Archive of Our Own

A ragged heart beats in his chest—it’s broken, always has been, always will be, forever indebted to be fragments so small no one could pick them up.

It’s an irregular beat that pulsates through his ears, one he cannot control. He can feel it through his eardrums, in his cheeks, circling his jawline before it slashes his throat like a sharp knife. It’s a steady panic, unlawful adrenaline making itself known. It’s not strong enough for him to react, yet it lingers sufficiently for him to feel it. 

Agony, fear. Adrenaline, steadiness. Eternally weary and hidden. 

His surroundings aren’t dystopian; he knows where he is. The agency's walls are beige, with dark wood accents to complement the furniture. The floor, an unusual color, is made of green tile, patterned in squares. There are a couple of filing cabinets in the back of the room on the left side—his desk is parallel to them, right by the plants that they’ve let die too many times. 

He knows where he is. 

But it doesn’t feel like he’s there. 

Ask him to name five things he can see, and he’d tell you five words on his paper. 

Words he used to be able to make out. Words he’s supposed to be reading. Words that are supposed to make sense. 

Yet they don’t.

As time passes by, they only get more adjourned. He’s not processing them. They don’t make sense because he can’t see them. The ink is smeared, the paper is shredded, and folders are melting into his desk. 

He counts his fingers; he knows he has five, yet he counts six. Everything is too loud or too quiet, from the machine printing paper in the back office, to cars driving by, to the espresso machine brewing coffee in the front—it’s too much, but it’s not enough. 

He senses everything to feel nothing. 

Dazai isn’t stupid. He knows what this is. He knows it can wait, it’s not safe to be vulnerable outside, it’s not safe to breakdown in public, even if the public right now is Ranpo sucking on his lollipop and an office clerk typing away. 

He’s trusted these people with his life before, multiple times, and dozens before that. But this is different. He’s trusted them with his physical wellbeing, something they can see, something they think they have control over. 

Trusting them with his emotional, his mental state… that’s uncharted territory. 

Emotions can be used against you like a dog and its bone. They can be used to train you, nurture you into a relationship so delicate you don’t want to let go, and when people finally get tired of you, they use your trust, your love, to break you. 

Dazai knows he’s far from saving; he’s far from healed. 

But he doesn’t want to be broken anymore. 

He gets up from his desk, placing the mentally-shredded papers inside the pale yellow folders. He does it slowly, so people can’t sense he’s rushing, yet his movements are far from graceful. 

Like he’s running from something. 

He can feel Ranpo’s gaze daunting him; it’s steady, careful, watching. He’s observing. 

“Dazai-kun!” The lollipop pops out of his mouth. He’s noticed something. “Heading home for the night?” 

He has to keep it cool. The thing beating in his chest means nothing; he can ignore the rhythm pulsating in his ears. He can keep it together for a few seconds to entertain this manchild. 

“Absolutely! I’ve worked my butt off today, don’t you think?” He says with the same cunning smile as always. 

Ranpo hums, sensing, merely studying. “Mmm… I suppose…” He’s too cheery, awfully cheery. It’s irritating, it’s sickening. Dazai just wants to go home. “Have any plans with Mr. Fancy Hat~?” 

It takes Dazai a moment to process who that is. His brain clicks after a few seconds longer than he would’ve liked it to. He’s going insane. He couldn’t have forgotten about the love of his life, his husband. 

“Who knows, Ranpo-san…” Dazai plays along. “Maybe we’ll buy out all your favorite candies and hand them out to the neighborhood children…” 

“Ah!” Ranpo gasps. “You wouldn’t dare…” 

Dazai chides with a smile, a forced one, yet before he could say anything… 

“Go home, Dazai-kun.” 

And Ranpo sounds serious, yet genuine at the same time. It’s the raw type of care people show a frightened cat they find in the rain. 

He feels his façade break, just for a moment, not even a few milliseconds, he can feel his breath be taken, then returned. 

“And before you try driving anywhere!” Ranpo stands up, hands on his hips and looking much too proud of himself, like he figured out a hard case. “Taxi’s outside.” 

All Dazai does is blink at him. 

Was his mask not strong all along, or was Ranpo just too perceptive?

