They assigned him a new patient. Room 215. Name: Osamu Dazai. Diagnosis: Severe depressive disorder, suicidal ideation, manipulation risk, high intelligence, history of escape attempts. Keep interactions brief, do not engage in philosophical conversation, avoid emotional entanglement.

That last one made Chuuya scoff when he first read the file. Emotional entanglement. As if he'd ever let himself get close to someone who treated the concept of death like a pastime.

He thought he’d seen it all — the screaming, the sobbing, the vacant stares, the patients who curled into themselves like they were trying to disappear. He’d worked the night shifts, walked the sterile halls while the world slept, and learned how to keep a steady hand even when someone tried to break. He was good at this job — good at keeping people alive. Good at not getting attached.

Then he opened the door to Room 215.

Dazai was sitting on the windowsill, staring out at nothing, hospital wristband loose on his pale arm, a smirk already playing on his lips like he’d been waiting for Chuuya specifically. His first words?

“So, how long until you start trying to save me?”

Chuuya didn’t answer. He didn’t rise to the bait. He just walked in, checked his chart, adjusted the medication tray like any other day. But he felt those eyes on him — sharp, amused, watching like a hawk that had grown bored with the sky.

It wasn’t long before Chuuya realized why every nurse before him had either transferred, requested reassignment, or burned out. Dazai was a game-player. Words were weapons in his hands — twisted, turned, thrown like darts to see where they’d stick. He tested limits with charm and cynicism, flung poetry and sarcasm like knives, and wore his boredom like a second skin.

But underneath all of it — the bravado, the jokes, the cold laughter — there was a quiet kind of grief in his eyes. Something hollow. Something dangerous in its silence.

At first, Chuuya hated how curious that made him.

He wasn’t supposed to wonder. He wasn’t supposed to care why someone so clever, so beautiful in a wrecked sort of way, kept trying to vanish. Dazai’s file was thick with red flags, but none of them explained him. Not really. Why he never slept more than an hour. Why he hated mirrors. Why, in the middle of his most dramatic rants about wanting to die, he’d suddenly go quiet — like he was waiting to be interrupted. Like he didn’t really want to fall, he just wanted someone to notice he was standing at the edge.

Some days, Dazai didn’t talk at all. He’d lie on his bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his whole body unnervingly still. And Chuuya — who was supposed to chart his vitals and move on — would find himself lingering by the door, just watching. Just… making sure.

They argued often. Dazai called him “short stuff,” “nurse Ratched,” and “my own personal emotional support goblin.” Chuuya threatened to sedate him more than once. But even in the middle of their bickering, there was something unspoken between them. A current. A tension. Something that made the air heavier whenever they were alone.

He was a nurse. Dazai was his patient. There were rules — ones Chuuya had never once been tempted to break in all his years on the job. But Dazai made everything complicated. Not because he tried to — but because even when he wasn’t looking at you, you felt seen. And when he did look at you, it felt like standing under a microscope, every thought picked apart and exposed.

Chuuya didn’t know what would come of it. Maybe it would end the way all the warnings predicted — manipulation, chaos, pain. Maybe he’d regret letting his guard down.

But when Dazai looked at him and really looked — with those tired, knowing eyes — Chuuya couldn’t help but wonder: What if Dazai didn’t want to be saved? What if he just wanted someone to stay?

And damn it, Chuuya was still here.