Walking In Your Fleeting World || Dazai Osamu

Chapter-29: I found you.

Mizugokoro
(The water heart)

-Riki's POV-

A world that hates you, I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. 

I haul my feet one in front of the other, walking forward with faltering yet fast steps. As if I'm inside the eye of a cyclone, everything around me vanishes from my view within a snap of a finger, leaving me alone as I exit the restaurant.

If you're not smiling, his smile won't matter. No one's smile will matter. 

If you're not living, everyone should die. 

If you're not happy, I won't let anyone be happy.

My heart pounds in its cage, threatening to rip out and drown me inside my body with my own blood. I press my left hand under my nose, derailing a drop of blood escaping from it. Even though my eyes are set in front of me, I can't see anything. Yet, every scrap of my emotions is clear behind my eyes. Such strong emotions should already beat me down, take my consciousness away, but right now I feel like a lightning bolt.

"Riki-chan, wait!" 

A modulated voice chimes from behind me, followed by the nostalgic sensation of a hand wrapping around my wrist, pulling me out of the sudden infatuation. My head clears up instantly as my breath hitches. A relieved sigh comes to my ears as Dazai quickly steps up in front of me, blocking me from furthering.

"Good grief, I just mentioned the painting and you react that extremely?" He laughs sheepishly. My actions and words must've been confusing for him. Of course it'd, he has no idea how much it hurts just by the mention of it.

The painting — that's where it started for beast Dazai. Phase one of his monumental master plan to save Odasaku. What if he does the same thing here?

"What is going on inside this thing?" Dazai jokes, knocking his other hand on my forehead. That bewildered yet awkward smile still plastered all over his face.

"You can't touch the painting," I rasp harshly, trying to drown the turmoil residing inside my heart.

"Why not?" He questions, "Is it because Odasaku doesn't want to? I understand his sentiment, but if he were to leave the mafia, that painting would be his number one obstacle."

"Doesn't matter." I shake my head. His hand is still clutching my wrist, I shift my glance at it. His contact has always been a savior to me, his touch always took away the heavy aches, granted me to think properly, allowed me to breathe again. But even his touch right now isn't taking away this worthlessness, "I told you to leave it be, didn't I?"

"You're saying I should believe you?" His voice appears icy. Even without looking at his face, I know he's displeased. I am too, how amateurish of me to react to this situation emotionally. Yet I can't pull myself back, no matter how many deep breaths I take. My gaze descends on the grey road. His black boots are facing me, just 10-20 centimeters away from mine. A little behind him, there's a black car. Near it stands a suited youth, worriedly gazing at us.

Dazai huffs at my silence, "Look, I understand the painting is sensitive to him, but if we care about his sensitivity we cannot protect him!"

"We?" I whisper, closing my eyes. The corners of my eyes are burning. No matter how many times I swallow the lump in my throat doesn't go away, "You've acted on your own without telling me, now you dare mention we?"

His grip on my forearm loosens a bit. If he were to let go of me, I'd undoubtedly burst into tears. I don't want him to witness that shame. 

He draws in a deep breath, as his grip on my hand increases, compelling me to look at his face. A determined blank expression, his face doesn't give away what he's thinking. Compared to that I probably look like a child who'll burst into tears in any second.