parasite [YANDERE!O.DAZAI/READER]

FOURTEEN: THE NIGHT.

Night falls. A damp tempest, the buildings and trees and mountains glowing beneath the bruised, turbid sky, an occasional shriek from a truck on the highway, the distant noise of bottles hitting pavement, chafing noises of blankets being shifted against one another as you watch Dazai slump against his pillow. You sit on the extra futon he has set up for you, with your legs pulled to your chest and leaning your chin on your knees.

"Will you be here when I wake up?" Dazai asks as his eyes flutter half-shut. His long lashes flutter gently as you nod, loosening your legs so that they were splayed out on the futon.

"I will," You say. Then after a while, when he seems unconvinced, you say, "I promise."

"You don't seem like the type of person to keep promises."

"Am I that shallow to you?"

He chuckles, closing his eyes. "Not shallow. Just so ephemeral, that you can't help but break promises."

You lean over and press your cold, cold hand against the curve of his cheek. He leans into it, like a cat nuzzling into the hand that loves it, and something straining against his chest loosens when you drag your fingers down his cheek and gently hold the side of his neck. His vision clears, like he had been bleary-eyed from water and gunk and your presence washed it all away.

"I'm here," You say. "I will be here."

"Mhm," He hums. "Turn off the light, won't you?"

You turn off the lamp that was standing just above his head, and the room instantly falls into darkness. Dust motes float in the air under the moonlight's beams, the white light resembling that of sunlight when it is at its peak. You slide under the futon and let the white covers blanket you, like snow and ice over a corpse. Your hand reaches out and gropes for Dazai's, whose instincts make his hand find yours. Even in the dark, when you can only rely on your hearing, you feel like you can trust him–not because you are the Queen of death and disease and everything wrong, but because he has shown his vulnerability to you and...

...A bit of him lived in you.

"A bit of you lives in me," You whisper, clenching his fingers. "Do you know that?"

"What do you see in me?" He asks. Though you were a vampire, you had no ability to see through people as if they were windows–no way to see into their pasts nor their future. But from what Dazai had said about himself, you can infer.

"I see wayward ghosts...I see ghosts with bones in you, I hear plangent hysteria brimming in your mouth, I smell past blood spilt by your hands. Do you have a history with violence?"

"I do," He admits. "A rather sordid one."

You blink, confusion evident in your voice. "Why do you ask, by the way?"

He pauses, then chuckles. "I suppose the real question I wanted to ask you was if you loved me."

Alas, the question that you could not answer a few weeks ago lingers in the air as you try to find your way through your heart. But it is like a blazing forest in there; the straight way was already lost and you must find another way to find an answer in the flames. A curious feeling runs through your veins at his incessant desire for a straight answer. Dazai receives a quiet silence, before you ask,

"Why is it important that you need to have an answer when I feel what I feel for you?"

He laughs softly, a light noise that makes the corners of your lips quirk into a small smile.

"And what is it you feel for me?"

You turn your head to the side where Dazai was lying, and find that he was already staring at you. His gentle brown eyes are like firewood, ignited by the moon to blaze a soft fire. While your eyes were sharp and slitted and designed for death, his was round and had no edges, which made it feel as though you were drowning in them, with nowhere to cut yourself against to break away from the trance. It was like chewing on White Willow, salix alba, with its available salicylic acid–that's what killed the pain of existence.