Generations of Rain || Dazai Osamu/Reader

6. longing.

A/N: For context in this chapter, Japanese couples barely show PDA, and even holding hands is a revolutionary act. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

You're accompanying Odasaku while he does his missions for the Port Mafia: delivering a letter to some kingpin. Usually he doesn't let you tag along, saying it was too dangerous, but perhaps today he felt particularly lonely in the presence of himself, and had allowed you to tag along under the pretence you were to run if you were in any sort of danger.

"Don't worry about me," He had told you. "Your safety is more important than anything."

"Your safety is important to me as well," You straighten his collar, before placing a hand over it; his collarbones were sturdy and strong under your palm, like pieces of primordial archeological findings. "But I understand."

"I have flawless," He says. "You don't."

"Thank you for reminding me I don't have an ability," You sarcastically say, rolling your eyes. He sighs.

"You get what I mean."

"I do, don't worry." You stand on your tippy toes to peck at his lips, feeling his stubble scratch at your cheeks as he holds the back of your head with a single hand.

The two of you are off, with a spare gun in your coat pocket as you walk towards the direction of the kingpin. It's a cool day—spring. The streets are filled with bustling people, each pausing or continuing on with their day. Flanking your sides were glass panes of stores displaying their items, with large signs printed with: SPRING SALE 50% OFF. It's a busy day because it's nearing summer and that means people are either preparing for exams or vacation.

The stop light turns green and a wave of people undulates the asphalt streets. You struggle to find your balance with the sheer amount of suited people, bumping shoulders and feeling the shade of the shadows from taller people around you.

"Here, take my hand," Odasaku quickly offers, and you blink in utter disbelief.

"Are you serious?"

"I don't want you to get lost," He says, before taking your hand into his. His calloused palm presses against your fingers in a firm but gentle grip. He's like a battering ram; he forces people to side step his tall figure with you following, linked together by hands.

You smile at the sight, before intertwining your fingers with his. You lean close to his side even when the crowd disperses, a new burst of love returning to your heart for your husband. You squeeze his hand.

You find yourself kicking a pebble as you mindlessly wander amongst the streets of Yokohama; you stand apart from the rest of others, like a ghost that revisits the familiar city, and can no longer make itself seen or felt; nor smile with pristine joy. And you may ask, why a ghost? You've felt a part of yourself die when everything fell apart; but it's something that's dead that doesn't know it's dead: Your heart. And it's strange; you know you could compartmentalise your grief into a tiny cyst, like a fist clenched tight enough to draw blood, but you let yourself fall apart by it. Your sadness is something that obsesses you. You give yourself up to it like a sleepwalker. You look at what's happened. It's hopeless.

You begin again. It never gets any easier.

It's a slightly cloudy day, but the sun's peeking out behind the black wisps of clouds and beaming its golden light onto the concrete pavement. You let people pass you like water to a stone. You stare up at the sky, your lips pressed into a line. It looks like it's going to rain, which is inconvenient, because you don't have an umbrella on you.

You don't get stares from busy businessmen and businesswomen that are passing by. They are trapped in their own world, of paperwork and faxes and printers, and they do not have time to understand the difficult turmoil you are in.