Work Text:
October
The change of seasons, of death and rebirth, and the cyclical shiver of the breeze through the streets. A wind that kisses rather than bites, a meekness to the gentle breeze that differentiates it from winter's storm and February's frost. Rather, in October, the air merely drafts. Simply makes itself known in the rustle of dead leaves over cracked cobblestone, and the shadows of the remaining leaves shimmering over the ground in golden bokeh when the sunlight hits it just so.
There's something oddly nostalgic about it all.
As if with the next step, Dazai will be able to smell the bitter fragrance of coffee beans and nutmeg that holds a bit too much cream. Will be able to hear the sound of a golden bell chiming in the distance, in a life he doesn't know, connected only by the scarlet and sapphire in shared veins. Innate memories of a plant that doesn't belong, of a child swinging over a table with a chiming giggle, all carved into the curves of the wrought iron fence at his side.
His lips lower without thought.
He doesn't visit this side of town often.
Yet here he is in the middle of October afternoons, walking down the quaint streets of the arts district, watching the tips of his loafers as he navigates the overturned cobblestone paths. The area isn't as busy at sunset, the final flares of the afternoon fading with the onset of green-tint evening. Even the ivy of the sky leaves an acidic taste beneath the tongue as the detective scrapes the flavor from the inside of his cheek, the skin bulging in response as if he's lost in thought.
Maybe he is lost in thought.
Or maybe he's just lost.
Can it really be called 'lost' when a person doesn't wish to be found?
At the next wispy breeze, Dazai pauses in the center of the broken sidewalk, his head twisting with the wind as a few leaves roll by, joining the breeze in its journey nowhere. Chocolate curls beg to join as the strands flop over the detective's brow, brushing against the tops of his eyelids, and softly pawing at his turned cheek. A slender hand slips from the warmth of his pocket, the skin flushing pink with the cool air before he flattens a curl behind his ear, nose crinkling with the unnecessary reminder to finally schedule a cut.
Unconsciously, the brunette tucks the strand behind his ear a second time, allowing the remaining curls to tangle over his forehead and brows when the wind blows again, pulling the warm scent of herbs alongside it. There's a faint aroma of butter and fats that are dragged behind the breeze, the air warming with the phantom heat of a rolling stove and overworked kitchen as Dazai continues to walk forward. To follow the scent growing richer with every step, the umami aroma of blooming spices tossing into the pot warmed by the setting sun on the horizon; brightening the perfume of meat and vegetables the closer he comes to the final destination.
To the little restaurant accidentally cast off to the far side of town as the city grew around it, leaving ivy-withered brick behind. Yet despite the rows of cracked pavement, there's something endearing about the patches of emerald grass growing from the rubble. How the concrete has been overtaken by cashmere grass and weeds masquerading as flowers, and the wrought iron of the fences flakes, revealing a dull silver beneath the black lacquer. Even the sign over the door is carved into a dilapidated wooden plank, raw bark lining the perimeters, and the words faded far past their prime.
It's an overpriced, mangy, upscale restaurant in the most inconvenient area of town...
Dazai's chin lifts, soft curls water-falling toward the nape of his neck as he strains to read the sign, ignoring the stinging heat of his fingernails in his palms.
It's exactly Akutagawa's taste...
The next bite of the wind is deceptively glacial, drawing goosebumps to the surface of tan skin as Dazai's fist closes tighter in the lingering silence. In the quiet he's cast by himself, and there's no one else to blame but the weeds, and yet somehow that is a better sensation than whatever this fire swirling in his palms happens to be.
Whatever this emptiness in his chest happens to be. Placed beside No Longer Human but not quite dead, a heartbeat that pumps blood on occasion, and can therefore be classified as living despite the stench of decay it's accumulated. Despite the fact his throat is too dry to swallow it down and he's too stubborn to throw it up so all it can do is linger in the in-between of his own creation. Crafted by the drafting wind that tugs at the bottom of his coat in encouragement, four fingers wrapping around the newly sewn patch, and the titanium threads that surround it. Threads that can't be unraveled by winter winds or nauseating unease.
Threads that were sewn by stronger hands than his and somehow that thought, that memory, is enough for Dazai's chin to drop as he takes the first step toward the wrought iron door. Toward the overwhelming scent of oil and meat, toward the sizzle of pans that can be heard beyond the door, and the clatter of dishes and light conversation humming in the background. The first step toward a doorknob worn bronze by use and a wooden sign that hollowly thumps against the building with the wind. Toward the scratching swirl of leaves on the ground, golden bells above the entry, the growing pit in the depths of his rotted soul, toward-
The door opens.
Fuck why is it so quiet?
Or is it just that his head has finally stopped spinning? Fallen silent with the introduction of low candlelight and muted conversations, elegant and hushed, the clink of porcelain no longer as ear piercing as it was in the purgatory of the sidewalk. Overhead, a silver bell chimes four times, a snowfall twinkle oddly reminiscent of the winter months. Its song drifts through the crowded restaurant, solemnly introducing the detective at the doorstep.
