The dullness of the room weighs heavily against Chuuya's caring hand, partly weighing to a painful press against Dazai and partly pushing Chuuya's muscles for maintenance.

Blood runs hazardously down Dazai's pale arm, dripping onto the pristine white tile as emotion slowly drips back into his eyes. Chuuya dab's carefully at the streams of blood and their sources— long, deep cuts.

"You need to stop," Chuuya whispers, clutching Dazai's wrist, gaze not rising from the pad of tissue soaking in blood, "I'm serious. Promise?"

Dazai shifts to look upward at Chuuya, at the kneeling man attending the lying man's injury, "Promise."

Chuuya's eyes narrow. Fucking liar, they hiss at him, and rightfully so— Dazai's a liar to the bone. That's why he tries to reach it with his own equipment.

"Fucking liar," Chuuya spits, never much been one for leaving things peaceful and unsaid. His mind is his mouth, and his mouth is his mind.

Blood soaks up into the pad of tissue like Dazai's promise; shrivelling like a raisin, devoid of all or at least most meaning. He'll never stop, not by Chuuya's request anyway.

The promise lies, hollow and angry, against the stained tiles of the bathroom floor.