Their wings were hazy in the mornings. Sometimes, through brief glimpses of blossoming strips of sunlight funneling through tree branches tangerine and black would blend together before her eyes could catch the intricate patterns. Symmetrical reflections doused in gradient splashes of complimentary colors setting the cool hued patch of forest on fire. Red and gold were her favorite combination, but they were rare. The exhibit was small in comparison to others across the globe that were permanent but she found solace within its existence. Finding a butterfly with those vibrant gold and red hues in such a small collection was no easy task. But, every morning Yosano woke up earlier than her usual alarm, combed her hair, and set the golden butterfly clip on soft strands before heading out the door.
She’d heard his name spoken far too often in such a short time span. Mori. Mori. Her fingers curl around the coffee cup as she walks down the cobblestone pathway cut through lush trees fresh with dewdrops glistening in the sleepy sunrise. His existence was easy to block when she wasn’t dealing with his bullshit directly, and for the most part he stayed on his own path uncaring of her presence. To hyper-focused on baiting his prodigy back with open arms. Her teeth grind. Yokohama begins to wake and the sound of passing cars on the once deserted street alert her time is nearly up. With a sigh she begins to circle back towards the entrance as more people begin to walk the trails to watch butterflies dance on flowers.
Out of instinct she freezes.
Cologne all too familiar; her blood runs cold. “Elise! Come back!” Yosano’s stomach hardens legs quickly taking her out of earshot. She swears his hand runs over her shoulder but when she wretches out of the grasp knife drawn from her bag and coffee spilled at her feet there’s nothing but a soft breeze and the flutter of a black jacket disappearing through the bushes.
For the first time in a month Yosano doesn’t have lunch with the rest of the detectives. Dazai stares at her empty seat with a shot of sake in his hand.
________________
Bloodstains litter the infirmary. Night sky befalling the empty surroundings. Mangled corpses begging her to stop. She wakes covered in sweat; the first time is an accident. The blade she kept beneath her pillow had made its way to her hand during the nightmare. Instinct--accident. Red dribbles from her shoulder in thin, bright rivers that stain her sheets. A single breath, then two, then three. Yosano feels the hard weight of pain dissipating as blood drips down her skin.
Dawn fades to morning and Mori’s name comes up again. Dazai busies himself playing with paper airplanes and Ranpo whines about exhaustion. Yosano can’t stop fidgeting. Military uniforms melding with the beige of Kunikida’s vest. Dazai’s jacket. Junichirou’s sweater. Yosano stands abruptly and bows. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel well. Give me a minute.” Her voice is calm, never faltering. A paper airplane hits her in the chest right before she turns to leave. She locks herself in a gaze with Dazai, her tranquil mask unwavering. He tilts his head. Yosano frowns and exits with a yawn.
The second time it’s cleaner; on purpose. Smaller than the last, but with a scalpel and who cared? No deeper than a paper cut just to take the edge off. Just until the nightmares left as they always did. Yosano cleans the cut and places a bandaid over top then changes the larger bandage above after cleaning the accidental cut. Her shirt covers the bunching of white patches and medical tape, and the burn keeps her head focused during the rest of the meeting.
Mori. Mori. Mori.
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Dazai’s apartment is never locked. Yosano groans lightly. Her skills weren’t meant for picking locks, but she does it regardless. Her shoulder was a bit too sore to barge in anyway. Pale blue light filters across the hallway from the bedroom down at the very end. Everything else too dim and shadowed to tell if something was amiss. Food containers stacked in the garbage can and a single glass left in the sink were the only tell signs someone lived here. She slips her shoes off and walks quietly down the hallway. Her nose crinkles; vodka. Cheap shit. A second groan moves past her lips as the slides the door fully open and steps over a few empty beer cans.
His eyes are hazed, red more than white and brown. Playful smirk nowhere to be seen. “You haven’t been at work for two weeks.” She says, tossing her bag on the floor and kicking another empty bottle away from his body. Dazai shrugs. There is no sorrow nor desperation for comfort. A blank slate, a barren wasteland. Yosano sits cross-legged on the floor and pulls the nearly finished vodka bottle away from his hand.
Despite his tendencies and nearly admirable persitance to act as though much of his past was not relevant there was no escaping the truth. Dazai fell down the rabbit hole once in awhile. Rarely, especially when the Port Mafia was not issuing any problems or concerns. Yet, brief interactions as of late were happening more frequently. Mori’s voice left chills down her spine so deep it hit her bones, but Dazai would keep his mask on far better than she could. For that she gave him credit but being the same side of a dented coin didn’t bode well for anyone.
Mori Ouagi did not crack Dazai Osamu, he merely continued to break apart what pieces he had found of him as a child in hopes of rebuilding a man that would never leave his side. Dazai blinks slowly and points towards her shoulder. “You’ve been clumsy with your scalpel lately.” Effortless, emotionless. Yosano returns his shrug with her own. She’d stopped herself on the third try when she’d gone to deep and her hair clip had fallen out from how hard she jerked her head in pain. A splotch of blood that took far too long to scrub off the gold sent her spiraling. But, the nightmares weren’t as vivid afterwards. Slowly..slowly..crawling back to their cave.
Silence passes in wandering moonlight. White glow floating in from the partially drawn curtain. Yosano adjusts her skirt and lies down on the floor next to Dazai yanking the spare pillow from beneath his arm to put under her head. Pallid light from the window paints a clearer picture. Beads of sweat piling beneath his unkempt hair, work clothes tossed in a growing pile on the floor of t-shirts and used bandages. Yosano pushes a damp patch of hair from his forehead; Dazai twitches.
Four am and his breathing finally begins to slow as his eyes struggle to stay open. Her own following suit. After so long in the dark she’s memorized the exhaustion etched in the ink colored bags beneath his eyes and the mark of too much liquor drying his skin. Lips chapped from vomiting and body shaking from too little sleep. She only allows herself to sleep once he’s lost the fight to stay awake.
Dazai was a different man when the demons are at bay; and she a stronger woman when the nightmares kept their silence. A pale reflection of her own dissipating mask--symmetrical; a pair of butterfly wings.
