soukoku oneshots

Knife

TW: Selfharm

It had been a difficult week for Dazai. There was no particular trigger for it, aside from bad luck messing with whatever stability he had managed to gain over the past two years. Still, he never resorted to visiting Chuuya unless his mental health had truly hit rock bottom, which was too frequent for either of their likings.

This had been another one of those nights. Dazai had shown up at Chuuya's penthouse apartment for the fourth time this week, although earlier than usual after leaving work earlier that day.

Dazai knew his redhead usually came home a considerable time later than when he'd arrived, but he'd hoped that things would go his way just this once.

But in another display of his misfortune (or realistically, what he should have expected), Chuuya wasn't home. But that fact failed to stop him from entering his lover's apartment by force anyway.

Although the apartment lacked his redhead's presence, it was better than his apartment back at the agency dorms. A place that didn't look like nor feel like a home (not that he ever considered it that way either). There was little evidence that anyone even lived there, but that was a topic for another time.

He walked into Chuuya's kitchen and sat on a bar stool facing the kitchen counter. He leaned forward and laid his head on his arms and sighed lightly. He was tired, in more ways than one. He closed his eyes and his thoughts took hold of his attention.

He noted how empty he felt again. A person shouldn't feel that way. He was aware of this, but when was he considered a person? Never, that's when. Not by himself, anyway.

Although Chuuya seemed to think otherwise, not that he had a very clear understanding of his lover's thoughts or feelings when Dazai himself was involved in the matter (a fact he'd never admit, of course).

Dazai just felt the feeling (if it can even be called that) of emptiness fester as his thoughts continued.

As his train of thoughts progressed down the tracks in his head, he grew restless. He had started spinning the bar stool in an attempt to try to get rid of this feeling, but it wasn't enough. His nails had dug into his forearm at some point.

He stopped spinning and started simply shaking his arms in jerky-like movements in an attempt to get it all to just stop, if only for just a moment of peace.

The apartment was too quiet. He needed something else.

He fished into his pocket, pulled out his phone, opened the music app, and put on a random song. He didn't care as long as it was loud enough to keep his head silent, but it still did nothing to quiet the voices screaming at him in his head.

He thought it was almost funny that that was how he'd describe it, yet if he was asked what he was thinking of, he wouldn't be able to respond (not that he'd want to). It was as if he didn't fully understand what was being said to him, yet it killed him to have these words thrown at him at all.

Before he had realised it, he had started scratching at his wrists after moving wasn't enough. It was a reaction he didn't have to think about twice before acting upon and a reaction he hadn't even realised he'd given into.

He could feel so much, yet he couldn't feel anything at the same time. Having so many drowning thoughts yet having no thoughts at all, all at once. Feeling overwhelmed without realising it or knowing what you're thinking or why you're overwhelmed by the build-up of emotions and yet drowning in the emptiness in his chest.

He couldn't understand it.

He couldn't deal with it.

He started to sit up and grabbed onto his forearms. He couldn't tell you when he had changed positions; it all happened without him processing it.