Chapter Text
Osamu Dazai had attempted suicide approximately three days ago. That time, it had almost worked—he had even lost consciousness.
Dazai always felt something strange after every serious suicide attempt. It wasn’t easy to explain; perhaps it was as if, for a very brief interval, things could be different for people like him. Sometimes he found himself thinking about trying again, but most of the time he felt oddly energized. And on days like those, even unconsciously, he would start searching for reasons to keep living.
Three days ago, when he woke up in a hospital bed, Atsushi was there—sitting in the armchair beside him, his eyes as red as someone who had spent the entire night crying. Not just any crying, Dazai recognized, but the kind that came from sheer desperation.
“Dazai-san… I thought this time it was for real…”
At that, Dazai turned his head to the side. There was an IV line in the back of his right hand, but it didn’t stop him from reaching out to touch Atsushi’s hand, squeezing it weakly. His throat was painfully dry, so dry that he couldn’t say a single word.
As they held hands, all Dazai could feel was the trembling in Atsushi’s fingers.
“I’m so grateful you survived… I prayed so much.”
Dazai thought that even if his throat hadn’t been burning with dryness, he still wouldn’t have known what to say.
He made what little effort he could to hold Atsushi’s hand more tightly. Even though he had just woken up, he could easily imagine Atsushi crying and praying beside him in that very chair. The thought caused a sharp, crushing pain in his chest—one that made him realize, painfully, that he was alive.
And right after that came another unbearable feeling: it seemed terribly wrong for Atsushi to be crying like that for someone like him.
That morning, lying on a hospital bed in a place whose name he didn’t even know yet, Osamu Dazai—for the first time in a long while—tried to remember what he had been thinking when he attempted suicide. And how he hadn’t foreseen that it would cause so much suffering to someone who had already cried and screamed in despair far more than anyone ever should.
He didn’t need to ask who had found him. Now that his vision was slowly returning to normal, it was obvious. That face belonged to someone who had done nothing but cry.
More than Atsushi’s red, irritated eyes, what truly crushed Dazai’s heart was seeing the gratitude there—the happiness that he was alive. When Dazai thought about the life he used to lead, the things he used to do, and the habits he still couldn’t let go of, it felt almost unreal that someone had spent an entire night praying for him to survive.
Later that same day, others came to visit—more members of the Agency. Much later still, just as Dazai expected, Chuuya walked through the door of the room.
Atsushi was asleep, slumped in the armchair beside the bed, when the mafioso entered. He was impeccably dressed, as always. But Dazai could tell from his eyes that there was nothing even remotely similar to the warmth in the way Atsushi looked at him. And that only made Dazai think the difference existed because Chuuya truly knew him—knew the things he had done.
“Congratulations? Is that what you wanted to hear?"
There was irritation in Chuuya’s voice, the kind that belonged to someone who had seen this scene far too many times and, despite everything, no longer had any real hope that things could change.
Before attempting suicide again, Dazai had sent Chuuya a message—something almost cynically practical. Information about an overseas bank account, money he had set aside, and instructions to give it to Atsushi.
Dazai knew very well that Chuuya, having lived alongside him for so long, would understand immediately. He had simply assumed that by the time Chuuya read the message, it would already be too late.
He had been wrong.
Earlier that day, Atsushi had told him that he had only managed to save him because Chuuya had called, saying he knew Dazai was about to do something stupid. Even then, Atsushi had only succeeded because he happened to be nearby—and because he had used the tiger to run.
Chuuya was staring at him now, one eyebrow raised, as if expecting at least some kind of answer. Dazai knew that, at the very least, he owed him an apology too—for everything.
But what he said instead was:
“Did you stay here praying for me too?”
Part of him immediately hated the way the words came out. He didn’t even know why he had said it like that.
Chuuya laughed—not kindly. It was a dry, bitter laugh, heavy with anger.
“I didn’t pray for you,” Chuuya replied quietly, so quiet it was almost a whisper. The words trembled with rage. “I cursed you. I spent the entire night in my car outside this building, cursing your name. Because I knew that if you died—ah, fuck it.”
Dazai had replied with something he knew Chuuya wouldn’t find funny in the slightest, though he couldn’t remember what it was anymore. It didn’t matter.
What he couldn’t forget was Chuuya’s response.
