PIED PIPER | dazai osamu

5: feverish; alcohol against lips

Your head feels heavy as though someone placed a rock on your forehead when you wake up. You blink away at the ache that the light causes, squinting and then bringing up your hand to shield yourself away.

"Who put a rock on my forehead?" You mumble. You're not sure if that was even coherent. Nonetheless, the man sitting by the chair next to the bed uncrossed his arms.

"Rock? That's a wet rag." He replies curtly.

Ah. So you were going insane.

He must have either 1) Read your mind or 2) Heard what you said out loud, for he pinches the space between his eyes and sighs.

"No, you just had a fever," He shakes the blister pack on the nightstand. It makes a rattling noise that you wince at—noticing, he places it back down. "I see you've already prepared for it."

"Didn't really work," You reply. He makes a disapproving face when you sit up, resting on your elbow and letting the wet rag peel off your forehead and dampen your work clothes. You then sit up. It was already warm from your fever anyways, no longer cold and relieving. You stare into space for a while, eyes going out of focus, before turning your gaze back to the man. "Were you the one who was calling my name before?"

He huffs, the tips of his ears turning pink. "Yeah. But that was only because I was worried. You looked, and still look, like hell."

You breathlessly chuckle, tired, albeit amused. "I feel like hell. Felt like I was walking some sort of...dream. A delusion. Not that I'm new to both..." You pause, picking up the corner of the rag with your index and thumb to place it on the nightstand. It crumbles like a melting dollop of ice-cream, sad and sloppy from the temperature of your skin. "Hope it's not contagious."

He doesn't reply. This time, you take the moment to take his appearance in. He had eyes that were a strange shade of amethyst, like a mix between vibrant grey and blue, and speckled with spots of light-grey around the pupil. He sported orange hair, layered like fire, framing his delicate face, while there was a longer section resting on his left shoulder. But covering this was the shade that was cast from a black hat, the thin chain hanging over the brim barely even making a noise. It was cute, you thought to yourself. His fashion senses were a tad weird, but still, cute nonetheless. He had a bolo tie, black gloves, a black coat that had an undercoat of red, and a strange collar wrapped around his neck. Was it collar or choker? He was handsome, too. But at this point, you're too delirious to comprehend that.

"Can you tell me what you remember?"

You scoff, but there's a smile on your lips. "You don't seem like the type of person who'd care if I'm honest."

He pulls the hem of his black gloves tighter. "You're right. I wouldn't care so much. But I know you."

That confession makes your eyebrows rise to your hairline. "You do?"

His gaze narrows, a shadow of trepidation darkening his visage at your seemingly innocent question. His voice drops an octave. "So what Akutagawa said was true."

Your face scrunches up into an apologetic grimace. "If it comforts you, I can remember some parts of it? But not you."

"Yeah, I guessed that much. That bastard really knows how to pull his strings, huh."

While you are pondering on the stiff mattress of the mafia infirmary, he sneaks a glance at you with his gloved hand on his chin. He remembers you clear as day, how could he not? He remembers the memory of your smiling face, standing next to Dazai and before Kouyou, with Mori holding one of your instrument cases behind; he remembers you laughing at their little quarrel; he remembers you clearly, albeit when you were younger and harsher around the edges, but still beautiful either way. You had disappeared then, with him, hands bloodied and heart incinerated into a mutated mess, and yet he still yearned for you. The soft dips of your flesh, once brittle and fragile by trauma and fear, now filled out the space that you occupied, when before it had looked like as though you were a ghost still looking for a home, so translucent that it was hard to believe you were conceived into this world as a child.