Chapter 10 - chapter ten

Not that Dazai immediately cut himself. He wasn't stupid. 

What was stupid was to hide it instead of automatically snitching to the nearest nurse. Even if it was his own contraband and not planted by his roommate in order to frame him, even then, he should've given it up.

It would've been the right thing- the healthiest thing to do. 

Regardless of whether or not he was gonna use it, because he wasn't.

The option of blaming it on his roommate was ever present and enticing. They probably wouldn't believe him, but he might be able to convince the doctors that liked him.

Yet instead of reporting anything, he hid it as well as he could, which was quite easy beyond the initial full body inspection that should've happened during everyone's entry process. He didn't know how Fyodor got it past them.

Luckily it being someone else's contraband meant he didn't have to go through that humiliating ordeal of being completely nude in front of some stranger who would examine every fold of his skin for this exact thing. He initially came directly from the hospital, so he didn't have to go through any more intense poking and prodding than what he'd gotten there. 

Still, he had to pretend all was perfectly normal as he went through breakfast and vitals. He regrettably had to underplay his subtle panic to Chuuya, who was a complete mess on his own with the addition of Yuan to all of their lives. They were each dealing with their own separate problems right now, as was everyone.

As much as Dazai loved to diss on institutionalization, which was valid, he also thrived in the chaotic environment.

Everything was in disorder always. There was never a second of stabilization. It was extremely helpful in hiding his own secrets with only the slightest touch of subtlety.

This, of course, only made the hospitalization more exciting, but to everyone else it was abhorrent and affront to the goal of recovery.  

Whereas Chuuya was horribly thrown off with the new stimuli added to their little enclosure, Dazai felt prepared for anything. He was not lying to himself.

Fyodor had put into place a temptation which he could not ignore, while at the same time accommodating to a contentious figure from Chuuya's past. It was the perfect disruption of something deeply personal invading both of their minds and setting them up to fail in their individual conflicts without seeking help from each other. Divide the enemy and conquer from their destabilization.

Dazai, however, could recite The Art of War by memory, thanks to Mori's teachings. He knew not to fold to such obvious dissent tactics.  

Yes, he of course wanted nothing more than to use the blade given to him for its very expressed purpose, but he was equally unwilling to allow Fyodor such an underhanded win. Pure spite could motivate him to any lengths. 

This was at least what he told himself as he suppressed the constant tremor in his bones that was only present due to the sharp and impossible to ignore edge against his bandaged skin, trapped between the fabric and himself. 

Dazai had faced temptations before, and had learned to smother any desire with the simple reminder that he didn't deserve to indulge in things he wanted. Another helpful little lesson from his father.  

This was just another test of his self control, and he would not lose.  

Besides, Chuuya probably needed him right now, and focusing on supporting his puppy would disrupt the plans Fyodor had.

Just a glance at his face across the room during breakfast was enough to tell him that yes, Chuuya did need him right now. He was sitting alone and avoiding eye contact with everyone, instead staring at the empty white space of the wall. 

His own dilemma could be pushed to the side. He was used to ignoring his body's natural desires.

Still, he couldn't make eye contact with anyone on his way to group. Shame coiled through the length of his intestines like a snake. 

The group circle formed in near silence, though it was only partially due to tension. Those who hadn't had an emotional day yesterday just looked a normal amount of too tired to talk in the morning. Lucky bastards; said with affection of course.

The doctor was also visibly drained, most likely having been briefed by Kunikida some time before coming in. She would have a myriad of psychological messes to clean up in group today. 

Morning introductions flew by in a blink and she attacked the problem barely a second after Atsushi finished saying his favorite animal for the fun question of the day. 

"So, I heard we had some conflict last night," Yosano wasn't one to skate around a subject, "I just want to remind everyone here that I will not tolerate any of that behavior. You don't all have to get along, but treat each other with respect and do not fight any other person here." 

It had been a while since Dazai saw the full effect of Yosano's intimidating look. Even longer since it wasn't directed at him.

Though the infamously hard stare didn't phase him, Yuan was not prepared for the sheer force of it. She flinched and lowered her head as the doctor paid special attention to her. He snickered under his hand. 

Good. 

"Also, if anyone at any time feels sick or like they're about to faint," Her piercing eyes switched targets onto Dazai, "Immediately alert a staff member before you hurt yourself. Everyone's good health is our number one priority here." 

If his health was such a priority, then why was he still on bullshit meds that made him faint? A rhetorical question; it was because health was absolutely not the number one priority in this hospital. That would be safety. Their only real job was to keep everybody alive. 

"Now with that out of the way," Yosano continued, the clicking of her pen breaking the brief silence that followed, "onto today's discussion-" 

It was impossible to pay attention. 

As much as he would love to say that ignoring the blade under his bandages was easy, the reality wasn't so simple. Just because he could control himself didn't mean it wasn't itching under his nails, begging to add more pretty scars to his already destroyed body. 

It was extremely difficult for Dazai to process what was being said during the lesson, but that was just fine because Ranpo hogged pretty much the entire session anyway. He was apparently leaving today.

Another person that crashed into his life only to leave just as fast. Dazai was more liberal with giving out his email and phone numbers during this stay though, at least to the people he genuinely liked, so he decided to write both down for Ranpo during free time.  

He wasn't supposed to be making connections for the outside. He was supposed to die on the outside. There was supposed to be nothing waiting for him but absolute freedom from the burden of living.

A shiver went through him though as he shifted in his seat. 

He could die within the confines of his prison. In here. With the blade. 

The metal lying against his skin was cold, and it made its presence completely impossible to ignore.  

It was a good one, the kind they use for box cutters. It was that perfect in-between of sharp enough to slice through layers of flesh, but not too sharp that it wouldn't bleed as much as he preferred. Dazai really did like when they bled.  

The point being that it was a high-quality blade that would get the job done. They might be able to stop him and save him on time, but if he got Fyodor to cover for him, it was possible. As disgusting as the thought of cooperating with that slime was, he clearly wanted Dazai to use the blade he left specially for him. Surely he would be willing to assist in his suicide. 

The only problem with acting on the suicide he so desperately wanted was the conflict going on in his head. It felt like a bunch of tiny Dazai's were sitting around a table and arguing about what to do. 

This is perfect! It's exactly what we wanted! We should cut! 

No, just cutting would be more likely to get us caught. We should use it to kill ourself. 

Um. No. You idiots. We should throw it out so that it doesn't tempt us and so we don't get in more trouble than it's worth. 

But isn't it worth it? Just to feel that sting again? To see that beautiful bright red lifeblood paint the sterile white tile that this place is entrapped in? 

God, these lights are awful. Fluorescent and flickering. So clinical. 

Chuuya would be disappointed if we did something. 

So? Who cares what Chuuya thinks? 

We do! Plus, we want to live for Chuuya, don't we? 

Different from the other voices, one whispered out from the darkest part of his mind.

It was spoken in a hush, yet it boomed over all the others. It was separated, hidden away and ignored because it always said things he didn't want to hear. It was the most chilling of all. And it was probably the only voice in his head that was true. 

What if I want to live for me? 

… 

"Oi, bandages-for-brains, give Ranpo a hug. He's leaving."  

Chuuya's angelically annoying voice pulled him away from the thoughts he'd wanted to be away from anyway. The redhead always seemed to know when Dazai needed to be saved from himself. 

"Don't touch me with your grubby hands." He was luckily saved from having to engage in any physical contact thanks to Ranpo's general dislike of being touched. "Even I don't want to know where they've been..."

The cool steel pressed snug against his skin was making him sensitive to touch. Even the brush of his beloved bandages over his skin felt like too much. Anything more would push him hard enough to relapse, just to get the feeling off of him. 

But Dazai shook himself out of focusing on that. If he thought about it too much it would only make the sensation even more overwhelming. He couldn't quite ignore it, but he could certainly pretend to.  

Jerking back to the present, he smiled and tried to act like a normal human being that didn't have the craving to peel his own skin off. 

"I'm gonna miss you Ranpo, my buddy, my pal. You were the only motherfucker in this town that could handle me. We should get married when I'm out of here." 

Ranpo smirked knowingly, "I think there's someone else out there for you Dazai." 

Because of course Ranpo knew about his crush. Ranpo knew everything. He probably knew about the blade pressed flat against his very vulnerable veins too.  

