#I actually haven't touched on this topic before but it has ALWAYS been lingering. like for YEARS.

[covenofthearticulate]

thinking Thoughts about this passage again in relation to how Louis self-identifies

“I didn’t remember Europe from my childhood. Not even the voyage to America, really. That I had been born there was an abstract idea. Yet it had a hold over me which was as powerful as the hold France can have on a colonial. I spoke French, read French, remembered waiting for the reports of the Revolution and reading the Paris newspaper accounts of Napoleon’s victories. I remember the anger I felt when he sold the colony of Louisiana to the United States. How long the mortal Frenchman lived in me I don’t know. He was gone by this time, really, but there was in me that great desire to see Europe and to know it, which comes not only from the reading of all the literature and the philosophy, but from the feeling of having been shaped by Europe more deeply and keenly than the rest of Americans. I was a Creole who wanted to see where it had all begun."

Like, I actually have no idea if this was intentional or not but it's really interesting that in some ways Louis encapsulates the immigrant experience (albeit still from a privileged colonialist perspective). He never identifies as American, he hates the thought of Louisiana being sold to the United States, and yet his country of origin really only exits as a fantasy that he romanticizes. He's too French for America, and yet when he arrives in Paris, he's immediately made aware that he is not like the Parisian French. He's an outsider in both worlds.

Like, it's just genuinely so wild to me that he speaks French, he comes from an aristocratic French bloodline, and still self-identifies specifically as Creole.

Much To Think About.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 OFFER ME MY DEATHLESS DEATH

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: one drunken encounter with dazai sends everything spiraling. suddenly, all of your problems are catching up to you at once and you're lost as to how you should proceed... or that's not entirely true—you know how you're going to proceed but it's impossible for you to come to terms with how far you've let this go.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: sorry that i haven't really been active this week </3 i've been so busy. ill try to get to asks and everything soon. forgive me</3 i hope you guys enjoy part 5, i rlly had fun writing this chapter. as always, comments and reblogs appreciated!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia executive!reader, civilian!dazai, dazai's struggles w suicide & sh, reader partakes in mafia business, dazai isn't dazai without a bit of obsessiveness and possessiveness (the possessiveness doesn't come til later but the obsessiveness starts from day 0).

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: hardly edited - i've been busy. reader and dazai argue, reader is a bit intoxicated, dazai heavily implied suicide attempt (not outright said/described bc he can't remember, but he assumes that's what happened) & he dissociates, dazai is in a pretty bad mental state the first half of the chapter, i don't think i'm missing anything but pls lmk if i am, i didn't have time to reread

SEE: WASTELAND, BABY! SERIES MASTERLIST

You stopped seeking him out after that night.

Dazai sits in his apartment, knees curled to his chest and back pressed against the wall. He has to forcibly keep his breath steady—his homework for his engineering class is discarded somewhere to his left, he’d been working on it for class tomorrow before he made the mistake of checking his phone and seeing that you’d once again stopped reading his messages. 

Two days straight now of silence on your end. He could go to your apartment like he’s been doing for the past two weeks but every time he tries to push himself to his feet with the intention of going to you, he finds himself rooted to the ground. Your words ring damningly and persistently through his head—how you told Nakahara Chuuya that you’re only doing this because he found the proof of your occupation, how you told him that you tried to cut him off.

Dazai knew what he was doing by using the video as leverage over you. He knew he was forcing you into indulging him, that he was backing you into a corner, but he’d allowed himself to be blinded by your treatment of him. 

Even if it was coerced, no one has ever treated him the way you do—you remember the things he tells you off-handedly like he matters and you buy him the things he wants without him having to say anything like you care. You’re gentle with him—Dazai has only ever experienced bruising touches; Oda and Ango weren’t physical people and he can hardly remember his mother. He remembers the way his aunt dragged him out of the car kicking and screaming, tossing him to the ground in Suribachi before driving away. He remembers all of the nights he would get drunk at bars, ending up in strangers’ beds and waking up with a body that ached painfully and dark marks littered across his bandaged skin.

It’s hard to remember that you don’t actually want him when you treat him the same way he’s dreamed someone would treat him one day. It’s hard to remember that you turn your head away when he leans in to kiss you, that you ignore his lingering touches and change the subject whenever he almost gathers the nerve to bring the topic up to you.

You don’t want him. 

He’s forcing you to do this by using the video as leverage. 

You don’t want him. 

He rests his forehead on his knees. That gaping hole in his chest that had started to return that night after Nakahara Chuuya showed up at your apartment is all consuming now. His entire body feels numb and prickly, he feels uncomfortable in his own skin.

He needs to put a stop to this.

His gaze draws from his knees to the floorboard he’s hiding the flash drive under. He could just… get rid of it. Get rid of it and disappear—you probably wouldn’t even notice. Maybe you would, he remembers how you came to his apartment when you hadn’t heard from him after sending the couch. Then again, you might’ve only shown up because you wanted to lie about why you were cutting him off. Dazai just doesn’t know with you.

Maybe he should just go to talk to you. 

But if he talks to you… and the thought of leaving his apartment right now…

Dazai sighs, leaning back against the wall, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling, weighing both options carefully before coming to a heavy decision.

You’re not in your apartment when he gets there.

Dazai would usually wander around and find something to make himself busy with while he waits for you. You have a piano on the opposite side of the room that he sometimes likes to fiddle with—he’s taught himself a few basic songs while waiting for you to get back from work the past few weeks. He ordered a gaming console and a few games to go along with it when you made the mistake of leaving your laptop open last week, but he doesn’t even have the energy to go look for one; not that any are even particularly standing out to him. Sometimes, he just snoops around, but his legs feel like lead, like they’re bolted to the ground, so he just sits on your couch and stares at the black television screen as the minutes tick by.

He doesn’t even know how long he’s been sitting there—too long, it was still light out when he walked his way over to your building in Naka-ku and the sun had set a long time ago. He’s never felt lonely in your apartment before; in fact, he usually seeks out your apartment because he feels lonely and whether you’re here or not, it eases the void that grows in his chest.

But now? Each passing second, he feels colder and colder. A part of him thinks that he should take this as a sign and just leave, but his body is uncooperative, keeping him rooted to your couch as he awaits your return.

He’s planned out what he’s going to say to you; he’s rehearsed it in his head so many times that he thinks he could say the dreadful words while sleeping. Now, he just-

Dazai’s head snaps to the side when he hears the fateful ding of the elevator arriving at your floor. His eyes widen and his tongue swells with anxiety as he stares at the doors, his breath slows and his fingers bite into his pants as he waits to see you step into the room but when the doors finally start to slide open, he freezes when he hears laughter.

“I can’t stand you,” an unfamiliar male voice snorts and Dazai’s mouth dries as his gaze darts around, trying to figure out what to do. The last thing he wants is for a repeat of the other night—if this is another one of your mafia friends, Dazai has to move, but he doesn’t know where to go.

His gaze settles on a nearby hall leading to the bathroom and an unused room—it’s closer to him than the kitchen, he’d never make it to the kitchen because he’d have to go right past the elevator. His legs feel so heavy that it’s an effort for him to push himself to his feet. He almost stumbles right over them as he rushes into the spare room, keeping the door cracked open so he can hear and see what’s going on.

He peeks carefully through the crack, watching as two men enter your apartment—you’re with them and Dazai’s chest tightens painfully at the sight of you. You’re smiling as you lean against one of the men—Dazai recognizes him as the man who had come with you to his apartment complex the first time, he’d been waiting by the car for you—and you’re dressed prettily in a short black dress. You’re so dazzling to him that Dazai nearly tumbles right out of the room he’s hiding in, but luckily, he’s drawn out of his dazed state by another unfortunately familiar face: Nakahara Chuuya, the executive who had been at your apartment the other night.

Dazai quickly leans back into the room when the ginger’s eyes snap down the hall as if he could sense someone watching him. He lets out a puff of air as he looks around the empty room—he’d looked in here before when he first started coming to your apartment, but had been sorely disappointed by the fact that there was nothing in the room for him to snoop around in.

Now, he blinks because while the room is still mostly empty, there are some tools in here as if you’d had someone come in to take measurements to start building something in there. His gaze slides from the far wall to the one nearest to him, dragging his feet against the wood floors to slide his fingers against the lines drawn on the wall in pencil, realizing that it’s about the same size as the piano in the other room.

His throat tightens as he remembers your offer from the other day, wondering if you’d gone ahead and started having it done even after the argument with Chuuya and Dazai not showing up for two days. 

God, he doesn’t understand you—he doesn’t understand you at all. He starts to doubt every conclusion he’s come to the past two days because why would you go to these lengths for someone you don’t care about? For someone who’s forcing you into indulging him through blackmail? It doesn’t make sense, Dazai has never had so much trouble reading someone before you.

He leans against the wall, lashes lowering as he looks down at the floor. He doesn’t know what to think and now his well-rehearsed speech starts crumbling in his head. Distantly, he can hear the conversation between you and the other two mafiosos—you’re talking about something happening in Tokyo and Dazai wonders if it has anything to do with that argument from the other night.

But regardless of the topic of discussion, what matters more is that you sound happy. Your voice is light and airy, and you seem entirely unbothered by the fact that you hadn’t seen Dazai in days. Dazai doesn’t think you’ve ever sounded so happy with him before and why would you when he’s blackmailing you? Your laughter rings bright and pretty like a chime and Dazai feels sick to his stomach at the thought of you laughing like that for someone else; he imagines the way your laughter will fizzle when you see him, all of the liveliness in your face dying at his unanticipated appearance.

