Your blood is Mafia black. More so than anyone in this nation.
Higuchi's words from that afternoon rang in his head. It wasn't like he didn't know. It wasn't like he could ever truly forget. He knew better than anyone that no matter what he did, he would never be able to make up for his past, let alone erase it. After all, people couldn't run from their shadows. He would know. He used to work for its personification. It wasn't like he was trying to run per se. Rather, with how busy the Armed Detective Agency kept him, it was easy to bury most of his demons in work. Sometimes he could go days without thinking about it. But the past always had a way of catching up to him. And today was one of those days.
The sound of the front door unlocking roused him from his meanderings.
"Dazai?" Your voice called through the front entrance.
He closed his eyes and cursed silently. He wasn't ready to face you just yet.
The rustling of plastic bags, along with the thudding of hastily kicked off shoes, echoed loudly in the too-quiet apartment.
"I brought the things you asked for. It wasn't easy, given such short notice. And it's not 100% complete, so we'll have to do some of the dirty work."
Your footsteps receded into the kitchen.
Maybe he could pretend to be asleep.
"By the way, Kunikida wants your report on his desk by noon tomorrow. Tanizaki is still pretty shaken up by the whole incident, and Atsushi can barely look either sibling in the eye."
More rustling, as you placed the bags down.
No, that wouldn't do. You'll surely wake him to make sure that he properly did his work.
Dazai wasn't sure why you kept such a close eye on his work ethic. Yes, he was notorious for slacking off. Not because he was lazy, but because he thought most things trivial. Especially things that pertained to bureaucracy—paperwork included. However, he was always ten step ahead when it came down to the things that—at least he thought—actually mattered; things like closing cases and doing fieldwork. So, in his eyes, your constant surveillance was not only deemed unnecessary, but in this case, rather inconvenient.
"Naomi is the only one who's acting normally, even though she's the one who has the most reason not to," you continued, oblivious to his plight.
Your footsteps grew louder. He was running out of time.
He could play dead.
"I'm telling you, my bet's on her. It's always the ones without abilities that manage to catch us by surprise."
That struck a nerve. Again, he was reminded of Higuchi's assertion.
Sighing he sat up on the sofa and resigned to his fate. He didn't know why he tried. He learned long ago—much to his surprise, and later annoyance—that it was impossible to hide things from you. It didn't matter how many fake smiles he flashed or impassive expressions he donned, you were always able to see right through them. Those tricks may have been able to fool the world, but they weren't enough to fool you.
And Mori thought that he would become the next Mafia boss. Pathetic. If only his former employer knew, how easily Dazai's plans could all be foiled by a mere Armed Detective employee.
By now, you had entered the living room. Dazai was lounging on the sofa, eyes transfixed on the ceiling light. You froze when you caught his gaze. It took you less than half a heartbeat.
He never knew how you did it. How you could read him like an open book.
"Hey." Your voice softened immediately, as if a decibel louder might cause him to shatter.
Part of him desperately wished that you would yell at him. Hurt him. Break him. Anything to cause him pain. But part of him was grateful that you didn't. Because he wasn't sure he'd be able to take it.
You recognized that blank look in his eyes immediately. It was the one he got when he was thinking of something that happened light years ago. Honestly, it could have been any incident from his Port Mafia days. But somehow, you suspected you knew exactly which one he was mulling over right now.
"Are you okay?"
He hummed. It wasn't an answer. But, knowing Dazai, it was the most you'd get.
You hesitated before crossing the room to stand in front of him.
He looked away, and you felt your heart sink. Whether it was because he just confirmed your suspicions, or because he looked like a kicked puppy, you weren't sure.
"Dazai…" you started, hoping to chide his gaze to yours.
His eyes continued to burn holes into the tatami mat. His vision blurred. He wished Higuchi would have just kept her damned mouth shut. Because now he couldn't stop seeing it. The blood, the bodies, the discarded limbs. The screaming came next; their crying, and begging. He wanted to shut it out. All of it. And you.
Catching his chin between your thumb and forefinger, you gently tilted his head up.
"Don't," you whispered.
He finally met your stare, and you couldn't tell whether it was you or him who was being ripped apart. Maybe it was both.
"I'm sorry," he choked, tears leaking from his eyes.
You wished he weren't. You wished he were cruel, like he was all those years ago. Because then it would be easier to hate him. Because then you wouldn't have to deal with all of your fucked up emotions.
Because truthfully, you couldn't keep doing this. Because truthfully, it was killing you, just like it was killing him.
"I know." Your voice cracked, as you wiped futilely at his tears with your thumb.
"I want to take it back. Please, let me take it back."
He was sobbing now.
You dropped your hand from his face.
"You can't."
You didn't know what brought this on. Most days, you and Dazai were able to co-exist without the need to trudge up the past. Hell, you and Dazai did better than co-exist. You depended on one another. You were one of the rare few who could keep up with his train of thought. And he was one of the rare few who knew about your triggering past.
Actually, Dazai didn't just know about your tortured history. He played a large part of it.
You absently touched the angry raised marks on your shoulder. It was throbbing now. Whether it was on account of the rainy night outside, or the act of remembering the past, you weren't certain.
"Then kill me. Please. End my misery."
"Yokohama needs your brain right now, Dazai. Not your guilt. I put your stuff on the dining table."
When he made no motion to get up, you sighed.
In one swift move, you took off your shirt. Dazai looked away. Not because he was embarrassed. He'd seen you in a lot less.
You took his hand and slowly brought it to your stomach. It didn't matter if he couldn't see it. He could still feel them.
