parasite [YANDERE!O.DAZAI/READER]

TWENTY FIVE: THE BLOOD.

Dazai hums to himself as he pours himself a cup of coffee from the coffee machine, listening to the chatter of his colleagues behind him. But his mind was not on them, but rather on the image of you that he has conjured. Like magic, you rise from the ground, from the shadows, and materialise like an invention of fear and darkness. ​​

In Sinhala, the national and official language of Sri Lanka, the word 'dangerous' can be easily altered to 'beautiful' with a twist of a single syllable. And you were altered by Dazai's humanity, his capacity for folly and fallibility, to become beautiful. You opened up yourself for him, lifting your curtains of danger and blackness and let him hide there, and dropped them so that no one could properly perceive him but you.

He wonders what you're doing at the moment. He can imagine you in your room, playing and shuffling those tarot cards, reading the same fortune over and over again, hoping for a different outcome or constellation that told a different fate. And maybe it would. He doesn't know, for once, about your fate. You were unpredictable in a way, you were different, you were a monster; parasitical and leech-like. He smiles to himself at the thought of you drinking his blood, finding the thought akin to consummation on a wedding night.

"Dazai?" A voice calls out behind him. Ranpo looked into his eyes, with a lollipop in his mouth, and gravely said, "How do you think Sakata is feeling right now?"

"Rejected," Dazai says, a bit triumphantly. "Desperate."

"He is in love with your lover," Ranpo says. "His light has been stolen; he's not used to the feeling of losing. It must sting."

"It must."

The two stare at each other for a while, before Dazai puts the coffee mug down.

"You should really get going, Dazai," Ranpo warns. Dazai nods, suddenly urgent and already well aware of the tone in his voice. "I know (last name)'s life is in danger."

"You're right," His back snaps up and he grabs his coat off the back of the chair, swiftly walking to the front door. "Be back soon."

"Make sure to come back in one piece."

"I will, trust me."

–

Your legs hang off the edge of the bed as you stare into space, looking out the window and at the sky where the mauve edges of evening begin to melt against the glacial blues of day. You rub your eye with the side of your finger, stifling a yawn before staring down at your bare feet.

You missed Dazai. When was he coming to visit?

Granted, you haven't ever envisioned a world where he would be making your life this tumultuous, this desperate, this human. But you felt childish, wanting someone to take care of you like it was the end of the world if they didn't. You wanted love, you wanted to feel what humans felt: that being true emotions, instead of just pure bloodlust. All that bloodlust made your head spin, your teeth whetted and your tongue sharp and black with lies. And then it was like a magician flicked their wand and you had a chance of being human in the presence of Dazai, who generously gave you an insight into the human world with its kaleidoscopic lens, people moving like frames of a zoetrope, emotions lined up in intervals and focusing your eyes on them, watching them distort and melt and become something new.

Sadness + Excitement = Happiness?

You swing your feet up and down before a creak downstairs interrupts your train of thought. Your head lifts itself up, and you don't say anything but stand up.

Your first thought is that it is Dazai, who has come to visit you. In that case, you take the kettle and fill it with water and place it on the roaring fire in the fireplace, and wait for the water to bubble. You watch the fire and let it warm the cold jelly of your eyes, orange and red refracting like a spinning diamond in your gaze.