Cirque de Sentimentalité - YANDERE!DAZAI

RELOAD, THE ECHOES OF THE DAMNED

Morning comes and you find that Dazai has woken up earlier than you. He was sipping on a glass of cold barley tea, and you admire the way the sunlight seemed to illuminate the light in him: it coaxed it out gently. Your insides still remember the shape of him. Your heart has a hole the shape of Dazai in it. You wondered how your heart remained so clean in its doings, pumping blood through the ventricles and not turning it black, after years of breathing in coal dust and despair. Your senses return to you from the depths of sleep, and listen in onto the TV news before it clicks to a halt.

"Why'd you turn it off?" Your morning voice is husky and hoarse, but still enamors Dazai all the same. He snaps his head back and watches you rub your eyes, yawning and collapsing back onto the soft pillow. He puts the glass down and shuffles back towards the futon, to which you open up the blankets and let him in. He slots himself into the gap you have made for him and pushes you into his arms, stroking your back like he would to a cat.

"It's all nonsense," He says.

"Well, I'd like to hear this nonsense."

"It was about the circus fire," Dazai says. "The news reporters are totally oblivious as to who started it."

"Well that's good."

You sigh and snuggle into his warmth. He responds by wrapping his arms tighter around you. You pick at the fraying strings of his bandages loosely wrapped around his arms, and he looks at you with the fondness of someone who might be staring at their kitten playing with a ball of yarn. You then run your fingers over the bumps of his scars, and he shivers almost erotically, steeling himself from pinning you back down and fucking you until you saw stars and could only remember his name, until you made a mess on his cock and broke apart, pulled together by his kiss. The intimacy frightened him, yes, but it also made him realise that he could be loved, ripped apart and clearly seen as who he was: a maniac. An actual maniac. Love made him deranged, feral, animalistic. Baby, you've gotten yourself trapped in the gentle jaws of a crocodile, whose tenderness is emphasised by its capabilities for extreme violence.

"Will you be going into work today?" You ask, your voice muffled by his chest. His chuckle reverberates through like a church bell.

"Well, I gotta look innocent," He says. "Besides, we might have to 'investigate' who started the fire."

"It's a good thing there were no photos permitted back when we performed. I hope no one recognizes me."

"Oh, darling," He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "You've changed so much I doubt anyone recognizes you."

You press yourself against his lips so that he is kissing you harder. He has already been inside of you physically, but he is inside of you mentally. He runs through your veins. Part of you lives in him, just under the ribs, where a special spot is hollowed out for you.

And nothing feels more like life than desire; most people don't know it, but you do. The surge in blood, heroin-highs without the sepia powder. Desire is Dantesque, trance-like, a bacchanal.

–

You end up staying in his dorm while Dazai goes back to work, taking a shower in the shower stall. He has a bar of soap that smells of designer bags and leather and a loofah by a rack on the floor, and you use that to wash off the sweat and drool that had accumulated in your sexual tussle with him. The heat from the shower forces the glass to steam over, and when you step out of the shower groping for a towel, you wipe a hand over the glass mirror. You stare at yourself where the glass was wiped, focusing your (eye colour) hues to your reflection.

"I did the right thing," You say. "I feel no remorse."

Almost as if time reversed, you can see your younger self materialise before you. Her gaze is hollow and removed, as if true existence on this earth was a far too painful experience for her to endure.