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Chuuya knew something was wrong with Dazai. Many things were wrong with him, actually, but this was different than his usual weirdness. From time to time, Dazai would sink into a depressive state; something much more solemn than his usual flippant pessimism. He’d spend days alone in his house, forgetting to eat and subsisting on nothing but cheap booze and cigarettes.
These phases frustrated Chuuya to no end. He wasn’t going to pretend like he could understand what Dazai was going through, but the depth of his helplessness in the situation irritated him. He wanted to be able to do something; to fix it. But if he’d learned one thing over the years, it was that this was one of those things that had to be waited out. There was no “fixing” it, or taking shortcuts. It was just going to be a difficult couple of weeks for Dazai. The best Chuuya could do was be there for him through it.
When Chuuya opened the door to Dazai’s apartment (with his own key; the bastard refused to get up and unlock it for him when he knocked), he was met by a thick cloud of smoke. He coughed, stumbling over the stack of unopened mail on the ground.
“Jesus, why’s it so dark in here?” he grumbled, stooping down to grab the pile and set it on the table. He flicked the lights on as he made his way to Dazai’s room; the scent of cigarette smoke and self-pity weighing heavier in the air the closer he got.
Dazai was in bed, slumped down against the pillows. His eyes flicked dully over to Chuuya as he entered the room.
It was almost uncomfortable for Chuuya to look him in the eyes. No one deserved to be seen like this. He felt like the least he could do was avert his gaze to offer him some privacy. But he’d come here to support Dazai, as unpleasant as it may be for him. Time to say something uplifting, or whatever.
“Isn’t this a non-smoking apartment?” Chuuya frowned at his own words. Not quite the motivational speech he’d been going for, but then again he probably shouldn’t have expected anything else.
Dazai stared at him with empty eyes, then glanced away at the dark curtains shrouding the window.
Chuuya cleared his throat and tried again. “Kunikida said you’ve missed a week of work now. He said you won’t pick up the phone, either, and that he didn’t want to have to come to a Port Mafia member for help, but that he trusted I’d be able to reach you.” He stepped around piles of clothes and trash and opened the curtains. Though it was past sunset, it wasn’t fully dark yet. Dazai flinched at the soft blue light cast over the bed. Chuuya ignored his reaction, instead opening the window to let the smoky air filter out.
“When’s the last time you ate?” Chuuya asked.
Dazai stared blankly at the empty bottles cluttering his nightstand, almost like he was staring right through them. He shrugged.
Good. He was responding at least, even though it wasn’t verbally.
“I’m going to tidy up your room a bit, but in five minutes both of us are going to go to the kitchen and see what you have in the way of food. Got it?”
No response. But that was fine; Dazai was allowed to stay checked out a little longer. Truthfully, these five minutes of tidying were for his sake more than Chuuya’s. He knew if he asked Dazai to get up right away, he’d be met with resistance. The tidying served as a transition period; where he could get used to the idea of emerging from his nest of emptiness in the same way one slowly eases into a cold swimming pool.
Chuuya picked up the piles of clothes and put them in the hamper, throwing out bits of trash along the way. When he moved the bottles to the dresser, he noticed Dazai’s eyes were tracking him as he moved. That was a good sign. He was coming back little by little.
After dumping out the ashtray full of cigarette butts, he approached the side of Dazai’s bed.
“It’s time,” he said gently.
Dazai glared at him. Despite the rude expression, Chuuya was secretly pleased. Dazai was waking up a bit; communicating in the ways he could.
“C’mon,” Chuuya insisted. “If you’ve still got some canned crab, I’ll make it for you.”
Dazai glanced to the side thoughtfully, as if considering the offer. After a moment, he pushed the covers aside and scooched to the end of the bed.
“Want me to grab your slippers for you?” Chuuya asked. He’d seen them by the front door when he came in.
Dazai nodded.
“Stay there, okay? If you get back in bed while I’m gone I’m picking you up and carrying you to the kitchen myself, you hear me?”
