Chapter Text
The overhead lights flickered on at exactly 7:00 AM.
Fyodor was already sitting up when the door creaked open. He hadn’t moved all night. Bible in hand, thumb resting lightly against the corner of the page, not turning it. He wasn’t reading so much as staring through the words, letting them pass across his eyes like vapor.
“Morning,” the nurse said softly. She was one of the newer ones, judging by how she still bothered with pleasantries. She turned to the lump on the opposite bed. “Time to get up, Dazai-san.”
Fyodor didn’t shift, but his sharp gaze moved to the bed across from his.
Dazai stirred. Barely. One hand rose to his face, fingers dragging down slowly, before he cracked an eye open toward the voice.
“Already? I thought I was dead.”
“Not today,” she replied, faintly amused, and left without waiting for him to sit up.
Dazai sat up slowly, his eyes scanning the room like it might have changed overnight. It hadn’t. Fyodor hadn’t said anything yet, but Dazai turned toward him anyway. “Sleep well, roommate?”
Fyodor raised an eyebrow. “I told you. I don’t sleep.”
“Right.” Dazai stretched, joints popping. “You should consider a more cheerful book,” he said, nodding at the Bible.
“You didn’t eat yesterday,” Fyodor said, ignoring the comment about his choice in books, his tone was casual.
“Didn’t feel like it.”
Fyodor mirrored the faintest hint of a smile. “You’ll find that’s a common sentiment around here.”
Dazai made a sound, not quite laughter, but close enough to pass for it. “I wasn’t expecting gourmet.”
He stood, shrugging his oversized sweater into place, and stepped into his shoes with minimal effort, like this routine was already muscle memory.
Fyodor watched as he adjusted the hem of his sleeve, eyes darting to the bandage peeking from under it. He noted how Dazai’s fingers lingered just a second too long at his wrist, like confirming the bandages were still tight enough. Or maybe like he needed to feel the pressure.
People like that didn’t come here to be saved. They came here because someone else decided they should be. That made Dazai different from most of the wounded creatures in this place, Fyodor could tell, he had no illusions of healing. He was lucid. Completely aware that, for people like him, places like these were a waste of time.
Fyodor liked that.
Dazai looked over his shoulder. “You coming?”
Fyodor turned a page. “No.”
“Figured.”
The brunette didn’t ask why. He wasn't really interested in anyone’s reasons, not yet, anyway. He pulled on his shoes in a slow, habitual motion, then padded to the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at the other man, then he left.
Fyodor’s eyes followed him until the door clicked shut. He sat still for a moment longer.
Dazai’s footsteps echoed briefly in the hallway before fading. Fyodor stared at the closed door, hands loosely cradling the open Bible in his lap.
The ritual of breakfast would begin soon. The nurses would smile their most professional smiles. Patients would file into the cafeteria with the dull shuffle of medicated limbs. Most would speak too softly or too loudly, unsure of the social volume allowed here. But Dazai, he’d already figured out the tempo. He’d mirror it, or distort it, depending on how bored he felt.
Fyodor didn’t need to see it happen in front of him to know.
He pressed his thumb against the paper of the Bible until it bent slightly.
Three suicide attempts in one month, and the month wasn't even over yet. Someone like that wasn’t trying to be saved. He was testing how much of himself he could kill before the body followed.
He closed the Bible.
Not because he was done reading, he just had something new to study.
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The cafeteria smelled like bleach. Dazai moved through the line with the rest of the patients, hands in his pockets, looking unfocused.
A tray was shoved at him by someone who didn’t look up, and he took it without a word.
Pale scrambled eggs. Toast that tasted like cardboard. Something that might’ve once been oatmeal, now reduced to beige slush.
He sat alone at the end of a long plastic table, placed his elbows on the surface, with his chin in one hand. The other patients talked around him, about nothing—what time meds were, who got a new roommate, what they dreamt last night. Dazai didn’t listen, he picked at the toast and bit once, chewing without tasting it.
He ate just enough to keep from drawing attention. He didn't particularly care about the food, always ate the bare minimum, as his body lacked the feeling of hunger most of the times.
His eyes wandered. There was a boy two tables down biting his nails, looking quite scared. Another table, a woman humming tunelessly between mouthfuls. Someone else was staring at the exit door, probably hoping to be out soon, or maybe planning a way to get out.
Everyone here had that same fog in their eyes. Except him.
And maybe Fyodor.
He wondered if Fyodor ever ate. He didn't ask him to bring food. Didn’t follow him here.
Dazai looked down at the mush on his plate, he poked it once with the back of his spoon, then he stood.
Room 16 was the same when he returned. Fyodor hadn’t moved much, he was still cross-legged on the bed, still holding the Bible, though it was closed now, thumb resting on the spine.
