i need to rewrite large chunks of HITTWF but i also need to draft my naoya fic but i also need to update AAMO but i also want to write for toji and mamaguro but i also—
˖✴︎ ݁˖ BURDEN OF THE LIVING — COMFORTING THEIR GRIEVING S/O
content. f!reader. sfw, hurt/comfort, implied/referenced loss of a loved one, fic-format, established relationship. 2.6k+ words.
⟶ features osamu dazai + chuuya nakahara (bsd).
author's note. i'm back! (sort of). if you'd like to read about what i've been up to, plans for future writing, and the strange topic of this particular work, feel free to read my expanded author's note at the end. if not, please enjoy!
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An open window ushered in the winter air, cold and crisp with a morning frost that seeped into your bones, only warmed by pockets of sun that managed to slip through cracks in the clouds. The perfect conditions to conduct your annual, new year cleaning—though some company would’ve been nice. Rolling up your sleeves, you decided not to let your partner’s absence dampen your spirits.
You already had a productive start: fresh produce lined the unblemished shelves of your refrigerator, folded laundry perched on the flattened comforter of your futon. The only task left was the cleaning itself, the apartment waiting patiently for your next move.
Your phone rang as you picked up the vacuum, disrupting your flow. You tried not to make your annoyance obvious, answering, “Hello?”
The voice was unfamiliar. Sterile.
Your stomach rolled.
“Are you sure?” you said, voice frailer than you like.
The counter was hard against your back. Like the comfort of a blade.
“Alright. Thank you.”
With a click, the call ended.
The vacuum landed on the floor with a muted thud, the motivation to hold it lost as the phone remained heavy in your other hand. Dead weight, even. Dust flew as you slumped to the ground, trying in vain to shield your body from the harsh wind.
It was like someone sitting on your chest, their frigid hands clasped around your neck, relishing in the sick pleasure of clawing your heart out through your throat. You couldn’t swallow. Not air. Not truth. Everything had been fine—it was fine.
Burying your head between your knees, your bones acted as your only support as the wind licks your skin raw.
The apartment waited, but nothing came.
“I’m home!” a delirious voice sang.
The door flew open at the hand of an exhausted, but spirited DAZAI. His limp body straggled through the doorway like a man rung out of everything he was worth, flinging his coat onto the rack.
His stomach grumbled at the fragrant menagerie of spices wafting into the air, subdued at the thought of the steam dampening your pretty face; baby hairs springing from your hairline, no matter your efforts to slick them back. There was something so domestic about the image—he didn’t know if he’d ever get used to it.
And there you were, standing like an identical picture over the stove.
“Good evening, my dear,” he mumbled, his breath brushing against your ear as his arms wrapped snug around your waist.
His words died in his throat when your back stiffened. Stirring hands paused, only for a moment, resuming in fear they’d been caught. And unfortunately for you, nothing escaped the former executive’s watchful eyes. He had done this a million times before. So what had you so shaken?
Like any good detective, he was determined to unravel the mystery.
“How was your day?” he asked, careful not to pry you apart too quickly.
“It was fine,” you replied, each syllable strategically premeditated. “Got some groceries. Washed some clothes.”
“Sounds productive.”
“How was yours?”
“Boring,” he groaned. “Kunikida had me working to the bone! I don’t know why he doesn’t just have Atsushi finish everything on Monday.”
He was certain you hadn’t even heard his response, your reply only a stiff hum. You’d never miss the opportunity to scold him for shoving his workload onto the poor weretiger.
He decided to take a quick glance around the apartment while your mind was preoccupied, finding nothing of note. The entire space was spotless with everything neatly tucked away—no doubt the result of your rigorous cleaning. Even the dinner itself was evidence of your grocery escapades, having left this morning with the fridge empty. He peeked at the pot over your shoulder, and his eyes narrowed.
“Love,” he whispered, voice steady.
“Mhm?”
The stove vent mumbled as it sucked up steam, accompanied by the rhythm of your wooden spoon clanking against the sides of the pot.
“Is that supposed to be mashed?”
You blinked, glancing down. The pot looked like a warzone.
His head thumped against your shoulder, not heavy, but there.
“What’s going on inside that beautiful brain of yours?”
You swallowed, and told him the truth.
“I got the call this morning,” you said, throat unbearably dry. A pitiful laugh rose from the pit in your stomach. “It kind of knocked me off my game.”
He was quiet—not because he couldn’t speak, but knowing that no amount of sweet words could change anything, no matter the temporary comfort they could provide. Intertwining his fingers with your own, he squeezed them tenderly, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder to say everything he couldn’t. That he was there, even as your mind decided to drift away.
“I’m gonna be okay,” you continued. “It’s just…uncomfortable.”
It almost made him laugh. “Trust me, sweetheart. I know it is.”
His heart throbbed at the dull sheen of your eyes, pained in a way he didn’t want to admit. Bandaged hands ached to do something, anything, but there wasn’t anything to do. He wondered, with the wind tapping against the window, patient but far too cold, if somewhere his old friend was watching.