This time when Dazai stared at him, it wasn’t as empty of a gaze. He was there alright, he was just being a brat. Chuuya huffed and left to grab the slippers.
When he came back, Dazai was sitting on the end of the bed, right where he was before. Chuuya placed the slippers on the floor and waited as Dazai put them on.
“Lead the way,” Chuuya said, stepping aside. Another trick he’d learned over the years. It was easy for Dazai to slip back into an unresponsive state if someone else made all the decisions for him. He had to make conscious choices to escape the web he’d gotten ensnared in.
Dazai grunted unhappily (yay, a noise!) but led Chuuya to the kitchen. He walked as slowly as possible, likely hoping Chuuya would snap and take charge again, but Chuuya was patient.
“Alright, let’s see what’s in your fridge,” he said. When he opened the fridge door, the smell of spoiled food hit his nose. He recoiled, disgusted. The milk on the top shelf looked to be fine, and the vegetables looked wilted at worst, so at least it wasn’t like all the food had gone bad. There had to be something specific rotting. Chuuya opened each of the drawers until he found the culprit: a package of steak cuts that must have been weeks past their expiration date. Regretfully, Chuuya threw the expensive meat in the trash.
Once again, it looked like Dazai was slipping away; sinking deeper into himself. Chuuya took a deep breath to calm his frustration. Like a mantra, he mentally repeated Dazai needs me, Dazai needs me, Dazai needs me.
He closed the fridge and instead grabbed a bag of ground coffee and a box of tea bags from the pantry. He held them up. “Coffee or tea?” he asked.
Dazai blinked. He pointed at the tea.
“Good choice, I was in the mood for some tea myself,” Chuuya lied. He put the kettle on and found the canned crab in the pantry. Two cans left; perfect.
“Can you pick some music to put on while I cook?” Chuuya asked. He handed Dazai his phone, opened to Spotify, since he suspected Dazai’s was unavailable at the moment. He’d deal with that later.
As the skillet heated up, melting the butter, the distinctive first note of Welcome to the Black Parade echoed through the room. Chuuya couldn’t help it; a laugh burst out of him when he recognized the song.
“Dazai!” he said exasperatedly, still laughing. When he peeked to the side, he caught Dazai trying to smother a smile as well. It looked like his sense of humor had returned, at least.
By the end of what Chuuya had unofficially dubbed “The Ridiculously Dramatic Depression Mix,” the crab had finished cooking. He plated up the food while Dazai refilled their mugs of tea. It seemed like Dazai’s mood had improved drastically since Chuuya had arrived earlier that day.
Chuuya watched as Dazai took a bite of the food, a smile lighting up in his eyes as he tasted his favorite food.
“Good?” Chuuya asked.
Dazai nodded. “Thank you,” he said. His voice was hoarse from lack of use, but there was no mistaking what he’d said.
Chuuya blushed a little, though he’d never admit it to himself. “I’m staying over tonight, by the way. There’s still a lot to take care of; starting with making you take a bath.”
Dazai’s jaw dropped in faux-offense. “Just what are you trying to insinuate here, Chuuya?” he asked, a hand over his chest.
“That you stink.” Chuuya pointed his fork accusingly, then took another bite of his food.
Dazai huffed and rolled his eyes. “Rude.”
“But not wrong,” Chuuya added on.
Truthfully, he had another reason for staying over. He was worried that the moment he left, Dazai would sink back down into that depressive state. It had happened before, and he wanted to prevent it as much as possible this time. So whatever the “reason” he gave may be, he didn’t want to leave Dazai’s side until he was sure he was better. Well, as “better” as Dazai could get.
He’d never asked Dazai what exactly went on in his mind when he got like that. In all honesty, he was irrationally afraid of knowing the answer. But if there was no way to prevent him from succumbing to these states from time to time, he knew that at the very least he’d be Dazai’s anchor until they passed.