[ He can hear the steady rhythm of Odasaku's heart and the warmth of his body. When his fingers twitch and curl just slightly, they find purchase in soft fabric. He waits a minute, perhaps two, maybe longer - he's not quite certain how long, but it doesn't stop, the body doesn't grow cool, and at length he unfurls himself.
There's the smell of smoke. There's the faint smell of blood, slight but still present, and when he blinks he doesn't seen black but warm golds and reds.
He places his hand off to either side, glancing away, embarrassed, uncertain of what else to say. Dazai is an adult in every way but his heart, because he never learned how to feel anything at all; he didn't learn how to love properly, he didn't learn to hate properly, not how to mourn - there was never any real need to.
He nods in acceptance of what's said, starting to peel the bandages off of one hand. ]
I can't think of anything to talk about.
[ He says with a sardonic smile. There's too many thoughts in his head. There's hundreds of plans. There's hundreds of alternative endings. There's a single world, the only world that he's alive in; one where they never met. It was a world where Odasaku hated him. It was a world that was worth saving, but one he alone couldn't live in. There's more wants and wishes than stars in the sky, but none that can quite come into focus.
And he wonders if maybe...
If Dazai had lived just a little longer...
He exhales softly, finding scar tissue beneath the wrapping as he peels back just enough to remove anything bloody, and after a few tugs manages to pull it off. ]
... You really are a strange person, Odasaku.
[ To accept such strange and inflammatory statements so easily, from a person who would no doubt follow through on those words. He leans away, reserved, before leaning back toward Oda. He lets his shoulder brush up against the others just slighty, just enough to feel the pressure of pushing against something, and the warmth that comes along with being near another person. ]
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There's the smell of smoke. There's the faint smell of blood, slight but still present, and when he blinks he doesn't seen black but warm golds and reds.
He places his hand off to either side, glancing away, embarrassed, uncertain of what else to say. Dazai is an adult in every way but his heart, because he never learned how to feel anything at all; he didn't learn how to love properly, he didn't learn to hate properly, not how to mourn - there was never any real need to.
He nods in acceptance of what's said, starting to peel the bandages off of one hand. ]
I can't think of anything to talk about.
[ He says with a sardonic smile. There's too many thoughts in his head. There's hundreds of plans. There's hundreds of alternative endings. There's a single world, the only world that he's alive in; one where they never met. It was a world where Odasaku hated him. It was a world that was worth saving, but one he alone couldn't live in. There's more wants and wishes than stars in the sky, but none that can quite come into focus.
And he wonders if maybe...
If Dazai had lived just a little longer...
He exhales softly, finding scar tissue beneath the wrapping as he peels back just enough to remove anything bloody, and after a few tugs manages to pull it off. ]
... You really are a strange person, Odasaku.
[ To accept such strange and inflammatory statements so easily, from a person who would no doubt follow through on those words. He leans away, reserved, before leaning back toward Oda. He lets his shoulder brush up against the others just slighty, just enough to feel the pressure of pushing against something, and the warmth that comes along with being near another person. ]
The strangest person to ever join the Port Mafia.