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nolesserhuman · 2 months

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PM Dazai + reader; intended platonic apparently he gets carsick ~5k words warnings: mild emeto, Dazai-typical suicide references, very brief reference to Dazai not eating ao3

You know full well why Dazai isn’t allowed to drive; even disregarding his self-proclaimed urges to plow directly into oncoming traffic, he’s simply not good behind the wheel. It’s an immutable fact of life. What you didn’t know yet— at least, not when you’d volunteered to drive him into town and back for the meeting with the higher-ups— is why nobody ever wanted him to ride along, either. Even Oda, usually tolerant of Dazai’s shenanigans, had wished you luck before conveniently disappearing.

Dazai had been fine when he’d gotten in the car. Talkative as always, he’d immediately melted into the passenger seat, wriggling and grinning as you settled in at the wheel. “While you’re busy over there,” he’d hummed, watching you turn the key, “I’m going to strangle myself with the seatbelt!”

“You’d better not,” You had narrowed your eyes at him, “I don’t wanna explain to anyone why I’m driving a corpse around.”

Dazai had pouted with a heavy, dramatic sigh, one that might’ve convinced you to relent had he not been talking about killing himself. He was only quiet long enough to aim his puppy-dog eyes in your direction, batting his long lashes at you as his soft hair fell over his face; it’d didn’t work this time, because you’re practically immune to those things by now.

The conversation is a familiar song and dance. You would pass some signs declaring a must-see tourist destination at the next right, and Dazai would whine and beg for you to make just a quick stop and buy him something. On the long, empty stretches of road, his delicate hand would begin to crawl up your thigh, only for him to yelp out a curse when you slam your knees shut on his fingers. For a big bad mafia executive, Dazai really does have the ‘kicked puppy’ act down.

Now, several hours into the drive, things were different. Dazai had slowly grown more and more quiet, his teasing left to die on his tongue, leaving you with nothing but the nostalgic white noise of radio static. That silence is probably worse than his constant mouthing off— he was never quiet for this long. Something had to be wrong.

“—are you okay over there, Dazai?” Rarely the best question to ask. He’s always been the type to grit his teeth and avoid the question.

For his part, Dazai barely hears you speak. He’s too focused on regulating his own breathing, inhaling slowly and feeling the stretch in his sore lungs. His stomach churns— it has been for awhile— and although Odasaku had taught him all those breathing exercises to soothe nausea, they weren’t working at the moment. He isn’t too surprised; Dazai has always figured he’s built wrong in comparison to everyone else. Of course something like this wouldn’t work for him. He must just be designed to suffer.

As his stomach flips, Dazai can feel sweat beginning to bead at his hairline too. Just great; he was trying to actually behave in the car for once, and getting sick is just going to inconvenience you. His entire body feels sticky; it must be because he’s been wearing his coat this entire time. Definitely not sick enough to bother you with any of this. He tilts his head forward so he can press his forehead against the window glass and shut his eyes for a moment. It’s nice and chilly against his warm skin. Logically, he knows the glass can’t be as cold as it feels— which means he must be burning up.

“Dazai?”

Your voice is faint at the very edge of his hearing. It would be too much effort to turn and face you; his head feels heavy, and it would be too obvious he’s not feeling well. When he opens his eyes, the outside world blurs together across his vision. He feels his stomach lurch. Closing his eyes again doesn’t help— he’s already caught sight of how fast the car is moving, and his dizzy brain immediately relays that message directly to his stomach. Drool begins to gather much faster in his mouth, and that’s when Dazai knows.

“Stop the car.” He’s got a fist pressed to his mouth and refuses to look over at you.

You blink in surprise at his sudden demand. “Here?” The car was passing a row of fields and not much else; it’s been awhile since you saw any kind of structure, much less any people. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, Dazai—”

“Pull over,” his voice grows more insistent, “or I’m going out the window.” He fumbles with his seatbelt until it unhooks, clattering against the door as his free hand finds the button to roll his window down. He’s already started to lift himself from his seat before you can hit the brakes.