Twisting the stove knob, he pulled you back further into his arms.
“How about you take a shower while I clean this up?”
“I can do it,” you said, eyes flickering to the mess.
“I know you can,” he replied, lifting your chin with eyes misty and familiar, before ushering you towards the bathroom. “I just have another idea for dinner.”
You arched a brow. “You’re gonna use the kitchen?”
“Well, I never said that.”
A shower seemed to be the exact remedy you needed. It may not have cleared the haze of your mind, and it certainly didn’t change your reality, but it allowed some of the malaise to slip from your back. The cold air was now a welcome contrast as you slipped into a pair of comfortable pajamas, paddling out to the living area before standing there, stunned.
It was like a dream—pillows and blankets billowed the plush plains of your futon, the television inviting you into the space with whispers. You were tempted to lie down and sleep, to forget the day and reality for an hour or two more.
“I see you like it.”
You shrieked, whipping around to find Dazai, standing with his signature, smug expression. Before you could scold him, the sight of a familiar brown paper bag haphazardly handled drew your attention.
“Is that what I think it is?” you asked, stomach grumbling.
“Take-out from your favorite restaurant, paid for by yours truly.”
“Not from my wallet?”
He gasped. “You wound me!”
You snatched the bag, leaving him stuck, frozen as you settled into the bundle of blankets. He was quick to slink up to you like an annoyingly clingy cat, snatching some of your food with his chopsticks.
He whined as he found his nose pinched by another pair of chopsticks, which subsequently stole from his crab dish. The television screamed once you finished your last few bites, changed to some sort of drama channel. Dazai snickered to himself as two women threw wine onto each other, getting an evil look in his eye.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He pouted, but settled in regardless. Your eyes strained to focus on the show, but as you became more relaxed, the thoughts started to creep in again. Wrapping a blanket around your shoulders, Dazai pulled you into his lap. His hands circled your sides, massaging the tense muscles of your hips.
“It’s settling in, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” you sighed, slumping against him. “I hate this. Like someone ripped out a part of me without asking. Every time I manage to not think about it, it comes back.”
He hummed, his hands gliding up your ribs, tracing shapes down your arms, before finding a place on your palms, tracing the wrinkles and lines with care. Thoughtful.
“That’s the burden of the living,” he replied, lips brushing against your hair. “Mourning those who have passed. I’m afraid that it doesn’t really stop. It changes people.”
He squeezed.
“Some for the worse, others for the better.”
He hoped he had changed for the better—that your presence was some sort of divine proof of that fact. His hair tickled your face as he swooped in, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
“But loss isn’t a burden to me. I’d use any excuse to remain close to you, my dear.”
You scoffed with a smile, allowing yourself to relax. It was okay to think about, okay to be sad. Because there was someone with you, right behind you.
“Thank you,” you said at last.
He shook his head.
“Don’t thank me. Loving you is the easiest thing I’ll ever do.”
A pen scratched against paper, creating an angry, isolated noise that echoed into the large, almost empty office. CHUUYA’s eyes stung and watered with every word—this legal bullshit made no sense, especially considering their less-than-legal operations. Typically, this work was assigned only to assistants and secretaries, but an overflow had landed some work on the executive’s desk.
He had planned to relax for the weekend, drink some rich wine and indulge in some delicious food, but the morning call he’d received had other plans. The only thing keeping him from throwing everything on the floor was a date planned for later, one he very much intended to keep.
The stroke of the pen was intercepted by a buzz, a familiar caller ID pulling him from his work.
“Hey, love,” he answered, dropping everything as he eased back with a tired smile. “Wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. You still cleaning?”
“Hey,” you replied, voice similarly drained. “I hope work’s going okay, but I have some bad news.”
His back straightened.
“What’s up?”
You sighed. “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to come to our date tonight.”
He leaned against his hand, thoughtful—this wasn’t exhaustion from work. That was something he knew like a common enemy. Your voice wasn’t just tired; it was like you were speaking through a wire, distant and chipped. That, and you never changed plans without overexplaining the reason.
“Is everything alright, sweetheart?” he asked slowly.
Your breath stuttered, like a wire thrummed.
And then you told him.
His stomach turned as your voice trembled, biting through each word. He reeled with a somber image in mind—you sitting at your lonesome in that tiny apartment, receiving a call to the effect of a bullet to the head. His fingers thumped against the desk, if only to hide the way they quivered.
“Do you want me to come over?”
“No, no,” you quickly replied. “I’m sure you have better things to do. I just wanted to let you know.”
Bullshit, but he bit his tongue, for now. This was not the time for some grand speech about how he would literally hand the world over to you on a silver platter.
“Okay, love,” he said, careful with his reply. “I’m gonna call you before dinner, though, okay? Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you…I love you.”
It took all his restraint not to speed out the window.
“I love you too, baby.”
The call ended.
Paperwork landed with a thud into a random drawer. Snatching his coat from its stand, he darts out of the office. If the Boss had an issue with his early leave, he could do the paperwork himself. He had something far more important to do.
