a symptom of being alive | BSD [soukoku]

Part 1

Warnings:
- Drug abuse
- Depiction of addiction
- Self Harm
- Needles
- Mentions of suicide
- Mentions of vomiting

[Who will fix me now? Dive in when I'm down? Save me from myself, don't let me drown. - Bring me the Horizon]

To taste salvation

only to have it

run through finger gaps

like fine sand:

a divine cruelty.

He can feel everything.

It's been too long. Every thought is crisp, every emotion is loud. The lines on his skin beneath his abrasive shirt burn and itch in tandem. The hours have gotten away from him, blending together into a singularity of despair, and for that he's paying the price.

The building is dark, lit only by a faint amount of moonlight trickling through the glass walls. Dazai works quietly, picking the lock to a room with skilled fingers. His cheeks are wet and he exhales shakily. Everything inside of him is simply too much right now; he can't contain the way the unpleasantness crawls over him, threatening to burn him to ash with its intensity. He's avoided this exact situation for so long. There couldn't possibly be a worse moment for lucidity to be gripping him; like a snake wound excruciatingly tight around his body. It feels awful .

He has a key card to most areas within the organization's headquarters, but not to this specific room. Only Mori himself has access to his personal medical office, tucked away in a corner of the top floor where access is already restricted down to a trusted few. Working on this lock feels soothing in a barely-there type of way, to be doing something he's so intimate with and knowing he will soon be remedying this nightmare; it brings a whisper of relief.

With a delicate click, the lock gives way, and he continues to move silently into the room.

It's equally dark on the other side of the door, though several lights from medical equipment illuminate it enough for him to not trip over anything. He knows exactly where he needs to go; he's seen it a hundred times before. He makes his way to the cabinet at the back of the room on muscle memory alone and begins picking another lock. This one is a little more complex than the other, but it's no matter.

"You know, I would have given you more if you asked," a calm voice comes from a dark corner of the room, nearly causing Dazai's heart to punch clean out of his chest. "I thought you might wind up here. Needing a little something to take the edge off?"

Mori.

Dazai would recognize that voice anywhere; the way his relaxed tone can't help but carry the undertone of a threat, like the eye of a storm.

Dazai takes a deep breath and continues picking the lock.

"I don't want to talk to you," he replies, bringing one hand up to quickly wipe the tears from his cheeks and the sweat from his brow.

Mori likely can barely see him, but he doesn't want him to be able to see his distress. Doesn't want him to catch the scent of fear.

"You know I only did what I had to, Dazai. What needed to be done. Can you really fault me for that?"

"You're wrong," Dazai whispers as the cabinet clicks open.

On a good day, he would have no problem remaining silent, carefully tucking his emotions out of mind like an obedient little disciple; becoming whatever Mori wanted him to be.