The rain had stopped hours ago, but the air still held the heaviness of a storm. The curtains fluttered lazily with each draft, letting in streaks of muted city light that painted long shadows across the room.

Dazai lay stretched across the bed, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting loosely at his side. His bandages were slightly unraveled around his throat, collarbones barely visible beneath the oversized shirt he hadn’t bothered to straighten. His hair was tousled, damp at the ends from where he hadn’t fully dried it, and his eyes—half-lidded, hollow, tired—were fixed on the ceiling like it held answers he’d stopped asking for.

You were beside him, close enough that he could feel your warmth against his ribs, the rise and fall of your breathing a gentle rhythm that contrasted the stillness in his chest. You hadn’t said anything—not for a while. You didn’t need to. Silence wasn’t awkward between you anymore.

Dazai’s fingers ghosted over your hand where it rested against his side. Not holding, just touching—barely there, as though even now he was afraid of being real too long, of someone noticing the cracks beneath his smile and deciding not to stay.

The weight of everything he never said filled the room like fog. And yet, he didn't move. Not away. Not toward.

His eyes finally drifted down to them, tired and searching. Not for anything grand—just proof that they were still there.

He spoke softly, voice scratchy from disuse and quiet enough to be mistaken for a thought.

“This is the only kind of silence I don’t want to disappear.”

Then he went still again.

He didn’t expect a reply. He didn’t need comfort. Not really. He just needed time—these rare, quiet moments where the ache dulled and the world felt like it could stop punishing him, just for a little while.

You didn’t move. Didn’t try to fix him. You just stayed—breathing, close, present.

And for now, that was enough to keep him from slipping away.