Beast - Osamu Dazai

If Nakahara Chuuya — one of the top most executives of the Port Mafia, is called the left hand of the boss; then it goes without saying that you are the right hand. Just as scary, sometimes even worse.

If Chuuya is the hurricane that destroys towns after towns with its howling whirlwinds, then you are the tsunami that envelopes everyone entirely. Once and for all — like an oppressive silence. And yet it’s commonly accepted that destruction is prevalent regardless of which hand the boss chooses to use.

Everyone knows that the hands of the devil reach far and wide. Must be nice having two vessels of otherworldly entities on the tips of his fingers, they all murmur. And yet no one seems to mention how hard it is to actually maintain them, Dazai can’t help but think to himself.

Everyone in Yokohama can see the large and daunting building from wherever they stand, yet no one glances at it twice as they go through their day. A wise choice, by most. It’s sleek and definitely suspicious, neither the civilians nor the government officials ever directly mention it — in public, that is. Hushed whispers can only be so silent.

The boss of the Port Mafia resides at the top most floor of the main building. Anyone who has ever had the (dis)pleasure of being called up, for whatever reason it may be, knows for a fact that the silence on that floor is deafening. Except for when a certain red haired executive comes around, then one can hear bickering reach far and wide. But that wasn’t always the case, much like today.

The only sound that could be heard along the entire floor was that of your heals clicking against the cold marble tiles. After two knocks against the large doors, you enter Dazai’s office. You hand him the papers — strict and professional, like you ought to be. You’re a sub-executive afterall. By your own choice, of course. You had been offered the executive position far too many times, and yet you always declined. Harshly too, much to Chuuya’s disdain.

He was unable to comprehend it the first few times, and he even tried to knock some sense into you. He wanted you to understand that you were far too deep into this side of the world to continue thinking that you couldn’t cross a ‘certain’ line. You shouldn’t keep trying to balance your way as you continue to stride on the thin thread that separates the civilian world from the mafia one. You’re in too deep, and have done too much to continue acting as though you have a way out.

But your only response was a soft hum, which frustrated him even further. Perhaps more at himself than at you. You both were well aware that neither of you ever had a choice, no matter what the circumstances may be. No matter which road you chose, the destination always ended up here.

Although if Dazai willed it, you would be given the executive title in a minute. Whether you wanted it or not. Instead, he allows you to relish in the feeling of being able to make a choice. Some part of him, deep inside his fucked up sense of self — tainted by the shades of blood and things far darker — he almost feels like he owes this to you, at the very least. Even if it’s just for the sake of maintaining what remains of your moral integrity — your sanity, even.

Not that it changes much, you already perform all the executive duties as far as protocol is considered. Including being present in the meetings, guiding troops and having your own faction within the Port Mafia. It’s generally accepted by the entire organisation that you are equal to the executives, if not something more — to the boss, that is.

Dazai allows you to have a feeling of distance from the work that you do, the lives that you take, the sins that he makes you commit. Letting you wallow in the false sense of security that you could choose to step away any time. Somehow it leaves you a little sane and gives him a little more room to play with. Afterall, no one would enjoy a completely broken doll.

He enjoys humouring you from time to time. As if this whole play wasn’t written by him. As though he hadn’t willed every single interaction on this path into motion. As if he wasn’t the devil’s advocate, whispering the sins you were to commit with his hypnotising voice.

He needed you with him on this path. It was all for the plan he had threaded together, he tried to convince himself.

The plan, yes. But Dazai is well aware that isn’t entirely true. And sometimes, a paranoid part of him thinks that you do too. Know for a fact that more than any of the plans — he did this for himself. He brought you and caged you into this world carved out of sin just for his own selfish reasons.

Not for Oda, not for the book, not for the sustenance of the world or any of those idealistic reasons — but for himself. Afterall, he was never an idealistic man to begin with. He was just a boy when it all started. A boy who had given up far too much and for once, wanted something for himself. He wanted you.

And so he did. He kept you. Weaved you into his spiderweb of grand plans. He often thinks back to how he knew everything there was to know about you, before he even got the chance to meet you for the first time. There you stood under the cold harsh lighting of that deserted old lab. He remembers how the flashes of his other lives played all at once. It almost felt as though he was reliving the memories through the sparks of light.

