Work Text:
Dazai laid a hand on the hair at the front of his head and was predictably met with scalding heat. Shielding his eyes, he looked up to the summer sun glaring down on their group as they walked the boardwalk, searching for their next destination.
This whole thing started as a passing remark a month ago. It was June, just before summer officially began, and Yosano had remarked how given all the weight she had lost this past year, she needed a new swimsuit and some summer shorts. After that, Naomi, the local non-gifted, “normal” high school girl, was more than eager to lead an Agency shopping trip, and now that their last big case has closed, leaving a lull in the workplace, she pulled that trip into reality. So here they were, walking down the boardwalk strip mall in search of summer clothes.
“Oh, let’s try this one!” Naomi exclaimed, dragging her brother by the elbow into a quaint beach-themed clothing store with various shells and piles of sand littered across the windowsill. On display were mannequins with frilly bikinis and flowy summer dresses. This entire trip really wasn’t Dazai’s style, but Atsushi essentially pleaded with his endearing eyes for Dazai to accompany them, and he just couldn’t say no to a cute kitten like that. Plus, he felt he owed it to his one summer outfit to go outside before it got pleasantly cold again.
“Sure,” Yosano agreed with a smile before following the siblings inside. Atsushi, who got the unlucky draw and was stuck holding all of Yosano’s bags, followed behind her. While everyone was adorning shorter sleeves and pants (and in Yosano’s case, a shorter top as well) in accordance with the heat, Atsushi was stuck in his work clothes, as he didn’t have anything else. He very meekly but stubbornly refused to buy himself any clothes and wouldn’t let anyone else buy them for him, so he compensated by excitedly going into any store Naomi mentioned to feel the glory of the air conditioner.
Kunikida groaned beside Dazai. “This is the fourth swimsuit store we’ve been to in the past hour. Who even needs this many different swimsuits?”
“Some people like to change things up, Kunikida-kun,” Dazai dismissed with a wave of his hand toward the man writing in his notebook. “The variety when it comes to feminine clothing is expansive. No one could choose just one.” For Dazai, the plus side of this pointless shopping trip was no one would be focused on him, which was always nice. Just watching his coworkers enjoy themselves was enough. However, said coworkers probably assumed Dazai was checking out the various bikini shop pursuers, given that they knew his ‘ladies’ man’ persona best, which was fine. In reality, he couldn’t care less.
“What would you know about women’s fashion?” Kunikida accused, snapping his notebook shut and following the rest of their group inside, not requiring an answer from Dazai. As the last remaining person outside, Dazai shrugged to no one and walked inside the cooled shop.
Immediately, the whines of Naomi could be heard. “Pleeeeease, Atsushi-san?” She was holding out a floor-length teal blue summer dress with a patterned lace top and a chiffon bottom out to him, and Dazai had forgotten how much he knew about dresses. “It is so your color. And look at how flowy it is!”
“I-I-I don’t know, Naomi-san,” Atsushi stammered as he gently set Yosano’s bags on the ground.
“What,” Naomi teased, “scared you’ll fall in love with it and have to buy it?” She was already trying to drag him toward the dressing rooms, but Atsushi was digging his heels into the hardwood floor.
He looked back toward Yosano for help but was met with a laugh. “What’s the harm with a little fun, Atsushi-kun? Just try it on,” she said with a smile. A look of betrayal slid onto his face before he lost his footing against Naomi’s sheer strength, causing him to stumble forward. Naomi lightly tossed the dress into his arms, whipped around him with cheer, and pushed him into the nearest dressing room before re-latching herself onto her brother’s arm. Kunikida sighed for probably the thousandth time and leaned against the doorframe of the shop.
Glancing around, Dazai thought about flirting with the girl working the register for kicks, but one, given the picture propped up on the register with a cursive date written on the back and the small rainbow heart sticker on the back of the phone in her hands meant she was taken and very not interested, and two, he couldn’t help be interested in seeing what Atsushi looked like, so he stayed put. Naomi continued to pour through dresses as he changed, both folded and hung, and let a passing comment on how she needed to take Haruno here sometime slip.
A few minutes passed and Atsushi emerged from behind the curtain, hands clutched nervously together at his chest and face red as strawberry ice cream, but dress adorned. And he looked adorable.
Naomi squealed at his appearance, and he tugged his hands closer together, avoiding looking at any of his coworkers. “You look so pretty, Atsushi-san! How does it feel?” Naomi asked.
He laughed, moving a hand to tuck his hair behind his ear, which caused Dazai’s heart to explode slightly. “You’re like a real-life princess, Atsushi-kun! You’ll have suitors lining the block in no time,” Dazai affirmed, to which Atsushi stuttered and turned away in embarrassment.
“It’s a very cute look on you, Atsushi,” Yosano added, smiling slightly at the sight.
Atsushi turned further to hide his face. “St-stop it, you guys...” he mewled.
“Tell us how you feel about it!” Naomi tried her question again as her previous attempt to draw out Atsushi’s thoughts had been smothered by Dazai.
He turned back around to face the group and swayed a bit, causing the dress to wave and billow around him, drawing light awes from the group. “It’s very light and really comfy. The top makes me uncomfortable, though,” he admitted guiltily. “But the skirt is kind of nice.”
“It does look nice on you, Atsushi-kun,” Tanizaki confessed, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand.
“Even Tanizaki-kun is into it!” Dazai encouraged. The tiger boy’s pale skin and white hair only amplified how extremely flushed his face was at the moment.
Naomi stepped up to him again and fluffed his skirt a little. “We can try to find you one you like if you want!”
Atsushi nodded meekly. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m kind of curious...” He looked around himself, admiring the handiwork on the dress.
“Of course!” Naomi giggled. “I remember one a few shops back that you would look great in, so change back into your normal clothes. Meanwhile, we can have Dazai-san try one on~” She turned to face Dazai with a mischievous glare, causing Dazai to tense and nervously laugh.
