he is most beautiful under the moonlight, dazai reflects, tracing his thumb between the scars cleaved over the brow of a crimson eye — a motion in his favorite game, memorizing him down to the frost of his skin, the vain arch of his lip, the coil of his tongue over his name. a hand slips among the silver strands, pins his gift behind the shell of one ear: a pair of hair clips, iridescent mother-of-pearl, in the sleek shape of angel’s wings. ❝ … another year, hm? it suits you. ❞
that a man who has killed so many can caress shibusawa – a man so undeserving of gentile touch, of compassion, of companionship – in such a way, it’s enough to make the older falter. it’s not long enough to be brought to attention, but enough for dazai to notice. ( and perhaps, shibusawa wishes for it to be, for instinct is difficult to change within a demon. you know this too, do you not, dazai osamu? is this your way of accepting your sins, lying with your demons, this evil in physical form? am i not one of the skeletons in your closet? )
fabricated or otherwise, shibusawa indulges in it. his eyes close, head tilting into the touch against his head. dangerous as the brunet once was, he’s too generous now … this was apparent from the start, when a hand was offered back into this city he once put into pieces of shattered stained glass, never to return to its once beautiful mosaic.
—– or, that is how their populace views it. shibusawa holds no value in this city, in its people, in the people behind the abilities he collects. ( and yet … )
the older man lifts a hand to the items places into his hair. he counts them – one, two. one too many, he believes. “ time has slowly but surely become irrelevant to me. i as a person, have not changed. ” ( and yet … ) carefully, a hand detaches a hair clip. shibusawa decides against sitting up from the bed they share, cupping dazai’s cheek in a silent command for him to lean closer.
it’s the only semblance of power he will ever have over dazai osamu.
an embodiment of evil has surely never looked so gentle as he who brushes back the human failure’s hair, tucking it behind a ear before placing the hair clip there to keep it in place. surely, he’s a few centimeters off – shibusawa decides that dazai most likely doesn’t matter about mirrored accuracy.
( and yet, i am drawn to you; i am drawn to you, what i may never have in its entirety, for you are broken in a way that looks so complete. )
“ and yet, you remember – mine, of all things. i cannot fathom why, however … your presence here is enough. ”
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