Emotions [Dazai x Reader] ✓

11 | Devotion gift

In theory, the whole idea of painting a portrait for someone was all fun and games until the practical work rushes in like a winter breeze in December; I could not produce a realistic painting without a reference, let alone a sketch, and my finger was simply not accustomed to art anymore.

I attempted various methods at getting my hands on a photograph or two, even if this was a blurry shot from CCTV footage. Indirectly, I asked Oda for one, hoping their relationship might've led to having a few photos taken together, but it was hopeless. The same happened with every other attempt I tried; Chuuya said to have almost thrown up when I texted him such question, Akutagawa - whom I barely spoke with but was able to have a silent, peaceful conversation if so desired - had not replied so I inferred he had no photograph either, and though my last hope would've been to ask the Mafia boss himself, I thought this to be too bold a move. So in the end I could only rely on trying to acquire a picture myself or else draw from memory.

The latter was a lot easier - well, not easier, but it meant I did not have to sneak around like a man on a mission.

I began rushing home after every job completed, having become accustomed to relying on my own means of violence if the situation had called for such measures, and settled down by my desk at home to complete cumulative hours of work on the canvas - now that I look around, how much money have I spent on canvases?

Besides the point, the planning of the artwork hit me with the nostalgia of when I had a growing passion for the hobby, and the strokes which my pencil performed on each facet of the canvas became my therapy after having to resort to brutality at work - violence was much against my own principles, but like I'd been told before, I simply had no choice.

The piece itself helped me reflect on my feelings for the muse. I subdued to finally accept my feelings - for real this time, no questioning it - though it still unsettled me that we had barely so much as exchanged a word of intimacy or provided each other with mutual trust; I could trust him, but could he trust me? I brushed the fear of doubting aside and focused on the feelings which I wished for the work to impact him with; gratitude, comfort, and above all: happiness. I wanted him to happy again, like when we'd first -

No.

He was never happy.

It all began making sense, now. Why he'd not worried so much when I warned him of the inevitable death which falling from the rooftop would've faced him, and the empty look of his eyes. The bandages around his arms, too, and of his cheek and eye.

He was suicidal.

I tried to convince myself otherwise but could not find any other justification for his condition and the way he conducted himself. Surely, one would think he's hurt from missions - he's a member of the Mafia after all. But knowing him for the while I had (even if I were unable to decipher him completely) then there would be no other reason.

My hand quickly grasped for my phone - to call him (in case he'd been attempting the act of suicide at that precise moment, who knows, perhaps I could stop him) - and I noticed its warmth from the relentless pressure it'd been under from vibrating under the snug sheets of the bed. I turned the screen on to be faced with several unread text messages, these being from the brunette who seemed to have not been able to leave my mind entirely for the best part of a few days.

I read through each message, each becoming less hungry for a reply as they went along; it'd all started with several invitations to meet him somewhere nice - a park perhaps, he said - but as each message had come by, they lost their keenness, the most recent ones remarking the perished excitement of his proposals. Until he stopped texting a few minutes before I'd checked my phone.