“Okay okay, I’m pulling over!” Thankfully alone on the road, you jerk the wheel to the side, the car jolting as it rolls a wheel off the side of the pavement. The harsh movement pulls a groan from Dazai’s chest, and you wince. Before you’ve come to a complete stop, Dazai throws the door open and stumbles out, only making it a few steps before giving up and collapsing into the grass. By the time you fight free of your own seatbelt, you can hear him retching.

Knelt in the grass, Dazai heaves again, but nothing comes up. That’s not entirely surprising; skipping meals isn’t a foreign concept to him, so of course there’s nothing for his body to cough up. Still, he stays there on his hands and knees, each unproductive cough burning his throat. One of his least favorite parts of getting sick is always the salivating— even with nothing to purge from his stomach, his lips are slick, with thin strings of drool spilling out onto the grass as he coughs.

Should you approach him—? The young man seems miserable— although you suppose that’s pretty typical for his existence— spitting up nothing as his body revolts against him. But despite his clear need for some kind of support, Dazai always recoils at the slightest show of sympathy. It might be a better idea to just let him ride it out, because you know he’ll brush you off anyways.

And then he lets out a whine from somewhere in the back of his throat.

Before you know it, you land on your knees next to Dazai. Instinctively, he flinches away; that’s clearly the wrong move on his part, because his stomach lurches again. This time, when he doubles over, a wave of vomit splashes out onto the grass.

“Ugh…” Dazai lets out a low groan, barely able to lift his head as he tries to catch his breath. “I feel like shit,” he mumbles out, wiping spit from his mouth with the back of his coat sleeve.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you hum softly, and he winces at how soft your voice is. Aren’t you mad he’s delayed your trip home? If you are, you’re hiding it well, because your hand comes up to rub gentle circles on Dazai’s back. He shudders at the warm touch. “Aw, I wish I’d known you get carsick, I would’ve—”

“I don’t!” Dazai chirps, although the effect is lessened by the rasp to his voice, throat sore from all that retching. “This is a one-time thing, so don’t think that— eugh,” he’s interrupted when his body decides to gag again. Instinctively, one hand comes up as if to cover his mouth; you grab his wrist and tug his hand away just before he spews again, spitting up nothing but stomach acid. Dazai whines again.

Eventually Dazai catches his breath, but not his voice. He rolls his shoulders to shrug your hand off his back and forces himself to his feet. He sways noticeably, but when you step closer to offer support, he takes a small step back; looks like you’re not making that kind of progress today.

The two of you are quiet for a moment as Dazai tries to gather himself; you, trying to figure out what to say, and him, blatantly refusing to look at you as his chest heaves. Finally, you settle on, “I should have something for motion sickness in the car—”

“Don’t need it,” he cuts right through your words, as if that kills the idea entirely. “I’m not carsick.” he spins on his heel to return to the car, only for a wave of vertigo to almost take him off his feet. Really not helping his fragile— and obviously untrue— defense.

“Then if it’s not carsickness,” you trail after him, fingers twitching with the urge to just grab his arm and help him stay upright, “it’s something else, and that’s just as bad. Did you have anything for lunch, breakfast? Anything for dinner last night? Besides that bottle of—”

“Fine.” Dazai stops walking. He grins at you over his shoulder, although it’s more a showing of his teeth than anything else, an attempted reminder that he’s a dangerous man. It doesn’t quite land, since his frail body is trembling like a wet dog. “We’ll say I get car sick, if it gets you to shut up.” He wobbles back on his heels, having to use the entirety of his body weight— admittedly, not much there— to swing the car door open. Before you can bite back, he folds his lanky self back into the passenger seat and slams the door behind him, separating the two of you with metal and glass. You just sighed.

Once you get yourself settled behind the wheel again, you reach across Dazai’s lap to pull open the glovebox— he lets out a whiny “Hey!” when the small door pops against his knees— and pull out a packet of nausea medication, exactly as promised, tossing it against his chest. “If you don’t take any of these, I’m not gonna stop if you need to puke again.”

Dazai makes a face as he turns the little box over to read the back. “I’m not taking any pills.” Hypocrite; he’ll pop any pill except the ones that might actually make him feel better.