“Now, I bet you have a lot of questions and no words to ask them, so I’ll just say this,” He takes his glasses off and sets them on his desk, lollipop coloring his lips an artificial blue. “Genius recognizes genius, eh?” His head tilts a bit. “It takes one to know one.”

“What do you mean?” Dazai manages, and Ranpo smirks at him. “I am doing just dandy.” 

“Mmm, you can think that~ Whatever it takes to delude yourself, right?” 

He doesn’t want to have this conversation. 

There are a thousand things wrong with Dazai Osamu, and not one thing can fix him. He is beyond salvation; that is what he knows is fact. A rotten apple cannot come clean; it dissipates in the slums. 

“Yeah,” He sighs, his body is on autopilot. He doesn’t even know when he started walking to the door. “You’re right.” 

He feels the air still once more, this time in synthetic silence—one he did not mean to disturb or awaken. 

The words that came out of his mouth felt wrong. 

“Oh, and Dazai,” The stillness swoons. “Feel your feelings when you get home,” Whispered the air. He recognized the voice, yet his mind was too far gone to comprehend who said it. 

The door closes shut before he knows it, but then a new door is closing, and he can only hope it’s his taxi.

He remembers every twist and turn it takes to get to his home. Every stoplight, every stop sign, when the trains pass by, when pre-schoolers are aboard the bus. He’s filled every hour of every minute of every second there is on a clock; there’s not a single time of day he hasn’t arrived home yet. 

It’s a comforting feeling, to know where you live so well you could navigate there in your sleep—while blind, while deprived of all sensory. It becomes instinct; home is where you feel safe, and for the first time in his life, Dazai feels s afe. 

Except for when his home is empty, drained of all life. 

So when he’s twisting the knob and pushing the door open, only to be met with silence, he feels more out of place than he did at work. 

This thinking is not logical; he knows he isn’t a logical being himself. He’s deprived of emotion yet full of it. He feels nothing because he feels everything. He is the walking definition of an oxymoron. 

It’s not that he doesn’t feel human. It’s that he’s been made to be everything but human. His humanity has been drained from him, acting like a person is something he’s had to train himself to do; observing, copying, watching, studying, he’s stolen the humanistic mannerisms of others in hopes of becoming his own person.

He doesn’t know if it works, given he doesn’t know how to truly feel unless stimulated or under vast amounts of pressure. It’s hard for a dog to forget its training even when it’s old. When you tell it to sit, it will sit. Tell it to stay, and it will wait for further instruction until death. 

That’s essentially what he is: a dog awaiting further instruction. 

Because Dazai doesn’t know how to act. 

Those things are void for him. Something he can push to the side for another time. He’s home, where he wanted to be, away from the public, away from people. 

Yet part of him lingers for something to be at his side, reassuring him, just to be there, even as mere parallel play.

Dazai slides his shoes off his feet. There’s a place he’s supposed to put them, but he’s forgotten where that is. His chest aches, like something is weighing on him, pulling him down—an inescapable feeling of anxiety and terror. There’s a faint twinge beginning in his thighs, getting louder, steadier, with the more he stands and wanders. 

His body is giving up on him, and his mind is always quick to follow. 

He shrugs off his coat, he tosses it somewhere, in a direction he cannot point, but he feels the air swift against him as it lands. 

Everything is coming undone. 

It’s an out-of-body experience; he feels himself doing things, yet he’s sure he’s not the one committing the act. It’s vivid, it’s hated, it’s the invaluable part of him that’s nakedly human. 

The broken parts that no one has been able to clean up. 

He’s landing on his bed before he knows it. 

As his head hits his pillow, he’s met with a surge of pain coming from his heart, it’s pulling on him—aching for no reason other than to remind him he’s alive—it’s agony. He feels disgusting. He has the life people dream about having; there is no reason he should be suffering. He is the only one who prolongs it. He has a loving spouse with two adorable children, they have a roof shielding their heads, and homemade food every night. They make enough money to take them on a dozen three-month-long cruises, the kinds with waterparks built inside. They choose to live a modern lifestyle to provide their children with a normal structure, but if they didn’t have them, they could travel the world.

Why is he suffering when he has everything a person could want, could need, could yearn for? 

He feels the pain leaking from his heart into his bloodstream, sailing to his fingertips, down to his toes. There are no other words for it than hurt. 