It feels like an eternity and all too soon at the same time when Dazai finally hears the two leave. He takes one deep breath, preparing to force himself out from where he’s hiding but then freezes at the sound of you raising your voice.

“Dazai, you can come out now.”

He blanches, staring at the partially closed door in front of him, half-debating on not even coming out because how did you know he was here? He thought he’d been careful, there’s-

“I know you’re somewhere in here, the cushion was warm where you were sitting.”

Dazai has half a mind to throw himself out of the window.

He takes in a deep breath as he pushes the door open, stepping out into the hallway that’s suddenly too cold and all too short. He swears it was twice as long when he was stumbling from the couch to hide in the spare room. His feet scuffle against the ground as he walks forward, not coming any closer than where the hallway meets your living room.

You’re laying on the couch he’d been sitting on, head resting back against the pillows and a curious expression on your face as you watch him. He can’t read it—if he didn’t know any better, he’d almost say it was fond, but he refuses to let that hope bubble up into his chest only for it to be crushed again. He thinks he should say something, tossing around a few options in his head, but he doesn’t get the chance to.

You hold out your hand to him. “Come here,” you say.

Dazai hesitates, eyes lingering on your extended hand before flitting back up to your face. He shouldn’t—he knows he shouldn’t—but he finds his feet moving forward before he can stop himself. He stands in front of you awkwardly for a moment, not sure what you want from him, but then his eyes shoot open when you reach out and grab his wrist, tugging him forward onto the couch with you. 

He pretends he doesn’t yelp when he lands on top of you, face flaming up when he shifts himself into a sitting position so that he’s straddling your waist, trying not to drop all of his weight onto you. He also pretends that he’s not entirely thrown off by the way your hands rest on his thighs, absently running them up and down the sides of them. 

“Where have you been the past few days?” you ask him quietly.

Dazai’s blood pressure spikes at the curious look you give him, as if he hadn’t been texting you for days with no response. He can smell the alcohol on you now that he’s closer and he wonders how much you drank—he thinks that’s probably why you looked so fond before and that’s probably why you’re suddenly being so touchy with him, it has nothing to do with him. That empty feeling in his chest starts to return.

He should have just left, should have just destroyed the flash drive and disappeared. 

“I texted you,” he replies tightly, feeling wildly uncomfortable as he’s unable to get a hold on the way he’s spiraling internally. “I can see you’ve been busy though.”

You tilt your head to the side as if you’re unsure of what he means and Dazai almost wants to get up and leave but the feeling of your hands on him, his lower body pressed to yours, it leaves him dizzy and slow. His breath catches as your hands slip beneath his sweatshirt, smoothing out against his bandaged sides, thumb drawing slow circles over the covered skin as if trying to calm him down.

Dazai thinks he might hate you.

He thinks he might hate himself more because it works. His heartbeat slows and relaxes into you a bit more. He wants to take you by the shoulders and shake you, wants to demand answers, wants to know if you actually care about him or if this is all just some big show for the flash drive. 

“I haven’t looked at my phone,” you finally say. “I’ve been the one dealing with the issues in Tokyo. It’s just been meeting after meeting the past few days. I thought you’d be here when I got back but you weren’t.”

Were you waiting for him? He wants to ask. Expecting him? Or are you just saying that because you can tell he’s unhappy and don’t want to deal with his attitude? Dazai just doesn’t know, it’s hard to concentrate with your hands on his body.

“Can we talk?” Dazai asks quietly after a few moments.

“What about?”

About the flash drive. About you. About him. Dazai doesn’t know—about everything. So, instead he just says: “About this.”

Instantly, you turn your head away from him and Dazai’s frustration rises at your attempt at blatantly ignoring him. He reaches out to grab your cheeks, forcing you to look up at him and Dazai’s breath catches when your lidded stare lands on him.

“I’m drunk,” you tell him flatly. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Bullshit,” Dazai immediately snaps, the pads of his fingers digging a bit too hard into your cheeks but you’re unfazed by it, staring up at him with an unreadable expression. “I think-”

Dazai doesn’t even have the chance to finish his sentence because you’re pushing yourself up from your laying position, one hand slipping out from his sweatshirt to cup the back of his head, the other still firm on his hip as you drag him down against you. Dazai’s breath catches when you press your lips against his, lashes fluttering shut. The hand on his hip slides around to his back, holding his body flush to yours—he lets out a low moan into your mouth when you nip at his bottom lip.

No, he thinks hazily, trying to push himself off of you but instead, his hands cup your cheeks and he tilts your head back to deepen the kiss. Your tongues dance in a way that leaves him dazed, it feels almost intimately familiar to him, somehow so in tune with one another that it’s like you’ve kissed hundreds of times before. 

He shouldn’t be doing this, he knows this. You said it yourself that you’re drunk, he knows you only kissed him to get him to stop talking but…Dazai sighs into your mouth when he feels the tips of your finger card through his hair, feeling you shift beneath him to let his hips slot between your legs.

But isn’t this what he’s wanted this whole time? 

Aren’t you finally giving him what you’ve denied him for weeks?

Your lips are intoxicating against his, and not because of the gin staining your tongue, he can hardly focus on anything with the way your tongue traces the back of his teeth, dragging against the roof of his mouth. He groans when you shift beneath him, one leg hooking around his waist. He separates his lips from yours to gasp for breath.

Shit, he thinks, lips parting when you kiss his jaw, trailing your lips to his ear to suck gently on the skin there before kissing slowly down his neck. He swears his entire body is on fire, breaths quick and shuddered; his mind feels so muddled and hazy that he has to actively tell himself to put a stop to this and even that is almost not enough.

It takes all of his willpower to push himself off of you, still breathing heavy, lips wet and swollen, his whole body tingling everywhere your lips and hands had touched. You stare up at him and Dazai’s body aches with need when he sees you’re nearly as breathless as he is, your own lips wet from his, eyes a bit glazed over. Heat burns in his lower abdomen but he can’t, not when he knows you’re drunk and not when he knows you’re only doing this to get him to stop talking.

Before Dazai can say anything, you look away from him again and he knows that it’s over.

“I’m tired,” you say. “Help me get to bed. We can talk in the morning.”

Dazai’s lashes lower as he nods, leaning down to help you to your feet. Even with your heels kicked off, you wobble on your feet, so he wraps an arm around your waist to keep you steady. The silence is almost foreboding as Dazai guides you up the stairs to your bedroom; you don’t make any move to break it, so Dazai does.

“We’re not going to talk about it in the morning, are we?” he asks quietly, looking down at you. You don’t look up at him and Dazai just wants you to at least look at him so when he gets you to the door of your bedroom, he stops and looks at you. You still don’t look at him. “Can you at least look at me?”

Dazai thinks he might be sick from the way you have to seemingly force yourself to look at him. Even drunk, he can see the displeasure plain on your face and it makes him want to curl in on himself again.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dazai,” you finally say, your voice is tight. “I want to go to bed.”

“I want to talk about it,” Dazai stresses. “I-”

Frustration flies across your face, emotions loosened in your intoxicated state. You turn away from him and slam open your bedroom door and Dazai winces, taking half a step back.

“It’s always what you want, Dazai,” you hiss. 

Dazai’s heart sinks, shaking his head because he doesn’t want to hear where you’re going with this. “Stop.”

“For weeks, I have been catering to what you want and now I don’t want one thing and you throw a fucking tantrum over it. I don’t want to talk about this—I don’t want to talk about it now, I don’t want to talk about it in the morning, I don’t want to talk about it. Can you just leave it be?”

Dazai takes another step back, staring at you silently. His ears ring as your words echo through them and though he can watch your face shift from frustration to guilt, it doesn’t process in his head—not really, not when all he can hear are your words on repeat over and over again. 

You reach out for him, fingers curling around his wrist but Dazai pulls his hand back, taking a step away from you, closer to the stairs. All of his fight or flight instincts are triggered, his body itches to run, to flee downstairs and get out of your apartment, but his legs are uncooperative, feet rooted to the ground as he stares at you blankly.

“I didn’t mean that,” you say after a few moments. “I didn’t-I just-”

“It’s okay,” Dazai replies, voice a bit distant even to his own ears. “I’ll drop it.”

“Dazai-”

“Let me help you get into bed,” Dazai interrupts, forcing a smile onto his face as he pushes himself forward. His movements feel weird and clunky, unnatural almost, but he successfully leads you into your room, pulling back the sheets to help you into bed. “C’mon.”

He helps you slip into the bed and pulls the sheets over you, there’s still that hazy look in your eyes as you look up at him and Dazai tries his best to make sure that the smile on his face doesn’t look strained. He’s pretty sure you can see through it even while drunk. You reach out to grab his wrist again and this time, Dazai doesn’t pull away. 

“Stay here tonight,” you say quietly. “Lay down with me.”

“I have class in the morning.” Dazai shakes his head, as much as he might ache to stay in your presence, he thinks if he stays in it a moment longer, he might actually break down—he can’t get your words to stop echoing. Only a steadily crumbling dam is holding back the torrent of emotions ripping apart his chest. “I can’t.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“I have to get all of my books, and finish my homework,” he tells you. “I can’t.”

“We’ll leave early,” you press, leaning up on your elbows. “C-”

“I can’t,” Dazai stresses, taking a step back and shaking his head. “I can’t. I have to go.”

You look conflicted, but to his relief and distress, you finally let go of his wrist. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. After your classes. You finish at three, right? There’s a restaurant in Minami-ku I’ve been meaning to take you to.”

Dazai’s throat spasms as he swallows, shaking his head again. “I’m busy after class tomorrow. I have meetings for group projects.”

“When are they over? I’ll pick you up after.”

