Archive of Our Own ^beta

If it was any other day, Dazai would have managed to avoid a disastrous situation like this without much difficulty. It's just his luck that on this particular day, he's nearing the end of an unintentional three day fast, and his brain is fogging up something awful. What little clarity of mind he had left is quickly used up in the agency's joint mission with the Port Mafia. When all is well and done, the perpetrators apprehended and their weapons confiscated, Chuuya nudges him and suggests going back to his place; Dazai is so out of it that he makes the stupid decision to agree.

They skip dinner, which Dazai is grateful for. Then Chuuya kisses him and walks them into his bedroom, which Dazai is less grateful for. He would protest, except his mind is drenched in maple syrup, making it slow and sticky. He lets himself get swept up into the force of will that is Chuuya, because that seems easier, only half-present as he sheds his clothes and bandages. 

"Let's keep the lights off," Dazai has the presence of mind to say as they tumble onto the bed, relieved that Chuuya nods slowly. What he does not realize is that Chuuya's limited range of vision won't change much when he can clearly feel his hands settle cleanly around Dazai's emaciated waist. 

They both freeze. The little huffs of Chuuya's breath turn shallow as he flexes his fingers. Just like the rest of him, Chuuya's fingers aren't even terribly long, yet they are enough to wrap completely around Dazai's waist with length to spare. Dazai is hyper aware of Chuuya's nails digging into his skin.

"Dazai—" Chuuya starts.

"Wait—" Dazai groans. "Chuuya, don't —"

It's too late. In half a moment, Chuuya releases Dazai and scrambles to the bedside table, clicking the lamp on. Dazai squints at the sudden cascade of light, considering covering up as much of his form as he can, before deflating and admitting defeat.

Chuuya's gaze takes on something akin to horror as his eyes rove over Dazai. Usually, the presence of thick bandages under his clothes fills him out enough that he looks terribly slender instead of borderline emaciated. That layer of safety no longer exists—there is nothing to conceal the protruding ribs, his sharp clavicles, the dangerous concave of his torso and the meatlessness of his legs. He shivers.

"Osamu," Chuuya says slowly, "darling, do you want me to take you to a doctor?" 

Concern bleeds out of every word. The only other times Dazai has heard Chuuya like this is after a few particularly close attempts, when Dazai was too out of it to even process half of what was being said to him. He wishes Chuuya would be angry or indifferent or literally anything else.

Without thinking, Dazai slaps him. It's not even hard, but Chuuya clearly wasn't expecting it, and the shock of such a move is enough to turn him wide-eyed and reeling for a few precious seconds. Dazai takes advantage of that to scurry out of bed, picking up his abandoned clothes from the ground and shoving them back on. 

"Don't follow me," he warns and promptly hightails it out of Chuuya's apartment.

It's a miracle he manages to make it back to his dorm. Chuuya is stupidly respectful enough that he most likely will try to give Dazai space or whatever, so that's one less thing to worry about. Half-asleep, he gets to his safe, punches in the code, and retrieves his handgun. He has it pressed to his temple before he realizes that he's too exhausted to even bother pulling the trigger. He lets the gun drop to the ground, stumbles to his couch, and collapses on top. He's out like a light.

He's not sure for how long he sleeps. All he knows is that he's rudely brought back to consciousness by a hand roughly shaking his shoulder like it's trying to dislocate it. He blinks sleepily, finding that the hand (predictably) is encased in smooth black leather.

"Ugh, Chuuya," Dazai mumbles. "I thought I told you to leave me alone."

"And I did," Chuuya says brusquely, "for a while. But too much time passed without a word from you. Sue me, I got worried."

"Hm?" Dazai smacks his lips, trying to chase the dryness in his mouth away. "How long have I been asleep, anyway?"

A pregnant pause. "Dazai, did you come straight back here after you left my apartment?"

"Yeah."

"You promise?"

Dazai huffs. "Yes, Chuuya."

"And you haven't woken up at all since then? Not even to check the time or anything?"

Dazai frowns. "Yeah. Why?"

Another heavy silence, and then Chuuya's hand moves to Dazai's hair, stroking it carefully. It's the first of many signs that things are not about to go Dazai's way. Chuuya handles him like glass, delicate enough to shatter at the softest touch. "That means you've been asleep for nearly two days, Dazai."

Dazai buries his head into the couch. "Nah. That can't be right."

"You're very sick, Dazai," Chuuya says softly. "Why won't you admit it to yourself?"

"I'm always sick," Dazai mumbles. Sick in the mind, in the body, in the soul. What's the difference? "This is nothing new. So say your piece and get out."

Chuuya sighs. The hand in his hair pauses, then leaves completely. "If I thought there was even a chance of you managing a complete hospital stay without sneaking out, I would take you there right now, Dazai, I'm serious. But as it is..."

A cold premonition washes over Dazai. It's the oddest feeling, like an egg being cracked open on the top of his head, the cold yolk running down his spine. "Chuuya—don't you dare —" 

He yelps as Chuuya lifts him bodily off the couch, throwing him over his shoulder like—like—

"I am not a sack of flour, Chuuya!" Dazai wails. "Let me down! I hate this!"

"A sack of flour would probably weigh more," Chuuya grumbles. "God, are you even a hundred pounds? Come on now. Hold tight."

