Bad Kind of Butterflies ♧ DazaiXReaderXDOA

7. On Tenterhooks

When morning came, you followed your daily routine, getting ready and dressed without a trace of your worries from the day before; although, as minutes turned to hours, you grew impatient. Part of you couldn't handle the waiting for meeting with the decay of angels, the never knowing when one of them would show up and give you the instructions, but another part of you felt nothing but irritation.

Where are they?

You check the clock every few minutes, your eyes darting between the entrances as you habitually shuffled cards in your hands, currently getting ready to deal in a game of blackjack. There air around you feels tense, with more people in the casino than a casual day, the room felt smaller, darker. The only thing relieving you of the box the area seemed to trap you in, was the bright, clear, blue sky view glowing through the windows.

It's already noon and I haven't heard a word.

With nothing else around you worth paying attention to and no signs of any of the men you were expecting to see, the game you had been getting ready begins. Usually you try to involve yourself in the adrenaline of a good game with the audience, but your mind is still elsewhere, as it had been for the last few days.

I can't concentrate.

In this moment, your most immediate thoughts are all on Nikolai's words yesterday, the way he looked telling you that they'd be waiting for you later, specifically by Dostoevsky's request, whom you hadn't seen in a while. That was one of your biggest issues. You were agitated with the thought of seeing them together again, seeing him...

Then there were your more subconscious thoughts on Dazai and last night's encounter. All your senses seemed accelerated the moment you thought of him, the way he handled everything...you wanted to see him again, you wanted to keep playing with the fire just enough that you wouldn't get burned.

Or caught.

I feel like I'm on the edge of something and-

"I look forward to playing with you" someone says, walking up to your counter and taking a seat on the stools you often placed to make the stay more comfortable.

You ignore the person talking that just interrupted your internal thinking as you reorganize the cards for the next rounds, not realizing that they intended for it to be just a one on one game, something you didn't usually see when you played as dealer.

You automatically throw a card in a direction where there would generally be another player, but just as you do, your eyes finally process that there was no one there in the first place. Puzzled, you look around, seeing some people watching with interest, some snickering at your dumb mistake in dealing a card to no one, taking it all in until your eyes land on the person in front of you, waiting with an analytical look in their sharp, purple eyes.

His eyes...

Messy, straight dark hair reaches his shoulders, his clothes all light except his boots without his usual dark coat lined with white fur at the top. Even without his signature ushanka hat, it was unmistakably Fyodor Dostoevsky in front of you.

You freeze, and you see a hint of a smile tug at the corner of Fyodor's mouth. With eyes on you, you couldn't react the way you wanted to, that being a loud demand for the reason for his actions. Instead, you slowly take back the card you misplaced and go in to distribute the cards to the both of you, igniting the start of the game.

How you were both playing didn't matter, a lot was simple chance and strategy, nothing extraordinary. However, what did matter, to the delight of the onlookers, was the intensity of both your gazes dancing on each other's. Any one could see you were both familiar with the other, and anyone could see it was no normal reunion. Right then and there, it wasn't about the game. It was about showing control of every detail, every little movement made.

Dostoevsky...

The room seems to change at his command, and you can tell he's here on some ulterior motive, and it has nothing to do with you. You are simply an observer of this demon's mind.

Abruptly, Fyodor stops the game, getting up from the stool and sliding the cards to you, leaning in and speaking low enough for only you to hear.

"It's been a while, [l/n], and you have not changed one bit"

You don't move, your heart painfully hammering in it's cage as he moves away, your muscles stiff, your breathing hitched. Your eyes follow his every move as he walks away, the crowd left in suspenseful curiosity as they watch you and the man that just got up and left. The air around immediately changes, and as you watch Fyodor walk away, it's like he takes the light with him, for the clouds have covered the sun on a seemingly clear day, and everything seems to be thrown back into its usual chaos.

You look down and realize Fyodor had left a small piece of paper with the information for you to meet them, and a ripple of embarrassed frustration runs through you. You had assumed it would be Sigma or Nikolai you'd see first today, but you were dreadfully wrong. Trying to recompose yourself, you smile at those that were looking at you oddly, shaking off the immediate rush you felt to walk away and find the decay of angels.

Patience is a virtue.

You know you'd only look like a fool if you went running off now.

---

You let an hour pass until your cheerful outer shell meant to put on a show for the customers can't take it anymore, until your heart can no longer beat at the same rhythm as the players and the ambience as a whole becomes overwhelming in your lack of tranquility.

You let out a sigh as you slip away from your job after a rotation, seeing to it that someone could replace you before walking out. Pacing yourself, you play with the small, smooth strip of paper in your hands from Fyodor, making your way to the elevator and waiting as it went up to the highest floor possible. When it opens, it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness of the floor. Every wall was practically only windows, the floor a beautiful white marble. It's almost as if you were outside walking on the clouds, the only thing missing being the wind to heighten that sense of freedom.

It wasn't like the secluded area the decay of angels had last been meeting at, and it felt a lot bolder.

Walking along the curved floor hall, you finally stop at one of the few, grand double doors, pausing out of incertitude. You take a deep breath and make a movement to knock, but before you can, one of the doors swing open.

Sigma stands before you, his eyes gentle as they rest on you, a reassuring smile on his face.

"[f/n], I'm glad you found your way fine"