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velvserum · 3 months ago

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When you’re not here

A/N: really old writing, probably better than my more recent ones but still not exactly good. i did like it for a period of time before though, so i figured i should post it- it kind of makes me cringe AKISMEKD so if there’s a warning for that here’s the warning 💀

originally this was supposed to be a scene in my fanfic but i ended up scrapping it since it deviated from the plot and didn’t fit the overall vibe

this is unfinished, but hopefully i’ll finish it someday and post on ao3

Summary: It’s attempt after attempt, Dazai can’t be bothered for any type of care after but a certain redhead is irritably persistent. Dazai might be a little too comfortable with this arrangement, but you didn’t hear that from him.

TW: disassociation, vague mentions of suicide attempt

—————————————————————————

-Cold.

He was more accustomed to that.

There's cold water that spites his skin, the icy drench searing down his back in quick bucket-fulls. As always, it borders on painful, frigid and unforgiving, brutally materializing against his flesh.

Dazai dreads showers a majority of the time, what with all the effort he has to exert even to a partial cleaning. Keeping his wobbly worn legs up as the fatigue pushes down his shoulders, having the dull light flicker while he navigates through automated motions, disconnected with his body even as he peers down at it. He's immobile, in those few moments. His skin being free of bandages, prickle with goosebumps, all seizing him in a frozen lake. The pressure and temperature is harsh, as are most things in his life. The water is so frosted against his body that sometimes he forgets to breathe while violently submerging his head via bucket until he’s gasping for air he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of earlier.

Dazai thought it only fair for him to match his exteriors with his internal blemishes. Cold and impersonal. What does it matter if it’s unconventional? His existence was unconventional.

…

Warm.

In current time, Dazai can only vaguely make out the few complaints from Chuuya in the background, the first thing he hears after hours being the blocked out voices of 'why the fuck is your water so cold', 'jesus fucking christ how do you live like this-' ‘you’re not a masochist? i’d be shocked. ‘place is goddamn mental,’ and so on, but Dazai's more encapsulated with the feeling of warm water swirling in waves against his body. For once, he can breathe, it's so comfortable that his own body melts, unwinding hours and hours of strain.

Warm. It's warm.

And where Chuuya’s voice is violent and difficult, gets made up by how deceivingly gentle his hands are, pressing a damp towel cautiously across dazais scars that he has yet to witness until now. Hesitant. Unsteady. As if it held the possibility of becoming too rough- even though most were long by now healed. It was foreign to Dazai, to have touch directed at him that cradled instead of scorning.

‘Comical’, is what it really is.

Dazai has never been this kind to himself. He doesn’t think he could be. Never bothered with the pressure, as long as it got done. Never let the air around him feel like it was something he could breathe in. Never gingerly ran a towel over, making sure it was fine.

Yet, here Chuuya was. The biggest brute he's ever seen, being soft.

And.. to Dazai of all things.

His legs lay limply stretched out in the tub while his body remains as sluggish as his mind. The rest of the bandages were either discarded into a bin or scattered in hefty waters that ripple under the moonlight's cast, leaving him bare for all he is.

Dazai squints, discerning through fog- the feel of his bare skin against someone else's, the dust particles floating around, the way the water sways leisurely, the damp hair that’s matted on his face and his surroundings that oddly feel less empty.

He couldn’t recall this place ever feeling this bright either. It surges with a new light that he could only ever describe as Chuuya himself, everywhere that brat goes fires up and leaves a flame in its wake. Even his own dreary apartment is somehow less repulsive, replacing the nauseous green with a midnight blue hue and-– was it always like that? He’s taken his fair trade of late showers well into the night but the moon's beams have never fought its way through the window in such a noticeable mirage.

The scene is quiet, with Dazai zoning in and out of his head while Chuuya’s muted mutters flow out unfiltered.

The redhead’s ungloved hand presses onto his shoulders, the remains of soap wiping away the icked feeling of an unclean ocean. Soothing, grounding, safe. They’re firm, so much so that maybe just slightly, the backlash he’s gotten from gasping for oxygen he couldn’t obtain, quiets. Winding down into a shaky, yet copeable feeling.

Dazai blinks away the rest of the blurriness, coming back to reality when Chuuya’s hand kneads into his hair.

Oh, he’s talking.

“—Fuckin’ ass, do you even use your heater because the last time I took a shower here I got dunked in your shitty-”

“—Nawh.” Dazai finally replies.