Dazai beats his hands fruitlessly against Chuuya's back as he carries Dazai out of his dorm room, clearly planning to abscond with him like a common criminal. It does nothing to slow Chuuya down. He's always been weaker than Chuuya, and now that he hasn't eaten in probably five days, he just ends up tiring himself out more than anything.

"You stink," Chuuya says, completely unaffected by Dazai's squirming and flailing. "Remind me to give you a bath."

"No!" Dazai wails again.

But! Hope is not yet lost for Dazai. The dorms are the few stories above the Agency. Chuuya is taking the stairs and not the elevator, meaning he'll have to walk past the main offices if he wants to carry Dazai out of the building. Surely Dazai's trusty friends won't let Dazai get hauled off by the enemy. 

"KUNIKIDA!" Dazai yells once they're in sight of the main offices. "HELP ME, KUNIKIDA! I'M BEING KIDNAPPED! INFAMOUSLY BRUTAL MAFIA UNDERBOSS CHUUYA NAKAHARA IS ABDUCTING ME AGAINST MY WILL. I GIVE YOU FULL PERMISSION TO SHOOT!"

"The president has ordered us to let him take you," Kunikida says, looking very genuinely apologetic. His eyes are glued to Dazai's wrists. He never reapplied his bandages after the night at Chuuya's place, and now his scars are peeking out of his sleeves. "I'm sorry, Dazai. I hope it's possible for you to make the best of the situation. I'll take care of all your overdue paperwork, if that makes you feel any better."

"IT DOESN'T. ATSUSHI! WILL YOU LET YOUR MENTOR BE ABSCONDED WITH BY A HOOLIGAN, ATSUSHI?"

"Kunikida," Atsushi says nervously, "I think Dazai really does need our help, maybe we should—"

"Stand down," Kunikida says firmly.

"AKUTAGAWA WOULD NEVER FAIL ME LIKE THIS," Dazai announces. "SHAME ON ALL OF YOU. SEE IF I EVER SHOW MY FACE AROUND YOU TRAITOROUS LOT AGAIN."

"Oi," Chuuya says. "Give up."

"You even got Fukuzawa in on your scheme?" Dazai hisses. "You traitorous rat!"

"He's also noticed you're not well," Chuuya says, conciliatory. "I've got you on medical leave for the next month, hard minimum." They're in the cafe now. All the waitresses and regulars have seen Dazai in odder positions than this, so no one comments. "Want a snack, Dazai?"

Dazai's stomach roils at the idea. "No."

"Hm." They're outside now, where a sleek black mafia car awaits them. Chuuya opens the door and deposits Dazai inside with little fanfare. When Dazai's head hits the cold leather seats, the fight drains out of him. He doesn't protest when Chuuya slides in next to him. "Drive," Chuuya orders; the driver speeds off immediately.

The rocking of the car upsets Dazai's nausea, and he curls around his cramping stomach. Chuuya snaps at the driver to slow down. He keeps a grounding hand against Dazai's spine, using the other one to bring a bottle of water to Dazai's lips and weaning him into drinking. Water has always gone down pretty easy, so Dazai doesn't argue much. Once the whole bottle is finished, a pill is slipped into Dazai's mouth.

"It'll put you back to sleep," Chuuya explains. "You need to get back your energy, yeah? When you wake up again, I'll have a plan for you, I promise."

"I don't want to be like this," Dazai mumbles as the pill takes effect, turning the edges of his mind fuzzy as sleep threatens to overtake him. "I know it makes me," he yawns, "makes me ugly and tired and dumb. I try to eat all the time. My body just. Rejects it. I don't know. It's weird."

"Yeah." Chuuya strokes a thumb over his cheeks, more sallow and gaunt than they should be. "I bet."

Dazai is out soon after.

Once Dazai wakes up again, he realizes pretty quickly that he's hooked onto an IV. He squirms, confused to find that the mattress under his is far too giving to belong to a hospital. He looks around. He is in Chuuya's bed, in Chuuya's room, hooked to an IV monitor. Why does Chuuya just have one of those lying around? 

He's also in different clothes. Chuuya must have changed him. His stomach sours at the realization. Chuuya seeing Dazai's naked form under a faint lamplight for a few moments was bad enough. He doesn't want to think about Chuuya seeing him in broad daylight, all the time in the world to catalogue all the ways in which Dazai's body looks sickly and frail and dying. 

He quickly disconnects the IV and slips out of bed, feeling tremendously rejuvenated despite himself. IV really does work wonders! He pads to the kitchen, where he finds Chuuya surrounded by brown bags, as if he completed a grocery run while Dazai was unconscious. Chuuya stops in the middle of stocking the pantry with oatmeal, frowning. "You're not supposed to be awake yet."

"I'm pretty tolerant of most sleeping pills." Dazai yawns. He squints around. Based on the angle of sunlight seeping in through Chuuya's windows, he can estimate it's around 5:13 PM, give or take a few minutes. "What have you been up to?"

"Oh, this and that," Chuuya says vaguely. "I got you some food I think you might like. Light things. Hopefully they won't make you too nauseous."

Dazai smiles a little. "Your little nurse act is cute, Chuuya. But come on. You'll get sick of cooing over me in a week. Let's just give up while we're ahead, yeah? I'll let you stock my pantry with whatever snacks you think I can handle. I'll even try to eat most of them. If you want, I can send you pictures of my meals. There's no need to abduct me."

"You're barely cracking 100 pounds, Dazai," Chuuya says hotly. "Your BMI is so dangerously underweight that your body thinks you're in a famine. Can't you understand how severe your situation is? I'm not leaving you out to dry so you can go right back to your old ways."

