DELIRIA - YANDERE!CHUUYA NAKAHARA

Nine: Before the blood letting.

You're back in your room, peeling your pants off your legs and throwing them into the laundry basket set in the bathroom. It hangs over the edge of the basket, resembling limp, bloated corpse legs as the fabric wavers slightly in the fan breeze. You pour yourself a glass of water and watch the ice clatter into your glass, its iridescent surface refracting and gleaming like the corrugated surface of a diamond. It makes a noise, like the crunch of a sparrow's bone as it plummets into glass, as it hits the side of the glass: the sound of on the verge of shattering—delicate, frail, hollow.

That was how you felt at the moment.

The ice hits your teeth as you drink the cold water, staring into the space of your grey fridge as you close it, finding a snack to chew on while returning to your place on the couch. The TV goes on and on about news about something that's not relevant to you, faces blurring into one singular face as their voices are reduced to a monotonous hum in your ears.

You could still feel the heat of Akutagawa's glare into the back of your head at your failure at remaining composed during your mission; how courageous he was, you think to yourself while taking another sip of your drink, to blatantly disrespect one of the executives of the Port Mafia. You knew of his fanatical respect for Dazai, the one who defected years back, but you had never realised that by respecting him, he would be subtly disrespecting other executives because they couldn't ever live up to his image.

What was Dazai; some sort of religion to Akutagawa?

"Aghhh," You toss your head back onto the couch back and stare at the ceiling, the placid, pale plaster staring back at you as the ceiling fan rotates slowly. You close your eyes to escape its monotony; and sometimes when you close your eyes you see the place where you used to live when you were young in the imaginary colours of the darkness of your eyelids. How do you stop carrying everything that has happened to you? It was like a cyst, a tumour in you that you couldn't ever remove. It was doomed to haunt your heart until it rotted back into the soil when you would inevitably die. "Fuck. My bad. My bad."

Who were you apologising to?

You're disconnecting from the world again. You feel like you're ready to die just to get rid of this heaviness in your chest.

But could you commit to it?

A melody of life and death that's jumbled together, you feel like a wrong note in its symphony, dooming it to collapse into a tangled heap onto the floor, all pathetic and bloodied because that was what you were only capable of doing: bloodying things up with your hands because violence was the only language you were fluent in. Fuck Japanese and English and all the other foreign languges you've picked up in your Western escapades; violence was the only one you could speak properly, physically and mentally—but it suffocates you, pulls you deeper and deeper into its core until one day you would know, you would know, that you would be too entrenched in it to ever escape its grasp.

A knock on your door.

You perk up. Your eyes glide to the clock hanging on the wall, clicking away: 8 o'clock. You slip on your slippers and peer through the peephole.

"Chuuya?" You open the door. "Do you need something?"

"Just here to check up on you," The man says, his hat tilted to the side to show both eyes. On one hand is a wine bottle, and on the other are two wine glasses. "You mind?"

"...Come in," You hesitantly step to the side and let him in. You close the door behind him. "Why do you feel the need to check up on me?"

He pours himself a glass, and pours you one as well. "Drink first, and then we'll talk."

"I'm not a big wine person," You admit, taking a seat next to him on the couch but nursing the glass in your hand. The miniscule amount he has poured would be considered generous in the wine world, but you take a tiny kitten lick of a sip to please him. "So."