Chrysanthemum Garden [Dazai x Reader] ✓

32. Flashcards

Dazai left the following morning.

Dazai had pushed himself up from bed (the one we'd platonically shared during the night) before sunrise, dressing in his habitual black waistcoat black vest over a blue-striped shirt, and slipping on the first pair of white trousers he found in the closet; he'd found his old sandy-coloured trench coat neatly folded by a corner of shame in the room, but left it behind for how dirty and damaged it'd been (from the fire where he'd earned his wounds from).

I'd been awake at the time, wishing that the clicking of the loose hangers swaying violently against each other would stop as he dressed quietly in the comfort of the bedroom. Unlike last time, however, he bade me farewell when he witnessed my conscious movement to lean on my elbow and glare at the sound; he had given me a quick peck to the forehead, assuring me that –

"I'll come back this time, I promise. There are errands I have to do before the sun rises, [Y/N]." – He switched the bedside table lamp off and dared to kiss my fingers before standing up from his knees reluctantly. "I'll be back before you know I'm gone."

But as the minutes passed, so did my will to go back to sleep; sitting up from bed, I fixed an eye-patch behind my ear and made my way out of the room quietly, grabbing a glass of water from the sink before settling on the couch – as was usual during the two weeks Dazai had been gone for.

Lying on the coffee table was the envelope Sakaguchi had given me the previous night, sealed – my name looked somehow more beautiful than it had the previous night, perhaps more meaningful because –

A friend of Dazai's named you. That same friend is the r̴̽e̶̛̓̎͆̋̇as̸ŏ̷n you're alive right now. How lucky.

Tearing the top flap open with a borrowed butter knife from the kitchen drawer, I shook its contents out onto my lap swiftly; resting on my thighs was a small, rigid envelope (large enough to only hold a couple of photographs perhaps), and two see-through paper wallets; one held a clean criminal check and a lump of ID with my name on its surfaces, while the other was stuffed with wrinkled with sheets of handwritten papers, these hidden under a bright post-it note reading:

"16 years worth of letters from Dr [L/N] to his wife (only the few that were able to be retrieved)."

I removed the several creased papers from the plastic wallet and skimmed through them quickly, noticing the chronological order in which they'd been arranged; the first few dated a year before my birth, confirming that before me, there had been a child under Father's care – his son:

My dear beloved,

I have no time for introductions because I have so much to tell you about! First and foremost: our son!

He's been doing so well and I am so proud of him! He's struggling to write due to having all those needles piercing his skin, but he insisted on writing to you (I've attached his letter with mine); I wonder what such a lovely boy has to tell his mother! – He asked that it was to be kept a secret between the two of you, and I respect the child so I won't look (not even a cheeky little peek!). I'm sure he misses you loads – I do too!

Speaking in regards to health; he's been handling his treatment way better than expected, and the doctors have been saying he may be discharged and be able to come home in the period of a couple of weeks!

I miss waking up to his morning enthusiasm, the child-like innocence of starting a new, idle day! Maybe he'll be back on time for his birthday! He's about to turn eleven! Isn't eleven such an interesting number? Like two towers standing tall next to each other – like it's you and me represented in his age! Will you be able to come home for his eleventh? We haven't seen you in so long, my dear...