He avoided eye contact with Chuuya and simply stuck his tongue out at Ranpo. No way in hell was he going to entertain the thought of marrying Chuuya.

Still, it was nice to have a lighter conversation. Playful teasing had been severely lacking in all their lives the past day. Two could play at this game though. 

"You're also saving yourself for someone else though, aren't you Ranpo-kun?" Dazai grinned, batting his eyelashes in faux innocence. Ranpo only grinned back unapologetically. 

Anyone with eyes could see that Poe was helplessly head over heels for Ranpo. What few others might've noticed was that Ranpo felt the same. He would not let Poe hang around him so close, breathing air in the same space, if he didn't also feel affection for the other boy. It was as adorable as Atsushi and Akutagawa were, though hopefully their ending would be less tragic. 

It was one of the cardinal rules of the psychiatric hospital; to not date someone you met in treatment. They were blatantly disregarding the unspoken creed. 

Perhaps they were all rulebreakers in that respect, not just Dazai. 

As he watched the two of them plan to meet up on the outside, Dazai sincerely wished the best for them. They deserved to be together, and to be happy. 

Everyone here deserved to be happy, except perhaps Fyodor, because he was a bastard. Also Yuan, because she was a bitch. 

God, when did he get so sappy? 

This therapy stuff was dangerous. It was making him embarrassing. Maybe he should give himself a little, itty-bitty, teeny-tiny cut just to feel more like himself- 

No, no, no, no. Stop.

He would not give in. 

Like Chuuya had said in a previous group session, if he gave in, then Fyodor would win. Dazai didn't consider himself a very competitive person, because he was usually the best at whatever he did so there was no need to care about winning, but he swore he would beat this rat no matter what. 

He just had to endure.

"You would've been a terrible husband anyway," Dazai flapped his hands, "you couldn't handle me." 

"You just said I was the only motherfucker that could? If I can't do it, nobody can handle you." 

"Real." 

"I'm gonna miss our witty repartee." 

"Aww, I miss you already too Ranpo-kuuun!"  

And then Ranpo was gone.  

In an instant.

… 

It was much quieter without their lovable OCD friend. Coupled with the tension between several of the patients, free time was extremely awkward that morning. 

Thankfully Yosano came up to him early on and said that she had some connections with psychiatrists and had recommended him to one she trusted. They apparently already put in the request to change his meds and he would start weaning off his old ones while transitioning to the new medication.

This of course meant he would be staying at the hospital at least until the first one's halflife was over. He was looking forward to maybe a month longer in this place.

He had no complaints though, there wasn't any rush for him. He had everything he needed now. 

More time with Chuuya, the option of killing himself or at least cutting, and more blessed time away from Mori. 

Despite Ranpo leaving, the initial shock of discovering the razor, and Fyodor's entire existence, Dazai was actually feeling… good.  

He wasn't naive enough to assume that the new medication was already working and was the cause of this (apparently he'd started on it this morning and didn't even realize because he was still in shock over having a blade), but it did always intrigue him when his mood lifted. It happened so rarely, and even less often naturally.  

His cheerful mood was, however, ultimately irrelevant. His feelings did not matter before and they didn't now, it didn't matter what type of feelings they were.

What did matter was however Chuuya was doing. 

He'd been despondent all morning, barely talking to anyone or even looking around at all except for when Ranpo was saying goodbye.

The story that both he and Yuan had relayed last night wasn't… that bad.  

Maybe Dazai was jaded or some kind of monster without empathy, but it didn't seem like enough to reduce Chuuya to this. It was like he wasn't even Chuuya.

And Dazai was going to blame his state on Yuan. 

Even with Fyodor being a harbinger of doom and despair, Chuuya was fine before Yuan showed up. Well, as fine as anyone admitted into a mental institution was. That pink haired swine didn't know who the hell she was messing with.

Chuuya probably wouldn't accept any kind of sympathy or support now, so Dazai would do the only other thing he could, and torture that stupid girl. 

Judging by her response to Chuuya's violence in the past, he could successfully physically intimidate her, but that wasn't really his style. Psychological torment should suffice. Her constitution was very obviously fragile and easily broken.

Changing directions from Chuuya, Dazai made his way over to a jittery Yuan who was trying to be as far away from everyone else as possible. Coward. 

"Pinky," He smiled unkindly as he sat down right next to her, as close as he could without breaking the no-touch rule, "I don't believe we ever heard what brought you here." 

It was safe to start with his usual somewhat invasive question. To break the ice.

"That's none of your business."  

She frowned, scooting further away from him. The response reminded him too much of Chuuya. Yeah, it made sense that they grew up together.  

Unlike Chuuya though, this girl was disgustingly easy to read. 

"I'll guess then!" Dazai perked up before again leaning uncomfortably closer to her, "Someone caught you, didn't they?" 

It was the biggest generalization, but it was effective.

The implications of what he could mean by that were infinite, and she was highly likely to automatically think of whatever he reminded her of. She could've been caught with anything, and he would be right for all of them. It was the same tactic fake psychics used on their customers. 

She sucked in a breath and, as if she was afraid he could read her mind, her hand automatically twitched to cover her hip. 

Yep. As he'd suspected, she was definitely a fellow self harmer.

He also used to favor his hips when it came to cutting, at least at first. After he stopped caring about being caught, and after realizing Mori didn't care either, the location didn't matter as much.

A menacing grin stretched across his cheeks. 

"I don't know what you're-" 

"What did you use? Hmmmmm... You look like the pencil sharpener type to me," his lip curled, "how juvenile." 

Yuan's face flushed in anger and shame, and Dazai didn't feel anything about it. 

Disconnected from the type of guilt he felt when he hurt someone he actually liked, this felt sickeningly satisfying. It had been too long since he'd used his talents. 

"When did you start?" He whispered in her ear, continuing coolly when all she did was grit her teeth, "Was it when your idiot little friend went to the hospital? Awwww, that's so pathetic! I bet it was your first time too. And you got caught immediately!" 

He couldn't help laughing behind his hand, mirthful gaze fixed upon hers.

Her lip was trembling but her jaw was still clenched shut. It appeared that she was the type to try not to engage with the bully, thinking if she didn't give him attention then he would get bored. What she didn't realize was that Dazai didn't need her to say a word, her body language was practically singing her shame to him. 

"Your friend goes to the hospital and you want all the attention for yourself instead. That's so embarrassing." 

"I didn't do it for attention!" 

"No… I suppose that was just a lucky side effect." Dazai tilted his head thoughtfully, staring unblinkingly into Yuan's eyes, "Are you happy with the attention now? Even though Chuuya won't even look at you, and I'm sure it's his attention you wanted the most." 

At this, her face blushed not out of anger but of humiliation. 

It wasn't his initial assumption, but her reaction solidified one of the possibilities he'd considered. Yuan liked Chuuya. Despite what she'd said about him being a monster, she liked him. 

 It was understandable, he was Chuuya after all, but he also belonged to Dazai. No one else.

"I-I don't- he's a monster." 

"Oh please," Dazai waved his hand in the air flippantly, "If you really thought that, you wouldn't have cut yourself. Obviously it wasn't a suicide attempt or you'd be more upset about being in a hospital rather than just about seeing him, which means you intended to be discovered and are acting upset to get even more attention. And you musthave known Chuuya was in this hospital, since you were such close 'friends' and there are only so many wards in this area he could've been in. You came here for Chuuya and it's honestly sad." 

Yuan stared at him in disbelief for a second, processing all of that. 

"You're... insane..." Rather than continuing to be fearful of him, as she should have been, Yuan still looked afraid but more confused now than anything, "I didn't do any of this on purpose. Nobody thinks like that." 

Nobody else thinks like this? But it was the most logical response? It was obvious. Even a child could easily come to this conclusion.  

Though he didn't fully believe it, Dazai had to change tactics again, "If you didn't do this on purpose, which I highly doubt, then you lost control, like a 'monster.'Just like Chuuya did." 

"That's different! I didn't hurt anyone else!" Her anger came back full force, and in turn it lit up his own.

A dark and thunderous cloud formed over his head. A tsunami forming in front of her.

"Didn't hurt anyone else?" Dazai openly glared at her now. "There are people who actually need rooms in this facility, and you selfishly took one from them. The people who found you that had to take you here will probably never forget whatever scene they walked in on. It's been less than a day and you've already regressed so much of Chuuya's recovery just by being here. Of course you hurt other people. That's what self harmers do." 

