Work Text:
‘Tonight is going to be a good night,’ Chuuya thinks as he preps the crab for dinner. Today marks four months of Dazai being clean, and Chuuya couldn’t be more proud.
When Dazai first brought up the topic of becoming clean all those months ago, Chuuya was surprised. He hadn’t expected the brunette to ever want to try considering how much it has become a coping mechanism. Despite his initial shock, however, Chuuya couldn’t say no, and he’s been helping Dazai in any way he can ever since.
Now, Chuuya won’t lie; it was hard in the beginning. He never realized how codependent Dazai was with his razors until they decided to throw them out, and Dazai got increasingly stressed. The situation eventually got to the point where Chuuya had to hold Dazai’s hands so he wouldn’t scratch his skin after hiding the knives when the brunette tried to cut himself with one.
It was after a month went by when Dazai started doing better. He still had his bad days, still had the days where the urge to slice his skin open and bleed was too great to ignore, but Chuuya was always there to stop him and walk Dazai through his feelings. Eventually, though, Chuuya could see the changes of Dazai’s decision. He was marginally happier, and there seemed to be a lightness to his body and mind. His eyes still held a darkness that would never leave, but they weren’t as hollow and dead-looking as they once were. Dazai had even cut back on his alcohol intake, only having a cup or two of sake or whiskey instead of an entire bottle.
It made Chuuya preen with pride to see Dazai take care of himself, even if it was a battle and a half to get there.
As Chuuya’s watching the crab boil, he hears a key in the front door and the turning of a knob. He waits for the door to close before greeting, “welcome home, Dazai.”
“I’m home.”
It’s two simple words, and yet, Chuuya pauses. They weren’t said in Dazai’s usual chipper voice. They were dull. Flat. With a hint of something Chuuya can’t quite recognize.
Concern washes through him as he watches Dazai step into the kitchen. The brunette looks… anxious, his body taut with tension Chuuya doesn’t know the cause of. Dazai’s eyes remain glued to the floor, not glancing once at Chuuya like he usually does. His mouth is set in a thin line, and Chuuya can faintly see the indent of Dazai chewing on the inside of his cheek.
What concerns Chuuya the most, however, is that something. It has the resemblance of guilt, etched into the downward tilt of Dazai’s head and the hand tightly gripping his arm.
And underneath that guilt, Chuuya can see a deep-rooted defeat. Almost as if Dazai had finally given into a battle he had long been fighting. One he never wanted to lose.
“Hey, love. What’s wrong?” Chuuya asks. He has a feeling Dazai is going to require all his attention, so he turns the stove to low and puts a lid on the pot to let the crab simmer.
They’ve been working on Dazai being more open about what he’s feeling and thinking instead of putting up a clown’s act to protect himself. It’s been irritating and difficult most times; Dazai refusing to say a word until shutting down to avoid confronting Chuuya. Chuuya knows it’s out of self-preservation and the fear of vulnerability, but it hurts him to know the brunette doesn’t trust him in this regard. That Dazai doesn’t trust him with the dark thoughts rolling and festering in his mind, threatening to take him under to drown.
(It wasn’t until Chuuya had broken down into tears after Dazai nearly succeeded in a suicide attempt that the brunette tried putting in an effort into being more open, more vulnerable. And it pisses Chuuya off in a grotesque mix of anger and hurt that it took him bawling his eyes out and tearing his heart to shreds in regret and grief that Dazai finally decided to help himself).
But like the journey to becoming clean, there are bad days where old familiarity has a stronger call.
Dazai’s face instantly lights up in a grin, eyes catching Chuuya’s with a glimmer. In a split second, it looks like the anxiety and grief were never there, like they never existed except in Chuuya’s mind—
“Whatever do you mean, Chibi? I’m fine!”
—like that happy-go-lucky expression was always there, permanently sewn into his lips and eyes and very soul.
But to Chuuya, the act can never fool him. He can see how the smile pulls at Dazai’s face, straining to stay up instead of falling away and disappearing. How the glimmer is hollow, making Dazai’s eyes appear empty and dead. How the way Dazai holds himself is taut with the need to run and vanish.
How Dazai’s voice is dead, the chipperness a gaping hole of an echo.
Chuuya walks over and stops in front of Dazai. He’s close enough to stop Dazai from bolting but far enough away to not make the brunette feel caged, trapped. Chuuya knows that Dazai is verbally armed, ready to lash out and make it hurt so he can escape—he can see it in the tightening of the brunette’s jaw and the subtle flair of his nostrils. It’s in situations like these—where Dazai feels cornered—that he doesn’t care for what he says or the damage it causes. He only cares that the rapidly spat-out words can get the other person off his back long enough for him to run and never come back.
Chuuya isn’t going to let him.
“Dazai,” he begins, voice brokering no room for argument, “we talked about this.”
“Did we? I don’t seem to remember. Ah! Your hats must have finally eaten your brain—!”
“Osamu.”