As evening fell on the city, your stomach was unsettled by a distinct lack of food. The stocked fridge you had taken so much pride in earlier now seems overwhelming. Shutting the door, you rested your head against it, shielding your eyes from the view of its fluorescent lights. Maybe some kind of epiphany would shine down upon you.
You regretted not going through with your dinner plans for the evening, as far as food went. But it wouldn’t have been fair to Chuuya, forced to watch you space out and ruin the atmosphere of an expensive restaurant.
You did miss him, though.
You startled out of your daze to the tune of multiple, rapid-fire knocks. Dawdling over to the door, somewhat perplexed, you opened it to find an almost out-of-breath Chuuya, jostling a large bag in his arms.
“I know I said I’d call,” he huffed, brushing back a few unruly strands of hair. “But I wanted to make sure you’d eaten something.”
Your cheeks grew warm—you were entirely unprepared for a visit, and could only imagine how you looked in a mirror. That, and he had been spot on in his assumptions.
“Look,” he continued, and you were unprepared for the look in his eyes—familiar in their distance. “I know what this shit is like. Trust me, I do. So, if you really want me to leave, send me packing. I…just needed to make sure you weren’t shutting yourself in.”
Your breath wavered, finding his gaze pried you apart far easier than you anticipated, and after a moment of consideration, you allowed him inside. Relieved, he set the bag onto the kitchen counter before wordlessly holding his arms out. It was like second nature to give in, his gentle touch providing an immense sense of stability after the vacancy of the day.
“Been thinkin’ about you since the moment I woke up.” His face nestled close to your own, trailing soft kisses along the curve of your jaw.
You snorted. “You’re such a dork.”
He pinches your side, taking delight in the yelp you let out.
“Not my fault you always occupy my mind.”
You sighed—he could be quite the charmer when he set his mind to it.
And then, your stomach growled.
Bracing for a lecture that never comes, you watched as Chuuya immediately sprung into action, setting out the contents of the bag onto some spare paper plates. Soon, you were eating the most expensive take-out you’ve ever had on the cheapest silverware possible—you doubted the restaurant it came from even normally served take-out orders.
In the middle of your dinner, something seemed to pop into his head, scrambling from his seat to rummage through your kitchen cabinets. You stared on, eyes wide as he brought out a bottle of wine that you’d never seen before. When did he manage to stash that?
He poured you both a glass, but something still felt missing. You turned to the radio, which emitted a loud static. The wine forgotten, Chuuya swept you into his arms as the music lulled into something slow and sweet. Kicking, you attempt to knock him off his game, only to be twirled into a spin—undoubtedly skills Kouyou forced him to learn.
But as your movements turned into a sway, something else started to settle. That uncomfortable feeling. You tucked your face into his neck, breathing in.
“You don’t have to fight it off, you know,” he said. “Not because I’m here.”
You huffed. “I just…don’t want to think about it.”
He hummed slowly, brushing a kiss to your hair as the music silenced.
“You will. If not today, then tomorrow.” It was something he knew well. “And it’s never the kind of thing that wears the same mask twice. That’s what they say, at least.”
You scoffed, a tired smile curled up on your lips.
“It sucks.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It does. But I’ll be here. I’ll probably annoy the shit out of you, too. You’ll have to yell at me if I do. But don’t ever feel like you need to hide from me. Okay?”
Your smile wobbled, sucking in another breath as you leaned against him.
“I love you. So much.”
“I love you, too.” He pressed a kiss to your lips. “And I’m gonna be here. Same as you’ve always been there for me.”
can you believe it's been almost a year since i've written something? posted, i should say. i've had quite a wild, but fun year, focusing on my last semesters of uni and spending time with friends. but, i'd like this note to focus on some questions i've received.
are you going to return to writing again? the answer is, hopefully yes. this entirely depends on my future schedule and motivation, which i'm unable to predict. would i like to return to posting more often? absolutely. but i will not tie myself to a promise i may be unable to keep. i've found that has been counterproductive to my motivation.
what do you think about the current manga arc? i wanted to talk about this, since many of my mutuals have. some have left the fandom, while others have shelved the series for later (which are completely valid actions). this arc has drained many fans, myself included. the death-bating, oversaturated explanations, and lack of location change has been tiring. i have my theories (which are comprised of psycho-analyzing asagiri), and i may talk about them on my main account. but i also haven’t lost hope—there are many areas of potential: fyodor’s ability (yes, i do actually like it), atsushi's background, and PAUL VERLAINE?
[TL;DR: while this arc is tiring, i’m trusting asagiri as a writer, and hope to enjoy it when it’s over.]
what's with the choice in topic? i think for many people, this year has been a year of grief. at the beginning of december, i faced the sudden loss of a loved one, which has impacted me greatly. but i've always been a proponent of the idea that writing can be a tool to express emotions/ideas that are hard to mentally/emotionally articulate. so, for anyone who has had a difficult year, for any reason—this work is for you <3
[i've restructured my taglist form, so if you should would like to be tagged in future posts/change or remove something from another form, please fill out the new form!]