He knew there was a chance that she would set her sights on him, but he was hoping her appetite would be appeased with Atsushi’s compliance. He really didn’t want them to poke curiously at his bandages right now. Or ever. Which they would do if he came out in a dress and every inch of his body was medically white. The t-shirt he was wearing now was even a stretch of comfort. “I’ll have to pass, Naomi-chan.” All he had to do here was continue to decline and she’d eventually drop it.
“I know the perfect one for you, though!” She turned to a shelf with folded clothing stacked on it, pulled up a red piece of fabric, and unfurled a knee-length halter-top red dress with a white leaf pattern covering it for everyone to see. She held it out to Dazai. “It even has white to match your bandages,” she declared pompously.
Dazai hadn’t worn a dress in years and didn’t have any plans to wear one again, so he laughed again, slightly darker this time to try and fend her off. “I’m flattered that you want to see me in such beautiful clothing, but I can’t possibly steal the spotlight from our little Atsushi.”
She peeked her black-haired head over the collar, steel-gray eyes shimmering at Dazai. “Pleeeeassee? Do it for me?”
“Do it for me, Osamu?”
A breath shakily left Dazai’s lips as the red of the dress seemed to bleed into the white pattern, the collar turning thick and frilly at the strikingly familiar question. Blood rushed from his head to his gut in an attempt to escape the echoing request of his previous mentor. “Uh,” he started. He slowly reached out behind him to touch the shelves, hoping for the contact to ground him in reality. She pushed the dress toward him with a large grin, making her desire as clear as glass.
No, I can’t- ... “I guess there’s no reason not to.”
“Yay!” She threw the clothing over his shoulder and shoved him into the changing room next to Atsushi’s. “Make sure to show us when you’re done!” She cheered as she yanked the curtain closed behind him, leaving him alone in the dimly lit closet.
The shuffling and murmurs of his coworkers became muddled as the dress grew heavy in Dazai’s hands. As he unfurled it in front of him--almost a summer version of Elise’s--he noticed that the back was open, only a few strings attaching the waist to the collar. The front of the dress tented as he pushed his fingers through. He’d never exposed this much to anyone here, meaning they would comment on the lack of visible skin. What’s worse was the exposed shoulders--somewhere he could never quite bandage well without uncomfortable chafing and limited movement. That left some things uncovered.
He swallowed thickly at the thought of what he would look like in it. Red was an all too familiar color on him, but he’d never worn anything that didn’t have some kind of volume to it. Everything had puffed sleeves or petticoats; nothing was ever tight like this. Plus the issue of his bandages. He would surely look terrible, but... They asked for this--to see how pretty he was in a dress. The strings on the back threaded themselves around Dazai’s fingers like miniature snakes. They would just force it on him if he said no, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before, so he hung it over the bar provided for hangers and began to change, carefully placing each garment in a pile on the bench, looking back to the dress every few seconds.
As the last piece of clothing that Dazai removed was placed with its brethren, he realized that he subconsciously, instinctually stripped himself completely clean, boxers and all. Quickly re-donning his undergarments with shaky hands, he released a breath that was held against his will. He hadn’t realized how tense he was until now, or how far his mind felt from him.
He slipped the dress on, the snug collar pressing tightly against his forehead comfortingly. As his head popped out of the collar, he slid his arms out and adjusted the dress accordingly.
He looked at himself in the mirror and all he could think about was Mori.
Mori, Mori, Mori.
The smell of rubber on pavement, the crinkle of shopping bags, the purrs of adoration. It made him sick. He hadn’t worn a dress in years, but everything was as vivid as a fresh memory. The walls of the small dressing room were too tall and dark, the singular lightbulb not nearly offering enough light. He had to get out of here.
Hesitation held him as he gripped the curtain separating him from his company. What were they gonna say to him? Their inherent kindness meant they wouldn’t insult him, but could he take their compliments, no matter how fake they were? He glanced back to the mirror but his pile of clothing in the reflection drew his attention, like a beacon calling his ship home. He needed his jacket. He needed Odasaku with him right now.
Dazai rushed to drape the tan coat around his shoulders, pulling the lapels inward like it would blow away in the wind. He hadn’t worn it at all today but he couldn’t leave the house without out it. Odasaku... He took a deep breath, reveling in the warmth the jacket brought him.
Elise had the ease of not existing when Mori was done with dressing them up, while Dazai would have to change. Even years after Mori lost interest sexually, the dresses were still bought and used, growing in size along with Dazai. Sometimes, Mori would keep his regular clothes from him, getting some sort of pleasure out of making him walk out of his office in what he picked out. No one dared comment on his appearance, but their stares were airtight. Whenever Odasaku found him like that, he would do exactly what Dazai was doing now and wrap his jacket around Dazai’s bony shoulders. He would never comment on how he looked, knees shivering from the cold, bandages disheveled and sometimes soiled. He would simply take him to the curry shop where he kept his kids, not knowing where Dazai’s penthouse was, and scrounge up a more modest outfit for him to wear.
Gone was Elise’s other half in the reflection, leaving only someone who looked like Dazai. Just a mess of brown, red, and white. A disgusting palette, really.
The curtain beside him jostled violently, causing Dazai to flinch. “Are you done in there, Dazai-san? I wanna see how you look!” chimed Naomi’s voice.
He slid his hands down the hem of the jacket, not wanting to crumple the lapels further. ”Y-yeah.” Pushing the curtain open, he took a breath of fresh air as he stepped out of the oppressing dressing room.
Naomi let out an “Ooo!” that quickly rose in pitch while everyone else stared at him, judgingly.
“What’s with the jacket, Dazai-san?” Tanizaki inquired. “You seem like the type to be gung-ho about a chance to be feminine and flamboyant.” Dazai supposed he was right about that. By all means, he should like to wear dresses, especially since he partially grew up in them.