Dazai dropped onto his own mattress with a soft grunt, exhaling long and flat. “You weren’t missing much,” he said, without being asked. “Though the eggs had… personality.”
Fyodor looked over, faintly amused. “Sentient?”
“I don't know. Threatening, for sure."
A pause. Fyodor watched as Dazai leaned back on his hands, gazing at the ceiling. He looked absolutely drained, the kind that didn't go away with sleeping, that made resting feel like a task instead of something pleasant. Fyodor liked that too.
The brunette turned his face towards him, glancing at the Bible before smirking slightly. “You always read the same book?” his voice broke the silence again, casual.
“It’s the only one worth rereading.”
Fyodor could have sworn he heard the other man almost laugh.
“That’s a bold statement,” Dazai said, turning his head towards the white ceiling again. "You didn't strike me as someone who believes in God."
Fyodor’s lips twitched in a slight smile. “Faith isn’t about belief,” he said softly, voice calm, measured. It’s about necessity. A means to an end.”
Dazai turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing in interest. “Necessity?” He propped himself on one elbow, facing Fyodor now. “Sounds more like survival than salvation.”
The other man folded his hands neatly in his lap, thumb tracing the edge of the Bible’s spine. “Survival is an illusion. God is the architecture behind all the chaos, the only constant I can trust. He knows all the chaos is necessary for something greater.”
The room fell into a silence, broken only by the distant clatter of low murmurs from the hall. Dazai’s eyes searched Fyodor’s face, as if weighing those words against something only he could see. Then, almost reluctantly, he broke the gaze and replied sarcastically. “Sounds lovely.”
Dazai then let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You know, I envy you. Or maybe pity you. Holding on to that kind of certainty in a place like this... it’s either brave or delusional.”
Fyodor’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’m neither. I’m simply resigned to the truth that nothing else has offered me.”
The brunette's smirk softened, just a little. “Truth is subjective, Fyodor."
The other man tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. “And what version of truth do you cling to, Dazai Osamu?”
Dazai’s smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischievous light. “Ah, you caught me. Truth, huh? Well... I’m more of a ‘whatever gets me through the day' kind of guy. Not that deep."
“A convenient philosophy.”
Dazai shrugged, clearly enjoying the game. “Convenience is key.”
He rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand, eyes locked on the ceiling. “Besides, if I had a definitive truth, I’d probably be boring. Can't lose my charm.”
Just then, the door creaked open again. A nurse peeked in, clipboard in hand. “Time for your first psychiatric examination, Dazai-san.”
Dazai gave Fyodor a last sideways glance, a sardonic grin tugging at his lips. “Have fun with your Bible, Fyodor." Said that, he stood up and followed the nurse outside, door clicking shut behind them.
═════
Dazai walked beside the nurse without speaking, hands in his pockets, eyes drifting over the off-white walls like they were already boring him.
He was led into a small room. Two chairs. A desk. A file that had clearly been opened already. The psychiatrist sat behind the desk, glasses low on his nose, greying at the temples, wearing a name badge Dazai didn’t bother reading.
In the corner, near the wall, a woman sat quietly with a notepad. She didn’t introduce herself. Didn’t even look up at first.
“Please, sit.” The man said, with a soft, gentle tone that was obviously fake.
Dazai slouched into the chair with the kind of theatrical ease that made it clear he was doing the psychiatrist a favor by complying. He crossed one leg over the other and rested his hands on his knee, his whole body language loose, lazy on purpose.
The psychiatrist leaned forward, folding his hands. “This will be a preliminary session. Just a few questions.”
Dazai smiled politely. “Of course, doctor. I’m an open book.”
The doctor didn’t smile back. He opened the folder and glanced at it. “You’ve been hospitalized three times in the past month. Attempted overdose, wrist laceration, and… last time you attempted jumping on the train tracks while high on medication. Do you remember that?”
Dazai’s smile didn’t falter, but the gleam in his eyes dimmed a fraction, subtle enough to be missed by anyone not looking for it.
“Vaguely,” he replied, voice light. “I remember the train was late. Annoying, really. All that effort, and I couldn’t even be on time for my own ending.”
The psychiatrist didn’t react. He made a note. His voice, when he spoke again, was level. “Do you still want to die?”
Dazai tilted his head. “I think about it sometimes. The food here will definitely be the cause of that thought.”
The man looked up. “That’s your answer?"
“It’s the one you’re getting,” Dazai replied smoothly. “I could say yes, or no, but either way you’d write down the same thing. ‘Patient evasive, deflects with humor.’ Isn’t that right?”
The woman in the corner finally looked up. Her pen paused mid-word. The psychiatrist didn’t acknowledge the comment, only turned the page in the folder.
“Why do you think you’re here?”