It was making him sick. Being able to witness in such excruciating detail of how he got to hold you so tenderly, in those worlds from the book. It made him feel intense emotions that he couldn’t even begin to describe. All he could do was just glance at those memories that were undoubtedly his own — and yet felt like he was watching them dance through the other side of a glass door. They’re all so painfully clear and yet there is a huge barrier in between.

Dazai has always been well aware that he never should have brought you into this. He knows that he shouldn’t have tried to find some sort of replica of the emotions he felt, as he replayed all his other lives. But he just couldn’t help it. He has to keep you alongside him. Hadn’t he sacrificed enough in this life? You’ve been so good to all the other versions of him, can’t you treat him the same in this one? You’ll forgive him, right? You love him, right?

You have to. There’s no other way out.

.

Dazai’s mind undoubtedly wanders back to the first time you fainted from his touch. He knew it was going to happen — saw it as a staple part of you both meeting in all those worlds from the book.

He knew what was to come if he were to let his rough bandaged palm even slightly graze your warm one. You’d faint. Like you had in all the other worlds, of which he carried the heavy weight. Those memories all helped him create acute plans for this world. Yet, the ones that he cherished the most, the memories that weren’t a heavy burden to carry but instead some sort of salvation — the ones he replayed over and over again like a broken record in hopes to reach some sort of comfort — were the memories he shared with you.

In every world, your first meeting was something special, he kept those memories safely. Back when he was younger and the light in his eyes had not yet been entirely consumed — he used to find himself wondering how you both would meet in this world. How differently would it play out? It helped him distract himself from his surroundings and the heavy responsibilities. Those memories often flooded his mind as he gazed into nothing. In all of them, you always fainted when he first touched you. And after that too.

But, in all his other lives, it lessened over time, and eventually the fainting stopped. “It feels rather relaxing,” you had once said to him — in the original world. To the original version of him.

“It feels as though The Presence subdues for a bit, as if it were never there. Continue holding me like this, won't you?” you spoke to him so gently as you both layed on top of each other with his trenchcoat covering the both of you. It held so much comfort and warmth, like it was just you both in this world, rest all be damned. Dazai wished that adoration was directed to him and not the man of origin.

His heart aches at the thought. What could he do for you to talk to him the same in this world too? What would it take?

In all the other worlds — with time, you ended up building some sort of immunity, or rather you got used to his touch and even craved it. In every single world. Every world of the book, but this one.

You never seemed to have gotten used to his touch in this world. You still fainted. Every. Single. Time.

.

Dazai hates it. He’s well aware of the fact that this world is special — after all it’s the only one where Oda ends up living. It’s a world that has been handcrafted by him alone. Each and every thread has been woven with a purpose in mind. Each action has a motive behind it. Which is exactly why he needs to sustain it. Yet he can’t help it — the jealousy that fumes within him. Jealous of himself? Such a stupid reason. He knows that and yet—

“Boss, here’s the report of on the foreign mercenary group that recently surged up, as you requested. I have sent my men to look through their abandoned hideout, although I’m sure you can already imagine the outcome.” you say as you hand him the files.

Dazai doesn’t quite understand why you continue to put up the professional facade when it’s just the two of you here. Yet, he decides to humour you.

He glances at files with mild disinterest, and then at your hand. A thought occurs in his head — among many others. It’s indulgent. Entirely so. You will not enjoy it one bit. And yet he’s also well aware of his track record of never really listening to what you want. He knows this will hamper a few upcoming tasks and meetings. But when has he ever given a damn about those? And so he decides to indulge himself. He takes the report from your hands in a smooth motion and accidentally brushes the tips of his fingers against yours.

It’s a brief touch, and it all happens in the flash of a second. You noticed it, he realises. You saw his intent building up and yet you still offered to hand him the files rather than just placing them on his desk.

His ability is always active, as is yours. You lose consciousness in seconds.

And you fall.

Right into his arms, like he planned you would. He glances at your face, there’s a serene glow emanating from you. Something about you is always pulling him in. He’s well aware of how you both are so intervened in each other’s lives that perhaps it was fated. Maybe he’s not entirely to blame for everything, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on his part.

You look so relaxed like this, he thinks as he adjusts the both of you so that you can lay down in a more comfortable position. It’s often underestimated how tiring it must be to have the ability active at all times, especially one that is as draining as yours.

