013

The days that followed were quiet on the surface.

You didn’t hover around Dazai, not overtly. That would be too easy, too obvious.

Instead, you lingered nearby in quiet spaces where he might wander. The garden rooftops, the unused archive rooms, the old concrete stairwells smelling of rust and dusk.

Sometimes, you’d greet him.

Sometimes, you wouldn’t even look at him.

And sometimes, you'd approach with a sudden, deliberate warmth, tilting his chin with a finger after a mission, telling him he did well before lightly tapping his shoulder with your palm.

Praise like a trickle of honey, sweet but brief.

He didn’t react much.

Not outwardly.

Not when you brushed past him just close enough to let your fingers skim his sleeve, or when you sat beside him and leaned your head ever so slightly closer.

He barely flinched when you ignored him entirely one day, even as you ruffled another newbie's hair in passing.

It was fascinating.

You knew he knew. That you were testing him, teasing him, dragging him in like a moth with no wings left.

And he played along.

A quiet smirk when you praised another man’s aim during gun practice.

A brief look when you held a knife just a little too long at his neck during a mock spar.

Nothing overt. Nothing actionable. But you saw it. The way his gaze lingered. Calculating. Curious.

Once, you approached him in the rain.

His coat was soaked, plastered to his frame. You offered your umbrella with a tilt of your head, silent.

He took it. Not with thanks, but with a stare that said he knew this, too, was part of the game.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

It was starting to be fun.

But what really caught your attention was when he began to slip back.

Once, he casually complimented your handwriting. Another time, he asked a question about a toxin you'd used once during an interrogation.

Simple things. Harmless things.

You caught the pattern instantly.

He was trying to make you curious.

And it worked.

After all, wasn’t that how it always began with you? Curiosity. Fascination. Obsession.

Dazai Osamu was feeding the fire, one ember at a time.

You found yourself watching him closer. Not out of concern. He was no threat to you. Not really.

But he was clever.

And cleverness was beautiful.

You were sitting in Mori’s office now, legs crossed neatly on the leather armrest of a chair, posture loose, humming under your breath as you spun a scalpel slowly between your fingers.

Across the room, Mori finished writing something down. Then he looked at you, long and measured.

“You seem like you’re in a good mood lately,” he said.

“Did something good happen?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully.

A beat passed. And then you smiled—slow and sharp, like the edge of a blade left in sunlight.

“Yes,” you replied, voice light.

“Something very fun is going on.”

Mori’s smile was quiet, thin. Almost fond.

"Don't break him too much," he said, as though he were simply offering a reminder not to forget your keys.

Your grin widened just a touch.

You twirled the scalpel once, catching it between your fingers.

“And if he’s already broken?” you asked, tone curious. Sincere. Like a child asking why the sky was blue.

Mori didn't answer. He didn’t need to.

Because in your mind, the real question remained:

Can something already in pieces still be shattered further?

And if it could—

Wouldn’t that be beautiful?

The next time you saw him, it was past midnight.

Rain again. Faint drizzle against the rooftop tiles, the city spread below in a thousand glittering shards.

You found Dazai sitting alone, legs dangling over the edge, bandaged arms resting on his knees.

He didn’t turn when you approached. Didn’t flinch when your footsteps stopped behind him. Didn’t speak when you sat beside him, a breath of space between your shoulders.

But he knew you were there. Of course he did.

He always knew.

For a while, the only sound was the rain.

You pulled your coat tighter, then reached into your pocket and retrieved a small candy, dark plum, your favorite, and popped it into your mouth. Slowly, you held another one out in your palm, wordless.

He glanced at it. Then at you.

You didn’t look back.

He took it.

A beat. A moment. And then:

"You're watching me more," he said, voice quiet. Matter of fact.

You smiled without showing your teeth. “So are you.”

There was no denial. Just silence, thoughtful and weighty.

Then—

“Do you ever wonder,” Dazai began.

“What you'd do if I died?”

You blinked once, slowly, head tilting like a marionette’s.

“No,” you said simply.

“Why not?”

“Because you won’t.”

Another pause. You turned your gaze toward the skyline, the twinkling lights below.

"Not until I say so," you added, light as mist.

You expected him to bristle. To scoff. Maybe even challenge you.

He didn’t.

Instead, Dazai smiled. Just a little. It wasn’t mocking.

It was... pleased.

Possession. You recognized it now.

Not desire, not affection, not really. But something more childlike.

Something that twisted in his chest and clawed at the parts of him that feared being left behind.

You knew it well. Mori had planted that seed in you long ago.

That ache, that longing.

So you understood what it meant when Dazai looked at you like that.

Like a dog daring the world to touch its stolen bone.

You reached out, casually, slowly, and brushed wet strands of hair from his eyes.

A gentle gesture. Almost maternal.

He didn’t move.

"You’re still a child," you murmured, barely audible above the rain.

"You're a child too," he replied.

You laughed, just once. “Yeah.”

Later that week, during a debriefing, you stood behind Dazai as he gave his report.

Your presence was quiet but deliberate. You didn’t touch him, didn’t speak, didn’t even glance his way.

Still, he straightened just slightly when you entered. His tone steadied. As if performing.

Mori noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked between you both, and something unreadable passed behind his smile.

After the meeting, you and Dazai exited together.

“You’re grooming him,” Mori had said once, not disapproving, just observant.

You hadn’t replied then.

But you thought about it now, as Dazai matched your stride without being asked.

Grooming?

No. You may be similar to Mori but you're not the same as him.

Because where Mori had given you false affection, you gave Dazai something worse, hope.

False, of course. But not lies.

You were simply there.

Warm when he was cold. Quiet when he was loud. A mirror with a pulse. A comfort he’d never admit he needed.

And Dazai—

He was beginning to revolve around you.

You could feel it.

Like gravity slowly reorienting its pull.

You saw it in the small things.

How he noticed your moods before anyone else. How his questions were growing more personal. How his silences stretched longer when you weren’t around.

He was trying to keep you interested. Trying to be curious enough, strange enough, useful enough.

Just like you had once done for Mori.

It was poetic, in a way.

But dangerous.

Because you were not Mori.

And Dazai... Dazai was not you.

One night, you found a note tucked into your coat pocket. Unremarkable paper, messy handwriting.

If you vanished tomorrow, I think I’d stop breathing. Not because I’d miss you.

But because I wouldn’t know what to do anymore.

Is that love?

You stared at it a long moment.

Then you folded it carefully, placed it back, and smiled to yourself.

You don't need to see who sent this to know who.

No.

Not love.

But it was something close enough to ruin him.

And wasn’t that beautiful?