His knees awkwardly bumped together, causing him to tense slightly. He felt so exposed like this, even though the jacket was taught around him. “I just don’t usually show this much skin,” he laughed, hoping the half-truth would cue them in on how much he didn’t want to be in a dress, but the joke of how little skin was actually showing would let them know everything was fine. Kunikida scoffed under his breath.
“You don’t need to worry about that! We’re all friends here,” Naomi smiled before sliding the jacket out of Dazai’s hands, not quite hearing the small whine that fell from his lips at the action. She laid the jacket over her arm and fluffed the skirt of the dress slightly. “There! That’s better.” Dazai instinctually clasped his hands in front of him to keep the skirt from rising, heat uncharacteristically beginning to blossom in his cheeks.
Various ‘ooh’s and ‘ah’s filled the air as his coworkers drank his full appearance in like a rich wine. “I gotta say, you look good in red, Dazai,” Yosano admitted.
“Red is such a lovely color on you.”
“Yeah, it’s perfect on you!” Naomi added, to which Tanizaki chuckled in agreement.
“A perfect fit!”
“Now, keep your chin up for me.”
Atsushi walked out of the dressing room to Dazai’s right, re-dressed in his regular outfit. Dazai could feel his gaze wandering all over his body, lingering on the exposed shoulders. Goosebumps broke out under Dazai’s bandages as his ears perked at the sound of Atsushi’s laughter. “It looks really nice on you, Dazai-san!”
Dazai characteristically whined, trying to straighten his posture nonchalantly and banish the smog trying to fill his mind. “How come I’m getting more attention than Atsushi-kun, huh?”
Yosano smiled and cocked her hip. “Everyone deserves some praise sometimes. Even you,” she assured, cutting no corners with her intention.
“I could praise you all day if you like.”
“H-...” Dazai’s words caught in his throat, only an accented breath escaping. The cotton and polyester mix of the dress took a more slimy, silky feeling, rubbing uncomfortably against his thin bandages. “How kind of you,” he forced out.
“Look, Dazai-nii! We match~”
“Well?” Naomi asked, harmonized by the ghostly voice of Elise.
Dazai stared at her before realizing her unspoken question, distracted by the voice in his head. “Oh, it’s nice, Naomi-chan.” He felt hands lift the skirt slightly, but he couldn’t tell if they were his. Either way, the collar was too tight.
“Reeeeally? You don’t sound very genuine,” she pouted.
Dazai shifted his feet, hoping to hear a sound to help focus himself, but was met with silence, his socks gliding over the polished hardwood. “Now, now,” he started, trying his best not to give away the panic slowly building in him, the fear that they’ll keep him in the dress forever mounting continuously. “I can assure you it’s straight from the heart. I’m just not really a dress person.” He laughed again. He was laughing too much. Why were they asking him questions? “Can I change now?” he asked instead.
“I guess,” Naomi huffed, and relief filled Dazai’s lungs. “Give us a twirl first, though!” And the relief was cycled back out.
Dazai whined, steeling his playful persona. “Whyyyyyy?”
“Because you look like a newborn deer! You’re so bow-legged, Dazai-san.” His knees slid against each other awkwardly at the reminder that he had them. They always were a trusty gate. With the natural strength in a person’s thighs, you could easily cement them together and push to ward off an attacker. But now, with the feeling of ghostly fingers pulling them apart with the gentleness of carrying an egg but the power of a bear trap, Dazai wanted nothing more than to never be aware of anything ever again. “A little spin might loosen you up a bit,” Naomi suggested innocently.
“Would you like me to do a little dance, too?” he mocked, annoyance steadily increasing at her demands. This was dragging itself out much longer than Dazai liked.
“Just one twirl! I promise.” She smiled wide, hands pressed together in a pleading motion with her arm still looped around her brother’s.
“Fine,” Dazai submitted. Anything to get this over with at this point . He spun tightly on one foot, shivering at the feeling of air climbing up his back. Vertigo suddenly struck him as a specter of a stale breath floated down his neck, pulling his mind further from his body and causing him to tumble slightly.
“Ah!” Atsushi exclaimed softly as he rushed to catch him and placed his hands on Dazai’s arms to steady him, which burned . Every bump of Atsushi’s calloused hands seared like a hot coal, igniting various scars littered over his body like darts scoring bullseyes. Dazai righted himself immediately and distanced himself from Atsushi’s worried expression. His arms stung where Atsushi held him, the sweat from his palms flooding his pores and bloating his veins, pushing against his skin like they were about to burst. “Are... you alright, Dazai-san?”
“I-” His breath mixed with the hushed exhales and moans that echoed in his mind, bouncing endlessly against the cavernous walls he once found comfort in. “I’m gonna change now.”
Pushing past the closed curtain, Dazai slipped into the dressing room, not daring to look at himself in the mirror. He immediately pulled the dress over his head, the slight catch of the collar on his chin driving an icicle through his gut, and threw it against the wall. It crumpled uselessly on the floor as Dazai collapsed in on himself. Crouching, he took a deep breath through a tight throat. His knees brushed against his chest, their solidity helping to bring his mind back from low-lit bedrooms and the sting of hot breaths.
It was disgusting. Everything was disgusting. His hair tangled in his hands, his legs that barely balanced his weight, his face, no doubt contorted in fear. Each breath that came out of his lungs burned like a toxin. Why was he living? Why was he cursed to be conscious inside this meat bag of a body that did things he didn’t approve of? It was never his. The camera shuttered, the flash capturing every detail in a frozen memory meant to be viewed in a private setting. Every crease of the dress, every scar on the skin, every hair pinned in place. This was never his body.
Perhaps in payment for the sins he had yet to commit, his mind was put here, thoroughly melded with its shackles but never one with its prison. It took metronomic breaths on its own, seized itself up from its own fears, derived its own emotionless pleasure, all while putting on a guise of servitude. The blood in his veins picked up speed, turning from a stream into rapids as it battered against its home. His head pulsed as he questioned what exactly he did wrong to warrant such a violent reaction.