Perhaps, this could be an escape for you as well. Laying with him as both of your breathing falls into sync with one another. Or maybe he’s just cheating and controlling his heartbeat as he tries to come up with some valid excuse as to why he gave into his impulse. All while he continues to trace your face with his thumb. It’s a gentle motion, making sure to not disturb your slumber, though he doubts you’ll wake up from it. Your track record shows that you’ll usually be knocked out for the better half of the day.

The expression on your face is something he wishes to dissect. You look as though you’re in some dream far away from here. He wonders where you go when you lose consciousness. Will you ever take him with you? Doesn’t matter. He will follow you just the same.

Dazai can’t help but wonder what you would do if you found out about other worlds. Worlds where you weren’t led to such a life. Where he didn’t turn you into a weapon for his own motives. Would you hate him for it? When you are made to face all the other versions of you — the much happier, and brighter versions. Where in the light from your eyes hasn’t been entirely extinguished yet.

Dazai fears that you already know. Can’t help it when you both hold eye contact during brief meetings. At times he catches a glimpse of the space — somewhere in there — that he cannot reach. They often say that the devil’s arms reach far and wide, and yet he can’t help but feel there’s a large distance that he alone can’t cover, in his quest to reach you. (Dazai also knows that he is no devil. It has alwaye just been a title that was handed to him. He wonders if you know that, too.)

Afterall, you, too, have the look of someone who is hiding something. He understands the expression well enough — he has to meets those eyes every day in the mirror.

.

That’s one of the many reasons he prefers you like this. With your eyes closed and breathing steady. You don’t give him the all knowing gaze, that you usually carry. He gets to hold you close, without it eating him up from the inside. Some sick part of him likes having this power over you. Being able to hold it above your head any time he likes. He would never use it against you though. Not really.

Your breathing is rhythmic. A constant motion. He has memorised your breathing pattern over the years. To the point where it’s almost comforting to listen to it. Almost.

His hand hovers from your cheeks to sliding right at the base of your neck. Something swells inside of him. Something sinister. He can’t help but feel a little drunk. Drunk over the control he has over you right now — your life. He can continue to feel as guilty as he likes, but it’s no secret what exactly he’s guilty of.

Dazai gently steadies your head and moves it so that it’s resting on his chest. He then tries to bring his focus back to the papers that continue to lay on his desk, and then glances at the ones that fell on the floor. Lord knows how much that slug would nag him if he didn’t finish reading these by now. So annoying.

He tries to push his focus on reading them, but the comfort of having you so close against him is really distracting. It’s contrasting, really, how your body spreads such warmth against his cold one. Like a single candlelight that continues to glow in the cold stark night.

You both should do this more often, he thinks. Though you might end up hating him for it. But that won’t be an issue in the near future, considering what’s to come — the plans written in the book.

What will be an issue is Chuuya barging through the black doors and seeing you both in such a precarious position — then he might proceed to quite literally kill Dazai. No matter if he’s the boss of the Port Mafia or not.

Afterall, Chuuya is probably the closest companion you have in this world. You both make sure to look out for one another as much as you can. It’s almost as if you both have this air of understanding, that Dazai often feels disconnected from.

Is it because you both are vessels? Or because he uses you both similarly and keeps you both on leashes? Or is it some form of familial bonding that his emotional nerve receptors are far too fused out to understand?

Dazai doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that you don’t necessarily hate him. That you never did. He doesn’t know that you let him do as he wills. He doesn’t know that no matter how much he thinks of himself as the ‘mastermind’ it’s you who handed him the reins. The one that held the other end of the leash that was hung on your neck and placed it right into the palm of his hands.

.

“Men will be men,” The lady in the white lab coat had once said to you.

“They shall always believe that they were the ones who invented the wheel. They shall always come close to calling themselves ‘creators’ of it all. They do not understand.”

Neither did you, back then. All you could really remember were the sparks she sent flying towards you — no mercy.

To those people in the lab coats that stood behind the glass — observing you like you were some lab rat and noted down the reactions your body gave out cynically — you weren’t some kid. Not some seven year old that probably should’ve been playing in park with kids her age or discussing the latest episode of some show that always aired at six in the evening.

No, you were just a vessel. A means to an end. That’s all you were as they watched you writhing through the glass, taking in the after effects of the electricity coursing through your veins. Sometimes, you still feel the sparks travelling through your body and the night repeats. This time — it’s in your head. Yet it hurts all the same.

