Chapter Text
There's something shameful in surviving a suicide attempt.
Dazai breathes slowly, in and out, in and out. He keeps his eyes closed, refusing to open them to a world he had tried to leave behind and failed, once again, to do as he expected.
He didn't understand how he was still alive. He had set everything in place for him to die peacefully. He was sure the last thing he would see were the faces of Akutagawa and Atsushi and the beautiful night sky above them.
But he survived.
There was something shameful in that, in the way he had lost consciousness in the middle of his fall only to wake up in some hospital.
His eyes were closed, but the smell of antiseptics and alcohol was recognizable no matter what; there was a steady beeping sound that Dazai was sure was a heart monitor.
Dazai was used to his attempts failing, seeing them fail again and again, even in another life. But he had thrown himself from the Port Mafia headquarter's roof. He had made sure to twist his body so he'd fall headfirst. This wasn't an attempt that was supposed to fail, not when their world would destabilize if he stayed alive any longer.
Finally, he dared to open his eyes. The lights blinded him; the pure white made him feel sick.
Dazai looked around. To his right, there was a man sitting in a chair. He was tall, with dark hair, dark eyes, dark everything. Dazai thought he looked a bit like a vagabond.
"You're awake," the man noted, his body relaxing as if Dazai - known to be the Port Mafia Boss - being alive was something good. "You're in Musutafu's Central Hospital. Do you know why you are here?"
Dazai stared, and he stared hard. Musutafu? He didn't know any hospital named like that in Yokohama, and Musutafu sounded like the name of a city, but Dazai was sure there was no such place in Japan called that.
Still, if he was in another part that wasn't Yokohama, that explained why someone had bothered to save him.
... But how did he arrive here?
Dazai smiled softly. "I kno-" He froze, his eyes opening as he closed his mouth.
His voice sounded wrong. Not quite like himself. Except, he was sure he had spoken, and that the childish and high-pitched voice had come out of his mouth.
"You were found after what seemed like a suicide attempt," the man informed him.
A suicide attempt. Just an attempt. Dazai would have preferred not to be found, or to be found after committing suicide successfully, for them to find his lifeless body.
That would have been better than this, than being found somehow clinging to life despite his never-ending attempts to finish it all.
The man's eyes were full of pity. Dazai hated it, hated to see a complete stranger look at him like that.
This would have reminded Dazai of another time, except it was completely different. Mori didn't look at him with those kinds of eyes, and if he did, then it wouldn't have mattered as that had been Dazai's first attempt, and Mori had offered a way out.
He remembered Mori, remembered waking up after a failed attempt, and the doctor promising him a way out of his miserable life. The promise was empty; Mori never once tried to help Dazai end his life.
How many times had he tried to kill himself? And once again he failed. And there's a man staring at him as if there's something wrong with Dazai.
"I should have died," he said, his voice young and childish. It's wrong, so wrong.
Dazai stared at his hands. They were small, soft-looking. There weren't any bandages covering his body. He stared at his skin; it's not scarred as it should be.
Dazai felt wrong.