Despite the restaurant's quaint exterior, the interior is drenched in decadence, espresso wood beams twisting around blood velvet drapes and the starlit sparkle of champagne flutes. A few waiters dressed in black waltz between the circular tables placed around the floor, their soft cotton covers pooling on the ground to detail each fine-pressed slope and wrinkle of the design.
As the detective lingers in the entryway, his eyes gradually adjust to the low candlelight, allowing him to examine the intricacies of the restaurant. An opulent chandelier swings in the center of the room, casting glittering shards of white-tint light, of shooting stars, over each table, the diamond specks sinking to the bottom of a raised wine glass with a fizzing sparkle.
Chocolate eyes scan the remainder of the room, sticking to the back of a waiter as he makes his rounds, staining the tops of three tables, and smearing over the furrowed brow of an irritated mistress. Bits of entertainment to ease the flutter in the center of his chest as he awkwardly rocks on his heels, unable to disperse the energy begging him to run. To turn back the way he came, to silence the alert of the bell, and disappear into the hastily encroaching night. If he left now, no one would know he arrived, he could go back home, pretend this never happened-
Dazai pauses, brows dipping at the thoughts scurrying behind his eyes, clawing at the base of his skull in their attempt to escape. To avoid the encroaching guilt flooding behind each overactive sentence, each selfish aim to exonerate himself without needing to face the judgment of the jury,
of the victim on the stand...
"How many are in your party?"
At the sound of a voice, Dazai jumps, his neck snapping with the unexpected tone materializing at his side.
A young man gifts a short smile, the expression fading faster than it came when his lips settle into stasis. A hint of irritation crinkles beside his eyes when his lip twitches into another smile out of habit. "How many are in your party?" He repeats, barely aware of the other's hesitation as he bends behind a wooden podium, retrieves a leather-bound menu from beneath the desk, and slaps it against his chest with a cock of the head.
When Dazai only lingers, the host smiles, green eyes shutting tightly with a forced grin as his head tips impossibly further. Temples nearly at his shoulder, the younger steps away from the podium, tapping his nails quickly on the back of the menu. "Sir, your party," he repeats for a third time, puncturing the remark with another step forward and four rapid taps to the back of the menu now clutched tight to his chest.
With the next step forward, Dazai takes a step back. "I'm meeting someone," he murmurs, lips barely parting as the two stare at one another in the low lights, the glimmer of the chandelier twirling in sleep-deprived irises. "My name is Dazai, they should be here already," he adds when the host doesn't move from his place uncomfortably close to the brunette, leeching the stench of butter-ruined cologne entangled with workday sweat.
The hostess takes a step back, his shoulders snapping upright with the answer as the room visibly brightens, his fabricated grin stretching until wrinkles claw at the edges of his cheeks. Without a word, the younger turns on his heel, his work shoes clinking on the polished tile as he walks into the depths of the restaurant with a half-dead mackerel on his heels.
As the two walk through the restaurant, there's an unnatural blur that blankets the room, blocking out the expressions of those around them. Smearing the room into dots of shadow and light, white paint accents, and the dramatic hues of baroque portraits. Sharp strokes of the hand mimic the high-pitched chime of clinking glasses. Fuzzy blends of pigment bleed into the overwhelming curtains. A world separated by nothing more than cream-cotton tables and the path of the polished floor.
Dazai follows wordlessly behind, allowing the host to weave the two between raised platters and hustling waiters, guiding them deeper into the stomach of the restaurant. Into the belly of dreaded beasts as the room grows faintly darker, the chandelier light dimming the further they wander as the chatter begins to fade, and soon there is only the ichor of the drapes for company. Only the dim rumble of a nearby fire, its scarlet glow clawing away at the bricks of a hearth cast to the side, dragging its light from the cover of popping wood.
It illuminates the private area of the restaurant, with only a few tables occupied in the back of the building. From the sparse bodies they pass, a majority of the patrons appear to be men in varying suits. Burgundy and plum blend into the shadows, noticeable only by the white contracts sat in front of them, and the muttered words of business that pass through stringent lips.
Dazai's head owlishly surveys the room, his chin tipping toward the sky and the deep wooden beams that crisscross over the high ceiling. He barely notices when the host stops, the thump of the leather menu on cotton the only indication that they've arrived before the man leaves, deserting Dazai to the mercy of the night.
To the mercy of the man before him.
Dazai swallows.
The creak of his chair is deafening.
But it's the only noise that falls from a devil and a freed dog, and the ripping threads of the broken leash between them. Red strands unwanted, torn by the teeth in a desperate attempt to flee. Yet in a dim backroom on the far side of town, the two meet despite the blood on one's hands. Despite the bruises on the neck of the other.
Dazai's hands slip beneath his chair, lifting it slightly as he scoots himself closer to the stand-alone table in the far corner of the restaurant. The wood is unnaturally heavy, the velvet cushion doing nothing to ease the discomfort settling over the table, marring the once-pure hues of the soft-cotton. Or maybe it's this unnerving guilt that stains the table black, that welds bourbon stares to the floor unable to rise in the presence of his sin. Of his overbearing mistakes that weigh on slender shoulders, forcing the bone to buckle as he resists the urge to squirm. Rather, Dazai places his forearms on the table with a gentle thump in a piss-poor attempt to fucking stay.