Almost as soon as you pull the car back into the road, Dazai’s face goes pale again. His throat bobs as he swallows, and his tongue feels so heavy in his mouth, he vaguely wonders if he could actually choke on it this time. He hadn’t bothered with his seatbelt after getting back in the car, and he turns his body at an odd angle in his seat, pressing his warm face to the window glass once more.

“—sit up,” you huff, eyes flickering from the road to your boss and back. “No wonder you feel bad, you’re curled up like a shrimp over there.”

He rolls his eyes dramatically, only to immediately grimace and follow your order quietly. That’s how you know he really feels bad— Dazai never does what he’s told.

“Ugh,” he groans softly again, head falling forward, chin to his chest, the gentle curves of the road sending his stomach back into an unpleasant frenzy. “How much longer? You’re going too slow,” he grumbles.

“Well, going fast won’t make you feel better either,” you bring one hand down to fumble with the window controls, rolling his window down and then reaching over to nudge his shoulder. “Head out, fresh air helps too.”

“I’m not a dog,” he hisses, but he obeys anyway. He’d never admit it to you, but the breeze does feel good on his warm face, the fresh air settling his stomach just enough that saliva finally stops pooling under his tongue. The sun has begun to set too, taking with it all the uncomfortable heat in the air, only serving to cool him off further.

You keep an eye on him as best you can while you drive; thankfully, it isn’t much longer before the car crosses into town, familiar buildings looming and lulling you into a sense of security. Perfect timing, even, because Dazai is beginning to squirm in the passenger seat, his face twisting into another uncomfortable grimace. His hair is stuck to his sweaty face, one arm wrapped around himself as he wriggles in the passenger seat, trying to relieve the pressure on his stomach.

“If you take a left here, that’s a much quicker route to—”

“I’m not taking you back to your shipping container.”

Dazai stiffens in the passenger seat. His head slowly swivels in your direction, his unbandaged eye narrowing as if he can see directly through you and still doesn’t understand. Lips pursed and eyes forward, you try to stay firm, although your voice trembles. “If you’re sick, you don’t need to be by yourself in that stupid rusty box. We’re going to my place.”

Silence for a moment, and then a small, irritated smile crosses Dazai’s face. “I told you, I’m fine. Just drop me off. I’ll walk there, even.”

You shake your head and refuse to look at him. If you make eye contact, you know you’ll give in; whether it’s through intimidation or the power of his good looks, Dazai always gets you to do what he wants, but it's going to be different this time. He’s not going to talk you out of taking care of him.

The car falls silent again. You can feel Dazai’s intense gaze on your face as you make the few remaining turns, finally pulling into your apartment complex and parking. You don’t look over at him before climbing out of the driver’s seat, stepping around to swing the passenger door open for him. “Can you stand?”

“Yes.” Dazai tries to keep his voice light, but as he lifts himself to his feet, his unsteady legs almost give out under him; without thinking about it, he reaches out and wraps an arm around your shoulder to hold himself upright. “—I’m fine,” he lies through his teeth, resting most of his body weight on your much smaller form.

Supporting him as best you can, the both of you limp up to your apartment. Dazai figures he might as well be dramatic about the situation; he whines and moans and groans, slouching all of his body weight against you in an effort to make you stumble on purpose. Knowing him, he’s hoping you drop him down the stairs.

Dazai feels like he’s on fire— he might have a fever, but personally, he chalks it up to the effect of your hands all over him. He can feel more acid rising up in his throat, burning in his chest along with an odd sense of guilt; you should’ve been able to just go home after dropping him off, but here you are, dragging him along with the intention of making sure he feels better. It’s not something he can understand.

As soon as you’ve shut the door behind you both, Dazai’s glassy eyes study your home, taking in even the tiniest details. He’s not sure what he was expecting, but he isn’t surprised, either; the place looks just like you. But he doesn’t have time to think about that too in-depth, because he wheezes, his stomach rolling again.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” you mumble softly as you drag him into your bathroom. Dazai immediately pulls away and sinks to his knees in front of the toilet, shoving the lid open so he can spit uselessly into the water. It’s irritating to watch him like this and know you can’t do much.