Dazai raises an eyebrow. "Is the 100 pounds an estimate, or did you weigh me while I was asleep?" Chuuya purses his lips, as good as an admission of guilt. "Seriously, Chuuya?"

"So what if I did?" Chuuya snaps. "If we're serious about getting you better, which I am , we're going to be doing this a lot more."

Morbidly curious, Dazai asks, "How much did I weigh? Exactly?"

"Not gonna tell you," Chuuya says, turning his attention back to the oatmeal in his hands. "Your doctor said you're not supposed to know."

"My—what?"

"Your doctor. I called her while you were asleep, filled her in. You have an appointment with her tomorrow. She's nice. I think you'll like her a lot. She's going to be handling your recovery."

Dazai sulks. "Sounds stupid. You should have told her I'm not doing this out of—out of vanity, or something. I don't care what my weight is."

"I did tell her that." Chuuya hums. "She says watching your weight go up so quickly and dramatically might be alarming anyway, so to avoid relapse, you would be better off not knowing."

Chuuya is thinking far enough ahead to be considering relapse as par for the course. Dazai feels cold. "Chuuya," he groans, "you really are serious about this, aren't you?"

"Dead serious," Chuuya says tightly. Dazai shuts his eyes, wishing he was literally anywhere else.

"You should go sit down," Chuuya prods him, not unkindly. "You're still weak."

Dazai's knees are pretty close to giving out, so he begrudgingly dumps himself on Chuuya's couch. Chuuya joins him not long after. "I have questions for you."

"Sure," Dazai says miserably. "Ask away."

"Is starving yourself an elaborate suicide attempt?"

"No," Dazai grouses. "What an awful way to die! Very painful, and it takes forever. If anything, I would kill myself to avoid starving."

"Don't say things like that," Chuuya snaps, which is interesting. He's never particularly had a problem with Dazai's gallows humor before. He must really be taking this whole thing to heart. 

Despite himself, Dazai takes pity on him. He's inconvenienced Chuuya plenty so far, so if what Chuuya needs is honesty, Dazai will (begrudgingly, painfully) give him that. Let no man say Osamu Dazai is not selfless.

"I've never really felt hungry," Dazai says thoughtfully. "I'm not even sure what the sensation is supposed to feel like."

"You've never felt hungry?" Chuuya echoes. "Like, ever?" That must be baffling for him, a street orphan who grew up with hunger as a familiar friend. 

"Never," Dazai confirms. "But, back in the mafia, I would eat if I remembered to, or if someone reminded me, or if I saw someone else eating. And I could keep everything down, for the most part. And it was all fine, until—you know." Oda's presence goes unspoken. "I left the mafia, went into hiding, and there was no one around to remind me to eat anymore. I was too upset to remember to do it myself. By the time I got bored enough that I did remember, my stomach was so unused to food that it puked up whatever I ate next. It kind of spiraled from there."

Chuuya looks upset, eyes pinched at the corners. "I wish you had called me. I would have taken care of you."

"Yeah. I know you would've." Dazai is quiet. "But it's not too bad. I can usually stomach broth as long as it's been really watered down. And plain yogurt is a safe bet. Everything else is a bit dicey, but...if it's been a few days since I was able to eat anything without vomiting, I just plug an IV in. It keeps me going."

"An IV isn't a sustainable long-term solution." Chuuya still sounds upset.

"Well, duh," Dazai says. "It's just that I never planned on being around long-term either."

"Come here, Osamu."

Dutifully, Dazai lays his head on Chuuya's lap. Chuuya plays with his hair, braiding and unbraiding, drawing strange patterns. Dazai laps up the affection like a broken, hungry dog.

"I don't like this any more than you do," Dazai admits miserably. "I hate what starving does to my body." How could he not? Every time he has the misfortune to see his naked body in a mirror, he's assaulted with the sight of meatless skin and bones; long, spindly limbs barely held together by a snappish torso, knobby joints sticking out ungracefully. He looks strange and inhuman. "I don't like not feeling hungry, either. I look like an alien. Feel like one, too."

A kiss, pressed to the tender place on his temple where Dazai had pressed a gun only a few days before. "Why won't you let me help you, then?"

"Many have tried to help me before," Dazai warns. "All have failed."

"I'm not just anyone."

"Hm. Suppose so."

"What do you say? Play along with this plan of mine?"

"Tell me your plan," Dazai says, "and I'll consider."

Chuuya hums, twirling Dazai's hair through his fingers. "We'll get you onto a strict meal plan, yeah? Start with light things, see what you can handle and what you can't. Build up to some heavier things from there. Force some good habits into you."

Dazai huffs. "You make it sound so easy. Fixing me won't be that simple, you know."

"I know." Chuuya's voice is sickeningly soft. "But I'll be with you at every meal to make sure you eat, and none of the excuses you give yourself will work on me. I'll hold you when you vomit. I'll be on call with your doctor pretty much all the time."

"I hate doctors," Dazai says, dour.

"I know that too. But you can't be on your own anymore." Another kiss. "Let me help, yeah?"

In the face of Chuuya's hopes for him, his persistent and unrelenting optimism, Dazai suddenly feels very small. He kind of wants to shrivel up and pop quietly out of existence. Since that is unlikely to happen, the bleach in the cabinet under Chuuya's sink doesn't seem like a bad second option. 

