Chapter Text
Dazai's entire body quaked with a visciousness he'd not bore witness to in ages, skin goose pimpled and muscles painfully tight, he heaved a soft, shaky breath.
An arm wrapped around his waist, another clasped with his own, raisee slightly, the raven haired man towed teen around the room, humming to the tune of the song that rand from the record player, a big, clunky bronze coloured thing that Mori had decided he must have in his office, no questions asked.
(Dazai asked, of course. A lot.)
The noise came out slightly staticky and scratchy, the vinyl likely far older than Dazai, or possibly even Mori himself. The man had mentioned offhandedly that they were in the previous bosses room, that he apparently had a vast collection of antique vinyl records from times long before them, from places they'd likely never visit.
Dazai wondered when the man had gone to get those, after all the entirety of his life, the man had never once left Yokohama, wreaking his horror upon the city, his singular target of destruction.
Dazai wondered if at any point in time through his entire life, had the man not had Dementia. He knew it advanced quickly, but he recalled the mans behaviour always being sporadic and illogical, wishing death upon those who even looked at him oddly.
There was nary a moment of calm with that man, he was a raging storm with too much power in his hands, prepared to use it regardless of any consequences it may entail. Dazai had consistently watched apathetically as he ran the organization into the ground, mouth sewn shut with the threads of threats issued by the himself, that he'd hurt him, burn, not with his ability, no, they both knew that was impossible, but on more than one occasion had the man managed to hold Dazai still burn the underside of his wrists a barbeque lighter, the smell of singing flesh turning his stomach as he'd attempted to kick and scratch, anything to get away from the unwavering heat searing his nerves, sending violently spasm through his body.
There had never been a time where the man displayed any sort of normalcy, he was erratic and violent, and spent ninety percent of his confused about his surroundings, puzzling over what was and wasn't fake, second guessing reality itself as his faulty mind conjured impossibilities or stole his memories and stowed them away. Never had he not been that way, so Dazai had to guess that his Dementia had been a very long running issue that likely preceded his birth.
Confusing. It was all very confusing. Or maybe it wasn't... after all, he was so hopped up on meth at the moment he was left to shiver and shake as the man tugged him around the room as if doing the waltz with a corpse.
Mouth dry and the constant sight of silent, faceless figures encircling his bed, watching silently, observing his state, the psychosis that sent him into frantic states of grandeur. Methamphetamine, something Mori had recently begun giving him, keeping him drugged up and paranoid at his side, making it easier to keep track of the too unsure of the reality of the things around him to go and wander off, after all Dazai was now his witness, and he can't have him wandering off and getting hurt out of carelessness.
With this new habit Mori had forced on him, Dazai didn't even want to leave his bedroom for the most part, locking himself up tight, cocooned in blankets, eyes wound shut as strange little gnome like men with gnarled, pimply faces sat vigil behind his curtains, his uneasiness about the creatures-- even if they were a hallucination -- kept him rooted in place, never closing the window, the bitter winter air turning the room shockingly cold as he burrowed deeper into his makeshift nest, dipping his head inside to warm his bright red cheeks.
But tonight, Mori forced him out of his room, having to guide the brunette boy by the shoulders as he attempted to peer back at the odd men whose feet stuff out from the bottom of the curtains, stomach lurching at having been watched.
This night, he was tugged and spun, Mori dancing with Dazai as if he were Elise, attitude playful as he sang along with the instruments ringing through the large machine.
Dazai felt nauseous, every spin and jerk causing his guts to clench and rock to form in his gut, the urge to vomit almost suffocating.
Mori took two steps forward, and Dazai followed suit with his own few steps back, nearly jumping out of his skin when a large red lobster scuttled underfoot, his mind immediately searching for where such a thing could have come from, but unsurprisingly he came up empty handed explanation-wise.
As the spun off in another direction, Dazai's eyes remained firmly planted on the squirming lobster. Its claws were tied shut just like the were in grocery stores, so it certainly wasn't from an aquarium, but there were no stores within the Mafia headquarters.
Dazai's hands shook, and he had a feeling that Mori could feel the tremors from the hand the grasped his own, as they slowed down, no longer moving about the room, now simply rooted in place, swaying lightly, Mori released Dazai's hand to wrap his other arm around the boys waist and pull the brunette lean into him.
Oddly, Dazai complied without a fuss, just quietly leaning into the mans chest, feeling the rumbles it emitted as he continued his humming.
Dazai's eyes slid closed and his hitched breathing began to draw more shallow, body relaxing into the mans arms, though unintentional quivering remained steadfast and bold.
Chills encompassed him and he couldn't help but twitch slightly at the odd prickling sensations at the nape of his neck, beneath the protective layer of bandages, untouchable by any outside force, and yet the odd feeling persisted.
(Dazai knew, at the back of his mind, that it was the drugs doing this. The little curtain men, the odd grocery store lobster, and the prickling sensation were all brought on by the drugs, and he could do nothing dig his nails into his palms at the thought of how severely impaired he currently was. He was vulnerable, confused and ill, his inability to currently tell fiction from reality would be detrimental were he to be put in the sudden situation where he needed to think, or run, or something. He was uselessly pathetic right now, standing in the arms of the pumping him full of drugs to keep him compliant and confused, to be held by a man whose touch felt like razor blades grazing skin, not quite sharp enough to cut you, but certainly startling to feel the sudden sensation.)
Mori's arm retreated from his back and lightly grasped his chin, tilting his head up to face him, eyes squinting open blearily, not entirely comprehending what's going on around him.
Mori smiled and lightly rubbed the boys cheek with his thumb, caressing it softly as he gazed down with a warm feeling of satisfaction building in his gut.
His smile grew, more sincere in nature as he viewed the boys trepidation, the way his eyes began darting to the corner of the room, eyes seeming catching on something there.
Mori huffed out a laugh and leaned down to press his lips to the boys forward, the kiss was gentle and chaste and filled with such malice and promise of ill will that it sent violent shivers down Dazai's spine.
The man let go fully, watching the boy sway and and glance about the room frantically seeing things imperceptible to Mori's own eye, and the man couldn't help but find himself amused by the boys behaviour. He found it cute, in a way, the primal fear and nervousness, the adrenaline being the only thing keeping him standing with all those drugs he's on combined with recent injuries and Dazai's usual lack a desire to eat leaving him frighteningly under weight.
The cluelessness in the boys hunched shoulders as threats unseen frightened him to near catatonia sent a warm sting to his stomach, a knot forming.
Mori decided he ought not to leave Dazai too confused for much longer, so he knelt down and picked him up, one arm supporting beneath the boys rear while the other lightly braced the boys back. Instinctually Dazai had thrown his arms around the mans neck, finding some sort of support to climg to in case he were to fall.
Dazai's eyes began to drift closed once more despite his fighting it, his exhaustion seemed to be winning the battle by a long shot.
Soon, he was lifted away from the man and the warmth he provided and gently dropped onto a plush bed. Immediately, Dazai began to relax, the shakes beginning to quell as he began to slowly but surely release his hold on consciousness, allowing himself to sleep.
The bed dipped and a hand made for his waist band.
Dazai's shaking hands no doubt would be no match for Mori's strong sturdy ones.
Dazai realized, with a sense of apathy, allowing his body to remain deadweight as he peered up and the pop corn ceiling, that tonight he likely would be incapable of sleep.
A fickle, elusive thing it is.