It just hurts. 

But he finds that he can’t cry. 

There’s more wrong with him beyond the unreasonable aches and unnecessary panics. There are fragments of brokenness, each built with a level of complexity that he doesn’t understand. Some require gentle jazz music, some can be healed with a cup or two of sake with a ball of ice, others require massages, to be talked to, gentle nurture. 

Yet, with all of this, he cannot shed a tear. Not by himself. 

Whether it be because he married a God, the world’s brightest sun, he cannot cry when he’s cold. He needs the heat of his lover. 

His mind is structured in ways more puzzling than he’d like to think. 

The only times he can truly feel he can cry his heart out are in the presence of the person whom he loves the most. 

And that’s the weird thing. 

He is so good at holding it together until his mind and body are betraying him—physically and emotionally breaking him—it’s something he’s gotten good at. It’s become a part of him at this point, pretending he is doing just swell until it ruptures and bleeds out. But even while he’s wailing in utmost suffering, he cannot cry. 

Not until he’s warm. 

His fingertips feel so cold, like thousands of tiny needles swindled with velcro are being prodded at his skin. His toes feel the same, numb and foreign. He’s underneath two of their warmest blankets, yet he’s freezing. 

Everything feels hazy, blurry, coated in layers of dried molasses swirled with dandelions. His body aches for rest, but he cannot sleep, not when the thoughts are loud and screaming at him.

He’s feeling everything, yet he’s feeling nothing. 

Chuuya never comes home to an empty house. 

Correction, Chuuya never comes home to a silent house. 

There’s always something going on; the sink faucet left running, the kids playing a simplified version of hopscotch, Dazai trying to bake cherry cheesecake in the oven. It’s never quiet. He’s grown accustomed to some sort of ruckus, even if it’s small, from sakura petals blowing in from the open windows to his lover merely sleeping on the couch. It’s never been muted like it is now. 

A tiny hand squeeze on two of his fingers, he can feel big, beady eyes looking up at him with confusion and concern. 

“...Is Papa not home?” A small voice asks, it’s pure, it’s gentle, it sounds worried and weary.

Chuuya looks down at his son, his daughter standing close behind him. He smiles, closing the door so the cool, autumn air doesn’t chill their home. 

“I don’t think so, Sei,” He ruffles the top of his head. “How about some apple slices, yeah?” 

“No!” Another voice, one not filled with anxiety—more fierce and stubborn if anything—yells at him. “You promised ‘ta… mmm… the sweet thing!” She stomps her foot, emphasizing her point. 

He’s confused for a moment, before laughing a soft chuckle. “Pocky sticks?” 

“That!” Fuyuko claps her hands, chubby cheeks beaming in delight. 

“That’s for dessert, hm?” He attempts to reason, but his daughter has inherited her father’s perseverance and stubbornness. Once she wants something, she will get it, through sheer spite or a hunger strike. “Ham sandwiches and apple slices first, then I’ll let you choose the flavor of Pocky. Sound fair?”

Sei, the more reasonable one, nods his head. Worry tears from his face for now. He’s always been the calmer of the two, the more sensitive one. For a child, he wears his feelings on his arm—not hesitating to cry when a kid at school says something mean or judges him for his hair. He’s been sent home due to tantrums on more than one occasion, yet he hasn’t had an unreasonable tantrum; he’s just… sensitive and pure. 

In that way, he’s more like Chuuya. Not being afraid to feel an emotion in the moment, but it daunts him the moment he’s alone. Though for Chuuya, it was anger and irritation. While for Seiji, it’s sadness and anxiety. 

“Why don’t you two sit on the couch and put on your favorite show, yeah?” He says, it’s an option, a proposal. He doesn’t order his kids to do something unless it’s cleaning their rooms or picking up their toys from the floor. Personal responsibility is something they work on, a practice in their home. But it’s not forced if they’re having a rough day. 

Still, his two angels beam at the idea of getting TV time right when they get home. 

“ ‘Kay!” They both squeal, tearing off their clothes and shoes on their way to the living room. 

Chuuya will deal with their trail of garments later. 

