31 Days Of Dazai

humiliation

Dazai hates the feeling of silk. At one point, he may have found it comfortable, pleasant on his rough, scarred flesh, but that was sapped away over time. Now, when silk meets his flesh, it feels like sandpaper, grating and uncomfortable, tearing at his flesh as if it were a starving mut and not just a sheet.

This hate of his no mystery, he knows exactly where it came from, but its cause is such a distant memory, that it tends to become more of a background thought, a hum in the back of his head, ever present, a warm, nearly comforting blanket that enveloped his mind in inopportune moments.

Kunikida places his hand on his shoulder, and for a moment he isn't sitting in the office, but sat at the long Port Mafia meeting table, with a cold, impersonal gloved hand settling on his shoulder, indicating it's time for them to go back to their suite. Dazai flinches slightly under the touch, and he does his best to ignore the suspicious look the blonde man gives him by amping his antics up to one hundred. It works.

Atsushi's hands meet the tabletop just a little to roughly, sending metal pens sprawling to the floor, and it's so reminiscent of scalpels being dropped onto a bitterly cold metal table top, that he can almost feel the chill bone deep, but Atsushi doesn't notice, and he's grateful for that.

Instances like that, he is reminded of the cause of this distaste of his. Mori loved silk, his sheets, a deep, blood red were soft and shiny, incredibly expensive and very comfortable, and at the time Dazai had never slept in something like that before. His old room when the previous boss still reigned had a nice bed and all, but the comforter was old and worn and agitated his raw flesh, and so he took to wearing as much clothing as he could to sleep in order to avoid as much contact from whatever skin peaked through bandages. He dared not ask his father for a newer, softer blanket, for fear of his reaction, but eventually he was forced to shed much of the clothing he heaped onto himself after he began overheating in his sleep, making him ill with fevers and tiredness for days, all because his body overloaded between the clothes, bandages and heavy blanket. Mori had given him a good scolding after that, and told him that if he wanted to avoid the feel of the blanket, he should at least shed the bandages so long sleeves, pants and socks don’t make him so hot. He followed the advice given, admittedly reluctantly, and found he slept easier, if just slightly.

However, when in Mori’s soft bed, the extra layers were not needed, and so back to bandages he had returned, and at the time, he had never been so comfortable. It was such a stupid, pointless commodity to fall back on so hard, yet he did so without hesitation at the time, partially cocooning himself in the blanket it as Mori sidled up behind him, and sleep came so easily for that point of time. Now, though, the memory was painful.

In a way, Dazai understood what happened with Mori, that it was wrong and likely responsible for much of his issues, but at the same time it was so comfortable, felt so kind, like at the time he’d legitimately mattered to someone, and he didn’t care if said person only took from him, because it felt as though he was giving, felt as though Mori loved him, pressing soft, butterfly light kisses to he hairline, holding him so delicately while he shivered and trembled in pain, as if the man himself hadn’t been the cause of said pain. It was the closest thing to kindness he had ever felt, and so he held it like a lifeline.

Now, though, seven years later, Dazai sorta understands, even though he still craved the doctor's painful kindness and love, but then he remembered Odasaku, and the fate he befell, and then his mind was conflicted. Odasaku always won out in this battle, because the kindness he showed was far different, lighter, whiskey flavoured and so soft to the touch, not at all painful, but just kindness in what he presumed to be its purest form. Oda’s love never hurt, it was sweet and gentle, visiting orphans and eating too spicy curry, watching new years fireworks from under a kotatsu surrounded by sleeping, unspoiled children so unlike himself.