He feels a bit sick to his stomach as he looks up at your ceiling, in turmoil and unsure as to what to do. He knows you’re not doing this because you feel bad—not really—he knows it has to do with the flashdrive. He knows it. He thought it would be easier having someone to talk to, someone to hang out with, even if it was only because of blackmail because at least he would have someone, but he was wrong because this is a type of torture that Dazai just can’t endure any longer.

“I’m not going to want to do anything after, I’ll be drained.”

“Then we don’t have to do anything.” God, you won’t stop trying. You won’t stop trying and Dazai knows that if it wasn’t for that stupid flash drive, you’d have laughed in his face and told him to get out. He thinks he might actually throw up. “I’ll pick up the food before going to get you. We’ll stay in. Watch a movie.”

“No,” Dazai says, raising his voice now. “No. I’m just going to go back to my place. I have to go.”

Though his legs feel like lead and his body still yearns to be near yours, he forces himself to leave your room. Doesn’t look back when you call his name. Doesn’t hesitate at the top of the stairs when you tell him to wait. He nearly stumbles as he makes his way down the stairs and when he gets to the bottom instead of rushing toward the elevator, he sits on the arm of your couch, resting his head in his hands as he tries to gather his thoughts.

You’re so frustrating. So impossible to read that it’s beginning to take a toll on Dazai. He doesn’t understand why you’re so adamant on not having a conversation about all of this. He thought you would’ve wanted to have a conversation about it for the chance of getting the flash drive away from him. 

You’ve done everything in your power to avoid any physical contact with him until now; only finally giving it to him when there’s an issue you really don’t want to talk about to try to distract him. Hell, you’d prefer to even talk to him about mafia business—you vented all about the issues with the Shimazaki-kai to him, and Dazai would think that’s the last thing you’d want to talk to him about. 

It doesn’t make any sense.

He’s drawn from his thoughts at the sound of something buzzing against the ground a few feet away, frowning as he looks around and spots your phone on the ground, probably lost in your drunken attempts to get to the couch. He hesitates before pushing himself off the arm of the couch, taking a few steps toward it before kneeling down to pick it up. 

He chews at the inside of his cheek as he stares down at the home screen of your phone, staring at Nakahara Chuuya’s name in the text notification. He knows that he shouldn’t go snooping. He knows it.

He does it anyway.

He spares one last glance up the stairs before unlocking your phone with the code he’s seen you put in hundreds of times by now, clicks on your message app and lets out a puff of air when he realizes that no, you hadn’t been lying. You have at least twenty unread message threads—Dazai’s is pinned at the top with Chuuya’s and someone called Mori, who you’ve never mentioned to him. There’s only one message thread you’ve evidently been reading the past few days considering there’s no dot next to it: Tolstoy, the last message being from a few hours ago.

He shouldn’t look. He knows he shouldn’t look.

He clicks on it anyway.

He bites down hard on his bottom lip as he scrolls to the top of the conversation—only a few message exchanges between the two of you, but they’re decently long.

Tolstoy: Do you still want Ilya? I can have him there by the end of next week, I just need him to finish up some business in Moscow first. You: Haven’t decided. You haven’t even given me the rundown on the side effects of his ability. I’m not going to use it if it’s going to fuck up his head—stop playing salesman and tell me what’s actually up with him. No ability comes without consequences. You know that. I know that. So stop fucking around. 

Dazai suddenly has a sick feeling in his stomach, vision tunneling on the ‘him’ you’re speaking of in the messages. A foreboding air settles over him, dark and oppressive, he has to physically force himself to keep reading.

Tolstoy: We don’t know of any side effects. Haven’t used it enough to figure it out.  You: So, you want me to use him as a lab rat? Be real, Tolstoy. Thought you had more respect for me than that. Tolstoy: I’m trying to help you. You want that kid’s memory wiped, I can have it done for you, it’s just a matter of how badly you want it done.

Dazai doesn’t read anymore than that. He drops your phone onto the couch, takes a step back, a step away. His mind spins, ears ringing as he stares down at—he doesn’t even know what he’s staring at. His vision is swimming and blurring—with tears, maybe? Or just from exhaustion? From panic? He can’t tell but he knows he’s not breathing properly and he knows he needs to leave, everything suddenly feels too suffocating, too enclosed. 

He stumbles over to the elevator, slapping the button and leaning against the wall as he waits for it to come up to your floor. It takes long—too long, each second that passes feels like an eternity and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

There’s only one “him” that your texts could be referring to. And it makes sense—it makes sense, doesn’t it? It makes sense why you’re so willing to divulge confidential information if you don’t intend for him to keep the knowledge of it. Makes sense why you’ve been notably careless with leaving files around your apartment. Makes sense why you told him about your ability. He’d thought you were finally letting him in, letting him know you, but-but of course, you weren’t. 

Of course, you weren’t. 

You were just…you were just trying to keep him placated, feed him bits of information to keep him happy because you knew you weren’t going to let him keep the knowledge of it. That you were gonna wipe his memory of it, of you, and send him back into that cold, dark void that’s been following him around his entire life and-

The bing of the elevator startles him, he flinches and still, he can’t breathe. His skin feels numb and prickly, his bandages are scratching uncomfortably at the scars hidden beneath them and he can hardly see straight.

Dazai needs to go.

He needs to go.

You wake up with a dry mouth, a pounding headache and an oddly foreboding feeling hanging about you. You push yourself into a sitting position, grimacing at the sun blinding you through the window—you don’t remember much of the night. You vaguely recall leaving the club last night with Albatross and Chuuya, the two of them incessantly bitching about dealing with you while you were drunk but in your defense, you think you deserved it after three days straight of meetings with the Shimazaki-kai on behalf of the Sun and Steel. 

Everything after leaving the club is a blur. You grimace as you push yourself out of bed, glancing around to see if you’d dropped your phone anywhere near the bed only to come up empty-handed. You don’t even bother to go to the bathroom and brush your teeth, anxious to find your phone and figure out what happened once you left the club.

You pray to god that it’s downstairs and you hadn’t left it at the club, making your way out of the bedroom with a sigh. You doubt Chuuya or Albatross would’ve been dumb enough to leave it there, but you’re pretty sure they were both drunk too and neither of them are functioning drunks.

You’re not even halfway through the door frame when pain shoots through your head, sharp and uncomfortable and then-

“It’s always what you want, Dazai.”

Suddenly, that foreboding feeling you awoke with makes sense. You stare ahead blankly as you remember who exactly was waiting for you at your apartment after you got back from the club. You remember the argument, you remember the crushed expression that crossed his face when you snapped at him, you remember pleading with him to stay or to at least let you take him out today and you remember him refusing, his voice pitched and cracking, wobbly, on the verge of collapse because-

Because of you. 

Fuck.

It’s with increasingly more urgency now that you rush yourself down the stairs, a small lingering hope remaining that maybe Dazai had stayed in one of the guest rooms or on the couch, that you could do something to fix this before it escalates even more. 

You don’t even know why you said that—it’s not like you mind giving Dazai what he wants, in fact, you enjoy it. You enjoy it a lot. You like seeing his face light up when you do nice things for him, you like when he tries to hide the way he gets all flustered, you like that he’s allowed himself to have hope with you—something he’s clearly denied himself for too long—and you what? 

You ruined it because you got scared? 

You ruined it because you didn’t want to talk about… whatever you have going on with him? 

You ruined it because you were terrified he was going to force you to come to terms with the fact that you’re using his stupid flash drive as an excuse to indulge yourself in him. That it would take minimal effort to have it destroyed but you’re putting it off because you want to be able to rationalize what you’re doing.

You feel sick to your stomach when you realize that your apartment is empty, eyes darting around to try to find your phone. You need to call him—he told you that he wanted to be alone today, or maybe he didn’t say exactly that but he implied it, but you need to at least talk to him now that you’re sober and can think straight. 

A distant part of you, a cold and logical part of you, tells you to just use this as the excuse to cut him off—you don’t need to get Ilya to fuck with his mind if he just hates you, you don’t want Ilya to fuck with Dazai’s mind. The thought of it makes your chest feel tight with guilt, so maybe you should take this opportunity for what it is, no matter how shitty it might make you feel, but-

But you won’t.

Finally spotting your phone on the couch, you snatch it up and unlock it, grimacing at the low battery percentage and then grimacing even more when there’s not a single message from Dazai lighting up your home screen. There’s seven from Chuuya, three from Albatross, and two from Mori, but you’re more concerned by the missed call from an unknown number and the unread voice message.

The foreboding feeling that has been looming only grows more intense when you click on the message for it to play out loud.

“This is Doctor Okamoto of Keiyu Hospital calling on behalf of a recently admitted patient… listed you as his emergency contact when he was brought in last night… unable to disclose any information regarding his injuries over the phone… suggest that you get here soon…”

At once, your vision tunnels and everything around you becomes white noise, your gaze is pinned on the ground, a smudge on the tiled floors as you try to keep yourself grounded because what? Dazai is in the-he’s in the hospital?

Because of you? 

You hadn’t been subtle approaching him that day in the library, it’s been a lingering thought since then, wondering if unsavory eyes had caught sight of you talking to him. The bar and the cafe were different, he had approached you—if any of your enemies had happened to see it, they wouldn’t think twice about it. But you approaching him had been dangerous. 

It had been a mistake.

Had it been a mistake to cost him his life?

And it’s not just that—you’ve taken him out to dinners. Picked him up at his apartment building. Places that you or your trusted affiliates own but there’s always the chance… and if he left the Port Mafia building last night in a rush, upset and not thinking straight…

Oh, you might throw up.