At least he has that. A way out, if Chuuya realizes he can't be fixed and keeps throwing himself like a battering ram at Dazai anyway.

Chuuya tugs lightly at Dazai's hair. "What do you say?"

"You'll have to look after me pretty much constantly," Dazai says miserably. "Don't you have things to do with your day? Don't you have work ?"

"I already took the liberty of calling the Boss," Chuuya assures him. "Traitor or not, he still doesn't want you dead . And that's exactly how you're going to end up if you keep going like this. He's giving me an extended leave to look after you."

"Ah," Dazai says. If Fukazawa knowing about everything made him feel unpleasant and odd, Mori doing so only exacerbates the feeling tenfold. "I see."

"Again I ask," Chuuya says, "what do you say?"

"Sure," Dazai grumbles, "whatever." He means for it to come out flat, but somehow it sounds anything but. 

He half-considers waiting for Chuuya to fall asleep so he can sneak out of a window and hightail it out of there. But where would we go? The Agency is clearly determined to hand him back over to Chuuya, and Chuuya himself will probably turn Yokohama upside down trying to find Dazai again. He would have to flee the city, maybe the country, which he really doesn't want to do. So. Leaving out the window isn't an option. Staying here, weathering the storm, is.

He shivers slightly.

Chuuya's hand leaves his scalp. Dazai makes a sound of protest, only to find Chuuya rubbing the goosebumps on his arm away. "You're cold, huh?"

"It's the dead of winter," Dazai says defensively.

Chuuya rolls his eyes. "It's barely September. It'll only get colder from here. I need to get you some warmer clothes."

"I don't mind the cold."

"How could you not? You don't have enough fat on you to warm yourself up at all ."

"I have warm clothes in my dorm," Dazai says primly. "Chuuya should take me there."

"Yeah. Nice try. I'll call one of my subordinates to get some new clothes and blankets for you."

"Don't mafia grunts have anything better to do than go shopping for me?" Dazai points out. "Like, killing people?"

"They do what I tell them to do," Chuuya says. "Now come on. I'll make you dinner."

Dazai sighs. 

The next weeks and months muddle together oddly in Dazai's brain. It's all a blur of Chuuya fussing and Chuuya pampering and Chuuya scolding and Chuuya, Chuuya, Chuuya.

The morning after Dazai reluctantly agrees to become Chuuya's test subject, Chuuya drags him out of bed at an ungodly hour of the morning, bundles him up in a coat, and carts him off to the doctor. He takes a few blood tests, and she and Chuuya talk over the results in a hushed voice, sending concerned glances his way. She tries asking Dazai questions a couple of times, but his answers are so short and taciturn that she soon gives up. Instead, Dazai sits and sulks as she and Chuuya talk rapid-fire at each other, meal plans being drawn up and discarded as Chuuya relays everything Dazai told him.

By the time they get back to Chuuya's apartment, his lackeys have dropped off bags full of sweaters and jackets and blankets. Contrary to what he told Chuuya, Dazai does actually consider the cold one of his mortal enemies, so he doesn't even mind them that much. The clothes are all made of the softest, thickest, fluffiest cotton, all awfully good at keeping the cold out. They swallow his sickly thin form, soft enough that Dazai doesn't shudder at the feeling of them against unbandaged skin. Chuuya keeps the new blankets on nearly every surface, from the couches to the table to even near the rug, so that Dazai can wrap himself in them while he naps. 

Another development: Dazai has found himself passing out anywhere and everywhere. He's spent so long fighting against the malnourishment-induced fatigue struggling to overtake him, fueled only by Oda's last words and sheer force of will, that now that there's nowhere to go and nothing to do, no one to maintain a pretense with, his body succumbs to exhaustion easily. 

It doesn't matter how well of a sleep he had the night before. No time of day is safe. He dozes off in the middle of shows, books, and even his own sentences. He wakes up hours later to finish the sentence as if nothing happened, scaring Chuuya shitless the first few times it happened. 

The meal plans Chuuya pushes onto him are a whole other ordeal of their own. Dazai realizes quickly that skipping meals, or forgetting to eat, is simply no longer a thing. Even if Dazai is napping, once mealtime hits, Chuuya will shake Dazai awake with a meal ready for his consumption. 

It starts with three meals a day (plain oatmeal for breakfast, watered-down broth and saltine crackers for lunch, and cooked white rice and applesauce for dinner). When it is quickly proven that Dazai is incapable of keeping them down, it is split into six smaller meals, then nine, with the hopes that smaller portions stretched out throughout the day will make them more stomachable. 

It does, Dazai thinks. He still vomits after almost every meal, but it seems somehow less . Or maybe it's just all in his head. Chuuya weighs him every other day (it's Dazai's least favorite part of this whole charade because Chuuya makes him strip naked, not trusting that Dazai won't hide weights in his pockets), the weight sent directly to his phone so that Dazai can't look at the numbers. From the thin line of his lips, though, Dazai guesses that he isn't doing nearly as well as he thinks he is.

Still, Chuuya persists. Each meal, he plops himself across from Dazai and refuses to let either of them get up until Dazai has cleaned his plate, even if Dazai tells him that he knows it's going to make him sick. There are a few embarrassing instances in which Dazai outright refuses to eat, to which Chuuya straddles him, pinning him in place and force feeding him. "Stability is important," he parrots as he massages Dazai's throat, forcing the food to go down. "Even if it does make you sick afterwards, you'll never get better if you don't get your stomach used to eating steady meals."