To spit out his apologies even if it chokes. Even if he suffocates.
"Aku-"
"Can I start you off with any drinks today?" A chipper voice descends on the table. No older than twenty, a young girl stands at the edge of the table with a menu clasped to her chest and a retail smile carved into painted lips. The girl lingers uncomfortably close to the edge of the table until the wood leaves dents in the skin of her thighs, a notch forming on her black denim when she takes a step backward with a grin.
Dazai only blinks. "Do you have whiskey?" He murmurs as he watches the girl at his side. "Over ice," the comment trails softly behind a dull tongue, the older's brows furrowing with the girl's curious movements as if hypnotized by the gentle rock of her heels.
Dark eyes lower from across the table, an expression lingering in Akutagawa's gaze before it's hastily wiped by the raising of a menu. "Sake, warm," the guard dog orders, the demands of the mafia still sitting on the caps of his teeth marring his words with tinges of black. Of blood that drips over faltering lips when the mafioso's posture droops, a forced casualness to the gesture that distracts from the scarlet growing in his cheeks. "...Please," he mutters, cheek whipping to avoid Dazai and the waitress, and his own embarrassment.
Yet the waitress doesn't seem to notice, only grabbing the still-upright menu from Akutagawa's hand and placing it in the accumulating pile propped against her chest. "That's a whiskey and sake. I'll give you a moment to glance over the menu.” With a final smile, the waitress turns on her heel, disappearing into the dark of the dining area.
Neither's gaze leaves the fading speck of black, the two feigning interest in the waitress's descent if only to avoid the silence lapping at the edges of the table. The incoming tide is unavoidable, and yet their flickering stares continue to roam the dining area, catching at the rafters, and waltzing around the flicker of the hearth.
Tiptoeing around one another, bandaged fingers pick at the cotton tablecloth, rubbing the material between his forefinger and thumb until the fabric heats beneath his touch. Until the material warms enough to resemble the blood he can no longer spill, the comforting drip of ichor down his thumb wrapped tight in anticipation of tonight.
Dazai inhales, his shoulders shaking with the effort before he drops the cloth, palms falling to the table with a dull thump that severs their distractions.
That forces them to meet. To actually greet the guest across the way, the chipped mirror whose silver ripples and distorts, sloshing the stomach with its discomfort. "Thank you for meeting me," Dazai acknowledges with a roll of his shoulders, straightening his posture against the back of the chair.
Obsidian glowers. "Did I have a choice?" Akutagawa quizzes, the phrase, the objection, coughing from the back of his throat with a scoff. With a bitter shake of black hair as the mafioso pinches the tablecloth between his fingers, unknowingly mirroring his ex-mentor in his discomfort."When were you ever fond of free will, Dazai?"
"I-" Dazai starts, before pausing, his throat closing around whatever excuse could be mined from the remnants of silver still on his tongue. Rather, the detective slouches into his seat, plunging a hand into the warmth of his pocket as he watches his former protege without a word. As he examines the little intricacies sewn into his creation. How Akutagawa nervously scratches a nail against the tablecloth, how his lips quiver around the edges, fighting to uphold the image of the mafia's dog, unaware of the weight that leaves skinny shoulders shivering and bruised, pretending all is well.
But Dazai can see the wounds, can see the subtle tremors that cascade down the younger's fingers stilled by the pinch of the tablecloth. Movements trained by his hand, disguises taught by his tongue, his teeth, carved by the back of his hand, and it's Dazai's turn to clench his fist around the tablecloth begging the fabric to ease the rough edges of this night. "Still," Dazai mutters to the table, head downcast and chin nearly tucked in his chest, small displays of weakness, quiet acts of humility. Something safe. "Thank you."
Before Akutagawa can respond, the waitress returns alongside the chiming clink of glass. "Whiskey and," she drags the word, slowly removing the ceramic vase from the center of her serving platter. "Sake, can I get you anything else?"
Dazai is the first to answer, a winning smile smearing over his lips flattened with a bite before the taste of his own disgust can muddle his expression. Instead, Dazai leans forward, propping an elbow onto the table with a weighted thump that rattles the glasses on the surface. The brunette tosses the side of his cheek onto the flat of his raised knuckle, his own fabricated smile carving into his lips when he greets the waitress, eyes crinkling to sell the act in its entirety."We'll just have the chef course, no mayonnaise," he adds with another overacted grin and further tilt of the jaw as his arm wavers under the shift in weight. "I'm not a big fan," another grin, another unbalanced dig of his cheek into his fist as he bounces his attention from the waitress to Akutagawa.
To the dog a growl away from a bite.
Akutagawa's browbone furrows, the corners of his lips downturning, twitching with an expression that can only be classified as disgust. "What a coincidence," Akutagawa grumbles, eyes narrowing as he glares at the jester across the way. At the man who can't treat anything but his own misery as a matter worth mentioning. "Neither am I," the brunette spits, snarling the phrase behind clenched teeth and an annoyed turn of the cheek, sealing away what begs to be said. To be cast into the open, into this silent abyss draped between them so ironic that it hurts.
