31 Days Of Dazai

shaky hands

Dazai's entire body quaked with a visciousness he'd not bore witness to in ages, skin goose pimpled and muscles painfully tight, he heaved a soft, shaky breath.

An arm wrapped around his waist, another clasped with his own, raisee slightly, the raven haired man towed teen around the room, humming to the tune of the song that rand from the record player, a big, clunky bronze coloured thing that Mori had decided he must have in his office, no questions asked.

(Dazai asked, of course. A lot.)

The noise came out slightly staticky and scratchy, the vinyl likely far older than Dazai, or possibly even Mori himself. The man had mentioned offhandedly that they were in the previous bosses room, that he apparently had a vast collection of antique vinyl records from times long before them, from places they'd likely never visit.

Dazai wondered when the man had gone to get those, after all the entirety of his life, the man had never once left Yokohama, wreaking his horror upon the city, his singular target of destruction.

Dazai wondered if at any point in time through his entire life, had the man not had Dementia. He knew it advanced quickly, but he recalled the mans behaviour always being sporadic and illogical, wishing death upon those who even looked at him oddly.

There was nary a moment of calm with that man, he was a raging storm with too much power in his hands, prepared to use it regardless of any consequences it may entail. Dazai had consistently watched apathetically as he ran the organization into the ground, mouth sewn shut with the threads of threats issued by the himself, that he'd hurt him, burn, not with his ability, no, they both knew that was impossible, but on more than one occasion had the man managed to hold Dazai still burn the underside of his wrists a barbeque lighter, the smell of singing flesh turning his stomach as he'd attempted to kick and scratch, anything to get away from the unwavering heat searing his nerves, sending violently spasm through his body.

There had never been a time where the man displayed any sort of normalcy, he was erratic and violent, and spent ninety percent of his confused about his surroundings, puzzling over what was and wasn't fake, second guessing reality itself as his faulty mind conjured impossibilities or stole his memories and stowed them away. Never had he not been that way, so Dazai had to guess that his Dementia had been a very long running issue that likely preceded his birth.

Confusing. It was all very confusing. Or maybe it wasn't... after all, he was so hopped up on meth at the moment he was left to shiver and shake as the man tugged him around the room as if doing the waltz with a corpse.

Mouth dry and the constant sight of silent, faceless figures encircling his bed, watching silently, observing his state, the psychosis that sent him into frantic states of grandeur. Methamphetamine, something Mori had recently begun giving him, keeping him drugged up and paranoid at his side, making it easier to keep track of the too unsure of the reality of the things around him to go and wander off, after all Dazai was now his witness, and he can't have him wandering off and getting hurt out of carelessness.

With this new habit Mori had forced on him, Dazai didn't even want to leave his bedroom for the most part, locking himself up tight, cocooned in blankets, eyes wound shut as strange little gnome like men with gnarled, pimply faces sat vigil behind his curtains, his uneasiness about the creatures-- even if they were a hallucination -- kept him rooted in place, never closing the window, the bitter winter air turning the room shockingly cold as he burrowed deeper into his makeshift nest, dipping his head inside to warm his bright red cheeks.

But tonight, Mori forced him out of his room, having to guide the brunette boy by the shoulders as he attempted to peer back at the odd men whose feet stuff out from the bottom of the curtains, stomach lurching at having been watched.