He leaned against the wall of the dressing room, sliding down against the warped slats of wood until his legs collapsed under him and he landed on his knees. He brought the hand not pinned against the wall to his mouth to feel the airy breaths being pushed out of his lungs. Trying to slow them down, his lack of control only made his head feel tighter, his brain pressed uncomfortably against his skull. Without any instruments around that could effectively kill him instantly, Dazai did what he did best and went slack, letting his body force the panic out as it pleased.
It’d been so long since he’d felt this much over the thought of being looked at or admired. His stomach churned at the realization that he didn’t know how to... not have that happen. He’d balanced this paralyzing lack of control in the past with moments of crazed control over others, his mental state at the time more despicable than he cared to admit, but that wasn’t an option now. Not only did the thought of threatening, torturing, or toying with any of his current companions weirdly not sit well with him, but he didn’t have that authority anymore. Kunikida and Yosano in particular wouldn’t put up with his shit, and he’d soon be in the President’s office, being fired with the debt of not being turned over to the government for his actions. All he could do now was wallow, infuriatingly so. Let his body throw its fit and then catch up with the group, masking the feeling of eyes admiring him unabashedly from across the room with smiles and jokes. It worked for everything else.
“Dazai-san? Do you want your jacket?” someone asked from behind him, startling his already tense nerves.
Dazai swallowed, forcing his voice back into his mouth as the smog in his head lightened slightly. “Y-yes,” he answered as he rose with wobbly legs. “But don’t come in! I’m naked~” The tease fell out with ease, years of practice making it instinctual.
“Was that information really necessary?” Atsushi whimpered through the curtain, his arm pushing through to deliver a familiar brown coat.
Dazai brought it close, wrapping his arms in the fabric as much as he could. “Just thought I’d warn you.” His voice held a teasing smile while his lips only had pieces of one, shaking as it struggled to summon needed energy. He needed to pull himself together and fast. He took a couple, a few deep breaths and conceived a mental image of himself in his late teens: cold, impassive, powerful. He felt the chill of midnight-colored ink flow through him as Mori grew disinterested. Turning to his body in the mirror, the desire to bathe himself in acid was replaced with only the desire to paint himself red on his own terms. The void No Longer Human left in him returned to its usual glory and purged his emotional palette clean, hiding his mind in a thicket of greenery.
He replaced his normal clothes and moved to retrieve the dress on the ground, his hand shaking as he picked it up. Jacket over one arm and dress over the other, horribly unbalanced, he pushed the dressing room curtain aside, seemingly interrupting a conversation between his coworkers as they all turned to look at him with dropped faces.
Naomi smiled at his appearance and walked forward to take the miry dress from his arm. “Thank you for indulging me, Dazai-san,” she smiled radiantly as she slid the fabric from him and folded it properly. “We were thinking we could go get some ice cream now since we’ve been only shopping for a bit now.” And just as quickly as Mori’s silhouette left him, it came back at a familiar reward for trying on certain clothes. He cursed inwardly and violently. Did Naomi know how inexplicably similar she was acting to him? He'd had ice cream after dress shopping so many times it went from a reward to purely signifying the end of their outing. How was everything so on the dot, so in line with his past proceedings? He wasn’t completely convinced this was not some sort of wicked, torturous dream.
“I thought Atsushi-kun was going to try on more dresses?” he deflected, the phantom weight of arms wrapping themselves around him tearing the life raft he haphazardly built for himself apart with ease. The thought of food, much less some cold, viscous substance, in his mouth prematurely triggered his gag reflex.
“Oh, we don’t have to right now,” the boy assured. “I think a break is more appealing right now.” He lifted his arms for effect, now redecorated in Yosano’s shopping bags.
Dazai’s throat was closing quickly. Even if it had been years since Mori had laid a hand on him, the doctor danced everywhere around him, and nothing felt right anymore. Lungs backward inside his chest, his skin thrummed with anxiety, and he was acutely aware of every pore hiding under his bandages. He felt as though he would collapse if someone touched him, the soft pressure of skin drawing the bravado from him like a needle drawing blood; whether due to submission or fear, he wasn’t sure. His mind again was simply trapped in a shell as his reply flowed out of him: “If that’s alright with you.”
Naomi said something in reply with a sad smile, but the words were lost on him. He felt submerged in a sea, his brain failing to process what he heard before it left him. Dazai felt his chest expand with air he did not inhale and he wished nothing more than to break the surface, to be free of those waterboarding him so he could retreat into the dressing room behind him and find something to hang himself with in peace.
But he couldn’t. Not with eyes on him. Not when his legs instinctively kept pace with the group as they left the store. Not when Mori would know.
Soon, the temperature dropped and the legs carrying him stopped. A voice listed off a size and a string of strange words, and suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, causing his body to jump slightly.
He looked to the side and found a familiar head of shoulder-length black hair, shooting a new form of panic through him at the sight, nerves expecting to be set alight with clinical precision. “You alright?” he-- no, she asked lightly. The hair wasn’t pitch, but a deep purple, adorned with a comforting gold. The face he saw had painted lips and soft eyes without a hint of malicious intent. He was really losing it if he thought Yosano was Mori.
“I’m alright,” he replied, the adrenaline having startled his brain awake.
The hand on his shoulder overstayed its welcome by less than a second, but it was enough to send a shiver down his spine. “You know, if you’re cold, you do have a jacket with you,” Yosano remarked.
“You have a point there.” He said that, but the cold was comforting. The involuntary chill of his body served as a sickening reminder that he was conscious. It kept him aware.
Atsushi moved away from the counter and motioned for Dazai to take his place. The employee looked toward him, a lovely belt of freckles across their nose and cheeks. “And for you, sir?”
“Ah...” Dazai slowly looked over each color carefully, not caring to know what their names were before his eyes focused on a deep brown.
“Chocolate would match your beautiful hair. How does that sound?”
“Chocolate... please.”
The employee nodded and got to work, soon providing Dazai with his request.
