Work Text:
Everyone knew Dazai was suffering and, as much as he hated himself for thinking so, he was relieved to realize nobody was glancing his way. He would call it a selfless act if he wasnt talking about himself: to sigh when the most valuable coworker and friend was breaking down between insecure jokes and smiles. He would shake his head and embrace the shorter male, losing count of the many times his shirt was soaked in tears.
He knew it was wrong, and still... Outside was pouring; a storm like he haven't seen in a while. He wasnt much of a believer, but he took it as a sign regardless, feeling his chest tighten with what he would call a 'writing mood'. The apartment was neat and freshly cleaned, the scent of cinnamon still lingering from the excessive usage of his favorite perfume. Golden strands of hair were escaping the poorly done ponytail. Kunikida could not be bothered at the moment to put them back together. It's been so hard to put himself back together recently. Everything was so heavy, he was so tired from so many sleepless nights, just looking at the sky. It was a wonder- something so spectacular, the universe made just to be seen by his eyes- a thought that gave so much comfort, it was only for so little time. Soon enough he started to doubt the fact. Was he only made to see the universe? Was he even worth to do such action?
He wanted to write, to scribble in his notebook everything that was pressuring him, to spill tea and tears over the pages and lose his composure for once. He craved to do something wrong by his own choice, to not be led by the infinity into being wronged and kicked to the ground again. His hands were shaking, pressed to the wooden desk so aggressively the fingertips became red and numb. His weight was shifting from one foot to the other, heavy breaths slowly breaking into what sounded like soft deserted sobs. Pathetic. Dazai had it worse and it was so easy to see in his eyes. Kunikida's shoulders tensed with electricity at the thought of him.
Him. Dazai was enchanting and the blonde still recalled the quiet laughter of the President when they were first introduced to each other- his heart was sinking into honey, only for a brief moment, looking at the older man that was already locking eyes in a knowing manner. Kunikida looked away. It was so hard to focus- his head running in circles, always coming back at the black haired detective.
He was now walking from wall to wall, trying to exhaust himself, to forget, to take his mind on a walk towards a future black out. He disliked alcohol, which was upsetting on days like this- he would die to drink and not be able to remember for a little while.
Gods, have mercy. He knew he was acting childish, that he had so many things other could only dream for- and still he felt... beaten up. He was carrying the love and sorrow of every individual he laid eyes on and it was getting so overwhelming to keep on the facade he prided so much with; it was torture to wake up and be the leader and partner everyone around him needed. The core of his spine started to sting from too much tension and he found himself stumble to his bathroom. Just one. He had to.
He would often have long talks to Dazai, asking about his bad habits and sinful needs, trying to understand it. Part of it for Dazai's sake, part for his own sinful lust. Every so often, just sometimes, he wanted to do something bad. To feel dirty and nothing more. He was ashamed, but it was the truth. He was so tired. The farest shelves of his mind were filled with pain, there was no more room to hide it anymore. His ideals were failing him. He was watching his dreams crumble in front of his eyes. Was this heartbreak? Was this unrequired love? Was this what Kunikida was left with? His cheeks were stained with salty oceans by the time he got inside, not caring to close the door. He was alone. It wasnt worth it. There was no savior. He was selfish, selfish and dirty and a sinner. A disgrace to the agency, to Atsushi- to Dazai. A freak, obsessed with ideals he couldnt catch, starving for love from a man; and beyond everything, a man who wasnt looking his way.
Trembling, he reached for the cabinet, pulling out from red inked cloth a blade. His grey eyes were trying to take a look at the sharp object but the shakiness of his hands were too harsh to allow it. He was growing weaker- out of control. He needed it. It was hard to even roll his sleeves to his elbows, too caught up into the despair growing within him at the need of the sensation. He knew Dazai was doing it for gaining back control; for numbing whatever he felt inside and he wanted that relief too. It was bitter sweet. One, two, three. Three lines. Not to deep, not to light, enough to create the taste of metal cutting through his skin. His heart felt like floating again, only for a split second, before the worries would come back again. If the cut was too careless, it was problematic and inefficient- he couldnt afford doing it too gently. But no matter how deep he would go- the result were only half satisfying. It was almost addictive, a sword with a single function: mend. The memories, the emotions bottled up, the ache in his bones.
So tired.
The routine was simple. Watching the blood flow and spill the floor was soothing, making the poet forget about the cold shivers that started to run up and down his entire body. His left leg was shaking, consuming the last few remains of his energy. He was finally getting sleepy. The blood was vibrant, soaking into his clothes, the only warmth he felt in a long time. He was foreigner when it came to touch. He was forced to become nothing but a shell for his coworkers, empty and hollow, echoing back the answers everyone needed. A shell doesnt think about itself, it just projects back what the person in front of it yells. It was a thin line between the tranquility he provided and the nightmares he concealed.
Once the blood started to run dry, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his sin, cleansing him of every reminiscing visual of the crime he committed. The rain was still raging on, in a way only a troubled soul like Kunikida could've found comfort in.