To his credit, though, Chuuya does his best to make meals as unawful of an experience as he can. He tries to take Dazai's mind off the food and the squeamish feeling each bite leaves in him with good conversation. Of course, Dazai has tried to distract himself during meals many times before with books and TV (to no great success), but somehow esoteric French poetry isn't half as interesting when it isn't dripping from Chuuya's rough and lilting tongue like honey. Every time Chuuya makes him laugh, he can almost forget that Chuuya is cataloguing every action to faithfully relay to his doctor.

Speaking of—Chuuya is on the phone with Dazai's doctor near constantly. Dazai refuses to learn her name, though he probably should soon, because she's turned into the third member of the little circus act they have going on. Chuuya dutifully reports every minute change in Dazai's behavior or appetite, from his energy levels to which foods Dazai had a slightly easier time keeping down. She adjusts his meal plan accordingly.

Breakfast stays more or less the same (which Dazai is happy about, because he does actually enjoy oatmeal when it's one of those fancy brands Chuuya gets at the European store). For lunch and dinner, he's cycled through a variety of plain yogurts, mild cheeses, and mashed vegetables before he settles on a pretty consistent diet of plain noodles and cooked fruits, as long as Chuuya removes all the skin and seeds beforehand. Chuuya brews lots of hot tea in between meals, too, which helps Dazai's digestion a little bit. It's not an uncommon sight to find Chuuya exhaustively weighing each plate of food on the little scale in the kitchen, making sure Dazai can reach his daily calorie minimum without overloading him with so much food he becomes sick.

Afterwards, Dazai finds that eating really does become easier. It's a bit frustrating, honestly, because Dazai has tried most of these foods before on his own, only to find his appetite didn't agree with them. When he gripes to Chuuya about this, Chuuya only looks terrifically smug. "See?" he says. "It's about consistency and stability . You have to have a schedule with these things. You can't just—" Dazai stops listening.

Still, easier doesn't exactly mean easy. A little more than half the meals end up with Dazai sick in the bathroom.

True to his word, Chuuya keeps vigil by Dazai's side each time he hunches over the toilet, rubbing his back comfortingly as Dazai empties his guts.

"I'm sorry," Dazai always whispers feverishly as Chuuya carefully flushes the vomit away. "I don't mean to, I swear. It just happens."

Chuuya will shush him, wiping the sweat away from his forehead. "I know, sweetheart. Don't sweat it. Just drink your water. It'll make you feel better, yeah?"

Obediently, Dazai sips on the bottle of water Chuuya offers him. When he's halfway done, Chuuya takes it back from him. He presses a kiss on Dazai's forehead, then helps him back to the couch, where Dazai promptly passes out.

They've been doing that a lot lately. Kissing. Well, Chuuya kisses Dazai, and Dazai simply preens in the attention. Chuuya will litter kisses on his cheeks and temple after a meal; will drop a kiss on Dazai's knuckles when he feels ill; will peck Dazai's lips when he's in the hazy place between sleep and awakeness. Dazai considers trying to unpack this, but honestly, between all the meals and the fatigue hanging off of him like a wet coat, he's too tired. He simply lets it happen. 

They also sleep in the same bed. In the beginning, it's only convenient—Dazai has to sleep with a heart monitor and Chuuya needs to be able to wake him up quickly if his heartbeat ever becomes dangerously low. But even after Dazai moves past that critical point where his heart is in danger of giving out while he's asleep, neither of them bring up the option of Dazai moving into the perfectly available guest bedroom. Instead, they fall asleep as one, breaths mingling, Chuuya curling protectively around Dazai with a finger around his pulse.

Dazai tries to initiate sex a few times, only to be shot down immediately. "Your doctor said you're not supposed to engage in any physically strenuous activity," Chuuya always says, trying to sound affable, as if Dazai hasn't felt Chuuya's hard-on digging into the curve of his ass many a morning. "So go to sleep. You're bothering me."

Chuuya is, unfortunately, extremely serious about the no-exercise mandate of Dazai's recovery plan. He gets nervous just watching Dazai walk from the bed to the couch or vice versa, constantly offering to carry him there instead. (Dazai would be more offended if he hadn't actually fainted mid-step a few times, nearly braining himself on Chuuya's fancy tiles if Chuuya hadn't caught him in time.) So letting Dazai leave the house is, of course, out of the question.

Dazai hadn't minded much at the beginning, since there really wasn't anywhere he wanted to be. But as his fatigue slowly lifts with the help of his steady diet and he can no longer nap the entire day away, he finds himself well and truly bored of being confined to the walls of Chuuya's apartment.

" Please , Chuuya," Dazai whines, badgering Chuuya as he patters around the kitchen, boiling fruits for Dazai. "One lap around the park. Just to remember that the world hasn't ceased to exist while I've been stuck here."

"Believe me, it hasn't." Chuuya tastes the concoction in the pot; nods approvingly. "Look: get yourself up to a healthy weight and I'll be the first one to encourage you to go on a run for once in your life. Until then, keep your ass at home."

"But I have gained weight. You said so yourself!"

"Not nearly enough of it."

"Isn't fresh air supposed to be good for sick people or something?"

"Go open a window," Chuuya says. A pause. "Actually, don't. You'll probably catch a cold."

Dazai groans and kicks his feet unhappily.

One day, he wakes up from a nap on Chuuya's couch to find Kunikida sitting awkwardly across from him. Dazai blinks. Kunikida blinks back.