As soon as he took the bowl in his hands, he stepped back and catalogued everything that placed him in the present. He watched Atsushi’s belt dance behind him as he walked between everyone, Yosano’s sunglasses be lowered to rest on her nose as they left the shop, and Kunikida’s ponytail sway with his gait as he led them to Cafe Uzumaki so he could get his favorite coffee. He took in the blotched, blurred sights in his right eye, blinking just to feel the lack of resistance against his eyelashes and the reminder that Odasaku helped him escape. He wasn’t within Mori’s bubble anymore, and it was all he could do to repeat that to himself as they walked through the city.
Once the group crossed into the familiar cafe stationed below the office, he felt strangely safe, even though this location was no safer than the park a few blocks from the Port Mafia headquarters. Watching Tanizaki and Atsushi chatter with each other as they all sat at a table, he felt like a street cat, wretched and matted in nature, but taken in despite that. This must be at least parallel to what Odasaku envisioned for him--surrounded by optimistic people who found joy in caring for others.
They really did not know anything about him. If they did, they wouldn’t find that joy as easily.
A hand gently bumped his arm to get his attention, and he buried a flinch in raising his spoon to his mouth and letting the ice cream melt on his tongue. It was just as pungently sweet as he remembered as he forced himself to swallow, nausea budding at the texture. “What do you think, Dazai?” Yosano gave one hearty laugh at whatever the group was discussing before this moment, which Dazai had missed completely.
He laughed back, mimicking her smile with ease. He picked up as many context clues as he could and replied: “I could care less, but I think they were right.”
“Were you even listening? How in the world could he be right?”
“I was actually thinking about how to finally convince the barista to pour cyanide in my coffee, so no, I was not listening. He was right, though.”
“Is that why you’ve been staring into your ice cream for a good five minutes now?” she chuckled. “Are you sure you’re doing alright?”
Yosano gazed at him with a sort of undeserved kindness, but the rest of the group seemed troubled beneath their smiles, and it was clear what their intentions were. Dazai knew he hadn’t kept himself together well at all earlier, but he had hoped they wouldn’t shower him with pity if they took it upon themselves to fix it. Pity never did anything. “I’m fine,” he bit out, overly cold. All of this doting was making him extremely uncomfortable. Reasons as to why they were fixating on him passed like buildings and telephone poles outside train windows, but the view remained the same. He felt like a pre-teen again, just a porcelain doll on display to be used in whatever way one wished. People would look at his slack limbs and battered frame only with empty sympathy and twisted daydreams, never bothering to open his glass box.
“You don’t sound fine. You haven’t sounded fine since you came out of that dressing room,” Naomi fretted, regret slowly bogging down her words. “I’m sorry if I pushed your boundaries, Dazai-san... I let my excitement get the best of me.”
“It wasn’t anything you did, Naomi-chan, I just... have a weird history with dresses.” That’s one way to put it...
Yosano moved a hand closer to him but kept her distance. “Mori?” she ventured, the single name speaking more between them than the others around them could grasp. Dazai knew Mori had never treated Yosano with the same security he did Dazai, putting her on a separate pedestal the man felt was too high for him to reach, but she knew his tendencies all too well.
Her eyes glowed beautifully, painfully so, with the same gentle radiance as the luminescent butterflies that accompanied the activation of her ability. An ability not immune to Dazai’s own. They were two sides of the same coin: renewal and removal, a healer and a reaper, life and death. Her sympathy wasn’t empty, and something in Dazai that he couldn’t name yearned to tell her about it all, begged with him to believe, to trust that she wouldn’t let the repercussions of doing so reach him.
The back of his mouth felt hollow as the words scrambled out of his throat, his natural inclination to talk giving them leverage. A barely audible confirmation fell from his lips and he hung his head back to the treat in front of him, repeatedly flipped the spoon around to deform the ball of brown into a flat lake. “I didn’t intend to make you all uncomfortable.”
“Hon,” Yosano started, flipping her hand over in invitation, “don’t apologize.” The palm magnetized Dazai’s own to it, the gloves distinctly different from the silk he grew up with. It was warm as her fingers grasped his hand, her grip just brushing the thin line between comforting and restraining. “Are you okay?” she reiterated, strong and determined.
“He used to buy me dresses,” he began explaining in lieu of admittance. “Thought I looked pretty in them. Probably has a scrapbook somewhere.” With each syllable that left his mouth, the less real it all felt. He was just a collection of words, weaving together a story about some wayward child.
“That means... he took pictures of you?” Tanizaki asked hesitantly, unbelieving.
Dazai nodded, some invisible weight lifting at this opportunity to talk about this. “Sometimes.” What felt like all the time. “He’s got a thing for lolitas. I think photography would’ve been a great career choice for him.”
“Was it... just pictures?” Atsushi this time, his voice almost sounding haunted.
“Now there’s the million-dollar question.”
“This isn’t something to joke about, Dazai,” Yosano reprimanded, shutting down his inclination to deflect with humor. “When did this happen? How old were you?”
Dazai sighed and tilted his head to the ceiling, avoiding looking anyone in the eye. As much as he loved talking, it was easier to talk to the air than it was to people. “Started when I was around nine. By fourteen, it was all superficial; just dresses and looking pretty. Slowed down exponentially until stopping well into sixteen. I really could’ve been a great model with all the practice I got, y’know? A shame you guys keep me around like this when I could be making millions off my looks.”
He felt so light and relieved explaining this. It was liberating, not leaving the facts to tumble around in his brain until they burned up. It was like pulling the cork out of the wine bottle, letting the rich drink taste the first air it’d had since being stored so long ago. “I’m sorry I let it affect me so much back there. I had less of a handle on myself than I thought. It’s really not a big deal.” He stretched a little and sat straight, expecting to meet appeased expressions at the revealed truths. The expressions he saw, though, ranged anywhere from disgusted to aghast--nowhere near appeased.
