you can take my Soul, but never my Heart (omegaverse)

Chapter 26: an uneasy compromise of peace

-nine years ago-

There are only so many times that Dazai can count the flecks on the ceiling tiles until he grows so bored that he would rather gouge his eyes out. He's rapidly starting to approach that point, but there's nothing else to do.

There are seven hundred twenty-six little flecks on the tiles that he can see within his restrained position, all of them supposedly arranged abstractly, but there's a distinct pattern to them. A blend of fiberglass and plastic and whatever else goes into ceiling tiles, showing imperfections that were put there by machines that people never cared enough to correct. He appreciates it, though, because the view would be much worse if they were all painted uniformly. At least counting the flecks at the beginning had kept his brain occupied for a few minutes. Now, though, those flecks seem like they're just mocking him.

Dazai doesn't like imperfections, but the truth about the world is that they exist in everything and everyone.

He is a prime example, after all.

He can't move, save for when the nurse that won't make eye contact with him comes in to help him sit up and walk to the bathroom for a carefully measured five minutes every couple hours to help prevent bedsores and give him some relief. But when she isn't around, he's stuck here with a breathing mask on his face and his wrists restrained at the sides of the bed, because the first thing he tried to do was rip all of the annoying sensors off of his chest and strangle himself with them.

"The restraints are for your safety," the doctor had told him.

His mouth still tastes like blood and whatever was shoved down his throat to make him vomit the obscene amount of rat poison he had drank from of the orphanage's cupboards. His lungs are fine ; the mask on his face isn't giving him oxygen. He's not that stupid to assume he's not being gassed to try to keep him calm. He doesn't think he needs to be gassed at all, but the feeling makes him feel light and airy, taking away all of his thoughts, so he really doesn't mind it.

He's being treated like he's about to murder someone with the smallest amount of freedom, but the only one he wants dead is himself. The gas can't take that thought away from him.

"Dazai."

He blinks sluggishly, letting his eyes slide to the side to where the door opens and closes behind the form of the doctor. He's ill-shaven and his hair is greasy, his eyes holding a touch of madness that a normal doctor shouldn't. He knows that this isn't a normal hospital, because a normal hospital would report the orphanage for the abuse and neglect of the scarred bag of bones currently lying on a too-thin mattress because he tried to kill himself. No, this is an underground-run hospital, and Dazai had figured that out by the state of the place and the things he's overheard in the hall or outside of his tiny, barred window.

The doctor sits on a rolling stool that creaks under his weight after he tosses a stack of papers onto the table that Dazai can't see. He keeps a clipboard in his hand, crossing his ankle over his knee to create a table for it as he pulls out a pen from his pocket, right beside a scalpel. He rolls closer, close enough that Dazai can smell his thickly alpha scent of floral musk and the metallic undertone of blood. He's not sure if the latter is from his profession or merely part of his natural scent. He isn't sure if he wants to know.

"You are now my legal dependent, Dazai."

He sounds far too proud of himself.

Dazai inhales deeply, thrilling in the rush that the sudden intake of gas gives him before he sighs it out to fog the plastic over his mouth. "Congratulations," he says, with the edge of spite. "Is it a nice tax break?"