Chrysanthemum Garden [Dazai x Reader] ✓

ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴠᴇ 00

Snow cluttered the waterfront. Yokohama was mantled in a white blanket, welcoming children into the cold to engage in snowball fights with friends, while couples and adults alike used such an opportunity to enjoy a warm beverage by the nearest cafe within cosy walls.

By the waterfront, however, sat the figure of a man dressed in black, his thin arms wrapped around the knees he pulled close to his chest. His steamed breaths drew clouds of air as he exhaled, giving the impression that such a stationary being was nothing more than a dormant dragon.

He was a dormant dragon for months now, really.

Dull eyes looking forward, Ryunosuke Akutagawa focused on the water that weaved before him; strings of white kneaded the waterfront, no wave brave enough to greet the tip of his shoes – these that were dug far deep into the snow from how long he'd been still for.

Akutagawa did not perceive his hot pants as him being cold. He did not understand why his cheeks had gone red or why the tip of his nose felt numb – perhaps numbness was something he could understand for he felt it every day without fail...

With a trembling sigh, Akutagawa dug his pale hand inside the pocket of his coat and produced a bulletin and glass bottle; he lowered his back onto the snow behind him and let his hair flow around him like a tainted halo. He knew both of these objects well, but his eyes could not help but wander over their surfaces;

The bulletin had been pulled out from a bouquet of hydrangeas, all flowers currently wilted despite his effort to keep them alive; he had tried his best to make sure they would not die, really – he had even asked for assistance from his subordinate Higuchi (something he would never admit aloud). The note he handled at the moment, however, had already begun folding on the sides, the ink on it smudged from exposure to rainy days.

The characters written on it were no longer legible, but that did not matter for Akutagawa had already memorised all that was written in it – he heard its writer's voice, indeed, enough to fool himself that they were standing right beside him, hands thrust inside thick gloves that gathered snow and sculpted snowmen.

On his other hand was the glass bottle he refused to hand back to Boss Mori; the label on it had peeled off in half, showing only the characters reading "sleepy juice" – he wondered whether drinking from it would help him fall asleep faster.

He had never dared to try. It did not mean he had never thought about trying.

His nostrils had become acquainted with the sweet scent the liquid inside produced, giving him great nausea whenever he smelled it for longer than a couple of seconds. He wondered how its previous owner managed to resist its drowsing effects for as long as a handful of minutes – the resistance to time between the two of them was certainly a great contrast.

Time.

How much time had passed since the snow had caught up to his hips and buried them in a mattress of softened ice? How much time had passed since he had started shaking without any acknowledgement of it? How much time had passed since he'd become so numb?

A year did the trick.

In a year, Akutagawa had grown quieter, older and lonelier; he was no longer bloodthirsty, nor was he starving for acknowledgement – there was no one to receive acknowledgement from, anyway. He wondered if anyone would ever notice – he doubted anyone would; he had, after all, only intensified the traits he'd had for years, so surely, such change was only so subtle that it'd be overlooked by his peers;

Akutagawa always acted on impulse, brushing all orders he received from above aside if it got in the way of achieving his goals. Akutagawa used his ability with regularity – sometimes even more than he needed to – but it no longer felt the same; Rashomon was starving for flesh and blood, but its owner wasn't... he solemnly did what was expected of him now.