“Stop calling me. Stop texting me. Stop all of this shit.”
Then Chuuya looked at Atsushi, still asleep in the chair. He stared at him for a few seconds, his expression dark, and shook his head—like someone who knew Dazai well enough to notice things others never would.
“You really don’t change.” - He shrugged, saying it more to himself than to anyone else, and then simply left the room. A nurse entered moments later.
Dazai remembered that the following morning, when he woke, Atsushi was nearby again.
He was adjusting the blanket, his movements careful and quiet, as though Dazai were made of the thinnest glass. But it was the look in the boy’s eyes that made Dazai’s skin prickle with a terrifying warmth. It was no longer just the wide-eyed gratitude of a protégé. It was something brighter, heavier—and it was there that, with a sense of dread, Dazai recognized the feeling in his apprentice’s gaze.
It was vivid, unmistakably real, pure. No one had ever looked at him like that before.
Love.
Dazai looked back at him and felt a sharp, hungry tightening in his chest. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to grab Atsushi by the nape of the neck, pull him down, and see whether that light in his eyes would falter or burn even brighter when their lips touched—whether their pupils would dilate, whether Atsushi would tremble under his hands.
He thought that he liked Atsushi. He liked him so much it felt like a new kind of illness. Each time the thought surfaced, it came with the certainty that he was, in truth, a horrible human being. He knew it would be monstrous from the very beginning; he knew that boy would cry countless more times, until one day Atsushi would finally understand who he really was.
It was painfully clear that he had to make an effort—had to do everything he could to keep that urge, that desire, tightly locked away. Even so, he knew that the moment an opportunity presented itself, his worst, most selfish side would surface in a way he wouldn’t be able to stop.
He thought of Oda, and of the promise he had made to help people. And still, nothing could dislodge the certainty that keeping a certain distance from Atsushi was the best way to do right by him.
If I touch him, Dazai thought, watching the way Atsushi’s fingers hesitated near his hand, I’ll end up tightening my grip until he breaks. I’ll make him part of my mess, and then I’ll leave him with nothing but overseas accounts and apologies.
Dazai was well acquainted with his own self-indulgence. He knew that if he allowed himself to taste even a fraction of the peace Atsushi offered, he wouldn’t stop until he had consumed all of it. He would ruin everything. He would make him cry again and again, for countless reasons—including another suicide attempt.
Ah, he knew very well that the last one would not be the final one.
Atsushi had already cried enough. When Dazai thought about the fact that the boy was only eighteen, that he was just beginning to experience good things in life, he was certain that the right thing to do was to keep his distance.
And so, he needed to—
“Atsushi-kun,” Dazai said, his voice gentle, forcedly light.
Atsushi smiled as he stepped closer. “Yes, Dazai-san? Do you want some water? Are you in pain?”
I’m in the worst kind of pain, Dazai thought. He looked at Atsushi’s lips, then quickly turned his gaze away. The desire was becoming a physical weight. He needed a barrier. He needed a reminder of who he truly was—the version of himself that did not deserve that kind of kindness.
“Go home, Atsushi,” Dazai said, his tone turning dismissive. “You look like a tired little puppy.”
He watched as a fraction of that characteristic freshness drained from Atsushi’s expression, then added, more lightly,
“A tired little tiger.”
Atsushi stepped back, lips parted, worry written plainly across his face, as though he were trying to understand quickly—or afraid he had said or done something irreparable, something that had ruined everything. He didn’t know that there was nothing he could do to permanently ruin his relationship with Dazai.
“But I can stay. I really don’t mind…”
“Well, I do,” Dazai replied, sitting up on the hospital bed. What he wanted most was to rip the IV lines from his veins and leave. He was exhausted and yet, there was something he enjoyed far too much in watching the boy’s reactions to every careless thing he said. “Go home, take a good shower and sleep in your own bed. If I’m not discharged by tomorrow, you can come back.”
With that—along with asking Atsushi to bring him a few basic things he missed in the hospital, like comfortable shoes and better clothes to walk around the room—Dazai managed to convince the young man to leave.
The rest of the day passed with Dazai insisting to the nurses that he was fine, that he would leave one way or another. It was necessary. The very idea of Atsushi returning the next morning to keep him company caused him physical pain.