"What are you doing here?" Dazai asks.

"Nakahara was called away for a work-related emergency," Kunikida says stiffly. "He requested that I keep an eye on you in the meantime."

"Oh," Dazai says, yawning. "So you're on babysitting duty, huh?"

"I suppose so," Kunikida agrees. "Dazai...how are you feeling?"

"Oh, now he asks," Dazai says sourly, giving him a dirty look. "You didn't seem to care much when I was being abducted!"

"If the president had not given us strict instructions to let him leave with you, I would never have let him abduct you," Kunikida says passionately. "I would have stopped at nothing to defend you! But truthfully, Dazai, I've been worried about your health too. If the president was inclined to believe that Nakahara could somehow help you, then I wasn't going to stand in his way."

Hm. For the few weeks before Chuuya swept Dazai away, Kunikida had seemed concerned about his withering state of health: leaving snacks conspicuously on Dazai's desk, inviting him out to lunch when Kunikida didn't even take lunch breaks usually. Dazai was too absorbed in himself to appreciate it then, but looking back, he lets it warm his heart a little.

"Besides," Kunikida continues, drawing Dazai out of his thoughts, "if I was given the opportunity to do it again, I would make the same choice. You look better, Dazai."

"Really?" Dazai tries not to preen. He's noticed his body has improved, of course he has, standing in front of the mirror and admiring the way skin isn't stretched taut over bones and sinew anymore, adoring the new form and definition of his limbs, but he didn't expect it to be noticeable by a casual bystander. But Kunikida has always seen more than most.

"Of course." The barely-noticeable furrow in Kunikida's brow smooths out.

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, before the clock hits a familiar chime.

"Breakfast time, Kunikida!" Dazai trills. "Chop, chop! Off to the kitchen you go!"

Kunikida grumbles but does as he is bid. Chuuya must have left him strict instructions, because he is exact in his measurements of oatmeal and water. It's a little odd to see someone else going through Chuuya's familiar motions in Chuuya's kitchen, preparing the food and measuring it on Chuuya's trusty scale.

"Atsushi has been quite concerned about you," Kunikida comments as he putters around. "He tried calling you at least a dozen times before we realized your phone was still in your room. I told him to call Nakahara directly, but Nakahara makes him too nervous, I think. I don't think a day passed without him asking if you were back yet, or if there was any news. He even went to the shrine to pray for your recovery."

"Oh." Dazai chews on his lip, tugging on a lock of hair self-consciously. "I didn't mean to worry him like that."

"A good kind of worry, Dazai," Kunikida corrects. "We were all concerned for you. Nakahara would phone the president every few days, keeping him up-to-date on the situation. Nothing too specific, but each time it was clear you were on the up-and-up, it was like a small celebration. I expect you'll receive a small army of gifts upon your return."

"Oh," Dazai says again, feeling marginally better this time. "That's not too bad then."

Kunikida leaves the kitchen, holding out the bowl of oatmeal, a spoon perched invitingly inside. "Nakahara said you've graduated to having fresh fruits in your meals. Congratulations."

Dazai peers over the rim of the bowl, not bothering to hide his interest. And—yes! There, sprinkled on the oatmeal, are a dozen or so blueberries. Dazai has been relegated to boiled, mashed fruit for so long; he's missed the real thing.

He takes the bowl from Kunikida's hand, but doesn't eat, instead looking at him pointedly.

"What?" Kunikida says. "Are you waiting for something?"

"Yes." Dazai blinks, innocent and doe-eyed. "Chuuya always kisses me at breakfast."

Kunikida splutters angrily. Dazai waits patiently for the red flush in his face to recede. "I am not doing that!" he says loudly. "Do whatever you want with Nakahara, but keep it in the privacy of your own home, please! When I am not here!"

Dazai shrugs, digging into his oatmeal happily.

He ends up hunched over the toilet half an hour later. Kunikida hovers awkwardly over him, clearly having no idea what to do with his hands. He never did have the best bedside manner. Eventually, he settles a light hand on Dazai's back, handing him a napkin to wipe at his mouth with after he's done. 

"Can I do anything to help you?" Kunikida asks helplessly as Dazai chugs a bottle of water. "Anything at all?"

Honestly, Dazai wants nothing more than to stew in silence for a bit. But he can tell that Kunikida needs desperately to be needed right now, and he takes pity. "Sure," he says. "Read to me?"

Kunikida, as it turns out, has a fantastic voice for reading. The low timbre of his voice as it jumps smoothly from word to word nearly lulls Dazai to sleep. "You could have a career reading audiobooks," he tells Kunikida.

Kunikida pauses. "If my career at the Agency doesn't work out, I will consider that."

Soon after, Kunikida stops so he can prepare Dazai his second meal. Usually it's just a few saltine crackers to help with the leftover nausea from breakfast, but today he gets some brie to spread on them. How marvelous! He does manage to keep it all down this time, which he's grateful for. He's missed food with actual, substantial flavor desperately.

Dazai is drifting to sleep on the couch when he hears Chuuya return. He and Kunikida exchange a few words at the door, then Kunikida leaves and Chuuya drifts closer. His hand reaches down to stroke Dazai's hair almost feverishly, as if being apart from Dazai has convinced him of Dazai's insubstantiality. Dazai hums, leaning eagerly into the touch.

"How was he, darling?" Chuuya asks lowly. "Did he take good care of you?"

