#redestine

[ayatsunji-blog]

' yukito . ' the drone of his low voice tapers at a name , swirling tenderly on usual callous tongue readily cutting with truth ; the rocks of crimson glisten with unsureness in his gaze as concealed apprehension extracts his heaving breath . he offers the other a hand ; gripped was a paper bag holding two handmade dolls , seeming duplicates of Oda and Ayatsuji both . ' it's your birthday . happy birthday . '

   the call of his given name is more than enough to startle ayatsuji and snatch all his attention away from the book he has sitting on his lap. his head lifts, and dead autumn meets the rich, warm sunset hues in oda’s eyes. there are few who have explicit permission to call him something so intimate - less than he can count on one hand - but oda is undoubtedly one of them.

   even if there is always a lingering awareness in the back of his mind some day oda may be the one to put a bullet in his skull... ayatsuji is fine with the idea. he’s unsure how to feel over accepting the concept of having two people who has the so called ‘right’ to kill him, but decides it’s not worth worrying over. to put it simply : ayatsuji cares for the man that is supposed to be his babysitter, his assistant, his executioner all in one -----

   no... it’s more than caring. it’s love; a feeling he thought couldn’t exist in the heart he forced to freeze over to accommodate the title he had been given.  ( homicide detective, a murderer of murderers, a man who causes death wherever he may go. )

   he blames the sun in oda sakunosuke’s eyes, but never says it. perhaps he never will, or at least he won’t for some time. in the meanwhile, the detective merely sets his book aside to carefully accept the paper bag. in all honesty, ayatsuji had long since stopped celebrating his birthday. he felt no joy in the day, and no one knew he existed aside from those who required his skills. it was too close to christmas, he had no one to celebrate with -- there were countless convenient and useful excuses as to why he stopped celebrating. which is the truth, no one may ever know.

   the weight and outline of the gift... they were dolls?

   a childish light flickers in ayatsuji’s eyes and disappears as quickly as it comes as he pulls out the dolls from the bag. something in his chest tightens, buzzes, and ultimately brings a small smile to his face. they’re nothing close to matching the carefully crafted dolls in his basement, the one of a kind dolls that cost hundreds of thousands of yen, or even bear any significance in lore as his straw and cloth dolls -----

   but he’s happy. so happy.

   these dolls bear an importance completely different from those he already has.

   “  ... thank you, sakunosuke.  ”   ayatsuji says, standing to his feet and giving a soft kiss to one of the redhead’s cheeks.   “  i love them, and i’ll cherish them always.  ”   just as i love and cherish you.

@redestine.

[feuxfallets-blog]

it’s winter time in yokohama -- gide’s favorite time of year. it’s the fourth year he’s spent the season in this city, the place he’s learned to call home since the fall of mimic and their leader, who was unfortunately still alive, decided to take a new path. he hasn’t forgotten the words of the man he wanted to kill him, the words of an oda sakunosuke saying that he doesn’t have to die, that he can choose another life to lead.

gide never would have thought that his life would be in the same city that man was from, or he could live so peacefully, so simply. even now as he walks down the snow-covered sidewalk fumbling with some new paint brushes and a bag of sweets for the children that would be visiting him on the weekend.

they’d be spending christmas with their families, so he plans on celebrating a bit early so they don’t feel bad he can’t be arou--

his shoulder knocks into someone in the midst of his thoughts, and paintbrushes scatter around their feet. gide kneels down to pick one of them up, cursing quietly. “shoot, i’m sorry about tha--”

when he looks up, any apology dies in his throat. as if his throat has filled with blood from a silver bullet, as if gunsmoke is making him choke on his words, his lips can do nothing but say one word:

“saku... nosuke...”

@redestine.

[disolution-blog1]

⤿  .  *  @redestine​  /  starter .

THERE’S A FAMILIAR SHOCK OF RED HOVERING AT THE BAR .  how grossly fitting             that dazai is once again pulling the strings ,  drawing strangers together even despite long - abandoned relations with the mafia .  the irritation scratching at chuuya’s thoughts is nothing surprising  ;  it’s resignation and an acute sense of purpose that ultimately pulls him into the seat beside oda .  he makes his order wordlessly .   (  the silence between feels heavy .  )     

until ,  without warning :     ‘  sakunosuke .  ’     inflected like a question ,  yet leaving no room for response .  his eyes are distant ,  fixated upon something straight ahead ,  but they dart aside   (  if only for a moment .  )     ‘  we haven’t met in person .  ’