Yet the moment he left the hospital—this time alone, wearing clothes someone from the Agency had brought him the day before—the first thing he thought to do was stop somewhere to buy a pack of cigarettes, so he could smoke in peace. In truth, he also wanted to keep walking until he lost all sense of himself, until he no longer recognized the streets and alleys around him.
It was then that he felt the absence of someone he could speak to without thinking, without restraint—someone who knew his depths, his darkness.
After finishing his first cigarette, Dazai checked his phone and realized that Atsushi still hadn’t sent a message. Though he should have felt relieved—better yet, though he shouldn’t have felt anything at all over something so trivial—he felt an urge to send something to the boy. And because he was not such a good person after all, Dazai sent a message saying that he was fine, that he had been discharged and was going to rest, and that he hoped Atsushi was doing well too.
Later that day, it could be said that he barely managed to work at all, he had some documents he was working on at home—a folder he had received from Chuuya regarding a strange case.His eyes skimmed over document after document, but at some point his thoughts drifted to Chuuya. Because Chuuya was someone he could talk to about anything—truly anything—from admitting that he was intensely attracted to someone, to the things he had said at the hospital, to the things they used to do together. Dazai knew that if he went to see him, they would most likely end up sleeping together again.
He could say that sex with Chuuya was almost otherworldly, utterly unlike anything else he had ever experienced—though he would obviously never give his former partner the satisfaction of hearing that. Still, they had known each other for many years, and because of that, whether he liked it or not, Chuuya was the person he had slept with the most. Every encounter left behind a lingering sense of insatiability, the feeling that they should be doing it every day.
The truth was that since they had crossed paths again, it had happened a few times. Dazai couldn’t quite explain why—only that they would meet, and then it seemed inevitable. Sometimes he thought there was nothing in this world they hadn’t done together, in an unbelievable variety of places. He found himself recalling, in particular, the time they had sex in a car—so chaotic it had almost been a fight.
Maybe that was exactly what he needed. It had been a few weeks since their last encounter, and although he always said it would be the last, the truth was that sooner or later they ended up meeting again. Now everything was very casual. Chuuya didn’t care if Dazai was seeing other people; Dazai couldn’t care less about what Chuuya did or didn’t do. He didn’t even know why it continued. Part of him thought it was just habit—because it was easy, because it felt good.
Dazai had the sense that it had always been this way. Though, to be honest, there had been a time when they had pulled back from each other somewhat—right around the period when he had been closest to Oda.
He avoided thinking about the reason.
Completely intoxicated by that sense of nostalgia, and partly because he was bored—partly because he perhaps refused to recognize that this, like so many other things, was just another form of self-destructive behavior—Dazai picked up his second phone. It was a device he kept solely for situations where he needed to talk to Chuuya.
Everything was easy with him. He felt they shared an incredible intimacy, and because of that, the message he sent was extremely direct and explicit. He worded it in a way he knew Chuuya would find amusing, even if he would never admit it.
As expected, despite Chuuya having told him at the hospital to stop calling and messaging, Dazai received a call from his former partner just minutes later—perhaps luck, or perhaps misfortune. Very bad luck.
After enduring the largest possible number of insults, the two of them agreed to meet later.
The day dragged on with unbearable slowness, Dazai shut away in his apartment. He hadn’t even gone to the Agency, mostly because he didn’t want to run into Atsushi; he felt he was at a point where he might do something stupid. He stayed home, in the company of a bottle of sake, waiting for the time Chuuya would be available to see him.
After showering and calling Chuuya again to let him know he was leaving the house—and would likely be waiting for him at the meeting spot in about forty minutes—Dazai heard a knock at the door. It was hesitant, with a considerable pause between each beat, as if the person were considering walking away every time they knocked again.
When he opened the door leading out to the street, already prepared to leave, Dazai’s expression changed completely. It was one of those moments when he realized that not everything was under his control.
Standing there, just outside the door, was Atsushi.
His eyes seemed brighter than anything Dazai had ever seen, and there was something in his expression that looked like genuine worry, genuine anxiety.
“Dazai-san… I came to see if you were okay.”
Then he remembered that three days earlier he had attempted suicide, and that the situation had caused a not-entirely-calculated drama among all the members of the Agency—especially Atsushi. The boy had cried a great deal, and if one looked closely, traces of swelling could still be found around his eyes and face.
