𝙈𝙀𝙉𝙏𝘼𝙇 𝙎𝘾𝘼𝙍𝙎, 𝙤𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙪 𝙙𝙖𝙯𝙖𝙞

𝙁𝙊𝙐𝙍

"I'm sorry."

His mouth says one thing, his eyes say another. He's not sorry—what could he be sorry for? It's how he was raised, he said. It's just being a man. It's normal.

Normal would have been for you to finish school, to go off to college and find a boyfriend your age. Normal wouldn't have been becoming a weapon at the age of sixteen. Normal wasn't being love bombed by a man four years your senior. Normal wasn't begging him to love you when another woman was on his mind. Normal wasn't him manipulating you into sleeping with him. Normal wasn't this. None of this was normal.

"You're not sorry you did it. You're sorry that you were caught." An insult falls on your lips, but you don't say it. Insulting him won't get your childhood back. Insulting him wouldn't bring your innocence back. "You're sorry that I wasn't afraid to come back. You're sorry that everyone knows how awful you are—"

A scoff cuts off your words. "You think you know everything about me," he hums, leaning back on the bench, his eyes falling shut with a sigh. "You don't. You're dumb—you always have been. I've been fucked up longer than you've been alive."

He pauses, glancing at you for only a moment. Only a moment, and you can see the way his brow arches. Even if it's barely noticeable.

"I should leave." Is all he says, standing from the bench quicker than your mind can comprehend his words, and when you go to speak, he's long gone.

His words sting when they leave his mouth—a familiar poison lurking behind them. It only hurts for a moment, ever so slightly. It's a poison you'd become immune to a long, long time ago.

.

Dazai doesn't make an effort to come near you after your last conversation. Whether you should be grateful for this, you're still not sure.

Even as the days go by, you keep an eye on him, he seems out of it. He's sluggish. Confused. Shaky—like he's using again.

You hate it. Hate the fact that you're still worried about him. It's just denial—you remind yourself. Denial, denial, denial. You hate yourself for thinking about him. You hate him for doing this to you even more. You hate everything.

The skin around your nails is gone. Ruined. Has been for a while—but being back has reopened the wounds. Not only on your fingers, either. The members of the agency seem to notice this. They help keep your mind occupied, whether it be with stupid tasks or little trinkets.

You're grateful for this. For them—you've asked again and again and again for help, and every time they'd come to you like it was second nature. It was, at this point.

Years had gone by without them, yet returning had made it seem like time had simply paused. Like everything went right back to normal.

Almost.

You're walking down the street with Kunikida when he pops into your head. He's always there, always infecting your every thought. This time is different, though. You're not sure how—but it is.

"Does Dazai seem normal to you?" You ask, cutting off whatever it was he was saying. You'd stopped paying attention a long time ago. Usually how a conversation goes with you these days. It's hard to keep a conversation with someone who isn't mentally there.

Kunikida glances at you with a raised brow. Not that it's out of the usual for you to ask about Dazai—it's hard, after all. Him being back in your life. But you're under his protection as of right now, and he'll be damned if Dazai sneaks his way back into your heart. Not this time. He ruined you once before, never again.