I Don't Smoke (bsdxmha)

Trust

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Dazai fears that his guilt might be tangible, seeping out from under the bandages, apologising for what he hasn't done yet. It climbs up his throat like a mass of bugs and infects him. It leaves trails of blood dripping off his hands. No matter how many times he scrubs them. No matter how many times he tries to scrape it off. Guilt that used to be absent has buried itself into him, and Dazai wonders when he lets himself drink this poison.

The knife tucked into his pocket feels like a noose. He's waiting, watching, for his prey to come just that bit closer so he can sink his teeth deep into their necks.

He doesn't want to be the executioner.

Manami and Danjuro sit across from Dazai. The room has a sort of staleness to it, meaning that neither of them could spare enough time this morning to air it out. A pile of tissues in the kitchen is like a crime scene. Danjuro is frowning a deep sort of frown, one that tugs at his eyes and makes for a rather unflattering image. Manami looks tired. Just - tired. Dazai's head pounds from the alcohol last night, mouth dry and dehydrated.

The blade digs into his skin as he brings his knees up to his chest. It sinks, slowly. He feels his skin weep like a crying child. It's slick against the bandages, wet and warm, and mildly comforting to him. It's disgusting - he's disgusting.

The baby from two streets down begins to bawl again unapologetically loud.

Static fills his ears like an old broken TV. He feels exceptionally calm, which is to say, he feels nothing at all. His hands are uncomfortably still, no tremor to see, and his heart beats a steady rhythm like a ticking clock.

Danjuro places a steaming cup of tea across from Dazai in that stupid fucking mug that Oda's kids made for him. It's made just as he likes it - milk and no sugar. Strong. Dazai can't even remember when he brought it over to their house. He's overcome with the urge to smash it to the floor so it shatters into a million shards. Because of the mug or tea, he's not sure, but he wants it to hurt.

"Would you rather Tsushima or Dazai?" Danjuro ventures, and settles down with his own mug. He wets his bitten lips, fresh with bitten indents. Dazai picks at his bandages. They've been less thick as of late.

"I don't care," he replies, a certain fogginess to his words.

"Alright then," Danjuro sighs. He runs a hand through his unusually messy hair. "Alright. Dazai it is."

He smiles blandly. Dazai doesn't. It's only truly silent when the baby abruptly stops its cries, plunging the room into a certain stillness. That's how it's been as of late - slow like molasses, so sweet that it somehow became bitter along the way. Lazy, he thinks, it's been lazy.

"I'm really mad," Manami expresses, her eyes staring fiercely into Dazai's own. "Mad that you took advantage of Gentle's kindness and deceived him. You've built everything on a pile of lies."

Danjuro nods minutely and places an encouraging hand on her shoulder. It looks like he wants to say something - but he doesn't.

"Kick me out, then," Dazai challenges her, hand curled tightly around the mug. It feels like it's going to shatter under the pressure.

He's ready for a fight. Tense, his other hand curls around the knife in his pocket. Waiting like a starved animal.

"That's not how you fix a problem, Dazai," Danjuro chides. "I just... find myself struggling to understand the situation. We want to understand what happened so we can decide how to move forward. I don't think you're a villain, but it is evident that you're wrapped up in something nasty."