PIED PIPER | dazai osamu

7: softening; becoming someone else.

You get home before he does. The cello stands abandoned on its stand in the corner of the living room, suspended in its half-done state like Frankenstein's creation. The living room is quiet, disconcerting almost. Dead.

Empty.

You didn't feel like you were home.

Thinking about it, why was that? You realized that you never felt home anywhere without Dazai. Like it was some sort of conditional response to feel unsafe without the hand of domestic patriarchy coiled around your waist.

You open the briefcase. Even the two locks that kept it closed were of a lion's face; something that makes you frown when the result of opening the case separated the lower jaw from the rest of its face. You peer into the case, the soft padded interior accompanied by pockets for storing a laptop in it.

Instead, there is a small, pale flute-like instrument. It is considerably smaller than your own flute. It resembles an ancient instrument, played by the Palaeolithic fathers at night to lull their children to sleep, their drawings frescoed onto the cave walls.

With gentle fingers, you pick it up.

"Don't know why they stored it in a briefcase," The front door closes when Dazai slips his shoes off. "Would have expected Mori to be more practical and present it in an..." He taps his chin. "Orthodox manner."

"Maybe. But it keeps a sense of professionalism. That's never happened in the past."

The man shrugs his coat off and hangs it by a peg on the coat hanger. The shedding of his coat means the disposal of his public demeanour. It is still there, but not as potent. Not as convincing. "No. Mori isn't that type of person. He's like...Humbert to Dolores. He can't let go of things that he had, or still has, a strong connection to," He pushes his hair back with his hands, bearing his forehead. "At least, connections he's deluded himself with."

You frown. "I really, really don't like that analogy. Why Lolita out of anything else?"

"You were a child under his care, once," He replies. You're a bit unsettled by his statement. Tilting his head, an arm comes around your back as if in an embrace, his chest resting against the line of your back. "Can you play?"

You stare at the instrument, before placing it near your lips. Cold. No-one has held it as tenderly as you had. You felt woefully underprepared. Nonetheless, there has not been a single instrument you have been unable to play. The holes are pierced and rough to press the pads of your fingers into. Like they have been done with a blunt object.

You blow. A whistling tone; typical of the older instruments. Its sounds reverberate on the muraled cave walls within its hollowed interiors where the marrow was one thriving. An undertone of melancholy, the unknown; the pleasant lilt of creation—humanity. An exploration of history locked in the flute—but graceful either way. But hollow. Desolate.

"The materials it was made of must have been lonely," Dazai comments. The symphony concludes with a ghostly howl. Dazai hums and the vibration strikes goosebumps. "The first instrument of man: Bone flutes. Performance and service, even after death."

"Mmhm," You put the flute back into the case. But when the back of your hand brushes past the slight bump in the pocket, you turn to Dazai. You know that he will take whatever that scummy organisation gives you. In a sense, it was him being protective, but one day, the bird has to plummet from its mother's nest. On your face is a smile. "Do you mind running the bath for me? I smell of Chuuya's cologne."