In his haste to get even some vague sense of relief, Dazai’s trembling hands begin to fumble with his clothes, pulling his suit jacket off and undoing his tie from around his throat. He drops them on the floor— those things probably cost more than you’ll ever see in your life so, desperate to help in even a small way, you gather them off the floor to go hang them somewhere later. “—I’m going to go make some ginger tea, okay?”

Dazai just lets out a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whine.

You make a point to leave the bathroom door open as you step back out into the hall. His coat and tie find themselves tossed over the back of a kitchen chair as you free your hands, digging through your cabinets to find a small pot to boil water in— listen, you don’t need ginger tea often enough to invest in an actual tea kettle— and then set about trying to remember where you keep the tea itself.

Dazai’s loud whines echo through the halls of your apartment, to the point where you can hear him clearly all the way in the kitchen. Yes, he’s known for being dramatic, but his acting skills aren’t that good. It sounds like he’s really in pain.

Unfortunately, desperation doesn’t make water boil any faster. You glare down at the pot of boiling water and, knowing that it’s a bad idea to step away from a hot stove, you do it anyways. Dazai is gagging and spitting and sounding entirely unproductive, and you can’t bring yourself to leave him alone like that.

Even though it’s your apartment, you still knock as you push the bathroom door open, not wanting to startle him. Dazai just groans weakly and doesn’t bother to lift his face away from the toilet.

You kneel down next to him for the second time today. He whines uncomfortable, his hands curling into fists in his lap as he leans forward. He gags again but spits up nothing but saliva. “It won’t come up—”

You press your lips together as you watch his pale face twist into another uncomfortable grimace. There really is just one option for that— with a quiet sigh, you roll up your sleeves. “Open up, Dazai.”

He immediately slams his mouth shut. Still slouched on the cold tile of your bathroom floor, he tries to glower at you, but it’s completely ineffective; under the harsh fluorescent light, he looks less like a mafia executive and more like the sick young man he really is. He shakes his head and grits his teeth, hiding under his stringy hair, obviously trying to think his way out of this.

“None of that,” you try to keep your tone firm. One of your hands comes up to grab his chin and squeeze. “Now, open up.”

Dazai whines again, jerking his head back in a vain attempt to escape your grasp. The motion makes his head spin and stomach lurch, but he’s determined to defy you, for no reason other than the fact that he can. He’s not your responsibility anyway— why can’t you just leave him to suffer alone? His efforts amount to nothing. Your grip on his flushed face tightens, thumb caressing his cheek until you can feel the dip where his teeth met. When you press down that time, it successfully forces his mouth open.

You shove your free hand past Dazai’s lips; apparently you’re a bit rough in your haste, because he whimpers and tries to pull back again. He’s too physically weak to escape your strong grasp, so all he can do is let his eyes slide closed in anxious anticipation.

It’s immediately obvious when you’ve reached far back enough; Dazai gags around your fingers, the contents of his stomach rushing up his throat and out his mouth. Wincing at the stickiness covering your hand now, you carefully pull back, and Dazai doubles over as he finally empties his stomach properly.

“Does that help at all?” You move to the sink, running your hands under hot water until you feel a bit better about the situation.

Dazai spits into the toilet again and takes a moment to catch his breath. “...yeah,” he mumbles, sounding almost disappointed that you care enough about him to shove your hand down his throat. “You’re so gross.” Even sick as a dog, he can’t just thank you for anything.

Rolling your eyes, you finish washing your hands, flicking cold droplets of water in the direction of his face. He clearly feels okay enough now to stick his tongue out at you.

Breathing heavily, Dazai shuffles backwards on the tile floor, resting his aching body against the wall. His eyes slide closed again as he tries to relax. “—not as nauseous,” he admits, “but the rest of me still feels bad.”

You hum in vague acknowledgement, mentally sorting through what else might help him feel better— not that Dazai ever feels good, but you at least don’t want him feeling this gross. If he refuses to admit to actively being sick, you can really only guess at remedies. There was that ginger tea you should probably go check on— the water’s probably all boiled out by now… and if he is feverish, you should probably grab an ice pack, if you even own any. And then, as you make your mental lists and graphs, one idea stands out above the rest. “I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t try going anywhere.”