“I’m perfectly fine, and you still look like you’ve been crying” - Dazai replied, a little awkwardly, as the image of the boy weeping beside his hospital bed returned to him.
And then, even knowing that in a few minutes he should be inside a car on his way to meet Chuuya, something he obviously had no intention of sharing, he invited Atsushi inside. He slipped his phone from his pocket and set it down on the table, face down.
Dazai thought that the worst part of the situation was that he was fully aware of where it could lead.
Atsushi’s heart was beating so fast it was difficult even to speak. Now he wasn’t sure he could say anything at all. He was sitting beside Dazai; they had just shared a toast, Dazai’s idea, after saying that he was glad Dazai was still in this world with him. To Atsushi, it was reason enough to celebrate.
He still hadn’t fully recovered from the events of that week. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the desperation, the weakness in his legs, the terror of not being able to save him in time. He would never have forgiven himself if the worst had happened. He didn’t think anyone would understand, but… that man was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He would do anything if it meant saving him.
But now the alcohol was gone, and there was nothing left except the two of them, facing each other.
Everything about that night felt unreal, as though at any moment he might wake up. The heat inside the apartment only worsened things, slowly making him lose his composure. Sitting on the futon beside the person he admired most in the world, Atsushi sensed a quiet prelude to what was about to happen, and he had never felt so out of place. He wasn’t accustomed to that kind of attention—not at all. In fact, it was the first time in his life that someone had looked at him that way.
The man he admired most was looking at him with desire, and it didn’t feel real.
When Atsushi finally gathered the courage to look into Dazai’s eyes again, he saw him staring at his mouth. Then he felt the faint trace of alcohol on his breath, which, though not frightening, made his insides feel as if they had frozen. He didn’t know how to kiss, and he had the sense he was doing something wrong, even though all he was doing was pressing his lips against Dazai’s.
He thought his nervousness and inexperience must have been obvious, because the next thing Dazai did was cup his jaw carefully and say, “Slow down,” before leaning in to kiss him again—unhurried, without rush. First their lips touched once, then again, a few more times, until Atsushi tasted the sake when Dazai finally used his tongue, subtle at first, exactly the way someone patient enough to teach would.
Still unsure, Atsushi tried to imitate what Dazai was doing, hoping only that it felt good. He thought nothing could make him feel warmer than hearing Dazai murmur, “Just like that,” between kisses, wearing a small smile he had never seen before.
He hoped those moments—those minutes spent kissing, when he felt safe enough to lift his hands and touch Dazai’s brown hair, the strands as soft as they looked—would last. He felt Dazai smile faintly against his mouth, and that was another thing he knew he would never forget.
The first jolt of reality came when Atsushi felt Dazai pull his lips away after a longer kiss, making a sound he would remember, before removing his coat and placing it beside them. Even so, there was hardly any time to think, or even to grow more nervous, because in the next instant Dazai was kissing him again—this time with a little more force behind his movements, a firmer grip at his jaw...
Then Dazai pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his neck.
Up to that point, Atsushi was still trying to process the fact that he was desired. It wasn’t something he was used to. Beyond that, he had never done anything like this with anyone before, which left him uncertain about what to do—whether he was doing things right, whether there was something wrong with the way he was kissing back. He had no frame of reference at all, and that was the most frightening part: feeling everything for the first time. The sensation of having his feelings returned, of things he was almost embarrassed to name—physical displays of affection like the wet kiss at his neck, or the careful way Dazai held the back of his neck or let his hand rest against his thigh.
The difference in experience was unmistakable—so much so that Atsushi’s mind convinced him that at some point Dazai would snap back to reality and send him away, laugh at him, say it wouldn’t work, that it was madness.
And yet, mad as it might have been, all Atsushi could feel and think was that this was one of the best things that had ever happened to him.
The air in the room grew hotter, the only sounds the friction of fabric and their synchronized, unsteady breathing. Dazai’s movements were fluid, almost predatory, tempered by an unusual patience. He guided them downward, easing Atsushi back until they were horizontal on the futon. It was in that transition—from sitting to lying down, from the safety of a kiss to the vulnerability of being beneath someone—that the reality of what was about to happen finally struck Atsushi.