He’s quick to slice the sandwiches into thirds to avoid having them choke. He removes the peel from the apple slices with a knife before cutting them up and setting their plates down in front of them. They’re entranced by a television show they rarely get to see, minds feasting on the bright colors on the screen. This is what he normally comes home to. 

But when he got the call from the school saying his kids hadn’t been picked up fifteen minutes after pick-up time, he knew something was wrong. 

Dazai may suck with time when it comes to work, but he’s neurotic about it when it comes to his family. 

The kids should be preoccupied for at least thirty minutes. 

Yet something paints his heart a bleeding red, telling him that there’s more to this than the children should know or see. 

All they know is that their dad gets sad sometimes. 

He doesn’t need them to know more, not at this age, but when they’re older and able to understand.

So, he pulls out his phone to send a text. 

Dazai’s Non-Biological Self-Proclaimed Adopted Parents 

Chuuya: Are either of you able to pick up Fuyu and Sei? 

Oda: Yeah, why? 

Chuuya: It’s… Dazai. Haven’t checked on him yet, rather to be safe than sorry. 

Ango: One of his coworkers called me earlier, saying he looked off. Didn’t elaborate. I don’t know how they got my number. 

Chuuya: …When was that text sent?

Ango: About two hours ago, did Dazai…? 

Chuuya: Pick them up when you can, please? Sooner rather than later. 

Oda: Be there in ten. 

Oda: Keep us updated? 

Chuuya: Will do. 

He heads to his bedroom with more urgency now. He doesn’t know what happened, and no one knows what happened. They’ve been locked out, kept in the dark about what’s going through Dazai’s head. 

And that’s the thing with Dazai, he doesn’t know how to let people in, how to let them see he’s broken. 

When you’re handed a map, you don’t know how to read it, you ignore it—tucking it away and forgetting. You’ve never used it before, and you’ve trusted your instincts until this point. You trusted yourself and never had another person guiding you. That’s what people are to Dazai; he doesn’t know how to use them, how to let them in, because he’s always dealt with things by himself. 

He’s not going to reach out for a map he doesn’t know how to read. 

So sometimes it has to be shoved into his hands.

Chuuya creaks the door open, scared of what he could find, but he has to remember this is Dazai. 

There are a lot of things he could and could not find. 

But instead of finding bloody bandages, a limp body, pills scattered on the floor… he finds a still being, one under two of their softest blankets, shaking. 

Shaking, not crying, not making a sound, just shaking. 

He closes the door behind him, so the children don’t see the state their father is in right now. It’s out of protection, not fear. 

He’s at his side in an instant, sitting on the bed enough so Dazai can feel him. 

“Hey, love?” Chuuya starts, his tone even and gentle. “What’s wrong?” 

Dazai’s pupils shoot back and forth, side to side, actively scanning for a danger that isn’t there. He’s like a frightened animal, ready to bolt when something gets too loud, too much for him to handle. 

“It’s okay,” His tone stays the same. Full of love and patience. “Nothing’s gonna hurt you, it’s just me, Mackerel.” 

The nickname is grounding; he knows it is. Even if Dazai’s having flashbacks to when they were both younger and not in the best homes, they had stupid nicknames they’d call each other. 

‘You’re smelly like a fish! A damn mackerel at that!’

‘Well, you’re ugly like a slug! At least fish are cute!’ 

Those nicknames stuck for longer than they’d think they would. 

And most of the time, especially in situations like these, he’s grateful to have them. 

Dazai’s breath shivers, wavering in the most unsteady way possible, but he manages to look at Chuuya with fear-driven eyes. 

Dazai’s eyes have always looked like voids. They look black, so dull of life and loss of hope, when they’re one of the deepest browns Chuuya has grown to love. His eyes, though sullen, have not looked so… barren in such a long time. 

Chuuya has managed to fill Dazai’s eyes with a twinkle that means ‘I want to live,’ just by being near him, giving reassurance a person needs, not judging him when he’s having a bad time; instead, putting up with it. He’s grown with Dazai, he’s been with Dazai, he’s given those eyes hope. 

Yet right now, that hope is gone. 

It’s marinating in the epitome that is Dazai’s mind, his worst enemy and his best ally. 

Chuuya knows what this is, what it means. Dazai isn’t gone, he’s just out of it and needs someone to fish him back. 