5 long scars ran across the skin.
"5 lashes for talking back to an executive. You made sure to wait between each one so that I'd feel the after burn."
He stared intensely at the floor beside you, figure unnervingly still.
You moved his hand down to your waist. A dozen brown spots dotted your flank.
"Iron poker for every time I began to lose consciousness. You burned a new patch of skin every time, to ensure the nerve ending wouldn't be desensitized."
"Stop," he croaked.
But you didn't. Maybe it was out of spite. Or more likely, it was because he needed this.
You placed his hand on your ribs. The bones felt uneven.
"I can't remember how many punches you threw at me for being uncooperative. But I remember that you'd break bone, every time."
"[Name]." A warning.
You dragged his hand further up to your collarbone. A neat row of X-shaped scars ran below your left shoulder.
"Pocket knife. An X for every ability I failed to copy."
"Why are you—"
"Shut up and listen."
You brought his hand to your left arm. 3 healed bullet holes, with matching exit wounds on the underside.
"I forget what these were for. They might've been collateral damage. You know, the occasional stray shot from your subordinates."
You ran his hand across to your right shoulder. The marred skin spread down your back side.
"Acid. For the one time I tried to escape."
You were a walking reminder of the man he used to be. He hated that about you. He didn't used to care. Good and evil used to make no difference to him. But somewhere along the way, things changed. Somewhere along the way, his past caught up to him.
Dazai gently trailed his hands down your molted back. You used to wonder if he thought it felt grotesque. You wished you didn't. Because why the hell should you of all people ever concern yourself over what he thought? You knew the answer. You just didn't want to admit it. Because how could you? After what he did.
After all that he did.
Dazai would have scoffed at your worries. He'd seen far worse, given his former occupation. Besides, it wasn't you who was disgusting, it was he. He was the one who did this to you.
He traced patterns into your skin.
You shuddered. Not because you wanted to shrink away from his touch, but because you wanted to succumb to it.
You hated what he did to you. What he made you feel. Because it was utterly unfathomable. Because it was wrong, on so many levels.
But above all, you hated yourself for harbouring such feelings for him. He took everything from you, he tortured you, he made your life a living nightmare, yet here you were, in his apartment, not only wanting to save him, but physically wanting him.
There was definitely something wrong with you.
He wrapped his arms around your midsection and brought you closer, burying his head in your stomach. It was plain to see that the guilt was eating at him. He wanted to make up for it, to love you, to cherish you, but he lost that right ages ago.
You placed a hand on his head, gently smoothing down his chocolate locks.
"You can't rewrite the past, Dazai. Stop apologizing for something you can't change. It doesn't help. It only makes you feel miserable."
"So then, put me out of my misery." His breath felt warm against your skin.
"You don't get to be selfish right now. And I didn't pay my contact double for a kilo of sensor jamming reagents for nothing. So, get to work. You owe me."
There were days where he wanted to kill you. To burn your body and scatter your ashes to the wind. Maybe then, he wouldn't constantly be reminded of the past he couldn't escape. But how long would his moment of peace last? How long would it be until another reminder waltzes into his life, and he spiral all over again?
The only reason he didn't act on his impulses was because he needed you. You were the one who kept him grounded when there was no ground to be found. You kept him accountable for his actions—for his past, present, and future. You kept him from digging his own grave, and as much as he wanted to jump, he knew he couldn't. Because you were right. Yokohama needed him. The world needed him. And he owed you.
He pulled you into his lap. You instinctively tightened your grip on his head to keep from falling. He looked up at you. You matched his gaze. His lips hovered inches from your own. You wanted to close that space. More than anything you wanted to descend on him; to feel his mouth on yours. But you couldn't. Because in this world, there were invisible boundaries you couldn't cross. And this just happened to be one of them. He may have seen you naked, but he could never be with you.
"Dazai," you warned.
He sighed.
"I know."
And just like that, he left the room, heading toward the kitchen, and leaving you alone with your thoughts.
You lay on the couch, fingers hovering over your lips.
Your eyes closed.
There was definitely something really wrong with you.
It would've been okay if torture was all Dazai did to you. At least then it could've been passed off as some form of Stockholm Syndrome. But Dazai had done something much more sinister than that. Something that should've ended any consorting between you two long ago. Something that made shame writhe inside of you whenever you felt your heart rate speed up at the mere mention of his name. And not because of fear. It would've been so much easier had it been fear. And for a while, it had been fear. For a while.
You weren't sure exactly when it was that the fear turned into excitement. Then anticipation. Then hope. But it was never something so pure, for your emotions always carried an undercurrent of something darker, something you and Dazai could never escape: guilt.
He regretted his past, just as you regretted your present.
You were in love with Dazai. The man whose genius could save millions, the man whose genius murdered millions, the man whose fingers pulled the trigger on your younger brother, the man whose fingers pulled the trigger on your parents.
His first mission.
His first kill.
His first demon.
You regretted every moment that you stayed in love with Dazai. Because that was every moment that you could never make up to your dead family.
Dead because of Dazai.
Yet, still you loved him. Plain as day.
Hell. How did you manage to fall so deep?
Tell the preachers not to pray. There's no angels where I go. [1]
[1] Song lyrics from "The Mystic" by Adam Jensen
Author's Note: First time writing angst. What do you think? Good? Bad? Horrendous? Please leave a review to help me gain greater insight into the mysterious and wonderful inner workings of your mind, and by extension, that of all humanity! No, but seriously, any kind of feedback is forever welcomed!