He was completely surrendered, caught in a state of absolute wonder, and his heartbeat was no longer just a rhythm—it was a drum of euphoria pounding against his ribs.
All of that excitement must have been obvious in his ragged breathing, in the sweat gathering on his skin. Then, for the first time, when Dazai pressed his hips against his body, Atsushi let out a restrained moan, his legs going weak beneath him. Once again came the sensation that his insides had frozen, even as he had never felt so warm.
He watched as Dazai sat back up to unbutton his own shirt. The room was dim, lit by a soft yellow light. When Dazai finished removing the shirt, he loosened his belt and unbuttoned his trousers, choosing to keep them on. Within seconds he was over Atsushi again, and this time, a little less overwhelmed by anxiety, Atsushi lifted a hand to Dazai’s face, trailing it down his neck, chest, and back, feeling the contrast between the texture of the bandages and the softness of skin beneath his palm.
“Do you want me to take these off… the bandages, I mean?”
Atsushi recognized the tone in his own voice. It came from a place of sincerity—something he sensed was unfamiliar to Dazai himself. He imagined the man didn’t take much pride in what lay beneath the wrappings.
Atsushi thought he knew what it was, but he wanted to see it, to feel it, to know everything about that man.
“Mm,” Atsushi answered quietly. And so, still lying there, fully clothed, Atsushi simply watched as Dazai began to undo the bandages—first from his wrists, then his torso. When he reached the one around his neck, Atsushi saw him hesitate, with the distinct impression that he was ashamed. His fingers lingered there for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Atsushi was about to say that it wasn’t necessary, that it was fine—but before he could, Dazai began to unwind the bandage from his neck.
Seeing him like that filled Atsushi with an indistinct sense of sorrow. He couldn’t have cared less about the scars themselves, but seeing them hurt, because they told stories. They made him vividly imagine Dazai hurting himself again and again.
It was then that Atsushi became certain that this most recent attempt would probably not be the last. And though he desperately wanted to find something—anything—he could do for him, it was as if Dazai, with that strange, fragile shame, were silently telling him, yes, I will make you cry again.
Atsushi felt the weight of Dazai’s body press him into the futon—not crushing, but anchoring him firmly to reality. He lost himself in the choreography of Dazai’s hands, now moving with practiced confidence, unbuttoning Atsushi’s shirt with a deftness that made him feel like something precious being carefully unwrapped. Every inch of skin exposed to the warm air of the room seemed to burn beneath Dazai’s gaze.
He couldn’t even remember the things he disliked about himself—his own scars. There, he couldn’t help but think that while the marks on his own body were the result of things done to him, Dazai’s were things he had done to himself. It was a different kind of pain, but one that felt, somehow, familiar.
Atsushi couldn’t stop looking at him. Every detail—from the shadow of Dazai’s lashes to the curve of his shoulders—felt like something he had no right to touch, yet was being invited to. He timidly placed his hands on Dazai’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
There was no hesitation in Atsushi’s heart—only a wonder so vast it left him breathless.
When Dazai pulled away briefly to finish undressing, Atsushi felt the immediate absence of that warmth, his fingers grasping at empty air until Dazai returned to him, now skin against skin.
Between kisses, touches, and soft sounds, Atsushi lost all sense of time. All he knew was that he could stay in that rhythm forever. And yet, he was anxious for the next step; it had been a day of so many firsts, and it still left him nervous.
Dazai, hovering over him, pressed his hips a little more firmly against Atsushi’s body, his arms tightening around his waist in a possessive hold. Atsushi felt the pressure through the fabric and trembled at the contact, letting out a hesitant sound—almost a sigh—paired with heavy breathing that betrayed how fast his heart was racing.
“Hey, relax,” Dazai murmured, his voice vibrating close to Atsushi’s ear. He lifted a hand to the boy’s face, brushing damp bangs aside and letting his fingers rest there for a moment. “Relax… if you stay that tense…”
He let the sentence trail off, and when Atsushi understood, his face flushed even more deeply.
“Ah—sorry, I—I…” Atsushi started, but his voice faltered. He looked away, overcome with a shame that made him want to disappear, even as he desperately wanted to stay right where he was. His face was burning red, his breathing far from steady, but he didn’t pull back.