But what that lady didn’t understand was that Dazai was no man. He never felt like one, at the very least. No matter how many masks he puts on to fill in the gaps of self — that one hollow part of him never fills up. He’s afraid it never will.

He never felt connected to those around him — to humanity. The best he could have had was Oda, and he didn’t exactly get to experience that in this world. So, as a self preserving tactic, he tries to form some scrappy sense of comfort with what's left for him and take it from you instead. Some part of him felt like you know this too, and let it happen.

In some wild way it’s fitting, he thinks. It makes sense that this world was meant to be special. It’s the only one where Oda will be able to continue living and eventually write that novel. It’s the only one where Dazai will finally fulfill his long running wish. It only makes sense that there are innumerable amount of exceptions.

Not only are the shin-soukoku switched and roles have been exceptionally reversed, new anomalies continue to rise up as days go by. That’s part of the reason why he decided to make you part of the Port Mafia. To deal with those anomalies efficiently, since your ability was perfect to cut through them all.

.

If anyone were to barge in right now, they would be greeted with an extremely bizzare sight. The boss of Port Mafia, one of — if not the most feared man in Yokohama — gazing gently at you as his dark figure envelopes you completely. In some humourous way it almost looks like a black cat holding it’s prey close, making sure it doesn’t get snatched.

He likes it, he supposes. The way you look so serene in the low lighting of his office. How your head rests right next to his bandaged heart. He adores the way you your lips settle into a soft pout in your sleep. You seem much more honest with your expressions when you’re asleep than when you’re awake. You look so inviting, he just can’t help himself.

He’s in too deep — you’ve had to have put him under a spell of sorts. There’s no other logical explanation to the way you’ve made him do such illogical things. How could you have reduced him of all people — the demon prodigy and Mori’s successor into such a state? Since he was a child logic has been drilled into his very bones. Every strategy and it’s counter. The side of him that was built to be made a mafiaso has always been rational.

What he failed to take into account is that to you he’s just — Dazai. There’s no other valid explanation to how you’ve enamoured and caged his heart in the tender embrace of your palms, in every single world of the book.

So he gives in, he lets himself fall. He leans down to place a soft kiss onto your lips. With as much gentleness as he can muster up — given his disposition.

If Nakahara Chuuya — one of the top most executives of the Port Mafia, is called the left hand of the boss; then it goes without saying that you are the right hand. Just as scary, sometimes even worse.

If Chuuya is the hurricane that destroys towns after towns with its howling whirlwinds, then you are the tsunami that envelopes everyone entirely. Once and for all — like an oppressive silence. And yet it’s commonly accepted that destruction is prevalent regardless of which hand the boss chooses to use.

Everyone knows that the hands of the devil reach far and wide. Must be nice having two vessels of otherworldly entities on the tips of his fingers, they all murmur. And yet no one seems to mention how hard it is to actually maintain them, Dazai can’t help but think to himself.

Everyone in Yokohama can see the large and daunting building from wherever they stand, yet no one glances at it twice as they go through their day. A wise choice, by most. It’s sleek and definitely suspicious, neither the civilians nor the government officials ever directly mention it — in public, that is. Hushed whispers can only be so silent.

The boss of the Port Mafia resides at the top most floor of the main building. Anyone who has ever had the (dis)pleasure of being called up, for whatever reason it may be, knows for a fact that the silence on that floor is deafening. Except for when a certain red haired executive comes around, then one can hear bickering reach far and wide. But that wasn’t always the case, much like today.

The only sound that could be heard along the entire floor was that of your heals clicking against the cold marble tiles. After two knocks against the large doors, you enter Dazai’s office. You hand him the papers — strict and professional, like you ought to be. You’re a sub-executive afterall. By your own choice, of course. You had been offered the executive position far too many times, and yet you always declined. Harshly too, much to Chuuya’s disdain.

He was unable to comprehend it the first few times, and he even tried to knock some sense into you. He wanted you to understand that you were far too deep into this side of the world to continue thinking that you couldn’t cross a ‘certain’ line. You shouldn’t keep trying to balance your way as you continue to stride on the thin thread that separates the civilian world from the mafia one. You’re in too deep, and have done too much to continue acting as though you have a way out.

But your only response was a soft hum, which frustrated him even further. Perhaps more at himself than at you. You both were well aware that neither of you ever had a choice, no matter what the circumstances may be. No matter which road you chose, the destination always ended up here.