He’ll be that person, for as many times and as long as Dazai lets him. 

Two quiet knocks on the door interrupt the unwanted silence, and a head of dark red hair is peeping through the already-opening door. 

Yet the man, Oda, says nothing. 

He comes into the room and quietly closes the door. Chuuya can hear Ango wrangling the kids into their shoes and jackets—having to chase them around every time he picks them up. 

“We’re gonna have them spend the night.” Oda’s voice is comforting, non-judging, and crucial. It’s deep while welcoming. Steady but not intimidating. 

Chuuya stares back at him, hand not leaving his husband’s side. He silently nods, his way of saying thank you. 

Oda has known Dazai longer than Chuuya has; their relationship, how they met, is still unclear to him. Dazai claims to have known him his whole life, while Oda says he found him by the trash can when he was five and digging for scraps at two in the morning. From there, Oda states that Dazai followed him around like a newborn kitten looking for its mother. 

When Dazai’s parents weren’t there, Oda became his salvation. 

Despite him being a child when they met. He was parental in all the ways Dazai needed: nurturing, understanding, patient, and loving. 

And when Oda had to move away for university, Dazai had already met Chuuya. 

The relationship they have is special; all of them have seen the worst sides of each other: depression, anxiety, mania, euphoria, drunk on alcohol, and high on drugs. 

So he understands. 

Words don’t need to be said because he understands.

Oda must’ve noticed Chuuya’s worry, the anxiety he tries to hide. “He’ll be okay,” He sounds so sure, arms crossed across his chest as he leans on the doorframe. “He’s Osamu.”

Logically, Chuuya knows that—that underneath the uncaring, charismatic facade Dazai puts on day by day—he’ll be okay. Dazai may want death, but death doesn’t want him. 

But that doesn’t drive away his fears. 

“I hope so,” Is all Chuuya can manage to muster out, too worried to say much else. He isn’t scared; his heart pangs with the ache of heartbreak. “Stupid bastard’s giving me a heart attack.”

“Don’t play it off, allow yourself to break, too,” Oda hums. “Just… talk to him.” 

All Chuuya can do is talk to him. He knows what Dazai responds best to; he knows he needs time, but that’s so hard. 

“We brought food for you two: pho and crab rangoon,” Oda says while opening the door. Halfway out, he stops. “Call us if you need anything,” and then he’s gone. 

It’s an unsteady silence that fills the room. Chuuya can feel his feelings in the air, brewing from his chest to the pits of his stomach. It’s one he’s grown to hate, to disdain; it’s unnerving and wrecking. 

He can’t lash out; he can’t afford to scare off whatever piece of Dazai lingers in his head. 

So he takes a deep breath, sighing, finding his lover’s hand underneath the covers. 

“O-sa-mu~” He sings, drawing one of his fingers along his husband’s veins. His voice quivers, he knows it does, yet raw emotion is better than fake expression. “What’s going on in that head of yours, yeah?” 

He’s just talking to him; he’s expecting no response, at least not for a while. Until this period of dissociation is over. It’s different every time, but the same things work—just with little adjustments here and there. 

“The couple I was supposed to take pictures of cancelled on me, and paid me full price for the inconvenience, turns out they were on a last-minute flight to Finland to see the Northern Lights.” He imagines the two of them, maybe for their next anniversary, they can visit a European country that isn’t France for once. “I think that’s on our bucket list, right?” 

On their second anniversary, before they got the kids, they got incredibly drunk and ended up writing fifty-two things they wanted to do before they died. It consisted of visiting a dog cafe to conquer Dazai’s fear of dogs, to walking across lava-infused stones. Half of what they wrote was illegible, and needed to be deciphered the next day, yet they kept the list. 

They’ve done quite a few of those things. Visit their old high school, go skinny dipping on a beach at night, have sex in a hot tub, see drag queens, steal an antique photo because it’s one of the few things you can’t replace, and try every flavor of ice cream at a shop. 

The list goes on and on. 

Another thing on the list was to have kids. 

And today they have two beautiful children, angels blessed from the skies above. 

Neither of them can die before the list is completed; that promise is sacred. 

So Dazai won’t die. This won’t take him away from Chuuya. 

