Chances | Dazai X Reader

Fifty Five • Silent Whispers

TW: s*icide and s*lf h*rm. if you're not comfortable with this topic, please skip this chapter.

Glad that he waited.

• • •

Now it's almost painful that he did wait. Because if he had done something— if something happened to him—he wouldn't have this life. He wouldn't have you. And now he doesn't want to imagine a life without all that. He can't imagine him succeeding in any of his attempts. He doesn't want to imagine a world that he's not in—

But at the same time, there's that feeling that creeps under his skin, the feeling that— that feeling isn't gone, it's going to stick for a while. That stupid voice in his head is going to stick for a while.

He sits by the sink on the bathroom floor, leaning his back against the cabinets, head buried in his hands. His throat feels strained, like someone's been pulling at them for hours. His eyes—glossy and burning, but the feeling of a tear trickling down doesn't occur, it never does. His bandages loosened on his forearms, showing off the skin that is underneath.

His own body forces himself to take his face out of hands, forcing him to look at the faded scars on his arms. Untouched, but his hand takes that word and makes it disappear when his finger grazes against the skin.

I hate pain, he would say, but self-infliction was different when he was younger. It was satisfying to him until he realized that when he couldn't get bandages, the fabric of his clothes would rub against them, causing a sharp stinging pain to open wounds. He hated it, he hated the feeling, he hated everything, actually. The bandages covered that past of his, and he had always hoped that he could find more things that might help cover his past.

Instead, he's used his own actions and words to cover himself up. Covering this thing that seems like the biggest secret in the world that only Dazai knows. That alone, is enough for him to feel pressured.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to himself, feeling terrible that he had walked away from you. He hates when he feels like he's ruined a good day, a day that he thought could ease off some of the pain he carries. At the end of every good day comes an awful night. That's how it was before, when he lived alone, when he didn't live in this room specifically—maybe that's a part of his past. It was easier for him to take off that mask, for him to wipe off that fake smile.

It's harder now, but maybe that's because it isn't fake anymore. That doesn't mean days like this haven't happened before—there's been many times where he's stood in complete silence in the bathroom, spending his time thinking without you knowing.

There's this thing that breaks inside of him every once in a while. And every time it does...you're always there to fix another broken piece. He should probably be thanking you more often for all that you've done for him—without even knowing.

He gets up from the floor, a little less shakily. Reaching over, he flushes the toilet that he hadn't even used—just to make it seem like he was. He washes his hands and puts a little water on his uncovered eye. Grabbing his towel, he dries both his face and hands, and he makes sure to tighten his bandages again.

Maybe he just thought that he took a long time. He was expecting you to be asleep by the time he opened the door. But his eyes focus on you sitting upright on the bed, nervously waiting for him to get back.

"Hey," he mumbles, unsure of what to say as he walks towards the bed, crawling under the sheets. Before he can even sit properly, you're pulling him close, wrapping your arms around him so tightly that Dazai's whole body softens in the touch, only wanting to feel more of it. His arms loosely make their way to hug you back. "...Hey," he mumbles again, burying his face into your shoulder.

He gets worried when he doesn't get a response. "[Y/N], are you okay? Did I—" You cut him off before he can finish that sentence, "I'm supposed to be asking if you're okay, not the other way around, idiot." Dazai chuckles at that, and one of your hands makes its way into his hair. "You were shaking so hard..." you start, eyes closing shut, "you didn't do anything wrong, but you know you can always talk to me."

He knows, god, he knows, but it's just so fucking hard.

"I'm okay," he replies, trying to talk as smoothly as he can. "Are you sure? Cause I'm not going to sleep until you do," you say, fingers twisting in his brown, wavy hair.

God, I love you so much.

I don't deserve any of this—

He didn't mean to sing the next few words that came out of his mouth. "I'll always be okay," he sings it like it's a popular song.

"As long as I'm with you."