Unaware of the words staining the table, the waitress gathers the remaining menu from in front of Dazai. "Someone will bring that right out, enjoy." And for the second time tonight, the two are left alone, trapped between soft-cotton and dark stares.
Within obsidian eyes lowering to the side, tracing the shimmer of light twirling from overhead. Akutagawa doesn't, he can't, face Dazai, not yet. Not when all that stands between white cotton and the stain of black blood is the grit of his teeth. "That is an absurd amount of food for two people," Akutagawa mutters beneath his breath, gaze never leaving the swirling dash of the lights. The mafioso removes his elbow from the table, drawing the limb close to his chest in learned comfort, accidentally shielding himself when Dazai subtly moves.
Dazai straightens, niceties plunging into the folds of the fabric when he bluntly explains. "Because you only eat if there's excess," the murmur joins the rest, floating into the void of the dim restaurant before the care can be found in that statement. "So," Dazai leans into the back of his seat, legs stretching and head owlishly swiveling for a distraction. His hands dig into his pockets a third time, picking at the inner lining of the coat, and pretending the fabric pulls away like skin. Like the flesh of his ruined thumb still healing from his abuse as his nail scratches at the over-wound bandages without thought, merely following the track they've always taken. "Work? Anything interest-"
He's cut off by the clink of glass, by the crashing thump of ceramic against the table when Akutagawa pours and pounds back a shot of sake. "Why are we here?" The phrase winces, stinging with the residual burn of scorching wine down the back of the throat, soothed by a quiet cough into the shoulder.
A subliminal message lost on red-tint ears when Dazai begins to squirm. "To catch up!" The brunette animatedly pipes up, his entire being following the phrase from the pit of his stomach as he straightens with a grin. Dazai leans forward until he mirrors the waitress, the edge of the table digging into his stomach until the skin dents, and the dull ache accumulating around the pressure distracts him from this fucking night.
From the incessant urge striking through the bones of his hands willing them to curl. To scratch at the edge of his thumb until the skin gives way and his regrets can bleed from black to a scarlet true. Something he can be proud to yield. But the mask is too heavy, the restaurant too dark to face fears of this caliber, and Dazai tumbles into old routines tried and true. A comedy to distract from the tragic circumstances surrounding dinner with an acquaintance on the far end of town. "It's been too long, don'tcha think?" Fanged smiles, the dart of a dry tongue over his top lip, licking the salt from his syllables. "We never see each other-"
Dazai never finishes.
Because the chair speaks in his place.
The scratch of wood across the floor drags, deafening and expensive, the final nail in the coffin as Akutagawa rises from his seat without a second glance. "Splendid," brow bones rise, a hint of a comedy surrounding the blunt phrase as his eyes minutely widen in anticipation for the end. For the first clap to signify the close of the credits, the ushering of the fucking clown off the stage, releasing the audience from their chains with the final bow. With the gift of freedom unwillingly granted to dogs that struggle to deserve the slack of the leash. Akutagawa's lips press into a line as he digs both hands into the table, supporting his weight as he fully rises from his seat in preparation to leave. "Let's keep it that way."
Dazai moves without thinking. "Wait!"
Without hesitating.
Without recognizing the outward fling of his hand until it's wrapping around flesh too late.
Too slow to dodge the aggressive whip of scarlet light that claws at the bandages around his fingers, sinking into his skin until it mimics blood. Until it scratches deep enough to splatter, garnet flinging toward the walls, devouring the hue of the velvet curtains as it paints the night, the room, and the wide-eyed stare of a mangled dog.
Luminescence drags down Akutagawa's cheek, sparkling in a single obsidian eye too reminiscent of the man below him. How the encroaching shadow bows over one side of his cheek, eclipsing him in a visage of black. In the image of hand-me-down coats, hand-me-down trauma, and when Akutagawa glares beneath his lashes at the detective, there's a palpable miasma that emanates from his stare. A hatred that gnaws at the side of his eyelids until the skin lowers, eyes half-mast to shield himself from the sight of tan coats and warm skin. Of health and happiness and the genus of words that don't deserve to belong to the Port Mafia's Youngest Executive. To that godforsaken, god favoured, beast in black.
Rashomon sticks to the younger's cheek, dripping down the sunken skin when that inevitable sapphire arrives. No Longer Human quaintly simmers beneath Dazai's hand still wrapped around Akutagawa's wrist. The light wraps around the bone and slinks upward, drawing Rashomon to its call. To the void that can't be denied, that draws ice over the skin in a trail of mucus as Dazai's ability sluggishly wiggles up Akutagawa's arm, the younger stiffening to still the urge to back away.
To flinch from the frigid pain of No Longer Human when it crawls over Rashomon, the shades sitting atop of one another, unable to fuse into a violet forgiving. There is never the blend of scarlet and sapphire, never the ambient light of amethyst, Aurora Borealis as waves in the blackened night. No, there is only the cold, only the arctic touch of winter, February by a different name, and the laggard fade of scarlet from sight, enveloped by Dazai's ability.
Neither speaks. Only their heaving breaths permeate the room, an unforgiving tension forming between their hands when Akutagawa's wrist subtly shivers under Dazai's grip.
