Spoilers of chapter 47.5 of the manga.

don't let me fall apart

.

A wheeze escaped his lips when he noticed he was awake. He wasn't in pain; no– and it was exactly that what hurt. The more his foggy brain caught up with his memories, the less he understood the lack of feeling. And he might not be particularly fond of pain, but its absence left a dull weight on his chest, a tingling nothingness that made knowing whether he was still breathing impossible.

But he should be– he couldn't be dead, right? Death wasn't supposed to be this distressing. It was supposed to be nothing; if it happened to be anything different Dazai would be in serious trouble.

Besides, and even though Dazai didn't have particularly high standards for his death –all he asked for was a painless release– dying at the hands of Dostoyevsky's sniper seemed an awful way to leave this world. While Dazai would dread inconveniencing someone else with his death, the idea of giving the enemy that satisfaction was annoying enough to make him want to wait a bit more.

Slowly enough to make him curse whatever painkillers he had been given, Dazai regained some control over his body, if only to notice he still had limbs and his chest was, indeed, moving up and down with every intake of air. Even though he had already figured out where he was, he opened his eyes to the hospital room.

Only darkness greeted him; Dazai blinked several times to make sure he was awake, frowning at the light filtering through the gap between the half-closed door and the frame. Neither dusk nor dawn looked close.

As his eyes got gradually used to the dim lighting, he looked around, trying to identify the silhouettes he could make out; it was good even turning his neck took irritatingly long, because it seemed his brain was as sluggish as the rest of his body.

Machines whose function he was too tired to think about next to the bed, a nightstand, bags hanging from above, a wardrobe close to the door...

A sharp pain shot through his chest, following the bullet's path, when Dazai identified a human figure sitting on the chair next to his bed. Even though he recognised the man right away, it took a while for the throbbing to subdue. Dazai tried to see through the broken glasses that reflected the little light filtering into the room, voice hoarse when he managed to speak:

"Kunikida-kun?" The figure winced; Dazai had to pause for a second, already out of breath. "Looking after me? That's… quite kind of you," he managed to finish, gasping for air.

Kunikida leaned forward the bed, but not a word came from his lips. Dazai could only hear his breathing; and now he listened to it, he didn't understand how he had missed the sound before. Instinctively his eyes drifted up and down his partner's figure, narrowing when he noticed the sorry state Kunikida's clothes were in.

"What…" Dazai trailed off when he spotted the stains on the fabric; he doubted it was just dirt, and the knowledge made him more uneasy than Kunikida's laboured, trembling breathing. "You're hurt."

It wasn't a question. Kunikida was shaking and his right arm hugged his ribs, pressed into his side. Dazai was now sure it was blood what stuck blonde bangs to his temple.

Yet Dazai refrained himself from asking what had happened. "You should see Yosano-sensei," he mumbled instead.

Kunikida shook his head.

"I didn't know where else to go," he admitted; there was no life in his voice. For a while he kept silent. "I killed a child."

Dazai blinked. Once, twice.

"No," he replied, and the word came too easily, like he were correcting a simple sum.

"Yes." Kunikida's voice broke in that single syllable. "Maybe two– I shot another kid… and I– I don't know…"

His voice died down, leaving Dazai to face the shudder running down his spine alone.

He shook his head a little, not even worrying about the dizziness that came with the movement. The words sounded ridiculous, alien; almost as if Kunikida were speaking a foreign language.

Maybe he was still asleep, after all. In that case, Dazai didn't like how subtly the dream was becoming a nightmare.

"You don't do that," he reasoned. He was unaware of what had happened, but he knew Kunikida. He knew what he wanted, he knew the most important part of the long notes he had written in his book– his partner didn't allow people to die in front of him.

"Well, I did." The words quivered, sounded so weak Dazai almost missed them. "Someone had given him a gun, he would have shot Atsushi, I couldn't– but I had to leave him behind… And the other one– the grenades… He detonated them as soon as I tried to use my– I couldn't do anything."

There weren't many things capable of rendering Dazai speechless. But as he watched Kunikida cover his face with his hands, unable to continue or explain himself better, as the pieces of what he had said puzzled together and he got the gist of what Dostoyevsky had done, too many words, half born from concern, half from pure fear, piled together in the back of his throat, making even breathing difficult.

"You couldn't," he eventually muttered. "There was nothing you could have done." His hands curled into fists beneath the blanket. "It wasn't your fault."

Even as he spoke the sentences sounded hollow, cliché, like out of a bad movie. Yet Dazai meant every single syllable; he couldn't let Kunikida fall down the same abyss he had already witnessed.

Kunikida's hands fell on his lap. It was too dark to discern his expression, but Dazai froze when something landed on the bed, close to his leg; he recognised the Ideal immediately.

"He detonated the grenades when he saw this– he died because of it." For the first time, Kunikida's gaze sought Dazai's. "The Ideal is supposed to save people, yet it killed a child. Why––"

"Kunikida-kun." Dazai gritted his teeth before continuing. "Books don't save anyone. People do."

"But I didn't." Kunikida exhaled slowly, shakily. "What am I supposed to do now?"

Dazai closed his eyes, but he couldn't cover his ears to stop hearing the helplessness filtering into Kunikida's voice.

"Wait," he eventually answered; it wasn't just physical exhaustion what clung to his voice. He slowly moved his hand until it landed on his chest, as if he could make the dull pain that was slowly coming back go away. "Until you distance yourself from it and you can think calmly. Just wait."

He sensed the side of the mattress sinking and opened his eyes again, only to find Kunikida's head leaning on the bed. And Dazai wanted him to go see Yosano, or at least to get his injuries treated the traditional way, but he also refused to let his partner out of his field of view.

"Can I wait here? I'm too tired to go back now…"

Dazai managed to get his hand out of the blanket, extended his arm until his fingers reached Kunikida's dirty hair.

"Please."

They didn't speak for the rest of the night. Not when Kunikida's shoulders shook with silent sobs, not when Dazai's breath grew irregular as the painkillers' effect started wearing off. Eventually Dazai drifted off, lulled by a heavy breathing and something between relief and concern, fingers threading blonde locks until sleep stilled them.

(Whispers) Kunikida did nothing wrong.

Anyway, what do you think about it? ^^