She didn't respond, getting paler the longer he went on.  

It may have turned into a bit of a rant.  

He was done talking now.  

Dazai decided to be the first to walk away this time, standing up and going to sit next to Chuuya to be as far away from that girl as possible. She at least had enough sense of self preservation to not follow him. 

Chuuya didn't seem to notice that he wasn't flawlessly hiding his emotions as usual at the moment, too engrossed in writing in his notebook, along with Poe beside him. Poor Poe was writing more frantically since Ranpo left, and that was saying something considering just how much he wrote before. They were probably both waxing poetry about their pain or whatever. 

Writing and poetry wasn't really something Dazai had ever considered as a coping mechanism. It wasn't as mindless an activity as his art was, nor was it particularly pleasant when he had to think deeply about himself and his thoughts.

Therapists tried before to get him to keep a daily diary for at least some kind of record of his moods, but it was tiresome to keep up with. Most of his entries ended up being single sentence complaints about asinine things. And even in those instances, he wasn't writing poetry. 

Chuuya's nose was practically touching the inseam of his notebook. 

"You're writing poetry again." 

It was a simple observation, and it jerked Chuuya out of his trance-like state. His hand never ceased it's hard work though, nor did he look towards Dazai while responding. 

"You're being a weird stalker again." 

Dazai sighed, helplessly fond.  

"Can I not be interested in my friend's hobbies?" He blinked innocently, leaning closer but respectfully keeping his curious eyes off of the notebook. He'd already trampled over that boundary once. 

"No, you can't." 

But he could see the small grin on Chuuya's face, and the slightest relaxing of his shoulders. It was enough to tell him that this was okay. They were okay.

"Well I've decided to be the best poet in this psych ward so you're gonna have to teach me." Dazai clapped his hands together with finality. 

The redhead raised an unamused eyebrow, "You want me to teach you how to be a better poet than me?" 

"Your words, not mine."  

His eyes rolled in a more perfect circle than any that Dazai had ever done, and yet he ripped out a piece of blank paper and gave it to him anyway.  

The edges were crudely torn and it was slightly wrinkled, but Dazai received it as a prophet would the word of their god. Everything Chuuya gave him, from second chances to slips of looseleaf, was to be revered.  

Meanwhile, Poe pushed the bin of soft tipped markers towards him to write with, which Dazai graciously accepted. He picked out a blue one. 

"You're gonna be shit at it," Chuuya warned, "It involves getting in touch with your feelings." 

"Excuse you, I'm extremely in touch with my feelings! I touch my feelings all the time. We have a very intimate and highly physical relationship." 

Chuuya hummed, neglecting to comment in order to finish whatever line he had been writing, and instead nodded to Poe to begin the impromptu literary lesson. The easy dismissal made him pout.

The other boy was irrelevant to Dazai, but he could be used as a tool to get closer to Chuuya, which was what really mattered, so he listened to the advice he was given. Poetry was, after all, not his area of expertise. But it was Poe's. 

"The best place to start is with choosing a topic. It should be something you are passionate about," Poe flipped through his own notebook anxiously, "like… here, I wrote this when I was first admitted; 'I seemed to be upon the verge of comprehension, without the power to comprehend as men, at time, find themselves upon the brink of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember.'" 

Though he was timid, Poe seemed to come alive as he quoted his poetry.

Well, come alive in the loosest sense, as he recited his work in the most depressing tone of voice imaginable. Even Chuuya lifted his nose from his notebook to look at Poe as if he'd just asked a florist if they had sunflowers that came in black.  

At both his and Dazai's expressions, Poe looked horrified and more aggressively shuffled through his notebook to find something that would impress them. 

"Ah! Actually that was a bad example! … Okay how about this; 'Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before-'" 

"Okay I get it!" Dazai interrupted before Poe could continue on his speech. From the looks of his notebook, he could've kept reciting poetry until all their hairs turned gray. 

"Lots of exposition without clear messages; that's what poetry is all about. I understand now."  

Both Poe and Chuuya gave him humorless expressions, but Dazai ignored them, grabbing a felt tip marker and pressing it upon the unblemished paper with a flourish. 

Something he was passionate about... Obviously his first thought was suicide, but that was becoming a tiresome trope of his. He could only sing it's praises for so long before it began to lose meaning.

Self harm was also an exhausted subject, but thanks to his current predicament, it was really all he could think of.

Passion described the things he couldn't stop thinking about, right? Or was that obsession? There probably wasn't a difference. 

Still, as his companions continued writing easily, Dazai stared blankly at his paper without moving.  

Noticing this, Chuuya thankfully took pity on him. 

"Usually I go on walks for inspiration when I can't find any on my own," The redhead continued, as if that was a possibility, "but when that's not an option, I just write every thought that comes to mind and then go back to edit it later." 

"Oh, so free association. That's very healthy of you, slug." 

"I don't know what the fuck free association is but anything I do is healthier than the shit you do, mackerel." 

Dazai humphed, not able to refute that. 

Looking back at his blank page though, he did take Chuuya's advice. 

Write his unfiltered thoughts. Come back and dissect them later.  

Typically, he'd prefer to keep all of that business locked tight up inside his head, never to see the light of day, but it's not like anyone here would sneak a peak at his writing. It was an accepted privacy with other patients. Not including the time he violated that rule of course. 

So he hunched over, blocking the others from viewing his work on the off chance that they were as inconsiderate as he was, and began writing everything that came to mind without any ulterior intentions. 

Opposite to when he drew his feelings, which only ever made him spiral deeper down the endless abyss inside of him, outlining them with words shockingly did calm him down, much to his chagrin. It was always bothersome when the therapists were right.

A tension he wasn't even conscious of seemed to melt off his shoulders with each line he wrote. It was like all the baggage he was carrying had lightened just the tiniest bit. Even that small relief though, was euphoric.  

He lost himself in the flood of repressed emotions, no longer heavily guarding his paper so paranoiacally.

Looking back at his work, though a part of him did cringe at how melodramatic it all was, he was able to deconstruct everything so much better than when it was all stuck in his head like a psychotic red stringed conspiracy board. On paper, his problems didn't appear nearly as overwhelming as they felt. If only it could've taken apart his desire for self mutilation as well. 

"Ahhh, I feel so much better now. You might be onto something with this poetry stuff!" 

Chuuya, finished with his own writing for now, looked at him unamused, though Dazai paid his judgment no mind. Poe was too lost in his own work to even look up at them. 

"It's the one of the most common coping techniques. Everyone uses it. Of course it works dumbass." 

"But I'm not like the other girls," Dazai batted his eyelashes, "this is really new for me. Aren't you proud?" 

His grandioseness didn't affect Chuuya; it never did.

The redhead rolled his eyes and, before Dazai even realized that he was going to do it, stole Dazai's page out from under him as easily as one would a hat off someone's head. 

Humiliation, panic, betrayal; those were not emotions Dazai admitted he felt often.

When his darkest secrets exposed in plain writing were snatched without his consent, he felt all of those and more. His heart leapt into his throat, his muscles tightened, his jaw clenched, and his eyes widened. As Chuuya scanned over his heart and soul with a furrowed brow, Dazai couldn't breathe. 

Oh god. Even his scars being on full display wasn't as awful as this. As Chuuya having full view of his deepest, darkest secrets. How could he have been so stupid as to trust that no one would breach his privacy like this? 

Was this how Chuuya felt when he looked at hispoems? If so, then Dazai would have to spend the rest of his miserable life trying to make it up and apologize to Chuuya for such a horrible and violating act, because this was- 

"The fuck?" Chuuya scrunched his nose in confusion, but Dazai barely noticed over the black spots blurring his vision. "This is complete nonsense?" 

Luckily the blasphemy of that made Dazai blink out of his panic.  

That was all of his innermost thoughts written in plain writing! Nonsense?! 

"Huh?"  

He wasn't even coherent enough to properly express his bewilderment. 

"This? It's all? What even is this?" Chuuya squinted down at the paper as if it would help him see better. 

Dazai snatched back his poem, scanning it himself for whatever Chuuya was confused about, but he didn't see anything out of the ordinary. 

He wrote down things in the exact way he thought them. 