“I love you,” Chuuya’s hand wraps around his, though smaller, he has a stronger grip. “That’s never gonna change.” 

He hears the tiniest inhale from Dazai, the most movement he’s given this entire evening. 

It’s something to cling to. 

“Come back to me, sweetheart,” he says, squeezing his hand again. Pressure firm, but not painful. “Oda brought crab rangoon~” 

He knows he needs time. 

But he really wants his husband. 

…And after a few moments of whispering bribes into the air, talking about the koi fish he saw at the venue… 

“...Chibi’s so stupid.” 

Chuuya hadn’t meant to gasp, but after not hearing Dazai’s voice all day shifted him to do just that. He has the urge to pounce on him like a meerkat, but restrains himself.

A meaningful, “There you are, love,” is said instead. “Does anything hurt?” 

“Thighs, just ache,” Dazai breathes out, eyes unblurring the haze that once covered them. 

Chuuya acknowledges him by humming. “Do you want a weighted blanket? Heating pad?” He asks, tapping each of his fingers on the top of his lover’s hand. 

“Both?” Dazai answers. “Slug worries too much.” 

“I worry the right amount.” He defends. 

“Says the one with an anxiety diagnosis…” 

“Keep on talking, sweetheart,” Chuuya rolls his eyes. He’s glad Dazai is talking to him; their bickering streak of over a decade could never end. “I’ll go get those things, okay?” 

At the mention of him leaving, Chuuya can see the way Dazai’s body stiffens, it’s barely noticeable—because he’s constantly trying to hide away the vulnerable parts of himself—yet it hurts him in more ways than it should. 

“On second thought,” Chuuya’s hand searches under the covers, feeling for his husband’s phone. He finds it mingled between the two blankets and pulls it out, calling himself in the process. He answers his cell. “Now,” He sets his lover’s phone on the nightstand. “You keep talking to me, alright?” 

Dazai stares at him, face confuzzled and taken aback until he pulls smart comeback out of his ass. 

“Chuuya is still my loyal dog, even after all these years,” He tries to play it off, but the slight quiver of his voice tells him he’s relieved. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” He rubs the top of his spouse’s head, ruffling his hair. His chronic bedhead is in desperate need of a brush, looking more like a disorganized mess than a perpetually kept mob of perfection. He’ll do that later, when they’re both more situated. “Just don’t stop talking.” 

Brown eyes look at him, basking in haze and fog. The look of life they had isn’t there; it’s developing once more. Dazai’s eyes are big; they hold so much emotion, but can empty themselves of it. It’s a defense mechanism to not feel anything before it can hurt you. 

Chuuya has taken it upon himself to curate it by listening when his lover talks, chiming in on his conversation, adding an inside joke only they would know here and there, and just with those changes, things had gotten better.

But healing isn’t linear, it never is. You’re bound to trip, to mess up, and tumble again. 

And over and over, Chuuya can, has, and will help him get back on his feet. It’s not a good Samaritan deed; it doesn’t feel like an obligation, or as if some higher being is telling him to do this. It comes from his heart; his heart is so big he feels he’s drowning in it. His care, his love, isn’t pure; it’s venomous, rushed, and vivid. 

That consist, overbearing, and acidic love is what Dazai lacked. 

Instead of too much love and care, he got none. 

The possessiveness of it all, feeling trapped in someone’s arms, squeezed until you can’t breathe—that’s what he needed, that’s what he yearned for without knowing it. Their love is beautiful to the public, so full of sweet nothings and gentle touch—but their history is far from authentic. 

It is messy, it’s unfiltered and brash, yet that is what holds them together. 

Love is nothing without the pain that comes with it. 

“I will keep talking… for Chuuya,” Dazai says in the same breath, eyes wincing a bit when a cramp flares by. “Hurry?” 

Chuuya brings a soft smile to his face. His eyes can’t hide his worry; he knows they can’t. Eyes too blue are too genuine, but that’s what Dazai loves. 

“I’ll be quick,” And Chuuya squeezes his husband’s hand one last time before briskly walking out of the room. 

But he doesn’t go to get the items immediately, because knowing Dazai, he doesn’t eat. 

“O-sa-mu,” He sings into his phone, hearing blankets and pillows ruffle through the speaker. “Remember what I said earlier about food?” 