“You don’t have to do anything. We can stop, and I’ll walk you back to your dorm. There’s no problem,” Dazai said. And despite the words, his tone, his breathing—everything about him seemed to beg Atsushi to continue.
Atsushi realized then that he would do anything that man asked of him.
“That’s not it, Dazai-san,” he replied too quickly, betraying his own frantic nervousness, like an apology spoken out of fear of ruining everything. “I’m just… really nervous.”
His entire expression said as much—the tension in his body, the alarm in his bright eyes, all of it nothing but concern. Of course Dazai already knew that Atsushi had no experience like this, nothing even close. Before joining the Agency, more than anything else, he had only known violence. Ironically, Dazai had taught him how to kiss that very night.
Comparison was inevitable, yet he had never imagined something like this could happen. He had only come to check on him out of concern.
And now he was there, beneath him.
Atsushi felt the weight of Dazai’s body lift and slide carefully to the side of the futon. He heard him take a deeper breath and did the same, but he couldn’t feel any relief.
He wanted this.
Dazai took his hand, and their fingers intertwined. When Atsushi turned his head to look at his mentor, they exchanged a small, uncertain smile. Atsushi thought his chances had ended there.
Then he heard Dazai say, so softly it was almost a whisper,
“Let’s take it slow, okay.”
Atsushi felt the weight of his own pressure vanish from his shoulders. It wasn't just the words; it was the way Dazai's thumb traced slow, distracted circles on his hip, a gesture so genuine it seemed more intimate than the act they were attempting.
"Okay," Atsushi whispered, finally allowing his eyes to close. In that darkness, he could feel the other's lips on his again, then very slowly moving to his neck with hickeys and light bites, then over his chest. There was something different this time; it seemed crazy, but he almost had the feeling there was something in what they were doing that was new to Dazai too. In seconds he imagined that, well, maybe he didn't have so much experience with other men—he himself had said something like that, that he didn't like men. That thought managed to make him calmer, with lower expectations than would be expected, to just enjoy that moment with the person he liked, who was alive—by luck, but he was. Everything he had, even his dreams, his aspirations about who he would like to be, had been given by that man. He trusted him with his own life and had full conviction of his character, and if they were doing this, it was because, as hard to believe as it was, Dazai also felt something for him. There was no reason to be afraid.
He was unable to perceive the moment when he simply stopped thinking and reasoning and was flooded by the sensation of the body heat on his, the hot and wet sensation of the tongue wandering over his skin. The anxiety had disappeared by that point, so when Dazai placed one hand on the waistband of the pants he was wearing—which now seemed so tight—and looked at him to make sure he could proceed, Atsushi just nodded. It was clear Dazai knew what he was doing, passing his hand over his thighs until touching his erection. He even closed his eyes tighter and held back a moan. Dazai found it funny; he noticed the twisted little smile on the other's lips, like someone who thinks there is a victory to celebrate. They went back to kissing right after, Dazai on top of him, his hands lost in the strands of brown hair, the sounds he made also as if he barely believed what was happening. He made back-and-forth movements with his hand, while simultaneously pressing his hip into his leg so Atsushi could feel the desire was mutual. And the boy stopped breathing for a few seconds when Dazai stopped kissing him and using his hands for his mouth, and this time it was impossible not to moan, which only served to encourage the other even more.
At some point there, Atsushi realized Dazai was masturbating using his free hand. He just thought he would like to take the initiative to do something for him too. So, in a still shy way, still not choosing his words very well, he tried:
"Dazai-san… I wanted to…"
His voice died with a moan, but the other seemed to understand upon seeing the younger one's hand try to touch his erection. Atsushi started with a slow movement of his hand, uncertain, not knowing quite the best way to do it, the pressure and the rhythm, but even so, everything he saw in Dazai's eyes was someone entranced. Then, he felt his hand over his to show the best rhythm. Neither of them lasted much longer; Dazai first, and he didn't spare efforts to make Atsushi tremble with pleasure under him afterward. The way they kissed when they finished would remain engraved in memory for many, many weeks.
Sleep came heavy and fast. After pulling their underwear back on and lying beside Dazai—already asleep—Atsushi found himself smiling softly at how peaceful Dazai’s face looked. Softer than he’d ever seen it.