illusion || YANDERE!BEAST!DAZAI OSAMU

two: cigarette.

The tip of a cigarette, emitting blue smoke as it hangs off your lips.

You tilt your head back and let the smoke hang over your face like a cloud, before it dissipates like a puddle on a sunny day. Through the smoke everything seemed misty and diluted, as if your eyes were to lapse into tears, and you shake it away by squeezing your eyes shut and sighing heavily.

You fall into a crouch in this dirty alleyway where the dripping noise of the aircon units above served as a tiny corpse of time; drip-drip-drip, they served as a metronome in your heavy, scribbled mess of a mind.

You hated work. You absolutely despised it. You hated waking up and going to work, you hated the dread that crept up your fingers and into your arms and into your chest as you entered the workplace. Anxiety was a constant companion for you when working here, and so was depression; two siren sisters connected at the navel, singing out songs of terror and fear.

You hated working at the Armed Detective Agency.

You think that the other members knew of your hatred of working there, though you never made it public. The truth lay in your rotting heart, and you hid it well through smiles and fake laughter that never reached your eyes. You were a deadman walking in that office building, and it was evident that even in this beautiful afternoon you felt like a salaryman after a night of drinking his soul out.

"Oh? Who might you be?"

A voice that came from the entry of the alleyway. You keep your cigarette in your mouth and look to the side, and blink at the man standing there. He had the eye of dead wood, the other covered by bandages, and a smile that looked more like a Grecian mask than a smile. It looked like it had been carved by a curved knife.

"Silly me, asking the obvious questions," The man says, stepping over a puddle. His long black coat sways like rippling water on a moonless night, his scarf like a waterfall of forever tumbling blood as he shakes his head. His hair is dark brown, almost bordering on black, and it made him paler than he actually looked. "You're (first name) (last name), aren't you? Secretary of the Armed Detective Agency."

"That's me," You mutely say, your voice devoid of any emotion. Your eyes are so flat they looked more like children's colour counters toys of (eye colour) than actual eyes. The man could see himself in them, reflected in your irises, and he could see himself duplicate into your retinas as they burnt him into your brain. "Is there something you need from the Agency?"

"You don't sound too happy about working in the Armed Detective Agency."

You take another puff of your cigarette, delaying your answer. You squeeze it with your index and thumb, watching the ash crumble away, held by the gentle breeze of spring.

"I'm not really happy anywhere," You say, a trickle of sadness making its way into your voice. "Because of the Agency."

"Why is that?" The man asks, pries, but you're more than happy to tell. You are the teller of your own tale, you are the storyteller here. You are not the tale, there is no dilemma that tells that you are the story.

"I don't fit in with my co-workers," You explain, turning your eyes back to the sky. A flock of birds pierced through the azure expanse, so deep and large that the sky seemed more like a flat screen than a series of atmospheres. "They try. But I'm the problem. I don't feel real when I'm with them. I feel like disappearing and there at the same time. It is a very confusing feeling."

"Confusing indeed," He hums, and puts his hands in his pockets. "Would you be interested in working for me?"

"For you?" You turn to him and quirk an eyebrow. You have to look up since you're still crouched on the floor, before standing up and crushing your cigarette with your shoe. "Who're you?"

He smiles again. "My name is Dazai Osamu. Have you heard of the Port Mafia?"

"I can't believe that was two years ago," You say, dropping the last of his bandages off the side of the bed. Now he was no longer an One-eyed King, but rather a simple husband attending to the needs of his wife who wanted to see him behind the second pseudo-skin. They fall to a limp pile on the floor, the carpeted floor, and you fall onto the pillows with a relished sigh. "I was so depressed, you know."

"I know," He says, running a hand over your back when you turn to face him. Hiding your face in his chest, he smiles at the goosebumps rising in his hand's wake. "You were in the wrong place."

"How did you know me, back then?"

"Agency information is very public since they're so compliant with the police, darling," He says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. He then reaches over and switches off the night lamp on the nightstand. The entire room falls entirely into darkness. "You were just a google search away from me."

"Very comforting to know," You sarcastically say. He chuckles at that, his chest rumbling with the noise. You press your ear to it, holding onto him like he was your life raft, hearing his heart survive the drowning that was imminent death. The struggle of life is so beautiful, you think to yourself; the silence was frightening to think about.

"Now you're in the dark," Dazai says. "And you're flourishing. Who knew a beautiful thing like you would be by my side?"

You sit up and manoeuvre your leg over his body so that you're straddling him, your crotch grazing his. Dazai looks up at you, with that dark, large eye that you've associated with life, because of its depths, and they spark with mirth when you run your hands down his front. Your touch feels like rainwater, something soothing, something inevitable to fall. It feels like an answer to a question he's been housing his entire life: What was it like, to love? And now he knows. He finds his answer in the cradle of your legs, in the curve of your hips, in the smirk of your lips.

"I'm glad you quit that awful habit of smoking," He says. You gyrate your hips against his groin and he moans, pleasure creeping up his bones like electricity.

"I haven't quit. I still smoke when I'm stressed," You say, warmth pooling at your lower tummy. He tuts, before flipping you over. You squeal in surprise.

"Awful habit," He taps your nose, and smiles. "Should I punish you for being such a naughty wife?"

"You could. Or..." You cross your arms behind his head and bring him closer so that you're grazing your lips across his. "I can just go smoke with executive Chuuya."

"Oh, don't be so silly." He chastises, and grinds his hips against yours. You giggle, before falling into mindless pleasure. Dazai knows your body like the back of his hand, your anatomy driven into place into his head like it was an instinct. He knows where to take you apart, like a clockwork toy, and find you beneath your own skin, writhing and flailing for him to bite into. He knows you so well that you were more than sure he lived his life, and partly yours too, passively looking at the world through your eyes. You didn't have that privilege; your husband was too covered in shadows, too covered in bandages that it was a headache to get underneath all of it. All you could do was take those bandages off and rest your skin against his, hoping that the intimacy was enough.

Hope that it was enough. 

When he makes love to you, you feel like you are shattering, and being re-pieced into something anew, something better. Maybe that was the power of love, you think to yourself, maybe love is shattering for the other person to put you back into pieces. Your thought comes to an end when Dazai spills his cum inside of you, groaning into your neck as his composure falls into pieces. You moan softly into his ear and pull gently on the tresses of brown, tugging them back so that you could kiss him while he softened inside of you. 

"Don't smoke with Chuuya-kun, please," He says. He flops to the side and his heart flutters in his chest like a frantic sparrow. You press your palm to it and rest your head on his arm.

"You know he won't try anything with me," You say, frowning. "I would never cheat on you."

"Of course. I don't doubt you. I just don't want you smoking anymore."

You sigh, your eyelids growing heavy. You slowly succumb to the folds of sleep, waves of drowsiness washing ashore like the rippling waves of the Port. Seagulls screeching above, the tangy smell of salt in the air, the comforting kiss of your lover on the back of your shoulder, a mark, a pact, a ritual...