“Ugh,” Dazai whines. He sounds muffled, like he hid his entire body under the blankets. “...Yeah.”

“Don’t bitch like that, you big baby,” He says with love, tone even and reassuring. “You gotta eat something, sweetheart.” 

“Humans can live up to twenty-one days without food and water—” 

“—Under normal circumstances and physique, yes.” Chuuya checks the pho, one of the few soups he’s gotten his picky husband to eat and enjoy. It’s hot, not boiling, but consumable, the hypothermic container helping store its warmth. “You, my love, are chronically ill.” 

“Is Chibi being ableist?” 

“What? No!” He closes the lid and grabs a bowl to serve it in. Dazai doesn’t eat much off his plates when he’s having a flare or episode. “What I’m saying,” He grabs the ladle, stirring the soup, before scooping it into the dish. “Is that circumstances may be different for people who are ill?” 

“Slug hates me, I knew it.” 

“I don’t hate you, Dazai,” Chuuya fills a water bottle up. “You’re eating, that’s that.” 

He hears something akin to a grunt on the other side of the phone. Dazai can have his little tantrum, though, Chuuya is sure he’s only upset because he left the room.

Soup in hand, he runs down the hall to grab the heating pad and weighted blanket. He’s learned to do quite a bit of things one-handed, dealing with two children for four years and Dazai.

He wasn’t gone for more than five minutes, but his lover, being the King of Drama he is, is acting as if it were a dozen lifetimes and a millennium. 

“I’m back~” Chuuya sets the bowl on the nightstand. “C’mon, sit up.”

“You’re gonna make the weak and fragile move? How mean!” Dazai refuses to come out from under the blanket. 

“Uh huh…” He pretends to sound defeated. “Well, I can also just—” Chuuya hefts Dazai underneath his armpits, sitting him up and adequately moving the blanket down in the process. 

“You…” Chuuya holds back a laugh. “Look like a drowned cat.” 

“I’m going to have Fuyu jump elbows-first into your chest.” He threatens, and jumps in surprise when the weighted blanket is thrown onto his thighs. 

“That better?” Chuuya rolls his eyes and plugs the heating pad in, placing it on the edge of the bed while it heats up. 

“I suppose…” Dazai hates admitting when something is helping him, so he plays it off, and Chuuya lets him. He’s quick to eye the bowl of food, though. “Chibi!”

“What?” 

Dazai points at the pho. “Why!” 

“Because you need it,” Chuuya states as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Crab rangoon after, okay?” 

“You’re my dog!” 

“How the—okay,” Chuuya sits on the bed, body right beside his husband. “How does a dog—” 

“You are the dog.” 

“What does any of that have to do with this?” 

“Well,” Dazai stares at the ceiling, and despite his protests, lays his head on Chuuya’s shoulder. “Dogs aren’t supposed to take care of their masters, and—” A deep breath interrupts him. “Why is my dog always taking care of me?” 

Chuuya blinks, looking down at his husband, really wanting to understand his mind better than he’s able to. Dazai speaks in riddles; he’s a puzzle you have to figure out, even when you’re missing a piece. He says just enough so you’re not lost, but not enough for you to solve it. 

And Chuuya knows Dazai thinks he isn’t worth the care, the hassle, the compassion. But he is. He’s just been fed and has been feeding himself lies for too long. 

“Because, Mackerel,” Chuuya’s hand smooths Dazai’s hair to the side, getting a clear view of his face. “Even the worst dogs can sense when their owner needs help.” He pecks a kiss on his temple. “And no matter how mad a dog is,” He says softly. “It stays loyal, hm?” 

“Sometimes dogs run away from things that scare them.” 

“Well-trained dogs don’t.” It’s a solemn silence, but it’s needed. For the metaphors Dazai speaks in, Chuuya will adapt. “Now,” He changes the topic. “How about some sappy romcoms and food?” 

Dazai’s eyebrows furrowed, but if there’s one thing Chuuya knows about his husband… 

“ ‘Kay.” 

Is that he always comes around. 

And with coaxing him to eat a little more, massaging the pains until they go away, or by simply being there for him. 

The life in his eyes will come back, and when those go away… 

He’ll bring it back then, too.