You’re not dressed properly. You’re still wearing your dress from last night and you fumble to put on the heels you must’ve kicked off in your drunken state. You don’t even care to get dressed, more intent on getting to the hospital and figuring out if—nausea builds in the back of your throat—if Dazai is alive, if he’s okay. You need to re-listen to the voicemail because your hearing had been unfocused and you’d only been able to catch bits and pieces of the doctor’s message.

And-

And you don’t even get into the elevator because your phone is ringing again as soon as you click the button. You don’t even look at the number before picking up, fearing that it’s the hospital again—it’s not, it’s Chuuya, and you immediately regret your decision because you aren’t even able to bark out a ‘what’ before he’s speaking.

“Where the hell have you been?” Chuuya snaps on the other side of the line. “We’ve been trying to get ahold of you for hours, we-”

“I’m busy,” you hiss right back, interrupting him. “I can’t talk-”

“You can talk,” Chuuya says harshly. “Get to headquarters. The Guild is in Yokohama now. We don’t have time to fuck around anymore.”

You don’t respond to Chuuya, heart sinking to your feet at his words, distress clawing at your chest so painfully that you think it might be easier if you just carve out your heart and toss it out the window. You hang up the phone without another word just as the elevator makes it to your floor, but instead of going inside, you make your way back up to your room, numbly changing into one of your suits so you could at least look somewhat presentable. 

You hardly even recognize yourself in the mirror as you wipe off your smudged makeup from your night out. Your eyes are vacant and your expression so empty that you think you could almost be looking at a statue. 

War with the Guild. Dazai in the hospital.

Everything is catching up to you at the same time and your mind is fraying at its seams, collapsing in on itself as the weight of everything bears down on you. You do your best to compartmentalize, focus on one thing at a time but you can’t even concentrate on one issue. 

You try to figure out what to do about the upcoming conflict, try to determine what exactly Fitzgerald might be planning so you can figure out what the Port Mafia will retaliate with, and your mind drifts to Dazai, you wonder if he’s okay, if he’s in critical condition, if it was one of your enemies that got to him or if it was something else.

You think about Dazai, all of the fear and guilt and anxiety tearing you apart, and your mind shoots straight to the Guild. Because if Fitzgerald knows about Dazai—if he knows about Dazai—then it’s over. It’s all over. If the Guild gets their hands on him, they’ll kill him when you don’t give them what they want because you can’t give them what they want. They want Yokohama and you can’t give them that. 

You can’t, not even for Dazai.

You don’t even register that you’re standing in front of the elevator again until it bings, startling you right out of your thoughts. You can’t leave the building while you’re spiraling like this—you need to get a grip on yourself, you don’t even know where you’re going yet. You need to figure out if you’re going to go meet with Mori and the other executives or if you’re going to go find Dazai. 

As you step into the elevator, it takes all but five seconds for you to make a decision.

Dazai wakes up to the familiar scent of antiseptic and a citrus-scented floor cleaning solution, the air is too stale and the air-conditioning is cranked up too high. He forces his eyes open, lids heavy and uncooperative, but he immediately lets them fall shut again briefly when he’s met with too white walls and the steady beeping of the heart monitor next to him.

His throat feels swollen as he stares up at the ceiling—the last time he was here in the hospital he was seventeen and had nearly bled out in the bathtub in Odasaku’s house. The only reason he hadn’t was because Ango happened to stop by the house to pick up papers that Odasaku had left for him, finding Dazai unconscious and face half-submerged in the water. He woke up here to find both of them hovering over him, Ango concerned and Odasaku visibly upset for the first time since Dazai met him.

He wakes up alone now because Odasaku is dead and he hasn’t spoken to Ango in four years—doesn’t even know where the man is anymore, doesn’t even know if he’s alive, doesn’t want to know either.

“Dazai-sama.” He hears a nurse say from the door to his room. “You’re awake, how are you…”

The nurse’s voice becomes white noise with the beeping of the heart monitor and the vents blowing above. Dazai retreats back into his own mind—a dangerous place, but right now it’s safer than the white walls that surround him, knowing he’s going to be badgered with questions that he doesn’t want to have to answer. 

How are you feeling, Dazai-sama? 

What happened, Dazai-sama? 

We need to ask you a few questions, Dazai-sama.

Dazai feels defeated.

His head falls to the side as he stares out the nearby window, watching as a bird swoops down in view before taking off into the sky.

He doesn’t even remember what happened. He remembers leaving your apartment, he remembers… he remembers seeing your texts, your plans to wipe his memory. And… that’s about it? He vaguely remembers the familiar feeling of his lungs burning, remembers being tossed around by the rough currents of Tsurumi River. He doesn’t remember how he got there but it’s not exactly hard for him to piece together—even now, Dazai thinks he would rather be dead than have his memories forcibly erased.

“… to know what exactly hap…”

A dark and familiar cloud settles over him. His eyes feel heavy and his chest hurts. Dazai—he doesn’t even know what to think anymore. He’s so tired that his bones ache and his muscles feel so weak that he just sinks into the stiff mattress of the hospital bed.

He doesn’t know what he expected—he thinks that to some extent he expected you to leave him. Everyone has left him. His mother, his aunt, all of the brief friends he’d made over the years before they see him for what he is, Odasaku and Ango—everyone has left him, so he knew that you would too but… in this manner? Using an ability to wipe his memory of you?

Dazai has considered it before. He’s wondered if maybe his life would be easier if he could just… forget. If he could live without the memory of everyone who has left him hanging over him. Some days, on really bad days, he thinks it might be easier. To try to make himself feel better, he thinks that maybe he isn’t the issue, maybe it’s all just a self-fulfilling prophecy, that it’s his past experiences cursing him to make the same mistakes over and over again; that without them, he might stand a chance.

But then when he thinks about it—when he really thinks about it—he knows in his heart that it’s not true, and he knows that without the memory of them all, Dazai will only feel more empty. And to think that you were trying to take his memories of you from him… without even asking, without giving him a choice in the matter… it almost makes Dazai-

“Dazai.”

His gaze snaps to the side when he hears your familiar voice come from the door leading into his room. Instantly, he’s shaking his head and looking away again, he can’t even bear to look at you but you’re walking over to him, you’re coming to his bedside, you’re sitting next to him on the hospital bed and you’re reaching out to cup his cheek, forcibly turning his face to make him look at you. You look worried, something sharp and concerned in your eyes that makes his throat swell and he wants to spit at you and call you a liar but he can only sink into your touch.

“Why are you here?” he asks. His voice is hoarse, almost painful for him to use. 

“What happened?” you ask him quietly instead of answering his question—you never answer his questions, you always deflect, always maneuver around them. The ones you do answer, it’s only because you plan to- “Dazai, what happened? Are you okay?”

Dazai doesn’t know how you can look at him like this all the while planning the most diabolical betrayal that he could ever imagine. You’re either an actress deserving of international recognition or… or Dazai doesn’t even know.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice clipped. “Why are you here?”

“The hospital called me-”

“But why are you here?” Dazai cuts you off, grateful that his voice is firmer than the turmoil wreaking havoc through him. He must’ve given them your number while he was half-delirious when he was brought in—he figured that out already—but that doesn’t explain why you actually came. “Why did you come?”

“Because you’re hurt,” you say as if Dazai should believe you. 

And he wants to believe you. Wants to believe that you’d come running just at the mere idea of him being hurt, wants to believe that you would care enough to come for him. He wants to believe you so bad, but he knows what he saw. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Dazai tells you, finally gathering the willpower to pull his face away from where it’s resting in the palm of your hand. You don’t even let him shift away, hand slipping behind him to cradle the back of his head, fingers entwined with his hair. “Stop.”

“I’m not lying to you,” you say like a liar. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

You sigh heavily and Dazai hates the way you’re absently drawing circles against the nape of his neck with your thumb, hates how it makes him feel at ease and especially hates the way his lashes instinctually flutter shut.

“I didn’t mean what I said last night, Dazai,” you say so quietly that Dazai almost believes you. Almost. “I was drunk, I didn’t… I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean-”

“I don’t care about that,” Dazai says, proud of the way his voice stays sharp and cold. “I saw the messages between you and Tolstoy. I know what you’re planning. I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t even want to look at you, just leave me alone.”

You draw back at his words, concerned expression melting into a blank slate as you pull your hand away to sit back straight. Dazai misses your touch instantly, longs for the warmth to return but he forces himself to ignore it all, keeping his gaze pinned on you, watching the way your mind races behind your eyes. He wonders if you’re trying to figure out if you can salvage this, wonders if you’re going to lie.

Instead, a heavy look settles over your face as you frown, glancing back at the way you came and for a moment, Dazai thinks you’re just going to leave. You rise to your feet and words lodge in the back of his throat, preparing to spit insults at you: he wants to call you a coward, a liar, wants to tell you that you’re cruel and vile and he can hardly even stand to look at you.

But then you look back at him and hold out your hand to him. “Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s sneak you out of here… I’ll explain everything when we get out of the hospital.”

Dazai wants to be spiteful, wants to turn his head away and ignore you, wants to slap your hand and tell you that there’s no explaining what he saw.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he places his hand in yours and lets that treacherous, treacherous spec of hope bloom in his chest again.

Dazai hasn’t spoken a word since leaving the hospital. You’ve tried to make small talk with him, but every time, he just turns his head away to look out the window. You gave up twenty minutes ago and Dazai is already regretting not indulging conversation with you because the silence is agonizing. He knows he should break it, but he doesn't know how to now. 

He glances at you from the corner of your eye. You’re leaning back against your seat, one hand on the steering wheel—he can’t see your eyes because they’re masked by sunglasses, but he can see the way your free hand rests on the gear stick, knuckles tense.