“Dazai, that’s- that’s seven years . Of course it’s a big deal,” Yosano explained as she cupped his hand.
“I don’t...” Dazai trailed off. This happened years ago, why were they all concerned over it? It didn’t impact them in any way and it wasn’t like they could miraculously give him his innocence back.
“That kind of abuse from that age-”
“It wasn’t abuse,” he snapped. “And stop pitying me.” An uncomfortable feeling roiled in him at their furrowed brows and false accusations.
Kunikida piped in, voice tight with anger. “What do you mean ‘it wasn’t abuse’? What else would it be?”
“If it’s something I was talented at, why would it be abuse?” he shot back. “That doesn’t make any sense. People do that stuff all the time, and sure, that kind of interest in children is deplorable, but it was the Port Mafia, what do you expect?” Echoes of praise began to resuscitate the hyper-awareness, Yosano’s fingertips turning into cold points, frigid nails driven through his hand. He didn’t dare pull his hand away, though.
Someone breathed his name as Atsushi wrung his hands down his tie repeatedly in a nervous fashion. “What do you mean by that? That you’re talented at it?” he asked hesitantly, voice inches from breaking.
He was hesitant to explain everything he’d been told to the group in front of him. These people were enigmas to Dazai. Even though he’d known them for years now, their kind, righteous outer shells hadn’t cracked. Steeped in a marinade, Dazai wondered if this would be the final straw, the opportunity they were waiting for. If this knowledge of him would flip their switch and he’d go back to doing the one activity that made his skin crawl more than it should. But the words were already falling out of his mouth, desperate to escape the dirt they were suffocating under. “It’s what I was apparently best at, of course. I often was handed missions involving infiltration and seduction once I was old enough. I was always treated like some gaudy princess, a damsel in distress,” he scoffed, “but everyone always said it was only natural for someone with my looks. Although, since working at the Detective Agency, I haven’t had to deal with the usual possessive, lustful remarks, which is a big plus.” He didn’t know if he could take another warm chest subtly pressed against his back or slid around his arm, accompanied by a comment purred in his ears about how they would love to see his delectably-colored eyes blown wide with pleasure, his intelligent vocabulary reduced to only a few certain words. Blood drained his cheeks at the thought. That kind of talk was something only Mori was allowed to say, even if he absolutely detested it when the man talked like that, and hearing it from top crust millionaires and entrepreneurs who wanted nothing more than a singular night? Eughh...
“Dazai, we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.” Yosano kept this sickening, sorrowful gaze as she spoke. “Not if it’s making you uncomfortable.”
“What makes you think I’m uncomfortable?”
“Without even unpacking anything, you’ve been through a lot.” Dazai opened his mouth to refute, but Yosano continued. “Plus, your hand is shaking.” Dazai looked down at the hand that Yosano was holding, who slowly released it, like distancing herself from a rabid dog. It was indeed trembling. “Have you even... have you ever been with someone you actually wanted to be with?”
Dazai bit his lip. He wasn’t sure. Once, he played the prelude with someone he cared about, but his partner stopped before they got anywhere, claiming Dazai ‘clearly’ didn’t want what was happening. They were right, he hadn’t, but he knew that was what people did to show affection, and Dazai wanted to show them as much affection as he could. The brunette was there, compliant and prepared, but his partner had refused, which no one had ever done before.
Kunikida squeezed his coffee, causing the lid to pop off its track. “Oh, Dazai...” Yosano muttered, dripping in commiseration.
“ Don’t pity me.” He could feel it coming back, the chasm between him and his body. He cupped his shaking hand with his other one, which also shook. They wouldn’t stop. He wasn’t in control anymore. “Not when I was your replacement.” Everything that was released with his admissions crumbled back down, brick by brick, I-beam by I-beam. Drifting away from his station, he needed someone else to take the wheel. Nausea flipped his stomach at the instinctual desire for Mori. For his instructions, his drugs, his leash. Those stupid silk gloves helped him forget he was real and conscious. It was terrifying , having this body be stimulated in ways Dazai was not, but it was the optimum solution. Photoshoots and sessions lasted for hours; hours where he needn’t keep up with his mind, and could just focus on following the directions given to him. Gelatinous shame at enjoying anything the seedy, lying doctor did caused his body to shake further. “Not when I wanted it.” He choked out the humiliating confession as he lamely hid his face behind quivering hands, curling them into fists and attempting to displace his eyes. Mori had taken so much from him, but he was the only one who could make him feel like an ignorant child again, free from self-awareness. The praise and assurance he would get from the older man were like an adrenaline shot to his heart; one of the only positive emotions he can remember from his pre-teen years.
“I’m never letting that snake fucking touch you again,” Yosano hissed under her breath, snapping her jaw shut with the force of a cannon. “Hey.” The heat in his cheeks was drowning his thoughts, engulfing his senses with a fervor he thought was long dead, and the realization that this was quickly getting out of hand only provoked it. “Listen to me.” Listen. Listening he could do. He could handle commands. “Do we need to go somewhere else? Up to the office?”
“I don’t-” How was he supposed to know? He couldn’t focus on anything but the unfathomed existence of his body. Calling back to when they first entered, there was... Agh, his brain was scrabbling at puzzle pieces that would just dissipate in his hands. He shook his head, trying to jostle them into place. There was... wasn’t anyone else in the cafe. Searing colors danced along his eyelids as his mind ran in circles.
Atsushi slid out of his chair, bony knees clattering slightly against the glossy, oak floor. His breath was hot against Dazai’s arms, searing like a brick oven. “Do you mind... Can I touch you?”
“Please.” The reply was instinctual, but couldn’t be both further from and closer to the truth. Every inch of skin was broiling in detestation, of opposite polarity to the bandages meant to shelter it, but it begged to be immured. Desperate, like a plant clawing its way to the surface, thirsty for the sun it needs to function, that it was deprived of as it grew in the Earth’s womb. With the grace of a practiced dancer, Atsushi delicately clasped his hand around Dazai’s wrist, triggering a betraying flinch, and pulled it away from his eye. The flush from his cheeks seared his nose from the inside out at the hands holding his wrist and cradling his hand that engulfed his arm.
