When he thinks about it, it's probably pathetic. The Port Mafia's demon prodigy, injured, trudging— well, limping— through the rain by himself until he gets to your apartment. The broad expanse of your door makes him waver— not because he can't open it, but because he hadn't really intended to seek you out. It had just happened naturally.

Your name plate on the door is decorated, a stark contrast to all the others he'd walked past to get here. There are stickers across the shiny metal. Marker ink in the dips and grooves that form your name. For the briefest moment it crosses his mind that he should add his name to the plate, see how long before you realize the change.

Dazai picks the lock effortlessly as always. Your apartment is quiet, but still littered with the essence of you; dishes on the stove that you still need to wash, a tiny light on in the living room so nobody trips after dark, books still open on the coffee table with pages haphazardly marked. Every breath fills Dazai's aching lungs with faint wafts of your perfume. It's only in your hallway mirror that Dazai finally examines himself; he's scraped and bruised, most of his bandages coming undone beneath his soaked suit, and he's not sure if that's his blood or someone else's. Doesn't matter.

His rain-drenched coat hits the floor with a whumph, his shoes next to clatter against the wooden floor as he kicks them off. The closer he gets to his goal, the less he aches— he'll definitely be sore in the morning, but for now, the prospect of you is more than enough. He swings your bedroom door open with more care than anything in the world.

Of course you're asleep at this hour. Curled up in bed by yourself, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, eyelids fluttering in your sleep. If he stops to think about whether he deserves this, Dazai will never get any rest. So he doesn't think. He just crawls into the empty Dazai-shaped space next to you and tucks himself as close as he can.