"Don't," dogs swallow, teeth barring to distract from the nervous tuck of a tail between the legs. "Ever touch me," he bites, voice hollow and a syllable from trembling as he snatches his wrist from the other's loosening hold.
Dazai releases his touch yet his hand hovers between them, unsure of where to go from here. "...Please, sit down," is all he can settle on, the detective sheepishly closing his fist before lowering his hand to the table in a subtle display of surrender. "I don't-" his lips twist, brows lowering with a nervous tap of his fist against the table as if the sound alone will loosen the apologies lodged in his chest. These words he doesn't know how to speak without the protection of a mask. "I don't know how-" he begins only to fail again, another tap of the fist pulverizing his would-be words. Thin lips curl with the anxious tap of the foot, hit of the wrist, dart of dark eyes around a darker room, and choking swallow when his thoughts begin to clear. When the words begin to form and he can taste the acidity eroding his teeth, filing down the fangs that have always been instinctual in Akutagawa's presence. But he wants to be soft. He needs to be soft. "Can we talk?"
"No, we cannot," Akutagawa responds without hesitation, not even sparing a second for an inhale as he spins on his heel, readying to exit the room.
Dazai inhales in his place, sucking in a staggered breath as he rushes for an excuse to make him stay. "Then let's eat in silence, just stay-"
"Would you?!" Akutagawa whips, nearly screams the phrase as the two meet for what feels like the first time. The first moment since that rainy night, since the weight of a black coat on shivering shoulders, and the shake of the devil's hand at a crossroad unaware. Ignorant to the idea that a smile in the night rarely speaks of safety, that covered eyes exist to hide the fragments of humanity inside, and that nothing good will ever come from desperate deals in the dark. "Would you stay with Mori?" Akutagawa spits the phrase, a scoff bleeding into a cough when his lips curl into a snarl, into the hatred that can't be contained any longer.
That has nowhere to go but out as the mafioso takes a decisive step forward, slamming his hand on the table with enough force that the glasses rattle. Because he isn't trapped anymore, because Dazai doesn't get to corner him anymore, because, at the end of this day, he doesn't have to return to marble mausoleums with a demon at his side. He gets to return home. "You are my Mori! How are you so incompetent, that you cannot fucking comprehend that!" The younger leans forward, an odd spark of confidence bubbling from the center of his chest. From the broken shards of what he was before Dazai felt the need to clumsily play god. To attempt to create dolls when his only experience lay in being one himself. "I don't want to be here, I don't want to be around you, I-"
Bourbon spills, trickling down the front of Akutagawa's shirt before puddling over his fist on the table, Dazai leaning away from the hand effectively trapping him in his chair. His gaze finds its way to a furrowed brow bone, unable to greet whatever emotion may be swirling in vicious glares he knows he deserves. "Sit down, please," Dazai whispers, the request tumbling as a strangled beg, but is it not? Is this not just another wretched attempt to keep the other here, to allow himself a chance to explain, to apologize, to not have to subject them both to this hell a second time.
When Akutagawa doesn't move, Dazai's head turns to the table, eyeing the sweating glass of bourbon already diluted by the ice. "Fuck," he mutters if only to himself, the curse inaudible, nothing more than a scattered breath laced with hesitancy. In the poisonous nerves gathering in the pit of his stomach, burning his lungs with his next shallow breath and discomforting wiggle in his seat.
Ignoring the boy hovering over him, Dazai clutches his melting drink, shooting the liquid back with a grimace that can't be blamed on the alcohol alone. Holding the empty glass overhead, he wiggles the remnants of ice in the cup as a beacon, catching a waiter's attention before throwing a plastic smile. "Can you bring the whole bottle?" He quizzes across the room, leaning around Akutagawa's svelte frame to cast another smile at the nearby waiter. With the worker in sight, a faint glimmer of metal makes itself known, unknowingly acting as the salvation of the night as the waiter draws closer, dropping a bottle of whiskey alongside their meal.
Twin stares drop toward the food on the table, a silent expectation to stay now cast over the two. Despite the quiet demand, its influence is strong enough for Akutagawa to find his way to the seat across the table. The younger sinks into his seat, grabs a plate with too much force, and pours another shot of sake, downing the drink only to pour himself another.
Dazai doesn't comment on the rosy flush overtaking the other's cheeks. He can feel the heat blooming in his own face, the heat of the whiskey traveling up his neck, crawling around his collarbones to roll over the top of his chest, leaving a trail of pink behind its touch. But the heat dissolves the hesitation and the whiskey dilutes the fear and Dazai can finally breathe with his next sip. With the next scorching swallow that loosens his fist, revealing the crescent indents in his palm he wasn't aware he was creating. He can barely sense himself past the fog of his head. Past the guilt in his soul. "I'm sorry, Aku. For everything I've ever done to you-"
The detective's apology shatters with the clash of a sake glass against the table.
"No."
"...No...?" Dazai repeats, that unnerving silence slinking around drunken shoulders, curling into the soft-cotton as if it belongs. As if this is where it's always meant to be, cast in the void between them. The void Dazai created, the nothingness he carved by his own hands, whittled with dull blades and impatient fingers, confused when negligence fails to create a masterpiece.
