ɪɢᴏʙꜱ

You huff. "... Don't say that. I want you here. Annoying hands and all."

His favorite way to hug you is from behind. Face buried on the crook of your neck, arms crossed on your chest and gripping your shoulders, leaving little crescent moons on your skin when he forgets to trim his nails.

"Relax, Dazai, I won't disappear," you'd comment sometimes.

To which he gives you a smile and an apologetic shrug. And you don't know it, there's no way for you to, but that's exactly what he fears the most in those moments.

He whines your name from the other side of the office, dramatically dragging his feet until he reaches your desk, and plops down with his head on your lap, arms tight around your middle.

"There's a new suicide method I want to try," he states plainly.

You smack him on the head before resuming your disentangling of his wavy locks, a frown darkening your features. "Don't say that."

"What? I was planning to invite you to join me." He pouts.

"Don't. I'm not killing myself. You're not killing yourself."

You scratch at his scalp. One of your hands wanders down to feel the pulse on his neck. Steady, warm. Alive. His eyelids flutter. You care that I'm alive.

"Supposedly, electrocution doesn't hurt too much," he goes on. "It's not a great method for a double suicide though... Oh, but if we-"

"Why don't we try out that bakery I told you about instead? I don't think Kunikida would mind if we went out for an hour or so..."

Dazai's hands are usually cold. They turn even colder when he gets scared. You notice that when you drag him into your room, when his usually graceful steps are unsteady and bewildered.

You notice that he's scared before he does: The child-like look in his eyes, like he lost his favorite teddy bear; the slight tremble of his fingers he believes to be hiding well; the hesitation in his movements when he knocks on your door at night, smelling of sweat and booze, feeling a little more hollow than usual.

He says your name like a plea; a plea to be let in, a plea to take away the guilt and the emptiness and the hurt, a plea to be forgiven for using you like a lifeline.

He sits by your feet, doesn't allow himself to go any closer, but he grips the hem of your pajamas like the railing of a bridge, counting the floorboards and the circles you make on his back.

"I know what it's like," you mutter towards the ceiling. "The hopelessness, the... pfft. The hope for something better on the other side, because you're unable to find anything on this side."

He tugs on your clothes, searching for your face with burnt eyes. "Don't say that..." he whispers. You let out a heavy sigh and continue.

"Sometimes, I get so lonely it's as if I don't exist at all, and then you startle me with that heavy head of yours and those freezing hands and... And it's like- like my brain is a little... Less loud."

You finally meet his gaze, and the intimacy of it knocks the air out of your lungs. Your words turn quieter, your eyes turn glassy.

"... But I don't know what to do to make your brain a little more bearable to live with. I can't do anything at all. I wish I could. I truly do."

He gives you one of his charming smiles, calculated and bright, accompanied by a single tear rolling down his cheek, glistening with the lamplight.

"It's alright. You do yours and I'll do mine."

Oh, but he wouldn't ever forgive himself if you took that jump without him.