“What is this place?” Dazai clears his throat as he leans forward in his seat, peering out the windshield of your car to try to figure out where you’re taking him. He forces his tone to lighten, the smile on his lips strained. “Are you kidnapping me? Oh! Or are you taking me to some remote cabin to kill me? Bella, you truly know the way to a man’s heart.”

You let out a heavy sigh, one that makes Dazai toss a sweet smile in your direction. 

Some type of beach house, he recognizes as you pull up a windy road to the top of a cliff looking over the water. He can see to his left a path leading down to the water and to his right a nice view of a distant pier. It’s not a large house, but it’s nice—well-kept and refurbished with a view over Sagami Bay. It’s not too far out from Yokohama, probably only a little over an hour, but considering Dazai’s never left the city in his entire life, this might be the furthest he’s ever been. He can almost feel a bit of excitement bubbling in his chest. 

“I wanted to take you here, away from the city for a bit,” you finally say, fingers thrumming against the wheel of the car as you slowly guide the car up the gravel path. “So we can talk in peace.”

Your bland words whittle away his excitement and Dazai’s smile falters. He tries to distract himself with counting the strands hanging off the sleeve of his sweater but keeps losing count.

“Something you couldn’t have talked to me about in Yokohama?” Dazai asks airly as you pull to a stop in front of the beach house. 

He doesn’t turn to look at you, doesn’t move until you finally get out of the car, reaching into the back seat to grab two duffle bags, nodding for him to follow you.

Wow, he thinks dryly, you came prepared.

Dazai feels distinctly like he’s walking to his execution as he follows you to the steps leading up to the house, but instead of walking up them, you toss the bags on the porch and then continue up the path.

You’re going to push him off a cliff, Dazai thinks, feet dragging against the gravel as he follows you. This is it, all of the years that he’s longed for death and it’s finally about to find him at your hands. 

“I might not die from the fall,” Dazai says, words drawn long as he pouts. “You wouldn’t really leave me to suffer in freezing water, would you?”

“No,” you say, glancing back at him. He lets out a quiet breath of relief that’s quickly snuffed out when you add, “I’m not that sloppy with my kills. I’d kill you before dumping your body over the side of the cliff.”

Dazai blanches, but your lips curl up into an amused smile so he settles down, sighing as he purposely knocks his shoulder with yours.

“My bella is so cruel,” he sighs dramatically. “She hates me.”

You sigh as you reach the edge of the cliff, not turning to look at him. The wind whips around the two of you—it’s a cool, early spring night, the temperature just enough to be uncomfortable but you don’t seem bothered by it as you stare out across the water as the sun starts to set.

You’re beautiful, Dazai thinks, breath catching at the sight of you beneath the setting sun. The golden rays cast an ethereal glow over you, the wind ruffles your clothes and hair, and your expression is solemn in a way that’s become terribly familiar the past few weeks.

“I’m not going to do anything with the video,” Dazai finally says, voice quiet—finally taking the chance to say what he wanted to say last night. “You don’t have to keep… pandering to me because you’re trying to protect yourself. I was never going to do anything with it, I just… wanted you to give me a chance.”

When you look over your shoulder, you give Dazai a small, genuine smile that makes all of the air whoosh from his lungs. 

“Dazai, I’ve known you weren’t going to do anything with that video since day one,” you say, amused. “If I thought you were, I would’ve had someone confiscate it from your apartment.”

Dazai’s lips part, mind racing. “But then why-”

Your smile softens at the edges and you sigh as you lower yourself down to the ground, feet dangling off the edge of the cliff. Dazai joins you, thigh brushing yours and shoulders absently knocking together. Your hands rest in your lap and Dazai’s fingers twitch to reach for yours. He only hardly refrains himself.

“I don’t remember a life before this,” you say after a few moments, a distant look in your eyes as you stare ahead. “When I was seven… eight, maybe, I was pulled out of a warzone by the current leader of the Mafia. I don’t even remember my parents—anything about them. Their names. Faces. What they sounded like, what their job was. Mori… he found me in my town sitting in the middle of a whole pile of bodies and I couldn’t even point out which pair of corpses were my parents. I don’t remember anything before him… It’s all just black. Blurred.”

Dazai stares at you, eyes a bit wide as he listens to you speak. His lips part to say something but he decides against it, instead he seals his lips back shut and presses his shoulder against yours. Mori—that was the other name pinned up with Dazai’s message thread and Nakahara Chuuya’s—he must be the Port Mafia boss. His gaze traces your face as you stare ahead, catching the melancholic expression on your face. He itches to reach for your hand.

“I could hardly remember anything about myself. My first name… that’s just about it. My new birthday became the day Mori found me, my new surname—when needed—was his, he… he became my reason to live when I had none. Gave me a purpose,” you tell him faintly. “I spent two years on a warfront trying to figure out what my ability was so I could be the finishing touches of the immortal regiment that he was trying to create. As far as I remember, all I’ve known is… this. Him.”

Dazai wants to say something but every word he tries to push out dies on his tongue. Instead, he finally does reach out to grab your hand, fingers curling around yours tightly. You look down briefly, an unreadable expression on your face before it softens and… and for a split second, Dazai can see you, he can see you: not a hardened executive of a mafia, but an eight-year-old girl, lost and confused and landing in the arms of the wrong man, and it makes him sick.

The traitorous part of him wonders if you’re only telling him this because you still plan on following through with the memory wipe, so Dazai does what he always does when someone threatens to take one of the few things he wants—he digs his claws in and doesn’t let go. 

“The war ended before I could figure out how to use my ability and I followed… him to the underground. We ended up with the Port Mafia while the previous boss and his family were still leading. He was…” You trail off, frowning. “Dangerous. Yokohama was a terrible place under his leadership. He slaughtered civilians who spoke poorly about him and the Mafia, killed his own men for looking at him wrong… Mori became his doctor and for the good of the city, he decided to kill him.”

“I remember the old boss—what he did to the city,” Dazai says quietly—how could he not? His aunt was terrified of being in Yokohama because of him, was constantly talking about leaving the city… she finally did after dumping Dazai off in Suribachi and leaving him to fend for himself against the wolves. “It was bad.”

“It was,” you agree absently. “Mori—he wanted it to be as bloodless as possible. He tried every route, but the only way for it to be bloodless was if he had someone to corroborate that the previous boss died in his sleep and left the Port Mafia to him.”

Dazai almost scoffs.

“No one would believe that.”

“We’d hoped maybe one of his grandchildren would step up. Even if it was clearly a lie, people would have to listen because they were his blood,” you say with a wry smile. “They didn’t.”

“So, what happened then?” he presses when you don’t immediately continue. He frowns when he catches the sudden change in your demeanor, like you’re sick to your stomach, unable to push out the next words. He feels a bit dreadful, squeezing your hand gently. 

“We had to wipe out the whole family,” you whisper, looking down at your lap, “and any loyalists. I was fourteen when I killed someone for the first time. She was a girl my age—the previous boss’s granddaughter—she was asleep, had a bear tucked in her arm and a nightlight on the right side of her bed. I slit her throat, then both of her older brothers. They were kids.”

Oh.

Dazai’s throat spasm as he swallows, the picture forming in his head cold and chilling, but instead he forces out:

“You were a kid too.”

“No, I wasn’t. Hadn’t been for a long time,” you say, voice flat, leaving no room for argument. “We hunted down the whole bloodline, immediate to extended family. Mori was insistent on it, said we couldn’t risk one of them ever returning and upending everything we’ve built. He’s still searching for some to this day just to make sure.”

That’s… foreboding to say the least. Dazai watches you carefully, the grim expression on your face and the frown on your lips. He pulls your hand into his lap, tracing your fingers gently to try to ease you and he watches from the corner of his eye as your expression softens again when you look at him. It makes his chest feel tight and fluttery.

“I was sixteen when I met Itou.” The cold expression on your face warms at the unfamiliar name. Dazai watches as the corner of your lips curve up into a fond smile, as if you’re reminiscing. “He was seventeen. We were partnered up for years. This was his beach house—or, well, I don’t know whose it was but Itou took it. He was awful, honestly. A terrible fucking person, had more blood on his hands than any other member of the Mafia, found way too much joy in tormenting people. He was awful, but he was the closest thing I had to family. He tried to show me a world beyond just… bloodshed and violence. Took me to amusement parks on days off, snuck me onto school trips with random groups of kids and told me to ‘blend in’ as training for infiltration missions, showed me how to live, not just… survive. He died on a mission a few weeks after I turned eighteen, made me promise him that I wouldn’t go back to how I used to be without him, that I’d at least try to be happy.”

Double oh.

Dazai almost does throw up now, mind drawing back to a face that has been haunting Dazai for four years now, Odasaku’s last words ring through his head painfully—a reminder of his own inadequacy, of his failure to fulfill his friend’s dying wish.

He remembers the way your face shifted when he told you about Odasaku at Kido’s Boutique and he wonders if he’d reminded you of Itou back then when he spoke of the man and his promise, just like how he was reminded now. His grip on your hand tightens unintentionally—as if you can sense his thoughts, you squeeze his fingers gently. 

“I didn’t,” you say with a tight smile. “Threw myself into work, accepted that my fate was to live, breathe and die for the Port Mafia. I didn’t see the point of anything—well, not until I met you, at least.”

Dazai’s eyes flicker up to you, breath catching when you meet his gaze this time. And god, you look beautiful—so beautiful that Dazai thinks that if he dies now, he could die happy. He almost wishes that he could die now, fall off the side of the cliff with the image of you burned behind his eyelids. It would be a better death than he deserved.