It was petrifying, an all-encompassing static that shredded his train of thought, but its sharpness gave way to comfort. The way his grip wasn’t anchoring him in place but was desperate to keep him there had sanded that static down into a smooth, contained shape, easily cracked open to be poured into his veins. It was so soft . It was just hands around his, and Dazai already felt like he could collapse into them like a hammock in the spring, spotted with shadows of towering trees. This kind of gentle touch had never felt so encapsulating. The fingers that used to sweep hair from his eyes or tears from his jaw always felt like brushes spreading a frigid paint over his skin like strokes to an artwork, decorating him like a canvas, created to be imprinted on. The chilled path it left only ever made him apprehensive. This , though... This softened his bones and drew tension like a sponge. It was the most dangerous touch there was.
“Um,” Atsushi started, pulling Dazai’s arm toward him ever so slightly, and Dazai had to fight not to follow it. “One of the adults at the orphanage I grew up in had a short history of taking advantage of the kids there, so I know what it’s like. Not nearly to the same extent, but I know the feeling of being... stripped, both literally and figuratively.” He laughed awkwardly. “This is a little hypocritical of me to say, but I want you to know that none of that was your fault. Please. You were a kid; you didn’t choose that kind of treatment.” Taking his fist away from his other eye so he could see Atsushi clearly, the boy’s eyes bore into him, open and pleading.
Dazai chuckled at that, head feeling light from his racing mind and overwhelmed arm. “Our experiences are different, Atsushi-kun. You don’t need to pretend.” He’d always faced the act of comparing traumas with animosity, as one of the many fascinating things about people was their inconsistency; how each person reacted to and carried ordeals differently. Belittling others on the basis that you endured much more than them was nothing short of ignorant. Between Atsushi and Dazai, a key point made the two different: Dazai willingly brought it all upon himself.
“They must be comparable in some way! I-...” Atsushi bit his lip and looked askance, gripping Dazai’s hand tighter in frustration. “It’s stupid of you to comfort me time and time again, and then turn around and shut me--shut us--out. We were both kids; easy targets. Saying you’re not alone isn’t quite right, but I don’t know how to say what I mean. I was lucky to only have a few run-ins, but just knowing what I know...” He trailed off, his voice slowly lowered itself, gently relaxing into a state of rue.
Dazai’s throat tightened, bile frothing at its base, as the pity stared him in the face. He pulled his arm away from Atsushi as the touch turned sour. The instinct to curl and protect his body from intrusion blew through him, battering at his walls like an old ghost. “Don’t pity me,” he repeated. “You’re better than that.” Pity was degrading, only used by those who selfishly think you deserve it. It was belittling and meaningless. Those who expressed it did nothing but allude to a scenario where they could save you from what was causing their distaste; a thought in place of an action. Good people didn’t pity others, they simply helped.
“We’re not, we’re just...” Atsushi trailed off, not being able to refute. He placed a hand on the table in front of Dazai and restarted. “You don’t need to come to terms with it right now. I’m sorry for being hypocritical--I don’t know the full extent of what you’ve been through or how it burdens you, but I just need you to know that it wasn’t your fault.”
Dazai stayed silent, unsure if he should lie or not. He couldn’t see how it was anyone else’s fault but his. He accepted the missions, he followed the direction, he never refused. It all came back to his choice to take what was given to him. “I’ll... try.” He settled on a half-truth. He was tired of this conversation, and fighting back would only drag it out, but he also wished he didn’t have himself to blame. Although, the only way he could escape that tar pit was through death.
“Just because you didn’t stop it doesn’t mean you wanted it.” Yosano’s voice cracked slightly as she placed her gloved hand gently on his forearm, adding her thoughts to Atsushi’s request.
An anger bubbled in him over his inability to make them understand. He wanted to tell them off, let all guises drop and show them why nobody touched him unless he told them to. The only thing that barred him was his exhaustion, unwilling to let them take it upon themselves to deepen the hole he already dug for himself. They already knew more than he would like. If he hadn't caught himself up in the delight of talking, this conversation would’ve ended before it even began.
The uncertainty of how they’ll use this information going forward was too wild of a variable, but he was grateful it was spread in a group instead of a singular person. Blackmail was less likely when numerous people knew the bargaining chip. Although, their morality would leave them more waterlogged than excited, contrary to Dazai’s past acquaintances. His inexperience with righteous people left a hole in his expectations, so he could only guess what they would do moving forward, and guesses never proved results.
He stared at Yosano’s hand laid on his arm and soon lifted his gaze to her face. His head felt light, mind stumbling over itself as it raced forward, trying to outrun the anxiety of being watched. He met her soft yet clinical eyes with silence, wanting anything but to expose more of the tangled ball of yarn that was his relationship with the boss of an enemy organization. Maybe someday she could say the right words, strike the right crack that would make him break open, but not here. Not with people like Kunikida and Atsushi here. If anyone could do it, though, it would be Yosano, given that she’d already peeled back his bandages, revealing the oeuvre of both Mori’s and his own making. Out of all the traits she picked up from their shared childhood mentor, her ability to keep secrets was one of his favorites.
After a few moments that were easy for Dazai but seemed to make the rest of the table tense, Yosano rubbed his arm slightly in a strange, comforting motion and leaned back, folding her arms in front of her. “My office is always open,” she provided, reminding him of her standing invitation to listen to him ramble about whatever he liked. “You should probably finish your ice cream. Although, I think it’s more of a puddle now.”
“I don’t know who decided playing with your food was inappropriate, but they were obviously wrong,” he joked. The exhaustion of repeatedly straddling the line of uncontrollable panic was catching up to him as he looked back at the bowl of melted, stirred brown in front of him. Nothing sounded nicer than falling asleep and never waking up.