Sake bleeds over the tongue, loosening the knots that have formed over the years. The ties that kept him bound and quiet, silent in the wake of the other's abuse for years. "You do not get to come here with some half-assed blanket statement and then walk away as if you have absolved yourself of your sins with this bullshit 'apology'," Akutagawa bites, his words unnaturally clear, lacking the fear that always accumulates in Dazai's presence. Now, his shoulders lie back, spine straight, and gaze forward, muddled by sake but capable of holding their own. Of finally defending themselves against counterfeit artisans and untrained masters.
Dazai dully blinks. "I am sorry," the detective reiterates the phrase slower, as if it's only a misunderstanding that stands between his apology and its acceptance. He simply didn't speak clearly enough, the words fell too fast, blurred by the whiskey coating his throat.
The mafioso scoffs. "For what?" He quizzes, head physically tilting with the question. With the taunting tease as he waits for Dazai to scramble for an answer.
And scramble he does... "For hurting you?" Dazai questions, unable to steer his tone away from inquisitiveness. Even his features betray him as his lids minutely sink, confusion scribbling over his expression and remaining longer than it should. "I'm apologizing-"
It's enough to bring a slight smile to the other's lips, Akutagawa taking another shot despite the way his words have grown softer around the edges, fuzzy and blurred by the alcohol. "For what," he nearly growls, a threat disguised as a challenge by the cover of liquor. "What good are your 'apologies' if you're unable to say it?"
"Aku-"
By now, Akutagawa's cheeks have dyed rose, his movements slowing as the next pour of sake slows to a streaming trickle, the ceramic bottle hollowly finding its way back to the table. "You came here only to make yourself feel better, admit that much at least," the guard dog grumbles between the edges of his sake glass, the liquid lapping at his top lip before he swallows the shot with a tip of his head.
“Now," Akutagawa exhales the word, blowing it alongside the fire in his chest. Alongside the ire in his stomach and the drops of liquor dotting his lip as the cup lands beside the corpse of the bottle. "You will be able to sleep at night, isn't that it? You 'apologized', therefore you have no longer committed any ill will against me. Everything is resolved. Dazai Osamu can dance into the sunset, live a false life in a shabby detective agency across town, and forget the Demon Prodigy ever existed. Is that not what this is?" Akutagawa nearly laughs, his shoulders hiccuping with the half-giggle, disgust wrapping around the harsh noise clawing from his unwilling mouth. "A final nail in a coffin, your shitty life peacefully set to rest, ignoring all the abandoned corpses that surround it? Ignoring mine."
Dazai taps his fingertip on the side of his glass, the water droplets soaking into his bandages, dying the cotton grey. "I know I hurt you..." his words fail, disperse into the falling water on the side of his cup to soak into the cotton tablecloth without a sound. There's a meekness to the action, to the way his voice hollows and his lips lower at the lack of strength unbecoming of the Demon Prodigy. Because innocence, weakness, is not an attribution that can be displayed outside the safety of the Detective Agency, the protection of the garden house, and the support of a father who never asks for anything in return. This softness is not meant for marble and blood velvet, for a night removed from the mafia but painted in its image, in pictures of the past he swore he had burned with a sports car years ago.
"How?" Akutagawa quizzes, his voice iron-clad, forged from the speckles of silver gathered from Dazai's lying words over the years. "How?" He presses when an answer never falls. When the detective across the table only swigs his drink in avoidance. In an act that sparks the liquor in young veins, igniting the vitriol accumulated over the years. The hatred distilled, now nothing more than a bomb stuffed with shrapnel. With every memory, every moment, every threat that's ever been spoken between the two.
“You can't fucking say it!" Akutagawa laughs, the sound wicked and broken, rusted chimes hollowly crying in the wind, but proud of the noise they've made. Proud of the strength it requires to scream. "You, are not allowed to simply walk away as if all of the black in your blood has been cleanly drained when I will never have the luxury to forget what you did to me. I have to live with your decisions for the rest of my life. I will never allow someone to stand behind me," he chokes, the rose of his cheeks wilting into resentment, into anger and shame as it overtakes the pink of the wine on his skin. The burning blush that spreads to the tip of his ears, that wraps around his neck, and the scar that resides there, shimmering dully beneath the low lights. "I will never be able to simply comb my hair, I will never have the same control over Rashomon as I once had because I couldn't trust my ability to protect me from you!"
The detective's fist curls, his nails digging into the flesh of his palm, willing him to stay here. To listen to the pain he's indebted to hear. "I know," he merely mouths the shape, his throat strangling around the unshed tears as his voice creaks.
As the mafioso mimics his actions, curling his fist until his nails prick at the thin skin. "No, you do not," he slowly speaks, dragging the expression across the table leaving red in its wake. Leaving scarlet and wine, the ghost of Petrus never drank, and yet the taste finds its way to his lips. "Because you started anew, and pretended that was the beginning," sluggish words, wounded breaths, an inhale that shivers as much as it shakes, and yet it refuses to waver in the face of those who built it with rusted nails and pig-iron bars. "You replaced me with Atsushi, you buried all of your sin with Atsushi, you are a shining fucking mentor for Atsushi why could you not be that for me?!" His voice rises, nails digging deeper into his skin as the first droplets of blood rise to the surface.