“You made me happy. Make me happy,,” you tell him quietly and Dazai’s heart leaps into his throat. “So effortlessly that I can’t even understand how you do it, but it’s impossible for me to justify dragging you into this world just because I’m selfish.” Dazai parts his lips to disagree but you don’t even give him a chance to speak. “So when you came to me with your stupid blackmail, it was so… easy to just use it as an excuse for me to indulge in you.”

Dazai doesn’t get it. He still doesn’t get it. You’re sitting here talking to him, explaining everything, and Dazai still doesn’t understand. He makes you happy—he makes you happy and you make him happy, there doesn’t need to be any more complications than that. You don’t have to push him away, you don’t have to cut him off, you don’t have to use that memory wiping ability on him.

“I don’t understand,” Dazai says, voice hoarse. “You make me happy too, so why is…”

“Because Chuuya is right,” you say with a smile that doesn’t meet your eyes. “The risks… Dazai, you can’t ask me to put you in danger like this. It’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair to cut me off because you’re scared,” Dazai counters, voice a bit pitched. “It’s not fair that you want to wipe my memory without my consent. I don’t care about danger, I don’t-”

You look at him sharply, an intense expression on your face that makes Dazai hesitate.

“I never would have done it without talking to you first,” you say tightly. “Do you really think that little of me?”

Dazai looks away, not answering the question. “I never would have agreed to it,” he replies, voice equally tight as yours. “Never. It’d be a waste of your time.”

You sigh and Dazai feels you shift next to him but he pointedly keeps his gaze trained ahead, refusing to look at you. He feels your fingers brush his cheek before the pressure becomes a bit firmer as you turn his face so that he’s looking at you. You’re so close that his nose brushes yours, the pads of your fingers are warm against his skin; if he leans in just a bit, he’d be able to kiss you.

He wants to kiss you.

“You don’t know what’s at stake,” you say softly, breath fanning across his lips as you speak. He can almost taste the mixture of mint and nicotine on your lips—you smoke when you’re nervous, he’s noticed it over the past few weeks with you. The more nervous you are, the more cigarettes you run through; he wonders how many cigarettes you’ve gone through since you’ve gotten the call from the hospital. “The danger-”

“You want me,” Dazai whispers, squeezing your hand, leaning in a bit more. “No one has ever wanted me before. Not like this. Not for me. You want me.”

The last sentence—it doesn’t come out as a statement, it comes out as a plea. He wants you to say it. You didn’t the last time, but he needs to hear it now. Desperately. His nails dig into your hands, he doesn’t even dare to breathe as he waits for you to speak.

“I want you,” you agree, voice so quiet like you don’t even dare to speak the words out loud in fear of the consequences of them. “I want you. I want you so bad that it scares me, Dazai Osamu.”

And Dazai breathes. The breath he lets out is long and shaky, the relief that sweeps over him is almost debilitating. He searches your eyes to make sure you mean it and when he only finds honesty and a type of fear that he’s never seen in you before, Dazai knows.

“You think it doesn’t scare me?” Dazai asks you, voice cracking. “Everything I ever come to want is always lost. Ever since that first day we met, I-I knew that I wanted you more than anything I’ve ever wanted before and I’ve been terrified that one day you’ll leave me. Promise me that you won’t. Promise me.”

You stare at him and for a terrible moment, Dazai thinks that you’re about to shake your head and say you can’t, but then you swallow, nod and say, “I promise.”

Dazai kisses you. And then he kisses you again. And again. And again. Until his lungs burn and he can feel your lips curve up against his and even then, he kisses you still. Kisses you as the sun sets over the bay and the moon rises above the mountains. Kisses you until the wind becomes too bitter for the two of you to stay outside and still, he smiles as he peppers kisses across your face, walking back down the path to the beach house.

He ignores how your phone has been buzzing incessantly all night, praying for at least one day of peace before reality slaps the two of you in the face again.

[scorpius-major]

#Just sign here

Ft: Childe and gn!reader

Synopsis: in which you summon a demon to stop your family from nagging you about your dating life

Contains: mentions of demons, contracts, and small amounts of blood (nothing graphic). Reader is genderlly ambiguous, but family members ask when you will get a boyfriend. Slight suggestive gestures but not explicit or forward at all (flirty behavior, physical touches, romantic advances)

wc: 1.7k

Final notes: this was really inspired by the book Sign Here by Claudia Lux. It’s a really good book yall should consider reading it! This is my first time is a while writing a full narrative fanfiction, so chill on me y’all if it’s not that good lmaoo. Depending if I like this I might make it into a full series! I’m experimenting with different povs so idk if this is gonna be my default one or not we’ll see as time goes on!

Family events are never fun. Especially when the hot topic always comes back to your dating life. You wish that for once they would talk about sometime other than when you’ll be bringing a boyfriend home. That one uncle doesn’t even talk about politics anymore.

“So when are you getting a boyfriend?”

“Yknow all your other cousins are engaged right?”

If only they knew a majority of marriages end in divorce. It’s not like you don’t want to be in a relationship, waiting for the right person is a solid move. What happens if you “find the one” prematurely and something terrible happens? Like breaking your heart or cheating on you. So whenever it comes up you just try and change the subject as best you can. The most effective way usually is asking your dad dumb sports questions. Questions that are obvious on the surface, but will get him talking for 10 minutes so you can leave.

You wonder how they haven't caught on yet, but then again your personal love life is none of their business. Getting an actual boyfriend seems like too much work. Paying one of your friends seems like a solid option, but your family already knows all of your friends. There has to be some way to get someone to pretend to be your boyfriend.

Then it clicked. 

You remember having seen a really old book in your grandmom’s attic about the occult. Why not just summon a random demon to dupe your extended family into thinking you finally found love? There are many things wrong with that, but running the options through your head it seemed like the simplest. Making a simple blood contract will beat having to meet new people any day.

The instructions were quite clear. Recite a simple incantation after writing your intentions on a blank parchment paper in red ink. All of which had to be performed in a dark room with a mirror on a full moon. The only problem is the only room in your house with a mirror big enough is the bathroom. Hopefully, the demon doesn't mind being summoned into a bathroom. 

The only real negative here would be accidentally summoning a malicious spirit that would haunt the house. But then you remembered you live alone. So what if a spirit inhabits your house? It can’t be that hard to ignore it. That was the last piece of encouragement you needed. That demon is getting summoned.

You shoot your mom a text saying how you can’t wait to introduce your boyfriend to the family.

“I think I’m finally ready to introduce him to the family, we’ll be there for the next family dinner.”

The look on her face would have been priceless. Everybody thinks that you don’t have a boyfriend, and while that is correct soon it will be partially correct. The full moon is tonight and dinner is in two days. There was one thought that lingered in the back of your head.

What if the demon doesn’t cooperate with you?

What if it doesn’t want to enter a contract with you? That can’t happen, right? 

Worst case scenario you’ll just hire somebody. You make your way to the bathroom, holding the supplies in hand. Candles litter around the sink and you light them before the lights are turned off. 

The dull glow illuminates the room just enough so you can see what you’re doing. You pick up the piece of parchment to write down what you want from the demon.

“Allow me to summon a demon here to pretend to be my boyfriend” it’s very straightforward, but it gets the job done. The red ink drips on the paper looking akin to blood. “I hope this works” you murmur to yourself. 

The incantation falls from your lips like it’s second nature. A sudden chill drifts through the air. Your bathroom has no windows, so you conclude that something must be going on. 

The candles suddenly went out, leaving the room engulfed in darkness. Feeling the temperature drop heavily, you lightly shiver to try to acclimate to the chilly room.

A faint glow can be made out from the corner of the bathroom mirror. Two small blue circles standing directly behind you. The candles flickered on again, leaving you wondering what you just got yourself into. “Startled by candles love? Please, that's the oldest trick in the book” a voice calls out to you. You turn around, facing where the blue light is coming from. The figure gives a slight chuckle, seeing your exasperated state. Warm ginger hair and freckled skin can be made out on the being. 

You grasp around the room trying to find the light switch, but before you can find it the lights are turned on already. A slender hand grasps yours, shaking it lightly. “I am the demon Known as Tartaglia, but you can just call me Ajax, sweetie” he shoots you a small wink, giving you just enough time to analyze his figure. 

He’s a little taller than you and has to look down slightly. However, he does have this sort of attractive air to him with a small smile present. “So I heard you wanted a demon to pretend to be your boyfriend. It takes guts to summon one of us.” You’re unable to say anything, so you stay silent. You don’t wanna start stuttering and embarrassing yourself. “What’s your name hun?” Ajax breaks the silence, startling you a bit. You didn’t even notice that he had moved you into your living room, sitting you both on the couch. Are you that entranced by him? Sure he was conventionally attractive, but could you fall in love with a demon? 

“Are you gonna answer me? I don’t have all day sweetheart” his voice snapping you out of some thoughts. “Oh sorry, my name is-“ he suddenly cuts you off by pressing his finger lightly to your lips. “Never mind honey, I’ll just keep using these cute little names” Ajax’s hand goes to cup your cheek as his other hand you a small tablet. “We stopped using blood contracts years ago. We do everything digitally now” gesturing you to go ahead and sign your name, his hand leaves your cheek and goes to hold around your lower back. 

Maybe it’s the touch-starved part of you talking, but part of you wants to lean into his touch more. His hair framed his as he leans into you, frowning slightly at the sight of the unsigned contract. “Just sign here and I’ll give you whatever you want” did they send a flirty demon by accident or did he read your intent?