Chuuya’s face switches with surprise, his movements halting the slightest bit before he’s back to glaring.

“Well you should more often, seriously, even my fridge isn’t that goddamn cold.”

“Mm.” He leans back against cold ceramic, “Chuuya’s trying to blame me for his deficient fridge?”

Chuuya huffs, making a more forceful tug on his hair while still managing to keep it from hurting Dazai. ‘Cause he’s weirdly compassionate ‘n crappy like that.

“You’re deficient,” He growls.

Yeah.

“Y—”

“—But you don’t deserve any of that bullshit.” Chuuya cuts in, massaging the back of Dazai’s head but keeps his thumbs near his temples. ��A kick, though? You’d deserve that.” He mutters.

Dazai huffs a laugh, unhumorous.

Chuuya’s not ‘nice’ in any sense.

He’s brash, and harsh, and his face and his words are thickened with repulsion.

Even right now, he’s swatting insults at Dazai nonstop, acting like they’re heathens bickering down a mall instead of being in the aftermath of an attempt. Chuuya, whereas others would think to apply comfort in their voice, feigning a sweet lulling tone, decides to maintain his ridiculic slander.

And everyday, without hesitation, Chuuya slaps a snarl at the start of every conversation and barbarically forces Dazai out of his comfort zone— out of his goddamn mind.

“Chibi’s so mean.”

“As deserved.” Chuuya repeats, and pushes Dazai’s bangs back.

The water swivels, making small sounds that resemble the ones on the beach.

—But still. Chuuya’s not treating him like glass- like he’s suddenly stopped being himself after the attempt. As if he’s not just some washed up anomaly sitting where he didn’t belong—

“..You won’t ask?” Dazai mumbles after a moment.

There’s a small period of time where Chuuya goes quiet, hands still ruffling through Dazai’s hair. His eyebrows furrow in thought, lost in what to say.

“You wanna talk?”

“I don’t know,”

“Hm,” Chuuya hums in response, before adding, “Close your eyes.”

Dazai does. A trickle of water is poured.

“It was colder,” He numbly recites, after a while, and ends there.

Colder might be an over exaggeration, he realizes.

It’s not that much different from any other time he’s attempted. It’s not any different than the life he’s lived.

‘Colder’ however might be snow freshly fallen on newly woken skin, colder might be frozen ice cubes and red palms, colder might be a night walk out, colder might be badly chosen attire on a dead winter day.

Or colder could be the blood pumping through his veins, that never seem to provide him any sort of warmth other than basic bodily function.

“Wow, really? No shit, sherlock.”

“—What? You wanted to know.”

“I asked if you wanted to talk. But this? Get your shit off the table, Dazai. Way off the table.”

God.

Dazai rolls his eyes, irritation flickering at the back of his head. “Don’t you think you’re asking for too much?”

“I think you owe it to me,” He mumbles back.

“That would be the case, if you gave useful feedback in the first place,”

Right. Maybe he just misconstrued Chuuya’s insults as passive when they were actually tired and annoyed. Chuuya’s compassion isn’t eternal and as far as Dazai knows, luck does not play well into his whims.

He shouldn’t have expected Chuuya to be all that into him after this anyways. Just as rightfully so, he supposes. And there is an eventual end to everything, though unfortunately he was already too deep into Chuuya’s nonsensical juvenile dog schedule after the past few months, but the bombs finally dropped. He can finally go back to—

“Well then say something useful first for once,” Chuuya huffs.

His hands are firm, yet smooth as they scrub into his scalp. Dazai can recognize a low grumble of frustration and exasperation in his voice.

“You don’t have to fuckin’ pour your heart out, or..any shit— but all that cryptic crap? Don’t do that. You’re in your own head, okay? I can see the gears in your head working and it’s late and I don’t have 5 hours to deconstruct it all. Just speak to me.”

…

His eyebrows furrow.

Chuuya’s pushy. Like hell.

But it doesn’t take acting nice to be kind.

He looks at him bitterly despite that.

“You already know what I’m thinking though,”

Not that he’s at all comfortable with the idea.

“It’s nicer to be listened to than to be told.” Chuuya asserts.

Dazai doesn’t know what to say to that, so, he settles with: “You tell me off everyday.”

“Consider this a one time offer.”