The flesh flushes white before deepening into a bruising burgundy around the wound. “Why was I not enough for that? Why was I your punching bag? Why was I your-" Akutagawa's lips close, his throat following course as the truth shutters behind clenched teeth afraid of the reveal. Of what it means to say it aloud, to say it to Dazai. But when will he ever find the chance again? "I was fourteen," ghosts whisper from the crater of Suribachi, from the soiled dirt, and the mattress engraved by his desperate nails. "I had never had sex... and my first memory of it will forever be your hands in my hair, forcing my face into the dirt," dry swallows, stubborn attempts to dissolve the tears tightening his throat, clawing at the skin until his words bleed. Until water prickles at the edge of solemn eyes afraid to cry after so many years.
Akutagawa grabs for the ceramic bottle ahead of him, the empty sake nearly flying from how quickly he snatches the vase. Upon finding it empty, the guard dog abandons the canister in favor of Dazai's whiskey, screwing the cap off with a single twist, and pouring the amber into his sake vial. He returns the bottle without a word, tipping the revived ceramic into his glass, and taking a shot. His lips dip into a grimace at the earthen taste, notes of charcoal smudging the floral remains of the sake. "So if you are going to drag me here and pretend to apologize, at least summon the gall to say what for," Akutagawa wipes his lip with the side of his thumb, drunkenly dragging the limb over his cheek and jaw. "Are you sorry for beating me? For torturing me? Are you apologizing for hanging me? Is this for when you barged in on our training session, taunting that you would punish me 'like you used to'? Taunting that I wished for that? What is this 'apology' for, Dazai?!"
Now it's Dazai's turn to falter, to be cast from center stage, lingering in the shadows of the curtain unable to speak without the spotlight. Without the rehearsed charisma and practiced charm, without the kabuki mask to feel in his stead, painted expressions he's never had to truly digest. Never had to process the sensation through his veins, across his skin, recognizing them as his own. "I'm sorry for all the times I ever hurt you," Dazai swallows, wiggling in his seat in an attempt to straighten his spine and bear the weight left by a darker coat. "I'm sorry that I..." the detective pauses, chocolate lashes fluttering as he blinks away the haze of the whiskey, wading through the clouds for something to say.
For anything that will express the pain in his hand, the regret of the paintbrush he held, forging wooden dolls in his mangled image. All the times he acted as Mori, pretended to be skilled with the hammer and brush, with the needle and cloth, knowing he lacked the skill of true masters. Knowing he lacked the patience needed to gingerly dye the end of yarn hair, to carefully tailor black coats over cotton bodies, and dye a robust blush over fabric skin.
But Dazai was only sixteen, Dazai was only a teenager who lacked the care, who lacked the innate understanding that portraits aren't painted in a day, dolls aren't forged in a week, and love, not will, is required to bring the inanimate to life. "I apologize. If I could take it all back..." his voice fades, the events of the past leaching from the sides of his eyes in crystalline tears, in flooding moments of the past he can't bear, not when the result sits broken before him. The epitome of his sin, the evidence of his crimes, and all he can never undo. "Ryu, I'm so sorry. I'm- I should never have touched you, I should never have beat you-"
"But you did," Akutagawa interrupts, the phrase lacking any solid emotion, merely painted by hazy distrust.
Dazai nods. There is nothing to deny, there's only the truth, only their twin fear, two looking glasses destined to stare into one another, unable to separate. To distinguish themself from the other, their pain, their fear, cast into an endless loop that can only be shattered by their hands. By Dazai's admittance even as he shakes. Even as his chest constricts and his next inhale suffers, knocking the growing tears from the corner of his eyes. Bourbon spills, dripping onto red cheeks without a sound, acknowledged only by the glimmer of the lights in the room. By the warmth of his skin and the sniffling inhale clogged by his slow-moving tears. But it has to be said, it must be said, spoken aloud or nothing will change, neither will heal, and this will all be for nothing.
Nothing will change if he doesn't speak now.
"I never should have... raped... you..." Dazai whispers, the admittance weak as it coughs from his shattered frame. He can't snuff his sniffle quick enough, the evidence of his tears making itself known as he once again squirms in his seat, releasing the awkward tension in his limbs. Avoiding the blank stare of his broken creation. "I didn't know."
"So that makes it alright then?"
"No, it doesn't," Dazai defends, his head snapping upright at the phrase. "We- we're fucked, alright? You lucked out with Hirotsu-san, we were our parents' first kids. They didn't know what they were doing and this is the result. You-" the detective exhales, picking at the bandage on his thumb as his lips roll, head shaking to disperse the remainder of tears on the horizon. "You and Atsushi have a chance to be something. You are something, you're better than the rest of us ever will be, and I regret that I was unable to help you reach that. That you had to make it in spite of me, not with my guidance," his eyes find the ceiling, blinking as his lashes drown with the tears steadily rolling. Dazai's voice remains steady, only the center of the syllables hollowing from the pain as he continues to speak. "If I could take it all back, I would, but I can't, and all I can do now is tell you that things have changed. That I'm sorry, I know I hurt you, and I want to make it right, whatever that means for you."