There were the scientific equations to explain how visual light registered through the cones behind his irises and then sent a signal to his brain which connected with the dopamine receptors there that made his head lighter and heart race. Following this were the musical notes for the beginning chords of Nocturnes Op.9 No.2 in E flat major. Interspersed between each splotch of ink were tiny runic symbols reinterpreting the meaning behind each of those notes. All of this, of course, was within and around a line graph displaying the local crime rates from the 1920s to current day… 

He was basically confessing his love in plain writing! Not to mention straight up admitting that he was in possession of what the hospital would technically classify as a contraband weapon. 

His cheeks flushed bright red as he realized Chuuya was probably teasing him and trying to get him to say these salacious things out loud. Well good luck with that, idiot. 

"Nice try chibi. I'm not going to explain my metaphors to you." 

"Metaphors?" Chuuya choked out a laugh of disbelief, "You just wrote a bunch of math!" 

Dazai didn't see the problem. 

"Well what did you write then? Since you're so much better at this than me."  

He didn't want to be defensive about it, but alas he was. Those were his raw, unfiltered thoughts!

Although he'd read some of his work before, it was clear Chuuya was extremely prolific and would definitely have something to share that Dazai hadn't already peaked at. Something new, and hopefully just as revealing as Dazai's own. 

Chuuya gave an exasperated huff and paged through his notebook.

They were doing a little impromptu poetry read at this point. It was kinda cute, and they had to take whatever little entertainment they could get in here. 

"You want poetry, I'll show you fucking poetry," The redhead muttered, clearing his throat loudly and garnering the attention of the entire room, even those that weren't privy to their conversation, "In my head, since when I'm not sure, an unhappy pierrot was living; he dressed in a silk gauze costume and bathed in the moonlight. Sometimes he, with effeminate hands, gestured repeatedly, but I never understood his meaning, and I only made him sad. As he gestured, he moved his mouth, but it was like watching an old shadow play - there was no sound at all, and what he said I didn't understand. White on him the moonlight glowed; in the strange bright mist, his dim figure was slowly moving; only his eyes all along looked gentle.'" 

He finished speaking, the last sound slipping from his tongue and lapping the room in silence.  

Mere seconds after the eerie quiet though, someone clapped. And then everyone clapped. And then people were applauding and whistling for Chuuya's little recital. Dazai almost felt like he was in a dream. 

It was so ridiculous he could cry, but instead he just joined in on the clapping. 

Although he thought Chuuya had obviously done this with the purpose of performing, he seemed to fumble with the praise, eyes widening and mouth already spewing out a contradictory mix of humble and arrogant responses. The behavior made the seed of a smile on Dazai's face bloom into a full flower. 

Too much noise was discouraged though, so they were quickly shushed before it could become more than just applause.

As they quieted however, Yosano came over separately to subtly compliment Chuuya. From the shy way the boy grinned with pride, Dazai could tell that he didn't mind that at all. 

Once she went back to watching the rest of the room, and they had their small illusion of privacy again, Dazai turned to Chuuya with a genuine smile. 

"Absolutely inspiring, my petite poet." 

"Shut the fuck up. At least mine makes sense." 

"I was complimenting you!"

"Sure." 

Dazai was about to further protest the denial of his genuine praise but it was at this time that a certain pink menace cautiously stepped up to them. 

The change in Chuuya's demeanor was immediate and noticeable. The pride and humor completely gone, replaced with apprehension.

Further assessing the situation, Dazai noted that Yosano had an eye glued to them, her body tensed and prepared to step in. It was comforting to know they had backup, even if Yuan was the least intimidating person in the world seeing as she was too pathetic to ever be viewed as more than bubblegum stuck under a lousy student's desk, chewed up and long forgotten, only to make its presence known whenever a hand brushed against the sticky substance, disgusted. 

"Hey Chuuya... can we... talk?" 

Every cell in Dazai buzzed with a want to protect Chuuya from even interacting with this clown, but it was Chuuya's choice on how to respond. Dazai would not choose for him.

In writing out his feelings, Dazai had unwittingly unraveled the ways in which he adored Chuuya and in doing so, discovered how to treat him as his crush. 

Everything he touched, Dazai would inevitably corrupt. This was an unshakeable truth.

Dazai didn't want to mold and manipulate Chuuya into being anything other than what he already was. It was Chuuya that he was attracted to; his ideas, actions, choices, beliefs... If Dazai tried to influence any of those, he would smother something beautiful. 

So he remained silent, and only watched attentively. 

The redhead struggled to find words for a second, looking increasingly conflicted the longer they all sat still.

He did respond though, not one to run away from anything, including emotional confrontation. 

"Yeah," He nodded slowly, "we can talk." 

He didn't say anything further, but he didn't need to. He wasn't the one who approached first. 

With the responsibility of continuing the conversation back to Yuan, the girl glanced at Dazai with poorly veiled detestation. 

"I wanted to talk to him alone." She amended, not bothering to speak politely. 

"Swell," Dazai smiled thinly, "but I'm not going anywhere." 

"Dazai." The other boy's tone left no room for debate. It was commanding, and nothing else needed to be said for him to get the message. 

He huffed, but didn't want to press his luck with Chuuya as much as he already had been doing the entirety of their time together. This was a personal matter, he could tell that much. 

Although Dazai thought that by now they'd gotten past that whole thing, with both of their privacy's being broken multiple times, apparently there were still things Chuuya wanted to leave Dazai out of. This being a particularly frustrating one, as it had to do with a figure from Chuuya's illusive past. There were key things she could've revealed that would've helped greatly with their investigation.

Still, he begrudgingly acquiesced without a complaint. 

Though he wasn't allowed in the conversation, that didn't mean he couldn't observe from afar.

For his ideal vantage point, Dazai chose to stand next to Yosano near the entrance, as people went in and out of the room to meet with visitors. Thankfully, Mori didn't appear among the family and guardians that showed up, his patience for Dazai seemingly reaching its limits days ago. At least that was one positive after what felt like thousands of negatives. 

"Doctor, did you know that writing poetry is actually pretty helpful? It's crazy how that works." 

Starting up small talk as he spied on them would both lower suspicion and possibly reap benefits such as a better reputation with Yosano and the staff. This was a normal thing to both want and act upon. 

"Crazy," Yosano gave him a sarcastic smile, "It's almost like we recommend coping mechanisms like this for a reason." 

"Almost," Dazai grinned, "according to Chuuya, I did it wrong." 

Across the room, Yuan and Chuuya quietly had what looked like a civil conversation, albeit a very serious one. Both their faces were grim and bodies stiff, but there were no outbursts.

"You can't do poetry wrong."

"You underestimate my ability to incorrectly perform any task." 

Yosano laughed, which was music to Dazai's ears. He hadn't even been trying to clown around, just speaking the truth. 

"Compared to Nakahara, I suppose anyone would feel that way," The doctor crossed her arms over her chest and relaxed against the wall, lips gently tilted up, "the kid has talent." 

"Yeah," Dazai sighed dreamily, eyes glued to the talented chibi across the room. He couldn't tell from here whether their conversation was nearing it's end or not.

Without Chuuya to distract him from his thoughts, the cool metal against his forearm became again impossible to ignore, leaving him itchy all over. 

Writing had helped, as reluctant as he was to admit it, but he was not cured of the vivid imagery of blood and exposed fat cells that flashed at him every time he closed his eyes.

As much as he tried to convince himself that of course he wouldn't actually use the blade, there was a reason it was hidden close to him and not disposed of as it should've been. 

Dazai sighed again, less dreamily. 

"Can you read what I wrote and tell me what it means using your special therapist insight?" 

The doctor raised an eyebrow in surprise but with no judgement. She checked the clock on the wall presumably to see how much time was left before they would have to separate for fake-school. Dazai batted his eyelashes when she turned back to him and she huffed, shrugging. 

"Sure. That is kind of my job." 

He handed the slip of unassuming paper to her, trying not to show his anxiety. 

Chuuya hadn't understood what he wrote. That could've been because he was just stupid, or perhaps Dazai's poem truly was written in accidental ciphers. Whatever Yosano interpreted from it would solve this dilemma. 

She was silent as she carefully examined every word and symbol outlining his thoughts, her face revealing none of her own. It was not as unsettling as it was a reassurance. She was a professional, and would treat him with that kind of detached, objective respect.

That was a familiar and comforting kind of treatment for him. An emotionless expression felt like home.

When she finished, Yosano remained impassive, but she leveled Dazai with a discerning stare. The sheer unreadability of her made Dazai wonder, not for the first time, what her relationship was with Mori. Fukuzawa worked with him apparently, but Yosano also knew him somehow. In what way, or what the nature of their relationship was, Dazai didn't know.