He frowns. “I don’t accept offers from little boy scouts,”

“Are you always this damn insufferable?”

“Are mutts always this high maintenance?”

“As if you don’t spoil your own fucking cat.”

“Mind you, that is my baby,” Dazai argues, then continues, uninterested. “Chuuya just wishes he had the likeability of a feline when all he retains is the image of a pathetic, ill-mannered, invasive pooch.”

“God, would it kill you to not be such an ass for once? What, you have brain damage all of a sudden? Is that it?”

Dazai’s forehead feels like static.

“We’re on the topic of damage now? Great, we can finally discuss yours—”

“Are you really that goddamn desperate that you’ll go there?.

“Then what?” Dazai clicks, “ Do you really think ‘talking it out’ is going to ‘fix’ anything? Are you that naive, Chuuya?”

He doesn’t know what happens in those few moments,

Chuuya’s entire face drops from being stoic to him snorting, a signature grin on his face. The kind someone makes when they have a victory but off. Tired, but relieved. It irks and prickles Dazai, until Chuuya speaks up again—

“It’s working for your dumb ass right now, isn’t it?”

What?

“You talk, and then I don’t have to see that dead fish look in your eyes.”

Dazai’s face contorts.

And Chuuya’s eye’s are drilling into his skin.

Another crack, another slip, another barrier being torn down ruthlessly by the redheads' rough, molding hands.

It hasn’t occurred to him that the lone act of their quarreling was beginning to serve as a replacement for the chaos that resides rampant at his mind and core.

It’s unsettling.

It’s refreshing.

It’s….

“Besides, I’m not expecting a miracle, but if you’re as critical in your own head like you are with movies,” Chuuya bumps Dazai’s forehead with a knuckle, “Then get the fuck out of there.”

…it’s. Too. Much work.

If this was anyone else, Dazai would deny that statement.

If this was anyone else, Dazai would’ve gone home alone.

But fortunately for Chuuya, he’s too mentally plucked to forlong any roundabout way of disarming the subject.

(And yes, he’s going to ignore the way he’s been having a harder time even doing that recently. Just. Around Chuuya.)

Dazai huddles himself in the waters, eyes traveling to the rims of the tub.

How bad can it be?

Pretty bad.

Nothing’s worse than seeing a man literally drown in their sorrows, though.

Dazai sighs.

“It’s cold,” He reinstates.

Chuuya raises a brow.

He won’t stop there this time.

This is going somewhere. But hell if he knows to what point it’ll end up in.

He continues, akin to a child. A small, pouting child.

“Humans thrive in the warmth and decay in the cold, we experience hypothermia and then it’s the cruelest thing in nature. You know what happens? It tricks your body into thinking it’s warm when it’s freezing. Changes your breathing pattern. Messes you up. Some things just shouldn’t be part of human nature. Some things just shouldn’t exist.”

“Some things exist because they need to,” The bucket, with a huff, again gets kicked under the facet to build up water, “And sometimes they just do. It’s natural order. And you’re better for it, because you learned. You know better now.”

Dazai’s features adorn in a dour laugh, “I didn’t know Chuuya was so pro-hypothermia,”

The redhead's face immediately turns sour, resembling more casual nights before this one. Chuuya will always be Chuuya, easy to aggravate and even easier to taunt. Of course, usually, in dazai’s case, those two go hand in hand.

“Bad example.” Chuuya’s nose scrunches, “Just, shut up- you make everything so black and white, so fuck me I guess for trying to find the good,”

The good?

“The good?” Dazai reiterates, “It’s hypothermia,”

“It’s you,”

Ugh. Just, Ugh.

“....You have no tact to save your life,” Dazai groans, “I don’t need you to lie to make me feel ‘good’.”

“Hah? The last thing I ever want is to end up flattering you,” Chuuya huffs “I’m just saying, plain and simple.”

As the redhead continues, he meets Dazai’s gaze head on, “Stop comparing yourself to hypothermia, it’s ridiculous. You don’t freeze people over but you are fucking freezing. You want a real reason for that? Because it’s definitely not because of some messed up logic about how you’re born that way- it’s because you go to stupid beaches to get stupid frozen in stupid water that’s racked in stupid cold weather.”

Dazai frowns.

“For someone offering me free range to speak, you sure are critical.”

“And you’re still talking in analogies, you want me to read you like a book? I’ll treat you like a damn book.”