Dazai scoffs at the idea of actually moving his limp body, but he nods, not bothering to open his eyes again. Satisfied that he’s too exhausted to go hunting through your bathroom for an overdose method, you leave him alone for a moment.

After a bit, Dazai’s breaths come easier, although they’re still shaky. He knows he must have a fever, because the chill of the bathroom’s tile feels delicious against his sweaty skin, even through his layers of clothing. At least his stomach feels mostly better—

If he dwells on his own thoughts for too long, he knows he’ll spiral. It would be all-too-easy to convince himself that he doesn’t deserve the help you’ve already extended to him; those thoughts have already been dancing at the edge of his mind, and he can’t give them a chance to breach the surface. So instead, he strains his hearing, an effort to trace your movements even from far-off.

Dazai tells himself it’s just to avoid dwelling on being so ill, but the new ache in his chest betrays his fragile reasoning; he’s also listening anxiously for the sound of the front door slamming shut, a sure sign that you’ve finally gotten tired of him. It’s something he’s always expected, really; he’s already been too selfish by allowing you to drag him into your home to begin with.

When he focuses, he can hear you shuffling around in what he assumes is your bedroom down the hallway. The rustle of fabric, the plastic clicks of storage containers being opened and shut again. After several more minutes, a soft hum leaves your throat— clearly you had found whatever you were looking for.

As your footsteps approach the bathroom again, Dazai forces his heavy head up, his eyes open. He can feel his pulse start to pick up at the thought of your return— as clinically logical as he normally is, his brain is foggy at the moment, so he hadn’t quite been able to figure out what you might’ve been grabbing. He lifts his eyes in the hopes of catching a glance as you pass the doorway, but instead of rejoining him on the bathroom floor, you continue walking. Dazai’s mouth twitches into a frown; he’s not used to being ignored, even if he’s convinced himself he wants to be left alone.

Without thinking about it, Dazai tries to call your name. It doesn’t travel very far; his throat still burns from all his unproductive gagging earlier, and it’s reduced his voice to a raspy whisper. Once it’s obvious that you hadn’t heard him, Dazai braces himself against the wall and slowly, carefully, manages to haul himself to his feet.

His head swims, the room spinning around him as he sways. Dazai lets out another soft whine as he begins to shuffle forward. His more rational thoughts are howling at him to sit back down, to rest, to leave you alone when you so clearly don’t want to deal with him. His aching body pushes forward anyway.

The hallway is dim in comparison to how harshly the bathroom was lit. a bit of the tension behind his eyelids immediately vanished, a relieved sigh leaving his mouth. He keeps his hand firmly against the wall as he tries to slowly move forward. Putting one foot in front of the other is more effort than he’d expected it to be; the hallway continues to twist and distort at the edge of his vision, the light of your kitchen seeming like a distant dream. His movements are sluggish, as if trying to move through water that was over his head. Drowning, he thought, would be much easier than this.

From somewhere off in the distance, Dazai hears something ding. Even from so far away, it’s a harsh noise, one that drills its way right between his eyes. Another grimace paints its way across his face; he presses a hand to his forehead, but it does nothing to lessen the dull ache as it began to crawl across the front of his skull. He grits his teeth in frustration— such a short walk, and he can’t even make it by himself. If he can’t even move from room to room, he’ll be nothing but a burden and make things harder for you, so he forces himself to take another step.

Wrong move. His legs give out under him, and Dazai collapses.

At the sudden heavy thud in your hallway, you immediately drop what you’re doing and peer around the corner into the hall; a knot tightens in your chest at the sight of Dazai, curled up on the hardwood in the dark.

He whimpers from his spot on the floor as you approach. His one visible eye slides open, and if you didn’t know Osamu Dazai, you would almost say he looks like he could cry. Kneeling next to him, you lift his chin with your hand in order to see his face properly. When your eyes met, he began to squirm; the blatant concern on your face made his body feel hot, even disregarding his apparent fever.

“Let go,” he slurs out, voice heavy with exhaustion, “I just slipped, it’s nothing—”

“Dazai.” There’s concern in your voice, too, and that just makes him want to curl up and disappear. “Just let me take care of you, Dazai.”