If he had happened to look up in that moment, he could’ve caught one of the many silent conversations dressing this vulnerable episode he was having. He wouldn’t have missed Yosano looking around the table, her tense, worried expression matching the others around her. He might have noticed Kunikida biting his tongue, fighting to keep calm and not explode in Dazai’s defense, or Tanizaki attempting to hide his face behind his equally teary-eyed sister. He could have appreciated Yosano waving the baristas off when she sensed where the conversation was headed, or Atsushi sternly motioning for Kunikida to not even dare noting Dazai’s professions in his notebook.
As they stared at their friend in a one-sided conversation, the depth and complexity of Dazai’s self-image began to illuminate itself. Sweet and plentiful like honeycomb, but truthfully, only a collection of holes held together by strategically structured, thin walls, abandoned by its workers. No one quite knew how to approach the dilemma they faced, as it was strikingly apparent that this couldn’t be fixed in a simple discussion. His refusal to pin everything on the true perpetrator was something that was beaten in to him, fossilized under layer after layer of adhesive glue. Despite their desire to flood Dazai with their love and support without hesitation, they were afraid of misstepping and losing any chance they had to help, especially when this was one of the very rare moments in which he genuinely talked about himself, even if it was muddied and not personally taken seriously.
Dazai’s mind was empty of his coworker’s thoughts, though, and simply lost itself in the brown pool that whispered flirtatious comments about his similarly brown features. A sudden “Um!” interrupted the thoughts, and pulled Dazai’s attention across the table to where Naomi called his eyes to be.
She sniffled, her steel grey eyes clotted with thick tears. “Dazai-san, I’m so sorry I pressured you into wearing that dress! I-I really didn’t mean to bring up those kinds of memories for you.” She stood and approached him slowly, hands fiddling with each other in front of her chest as she passed behind Yosano and stood on the opposite side of him than Atsushi.
“It’s really quite okay.” It was my fault for letting myself slip .
“Can... I hug you? Is that alright?”
Dazai raised his brows and shifted toward her. Hugs were connotative with comfort, and she seemed more in need of it than he did. “Sure?” he agreed hesitantly, unsure if there was a catch.
She stepped forward and leaned down to embrace Dazai, wrapping her arms around him and resting her mouth against his shoulder. He felt tense at the contact, and she squeezed him tighter in retaliation. The scent of strawberries floated into him and he found himself reaching up to pull it closer, bunching her hair under his arms in the process.
It was an awkward hug, but everything about it filled him with a strange sense of nostalgia. Maybe because Chuuya loved strawberries. Dazai wasn’t sure. The warmth of Naomi breathing through her nose against his shoulder permeated through him like she was blowing the air directly into his lungs. It softened his muscles, easing them down from apprehension. Strands of hair weaved themselves through his fingers, coarse and thick, as Naomi brought her own hand to his head, carding through his messy hair like softened butter. She scuttled forward, dropping to her knees between Dazai’s legs to hug him more comfortably, weight dragging his neck down slightly. His nose buried itself in her scented hair, and a sense of security washed over him.
A light so sickeningly welcoming surrounded him, begging him to collapse into it. Hugs had always felt suffocating to him, acting as a cage of protection meant to keep him from flying away. Mori never showed affection through that medium, only using it to portray dominance. This, however, was boundless. Expansive and freeing, yet stable and anchoring. Everything around them faded, his consciousness fixated on the arms holding him together, like a band around a bouquet. It was so homely that Dazai was unsure how to cherish it, simply wishing he could assimilate with this feeling and overflow to the point of implosion, existing in nothing but this moment. He pulled tighter as his heart pinched, not wanting to lose what he’d been kept from all his life.
Not wanting to risk overstaying her welcome, Naomi pulled back, slowly sliding her hands from him. She stayed kneeling in front of him, cataloging every detail of his face. To his surprise, she reached forward and brushed under his eye, causing a tear he didn’t realize was being held in to spill over. Dazai chuckled weakly, amused by the fact that a simple hug was enough to bring him to the tipping point of emotions, a peak consistently far, far beyond his reach. Naomi mimicked his laugh, crinkling her eyes with a smile.
“Let’s get back to work, shall we?” Kunikida offered, uncharacteristically soft and contained as he stood from his chair, lid-less coffee cup in hand.
Instead of an affirmation coming out of his mouth, Dazai’s heart seemed to flutter into his throat, effectively cutting the words off. It took a second, but he realized with a start that the benign feeling was gratitude. Kunikida, the man with the plan who needed to know every detail of every event, had turned a blind eye to something that blatantly mismatched with his ideals. With the lingering static of the hug, the syrupy feeling of appreciation turned his stomach, but it was more fascinating than anything.
His partner walked to the door that led to the main building and turned to wait for everyone to catch up, eyes watching Dazai from behind shining glass. Everyone stood, but no one moved from their chairs, seemingly waiting for Dazai to make his move and break the stagnant tension in the air.
Atsushi took a step back from his position right in front of Dazai and held out his hand, offering to help Dazai out of his chair. Looking from the blocky hand in front of him to the face of its owner, Dazai was met with dazzling dichromatic eyes sprinkled with the promise of tears and the most genuine smile he thought he had ever seen. It was a sight chiseled from pure marble, every crease and feature craved and smoothed to a godly standard. It was a masterpiece Dazai was sure he’d never forget. “Shall we?” he asked, voice fresh like the scent of the first rainfall after summer. To have Atsushi’s pious selflessness directed at him, he felt wholly unworthy, but he took the hand anyway.
Combined with the strawberry glow of the hug and the freefalling comfort of releasing his thoughts, Dazai’s chest was filled with a warmth that was reminiscent of one he left in a certain bar years ago. This was truly a different environment from the Port Mafia, where bearing yourself like this was unfathomable. If this was what good people did to you when you told them the things that could easily be used to strangle you in return, maybe he should try it again sometime.