Although if Dazai willed it, you would be given the executive title in a minute. Whether you wanted it or not. Instead, he allows you to relish in the feeling of being able to make a choice. Some part of him, deep inside his fucked up sense of self — tainted by the shades of blood and things far darker — he almost feels like he owes this to you, at the very least. Even if it’s just for the sake of maintaining what remains of your moral integrity — your sanity, even.

Not that it changes much, you already perform all the executive duties as far as protocol is considered. Including being present in the meetings, guiding troops and having your own faction within the Port Mafia. It’s generally accepted by the entire organisation that you are equal to the executives, if not something more — to the boss, that is.

Dazai allows you to have a feeling of distance from the work that you do, the lives that you take, the sins that he makes you commit. Letting you wallow in the false sense of security that you could choose to step away any time. Somehow it leaves you a little sane and gives him a little more room to play with. Afterall, no one would enjoy a completely broken doll.

He enjoys humouring you from time to time. As if this whole play wasn’t written by him. As though he hadn’t willed every single interaction on this path into motion. As if he wasn’t the devil’s advocate, whispering the sins you were to commit with his hypnotising voice.

He needed you with him on this path. It was all for the plan he had threaded together, he tried to convince himself.

The plan, yes. But Dazai is well aware that isn’t entirely true. And sometimes, a paranoid part of him thinks that you do too. Know for a fact that more than any of the plans — he did this for himself. He brought you and caged you into this world carved out of sin just for his own selfish reasons.

Not for Oda, not for the book, not for the sustenance of the world or any of those idealistic reasons — but for himself. Afterall, he was never an idealistic man to begin with. He was just a boy when it all started. A boy who had given up far too much and for once, wanted something for himself. He wanted you.

And so he did. He kept you. Weaved you into his spiderweb of grand plans. He often thinks back to how he knew everything there was to know about you, before he even got the chance to meet you for the first time. There you stood under the cold harsh lighting of that deserted old lab. He remembers how the flashes of his other lives played all at once. It almost felt as though he was reliving the memories through the sparks of light.

It was making him sick. Being able to witness in such excruciating detail of how he got to hold you so tenderly, in those worlds from the book. It made him feel intense emotions that he couldn’t even begin to describe. All he could do was just glance at those memories that were undoubtedly his own — and yet felt like he was watching them dance through the other side of a glass door. They’re all so painfully clear and yet there is a huge barrier in between.

Dazai has always been well aware that he never should have brought you into this. He knows that he shouldn’t have tried to find some sort of replica of the emotions he felt, as he replayed all his other lives. But he just couldn’t help it. He has to keep you alongside him. Hadn’t he sacrificed enough in this life? You’ve been so good to all the other versions of him, can’t you treat him the same in this one? You’ll forgive him, right? You love him, right?

You have to. There’s no other way out.

.

Dazai’s mind undoubtedly wanders back to the first time you fainted from his touch. He knew it was going to happen — saw it as a staple part of you both meeting in all those worlds from the book.

He knew what was to come if he were to let his rough bandaged palm even slightly graze your warm one. You’d faint. Like you had in all the other worlds, of which he carried the heavy weight. Those memories all helped him create acute plans for this world. Yet, the ones that he cherished the most, the memories that weren’t a heavy burden to carry but instead some sort of salvation — the ones he replayed over and over again like a broken record in hopes to reach some sort of comfort — were the memories he shared with you.

In every world, your first meeting was something special, he kept those memories safely. Back when he was younger and the light in his eyes had not yet been entirely consumed — he used to find himself wondering how you both would meet in this world. How differently would it play out? It helped him distract himself from his surroundings and the heavy responsibilities. Those memories often flooded his mind as he gazed into nothing. In all of them, you always fainted when he first touched you. And after that too.

But, in all his other lives, it lessened over time, and eventually the fainting stopped. “It feels rather relaxing,” you had once said to him — in the original world. To the original version of him.

“It feels as though The Presence subdues for a bit, as if it were never there. Continue holding me like this, won't you?” you spoke to him so gently as you both layed on top of each other with his trenchcoat covering the both of you. It held so much comfort and warmth, like it was just you both in this world, rest all be damned. Dazai wished that adoration was directed to him and not the man of origin.

His heart aches at the thought. What could he do for you to talk to him the same in this world too? What would it take?

In all the other worlds — with time, you ended up building some sort of immunity, or rather you got used to his touch and even craved it. In every single world. Every world of the book, but this one.

