He has a recurring dream. In that dream he's in a doctor's office, all white rubber floors and and cold electric light. As far as he can see the room is full of an infinite number of bluish screens separating hundreds and hundreds of beds. He's sitting at a desk not seeing but rather hearing the patients lying in beds, wailing, begging for mercy. Then out of nowhere Mori appears, attending to them, one by one, feeding them pills, administering IV's, telling them that they can't die, not now, not quite yet, they still have to live, the interrogators will hear from them on the next day, the day after that, next week, the coming month. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night, paralyzed, unable to move, hearing whispers, he senses a familiar presence behind him, but he's immobilized, he can't turn around. When he he snaps out of this nightmare and the reality returns to its normal shape, he curls up and laughs bitterly into his pillow, thinking how stupid of him it is to agonize over a trauma that he never suffered.
He's always known better than to let his guard down around Mori. The man who wouldn't miss the opportunity to take advantage of him, only to reassure him later in a cold mocking voice that the results of his examination were positive, that he's a healthy and strong boy with bright future ahead. And who knows, maybe his future would have been brighter or at least easier, had he given in back then. But the very thought of letting that man into his life like this, makes his insides turn. He likes to regard this as his personal victory, no matter how small it was. A broken piece of his childhood that he managed to salvage, that he always carries with him. And so when the time comes, it gives him strength to walk away.
Initially all he cares about is riling Chuuya up, that's all he thinks about when he hits up on Kouyou. He's loud and not in the slightest subtle about it. Kouyou seems amused at the little brat's audacity, the goofy antics that will soon become his second nature. He's very young and he thinks little of what he does, he thinks little of everything, he has a whole life before him, a world of endless possibilities. Or that's what he fooled himself into believing, because looking at Kouyou's naked body, he suddenly realizes how wrong he was. As the vulnerability of his position dawns on him, he curses himself for having been naive enough to believe himself to be somehow different. Recognizing his weakness, Kouyou grabs his hand and guides him, cradling him to her chest. There's something infinitely mortifying about their closeness as she embraces him, pulls him in.
It goes on for years. If he chooses to worship her she becomes his strict goddesses, if he decides to be cruel she accommodates him in becoming his ready victim. No matter what he does she always gives in, filling in the empty spaces between them. The steadfast logic of it all is nauseating, it feels unreal, like a story that was told over and over again, and acted out countless times by people before him. He has an unsettling feeling that in essence his life and relationships have nothing to do with him, that there's deep water between him and other people, a wild river with no bridge over it. This realization hurts enough to make him want to keep coming back, and night after night he ends up in her arms, anger and sadness washing over him like waves.
He wants to keep it all away from Oda. He's good at deception after all, he opens his mouth and lies start flowing effortlessly, insubstantial like cigarette smoke carried away by the wind. But it's not that easy with Oda. In Oda's presence Dazai can only stay quiet. And the silence they share, he sometimes thinks that this silence is affecting him in some strange way, that at any point he'll snap if he's forced to endure any more of it, and when he's feeling like the strain is too much and he will cave in under it at any moment that's when Oda breaks it. He usually looks up from his drink, tells Dazai about something that happened to him that day and Dazai listens, relieved, suddenly free of the compulsive need to destroy, taking in everything, accepting things that otherwise would cause in him an outburst of caustic cynicism.
They measure the passage of time in whiskey shots, it's one long evening before they decide to call it a night. Dazai's drunk, and Oda offers to walk him home. Dazai rests his weight on the other man, smiling a mischievous smile to himself, feeling like a kid with one hand in a cookie jar, thinking that he can't be as drunk as he looks if he still can appreciate Oda's closeness. He hides his face in the warmth of Oda's coat, taking in the other man's smell, occasionally turning his face to look up into his eyes.
They get to Oda's apartment because it's closer. His apartment is small, bordering on dingy, Dazai notes in his hazy state of mind knowing this to be the result of his friend's persistent refusal to make a proper use of his ability and take well paid missions. He's lying on the futon that Oda prepared for him, watching the beams of headlights from the restless street below crawl across the ceiling above his head, listening to the running water from Oda's shower. He imagines them both living together somewhere far away in a house, on a night like this one, sitting accross from each other on a terrace under a starry sky. He imagines all that and and thinks that maybe life wouldn't be so unbearable if they could - but his head is spinning, he loses his train of thought, trying not to feel sick.
Dazai teases Akutagawa when he refuses to undress for him. Akutagawa insists on keeping himself covered, but he does that not out of any sort of furtive prudishness. Dazai sees through him, grabs his hair, telling him he won't be able to use his ability tonight any time soon anyway and tears Akutagawa's shirt off. Pinning him down to the cold concrete floor he looks fim in the eye, and finds his gaze distant and lost in the painful pleasure. Dazai shudders recognizing that ever present deeply unsettling quality in his eyes, something that whenever their eyes meet makes Dazai think of black beetles trapped in amber, some prehistoric insects, that evolved among archaic predators in a different incomprehensible dimension, something that should have been long forgotten and disappeared but instead continued to exist due to a freak accident, buried alive under layers of golden resin. Dazai feels it, it's in Akutagawa's blood, in the fabric of the muscles and sinews that make his body move, so deeply ingrained that even years of deprivation in the streets couldn't beat it out of him. And it enrages Dazai. If anyone cared question his methods he would just laugh and tell them that Akutagawa is just incredibly slow and dealing with a special case like that calls for special measures.
But he can pretend all he wants, keeping up the pretense of mentorship, until he meets Akutagawa's unwavering searching gaze and he snaps. He knows that they won't be able to go on like this for long, that at this rate it'll be either him or Akutagawa to kill the other first. He's not certain if it's his suicidal tendencies or just plain sadism, but he sure is willing to test Akutagawa's limits.
Maybe it's the familiarity of it all, the nauseating smell of disinfectants reminding him of the white rooms he keeps revisiting in his nightmares that make it feel almost nostalgic. He's seen Yosano use her ability once before. He starts coming to her office telling her jokingly her ability is relevant to his interests, that he'd like to see more of it. She gets irritated. He discovers that it's amazingly easy to get under her skin. He tells her he heard she can do wonders and it's a shame she won't be able to assist him the way she does with all the other ADA members. Her fury is lethal, but she menages to control herself, and instead of slashing his guts, she stuffs him with an assortment of pills that make him black out and give him bad breath and a splitting headache next day.
Lying on the examination table, feeling his muscles go numb with all the anesthesia he's been injected with, blinking in the bright light of the lamp he tells her he wouldn't mind receiving her standard treatment. Taking deep measured breaths, feeling like he's not getting enough oxygen he laughs giddily and tells her she's a witch sucking the life power out of him. He's convinced the doctor is a little charlatan, all she knows about is giving anesthesia shots and bashing people's brains out. They probably make the worst come out in each other. They could perhaps marry one day, he thinks, sliding his hands up her tights, her body yielding to him, the tips of his fingers feeling cold against her skin.
He's at that awkward age, well into his twenties but not yet in his thirties. He passes his time.