"He didn't kiss me," Dazai complains sleepily.

Chuuya laughs. "Good. I would have killed him if he had." He presses a kiss to Dazai's temple. Dazai smacks his lips discontentedly, and another kiss gets placed there too.

Through everything, they only have one real argument. It happens after a meal has settled particularly poorly in Dazai's stomach. It refuses to come back up, but it wreaks havoc on Dazai's insides all the same. He twists and turns on the couch. Chuuya tries to massage some of the cramps away and presses hot packs to Dazai's stomach, but it's fruitless at alleviating the pain. Dazai makes up some halfhearted excuse about needing to use the restroom before stumbling there, half-mad with discomfort. He kneels in front of the toilet and shoves his fingers down his throat, searching for his gag reflex. He needs to get this invader in his body out .

It's a testament to how out of it Dazai gets around Chuuya in this state that he completely forgets to close the door. Chuuya appears in the doorway, just in time to catch sight of Dazai with his fingers in his mouth.

Chuuya wrestles them out, grip harsh and unforgiving. "Have you done this before?" he snaps at Dazai.

"No," Dazai gasps. "Just this time—I knew I was going to puke it out anyway eventually. It just hurt so much and I wanted to make it quick, but—"

"But what ?" Chuuya says furiously. "Does everything we've accomplished so far mean nothing to you? I'm doing everything I can to keep your entire body together, Osamu, watching over you day and night, so why do you have to try to throw it all away? Even if you think you're going to vomit, you don't take matters into your own hands like that! For someone who's so determined to give themselves pain, you're awfully bad at actually handling it!"

"It's one time ," Dazai says, snappish.

"That's how all bad habits start, idiot."

"Weren't you the one who was saying relapse was par for the course? What are you getting mad at me for?"

"Not relapse by your own hand !"

The argument only worsens when Dazai says he wants to take a shower, and Chuuya refuses to leave him alone in the bathroom, citing that he can't trust that Dazai won't induce himself again. Dazai yells that Chuuya is clearly desperate for a charity case that Dazai is not willing to be, so why doesn't he just give up, already? Chuuya snaps that Dazai is an ungrateful bastard who is so wrapped up in his own self-imposed misery that he can't help but sabotage people's efforts to help him. Dazai threatens to jump out of a window if that's what it takes to escape Chuuya; Chuuya threatens to handcuff Dazai to the bed if he even tries.

In the end, neither end up happening. What does happen is that Chuuya sits sulking on the sink while Dazai takes the quickest and angriest shower of his life.

Later, they lie in bed, facing away from one another. Sleep doesn't come. "I'm sorry," Dazai finally mutters. "I know you've sacrificed a lot to help me. I do sabotage myself a lot. I shouldn't have done it this time."

A beat, then a sigh. "No, I'm sorry," comes Chuuya's voice. "You're sick, and not in your right mind. You were in pain, and doing whatever it takes to get out of it. That's understandable. I shouldn't have been so harsh with you. Anyway, you shouldn't just be trying to get better because I want you to."

"Hm." Dazai kicks blindly at Chuuya's legs. "Come spoon me."

Chuuya nearly seizes him. Dazai laughs delightedly as he's brought to curl into the warm safety of Chuuya's chest. Nothing can harm him here. He drifts off to the sensation of kisses peppered against the crook of his neck.

A few days later, he wakes up in the middle of the night to a startling, unfamiliar sensation. He stews in silence for a bit, struggling to put a name to it. Once he does, he brightens, bounding to his knees.

"Chuuya, Chuuya," he says, shaking Chuuya violently awake. "Wake up!"

Chuuya opens his eyes blearily. "Hm?" he says, voice soft and sleep-mussed. "You need something?"

"Chuuya," Dazai smiles brightly, "I'm hungry!"

Chuuya blinks at him once, then twice, not comprehending the words. Then he jolts up. "Are you—are you serious?"

"Yeah!" Dazai can barely contain his smile. "I'm actually hungry! I've never felt this way before, Chuuya! I could eat a whole feast! How exciting! Make me something, Chuuya!"

A laugh bubbling out of him, Chuuya sweeps Dazai in a bridal carry and carts him off to the kitchen. He settles Dazai primly on his chair, then digs through the fridge and pantry, pulling food out at random and setting it in front of Dazai. At first, it's all foods that are already on his meal plan, but on Dazai's encouragement, he sets out ice cream and sweets and salty, oily snacks. Dazai shovels them all down.

"You're actually hungry?" Chuuya echoes, watching disbelievingly as Dazai digs into a pint of ice cream. "I thought you didn't get hungry."

"I don't feel anything particular in my stomach," Dazai says, chewing on his spoon thoughtfully. "That's where people usually feel hunger, right?"

Chuuya nods mutely. 

"Oh. I guess I'm not hungry then." Dazai shrugs and reaches for a box of Poki. "But it's like I remembered to eat, naturally, and instead of feeling vaguely apprehensive about it, I was really eager to eat again! How exciting!"

Predictably, their little escapade ends in disaster. Dazai eats more in one night than he's probably eaten in the last two weeks combined, and his stomach protests heavily. The next three days are spent confined to the bed, convulsing as pain hits his stomach. He breaks a hot sweat that has Chuuya frowning down at the thermometer.

"I'm sorry," Chuuya says as he presses a hot pack to Dazai's stomach, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I should have timed you or something, forced you to eat slow. I just got so carried away..."