You never seemed to have gotten used to his touch in this world. You still fainted. Every. Single. Time.

.

Dazai hates it. He’s well aware of the fact that this world is special — after all it’s the only one where Oda ends up living. It’s a world that has been handcrafted by him alone. Each and every thread has been woven with a purpose in mind. Each action has a motive behind it. Which is exactly why he needs to sustain it. Yet he can’t help it — the jealousy that fumes within him. Jealous of himself? Such a stupid reason. He knows that and yet—

“Boss, here’s the report of on the foreign mercenary group that recently surged up, as you requested. I have sent my men to look through their abandoned hideout, although I’m sure you can already imagine the outcome.” you say as you hand him the files.

Dazai doesn’t quite understand why you continue to put up the professional facade when it’s just the two of you here. Yet, he decides to humour you.

He glances at files with mild disinterest, and then at your hand. A thought occurs in his head — among many others. It’s indulgent. Entirely so. You will not enjoy it one bit. And yet he’s also well aware of his track record of never really listening to what you want. He knows this will hamper a few upcoming tasks and meetings. But when has he ever given a damn about those? And so he decides to indulge himself. He takes the report from your hands in a smooth motion and accidentally brushes the tips of his fingers against yours.

It’s a brief touch, and it all happens in the flash of a second. You noticed it, he realises. You saw his intent building up and yet you still offered to hand him the files rather than just placing them on his desk.

His ability is always active, as is yours. You lose consciousness in seconds.

And you fall.

Right into his arms, like he planned you would. He glances at your face, there’s a serene glow emanating from you. Something about you is always pulling him in. He’s well aware of how you both are so intervened in each other’s lives that perhaps it was fated. Maybe he’s not entirely to blame for everything, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on his part.

You look so relaxed like this, he thinks as he adjusts the both of you so that you can lay down in a more comfortable position. It’s often underestimated how tiring it must be to have the ability active at all times, especially one that is as draining as yours.

Perhaps, this could be an escape for you as well. Laying with him as both of your breathing falls into sync with one another. Or maybe he’s just cheating and controlling his heartbeat as he tries to come up with some valid excuse as to why he gave into his impulse. All while he continues to trace your face with his thumb. It’s a gentle motion, making sure to not disturb your slumber, though he doubts you’ll wake up from it. Your track record shows that you’ll usually be knocked out for the better half of the day.

The expression on your face is something he wishes to dissect. You look as though you’re in some dream far away from here. He wonders where you go when you lose consciousness. Will you ever take him with you? Doesn’t matter. He will follow you just the same.

Dazai can’t help but wonder what you would do if you found out about other worlds. Worlds where you weren’t led to such a life. Where he didn’t turn you into a weapon for his own motives. Would you hate him for it? When you are made to face all the other versions of you — the much happier, and brighter versions. Where in the light from your eyes hasn’t been entirely extinguished yet.

Dazai fears that you already know. Can’t help it when you both hold eye contact during brief meetings. At times he catches a glimpse of the space — somewhere in there — that he cannot reach. They often say that the devil’s arms reach far and wide, and yet he can’t help but feel there’s a large distance that he alone can’t cover, in his quest to reach you. (Dazai also knows that he is no devil. It has alwaye just been a title that was handed to him. He wonders if you know that, too.)

Afterall, you, too, have the look of someone who is hiding something. He understands the expression well enough — he has to meets those eyes every day in the mirror.

.

That’s one of the many reasons he prefers you like this. With your eyes closed and breathing steady. You don’t give him the all knowing gaze, that you usually carry. He gets to hold you close, without it eating him up from the inside. Some sick part of him likes having this power over you. Being able to hold it above your head any time he likes. He would never use it against you though. Not really.

Your breathing is rhythmic. A constant motion. He has memorised your breathing pattern over the years. To the point where it’s almost comforting to listen to it. Almost.

His hand hovers from your cheeks to sliding right at the base of your neck. Something swells inside of him. Something sinister. He can’t help but feel a little drunk. Drunk over the control he has over you right now — your life. He can continue to feel as guilty as he likes, but it’s no secret what exactly he’s guilty of.

Dazai gently steadies your head and moves it so that it’s resting on his chest. He then tries to bring his focus back to the papers that continue to lay on his desk, and then glances at the ones that fell on the floor. Lord knows how much that slug would nag him if he didn’t finish reading these by now. So annoying.

