Emotions [Dazai x Reader] ✓

10 | Skilful artistry of a painter

The constant clicking of Chuuya's pen had ironically brought peace to my mind for the best part of a few hours, keeping me distracted from deep-thinking about Dazai's sudden distancing from me; I no longer saw him around, both lingering at dark corners or passing the halls, and his phone seemed to have become a mere decoration in his possession.

He suddenly let out a frustrated groan and pushed himself up from his seat, adjusting his fedora over the ginger locks grown from his head - a sign he was going somewhere. 'I feel like having something sweet. I don't have money. Buy me something.'

'Huh?'

He reached over for my wrist and pulled me up - not with brute force to hurt, but with just enough effort to detach me from the seat of the small armchair he'd arranged at the corner of his office for me. I wasn't allowed to object as he opened the door and gently pushed me outside, closing the door behind us and leading his way down the hall.

'I'm not following you,' I asserted, standing by the closed door as he dived deeper into the hall. He did not respond verbally but rather stopped, returned to me and tugged at my hand; I swatted it away. 'You're supposed to supervise me, not force me to -'

'I'm not forcing you to pay for anything, I have money.' He let go of my hand and shoved his own down his pockets calmly. 'There's a market nearby that sells great street food. You seem upset so I'm appeasing your mood.'

I kept the peace. He took me to said market, where we spent way more hours together than either of us, had initially planned, but this kept me distracted from my unsettling feelings of guilt. It was then too that I learnt about Chuuya's secret obsession with shopping for fashion - "I can't show up for a fight wearing the same clothes from the previous Monday, that's simply a no-no" he stated, removing from a rack a similar top he'd previously picked at the countless stores we'd been to prior the present one. His enthusiasm for street food did not fall behind either, for he guided me through the various stalls set out in the middle of the street with bright, rich-coloured and eye-catching foods and sweets made freshly on the spot.

In the end, he did pay for all the food we consumed in the market, kind enough to offer candied strawberry for dessert as we settled on a park bench to give our feet a rest.

'Don't think this will happen often; I simply had pay-day yesterday and the bar I usually go to was closed,' he claimed as I thanked him for the day, taking a bite of his own stick of candied fruit.

It was becoming clear to me now that Chuuya had his own way of caring for people, though he kept insisting this was his own way of treating himself and he simply "did not want to come alone" as people often disturbed his peace if they caught him by himself, he said. He did not claim to be carefree and merry when I remarked on these, though clearly obvious if one saw him once at work and took a quick glance at him now - plus, my ability was the most accurate in reading people even if they denied their emotions.

He was calmer than usual (the middle finger did not reach even half the amount it had done so the last time I'd read him), though I gathered he was silently troubled as his happiness did not show to be as much as I'd expected. He was fearful; maybe fear wasn't the word, but something was troubling him enough to show on my pinky. I did not have time to the inquiry on said feeling, as my speech was interrupted by a girl of about five, with a helium-gas filled balloon string attached to her wrist trotting towards us, pointing at the sweet in our hands; she wanted one and Chuuya could not resist denying her the silent request.

'I won't be long,' he said, standing up from the bench and letting the child lead him to the stall by the hand. What a softie.

For a while I sat there by myself, holding the remnants of the sweet on the now-empty stick. I stood up from the bench and directed myself towards the nearest bin, throwing the stick inside along with the various empty paper boxes served at various other stalls. On my back my attention was stolen by a small, hunchback man seated on a small foldable chair, his small, furrow eyes focused on a woman seated uniform by the stone wall of a fountain; her posture was ideal in the standards of how a lady should sit, back straight and legs naturally folded one over the other by the knee, and the smile she held was pure and genuine. She was beautiful. And his hands agreed too.