“I have a quick question.” He hums in response. You place your finger on the tablet getting ready to sign it. “Did you know my intent, or are you just flirty 24/7?” He laughs, not sure if you were serious. You give him a confused look and put the tablet down. “No, we can’t. When we’re being summoned we have no idea what the summoner will ask for” 

Ajax’s Demeanor changes into a slightly darker one as he grins. “Well, what did you have in mind sweetheart?” He leans into your ear, using his taller figure as an advantage. You shake your head feeling embarrassed. “It’s a silly reason really” he looks curious now, and his interest peaked.

“I want you to pretend to be my boyfriend so my family will stop bothering me” 

“Well that’s not what I was expecting, but I’m interested.

You had a feeling that’s what he was going to say. From his actions and suggestive way of speaking, you speculated he wasn’t gonna say no. You pick up the tablet and don’t bother reading any of the fine print. Normally that’s not a very good idea, but you were desperate. With that, you sign your name at the bottom and hand it back to Ajax.

He takes it from your hands and smiles. “Thanks, hun, now I hope you know you can’t get rid of me now. It says in the fine print” Yup, you should have read it. Now you’re stuck with him for presumably all eternity. 

“Any particular reason you resulted to summoning demons to fix this problem?” He was amused, demons probably don’t get many requests like this. “It seemed easy” you replied without a second thought. “Any boyfriendly duties I have to perform for you?” His hand was back around your waist, gripping it lightly. The tablet was gone, and the sun had started to come up. “Well, I do need you to attend this family dinner with me.” 

“Seems easy enough, how hard can that be?”

-

You stand in front of your parent’s door, splitting headache due to the chaos you’re sure is about to ensue. “You remember the story right?” Ajax squeezes your hand lightly as reassurance and gives you a small smile. “Of course, you’ve said it to me a hundred times sweetie” you take a deep breath in and knock on the door with your free hand. 

“Oh look who it is! The boyfriend is here too!” Your mom exclaims, and the rest of the family crowds the door. Maybe you should have warned him how large your family is. “Mama stop, that’s embarrassing.” You swat your hand at her and your dad interjects. “Oh nonsense, your mom is just proud of you that’s all!” He laughs. Ajax doesn’t really do much except smile and nod with occasional answers. He left most of the talking to you. 

Perhaps he likes the sound of your voice. He does subtle romantic things like resting his hand on your thigh and playing with your hair. You’re getting quite used to him and this dinner is going great. On the plus side your parents seem satisfied, and let you two leave without any quarrels.

“So what do you think?” You turn to him after you leave the house. Ajax grabs both of your hands and holds them tightly in his, smiling. 

“I think I’m gonna enjoy being your boyfriend”

“What part of fake did you not understand?”

“Do you want this to be fake?”

Ajax presses a small kiss to your cheek. “I didn’t think so either.”

[nolansnose]

To my moots: I did A THING. Wrote a lil something. A Nolpat imagine *gasps*

This is unfinished and I will only be updating this everytime Patty gets a point or better yet, score a goal!

Edited and rb'd because this has been updated!

(With added steam 🙈)

Summary: Surprise!

Nolan Patrick x whoever you wanna pair him with in your head

UNTITLED

They hadn't exchanged any kind of communication in three weeks. That kind of radio silence from both their ends wasn't normal. It has been a month since they saw each other last, they were both busy --- she with the endless demands and responsibilities of being the new executive assistant to the director of medical services while Nolan was training in preparation for the incoming season.

It amazes her how they were able to give each other attention in the past year and how they haven't given up on each other. It wasn't easy, it's daunting at times, at least for her.

For someone with such a demanding job and schedule, she truly couldn't figure out how she was able to give time to Nolan.

She didn't understand how someone like her was able to pique his interest or that he continued to give her attention, well, not until these past few weeks. She may be busy but during moments that she wasn't thinking about work, Nolan makes sudden, sometimes unwelcome appearances in her thoughts.

Unwelcome because she shouldn't be thinking about him. They're not... Argh! She sighed and put down the book she's trying so hard to understand in her lap. She's in an old cottage by the beach, alone for this long weekend, her first non work related trip after a long while since being appointed and she's alone. She should be relaxing, resting, eating sumptuous meals and reading this... Shit it was Nolan who gave her this book. Why did she pick this one to bring? She sighed again and tried for the nth time to relax in the couch she was perched on. She put her feet up in the arm rest and reached for the tea in the side table to drink but grimaced as its already cold.

As cold as the weather that wasnt apt for the place she was in. Beaches are made for warm, summery weather, not rain and cold drafts. She looked out the window and shook her head because it was still raining. The rain peltering the roof was loud and... what was that?

She heard something beside the raindrops. Footsteps. Rustling. Knocking? Was someone knocking?

But she wasn't expecting anyone.

Still, she stood up and headed for the kitchen which was near the parking area of the resort she was in. She clutched her chest when she saw another shadow beside the plants outside. Shit! A thief? But this was an exclusive resort!

She grabbed the fruit bowl in the counter and headed for the kitchen door. There was that sound again. Footsteps. And knocking.

She took a deep breath and raised the bowl above her head, ready to whack whoever was on the other side of that door. She unfastened the locks and opened the door.

"Fuck!", the 'intruder' called out and caught the bowl before it made contact with his face.

"Nolan?", she blinked.

The newcomer put down the bowl and raised the hood of his jacket. "Hi,"

"I thought you were a thief!"

Nolan looked at her with amusement. " I knocked but there was no answer."

"When was that? I didn't hear anything."

"Uh, five minutes ago?", he asked as he grabbed a clean towel out of the basket on the washing machine near the door. "May I?"

She exhaled loudly while moving away from the door so Nolan could dry his shoes in the mat and removed his jacket which was also wet.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. How did he even know she was here? Oh. Right. She remembered telling him about this weekend trip the last time they were together.

"I missed you," he said. "You didn't text or call."

"You never did, too," she pointed out.

"Hey, I called," he said with a bit of pain in his voice.

"When did you call?"

"Are you going to let me come in or do I have to defend myself by your kitchen door?"

2

"What's that for?", she asked having glanced at his backpack.

"Change of clothes. I've been in town for a few days, actually ", he replied honestly.

She gave him another quick look before going back to retrieve the cup of tea in the living room and brought it up in the kitchen to heat in the microwave. She felt his eyes on her while she set the timer.

"Chamomile?", Nolan asked just as he put down his already opened backpack in the kitchen counter and took out a clean pair of socks.

She didn't know whether to be irritated or happy that he remembered her preference. Normally, she'd appreciate it but now she felt cornered. Vulnerable. She came here to unwind, rest and think, -- to escape from all that's troubling her -- that included Nolan.

Yep, trouble. That's Nolan, alright. What else would you call the man who chose to entangle himself with someone like her? Even for a weekend, she wanted a break. She wanted him out of her head, her body and her bed.

"You still haven't answered why you're here," she took the mug out of the oven and set it on the counter. She caught the smirk on his face. "What?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Nolan took a step towards her and tenderly caressed her arm."Didn't you miss me?"

She looked up into his eyes to see a worry there she didn't normally see.

They've talked about their situation a handful of times before, where they're headed eventually. Together they've decided that its better if no one else knew whatever kind of relationship they were to have.

She can't remember exactly how that topic came about, but they wound up in bed together before defined lines were ever set.

This, whatever this was, has gone on for a year, a short time compared to others. She knew she shouldn't keep her hopes or expectations up, but sometimes, she gets tired of her feelings being hurt from a misunderstanding because nothing was solid or made public. Sometimes the feelings were his. Sometimes he acted jealous or frustrated because she behaved in a way that made him question the exclusivity they had agreed on a year ago.

"Not at all?" His low, lazy voice pulled her back from her thoughts.

She shook her head. "No."

He leaned into her some more, their closeness made her feel like she's drowning. "Liar."

Then his mouth met hers and she instinctively opened her mouth to allow his tongue to enter. He tasted sweet and salty like caramel popcorn. He satisfied every urge and each craving.

A whimper escaped her throat and he had her pushed against the counter with one hand in her hair as the other lifted her leg and grabbed her ass. He knew how to completely envelop her into a whirlwind of sex. It started out with a kiss as it always did.

And this kiss grew more fervent and she felt a familiar hardness push against her in just the right place. He made her feel sexy and desirable in a way that she revelled in. His kisses were addictive.

Its hard to reclaim her sanity everytime they ended up like this, like he drained whatever courage she had left. But before she could totally gave in, she held Nolan's arm firmly and pushed him away from her. He moaned a little as a protest but moved away and let her right herself.

The desire for her was evident in his eyes, in his jeans and she tried not to look but his scent, his kiss lingered. She was still dazed and her heart was beating wildly.

"What?" He asked as he touched the edge of his mouth.

"We can't continue this, Nolan", she insisted.

He shook his head. "We're not doing anything we haven't done bef----"

"No", she cut him off before he could finish his sentence. "This as in hiding. We thought it wont get this complicated given our work and who we are, we thought it'd be easy. None of this is easy, Nolan."

"Thank you for saying we, instead of you," he nodded as he answered. "Seriously. We both said this unofficial exclusive thing would be easy and a breeze and I'm glad you didn't pile the blame for your feelings just on me."

She looked at him carefully. Sometimes, his prankness still startled and overwhelmed her. She hoped and tried hard for its effect to not register on her face.

"Whoa," he said with one eyebrow raised when her gaze turned squinty. "Why are you looking at me like I just told you I'm getting married or something?"

"Let's end this, Nolan," she said in a faint voice, then grabbed the mug of tea again.

She felt him observing her eventhough her attention was on the tea she's drinking.

"You already said that four months ago."

"This time I meant it." She said in a voice lacking of conviction.

[rainstormcolors]

Rivalship for the meme if you haven't been asked already. :,D

Thank you! Obviously these areonly my interpretations. And I wanted to be thorough in my answers.