Seconds pass in silence, in background clinks of glass, and the rush of the breeze outside. "It means stay away from me," Akutagawa eventually speaks, the phrase quiet but sure of itself, weak but growing with time, with distance.
Dazai only nods in agreement. "Alright."
"Stay away from Atsushi," the name crackles, splits with the quiet fall of tears on the mafioso's cheek, dripping into the dip of his collarbone despite the way he stares forward, unable to waver.
Another nod, another distant turn of the head. "We are never alone with one another, Kunikida handles any reprimands or punishments. I won't commit the same sin twice," and it's Dazai's turn to grit his teeth, to hold this vow between his canines even if the bone shatters from its weight. "I won't continue Mori's influence, that has ended. I promise."
Akutagawa doesn't acknowledge the tears, barely acknowledges his own. "Atsushi doesn't know what happened between us, I want it to stay that way."
"If he knows, it will only be because you told him," Dazai surrenders, his chin passively lowering as a sign of safety. A display of weakness that grants comfort, a promise that he can't hurt the mafioso anymore. That he will never try again.
Akutagawa's gaze slips, avoiding the blurry expression in Dazai's eyes. Something akin to regret if a demon can ever learn the meaning of the word. So the younger traces the wrinkles in the soft-cotton, traces the crescent moons on his bloody palms, and revels in the dizzying heat of the liquor in his veins. Little distractions that numb the night, the exchanges between them, and the somewhat-apologies he doesn't have the strength to untangle at the moment. His attention drifts to the uneaten food in the center of the table while the alcohol has been thrown to the side with barely a sip left to its name. No wonder they're so dizzy... "It truly wasn't necessary to order this much food. I have no intentions of staying here," Akutagawa dully states, eyeing the undisturbed pieces of fish.
The detective shrugs. "Take it home then."
"Osamu."
"Neh?" The word falls as more a noise of acknowledgment than a gathering of syllables, the detective drunkenly slouching into the hold of his hand as he props his elbow onto the table. He looks at the mafioso from beneath the cover of damp lashes, Akutagawa already gathering his coat from the back of his chair.
Folding Rashomon over his forearm, Akutagawa stands from the table but doesn't leave. Instead, the guard dog lingers at the edge of the cotton, head downcast as if contemplating his next move. As if gathering the strength needed to finally straighten, obsidian piercing into tear-ruined bourbon as silent cries pour from them both. As their eyes meet and after so many years it is not a master and protege, an artisan and doll who find each other face to face, but two young boys. Two broken souls victim to the trials of the mafia and the crushing reach of a single man.
"I will never forgive you," Akutagawa speaks past the tears steadily flowing from them both, his voice ravaged by the cries, and yet it remains unyielding, steady and sure of what he has to say. "No matter how much you apologize, how much you swear you have changed... I don't trust you. You have made it, so that I will never be capable of believing you. Every word you have ever said to me is a lie, and I don't know you enough to think that this is any different," he admits, his gaze failing as if somehow ashamed of the answer.
"When I look at you, I will only ever see the demon prodigy. I will only ever see my abuser. That cannot be changed. It is far past the point of being able to change, because even your niceties scare me. Even your apologies feel as if there is a threat hidden behind them because I will never be safe enough to dismantle my guard when I am around you. Because I can't trust there won't be another day you break into the mafia training room, another day you won't threaten me, another day you won't mock me, belittle me, beat me," his voice wavers, fingers digging into the coat over his arm until Rashomon crinkles around his grip in comfort. In support.
"I will never not be afraid of being alone with you, I will never not be worried about Atsushi when I know he is with you, I will never look at you, and not see anyone but Mori in your eyes. You will never be anything but him to me. You will never be anything more than the mafia's beast in black who held me down, night after night after night," eyes shut, cheeks turn, a final breath of strength as he holds Rashomon tighter to his stomach. As he shields himself, gripping his elbow with his opposing hand to create a barrier between himself and Dazai. "I want you to live with my hate, just as I have to live with my fear. That is our eternal punishment for having the misfortune to stumble upon one another. I hope I never have to see you again."
Barely a second passes and Dazai ducks to meet Akutagawa's fallen gaze. "That's okay..." is all he says, because it's the only thing to be said. Because it's the truth, because he isn't owed redemption, because this isn't about him, but Akutagawa. This is not Dazai's healing, this is not a hole he knows how to sew, but he can tie the first thread and lay the needle in another's hand in encouragement.
With this, Akutagawa visibly stills, shock clearly scribbled over his expression before he forces himself to stasis, only a faint remnant of confusion remaining in the crease of his brow bone. The mafioso doesn't linger on the permission, only turns on his heel to leave without a word, and exits the restaurant through a hidden side door.
And as the door opens, the fall of autumn light trickles into the restaurant, briefly illuminating the room. Backlighting the young man stepping into the street as he throws his coat around his shoulders, the black cloth rustling in the wind, billowing the hem of the coat as scattered leaves blow past.
As the material ripples and Dazai simply watches from his place at an empty table, smothering a melancholy smile with a sip of whiskey as the next wind blows.
As the puppet strings flutter in the breeze, broken and free, tumbling away with the fallen leaves.