This aura was nearly identical to his, though without the additional snobbery.

"What does this mean to you, Dazai?" 

He blinked. 

"Can't you read it and tell me?" 

The doctor hummed, looking back at the paper, "Poetry is like all other art; it's up for interpretation. I don't think it's my interpretation of this that really matters. What were you trying to let out here? What did you want to say?" 

Dazai opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, then finally he closed it, forming a pout. 

It was obvious, wasn't it? 

But, he supposed, repeating how obvious the message was did not actually explain a single thing about it.

He took back the paper and scanned his own words, both knowing that he wrote them and yet also needing to decipher his own creation. That was the purpose of free association after all, wasn't it? 

To begin with the chemical equations- 

That was the most obvious part. 

What he saw and witnessed made him feel a certain type of way. The image of Chuuya, his bright red hair, his stunning blue eyes, the colors of him transferred through the cones in Dazai's irises and created a message sent to his brain that described the form he was viewing. Every time this happened, meaning every time he looked at Chuuya, he felt a rush of the dopamine activating. That was how he knew he was attracted to Chuuya, because he was having a physiological reaction to the simple sight of him.

This process wasn't limited to Chuuya though. The shine of the blade, the red of blood, the expressions people made that reminded him of expressions that others had made in his past, all of it made different emotional receptors in his brain activate. It was the knowledge that this chemical reaction was both natural and involuntary that gave him some relief of any responsibility over his feelings.

Following this with the musical notes, besides the fact that the song was simply stuck in his head and one of his favorites, was reinterpreted via the runes scrawled over each note, as the song was also art. Similarly to the poem itself, the song could be heard differently by each person who heard it. It utilized the rounded binary or in simpler terms, repetition with the opportunity for rhythmic freedom.

The repetition of self harm. The way he could not escape the cycle of his addiction, even with the freedom of choice that he had. The biblical and sisyphean nature of this tune in which he sung.

The addition of the runes was only to emphasize how trapped he was. Trapped in the past, in the form of ancient runic symbols which had lost their original meaning today. It was the same as his cutting, which had an original purpose whose rhetoric he repeated even though he was no longer sure that it's true.

Finally, the graph displaying crime rates from the 1920's to now, of which he only knew thanks to his photographic memory, was so all encompassing that he had to overwrite everything else within it. The better question regarding that section's meaning was what didn't it represent about his subconscious thoughts.

The economic boom of the 1920s only to fall into a great depression and how that impacted the crime rates. How crime was directly interconnected with money, and how he blamed all the crimes committed against him on this correlation. How it wasn't his fault that he was born into wealth, but how he would inherit both the benefits and the tragedies that arose from it.

The metaphor of how his depression and mental illness only continued to get worse and even if there was a brief moment that he got better, it never lasted.

The cycle repeating again and again, never learning from history.

It was about his history, his life, and worse, a prediction of his future. 

"It wasn't meant to be seen. This wasn't to show anyone else, it was supposed to be for me," He finally answered, not looking up to meet Yosano's eyes and therefore not noticing the soft smile she had for him. 

"And how do you feel about it, now that you've gotten it all out?" 

God, these therapists were so contradictory, being both awful at their jobs and yet being the best help he'd ever had. Despite the horrendous character flaw of being a doctor at all, Yosano was a good one. 

How did he feel about it? 

Well, he felt miserable.

He also knew now what he needed to do, and what he should've done from the start.

"Can I go to the bathroom, Doctor Yosano?"

He answered her question with another question, calling her by her preferred title to appeal to her more lenient side, but if she recognized the tiniest amount of manipulation, she didn't seem to care. 

Yosano studied his face for any nefarious plans, but for once, Dazai was genuinely earnest. This time, he was not using the bathroom excuse to do something hurtful. 

"Fine," She nodded, not quite trusting, "but you know the rules. Ten minutes." 

He had no objections to that. What he needed to do would take no time at all. 

Back in his shared room with Fyodor, which thankfully the ratty piece of shit wasn't lingering around in, he closed the curtain to the bathroom and carefully unwound his bandages. 

The blade felt heavy in his fingers, but through his eyes it looked so incredibly small. Insignificant.

How could something so minuscule hold such weight?

The how of it didn't matter, he ultimately decided. What mattered was that it did. 

With no further apprehension, Dazai unceremoniously dropped the blade into the toilet and flushed it before he could think too hard and change his mind. It would look outrageously pathetic if he fell to his knees and stuck his hands in the toilet water just to retrieve it again now.

The blade disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. As if it was nothing. Maybe it was nothing. 

Dazai didn't... not want to be depressed. And he certaintly didn't want to stop cutting. 

But before he was a self harmer, he was first and foremost a curious and scientific mind. He didn't know whether it was Chuuya, Yosano, or himself that reminded him of that fact. Either way, he remembered. 

He'd been stuck on this page, in this endless and inescapable cycle of chemical processes and criminal statistics and musical notes, and nothing had ever changed. He never wanted it to change.

But he did want it to now.

He craved the knowledge of what could be, of what could happen if he flipped the page and wrote on the other side. Or even if he destroyed the paper altogether and opened a new notebook. 

This new pursuit of something different might very well kill him, but even if it did, he would die trying.

He would die trying.

It should've felt good to flush a blade and reject self mutilation for the first time in his life, and on some level it definitely did, but it also made him queasy. 

Dazai thrived on contingency plans. For every situation he had backup plans upon backup plans prepped and ready to go at a moment's notice. Suicide, while also just straight up being something he wanted, was his pride and joy of all fallbacks. 

Everything suddenly going to shit and him somehow ending up out on the streets? Suicide. Failing to eventually find a job or career path? Suicide. Being horrifically injured to the point he couldn't function normally anymore? Suicide. Pushing everyone around him away and ending up completely alone? Suicide.

It was a comfort to know he would never be left scrambling, because if ever a situation did arise where he had no options left and all was hopeless, he could simply give up and die and that would be a totally fine outcome.

In throwing away his escape, he'd left himself defenseless. 

But... he also felt... proud of himself.

He was proud.

That... was such an unfamiliar feeling. Even when doing the things he actively wanted to do, he'd never made a decision that he was happy with. Dazai's self hatred knew no bounds; he didn't feel good about anything he did.

Except this.

Even though he was unnoticeably shaking and felt miserable, he was also brimming with excitement. He wanted to shout it out to the world, or in his case at least to the facility.

Look at me! I'm recovering! I'm making healthy choices! Aren't you proud of me? Didn't I do good?

Unfortunately other people would probably not recognize how huge this was for him, they might even get mad at him for keeping the blade in the first place. For most people, the very fact that keeping the razor had been a debatable issue for him was a problem in itself.

Still, he wanted to scream and jump around and throw things and shake people, in a good way of course. But he was not Chuuya and would not have the excuse of blacking out if he acted on those impulses. 

He wanted to tell Chuuya so bad.

Dazai practically skipped back to the room, to the utter bemusement of all the staff in the hallway. So caught up in the euphoria of having done something that surely some people would praise him for if they knew, he nearly forgot that he'd left Chuuya in an intense discussion with Yuan.

Thankfully nobody was knocked out or engaged in a fist fight when he got back, but they were still deep into their conversation, both ignorant to the world around them. 

And he really shouldn't interrupt their conversation... especially when it looked so serious... especially when he had been explicitly told to leave earlier...

Dazai merrily jumped back into a seat at their table, startling both its occupants, who subsequently became enraged. 

"I told you to fuck off." Chuuya growled, openly glaring at him. 

Dazai blinked, his grin stuck in place.

"No, it's okay. We're done here." Yuan dropped her hands onto the table and pushed herself up. She then leveled an actually successfully unreadable look towards Chuuya. 

Whatever their silent conversation entailed, he wasn't privy to it. It was very rude to talk as if he wasn't there, and even ruder to do it in a way he couldn't translate. But Dazai was still riding the high of doing something good and he didn't let it affect him.

She left without another word, seemingly satisfied with the conclusion of their talk. Though he wasn't thrilled to see Yuan pleased, Chuuya also looked a little lighter, so he let it slide.

"What's got you so chipper? Think of a new suicide method or something?"

The words were at the tip of his tongue, but he bit them back. Though he wanted to tell Chuuya everything, this was something that must remain private. 