-

What they watch during movie dates and what kind ofsnacks they get from concessions.

I don’t think Seto watches much television or movies. What happensis Yugi turns something on and leans against Seto, who’s busy on his laptop andyet still here in the room and on the sofa in front of the TV system. I thinkYugi has pretty broad tastes in movies and also likes shonen anime. He tends toavoid slapstick movies and shows though because those annoy Seto. But it’s warmand cozy there on the sofa together.

-

Which one gets in to a fight with the other’s parents.

All of Seto’s parents are six feet under. Yugi has hisgrandfather, mother, and a largely absent father. In the case of Sugoroku, Iactually take the idea of him being forgiving towards Seto, with him in turntaking the idea of trusting Yugi’s judgement. In practice I think Sugoroku’sand Seto’s exchanges would be on the curt side but it would generally be congruent.Yugi’s mother isn’t defined in canon well but I get the idea she might be a bitnosy. Seto is not a sociable person but I think he’d tolerate her for Yugi’ssake. I’m fairly sure Yugi and Mokuba would be friends and enjoy spending timetogether. I don’t really imagine there’d be much discourse honestly.

-

What kind of street performance they’d put on to raisemoney if they were stranded somewhere.

I like the-cryptographer’s idea of Seto finding a streetvendor and showing them how to improve their business, balancing their budgetsand demonstrating tactics to make more sales. I feel like on the Yugi side, hemight offer little services for free in the hope of garnering tips (since helooks so harmless and seems so friendly and also because this is an anime world,he might get a few takers).

-

How they’d be as parents if theyhad-a-kid/someone-forced-a-kid-on-them.

As I’ve said before, I think Seto would be profoundlyuncomfortable at the notion of having and raising children. I think he’d bedeeply and darkly afraid of becoming Gozaburo, and likewise be terrified of hisown lingering emotional struggles when faced with the notion of raising achild. Comparatively, I have the idea that Yugi would hope to have children.He’s so down to earth, warm, and social. I think he’d want to have a family.And he might bring the topic up with Seto a few times, but as he realizes just howuncomfortable the subject makes Seto feel he’d drop it, and instead findhappiness in spending time with the children of his friends and Mokuba.

So how does a child come into their care? I can only thinkof one very tragic circumstance, and this child would be the orphan of Mokuba.(Comparatively, if it was Jonouchi’s child who was orphaned I feel Shizukawould be the one to take them in.)

There would be a period of bleak depression and transitionfor all three parties in this, but I think Yugi and Seto would make a verygenuine and heartfelt effort to raise this child. Yugi would be a warm parent, instigatinggame and movie nights, probably a bit too soft on discipline. Seto would strugglewith how much pressure and discipline to apply on the child (his damnGozaburo-complex…) and I think he’d end up on the softer side with these thingsas well, but have times where he’ll lose his temper and have to abruptly leavethe room to calm down. Seto would be a quieter parent than Yugi, and he’llforever be a workaholic, but he’ll share meaningful moments and gestures (this is his dead brother’s child). Ipicture Yugi and the child deciding to bake a cake for Seto’s birthday, Yugiand Seto bringing the child to the park on the occasional weekend. There’s achance a maid or chef or butler might be involved in raising the child as well.I think Mokuba’s child—really Yugi’s and Seto’s own child—would be wellloved and well cared for in the end.

-

Who would cause the most trouble during a camping tripand how.

I don’t think these two would go on very many camping trips.It’s hard to come up with a scenario where they would. I feel like Yugi mightgo off with Jonouchi, Honda, and Ryo on a camping trip for a few nights andbring back a pinecone to give Seto, telling him about all the antics and how brilliantthe stars in the purple-black sky were.

Maybe Yugi and Seto would take the occasional walk through aforest though, see the glowing silver sky between the bare branches, or watchthe birds flitting through the emerald leaves. Yugi might recount a story fromhis childhood and Seto would listen as spots of sunshine shatter through thecanopy over them.

-

What they would give each other as both a serious giftand a troll gift.

In the beginning, it’s Yugi who gives little gifts from timeto time. Bringing snacks, bringing two new packs of Duel Monsters cards and givingone to Seto for them both to open one at the same time.

Seto might bring Yugi to a tailor to have a high-qualitysuit fitted for him “to make you properly presentable for business,” but reallyit’s a gift.

Generally, I think it would be small gifts exchanged, withthe gesture itself being the truly meaningful thing for the both of them (Isuppose that’s the case for most of us out there).

-

Who moves in with them as an unfortunate third wheelroommate.

I actually picture the scenario as more like Yugi and Setogo on a vacation somewhere only to discover Jonouchi and Honda “just so happen”to also be vacationing in that exact same place at the exact same time as them.And Jonouchi and Honda crash the vacation on and off, but Yugi and Seto alsostill have their alone time together. Yes, Jonouchi and Honda did this onpurpose but they aren’t actually trying to sabotage anything. They just thoughtit’d be fun and funny.

Yugi’s friends and Mokuba’s family may stay overnight at thecouple’s home from time to time. Jonouchi and Honda might be teasing about it(in a playful way) while Anzu and Ryo would be very polite and courteousguests.

-

How they feel about handholding and sudden kisses in theear-cheek vicinity.

I firmly believeSeto despises public displays of affection. They make him uncomfortable, feelfar far too exposed. In private however, Yugi gives tender touches and it’s notunpleasant at all. It might even be rather nice.

-

Who’s always snapping photos and who’s pack-rattingclutter.

Yugi is the guilty party for both, though “always” is toostrong of a word. He’ll take surprise photographs of Seto to play-annoy himsometimes. He’ll keep a scrapbook of when Seto and Kaiba Corporation arefeatured flatteringly in the media. Seto rolls his eyes to all this, but insidehe’s charmed.

Yugi collects games and some memorabilia, while Seto doesn’tbother with small material items too often. Except–! Except for Duel Monsterscards! Yugi really can’t fathom why Seto needs 36 copies of Hyozanryu.

-

Who hogs the bathroom in the morning and who causestoothpaste related drama.

I feel like the two are about even in their bathroom timeand maintenance. They’re both the type to keep the door shut, to keep thecounter tidy without being neurotic about it. Yugi might be a bit messier whileSeto returns things to their exact place, but it’s not a big deal. I kind ofhave the idea that if they lived together, given Seto’s mass of wealth, theirhome would have multiple bathrooms so hogging isn’t a problem either.

-

What their matching costumes were for that one party.

Seto is a stick-in-the-mud asshole who refuses to dress in acostume (well, a real costume anyway… those spinney trench coats with oversizedshoulder pads that Seto doesn’t wear anymore…). Yugi might dress up in a simplecostume; I don’t see him going all out with it. But if Yugi gets it in his headthat they must be dressed up as a couple, I think he’d steal one of those oldspinney coats, draped to the floor and sagging from his shoulders. (Seto mightthink, “You look ridiculous,” but then have a realization of just who used towear that coat all the time.) Yugi would joke to his friends, “He’smid-twenties Seto-kun, and I’m teen Seto-kun.” And at some point Seto mightintentionally step on the coattail as an awkward half attempt at flirting.

-

If I think they’d get married and why or why not.

This is in the realms of longterm Rivalshipping. I don’tthink the idea of marriage is too present in Seto’s mind in this case. I thinkin time it might appear in Yugi’s mind however, that idea of declaring theirbond to the world. I think Yugi envisions marriage with a romantic lens and assomething to mark the significance and depth of their relationship. For him it’sabout the symbolism, not the legalese. Yugi might bring up the subject a fewtimes, and eventually Seto may agree to it to make Yugi happy and it’s not likemuch will change anyway. It would be a small private ceremony; friends andfamily only. I think Yugi would understand this is more for pleasing him thananything else and yet he’ll glow because thisis still a gesture of love.

-

Who has over a thousand unread emails in their inbox orfive hundred icons on their computer desktop and how the other reacts to thisgross mismanagement.

Seto is a CEO of a mammoth corporation, so I think it’s fairto wager he has a lot of crap on his computer. Yugi doesn’t care; Yugi doesn’tknow what half of those icons even are.

-

What their hidden artistic talents are and howappreciative the other is of these talents.

They have pretty blatant creative talents within canon: bothare/aspire to be game creators. Seto is very good at drafting blueprints, and Ithink sketching blueprints for things he doesn’t actually intend to build mightalso become a coping mechanism for him to clear his head and heart on theharder days. And Yugi collects these discarded blueprints, and he thinks they’rea kind of wonderful treasure. Maybe Yugi writes short stories sometimes and he’skind of embarrassed and thinks they’re not very good, but Seto reads them andhe can see the reflection of Yugi inside them, the honest emotion and thosethings that really mean something to Yugi, and Seto thinks there’s something ofvalue here even if he can’t say so aloud. But Yugi notices how Seto alwaysreads what Yugi shows him, and how Seto will tell him to cut the crap when he’sdown-talking his own stories.

-

What they consider each other’s most attractive qualityand/or their favourite thing about the other.

I think Yugi admires how headstrong and goal-oriented Setois, how hard he strives and how many things he’s accomplished, how despiteanything else his creations have brought so much joy and so many personalconnections to the world.

I think what I hope for Seto, inside or outside of aromantic context, is to understand that Yugi does see him as a person ofworth—not monetary worth, but emotional worth. To understand that he meanssomething to someone else. (That knowledge can get a person through a lot.)

For Seto, I think he has trouble even comprehending how Yugican be so warm and kind, and it’s something so alien and powerful to him. It’sa strength he doesn’t have, and he can’t say it aloud but it’s beautiful to himhow Yugi is the embodiment of it.