𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ✦: Mention of slight abuse, blood will be worded. Reminder that 'love' isn't always about romance.
𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐎𝐕:
Your gaze was drawn to beams of luminous flashing in front of you as they hustled into the base. The beams are Akutagawa and Atsushi. Lights that emit both crimson and cyan at the same time. The hues stand for bloodshed and grief. You somehow lingered behind, entirely disregarding the mission's principal goal. As you staggered but did not fall, a particular male in beige clutched your sleeve. Your brows scrunched together, and your toes curled. Trying to settle yourself down was a difficult chore for you in the past and in the present. You'd have his head on a stick if it weren't for the fact that Dazai and Chuuya were together. You detested him, but here you are, obedient to his every command. You would acknowledge that you are envious. You're jealous of every minute he spends with him, every troubled face he sends his way, every sorrow poured, every glimpse, contact, and thoughts. You want to tear him apart and purify him from his head and heart. But you aren't capable to.
You assume that envy, rage, bitterness, and egotism are the first emotions you had felt. You view life as a rivalry. You emerge to the pinnacle last because you know he isn't going to wait for you. He is down beneath, encouraging strangers in appreciating that the perspective is spectacular from every vantage point. You were never a second choice; in fact, you were never even a choice. You were the dirt that made the grass's foundation gleam. No one would notice your efforts since they would assume it was done by someone else who took full acclaim. Everyone you've met leads you to believe you're worth a thousand dollars when you're only worth a cent. Someone else would always be above you, occupying the throne that was once yours. Your superiors had someone else to gloat about, the deity who bestowed your abilities had someone greater than you, your parents abandoned you without a whisper, leaving your recollections vacant, and even you disliked you.
Dazai enticed you along with him since he anticipated you wouldn't protest due to his relation with Chuuya, but you were misinformed. He did, however, exploit it to his advantage. You're in a vehicle with him, and there's a contraption in front of you. There was a phone call going on with another chopper that had Junichiro and Kenji on board. The redhead tried to apologise, but you just replied as if everything was OK and ignored the remainder of his statements. You'd say it was futile, and you'd be right. When the entire city is in jeopardy, the male was wasting his breath and time.
"Looks like they're on the move!"
Kenji communicated through the intercom.
"Dazai! Three cars have left the abandoned mines from the north. Contact the service team, have the following."
Junichiro exclaimed, but the male next to you chopped him off.
"Ignore them."
"Um--eh"
"Those are decoys. It's just there to slow us down."
"But how--could you be so sure?"
"Because that's exactly what I would do."
As a former Port Mafia member. You clenched your eyes and proceeded to peer at the grainy image. Why was he so fascinated with an inconceivable illustration? You groaned, realizing that this was becoming too monotonous for you. You simply lost consciousness.
You show no attempt to conceal your distress. You seldom put everything on exhibition, but for today and the duration of the prosecution, you must. Every grimace, every glimpse of agony will be amplified a hundred times and examined by commentators and political pundits. But you've been taught that it's vital; the public needs to examine you as defenseless and humiliated. You cannot pretend to be unconcerned or unremorseful, yet doing so eliminates an essential piece of your consciousness technique and exposes you wounded for everyone to see. You'd assume that's the objective. You will imagine that this is a strategy to alleviate your isolation. You should imagine that doing so will cause you to feel revered, recognized, valued for who you are, and acknowledged as exceptional. You may assume that you are unusual, capable of managing a controlling and manipulative friendship without exceeding any boundaries and that it would not impact you. You'll believe it's going so because it's dredging up pleasant sentiments in areas far within your emotions that have been frigid for a long period of time. You'll imagine that all of those pleasant feelings are beneficial for you. But it's just a trick of the light. Hunger is obstructing your vision, guilt is filling up your empty heart. You are now becoming cacophonous. You missed the problem, -- you missed the joke.
"My dear Shinyuu--what shall I do to this poor..defenseless body?"
You stared at the boy in front of you, chained, shredded flesh clawed by the iron that bears it, blood gushing from his eyes. As you observed him struggling, his teeth were gouging holes in his skin. Screams could be heard a few minutes ago, but they faded quickly away, revealing only feeble tugs on the chains that bound him. Life may remain dismal in a bog of medical vacuousness, sopping in lethargy and coldness. Barbatos the cold-eyed prism of validity does not respond to the aching and wailing of unexpressed sensations. He remained silent till the restrained man had calmed down.
"This boy--such a weak little dove."
The boy used to adorn wings on the back of his back, blindingly white feathers that could be written as an overarching storyline. However, when blood squeezed out, the delicate feature was plucked out. The blood was splashed like paint on a canvas over the floorboards. Anguish is a bothersome aspect of humanity; he's discovered it feels like a midline incision to the heart, something he desires he didn't have to deal with in his existence here. Distress is abrupt and unavoidable suffering. But he has also discovered that it is through suffering that he may experience the beauty, compassion, and openness of regeneration. The sensation of agony is similar to a rapid puncture wound to the brain. His previous effort was that he couldn't fly since he didn't have wings. Not that he intended to, but all he saw were gentle features reaching for him.
"Come on little boy--speak up. What would you like? Hm..?"
The 'boy' fought back his cries and remained silent. He understood that speaking up would only make things worse for himself and his future. — That is, if he even has one. The most distressing weeping wasn't the kind that everyone could see, like wailing on roadsides or clawing at garments. The worst form occurred when his spirit grieved and there was no way to console it, no matter what he did. A portion of his soul faded and established marks on the feathers that remained. When he sobs thus intensely that it aches his throat, he is dissatisfied and aware that nothing he can do or strive to do will solve the issue. When he senses the desire to weep, when he just wishes to let it all out and release some of the weight on the inside, that is actually suffering. Because he can't, no matter how hard he pushes or how much he craves to. That anguish just lingers with him.
"Speak up, you won't get what you want if you don't try."
The poet rested a palm on his cheek, as well as the torrents of tears that used to pour down his cheek, are now dried up glue. A smirk formed on his face as he traced his fingers over the liquid's tracks. He rested his other hand on the pale boy's head, caressing the attempted hair tug.
"You know I love you right?"
The little feeble boy nodded reluctantly, his faint smile emerging. You were disgusted by his gullibility. You remained seated and observed from a remote location.