Dazai stills, mouth poised and ready to spew more bullshit. Chuuya knows saying his first name is a cheap trick—a low blow—but it’s the only way to make him stop this farce and listen. All Chuuya has to do is stand there and wait. Wait and watch how—bit by bit—everything drains from Dazai till he’s nothing more than a breathing shell.
(Chuuya has always been unnerved when Dazai does this. To him, it’s like Dazai’s a doll with his strings cut, slumping to the ground—lifeless and unmoving. No matter what Chuuya says or does to help, Dazai won’t do anything until he picks up the strings himself and reties them to the joints of his body.)
Minutes pass in silence. Neither move as Chuuya studies Dazai while the brunette chews on his bottom lip. It makes Chuuya nervous to not know what’s causing Dazai this much anxiety to the point he’s afraid of saying anything. It makes him wonder if something happened at work; something that could potentially threaten Yokohama—or worse—their relationship, their lives.
Eventually, his patience to wait Dazai out pays off. Delicately, Dazai releases his lip and whispers, “I… cut myself at work.” Immediately, he adverts his gaze and hunches his shoulders in shame. In guilt.
And Chuuya…
He doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t say anything.
The news shocks him yes, and he’s a little sad, but… he’s not disappointed, angry, or upset. Just… sad. Realistically, he knew that Dazai was bound to cut himself at work one day. He knew that the urge would overtake Dazai and that no one would help distract him through it.
He knew this.
And yet, Chuuya isn’t anything except sad. Sad that Dazai would cut himself and feel guilty about doing it to the point he’d lie and act to Chuuya. Sad that Dazai had to face the urge—those demons—alone after having Chuuya help and support him. Sad that Dazai hadn’t bothered to call him.
“Chuuya?” Dazai calls out hesitantly, voice small. He looks at Chuuya, remorse and fear swirling in his mahogany irises. It’s obvious he’s afraid of Chuuya’s response, afraid of what the redhead will do after everything he’s done to help these past four months and before.
So, Chuuya responds in the best way he knows how: actions instead of the thousands of words vying for release in his heart.
Ever so gently, Chuuya wraps his arms around Dazai’s slender frame and brings him to his chest. In a testament to the hundreds of times they’ve done this, Dazai instinctually tucks his head in Chuuya’s neck, willingly ignoring the strain on his body for the provided comfort.
A hitched breath falls onto Chuuya’s skin as he cards his fingers through Dazai’s unruly curls. Slowly, the tension in the brunette’s body dissipates as his hands come up to grip the back of Chuuya’s shirt.
“Is chibi… is chibi mad?”
“No. No, I’m not mad. I’m not disappointed or upset either.”
“But, I… I squandered all your hard work, Chuuya! I threw it all away like it was nothing!” Dazai cries. It comes out in a whine, like he’s distressed about the fact he potentially destroyed any chance of Chuuya helping him again.
And why wouldn’t he? They’ve spent months getting to this point; going through sleepless nights and heated, emotional arguments. Both have put a lot—have sacrificed a lot—into Dazai getting better and becoming clean. Both have been hurt a lot, too; unchecked words flying like bullets with the intent to harm.
But Chuuya’s remained through it all. He’s stayed through bloodied fists and poisoned words, angry breakdowns and anguished, pleading screams. He’s stayed, even though there have been numerous times where he shouldn’t.
Chuuya won’t deny, he should be angry that Dazai cut himself and subsequently destroyed months of progress. He should make the decision not to help him, but—
“You didn’t squander anything, love. You didn’t throw anything away,” Chuuya soothingly whispers into Dazai’s hair. “Relapses happen, okay? That’s just part of the deal when it comes to getting better. There’s nothing wrong with it, and I’ll never get mad if it happens again.”
—he loves his idiot mackerel too much to do any of that.
Chuuya places a comforting kiss on Dazai’s head as he lets the words sink in. He hadn’t been expecting Dazai to get this worked up over his reaction, though he should have. Besides his depression and constantly racing mind, Dazai’s biggest enemy is his anxiety. It gets the better of him sometimes, dragging him into scenarios that make it seem like the world is against him, abandoning him in endless darkness with no light or warmth. During those times all Chuuya can do is reassure Dazai and remind him that he’s not alone, that he’s loved and cared for.
Ever so slowly, the words sink in until, eventually, Dazai quietly says, “thank you, Chuuya.”
He kisses Dazai’s head again, the edges of his lips forming into a smile. “Of course, mackerel.” He has no idea how his words affected Dazai, but he’ll take the softspoken gratitude.
Dazai tilts his head and looks up suddenly, gracing Chuuya with his big doe eyes. “Can we still have crab?” he asks. A fear of rejection is still in his eyes, but it’s replaced with glee when Chuuya snorts and nods.
Dazai has a wide smile as he gives Chuuya a grateful kiss. He breaks away from the hug afterward and scampers over to the pot to check the crab.
‘Yeah,’ Chuuya thinks as he goes to join Dazai, ‘he’s going to be okay.’