He sits on the edge; wine bottle by his side and a single wilted flower in his hand. He doesn't smile, he doesn't cry, he doesn't mourn, he doesn't feel anything but the gnawing feeling of emptiness in his chest.
There's supposed to be a cold hand in his, but when he curls his hand to a fist, there's still nothing there.
Where there's supposed to be a man beside him, there's nothing there.
Where he should be hearing giggling, teases and jabs, there's only the sound of wind passing by.
Where his smile should be, is occupied by an unchanging expression.
He doesn't reminisce about old memories, doesn't try and feel the nostalgia, doesn't feel the cold breeze that brushes past him, the starry night sky outlining his frame.
He opens the bottle's cork and takes a sip, but it doesn't warm him up or get rid of the nothingness where his heart should be. He doesn't taste anything, doesn't feel the liquid going down his throat, he's still drinking from it even when it's empty, doesn't notice it.
He doesn't care.
He doesn't care if the cold hand in his isn't there anymore, that he's never going to feel it in his warm ones ever again.
He doesn't care if the man that's supposed to be beside him, always and forever, isn't gonna be there anymore.
He doesn't care if he doesn't, won't ever hear the giggling, teasing and jabs anymore.
He doesn't care if he can't feel nothing else but nothing, that he can't smile.
He'll live, get through it all, all the pain, suffering, the sorrow, he always does. He doesn't care that his feet dangle off the side recklessly, doesn't bother to pay attention to the ringing phone of his.
He's strong, he can handle it.
He'll take whatever life throws at him, or whatever life takes away, people and things come and go. Albatross, Pianoman, Lippman, Doc, Iceman all passed and he was fine. He found out he wasn't human, he was still fine. He opened his gate fully and entrusted his life to...
He was fine.
He's fine.
He'll be fine.
He looks at the wilted camellia, a petal torn off by the wind and carried away to the unknown. The red is distorted, leaving it ugly and disappointing to look at. Love, adoration and longing. Things that are bound to end in disaster, all three ugly and disappointing to look at.
Most people fell in love when they were teenagers, but he always thought he was too picky, incapable of falling in love, that He'd never let himself fall in love. Because love is giving your all to somebody, revealing all your soft spots and weaknesses, and praying they don't destroy you. He thought he'd never let himself do something as stupid as falling in love.
But when he left the Mafia, he realized he was already in love.
"O' grantors of Dark Disgrace." He says, making sure not to say the full command. "Dark disgrace, huh." He whispers under his breath.
He tosses the flower off the edge, watching it fade away into the lights of Yokohoma's buildings.
He's going to be fine.
He'll get through it.
He doesn't care.
He's indifferent.
He's fine.
He leaves a picture of two boys, both in their fifteens, on the ground. He doesn't spare it a second look, doesn't bid it farewell as it's stolen by the wind.
Slug + Mackerel
He won't miss him.
YOU ARE READING
𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗞𝗢𝗞𝗨 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗦
RomanceI HAVE MOVED ON TO AO3, THIS MOST LIKELY WILL NO LONGER BE UPDATED (ao3: zaikunxx) I PLAN TO REWORK SOME OF THE CHAPTERS IN THIS BOOK ON AO3, SO PLEASE CHECK ME OUT <3 Content warnings: •Suicide (especially for Dazai, of course.) •Self-harm •Cursi...