It was quiet in the apartment. Only the sound of a vinyl stuck on repeat and the soft hiccups of the detective were present, blending together in a still rhythm, almost peaceful. The man was too worn out by the clock to move, so he remained as still as the apartment, hugging himself in a corner underneath the sink. Droopy eyes were closing slowly, a state of sleepiness taking over him, washing away the once known sadness. He was going to fall asleep and wake up bit after 2am, crawling to bed for another few hours before having to regain all his strength to wash his wounds and smile another day for the people he cared for most. He was drifting away, but not towards death. Not yet. It was a pity.
Half away into a restless sleep, he thought he heard the front door open, a voice he couldnt recognize calling out for him. Oh, how the dreams were mixing into his reality to put him to bed. Kunikida would have been able to let it go, covered by the cold air and tears; but two arms touched him and the motionless self was destroyed. His eyes, wide open now met the ones of his coworker. Dazai? Why was he here? Why was he always here- why couldnt Kunikida stay away? Protect his heart from collapsing between his lungs- he was craving inner peace; and with the human he desired it most in front of him, gasping at his actions, that was impossible.
Dazai was just looking, his arms taking his older friend to his embrace, resting his head on his heavy chest, heart pumping in his rib-cage at the sight. Kunikida, of all people?
The younger thought about it for months- afraid of his feelings for his partner. He was questioning himself. Kunikida was the most reliable person since Oda. Always here, always offering his advice and comfort, awkward as it was, still a blessing. There was a part of him that was convinced his feelings were nothing but the projection of the affection received, the days spend together working and drinking tea, while the other part of him knew all his past dates were only distractions. Maybe he was at fault too...? Too busy with his own illusions to see. Dazai was a intuitive man and had often took notice of the tired and lonely eyes the older possessed, but would've never thought of them as anything else besides too much worry and work. The conversations about suicide and self harm, the weird notes in his notebook, the slightly weaker handshake, the way his voice got raspy but not from sleep...the signs were in front of him this whole time- and what did he do? Complain about his own irrelevant troubles, letting the poet he adored wither like a rose in the autumn winds. Stupid.
"Don't...tell..the others..." he whispered, muffled in his chest, a voice so soft he could barely understand it.
"It's okay, Kunikida-kun. Let me see and treat your wounds."
"Go home...you're a dream."
The detective took off his beige coat as it was falling to the ground to get painted with the other's blood in a swift motion, only to cover his partner with it and move his back to lean against the wall.
"I'm afraid I will annoy you for a bit."
"...why not let me die?"
It hurt. It hurt more than expected to hear it. Dazai was hit by emotions and he had to get up and search for the first aid kit to hide his batting eyelashes, to hide incoming tears. Was this how the others felt about him? The thought of a world without Kunikida was... was unimaginable. Without the way he could pat Dazai's back, or let him run his hands through blonde locks, or the scent of perfume and books, or the sound of him humming songs he never recognized. A world without Kunikida would be empty and cold- he swallowed the dark picture. On his knees now, he took the hand his partner kept close to his chest and uncovered the scars. The precision and determination to perhaps end it all frightened even the suicidal maniac himself.
"Kunikida..." he breathed.
Cleaning his wounds was the easy part. What was truly devastating was seeing him jumping in and out of sleep, with sad eyes not even daring to meet his own, cheeks red like wine and puffy lips from what seemed to be a headache. He was vulnerable and tired from the blood-loss and Dazai couldnt help himself from shedding a tear and lean in to take off his glasses and kiss his closed eyes. He carried the taste of sorrow and salt. He was divine and he felt sick for realizing that just now.
"Are you awake?"
A hum.
"Perhaps it's stupid to say it now- but I dont want to live in a world without you. I simply cannot see existing like that."
A sigh from the blonde.
"I know I sounds like a hypocrite...but I want to try to live. For you. With you."
Their eyes met in surprise. It was a tender exchange of stars and pain and hope. Dazai smiled softly and pulled Kunikida closer to him, a thankful sigh being heard once he felt the older one shifting to move his head to the detective's chest.
Kunikida was quiet and his breathing was slowing down, melting into the warmth of his partner- it was so warm, it made him light in the head, spinning around the smell of Dazai. The smell of home.
"Come on, big boy. Let's put you to bed."
It was a bit of a struggle, but he managed to get the man in bed, gentle enough to not cause any pain. His hands were on the older's face, looking at him, thanking whoever was in the skies, for he got to see his pretty eyes sparkling one more day.
So...tender. So warm. Kunikida started to shed tears, incapable of figuring out what to do with this kindness, with this love- with himself. He felt calm, yet the crying was soaking the shirt the younger was wearing. He had to improvise when it came to loving, so he kept sobbing with his eyes closed shut, his grip tightening around the blanket that covered him.
And Dazai understood it.
And so Dazai kissed his eyes once again in the small apartment covered in the scent of a new beginning.
The rain stopped.