Everything or Nothing

Stage One: Denial

Content Warnings: Depictions of Chronic Illness, Mention of Child Sex Abuse, Mention of Emotional Abuse
---

Which is exactly how, two weeks later, he finds himself practically dragged into a waiting room that looks like something out of a Pottery Barn catalogue, mahogany tables and plush carpets—there's even an overly ornate grandfather clock in the corner, chiming out the time—

Five o' clock.

"How do I know it's not just some quack who listens to people whine for money?" Dazai mutters, and Chuuya shrugs.

"I thought you might be paranoid or something, so I did a lot of research, and he's expensive. Quacks aren't expensive."

Dazai shrugs, drumming his fingertips against his thigh. "You'd be surprised."

"And he's won a bunch of awards from the psychiatry association."

"Eh," Dazai shrugs, "he could've rigged that."

Chuuya snorts, shaking his head as he reads over a magazine. "Yeah, I'm sure that the National Association of Psychiatry is a den of corruption."

"You'd be surprised, chibi," Dazai mutters, tapping his foot.

Chuuya glances up, his eyes softening slightly as he reaches over to squeeze Dazai's hand, watching as his friend relaxes slightly. "It's just one time."

"...I know."

"And if you don't like it, you don't have to come back."

"I know." Dazai grumbles. The things he's willing to do in order to get

Chuuya to try—

"Dazai Osamu?" The secretary glances up with a friendly smile, "Fukuzawa-sensei will see you now."

"..." Dazai exhales shortly, standing up, letting go of Chuuya's hand as he walks towards the door.

And therapy—it isn't exactly what they advertised it as.

It's not him laying back on a couch, sobbing into a box of tissues while some weird old man with a beard nods and tells him that this is all a play of his subconscious, telling him that he actually has some sort of Oedipal complex—

(He didn't pay much attention in high school psychology.)

But no.

It's actually just Dazai sitting in an armchair, staring at the clock while the silver haired man just relaxes in his own armchair, jotting notes down on a notepad resting against his leg.

"What are you writing down?"

Fukuzawa glances up at him over the rims of his glasses, raising an eyebrow, "What do you mean?"

"I haven't actually said anything yet," Dazai explains, leaning back in his chair, "so I don't understand what you're writing down."

Fukuzawa shrugs, setting down the pen. "My grocery list."

"...That doesn't seem very professional." Dazai mutters under his breath, crossing his arms over his chest, and the psychiatrist shrugs.

"If you want to pay me thousands of yen and hour to sit in silence, that's up to you. You only talk if you want to." And with that, he looks back down at the list, tapping his pen, trying to decide what he wants to cook for dinner this week—

"What am I supposed to say?" Dazai asks flatly. He knows he could just sit here in sulking silence, but...given the fact that he's toyed with the idea of coming before, he's not hostile to it.