"Yeah." Dazai grits his teeth against another roiling cramp. "Same. Lesson learned, right?"

The next few weeks are a practice in ebb and flow, in push and pull. Eating becomes easier, his hips and thighs filling out as he moves up to heavier and better foods. His meal plan returns to three solid meals a day, and it isn't completely awful.

But, of course, every two steps forward is also a step back. Dazai will have a good week, only to wake up the next morning unable to stomach the smallest crumb of food, subsisting on water and tea the whole day. A few times, when the army of vitamin pills Chuuya has him take every day isn't enough, Chuuya hooks Dazai back up to the IV machine. 

Dazai tries not to let it bother him too much, because Chuuya certainly doesn't. If anything, he takes every relapse as a persistently optimistic sign that there was progress to be undone in the first place. 

A night comes when there's an uncomfortable thrumming under Dazai's skin, placed there by weeks spent in close confinement with Chuuya yet unable to do anything about it. He pokes Chuuya in the shoulder.

Chuuya opens one eye. "What?"

"Have sex with me," Dazai whispers.

Chuuya's other eye snaps open. The little huffs of his breath turn shallow. "The doctor said—"

"I'm feeling better now, Chuuya, I really am," Dazai promises, rolling so that he's on top of Chuuya. Chuuya remains stubbornly still under him, but Dazai sees his fingers twitch, yearning to reach out and touch Dazai. "What better way to celebrate? Let's pick up where we left off, yeah?"

A long silence. "If we do this," Chuuya says lowly, "you're going on bottom, and you're going to lie still, okay? Don't do anything that will exhaust you too much."

"Chuuya wants me to be a pillow princess?" Dazai says, thrilled. "Okay!"

Chuuya splutters. "That's not—you—"

"Come on, Chuuya!" Dazai crows. "Come ravish me!"

Chuuya slams Dazai on his back, then pounces on top of him. Dazai laughs delightedly as Chuuya envelops him in his arms, limbs squirming and flailing before they come to settle firmly around Chuuya, reeling him in. It's a struggle to free themselves of their clothes when they're also unwilling to unwind themselves from one another, but eventually they manage. Dazai shivers (it's the middle of winter and cold ), but Chuuya settles himself on top of Dazai again, and he runs hot enough that he warms Dazai right up.

Dazai makes breathy, embarrassing noises with every kiss Chuuya suckles into the skin between his scars. Chuuya worships his body from top to bottom, lavishing whispered praises on the give of his thighs, the plush of his waist, the strength of his hips. He calls him sweetheart and love and mine and Dazai purrs with contentment. By the time he finally gets around to sticking it in , Dazai is already well and truly gone, escaped to cloud nine, body turned airy and insubstantial. He is grounded only by Chuuya's fingers digging into his hips, thrusting into him like a feral animal finally claiming the prey it's spent months hunting. 

True to his word, Dazai doesn't do much but lay there, taking everything Chuuya gives him in stride, moaning and whimpering freely. Chuuya calls him a good girl, says he's obeying Chuuya like he was made to. Dazai nods absently, clenching his legs around Chuuya's hips and dragging him closer.

When they're done, Chuuya unmounts him gently, sitting up next to him and leaning back against the headboard. Dazai tries to follow him, but Chuuya keeps a hand on his head and pushes him back down to the pillow. "Shh," he says. "Stay. Rest."

He produces a cigarette from somewhere, lighting it and inhaling softly. Dazai wrinkles his nose at the acrid smell but doesn't say anything. He kind of likes the thought of having little traditions after they sleep together—for Chuuya, it can be smoking after sex. Chuuya uses the hand not holding the cigarette to stroke Dazai's hair like he would a cat, patting and petting in equal turns. It nearly lulls him to sleep, but he fights to stay awake. He wants to exist in this peaceful space between dusk and dawn forever and ever.

Chuuya exhales softly. "Stay with me," he says, voice raspy. "Even after you're better. Stay here."

Dazai shuffles in the sheets so he can look up at Chuuya. "You would take care of me? Forever?"

"Sure," Chuuya says. "If that's what it takes to make sure you don't run away from me again."

"You know," Dazai shifts, "there is another way to make sure I never leave again." He waggles his ring finger pointedly.

Chuuya snorts, though he sounds faintly choked. "Yeah, as if. If you wanted to, you could disappear so thoroughly I wouldn't even be able to find you so I could divorce you."

"Maybe," Dazai says. "Or maybe I'll stick around for the next seventy or so years, and you'll be begging to be rid of me by then."

Chuuya's hand tightens in his hair. "Are you being serious, Dazai? Because if you're not—I—"

"Yeah? You'll do what?"

Chuuya growls. "I don't know! Throw you out of a window maybe!"

Dazai laughs. "No need. I'm dead serious."

A lengthy silence.

"I'll go out tomorrow and get you a ring," Chuuya ventures, careful, cautious.

Dazai smiles, blinking up slowly. "I'd like that."

Chuuya pounces. "My darling," he groans into the crook of Dazai's neck, the cigarette gone and forgotten. "Osamu, my beloved, my darling. My wife."

Dazai squirms happily in Chuuya's house, in Chuuya's room, in Chuuya's bed. Though maybe none of it is really just Chuuya's anymore, if they're to be married. What's the old saying? Man and wife become one heart, one soul, one flesh.

Dazai slips open the covers and slides inside, holding them open for Chuuya invitingly. Chuuya follows, mounting Dazai once again, and Dazai is gone .