𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏𝘼𝙇 𝙎𝘾𝘼𝙍𝙎, 𝙤𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙪 𝙙𝙖𝙯𝙖𝙞

𝙏𝙃𝙍𝙀𝙀

Mentions of grooming + illegal age gap.

The second time he gets you alone, he doesn't touch you. He doesn't say anything either—not that he needed to. No, his eyes would always speak louder than any words could. Yet, today, they were eerily silent. Too silent.

You take the bait, looking up at him from your desk, an eyebrow raised as you coldly speak. "What?" Your voice practically echoes in the near empty building. The team had gone out on a mission with the promise that Dazai wouldn't be in today. It seems they may have made a mistake.

It's an easing feeling, to both your heart and your mind. Seeing him now, so harmless. Though, that's not true. You know it isn't. But you hadn't expected him to be so.. Quiet. You'd half expected him to kill you when you returned, not to practically welcome you with open arms.

"What what?" He hums, glancing towards you through his thick lashes. Either he's drunk, or..

No, there's no either. He is drunk.

Alcohol had been something you'd made clear you hated. Your parents were alcoholics—you'd dealt with enough of that shit. Until he started turning towards it, and apparently, your words went down the drain with what little smarts you had because you'd stayed.

Thinking back, every little thing should've been a red flag. Oh, well. Red had always been one of your favourite colours.

"You're drunk?" You ask, but it's more of a statement. He can tell by the way you scrunch up your nose. Never did like alcohol, he reminds himself. As if he'd care. His hands run down his vest, wiping his palms on the fabric as he drags his eyes away from you.

"No." He lies, though you both know you can tell. You weren't dumb—he actually rather admired your smarts. It was something he had fallen in love with. Maybe. It's hard to remember at this point. "Just came to grab something."

You watch with narrowed eyes as his fumbles through his desk drawer. He doesn't even have anything in there aside from a pack of cigarettes, gum, and a lighter. Old habits die hard, I guess. By the looks of it, even he doesn't know what he's looking for.

With a sigh, he reaches for the cigarettes. Not that he smoked often, quite the contrary, really. He hated smoking from what you can recall. Only did it when he was stressed. Is he stressed?

Not that you should care, obviously.

It's just hard to see someone you had once cared for deeply again. Those feelings don't just go away. No matter how awful he was to you, there'd always be something there.

"Want one?" He asks, holding the pack for you to see clearly. You want to say no, everything in you is screaming to say no—it's dumb. You're alone with him, and even if you needed help, no one would hear you.

"Alright."

.

Sitting on the rooftop during mid-february without a jacket on was practically asking for a cold. Sitting up here with your ex, on the other hand, was practically suicide in itself. Sitting on the roof mid-february, with your ex, and a cigarette hanging loosely from your lips? Yeah. You'd fallen off the deep end.

He's sitting an arms reach away from you, as far as he can. It'd be a stretch to say he was doing it to make you comfortable—Dazai didn't give a fuck about anyone but himself. Especially, not his dumb ex.

Your eyes watch him closely—studying his face, you'd rather say. Sharp jaw. Sharp nose. Thin brows. Long lashes. Thick hair. Unfortunately, he's still as beautiful as the day you'd met him.

No matter how much you dislike the man, you'd never be able to deny the fact that he was an attractive man. Though, his personality sure isn't.

"So," you start, crushing the cigarette beneath your shoe, crunching it into the snow. Your arms wrap closer around yourself, the cold leaving your skin slightly red. "You and Emi."