He tries to push his focus on reading them, but the comfort of having you so close against him is really distracting. It’s contrasting, really, how your body spreads such warmth against his cold one. Like a single candlelight that continues to glow in the cold stark night.

You both should do this more often, he thinks. Though you might end up hating him for it. But that won’t be an issue in the near future, considering what’s to come — the plans written in the book.

What will be an issue is Chuuya barging through the black doors and seeing you both in such a precarious position — then he might proceed to quite literally kill Dazai. No matter if he’s the boss of the Port Mafia or not.

Afterall, Chuuya is probably the closest companion you have in this world. You both make sure to look out for one another as much as you can. It’s almost as if you both have this air of understanding, that Dazai often feels disconnected from.

Is it because you both are vessels? Or because he uses you both similarly and keeps you both on leashes? Or is it some form of familial bonding that his emotional nerve receptors are far too fused out to understand?

Dazai doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that you don’t necessarily hate him. That you never did. He doesn’t know that you let him do as he wills. He doesn’t know that no matter how much he thinks of himself as the ‘mastermind’ it’s you who handed him the reins. The one that held the other end of the leash that was hung on your neck and placed it right into the palm of his hands.

.

“Men will be men,” The lady in the white lab coat had once said to you.

“They shall always believe that they were the ones who invented the wheel. They shall always come close to calling themselves ‘creators’ of it all. They do not understand.”

Neither did you, back then. All you could really remember were the sparks she sent flying towards you — no mercy.

To those people in the lab coats that stood behind the glass — observing you like you were some lab rat and noted down the reactions your body gave out cynically — you weren’t some kid. Not some seven year old that probably should’ve been playing in park with kids her age or discussing the latest episode of some show that always aired at six in the evening.

No, you were just a vessel. A means to an end. That’s all you were as they watched you writhing through the glass, taking in the after effects of the electricity coursing through your veins. Sometimes, you still feel the sparks travelling through your body and the night repeats. This time — it’s in your head. Yet it hurts all the same.

But what that lady didn’t understand was that Dazai was no man. He never felt like one, at the very least. No matter how many masks he puts on to fill in the gaps of self — that one hollow part of him never fills up. He’s afraid it never will.

He never felt connected to those around him — to humanity. The best he could have had was Oda, and he didn’t exactly get to experience that in this world. So, as a self preserving tactic, he tries to form some scrappy sense of comfort with what's left for him and take it from you instead. Some part of him felt like you know this too, and let it happen.

In some wild way it’s fitting, he thinks. It makes sense that this world was meant to be special. It’s the only one where Oda will be able to continue living and eventually write that novel. It’s the only one where Dazai will finally fulfill his long running wish. It only makes sense that there are innumerable amount of exceptions.

Not only are the shin-soukoku switched and roles have been exceptionally reversed, new anomalies continue to rise up as days go by. That’s part of the reason why he decided to make you part of the Port Mafia. To deal with those anomalies efficiently, since your ability was perfect to cut through them all.

.

If anyone were to barge in right now, they would be greeted with an extremely bizzare sight. The boss of Port Mafia, one of — if not the most feared man in Yokohama — gazing gently at you as his dark figure envelopes you completely. In some humourous way it almost looks like a black cat holding it’s prey close, making sure it doesn’t get snatched.

He likes it, he supposes. The way you look so serene in the low lighting of his office. How your head rests right next to his bandaged heart. He adores the way you your lips settle into a soft pout in your sleep. You seem much more honest with your expressions when you’re asleep than when you’re awake. You look so inviting, he just can’t help himself.

He’s in too deep — you’ve had to have put him under a spell of sorts. There’s no other logical explanation to the way you’ve made him do such illogical things. How could you have reduced him of all people — the demon prodigy and Mori’s successor into such a state? Since he was a child logic has been drilled into his very bones. Every strategy and it’s counter. The side of him that was built to be made a mafiaso has always been rational.

What he failed to take into account is that to you he’s just — Dazai. There’s no other valid explanation to how you’ve enamoured and caged his heart in the tender embrace of your palms, in every single world of the book.

So he gives in, he lets himself fall. He leans down to place a soft kiss onto your lips. With as much gentleness as he can muster up — given his disposition. It was supposed to be nothing more than a soft peck. What he didn’t see coming was how as your eyes began to flutter open and how you kissed him back.