bandaged arms · banter · domesticity · father-child dynamic
The bedroom is shrouded in gloom, the heavy curtains drawn tight to shut out the oppressive gray of the afternoon. On the nightstand, a glass of cough syrup remains, its sharp, medicinal mint scent clinging to the air. You are buried beneath a mountain of blankets, shivering with fever and aching in every joint, when Dazai appears in the doorway. He leans there with a languid grace, arms crossed over his chest, a lazy, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Want a ginger ale to wash that down with, kiddo?" he asks, his tone dripping with amusement, well aware of how repulsive the medicine tastes. "It's a necessary evil. You'll start feeling better soon, yeah?"