"Just happy to see pinky leave!" Dazai cheered easily, "Sad to see her still in one piece though. What did you two kiddos talk about?"

"You're a kid too," Chuuya grumbled again, continuing with, "it's none of your business."

Dazai pouted, and it felt like the good old days of a week ago. 

"But Chuuuuuya-" He whined, "Everything is my business."

"Not this."

He humphed, slumping his front half onto the table in front of Chuuya.

The situation was a mutually felt one, Dazai also had something that wasn't necessarily Chuuya's business, but still-

Widening his eyes, Dazai gave him a pleading puppy dog look. He was not above begging. He had no shame whatsoever.

Rather than fall for it, Chuuya scoffed with partial disgust and amusement. Even the smallest hint of a laugh from that beautiful voice made his stomach burn.

"Come on," Dazai prodded further, "You're just gonna say it in group anyway. Gimme a little hint."

Chuuya seemed to resent this prediction, a visible guard coming up despite the fact that he would undoubtedly divulge. It would be a while until afternoon group, but Dazai's point was still correct. Chuuya would almost certainly spill whatever revelations he had come to later.

Still, he shook his head.

"You'll figure it out with everyone else."

"But aren't I special?" 

Chuuya grinned now, "You are very special," he pat Dazai's head as it rested on the table and his brain short circuited, "Especially stupid. I'll talk to you later."

With that, he got up and walked towards Yosano, completely oblivious to Dazai's bright red face which he had buried in his arms. He pressed his warm cheeks against the cool tabletop in an attempt to diminish the blush.

Aahhh, why did Chuuya have to do such things! Didn't he know they tore Dazai apart?

Although similarly to his poem, maybe nobody would know what he was feeling until he told them. That was frustrating. Masking emotions was exactly what he'd crafted himself to do since birth, and yet it was completely contradictory to what he needed to do now in recovery.

Regardless, Chuuya had left to speak with the therapist, and Dazai was alone, both resenting and appreciating that fact as he hid his embarrassment. 

Chuuya had pet him. Like a dog. As a joke. And yet the touch lingered on his scalp and invaded all of his senses.

If only he could feel a single touch without being wholly dismantled.

He wished Ranpo was still here. He would've slid in with some annoyingly accurate assessment and knocked Dazai out of his fuzz.

But he wasn't there. So Dazai had to pull himself out, shaking his head and lifting it from the cover of his arms. 

Thankfully by the time he did, they'd made it to lunch time, so he just followed the group mindlessly, maybe chatting with Atsushi, though he wasn't sure what they talked about. He wasn't sure what he ate either, mostly spending the time staring at Chuuya whenever the redhead wasn't looking. 

They made it through to afternoon free time agonizingly slowly. Fake school and gym dragged on, especially for someone who wasn't athletic or cared enough to do something substantial in fake school. It wasn't like they were actually graded or anything anyway. Not that he would've cared if they were, but it was doubly as pointless when both he and the academic system as a whole didn't care what they did within the facility.

Making it to the afternoon though, and the doctor switching from Yosano to Kunikida, Dazai wasted no time in latching onto Chuuya as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Though this time, the bulk of all the patients were sitting together at the same table. It made sense, though he was reluctant to sit at the same table as Fyodor.

There weren't many of them left. 

"Chuuuyyaaa~"

"What? You don't need to drag out my name every time." Chuuya complained.

Dazai didn't want to say that he liked the way his name felt on his tongue, so he just shrugged. 

"He just likes annoying you, I think." Atsushi called him out without a second thought, ruthlessly exposing him in front of everyone.

"It's not annoying! Right, Chhhuuuuuuuuuuuyyyyaaaaaa~"

The aforementioned redhead looked like he was seconds away from pushing Dazai's face away, but the guards wouldn't have allowed that after all of their recent physical altercations, and Chuuya knew it.

Dazai couldn't wait until they were both out of here. Then they could grab onto each other and never let go.

"You're the most annoying person I've ever met," Chuuya rolled his eyes, "you're like if a mosquito could talk."

Dazai put his hands on his cheeks and swayed in his seat, "Aaaah~ Chuuya should stop saying such nice things or I'll fall in love!"

Nobody needed to know how close to the truth that joking statement was. Dazai wasn't sure if he even knew what love was, but with the way his body increasingly lost control in Chuuya's vicinity, he was starting to think he might be experiencing it already.

It should have been a horrifying realization, but instead of dread, all he felt was peace. It was as if stating an irrefutable fact, there was no sense in trying to deny it.

His beautiful, confused friend scrunched his eyebrows up.

"It was an insult? I called you annoying." Chuuya clarified, as if he was no longer quite sure what he'd said. 

"Ah but you said the most annoying. I am number one in chibi's eyes."

Rather than let them continue their 'lovers quarrel', as Dazai dreamily narrated it in his head, Atsushi interrupted again.

"Do you guys think therapy can help someone be… not annoying?" He asked, somewhat nervously.

"Why? Did someone call you annoying too?"

Dazai tilted his head, both knowing that he was perpetuating his reputation as an annoying asshole, and performing solely to support it.

"No- well, yeah but… not as a joke."

Chuuya leveled the white haired teen with a deadpan look, "I wasn't joking." 

Atsushi raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Sure… still though, do you think it's… treatable?"

While the question was an innocent, albeit naive one, Dazai's eyes softened. Being called annoying could crush a person. Not him, but someone like Atsushi would of course take such a comment too close to heart.

He himself had no problem being annoying. It was hardly his worst trait. There was nothing overtly toxic about what a nuisance he was. In fact, it was one of his better traits, as it was one that got him attention without the expense of anyone's feelings.

Well, mostly without that expense. He was sure that annoying people would probably affect their feelings worse after repeated exposure. Or perhaps it was rather like a poison, and after time people could grow an immunity to Dazai's thorn in their side.

Regardless, Dazai had seen entire personalities smothered by the word. 

It was a foolish, childish question, but to Atsushi, it could mean the death of who he was. The smothering of a personality. At least for the years it would take him to shake off the words. For people more affected by what others thought, it was near a death sentence.

"If it was treatable, I would be much more boring." Dazai reassured, but Chuuya scoffed at him.

"You are a terrible example for this. You're also so stupidly suicidal, but that actually is treatable." The redhead crossed his arms, turning back to the younger teen. "Being annoying is a state of mind. Who gives a fuck if someone else calls you annoying?"

Both of their advice was bad, but Atsushi nodded hesitantly as if he was genuinely considering it as valid. Such an adorable little fool.

Unfortunately for him, Dazai didn't think it was a serious enough problem to correct. He only smiled and nodded, not bothering with the effort of going into the nuances of the subject.

"Besides, you don't need to worry about how annoying you are because I'm the most annoying, and that's all that matters." Dazai preened, attempting to and succeeding at changing the conversation to something lighter. 

Therapy talk was for therapy. They weren't supposed to be getting into that kind of stuff now. 

Chuuya groaned and rolled his eyes, clearly regretting his earlier choice of words. However, he didn't get the chance to continue their banter.

"Every single one of you is annoying."

Speaking of therapy, Kunikida intruded quite rudely, appearing above them like an oppressive knight upon a group of weary travelers, "Now move your chairs into a circle and we can discuss that."

The kids groaned but did as he said. 

Most everyone knew not to get on Yosano's bad side, that was common knowledge. What some people hadn't found out yet was that Kunikida could be just as hellish when disobeyed. He was just more vocal than physical in his discipline.

Everyone did as ordered and gathered for the afternoon session. 

It would be the perfect time to brag to everyone about flushing his blade, but that would lead to questions as to why he had it in the first place, and that was a rabbit hole he was not particularly itching to go down. He sat quietly, insides rolling but externally motionless in his chair next to Chuuya.

He compared the other to a dog all the time but honestly, Dazai was the one always dutifully sitting next to him. Maybe he was the one more closely related to a dog. The thought was too inconceivable to entertain, so he buried it.

Once they got through the usual introductions, Kunikida eased them into the lesson of the day, which was not about the concept of being annoying, but rather about competition.

"I know this might not apply to everyone here, but I believe it can still be something useful to dissect. Self destructive behaviors can often become competitive when around other people doing the same behaviors. Unknowingly or not, everyone here has had experience with that. Mental illness clusters, and I'm sure many of you have friends or family that also have a mental illness. When two people are doing the same activity though, it has the potential to become a competition of 'who has it worse' which ultimately keeps each of them trapped in their behavior," He started.

