Chapter Text
Dazai has a very complicated relationship with vomiting.
Sure, everyone does, but this is a long complicated relationship, more of a marriage than anything.
Whether he's nine and spasming with each gag as he vomits into a bucket by his bed, hairs standing on end and a sharp burning in his stomach, only comforted by the gentle pressure of his mother's hands stroking his forehead or sixteen and having a friend shove their fingers down his throat to make him throw up the pills he's just swallowed, cold tile underneath him seeming to freeze him from the outside in, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead and drool sticking to his chin and dribbling down his neck.
Dazai Osamu has a complicated history. It sucks, it really really does. That horrible burning sensation in his throat, rough and scratchy when you dribble bile into a toilet and how strange it smells… but, he doesn't know, it's silly but he almost finds it to be purifying. A holy act of devotion to his own sick need to perpetuate his own suffering.
He always feels reborn when he's sick, cleansing his body from the inside out. Getting rid of sticky, heavy lard lodged inside of him and tainting what could be perfect and right now Dazai needs pure.
Knuckles aching red raw and fresh bruises blooming on his thighs from his tightly he's gripping them, hunched over in his shower at ungodly hours trying to flex his stomach to just get it all out, he swears he can still feel something in his stomach just waiting to be freed.
The raw, abraded skin of his knuckles does comfort him deep down. When he was a child his mother would always call the fresh skin underneath a healing scrape his “baby skin,” and would kiss the pinkish skin of his knees or arms or face after he’s fallen over to “help it grow into big and strong skin.”
He often wishes that he could be made out of “baby skin” that needs to be kissed better, and he’s tried. Every futile attempt to rip open his skin, sobbing into his pillow wishing for his mother to come and find him here, to kiss away the hurt and soothe him back to sleep but Dazai isn’t a baby anymore and that woman is nowhere to be found.
The spray of water is uncomfortable, spurting dizzyingly hot water all over his face and fingers. Thick globs of salvia dripping down to his elbows and splitting against the porcelain.
Everything is so nauseatingly wet, teeth still sore from the cold water he's just chugged only a temporary distraction from the horrid gurgles in his stomach.
He really wished he was quiet during this.
The noises are the worst part. Like a sick sense of eroticism creeping into everything he does. It only serves to make him feel worse, the harsh spray of hot water on his back turning almost painful as water taints his freshly styled hair and drops down his neck.
Any semblance of pretty sinking down the drain along with the chunks of watery vomit.
Ice cream tastes sickly sweet coming back up, almost just as good as the first time. Tainted by the bitter, acrid taste of stomach lining.
Almost
Dazai finally gives up and turns the water off when the ache in his stomach from gagging gets to be too much. Not even bothering to dry off before unlocking that special room in his one bedroom apartment.
Untouched, pure. Left just as he left it, haunted by the ghost of the man who changed Dazai's life. It’s almost like a museum, Dazai always feels like a monster walking into this room.
Filthy, slimy, horrid. He sinks onto the floor, chest flush to Oda’s duvet covers, and closes his eyes like a prayer.
God, he doesn't want to go into work tomorrow.