Kintsukuroi || Dazai Osamu x Reader

7. Forsan Miseros, Meliora Sequentur

Forsan miseros, meliora sequentur : 'For those in misery, I pray better things will follow.'

{ 08:43 – Armed Detectives HQ (Yokohama, Japan) }

I woke up dazed, and lifted my head to find myself on my balcony, surrounded by beer bottles and cigarette butts. The rising sun glared in my face and instantly my head began to pound.

I groaned. This is why I avoiding drinking like the plague. Now I'd be spending the day nursing a hangover.

I got up and tried to knock out my headache with some Tylenol, gulping down water. From what I could tell, I drank three beers and half a bottle of vodka, which was most of my alcohol stash and enough to knock me out cold. I wasn't getting anything done today.

Man... this was shit. I retraced all of the steps I'd taken in the past week. Where did it go wrong? When I fucked Dazai? When I took on the job? No, I realized that all of the variables leading to my shitty circumstances were undeniably caused by the existence of the Port Mafia. Without them, none of this would've ever happened and my life would be simple.
Tch. Nothing to be done about that.

I was restless and irritable all day. Despite this though, I attempted to muster some creativity and outline some future designs for my graffiti. That was a dud. When I looked over my sketches they were nothing but nonsensical scribbles and all in all, shit. By noon I'd torn them up and flung them out the window in a fit of rage and began pacing around my living room.

What am I supposed to do next? Dazai's suicidal, I'm hung over, the Armed Detectives are unfeeling assholes with no regard for human life. Dazai's life is in imminent danger, and only I can see it because only I know the full weight of his predicament.

It made me want to snap someone's neck. Mori's, Dazai's, the President's, anyone who happened to be near me. It killed me to know, because not that long ago I was in his shoes. Fantasizing about the day when I'd cease to exist, trying to count how many days I should have left... it's a miserable state to be in, and it drove me up the fucking wall to imagine Dazai in it.

Don't ask me why I care, because I can't give you a good reason. Because he sat there with me when I was going through the same thing? Because I owe him my life? Because I slept with him once and now I can't ignore the fact that I'm senselessly drawn to him? Because I'm just a person who can't stand those around me suffering? Sure. Whatever the reasoning, my primary concern had shifted to Dazai, and I knew I wouldn't rest until I had done something about it. Fuck the President and his spiel about tools or whatever. If he's so high and mighty, why is it the crude, tatted-up street rat trying to help and not him?

I heard the crack of glass shattering beneath me and swore loudly. I forgot to clean up the damn beer bottles. I looked down at the mess of broken glass beneath me and scowled. It's a good thing I hadn't taken off my boots. Broken tool, huh? I wasn't gluing this fucking one back together, that's for sure.

My good friend Bianca, a tattoo artist with purple hair and twice as many tattoos as I do that lived on the flat above mine came to visit, entering my apartment to see me tossing away beer bottles and sweeping up glass shards, grumbling to myself. She leaned against the door and laughed.

"Rough night, ah Retsu?" Piercings spotted her face on her nose, lips, and ears.

"Yeah yeah, piss off." I growled, and she grinned. We had a bantering relationship like that, and she knew how I was when I was hung over.