Dazai stretched his arms over his head, spine arching slightly, then let them fall. “Because someone got tired of finding me passed out in public places. Because bleeding out is bad. Because the law says I’m supposed to be rehabilitated.”
The psychiatrist studied him, then asked, “Do you want to be rehabilitated?”
A silence stretched between them, Dazai leaned back again, crossing his arms.
“No,” he said simply.
Another note was made. The psychiatrist’s pen moved carefully. “Do you sleep?”
“When I want to.”
“Nightmares?”
Dazai grinned. “You tell me.”
More silence.
“Do you hear voices?”
“Just yours, right now. Is that a symptom?”
The psychologist looked up again, this time more slowly. Her expression remained unreadable.
The psychiatrist adjusted his glasses. “Any violent tendencies?”
Dazai shrugged. “Not really.”
“Self-harm urges?”
“Not urges,” Dazai said after a beat. “Habits. There’s a difference.”
The pen stopped. The man looked at him for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to the woman in the corner. She gave the smallest of nods, then returned to her notes.
“Let’s try something else,” the psychiatrist said, his voice still neutral. “Do you think anyone would care if you died?”
Dazai’s expression didn’t change, then, after a pause, he smiled again, soft, bitter. “Probably. But not for long.”
The psychiatrist looked back down. “Family?”
Dazai didn’t answer.
“Friends?”
“Some people call themselves that.”
“Anyone visiting you here?”
“God, I hope not.”
He sounded almost sincere.
The psychiatrist tapped his pen once against the desk, then wrote something else. “You don’t trust people.”
“Think so?”
The man didn’t rise to the bait. He just sat there, scribbling in slow, measured lines, like this exchange was unfolding exactly as he expected it to.
The clock ticked once. Dazai watched it.
“Do you ever feel anything intensely?” the doctor asked.
Dazai tilted his head, amused. “Define ‘intensely.’ I feel annoyed when someone forgets my coffee order. Is that what you mean?”
“No,” the psychiatrist said.
“Then probably not.”
The woman in the corner made another note. The psychiatrist laced his fingers together again. “Any attachments?”
Dazai exhaled, slow and theatrical. “To what? People? Places? Objects? I had a plant once, if that helps.”
“And what happened to it?”
“I forgot to water it.” His voice didn’t waver. “It died. I felt... predictably unsurprised.”
The psychiatrist didn’t comment, he moved on to the next question. “Have you ever been in love?”
“You’re getting romantic on me, doctor. Should I be flattered?”
Truth was, Dazai has never truly been in love. He doubted he even cared about most of the women and the men he slept with, if not all of them.
He was like that, couldn't keep relationships for long, broke hearts, he knew it. But he couldn't bring himself to feel something about it.
The psychiatrist leaned back in his chair. “I’m going to recommend that we continue these sessions bi-weekly.”
Dazai clapped, once, dryly. “Can’t wait.”
“I’ll also recommend a medication adjustment.”
"Aw, such a shame, didn't think it was that big of a deal,"
The doctor stood. The woman followed suit, collecting her notes without comment. Neither said goodbye. The door opened, and a nurse was waiting for Dazai to get out to escort him back to his room.
As he stepped into the hallway again, Dazai’s face was mildly amused. He didn’t speak on the walk back, the nurse didn’t either.
When he reentered Room 16, Fyodor was still in his same place, unmoved, only difference the Bible wasn't on his lap anymore, it was now placed on his bedside table, next to the small lamp.
“Back already?” Fyodor murmured without looking up.
“Apparently they can't resist my charm,” Dazai replied, flopping face-first onto his mattress, he turned his head to the side, watching Fyodor through a curtain of hair. “They asked if I’d ever been in love.”
“Have you?”
Dazai stared at the wall behind Fyodor for a long second. "No, not really."
Silence settled again, briefly. The overhead lights buzzed. Somewhere down the hallway, someone was yelling, indistinct words, angry. Neither of them flinched.
Dazai shifted, flipping to lie on his back, one arm draped over his stomach. “What’s your diagnosis, anyway?”
Fyodor glanced at him, his gaze was unreadable. “You first.”
Dazai grinned. “Fair enough. Let’s play guesswork instead.”
“You look like a sociopath.”
“Flattering.”
“With self-destructive tendencies. Possibly borderline. Definitely something antisocial layered underneath, but hard to tell.”
Dazai laughed softly. “Wow. You really know how to sweet-talk a guy.”
Fyodor’s lips twitched. “Your turn.”
Dazai eyed him for a beat. “Mmm… control issues. Definitely. Perfectionist. You have that whole ‘cold psychopath’ vibe, which is kind of fun. Probably high-functioning, but a nightmare behind closed doors.”
Fyodor smiled faintly. “You’re very imaginative.”
“It's just my charm.”