Without a doubt, Dazai preached that to be true.

Whenever he saw another person with scars, especially ones open on display, he had this strange need to compare them to his own. 

Who cut deeper? Who cut more? Who was worse?

It was sickening. One of the many things he hated himself for doing.

He was sure it was the same for other behaviors, he'd seen it before. Especially eating disorders. Dazai went on enough websites as a kid to see the horrible 'pro-ana' accounts that encouraged such competition. Encouraged the worsening of their illness.

It made him sick to his stomach.

Again, his depression and suicidal ideation was entirely selfish. He did not want to involve others in his shit, especially not to have them join him.

And the whole point of the innate competitiveness was so Dazai could win it. It would be stupid to give away tips to others on how to be better at being the worst.

Kunikida continued.

"This is something very important to watch out for, especially at places like this, where you are surrounded by people with problems that may be similar to your own. Be careful not to compare your level of trauma with the others here. It is a game that no one wins, and it only feeds your illness more."

Though Dazai did love feeding his illness more…

Kunikida needed to make this sound less enticing. He hated the competitiveness of self destructive behavior, but he was very attracted to anything that would make him worse.

Although, these thoughts were things he should be working on. As he promised Fukuzawa, and as he intended to follow through. He had already shown improvement; throwing out the blade being a big step. It was something that he would never have done in the past.

Dazai huffed at this thought.

It felt good, or at least some kind of emotion that he assumed to be a good one, but it also felt almost embarrassing to try. 

If he didn't try and got worse, then it made sense. It was logical for him to be a mess. Everyone expected him to be a mess. He didn't know who he was if he wasn't a mess.

But if he did try, and failed to recover... the humiliation of that. It would be pathetic. It was far easier to not try, and to let himself spiral until an attempt became a success. 

Regardless of how annoying it would be though, he said he would try.

He'd been trying. Since he already started, he might as well continue. Stopping now would look like giving up, which was even worse than just giving into the loss.

At least if he failed to recover, he could blame something other than himself for the failure, like therapy as a whole or the medications not working. Giving up would leave responsibility solely weighted on his shoulders.

"As we've discussed before, it's important to understand why we feel this way. Does anyone have an idea as to why self destructive behaviors have this inherent competitiveness?"

Kunikida's question was met with shuffling in place and wary looks exchanged between friends and acquaintances alike.

There were many aspects of mental illness that were universally known and recognized, but not talked about. In fact, it could be borderline sacrilegious to explain the thoughts, even if they were felt by all of them. 

Intrusive thoughts were the worst, and people who didn't get them couldn't understand the true agony of them. They were shameful to admit ever having crossed the mind. Things that couldn't be shared even when flaying oneself solely to be judged. Some of them could be too abhorrent for even him to romanticize.

Perhaps Dazai was just projecting, and not everyone knew the unspoken truths, but with the way everyone exchanged such accusatory glances, it very much seemed like everyone was familiar.

Not that he was about to speak up and out himself as someone who thought such things. 

Mentally ill thoughts were complicated like that. Even if they all knew that they felt the same, to say it out loud was entirely different. Admitting that those type of toxic, despicable thoughts were running rampant in each of their collective consciousnesses; it would have been tantamount to admitting that you were a serial killer. 

A terrible person with terrible thoughts. An irredeemable monster.

Luckily, Chuuya was always braver at facing this than any of the rest of them.

"It's about wanting to win. Aren't all competitions about that?" The redhead asked. Though the way he asked was very questioning of Kunikida's credibility, which Dazai found extremely amusing. 

The doctor's mouth twisted, "Well, technically yes, but it is more than just that. What does the winner get? What does the loser get?"

Dazai mourned Ranpo's absence, as he was also one to compulsively answer easy questions like that in order to showcase his intelligence. The only other one who might do that would be Poe, but apparently he did not realize how easy the question was. Fyodor also was suspiciously silent, though the shitty disgusting quirk of his lips indicated that he knew the answer as well.

Their little group really had diminished in numbers. There were barely enough of them left to answer the question competently. 

Dazai chose not to sigh dramatically, though it was a close thing.

"Nobody wins anything. Everyone loses." He explained, in as basic terms as he could for the inferior minds in his presence. 

The doctor beamed though, so he must've done a good job of it. 

"Yes, exactly! It is an unwinnable competition. The question still has yet to be answered though. We all know that there is no prize, so why compete at all? What imaginary prize does manifest in the brain?"

Dazai didn't want to answer again, because that was a slightly more personal question, but luckily the others got over themselves enough to begin to contribute. 

"It validates your trauma," Lucy supplied, very matter-of-factly, "Like, if my symptoms are worse than someone else's, then I'm not, I don't know, faking it?"

"Yeah," Yuan nodded enthusiastically, which would have been weird based on the current topic, but Dazai knew it was only because of the feeling of a shared connection and experience, "I'm always so worried that everyone thinks I'm just being dramatic."

You are just being dramatic. 

-Is what Dazai didn't say, because that would have started a fight, and he was more mature than that. He gave himself an imaginary pat on the back for not giving into his meaner thoughts. A true mascot for self control.

"But it's also about wanting to win," Chuuya argued, scanning the group with narrowed eyes, "It's about wanting to be the best at what you do. Even if what you do is kinda fucked up."

"It can be about several things to different people," Kunikida again intruded before someone could respond, "There doesn't need to be one sole reason for anything, especially within the realm of mental illness. But now that we know some reasons why we feel this way, what are some things we can do to stop ourselves from acting on this toxic behavior?"

While Dazai believed he was an expert on holding back his impulses (though he chose not to hold back his toxic behavior), this particular one wasn't something he had to struggle to restrain. 

He won every competition he was in. There was no need to overcompensate and try to make himself seem like a bigger victim.

He wasn't a victim, he was a perpetrator, so there was no need to pretend to be the one in need of the most pity. It wasn't like pity could offer anything substantial anyway, even if he did receive it.

"Just don't do it," Chuuya announced. Everyone in the circle looked at him exactly as one would expect someone to after saying such an ignorant statement. At the looks he received, Chuuya bristled defensively, "What?"

"That's like saying 'just don't have blackouts.'" Lucy crossed her arms over her chest, an indignant expression on her face. 

Chuuya immediately protested.

"That's different."

"How?"

Kunikida again interjected before Chuuya could dig himself into a deeper hole, "Though it could have been said more sensitively, Nakahara is on the right track. A huge part of stopping yourself from continuing destructive behavior is to acknowledge that you do it, that it's bad, and that you would like to stop doing it. It's not something you can just do without thinking, you have to decide not to, and then decide to put in the effort to follow through with that decision."

To be fair to him, it did sound like something Chuuya would be able to do effortlessly. Having the willpower to stop oneself from an act that the mental illness decided was necessary. Obviously, it could only work to a certain extent, as evidenced by the mere existence of blackouts, but still. Dazai couldn't help but further idolize Chuuya for his exemplary self control in other such issues. 

The subject of self control, mind over matter, was as all psychological subjects; a delicate one. Some people found it very easy to control themselves through sheer willpower, while some saw it as a nigh impossible, herculean task.

The ones who found it easy often couldn't understand how other people didn't find it easy. Or at least, they couldn't comprehend being told that they couldn't do something, and then be physically proven as unable to. 

As with most things, it was about control, or the lack thereof. Something that Chuuya should have known a lot about. Alas, he was more simple-minded than that.

"What about the people that want to get worse?" Fyodor's stupidly mellow voice spoke up, "What can be done for the people that want to continue sinking down and drag as many people down with them as they can?"

Dazai gagged at the melodrama of it all. 

He turned towards Chuuya to roll his eyes but Chuuya just frowned at him in response.

Dazai scrunched his nose up. A poet like him probably would see Fyodor's language as normal. To Dazai, he sounded like a pretentious edge lord. Which was exactly what Fyodor was.

"Good question, Dostoevsky. We can start answering that by remembering some of the reasons people want to stay where they are or get worse. Does anyone want to go over those reasons again?"

Nobody spoke up, so Kunikida continued.

