reassuring, pulling Dazai from his overwhelming thoughts.
"We can save that for another day, if you don't want to talk about it just yet."
That sounds like the best idea Natsume has had this entire session, and Dazai has to admit that his ideas are not actually all that bad. Once he gets past the onset of anxiety, all of Natsume's suggestions are actually very logically sound. Dazai can feel some of the tension leaving his body just like that, shoulders slumping.
"I… yeah, I'd like that." Dazai says, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. All of this talking is exhausting.
"How is your sleep?" Natsume asks, successfully changing the subject. It's not an unwelcome change at all, though Dazai doesn't like this topic much more than the other one.
"Pretty much the same as usual." Dazai replies, a yawn cutting off part of the last word. "I'm not getting a lot. I'm not entirely sure why, it's like my body just… refuses to shut down. My brain is always running, even when it's tired. It doesn't stop unless I'm…"
Natsume raises an eyebrow.
"Unless?" He presses. Dazai swallows.
"Unless I'm with Chuuya." He winces as the words leave his mouth. They sound just as pathetic as he'd thought they would. "I don't really get real sleep unless he's there. We even… we had a deal, for a while, where I'd just go to his place and crash, or vice versa."
"What changed?"
Dazai looks away, suddenly ashamed as he remembers just how happy he was to be the center of Chuuya's attention again, even when Chuuya should be focusing on someone else.
"He started dating someone." Dazai mumbles. "I didn't think it was appropriate anymore."
"Because you still have feelings for him?"
Again, Dazai winces. Telling Natsume about his feelings for Chuuya feels more like it was a moment of weakness than anything else, even though he knows that Natsume won't use it against him.
"Yes." He says, surprising himself. His voice cracks, and it sounds miserable. He sounds miserable. "It would be unfair of me. I feel like that would be taking advantage of him. He doesn't know what I get out of it."
"And what do you get out of it, Dazai?"
The answer is heavy, dropping with the force of a piano from a five story building onto the cracked pavement outside. This answer is one that Dazai already knows, and that he's ashamed to admit. He hates it.
"I feel loved." He whispers. "Even though I know he doesn't mean it that way… for once, I feel loved."
He looks up at Natsume with eyes that are starting to burn with unshed tears. He can't let them fall, even here. Safe space be damned. He won't cry.
"Is it so wrong for me to want to keep that to myself?" He doesn't let Natsume speak before continuing. "I mean, I know it is. I know it's selfish and greedy and I'm– I'm trying to be less selfish, I really am. What if it's just a fundamental piece of my personality?"
Natsume taps his pen thoughtfully against his mouth.
"You know what I think, Dazai?" He asks.
"What?" Dazai replies, dropping his head so he can wipe his eyes as discreetly as possible.
"I think you could stand to be a little more selfish." Natsume says. It's startling. It feels like a lie. "Hear me out. You stopped cutting yourself so you wouldn't inconvenience other people. You dropped anything and everything for Chuuya to the point where it affected your own mental health. You refuse to tell him about your feelings because you're afraid that it will negatively impact him. Do you see what I'm getting at?"
Dazai stares at him blankly, his mind refusing to process this new information. It seems so foreign, so unbelievable.
"What are you even saying?" He whispers, his voice catching in his throat. "I'm selfish. I am."
Natsume looks at him, really looks at him, and fixes him with a gaze that makes Dazai shrink back even though it's not threatening in the slightest.
"When was the last time you did something you wanted to without feeling intense amounts of guilt for it?" Natsume asks. "You can take your time to answer. You don't even have to answer at all, if you don't want to. If you'd like, we can tackle this conversation at a later date, like the other one."
Dazai's mouth is so dry he feels like he's dying.
"I don't know." He chokes out. "I… I don't know."
"How about that for your next piece of homework?" Natsume sets his pen down. His notepad is blank. This entire time, he hasn't been writing anything at all. "Do something for yourself. The lack of guilt will come later. Don't get upset with yourself if you don't manage it just yet. Just do something for yourself, for once. Can you do that?"
It seems impossible, and yet. And yet, Chuuya's voice is still there in the back of his head, telling him to just try.
"I can try." Dazai says, feeling helpless.
And he can. And he will.