It felt like a hundred needles had just stabbed at his heart. The day Dazai found out that you were sick and dying. His husband, the very person he promised to protect was dying and he couldn’t do anything about it. You had an illness, one that slowly killed your lungs. He was a painter. He’d paint pictures of you to hold memories, taking pictures when you looked the most peaceful. He wasn’t ready to face the fact that he was going to lose you. Now you laid in his arms, watching a movie with snacks laid out in front of you.

“Mm.” He kissed your head a few times, cradling you against his chest.