"There are several answers to this that we agreed upon in the past. But I'll restate them for anyone new. Everyone has different experiences and combinations of reasons for it, but some of the most common are that it's comfortable. Change is scary, even if its a change for the better. It could also be that it's easier. It's a lot less effort to give up than to try. Or it could be tied in with something similar to hypochondriacs. They want to get worse for more attention or care from others, which I should say is not an inherently bad thing. In regards to the competitive nature, it could be that some people simply don't want to be alone in their suffering. There are several reasons. Dostoevsky's question, however, was about how to help people who cannot or will not help themselves. That is not something we need to discuss." 

The doctor pushed his glasses up his nose, his tone changing to something more grim. There was a palpable shift of energy in the room.

"You are all here to work on yourselves, not to help others. Each of you needs to focus on your own recovery without getting distracted. If you do not want to utilize our help then you will only prolong your stay, if not here then at another hospital or correctional facility. We will not let you leave unless you can convince us that you are stable and have an outpatient support system set up on the outside. You can only do this by working on yourselves, instead of thinking how to help others."

It remained silent. 

Dazai sighed, slumping the slightest bit in his seat. How bothersome.

He already knew that this was how inpatients worked, but it still irked him to be given another reminder.

It felt like a personal callout to him. After all, a large part of the reason he was staying in recovery was to help Chuuya with finding out whatever was going on with him. 

He'd been in enough hospitals that they've become almost a second home to him. They at least felt more like a home than Mori's ginormous but depressingly empty house.

Still, that didn't mean he wanted to be stuck in here with no freedom.

A place could only truly feel like home to him if it were completely separated from society. Somewhere he could be alone and unsupervised. Perhaps a cabin in the woods or something similarly isolated. Or maybe anywhere as long as he was with Chuuya.

That future was nothing but a pipe dream at this point though. Unless a grave counted as a home.

"But we've gotten a bit off topic now," Kunikida went back to his usual professionally neutral self, "we were discussing competitiveness. Does anyone have any more thoughts on the matter?"

The session continued much the same.

Some people responded, some didn't. Chuuya never ended up saying what he'd been hiding from Dazai earlier, which made the hairs on his arm stick up. He was not usually wrong about his predictions, although perhaps he should have known that Chuuya was an acception to that. They weren't sleeping in the same room anymore either now, so he wouldn't even have the opportunity to pester him about it before lights out.

Dazai was simply getting tired and lustfully thinking about his firm, uncomfortable mattress back in the room despite the lack of Chuuya's presence there. Fyodor had already tried the blade this morning so he probably wouldn't provoke Dazai again that night, meaning he might even be able to get some sleep.

Was that really just this morning? The day felt like a decade.

But to reiterate: time moved differently in the psych ward. For example, though the entire day felt like it had been dragging on, after the afternoon session Dazai felt like all he did was blink and suddenly he was laying down on his bed. He couldn't remember if he'd said goodnight to Chuuya or not, but he hoped his past self did. 

Before he could drift off (or more likely, pretend to sleep all night, either one was a very real possibility), a rat scurried in through his ear canal.

"You didn't like my present, Dazai-kun?" 

Dazai glowered, fighting the childish urge to throw his pillow at the other boy. 

"If by present you mean the free tetanus, no, I didn't like it. That would be an awfully painful way to go."

He didn't know why he even entertained Fyodor enough for a conversation. There was surely nothing good to come out of it.

Maybe he was bored.

"What a shame. I went through a lot to get it to you."

Dazai highly doubted that. It was hard to get contraband in children's hospitals, but for people like them, it was child's play.

"Not sorry to waste your time~!" 

"Oh, it wasn't a waste. It was a very valuable learning experience." Fyodor's accompanying smile was slimy, and it made Dazai want to vomit.

How dare he assume that he could learn anything about Dazai that Dazai didn't want him to know.

"Why are you so obsessed with me?" Dazai rolled his eyes, finally sitting up to turn and face the bastard. "You want me so bad it makes you look stupid. So embarrassing…"

Fyodor's expression didn't change, but Dazai could tell he was annoyed by the slightest millisecond of a pause that he took before responding. It felt good to finally be getting on his nerves for once.

"Maybe you're just the easiest target here."

Dazai openly and haughtily laughed.

"We both know that's a lie."

Fyodor hummed, unbothered by Dazai's dismissal of his claim, "Is it? No one else here is falling apart so much that they need to be held together with bandages."

It wasn't the first time someone tried to psychoanalyze his reason for wearing the bandages, but it was just as annoying as every other time. There was nothing he hated more than people assuming they could understand him when they didn't know shit about him. Especially when it was about his bandages.

They did not hold him together. He didn't need to be held together. He wasn't falling apart.

Dazai had to bite back a snarl. Being defensive now would only prove the other boy's point.

"Maybe it's just a fashion statement."

"We both know that's a lie." Fyodor threw his own words back at him, quite rudely.

Dazai didn't dignify that with a response.

He was too exhausted to keep this going, unknowing of why he decided to indulge in the first place. Every conversation with the Russian left him riled up, and not in the exciting way that Chuuya's did. It was unpleasant and he didn't like it.

He simply turned back over and pulled the paper thin blanket up to his chest, "Goodnight Dostoevsky! I hope you die in your sleep!" 

"Likewise, Dazai-kun." 

God, he was such a little bitch. 

…

The night nurse came in and told them to shut up (in nicer terms) because it was lights out, but that was fine by him. He never looked forward to lights out as much as he did when rooming with Fyodor.

Unfortunately, he didn't get a lot of sleep that night, as per usual. He spent most of the hours laying down with his eyes closed trying to slow his breathing into inducing sleep, but alas his mind was too awake to be fooled. 

Still, he emerged from the stiff mattress with all the energy of a groundhog in the spring. Fyodor again left without a word, though that was a blessing. After such an abysmal amount of actual sleep, any interaction was a chore.

His vitals, as always, were normal. The only normal thing about him. Breakfast passed much the same as always too, with little to nothing new or exciting. 

Every day was the same. From now until the end of his life, nothing would ever change.

Maybe his mental health was not particularly good this morning. 

The surprising light in Yosano the other day once again dumbfounded him. How could someone just wake up happy? Dazai didn't know. One day, if this whole treatment thing worked out, he might. But today was not that day.

He walked into free time with his usual amount of disinterest. Half asleep and miserable.

At least Fyodor hadn't left an unwelcome surprise under his pillow this time. He'd had the willpower to resist it yesterday, but he wasn't sure if the same could be said for today.

No one important had anything of note to say. With everything so boring, his depression felt justified. If nothing interesting was happening, then it made sense for him to be bored with it all. If the world was such a terrible place, then it made sense for him to be sick of it.

A part of him almost wished Mori would visit during visiting hours, just for something to shock him into life. But it seemed that his father had gone back to their usual routine of not showing up until he was discharged. It was both a blessing and a curse.

Part of him almost wanted the pain of being around Mori, just to at least feel something. Or maybe substitute that for the self harm he couldn't do any more.

That blade was still on his mind.

He'd gotten rid of it, he was happy that he had, and he did not regret it. 

But just the feeling of it in his hands lingered. He couldn't stop feeling a cold and sharp blade across his body. He couldn't stop seeing his skin split open and bright red blood rising to the surface. He couldn't get the thoughts out of his head.

The whole experience wasn't new. He'd had cravings before. It was more to do with the fact he could have cut, but chose not to.

Both sides of his brain were conflicting whether to feel good or bad about it, so he ended up feeling nothing. 

The day passed anyway.

It wasn't until the small amount of time between the morning session and lunch time that something actually happened. But it wasn't something good, or exciting, or thrilling. Apparently, his mind could only accept negative stimuli if it was within his own specific parameters of misery. What happened then was not.

Around midday, out of nowhere, with absolutely no warning whatsoever, a woman with hair closer to pink than red showed up. A familiar woman whom he had no information on whatsoever beyond the assumptions he could make about how she was as a sister.

Though he'd only seen her in passing during visiting hours, he could tell that the purpose of this visit wasn't that. She remained when all the other visiting family members left, expectant and calm as always, if not with a little more excitement than usual in her posture.

It should have been nothing unusual. It should've been the same, unchanging day. Nothing new. Boring. 

He didn't necessarily want it, but that was how it was supposed to be. His worldview wouldn't allow for anything else.

And yet-

Chuuya left the room with his bags packed, having already been ready to go.

The redhead was unsurprised, but he was the only one that was, according to the shock of everyone else. They hadn't even had a little moment of sharing contact information and goodbyes. He didn't even get to give Chuuya a hug with the excuse of being exaggeratedly sad to see him go.

Chuuya was being discharged.