@dezai sent: “ nice to finally meet you, takami. ”
THE CROWDED , BOISTUROUS ATMOSPHERE of the café zeroes in to a needlepoint ; the voice of the man sitting before him , the utterance of a secret name. KEIGO TAKAMI. a cord snaps along the ridges of his spine , the widening of golden eyes akin to a deer within headlights. how does he know who you are , why does he ? but was he truly keigo , or was keigo him ? the answer never arises from the penumbra and the chill of void emotion settles deep within his dense bones. hawks ( keigo ? ) is stagnant. the people surrounding their table , constantly moving , becomes unpresent. it’s as if he can see himself from a floating eye : he is doe-eyed , he is paled , his mouth hangs open in loss words. he has no idea what the fuck is going on.
it isn’t until a hand takes his own and fingers press against his pulse point that he’s grounded again. the slump of his wings heavy and so ungluing that it yanks him back to reality. panicked gaze moving between the hold ( it’s so gentle , as if dazai was capable of fondess ) and the graveyard of dazai’s eyes. truly he’s gotten himself into a bind : locked within a stalemate , rendered powerless by touch and by voice. he isn’t sure what makes his heart stutter the most : the nullifying hand or the idea of being known. his mouth is filled with cotton and when he opens it wider , nothing falls except a staggered breath and in his unearth state dazai speaks for him :
—————— ‘ nice to finally meet you , takami. ’
takami. takami. takami. something else snaps , but open this time. a crack echoes in his ears ; the sound of a champagne bottle opening. something akin to rage instills itself in his burning gut , alighting him on fire from the inside. leather creaks as his held hand rears back , fingers balling into a fist. dazai’s hand follows like a stalking snake , fingers still resting against the pounding pulse. a voice that isn’t his own reers in his head , reminding him that he is solely hawks. he has been and will continue to be. it grows in volume , threatening to escape his skull until he finally interjects with his own newly gained voice. “ i don’t know what you’re talking about , dazai. ” raw , ripped from the desert of his throat , but it is a whisper in reality. a private denial between the two men within a crowded room. something about this makes him feel sick ; the same sickness one might experience when lying to their lover. an illness bred from denying yourself. he swallows it down thickly , eyes no longer wide but brandished and controlled daggers , “ i don’t know who you’re talking about. ”
