Fyolai Art Study

Fyolai art study

i hold your head deep in my arms // dazai & ango sickfic drabble

originally posted on 7th jun 2024

warning for non-graphic vomiting

read on ao3! / 928 words

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dazai is sixteen, slumped over the toilet in the cramped bathroom of bar lupin. the light above his head flickers in a seemingly random way; combined with how much whiskey he had, it makes for an unsettling, almost ethereal experience.

his throat and nose burn. he’s barely eaten today, but his stomach is keen on removing every last drop of alcohol until he’s shivering and barely able to hold himself up.

his body crumples against the bathroom wall as if his head were a massive paperweight, barely having the sense to wipe his mouth with a clammy hand.

he thinks he’ll just fall asleep here. the poor soul tasked with closing the bar will find him eventually. kick him out. then he’ll stumble home, alone.

at first he thinks he’s hallucinating when a warm hand presses into his upper back, too drunk to tell left from right.

“are you done?” comes a quiet, hesitant voice. ango, dazai registers. ango has seen him like this before, only once or twice, though. he later explained that oda thought ango to be more of a comforting presence, so he’d always send ango to check on dazai instead.

dazai shrugs, unmoving. his eyes are shut, his breaths coming in soft pants.

ango frowns. he opens his mouth to say something else when, of course, dazai gags again. ango’s arm darts out to redirect dazai’s head back over to the toilet, the rest of his body soon following suit.

he throws up again. and again.

ango’s whole arm wraps around dazai’s smaller body, mostly to hold him upright, but also for an attempt at comfort. he doesn’t say anything. his own body is starting to droop sideways, as holding someone else up while tipsy is far from easy. ango only turns his head away and waits.

soon, there’s a break in the retching, and ango glances over again. he finds dazai trembling now, white-knuckling the edges of the toilet, saliva dripping from his lips. ango’s heart nearly stops.

he looks so tiny.

his hand moves on some instinct, brushing dazai’s dark, unkempt hair out of his face. he can’t read dazai’s expression thanks to the bandage over his eye, but he can guess at it.

and then dazai heaves again.

ango clicks his tongue, maneuvers himself so he can better hold dazai, then stops as he hears something else. a high-pitched, quiet sound that ango could have easily mistaken for a rat. his chest twists again.

dazai is only dry-heaving now, but he still looks to be in pain with every movement. his trembling is only worsening. then, just as ango brings a hand to his back, he hears dazai murmuring. “no more...”

ango had vowed to stay silent, not wanting to upset a drunk higher-up, but his mouth moves before his brain can catch up.

“it’s alright,” he mumbles. the hand on dazai’s back rubs in tiny circles. “you’re almost done.”

“it hurts...” dazai trails off into another weak gag. it sounds like he can’t get a deep breath in.

ango’s stomach drops as dazai progressively becomes more pathetic. he’s seen him be ill, but he’s also seen him laugh it off afterwards before promptly heading home for the night. ango didn’t even think dazai had it in him to be so… pitiful. his heart genuinely twists at the sight.

“i… i know it hurts.” a rather stupid thing to say, ango thinks, but whatever. “try and breathe for a moment.”

it takes him a few tries, but dazai slowly starts to calm down. he can hardly pull his head out of the toilet before immediately sagging against ango with his entire weight.

it’s warm. dazai can’t help but loosely wrap his arms around ango’s waist, burying his face into his chest.

oddly enough, ango had never really thought about dazai’s age too much. he was a mafia member and friends with oda somehow, and that’s what mattered to him. he didn’t need to know any more than that.

yet now, with slow arms coming to hold dazai’s shivering, thin, cold body, ango truly understands. this is a child.

“i’m here,” ango murmurs, holding dazai against him. he wants to warm him up at least a little bit before they leave.

—

dazai’s memory of this is fuzzy in the first place, but he can really hardly remember what happened afterwards. he thinks ango took him home that night, unsatisfied with letting him wander back to his shipping container alone.

the one thing he does remember is how it felt to share a bed with ango. the way dazai curled up against ango’s chest, ango’s warm, soothing hand in his hair. how warm dazai felt.

now, dazai is twenty-two. his phone buzzes for the fifth time in ten minutes; he knows it’s kunikida. he’s late for work.

dazai pulls his head out of the toilet bowl, leaning back against the wall with shaky limbs. his stomach is screaming at him.

in his delirium, he mistakes atsushi’s number for kunikida’s and punches out a short message, then tosses his phone aside.

he can’t walk. he knows he’ll throw up again, so he might as well stay in the bathroom. it isn’t like he’s planning to do anything else today.

he blinks wearily, eyes heavy with exhaustion as he stares at the tile. and just as he shuts his eyes, he hears that low, gentle voice.

it’s alright.

dazai smiles a little. he grabs a towel from the floor, wraps himself in it and curls up on the tile. he’s warm from fever.

i’m here.