His tired gaze search your face desperately, as if he hopes you’re lying to him. But, to his dismay, you’re completely genuine— he’s already wasted so much of your time, and through his achy haze, he just can’t wrap his mind around why you would inconvenience yourself for something like him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Dazai mumbles. As you gently help him to his feet, he doesn’t even bother to hold himself upright, choosing instead to lean most of his weight against your body. “Just get me back to the bathroom and I’ll stay there, I promise.” His stomach felt heavy again. Not from nausea this time.

“Nope,” your reply is automatic. It’s a bit difficult to maneuver Dazai down the hall— he’s bigger than you and most of the people you know, sagging against your body like a cat starved for attention. “Taking care of you isn’t a problem. I’m doing this because I want to.”

Dazai was silent as you guide him into your living room. He groans as you carefully lower him onto the couch. Immediately, he melts into the cushions; his entire body is aching, muscles sore from the contractions and spasms as he’d thrown up earlier. Admittedly, your couch is much softer than the bathroom floor— if it wouldn’t be so selfish of him, he might decide to stay awhile.

“I’ll be right back, okay?” Your voice is soft, and it makes him feel fuzzy inside. Those thoughts will have to be dealt with later. Dazai knows you expect a response of some kind, but he doesn’t trust his voice at the moment, so he just nods and throws his arm over his eyes to block out the light.

Even though you were never too far, an anxiety he doesn’t understand surges through Dazai’s chest. Actually, he could only assume you weren’t going far— despite your repeated insistence that you want to care for him, he really wouldn’t blame you for choosing to leave him alone until he cried himself out. He rolls over onto his side on the couch, blurry eyes following your movements; thankfully you wandered into the kitchen instead of towards the front door.

Although Dazai has never been the type to think about his own feelings, being sick brings down some of his walls, even if just the slightest bit. You can see the relief and vulnerability behind his glassy eyes when you were, in fact, only gone a moment, exactly as you’d promised.

“Here,” you shuffle your hands behind your back, obviously holding something, “this always helps me whenever I feel gross.” From behind your back you produce— a stuffed animal. More specifically a giraffe, one with floppy limbs and fuzzy fur that smells like peppermint. Confusion washes over Dazai, visible on his face.

“—you know those are for babies, right?”

You puff your cheeks out in a pout. “Shut up! He’s cuddly and smells nice! Peppermint is good for nausea anyways.” Still huffing a bit, you hold the toy out to him, and Dazai finds himself absently reaching for it despite his protests.

The first thing he notices is the warmth. His eyes widen as he clutches the plushie closer to his chest— the concentrated heat is immediately soothing against the sore exhaustion that permeates his frail body. Out of curiosity, he ducks his head down to press his face into the giraffe’s soft fur. You were right; the scent of peppermint quickly begins to settle the churning in his stomach. Dazai hates when you’re right.

“Nice, isn’t it?” You hum softly, taking a seat on the couch with him, draping a wet washcloth across the back of his neck. With that and the heated toy, his temperature should regulate eventually. Your hand finds the remote, and you switch on the television, keeping the volume low as you flip through the channels. “You can hang out here until you feel better, I promise. It’s not a bother to me.”

Dazai stays silent. When you sit down with him, he shifts to drop his head in your lap, squeezing the toy giraffe even tighter. One of your hands finds its way to the top of his head, gently pulling away damp strands of his dark hair from where they’ve stuck to his sweaty face. As much as he hates to admit it to himself, Dazai is comfortable.

He tries to fight it, he really does; Dazai is well aware that something like him doesn’t deserve to be sprawled out here with someone like you. But, if it’s only going to happen once, he might as well take advantage of it, right? Your hands are incredibly soft in his hair, and the stupid giraffe is both making him hurt less and settling his stomach. His body is dead tired anyways— even if he could gather the strength to remove himself from your lap, there’s no way he would make it all the way back to the shipping container he calls home.

Yeah, that all makes a degree of sense. Having successfully debated his thoughts into submission, Dazai gives himself permission to relax for awhile, and he finally falls asleep in your lap.

my first-ever sickfic!! feel free to lmk if I spelled anything wrong lmao, I worked on this for like two weeks so my vision is definitely kinda blurring together haha. thank you for reading!

#srb

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