illusion || YANDERE!BEAST!DAZAI OSAMU

six: flowers.

You're awoken from your afternoon nap on your couch in your room when the doorbell rings. You stir, bolting up at the sound despite unrecognizing the place you were in, though recollections of your life came back to you like fragments of an ancient poem being restored. You rub your eyes and wipe the drool slipping down the side of your mouth with your sleeve and slip on your slippers, shuffling to the front door and peering through the peephole.

The sight before you was bizarre: Your boss, holding a giant bouquet of flowers: blossomed yellow tulips, red roses, white baby's breath, white lilies, and pale pink peonies, wrapped in baby blue and white paper.

"I know you're looking through the peephole, (first name)," He says, his eye flicking up to stare at yours. You blink. "Open the door, please."

You unlock the door. Dazai slips through the cracked open space as though afraid you might shut it on him, and he looks more like a wayward shadow than human, with his dark hair and dark coat. The darkness of his attire only made his skin look paler than it already was, bordering on an unhealthy pallor.

"It's my day off," You say, crossing your arms under your bosom. "Why're you here? And what's with the flowers?"

Dazai smiles, extending his arms so that the flowers were thrusted upon your face.

"They're for you," He says. "They opened up a new flower shop near Port Mafia territory. They must have been desperate because businesses don't operate near us."

"Because it's the fucking Port Mafia we're talking about," You bluntly say, but nonetheless, you take the flowers. "They're beautiful. But surely you didn't just come all the way here just to hand deliver me some flowers."

"What if it were that simple?" Dazai asks. "A man going out of his way to give flowers for the woman he's trying to court?"

"Nice try, but you're not that kind of guy," You deadpan. "You're my boss. I know you a bit more than that."

He chuckles and walks towards your couch, sitting delicately next to the pillow that was dented with the shape of your head.

"No, I haven't come all the way here just to give you some flowers," He says.

"Then why are you here?" You ask. "As I said, it's–"

"It's your day off, I know," He says. "You see, I'm quite the lonely man–it comes with being the boss of such a notorious organisation. I suppose I came here to find companionship."

You quirk an eyebrow. "No one else around to keep you company, huh."

"Exactly. Chuuya is constantly at war with himself on how he should see me: half of him wants me dead, and the other half respects me undyingly."

"What about Atsushi-kun?"

"He's busy with the numerous missions I've sent him away on," Dazai crosses his hands over his lap. "So I've come here. To visit my lovely, dreamy secretary."

You shrug. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to get us some tea. Thanks for the flowers, by the way."

"Thank you, and you're welcome," He says, and his voice seemed genuinely gracious. He studies the living room in your absence: a large flat TV mounted on the wall; a potted plant, a cactus, on the windowsill; a coffee table accompanied by an ashtray (used, and hosting a butt of a cigarette) and classic paperbacks; a brown leather couch with large cushions; a print of Andy Warhol's banana on the wall, framed and underneath a glass pane. All of this was so domestic, and in this domestic geography did Dazai feel he had wandered into a forest clearing, surrounded by paraphernalia that gave away your living standards. He felt comfortable and even lulled by it all, to the point he rests the back of his head on the couch.