31 Days Of Dazai

delirium

The rain beat upon the roof top, droplets making their way in through the window and spritzing across his face, the cold water chilling his boiling face.

The rain was calming, soothed his rigid nerves as he sucked in hitcher, shallow breathes, turning his head to nuzzle it into the cool pillow. The desire to shed the blankets from his body was strong, but he refrained, knowing the chills would return once more.

Eyes flutter shut, Dazai smoothed his tongue over his dry lips, the muscle feeling heavy and swollen as he did so, his attempt at wetting the skin unfruitful.

Dazai was no stranger to illness, in fact his younger days had been riddled with it, his sparse eating habits mixed with his natural disposition towards illness and poor self care led him to many nights spent similarly to this, panting raggedly in a bed, unsure of up from down, spying dark figures darting throughout the room, looming above him, faceless yet loud with inaudible chatter.

However, what was different this time around was that there was no one there with him, no Mori to rest cool cloths over his forehead and lightly chastise him, no Kouyou to hum quietly at his bed side as she prepared basic medications for him to take, sorting the doses herself so she'd know he didn't take too much in an attempt to overdose, no Chuuya to snap at him from across the room, offering his presence and not much else more, just a solid, recognizable figure to sit in his periphery like a guardian.

No, this time Dazai was completely on his own, his time in the Armed Detective Agency having just begun, his entrance exam having been completed mere weeks ago.

He knew none of them beyond surface level, he could tell Kunikida didn't particularly appreciate his antics, always cussing and rough housing with him, something that he frankly provoked him into doing, seeing as the man never seemed to act out in such a way with the others.

For only the briefest of moments Dazai had considered contact Yosano, the Agency's very own doctor, but found himself feeling even more ill at the idea.

The woman reminded him greatly of Mori, and while he craved the mans presence, he knew better of returning. He knew he'd be throwing all his and Tanaeda's hard work, hiding for two years to clear his name of his previous Mafia crimes, that with the Mafia he'd be unable to fulfill Oda's wish, be returning to the man who held responsibility for masterminding his only friends death.

And he couldn't do that.

But Yosano reminded him so much of the man, they both twinkled with sadism, though the womans was far more blatant than his closely concealed cruelty, and from the noises that escaped the womans office whenever she treated someone, he found himself in Mori's own office, bound by leather on an icy steel slab, making those noises that reverberated throughout the office.

He wondered if she would inflict that treatment upon him, but her convictions were too strong and noble for taking such an action.

She held human life in high regard, and while he may not fall within that category, he was often mistaken as one, and he most certainly wouldn't go and out himself so easily when he could just as well work within that office hiding his true self and pulling on the human meat suit he'd worn his whole life to conceal the truth.

She'd never truly harm him, and that was the big difference between her and Mori. Two entirely different perspectives on the people who surrounded them.

But still, he remained intimidated, a sentiment the woman seemed to hold in regards to him as well. He knew he held great similarities too Mori, Chuuya had once pointed out heatedly that both he and his previous employer had the same smile, one that held no trace of honest joy, all sharp edges and cruel intent. He thinks she noticed that, and was distancing herself from him because of him, and for that he couldn't blame her, after all he was doing the exact same thing.

So, he'd spare them both the discomfort of interacting and stay alone within this bed, existing within the many hallucinations that encircled him, muttering incomprehensively as he lay too compromised to help himself properly.

Eyes peaking open, his sight fixated on a large, tall figure that loomed above him, posture hunched as it murmured in a deep voice not unlike the previous bosses, hands held in a steepled position above him, as if it were praying.

Dazai attempted to speak to this being, cracked lips parting as he let out a breathy noise, voice incomprehensible as he tried to inquire about how or what this thing was meant to represent, but he realized with a sense of futility that no words would leave his throat, so he allowed himself to sink back into the futon, wheezing out a deep breath, chest hitching in the process.

His stomach churned, and he felt around the floor for the bucket he'd set down in case he began puking once more, knuckles knocking into it. His fingertips traveled up the body of the can and grasped at the rim, and with more effort than it should take, moved it closer to himself, feeling slightly better knowing he had something to vomit into other than his floor or sheets.

The murmurs multiplied, and he realized with disdain that a headache was quickly approaching.

His bandages felt constricting, something they'd never made him feel aside from the times he was violently ill like this, so he reached with his unoccupied hand for his chest, tugging at the taut cotton wrapped around him.

When they weren't coming as loose as the were meant to, his heart began to pound harder, it felt as though they were choking the breath out of him and simultaneously overheating him, actions becoming more frantic as he he tugged at them.

Finally, they began to fall loose just as his stomach burned red hot and a rock formed within, the taste of boiling rising up his throat sending him lunging for the bin, heaving and choking as bile and sake breached his throat, burning his tongue.

He sat gasping over the bin, eyes watering and no doubt blood shot from his violent heaving. His body trembled, weak and suddenly cold without the blanket, vulnerable in an unfamiliar place surrounded by unfamiliar people who slept only a few meters away, a mere thin apartment wall separating him from them.

Breathing in and out, Dazai steadied his breathing, tuning out what he knew to be false that surrounded him, focusing on the wooden planks of the floor, nice and polished. The voices began to quiet, disappearing as he finally, for the first time in hours felt as if he were truly left alone in his own company,

Reaching for his face, bracing himself with one arm, he dug the heel of his palm into his eye, shutting them tightly as he tried to calm down and center himself.

Just as the delirious images began to finally disappear, the feeling of a soft, bitterly cold gloved hand fell upon his shoulder, drawing his attention away from the task at hand.

Dazai realized that, perhaps running away from Mori involved more than just physically distancing himself from the man.